Romance comes in many forms. For some, it involves a candlelit dinner while being serenaded by a live band. For me, time spent in a dark grotto while dying monsters howl in impotent fury really helps to boost the atmosphere. And while some may prefer a walk on a moonlight beach, arm-in-arm with a lover, I prefer to stride naked while my Master scurries to and fro to slay the monsters that want to ravage my body and rip me limb from bloody limb. While others may bring a picnic basket to make the most of the occasion, I carry a bronze chest, within which is safely nestled the remnants of my shattered zweih?nder and armor. While normal people may prefer to whisper sweet nothings to one another, I prefer holy rituals to consecrate the abandoned shrine at the end of the grotto, with my sacred armaments left behind.

  Normally, this ritual is done with a full complement of attendants to protect the celebrant as he or she conducts this rather obscure act of communion with my god, Gulthar. To my dismay and horror, I had to consult ancient texts on the specifics of how to do this, as I have never done it before, and indeed, few devotees have. It was most arduous, to gaze upon those squiggles as they danced and swirled across the ancient parchments, but Master assisted with my efforts to read the letters that made up the words needed to convey secret meanings to me.

  With precise and rhythmic steps, I plod along at a steady pace. I neither hurry nor tarry, and my movements are conducted without anxiety or hesitation. Sometimes, monsters get so close that I can feel their hot breath upon my bare skin, but none manage to so much as touch me, such is the care and devotion of Master’s attention to the safety of my person.

  Fortuitous, then, that I had some time to practice adjusting to my new form, such that I no longer stumble as my new wings and tail throw me off balance. When I first recovered from divinity poisoning, I found myself delighted at my new appendages, as if my body were finally complete. I do not know with utmost certainty if this sensation stemmed from my Dual Blessing as a [Dragon Knight], for its draconic themes certainly instilled an inclination and desire to become more like my Master’s true form.

  The tail provides me with extra balance and weight, helping me to wield heavier weapons. I have had a few days to practice with new swords, and I find that a zweih?nder feels too light for what strength I can bring to bear. My wings provide me with agility and flight, and indeed, impenetrable shields, which makes any notion of wielding a shield entirely redundant. My horns, much like those of a real dragon, amplify my connection to magic, making all aspects of controlling and using it simpler and more powerful.

  I understand now, even if it is only an imitation of the real thing, how dragons are creatures of magic itself. While a younger version of me fumbled when learning new Abilities, as all mortals do, now I have intrinsic and instinctual knowledge of how my magic works, such that I never fail to use it. However, true wisdom of when and how to apply it to its full effect still requires practical experience.

  My eyes are perhaps the most astonishing change. I can see in the dark quite well, but also, I can see magic itself. By looking at a person, I can get a good sense of what spells they have cast recently or what ongoing effects they maintain with their Abilities. I do not have as much practice as I would like with this new sense, but I can already tell that, as I learn to recognize patterns in the magic of others, I can be proactive instead of reactive in how I counter their own Abilities. Unfortunately, these new eyes do nothing to command the letters to stay still upon the page, but I endeavor to continue mastering those squiggly rascals so that I may continue to enjoy reading.

  With each step, I advance boldly with unwavering faith in Gulthar and my Master that both will protect me from harm. This dungeon that my Master and I have entered is the property of Gulthar, and it serves as a holy site. A relic, such as my box of broken equipment, can be left here at a shrine. After a few centuries, the relic will be imbued with that mystery and wonder that ancient and forgotten artifacts seem to have, and thus, they will be primed to be reforged, most likely for a new [Divine Champion] or even [Paladin] of Gulthar, depending on how famous I become to the world and how prominent I am within His church.

  Such is the cycle of relics. In my youth, I had to retrieve my armaments from the burial grounds dedicated to the faithful of Gulthar. I had fought my way through the catacombs, destroying the unruly undead that dared to stand against me. It brings a smile to my face to remember the grim determination and raw desperation that spurred me ever onwards, the blood and tears shed along the way before I finally opened the tomb of Sir Gerrik of Spiteful Refusal. And, a small tear of sadness washes down my face, for now that same suit of armor and my trusty sword are once again retired to obscurity, awaiting the day when they once more are called upon to serve.

  A chapter of my life is ending, just as a chapter in the history of my armaments comes to an end. While I am not the [Paladin] of Gulthar, I am more of a specialist than a traditional [Divine Champion]. Many of my conventional duties are no longer mine to bear, for my assignment to my Master and his wishes takes up the lion’s share of my responsibilities. Indubitably, while that was largely true before, Gulthar has made it official, for my Master has gained great favor from Him despite not being a member of His church.

  Such is not without reason. My Master’s [Aura of Certainty] is not the same as the [Aura of Fear], or some variant thereof, that most dragons have. It is not explicit like such other Abilities, as it is not intended to intimidate or cow lesser beings. It is not a threat, but a promise. It is not a display, but an unequivocally clear communication of intent and disposition. And, if Master is displeased with someone to the point where he contemplates violence, that tends to make mortals cower as if they were in mortal danger. He is the tidal wave to the oblivious idiot standing on the beach that realizes all too late how imminent and unavoidable destruction is moments away, and how no amount of reasoning or diplomacy can avert disaster. Where he walks, the earth trembles, both because he is very large and much heavier than he would appear, but also because most people quake in their boots at the sight of him. Even I, fearless as I am, almost understand what it is to be afraid when his wrath comes to bear, for such is his prowess and metaphysical weight upon the world. It is no wonder that Gulthar has chosen to invest in Master.

  Be that as it may, it has not stopped Gulthar from having Master dance for His amusement. While he does not perspire like a filthy mortal, Master is hustling to slay the monsters as they spawn as he escorts me deeper within this grotto that leans more to being a true crevasse. Master has very few actual Abilities for combat, which in a way shows. He can’t just swing his sword and send out an arc of force that “murderfies” everything in front of it, as the meatheads like to describe it. However, after training extensively with Nanu, his only adopted daughter, his technical mastery of martial prowess and magical aptitude when applied to combat situations is rather remarkable. His economy of efforts is efficient, with no flourish or waste that isn’t dedicated to a feint or to communicate with allies. There is little in the way of overkill unless it serves some greater purpose, for no sooner has he dealt a decisive blow than he has already moved on to his next target.

  Before long, we arrive at the final chamber, with the masterful performance of death and destruction having come to an end. The remaining monsters linger at the threshold of this room, each sniffing and snarling as they try to find a way past the area of aversion that they do not want to cross, despite their desire to tear us to shreds. Torches flicker in their sconces upon the walls, their flames enduring forever without physical fuel. The room is long, with eight stone benches on each side facing the front altar. The altar itself has motifs of bones, death, souls of the damned crying out in despair, monsters, public speaking, and other aspects of life that cause fear in mortals. The room is otherwise bereft of anything of note other than what we have brought with us.

  Without breaking stride, I continue to the altar, and once I arrive, I set the box down upon it on the rightmost side as when facing it from the front of the room.

  “Now what?” Master asks with earnest curiosity, for I have been vague as to what must be done to consecrate the shrine.

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  “The ancient texts offer only this advice as to what must be done: ‘Perform an act that most people would be afraid to do.’.”

  “Oh, that sounds both strange and entirely fitting. Since it is left up to your own discretion, what do you have in mind?”

  Without a word, I reposition myself upon the altar, by legs dangling off the left side as I lean back slightly, all while shepherding Master around so that he stands before me. Unabashed, I spread my legs and push my shoulders back while thrusting my chest forward, all while giving him bedroom eyes.

  “There are monsters right outside that door that could burst in at any moment to attack us, and you want me to ravish you right here, right now, on an altar to your god during one of his most sacred rituals, an act that could very well incite his wrath for a profane affront to the sanctity of this place?”

  With a nod, a smile, and a tug on the collar of his shirt to pull him towards me, I release a throaty rasp of hot breath into his ear as I can barely contain my excitement.

  “Yes.”

  Mere inches away from me, he looks at me for a moment before responding.

  “Well, okay then.”

  In the realm of a Dark god, Gulthar was at his desk, enjoying a nice cup of coffee (the ingredients of which somehow had not been shared by Him with certain draconic entities for the past millions of years), when that all-too-familiar buzzing sound started on His desk. With a flick of His hand, He pressed a button to address it.

  “Heya boss, we are ready for You on Feed 1. Skull has decided what the ritual should be.”

  Gulthar had been watching her journey the whole way to the shrine, but He stopped observing once she entered. It was a rare thrill to be pleasantly surprised by what one’s followers could think up, so He didn’t want to spoil it.

  “That didn’t take long,” He responded. “Okay then, bring it up, thanks.”

  And there before Him, a floating view of the shrine materialized in the air as He scried upon the shrine while taking a sip of His coffee. A moment later, said coffee was spewed out of His mouth and all over His desk as His eyeless sockets seemed to widen with surprise. His hands rose to His face, covering it with a display of embarrassment, with coffee pouring down His face because one hand still held the cup firmly. Rosy ovals of a flushed face adorned His skeletal visage where the cheeks should be, and He cleared His nonexistent throat as He talked to Himself.

  “That certainly is one way of interpreting the sacred texts. Points for the core strength and flexibility on display. And that technique,” He continued as He leaned in closer to get a better view, “It would appear that Skull has been reading some other ‘sacred texts’ during her time in my temples. Wait a minute! They dare make a mockery of my sacred ritual!” he declared with His voice fuming and steam coming out of the holes where his ears should be.

  “That’s the funniest thing I’ve seen all year. Clever little shtlings. I’ll have to get them back for that at some point,” He continued as one hand stroked His chin as deep thoughts of trickery and mischief consumed his focus.

  “Back, foul beast, back to the dark pit which ye crawled out of!”

  She brandished her sword, wooden though it may be, at the “beast” before her, played by the dwarven child that lived two houses down. Said beast roared at her, which was higher pitched than what most monsters would be wont to do, and not nearly as terrifying, but being as all parties involved were children, they rolled with the subpar performance admirably. From a good distance away, he slashed at her with his “claws”.

  “As a Knight of the Crossing Guard, I, Varilortha, will defend this fair maiden-”

  “I’m a boy,” the “fair maiden” replied from behind him.

  “-Er, sorry, Gwuldar. Ahem, I shall defend this young master from your wretched monsterness.”

  And so their game of make-believe continued, with different children trading roles until parents called them in for supper. Little Varilortha, dirty from a day of playing, washed her hands and face by the village well before answering her mother’s call, lest she get a woopin’ for a breach of hygienical protocol. Once again, the little girl noticed that Papa would not be joining them. Saddened, but inured to it as of late, she put on a strong face as she sat at the table with Mama.

  “Did you have fun today, my little Sundancer?

  “Yes, Mama,” Varilortha replied with cheer and exuberant enthusiasm. “I’m going to be a Crossing Guard when I grow up and save all the people from monsters and bad men!”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful, dear,” Mama replied with taxed encouragement, the kind that is watered down by stress from her husband’s absence once again and from a mother hearing the latest career ambitions of the evening from a daughter that devotes no focus to any one prospective profession.

  “No, really,” she continued with a slight pout to her cheeks, as she had detected Mama’s hint at dismissal. “Miss Welleringtonbottom will become my squire, and together, we will become famous for helping people.”

  Chastised by her previous failure to convincingly display complete interest and confidence, Mama redoubled her efforts.

  “That’s wonderful, my little Sundancer. You will make your father and I so proud if you help a lot of people. Would you tell me tales of your many deeds?”

  With enthusiasm and gusto, Varilortha regaled Mama with tales of her future exploits that were all but certain to happen (from her point of view). Facts, practicalities, logistics, political realities, and public opinion did not dilute her perception of the future as she wove one unbelievable and loosely sequitur tale after another. Mama plied her daughter with encouragement, and perhaps such emboldening words would engender more harm than good for those aware of the immediate future.

  That night, Varilortha, full of excitement and wild dreams of derring-do, snuck out of the house and crept out of the village. Just down the road, where it intersected with the highway proper, stood a shrine to the same dragon that made the highway and to whom the Knights of the Crossing Guard swore fealty. There, she knelt and prayed as if communing with a god.

  “Dear Mr. Dragon Man, please take care of and watch over Mama and Papa as I train to become your Knight of the Crossing Guard. Protect my village as I travel the world to save lots of people. And maybe give me a pony so that I have a faithful steed. Amen.”

  No sooner had she finished than she spotted a party of people traveling down the highway towards her village. There were a lot of them, most holding torches and some riding horses. Her innocent young mind concluded that it must be Papa and the others coming home at last from the latest moot, and the horses belong to other Knights of the Crossing Guard. Surely, one of those is a pony just for her, just like the “Mr. Dragon Man” promised her (he did not).

  With her head caught up in her own imaginings, she rushed down the road to greet her neighbors and Papa most of all.

  As she drew closer, she saw that something was amiss. These were not her neighbors. They looked grim and mean, and they wore armor and held weapons. Perhaps they were here to hunt monsters and they were going to set up camp nearby. Her pace slowed until she stopped in front of the group of strangers that likewise stopped.

  With a rattle of metal upon metal, a figure pushed his way to the front as others tried to stop him. She recognized him right away, despite how dirty his clothes had become and regardless of the bruises upon his face. With confusion, but not trepidation at the sight of the manacles on his arms and legs, she called out to him questioningly.

  “Papa?”

  “Selox shelnara, Varilortha!” he shouted in desperation and fear. “Flee (command), hide (urgent), Sundancer!” as translated from elvish.

  Scared, now thoroughly confused, but conditioned to obey those rarely used contextual affixes that were reserved for moments of danger, she turned and ran back to the village as fast as her little legs would carry her, darting between the trees to shake off the men on horseback that pursued her. She ran into the village screaming, and with far too many precious moments wasted, people, mostly women who awaited the return of their fathers and husbands, peeked out of windows or doors cracked open to determine what was going on.

  What would follow would be a night of loss, and a moment of change, as the World Heart observed with passive indifference.