“It was the dead of night. It was the time in the night when innocent babes began their impetuous cries for their mother’s teat. It was the time of night when scoundrels were being thrown from taverns, when vermin cut purses, and when savages slit throats. It was the time of night when, after the candles were out, and the moon’s light had no hole to peak through, your hand would disappear before your very face. It was the absolute dead of night.
First, there were only cries. It began tersely and without much-ado, in a small farmhouse down the road from the town. Soon all the cries were gone and everyone could pretend like they never heard it. Until there was another cry, one of warning. And it was full of fear and a childlike sense of helplessness. A young boy, hardly dressed, fell into a mud puddle as he threw himself from the dark backdrop of the world outside the castle walls, and into the town center. I saw him because I was hooked into a stockade, my head to be the Governor’s by sunrise.
The boy bawled for a while as he cradled himself in the empty market square, huddled against a brick well. In moments his cries would be only wishful memories for me and everyone else who lived through the coming assault. There was a single high-pitched scream which fell from the mountain near the town and washed over it like a tsunami of fear. I shuddered in my stockade home. That was the last warning anyone had of the terror to come, not that it was ever meant to be one.
I heard it’s wings expand over the church behind me, like scaled masts, and then it’s telling inhale. I couldn’t hear it’s exhale, as the ground before me, along with the boy, was drenched in a liquid fire. Stalls caught flame along with an inn which sat beside the market square. The heat over my head was like nothing I’d ever felt before in my life. The guard which was posted to watch me began running for the castle, just to the north of the church. That was when the beast behind me, now done with it’s initial blast of flames, settled itself among the ancient stonework of the church. I got to work on freeing myself with the utmost haste. I could hear the magnificent lungs of the beast suck in, and let out air with a fearsome growl. It’s claws worked to allow it a comfortable perch on the church roof. My lockpick, which I’d taken incredible pains to hide, worked, and I was free. I stumbled forward to the half-emblazed market square and turned, my curiosity winning against my better senses.
It was the dead of night, as I say, and the moon was half away. I could only see the slightest of details, but I could say a few important notes. There were spines all about his body, along his limbs and back, and his scales were impossibly reflective, so much so that I could not describe it with such innocuous vernacular. The beast dwarfed the cathedral by half it’s height, and it crushed the holy roof under it’s weight. And I, nearly spellstopped, managed to dive into the stone well behind me as the creature began it’s fiery judgment all over again. I hid in the murky oubliette for the rest of the night as the demon above laid waste to the town I’d known since childhood. I could sometimes see the leathery flying form if it’d glide just overhead.
Despite the terrified screams and frightened sobs above I might have been able to convince myself that there was some kind of a festival going on.”
-Translated from an account given by Peter Bolivar, 1666

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