The inn’s door opened and in walked a Marouth dragon. Tall and powerful and carrying the wooden scabbard and sheathed blade of Helvingshar in his right hand he glanced at me and then walked to the bar and asked for a tankard of hot rum. I did not know this Dragon. I had no idea he was the famed paladin, Magar of the Marouth. But in truth it would not have changed the outcome. I did not seek a fight. But my vows would not allow me to decline a confrontation with a Dragon, any Dragon, if forced upon me.
Helvingshar The Marouth seemed determined to draw his blade and challenge me. Words were exchanged. And then the blue and sandy brown colored Dragon drew his sword and leapt at me. I, a young Bretan monk, had with me the straight blade of a Bretan sword. Freshly given to me by my monastery’s
