Farkwin the Dragon Feeder

“Farkwin the Dragon Feeder

Such a scamp and such a greeder

Leads the sinners to their death

Always stinks of dragon’s breath,

Look out!
It’s Farkwin the Dra-a-gon Fee-ee-der!”

It wasn’t a flattering song but it did grow on Farkwin as time went by.  He came to see it less as mockery and more as an outflow of angry jealous – even fear.  Only natural when a Halfling rises to such a high station, really.

“You’ll know him by that wretched smell

His eyes that glow as bright as hell

Though short he be, so fierce he is

That all he loves is this dark biz

Of death,

The call of the Dra-a-gon Fee-ee-der!”

Farkwin was not a creature of class but he did take great pride in his work.  The challenge before him was particularly thrilling; the would-be resurrection had left him flush with new bodies to tend to and some very hungry dragon bellies to fill.  He’d have to round up three times the usual number of slaves and whip them five times as hard.  It was enough to make his little heart flutter with glee.

“So don’t you skulk around the streets

Or sneak about between the sheets

Or take the name of Helm in vain

Or soon you will just be a stain

Of blood,

When you’re caught by the Dra-a-gon Fee-ee-der!”

Granted, every job has its downside – in this case, feeding Grishnakhar, the sour, old beast who lurked in the bowels of the city.  He was, according to official Imperial policy, a favorite conquest of the dearly and recently departed Empress, and was to be preserved at all costs.  Not that he appreciated their efforts; he may have been blind, but he still kept a sharp tongue.

“Mm hmm mm hmm hmm

Mm mm hmm hmm hmm

Mm hmm mm hmm hmm

Mm mm hmm hmm hmm

Doo doo,

Doo doo doo-doo doo-oo-oo-oo.” 

As he stepped down into the dragon’s cave, the great gate holding the monster back began to crawl its way up, giving full view of the shadows behind.  The rancid stench would have been enough to bowl anyone else over, but Farkwin had very nearly gotten used to it – albeit after a good deal of vomiting. 

“Alright, now!” Farkwin shouted in that tinny, bracing way of his.  “Come on out, you old fuck, it’s dinner time!  We’ve got a proper feast for you this time!”

A low rumble reverberated through the cave, followed by the heavy shuffling of massive, once-clawed feet.  From the shadows emerged the dragon, once a fearsome spectacle, jet-black with curved horns and sprawling wings – now thin, gray, and sporting nubs where his horns and wings used to be.

“What have you brought me this time, little man?” the dragon asked in his deep, ragged growl. 

“Revolutionaries, your dragon-ness – well done, too!” Farkwin answered before devolving into shrill peals of laughter at his own joke.  “Oh, I kill me sometimes.  Eat up, you old lizard!  And remember, don’t be causing me any trouble – not that you ever would anyway!”

With that, Farkwin turned on his heel and swaggered back up the steps, the dragon’s low, pathetic mumbling ringing in his ears.  It felt good to get in a jab at the old belly-crawler, especially since he stopped fighting back.  With some luck, Farkwin would have him performing simple tricks in a year’s time.  For now, it was enough to get his face stuffed for one more night and move on to feeding the proper dragons; keeping them fighting fit would be even more important in this great New Order.