The Dragoness

Long ago, longer ago than even the oldest of trees would remember, there were dragons. They were proud and noble beasts, old as time itself and immensely wise. They brought man down from the heavens and showed him the secrets of the world. Man could not fly, so instead walked and ran on two legs. Man could not make flame, so instead learnt to burn sticks for warmth. Man was so small and so many, he was useful to the Dragon kin, he could be bred in great numbers to accomplish many tasks. He built the mountain halls where they slept. He mined the precious stones and metals to build their nests. He raised their young. What had at first been a joyous union began to crumble; the Dragons abused their power over man, and took their dominion over him for granted. In time, they came to see man as little more than a beast of burden, insignificant to their grand designs. They grew fat and lazy, reliant on their slaves to take care of them. The burden of slavery grew too heavy for man, and in a single year of terrible violence and murder, man sought to extinguish the race of Dragons from the world, and claim all that was theirs for themselves. The few who survived these terrible times were reduced to shadows of themselves, hunted and afraid, but they had one secret men did not. They retreated to their mountain halls, and taking care to seal themselves in securely they slept, thinking in their arrogance that without their influence, man's days in the world were numbered and after a few hundred years he would simply die out. They slept, long did they sleep in their mountain halls, but man did not die out. Man grew stronger and more numerous, and spread across the world. Man learnt the harnessing of the earth and animals, and he prospered in their absence.

*****

Time immemorial passes over the sleeper's eye. She knows neither the coming of the ice, the building of the town, the plundering of the forests nor the passage of days. She sleeps, ever sleeps, until the day she awakens.

*****

The town of Mordeland lies on the crook of a river in amongst the foot hills of the Frost Mountains, far to the north of here. It is a small town, grown from a trading post to frontier fortress to prosperous centre for commerce. The main industry of the town extends to logging and the production of timber for the ever growing building concerns of His Holy Majesty Benedict the XVIII. The holy empire stretches from sea to distant sea and encompasses the majority of known land. Mordeland is a relatively unknown but important place nonetheless, famed only among those who concern themselves with supplies of wood. It is a functional town, neither poor nor particularly affluent. The trade in wood is a steady and profitable one, so the town enjoys many comforts ill afforded other towns, it has paved streets, delightful thatch houses and in recent years a concerted effort by the town elders to improve the general standard of living has introduced many civic efforts, including the planting of a great number of trees and flowers to improve the appearance of the town, some varieties purchased and imported at great expense. Crime is almost a non issue, and the residents enjoy safe, comfortable lives.

Sunday morning is reserved for many for the town market, held weekly in the large courtyard outside the town council building. Stall holders represent every town and village in the Frost Mountain range at this market, as well as more exotic and far flung travellers who bring wares from distant corners of the Empire.

It was on one such Sunday the event occurred.

*****
She awoke, finally, from her millennial slumber. Stretching out her clawed limbs, she shook the dust of the ages from her scaly hide and opened her eyes. So long had passed since her time, since her age of glory. The passage of time has dulled her mind, and ruined her body; she is little more than a shade of her former self. As she stretches, her scaly hide shows ribs through the skin, her fat stores entirely depleted. Hunger gnawed her from the inside out. Her once feminine body had been ravaged to near bones. She had to feed…

*****
The market was in full swing. Prices were yelled to make a dent in the wall of noise a thousand haggling traders generates. Everything from fish to art to clothes to clockwork machines was bought, swapped, traded and sold under the canvas canopy. Shiny silver coins floated hither and thither amongst the crowds, handshakes and barters a language unto themselves.

All eyes turn skyward.

A deep roar sounds over the valley. From the spire of the tallest mountain rises a plume of black oily smoke, rising serpentine skyward. The mountain shudders as if alive, low moans and cacophonous sounds emanate from within. Some among the crowd offer silent prayers. The more religious hold their faith tokens in hand. All eyes watch as the side of the mountain sloughs off and the inside of the earth looks at on them.

From her high vantage point, she sees the town, but doesn't understand what it is. Her keen sense of smell, undimmed by the passing of the ages catches a hint on the air, smells unknown but appetizing. Uncertainty is over ruled by the need to feed, to consume until what was lost returns. She spreads her wings, dark and terrible against the bright sky, and roars. She pushes off with her great limbs, and soars down the mountain.

People are running; panic ripples through the crowd as herd mentality rules all higher brain function moot. Everyone runs, trampling those who fall, money and goods forgotten in the terror of the moment. The great and terrible thing hurtles down toward the town, its great jaws open and its eyes narrowed in desire.

The wings flap to gain altitude. The millennia have withered the muscles. The beast slams into the ground and skids bodily across most of the town, its great form crushing buildings and entire districts to rubble under its passage.

She raises her head and roars. Her scaly hide remains as thick as ever, and as she raises herself from the rubble not a scratch is to be found on her. She reaches down her great head, and with deft relish picks off crowds of trampling men folk. She remembers. She eats more and more, the more she eats the more she regains of her former memories. The war, the death and destruction, it all comes back. Suddenly she is thirsty. She makes her way ponderously over to the river and takes great draughts of the cool mountain water. She drinks and drinks and drinks, the river grows dry downstream such is her thirst. Hundreds of miles away towns see the bed of the river exposed and wonder to themselves what ever can be happening in Mordeland.

She quenches her thirst, and remembers it all. Her family murdered and skinned. Her people dead and crushed. Anger rises in her, and suddenly she begins to feast again. This time she is unmotivated by hunger. She eats buildings, trees, livestock, men, women, children, roves, walls, homes, schools, wood, food, stone, metal, glass. She eats everything. She feels only anger, revenge, and hatred.

Loric sees all of this. Loric has come to Mordeland for the market with his people, Northlander nomads from the ashen wastes, long ago the very heart of the Dragon's dominion, burnt to cinders. Nothing will grow there; the people who live there grow up fast and strong or perish quickly. Loric is a proud man, strong as a wild horse and as fierce. His people have not forgotten the legends of the Dragons. He sees the creature raise its great horned head and roar ungodly challenges to the sky, and he feels only the itch of purpose. His weapons come easy to hand.

She rises from her feasting to rest. So much, almost too much to eat. She sits back, and feels the effects of her revenge. She runs her clawed hands over her body, no longer recognisable as that which emerged from the mountain. Her midnight blue scales glow with a wondrous hue, their lustre restored, her horns sharp bone white. Her body restored to its former feminine glory, her curves now fully realised once more. She moves her hands lower, and moans in discomfort. Her stomach is swollen, distended to ridiculous proportions, gurgling and straining with its own dimensions. She coos maternally, running her hands over it, marvelling at its warmth. It is hard and unyielding to the touch, firm under her caress. She has never known fullness like this; she is shocked at the depths of her own gluttony. She moans softly to herself as the churning sphere of her abdomen shifts and bubbles to itself. Then she sees him. The lone figure.

Loric acquired a horse from the fleeing traders, saddle less but adequate for his needs. It is a dumb beast, dumb enough not to know when it is in danger, perfect. He rides fast and hard, head low over the horse's neck, coaxing it onward with his heels. It gallops as fast as it can, unused to the weight of the yolk being lifted from its back it gladly obliges, galloping clumsily but with great haste. Straight down the main avenue of Mordeland. Straight toward the dragoness. Loric knows what she is, he sees her body, a colossal mockery of a human form, great breasts pendulous on her chest, delicate arms and legs, delicate features with high, haughty cheekbones, he could be forgiven for thinking it a giant. The wings, the hands and feet terminating in horrific jagged claws, the proud brow crowned with wicked horns, these details filter in, and in his ancestral memory, he knows what he must do.

She shifts her immense bulk over so she is kneeling. She doesn't even attempt to take flight; in her condition such an effort would be feeble and futile. She props her self up, rearing up, towering over the destruction and waste around her. Her hands hold the sides of the great churning orb in front of her, feeling its contents shift and redistribute themselves under her fingertips. She breathes in deeply, drawing in air, filling deep pockets inside of herself. She breathes out, and with a sharp click from deep within her chest, the air burns.

Loric hauls on the horse's mane sharply to the right. Luckily for him, the beast is used to mistreatment, and rather than throw him it veers sharply to the right. A stream of burning gas the colour of sunset clouds passes harmlessly by, striking the cobbles where moments before they were. Sparks fly as the stones crack and warp under the intense heat, the ground shakes and the sound and smell are beyond compare. Loric is sweating profusely from the heat, but retains his composure. He sees her rear up again, another stream of flame, and he sees his chance. He knows what he must do. Loric draws his bow.

She draws in again. Damn him! What chance has he against her? One man, against her terrible and magnificent power. She strokes her over stuffed belly, feeling the remains of his home and shelter gurgling around deep inside herself. It's enough to raise a smile on her cruel face. He is to her an ant. She breathes in more and more, this time she will unleash a maelstrom that will destroy this entire town. She breathes in more and more, drawing the air deep inside herself, and as she does so, she swells larger and larger, her stomach churning and whining in complaint. She stops and looks down to see the tiny man, and suddenly she feels fear stab at her heart.

Loric draws his bow, notches an arrow, and takes aim. He is close to her now, her size and scale vast. He watches as she breathes in, drawing in air for a furious assault. He sees his chance. As she draws in more and more air, her stomach visibly grows, quaking and roaring as the air rushes in, filling it and distending it further. As she breathes, her skin stretches further and further, tighter and tighter, filled with air, water, houses, animals, people and god knows what else. Then he sees it. Her scales, unlike her skin, do not stretch. Between the lighter blue scales of her underbelly, he sees the pink flesh beneath, stretched out and rippling. The noise of her abdomen is deafening, but he remains focuses. There, on the very apex of her monstrous gut, peeking out from between the bony plates of her scales, he sees her navel. Larger than a man, it curves inward like a great chasm, and it is here he aims. He has one chance, and he doesn't waste it. The string slips from his fingers, and the arrow takes flight. He hauls up on the horse's mane, and sees she has noticed too. Her eyes, full of fear as she realises what is happening. Her head, tiny as it appears when compared to the immense swell of her midsection, swings down; she begins to exhale, frantically trying to shrink her over bloated stomach back under its protective plating.

It is too late.

Time slows. She sees the tiny arrow approach the gap in her armoured hide over her belly button and knows it is too late. She roars in anger, watching the tiny arrow slip between the scales. She rears up, her hands clutching vainly at the massive churning sphere of her gut, willing the inevitable not to happen.

Loric's aim is true. The arrow finds its mark. She feels a stabbing pain in her belly where it spears her immense navel.

Then nothing.

Her head roams hither and thither, searching her stomach for signs of her undoing. Nothing. A cruel laugh escapes her lips, low and rumbling she exalts her fortune, her gargantuan stomach has withstood the assault of the puny man. She runs her hands over her belly, feeling it's bloated circumference shift and gurgle under her fingers.

She sees him riding away. The tiny man who dared injure her magnificent belly.

She rears up again, hands folded atop the ridiculous dimensions of her gut. She sees him press his heels to his steed's flanks, willing it to hasten away. He shall not escape her. He never could.

She inhales deeply. He will pay for his impudence. She will burn everyone and everything he knows. All of it. The world if needs be. It all begins, right here and right now. She draws in the air, more and more of it, she swells larger and larger, her stomach growing, swelling, bloating, expanding, further than imaginable. It dwarfs the upper half of her body, her tiny torso perched on this mammoth orb, shaking and grumbling and moaning like the resting place of some forgotten leviathan. She feels majestic, so huge and vastly swollen she could blot the very sun from the sky could she still fly. She runs a hand over her vast swell, so tight and stuffed it feels as if it could burst at any moment.

Then she feels it.

A tiny itch.

She flicks her head down in annoyance, the itch spreads, at first just around the tiny crevice of her navel; long since far out of her view, she feels it slowly creep over her monolithic stomach.

Her eyes cast about for its source, but it doesn't take long for her to see why.

The massive plates of her scales have parted once more, further still than before, further than ever, unable to cover the dimensions of her engorged waistline, she watches as tiny red slashes begin to creep over the surface of her skin. Her eyes narrow.

Stretch marks.


Her over taxed abdomen, bloated to beyond its own capacity, has begun to revolt.

She watches as the tiny red fingers dance over her skin, her hands sweeping over the vast spherical surface, searching to sooth the angry flesh, all in vain.

Then she feels it.

A stabbing pain.

She sees a ripple, large and unmistakeable, rolling its way over the surface of her gravid gut. She holds on grimly, understanding has yet to dawn on her. She feels a shift. Somewhere deep inside her, the balance is irrevocably tipped, and the pressure becomes too much. The vast quantity of air displaces the immense bulk of the consumed miscellany, and it begins its search for release. She feels sick, nauseous, as the massive bulk within her shifts and groans, searching for escape. Her stomach, still bloated to the point of rupture, quakes and moans in her grip, as she feels a rise in her throat.

No, not yet, she must hold on.

She fights to draw the partially digested ruin of the town and its people back inside herself, she clenches and squeezes muscles she didn't even know she had, and fights it back down, deeper and deeper into her fearsome belly.

Understanding dawns on her.

This was precisely the wrong thing to do.

She swallows finally and fearfully, her eyes slowly travelling down to the vast expanse of overtaxed flesh under her fingers. It groans, long and low, animally, as the pressurised content of her over bloated gut finds the only place left to turn.

Another pain.

She becomes aware of a tectonic shift deep within her. Her hands press feebly into the surface of her groaning belly, her searching fingers feeling to the massive transit of mass toward the front of her gut.

The arrow.

Unseen to her, the tiny arrow pops from her navel and imbeds itself in a wall thirty feet away. Her navel slowly flattens out, audible groans and creaks come from the flesh around the tiny puncture mark in the dead centre of her belly button. High above, she feels only the building pressure as her stomach protests, and she finally knows what is coming. The dull ache in the apex of her fecund tummy begins to build, she feels the pressure on her tiny navel mount, her stomach is shaking as if an earthquake is rocking its foundations, the sound is enough to deafen, and finally she senses her end. A spasm of pain rockets through the ocean of doomed flesh, she opens her mouth to roar, but it is too late.

With one final, creaking, heaving, grumbling, bubbling groan, her tiny navel splits open. She feels the spasm of pain, somewhere in her mind it registers, but only for a heartbeat.

Her stomach explodes.

The ground splits. Buildings and rubble are flung hundreds of miles from the site of the blast. Little is left.

Years from then, the town of Mordeland is a popular destination. People come from miles around to see it. At least, to see what's left of it. A serviceable industry has sprung up around the outskirts of the town, Inns and shops selling charred remains and fragmented artefacts from the town's heyday, glass vessels melted by intense heat, splinters of door frames, charred religious icons. Venturing further into the town brings a surprise, as it literally ends at the lip of an immense crater lake, miles and miles wide, centred some say on where the old logging mills used to stand, it has long since filled with water, forming the lake with water which used to flow from the mighty river that feeds the lake to this day.

As for what happened to Loric, well, that's a story for another day.