Ozyrrandias talked with himself as he flew, wings beating steadily, towards Skull Gorge. It was an indulgence that he readily admitted. He considered himself something of a philosopher; true, one that spent most of his time slumming, but what else did you expect of a lair in the Wyrmsmoke Mountains? He had been in the middle of an interesting argument when the emissary of the Red Hand approached him. Now, Ozy had little time for hordes or goblins, but one did not ignore a Blessed of Tiamat. And when he was offered the libraries of Dennovar to take to his lair? Well, his little greedy dragon heart beat faster at the thought.
And so here he was, flying to a bridge to ensure that everything was ready for General Kul to arrive the next morning. Ozy hated winter and the night, and especially flying at night. And so he grumbled to himself as he flew south, and could probably be excused for not noticing the brilliant flare of a sorcerer baking a phalanx of hobgoblins to a crisp or the gout of fire as a hellhound was destroyed. Instead, it was several seconds before he paid sufficient attention to notice that instead of a bunch of bored guards there was in fact a pitched battle occurring at the bridge – a battle that the Red Hand was rapidly losing.
And so it was a very grumpy dragon that strafed the bridge before flaring his wings to land.