Dyado and the Dragon
Khevol had a pleasant supper with the woodcutter, whose name was almost impossible to inflect with his Dwarven tongue. Eventually, the man laughed and said, “Just call me Dyado.”
Dyado poured a small amount of deep red liquid into two wooden cups. “Nazdrave,” he said with gusto and drained his cup.
“Cheers,” Khevol said and followed suit. It was like drinking fire; his eyes watered as he fought for air. “By the gods knees,” he sputtered, surprised that his exhalation did not ignite his sleeve. “Give me a hot coal to cool my throat.”
Dyado laughed and slapped his knee, though his eyes were watering too. “This will make your sword strong, my friend!”
Over the next hour, as the pleasant conversation and dinner and drink settled him, and the crackling fire filled the cabin with dancing shadows, Khevol melted into a rocking chair and dozed lightly. He dreamed and woke and dreamed some more. It was a rare moment of complete restorative relaxation that his recent hardships had not allowed.
Once, he saw Dyado holding a tiny creature, though he could not tell if he was still dreaming. “This is my dragon. She thinks I am her mother.”
The flickering shadows seemed to change into many colors, like exotic flowers swaying in the wind, lighting the dragon and the woodcutter with an uncanny glimmer. The light glinted off the dragon’s unblinking eyes, reminding Khevol of the Winter Lights that slithered over the northern skies.
“I think I will call her Krasota. Yes, my dear, that is a good name.” He stroked her back and fed her a bit of raw meat. “What do you say, my Dwarven friend?”
“I say my darling would love to see a baby dragon,” Khevol mumbled, still not sure he was awake.
Dyado nodded, still stroking Krasota. “Let us sleep. Maybe tomorrow we will find a baby for your darling.”
Dyado poured a small amount of deep red liquid into two wooden cups. “Nazdrave,” he said with gusto and drained his cup.
“Cheers,” Khevol said and followed suit. It was like drinking fire; his eyes watered as he fought for air. “By the gods knees,” he sputtered, surprised that his exhalation did not ignite his sleeve. “Give me a hot coal to cool my throat.”
Dyado laughed and slapped his knee, though his eyes were watering too. “This will make your sword strong, my friend!”
Over the next hour, as the pleasant conversation and dinner and drink settled him, and the crackling fire filled the cabin with dancing shadows, Khevol melted into a rocking chair and dozed lightly. He dreamed and woke and dreamed some more. It was a rare moment of complete restorative relaxation that his recent hardships had not allowed.
Once, he saw Dyado holding a tiny creature, though he could not tell if he was still dreaming. “This is my dragon. She thinks I am her mother.”
The flickering shadows seemed to change into many colors, like exotic flowers swaying in the wind, lighting the dragon and the woodcutter with an uncanny glimmer. The light glinted off the dragon’s unblinking eyes, reminding Khevol of the Winter Lights that slithered over the northern skies.
“I think I will call her Krasota. Yes, my dear, that is a good name.” He stroked her back and fed her a bit of raw meat. “What do you say, my Dwarven friend?”
“I say my darling would love to see a baby dragon,” Khevol mumbled, still not sure he was awake.
Dyado nodded, still stroking Krasota. “Let us sleep. Maybe tomorrow we will find a baby for your darling.”
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