Book Two Letter Forty-One

My dear Smok,

It has come to my attention that I hear that you have had somewhat of a falling-out with my brother Trubodox. Clumsy sentence structure aside, I hope you will accept my utmost gratitude for distancing yourself from your less than desirable relations. My brother Trubodox is not a dragon to befriend; rather, he is one for you to use to your advantage in exchange for the occasional Christmas card.

I am glad that you have chosen to move to Higard as I have suggested, Smok; the real estate there is quite fabulous and the view is spectacular. I know that moving must seem very odd to you at the moment, but it is like most things in life: once you’ve gotten it over with, you feel like you’ve been smashed in the head with a golden banana while Yovians crowded around your limp body cheering for their favorite foosball teams. Don’t worry; the point is that you’ll get over it with minimal injury.

In the event that you are still courting Limmie the Mildly Cute, I suggest you lay out bear traps in the event that her sister attempts to interfere with your next date. A private sniper team on the roof of the restaurant will work just as nicely.

However, be warned. If you invite Limmie to your cave for dinner at some point, make sure to give her the proper address. It would be quite a disaster if, as you are waiting at your new cave with the dinner ready to go, Limmie finds herself at the doorstep of a disgruntled new homeowner on the coast of Aolia. Trust me; the dragon who bought your house, Bobbickus the Extremely Annoyed/ing, is known for getting very crazed over unexpected visitors. He’s grumpy and frumpy, if you know what I mean. Just make sure not to confuse the address, all right?

Now for a choice of dish for your supposed dinner at your cave. If you wish to attempt the cooking yourself, please attend a seminar. Males are not prepared for such eventualities and most of the time the dinner ends up a disaster when they are orchestrating the event. Attend a seminar. Or, take my advice and get a professional gourmet cook. I suggest Bubolox the Bum. Despite his lazy reputation, he is quite the chef, and he knows his soups (probably because most of them originate from his patent-pending magical armpits).

Now, on to important matters. I have hired a repair team to refurbish my cave. They are working now on the aftermath of the drake horde incident. The attacks took quite a hit out of my cave and the surrounding lands, I tell you; I am thinking about releasing Xelle from my services. Having her around, while a luxury, brings along the occasional horde of drakes. Already I see a little gaggle of them, perched a few hundred feet outside my cave waving protest signs. An example of their messages would be: “GUV US UDBILBDU BACK ARR XULLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” Dang, they’re back.

My refurbishment crew is pretty tough, though. One such dragon, the ringleader, is named Thraishus Kassfire. I have no idea what Kassfire is, but the dude has a giant skull with a black eye tattooed across his chest. Don’t ask me how a skull could get a black eye. I don’t want to know. I hear from local gossip that Thraishus Kassfire is so tough that he lives out in Frizid and eats yetis just to work up an appetite for breakfast. That would explain why that species haven’t been troubling dragons in a while.

-Your serpentine uncle,

SCALIGAR

P.S. What does he eat for breakfast?

P.P.S. Whales, perhaps?

P.P.P.S. Watch out in Higard. I hear that Skarrtath the Sinister has recently taken some property there. Needless to say, he’s sinister. Very sinister. He’s sinister, so sinister that he’d tear your sinister sinisterness right out of your sinister sinister. That’s sinister.

P.P.P.P.S. What’s bigger than whales, I wonder? Thraishus needs lunch, too...

P.P.P.P.S. Don’t even mention brunch.

P.P.P.P.P.S. Or dinner.

P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I like P.S.’s.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. P.S.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Okay, if you’re still reading by now, then your ping-pong table has obviously malfunctioned. Well, if you have a ping-pong table. Either that, or you’ve got no life. Like me!

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I love not having a life.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. I can do this all day.

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. befiubfiuebbfiufbubfuiebfeuibeuibfecuebifueubffefbeyfevfyy TEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. Okay, gotta go.

Book Two Letter Forty

The letters are back! The Draconian trio are sending their nephew letters anew, and whether or not he will need counseling because of them is yet to be seen. Presenting, the latest Draconian Letter; fresh from the brain and crisp from the key board!

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Smok,

It has come to my attention AAAAAGHmglrgo 6ghgd laaaaawyersss!!!!! That I hate you.

What kind of nephew would set up his beloved uncle up with the Draconian equivalent of a neutron bomb?!! This date you drafted me into was one of the all time worst experiences in all my living years!

So as to illustrate completely my reasons for the box of TNT I have enclosed in this letter, I shall tell the full story in excellent biographic detail.

The night started out rather ominously, after I broke seven mirrors, found words written in cheese sauce on my cave ceiling, and overheard sinister whispering from my closet, I realized the date was going to stink.

I was mistaken, the date went much farther than the term ‘stink’, in fact I hardly think any word other than several that would require censorship permits could begin to describe the tribulation I went through, simply to please my nephew. Are you crying yet? It gets worse…

Well, the hour came nigh, and I marched to my doom, meeting your choice of date, Darwina of the Single Cell Organism, what kind of a date do you call that?! Probably Yovian born, and obsessed with frogs!

Anyway; after our initial clash, we flew swiftly to the allotted restaurant Luggi’s Flaming Pancake and Insurance Deli, a name that should have for warned me to the contents of the evening.

We were met by an usher who showed us our table, attempted to sell life insurance to me; I refused, then he showed us the menu. All this time Darwina was glaring at me, I don’t doubt she didn’t want to be here as much as I did.

After a pulsating pause, we ordered. I, getting the Puant L’Ail Aoulette, and the Cinder Side Up pancake special, and Darwina asking for the Frog Liver in Mustard, with a side dish of Hash & Tadpoles. Her breath was going to smell magnificent, so I retaliated with a side request of Onion Pancakes, marinated in castor oil, infused with ranch dressing and garlic, two could play at this game.

Eager to try out my new found death breath, I inquired at the reason for her name. Bad move. She began railing about her theories on what she called ‘evolve-ution’ or whatever, that Dragons evolved from frogs! Preposterous, as I told her, I was not a frog with wings, neither did my legs taste good.

Again, I blame everything after this point upon you, Smok. Why didn’t you tell me she played Baseball?!! And the speed of her anger?! She flung a flaming pancake into my snout before I knew what was happening!

Well! I was not be outdone, picking eye-holes in my smoldering mask, she and I began a furious food fight, I armed with my wits, and several flammable prunes, and she stocked to the nostrils with squadrons of pancakes that met and flew through the restaurant, liberally platting every surface with the remnants of the pyrotechnic foodstuffs.

Why the deli’s wall paper was inlaid with napalm I shall never know--although I suspect Scaligar was involved--but my swiftly deteriorating date soon was incinerated by the flaming collapse of the restaurant. I blame the government.

And you also, must take most of the blame. You set me up with that mad female, just because she was your date’s sister! I shall never look at a pancake the same way again, I swear; my scales were red once, now..?...

Setting me up with Darwina, Smok, was like flying to the moon in a paper airplane…was like giving an elephant a china vase..no… Was like cladding a house with butter AAAAAAAAGH what is the  cursed metaphor?!

I’ll never speak to you again,

Trubodox the Scarlet Brown and Slightly Slimy

P.S. I might write

        P.P.S. No, I won’t!

        P.P.P.S. Yes; I might….

        P.P.P.P.S. NEVER!!

P.P.P.P.P.S Let's consult the Great Ouija Board…

Book Two Letter Thirty-Nine

My Dearest Nephew,

You went out on a date with Limmie the Mildly Cute?! What a horrible idea! No doubt one of your uncles suggested it? Come on, fess up, which one was it? Never mind, you can tell me in your next letter. Just whatever you do, don’t take anymore courting advice from your uncles.

            Have you decided on your choice for your new home Province? You didn’t decide to move North did you? Oh, and don’t move South either, too close by far to Yovi. You might be well advised to look around the area of the Higard Province, wait, your uncle Scaligar suggested Higard too didn’t he? Whatever you do, don’t stray too near to Higard, it’s a horrible place.

Book Two Letter Thirty-Eight

My not-so-dear-today Smok,

It has come to my attention that your uncle Semithino sent the horde of drakes outside my cave a battering ram! Needless to say, I have spent the whole morning shoring up my barricades while the barbarians outside attempted to storm through, armed to the teeth with teeth, teeth, and teeth. Xelle has retreated into the lower cellar complex of my cave; it is a vast maze down there, and no male drake could ever find her in my giant array of cavernous cellars, even if he got into my cave. I have also rigged the cellar door with some makeshift explosive charges, based partially on the black powder I once threw at Gargazath. Ah, sometimes I miss the old days.

Book Two Letter Thirty-Seven

Dear Smok,

PINEAPPLES?! PLUCKED BIRDS?! Honestly Smok sometime you should realize your mistake in corresponding with that ecologistic pro-health-farm dolt you call an uncle, and do what I’ve been tellng you to do for years. Burn his letters, in acid, in a sacrificial chamber, with peanuts.

    Concerning other matters, the counter renovation of my cave (or its remainder) is currently enacted by Bing and Bong the Doorbell drake twins. As stupid as styrofoam insulation, as the saying goes. Incidentally they did try to insulate the walls with styrofoam, I forcefully rebuffed them.

    As to the state of my beleaguered cave, it has been stripped to the bare rock. That anarchist of a replica Geekadox destroyed everything. I'd take legal action if he weren't on a fast rocket to the mid ocean taking a long leave of absence.

Dragon in the Snow

When the mountains don their caps,

As the forests gain their covers,

White abounds o’er all the land,

Frost bound hills like icy brothers.

While the people rush indoors,

Fleeing the wind that outside sings,

All but one warm safe inside,

This single creature spreads its wings.

Frosty scales, and icy claws,

Silver wingtips, golden eyes,

Taking to the restless winds,

Beneath the Dragon all land lies.

Swooping in the sky’s embrace,

Wings widespread to catch the breeze,

Skimming o’er the snow cloaked fields,

Alone but for the endless freeze.

Alone above the endless snows,

The Dragon dives to the ground below,

And with a roar that shakes the skies,

Fire bursts across the snow.

Dragon Bridle

    Hello Readership,

Though this may be a bit unusual, I have decided to alter the background of the blog for just a short while for the sake of this post as this story cannot be fully appreciated with the current backdrop. Enjoy the shane while you can, as it will be back to the ordinary before too long.

-T baner

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    Stories can start with the smallest of actions and in the most unexpected of places. A single out of the ordinary occurrence and the ordinary life, becomes uncommon and a story is started.

      Our story starts in a stable.

    Vast and round, the stable is built from stone and wood and stretches hundreds of meters in diameter, and hundreds more up, so that the vaulted roof is lost in darkness. The ground of the great stable is packed down hard, stomped and trod by many thousands of feet before now ‘till it is hard as the stones of the walls.

    All round the walls are the stalls, each one large enough to house a dozen horses in cumfort, but made for something much, much larger than any horse. From each of the stalls waft the gentle sounds of deep breathing and of the shifting of heavy bodies and along each door is written a name in golden ink; Jeeri, Tiamat, Fafnir and many more.

     All is quiet in the stable, even when the small boy in the leather jerkin and leggings steals in through the great doors, for he moves with such stealth that he makes not a sound. Even when he shuts the door behind him, there is not a sound. Even as he tip-toes across the vast open space, not a noise does he make on his bare feet.

      And now he creeps along one edge of the enclosure, making his way past stall after stall, and his bright eyes, so green they are visible even in this dark, flick to each golden name as he passes by them. Nidhogg, Ladon, Glaurung, Chrysophylax, and still he moves on, past Scatha, Ancalegon, Apep, and Galeru, barely glancing at the stalls of Rahu, Ketu, Manasa, Jormungand, and Ouroboros, ignoring the stalls of Peluda, Rinjin, Sirrush, Abraxas, and Zu, and finally arriving at the stall of his destination.

    Reaching out a small, pale hand, the boy unlatches the gate to the stall and nudges it open slightly before slipping inside and shutting it softly behind him. The air smells of clean hay and copper and of smoke and the sounds of deep breathing rustle through the stall, ruffling the boy’s hair as he steps forward into the darkness.

     “Orion,” the boys first word is a half musical sound, the kind of half-sung note that one makes when they are trying hard to control mounting excitement, “wake up.”

      A break in the breathing, a snort, the sounds of something huge moving, rising from the floor. The boy stands very still as the sound of a massive tail sliding heavily across the floor of the stall reaches his ears. Then comes a yawn so wide that the long teeth gleam for a moment in the almost noexistant light of the stables. The breath, intensely warm and smelling pleasantly of smoke and animal smells, blows back the hair from the boy’s face, causing him to smile.

    “No time for sleep,” whispers the boy, trotting through the straw to one wall of the stable as more sounds of heavy movement reach his ears, “it’s getting on to midnight, and a full moon too. Time to fly.”

      For a moment, the boy scrabbles about for the object of his search on the wall, then his fingers close around leather and he pulls the massive bridle from its peg.

Then, careful to make as little noise as possible, he pads to the gate of the stall and gently pushes it wide.

    The boy slowly proceeds out through the door of the stall backwards, humming and whispering enouragment to the tired creature still inside and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the massive golden dragon proceeds out into the stables proper. First his great smoking muzzle, then the head, ridged with golden horns and almost the full length of the boy’s body, then the long spiky neck, the wings, massive and furled at its sides, the legs, the body and the heavy, spiked, whiplike tail.

    The boy leads the dragon further and further out until they both stand at the center of the stable enclosure. Then, as the tired dragon looks about him with eyes that really do glow gold in the darkness, the boy steps forward and heaves the massive bridle over the neck of the golden beast and sets aout fastening the buckles and laces tight.

By the time the final belt is sinched tight, the dragon is wide awake, its great eyes bright and filled with the same escitement that courses from the small boy before him.

    “You ready?” the boy asks at last, and, as though it understands him, the golden dragon wags its massive head up and down vigorously.

    “Me too” breaths the boy with a smile, “just let me get the roof.”

    The boy makes his way to a spot at the exact measured center of the stable and, after a quick padding search through the utter darkness, takes hold of a long chain which hangs from the ceiling far above. Giving it a swift tug, the boy turns and trots back to the waiting Dragon and swings himself up onto its back. There is no time for a saddle now, so the boy finds himself a place between two of the long, jagged spines that rise from the dragon's back and watches as the roof above slowly, bit by bit, opens outwards until there is a circular hole in the roof large enough for a house to drop through.

    And now the boy can feel the slight shudders that run through the dragon as it too looks upwards at the hole through which the full moon now shines bright, can feel its heart beating with the same exileration as his, matching it beat for beat.

    “Orion,” the boy whispers, his voice all-but inaudible and choked with excitement, “time to fly.”

    The dragon crouches and launches itself straight up, twenty-foot wings unfurling with a crack and beating with a sound like war drums sending it soaring upwards towards the circle of moonlight.

    As they reach the opening, the dragon curls its wings inwards slightly and they burst upwards into the open air. Then the wings are open once more and the two of them, dragon and ride, rise steadily above the stables and up towards the gleaming full moon.

    The boy clenches the reins fiercely and grips the dragon’s neck with his knees as they rise straight up, the wind tearing at his clothes and hair, the ground now far, far below and growing further still with every passing second.

    Then, far, far, far, above the stables, the dragon ceases its ascent and the two of them glide on the winds. The boy gazes down at the stables, the paddock, the dormitory, the grainary, all of them so far below now. The other boys and girls would be fast asleep by now, snuffling like hogs in their beds.

     Tomorrow he would be questioned about his pale face, the dark circles beneath his eyes. He would be asked why he had not slept, but he would not tell. These nights flying high above the world below were worth any punishments the Masters could deal out. He would take it knowing that each night when everyone else was fast asleep, he could once more slip from his bed, pick the lock on the dormitory door and steal out to the stables for yet another midnight ride on Orion.

     Now too far above the earth for any sound he made to be heard by those below, the boy looked up at the moon and crowedhis joy and his freedom to the open skies. His cry was mimicked Orion who threw back his great, horned golden head and roared aloud, jetting a stream of golden-orange flame into the night sky. Its light illuminated both dragon and rider, far above the earth.

     When they returned, they would once again shrug on the heavy hide of earthly things, of worries about food and sleep and pain. But for this tim, they were beyond it completely and absolutely. For these few precious, moonlit hours, Rowan and Orion were flying.