It had been her home for one hundred and fifty years, six months, and one week. Beneath the great mountain, in a series of interconnecting caves, tunnels, and crevices, was Ancalagon's Lair. In one corner of the cave, near where it had been originally sealed was a clock. Slowly and silently ticking, the device kept track of not just the time and date, but also a running tally of how many years Ancalagon had spent underground. Too many, by her judgement. Too many indeed.

Ninety three years spent locked into a cave. Her mother-- or father-- had used their fiery breath on the cave, the heat of it so hot that it melted the surrounding rocks, turning the stone to molten lava. It sealed her inside, safe and sound, so that Ancalagon could grow for dozens and dozens of years, out of sight and out of danger.

It had served her well, this lair, but now it was time to leave this place. Some dozen years ago, a ghoul in town had told her to call the lair a home, but the Wyrm didn't understand. Home had been explained to her as where the core is, with memories and warmth and family.

The strongest tie Ala had to this place was a vague sense of sentimentality, and an appreciation that i had shielded her from the elements.

After all, Ancalagon had raised herself, minipets and lake water and stalactites as her only company. There were no creature comforts in the lair, but Ala shrugged it off without a concern. Wyrms were solitary by nature, she'd read, squinting in the light of her own fire at a book charmed to be fireproof before she was born. This was their way, and who was she to go beyond the status quo?

In her natural form, gigantic and scaled and spined, Ancalagon padded around her cave. If she was honest with herself, there was very little to take with her to Amityville. A pen full of snacks, an underwater lake, a paltry collection of treasures, squirrelled away over the years.

There were the books that had raised her, stone etched with her name, placed in this cave with her egg so many years ago. She stretched from head to toe, popping all of her joints along the way.

There were memories here, to be sure. She was hatched here, fresh from a pumpkin, alone and too young to be afraid. The books had taught her everything, ranging from basic reading to maths and magics beyond her abilities. Ala viewed them with a utilitarian light: for business, not for pleasure. For learning instead of entertaining.

In the caverns beneath the mountain, she'd had to dig her own tunnels. Explore on her own, dig herself out of tunnels and cave-ins alike, with no one to save her or protect her.

And that was fine.

She was fine.

As she aged into her adolescent years as a ghoul, Ancalagon's digging had finally hit pay-dirt as she hit the surface. Her first venture into town had ended with two small fires, being banned from one grocer, and owing an angry farmer no less than a dozen poms in payment.

But the Wyrm was a quick study. Quick enough, anyway, when you curl up in a corner and watch people with careful eyes. She listened. She watched. She absorbed. Ala became a facet in town, just another ghoul who was in the tavern, the establishment always bustling with various travellers. There was no universal species present in the town. There was an enclave of magically gifted reapers, some werewolves, a murder of crow monsters, some ghosts. There were all kinds, in Thangorodrim, and Ala was another face in the crowd.

Ala clutched her canvas bag, suddenly worried. What would having friends be like? Would she make any? Would she be any good at school? What if her learning had failed her, and she was being all wrong?

For all her grown up airs and imitations of maturity, Ancalagon was still little more than a child, and being a kid and growing up? It was hard, and no one understood.

Steeling herself, Ancalagon carefully started to pack her belongings. A handful of gems, some golden coins. The best minis that would prove to be the most succulent were tied up with rope in a long chain, resulting in a little line of poms and other tasty snacks to be had along the way. All that remained was her collection of books, from which she selected her favourite grimoire of bedtime stories, featuring tales of various Wyrms, including her namesake.

With the swell of fear coursing through her veins, Ancalagon shifted, her body elongating, scales re-appearing, wings sprouting from her back. She grew larger, and the ache in her bones as she did was both familiar and welcome. The bag was small in comparison to her natural shape, and gingerly she took the canvas bag into her mouth, holding it beneath her tongue.

She crawled out of her cave, hissing sharply at the light of day. Even if it was just a warm golden-orange outside, Ancalagon realised with a pang of sadness that this would be...normal now. She scrabbled up the rocks, wings flaring upwards, tail sweeping behind her for balance. The Wyrm had realised a decade ago that, at her size, flight was incredibly difficult.

But she could glide, catching the wind with her wings and doing her best to stay afloat. Standing atop the mountain, Ancalagon reared her head back, letting loose a ferocious roar. Shoving herself off of the cliff, she took off, grinding her teeth as she spat venom into the air. Ala felt the noxious poison spark, the warm and comforting heat of flames coating the inside of her mouth as she roared again into the sky.

She was going somewhere new. Somewhere where she could belong.

To Amityville Academy.