When one talked of the Dragon, one was talking about destruction and despair -- of women taken against their will, daughters sold to the highest bidder, sons and fathers whose blood painted the paved streets, and babies with their futures stolen. Nobody was exactly sure how he looked like. The posters of him actuly differ from town to town. Although if one would ask around, he was described as a monster of a man whose skin was hard as stone that no sword could pierce it, and his eyes would glow like twin suns when he was angered, then he would open his mouth and spit fire. That was how he got his name, they said. 

To Catarina, he looked like a pot of gold. A big one, in fact. And she would never forget the moment she first laid her eyes on him. He was exactly how she envisioned him in her mind -- brown hair, tanned skin, cruel eyes made more cruel by a perpetual frown. A scar from the right temple to the bridge of his hawk nose and down to his left cheek bone split his face in half. While he wore propee clothes, the brownish loose fitting tunic and vest did little to hide heavy muscles. 

The Dragon slammed a couple of coins on the table and yelled, "Bones!" The only feature she could not verify was the constellation tattooed on his hand, which was the real reason why he was called Dragon. Her mind was screaming at her to check and be sure, but her heart was already sure this was the man.

"Over here you lazy piece of meat," he yelled again, gesturing with a thick arm. The other patrons seemed to not mind. Maybe they were used to the  commanding  presence of this man. The bartender, who was cleaning up the table that, a minute ago, sat the  most wanted fashion offender, visibly sighed and left what he was doing. Catarina thought this had got to be the man.




The moon was full and bright. It cast its pale light even on the darkest of the alleys between two warehouses near  the docks. Then suddenly the sky was lit by a web of lightning. One split the sky and zapped its way to the earth, lighting up that space in between two warehouses. It cast a long harsh shadow of a woman, then disappeared as suddenly as it came.

On the ground where the lightning kissed the concrete floor was the spot where a leather glove was. Its pair was clutched tightly in the mage's hand. Her teeth gritted, she uttered something under her breath, then her hand was engulfed by blue flame. 

The brown haired man at the tavern, who now lay with a broken nose and other broken bones, there was no constellation on his hand. This was not the Dragon, this was a waste of time.