Brass Therapy

A red would not tolerate such blatant disrespect. No, Perseida thinks as the tinkle of her brass scales announce a sudden itch she works with a clawed foot. No, a red would tromp on out there and take the man’s head as an appetizer. Yet she doesn’t because whatever deed brought them here some bard will sing an epic to honor and an endless stream of fools seeking revenge will come for her. 

So annoying. 

No, she would be a target and soon after, dead, and all to honor this idiot.

Jorge the Headless-Hero plays through the dragon’s head, it’s an old diddy a would-be victim sang as a bribe to be let go. He did not need to bribe her, she told him so and yet he kept singing. So she feigned to eat him and was forced to relocate here to this seacliff cave as a result.

In her recollection, she adds instruments to the missive and has it sung by a gorgeous Somali woman she knows can hit the highest most glorious notes. It improves the memory greatly and makes her applause at the end, less irritatingly unearned.

Then the man above sobs and Perseida hates herself for it, but she actually feels bad and finds herself moving forward to see if she can help.

Damn her heart of gold in a brass scaled body.

Knowing this is how her kind tend to die, she slowly climbs from the mouth of her rocky cave and there he is.

Oh.

A Dwarf.

Young, maybe seventy or eighty summers old – red-haired- and very much far from his mountain hearth home. 

“If you are killing yourself, the cliff is that way.” she points while watching it dawn on the dwarf the error of his chosen perch.

She attempts to relieve him, “I don’t eat dwarf. Prefer fish.”

His red-whiskered lined jaw drops and his fat dwarven lips blubber and feeling even worse for the act itself she finds herself asking, “Why do you think we are here together today?” She pauses and with an irritated sigh finishes, “how does the thought of being eaten by a dragon make you feel?”

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