Prologue

A lighthearted story complete with whimsical fantasy, mysterious magics, daring sword fights, large-scale tavern brawls, fierce dragons, foolhardy adventurers, perhaps an exploding wagon or two, unexplainably psychedelic phenomena, and of course a bucket of laughs.
(A guaranteed good time or we, the box office, will refund your ticket!)

     . . . And then Grom, with might that seemed to be bestowed by some divine deity dedicated to virility, swung his faithful Nimbus with needlepoint precision at the roaring dragon, which raked the ground where the dwarf had been standing a second ago, (just before his heroic bound). The hammer fell; a crushing blow was dealt to the dense plating that the scaly monster adorned as amber hued armor, but the successful smashing of the weapon was ineffectual. However, it yielded a reaction from the dragon regardless, which did what any self-respecting monster would do, if it could breathe fire and was intentionally swatted with a hammer wielded by a mouse-sized marauder; the same thief greedily plundering its homey, treasure filled lair no less. A blazing flame spewed past unmercifully sharp fangs and licked the ground, turning all it touched into black ash or rivers of fire and liquid gold. The dwarf could feel his own suit of armor generously helping itself to the heat wave from the torrent of fury, which blasted him backwards momentarily, leaving him completely defenseless. Then suddenly –

     Oh, my deepest apologies – I hadn’t seen you there. Judging by your expressions of roused interest, you may be curious about the scene unfolding before you. I was just relating the harrowing attempt made by Grom, a dwarven hero and legend, to steal what could be considered one of the most magically powerful artifacts that existed in all of the Realm, from the ferociously feral dragon known commonly as Crimson Deathwind, or The Red Monster, or Farmbane, or the Wyvern of Woe, or Bloodfang, or Khomnot Gothyoll, or The Winged Titan, or – well, you get the point. It’s the kind of creature you tell stories of in order to scare little children around camp fires. I anticipate your next question and offer an immediate answer; the reason any mortal being would be so questionably foolish, so naively bold, so audaciously ballsy as to go around picking fights with a gargantuan monstrosity whose reputation precedes it dreadfully so, is because . . . well, he simply had to.

     Now, now, I agree. That isn’t much of an explanation, is it? Surely your piqued minds are begging me to spruce up the detail with a bit of poetical spice, or paint the picture with deliciously fantastical phrases, but if you truly want a taste of this tale then we must travel back to the beginnings of Grom; the very beginning.

The End

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