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THE LAST DRAGON’S SONG
A powerful race of winged lizards with peculiar names like RAXADON and STROAX and MESALEDGE these are just a few to mention some. How did these mighty beasts get these names, so weird and unusual as such? Who spoke these names at first?
I see into the sorcerers mind and force a view of the things these men may find so true, like an ancient race of flying lizards whose minds be swollen with brains superior to that of men. I cherish this knowledge, but hard to find, it is so. Why must wise men of old hold these creatures in such high regard? I love them also but I know not why. They are a frightening race these dragons old how can I, a modern man, a sage, a poet, take them to my heart? How can I immortalize the thought of them? How can I sing this fearsome song?
MEPHADON and KILLION and PEDMONIATAC and MILLIANIAN, these are brought to mind, vicious and cruel these but name a few. A race of creatures fierce and devoted to the terrorism of human kind, no wonder they have been erased from our earth, these majestic lizards with growls of flame, those scaly ones who spoke to some, but I think they cherished none of us. This hatred between man and these noble beasts, the fear they must have harvested in the bosoms of men. Too strong to tame and too dangerous to ignore, these men of old must have fought many fights with these strange lizards so.
“Roasted Knights in rusted armor, populate the hillside, a memoriam to their efforts tested, to fight these creatures is suicide.
ARAGONIC and BELPHAR and ZACODRAC, these are more names of fire upon the world of ancient men, these lost and hated lizards of ancient lore. Where are their magical bones and those spears from teeth and scaly shields, where are their bodies now in repose?
A song of dragons that a modern man must sing, a thing too fair for the fortunes ring. I pull my self up into view, I see him, so huge, sleeping in his sulfurous cave. Only the snort of flame here and there lets me see the great worm as he sleeps, he snores with fire igniting the dust about, I keep low and to my self. ‘OROBOROS,’ he grumbles in his dreamy sleep, no doubt dreaming of dragon things from days thus past, of days when the skies were black with his kind.
I must retreat, I know his lair, I must retreat or for surly be destroyed by this last giant beast of scale and flame. My fingers forever to my lips, this is my sacred secret.
cease
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