[https://i.imgur.com/HYu7McL.png]

[https://i.imgur.com/D2oBuCo.png]ragons.

We've all faced them in our lives.

In one form or another.

Whether it's the oppressive weight of consuming emotions, the overwhelming presence of a deadline, or just the day-to-day struggle of putting food on the table, a roof over the head, or shoes on the kids' feet, they're here and, though they may not be the flesh and blood, fire and brimstone breathing kind, they're real. Even if they only take the winged serpent's shape amidst the dreams of a less-than-fitful sleep.

On Earth, they have so many strike and attack styles that they leave little chance to equip one's self with the right weaponry, strategy, or armor to hold off an assault. Depression, addiction, poverty, ambulatory and emotional disabilities are just a few of the talons and hellfire these beings wield. And where they may not leave scars on the body, physically, they can definitely scald one's soul to the quick, spiritually.

On a plane of existence called Nirn, where these words come to you from, these beings are quite real. And, they leave very visible scars on those unfortunate enough to find themselves victim to their wrath.

There's the fire, that melts flesh, venom, that steals life, slow and painfully, and acid, that renders muscle and skin to liquefy and slough off the bone. Let's not forget the talons and the teeth, or the wings that beat with enough force to crush bone and body, with the windblast alone. These are the tools of their ire, their dominance, their fun. And tho their lives may be endless, they aren't truly immortal, but they may as well be.

To see one of these hulking harbingers once and live is a mixed blessing, at best. To see two, on separate occasions, is just luck, of the worst kind. To see the same one twice... is the making of a tale. To kill it... That... Is the stuff of legend.

But to one girl, it's just her life.

On the eleventh day of Rain's Hand, in the five hundred and seventy-fifth year of the second era, in this mortal plane of Nirn, on the continent of Tamriel, somewhere between Riverhold and Altadoon, was born said girl.

She was a quiet, inquisitive child. The daughter of merchants who traversed the byways between Valenwood and Cyrodiil. She was, quite literally, born into the life, in the back of a covered wagon, on the side of the road, under a crisp, clear, moon-lit sky.

By the age of three, you could probably, more often than not, find her on the drover's seat of that very same wagon. Watching the clouds. Naming the plants. Or just waving at passers-by. All the while keeping an eye on how the tightness and slack of the reigns steered the horses down the hardpack. She would help her parents arrange the wares, in their makeshift stalls, a little after turning four. For her fifth birthday, her father let her take the reigns. She drove for a bit each day after that.

Though many would say she looked all Breton, unless they spotted her ears, she was far, far from it. Yet those two tell-a-tale appendages, courtesy of her mother, were the only sign you needed to see that her lineage was anything but pure. Slightly elongated at the top, albeit closer to the head and a little less pointed than a normal Elf's. Still, they stood out against her face, her fair skin, and her light brown hair, enough to be unmistakable.

And yet, there was so much more to her make-up than just a Wood Elf mother and a Breton dad.

Her mother's side was a small cornucopia of Tamriel's diversity. She was Bosmer and Nord with a hint of giant, courtesy of a great, great, grandmother of Skyrim's warrior line. There was even a tinge of Orc off the branch on her father's side, somewhere. Her great Uncle had the teeth.

The girl's father's line was a little less messy, having an influx of Redguard four generations away, but mostly he was just Breton, Breton, and... Breton down the rest of the line.

As you can see her genetics were an interesting mix, but that was not as uncommon as some may assume. Though not many of Nirn's people crossed over the racial divides, it happened more than people think. And a lot more than some would have hoped for. Some families just seemed predestined to it. Be it by love or lust, drunken debauchery, or the atrocities of war.

But that's a tale best be told by someone more learned than I.

This tale, not that one, is mine to relate. As it has been for five years now. Whenever someone should inquire about the girl with the scars, the eerily glowing eyes, and no voice of her own to tell it, mine, is the voice that tells it.

And I pass these words on to you, pretty much the same way she wrote them to me, scratching them with a dragon's claw, in the blood-covered soil that was almost our final resting place.

Well, maybe not the same way. I tend to embellish things a bit. If the tale is worthy of telling, it's worthy of telling the tale with a little flare. Just bear with me, 'cause this tale, is worth hearing.

So, let's go back a few years, to a warm uncommon night in a desert, because that is where this story truly begins. Well, really it began the day of her birth but I already filled you in on that.

Midsummer, five-hundred eighty-two. A caravan of wagons makes its way north from Rimmen, heading to trade on the Nibenay Bay. They stopped for the night, in a well-used clearing, dined, took baths in a pond, and had long been in satiated repose. The moons were full. The night was unseasonally quiet.

And a fool named Abnur Tharn was in the midst of a plan.

A very, very, stupid plan.

"Father."

"Yes, Jo"

"I can't sleep."

"What is it that has you bothered, little one."

"It's too... heavy."

"Do you want the lighter blanket?"

"No, father. The air, the sky, the moons, they're heavy. Can't you feel it?"

The silence that surrounded them had a weight. An eerie feeling of foreboding. Then that heaviness slowly became a tremor. Not from the ground but from the very air around them. It pressed on the skin, thrumming in the ears. With a sudden deafening ferocity, the silence broke with a roar of inferno and the screams of others waking in hell. All around them, the night became blinding. The world quaked from an enormous impact on the clearing outside her wagon. A fiery, furious gust of wind and sand sent it tumbling like a tumbleweed in a storm. She was tossed from her bed through the cloth roof, slamming, back first into a tree.

While struggling to regain the breath that she had lost she saw a vision that would be etched in her memory for life. A huge black head, teeth bared in a grinning maw, and two yellow eyes, full of malice and... joy, glowed in the hellscape that surrounded her. She knew her world was changed forever when that maw opened and more fire raged, with a bellow. Then the pain came and with it the merciless respite of darkness.

The dreams that haunted her, over the coming days, were of agony, death, and despair. Occasional words touched her ears, in the seconds she would wake, and fade as the nightmare renewed.

The hands that finally ripped her from her slumber were anything but kind. They were rough and cold, much like the voice that came next.

"Wake up girl. We wasted a'nough on you. If you can't work we'll fee' you to the Dires. They prefer their meat a li'l less cooked, but they'll gnaw on you just the same. Ha."

She recognized that voice. The cruel things it spoke in her haze. The pain and, oddly enough, the soothing that came with it were a tenebrious memory, but a memory just the same.

"Eat. Then get to work. And cover that face. You're horrifying."

Those words would be her morning ritual for the next two years of her life. Just before she was handed a wooden bucket with a rope for a handle and sent on her way.

Always, away.

That pail, that mirror of life, it told her why. Every morning. She'd drag it to a stream empty, then she'd get a look at the person in it when it was full. The left half of the face, all scarred. One eye clear, blue, the other... dead, white, and hazy. She looked at the stranger staring back with pity. Pity and awe.

'Why did they save me? Are they that cruel, that merciless?', she posed, many a morning, about these bandits.

Her rescuers were her captors, her masters, her bane. Cooking, cleaning, mining, and foraging were her life now. But that didn't bother her any. She had always been a hard worker. Eager for the task. Hungry to learn how and to do. It was the anguish of the others, her friends, no, her family of the road since birth, it was their pain that put a fire in her stomach and knots in her gut.

It was the atmosphere, the sounds, that tortured her.

The cracking of whips on flesh and fur. The bodies of those too old, to be useful anymore, put to a final purpose. Hung from a tree by their wrists, "This! Is where you stab."

Then there was the other cruelty. The moans in the night, accompanied by the sobs and whimpers of the assaulted. The groping and fondling. Never her though, she was too... untouchable... unsightly. Even for the most scarred of them. It was a small solace to the look of the reflection in the water bucket.

So she woke in the morning, wrapped her face in a shawl, ate her hard tack, grabbed her bucket, and started her day. Vigilant. Aware. Studious. Every day, the same routine, the same sounds. The same lessons.

Then, just around sunset, after so many repetitive months she'd lost count, she heard it. Something old, but somehow new.

A cry for help. A plea for mercy.

"No! No. Please, no!"

The voice was one of the most familiar and friendly, more to the point, sisterly. It belonged to her only constant friend these past nine years, of both their young lives. The only one who still looked at her like her. A Khajit girl named Ma'rivva. Three days her younger. Born on the same wagon train.

Her mind went cold and her body heated. Then she heard the roar and felt the pain like she was freshly burned. Her world went white hot.

She doesn't remember much from the second she seared to the moment she felt the sobs against her chest. She wanted to console her friend. She wanted to tell Ma'rivva, "Everything would be okay." She wanted to say anything. But her words were taken from her the very same day she felt the dragon fire's caress. So she did, the only thing she could do, she rocked and she stroked the girl's head, holding her tight.

When the warbling stopped and the relaxed breathing of sleep met her ears, she laid the girl down on the grass to rest, then she looked at her arms and hands. The blood of that man had pooled in the scars, giving her a semblance of smoothness, a new skin, and, for a brief moment, she felt renewed. Whole. Purposeful. Then she saw the bow, the blade, and the arrows. The clouds parted and the moonlight caught her attention. She looked up and saw a statue. Of Azura. Looking down from the rocks above. And she knew why she had been asked to endure.

What happened next, one would say was cold, cunning, and calculated. Tactical. Precise. Ruthless but deserved.

She'd learned how to sneak up to a Gryphon's or a Kwama's nest to steal eggs. She knew how to avoid the sticks, leaves, and branches so as not to startle the deer, springbok, or goat, lest she be beaten for scaring them away.

And these lessons she learned well. Very, very well.

She had watched, inconspicuously, as the newer cutthroats were being trained. She had listened, while they were being chastised.

"Raise the bow steady. Nock the arrow. Pull the string smoothly. Aim for the buckle if they're close. Aim for the heart if they're far... Loose!"

"No, no, you dumbshit. You stab here, here, or here, you slice here. Quick, clean, quiet."

She had mimed those rituals in her mind, every night before sleep, physically when she knew she was hidden from view. Over and over she had sparred, with the enemy in the stream's reflection, the brigand tree, or the invisible shadow swordsman. She ran the trainer's words through her head until they became her mantras. Engraved in her mind, memorized by her muscles.

Knowledge was her sustenance, her food. And she had devoured every meal with the hunger of the starved.

The House of Reveries would have been envious of her footwork, the Morag Tong of her silent execution. A flick of the blade. A well-placed arrow. Retrieve your ammo. Hide the body. Move on.

The guards were the first. Always vigilant toward external attacks. Never expecting their demise to come from within. Never mind from someone so small. So quiet. Those who were sleeping never woke. Those awake never spoke a word of warning.

She was vastly outnumbered, but she knew who to free first. Slowly, as the captor's numbers dwindled, her allies' numbers rose. Together, they spared none.

When it was finally done, while families reunited around her, she went to the stream and took a look at herself. This self. This purpose. She looked to the statue of Azura, to thank her for giving her this rekindled feeling of hope and the resounding sound of joy she heard around her. But all she saw, was a pillar of stone vaguely in the shape of a solemn woman.

She felt the pain and the blood rush settle. She stripped out of the blood-soaked clothes, laid herself down in the water, and let the coolness of freedom cleanse her, body and soul.

Her sins floated away in red tendrils on the current. Along with the last vestiges of her venom and rage. When the cool became too cold and unpleasant, she picked herself up, gathered her new tools, and walked to the summit of the tallest hill. She stood calm, just staring at the horizon, longing for the beyond.

In the midst of her future's uncertainty, she heard a footfall. She spun, bow in hand, arrow nocked.

She saw a familiar trio, hands raised, for her to stay her shot, a happy little one wrapped around the man's leg. She lowered the bow. They grabbed her in a hug.

In their embrace, she cried, for the first time in a long time.

She grieved for her parents and the oh-so-many lives lost, that one night long ago, and the terrible months that followed. She sobbed silently and wept tearless, against their soft, calming fur. The revelry, coming from the camp below them, reminded her of the days long before these, giving her faith that those feelings may somehow return. It was more than hinted upon the sounds of laughter and meaningful task.

After their tormentors were no more than scavenger food, the survivors took stock of the supplies around them. They gathered everything worth packing and carrying and made an expeditious exodus from that place.

They headed south, out of the desert, toward more fertile soil. Where the greens and browns could chase the memories, of the hardships, the bandits, and the cruelty. Remembrances that would forever be recalled by the sight of the red rocks and the sun-bleached sands, should they stay.

On the road outside of Tenmar Temple, a scant few miles from the Valenwood Gate, that little girl became Ma'rivva's true sister, in front of all the families she helped liberate. Jo Greenhart became Jo Kethba Athra. The Little Wise One With The Soul Of Stone.

[https://i.imgur.com/NWxomFs.png]

Jo Stonesoul, she would claim for the common law.

They ended their journey and forged a makeshift little village, in a gorge between Pridehome and Black Heights. Even a handful of the Argonian merchants hung up their trading shoes for a simpler, more sedentary life. Farming, herding, fishing, hunting, and crafting had quickly become their new way. They watched hopefully, but not forlornly, as others took their wares and moved on, down the same byways as they once had. Silently praying for a peaceful trip for those taking their place on the road.

And life went by.

At a slower, more tranquil pace.

Years passed, with a gentle turning of the seasons and an honest, familial calm.

Then the rumors trickled in. Hushed words off the tongue. A beast in the North was holding villages and wayfarers to tribute. Demanding of them, treasures, subservience, and flesh. No one knew his name but the monikers rang familiar to them, those who remembered one hellish night so many years ago.

Smiling Demon of Death.

The Darkness That Rends Flesh Laughing.

The Shadow of Joy.

It had black scales with yellow eyes.

Mercenaries and adventure seekers traveled from miles away, to be the one to end his reign and claim a Queen's ransom. The only thing they did was sate the beast's hunger, for a while.

On the morning of the nineteenth of Rain's Hand, in the year five hundred ninety-four, eight days after her nineteenth birthday, an uncommonly tall woman, with light brown hair hugged her adopted family goodbye. She didn't expect to return from this venture but she needed to see it through. And they knew it too. The nightmares, the anxiousness, the pain of just knowing it was there and... that grin... it forged her. It beckoned her.

One last hug. She left the tears behind.

That was three weeks before I met her. It's odd, now that I come to think about it. Two very different people, meeting up for the same purpose, with two very different reasons for that purpose. Mine was simple. Money. I had no family lost to this beast, nor had I a reason to hate it more than any other bounty. To me, it was just a living. And a retirement's worth of coin. Should I survive to collect a single Drake, that is.

Her reason? That would be simple too, if you called it vengeance. But vengeance, it wasn't. It was something much different. Truer. Much more altruistic. It was, for lack of a better word or a single word for that matter, a love for the lives of those who love.

You see she loved the people that this bastard had hurt. And she'd damn herself to Oblivion if she let it hurt a single soul more. Never mind if it made its way South and hurt her family anymore.

That was unconscionable in her mind.

Many nights since the rumors first started she dreamed of this beast, sweeping through her home, coming to finish what he didn't that night.

That thought alone was what drove her to trek through the wilds, back to the desert, with nothing but some jerked meat, a canteen, a bedroll, a blade, and a bow.

That same bow.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

That same blade.

The ones consecrated, as red as her skin had been, that night under Azura's gaze. Those two tools had a gleam, a magic all their own. An essence and intensity that matched hers.

[https://i.imgur.com/1bjsTYy.jpg]

When I met her, she was sharpening sticks. I should say, she was making spikes from trees. Small trees. About one and a half hands wide. She was lopping off the tops, a Gryphon's-head-high off the ground, and shaping what was left standing to a point. There was no rhyme or reason to the location of the ones she chose. They were just sporadically picked, in the last of the woodland before the desert's claim. In the last known region that the beast haunted.

There seemed to be a method to her madness though. Like she had a plan. Or maybe a premonition. I wouldn't have put that passed her either.

Maybe it was a figment of a dream? Or a calling so strong it could will the world to bend to it? Either way, she was fixed and she was focused. So focused she didn't notice me watching.

Okay, some would call it leering, but it wasn't in a creepy way. There was just, something about her.

She was lithe and fluid and... driven. She moved with the grace of a... well, of the people she called her family now. She had a feline quality to the way her muscles moved and flexed. Her head was shaved on the sides with five braids going down the middle, interwoven into one, halfway down her back. She was stunningly scarred.

When she finally caught my gaze, I saw the ferocity of her purpose, the intensity, and the passion. She was... the most honestly beautiful being my eyes had ever seen.

She took stock of me in an instant, pointed at me, and then at a youngling just on the other side of where I was standing. I took the hint and got to work. This routine went on for a good part of the day. We'd cut, she'd notice I was staring again, she'd point, and we'd move on.

When she finally called it quits she thanked me, by way of words written with a stick in the dirt. Then she waved me follow, back to a makeshift camp, on the North side of a pond East of Merryvale. With the rocky hills at our back, and the pond separating the clearing from the treeline, this spot was like a natural redoubt.

[https://i.imgur.com/pwkXDCx.png]

She stripped, walked into the water, and washed away the day. She was not shy, nor vulgar, nor flirtatious, it was just the way. I joined her, at a modest space.

When we were both cleaned, of our day-long endeavor, she shared a stew she'd made, with some rabbit, she had caught in the morning, and some vegetables she had bartered from some farmers in exchange for an extra rabbit or two.

We ate in silence. But, we didn't need any words, those who have compelled themselves to do something as stupid as we were about to seldom needed any. There was a camaraderie of thought. A consignment, that one's last few hours of life be calm, peaceful, repentant.

Then again, if the sounds coming from the clearing on the other side of the wood were any indication, there was another train of thought on the matter. That being, loud, boisterous, bawdy, and drunk was the way to spend those hours.

I'd been around enough to know that that was for the young and dumb. The battle-hardened settled that rush. They molded it into something to keep them going when the belly was empty and the fight was far from done. The loud was, for the after, for getting rid of the extra, if there was any left, and, more importantly, it was for rejoicing that you made it out alive.

She was much too young to have had to learn that lesson. No one should have that temper at her age. But something in the way she steeled herself told me the opposite was true. She grew cold. But it wasn't the kind of cold that shut people out. It was more of a stillness. A comfortable coolness on a hot summer night.

I fell asleep to the sound of Bards, singing honorifics for the dead.

I woke up to the smell of coffee, tempting me out of my bed.

She was holding the cup under my nose letting the scent entice me awake, with an amused look on her face, like this was the funniest thing in the world to her. It was one of the better ways I've been awakened before the storm.

We breakfasted on what was left from dinner.

I took stock of her battle gear.

A cloth-wrap around her chest, very loose pants, barely held up by a rope belt, fingerless gloves, and a pair of sandals. I kind of understood the reasoning behind it, I'd seen her in the pond, anything more, must have been too much of a burden to bear.

The left side of her face and neck, her shoulder, arm, ribs, and half the breast, the side of her stomach, most of her left leg, along with her right forearm, both hands, and both feet, were burned, raw, and scarred. I was amazed she could move at all. Never mind, amble about with the fluidity she possessed. Or the endurance and strength she displayed the day before.

I reached into my kit and pulled out an old vest, a pair of pants, and some lace-up boots. All mid-grade leather armor with chain mail strategically placed.

"It might be a bit big on you, but it's better than what you plan on fighting a dragon in."

She smiled before tossing the pants and boots back to me. She grabbed a stick and wrote two words in the dirt.

'Fireproof', she tugged at her pants leg.

'Surefoot', she pointed to her sandals.

In the light of the fire, she unwound the wrap, put the vest on, stood up, shuffled around, drew her blade, and sparred with the air. Finally, she drew her bow and let loose a few arrows at a tree.

I felt her standing next to me and looked up to see her topless once more. She was handing the vest back to me with a grateful smile and a shrug of her shoulders.

"You can keep it."

She touched her left shoulder and then shook her head while rubbing the palms of her hand together forcefully.

"Ahh. It chafes."

She shook her head yes.

I took the vest back and got out my knife and supplies while she ate. I cut the left strap off and sewed some of the rabbit fur into the back, the lower front under the chest, and the right strap.

"Try this."

She looked and smiled, put it back on, and went through her routine again. While I was taking a sip of coffee I heard her bounce right next to me. She thanked me with a kiss on the cheek and a grin.

We left camp before Magnus had crested the horizon.

We took only some provisions and the necessary tools of war. She hadn't even bothered breaking camp. I understood why, all too well. Too much weight to carry into a battle for one. Never mind the fact that, if we didn't come out of this alive, we had no need for it, and if we did, well I, for one, would much rather have it ready, than have to make it again while completely exhausted.

We traveled light, stealthy, and quick, heading west toward a path that would lead north to The Stitches. It was the longer way, to get to our destination, but going north through Red Hands Run didn't seem like a very good option. Not unless we wanted a warm-up before the dragon fight. Which we, most certainly, did not. Besides, there was a very loud contingent of armed folk making their way up the main road to the east. And if anything was going to draw attention away from us, keep us stealthy, it was a bunch of half-drunk, half-hungover morons hiding their fear by having a pissing contest. We did have to fight off a few harpies and a couple of dunerippers but that just seemed to temper the blood.

[https://i.imgur.com/fDuCt1U.png]

I chuckled to myself at a thought. Which I then gave voice to. "If someone had told me, even a month ago, that I'd be walking through the gouges and the gorges of a rock-strewn desert, fighting of feathered beasts and ground tunneling lizards, on my way to slay... or should I say attempt to slay, a beast of antiquity... I'd have told them they were fucking nuts and to please fuck off." She nodded her amusement.

But, here we were, in heat that bordered well passed the verge of sweat, walking under the shadows of the walkways and bridges that crisscrossed the scars.

Just south of Orcrest, we went east. That's when we heard the beast roar and the fire rumble. Seemed like someone had poked the hornet's nest early.

Or maybe the dragon just smelled lunch.

[https://i.imgur.com/Nxka2tP.png]

I chuckled to myself at a random thought. Which I then gave voice to when I saw her turn with a quizzical expression. "If someone had told me, even a month ago, that I'd be walking through the gouges and the gorges of a rock-strewn desert, fighting off feathered beasts and ground tunneling lizards, on my way to slay... or should I say attempt to slay, a beast of antiquity... I'd have told them they were fucking nuts and to please fuck off." She nodded her amusement.

But, here we were, in heat that bordered well passed the verge of sweat, walking under the shadows of the walkways and bridges that crisscrossed the scars.

Just south of Orcrest, we went east. That's when we heard the beast roar and the fire rumble. Seemed like someone had poked the hornet's nest early. Or maybe the dragon just smelled lunch.

I felt my companion stiffen, still, and stop. I reached my hand out and touched her shoulder. She slowly turned her head to face me. I saw a flicker of terror flash through her good eye, as a grimace of pain overcame her dead one. The beast roared once more, her shoulders stiffened and I saw her resolve rekindled. Not in hate, not in vengeance, but in that same sharp, steady, steely calm I saw in her the night before. She nodded 'thanks' and continued down the path. Our pace had quickened a little, not so much into a run as a cantor. A fluid-tempoed trot that wouldn't sap our stamina.

The destination? It was a fixed point in the near distance. A very loud, very violent near point. Between the screams and shouts, the shadow that seemed to suck the very light from the sky, and the smell of hellfire and burnt flesh, there was no compass needed to find it. There was no mistaking it.

The smoke billowed and spread heavily across the treeline, like a dense fog before the morning light pushes it away. The fires raged. Hot enough, even at this distance, to push the temperature of the air to well beyond uncomfortable. And still, we pushed on. Shielding our mouths in the crook of our arms. Feeling the tears mingle with the ash and drip down our cheeks. Thick black lines had formed on our faces from the mix of saltwater and soot. Natural warpaint.

We finally broke passed the last treeline, emerging with bleary eyes out of the smokey chaos, straight into a scene cut right out of Oblivion's gaping maw. Everything was alight, blazing, or smoldering ash. Even the sandy ground itself had been forged into glass. Discordant glossy waves and sharp jagged edges intermixed in sporadic conical patterns that sparkled across the battlefield.

The dizzying, illusory fluctuations of temperature, mixed with the feverishly pitched magics, spun the world on its head. I felt like I was in freefall even though my feet were rooted firmly. It was like the whole entire planet was a huge ship being tossed about the galactic sea like a feather in a hurricane. My stomach clenched, fighting back the urge to throw up a month's worth of meals.

Then the sounds started to take shape. What was once an overwhelming mix of steely high notes and deep bass thrums, became voices and bowstrings and pain. The screaming, the chants, the crackling of energies, all coalesced into an auditory and visual onslaught on the senses.

My brain fought with itself to put the sound to the actions. Lightning flashed and thundered. Fire, raged and roared. Ice walls rose with a groaning, in a protective glaze. Water, steamed and hissed. Commands were shouted and fingers pointed, attempting to give a sense of order and direction to the armaments and spells.

Her bow was drawn, an arrow readied. My pollaxe, gripped in white-knuckled fingers, never felt as heavy as it did at that moment. And then, we charged.

When we made it into the fray the sight around us was rather daunting. There were bodies everywhere. The dead, silent, the dying, moaning in agony, the ones trying to struggle for cover, cursing, and those who turned tail and run, panicked and reeking of fear and shit. It overwhelmed the senses in an overpowering wave of futility and dismay.

And, surrounded by all this, a lone figure stood amidst the carnage. Dressed in red and grey. A plume of iron, like the blade of a battle axe, curved on their helmet front to back. They stood statue-like, paralyzed. A gold inlaid, black horn of ivory in their grip.

They snapped themselves out of the daze and raised the horn to their mouth. But it was too late, much, much too late. The tail of the dragon swept into view. A blur of shadow. A massive crunch. Their body was tossed like a lifeless sack, crashing to the ground and tumbling. The mouthpiece rolled into the smoldering grass.

Arrows loosed. Magics rippled the fabric of vision. Swords danced looking for a weakness in a seam.

And the dragon smiled with a malevolent gleam.

A rhythm took the madness. The beast would land, fight tooth and nail and tail. Then it would rise to sweep its crematory breath like a pyre. Arrows and spears, of common construction and elemental design, would fire at their airborne target. Swords and axes and spells would assault him as soon as his claws mauled the earth. Over and over and over. If this became a battle of attrition, how much longer could we hold?

Then the dragon let wide his wings and rose to a stand. The world went still, silent. A buzz of terror washed over the landscape. And words, as ancient as any star, incomprehensible and guttural, raged from the beast's grinning jaw.

Those not quick enough to evade the sound found themselves stunned, paralyzed, and bleeding. Forced to the ground under a sudden, invisible weight.

I found myself out of breath. my back against a boulder. The pain in my ribs tore the air from my lungs. Jo was flat on her stomach pushing against the tide, struggling to free herself from this gravitational enchantment.

An ice spear sailed overhead with a crack of sound in its wake. The lance powered into the demon's chest, glanced to the side catching a weakness between scales in its point, then exploded ripping the armor from the beast's flesh.

A deafening roar bellowed over the already loud cacophony of battle rage. A stream of over-magicked, purple ichor dripped down the monstrosity's chest and fell to the dirt. Sizzling and popping on the overheated soil. For the first time, since this fight started, it was hurt. And the dragon rose to the sky enraged, confused, and embattled with a new emotion, one whose grip it had never felt before. Disbelief, apprehension, and... fear.

Electricity danced across its teeth lighting the plasma it exhaled in a blinding brilliance. And more warriors fell, as the beast roared out its malice in panic and anger.

Then the fear in the black one's eyes disappeared, triumph.

Arrogance. Its own worst enemy.

It slowly circled, seeking its next victims.

I found my air and pushed my way toward her. Moving when the wyrm's attention was elsewhere.

She was looking at the warrior that had been tail whipped. Fixed on his eyes, heading his call.

As the dragon made another pass the broken man mouthed, more than spoke, just three words.

"Blow the horn," he wheezed, pointing with his outstretched arm at the mouthpiece just out of his reach.

She crawled her way to the black tusk, grabbed it with her hand, put it to her lips, and blew with all she had left.

What happened next, wasn't so much as a trumpeting, or a call to arms, it was a vibration. A very unpleasant thrumming. It was a sudden, gut shuddering, tremble, that filled the air like a thousand mammoths had taken to the sky in a stampede. It compressed around us in buffeting waves, pushing against our ears and our sanity.

For the dragon... It had a completely different effect.

With an almost deafening concussion, the creature's wings folded upwards, its head and tail snapped up, almost touching between those two leathery appendages that had kept it aloft. It was almost as if the hand, of whatever God you want to believe in, reached from the ether and punched it squarely in the spine, driving it right into the earth, with all the fury it could muster. The beast landed with an earth shattering within the trees. And, by some act of providence, onto many of the camouflaged spikes we had sharpened the day before.

A shockwave of air knocked me back off my feet. Then the terrain exploded out in ripples, causing the dirt and rock to pulsate in waves. I was glad that I had only gotten to a seated position or my ass would have slammed back to the bedrock a lot harder than it did. Still, it didn't do any favors to my ribs or my breathing.

I saw Jo, slowly rise to her feet, and, with a grim determination, march headlong to the crater all that mass had created. I sucked the pain down, fought myself to my feet, and followed.

I'd like to say that what happened next was quick and easy, but it wasn't.

Our quarry was impaled through wing and body, and essentially, he was staked to the ground, yes. But he was still a fucking dragon and he was still very much alive. And now he was cornered and very, very pissed.

So we danced with death, to a slow-metered waltz of violence. Thankfully, one of the trees we had carved had found the black beast's plasma sack, a translucent pinkish gel oozed and flowed down its torso, rendering both its fire and voice inept. And still, it tossed us around as it thrashed and slashed and snapped.

As the shadows grew longer across the dancefloor one by one the number of dance partners dwindled.

We were frantic, grasping for anything to keep from falling from the euphemistic cliff we had found ourselves on. Then one of Jo's arrows found an eye, blinding the terror on one side, so we tormented and harried it. Dodging in and out of its sight line. Culling its attention while others stormed in on it from the dark half of its vision.

It was during one of my charges that the beast made a fatal mistake. One of its only mistakes. It lowered its head to the ground to swipe at me. She took advantage. It sputtered when it felt her blade pierce behind its ear and it rose up to try and shake the offender loose. My pollaxe found the raw flesh this motion exposed, just under its neck, and I drove in with all the strength I could muster. I'd like to be able to say it was enough. I'd like to exclaim to the world that it was the killing blow. But it was not. Not in and of itself anyway.

Jo had managed to hang on to her precarious position, atop the black beast's skull. She swung to the side pulling her blade across its width, grabbed the arrow in the creature's eye, and tugged. It slammed its head downward, to scape the pain, driving my weapon deep into its chest.

There was no death rattle to be heard. No vengeful cry. No groan. Not even a whimper. There was just the solid hollow thump of tons of dead weight hitting the ground. Then stillness. An oppressive silence.

We somehow managed to stumble towards each other. Then we collapsed, sitting pressed up against the dead dragon's body. She was covered in blood and that pink plasma.

We called out for the living but no one replied.

We were dying.

Or we weren't.

It didn't matter anymore, the deed was done. And what was to come would come. I heard her huff and turned myself to her attention. It was the second time, since I met her, that I saw her smile.

She was satisfied. Her self-imposed purpose was fulfilled. With nothing left to do, but wait for one of the two inevitable outcomes of our circumstance to unfold, we talked. I talked. She wrote her words in the blood-soaked dirt with an arrow she plucked from the beast's hide.

Eventually, both of us closed our eyes to the encroaching night. Wondering if it was for the last time.

I woke, to the sweet, coolness of water on my lips. I had never thirsted so much before. I opened my eyes to see her staring at me with a worried look broadcasting from two pink glowing eyes. She saw me drink and her face brightened. I took a minute to process the changes before me. Her burn scars hadn't changed much, they did seem a bit more supple, but the cuts and clawmarks she'd had, like the gash from her right forehead to cheek, were gone. Same with the ones on my arms and ribs, even the ones I had gotten as a child. I scrutinized her gaze a little further, "Can you see out of both eyes now?" I asked hoarsely. She nodded, 'Yes,' with a grin. "But you still can't talk?"

She shook her head, then shrugged her shoulders in amusement. 'Go figure.'

After about an hour of just sitting, eating some jerk, that tasted like the fanciest meal I ever had, we gathered our strength and collected some of the parts, for proof and profit, then slowly, achingly, made our way back to the camp.

[https://i.imgur.com/tZdbvd8.png]

Now, here's the part where I'd have loved to be able to proclaim that our story was filled with fortune and fame. I'd like to retell a tale about a parade, a feast for heroes, and the accolades and titles cast upon us by the nobility. But the truth is, we got fucked. Seems we were out for two whole days and a part of a third. And some asshole, probably one of the ones with a pants-load of shit, had claimed the prize and split. We did get some money, food, and rest, for our part, but it was nothing close to what those fetchers received.

We debated going after them but we both decided we would have more than enough with the parts we had to sell. And besides, living a peaceful life, with no need to do anything ever again, was just opening the door to a sorrowful existence.

And the Queen was, shall we say, just a little pissed off when she heard the tale, and saw the state we were in compared to them. So... they'd get their due. Without us having to resort to vengeance. There's never any fun in that.

The only souvenirs that we had taken for ourselves were material. I took two claw tips that I made into necklaces. She took the arrow and eye to hang over the mantle, some rib, to make into shafts, and some scales to make flights and arrowheads. I kept some scales for armor. And his good eye. Because... Why the fuck not? How many people can say they have a dragon's eye in a jar on a shelf, keeping a lookout at their front door? Especially one they plucked themselves, from a dragon they helped to kill.

And now here we are. Five years later. And I'm telling you this tale two days after leaving home, our home. In that time I've watched her change, in some ways so little and, in others, so much.

She smiles a lot more. She laughs, silently, but very loud. You can tell by the way her head bobs and her chest rises and falls. There was definitely a weight lifted from her that day. The oddest change? It isn't the lightness of her being. It's her eyes.

The pupils have become more defined and, surprisingly, or not, more catlike. They still glow, but now the color is... different. What was once one steel blue and one murky white, then both eyes being a slightly purple pink, has become a splendid duality. Her right eye has a bluer hue, her left, once dead, now pushes firmly into the green of the spectrum.

But maybe that's just the lighting in this place.

Anyway, now that this story is at a final thought or two, I must bid you farewell. You see we're on another mercenary run. Because, you know, you gotta keep busy. And do what you do best. Although, I don't technically think you can call it a mercenary run if you're doing it for free. But, some of the best, most rewarding jobs we've ever done, we've done for nothing.

And, we wouldn't exchange this life... For a dragon's hoard of boredom.