Fantasy
Styrkur and Hugrakkur
The snow drifts from the night sky softly landing among the trees. The snowflakes tickle my eyelids causing my eyes to click open and shut repeatedly. There is a cacophony of muffled sounds from the thump of my paw steps and the streaming of water from melted snow. The trees tower hundreds of feet up, sometimes dropping clumps of snow larger than I am onto the forest floor. It is a peaceful place, calming my instincts. If not for the cold, I could find myself spending the rest of my 500 years here in solitude, but alas I am not built for this frozen environment. I press on, barely passing between trees, often walking an extra mile to make it around tight spaces. The trees are thick from centuries of cultivation by Skogurdreki, the forest dreki. Many of the trees blend in with each other at the base creating walls throughout the forest. Even as a forty-foot drek I am dwarfed by skogur trees. If I were like other dreki I would fly over the forest but we of the Logadreki tribe lose our wings at a young age while swimming in the lava fields of our home.
By Mason Walters4 years ago in Fiction
Not Much of a Dragon
It wasn’t much of a forest, but it had often been said that I wasn’t much of a dragon. The barb had lost its cutting edge over the centuries as the others disappeared one by one: fallen to knights or vice or mere dumb luck, while I watched the tides of nature and time in their ebb and flow from my unobtrusive— or, if we’re being unkind, ineffectual— vantage.
By Tiffany Mercer4 years ago in Fiction
Even Dragons have bullies.
“Next stop: 57th street and Fifth Avenue!” Greg Clawscar bellowed to nobody. The doors on the saddle-car slowly closed before he took off from Madison Avenue. With just a few strokes from his twin wings, he was able to lift himself, twelve tons of dragon, and the empty saddle-car strapped on his back up and over the quaint forest called Central Park.
By Julian Grajales4 years ago in Fiction
The Changling
Ormr awoke to a disturbance within his forest. The scent of fresh human blood filled his nostrils and he stretched after his long slumber. Birds did not sing their usual morning songs. Vermin did not scuttle through the underbrush. The forest was still, too still for Ormr. He stood tall, the trees surrounding him stood taller, blocking much of the sunlight. His green scales shone in the morning light, turning the color of summer leaves. His eyes were a dark emerald green.
By Sara Cripps4 years ago in Fiction
