Silence



by K. S., Framingham, MA



Atop the craggy mountain it stood, still as ideath, or in its case, undeath. The dragon had died over five hundred years ago, after living a life spanning twice that time. Its body was preserved as a result of its mastery of the magical art of necromancy; its life force was mystically bound to its ancient, skeletal body by a series of arcane spells.

It stared across the dark and gloomy chasm with dead eyes. It saw the band of heroes. It had known they would come. It had been watching their progression up the mountain top, expecting them. Waiting.

Now was the time. The skeletal beast hurled itself into the air as lightning flashed, silhouetting the massive body of the undead behemoth. Thunder boomed, echoing through the deep, cavernous valley below. The dragon's wings expanded, exposing their bony joints and the leathery remains of skin stretching between the wing bones. Its muscles and tendons, exposed and bleached yellow-ivory with age, stretched and flexed; its wings pushed and pulled the dragon's hulking mass through the air and across the misty abyss.

The armored man looked up in terror, but it was too late. He and the rest of the group would be devoured by the ghastly horror without even a chance to scream. Silence.