Fire Worship Puns

Kellan sat upon his obsidian throne, shifting his weight. Often he had heard that heavy sits the crown, but compared to the discomfort of his throne, the bone crown was nothing. If he were to be honest, he found the crown felt rather pleasant, although he didn’t like the impression it gave off. It was hard to reject one of the small kobolds who had made him a gift from what remained of the mutton he gave them. The little things had the saddest eyes.

And many of the others seemed to take the gift as an invitation to give their own. Kellan looked around his throne room, feeling rather embarrassed.

Sampat, the dragon, had gifted him with handfuls of gold, though where he had found it, Kellan did not know. And, although he was still young, a handful to Sampat was a sizeable amount. Kellan had been concerned about what to do with all the gold, but Sampat had found his own use for it.

The glittering coins and jewelry now rested in a pile to the right of his throne. When Sampat stood guard, he liked to do so from atop the treasures. The dragon huffed, twin trailing lines of smoke drifting from his nostrils in response to Kellan’s glance. Sampat was always alert and ready to respond. If all he asked in return for his protection was love and gaudy adornment, then Kellan thought it a pittance to provide.

The dwarven clan that arrived from the eastern mountain range to worship Sampat as the return of their draconian god felt the need to upgrade his farmhouse. They had fashioned the dark tower he now lived in with their own hands. All around him was the stonework of their culture. It differed from what he was used to. Looking at the sharp angles of the architecture, and the traditional usage of black or purple stones, he couldn’t help but think his neighbors would misunderstand.

It wasn’t as though he had wanted anything but to keep his farm, but others kept threatening to take it from him, calling it cursed. So he couldn’t turn down the construction of a defensible tower in the place of a leaky farmhouse.

The gargoyles had arrived from the fiery wastes of the Infernal Peaks. Their kind, Kellan found out, liked to harden their bodies with any source of heat they could find. They were more than grateful to have their stone hides baked in Sampat’s flames. So they had returned to their ancestral home and brought back the obsidian that was then chiseled into the throne he now sat on. It came across as rather presumptuous to Kellan, but the dwarves had insisted it wa

[by RynTyn]

FADE IN:

INT. A HUMBLE HUT -- SUNNY

One man sits at the head of the table, head in his hands. This is FARMER. He is dressed simply, streaks of dirt decorating his face and arms.

FARMER: My family name is literally Farmer. I farm. My father and his father before him farmed on this very piece of land.

To his left, a disgruntled knight in bulky silver armour sat. This is GIDEON. A woman used to more spacious accommodations, she constantly fiddles with the sword in its sheath, trying to find a comfortable position to sit still. She slams the table when she hears Farmer's words, however.

GIDEON: So you admit your nefarious plot has been ongoing for generations?

To Gideon's left, a mysterious figure sits. This is the mysterious CULTIST, face entirely shrouded with a prominently hooded black cloak. It's impossible to tell who, or what they are--but the voice that emerges is immediately unsettling.

CULTIST: Beware how you speak, knight. This is the Dark Lord you are talking to.

Farmer sighs.

FARMER: Like I said--

Farmer is interrupted rudely as a gigantic yellow eye appears in the window to the left of the cultist. This is the DRAGON, whose immense bulk meant that he had to be left outside. Gideon inadvertently recoils, while the Cultist erects himself with reverence.

DRAGON: Say the word, master. And I shall burn them all to the ground.

FARMER: No! No burning! Just let me speak.

An impossibly cute, puppy-like whine emerges from the humongous creature. The eye disappears from view.

GIDEON: Monster.

CULTIST: Saviour.

FARMER: He's just a pet. OK? A big one.

Both Gideon and the Cultist scoffs.

GIDEON & CULTIST: You must be joking.

The pair looked at each other, a gaze that indicates both reaching a brief state of understanding.

GIDEON: She must be destroyed.

CULTIST: She must be worshipped.

The brief state of understanding is quickly shattered. The duo lean closer together, and their hands both slowly move towards their side.

FARMER: Look. The dragon was born here on this property. She's mine.

Gideon continues to stare at the cultist, but briefly turns to Farmer.

GIDEON: I do not want trouble here. If you insist, I'll have to kill you.

CULTIST: Kill the Dark Lord? Your opinion of yourself is far exaggerated.

Gideon and the Cultist rise from their seats ever so slightly. Farmer cuts it out quickly, banging his hand on the table.

**FARMER:

A goat could birth a chimera, a serpent’s tail, a lion’s head, and a goat’s body. A basilisk was born from the egg of a serpent reared by a chicken. The mythics could be born anywhere in the world and from surprisingly humbling origins. Everyone knew it, and everyone had heard the stories.

Kellan Haszler certainly had been raised on such tales. But who would ever expect that “anywhere” could mean here? Yet it was here, on his farm, that a dragon had been born. A mythic that could be born from any egg in the world chose one of his hens as its mother. And while he had feared it as a demon when he had first sighted it and the flames it could spit, he came to realize it was only an innocent babe, just the same as any other newborn.

He tried to explain that to everyone who came, and many did.

“I understand, Kellan. I really do, but a normal chick doesn’t threaten to burn down an entire village or grow so large as to consume a human whole,” the young knight said. She had arrived expecting a hero’s welcome, just as all the others before her. And like the others, her annoyance at the lack of one was apparent. “You need to hand over the dragon before it has the chance to hurt someone.”

“Before it hurts someone, or before you hurt me for refusing?” Kellan had heard enough from these heroes. They knew as little as he did about dragons. Their knowledge came from the same stories he had heard, and stories were all they were. Trifling tales meant to entertain, not be the truth. No dragons had been born, or at least encountered, in centuries. That was more than long enough for their stories to be warped by time. “I am telling you what I have seen with my own eyes, not some whispered words told at nightfall to scare little ones. That dragon is as loving as a dog, and smarter than any other hound I’ve ever known. It protects my fields and wraps itself around my legs at night to sleep. I will not have it harmed.”

“Kellan -” Lady Halle stopped her shout short and swept her hand through her hair as she sighed. “I am just trying to protect you. The dragon is young. You do not know what it will be in a few years, a few months, or even weeks. All our tales are of dragons full grown, not their children. You would no sooner raise a wolf. It would be easy to mistake their young to be puppies, but wait for their true nature to arise as they mature, and you will find a monster inhabits your home. Some animals are not meant to live beside humans.”

“Some would say the same of any

When an owl is on the hunt, it's almost impossible to hear. It glides through the darkness like it is part of the night itself. If you see one, the lack of sound is jarring, like something is broken with the world or your ears. It’s just incredibly good at its job.

In my, albeit limited experience, dragons are not in the same league of stealth. At least one of them, however, does seem to think it is a lot harder to spot than it actually is. The particular dragon had been hanging around my farm for some weeks now, and to be honest I was really starting to lose patience with him.

I assumed it was a ‘him’ because about a month ago one of the chickens on my farm laid a very unexpected egg and I had a sneaking suspicion that this dragon was responsible.

The slipstream of his passing overhead knocked my hat off into the small cage I’d fashioned for the unusual hatchling, and the small creature took a bite out of it. I felt the rage boiling inside me. Weeks of knights innocently enquiring about the ‘roosters’ I had on the farm like I couldn’t see the bloodlust in their eyes. Weeks of idiots in robes leaving sacrifices on my doorstep, that I had to keep cleaning up. Weeks of trying to figure out how a chicken laid a dragon egg, or what in gods name I was supposed to do to look after a tiny, fortunately only smoke breathing currently baby bloody dragon! Weeks of having to care for it in the middle of the night away from prying eyes.

“Alright!”, I shouted into the night sky. “Enough is enough. You come down here and help me with this little ‘un or so help me, I get those armour-clad morons to come back here and they can figure out what to do with it.”

There was no answer but I heard the dragon land heavily on the roof of the barn behind me. A timber creaked and cracked. I shook my head in frustration at another job for the morning.

“I’m not deaf. Stop pissing about.”

There was a sound like a person blowing in an imitation of the wind.

“Jesus Christ. Really?! The wind isn’t even blowing, you leather winged, crap brained, deadbeat dad!”

The air blast from his wings blew me a step backwards as the dragon landed in front of me. He craned his head down to my level and regarded me with one eye. The other appeared destroyed, some old battle scar perhaps. I could smell the oily, fatty scent on his breath that came from the dragon's fire. The babe was already starting to smell the same way. I swallowed hard and began to wonder if maybe 'crap-brained' was a bit mu

Time seemed heavier for Jenhi Farmhand.

Once upon a time, Jenhi's day consisted of feeding the chickens, tending the crops, and relaxing on the porch to watch the sun set. A visitor might come by once a week; Jenhi might have to chase off a chicken thief once a month.

But ever since Cooper had hatched, thing after thing after thing had started cramming itself into Jenhi's calendar. A year's worth of visits would be squashed into a day—and how could one man stand so much excitement in a mere twenty-four hours? No wonder all those would-be heroes and villains were so worked up—all of their squabbles and shouts and screams were too heavy to be dealt with in a single day. Jenhi tried to get them to relax, set down their burdens, and deal with them one day at a time—but no. Everything urgently had to happen now, now, now.

Well, Jenhi was sick of it. He had already spent last night packing everything he owned—spare clothes, firebox, and frying pan—into his wagon, and had spent all day quietly caging up the chickens and stowing them right next to Gomp the mule. They could keep each other company, they didn't mind each other—unlike the cultists and adventurers who had so rudely trampled his entire crop field in their fight the other day. Last came Cooper, who eyed Gomp warily before settling his snake-like, sinuous weight on Jenhi's shoulders. Way back when Cooper was no bigger than Jenhi's left shoe, he'd tried to take a chunk out of Gomp; Gomp had subsequently sent Cooper flying out the back window, and ever since then, Cooper had refused to have anything to do with the ornery old mule.

"You're just a big ol' scaredy-cat, arent'cha?" Jenhi scratched Cooper's ears idly, scanning the horizon for any more hooligans. Both sides had gone home battered and bruised after their disagreement, and Jenhi sighed with relief. Hopefully, the two of them and their drag-down squabbles would be left behind, and Jenhi could finally stretch back out.

The sun was just beginning to rise as Jenhi left the home he'd built with his husband behind. It pained him to see it go, but he'd never bothered to hold onto the memories he'd made there, anyway. Memories were heavy, too, too heavy to be dragged behind him as he clopped down the old dirt road. Jenhi shook aside the nostalgia and turned left, proceeding into a clump of tallgrass. He'd cut through the empty plains until he landed on the Great South Road.

Cooper whined nervously, nostrils flaring, and Jenhi gave him a sympathe

I get the avatar is for the player to insert themselves into the world and make the player feel special and to a degree I like it. but most of the time it hinders the story more than it helps,mainly talking about three house . To me it feels like if byleth's personality & reputation actually made some of the students terrified it would make me actually care for byleth's struggles a lot more, but instead they make everyone drawn to byleth & accomplish nearly nothing when byleth was sleeping. Now to be fair byleth in three houses isn't all bad the nabatean plot wouldn't be the same without byleth but for the other plots with byleth like mentoring the Lord's they wouldn't have lost nothing significant if byleth wasn't in them byleth could have been replaced with other characters, for example for mentoring Dimitri rodrigue or Dimitri's uncle could have taken the place of byleth and the story would would have lost no real value and when rodrigue died the whole blue lions could have come together to pull Dimitri out of his madness instead of just byleth

###Main Drama:

As a European I really dislike how you worship your veterans

####Secondary Drama:

Today I learned on this sub that ackshyually, mowing lawns for veterans is bad. Very wholesome, good job.

####Assorted minor drama:

I kill people for money, mow my lawn

Very wholesome comments, nice job guys /s

What... how is helping vets controversial?

The entire thread is worth reading, lots of smaller side drama threads everywhere.