Marvin the Magnificent - Writer's Cramp

Being the biggest most terrifying dragon has its perks-Marvin had no idea what they were.

Marvin the Magnificent

          The tremor in my scales wasn't from a seismic shift in the earth, nor was it the usual playful rumble of a yawn stretching my formidable jaw. No, this was the frantic thrum of pure, unadulterated terror. My great, leathery wings, capable of blotting out the sun, were tucked so tightly against my flanks I was sure I'd snap a rib.

          The whispers had reached my mountain lair like a venomous serpent's hiss. A Dragon-Killer. Not just any blundering brigand with a slightly sharper sword, but the Dragon-Killer. The one whose name was spoken in hushed, awe-filled tones, a legend forged in the fiery breath of lesser dragons and the desperate courage of men. They said he was fearless, that his armor was blessed, his sword enchanted. They said he was coming for me.

          My enormous heart, usually a steady, thundering drumbeat, was now a hummingbird's frantic flutter against my ribs. I hyperventilated, a gust of smoke, surprisingly thin and reeking faintly of chamomile tea, puffing from my nostrils. Chamomile! My usual fiery exhalations, capable of fusing bedrock, had been replaced by... calming herbal fumes. This was a bad sign. An unbelievably bad sign.

          I retreated further into my cave, the very air growing thick with my anxiety. My shadow, cast by the meager light that dared to penetrate my stony abode, seemed to writhe and twist into the shape of the knight, lance lowered, eyes burning with righteous fury. I yelped, a sound remarkably like a frightened puppy, and scrambled behind a particularly large stalagmite, my claws scrabbling against the cold stone.

          This was ridiculous. I was Marvin. Marvin the Mighty, Marvin the Mountain-Scorcher, Marvin the... the... oh, the shame! My ancestors would be spinning in their molten graves. I was supposed to be a creature of immense power, a force of nature. Instead, I was quivering like a jelly on a high-speed train.

          The tales of the Dragon-Killer were relentless. He'd faced down a hydra with seven heads, outsmarted a sphinx, and even, if the more outlandish rumors were to be believed, convinced a grumpy griffin to lend him its feathers. And he was coming for me. The thought sent another wave of panic through me, and I felt the telltale dizziness begin to creep in. I braced myself against the cave wall, waiting for the blackness.

          But then, a different thought, small and fragile, flickered in the dark corners of my mind. What if... what if I didn't have to be the terrifying beast they expected? What if I could... not fight? The idea was so alien, so contrary to millennia of draconic tradition, that it almost made me laugh, a dry, rasping sound that echoed in the cavern.

          No, that wouldn't do. I had to be brave. I had to summon the fury, the fire, the sheer, unadulterated rage. I tried to picture the knight, his shining armor, his steely resolve. And then, I remembered another detail from the whispered tales, a detail that the more heroic pronouncements had overshadowed. The Dragon-Killer, for all his bravery, had a particular, almost comical, aversion to... loud noises. He'd once been so startled by a flock of startled geese that he'd dropped his enchanted sword.

          A plan, as absurd and ludicrous as my current state, began to form. I took a deep, shaky breath, trying to fill my lungs with something other than fear. I focused on the chamomile, on the faint scent clinging to my breath, and somehow, I managed to conjure a different kind of power. Not the fire of destruction, but the fire of... performance.

          I lumbered to the mouth of my cave, my movements deliberately slow and, I hoped, menacing. I let out a low growl, which I immediately regretted as it sounded more like a rusty gate creaking open. Then, I tried again. This time, I thought of a particularly annoying bard who always sang off-key at the royal feasts. I channeled that grating, persistent sound into a roar.

          It wasn't my usual earth-shattering bellow. It was... a cacophony. A discordant symphony of squeaks, whistles, and pops, punctuated by what sounded suspiciously like a rubber chicken being squeezed. I topped it off with a theatrical cough that sent a puff of glitter (from my hoard, naturally) into the air.

          I waited, my heart pounding. The silence that followed was deafening. Then, I heard it. A muffled shout from below, followed by the distinct sound of someone tripping over a rock. Then another stumble, and a frantic scramble.

          A moment later, a helmeted head poked over the edge of the cliff face. It was the Dragon-Killer, his armor indeed gleaming, his sword held ready. But his face, visible through his visor, was a picture of utter bewilderment, rapidly morphing into something akin to... deep disappointment.

          He lowered his sword. "Is... is that it?" he called up, his voice surprisingly small. "Is that your fearsome roar?"

          I puffed out my chest, trying to look intimidating, and let out another series of squeaks and whistles.

          The Dragon-Killer sighed, a gust of wind that ruffled his cloak. He then produced a small, embroidered handkerchief and blew his nose with a surprisingly delicate sound. "Honestly," he muttered, loud enough for me to hear. "The rumors always make you sound so much more... terrifying. My guild was expecting a proper challenge. I was hoping for some dramatic fire-breathing, a valiant struggle. This is just... sad."

          He tucked his sword back into its sheath. "Well, I suppose the bounty is still the bounty," he said to himself, pulling out a small, intricately carved wooden figurine of a dragon from his pouch. He placed it carefully on the ledge. "Here," he said, looking up at me. "A little something for your troubles. You can use it to practice your roar. Try to make it a bit more... menacing."

Prompt: Write a story or poem from the perspective of a dragon.
Word Count: 976