Kill the dragon, kill the dragon, kill the dragon, kill it while it sleeps, kill the dragon, kill the dragon, kill it before it awakens and damns us, kill the dragon.

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He scribbled on my book! I cannot believe I found this after turning the page. The mad adventurer, he should have come back while I slept, vandalized my art, and left! Maybe he did it tomorrow, or before that, and I didn’t find up until now. If he did it earlier today, he must still wander the Lady’s halls, maybe searching for a weapon to destroy his lethal enemy. Weapon he won’t find, because both The Lady and the blue curtains take exception to dumb, dumb dragon slayers. The Sentinel, if not asleep, may get him, for The Sentinel is a big fellow, a brute fellow when it comes to battle. He once broke my arm out of carelessness. I still remember the pain, and it was… void. Hollow. Pain with nothing inside. Oh, but a mere wound is nothing the Lady Magics cannot stitch back together. She healed my arm without bickering, without a single complaint. It only left a small scar, here, on the left forearm. A lovingly reminder of the first time I stepped into the palace. Since then, I have had some roughhousing with the other servants, but nothing serious, with the worst injury being a scratch suffered when I tried to punch the magical mirrors away and, instead, hit a wall. The important thing being: The Sentinel will get the Vandal if he tries to run past the blacksmith’s workshop, and that’s as true as the moonlight that bathes the palace halls.

I will inform The Lady of this intrusion, and while she may consider it petty to act and the curtains may think of me as a pathetic weakling, she will listen, yes. She always listens. And she may not act against the invader, no. Because she deems it a fight of mine, or because she deems him a minor nuisance not worth the effort. Most likely because a mad knight, with enough time and subtle manipulation, could make an excellent addition to the family.

After letting her know, I must tend to the garden, down in the cellar. The plants there climb on the walls and arches and love to stick on one’s hands and arms and legs and torso and face. I will give them wine, for they cherish it and grow stronger when watered with the precious drink. The Lady is okay with this use of her stock, as long as I don’t let the potted climbers overindulge. I have perfected the act of avoiding their thorns and interpreting their snarls, so I am not bitten by the plants often. They rarely draw blood when they do, the snappy girls. In the garden there is also The Silent. He never speaks, just follows you with his stare. I suppose he is another servant, a sort of guardian of the plants. He, however, dislikes spending time with me, makes sure I know of his saffron indifference. I don’t like him, either, but he serves The Scarlet Lady, and thus is owed my respect.

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There is also the matter of that old inscription in the garden wall, one the plants dare not touch. Upon the soft brown tiles, a madman carved the following words: “Abeline. Where is Abeline? Abeline! Abeline! Where is Abeline? What has it done to Abeline?” ruining the perfect texture of the wall, scarring it with a rough patch that cannot be painted over without tarnishing the undamaged parts of the structure. I hate the madmen that come seeking shelter from the dragon! They ruin our home! They couldn’t keep their greed in check and challenged the mythical beast that inhabits that dreadful cave, and then, when it broke their mind and crushed their will, they come to the Lady begging for help. And she grants it! in her infinite compassion she aids those who embark in this pointless endeavor. One day, I will find a way to erase the markings of the madman.

Abeline…That name rings a bell tower. Abeline… I knew the girl, maybe before happening upon the dragon, maybe before that, on the days of the gray and neon dream. An adventurer, mayhap? Would make sense, would make sense. I met many in the days where I wandered the land. Abeline… you could be one of them, Abeline. Abeline… cute name, If I had a daughter, I’d call her so. I will consult with The Lady if she likes the name, if it is reasonable to like such a name.

I just heard a thud down the halls. Maybe the they caught the unfortunate rascal. Let’s hope it was The Lady or the Sentinel and not the dogs. The dogs claw, the dogs bite, the dogs stab and trash. The dogs don’t like purported, failed dragon slayers. Nobody here likes them. Arrogant pricks that go against the order of nature. Dragons are to be feared, like kitties, not slain for gold and experience, like kitties. Grown cats are, too, to be respected and feared, because, for beings unable to breathe fire, they were guilty of several homefires in… a place called South Korea, I think. Cats are known arsonists, yes, high pyromancy affinity for such small animals.

Fire, the Lady doesn’t like fires inside the palace. The air is always cool, humid, so it is not easy for it to spread. The fingers like it so. The curtain likes it so. The dogs are fine with the deal, too. But fire destroys, fire consumes, fire kills. Fire feasts on the living and, much more so, the dead. Fire, the lady says, is a necessary evil, and to be treated as such. Ashes, she says, are sinful remains. To burn something is to deny nature her rightful claim upon it.