FA+
Shop
3993
Views
Views
62
Favorites
Favorites
Category
Story / Vore
Species Human
Size 112 x 120
File Size 145.9 kB
Report this content
★
More from Sini
Listed in Folders
A commission for 
xanfire
Ryder, the human dragonslayer who wears dragon armor of ocean blue, whose storm grey sword is a dragon tooth called Black Fang, whose magical shield called Alderius has the black dragon head of golden ram horns, whose dark maroon hair flows from his dragon helm: this is who Argus the Red-Scaled had been searching for for many months. On a traveler’s road in the dark, dark forest of trees that touched the sky, Argus found him finally one fateful day.
The quadruped Crimson alighted on the road before Ryder, tucked his grand wings formally then bowed his head with the obeisance of an old friend. “Ryder, has it been some time,” he said. “Clans members have come and gone, some taken by old age, others by a forte of betrayal.”
“Your heart is heavy,” said Ryder, rubbing Argus’ snout with his shield hand. “Pray tell, what’s wrong? Your words sound rehearsed. Have you a message for me?”
“The numbers of the Crimsons and the Tourmalues and the Malychons have declined mortally, for a clan called Death Breath has promised power and fame for the youngest of our own clans, claiming them as our own. And worse, yet: dragons from alien lands have breathed their rites of passage and become brothers of Death Breath, too. They have devoured their fill of clans, and word from inside Death Breath is that their voracious recruiting period is done. Next, they will devour literally any dragon who has not joined them to fuel their magic and physical strength, and to further their body sizes.”
“Argus, who leads this madness?”
“A dragon whose breath named the clan. A dragon who simply speaks at the faces of the lusty, and with the fog of his words makes them believe and obey him. Henceforth, the twisted dragons want only to cannibalize their kin and their names to last to the end of time.
“Ryder,” Argus went on, “you must help us. Death Breath doesn’t care for gold, so we have not been pilfered and have plenty. A great reward will await you.”
The dragonslayer forgot entirely his tiredness from travelling, forgot that he had been headed home. And so he said, “I’d do it just for your sake, old friend. Of course, I can’t turn down the coin.”
Once his decision was breath, the Crimson quadruped lay on his belly and let Ryder climb onto his back to ride him, a privilege for no other human. They then flew a hundred miles to the deep, spidery depths of the forest, where an old castle loomed like a mountain. This was where wyrms-turned-sour nested. This was home of Death Breath.
Argus landed a mile from the castle, and once dismounted Ryder went with him into a secret passage that led straight to the castle dungeon. Argus distastefully regarded the mounds of regurgitated dragon skeletons. Ryder promised him revenge. When Argus emotionally recovered, they left the bony chamber into the castle halls.
What with rowdy echoes of merriment and laughter, it did not take them long to find the full roster of Death Breath in the dining hall, which consisted of 69 dragons. They were the red-scaled Crimsons, blue Tormalues, emerald Malychons and even dragons of clans of alien regions; those ones had scales white like snow, gold like lightning, periwinkle like arcane magic or black like shadows. Along the long trestle tables some of them stood small as ponies, some medium as single-storey homes, some large as three-storey homes. Each one was nasty and infamous and had a surplus of their innate element stored in their claws and their bellies: for, they had dined on and absorbed many powerful dragons these past few years.
On the long trestle tables squirmed on giant plates 69 live dinner dragons. Like the cannibals, they had the scales of the colors of many clans and sizes from 5 to 45 feet tall. Because the Death Breath dragons had just gotten done saying a customary prayer (to ensure eternal fame and a hospitable afterlife), one of the periwinkle Death Breaths started to speak a spell to break the magical chains that restrained the dinner dragons. After that, they would have their feast.
After that didn’t happen as normal. The periwinkle didn’t even finish casting. A slurp, made crasser and louder by the metallic jaws of Ryder’s sapphire helm, sounded as the periwinkle’s tail and buttocks slid into a masked human maw. 69 dragons vocalized their horror, 69 more their joy. A passionate thrower of flames arced beside Ryder from Argus, intimidating the courage out of anyone who had dared to step close to the dragonslayer. Down, cartoonishly, plunged the periwinkle with one last squeal of spell syllable before the dragonslayer’s clanked shut and silenced him.
The breastplate of Ryder, coated down the middle by light cerulean dragon armor, popped off and clanged to his feet. The plate was presently smothered by a great, gurgly dome of human skin; the pony-sized sphere looked like it was speaking from the navel, but that was just the dragon within desperately trying to cast, but muffled by each blorp and glorp. One cannot, without skepticism, believe that this stomach seared away the wyrm with careful specificity and swiftness, metabolizing flesh in mere seconds to salvage bone and scale and soul, but such truth can’t be omitted. The belly deflated with an immature fit of spasms. Then from Ryder’s ocean helm jaws came a belch of oceanic enormity, rumbling the dining hall like tidal waves sent by some sea god!
Twirling bones cannoned out, smacked cannibal dragons upside the head. Polished periwinkle scales, too, and horns and claws. Last but not least, into Ryder’s shield hand palm plopped a slimy soul stone of the dragon’s hue, from which came a voice:
“WHAT have you done? WHY am I so small? Brothers, HELP me! HELP!”
But the dragons of Death Breath cared not to help their brother, only for fame and eternal life. Consequently, some of them charged at the dragonslayer, but only for the sake of being called a “Slayer of Slayers.” Others fled into the halls to extend their lives on the mortal plane. Ryder and Argus winked at each other. They dashed forward with ferocious resolve.
Chasing the fleers, Ryder swallowed whole an approaching Tourmalue as he hopped over a dinner table. (A plated dragon there was cheering him on!) He flipped to his feet on the other side. There a Crimson pounced on him, and hot foretalons drove into his unarmored belly. Before it could hurt, the paw massage pushed up a “BWUEEEELCH” which smote that derg and other speeding enemy dergs with a sweltering gust of ruby scales, charred bones. A soul stone—which contained the Crimson—bulleted to clobber a black-scaled in the schnoz. Down he went, bicycling haunches over head. To a boom Ryder caught the stone that bounced back then applied both stones to his sword Black Fang, lighting it ablaze with fiery magic!
The sword belched dragonbreath to down another horde of draggies that Ryder bounced off the flaming bellies of (“Oof!” “Oof!”) in his hungry pursuit of the escapees. Black Fang casually shot magic at the horde to chain them up for later. Meanwhile, the dragon face of the shield Alderius hungrily snapped its jaws—rudely snarfed down a gold-scaled’s buttocks and tail, then belched up fingers of lightning.
Electrocuted Death Breaths seemed as likely to get up as the chained ones. Unwounded Death Breaths who hadn’t fled now moved clumsily with fear. Just Argus, with tooth and claw and breath, was giving them hell, for he had the higher of morales.
He distracted a handful of Death Breaths while Ryder chased abandoners through the castle. After his 12th meal, Ryder burped up the stone of a dragon type he hadn’t collected yet: black. Thanks to the blackie, when Ryder put his stone in his gauntlet, the dragonslayer got a zesty injection of shadow power. He chuckled, leapt and changed into a shadow. Along the walls he would slide, and stalk down panicking dragons. He would pounce into his solid form, return to the shadow one before he hit the floor, then belch another dragon skeleton and hide out of his flat, black form.
A plethora of soul stones littered the castle floor, shrieking their gemstone facets off—figuratively. That helped Ryder locate all of the stones and plug them into his armor, sword and shield, on his way back to the dining hall. There, Death Breaths either distracted or immobilized squirmed on the floor: a whopping 42 of the total 69 originals. Ryder licked his lips.
Rumbles shook the walls, and on them shadows showed every last dragon being pummeled down predatorily to their backs and bellies, being swallowed whole, one by one. One “SLURRRP” epilogued the story of the 69. Or, at least, it was supposed to.
As Ryder lay like a gluttonous fiend on the old marble floor, as a hill of tan belly and obscenely warped dragon shapes jiggled and warbled several storeys above the dinner table, as live legends met their match against the tumultuous mulch of the dragonslayer and turned to acidic plumes of molten essence, there came out of hiding one dragon. The last of the 69 Death Breaths.
“Gotcha!” exclaimed a Malychon.
He dove at Ryder.
Dragon jaws blasted bestial breath that warmed the dome of Ryder’s helm. The dragonslayer flicked his head backward and stretched his metal dragon mouth superiorly: so much more hungrily dripped the maw flesh and tongue behind the homo sapien flesh within … A last second attempt to dodge with a flitter of wings was hampered by a GULP. The truest of the two predators hummed as the winged reptile swatted his jaws this way and that. The strain that each thresh put on Ryder’s jaw muscles shivered his body with bliss, adding to the pleasure that he already basked in from imbuing himself with the magic of other dragons via the soul stones. Wings crumpled pathetically and met at the fingertips while that derg booty noodled down the hyper flexible throat.
There went the Malychon’s tail. What was one more dragon’s mass packed against the rest Ryder’s gut? Visibly, not much.
What followed was a belch of wild earth magic; plumes of emerald burst from his maw, splattering stony walls with roots, grass leaves and flowers that in seconds grew fully.
Ryder had had a decent fill of dragons, yet he knew that still there lurked, deeper in the castle, the black dragon who had hypnotised the Death Breaths. So, Ryder would next pay him a visit. But he needed to run errands first. So he collected all of the soul stones, equipped them to multiply extravagantly his elemental dragon powers then used the magic of the perinkles to free the 69 plated dragons.
“Now, to find that one. Do you know your way about the castle well?” asked Ryder. He and Argus had just exited the dining hall.
“Only what our insider told us,” the crimson quadruped said. “All the same, I know the general layout of castles. The throne room should be thisaway. He should be there, as reportedly that’s where he chooses to feast on dragons, but I strongly doubt that our ruckus has gone by him unheard. HE will be cunning, and try to breathe on us—steal our free will the soonest he can.”
Considering these words, the dragonslayer flexed his shield hand fist a couple times without noticing.
He and Argus found and entered the throne room.
The eldest of dragons could not have filled the spacious chamber. Of marble floors and vaulted ceilings was it wrought; and the roof went as high as did the sky-trees of the woods. Forward zoomed endlessly this violet carpet. At the end of it lounged rotting, toxin-steaming, fly-cultivating carcasses of dragons (who were, in life, anywhere from lizard size to six storeys tall). And amid them lay the foulest of black poison dragons.
So virile were his poisons from years of eating and absorbing dragons, dense fogs of the purple miasma plumed from his ebon scales without reprieve. Like a rotten plum was his belly in color. This color his claws, spine spikes and eyes shared. He hitched back his neck then took three last lazy slurps of a two-storey tall dragon, despite that that derg had about twice the poison dragon’s bigness.
The pudgy winged reptile prey bulged abominably as he squelched his way down that plum gullet. Blurps and blorps pecked the gut of the poison dragon as it expanded into a grossly defined oval. “Ugh-n!” Groaned the dragon to the pressure. Deep frequency gurgles shot up his wobbling craw. Cheeks bellied out, before out roared this—
“Duck!” cried Argus. He somersaulted out of the nave of the throne room. His tail rolled behind a gargantuan column.
Ryder did not seem to hear. What rent apart the poison dragon’s cheeks was a hideous, malodorous “BWRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOWPPP!” Eyes lecherously rolled in the poison dragon’s sockets from the hard rumbles of the belch. Completely, repugnantly rotten maw flesh and fangs vanished behind walls and walls of poison that scuttled and billowed forth. Heat of the fire-lands and stench of the death-lands buried Ryder as purple devoured him. So much gas had been unleashed because the dragon was none other than Sini, and he had digested his last prey into nothing but pungent poisons, leaving not even bones.
“Holy mackerel,” huffed Sini. He choreographed with his eyes as though absolutely repulsed by himself, then started snorting in ribbons of the dreadful fumes, shuddering. “What a BEEEEEEELLUWRCH, what a meal. Phew! You thought you were gonna waltz in here and dethrone me, eh, dragonslayer? That’s so sad! I have so much power when I belch! You didn’t do your research! Now you’re just another servant of the clan, enslaved by toxins. How about that?”
For a long while nobody answered. Then from the poison fog depths came echoing a devious chuckle. Soon, Sini could see that poisons slowly vortexed into the eye of the storm. The mass of purple gas was shrinking.
Sini squinted. “The hell?” The tip of his tail tingled.
A dragon armor silhouetted appeared, the fog quietly swirling into its maw. Extended was the palm of the dragonslayer, so that Sini could see within it the soul stone of the poison dragon he had months ago absorbed. With it Ryder could not fall prey to venom; he could only become hyper-powerful with Sini’s belchy abundance of it.
“What a belch, what poison!” Ryder teased, greaves clanging forward. The sound characterized inevitable vengeance. “Thought you were going to burp and hypnotise me, hm, silly dragon? You didn’t do your research. Now your poisons are mine, and they’ll come in handy in the future when I hunt troublemakers in your family.”
The dragon Sini shuffled backward on his feet with a nervous gulp. He dashed behind one of the pillars flanking the throne room. Ryder however was ready for him to possibly run. The dragonslayer used his shadow element to slip speedily into the side area of the throne room and jump up and appear before Sini. Roaring with fright, Sini pumped his wings and began to pummel his way aerially and ungracefully over Ryder, but a freezing slash of Black Fang hurled an ice bolt into the air, splattering across Sini’s wing to freeze the joint.
“Riir!”
Sini twirled recklessly, dashed himself against the stone eastern facet then fell under a mess of twitching wings. Soon as he opened his eyes the dragonslayer Ryder stood there above him, a greedy smirk shadowed behind those dragon helm jaws. Sini inhaled to take a smog breath which would temporarily blind Ryder, but was too slow and outsped by Ryder’s lunging gullet.
GLRNNNK!
A debased moan rose up from Ryder while so much sloppy slather splashed up to a neck of spines sliding to their new fate swiftly. Wings thrashed and gusted around Ryder from the dragon being upturned and slid down his craw as his body seemed to get smaller as it swooped down into that dragon accommodating flesh. The dragon Sini had only poisons and his claws to attack the innards of Ryder with. Alas for him, Ryder loved his sweet and sour venom taste, and his insides had defended him against thousands upon thousands of dergs before him. Why did Sini reckon that he was special?
Likely he did not—regretted that he was not—but tried to be anyway. Still, Ryder felt the wings fold in as the plump, highly corrosive belly rounded out his neck, chest area then abdomen enormously. Sini’s belly might have been able to churn down dergs but would be no use to him anymore as he was ushered into the rotund and increasingly vast depths of the dragonslayer, stretching and burbling and staying so tight on his scales that he could not squirm enough to change his posture within—only prompt a couple of satiated groans from the tummy.
Argus almost could not believe it when he watched Ryder swallow whole so easily the leader of Death Breath himself. Shrouds of smog percolated out of the panicking dragon and cloaked the two while louder purrs of pleasure echoed from the slayer through the throne room. Into the smog, puffed hind paws as well as a tubby black tail. From below vociferated a set of slurps and squelches. And then along with Sini into the maw of the slayer the mists of poisons with a strong inhale.
HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFF~
From the force of Sini spearing into his digestive system so fast, Ryder actually lost his balance. He bicycled backward into the nave. Then came a THWOOMPH when his back hit the center floor. Moaning and kicking his legs out, Ryder rested shivering under a one-storey belly in the shape of a balled up dragon.
“You gotta let me out of here—my destiny is to live forever! What you’re doing will ruin the world for the WORSE!” proclaimed Sini.
His squirms caused the belly to hop up many times and hump the marble floor for sonorous effect. GRABRBRBL. GGRRRRRRRB. BRABRABRABRRRR. Exacting revenge, the belly of Ryder ached worse and poured more acids into the tight sac to nibble away at the meat under Sini’s pretty ebon scales. These Ryder would later use to fashion himself a new set of shiny dragon armor. And the bones, the bones now creaking and groaning as his powerful digestive system crushed down the silly derg, they would later be good materials for a bone arrow or sword or dagger: basically, anything that would later aid him to slay the rest of Sini’s evil relatives.
Garbled begging noises continued as a roundness replaced the shape of Sini. The dragon did not receive the privilege of becoming pudge, a pretty shape on Ryder’s gut; that would have been precisely what he would have wanted, like his Death Breath brothers: to live on as something powerful—part of something, anyway.
Instead Sini felt those acids sizzle his body away and could his soul being cramped up into some traumatizing shape … What was happening? Where WAS he? A magical scream came from the stomach while the last of sinew and meat dissolved. Now only a clean carcass and shiny black flecks and a soul stone of black and swirling purple remained in the slayers’ paunch.
“BURRRRRRRUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWWWWWOOOOOOOGHPPPPP! *Hiccup* *Hic* hic!* Damn, Sini, you tasted delectable!”
So said Ryder. He now basked in bliss, surrounded by valuable raw materials of the dragon that he had burped up. He still had an insistent case of hiccups, and one of them deposited the soul stone of Sini in his hand. The dragon’s pleading voice reminded Ryder all over again how tasty he had been.
“I still have legacies to build,” Sini protested. “Dragons to eat. Castles to build. You can’t so easily erase me from history.”
“Well,” said Ryder, “I don’t think I have, sweet dragon. I’m sure that the historians will write a nice, long footnote about the poison soulstone that’s about to fit nicely into my gauntlet.” And the poison dragon screamed and screamed, but smiling, Ryder fitted the stone just above his knuckles, completing his set of Death Breath dragon stones. “Now, Argus, I believe that there will be no more hardships of your people caused by this dragon or his clan, do you?”
The quadruped dragon peeked out of hiding, and the joy on his face shone as brilliantly as the dragonslayer’s new gems. “Would that dragons were meant to live forever, I give you my eternal gratitude, Ryder. But as you’ve proven, we too are mortal. So I hope that you will settle for my temporal thanks. At the home of my clan awaits you a handsome sum of gold.”
Argus and Ryder winged back to the home of the Crimsons, where the ruby dragon faces sparkled like a red sea under a sunset. Much praise was given, much rejoicing had. And when word of Ryder’s deed spread to the Tourmalue and Malychon clans, any fear amongst the dragons of Ryder from rumors that he brutishly slayed dragons turned to dust. The clan dragons did not so much fear as regard highly him.
And so fame and power came not to those who thirstily searched for fame and power, like scoundrels. Fame and power came to the virtuous, to the empathetic. And so all was in accord.
xanfireRyder, the human dragonslayer who wears dragon armor of ocean blue, whose storm grey sword is a dragon tooth called Black Fang, whose magical shield called Alderius has the black dragon head of golden ram horns, whose dark maroon hair flows from his dragon helm: this is who Argus the Red-Scaled had been searching for for many months. On a traveler’s road in the dark, dark forest of trees that touched the sky, Argus found him finally one fateful day.
The quadruped Crimson alighted on the road before Ryder, tucked his grand wings formally then bowed his head with the obeisance of an old friend. “Ryder, has it been some time,” he said. “Clans members have come and gone, some taken by old age, others by a forte of betrayal.”
“Your heart is heavy,” said Ryder, rubbing Argus’ snout with his shield hand. “Pray tell, what’s wrong? Your words sound rehearsed. Have you a message for me?”
“The numbers of the Crimsons and the Tourmalues and the Malychons have declined mortally, for a clan called Death Breath has promised power and fame for the youngest of our own clans, claiming them as our own. And worse, yet: dragons from alien lands have breathed their rites of passage and become brothers of Death Breath, too. They have devoured their fill of clans, and word from inside Death Breath is that their voracious recruiting period is done. Next, they will devour literally any dragon who has not joined them to fuel their magic and physical strength, and to further their body sizes.”
“Argus, who leads this madness?”
“A dragon whose breath named the clan. A dragon who simply speaks at the faces of the lusty, and with the fog of his words makes them believe and obey him. Henceforth, the twisted dragons want only to cannibalize their kin and their names to last to the end of time.
“Ryder,” Argus went on, “you must help us. Death Breath doesn’t care for gold, so we have not been pilfered and have plenty. A great reward will await you.”
The dragonslayer forgot entirely his tiredness from travelling, forgot that he had been headed home. And so he said, “I’d do it just for your sake, old friend. Of course, I can’t turn down the coin.”
Once his decision was breath, the Crimson quadruped lay on his belly and let Ryder climb onto his back to ride him, a privilege for no other human. They then flew a hundred miles to the deep, spidery depths of the forest, where an old castle loomed like a mountain. This was where wyrms-turned-sour nested. This was home of Death Breath.
Argus landed a mile from the castle, and once dismounted Ryder went with him into a secret passage that led straight to the castle dungeon. Argus distastefully regarded the mounds of regurgitated dragon skeletons. Ryder promised him revenge. When Argus emotionally recovered, they left the bony chamber into the castle halls.
What with rowdy echoes of merriment and laughter, it did not take them long to find the full roster of Death Breath in the dining hall, which consisted of 69 dragons. They were the red-scaled Crimsons, blue Tormalues, emerald Malychons and even dragons of clans of alien regions; those ones had scales white like snow, gold like lightning, periwinkle like arcane magic or black like shadows. Along the long trestle tables some of them stood small as ponies, some medium as single-storey homes, some large as three-storey homes. Each one was nasty and infamous and had a surplus of their innate element stored in their claws and their bellies: for, they had dined on and absorbed many powerful dragons these past few years.
On the long trestle tables squirmed on giant plates 69 live dinner dragons. Like the cannibals, they had the scales of the colors of many clans and sizes from 5 to 45 feet tall. Because the Death Breath dragons had just gotten done saying a customary prayer (to ensure eternal fame and a hospitable afterlife), one of the periwinkle Death Breaths started to speak a spell to break the magical chains that restrained the dinner dragons. After that, they would have their feast.
After that didn’t happen as normal. The periwinkle didn’t even finish casting. A slurp, made crasser and louder by the metallic jaws of Ryder’s sapphire helm, sounded as the periwinkle’s tail and buttocks slid into a masked human maw. 69 dragons vocalized their horror, 69 more their joy. A passionate thrower of flames arced beside Ryder from Argus, intimidating the courage out of anyone who had dared to step close to the dragonslayer. Down, cartoonishly, plunged the periwinkle with one last squeal of spell syllable before the dragonslayer’s clanked shut and silenced him.
The breastplate of Ryder, coated down the middle by light cerulean dragon armor, popped off and clanged to his feet. The plate was presently smothered by a great, gurgly dome of human skin; the pony-sized sphere looked like it was speaking from the navel, but that was just the dragon within desperately trying to cast, but muffled by each blorp and glorp. One cannot, without skepticism, believe that this stomach seared away the wyrm with careful specificity and swiftness, metabolizing flesh in mere seconds to salvage bone and scale and soul, but such truth can’t be omitted. The belly deflated with an immature fit of spasms. Then from Ryder’s ocean helm jaws came a belch of oceanic enormity, rumbling the dining hall like tidal waves sent by some sea god!
Twirling bones cannoned out, smacked cannibal dragons upside the head. Polished periwinkle scales, too, and horns and claws. Last but not least, into Ryder’s shield hand palm plopped a slimy soul stone of the dragon’s hue, from which came a voice:
“WHAT have you done? WHY am I so small? Brothers, HELP me! HELP!”
But the dragons of Death Breath cared not to help their brother, only for fame and eternal life. Consequently, some of them charged at the dragonslayer, but only for the sake of being called a “Slayer of Slayers.” Others fled into the halls to extend their lives on the mortal plane. Ryder and Argus winked at each other. They dashed forward with ferocious resolve.
Chasing the fleers, Ryder swallowed whole an approaching Tourmalue as he hopped over a dinner table. (A plated dragon there was cheering him on!) He flipped to his feet on the other side. There a Crimson pounced on him, and hot foretalons drove into his unarmored belly. Before it could hurt, the paw massage pushed up a “BWUEEEELCH” which smote that derg and other speeding enemy dergs with a sweltering gust of ruby scales, charred bones. A soul stone—which contained the Crimson—bulleted to clobber a black-scaled in the schnoz. Down he went, bicycling haunches over head. To a boom Ryder caught the stone that bounced back then applied both stones to his sword Black Fang, lighting it ablaze with fiery magic!
The sword belched dragonbreath to down another horde of draggies that Ryder bounced off the flaming bellies of (“Oof!” “Oof!”) in his hungry pursuit of the escapees. Black Fang casually shot magic at the horde to chain them up for later. Meanwhile, the dragon face of the shield Alderius hungrily snapped its jaws—rudely snarfed down a gold-scaled’s buttocks and tail, then belched up fingers of lightning.
Electrocuted Death Breaths seemed as likely to get up as the chained ones. Unwounded Death Breaths who hadn’t fled now moved clumsily with fear. Just Argus, with tooth and claw and breath, was giving them hell, for he had the higher of morales.
He distracted a handful of Death Breaths while Ryder chased abandoners through the castle. After his 12th meal, Ryder burped up the stone of a dragon type he hadn’t collected yet: black. Thanks to the blackie, when Ryder put his stone in his gauntlet, the dragonslayer got a zesty injection of shadow power. He chuckled, leapt and changed into a shadow. Along the walls he would slide, and stalk down panicking dragons. He would pounce into his solid form, return to the shadow one before he hit the floor, then belch another dragon skeleton and hide out of his flat, black form.
A plethora of soul stones littered the castle floor, shrieking their gemstone facets off—figuratively. That helped Ryder locate all of the stones and plug them into his armor, sword and shield, on his way back to the dining hall. There, Death Breaths either distracted or immobilized squirmed on the floor: a whopping 42 of the total 69 originals. Ryder licked his lips.
Rumbles shook the walls, and on them shadows showed every last dragon being pummeled down predatorily to their backs and bellies, being swallowed whole, one by one. One “SLURRRP” epilogued the story of the 69. Or, at least, it was supposed to.
As Ryder lay like a gluttonous fiend on the old marble floor, as a hill of tan belly and obscenely warped dragon shapes jiggled and warbled several storeys above the dinner table, as live legends met their match against the tumultuous mulch of the dragonslayer and turned to acidic plumes of molten essence, there came out of hiding one dragon. The last of the 69 Death Breaths.
“Gotcha!” exclaimed a Malychon.
He dove at Ryder.
Dragon jaws blasted bestial breath that warmed the dome of Ryder’s helm. The dragonslayer flicked his head backward and stretched his metal dragon mouth superiorly: so much more hungrily dripped the maw flesh and tongue behind the homo sapien flesh within … A last second attempt to dodge with a flitter of wings was hampered by a GULP. The truest of the two predators hummed as the winged reptile swatted his jaws this way and that. The strain that each thresh put on Ryder’s jaw muscles shivered his body with bliss, adding to the pleasure that he already basked in from imbuing himself with the magic of other dragons via the soul stones. Wings crumpled pathetically and met at the fingertips while that derg booty noodled down the hyper flexible throat.
There went the Malychon’s tail. What was one more dragon’s mass packed against the rest Ryder’s gut? Visibly, not much.
What followed was a belch of wild earth magic; plumes of emerald burst from his maw, splattering stony walls with roots, grass leaves and flowers that in seconds grew fully.
Ryder had had a decent fill of dragons, yet he knew that still there lurked, deeper in the castle, the black dragon who had hypnotised the Death Breaths. So, Ryder would next pay him a visit. But he needed to run errands first. So he collected all of the soul stones, equipped them to multiply extravagantly his elemental dragon powers then used the magic of the perinkles to free the 69 plated dragons.
“Now, to find that one. Do you know your way about the castle well?” asked Ryder. He and Argus had just exited the dining hall.
“Only what our insider told us,” the crimson quadruped said. “All the same, I know the general layout of castles. The throne room should be thisaway. He should be there, as reportedly that’s where he chooses to feast on dragons, but I strongly doubt that our ruckus has gone by him unheard. HE will be cunning, and try to breathe on us—steal our free will the soonest he can.”
Considering these words, the dragonslayer flexed his shield hand fist a couple times without noticing.
He and Argus found and entered the throne room.
The eldest of dragons could not have filled the spacious chamber. Of marble floors and vaulted ceilings was it wrought; and the roof went as high as did the sky-trees of the woods. Forward zoomed endlessly this violet carpet. At the end of it lounged rotting, toxin-steaming, fly-cultivating carcasses of dragons (who were, in life, anywhere from lizard size to six storeys tall). And amid them lay the foulest of black poison dragons.
So virile were his poisons from years of eating and absorbing dragons, dense fogs of the purple miasma plumed from his ebon scales without reprieve. Like a rotten plum was his belly in color. This color his claws, spine spikes and eyes shared. He hitched back his neck then took three last lazy slurps of a two-storey tall dragon, despite that that derg had about twice the poison dragon’s bigness.
The pudgy winged reptile prey bulged abominably as he squelched his way down that plum gullet. Blurps and blorps pecked the gut of the poison dragon as it expanded into a grossly defined oval. “Ugh-n!” Groaned the dragon to the pressure. Deep frequency gurgles shot up his wobbling craw. Cheeks bellied out, before out roared this—
“Duck!” cried Argus. He somersaulted out of the nave of the throne room. His tail rolled behind a gargantuan column.
Ryder did not seem to hear. What rent apart the poison dragon’s cheeks was a hideous, malodorous “BWRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOWPPP!” Eyes lecherously rolled in the poison dragon’s sockets from the hard rumbles of the belch. Completely, repugnantly rotten maw flesh and fangs vanished behind walls and walls of poison that scuttled and billowed forth. Heat of the fire-lands and stench of the death-lands buried Ryder as purple devoured him. So much gas had been unleashed because the dragon was none other than Sini, and he had digested his last prey into nothing but pungent poisons, leaving not even bones.
“Holy mackerel,” huffed Sini. He choreographed with his eyes as though absolutely repulsed by himself, then started snorting in ribbons of the dreadful fumes, shuddering. “What a BEEEEEEELLUWRCH, what a meal. Phew! You thought you were gonna waltz in here and dethrone me, eh, dragonslayer? That’s so sad! I have so much power when I belch! You didn’t do your research! Now you’re just another servant of the clan, enslaved by toxins. How about that?”
For a long while nobody answered. Then from the poison fog depths came echoing a devious chuckle. Soon, Sini could see that poisons slowly vortexed into the eye of the storm. The mass of purple gas was shrinking.
Sini squinted. “The hell?” The tip of his tail tingled.
A dragon armor silhouetted appeared, the fog quietly swirling into its maw. Extended was the palm of the dragonslayer, so that Sini could see within it the soul stone of the poison dragon he had months ago absorbed. With it Ryder could not fall prey to venom; he could only become hyper-powerful with Sini’s belchy abundance of it.
“What a belch, what poison!” Ryder teased, greaves clanging forward. The sound characterized inevitable vengeance. “Thought you were going to burp and hypnotise me, hm, silly dragon? You didn’t do your research. Now your poisons are mine, and they’ll come in handy in the future when I hunt troublemakers in your family.”
The dragon Sini shuffled backward on his feet with a nervous gulp. He dashed behind one of the pillars flanking the throne room. Ryder however was ready for him to possibly run. The dragonslayer used his shadow element to slip speedily into the side area of the throne room and jump up and appear before Sini. Roaring with fright, Sini pumped his wings and began to pummel his way aerially and ungracefully over Ryder, but a freezing slash of Black Fang hurled an ice bolt into the air, splattering across Sini’s wing to freeze the joint.
“Riir!”
Sini twirled recklessly, dashed himself against the stone eastern facet then fell under a mess of twitching wings. Soon as he opened his eyes the dragonslayer Ryder stood there above him, a greedy smirk shadowed behind those dragon helm jaws. Sini inhaled to take a smog breath which would temporarily blind Ryder, but was too slow and outsped by Ryder’s lunging gullet.
GLRNNNK!
A debased moan rose up from Ryder while so much sloppy slather splashed up to a neck of spines sliding to their new fate swiftly. Wings thrashed and gusted around Ryder from the dragon being upturned and slid down his craw as his body seemed to get smaller as it swooped down into that dragon accommodating flesh. The dragon Sini had only poisons and his claws to attack the innards of Ryder with. Alas for him, Ryder loved his sweet and sour venom taste, and his insides had defended him against thousands upon thousands of dergs before him. Why did Sini reckon that he was special?
Likely he did not—regretted that he was not—but tried to be anyway. Still, Ryder felt the wings fold in as the plump, highly corrosive belly rounded out his neck, chest area then abdomen enormously. Sini’s belly might have been able to churn down dergs but would be no use to him anymore as he was ushered into the rotund and increasingly vast depths of the dragonslayer, stretching and burbling and staying so tight on his scales that he could not squirm enough to change his posture within—only prompt a couple of satiated groans from the tummy.
Argus almost could not believe it when he watched Ryder swallow whole so easily the leader of Death Breath himself. Shrouds of smog percolated out of the panicking dragon and cloaked the two while louder purrs of pleasure echoed from the slayer through the throne room. Into the smog, puffed hind paws as well as a tubby black tail. From below vociferated a set of slurps and squelches. And then along with Sini into the maw of the slayer the mists of poisons with a strong inhale.
HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUFF~
From the force of Sini spearing into his digestive system so fast, Ryder actually lost his balance. He bicycled backward into the nave. Then came a THWOOMPH when his back hit the center floor. Moaning and kicking his legs out, Ryder rested shivering under a one-storey belly in the shape of a balled up dragon.
“You gotta let me out of here—my destiny is to live forever! What you’re doing will ruin the world for the WORSE!” proclaimed Sini.
His squirms caused the belly to hop up many times and hump the marble floor for sonorous effect. GRABRBRBL. GGRRRRRRRB. BRABRABRABRRRR. Exacting revenge, the belly of Ryder ached worse and poured more acids into the tight sac to nibble away at the meat under Sini’s pretty ebon scales. These Ryder would later use to fashion himself a new set of shiny dragon armor. And the bones, the bones now creaking and groaning as his powerful digestive system crushed down the silly derg, they would later be good materials for a bone arrow or sword or dagger: basically, anything that would later aid him to slay the rest of Sini’s evil relatives.
Garbled begging noises continued as a roundness replaced the shape of Sini. The dragon did not receive the privilege of becoming pudge, a pretty shape on Ryder’s gut; that would have been precisely what he would have wanted, like his Death Breath brothers: to live on as something powerful—part of something, anyway.
Instead Sini felt those acids sizzle his body away and could his soul being cramped up into some traumatizing shape … What was happening? Where WAS he? A magical scream came from the stomach while the last of sinew and meat dissolved. Now only a clean carcass and shiny black flecks and a soul stone of black and swirling purple remained in the slayers’ paunch.
“BURRRRRRRUUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHWWWWWOOOOOOOGHPPPPP! *Hiccup* *Hic* hic!* Damn, Sini, you tasted delectable!”
So said Ryder. He now basked in bliss, surrounded by valuable raw materials of the dragon that he had burped up. He still had an insistent case of hiccups, and one of them deposited the soul stone of Sini in his hand. The dragon’s pleading voice reminded Ryder all over again how tasty he had been.
“I still have legacies to build,” Sini protested. “Dragons to eat. Castles to build. You can’t so easily erase me from history.”
“Well,” said Ryder, “I don’t think I have, sweet dragon. I’m sure that the historians will write a nice, long footnote about the poison soulstone that’s about to fit nicely into my gauntlet.” And the poison dragon screamed and screamed, but smiling, Ryder fitted the stone just above his knuckles, completing his set of Death Breath dragon stones. “Now, Argus, I believe that there will be no more hardships of your people caused by this dragon or his clan, do you?”
The quadruped dragon peeked out of hiding, and the joy on his face shone as brilliantly as the dragonslayer’s new gems. “Would that dragons were meant to live forever, I give you my eternal gratitude, Ryder. But as you’ve proven, we too are mortal. So I hope that you will settle for my temporal thanks. At the home of my clan awaits you a handsome sum of gold.”
Argus and Ryder winged back to the home of the Crimsons, where the ruby dragon faces sparkled like a red sea under a sunset. Much praise was given, much rejoicing had. And when word of Ryder’s deed spread to the Tourmalue and Malychon clans, any fear amongst the dragons of Ryder from rumors that he brutishly slayed dragons turned to dust. The clan dragons did not so much fear as regard highly him.
And so fame and power came not to those who thirstily searched for fame and power, like scoundrels. Fame and power came to the virtuous, to the empathetic. And so all was in accord.
If you like this story, consider supporting me on Patreon! Rewards include votes for biweekly stories, the opportunity for your characters to be in exclusive monthly stories and art, commission discounts, access to our secret Discord server The Book Cave, commission queue priority, and inclusion of your story ideas in Character Plot polls. Thanks for reading!
Category Story / Vore
Species Human
Size 112 x 120px
File Size 145.9 kB
Hate dragonslayers? Hate things that are real, and in my experience, there has never been a 'dragonslayer' story, game or artwork that an intelligent adult could possibly take seriously (if the dragon is larger than a horse). Better to simply laugh at the idiocy of the very concept of a tiny human with iron age technology somehow able to kill huge dragons, just as you might laugh at a clown. It is no wonder that most of the mainstream world cannot take the fantasy genre seriously, and mostly because of the idiotic concept of 'dragonslayers' which even an intelligent seven year old understands is utterly ridiculous.
My original comments were in response to other posters, so you need no thank me for them. They were comments pertaining to the 'Dragonslayer' mythos in general, and not to this specific story. But it would be impolite to not comment on the story as well.
I quite enjoyed the quality of writing in this instance, the prose seems almost poetic at times, evoking the atmosphere of a bard's tale related in some ancient mead hall. But in this instance a hall occupied by dragons laughing their asses off at such a silly and nonsensical tale. Though in honesty, I believe real ancient humans would also regard this as a silly and nonsensical tale, for these were the days when humans believed it took a faultless Saint imbued with the favor of his god, to simply slay a dragon no larger than a Shetland pony, just as we see in medieval artwork. There was never even a concept of professional dragonslayers back in those days - you could become a Saint for slaying a pony size, or in some cases a goat sized dragon, because people back in those days really did fight dangerous animals with primitive weapon. But from that time on, people became stupider and stupider in regard to real human and animal abilities until we see the absolutely asinine dragonslayer rubbish of todays video games, comic books and b-novels created by people who no absolutely nothing about ancient weapons, and how dangerous something like a large, intelligent dragon would really be. Of course there are some artists, authors and game designers who truly know how ridiculous their dragonslayer nonsense really is, but are delighted to see that there are actually some people willing to pay money for this stuff.
I knew what to expect when I opened this story as the tags were quite accurate. Sometimes I like serious dragon stories and sometimes, if well written, I like silly dragon stories too. Thanks to both you and the commissioner for sharing this one!
I quite enjoyed the quality of writing in this instance, the prose seems almost poetic at times, evoking the atmosphere of a bard's tale related in some ancient mead hall. But in this instance a hall occupied by dragons laughing their asses off at such a silly and nonsensical tale. Though in honesty, I believe real ancient humans would also regard this as a silly and nonsensical tale, for these were the days when humans believed it took a faultless Saint imbued with the favor of his god, to simply slay a dragon no larger than a Shetland pony, just as we see in medieval artwork. There was never even a concept of professional dragonslayers back in those days - you could become a Saint for slaying a pony size, or in some cases a goat sized dragon, because people back in those days really did fight dangerous animals with primitive weapon. But from that time on, people became stupider and stupider in regard to real human and animal abilities until we see the absolutely asinine dragonslayer rubbish of todays video games, comic books and b-novels created by people who no absolutely nothing about ancient weapons, and how dangerous something like a large, intelligent dragon would really be. Of course there are some artists, authors and game designers who truly know how ridiculous their dragonslayer nonsense really is, but are delighted to see that there are actually some people willing to pay money for this stuff.
I knew what to expect when I opened this story as the tags were quite accurate. Sometimes I like serious dragon stories and sometimes, if well written, I like silly dragon stories too. Thanks to both you and the commissioner for sharing this one!
Hahah, I get ya. I think that the expansion of the collective human imagination has opened a lot of gateways which, for better or for worse (you decide), cannot be closed.
In the days of old, humans could appreciate a goddamn goat, period. They didn't need a dragon, not even a goat-sized dragon, to swoon them, I don't imagine, because people were so much closer to the ground. Now, you just look at our skies: all skyscrapers. People have so much built up toward the heavens that they have less appreciation for the earthly elements which let them build to that height, I feel.
Likewise, people don't want goats anymore. They want dragons. They want trump what has already been done, when what has been done in itself is sublime.
I wouldn't say it's a crutch on the fantasy genre, but it's definitely viral. Once rules have been broken, the precedent is set and it becomes so much easier for people to break rules in the future. I don't know if you've read GoT (Game of Thrones), but even in that, you have an example: George Martin sets up this very structured and believable world - everyone is mortal and subject to maybe dying; magic is sparse. Then, there's that single temptation to transcend, and it's like Icarus in the goddamn sun - that closeness to heaven comes to an end, and the fantasy rips apart.
Why? Because Jon Snow gets resurrected. (Dunno how - haven't GOTTEN to that part in the series yet, but so I have been spoiled multiple times.) And then the bitter fruit that is death loses all of its sweetness.
The fantasy genre is like that - GoT when Jon Snow resurrects. But the virus isn't contained within Westeros; it seeps through the internet and the bestseller book markets to show everyone that anything can happen in fantasy. And people just want more, and more, and more.
To train all of humanity to appreciate the simple things when you have all these rad, sparkly things is pretty tough, man. I think that's how we've gotten to a place where a lot of fantasy stories don't illustrate dragons to be nearly as powerful as they would have been imagined before. I mean, if our mainstream fantasy icon - whom so many proclaim to great with detail and believability - starts throwing random resurrection in his shit, then who can we count on for the value of sheer, physical predatory power to be appreciated?
END RANT.
But yeah, same with me - I still get a kick out of writing stories like these, haha! Not my place to judge what people enjoy, only to realize the scenario to be as organic and grounded as possible. I thanked you not because I thought you replied directly to the tale; I just wanted to thank you for your view, as it's always finely articulated, and not one that I get to engage with often. =)
In the days of old, humans could appreciate a goddamn goat, period. They didn't need a dragon, not even a goat-sized dragon, to swoon them, I don't imagine, because people were so much closer to the ground. Now, you just look at our skies: all skyscrapers. People have so much built up toward the heavens that they have less appreciation for the earthly elements which let them build to that height, I feel.
Likewise, people don't want goats anymore. They want dragons. They want trump what has already been done, when what has been done in itself is sublime.
I wouldn't say it's a crutch on the fantasy genre, but it's definitely viral. Once rules have been broken, the precedent is set and it becomes so much easier for people to break rules in the future. I don't know if you've read GoT (Game of Thrones), but even in that, you have an example: George Martin sets up this very structured and believable world - everyone is mortal and subject to maybe dying; magic is sparse. Then, there's that single temptation to transcend, and it's like Icarus in the goddamn sun - that closeness to heaven comes to an end, and the fantasy rips apart.
Why? Because Jon Snow gets resurrected. (Dunno how - haven't GOTTEN to that part in the series yet, but so I have been spoiled multiple times.) And then the bitter fruit that is death loses all of its sweetness.
The fantasy genre is like that - GoT when Jon Snow resurrects. But the virus isn't contained within Westeros; it seeps through the internet and the bestseller book markets to show everyone that anything can happen in fantasy. And people just want more, and more, and more.
To train all of humanity to appreciate the simple things when you have all these rad, sparkly things is pretty tough, man. I think that's how we've gotten to a place where a lot of fantasy stories don't illustrate dragons to be nearly as powerful as they would have been imagined before. I mean, if our mainstream fantasy icon - whom so many proclaim to great with detail and believability - starts throwing random resurrection in his shit, then who can we count on for the value of sheer, physical predatory power to be appreciated?
END RANT.
But yeah, same with me - I still get a kick out of writing stories like these, haha! Not my place to judge what people enjoy, only to realize the scenario to be as organic and grounded as possible. I thanked you not because I thought you replied directly to the tale; I just wanted to thank you for your view, as it's always finely articulated, and not one that I get to engage with often. =)
Actually you got it wrong. People back in Medieval times DID want to read about dragons because they genuinely believed they were real because bones of huge monstrous looking creatures were actually being found. Religious leaders said they were real' the Bible said they were real and living explorers like Marco Polo said he saw them with his own eyes. The most famous medieval story about a knight slaying a dragon to save a princess was simply made up by a Catholic Bishop to sell more copies of his book about saints just like so many bad B-fantasy novels introduce a dragon just for the hero to slay so he can put the dragon on the cover. For hundreds of years there was no dragon at all in Saint George's story - he was a Roman soldier who was martyred because he wouldn't worship the emperor like a god -- b-o-r-I-n-g... lets add a dragon so more people will buy my book.
You probably don't even realize it as evidently being one of those fanboys but most people in the mainstream world also find the whole dragonslayer cliche' laughable and immature. Any time someone wishes to spoof the fantasy genre the stupidity of one or more tiny humans killing something like a large intelligent dragon is usually the first one they do. Even the real medieval people who began the whole dragonslayer nonsense with Saint George realized how foolish it was to think even a Saint could kill a large dragon which is why the dragon in all of the older paintings are seldom larger than a small pony. People back then knew something about sword and spears and fighting animals with them. The dragons kept getting bigger and bigger as people became stupider and stupider with no end of the idiocy in sight. The reason the Jurassic Park/World franchise is so popular around the world is that it shows how dangerous a simple large dinosaur would be and how mankind could have never survived if large carnivorous dinosaurs had survived extinction - let along a flying Spinosaurus as smart as a person and equipped with a built in flame thrower. My comments are entirely based on a scientific knowledge of real human and animal capabilities and applying them to the typical dragon of the fantasy genre. The only fanboys are morons who think a guy with a sword can kill a gigantic dragon...sometimes just by shouting at it. Someday you will grow up and understand these things and laugh at this nonsense like the rest of us adults.
Comments