Posts Tagged ‘fantasy’
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For centuries dragons have been such a target of prejudice that it has driven the poor creatures to the point of near extinction. The few that survived the era of brave knights in search of fame, or the groundless accusations of spurned “damsels in distress,” have attempted to integrate into the mainstream of society by utilizing the one historical skill at which they excel.
The flame which originates from the belly of a dragon, can only be extinguished by the dragon who breathed it into life. This preternatural blaze will also consume all other natural fires that exist within its close proximity. The combination of these effects make dragons the perfect firefighter. A single torch, lit with dragon fire, when properly tossed, can extinguish a veritable conflagration with ease.
As natural as they are in the firehouse, unfortunately, they are not very good sportsmen. Those few firehouses that can find, and employ dragons often stock checkerboards in reserve, because dragons are just as likely to turn the playing surface to ash, then to admit defeat in the traditional fireman avocation.
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The Daughter of the Tiberian Mining Consortium’s Chief Executive wore a belt of earthen clods tied around her midsection. She smelled of damp burlap and manure. Her face and hair were caked with mud. Dark crescent rings of black soot lay underneath her manicured fingernails. Around her neck, a cage of composed earth crawled with worms, which twisted and flickered against her skin. It was shopping day.
As she walked through the narrow ally with its polished chrome byways and stainless steel awnings, she would occasionally stop and lift a bolt of cloth, or piece of fruit. Her inspections left fingerprints of grime that attracted the attention of elated merchants who followed behind her; marking the now semi-precious items at double their normal cost.
Her hips swayed from side to side as she wandered, creating a veritable cloud of sparkling dust that hung over her; an aura of opulence laced with sunshine.
This ostentatious display of wealth was mirrored to lesser degrees by many in the street markets of this little world; Except the very poor of course, who were conspicuously clean in their antiseptic indigence.
The young wizard threw the oddly shaped dice on the table before him. The sound echoed from the cold stone walls in the dungeon of his parents keep.
Looking at the wizard, The goblin Home-Master smiled. “Your wife’s ‘mow the lawn’ spell succeeds! You lose two time cycles, but gain +5 matrimony experience points.”
“Big freaking woop-dee-do,” the wizard mumbled as he consulted the game tables. “15,000 more points and I might be able to cast an ‘intimate bliss’ spell … like that’s ever going to happen.”
“My father, and his father, and his father before him, for generations untold, worked the mines in the traditional way, We’ve used ancestral tools to protected our great halls from dragons, goblins, orc risings and evil wizards. The sounds of axe and shovel reverberate in our bones and color our blood. Our children suckle on carbon steel to pacify their cries, and the old use stone polished pick heads as crutches.
You can imagine then, the reluctance to embrace a technology that threatened these ardent symbols of our way of life.
However, when we were told in order for this new contraption to work, we needed to strap a steam forge onto our back while directing a impact hammer tied to our midsection … well, this new picture of dwarf virility was easily adopted.
After all, there’s not much call for slaying dragons anymore.”
I sat in a chair, inside the great hollowed hall of the elven enclave Kheiblah-Ur, watching drops of rain run intricate interlocking paths down the room’s stained glass windows. Around me, the elven council debated (not for the first, nor the last time,) the ethical ramifications surrounding my travels.
My experience with these selfsame elves in the past, present, and future, have lead me to the following conclusion. Elves will sit in council about almost anything. Since they are practically immortal, they have the time to ensconce themselves for decades; clearing their throats and looking all knowing, without the bothersome worry of ever having to come to any real conclusion.
If it weren’t for their chocolate covered baked goods, their pretentious, meddling, interloper nature would be practically intolerable.
