Tale of the Dragon Lord

Snow fell on the mountain grass, cold, biting. The more primitive of my kind would fly south at the first sign of it, but not us, and certainly not me. No, when the fires of our bellies are not enough to keep the cold at bay we turn to thick furs that our wild brothers could never harvest, but us dragons are not the only ones affected by the changing seasons, the warm blooded humans are also victims of the icy grasp. I've long since seen how the hunters huddle in their inns and taverns, resting by their fireplaces, drinking away the cold and trying to forget about the eventual long trek home. 

I still wear the cage and chains that they forced upon me, out of defiance or habit I'm still not sure. It's certainly not out of comfort; the metal is icy against my skin, but in a strange way, it keeps me focused. And to them? It can be a reminder that a dragon does not need his teeth or fire to fight.

The hunters have grown more bold, setting traps in my territory, hunting my animals. Some even trying to find my lair, hoping to be the hero that ends my reign of terror. And as they've grown bold, I've grown soft, preparing for the winter takes a toll, and I've been content with just ending these lone hunters than finding a nice, visible place to hang their skins in the trees like I should. 

These are the thoughts that swirl in my mind on the journey down from my mountain. Usually I would fly, but growing now would ruin my furs, and my surprise. I'll tough it out, the slow pace, the snow against my claws. The thought of a warm, fresh feast makes it all worth it. 

Eventually I see it, the glowing light of the hunter's inn, their last bastion of civilisation before the wilds of the mountains. It's a small little lodge, and yet the noise leaking from the doors is astonishing. Typical humans. I crouch by the window, listening in, unbecoming perhaps, for one they call a lord, but my curiosity overrides any thoughts of dignity. 

"Have you ever heard the story of the gos dragon up in the highlands?"

One of the patrons starts. Of course, it's their favourite story, I'm surprised they still have people who haven't heard it. But then it dawns on me that I'm included, I've heard them tell it, but never have I truly listened. Maybe I'll let them go on for a little while, enjoy their last hour. How very merciful I am.

Dragons and human had never truly gotten along, but never were the fires of hatred so consuming as the ones from the Dragon Lord. In the last years of the age of cities, high in the cloudy highlands nestled in a bed of rock, a dragon woman laid her eggs. Though one of those eggs was cursed with the fury of a thousand of their kind.

Cursed? I can't help but chuckle, they think it demons or spirits that made me what I am? How pathetic. My rage is not borrowed, all of it is mine alone.

The mother left the hatchlings, hoping to gather their first meal, but when she returned, the last remaining hatchling was already full from the flesh of it's siblings.

"Knowing dragons, she probably dinnae' care, they'd see it as a sign of strength."

"Mm, the savages."

Like they don't have similar rituals. I've seen their festivals, how they burn their own kind alive, how they kill their cattle and waste the meat as an 'offering', I've even heard rumours of the richest humans hunting creatures for sport, like some wandering wraith. At least we dragons don't pretend to be civilised. 

Despite the violence, the mother raised the hatchling, but she couldn't help but notice how vicious he was when feeding, ripping apart the meat with unnatural brutality. It only took one mistake, one day of insufficient food, for him to strike, killing her too.

No dragon remembers their years as a hatchling, but from our youth we are taught to endure hunger, our mothers would sometimes starve us, not out of cruelty, but to get us used to those weeks where we would have nothing to fill our bellies. The hatchlings that get all the food they could want die off later when meat is scarce. If I had really killed and ate my mother, I would've been dead within a week, but I suppose humans are infamous for their... creativity, and exaggerations.
Besides, whoever she was, if she created me, she would've been plenty strong enough to fight off a dragon hatchling. Half of me wants to burn them all to the ground right now for the ridiculous insult to my family. But the other half wants to see what other embellishments they've made to the tale.

As he grew, now alone and wandering outside the nest, the dragon's fury now turned on the many animals in the forests of the mountain. Entire herds of deer were left only with their antlers, the furs of wolves now strewn across the forest floor, packs of drakes that once terrorised local villages were reduced to piles of stained red feathers. Even a few bears couldn't escape his wrath.

I hope this part is true, what a terrifying little beastie I would've been. Idiotic, for killing off a whole food source in one go, but terrifying nevertheless. Regardless, every young dragon learns their lesson the hard way once they starve the next month after their greed. 

The hunters of the village noticed the disturbing sights on their hunts, and ventured further into the forest to investigate. Eventually, they found him, halfway up the mountain, covered in blood. They raised their crossbows to the young dragon, hoping for a quick kill to end the massacres of the animals, but the beast did not flinch as the arrows lodged in his chest. Instead he growled lunging at one of the hunters, and ripping his face from his skull and burning down the forest in a blind rage. That was when the creatures rage turned on the people. 

"Hold on- how long ago was this?! Most hunters I know take a rifle with them"
"About... 800 years, give or take a few decades."
"No normal dragon lives that long.."
"S'why this one must be cursed. Some angry spirit I reckon."

Again with humans and their magic and curses. They'll believe anything is the work of a demon if it'll let them keep their pride. It is rare but not unheard of for a dragon to live as long as I. Perhaps it is a blessing from the gods to our kind, just like our forms, but hardly anything to write stories about. No, the stories should come from what we do in those years. And not to boast, but I've done plenty more interesting than ageing.

As the dragon grew, he terrorised the villages and towns, massacring the people and burning down their homes. Leaving only ash and bone behind. This went on for centuries, and every attempt of slaying the beast from the nearby clans was met with laughter, and a simple phrase.
"You cannot extinguish the fury of a Dragon."

Before the hunting party was slain.

Ah, I may have forgotten many things from these years, but how I remember these battles well. Noble warriors with their horses and swords, decorated in warpaint, riding up the mountain and calling me from my lair. I would give them a chance to run, a simple mercy from a dragon whose belly was already full, but they would never accept my offer, always trying their luck and dying for it. Depending on my mood I'd leave a few alive, scurrying back home with a story of the bloodbath to tell. But other days I'd slaughter every last one, Leaving their skins, bones and heads at the entrance of their town for the villagers to find in the morning. Each battle would repel them for a year or so, but human memory is feeble, and they would always come back for another try. And I'd kill them all again. 

Eventually, the clans knew to leave the beast alone, fighting only when he ventured down from his lair, and accepting the deaths of those who ventured too far. But one day, a decree from the inland reached the clan's tables. Any dragons found in the wilds of Argòx, whether they be drakes, argurs, or gos, were to be captured for the military. Armed with new blackpowder weapons, the clans decided they'd try again, but this time not to kill, but to capture it for their nation.#

I had heard whisperings of this law, in guards changing duty outside the cage, or the nobles looking for a way to harness my strength.  But it was only in this moment that it all made sense. The clans in these highlands were a proud people, but no matter how stubborn, one thing I had learnt is that no human or minotor clan would refuse an order from the officials in the capital. They would grumble, insult them and call them out of touch, but never refuse them, lest they face the full force of their nation's army.

The hunters ventured into the mountains, guns and chains in hand, until they found him in the forest. They wasted no time in attacking, shooting with their rifles into his arms and legs. The dragon hesitated, he had never been up against firearms before. When he lunged in rage they threw their chains around him so he fell to the ground. As his eyes began to glow orange, one of them fitted a muzzle over his head, and he knew if he tried to burn them now, the fire would kill him from the inside out. He slashed around with his body and tail, fighting against their chains, but he couldn't overpower them. 

By now a crowd had gathered, cheering as the teller described how they fought. Banging together their mugs and splashing their drinks everywhere. But my defeat was not nearly as quick and clean as their storyteller made out. It's telling how he forgot to mention that I killed three of their hunters and wounded many more before they could chain me.

The hunters dragged the dragon back to the town, parading him through the town in the back of a prisoners cart, they say the cart shook and growled even more than the bears and drakes as he tried to escape. Once they reached the keep, he was restrained in the dungeon, chained to the floor, barely able to even pace around.

Aye, I remember the cage. Dark and damp where only the faintest rays of grey light could reach, my wrists and legs bound with chains that dug into my flesh. I still have the scars, constant reminders of that misery. The lords would come and visit every so often, gloating about how I would go to war, fight for their nation or die in the arena if I refused.

"I'd rather die here by your sticks of fire" I would growl every time. "I'd make sure to take a few of yous with me."

And I almost did when they brought the soldier from the inland round to inspect me. They told her of what I had done, the people I had slain over centuries of terror. Then they opened the gate, one of them stepping slightly inside to unhook a chain from the floor, probably to lead me out to the stronghold's grounds, show off my fire. But I was ready, pulling him into the cell and snapping his head before ripping his flesh apart. I was hungry, and angry. I think the ease at which I had killed him had put the soldier off, because she left me there, telling them the army would take me when I'm needed. She was probably wondering how in Mortagan she'd get me back to the capital without losing more good soldiers. She was smart, that one.

So they left me down there. After her abandonment, the novelty of having a legendary dragon chained up in the basement had worn off. If I listened hard I could hear them at the end of the hall, wondering what to do with me, if they should just end me now and put my skull on display, but after my little show, no one wanted to risk getting near the cage. So eventually, they stopped feeding me. They were going to starve me to death.

But years after they had captured him, the beast had found a way out, slaying the guards of the keep. Before they could stop him, the village was a pile of ash. He flew up and away, back to the mountain where he still lives to this day.

The crowd booed playfully at this last part of the story, but I was more interested in how he'd skipped every detail. Nothing about the incompetence that allowed an emaciated, chained dragon to escape a clan king's keep. They had left me down there for ten years, hoping that would be enough to starve me, and it would've, if I hadn't been eating the putrid rats that scurried in through the bars, mistaking my skin for the dark stone of the bricks. Two hunters came in that night, presumably to collect my corpse, make my hide into expensive leather and cups out of my horns. I let them get close, laying on the cold ground before wrapping the chains around their necks. 

 They were the first proper meal I had had in a decade, and just enough fuel to make my escape. I was still weak, my rips visible through the skin of my torso, so I kept to the shadows, blending in with the stone, waiting and striking whenever a guard wasn't looking. The more flesh I ate, the more strength I reclaimed. I still remember their faces as the alarm spread through the keep that I was alive and out of the cell. The panic, the dread as they realised this would not be a loud battle, but they would be picked off one by one. I suppose I'm not just mindless, savage beast.

By the time it was only the clan's king and a few guards left, I was in the village, the muzzle torn off of my face. It was the first time I had opened my jaw in years, and I took full advantage of the opportunity by burning down the town.  I remember the face of the king as he saw me standing in the fire, the dying screams of his people being burnt alive all around. I said nothing, the message was clear. I grew my wings from my back, flying back to my mountain as he kneeled by the carnage.

The tavern had had its fun, now was the time to show them that fury they love to gloat about capturing.
Half of them had broken into song, singing about how they'd hunt me down and skin me, and the various things they'd do to my carcass. I draw a few gazes and gasps as I enter through the door, but I ignore them, creeping round to the distracted storyteller who was laughing as he went into more detail about that night.

"...but it's no matter, that creature can escape us and slaughter our men all he wants, but next time, we won't try and capture him, we'll just kill the bastard!"

"Aye, is that right then?"

All goes still at those words, the storyteller turning to meet the looming form behind him, finally realising his mistake. Humans these days with their blackpowder guns, forgetting their place. Even the proud minotor know to respect our names at least, even if not our bodies and lives. In the end, both quiver in fear when faced with a dragon's might. How predictable.
A few raise their utensils or pocketknives, a pathetic attempt to hide the terror in their eyes. I stand tall, unwavering, letting them sit with the knowledge that in a few minutes this tavern will be nothing but fire and charred bone. The storyteller tries to speak, but all that leaves his lips is a trembled choke.

"Well?" I enquire, giving him one last chance to retract his words, not that it matters. I had made up my mind about what would happen to these hunters before even leaving my lair.

The path back to the mountain is colder than before, not like the fires of the tavern now raging. The hunters singing for my demise are nothing more but charred flesh, at least, the ones I didn't eat, but I left the storyteller alive. He can scurry back to the town with the tale of tonight, though I have a feeling it won't be as enjoyable for his audience. I know I've provoked them, given them more hunters to avenge and more of a reason to want my head, but we'll see if they chose to act on their hatred after seeing my fury once again. Perhaps they'll remember why they stay out of my territory, and leave me be for another year, just like their ancestors in times old. 

Above in a tree caws a raven, it's glossy black feathers glistening with specks of snow. it's rare I notice such small, abundant creatures, not even worth hunting, but this one seems to stare harder than most. Perhaps it's also in awe of my destruction. I'm sure it'll go and warn it's flock with a story of it's own.