Black Dragons are warriors. They are strong and capable in battles of force, but also ample magic users, capable of devastating opponents with their spells. Their bright eyes give them excellent night vision, which is why they generally hunt during the night.
This dragon was the runt of the litter, skin and bones, and small stature. He was never able to eat very much as a hatchling, the bigger, stronger hatchlings always got to the food first, and left him with little. The older dragons tried to make sure he always got something to eat, but it was difficult all the same. Lord Famine was always too skinny, ribs showing beneath his scales, bones jutting from beneath his skin in a skeletal fashion.
As he grew older, he honed a cleverness, a cunning, just to survive in his shrunken state. He got more and more food through his plotting and scheming the older he got. But he never filled out, he could eat and eat and never fill the void in his stomach, never add flesh to his bones. The insatiable hunger consumed him from within, even as he consumed without.
He lurks now, in the darker caves, waiting, hunting, thirsting. Wire-thin and insatiable, his unearthly howls of madness can be heard echoing up from the unused dark passageways he haunts.