An empty one-horse chariot wound slowly to a stop in front of the centurion as he stood in the road and polished his bowstring with a ragged black cloth. His favorite black dragon stood menacingly behind him, breathing on his silver armor, which shone in the brilliant morning light. The dragon breath was making the centurion very, very warm.

Far above, scavengers circled in the sky, bickering raucously with one another.

The centurion stood and called out.

“Who goes there?”

No reply came.

“Hallo?’

Silence.

“I say, I’m getting bloody impatient,” cried the centurion, louder this time.

A warm spurt of air crept across the back of his neck. He turned and gave the dragon a nasty glare. It looked sheepish and hid behind its wings. Read the rest of this entry…