I Swear I Saw A Dragon

Title: I Swear I Saw A Dragon
Time Period: April 21, 135 A.E.
Characters Appearing:

Summary: A party gets one hell of a crasher…

With spring comes the traveling merchants. And with traveling merchants come an influx of fresh faces into Dornie. But it gives people a reason to drink and laugh and catch up with the friends they haven't seen since the winter snows set it and made travel all but impossible. Tonight, among some tents just outside of town, a certain merchant has been treating a small party to drinks.

Nonie Lamont isn't an unfamiliar face, and most know her as the public face for the famous Buchanan magic toys. There are a few new ones already floating around the children of Dornie. But tonight, it's the adults time, and she's bought a generous amount of alcohol from the local brewers. And it seems most people are already dipping in a little too far. But. Sometimes it's a good day for a drink and a laugh with old friends.

After hearing about the magical trees attacking Sorcha and other townsmen, Niall joins in the ranks of those who have taken it upon themselves to help out the seamstress. Be it for small favors or, in Niall's case, just some mending to be done to a couple shirts, it's no big deal for him to show up at her doorstep with a cordial invitation to join in with the frivolity brought by the arrival of the merchants. "There's bound to be something good," promised Niall. And wouldn't you know it, there's Nonie Lamont offering quite the amount of booze to loosen up the adults. Somewhere off to a distance would be Niall's familiar in his typical fashion, Stands-Fast. The kyloe bull grazes independently, guarding the small cart typically pulled along for Niall's market outings. Tonight though, just a mode of transport.

"I've brought ye another pint," says the blacksmith as he offers an overflowing mug to the woman. "This one's got a hint of some kind of fruit, says the brewmaster. But you know, I don't taste it."

"That is because your palate is dead from all the bland and bad food you eat" Sorcha's had one and a half already and with the second, she's gone past gloomy gus regarding the lack of husband still not coming in the harbor, her broken leg encased in plaster and already decorated with designs from the local children and is into happy. Glad that Niall dragged her over in his wagon. Though she still looks at any of the tree's they pass with sincere trepidation.

"Hey!" This to Noni. "Got any pretties in the cart of yours? Or fabrics?" Even as she clinks her pint against Niall, a drop spilling onto her skirt. For shame.

Nonie sits close enough to hear the shout in her direction, a pint of her own in hand. But she looks pretty steady still, despite the liquor. She turns from another merchant's attention, leaving him in a fit of laughter as she looks to Sorcha, "You know, I thought of you on the drive up." Her accent is an elegant English, and she taps the side of her glass for emphasis. "Some french silk I've held onto just in case you wanted first go at it. I'll bring it by tomo— well, maybe the day after tomorrow," she says with a chuckle. Tomorrow is probably going to be full of hangovers.

But the revelry is cut short as there's a scream off to the far side of the little party and some frantic running past them. But with the firelight and the dark sky overhead, it's hard to make out exactly what is over there, and whether or not it's just drunken shenanigans.

"Ay now, just beecause my home lacks a woman's touch doesn't mean I've let it go that much!" fires Niall back with a crooked teasing tone. He shakes his mug at Sorcha, the drink already more than half gone. He's not offended at all though, and instead drops himself beside the handicapped with a chuckle. The man casts his gaze towards Nonie as Sorcha calls to her. "When you get the chance t' drop by the forge, Nonie, I've also got some items that might tickle your fanc—" Niall's words cut off at the scream, but he like others has to squint through the firelight to follow the paths of others' gazes towards the supposed source.

"You know me too well Nonie!" Sorcha grins. She usually is one of the first to hit up the regular traders who come with some sort of fabric in serious yardage to harvest for her store. Sure, most people want practical stuff, but people still get married, still want to look pretty or have something nice. Hookers and Dovetail workers still need to flaunt the flesh. She knows exactly who will be fawning over the silk. Mind you, her mind had suddenly diverted from the potential silk to the potential danger that lurks in the wake of the scream. Not again - She wants to yell - as she puts own her pint, grabbing wooden crutches and struggling to stand up. Not that she'll be running towards the sound. "Nonie? Niall?" Do either of you have a clue?

"I'm not sure…" Nonie glances in the direction of the scream, but her attention shifts to the others around. To those too far gone to run. Or stand. She rushes over to one of the other merchants, his cheeks fat and red and his fingers still curled around the handle of his glass. But otherwise, he's out. She goes about trying to get him up while the shape in the darkness looms a little closer.

Sorcha's fears are realized when a breath of fire billows out of a dragon's mouth, illuminating just enough of his scaly face and long neck to encourage others to start to run. Of course, Sorcha has the problem of her leg keeping her from making an exit. Sadly most of the others seem concerned with their own safety.

Where the first seconds pass, Niall remains sitting. Come the sight of fire and the dragon attached behind it, though, the blacksmith bolts back up to his feet with speed contrary to the amount of liquor in the man. And him with his cart out of ready reach. "Get yourself away from here quick as you can, Sorcha," he says with surprising calm to the injured seamstress, "Get to the field, before the bullets start flying." And dragons. Niall briefly looks past Sorcha to the field where Stands-Fast has now come to the edge of, the bull snorting with covered eyes turned towards the dragon as well. "I won't go swearing the town has been cursed just yet," he mutters, heading against his advice to help Nonie with the unconscious townsfolk.

As if she'd make it. Crutches, casted leg, hobbling across a field. She's a snack, with an after snack toothpick. But that doesn't stop her from nodding her head in fear to Niall. She gets them up under her arms, pint forgotten, put the side and starts off just that, working hard to start getting a little speed on.

With Niall's help, Nonie gets her drunken friend up to his feet, and she takes most of his weight on herself. "I've got him. Niall." She looks toward Sorcha, but doesn't waste much more time in dragging the jolly fellow off out of the field.

And it's just in time, too, as that dragon strides forward, great hind legs carrying it into better view, as talons dig into the soil. And it seems to realize that Sorcha is the easy prey, turning her direction and rearing up to breathe fire dangerously in her direction. Especially given how hard it is for her to maneuver.

Just as well that Nonie points Niall back towards his original drinking partner, because the sight of the dragon headed towards struggling Sorcha sparks a long gout of flame bursting out from one of the lit torches surrounding the merchant party area. The blacksmith's hand is what seems to be directing the fire, sending the fireball targeting towards the dragon's backside. "Oi! You overgrown lizard, over here!" he yells out in hopes of serving as the distraction for now. Meanwhile, Stands-Fast starts lumbering across the field as well and without the cart dragging behind him the bull is significantly speedier.

See. Toothpick with a snack. Sorcha can feel something looming behind her, that niggling in your brain that tells you shit's coming down the rainpipe and you're right in the way. At this rate, it'll be unlikely to get the woman outside of the town after this. Niall is yelling, and others are scattering to the wind, and Sorcha does just the same with a hope that she can move faster than the dragons breath can move, dodgin/careening to the side at the last minute in hopes that if it does open up a gout of flame, it'll be where she last was heading.

The fire hitting its rear end makes the dragon rear back and let out an angry howl toward the sky. Out at the line of buildings at the edge of this field, townsfolk can be seen watching the events unfold, most with fear, but there are a few little kids cheering as Niall tosses his own fireball.

Luckily, it means that Sorcha has time to dodge before that bout of flame licks out over the field, although the tents and the cart holding all that alcohol aren't so lucky. It also succeeds in the dragon looking at Niall as it settles back down again.

"Tha's right ye scale-faced tongue-flicker, come on this way," Niall taunts. His hand guides another stream of flames towards the face of the dragon this time, encouraged up from the dragon's own firey breath setting things alight. As things heat up, Stands-Fast beelines his way to the seamstress' side and slows to a halt. The bull tosses his large horned head in an almost sentience-worthy suggestion. Get up - if you can.


Her life of late has involved involuntary and voluntary dealing with them, in which she would frankly rather not. Chalk it up to some real mean assholes when she was growing up, and some cruel use of their familiars. It takes just a moment though, for the brunette to quickly decide that in this moment, getting up onto it's would be far preferrable, to getting fried by a dragon. "Niall!" She bellows, once she's wriggled her way up. Crutches are left behind in the grass, someone else cna come fetch them if they're still there in the morning.

Sorcha gets up, but the familiar's path is quickly blocked by flames eating up the rough fabric of the tents and the wooden poles, and it becomes a matter of running through the fire or trying to sneak past the dragon.

But at least the dragon is preoccupied. It dances around on its feet, wings opening wide as jaws part to make a show of teeth that look… less than friendly. Mage mage and fiery beast square off, but the creature opts to lunge in to simply try to grab at him with his fangs.

The flames licking along the area and surrounding Stands-Fast's way out seems to perturb the familiar almost for a good half-minute. The creature lowers his head with a snort, pawing the dirt with a hoof in preparation for what has to be the start of an intended charge through the flames. Hope Sorcha's ready!

Niall ducks and bobs around the dragon as well without any intention of simply standing still waiting for those two jaws to clamp themselves over him. As the teeth get a little too close for comfort, Niall grabs a nearly empty pintglass and throws it at the dragon's head, following it up with a screw-fireball. Someone has no clean tactics when it comes to fighting honorably, for sure. But at this point, it's unclear of whether or not the blacksmith has tactics at all…

Sorcha's laying down flat as she can, molding as much of herself to the great ox's body and arms wrapped as around his neck as she possibly can, knowing full well what he has to do. "Better move it fast, and tell your owner to get a move on too before he becomes dragon meat" Hopefully the militia have seen the antics from afar and will be moving in.

The metal of the cup hits against the dragon's eye and it yelps and rears back. But as the fire is throw its way, it fires right back at the mage. Flame and dragon roar together and it's a little too close to dodge, but it's an all too familiar element to the blacksmith.

As for Sorcha, as she and the familiar leap through the flames, she can, indeed, see the militia moving into the area. Guns are accompanied by more primitive weapons like spears, something to fall back on in case they can't break through the scaled armor with bullets.

Charging through the embers, Stands-Fast isn't the smoothest ride but the familiar has a purposeful stride rather than the blind charge of an animal. Nevermind the mop of long fur that covers the bull's eyes. Inertia is a little more difficult a force to deal with though, and it takes the familiar a bit to come to a stop well away from the immediate danger of the dragon. An feathered ear twists back to train on Sorcha as the beast pants loudly, checking on the woman clinging behind. The other ear sweeps to the pack of militia headed towards the field where (Sir) Niall battles for his life.

Speaking of the smithy, Niall shields himself as best he can when the firebreath comes roaring down to him. Though he turns away as soon as his reflexes manage, the initial blast engulfs the most of him and he hits the dirt rolling. No counter right now, as the man fights the brutal heat searing a fair portion of his exposed skin and clothes. Poor Sorcha's going to have her work cut out for her if he asks her to mend these.

It's not all bad, though. As Niall hits ground and the dragon opens its mouth to leeeeean down and scoop him up, the action is halted by one particularly well aimed shot from the militia volley.

At least they waited until he was down.

A bullet slams through the beasts eye, and it squeals and roars as it dances backward. Both Sorcha and Niall get to watch the soldiers stomp past them, one after the other, to make sure they bring the beast down. Others from the town swoop in soon after to deal with the flames. Nonie, notably, rushes to put out the flames endangering her amble liquor supply. The good news is, with it saved, the party is likely to pick up again.

The good thing about fire magic? It's handy with heat as well. Once you're not completely distracted by actually being on fire, that is. Niall coughs out, afterwards trying to suck in some much needed oxygen. When he sees the teeth coming down, though, it's a quick gasp and tuck and roll. Saved by the cavalrymilitia, ahem Niall lays where he is until the dragon is brought to heel. Or killed. He's not particularly concerned with the outcome, just so long as he's whole. And what do you know! Though he's a bit singed in places, and his shirt is fairly destroyed, the blacksmith is alive. With some pain, he levers himself up to a wavering stance and checks himself over. Oh well, it's not like he had much hair to begin with.