*Dralothien* (Still working on better title)
an excerpt

The Mead n’ Feed is a typical tavern, the likes of which can be found in any little town along the road to the Jah-Abbey. Even at this late hour, with the moon declining in the sky, she still has her lights on inviting weary travelers in to relieve the stress and dirt of the road. The outside is a rustic wooden plank, which in the daylight shows its sun bleached age, with a certain measure of pride. There is some darkening around the eaves to the left side of the building where a grease fire caused some damage a few years ago, but the roof is still sound and the thatching still intact. There is smoke coming from the two chimneys, bringing with it the smell of cedar and roasting boar, a welcome aroma for the weary traveler. The interior is lit by oil lamps hanging from the walls and ceiling. There is a fire in the hearth adding the light from its dying embers to the ambiance of the room. She is well-lit, but not so bright as to make one feel vulnerable. There are areas, towards the corners of the room, where the light seems unable to penetrate and where the smoke seems to linger. It is in one such corner, opposite the fireplace, where a lone man sits in a cape, with his cowl still drawn. The firelight playing tricks off of his eyes, reflecting back and lending a monstrous visage to his face. He is sitting with his back to the corner, watching the travelers coming and going. His clothing consists of rough travel leathers, the breaches are roughly cut brownish-grey leather disappearing into the tops of overly large boots. He is wearing a rough burlap pull-over shirt which looks as if it has not been washed in years. Over his shirt, he is wearing a well-worn leather vest. His clothing presents the aspect of a man who has seen better times, and could use a good hot meal.

If anyone cared to look closely, they might catch a hint of light reflected off of a tear rolling down his face, taking far longer than it should to reach his nose and then fall to the ground. They might notice that it is not a trick of the light that makes his face appear monstrous, it is that his face is that of a dragon. For sitting in that corner is no ordinary man. Sitting in that corner is Dralothien, a half-dragon, an ofspring of the rare and magical union between a human and a dragon. Such offspring are the subject of myth and legend, stories so old that their origins have been lost.

If anybody had cared to investigate, they would have found that Dralothien is the first such child to have been born in more than a millennium. But nobody does, people don’t like to see what doesn’t fit into their own personal paradigm. All anybody saw when they happened to look in his direction was a man in a cloak, which is just fine by Dralothien he prefers not to be noticed. He prefers to be left alone in his thoughts, especially tonight. Sitting alone in his corner watching the life of the tavern, Dralothien finds his thoughts drifting, as they always do, back to the day of his fathers’ death.