Myron O’Connor weathered another scolding session from his mother. Normally, being a grown man, he’d be above such things- however, no one could really walk out from the same room as a 8 meter tall gold dragon loomed over you and the entrance of the lair in question stretched roughly a half kilometer down the hall.

    “I’ve told you numerous times, boy, that my gifts aren’t for philandering, thieving, plundering, and robbing others!” Roared the old gold, or better known as Haevornix the Wise- alongside a plethora of other titles the good aligned clergy of the realms have graced her sleek, powerful frame as judgmental eyes radiate cold disapproval upon her adopted child.

    “And I’ve said,” retorted Myron O’Connor, “That I didn’t steal, they were perfectly dead when I took the equipment that I needed to remain alive!” He placed special emphasis on the , ‘I’ in the phrase, as if to point out that he, at the time of being in a dark, dank crypt filled with roaming ghosts and an angry lich, that his actions were quite justified.

    “Oh? And who said the crypt was ‘filled with trinkets ready to be plundered and easily gathered?” She harrumphs as she looms over him further, wings furling. Oh yes, her scales were also glowing- definitely a pissed off mom.

    Myron furtively looked around as if to find some sort of way to flee from his enraged parent. The sole parent for his short, eighteen years of life- it was she that raised him from a young age to become a hero. Filling his mind with stories of great men and women she met in her lifetime, how she even subtly aided them by placing his treasures along their path and weakening foes before they fought them. She wanted her son to become a great hero- and that he came back not with the broken phylactery of the lich she tasked him to destroy (after thoroughly equipping him in the proper equipment to take on such a dangerous foe) as his first heroic mission- he returned with the trinkets, gear, and equipment of his dead teammates and offered them to her as appeasement for his failure! Turns out, this stood out as a poor decision. Who would’ve thought that mom, a normally treasure-lusting individual by how often she groomed her hoard and polished her treasures- would refuse that (ill-gotten) gains he procured as compensation?

    “Erm, well- uh, sorry?” He offers meekly, knowing full well that ‘sorry’ wasn’t going to be enough in this particular situation. His palms grew sweaty as he tilted his neck back to keep a nervous gaze upon her whiskered face as the sleak, golden- majestic gaze looked down at him, as if she were a just tyrant about to deliver a verdict. The poor man quivers in his enchanted boots of temporary haste. His mithril chainmail hidden beneath leather and worn traveling clothes. The side of his person possessing an adorned scabbard where a magical longsword named Elenor resided. However, most offensive of all- was that his outfit was varying shades of pink. Glorious pink, the most gaudy sort of pink. The sort of pink that stands offensively out from a crowd. The sort of pink that makes a man question, “Why?” The sort of pink that makes the eyes squint in pain upon gazing upon it- and guaranteed he will never hide, anywhere, effectively. Possibly, his most redeeming feature was his glorious brown hair.

    “Myron O’Connor, it’s time you left home.” The verdict passed, the old, majestic gold dragon huffing out through her whiskers as she gazes down at him in disappointment, as she promptly kicks him out.

    "Wait, what?"


About the author


  • The Scum Lord

Bio: Hello! I am a dungeon master for an online community using the platform of Beamdog's Neverwinter Nights Enhanced Edition. The community is known as the city of arabel. I tell stories that are often organically progressing and often lots of room for players to develop their own storylines in the matter as well. I currently am trying my hand at my very first novel, the Adventures of Myron O'Connor, an NPC I often used in my server as an excuse to tell weird and crazy adventure stories.

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