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Round two of the writin' games, and what better way to kick things off than with the motherfucking

TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT​

Writing in character is a difficult thing unless you pay close attention to who a character is; what they want, and how they'd go about accomplishing their goals. It's one of the biggest pitfalls in fanfiction where every character tends to sound like the same American high school student. This time we're trying to get under the skin of some of the background characters in a

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Here we are again at the first task of the Triwizard Tournament. There's a mildly perturbed dragon in front of you. It has an egg. You want that egg. You NEED that egg. You would feed yourself to Aragog's children for that egg.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Although it will.

The game goes like this: pick your player character, and then share with the class how that character might approach the first task. Doesn't need to be a Hogwarts student. Nothing is forbidden. Go crazy. They don't need to win, although it's a lot more interesting to plot out how somebody would win than reading about how background Hufflepuff #7 got eaten by a dragon because of their own mediocrity.

To keep things moving, a summary of how they'd approach the task is enough to post. Bonus points for writing out the full scene, of course, but that's only if you're particularly eager.

I'll go first. My character is THE BEST WEASLEY.

King Arthur of Weasley.

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Arthur finds out from Charlie that the task is to get past a dragon, and he plans to approach it much like Harry did: fly past it. The Weasley boys had to inherit their abilities in the air from someone, after all. The twist here is that he doesn't have a broom. Ginny crashed it into a swan. He's flying his Ford Anglia, only slightly mangles from its staycation in the Forbidden Forest.

He's behind the wheel, holding a corned beef sandwich with one hand and fiddling with the radio in an attempt to get BBC4. That plus a dragon is at least as distracting as texting while driving, and he still doesn't know what all those buttons do, so he accidentally wangs the invisibility booster and gets all up in the dragon's face.

The dragon smells the sandwich, and licks out its giant forked tongue. It tastes the nasty exhaust fumes, and roars in displeasure. Arthur is startled, jumps and hits the headlights by mistake. Bam. Full-beams from point-blank range right into the dragon's sensitive eyes.

While the dragon's staggering around blind and in pain, Arthur parallel parks up next to the golden egg, loads it into the passenger seat, PUTS ITS SEATBELT ON, and then flies happily ever after away.

---​

Some suggestions for characters, but feel free to go off list:

Neville
Umbridge
Draco
Snape
Gandalf
Florean Fortescue
Griphook
Fudge
Nicholas Flamel
Grindelwald
Albus Severus Potter

 

Supposedly the most dangerous of all dragon breeds, the Hungarian Horntail has black scales and is lizard-like in appearance. Native to Hungary, the breed is most protective when guarding its eggs.

Hermione could recite these facts and a hundred others besides. She knew that their breath could reach extremely high temperature and cover long distances, turning stone into molten rock in mere seconds. Their hide underbelly near their thighs, the joint under their wings and conjunctiva were the only known points of weakness.

Hermione kept from wringing her hands as she stepped out into the arena and sounds deafened her. As Hermione’s eyes found the form of the Hungarian Horntail she mentally bemoaned the fact that books never truly prepared one for real life. It was massive, too large at too far a distance. It’s obsidian scales rippled in the sun’s light. Hermione’s heel dug into the ground as she took a fearful step back. She was the brightest, not the bravest witch of her age as people would it. Harry and Ron had always been with her on the challenges before. She wanted to scan the crowd for them, but she didn’t dare take her eyes off the dragon.

Ludo Bagman’s voice echoed in the air announcing the 4th Triwizard champion. She heard cheers and many more boo’s, enough to cut through her fear, filling her with red hot anger as tears threatened to spill. She hadn’t asked for this! Had these people even read about the tournament? She could die.


The dragon roared a challenge; a primal call that shook the air and Hermione held her wand aloft and cast the summoning spell perfectly in response. She’d have gotten points for that. She had knowledge and thought fondly of Ronald, thanking him and his brother for forewarning her of the dragon. She thanked Harry too for leaving his dormitory window open and letting her use his prized possession.

The dragon had taken notice of Hermione now and crouched low over its eggs, yellow-red eyes with slits for pupils watching her and a thousand other eyes besides. A murmur rose from the crowd as nothing happened - until something did. An object zipped through the air and Hermione caught it with surprising deftness.

She threw the cloak over herself and vanished.

 

Hermione's strongest spell: being friends with Harry Potter.

 

Florean Fortescue definitely presented an anomaly at the first task of the Triwizard tournament.

Firstly, he was neither a student or a triwizard champion.

Secondly, he was the only competitor to face all the dragons at once.

And it was for this reason the audience sat, more confused than anything, as the portly chap struggled onto the fence to the enclosure.

Even the dragons were more perplexed than anxious at the balding man's interruption. And dragons are ever vain creatures, soon turning to face the stands again.

Beside the silvery-blue Swedish Short-snout, the liondragon swept its gaze across the students.

The great exhibit was the Hungarian Horntail. It swooped its tail and stamped its feet and shot great jets of flame into the air.

The common Welsh green need not be mentioned.

"Fat salamanders! Overgrown bats! Scaled snake-faced ugly brutes! Back! Back, I say!" He shouted as he finally surmounted the barrier, a couple of long haired, chargrilled dragon-keepers moving lazily to intercept him.

"NOW FLOREAN, YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T CAUSE TROUBLE!" Came the voice of Ludo Bagman.

As a generous sponsor., Bagman and Fortescue often found opportunities to discuss upcoming sporting events and wages.

"And I told you I had a sacred oath to uphold. Ten generations! Ten generations of Florean Fortescues, seeking to restore our noble ancestor's honour. To see this isle forever free of those thieving beasts!"

"WITCHES AND WIZARDS, I'M AFRAID OLD FORTESCUE HAS BEEN OVER INDULGING IN HIS RUM AND RAISIN AGAIN. WE WILL JUST BE A FEW MINUTES - pull your finger out, chaps."

Florence eyed the approaching keepers. He drew his wand, curiously bowl-shaped at one end, from a waffle shaped holster.

"Combat will be engaged!" He defied them.

Not for nothing had the Fortescue's built an empire in swirls and chunks of animated chocolate. For many generations, the secret of ice-cream conjuration had been held dear. The first principal exception's exception. It appeared now that it was devilishly effective against giant cold-blooded creatures.

All 60 flavours of Florean's repertoire were brought to bear. The Hungarian Horntail receiving a particularly nasty bubblegum salvo in the gob as it gave ground, defeated.

It took fifteen dragon-keepers and ten aurors to find Fortescue amidst the blizzard of high-sugar spellwork.

And this is why the challenge proper began so late in the afternoon.
---

An interesting experiment with brevity (as I wrote this in hemmingway) and passive voice as it's part a retelling of events. Didn't actually get fortescue to say much, so not sure if it was actually a failure in the proper purpose of this thing.

 

Lowkey offended at how many more likes this has.

 

Fanon Fleur Delacour: fucks the dragon into submission.

 

Ser Gregor Clegane stepped out of the tent, and the crowd fell silent. He stomped forward with his hands at his sides instead of reared up before him with lance and shield, as he might have had this been a simple joust, or if he had need of steel to bifurcate those stupid enough to stand before him. No, his bare hands would suffice for now, but once he'd had his fun, the immense sword swinging at his hip would do to finish the matter.

The great beast snarled as he drew closer. It was black and silver and ugly as sin, with bloody eyes and a hunger in their gleam.

His approach did not change. Let it lunge. Once he had his hands around those wings, he'd strangle the fucking thing to the brink of passing out, and then rip them off at the shoulder, just to be sure that it stayed right here on the ground. They weren't a stupid breed, he'd watched the others weave and soar and spit fire, and his only concern was that it might get up in the air and make him work for it.

It growled in what others might have taken for a menacing warning as he entered whatever territory it had staked out for itself around the nest.

He bellowed right back, and that was the final signal that it needed; the overgrown lizard reared up and charged to meet him. Now his hands flew up, faster than any man of his size had a right to react, and he bent to get underneath its over-extended neck even as his fingers clamped down like vices right there where those talons jutted from the middle of the wings. He squeezed and slowly bent its forearms down, underneath its chin, as the first waves of heat washed over his backside. He'd been burned once before- and only once, mind you - and the pain only made him angrier. He lunged forward, pushing it back a step, and his wrists met before him. When they had crossed, the dragon began to choke, and the mail across his back slid away like so much flesh sloughing off of bone. By the time that his immense arms met at the elbow, the jet of flames had long extinguished, but it was too late for him to notice or to care even if he had.

He held it there until its legs gave out, and then he bore it down to the ground, pressing it onto its back. Only then did he relent long enough to tear the sword from the leather around his waist and heft it before him, and there was no force more mighty than the blow which he delivered to its neck, cutting deep enough to catch in bone.

He tore the blade out and brought it crashing back down upon the other shoulder. With several great and vicious hacks he had cut away its only method of escape, and the pain drove the beast back from the brink of unconsciousness just in time for Ser Gregor to drive his sword deep into its gullet.

It began to thrash underneath him, and that too only made him more furious. He began to beat it like a disobedient horse, and whereas those meager sacks of meat gave in and died in only one or two blows, the dragon wailed for over two minutes before it fell silent. Only the wet splash of blood and torn flesh and his own hard grunting as exhaustion caught up to him filled the area.

At last, he stepped forward and remembered the nest. It had been crushed underneath when first he drove the dragon to the ground. He clenched his fists again and marched off.

---

I haven't read anything Game of Thrones in forever so this was just an excuse to have Gregor beat the shit out of a dragon. I realize in Westeros his height and bulk and power is impressive, but I can't help but wonder how much better he is than say Hagrid or any proper giant in the Potterverse. Regardless, hope it was mildly entertaining.

 

Young Albus Dumbledore was powerful. The best wizard of his age, the brightest young man to ever roam the halls of Hogwarts. He knew that. Everyone knew that. So when the notorious Triwizard Tournament was resurrected, Albus knew he had to join. His chance at eternal glory at a young age. One thousand galleons.

He had prepared - oh, yes. He had spent an hour every Saturday duelling Professor Marchbanks - and winning quite easily. But he did not prepare himself for fighting a dragon. A Hungarian Horntail, at that. Technically, he need not fight the dragon - it was the golden egg he wanted. But he needed to get through the Horntail first.

The Hungarian Horntail was enormous. When standing, the dragon reached the size of his house back in Godric's Hollow. He was not able to stare it in the eye since its head was covered with horns. Large, sharp, sword-like horns.

The dragon lifted its head curiously, marching towards him. The smell of fire filled the air. He knew what was coming. The beast took off, its jaws opened wide. Thick sprays of red flame exploded towards the air. The crowd cheered.

Albus made a motion with his wand. He spawned a forcefield, which turned the flames to water. The forcefield acted like a wall, and the dragon bounced back, letting out a piercing arena-rattling shriek and another explosion of flames. There was a sickening crack as the dragon hit the rock.

Grunt. The dragon was no longer moving.

Albus blinked. That was easier than he predicted. He had thought it would take ten spells, at the bare minimum. There was no way his forcefield (a spell of his own creation, would you believe it?) would send the dragon flying back like that. It was a real Hungarian Horntail, too. He'd checked. And Hungarian Horntails weren't that weak. He supposed the judges had cast a variant of the Blundering-Fatigue hex at it. For what reason, he didn't know.

The dragon started to move again.

"Accio egg!"

The egg didn't budge. He grumbled. If only it had been that easy. Disillusioning himself, he tiptoed towards the golden delicacy.

A puff of black smoke erupted from the dragon's nostrils, letting out a hmffph sound. The legged serpent twitched. It looked like a beetle upside down trying to roll back.

Staring suspiciously at the injured beast, Albus lifted the Golden Egg, to the delight of the crowd. He smiled. Eternal glory was coming.

----

I think a young Albus Dumbledore would totally enter his name through the Goblet of Fire. He isn't the wise old man we know and love today, after all.

 

@jargonide I do like it. I'm glad you cut the line about Aragog. It seemed that Albus got the egg with a bit more ease after Disillusioning himself than I'd expect, since I'd think it would still smell him as he neared the nest, but overall this isn't a bad take on a young, glory-seeker!Albus.

----

The roar of the crowd rose as Champion Red stepped forward. Sunlight brushed through his charcoal hair, and where it passed down his face his naturally red eyes took on a deeper carmine hue. He blinked and lowered his battered cap an inch. If he'd cared about the laymen of this world, he might have spared a few moments of grandstanding, not unlike for the Gym Stadiums during his circuit over the past year, but for now he only had an interest in the dragon staring him down from forty yards away.

It was no pokémon, they did not seem to have the native creatures of his world here, and he had long shelved why that was the case or why he had wound up in a foreign domain. It did not matter at the moment, only the creature he would have to overcome to advance forward.

He crouched down and observed its movements. The way that the head bobbed on the neck, how its wings shuffled as it shifted weight from one foot to another, using the tail for balance, all bespoke of something almost serpentine. There were some Charizard-like attributes, but he was willing to bet that it was closer to a Dragonair that had suddenly sprouted hind-legs.

It certainly had his fire type's combative instincts, however. Even at this distance, the nostrils suddenly began to glow, and it took two flapping steps forward before coming down with the talons in the middle of the wings planted firmly into the dirt before its namesake attack flew from the ends of its snout.

Red stood and stepped aside with seconds to spare. Each fireball passed harmlessly through the spot he had vacated with plenty of time between launch and arrival. Not its quickest attack, I'd bet. He could smell the tent going up in smoke behind him. Let's see just how fast it can react.

He reached down to his belt and enlarged the only pokéball he had been allowed, given his lack of wand. He flicked the orb as if it were a stone across a lake, and mid-whir and half the field closer to the dragon it cracked open, releasing Pikachu. He hardly needed to repeat the tactics they had drilled over the past week, thanks to Diggory's tip, and the electric type leapt forward in a brisk zig-zagging motion.

Not a beat later and their target responded with a deafening roar. If he'd not heard true dragons bellow, he might have been impressed. Behind it's scabbed tongue the same deep glow began at the back of its gullet as had in the back of the nostrils, and Red did not hesitate to snap his fingers in the signal for his starter to strike; Pikachu cried out and the heavens answered. Thunder rocked the arena as lightning poured across the Fireball's skull with one consecutive, seemingly everlasting bolt. At last it ended, after a handful of beats, and the Fireball collapsed where it stood.

Red jogged forward and scooped up Pikachu's pokéball along the way and placed it back on his belt. When he reached his starter, Pikachu leaped obediently up his arm and climbed to his shoulder with a pleased noise. "Good work," Red said aloud. He did not stop until he had reached the nest and crouched down to claim their victory prize.

Only then did Red look back over the dragon. It had begun to stir. Impressive. Not many Gym Leader's pokémon could rise again so soon after a blast of Thunder at Pikachu's present strength.

---

I was working on a scene for this earlier where Red was just going to haul it on his own all the way to the egg and I guess throw a pokeball at the last moment to distract the dragon. I wasn't happy with that version so started over fresh here and figured, he's a trainer, let his pokemon do some of the heavy lifting here, even if technically speaking a pokeball probably wouldn't operate correctly around Hogwarts.

 

Unfortunately, the first round completely passed me by. After my interest in the Inheritance Cycle was rekindled by a recent thread, though, this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Because, you know, dragons.



As Eragon stood at the edge of the arena, his eyes carefully studying the movements of the dragon in front of him, he was still musing the strange new world he had found himself in that very morning through what he could only presume had been yet another freak accident. Things like that occurred every once in a while as he and Saphira stretched the limits of magic in their self-imposed exile from Alagaësia, but in his experience, they tended to be resolved quite quickly, and as such he was not overly worried about his eventual return to his own world. What did worry him were the circumstances he currently found himself in. Thanks to the earlier draw, Eragon knew that he needed to get to the Golden Egg that the magnificent beast guarded among its own eggs. Curiously, the real dragon eggs appeared to be rather nondescript in appearance compared to what he had long since known dragon eggs from his own world to look like. By scrying the other contestants from the tent, he had observed the tactics of his fellow competitors, even though the exact layout of the arena had still been a mystery to him due to the limitations of the art. Apparently, the others used wooden sticks to achieve fantastical deeds of the kind that his younger self, a farmer boy in Carvahal, would have been quick to pronounce impossible. This Eragon, however, a seasoned dragon rider and a veteran of many battles, found their efforts, while visually spectacular, to be somewhat lackluster when compared to what he himself could accomplish via proper use of magic and the Ancient Language.


By now, the dragon was following his movements, but still preferred to keep its distance. Not an aggressive breed, then. Poor Cedric had received some nasty burns while trying to play the waiting game with what the old man at the draw had referred to as a Hungarian Horntail. Unfortunately, the man, through oversight or deliberate malice, did not name Eragon’s own dragon upon its removal from the slightly singed pouch. Thus, the rider had been left with studying his own miniature version of the beast. It was grass green and its roar was far more pleasant to the ears than some of the rather shrill variants he had heard while waiting in the tent earlier. However, no obvious points of attack stood out. Hence, more subtle methods seemed to be the order of the day, unless things fell through and he was forced into a real fight.


Soon after his consciousness reached out towards the dragon, Eragon lamented the fact that the beast seemed to possess little, if any of the intelligence his Saphira commanded. That ruled out reasoning with the dragon. Extending the feelers of his mind even further, he focused on the crowd in the stands around him. Some were nervous, some were exhilarated and some were confused, or a mixture of all three. Clearly, they expected a spectacle, what with Eragon’s distinct lack of stick-based magical abilities and his trusty sword Brisingr resting on his hip. Well, thought Eragon, they were about to be sorely disappointed. He was not in the mood for bloodshed, and had far more humane methods at his disposal.


Once more focusing on the dragon, Eragon slowly strode from the outskirts of the arena towards the dragon’s lair. It watched with interest, but still did not attack, apparently unsure whether to categorise him as a curiosity or an actual threat. Pushing warm and non-threatening thoughts through their link towards the dragon’s mind, he hoped that his efforts would be enough to convince it of his trustworthiness. The rider’s approach seemed to be the correct one, despite some predictable, but feeble protestations from the audience, and when Eragon was mere feet away from the beast’s head, he reached out with his right hand that was marked with his Gedwëy Ignasia. Thinking of all the deities he knew of, he prayed that the dragon would understand his message as he said “Fricai onr eka eddyr. Skulblaka, eka weohnata néiat haina ono,” which translated to “I am your friend. Dragon, I will not harm you.” As the murmur from the crowd grew louder, he doubted that anyone in the stands could have heard his plea. The dragon, on the other hand, cocked its head, and for a moment Eragon thought that it might respond aggressively, but his fears were allayed when the dragon pushed its massive head towards his hand and touched it with the tip of its snout which was warm and, weirdly, slightly wet.


His goal accomplished, Eragon murmured “slytha,” the word for “sleep.” Immediately, the dragon’s eyes closed, and its outstretched head dropped onto the ground, where the contact generated a small cloud of dust. Kneeling down, Eragon touched the green beast’s brow, muttering a small blessing. Unfamiliar with the customs in this strange world that seemed to pit humans against dragons for sport, the rider hoped that it would not be held responsible for its failure to protect the Golden Egg against an opponent that proved to be, quite literally, out of this world.


As he took the final steps towards the nest, he chanced a glance at the jury table, where, among others, a wizened old man with a long beard and delicate half-moon glasses eyed him curiously. The man bore some resemblance to Brom, but somehow, Eragon doubted that he could trust him unequivocally. Picking up the egg, he noticed the intricate markings that were engraved into the gleaming hull, but failed to make any sense of them. He supposed that was a problem for another day, if he were to stay in this world for longer than expected. As Eragon strode towards the medical tent that marked the exit from the arena, a jaunty tune he remembered from his days in Carvahal on his lips, he was already plotting his return to his own world and, perhaps most importantly, to his own dragon.

 

@Nevermind I like it. You show post-Inheritance Eragon's POV fairly well. He's calm, mature, and wise in how he adapts to the situation and advances. Sure, it'd be more interesting to see him go up against the Horntail, but his method of taming the Welsh Green fits his character arc perfectly.

The only slight problems I had would be the large paragraphs and where you used 'his Saphira' where you were commenting on the Green's intelligence. I haven't opened those books in a long time, but I don't think he ever referred to her in that way? But on the whole, really good work.

----

Roland of Gilead, this is not your place to die, no, death for all but never for you, echoed the words of the Man in Black.

Roland stared up into the maw of the vast black behemoth before him and his imagination idly wondered how truthful Walter O'Dim's fortune telling truly was, and would it matter if this world was so far removed from his own. Maerlin's kin filled this place to the brim. Magic had never died, but gone into hiding. At least they knew of Arthur, though of a sword which had never been forged into the sandalwood revolvers slung about his own hips. He waited to draw them.

Shoot not with your hand, for he who shoots with his hand has forgotten the face of his father, another voice, another lesson, long dead Cort, and a quote which was two thirds missing. He knew the rest by heart, and he took solace from that reminder more than anything of Walter's.

The Hebridean Black looming above him roared. Not yet the time. His hands would move, but only once his heart and mind and eye agreed, and that was not yet.

They called it a dragon, here. It fit the Size. Now came the flame deep within that maw, another cue. He was almost ready.

Now, gods, do it now and before it is done! Roland stepped back and iron filled his hands. Lead flew with a calamitous thunder that dwarfed even that roar which still clung to the Gunslinger's ears like sullen children sent to bed without their supper, envious of what went on afterwards. Twelve rounds, twelve bursts, and blood and bone and embers rained down upon his person.

Roland panted.

The dragon did not. It was dead on its feet, and the feet were slow in accepting that fact, that the head was so much pulverized, scattered mush instead of gelatinous and isolated mush in a bony shell.

He stowed his revolvers, stepped around its mad thrashing. Fetched the golden egg that might lead him that much closer to the Tower, if ka willed it.

---

Tried to imitate the drier format I seem to recall from the Gunslinger if not the following novels of the Dark Tower. Not sure how well I represented Roland's voice. I imagine this took place somewhere between the end of Gunslinger and when Roland would have awoke on the beach in Drawing of Three.

 

'Mister Baggins?' the big man's voice carried over the noise of a restless crowd. Frodo slipped out of the tent with no fanfare and hesitated there on the first step. Such a large crowd it was! And some few eyes, he noticed, did indeed notice him, too, though many passed over where he stood as if he were not even there, including the man who spoke again, 'Mister Baggins? It is your time!'

Without quite intending it, Frodo found himself with his hand in his pocket. Bilbo's old ring felt especially heavy just then, as if in answer to his concerns, for if there was one thing which hobbits preferred, it was to go about their business unnoticed by the big folk, something they had become quite skilled at and took much pride in, if they took much pride in anything.

'Perhaps,' he thought with little enough reluctance. But had not Gandalf cautioned him against the ring's usage, not the least if it was indeed the One Ring? For a hobbit who suddenly vanished when at long last spotted was like to rouse even greater attention and suspicions. Those gathered here did not all seem to be wizards as he knew of them, being children, but one rarer observer was indeed an old wizard who reminded Frodo a great deal of Gandalf, who he missed very much in recent days. 'Why couldn't you have come sooner, Gandalf?' he thought miserably.

This wizard leaned to the side and spoke quietly with the man who had been calling after him, who after several moments, in which Frodo wished that he was anywhere else, even on the road with Black Riders close behind, gave a start and proclaimed, 'Ah! Why there you are Mister Baggins! Merlin's Beard, I might never have noticed had not Albus pointed you out! Well, let us be underway then! Claim the Golden Egg and glory!'

Frodo should have felt better about the decision not to the use the ring. He withdrew his hand, but at the last moment before his fingers had quite left his pocket, the chain snagged there on them, for at just the same moment he at last turned his sights forward rather than outward, and beheld the wyrm which sat brooding ahead.

Unlike men, dragons were closer to magic. They were old, long-lived, and not to be taken lightly. How was he to face such a thing without even a halfling's sword? And what good might he expect a sword to do now? Why none at all! It was an impossible task. Even Bilbo had needed the old ring during his adventure against Smaug. And was this really so different? He, Frodo, had been tasked to get passed a dragon, to claim a relic of its treasure for himself. That was hardly any different at all from dear Bilbo's tale, so why shouldn't he rely upon the same sort of aid? It was only a ring.

His fingers reached in and the chain slid aside, allowing him to find and slip the ring on. It fit perfectly about his index finger and the world was suddenly full of hazy smoke, distorted as if seen through the bottom of a dirty mug. He could feel a distant throbbing in his head as if of a fierce and terrible headache, and the ring was suddenly so tight that he lost all feeling to his finger. 'Ah!' he cried out, and the pain jolted him forward, as if remembering at last why he was here and what he must do. Frodo hurried forward, somehow certain that the pain would end once his task was done.

The dragon huffed and snorted as the hobbit approached, yet breathed not a whiff of flame in his direction as he bent to claim the golden egg, where it too faded from view.

It was this which was to be the crucial moment that changed Frodo's life for ever after. Ignorant though it may have been about him, the dragon did not ignore the sudden loss of one of its own eggs, and it understood that it had been robbed. The flames which poured from its wide snout passed straight over Frodo's bent form, and he gave another great shout as fire engulfed his arm. The ring which had been so tight relented, slipping toward the grass; yet lo, the chain caught on his fingers once more, and there the ring dangled as dragon fire engulfed it.

Gandalf had once proclaimed that no fire alive would suffice to harm the One Ring, not even dragon flame of old. But for so wise as he, there were facts and there were guesses, and on this front, in this world, his fact would prove to be but a guess. Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo, died, and in his dying moments he witnessed the destruction of the One Ring of Mordor.

---

Currently re-reading Fellowship of the Ring, so I figured why not try my hand at Frodo. I used Tolkien's style of speech and thoughts, at least where Frodo was concerned- it was a bit more odd with Bilbo in the earliest pages. If its a bit more run-on than usual, that prose seems to lend itself toward such IMO. Anyway, hope it was at least tolerable.

 

Spoiler: Wheel of Time, later series spoilers present

"I begrudge you no harm," Rand al'Thor began as he walked across the grass. His voice carried-- cut-- through the noise of the crowd gathered for their crude entertainment, and the creature that they called a 'dragon' which he was meant to overcome bobbed its gargantuan head. Perhaps it understood.

It had been a month since his arrival in this world, and many of the misconceptions that he had brought along had since been settled. They were not Asha'man and Aes Sedai, but 'wizards' and 'witches' here, and what they performed was as strange and different a thing from what he knew as the two halves of the One Power were to one another, yet no difference separated these wizards and witches beyond gender, and he could no more learn their 'magic' than Moraine-sedai could have taught him how to grasp Saidar.

Yet still they had insisted he was bound by a contract which he did not sign, and until he could solve why the Gateway had deposited him in this vastly different Mirror World instead of Tar Valon, he had bowed his head and accepted the terms that they offered. There was too much at stake to make another mistake.

But he could not wait here much longer, certainly not the entire year which they expected of him. Tarmon Gai'don was near. He could only guess what his absence was doing to the True World this close to the Dark One's seals failing.

Rand returned his thoughts to the task at hand. He reached toward and seized Saidin. The Source still felt so pure after so long befouled by the Dark One's touch as to be breathtaking. He wove threads of Fire and Air to render himself invisible in the eyes of the... Horntail, as they named its breed. Folded Light was so simple a weave that he hardly needed to attend to it as he advanced.

Yet his attempt at ending the matter peacefully was rejected. The Horntail drew back its head and roared, and though painful, the noise was nothing more than a precursor to the vast well of flames which poured from its spread maw.

Rand stood his ground and wove more threads of Air together before and around him, forming a protective dome. The blast of heat ruffled his hair and the edges of his tunic, but the fire splayed away from where he stood, charring the grass in a semi-circular gulf. Its gone mad. He understood all too well. It was careless to have vanished entirely from its line of sight. He should have held it down instead, and now it was too late to do so without harm. Sweat beaded across his brow as the moments passed with no sign of the flames decreasing, and he knew that he would have to stop them by force.

Without dropping the Shield of Air, Rand brought together threads of Earth and Fire. It was a technique which the Asha'man had grown the most adept at, Riven Earth, and the ground before him erupted. In that one brief moment of distraction, in which the Horntail was blinded by dirt and distracted, Rand wove Air, Fire, Earth, and Water, Calling Lightning, and he dropped the Shield and struck before it recovered.

The Horntail screeched as if mortally wounded. Rand wove Hardened Air to constrain it now, and for what pain as it was going through, he felt as if he was trying to tie down a waterfall; the dragon fought as fiercely as anything which he had ever faced outside of the Forsaken themselves. He bound its jaws and wings, its legs, bowing it to the ground, and rather than risk tying off the weaves and risking them failing, he held them tautly as he approached.

Within those yellow eyes he saw hatred. He could only sigh and lift the golden egg on further threads of Air, and with that prize in hand, Rand stepped away to put an end to this task.

---

Figured I'd give this one a shot. Like most of these, I haven't read anything out of the Wheel of Time in about six or seven years. And as usual, I hope it was a decent offering.

Now can we get some fine folks participating more? This is mostly for fun after all, right? Feels a bit lonely.

 

Cornelius Fudge quivered as he gazed at the beast that stood before him. He couldn’t remember what kind of dragon it was but quite frankly, he couldn’t have cared less. They all spewed fire, had teeth the size of centaur’s cock, and were all too eager to gobble him up. Why did he have to volunteer for this mess? Oh, right. The upcoming elections. His popularity was at an all-time high but one could never be too sure. He knew all too well how fickle the masses were and so here he was, facing off against a bloody dragon

Still, he was the Minister of Magic and he'd done his research you see. He had an ace in the hole.

He stuck his wand to his throat and exclaimed, “Excuse me, Mr. Dragon. Do you have a second? I’d like to barter.”

The dragon roared and fire bloomed in its mouth, ready to roast him where he stood. It seemed something he’d said had offended him. Oh, of course. How could he be so stupid.

“Forgive me, Ms. Dragon. I have an offer you can’t refuse.”

Up in the stand, Bagman chortled. “Well folks, it seems our dear Minister’s lost his marbles. He appears to be trying to negotiate with a dragon.” The audience erupted into laughter but their laughter was abruptly silenced as the dragon closed its jaws and extended its claws as if to say, “Go on, I’m listening.”

Fudge wiped the sweat off his brow nervously. That was far too close. He had to make his move now or never before the dragon’s patience ran out and its instincts kicked in.

“If you allow me to take the golden egg, I will pay you a generous sum of a 1000 gold galleons and grant you your very own private island. How’s that sound?”

The dragon quirked and tapped a claw on the ground contemplatively. It seemed to be mulling it over.

“But wait, there’s more! If you act now, I’ll even throw in a year’s supply of live cows!”, he cried, not without a dollop of desperation.

That seemed to do it. The dragon flicked the egg in his direction but not before giving him a stare that conveyed exactly how much danger he’d be in if he didn’t keep his promise. He had no intention of keeping his promises of course, but there would be nothing the dragon could do about it once it was put back in its reservation. With that, Cornelius Fudge picked up the golden egg and walked away victorious to the sound of a silent crowd.

 

@awinarock Nicely done mate. So much like Fudge to cheat the dragon at the end. Certainly enough humor to make a good little read!

----

"Dragons," the Kingslayer uttered with complete disdain. He crunched the miniature in the palm of his hand, paying no heed to the tiny teeth which bit into his glove, until it had stopped struggling and fell lifelessly to the grass. "I have beheaded one dragon, you see, and now smothered another. What is one more?" And he laughed in the announcer's face, as cocksure as he had ever been in his life. He was still the greatest swordsman alive, be it in Westeros, across the narrow sea, or in this backwards realm of magicians. A shame the ship had lost all of the vintage Highgarden wine in the crash upon these bizarre shores.

He returned to his seat and rapped his empty mug. Some strange, ugly little creature which these people called 'elves' of all things appeared with a fresh tankard. It was by no means as satisfying as he was used to around King's Landing, but it went down better than the horse piss they were serving in the local village.

After some time the children had done playing at being adults, and Bagman called his name. "Please welcome, er, Sir Jaime Lannister!"

Jaime rose and donned his helmet. The beer had warmed his belly just fine. He was no more drunk than the task would call for, after all. He stepped out onto the field and took in the beast they meant for him to face, as fate would have it a stooped, long, white beast whose scales dared to gleam more brilliantly in the evening rays than his own golden Kingsguard display.

For that more than anything else he vowed to have its head on the ship by nightfall.

"My horse!" he ordered. The same ugly creature as before appeared, leading his white maned stallion. He ripped the reins from its knobby hand and swung up into the saddle with a comfortable familiarity, nearly kicking the elf in the forehead as he did so, and as it so happened to be found that his sword was waiting in the sheath hanging from the saddle-horn. He loosened the ties there and strapped it into place over his hip as his mount shifted nervously.

With the reins in one hand and his sword drawn in the other, Jaime cried out "Yah!" and raced forward.

And unbeknownst to him, had this been almost any other species of dragon, he would have died in the headlong charge straight toward it.

But what he faced now, had he been interested enough to listen to Bagman some time ago, was an Antipodean Opaleye, and it was as docile as dragons came after only the Welsh Green. It beheld the Kingslayer with eyes that glittered like jewels, for which he hated it that much more in its beauty, and as it assessed the danger which he posed, it came to the conclusion that he was only another brash, loud muggle as like those around its territory. But the horse which he rode was another matter.

As Jaime neared, preparing to dive forward and drive his sword through the nearest eye, the Opaleye rose from its position over its nest and lunged forward, teeth as long as daggers crunching down upon the horse's left foreleg. With a sudden jerk and shake, Jaime found himself crashing to the ground and seeing blood when at last he opened his eyes some few minutes later.

What in the seven hells just happened? He thought. The back of his skull was pounding, no doubt the main force responsible for his passing out. He rolled to his side and a moment of sickness washed over him, but then it gradually faded, and he was able to take stock of his situation through one eye blurred with blood and one that remained blessedly clear. His horse was so much charred carcass at this point. He was bruised, bleeding yet still able, and most importantly, the dragon was distracted with its new meal.

A wiser man than he might have used that opportunity to complete the task as initially assigned, namely to claim the golden egg from its unguarded nest.

But Jaime Lannister had never claimed to be a Maester. He wanted vengeance for this humiliation before such a crowd, strangers or no. He picked up his sword and climbed to his feet, and with so little space between them, he threw himself forward.

The Opaleye took in his rise and renewed charge and swatted at him.

In answer, Jaime's Valyrian steel blade bifurcated scale, sinew, and bone with a sound like tough, wet velvet tearing slowly. Now that got its full attention. It roared, and fire grew at the back of its throat, yet Jaime was the quicker, for he stepped around the twitching limb in the dirt and brought his sword around once more in a vicious slash that cut in through rib-bone and up into the throat, the tip at last sliding out of the side of its cheek. His arms shook from the effort, yet he was not done, and with a heavy exhalation he now came at it and hacked through its neck to completely separate head from shoulders.

There was a louder thump as the grisly work was done. Blood fountained across his figure.

He gasped for breath for the first time in his life, spitting the atrocious taste from his lips. More the swordsmanship of The Mountain That Rides, he thought with disgust. He stepped away and wiped the blood and sweat from his face with what little of his cloak was not already soiled, and he looked up at last at the judges of this tourney. "I claim by right of kill the skull of this beast. Have it cleaned and readied for my departure."

---

I've been wanting to do something with Jaime since I wrote the piece with Gregar. As for when exactly he's supposed to have come from Westeros, I wanted a season 1 or pre-season 1 arrogance to him but a way to cut through a dragon, so I kind of cheated and retroactively had the Lannisters have obtained one of the handful of Valyrian steel swords for their own, say through spoils of war against another House. I was heavily tempted to just have him die to dragon fire, but this species is supposed to be less aggressive. Hope you folks enjoyed.

 

Pulling up this old thing while I was going over my daily ramblings. No idea if I captured the correct Hobbit-era feel to the matter, but it cannot be much worse than the Dragonslayer entry above.

---

The old wizard stepped out of the Champions' tent and took a puff of smoke on his pipe. "Most troubling, dragons," he muttered to no one in particular. The proud beast settled down over its nest ahead of him snorted, as if aware of the meaning. He took another puff as he approached with due caution. "What might you want?" he asked it as he neared.

And to the utmost surprise of everyone else gathered at the stadium but for he and it, the dragon reared up and bent its head forward so that they were staring eye to eye, and it answered him with a droll rumble, "I should like to return home."

The old man's bushy brows lifted and he said, "Is that all?"

"What more should I want in this wet and miserable country?"

He laughed. "It does rather seem to rain more than I would like, this Scot-land and Eng-land, and never when convenient. Well! I can indeed arrange this task, in exchange for the fulfillment of my own duties. I would need only the artificial egg you are guarding, and you shall be allowed to go free, wouldn't you agree?"

The dragon huffed and coiled back down around its nest protectively. "This was to be my only reward for such captivity, wizard."

"I see, that does pose a problem, does it not?" he responded and then dug into his sleeve for a pinch of Hobbiton-weed. He sprinkled it into the end of his pipe and puffed several times as he paced closer, his head bowed as if in deep thought. With each puff of his breath the dragon followed with a gradual weave of its head, as if contemplating the merits of simply devouring the wizard and waiting to be returned home when all was said and done.

After some few minutes of this, in which both wizard and dragon ignored the restless crowds, he stopped and nodded. "Very well. I understand that you would be loath to let go of your only compensation. Would you accompany me, egg in tow, to the judges table so that we may consider the event fulfilled? I would only have to hold it for as long as the walk, and by all rights I am merely keeping it warm with full intention to restore it to your ownership."

The dragon huffed, yet there was something about it that was less irate than before. "If that would get me out of this wretched land sooner." Its eyes crinkled as it stared at him closer. "But not a moment longer than you need, understand?" And to emphasize its point, the dragon reared back its head and roared, though the noise was rather less rumble and more dry squawk at this point. Behind his pipe and bristling beard, the wizard smiled.

"Of course, and thank you! Now let us be on our way." And he walked right up and bent to scoop up the egg, and with his objective now safely tucked into the crook of one arm, he and the dragon marched over to the judges table. "As you can see, gentlemen, we have reached an agreement. I have the egg, as instructed to complete my task, and I shall be returning it now and guiding my new friend safely home."

---

So old Gandalf the Gray. Looking at dates, this one was probably the earliest I had written. Anyway, here's hoping we can rekindle this, it was a lot of fun, and I haven't seen a follow up (3), so why not just extend the matter a while longer if there is some interest?

 

@Zenzao I'll put up #3 tomorrow, just for you bby

 

Since I am chasing a deadline, my creative writing flows better than ever. The power of procrastination, I suppose. The one I had written first was mainly a humor piece about an OC so not really getting into an already established character so I deleted that one although i guess I can put it at the end of the post as a spoiler if that is allowed because even though I wrote both of these in an hour or so, and I doubt they aren't exactly quality stuff, I am still fonder of that one than this.

Still, Otter's challenge there appealed to me, so here it goes:




Maybe it was unkind of her but she truly did not like wizards and sorcerers. She would be the first to admit that her prolonged exposure to what must have been the worst of his kind had made her somewhat biased but all these new wizards she had met hadn’t exactly dispelled her assumptions on their kind.

To summon her, a king, into some school and have her compete in a silly tournament by defeating a dragon and claiming its egg was simply rude.

She had of course demanded to be sent back, that she would not fight a dragon on their behest, simply because they wanted her to. There had been many apologies, a lot of hand-wringing and bowing, more talk about magic and contracts than she every cared to know but Arturia couldn’t help but notice that when all was said and done, she hadn’t been magicked back and was instead facing the dragon like they initially wanted.

Curse wizards and curse Merlin in particular, the lout. She knew in her bones that this was his fault, that he was somewhere, watching this with glee. No doubt he had meddled with their silly enchantments, just for his amusement and to her dismay.

Alas, lamentations and accusations would not help her here. Facing a beast the size of a barn, with ash-grey scales and a mean snarl on its yellow mouth which was leaking a steaming sludge in the same color the only thing she could count on was her skill, her wits and her sword.

She knew better than to count on the help of wizards.

Now that she was thinking about it, it had been quite a while since she had personally slain a dragon. She had been too busy managing the lands, lords and subjects to go out and kill them herself so she had mostly delegated that task to her round table. Maybe this wouldn’t be too big of a waste of time. She was out of practice and could use a bit of a refresher. While killing dragons wasn’t something you ever forget how to do, it couldn’t hurt to keep her capabilities fresh and her sword sharp. It wasn’t that she had a particular loathing for the creatures but they did unduly disturb too many of her citizens with their penchant for burning villages and eating the villagers or travelers they came across.

Really, they weren’t that different from vermin or other dangerous animals in their nature, they just happened to be a lot more dangerous. It was both, practice and public service. It was her duty as king and knight to deliver on both.

So it was with a sigh that she released the sheath of invisible air around her sword and revealed Excalibur in all its glory. Golden glow and the sheer presence of the sword silenced all talk from the audience, sitting in stands that were packed to their absolutely fullest. Arturia tried not to think about the amount of wizards in her kingdom, ready to cause mischief and trouble and instead focused on the dragon in front of her, both of her hands holding Excalibur firmly. Even her foe, magnificent beast that it was, was eying the sword with some trepidation. Dragons weren’t smart, they were just animals, but even an animal such as this had some concept of winning and knew that it stood in front of an enemy that was an embodiment of that, even if it wasn’t able to articulate that.

One of the men from earlier was excitedly shouting something but Arturia had long tuned that insufferable man out. She doubted that there would be anything useful in his hysteric yelling. Whatever fear the dragon was feeling on an instinctual level, it overcame when Arturia started to slowly advance on it and it lunged forward with a roar, spitting orange sludge towards her she dodged with a deft roll to the side. A quick glance on her former standing point revealed that the goo had started to melt through the ground and stone with concerning speed.

Didn’t really change much, getting hit by the beast had never been in the cards anyway. Her pride as a king didn’t allow her to be touched by a beast like that, especially not in front of wizards.

She dodge the next salve with a dash forward, ducked under a talon swipe and then leaped forward, burying her sword in the dragon’s belly. The beast roared in pain and started to twitch around but before it could throw her off, she kicked against its stomach, pulled out her sword and jumped a few meters backwards, once again out of striking range. Looking at the dragon, she could see red blood pouring out of its wound and a look at Excalibur already showed her how the ichor was trickling slowly away from her sword. It was a sword, after all, that rejected the dirt and gore of battle and repelled all taint. Even if she weren’t going to clean it later, - which she still would, of course – it would have gotten clean on its own.

Arturia could have vanquished her blow with a charged strike of her sword but despite her irritation with the wizards, she didn’t actually want to kill any one of the, especially since a large majority of those watching – and thus who would be mainly hit – were children. Those were all her subjects, under her protection. Troublesome, vexing wizarding subjects, mind you, but subjects all the same. So she took her second option. Using the winds that had concealed her sword earlier, she propelled herself forward into the air in a heartbeat, surprising the wounded dragon and before it could react, her sword had already separated its head from its long neck. She landed behind the body, felling the slight tremor once the dragon had collapsed and she immediately began looking for the egg, finding it inside a nest. Reaching it in a few strides, she plucked it from its place and held it up, letting the thunderous applause wash over her.

She then remembered that there were supposed to be judges, evaluating her behavior and she looked over, only to see disapproving faces and numbers that seemed shockingly low to her. Arturia scowled.

Bah, wizards. What did they knew about hunting dragons and honorable combat? Merlin’s only brush in an honorable fight had been as a disrespectful spectator and seeing how much these scoundrels seemed to revere him, they no doubt were cut from the same cloth. It’s not like she presumed to judge wizards on how to dispense useless advice more cryptically or whatever it was what they did when they weren’t bothering her.

The faster she was free of this nonsense, the better.

 

Guess who's back, back again? Unasked for you say? Humph. I'm still musing on ways to run new characters through this.

---

"And now, please offer a warm welcome to our fourth Champion, Gilderoy Lockhart!" thunderous roars of applause broke across the grounds as Gilderoy swept back the tent curtains and smiled broadly. The light off of his teeth blinded several of his fans, but as they screamed, Gilderoy stepped forward raised his left hand in cordial approval, completely oblivious to the difference in tone.

Only after several more moments in which he was showered in their delight did he he finally concede that he should be getting around to the task at hand, and with gentle motions for the crowd to quiet, he drew his wand and marched up to the green beast cowering against the aural bombardment. "Now listen here," he began with all of the pompous mirth he had ever exuded, that blustering confidence which no man nor mythical creature could dent. "We don't have to do this the crude way. Simply step aside, and you may live another day!"

Such bravado! Such certainty! How befitting of the man who had tamed and slain all manner of unruly beast for so many years, he could practically hear them chanting as another roar of approval rose amongst the onlookers, and the Welsh Green quivered and shivered, retreating further over its nest. Gilderoy soaked in the cheering for several more moments. Give them a show, why don't we? Yes, that was a fine choice, he decided.

He brandished his wand, striking a fearsome pose. "Surrender, I say! Lay down and roll over!" He shook his wand in a vague spell-casting motion, and to his utmost surprise, a flash of pale light flew from the tip-- and immediately rebounded in his direction. He gave a most unmanly yelp and dodged to the left, and out in the crowd, one enthusiastic voice turned into a shriek of terror.

Gilderoy might have hardly dared look, had he actually heard the poor sobbing woman, but instead his gaze was honed upon his wand as if it had sprouted a venomous head. What in the blazes was that? he wondered. Wafts of gray began to rise, and it took him a long moment to realize that the instrument had not in fact begun to smoke, but rather, the dragon before him had finally grown fed up enough with his antics to retaliate. The smoke billowing out of its snout preceded a truly potent blast of flames straight into his face, and the very last thing which Gilderoy Lockhart saw was his future coming to an abrupt and violent terminal velocity. When the flames faded, all that remained of the man was his ever-brilliant smile, even now as white and gleaming as the potions indicated they would stay.

Half of the crowd collapsed. Another third went into cardiac arrest. Fans across the world would mourn his passing for years to come, and had he had a say in the matter, he would have said; "Not like this! I wanted to go on living!" But he had no further say, and so the world remembered him fondly as another bright flame taken before its time.

---

Obviously this is non-canon compliant. I suppose I ought to run Voldemort himself through the wringer at some point just for the sake of it.