The Black Dragon

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A short story written for the January 2014 Storytelling Contest. First Place Winning entry. Written by Drakar.



“…I don’t need much of what isn’t for survival purposes. I’d rather give to those in need.” The Dragon snorted casually, trailing off into the silence of what seemed to be a half-hearted attempt to convince himself. His massive tail pierced through the empty air and wrapped ornately around the circumference of the donation pit. To a human paladin, this type of movement would be akin to a dismissing shrug of the shoulders. However, this was no ordinary human and certainly not one purposed to fight holy wars. This, indeed was Salem the Black Dragon. Council and apprentice of the Arch-Lich of the Black Conclave.


CLUNK! Another unwitting artifact pierced through the depths of the donation pit, finding a home on its floor. All the while The Arch-Lich glared at His young minion from within the shadows. Finally, at the precipice of disgust, he spoke.


“‘Foolish Salem, your well-intentions will only be rewarded with the heathen’s sword. Do you not think they lie in wait and curse our Lord? And that foul-wretched traitor, Syrinx? That heretic will force our hand…you wait…”


The Dragon snorted again, wispy tendrils of dense smoke defiled the air and slowly dispensed into thinner streams of almost surreal consciousness. Timidly, he unearthed another unneeded relic from amongst his collection and tossed it into the pit.


“Then it will be done, Lich. I will find the traitor and…”


“YOU WILL DO NO SUCH THING, SALEM!” The Lich hissed. His tone decisive, filled with the venom of a basilisk. “We will NOT harm those who have done us no ill-will. But mark my word, the day will come…”


The words echoed throughout the room, heightening the Dragon’s senses to a nearly palpable level before eventually digressing into an insoluble whisper. The Lich was gone.


“THERE HE IS!!” the DeathBringer screamed. His cohorts, a verbose bard and the Paladin of the Passionate following in tow with weapons already drawn.


….without warning, a final blow found its way into the heart of Salem’s scales. Then……darkness. Finally he awoke, disarmed by his sudden rebirth. Surely he found the ire of His Master or perhaps even Lord Nash himself? What had possibly happened?


Syrinx gossips, (in common) “Thanks for your corpse, Dragon…”


A chill fell over the periphery of the Dragon, cooling the fire within to sheets of bitter ice. He hadn’t harmed a soul nor had he ever considered such an act of unjustifiable violence.


His Master’s voice found Salem’s senses again, wicked with vengeance.


“Your only true donation was a shovel, Salem. To allow these heathens to dig amongst their own graves. Now it begins…’