The Dragon and the Knight

Things weren't going according to plan.

In fact, nothing had been right ever since that annoying sir knight showed up. Other questing knights would have ridden up on their bold white steeds, lance at the ready; they would have charged straight at him with the point aimed at his heart. Other (hypothetical) knights would have drawn their swords, banged down their visors, and fought valiantly to their miserable, gory death. Death, as in being transformed into a human torch by intense dragon fire, or being ripped to little pieces or crushed alive by the bulk of the dragon. Or even, if the dragon was hungry enough (contrary to popular belief, humans actually tasted foul, as his great-grandfather had sworn bitterly), death by Lunch Pack. Well, theoretically speaking of course, inasmuch this was his first encounter with a real knight.The point was that they would have fought bravely and honourably and futilely. But oh no, not this sir knight. All this sir knight did upon showing up from out of nowhere was stomp right up to him, dig his sword into the grassy ground - and stare at him. Brazenly.

Now, the gaze of a dragon was supposed to be hypnotising. Caught by it, victims would stare helplessly, captivated by the dragon's glowing eyes, leaving the dragon free to play cats-cradle with said victim's viscera. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of sir knight, whose own blue eyes were conveying definite signs of derision and hostility. The dragon suffered no illusions as to who had the upper hand in today's staring competition.

He was beginning to feel somewhat discomfited by his disadvantaged position. Granted he wasn't the biggest dragon specimen around (by a long shot!) and he hadn't quite gotten the hang of belching fire yet, but a dragon is a dragon is a dragon. Humans either ran screaming from dragons (if they were common-folk), or they ran at them with singing blades (if they were knights). This stand-off was unprecedented - and highly unbecoming.

As the knight stared impudently on, the dragon felt colour creeping into his scaly cheeks as he became somewhat self-conscious about what else the knight must be seeing. You're a red dragon! his mother's family had wailed (or, more likely, bellowed), You have no business choosing a blue mere-dragon for a mate simply because of this ridiculous trend called love! By the wyrms' festering corpses, she should have listened to them, he thought sourly, thinking again about his embarrassing purple ridges and pink wings. Pink wings!!! PINK wings!!!

He was practically fidgeting with impatience by now. Dragon etiquette maintained that under no circumstances whatsoever should a dragon retreat from battle before the knight, but this had gone on for hours and, truth be told, he was feeling somewhat peckish and more than a little sleepy. The only thing to do, he decided firmly, was to provoke sir knight into striking the first blow so that he'd have reason to make pattycake of the tiresome fool. (Another drawback of dragon etiquette, wyrms be damned). He snorted out a gust of smoke, exhaling it in the direction of sir knight's face. Unfortunately, he'd neglected to close off his throat in doing so and choked on a mouthful of said acrid smoke. Sir knight, on the other hand, showed no sign at having been affected, although his nostrils might have twitched somewhat uneasily.

Right. A little proper intimidation then. He moved his head closer to sir knight's and exhaled forcefully. The sudden rush of foetid air blasted right into sir knight's head, making a tangle of his fine locks and causing the knight to bend several inches backwards. As sir knight was recovering from the inhalation trauma, the dragon bellowed menacingly, "Fight me - or DIE!"

"Bite me!" said sir knight in reply.

The dragon glared unhappily at sir knight and, with a sinking feeling, realised that this was a contest he could never hope to win. Dejected, he plopped down on his haunches with a resounding thump, and was heard to make a series of rather peculiar sounds not unlike the gurgling of a pool of boiling mud.

The knight sighed and scooped up his helmet from the ground. He turned to the blubbering dragon and said in a milder voice, "What's your name, dragon?"

The dragon turned baleful eyes upwards and whined in what he hoped was a suitably injured tone befitting a dragon whose pride had just been rent to shreds, "Wilbur."

"Wilbur?" Sir knight let out something that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed snort.

The dragon glared at sir knight venomously. [...]

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Good grief, Farlander's doing fantasy. What is the world coming to??

LOL, when I posted my maalraas picture at KFM I said that I would give out a request drawing in 'glorious technicolour' to whoever could identify my custom stylus (thinking that it was so bizarre it would take plenty of guesses to get it right). WinterOnasi, who got it right almost immediately, requested a picture of dragons. Well, a dragon, actually. Of course, being who I am, I wasn't content to just draw a picture of a dragon (never mind that I'd never drawn an adult dragon before. Talk about getting overambitious). So I drew this... and it looked for all the world as if there were a story behind the painting, so of course I had to tell it as well.

And no, I don't write fantasy. This is the only 'work' I've ever written, and it's very likely the only one I'll ever write.

And yes. This picture was inked with my chopstick styluses. Again.


The dragon (Wilbur) and Sir Knight (Aidan) © Farlander.