"It was crazy! We had no idea what to do—how could we? We thought this was going to be a simple job: take care of some pesky varmint for a skittish little town. But nope! Right in front of us—a full-on dragon!" The blond man paused, letting the words hang in the air as he took a long, deliberate sip from his mug. The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting his roguish grin as the enraptured audience leaned in closer.


    One of the older men, already deep in his cups, gaped in disbelief, his words slurred and his voice rising in awe and incredulity, "A dragon? In northern Bemean?"


    The blond man''s grin widened, and he pointed dramatically at the drunkard. "Exactly! That''s exactly what I thought. They''re not supposed to be anywhere near here—not this far from the Serpentine Mountains. But there it was." He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with excitement as he painted the scene with his words. "It had this eerily long, serpentine body, curling and twisting like smoke. Two massive forelimbs—bigger than the tallest trees—leaving craters with every step. And the wings... oh divines, the wings!"


    He gestured wildly, his drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "The books can''t even come close to describing them. There were... I don''t know, hundreds? Thousands? Too many to count. Each one was buzzing so fast; it was like a living blur, like the air itself had come alive. The sound... a deep, bone-shaking hum that felt like it was crawling inside your skull."


    The drunkard shivered, clutching his drink like a lifeline. "No way. No way that''s real."


    "Oh, it was real, all right," the blond man said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He leaned back, the glimmering firelight casting long shadows across his face. "And let me tell you—when it saw us, it wasn''t happy."


    His leader spun the tale with a bard''s flair, words flowing as easily as a minstrel''s song. It was a skill more suited to a tavern than the battlefield, and yet the blond man carried on, oblivious—or perhaps indifferent—to the silent judgment radiating from his teammate.


    "It was flying just above us," the blond man continued, his tone dropping to a dramatic hush. "Its tail tip still dangling within arms reach. and let me tell you, it was seeing a mighty fine meal in us." The storyteller dramatically licked his lips and playfully gnashed his teeth for emphasis.


    Errant huffed under his breath, barely masking his exasperation.


    "But Fetter," the blond man pressed on, his grin widening, "oh, she wasn''t about to wait around for it to make the first move. Not her style. Before I could even blink, she had her crossbow loaded and a bolt already flying for that monster''s eye. Dead-on, too. I mean, you''d think that dragon was doomed!" He paused for effect, sweeping his gaze over the crowd.


    The drunkard gasped, his mug clutched tight.


    "Ha! Not even close," the blond man declared, slapping his thigh. "That dragon wasn''t going to be taken down so easily. It snorted—a low, guttural sound that rumbled through the air—and just like that, the gust of its breath blew her bolt clean away. Didn''t even flinch!"


    It was amazing how the blond man could transform a rash misjudgment into a decisive assault.


    "When we saw that," he continued, his voice rising with practiced drama, "we knew it was time to get serious. Mortise was at the edge of the clearing, already hard at work, casting every boon she could think of on us and every bane she could muster on the dragon!"


    Something that, if she''d kept her wits about her, she''d have remembered that dragons were naturally resistant to. All that frantic spellcasting—layer upon layer of enchantments—amounted to little more than wasted energy.


    "Infirm, right next to Mortise, was attempting to interfere with the dragon''s magic sense so it couldn''t locate the source of the spells."


    Errant frowned, the memory pulling him out of the moment. He recalled an old tale about a devadoot who had attempted something similar. The creature had tried to block a dragon''s aetheric senses, its divine magic clashing against the dragon''s sheer will. The battle had been so fierce, so unrelenting, that they say their souls became locked together indefinitely.


    "And then Way—the absolute madman," the blond exclaimed, his grin practically splitting his face, "bolstered his legs with magic, took a running start, and jumped onto the dragon! Right onto its back! All so he could get some clean stabs in with his rapier!"


    The mad part was accurate.


    The soldiers gathered around the campfire were utterly enraptured, their wide-eyed expressions lit by the crackling flames. A few shot Way looks of disbelief, mingled with awe and a hint of respect. The madman himself sat cross-legged, a faint grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, relishing in the attention.


    Way waved off the attention outwardly, but his shoulders pulled back, and his posture straightened along the admiration. "Didn''t last long up there, though," he admitted with a wry chuckle. "It was easy enough to grab hold—those wings make for decent handholds—but touching that thing was like grabbing fire."


    He flexed his fingers absentmindedly as if recalling the sensation. "Every time I so much as brushed that thing''s scales, these tiny shocks ran up my arms. Felt like my muscles were turning to stone. After a couple of stabs, I had no choice but to drop off before I ended up paralyzed—or worse."


    The blond man erupted into laughter, the sound booming over the sizzling fire. He slapped his knee and took another hearty gulp of his drink. "Of course, you couldn''t last long, Way! Who in their right mind thinks they can mount a dragon and walk away from it? That''s rich!"


    The soldiers chuckled along, a few shaking their heads in disbelief, while Way rolled his eyes but didn''t argue.


    "Anyway," the blond man continued, waving his mug and reclaiming everyone''s attention, "there we were, dodging and weaving, throwing everything we had at it. Which, to be honest, wasn''t much, seeing as it was up in the air half the time, flitting around like some oversized storm cloud." He paused, smirking as if relishing the memory.


    "I tell you, though," he added, leaning forward with a conspiratorial grin, "if we had wings like that? That dragon wouldn''t have stood a chance. We''d have had it grounded and begging for mercy in no time!"


    This was precisely why Errant was implicitly forbidden from recounting their adventures. If it were up to him to describe this part of the fight, he would have said they''d been running around like headless chickens, aimlessly wreaking havoc and shouting over one another. All the while, the only thing they were actually accomplishing was blocking his ability to actually ground the thing.


    Errant could picture the reaction if he ever tried to tell it his way—Way rolling his eyes, Fetter''s tinkling laughter as she scolded him about not appreciating ''gravitas,'' and their blond leader, grinning like a fox as he would snidely comment, ''That''s why we leave the storytelling to me, Errant.''


    Not that it mattered. The truth wouldn''t win anyone over at a campfire, and it certainly wouldn''t earn them any free drinks.Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "You always hear in books about how dragons are these noble, honourable creatures," the blond man scoffed, "Yeah, well, forget that. This thing stayed in the air, out of reach, and rained down so much magic on us that it was like the sky itself was splitting open!" he exclaimed with exasperation as if the creature was actually expected to descend for some kind of antiquated duel. "The dragon was casting so much magic it actually started to deplete enough magic from the atmosphere that the plants around us were starting to wither!"


    Their leader took another long drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Mortise and Infirm had to give up on their buffs just to get a barrier up to hold back the bloody assault. Even both of them together could barely hold off against its magic storm. Lucky for us, we had Errant and his abominable slab of iron."


    Errant''s eyes narrowed, and he retorted, voice flat, "It''s a sword,"


    The blond man shook his head, grinning as if Errrant had just completed his punchline. "Sure, it''s a sword."


    Errant shot a look around the campfire, searching for any glimmer of support, but the soldiers were all too busy trying not to laugh. He grumbled and crossed his arms.


    Fetter, never one to miss an opportunity, chimed in from across the fire. "Sorry, Errant," she said with a smirk. "But even a giant wouldn''t have bought that slab of yours as a sword."


    His entire team was a mess of hyperbolic comedians, each of them outdoing the others in their exaggerations. But mocking his sword? That was a step too far. Errant straightened up, trying to keep his composure, and turned to the crowd of drunken soldiers. "I made that sword myself, you know?"


    For a moment, the campfire fell quiet. One of the older men, his face red from previous laughter, wiped a tear from his eye and responded, "Now that I can believe." which caused a rumbling chuckle to spread through the group.


    Errant pouted. He worked hard on that sword.


    The blond man jumped right back in, his voice full of theatrical excitement. "So, Errant actually throws"—he mimed the action dramatically—"I kid you not—his whole ''sword'' like it''s some kind of javelin!"


    The soldiers, still laughing, stopped mid-chuckle and looked at Errant, their eyes widening with near-shocked disbelief as they took in his well-toned frame.


    The blond coughed into his fist to return the crowd''s attention. "The weapon pierces right through the dragon''s tail and lodges into the ground—landlocking the thing like some kind of one-man artillery! You''d think that would be it right? Take down the dragon''s greatest strength, and it would be easy pickings, but man, that thing kept up a serious fight."


    No reasonable person would think the fight was done just because they grounded a dragon. It was a dragon, for goodness sake.


    "It never relented its magical barrage, and it even managed to bite Way''s entire leg off. Oh man, when that happened, we thought he was going to die. He went so pale and the blood WOULD.NOT.STOP."


    Errant sometimes wondered if he had become an enabler for their team. He really should have stopped Way. He couldn''t have known Way''s plan, of course. Way had thought that since they couldn''t puncture the dragon''s scales, they should attack from within. But he should have known that was just the type of thing Way would do. Madman indeed. If anything, he was lucky that he only lost a leg from that stunt.


    The crowd turned their attention to Way, who sat there in all his healthy, two-legged splendour. Way, ever nonchalant, casually shrugged in response to their baffled stares. "...I got better."


    The soldiers chuckled, though a few still exchanged confused looks, unsure if they should take him seriously.


    But their leader didn''t let the moment linger. He jumped back in, eager to keep the story moving. "Yeah, we eventually managed to sort out the whole leg thing, but that''s a whole other story. You know, after all the healing costs, and with both Mortise and Infirm coming down with Essential sickness from draining their magic reserves, we barely broke even from the whole debacle. But hey, worth it, right?"


    Errant rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath. ''Magic reserves,'' he thought, watching Fetter subtly place an arm to stop Infirm from interrupting. It was just a silly campfire fairytale, after all; let the man be confidently incorrect.


    The blond man shifted in his seat, clearly delighted by the crowd''s rapt attention. "So, here we are. The dragon''s grounded, which is good, but we''ve got one party member bleeding out, Infirm can''t cast anymore, and Mortise has to focus all her energy on keeping Way alive." He paused, as if relishing the tension in the air. "A tricky situation, for sure."


    The soldiers around the campfire hung on every word, their faces growing sombre at the mention of the party''s injuries.


    "We weren''t sure if we should keep fighting or try and retreat to heal our wounded. But leave it to Errant," the blond man continued with a grin, "always pushing himself to the limit. He ran straight in and did the most insane thing I''ve ever seen." He held up his hands as if preparing the crowd for the absurdity to come. "He pulls out his weapon so the dragon can fly again!"


    The crowd''s faces froze in utter confusion. Their brows furrowed, and a few exchanged puzzled glances.


    The blond man watched their reactions with a satisfied smile, clearly enjoying the shock he''d caused. "That was exactly the look I had," he said, a hint of laughter in his voice. "Maybe with a little more panic, though, given the freed dragon now directly in front of my face."


    Errant shot him a look, silently cursing him for the dramatic embellishment.


    "But then," the blond man leaned in closer, his voice lowering for effect, "Errant, using the same swing to pull his weapon out of the tail, turned around and let it fall like a guillotine—and I swear to the gods, it decapitated the dragon on the spot."


    "Just like that?" one of the soldiers asked, a voice filled with disbelief.


    The blond man nodded, his grin widening. "Just like that."


    The campfire crackled in the silence that followed, the soldiers exchanging looks, struggling to wrap their heads around the absurdity.


    Of course, there was an unending stream of details that the blond man exempted from the story, not least of which was the second dragon they met that day. The blond man probably thought that bookending their story on such an absolutely one-sided scolding wouldn''t have been ''fun.''


    It was understandable, of course. The story lost much of its punch once it was revealed that the dragon they fought had just been a child. That second dragon they met was not so young, and not even Errant would have acted frivolously with it, though it was never in his nature to act frivolously, to begin with.


    The second dragon had come to collect the blood of its fallen brethren; it was an exceptionally strange circumstance for the group. The dragon had been very cordial and diplomatic, speaking with perfect fluency and even compensating them with assistance in regenerating Way''s lost limb. However, Errant was very aware that it was all a front. The second dragon was not offering to exchange the dragon''s blood for healing; it was a command.


    Errant''s attention snapped back to the campfire when one of the soldiers, grinning like a wolf, refilled his cup with more ale. The soldier raised his mug toward the group across from him, his voice thick with mock admiration. "So, what made the Banausic Cardinals: ''dragon slayers'' join us against the Pleurothallidinae?" He emphasized the title with exaggerated hand motions, his fingers splayed out like he was presenting a grand spectacle. "You lot don''t look like you''re from the Sodality of Rain."


    Fetter was the first to respond on that front. "It''s the Pleurothallidinae that''s what! You don''t have to be from the Sodality of Rain to want them dead. We may have missed out on the Mokoi Khan to The Saviors, but the Pleurothallidinae? That will be our kill."


    Errant couldn''t resist chiming in, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You make it sound like if it wasn''t for The Saviors, you would have killed the Mokoi Khan. You were four when the Khan died." The soldiers erupted into laughter, their hearty chuckles echoing around the campfire. Fetter''s face flushed a deep shade of red.


    Fetter purposefully did not deign to respond. Errant took every opportunity to remind her that she was the youngest member of their group. She assumed he was just happy that he didn''t have to fit that role anymore. She soldiered on as if the comment was never made: "…, but the Pleurothallidinae are just as bad if not worse than the Mokoi Khan, really, since they already forced themselves in this land." She nodded to herself liking the train of thought, "In a way, defeating the Pleurothallidinae would be even more impressive. The Khan never took land."


    Nothing could spark a heated debate faster then questioning the glory of the Saviours, and none could debate with more verve than a bunch of drunken, bored, unruly men. The drinks refilled, the voices raised, and the party paraded on.


    ...Until.