The oxblood scales of my jacket ripple in the moon light. My callused claws dig into the rotting wood of the ancient stakeout. My scarred face bears a grin of jagged teeth. I bring the bottle firey liquid up to my chapped lips to feel the burning sensation alike lava sliding down my throat. Realising that the small bottle in now empty it is cast into the air and dispersed into glimmering shards of glass.
A cry sounds out gliding through the air like frozen silk and my grin reapears. I am the dragon. The dragon protects the damsel in distress. Those "prince charmings" do not understand that. IT. IS. MY. JOB. So now I am the slayer. My princess sings out again and now I am getting frustrated. With a flicker of fire, I inhale, and a puff of smoke dances up through the cold night air. As the third note captures my attention my temper fuse ends.
My leather clad feet storm through the cabin like a hurricane. My sword and small cannon dangle from my broad hips clicking together with each stride. With a bang and a crash her door is open. That bitchy princess is at it again. Tears and blood run down her cheeks as she tries to cover up the damage. Carmel locks of hair are scattered among the small room. My green eyes, sharp as knives make my way up her contorted body. It convulses one last time, her face sticken with horror and pity as if it was directed at me. Her protector.
NO NO NO! SHE. IS. NOT. DEAD. I stared at her corspe clad in a rough textured purple gown. The princess now had hair by her ears and a scar marking her hand and her chest. A piece of glass from a broken window was all she needed. I take out my tiny sword for the last time. Finally the dragon is slayed.
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