The Dragon.

[DoS Archive]

From: kaenetheblack@aol.com (Kaene the Black)
Date: 21 May 2002 00:34:41 EDT


The Dragon

~


"Broken? Broken?"

The large man emphasized that last word by slamming his fist on the desk, violently rattling a brass timepiece that balanced uncertainly upon its two slender legs. A gauntleted hand--studded, intricately engraved--breached the pyramid of light under the lamp and ever so gently touched the ornament, restoring its equilibrium.

"Yes, broken. Unavoidably." Raspy, like iron on gravel.

The admission came from the darkness of the small, smoke-filled room, from the remote corner that the sparse lamplight ignored.

"I wish you would sit down; you make me so damn nervous." The large man exhaled deeply and soberly puffed on his cigar, smeared some perspiration from his brow with his free hand. "And anyway, what use is a broken ark to me? Do you suggest that I box up the pieces and pawn it off as some novelty jigsaw puzzle?" Agitation as raw and pink as his smoke-stained eyes infected his voice. He puffed again; the cinders flared bright red for a moment.

No answer.

The large man's name was Dreiden Sinoa by birth, but he had earned the label "The Dragon" on the streets. He was as sharp and cunning as a dragon, with an appetite for tobacco that left him permanently reeking of smoke. He had appeared on the scene so long ago that men had forgotten whether the name had grown to fit him, or whether he had grown to fit the name. But it was a perfect match either way. He was known to be one of the worst people to
cross; his enemies often ended up supplying the wildlife in the local lakes with enough food to survive the bitter Winter season.

And then some, probably.

In this particular situation Sinoa found himself with a problem on his hands. In fact, he always had problems to take care of. But that's why he lasted so long--he could persevere. He liked to think of himself as a scientist of sorts: he identified a problem, then solved it. He had grown so apt at this that the procedure had become systematic, mechanical. He was a pro and, rightly, he was paid like one. A king's ransom in golden rings choked
his fat, stubby fingers. The jewelry shimmered brilliantly under the yellow lamplight as he lifted the cigar to his meaty lips.

"I forgot. Your sense of humor is as dead as your conscience." Bitter, like acid. But well spoken.

Though he usually solved problems under contract for others, Sinoa had taken on this job for himself. It involved a now-shattered ark: jewel encrusted, gold-trimmed, lined with ermine fur--the works. The ark's fragments were worth a veritable fortune in and of themselves, but intact the artifact had been priceless. Not only priceless in the monetary sense, but also--and more importantly--priceless in the political sense as well.

There was a shuffling in the darkness, then the sound of a door opening and shutting. The guest had left.

Sinoa sighed. As he had grown older he found his drive to meet these conflicts head-on had diminished. Why struggle with an illegitimate crime syndicate when politicians were more corrupt and profitable than any crime lord? He wouldn't admit it, of course, but he envied them. The envy had grown like a cancer in his heart; his soul was sick and black with this greedy desire. This ark had promised a way into that lifestyle, a cure for what ailed
him, but now that the treasure lay in ruins, his future did as well. He was too angry to rage, too despondent to lament, too tired to even care. He puffed at the cigar again.