This week’s prompt for Write on Edge’s Write at the Merge was the Guns’n'Roses song November Rain, and the quote:
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.
Follow the Write on Edge link to head over and submit your own, or read some of the other excellent pieces submitted.
The picture I’ve included is by a young American artist named Clarissa Marie Puentes. She calls herself a Multi-medium Fantasy Artist, and that is a pretty apt description for her work. This is a piece of digital art, partly photomanipulated, and partly painted in on Photoshop. You can check out more of her work by clicking on the photo below (which will take you to DeviantART), or by going to her Portfolio Page.
Avskeda awoke to rain. Oh how she loathed it. Each drop struck her scales with a crystalline chime, producing a cascade of beautiful sound, but the misery of being cold and wet left her deaf to the music.
A creature born of light and fire has no place in damp and darkness. Avskeda longed for her native sands under the red-hot eye of the southern sun.
She shifted and became aware of further discomfort. She lay on and under the rubble of a large section of her castle.
She shook loose the tower that had collapsed on top of her. Looking about at the ruin of her castle, she narrowed her eyes and hissed in displeasure, arching her back and flapping her wings. She lashed her tail as she pondered the events that had led her to this point.
There was a man. That much she recalled. He wasn’t like the ones who came before, though, lacking the loud metal carapaces that the others coated themselves in. She could hear metal sing, even under cover of darkness, even over the humming of the suits of armour all around her castle. She wouldn’t have heard him approach at all if it weren’t for the rumbling song of iron on the straps of his goats, and the lovely soaring tones of the gold in his ear. She loved gold as much as she loathed the cold rain.
She had planned to decorate one of her scales with it, she remembered, but when she’d arrived at the gate, the goats had been such a temptation. The others always brought warhorses, tough, stringy beasts, whose long flowing manes and tails caught in her teeth. She never got goat anymore, since moving to this cold place. The man wouldn’t get far in the time it took to eat one or two goats.
And then… she had fallen, and known no more until the chime of her scales had awoken her. She flamed her displeasure. Drugged! It was the only explanation. A coward’s weapon.
Avskeda rose to her haunches and peered into the princess’s room. The girl would be asleep. The mother was always awake, but that was her burden to bear in the curse this country had been cast under, eternally repenting for the ruin her indifferent parenting had wrought.
The tower room was abandoned. Avskeda let loose a bellow of pure rage and cast about, seeking for the vibrant song of that errant bit of gold. With a direction settled on, she set herself to the task of making herself inconspicuous. She would not give the man creature another chance to fool her. Rending scale from flesh was agony, a creeping frost as her fire was banked. She would endure, however, she always did. No one steals from a dragon and lives to tell the tale.
She climbed out of the rubble of the castle, and headed due East, clad in blood-red dragon scale armour. Rain steamed as it struck her.