Here be Dragons

30 06 2013

 

In a bid to keep my Blog positive but feeling the overwhelming urge to whinge about my hideous week I have opted for a thinly veiled metaphor about the events of last week in the form of a short story. For regular readers – this is not the novel I spoke of last week, just an outpouring of frustration in a more reader friendly format than a massive irrelevant rant about my personal life.

 

Dragons

Dark forces are rising.

The once vibrant and bustling city of Sarboas has fallen. The mighty city, turned battlefield is a bloody wasteland littered with the crumbling ruins of the once solid structures and cherished monuments. The flickering lights have long been extinguished, shivering waifs lurk in the shadows, abandoned, neglected. Scavenger’s prowl through the deserted streets picking their way through the smouldering ruins for anything left of value.  Sarboas is but a shadow, a burnt out carcass of its former self.

A year earlier the beloved President was struck down with ill health and was placed in quarantine. After years of peace under her solid leadership inhabitants became restless and uneasy. Members of the council were temporarily appointed to rule until the President was restored to health. But the city was vulnerable and evil powers that had lain dormant for what seemed like an age sensed their opportunity to settle old scores and troops, thirsty for battle, took up arms and started to march.

Sarboas held fast in the assaults that followed, but with each attack they were weakened. But it was Duchess Violai who delivered the final crippling blow. The Duchess had never forgotten or forgiven Sarboas for rejecting her terms excluding her from sitting on the council and participating in the coalition. The jealous Duchess did not easily forgive and was determined to wreck havoc by way of revenge.

Duchess Violai built an army of dutiful followers who followed her without question, obeyed without reservation and killed without remorse. All attempts of bringing the onslaught to a halt seem as pointless as efforts to hold back the tide.

She sneered at Sarboas which seemed smaller somehow and more vulnerable.

But appearances can be deceptive.

They have a secret weapon.

The Dragon – Bastjeernor.

An obdurate and territorial beast. Quick to temper. For now the Dragon sleeps, secure in its lair, purring like a kitten. Its bulk protected by a mass of ridged crimson scales. Its bed a mountain of shattered bones and skulls some so aged they have been reduced to a fine white powder. Bastjeernor’s teeth and claws sharp as razor blades poised to rip and tear flesh from bones.

The Dragon slumbers lulled by the day today bustle and noise of the gleaming city but now that the streets are silent and the stink of blood and death is heavy in the air, this  ancient and formidable force is about to wake.

 

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