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Anyone who cared to listen would have heard the pair long before they appeared.
They were arguing. One voice was thin, reedy and persistently whiny. The other was deep and scornful, and sounded suspiciously on the verge of violence.
This was what they were saying.
"For the last time, it's not my fault the Baron threw us out of Cayenne!"
"Dragon, you were supposed to block the attack from the rear, not start a bloody stampede across the town."
"Well, you know I can't breathe fire. What the donkey was I supposed to do, cough at them?"
"You could have at least trapped them at the castle. The stone battlements would have at least withstood the brunt of your fat bulk. I imagine that, if they'd wanted the town razed, they'd have had a herd of oliphants brought in."
"Fat? Did you just call me fat?"
To say that the pair that appeared over the crest of the hill was ill-matched would be to disgustingly understate matters (one might as well call the ocean "a bit wet"). The human half was blond and bearded, and would have been immediately identified by his armour as a knight were it not for the curious absence of a warhorse; instead, waddling grumpily beside him was a diminutive (for his kind, anyway) red dragon with pink wings it was evidently trying to conceal.
It was obvious that rumours of the pair had spread to this corner of the country, for people stared openly, pointed and whispered amongst themselves instead of simply running away screaming. To be honest, Wilbur missed the drama (although, certainly not the sharp, pointy objects that frequently accompanied such panic) – it made him feel more dragonly, somehow. Being a dragon was supposed to be all about inciting fear and disorder, not tromping around villages – and occasionally getting drunk – with a horseless knight. (The fact that Wilbur had himself mistakenly eaten said horse did not factor in the equation).
He looked about him in obvious distaste. The half-timbered stone buildings here would have survived his assault far better than the wooden hovels in the last town, but they were too closely packed together for comfort, and had too many protruding upper stories and joists for a dragon's head to bonk itself against. And it was obvious from the strings of little flags overhead and sprigs of evergreen that the townfolk were preparing for a major festival of some sort. Not something a respectable dragon would wish to associate itself with, if you didn’t count the free-flowing alcohol. He tried not to think of the street children playing Touch-The-Dragon's-Tailspikes as fast food and snarled at his companion, "I’m hungry. And thirsty."
Sir Aidan, ignoring his companion, walked right to the market square, drinking in the sights and sounds happily. He liked markets: the bustle and chatter of the common folk as they picked their way through the streets, the raucous cries of merchants and tradesmen advertising their wares, the tables and crates laden with vendibles, and the aggressive bargaining that was integral to the business of buying and selling. At this time of year, so close to Yule, there was no local produce to be purchased; instead, traders from distant lands had set up stalls among the locals to sell strong, fragrant spices and curiously shaped crafts, and the occasional exotic creature.
He stopped at a stall off the main market area, whose tables boasted an assortment of shiny trinkets and various unidentifiable elaborate vessels, some of them with colourful liquids. The trader manning the stall was equally exotic – large, hirsute and swarthy of skin, and swaddled in huge volumes of cloth of a colour Sir Aidan had previously only observed in flowers. Sizing him up as a potential customer, the trader flashed a brilliant pearly-toothed grin that matched the sparkling jewels on his turban and said in singsong voice, "How will I be helping you today, good sir? Hookah for your home, rings for your wife? Maybe you are needing special potions to perform better?"
Since he hadn't the coin to spare, and shiny baubles were unbecoming on a knight anyhow, Sir Aidan only idly listened to the trader's patter as he curiously examined the items on sale. There was nothing special about the bangles and beads; he had no idea what the tall filled vessels with multiple stalks were but, after sniffing at one of them, he firmly decided that they belonged to the category Not Safe with Wilbur. The shiny little balls drew his attention, though, and, as he picked one up he noticed that it was not shiny in the way that metals were, but that the ball seemed to glow from within. Most peculiar.
He was about to comment on the mysterious little balls when he heard a hideous GAAAKPTT! and whirled around to see Wilbur choking and sputtering frantically over a pot that obviously once held some kind of liquid.
"Dragon!" he exclaimed in horror, grabbing the empty vessel from Wilbur. "What in festering wyrms' feet have you consumed?"
"It looked pretty!" Wilbur whined amid paroxysms of hiccuping, as the trader threw up his arms and wailed, "One whole pot of shineslug juice! Three months our best alchemists took to brew this, one whole pot! One wh…"
Sir Aidan groaned and wondered if it would be more damaging to his pride to once again be up to their elbows in soapy water and dishes, or to be dishonourably expelled from yet another town.
That was when he looked balefully back up at Wilbur and realized that the big lump of an idiot was glowing.
-------------------------------
The Dragon, the Knight, and the Shineslug Juice. 100 Pictures Challenge #61: Fairy Tale.
The less-than-heroic return of Wilbur the (embarrassingly) pink-winged dragon and Sir Aidan.
Great gizka, is anyone allowed to abandon their original characters for this long? I don't think I've drawn a single Wilbur/Aidan picture since sometime in 2006. Of course, I'd always meant to continue the series, but it just never happened. Until now, anyway. Hopefully this won't be the last -
[This picture was actually about good to go when my computer fried. After that I kind of forgot about it, lol]
Progress shots may be viewed here: [link]
A big thank you to my beta, as always.
Sir Aidan christened by `DragonWinter. All characters depicted here are the property of Farlander.
Submitted to
For more Wilbur & Sir Aidan stories, click here:
The Dragon and the Knight
The Dragon, the Knight and the Alcohol
They were arguing. One voice was thin, reedy and persistently whiny. The other was deep and scornful, and sounded suspiciously on the verge of violence.
This was what they were saying.
"For the last time, it's not my fault the Baron threw us out of Cayenne!"
"Dragon, you were supposed to block the attack from the rear, not start a bloody stampede across the town."
"Well, you know I can't breathe fire. What the donkey was I supposed to do, cough at them?"
"You could have at least trapped them at the castle. The stone battlements would have at least withstood the brunt of your fat bulk. I imagine that, if they'd wanted the town razed, they'd have had a herd of oliphants brought in."
"Fat? Did you just call me fat?"
To say that the pair that appeared over the crest of the hill was ill-matched would be to disgustingly understate matters (one might as well call the ocean "a bit wet"). The human half was blond and bearded, and would have been immediately identified by his armour as a knight were it not for the curious absence of a warhorse; instead, waddling grumpily beside him was a diminutive (for his kind, anyway) red dragon with pink wings it was evidently trying to conceal.
It was obvious that rumours of the pair had spread to this corner of the country, for people stared openly, pointed and whispered amongst themselves instead of simply running away screaming. To be honest, Wilbur missed the drama (although, certainly not the sharp, pointy objects that frequently accompanied such panic) – it made him feel more dragonly, somehow. Being a dragon was supposed to be all about inciting fear and disorder, not tromping around villages – and occasionally getting drunk – with a horseless knight. (The fact that Wilbur had himself mistakenly eaten said horse did not factor in the equation).
He looked about him in obvious distaste. The half-timbered stone buildings here would have survived his assault far better than the wooden hovels in the last town, but they were too closely packed together for comfort, and had too many protruding upper stories and joists for a dragon's head to bonk itself against. And it was obvious from the strings of little flags overhead and sprigs of evergreen that the townfolk were preparing for a major festival of some sort. Not something a respectable dragon would wish to associate itself with, if you didn’t count the free-flowing alcohol. He tried not to think of the street children playing Touch-The-Dragon's-Tailspikes as fast food and snarled at his companion, "I’m hungry. And thirsty."
Sir Aidan, ignoring his companion, walked right to the market square, drinking in the sights and sounds happily. He liked markets: the bustle and chatter of the common folk as they picked their way through the streets, the raucous cries of merchants and tradesmen advertising their wares, the tables and crates laden with vendibles, and the aggressive bargaining that was integral to the business of buying and selling. At this time of year, so close to Yule, there was no local produce to be purchased; instead, traders from distant lands had set up stalls among the locals to sell strong, fragrant spices and curiously shaped crafts, and the occasional exotic creature.
He stopped at a stall off the main market area, whose tables boasted an assortment of shiny trinkets and various unidentifiable elaborate vessels, some of them with colourful liquids. The trader manning the stall was equally exotic – large, hirsute and swarthy of skin, and swaddled in huge volumes of cloth of a colour Sir Aidan had previously only observed in flowers. Sizing him up as a potential customer, the trader flashed a brilliant pearly-toothed grin that matched the sparkling jewels on his turban and said in singsong voice, "How will I be helping you today, good sir? Hookah for your home, rings for your wife? Maybe you are needing special potions to perform better?"
Since he hadn't the coin to spare, and shiny baubles were unbecoming on a knight anyhow, Sir Aidan only idly listened to the trader's patter as he curiously examined the items on sale. There was nothing special about the bangles and beads; he had no idea what the tall filled vessels with multiple stalks were but, after sniffing at one of them, he firmly decided that they belonged to the category Not Safe with Wilbur. The shiny little balls drew his attention, though, and, as he picked one up he noticed that it was not shiny in the way that metals were, but that the ball seemed to glow from within. Most peculiar.
He was about to comment on the mysterious little balls when he heard a hideous GAAAKPTT! and whirled around to see Wilbur choking and sputtering frantically over a pot that obviously once held some kind of liquid.
"Dragon!" he exclaimed in horror, grabbing the empty vessel from Wilbur. "What in festering wyrms' feet have you consumed?"
"It looked pretty!" Wilbur whined amid paroxysms of hiccuping, as the trader threw up his arms and wailed, "One whole pot of shineslug juice! Three months our best alchemists took to brew this, one whole pot! One wh…"
Sir Aidan groaned and wondered if it would be more damaging to his pride to once again be up to their elbows in soapy water and dishes, or to be dishonourably expelled from yet another town.
That was when he looked balefully back up at Wilbur and realized that the big lump of an idiot was glowing.
-------------------------------
The Dragon, the Knight, and the Shineslug Juice. 100 Pictures Challenge #61: Fairy Tale.
The less-than-heroic return of Wilbur the (embarrassingly) pink-winged dragon and Sir Aidan.
Great gizka, is anyone allowed to abandon their original characters for this long? I don't think I've drawn a single Wilbur/Aidan picture since sometime in 2006. Of course, I'd always meant to continue the series, but it just never happened. Until now, anyway. Hopefully this won't be the last -[This picture was actually about good to go when my computer fried. After that I kind of forgot about it, lol]
Progress shots may be viewed here: [link]
A big thank you to my beta, as always.
Sir Aidan christened by `DragonWinter. All characters depicted here are the property of Farlander.
Submitted to
For more Wilbur & Sir Aidan stories, click here:
The Dragon and the Knight
The Dragon, the Knight and the Alcohol
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720x900px 126.61 KB
© 2008 - 2024 DarthFar
Comments111
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I wish the story of Wilbur and the Shineslug Juice wasn't over. I wish there was a follow-up in which, in addition to glowing, it also makes Wilbur's belly inflate like a balloon.