In the quaint realm of Firensidge, nestled between the formidable Blackthorn Mountains and the ever-so-glorious Murky Marshes, there lay a village whose ambitions were rivaled only by their ability to embrace absurdity. Here, overly enthusiastic dreamers and hopeless romantics mingled with the village’s most coveted treasure: a rather disgruntled dragon named Barathor. He was a creature of grand dreams, or at least one would think so if one were foolish enough to miss the layers of sarcasm veiling his every utterance.
Barathor was an imposing beast, scales glinting a sickly emerald in the rare beams of sunlight that dared penetrate the eternal gloom of Firensidge. He had the kind of wings that could stir up a tempest capable of upending any duck pond, and a sass that could reduce even the most revered bard into a stammering wreck. His latest hobby was finding truly unique forms of torment to subject the villagers to, which, of course, he executed with the precision of a master craftsman. Why bother with hoarding gold when you could hoard the delightful expressions of despair on the faces of your neighbors?
On a particularly dreary afternoon, when the clouds hung low like a terrible blanket of bad decisions, Barathor lounged atop his mountain, gazing down at the village with an air of ubiquitous disinterest. He had begun to wonder if he could achieve a record for how long he could stare at a wall without moving, but the constant screeching of the “heroes” below interrupted his calculations.
“Gather, gather, brave souls!” cried out the self-appointed leader of the village, wearing a cape that looked suspiciously like it had been pilfered from someone’s grandmother. “Today, we vanquish the fearsome dragon once and for all!” His friends—who were, admittedly, the most charmingly incompetent collection of would-be knights one could muster—cheered enthusiastically, completely oblivious to the fact that none of them had so much as sniffed a sword, let alone wielded one.
Barathor flicked an ear dismissively. “Ah, the smell of utter foolishness wafts up to me. How delightful.” He exhaled a small puff of smoke, the kind that would charm an infant but only serve to remind the villagers of their imminent doom. All prepared to conquer the terror of Firensidge, they marched toward the foot of his mountain, a ragtag bunch armed with nothing but their banter and, perhaps, some misguided intentions.
“Fear not, good citizens!” the leader yelled, pointing his sword—which was entirely too heavy for him, causing him to wobble slightly—which, sadly, only served to drag him further down the road to embarrassment. “The legends tell of Barathor’s fear of silver—so be armed with your silverware!”
Several villagers turned their noses up. “Silverware? But that’s the good stuff!” one lamented. “What if we have a dinner party and we need to serve the roasted hedgehog?!”
Barathor found himself stifling another scoff, though it came out as a derisive snort. “Do send your invitation. I would love to crash your little soirée, but I shall bring my own cutlery.” He imagined sauntering into their humble abode with a fork the size of a house and a knife sharper than their wit—if only they had any.
Just as their overzealous march reached the base of Barathor’s mountain, a low rumble of laughter erupted from the back of the group. It was Old Pritch, the village’s prized grump and self-designated historian, who had taken it upon himself to chronicle the inadequacies of his neighbors since the first day of their ineptitude. “Silverware? By the gods, have they lost all sense? A dragon that eats with forks! What’ll they think of next? A fire-breathing pastry chef?”
Yet, for all the seriousness of his tone, Old Pritch’s laughter echoed like a stubborn echo into the chasms of the mountains. The whole charade was a farce, a poorly written play with no script and even less direction. But then, the villagers were not known for their common sense—no, that had been sent to a far-off place, probably to vacation somewhere exotic where a dragon wouldn’t even dream of going.
Barathor stretched lazily, pleased with the faltering efforts of the miscreants below. “Well, this should be entertaining,” he mused, relishing the idea of an afternoon filled with futile attempts at heroism. His belly rumbled with the unfulfilled dream of a proper meal, and he decided that perhaps he could spice the afternoon with a little fiery entertainment.
As the band of bumbling heroes reached the base of the mountain, Barathor leaned over the edge, his snout an impressive sight framed by his rugged, mossy perch. “So, are you lot here to battle, or simply to indulge in a game of ‘How to Embarrass Yourself in Front of a Dragon’?” The bemusement in his voice dripped with sweet sarcasm, the kind that could corrode iron if given enough time.
“Fear not, dragon!” the captain of this underwhelming brigade shouted, shakily gripping his sword. “We shall slay you with valor and bravery!” He immediately fell over as he attempted to strike a heroic pose, his cape flapping dramatically as if caught in an invisible wind.
Barathor rolled his eyes. “Oh, how original. Valor and bravery! Next, you’ll tell me you’re also armed with the power of friendship?” He could hardly contain himself as he watched the villagers shuffle nervously, as if actually contemplating a pact not made in jest.
“Wouldn’t you rather find yourself at the mercy of our wit and charm?” Old Pritch hollered from a safe distance, drawing an exaggerated frown from Barathor. “For I’ve got an almost enchanting tale of your noble ancestry that I could share, dragon!”
“Ah yes, nothing terrifies me more than a story spun by a man who thinks ‘courage’ means peeking from behind the curtains.” Barathor unfurled his enormous wings, creating a gust that sent the brave villagers tumbling backward. “Be gone with your tales! If you seek to battle, then battle me!”
The village “heroes” froze, their bravado drained faster than a barrel of ale in a drunken revelry. They glanced around, exchanging doubtful looks that spoke volumes of their suddenly fragile resolve. Maybe it was time to reconsider this whole dragon-slaying endeavor; perhaps an afternoon of tea and scones might prove less painful.
With a dramatic sigh that could have swept the village clean off its feet, Barathor settled back onto his mountain peak. “Well, what will it be? Convince me why I shouldn’t take a nap and let you lot get on with your charade.” He leaned his head down, narrowing his eyes with a devilishly playful glint. “Or shall I imitate your valiant captain here and fall onto my back in laughter?”
Sir Pointless, as he was now rechristened, stood defiantly before the dragon, clutching his sword tightly. “We are a resilient bunch! Stories shall be told of our courage!” He puffed his chest out, a poor imitation of a lion—but one that had recently realized it was, in fact, a particularly confused house cat.
Another round of laughter erupted from Barathor, who flapped his wings gently in sheer mirth. “Courage? You call this courage? How quaint.” He lifted a claw and beckoned them closer. “Come, let me give you a real tale, one of dragons who crushed whole armies with a flick of their tails rather than precious silverware!”
At that moment, Barathor realized this entire encounter was nothing short of a comedy of errors, a satire upon the grand notion of heroism. “You see,” he continued, his voice dripping with mock seriousness, “I am not just a dragon; I could’ve been an artist! An architect! A professional napper! Yet, here I am, subjected to the clumsy antics of a bunch of hopefuls turned unnecessary tragedies.”
The villagers stood there, mouths agape, utterly taken aback by the audacity of a dragon that was not only aware of his own absurdity but thrived in it. With every passing moment, their resolve weakened, their heroic facades crumbling like dry parchment. Even Sir Pointless struggled to find words, his bravado deflated like a punctured balloon.
And so Barathor, the dragon of Firensidge, continued to spout off his litany of wit, leaving the village “heroes” – nay, there was no better name for them now than the village “villains” – to ponder their choices, perhaps even to reconsider fortifying their village with the essentials of wit and charm rather than relentless endeavors of dragon-slaying.
With a flourish of wings and a final puff of smoke that curled seductively into the air, Barathor settled into a deep reverie, dreaming of all the things he could do with a spoon, a fork, and a truly magnificent hedgehog roast. Because if ever a dragon was destined for greatness, it was the dragon who could reign not just in fear, but in laughter—laughter that echoed through the valleys and would forever mark the tales of Firensidge as the comedy of errors it was always meant to be.
Author: Opney. Illustrator: Stab. Publisher: Cyber.
