Dragon's Prize

The Woeful Tale of Tamlin

There was a young bard,

Of flattering heart,

Who told tale apart,

And oft strung petard.

Tamlin heard his name being screamed from over his shoulder but he dared not look back, too afraid and determined to go forward.

He couldn't remember how he'd come to be running through the darkened swamps so far away from civilisation.

He was left with a sense of foreboding and gut wrenching fear. He'd just stopped by the tavern of Lost Regrets for a drink and a few yarns for his new book; The Tales of Villains, Curs and Traitors. It was guaranteed to be a smash hit he just wanted to get some true villains, curs and traitors to tell him their tale; really get a feel for how events had led to horrible turns they so often did.

He had arrived early. That much he remembered.

The moon was high in the sky now, his alcohol soaked brain told him that surely he'd left the tavern at some stage- to take a walk, to gather his thoughts- no, he'd left with someone.

"Tamlin!"

His name was roared at him and he fell once again, his knees scraping against stone and worse, his lungs burning with the force of his panic as he scrambled over tree-stumps and mired in murky water that buzzed with the sound of insects circling. The air was moist with heat and his silk shirt clung to him with a mixture of sweat and humidity.

He climbed to his feet; not a care for the ripped palms or bruised knee that he'd incurred on his fall and continued running; running for his life he realized.

He'd only come to have a drink. Just a drink.

What on earth was he doing here; running like a crazed fool through the swamps and crying and sweating? His memory was a blur of words and the faint taste of honey and fruit.

Then of course he heard the wing-beats, the shadow of the great beast rose from the branches of the swamp and Tamlin's legs faltered.

He caught a glimpse of the enormous form that was bearing down upon him with unfathomable speed and grace.

He shrieked and fell to his knees- throwing himself at the base of the nearest tree and sticking his head beneath the nearest clump of grass he could find. His mouth closed his throat a solid lump of fear had wedged within.

Then the agony and pain as a long barbed claw hooked into his back and the world rushed away in a horrible whorl of hurt and blood. Tamlin the poet, closed his eyes, knowing that death was surely upon him.

-

Tamlin woke with a start and the twitch raced down his body and right into his toes, making him gasp and leading him to movement that he wasn't sure his body was capable of just yet.

He was laying on skulls; human and orc mostly; all manner of creatures had contributed to the bones that literally lined the walls of the room in which he found himself.

There was a huge skull of a horse not five inches from his left hand; but right under his chest; the grinning visage of a man's skull stared up at him. Old bones; long picked clean of flesh and worth, they were clearly the remains of others; caught by the beast that had carried him off.

For a long moment Tamlin felt himself giving in to a black, abysmal despair and he closed his eyes in silent denial, trying desperately to figure out what had brought him to such a moment. Here in the eating hall of a dragon's den.