During which Fafnir knows rage again...
87.2
Some kind of human feast, he wondered, his head cocking to one side, his eagle-eyed vision seeing the crowds of men in the pebbled streets of the little hamlet. They celebrated something, or perhaps were readying for some kind of battle, one never knew with the little mortals, being such an infinitely curious lot.
His own curiosity stoked, he decided to investigate further, to enter among them as one of their own. It was an activity he'd been loathe to do before Domina, being a Dragon far too proud to bother mixing with the little folk before he'd learned better. This was wholly unlike his brother, Reginmus, and others of his kind who did so often, mixing so numerously that they sometimes forgot what they truly were.
He dropped the dead creature on a rocky outcropping still quite a bit aways from where his babes undoubtedly waited with baited breath and shifted form into that of an enormous night black falcon, his preferred shape outside of his natural one.
He dove towards the spectacle below, the much smaller magnificently streamlined body shooting forward like an arrow.
He landed behind one of the smaller farms, one without any candle light playing at this time of evening, thus leaving him certain that his shape-shifting would go unseen. Once there, he shifted again, taking the shape Domina had named Stefan, a form he'd modeled after a human warrior they'd secretly befriended a century past, kin to some of the very folk still living in this village to this day.
He wrapped the dark cloak his wings had changed into all about himself before making for the crowds, remembering that the fragile creatures needed the fur lined skins for protection from the elements.
It wasn't long before he realized that there were far too many people here, far, far too many. They weren't locals either. Mingled among the common mountain folk were outsiders, men wearing great chained armor, carrying weapons of various makes and sizes. They were loud and boisterous, cheering and celebrating as if they'd won some great victory, bested some mighty army or killed some terr---
He turned back suddenly, his eyes finding the great dark hole in the side of their mountain, their home. For the first time, perhaps in his entire life he felt the cold sting of fear grip his innards, grip them and threaten to yank them right out.
No, they wouldn't dare. No, it couldn't be. No, they'd been so careful.
He rushed forward and grabbed the nearest drunk in partial chain mail, the brute's bearded face a red mass of spittle, hair and beer. He pulled him out of the raucous crowd, lifting the wretch easily with one arm and ducking into a space between two of the buildings in what passed for the village's main square.
“What has happened human?” He spat, forgetting himself. “What is this? What goes on here?”
The drunken idiot never noticed his err, never even registered the absurd speed in which he'd found himself caught in the clutches of the dark haired extremely nervous looking fellow. He knew what to answer him with though, that he knew well.
“Why--- Mister, where the hell ya been? We kilt a dragon, see. We kilt a dragon and all his kin--- for to avenge what his Children did to the Wagner folk, see.... we did it good... yes, we did...”
His vision blurred, and as it did something changed, for he saw it all reflected on the man's own eyes as they widened in stark terror.
The poor fool wouldn't be scared for long though, wouldn't even have to worry too much about whatever he saw happen to the disguised Dragon before him for he was ripped in two almost instantaneously, one half, his legs, remaining in the alley, twitching, forgetting how to stand. The other half took to air, flying a good distance to finally land square in the middle of the laughing, dancing mob.
End Part 87.1
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It's very beautiful story!!
Thank you for sharing :)