Gromph Baenre and the Horn of Summoning: Mastery at Dragon Coast

Gromph Baenre, Archmage of Menzoberranzan, stood at the edge of the Dragon Coast, the salt-scented wind whipping his obsidian robes around him. His crimson eyes glowed with a mix of determination and anticipation. Clutched in his hand was the Horn of Summoning, an artifact of immense power and danger, forbidden even among the most reckless of wizards.

The Dragon Coast stretched out before him, a jagged line of cliffs and crashing waves. Gromph had ventured far from the Underdark, driven by whispers of a spell that could be mastered only with the aid of the Horn. The ancient texts had been clear: the spell could control beings of great power, entities that even the gods would hesitate to command.

Gromph raised the Horn to his lips, its surface cold and smooth. He had spent years preparing for this moment, gathering knowledge from forbidden tomes and making pacts with shadowy entities. All that remained was to perform the incantation and blow the Horn, calling forth a force that could reshape the balance of power in Faerûn.

With a deep breath, Gromph began to chant, his voice weaving through the syllables of the arcane language. The air around him shimmered, filled with the raw energy of the spell. As he reached the final words, he raised the Horn and blew a resounding note that echoed across the cliffs and out over the sea.

The response was immediate. The sky darkened, and the ocean began to churn violently. From the depths of the waves, a colossal shape emerged, scales glistening like wet onyx. It was a dragon, its eyes burning with ancient intelligence and raw power. This was not just any dragon; it was one of the primordial wyrms, beings of such age and might that they were almost myth.

Gromph felt a surge of triumph as the dragon turned its gaze upon him. The spell worked, and the Horn had summoned a creature of unparalleled strength. But mastering the spell required more than just summoning; it demanded control.

He focused his will, the incantation still fresh in his mind. He could feel the dragon's resistance, a mental struggle that sent shivers down his spine. But Gromph was no novice. He was the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, and he had not come this far to fail.

With a final surge of power, he completed the spell, binding the dragon to his will. The creature bowed its massive head, acknowledging its new master. Gromph allowed himself a rare smile. The forbidden spell was his, and with the dragon at his command, there were no limits to what he could achieve.

As the sun set over the Dragon Coast, Gromph Baenre stood victorious, the Horn of Summoning in one hand and the future of Faerûn in the other. The world would soon know the power of the Archmage, and nothing would ever be the same.