The dragon made its residence in the church at the lowest level of the dungeon. She invited our heroes cordially from the dark and began a civil conversation with them. There was no more treasure in this church, beyond relics that were useless to her and the immense deer statue the congregation once worshipped, and indeed she craved no treasure. She simply sought quiet here as she had recently just left a lover.
They conversed on the secret of the dungeon. “The current king has no lineage traced to the builders of this mausoleum.” In fact, our hero was the true descendant of the scions buried here, as could be detected by the scent of his blood. There was a special make to his flesh that was of divine origin.
As the dragon was proud, our heroes offered to massage her muscles and polish her scales. They asked frequent questions about her former lover. If they weren’t rude for asking, they inquired whether the bump in her stomach was a few too many wargs or something else. For the businesswoman and the healer had decided beforehand to slay the dragon and sell her scales for a fortune.
They convinced the dragon she was gravid and, further, she was not equipped to take care of a hatchling. For the dungeon was only a temporary residence, and she lacked any hunting ability even for herself as a result of being provided for by her lover. They suggested an operation to remove the to-be dragon, to which she agreed. They sent a team of infants through the dragon’s stomach to push the premature egg out, where it would perish of exposure. Our heroes then noted that her rear had contracted too much. The dragon-slaying blade was required to open her stomach, which would then be sewn shut. They gave her many barrels of wine as a sedative and assured her many dragons found this type of scar attractive.
They found, to their surprise, an actual egg. Upon seeing her beautiful egg, red-banded with specks of gold, she decided now to keep it. She then realized our heroes had no intentions of aiding her and, with the newborn fury of a mother, filled the entire church with flames, burning down the deer. Our heroes’ metal armor would have melted, had the soldier, whom our heroes believed deceased, not leapt in front of them, protecting them from the fire and becoming ash as the prize of becoming a martyr.
In the bath of fire and smoke, they smelled a pleasant aroma. This aroma did come not from the soldier, but from the dragon’s ribs, for the flames had spilled from her wounds. These flames were not hot enough to dry the tears from her eyes from not knowing the true value of life until now. These tears, as it turned out, sold plenty on the market.
They dined on the dragon’s ribs, which were very tender and given a nuanced flavor from the wine. The remnants of the Adventurer’s Guild arrived and offered to haul the loot up. Our heroes victoriously made their ascent out.
The king was thankful for all this ancient art and treasure, but feigned disinterest at the true history. He planned for our heroes’ assassinations. However, the adventurers opened the goblins’ dung heap, unleashing the smell of many defecations, made more potent by the anxiety of being trapped and dying. This smell overwhelmed the castle and killed the king through shock.
By purchasing the remaining infants and bathing in their blood, the replacement was able to convince the city he possessed royal blood and thus became king. He was not pleased by the present state of the king’s castle, and ordered a new one built by seizing all the loot the adventurers had found. As it happened, the businesswoman was happily out of the city when the seizure occurred and claimed bandits stole all of her wealth.
Our heroes mourned the soldier’s glorious and very virtuous death. The dwarves put themselves to work, and created bad tools for twice the price, catering to their audience’s tastes. The mage and the minotaur wed, and their wedding feast consisted of rat skewers, dragon pie and slime pudding. The soldier toasted them, though the groom had slain him. Our hero hid the egg in his rear and continued holding it tightly to himself every evening.
© 2025 François-Marie Lee