A note from Spiffy

Not much happening here, just wanted to develop his personality for the reader a tad.

"Well, this sucks." Commented Myron as he strode out the cave. A looming orifice in the side of a mountain, decorated with proud statues of heroes that his mother once sponsored. He studies the one he took after the most, the statue of Hewitt the Rogue. A fastidious looking man with a dashing house, roguish moustache, and a mischievous grin spreading across his marble face. The statue adorned itself in a practical but fashionable leather suit of padded armor, meant for mobility and to absorb blows. He looked up to Hewitt for one reason: he wasn't a brave man. In fact, Hewitt was a coward, and fled from battle more often than not- a trait his mother disapproved of, but grudgingly admitted he always got the last laugh. Evil blackguard with an army of skeletal knights riding behind him? Hewitt got his pals together and dug a hole, covered in with a carpet, spread some sand on it- and the blackguard fell into the pit trap. Dead blackguard, the undead were a bit more problematic- but that is what paladins are for, and the matter was soon resolved. His mother added his statue after the rather anticlimatic victory over evil, but it was a victory nonetheless.

Myron exhales as he patted the base of the statue, absently commenting, "Well, Hewitt the Clever, I can't stay around to keep you nice and shiny. Mom kicked me out- well, long story short- she wants me to 'grow up.'" Myron rolled his handsome green eyes as he chuckled, "As if I weren't already grown!" He huffs, continuing to talk to the statue as if it understood every word he said, "I am twenty years old, I am fit, I am handsome! Mom just doesn't consider me 'dragon,' enough for her. I keep reminding her, I am not a dragon!" He kicks a rock away from the statue with an angry scowl on his face as he harrumphs, crossing his arm as he slowly walks down the poorly made trail down the mountain side.

Soon, rugged terrain turned into flat forest as he walked over logs, nimbly tread over brooks and grumbled underneath his breath the entire way. "Hero training, wizard training, theology- I was even taught economics! What the fuck was she thinking? I just want to laze about all day and enjoy fine wine, food, and women." He grumbles grouchily. The painfully pink attire the adoptive child of dragons wore remained- much to his mother's chagrin, she nearly ripped it off him before he left so he'd be 'respectable,' out in public- but he refused, and they finally compromised he wouldn't invoke her name in any shape, way, or form so as to maintain her dignity and not be associated with some pink-wearing adventuring rogue. Oh, the scandle that would've been created made Myron smirk, but if nothing else, he never lied to his mother- and he didn't intend to start now. She was a dragon. She didn't like lies. Especially to her. He knew better- he saw what happened. He didn't intend to end up like that kobold. Notably, kobold barbaque- not as appetizing as it sounds.

He hops over a boulder, using a branch to break his fall as he rolls over his shoulder as he finally breaks out of the woods after a long, uneventful walk. Being the son of a dragon, most predators simply smelled his mother on him, and avoided him. Like the plague- and no goblin, orc, or gnoll stalked in this forest. Haevornix the Evil Slayer, Haevornix Evil's Bane, Haevornix this, Haevornix That- bah. She made sure no such evil denizen was within a mile of her cave, and further out if she were feeling 'motivated.' Myron reminisced all the titles his mother was bestowed by the ass-licking clergy of Tyr and Helm for her 'dutiful service' in protecting the 'light of justice.' Myron didn't care for the fight of good versus evil- a struggle that encompassed much of his mother's life as a Gold Dragon, instinctually valuing the Tyranny of Law and the pedantic nosiness of being 'good,' and meddling in the affairs of others. Something that- while being mildly appreciative, firmly decided wasn't meant for him- as he frankly could care less about others unless they so happened to effect him.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, he mused. A fair maiden in need of rescue? A wealthy merchant offering a reward? A wealthy merchant in dire straits in need of rescue also worked- but it was a plus if she was ...well, developed to say the least. Yes- a rich, well-to-do woman who is hard working and would care for him the rest of his days. A broad, imaginative grin touched his visage as he ambles through the grass land towards the nearest road he knew as he imagined the parties- the horses, the pageantry. He enjoyed dressing up in stylish outfits, and yes- they'd all be pink, if for no better reason than it'd piss off his mother. See mom? I can be successful- I just need to find a hard working wife.

Spotting the sun in the sky, he guessed he roughly walked a couple miles. He made a mental note that the next time he visited mom- whenever she gave him permission to visit again, to thank her for the boots. They were very comfortable as he sat down to make camp. Bags of holding sure came in handy when your tent was almost as large as an inn room, and you practically carried a feast with you.


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.

Log in to comment
Log In

No one has commented yet. Be the first!