What is a writer?
A miserable little pile of words!


Call me MP or Miz


Fiction attempted, with various levels of success.


Yes, I do need help, thank you for noticing.



LlutcenIutsenYutzen
@LlutcenIutsenYutzen

When Ornilifar saw a great, furious mass of humans surrounding one of the old castles that stood even before he hatched, he didn't think much of it. Another decade, another war, yet another siege... another chance to sate one of his little cravings, and another chance to show these "kingdoms" who they should truly fear, lest they start losing respect for the true powers of the land.

As was so usual, when he landed upon the greatest of the castle's towers, the battle ground to a halt, though silence rather than screams settled upon the air. Still, the dragon continued with the speech he saved for times like these, to drive the people to terror and despair: "Behold your petty kings, thinking they are powerful behind these walls of stone and iron I shall rend with ease. See how their greatest warriors cower before me, their commands turning to ash in their silver-tongued mouths. Witness, all, how utterly impotent the "rulers" of these lands are, as they find their supposed power means nothing against one like me."

The triumphant cheers and cries of jubilation where wailing and screaming should've been, however... that was not the usual.

When a flash of his icy breath upon the castle walls cracked them open, letting him simply rend them apart with one claw, he intended a show of futility against the powers of a dragon. Yet all he got was encouragement, and several within the bigger army -- if one could call this rowdy, uneven lot an army -- charging into the hole he had just made. Those who even bothered to look at his massive form just smiled.

Far less knights than he expected were there to stand against his onslaught. Their ornate equipment and waving banners told the dragon the fall of these "champions" would surely make an impact upon these armies... and yet when they were frozen, crushed beneath his claws and torn to pieces between his teeth, armor and all, this rowdy group encouraged it. One soldier with a ragged tricolor banner tied to his spear stood out to him, as he furiously called for the dragon to devour one knight in particular, who had dropped his halberd and ran. The Butcher of... something-something, Ornilifar hardly paid attention; a meal was a meal.

The king was evidently not in his throne room. He expected that, though he had departed long before the dragon's arrival. Yet a few among the rushing mob caught him glancing at the empty throne, just for a moment, and spoke. They dared instruct him, letting him know the king of this castle had long hidden in the depths -- one scarred human even told him where the ceiling of that hideout should be, that he should smash it open like he did the wall.

To Ornilifar, the Winter Terror, the Crown-Eater, he who had beheaded kingdoms on a whim, this... command, was utterly unthinkable. So unthinkable it was that, in his bafflement, he did not think to put these human worms in their place. He just... listened, steeling his expression to let them think he intended this rather than letting them know what he truly thought.

And when he once again carved through stone like meringue, freezing and crushing the king's pitiful refuge, what should have been one final show to bring despair was instead something they thanked him for. Before he had even made the hole great enough to fit his head this ragtag group had already crawled inside, seemingly even hungrier than he was for noble blood.

And when the king himself and his royal entourage were dragged before the dragon by the people, entirely of their own volition, beyond happy with the idea they'd see their monarch become little more than a meal... Ornilifar could not complain. Or think of anything else to say. His mind was in too much turmoil for it, as the sound of crunching of bones in his mouth was drowned out by jubilant cheers.

Now, he stood next to a wooden stage that barely reached his ankles, staring almost helplessly into the crowd as the one pacing over the planks rambled on and on. The speech hardly made it past the chaos in his head, and what little he caught -- the fall of a tyrant, the end of the dynasty, the dawn of a new era and the start of... something, a reign that wasn't reign, a rule whose details he was too thrown off to parse -- did not help. Whatever they intended, "the Crown-eater" had made it possible, and the Crown-eater in question had never heard that title spoken with admiration, let alone so much of it. They had even found enough fabric to drape the same tricolor around his neck like a ribbon, and he had stood there and taken it...

And when the dragon tried to frighten them one more time stating he had yearned to taste the silver marinade running through the veins of royalty, the crowd just... laughed. They laughed, and cheered, and applauded him for something he had never intended as a jest.

The rules of the game had changed, yet the most monolithic of creatures had been fundamental in making it happen. And now Ornilifar stood at the gates of a brave new world, gates he himself had unwittingly bashed open, and as the nation that should've cowered in fear instead ushered him in he had no idea what to do next.

He'd have to think of something, and fast. If he napped on the matter he might wake up to something even less imaginable.


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