| You run into the cave.
It's dark -- caves were very dark in the Dark Ages -- and you pull out
your flashlight -- no wait, we've been through that -- and then you pull
out your matches -- no wait, they aren't invented yet, either -- and then
you pull out the already-lit torch that you've kept smoldering in your
vest pocket ever since you bought it in a gift store back in St. Ives.
Then you smack into the end of the cave. The dragon sticks its long neck in, puffing billows of black smoke out of its saucer-sized nostrils. "Ouch!" the dragon says, wincing at the sight of you reeling back from your collision with the cave wall. "That must have hurt! Nothing broken, I hope?" You rub your forehead. "No, I don't think so." "Good," the dragon says. "I hate picking bone splinters out of my food!" "Grrrr," you say, words failing. You stride toward the dragon. |