DRAGON SLAYER (OR, JUMPING ON THE BANDWAGON)

I've decided to jump on the bandwagon of people posting their stories online. What follows is the first chapter of a story called "Dragon Slayer", which will probably never be finished, but oh well.

Dragon Slayer

I: Strange Men in Bars

“In the beginning, there were dragons. And where you find a dragon, you find a Slayer.”

-Bestiary Nobilis, pg.17

The first thing that struck the bartender as odd was the goggles.

It wasn't as if they were fancy goggles or anything. They were yellow, with black rims and lenses that were so grimy that you couldn't see the eyes underneath. No, what was so worrying about them was that they were…goggles. They were all fine and good when you were building houses, or working in the sewers, or going through some sort of ordeal. One thing you did not do was wear them into bars. If the customer really wanted to protect his eyes, or hide them, or whatever he needed the goggles for, he could have just worn glasses or something.

Why the goggles hit the bartender first, he had no idea. There were countless other details about the stranger that seemed slightly out of place; his jacket was dirty, his hair looked as if it hadn't been washed for weeks, and there was a certain…shadow…about him that made him look older than he actually was. He wasn't that tall, for someone of his stature, but just looking at him made you want to shrink up inside yourself and hide. Unfortunately, that was exactly the opposite of what the bartender had to do. Sometimes, he reflected, I really hate my job.

“Can I get you anything?” he said in what he hoped was a calm voice. The customer turned around in his chair, and stared the bartender down. He could almost swear that a bright light shone behind the customer's filthy yellow goggles, looking for his weak spots, finding them, summing up the best form of attack. He tried again. “Can I get you anything?” He squeaked a bit on the any, nervousness getting the better of him. No response. “Can I get you…”

“I heard you.” The customer's voice caught the bartender off balance; it was oddly flat, slightly off-key with the world in general. “ I'm not thirsty.”

“Then why are you sitting here, then?”

“I'm waiting.”

“For who?”

“For someone.”

The bartender smiled. He was back to concepts he understood; a broken rule was much easier to deal with than a strange man in a bar. Besides, the customer's eyes (or gaze, or whatever) made him nervous. “Well, you just can't sit here,” he said. “Many important customers at this kind of day, you know? Don't want to keep them waiting. Sit outside. See the scenery. There's a lot of that in Georgetown, you know?” The man with the goggles stared.

“Yes,” he said, “everyone knows that there's many important customers at eight o'clock in the morning”. Silence. “I'll have a glass of water.”

“Yes!” cried the bartender. “Great! One glass of water, on the way! Yeah…err…” He hurried out of the customer's sight. The man with the goggles sighed, and waited.

After a couple of minutes, the bartender came running back with a glass of water. He plunked it down in front of the customer, and practically sprinted off to the sink, where he immediately began to polish glass like no tomorrow.

Some time later, the door opened and warm morning air rushed in. “Excuse me?” The bartender made a little meep, and turned around, eyes wild with confusion. Standing in the doorway was a man in a black suit. He had a black coat, and a white undershirt, and a black bowler's hat, and black sunglasses that covered beady black eyes shaded by heavy black eyebrows. His skin was pale, and was almost translucent; the light should have shone through him, but was instead swallowed by the darkness of his coat. On his jacket was a badge decorated with a orange flame. The bartender instinctively shivered. This was not a good day for customers.

“Can I get you anything?” he said, continuing to polish the glass. “Or do you just want to wait here too? You want a snack or something?” By now, he was fed up with hiding his emotions. The more of a chance goggle-man and black hole get out of my inn, he thought, the safer the day will be for me.

“Tea, please,” said the man in the black suit, “without sugar.” Grumbling, the bartender walked off to heat up some water. Meanwhile, the room was very, very still. It was eight o'five in the morning.

“You work for the Outpost of the Unnamed State, down south,” said the customer. The man in the black suit nodded, and the customer nodded back. “The people in this place are oddly silent. Is there really a problem, here?"

“There is,” said the man in the suit. “Its just that no-one will talk about it. Only I know for sure.” He gestured wildly. “We have spoken to witnesses.”

The first customer thought about this for a second. “Witnesses?"

“Observers, actually,” said the man. "No survivors. It leaves no trace, you know. It takes all of its meals off to its cave before feasting. Yes,” he said, “this is flat-land, and there aren't many mountains. A mile away, however, there's a little barrow surrounded by dry grass. The grass is always dry; why this is I'm not quite sure. The barrow is the only hill for miles. I believe that the threat in question lives somewhere under it.”

“You said that there were a few witnesses,” said the first customer flatly, “and most of them were dead. Tell me about the rest.”

For a few seconds, there was nothing. Then, the man in the black suit said “They hear screaming, in the night. A few farmers are beginning to move into the city, although they are rather reluctant to do so, rumors being what they are. That's why your target is obviously in the barrow. I have reason to believe that it has a fresh supply of food down there, and eats one every night. Georgetown depends on agriculture. Without a fresh supply of corn, the farmers will starve, and the city will wither on the vine." His voice grew quiet. “The people in Georgetown are strange. They do not acknowledge what is happening in the outside world, or what events occur in the fields. The farmers believe that the ancestors of the city-folk did a deal with some dark force that lived here, long ago, and its power still dwells in the soil and bricks and grass. Personally, I think this to be a lot of codswallop. However,” he said, “You must be careful in finding a lodging. The townsfolk lock up when the sun sets. There are certain...traditions...they observe, as some towns do.”

“Here's your tea,” the bartender said, dropping the mug down in front of the man with the suit. He retreated into the corner and resumed his polishing. His eyes, however, remained.

The man in the black suit pulled out a yellow form, and a black pen. “Sign this,” he said.

“I don't sign forms,” the man in the goggles growled.

The man in the black suit cried “Oh, but you must. All men of your stature must sign a form of verification before they are allowed to help out those in need. It shows that you comply with putting yourself into danger.”

Something under the goggles seemed to shift. “I don't sign forms,” the first customer said.

“Sign it,” said the man in the black suit. “Now.” There was a moment of silence, but it wasn't silence, really. “At least put your name on it,” he muttered.

The customer stared at the form, and eventually, he nodded his head in comply. The man in the black suit handed the form over to him, and the customer signed his name. He promptly stood up, and walked out of the shop.

The man in the black suit shivered, and soon followed. The form was clenched in his fist. The bartender's eyes slid away.

Written on the form, in black ink, was the word ROSTAM.