The Burning fields of Carraconneely

Right. The feck am I even supposed to say.
 
We came back to that bleeding warm town after hunting the pirate ship that turned out to be some form of dragonloving masochists, me expecting to be showered in gold and be on my merry way and staying put in Harasan for a bit, but alas. We went to the aloof lord to get our reward, and instead the complete goon had taken his head out his arse and realized that there was a problem that was enormous. Of course the absolute idjit rightously declared the enormous destruction of villages and farmland to be "terrible" and a thing to be "fixed". Instead of, well I don't know, taking responsibility, the fancy lord, once again, decided to rely on complete fecking strangers to bring down this dragon of his.
 
Now, this was a conflict between two Conns, right? We've on one hand got a large shit of a dragon capable of almost blowing up a big fecking ship to splinters without breaking a sweat, sure to kill us all, with a larger risk of death than of success. Minus Craic. No good idea. I should just leave with the refugees and hang out somewhere until the egomaniac dragon cools down and starts sleeping or some shit like that. And if not that - some type of discussion might maybe be possible to make the dragon perhaps stop being a shite and share the land. Who am I kidding - but it may be worth a shot.
 
On the other side, the burning villages and fleeing townsfolk awoke something in me. In the fleeing people i saw the women of Luaín, Ballinkeeran, Clunmorris. I saw the burning fields of Carraconneely, the ruined homes of Fedamore Cross. This dragon was just another fecking oppressor, feeling free to wreak havoc over the people weaker than itself. Not on my fecking watch, not as long as my name is Conn Dhuíne, and not as long as my blood burns with the rage of my father and the rightousness of my mother.
 
That dragon will see its last days. And if not it, then me.
Of course I can't walk around just throwing my name out. Got meself a cover. I'm the glorious Bob, son of Bob. Still Kilbarrian though, if my hair did not betray that already. The franconian did a better disguise, frightenly good as well.
 
We headed out with an ordinary bunch of rag-tag adventurers, not unlike the groups i saw passing through the tavern. Some orcs, some dwarves, you name it. Felt like home. Talked some shit with the orcs. Craic. Outside of these, we also had two peculiar lads. One very eccentric man with peculiar habits, the man that brought this team together that is, and then a man that can not decide his own age so he switches each night. Cumbersome.
 
The dragon is not joking around. He appearently has a son that he sent out to warn us. No humor at all, he murdered one of the dwarves for a small joke I made. Tyrants. In the morn we arrive at the tower, a real test of mettle awaits.
 
Note in passing: Holy shite the Franconian is questioning. And if not questioning, then doubting. And if not doubting, then lecturing. At least she knows how to run her mouth, that could be good sometime, I guess?