It must have been nearly a foot long. The great beast - its length three times the height of poor Bartu, and twice as tall - wended its way over the plants, crushing those small enough to be eviscerated by its passing and spitting fire at those too big to be slaughtered immediately.
Its eyes were clearly trained on the flower, its jaws slavering the sight of its beauty. Bartu would never learn why the beast bore such hatred for those fantastical blue petals; the dragon could not speak, and even if it could it would have nothing to say. Possibly it was no more than hatred of the beautiful; possibly it was a desire to devour the same. Possibly it didn’t think at all.
It went barreling straight towards the flower, claws churning up chunks of dirt, steam coming out of its nostrils. The only thing standing between the flower and annihilation was one lonely little creature, come to the deep dark woods from who knows where.
image [https://images2.imgbox.com/6e/a8/qbMBxobJ_o.png]
There was no chance the little creature could beat it. Its scales were made of iron, its claws of steel, its teeth of brass. They clacked and clanged and made a hideous clamour as the beast ran ever faster towards the monster. If he fought it, Bartu knew, he would not last one minute.
Throwing his satchel to the side, Bartu drew his sword. He advanced confidently to meet the foe, standing steady in a clover patch some four feet from the behemoth.
Bartu was not a smart creature. That much he knew, even if he knew nothing else. But he had an excellent memory - fragmented, perhaps, but stretching haphazardly back to when first he had entered the wood, so long ago.
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As happens to many travellers in the deep dark woods, the little creature ran into another little creature. But this one wasn’t bald from its end to its nose, and though Bartu couldn’t discern the colour of its fur in the poor light he could tell it was nowhere near as pearly as he.
The furry thing offered him a mushroom; Bartu accepted; Bartu returned the gift with a handful of nuts and, the bond of gratitude established, they became fast friends.
Bartu himself had nothing to contribute to the conversation, no special wisdom, no witty dialogue. He wasn’t a smart creature, and he didn’t care to pretend otherwise. The furry thing was otherwise - it may or may not have been smart, but it had something to say, and it said it. Its gold eyes swirled crazily as it slammed its mug on the small rock the pair were using as a table, waving the other about wildly in the air.
image [https://images2.imgbox.com/f4/91/njMmOVL6_o.png]
“The only choice is to walk the Path of Honour. Ask not if it will bring you death: for the path itself is life. Walk it and you will have life, even if your lifeblood is spilled on the ground; leave it and you are already dead, a mere corpse that has not yet ceased to be. If you do nothing else, stick to the Path, no matter the thorns that seem to block your way.”
There was a curious, feverish intensity to its eyes as its spoke these words, its paws flickering like sparks of fire. One long, slow tear dripped down its whiskers as it spoke of thorns blocking the way; and in the distance, at the edge of his field of view, Bartu thought he could see scales sliding through the underbrush.
Something in Bartu’s heart had been stirred by the words, and had risen to meet the challenge. It rose again now. He would not leave the flower to die, not to save himself. If he did nothing else, he would do this.
The dragon reared up, its head higher than that of the tallest of dandelions, and roared its challenge to the heavens. Bartu answered its cry with his own.