“Ironite ore is a rare mineral only found deep within the caves of Drangor. These ancient mines sit outside of Levanthria but under King Athos Almerion’s reign the kingdom has remained in control of the mines.”
Jonah Viergen, Minerals and Ore’s of the lands, 260KR
Raucous laughter fills the tavern, the merrymakers clinking their tankards together vigorously, sloshing ale all over the place. Two men barely notice me as one of them knocks into my shoulder, but I hold my tongue; I do not wish to draw attention to myself. A thick musk fills the air, a musk that brings me comfort but also fills me with regret.
To my left, a group of solemn hunters talk about their day’s work, their faces downcast with only but a few rabbits lined up on the ale-soaked table. Wolf pelts that have seen better days adorn their shoulders. To my right, an older man is in deep conversation with scantily clad men and women of the night, their clothing leaving little to the imagination as they pour drinks to ease the task of negotiating their services.
I drink to forget. I drink to numb my memories, to make it all go away. No one bothers me, but I draw curious stares because of my size. I tend to keep out of anyone’s business. That is, unless they make it my business.
I sit in the corner with my cloak drawn over my hideously disfigured face. I am a repulsion, which is no more than I deserve for my past sins. But I find it ironic that this curse befell me whilst trying to do the right thing for once. How the gods tease me. If I had the power, I would strike them all down with vengeance.
I unfurl a scaled hand around my tankard and drink, searching for the bottom. All I find is misery.
Taking note of a few men eyeing me up, I know it’s time to take my leave. I slam three coins on the bar before taking the bottle of whiskey that sits there. I head for the door, each staggered step laboured and drawn. The curse I carry not only disfigured my appearance, but it also has changed how drink affects me. I push my way outside, hunching my back so as not to reveal my true height. Once the door closes behind me, the laughing and joking becomes mumbled and distant.
Muck and water splash up my legs as I stumble my way up the street, failing miserably at dodging the puddles of horseshit that pool between the broken cobblestones. The sound of the wind picking up is a sign that it’s going to be a stormy night, but my thick hide protects me from the cold that darkness brings. Neither cold nor warmth can penetrate the scales that decorate my cursed body. My tolerance of the seasons is much higher than it once was.
Taking a large gulp of whiskey as I walk, I savour the warmth that follows the sweetness of the bourbon in the back of my throat, leading down into my insides. At least I can still feel that.
Trudging through the pooling mud, I make to find some shelter where I can settle for the night. The toxins from the whiskey begin to take effect, and the blurred flames of streetlamps flicker as I make my way to the shelter I spotted earlier today. I have found that in this form, whiskey affects me the most, even if I like its taste the least.
Mud splashes behind me. I stumble to a stop and search over my shoulder to see what the night has brought me this time.
“Give us your coin,” the man demands. The whiskey merges his features together and I can’t make out his face. Two other darkened figures stand to either side of him.
“I said, give us your coin.” He brings his arm forward, revealing a small blade.
I laugh to myself and turn away from my would-be muggers, continuing my walk down the street. They are not the first to try and rob me in the dead of the night, and I think I can safely say they will not be the last.
“Something wrong with your ears?” the man calls after me, his voice whiney and irritating.
I flick my hand to wave them away. All I want is to find the bridge I seek and drink my whiskey until I pass out.
“I said, give me your coin!”
“Leave.” My voice is deep, threatening. “Whilst you can.”
The men snigger in response.
I take in a large breath and stand up straight, revealing my true height, my fake hunch no more. They saw me as a feeble, drunken man. How they were wrong. How they were so wrong. Turning to face them, I lower the cloth covering my face, letting them see my yellow eyes, my pointed features, my scaled skin.
The men stare at me, speechless. I do not know if this is in disbelief or fear, and I do not care. I am in no mood for a fight.
“It’s him,” one of them speaks.
“I’ve heard stories of him. He – he’s a –”
“A beast? A monster?” I emit a low growl as I speak. “A creature of the shadows. Lizard man. The monster of Mahrua?” I start quoting the different names I’ve heard on my travels.
“You . . . you . . .” the man with the knife stutters, unable to form his words. “You’re a . . .”
“Dragon?” I finish his sentence with a snarl as I step into the small plume of the nearest light, making sure they can see my every feature. I have tried everything to rid myself of this curse, to no avail. I may as well use it to my advantage when I need to.
“We mean you no harm,” one man says quickly. The three of them turn and scutter down the streets like rats escaping a flood. They are cowards. They know not of honour. If only they knew who I was, if only they knew the things I have seen. The things I have done.
A cursed knight, fallen from grace, plagued by my hideous appearance. As the men leave me, I step back into the shadows, raising the bottle of whiskey to take another large drink.
This is my life now. It has been for years, the other side of my curse. I wander the land, never settling anywhere. People fear me, villages will not accept me. If I stay anywhere too long, it is always only a matter of time before the people take up arms and drive me out.
When I reach the shelter beneath the bridge, I lose my footing, falling backwards into the mud. I let out a heavy sigh and raise my bottle of whiskey, my breath kissing the cold air. I will drink this until I pass out. It is the only way I sleep, it is the only way that I find solitude.