The Dragon and the Goblin
Flick Flinchtail, a goblin with more cunning than coin, perched precariously on a rock overlooking Mount Cinder. Atop it snoozed Cinderheart, a crimson dragon notorious for his love of riddles and...well, everything shiny. Flinchtail clutched a tarnished silver thimble, a souvenir from a particularly forgetful seamstress.
"Cinderheart, oh wise and oh-so-wealthy one!" Flinchtail squeaked, his voice a near-inaudible plea. "A predicament most foul plagues your most coveted treasure!"
Cinderheart, one eye cracking open to reveal a molten gold iris, rumbled, "Speak plainly, goblin. Riddles are for evenings, not emergencies."
Flinchtail, emboldened, brandished the thimble. "This, mighty Cinderheart, this very thimble! A band of bumbling bandits – three of them, with beards like tangled rope! – dared to snatch it from your hoard!"
Cinderheart roared, a playful glint in his remaining eye. "Three bandits, you say? And what makes you think this… sewing utensil belongs to a dragon?"
Flinchtail gulped. "Well, you see… dragons are known for… uh… meticulous grooming? And this thimble, it's obviously for a very large claw!"
Cinderheart chuckled, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountain. "Clever goblin, trying to flatter a fire-breathing reptile with vanity. But I haven't used a thimble since… well, since never. This trinket belongs to a human seamstress, wouldn't you agree?"
Flinchtail's ears drooped. His lie unraveled faster than a spiderweb in a hurricane. "Perhaps… the bandits, in their haste, grabbed the wrong shiny thing?"
Cinderheart snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Perhaps. But for your attempt at trickery, you shall face a different task. Clean every scale on my underbelly – a job even the most meticulous human seamstress wouldn't touch!"
Flinchtail paled. Cleaning a dragon's underbelly? Not exactly the reward he envisioned. Still, it was better than becoming a dragon snack. He sighed, a tiny goblin with a big mess to clean, a consequence for trying to outsmart a tricky dragon.
Days later, Flinchtail emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Every scale shimmered, a testament to his tireless scrubbing. He approached Cinderheart, expecting a token of appreciation (perhaps a single, slightly tarnished scale?).
The dragon stretched languidly, a playful glint back in his eye. "You've done well, goblin. But you see," he rumbled, a slow, menacing smile spreading across his maw, "a truly clean underbelly requires a thorough inspection from the inside out."
With a roar that echoed through the valley, Cinderheart lunged. Flinchtail's scream was swallowed by the smoke and fury, a final, unfortunate consequence for a goblin who underestimated the playful cruelty of a dragon with a taste for riddles and, apparently, thimble-sized snacks.
"Cinderheart, oh wise and oh-so-wealthy one!" Flinchtail squeaked, his voice a near-inaudible plea. "A predicament most foul plagues your most coveted treasure!"
Cinderheart, one eye cracking open to reveal a molten gold iris, rumbled, "Speak plainly, goblin. Riddles are for evenings, not emergencies."
Flinchtail, emboldened, brandished the thimble. "This, mighty Cinderheart, this very thimble! A band of bumbling bandits – three of them, with beards like tangled rope! – dared to snatch it from your hoard!"
Cinderheart roared, a playful glint in his remaining eye. "Three bandits, you say? And what makes you think this… sewing utensil belongs to a dragon?"
Flinchtail gulped. "Well, you see… dragons are known for… uh… meticulous grooming? And this thimble, it's obviously for a very large claw!"
Cinderheart chuckled, a sound like boulders tumbling down a mountain. "Clever goblin, trying to flatter a fire-breathing reptile with vanity. But I haven't used a thimble since… well, since never. This trinket belongs to a human seamstress, wouldn't you agree?"
Flinchtail's ears drooped. His lie unraveled faster than a spiderweb in a hurricane. "Perhaps… the bandits, in their haste, grabbed the wrong shiny thing?"
Cinderheart snorted, smoke curling from his nostrils. "Perhaps. But for your attempt at trickery, you shall face a different task. Clean every scale on my underbelly – a job even the most meticulous human seamstress wouldn't touch!"
Flinchtail paled. Cleaning a dragon's underbelly? Not exactly the reward he envisioned. Still, it was better than becoming a dragon snack. He sighed, a tiny goblin with a big mess to clean, a consequence for trying to outsmart a tricky dragon.
Days later, Flinchtail emerged, blinking in the sunlight. Every scale shimmered, a testament to his tireless scrubbing. He approached Cinderheart, expecting a token of appreciation (perhaps a single, slightly tarnished scale?).
The dragon stretched languidly, a playful glint back in his eye. "You've done well, goblin. But you see," he rumbled, a slow, menacing smile spreading across his maw, "a truly clean underbelly requires a thorough inspection from the inside out."
With a roar that echoed through the valley, Cinderheart lunged. Flinchtail's scream was swallowed by the smoke and fury, a final, unfortunate consequence for a goblin who underestimated the playful cruelty of a dragon with a taste for riddles and, apparently, thimble-sized snacks.
Type
Manuscript, Literature
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