There once roamed a peaceful dragon within the misty forests of the South. He was often seen swimming in the lake, and other times basking in the sun by the bank.
He fiercely protected his pearl which was nestled in this throat – directly underneath his slender jaw.
A dragon’s pearl was unique to its holder, one of its own kind in every way. It held a dragon’s authority, his form and essence, and was the crux of his power which allowed him to control his domain and element – in this case, water. Without it, the dragon will cease to be, and left in its place will be a weak human – a shadow of what he once was. The horns and tail would be all that was left of the dragon’s pride.
And that was exactly what happened to the dragon of the South. By the hand of a fallen angel, his pearl was wrenched from his throat forcefully. As he began to lose his form, his claws turning to fingernails and fangs receding up his Jaw, he clawed and scratched at his throat, roaring and howling in pain.
Blood stained his fingernails and tears streamed down his face, leaving behind scars on his throat that never faded.
That night, he lay on the cold forest floor, hugging his tail as he drifted to sleep, the tears already drying on his face. And he swore for revenge. He would find that fallen angel and get his pearl back. Without it, he felt like a huge chunk of his soul was missing, torn from him, leaving behind a gaping, black hole which left him feeling empty and helpless.
But over the next few weeks, that hole slowly filled with a viscous, sticky urge for vengeance. He pulled himself together as he grew accustomed to his human body – he still had some albeit weak command of water, and he picked up a spear to defend himself with should need arise.
Months, years, centuries passed, yet there was no sign of an angel, let alone a fallen one. The bright flame of revenge in his heart had soon reduced to embers.
The dragon, who now named himself Sylvester, found himself a home in the capital of the North – Wyan – where he worked as an alchemist in a shop.
He always wore a scarf round his neck to avoid any questions, and wore a ring which glamoured his horns and tail away to blend in with the humans.
Sylvester had earned himself a fairly good reputation as an alchemist in Wyan, and was a model citizen indeed. He held no grudge towards the humans and never did – in fact he rather admired their tenacity and willpower to survive despite their weak bodies. He of all people understood it. Hunger and fatigue washed over him like a flood during his first days as a human. He once resented it but now came to appreciate the finer things of cooking, leading to his specialisation as an alchemist.
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Note:
This is what you call an indulgent fic lol.
Fiction from the soul 