“So pawn, did you like the story?” asked Gadorprims, clearly satisfied with his performance while narrating.
I nodded softly “Aha, I loved it.”
He shifted position in the waters, making his size be felt due to the way it disturbed the volume of the pool.
“Good, good. What do you think of the conflict between dragons and humans?”
“Both species were rendered godless, so why should we honor the desires of such egoistical gods?” I proposed.
Gadorprims snickered.
“Good, good. I don’t think they are incompatible, men and dragons. Don’t both share a love for gold and damsels in distress?”
“I… I don’t and I am not sure dragons do, either, sir Gadorprims.”
He snorted and hit my shoulder with his long snout. “I know my fair share of dragons, and more men than I’d ever want to.” He slumbered out of the water, like crocodilians do, and went out of the room. “One far day, you may not be among the men I despise anymore, pawn, I see how useful you can be,” he said, before wandering into the halls, disappearing from sight.
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Why did Gadorprims tell me about that myth? There is an expectation implicit in that action, a soft act of manipulation to lead the steps of my insane self to a place of vantage for him. The fact that the myth has been transcribed, however, may be the key for discovering the dragon’s intentions.
Once I learn what he wants from me, I can devise a plan to either play his game, were it beneficial for me, or subtly avoid it, maybe by asking Scarreladai for chores incompatible with her mate’s scheme. Whatever the case, ignorance makes me a scant favor.
Considering the dragon knows how books work, he could be trying to make me burn pages, as a way to eliminate my writing habit sooner. It would be no surprise if Gadorprims dislikes being documented, even if the text presents him as a gharial. Especially if the text presents him as a gharial.
It could also be something way more harmful, and I must be prepared for it. Just because he cannot outright kill me, it doesn’t mean he cannot arrange my death. I will plan like he wants to see me death, and hope he does not. It would be the wisest choice.
As a side note, if the story told by Gadorprims is true, I am glad the god who wanted to marry his catgirl daughter is very fucking dead. Maybe Jillsen was not that bad after all.
Still, there is the question of another agenda: Jillsenbane’s. If she is made out of a god that swore to exterminate humanity, why does she behave as the original dragon killing sword? How strong is her allegiance to me? Is she sentient? Is she acting on a reflex, like Gadorprims said, as a mere revival of the trauma?
Is this all Jillsenbane’s fault? All of this time I assumed a holy sword was a tool to help out the hero undertake his quest, to help him perform as the chosen one so many books and legends had been written about. But what if there is an underlying motive? Acting as a lure, killing the lowest dragons, those who deserve to be purged due to their weakness, to win the trust of her wielder. Who says a sword cannot be aware of their natural inclinations and actively trying to find ways to combat it? Self-control, enough to subtly guide me here, make me a slave of a powerful dragoness I ccannot easily slay, and the consequences for the others be damned! As long as I remain here and alive, Jillsenbane is not being used against the worthy sons and daughters of Jillsen. And if I commit suicide, I may condemn another innocent man to fall for the sword’s tricks. Not to mention, that would be one less human, a step further on Jillsen’s plan.
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What can I trust? If not my mind, if not my captors, if not my sword, if not my eyes? The bear? A wild animal? No, I cannot trust. Period. The situation is worse than I initially thought. I know for certain Abeline suffers by no fault of hers, I know for certain there are more than two dragons in this cave. I am eating badly, I cannot deny I must lack some vitamins, despite human meat being a nutritive meal. I am not sure of where exactly I defecate, I haven’t found that chamber while, let’s say, “sober”, yet. Maybe I just do the dirty deed anywhere with water.
Yet how can I intend to free my beloved if I don’t even know where I take my shits? How do I even wipe? With the same water I shit in?
I may need a hobby. It’s always the same, I start writing after some small breakthrough and I end up defeated by the weight and hopelessness of the situation. It would be most …fulfilling, to occupy my mind on a task done not to drive madness away, not out of duty, not out of this lust for disgrace I seem to foster every time I find myself writing while sane. Stupid neotenic animal, the human, as it hopes for allotted playtime while involved in the worse of situations.
I could write Erotica, but that would ruin the diary, and, furthermore, I don’t think onanistic pursuits would benefit me in the long run. The hobby I find cannot and should not be one that causes me to indulge in the most basic of human instincts, neither one that consumes ink and paper.
Maybe I can teach Scarreladai to play some game. She could use her necromantic powers to shape a set of die out of bones and we could do some simple role play… but, of course, she could always torture me to avoid losing a roll.
I could probably start a conversation about earthly things with Gardorprims. Give him some useless information about culture or videogames, or whatever. It would be fun if I could make him to want to know more about Final Fantasy games.
Games. What I wouldn’t do to play hero again without fearing that the things I hunt could harm me! Or to have a boring day at work where the only thing I should fear is the coffee machine not working properly! Hell, being bedridden with a seasonal flu would be preferable to this situation. A bed, I’d kill for a bed. And then, after I kill for a bed, I would find out I cannot use them anymore, that my back is far too calloused to find it comfortable, that my head has gotten used to my arm —or someone’s else, severed beforehand of course— instead of a pillow. And what would I do, if I have forgotten how a hot shower feels. If… if I don’t know if my words sound like proper English anymore.
And I am falling before the vice again, rambling about oh poor me! I hate this, I hate, I hate so much that if my hatred were solid it would not fit into this cave system. If you took the spite of every person who died here, who inhabited the corpses whose flesh I eat or whose blood I drink, and you joined that with the venom their families must foam from their mouths when one mentions the word “Dragon”, it would add to naught but a minimal fraction of what I feel for this place!
Kill the dragons, Francisco! Make Jillsenbane rue the day she chose you and Abeline as a sacrifice. How can I, You, We, Love them! They took our freedom, they took our girlfriend, they took and took and took and took some more. What are we going to do? Free a bear and give them our head on a platter? Kill the dragons. Kill the motherfucking dragons. Grab the sword against her unholy will and strike their despicable hearts. Bite into the cardiac muscle, feed on them like they made us feed on the corpses of our peers. Do it, whiny, good for nothing, castrated scum of a faggot, do it!