As he had often done of late, the Warrior sat at the lakeside in Elor, listening to the sounds of the forest and the lake. It wouldn't be too very long, he knew. He'd known for months, in fact. Had put it aside long enough to pass on his well-wishes to others. The dull, hot ache in his chest had long since sapped his axe-arm's strength. It was age, of course. Most Warriors didn't live to be five decades old. Let alone get that old, Sleep for a thousand, and then live another five decades walking the waking world. It was his Time. Everything, he knew, had a Time. And it would be blasphemous to the Lady for him to deny or fight it. He'd left a heartfelt note on the Elvandar bulletin board. He'd spoken to one of his brothers in the Crusade. His Time had come. Little sense in putting it aside any longer.
He stood suddenly, hearing a quiet, beckoning music from the mists in the depths of Elor. He walked into the mists, the ache in his arm receding, though he noticed it little. His massive frame felt lighter by inches. His breath no longer caught in his chest. Still, he followed the quietly beckoning music, calling him to his final slumber. He never could penetrate the mysteries of Elor, and that was fine by him. They weren't his to know. But this one time, he did not end up in the ring of stones across the lake. He saw instead a mysterious, hooded human. One whose frame he remembered well, from all those years ago, playing quietly upon a harp, beside a great willow, the likes of which he'd never seen. He nodded to the man, his weariness slowly returning, and sat down on the soft, green grass among the roots of the willow. His nictitating membranes slid closed, although he did not yet sleep.
He was, still, after all these years, afraid of sleep. It led to the nightmares, the Bitch and Bastard trying to corrupt him or drive him mad, the only time they could. But the music kept playing, and after five decades of tension, after fifty long, long years of battling against foes too terrible for some to ever truly grasp, he slept once more. With a sigh of relief and of gratitude, his scaled eyes slid closed for the final time. His chest did not rise once more. His Time had come. Skragna Malketh, Knight of the Crusade, defender of the innocent, died in his sleep, among the trees, birds, and animals he loved so dearly, while the hooded human continued to play that ancient, beckoning lullaby.