Sigmund had always dreamed of hunting dragons. Old stories handed down over generations. Valor, gold, fame awaited.

He spent years honing copious martial skills, studying to think like a dragon. He learned to track a dwarf by sense of smell. To leap from rock to rock like a mountain goat. To swing a pole ax like a plastic knife wielding whirling dervish.

Brunhilde mocked him. Called him crow-bait. Assured him the Valkyrie would cut him down swift and sure.

Climbing the mountain was torturous. Sigmund slipped, did not fall. At the cave, he paused.

The great snake opened its jaws.

(100 words)

Picture via Josh Mosey.



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