I, as many as those who read my words may hold to the same opinion as I once did. Dragons, are undoubtedly creatures of fiction. How could such beings exist, never mind how could the world permit the abilities that are often granted to them in stories? Indeed there have been tales, some more convincing than others, coming forth from the men of the western edges of our shore. No man I had met in the eastern corners of our land had ever even seen one alive. I had, as many do, presumed them to be either monsters that had once existed and now do not, or pure, myth. Nevertheless, my ears were turned some years ago when a stranger appeared at the door of my local tavern, supporting a heavy limp and horrendous white scars down his right side, he had stumbled through the door, oblivious to the quiet that had descended, and to the eyes that followed him to the bar.
I was surprised when this hulk of a man sat beside me, upon the bar stool and ordered a strong beer. In attempt to be polite I held my own eyes away, he had come to enjoy himself after all, not to put himself on parade and be bombarded with the same questions he had no doubt had to answer numerous times to various strangers that I hoped to put to him. So I waited patiently, quietly observing his heavy breathing and slightly stagnant smell as I wondered ways that I could discover this man's story. The burns were too heavy to be the result of some domestic fire, perhaps, but I had a feeling that there was an extraordinary story to be told.
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