Dragon's Roast

Dragon’s Roast

The burglar squeezed through the narrow passage, tight, even for a halfling. If he’d still been in his valley, feasting daily, as his kind was wont to do, he’d have never fit. But, alas, a year on the road had thinned him considerably, constant peril slowly reshaping him into something quite remarkable. Who’d have ever thought he’d be plundering a dragon’s trove?

He slipped through the crevice and out into a yawning cavern, lit, though dimly, by the residual embers left from its owner's flaming breath. They cast their ruby glow and long shadows across the room. The piles of coins and gems glittered, beckoned, tempted, but he knew better than to lay hand on them.

His eyes drifted to the far wall, where the dragon, large as a barn, lay, its chest rising and falling in slow, rumbling rhythm. To even touch the gold or gemstones was to risk waking their owner, but that did not mean that there was no treasure to be had.

Stepping over stray coins with practiced stealth, he wound through the hoard until, finally, he found his quarry—a train of royal wagons, or what remained of them after the dragon attack.

He climbed onto a wagon base, careful of unwanted creaks, and pulled aside the charred covering. Within, several crates lay broken, their contents spilled out in a layer across the burnt wood.

The smell hit him: rich and earthy, already roasted by the dragon’s flames.

He dug his hands in, letting the silky beans spill between his fingers, and then started shoveling them into his satchel. A bounty worthy of both first and second breakfast.