I wanted to try my hand at a different form of writing. I wanted to spill a bit, a very small bit, of prose. These words are simple, quickly crafted. Just a bit of Saturday morning fun.
The old man stood, scarred and burned. All knew, he had faced a dragon and lived. He was once a knight, a man who once bravely brandished his sword against man and beast. Most agreed, he’d be happier, better, if he were dead.
“It’s not like fire,” he explained.” His voice was quiet, weak. His face a mangle pain and fear. “It’s not like fire used to warm your hands on a cool night, fire used to cook your food. It’s a flame that yearns to eat, to eat all flesh, to sup on bone, to make all its own. It pours from a dragon’s heart seeking; it thinks; it yearns; it lusts, and is never satisfied. If its poisonous tongue touches you, licks you with its hate and heat and you survive, doomed to live, you are forever filled with fear, with a pain that devours until you are dead, a living death that binds you in chains of darkness and anguish.”
For some more dragon stuff, click here.