Myron hated traveling. The sun shined way to hotly for his comfort. The nights were way to cold. The wind blew to strongly and made his hat fly off, so he needed to go chase it. The bugs the size of fucking horses constantly tried to eat him- did he mention the bugs? Yes. A fly fell into his soup rations. He tossed the whole beef and carrot stew out. Consuming fly-tainted soup already proved way past his bottom line. Myron, most of all, hated traveling alone. Especially on dirty roads. Very dirty roads where weeds grew along the middle and smelled foul if you stepped on them. Can't this kingdom pave their fucking roads? He could accept his mother didn't wish a road going to her lair. Dragon's valued privacy, and he agreed making it difficult to find would protect the treasure much more easily. However, his mother lined the floor of her cave with marble tile to give it a sense of majesty and welcome! What better way for a kingdom to display its power than to pave their roads? Stupid dirt roads, ruining his glorious pink outfit. Ruining his beautiful shoes. Ruining his beautiful face- he longed for a bath, to be squeaky clean, to admire his adonus (in his own perspective) like body in the mirror, and to thank Lathander in Celestia for gracing him with the finest athletic body the realms knew to man.
Shower equivalent thoughts about roads aside, Myron made poor time along the road. Opting to use every excuse to rest beneath the shade of a tree. Opting to lay down in the waving grass as the perfect breeze blew through so he could enjoy such wonders of Akadi and the benign antics of nature. The seldom traveled dirt road that ran parallel to the Thunderpeak Mountains of Cormyr rarely sees much travel- with much of the trade and traffic between the Dwarven Kingdom of Thunderstone trading down and up the Thunderflow into the Wyvernwater lake towards Immersea and Yeoman's Bridge. As well, land traffic preferred to go down through High Castle from Thunderstone then head west along the roads patrolled by the Purple Dragon army of Cormyr. Reasonably, the route Myron takes- which edges along the dangerous Hullack Forest, the Realm of the Wailing Fog, and the uncivilized, untamed corners of the Thunderpeaks- weren't popular at all. The one of many perks of being the son of a Dragon who valued their privacy enough to make a lair in an entirely inhospitable corner of the world hostile to human civilization, one can suppose.
This being said- Myron, while perfectly happy to keep himself company- grew bored. One can only idle away and wander down roads for so long before boredom sets in- the agonizing state of finding nothing to do despite there being tons of things to do to improve one's lot in life and or exercising the mind with mental puzzles beyond, 'how will I get this rock out of my shoe today?' The sort of boredom that a not very bright individual falls into when they sigh terribly and stare at the ceiling and state, "Well, I am bored." Which is precisely what Myron did with the sky, gazing up at the clear blue sky with the shy cloud hovering in the far distance. A few birds flittering through the sky- and an obnoxious crow staring at him from a tree branch. Lathander's sun shone roughly in the noon-day position- making it the hottest part of the day. Truth be told- the heat remained tolerable, roughly 77 fahrenheit, warm enough to cause a sweat, not hot enough to cause heat stroke unless one intentionally tried to cause it.
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Okay. That fucking crow. Myron frowned as he noted the filthy black bird followed him for the last two days. Same bird. First, he ignored it. Then he tried to bait it with food to send it away. Third, he attempted to use a wand of fireball on it. Fourth, he lured it out with shiny objects- but the clever thing proved smarter than him, and avoided the spike trap beneath the shiny objects. Turns out, the instruction manual said it required at least ten pounds to set off- which the crow, clearly, did not possess in mass. Who reads the instruction manual? No one, that's who. Suffice to say- he didn't know how to disarm the thing short of tossing a ten pound object into the center of the trap- and that felt like work, so he simply moved on and left it off the side of the road to let nature take its course. Clearly, it can't be his fault if someone was dumb enough to walk into it, right?
Regardless, extreme times meant extreme measures- and the bird, clearly an omen from the gods of death and strife, meaning him no good will, must be dealt with in a post proper and classic manner possible.
"Alright bird, time to meet your doom for certain!" Said a now heroic Myron O'Connor. Speaking righteously- he lifted up a rock from the road and took aim upon the branch-resting crow. Rested in an old oak, the beady bird of evil stared at him with the intensity of an unnerving type. It opened its ugly beak and cawed at him tauntingly- daring him to try again and set fire to another tree, expecting a wand of fireball to see use again. However, in a tale unworthy of David and Goliath, Goliath through the stone at poor David- and with an indignant cry at an unjust world, a crow fell dead upon the ground, lifeless and- wait, why is it dissipating?
Myron considered briefly and concluded he just murdered a wizard's familiar. Well, he knew he wanted to find some excitement- but he knew this wasn't the sort he wanted.
"Well, shit."