Legion World Forums LEGION OUTPOST Bits o' Legionnaire Business Stacys Story - continued

I guess it's about time for another story.
Don't feel you have to read it just because I feel I have to write it.

Getting up to speed with Stacy:-

As told previously in 'Dragons'
http://www.legionworld.net/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic;f=2;t=000301 - Page 8 / 9
& 'Stacys Story'
http://www.legionworld.net/cgi-bin/ultimatebb.cgi?ubb=get_topic;f=2;t=000602:-


Officer Stacy Sheridan was the only survivor of the town of El Asticpants, destroyed by the deliberate explosion of the volcano El Veefourtwosix. This was traced back to the Legionworld Insurance Company.
A number of LMBPs had been sent along on a bogus rescue mission, to act as scapegoats, but had uncovered the truth.
During the rescue and subsequent escape, Stacy had unwittingly fallen in love with one of her rescuers, Numf-El, and he with her.
However, her subconscious had suppressed this little fact after Numf-El and his brother Sonnie Boy had both died during the final battle with evil metamorph Kaant.

Harbinger and Marvin had worked out from documents saved prior to the destruction of El Asticpants that Stacy was to be the beneficiary of a large number of wills, all tied in to the LIC. She became very, very rich indeed in the aftermath.

Having tried a large number of ways to get past the hollowness that she had been left with, Harbinger (long time friend to Numf-El & Sonnie, and sort of Ripley to Kaants Mother Alien) eventually suggested to her - after Stacys mental walls had collapsed, making her realise the depth of feelings that she had been hiding from herself - that she try her hand at something a little different ..........

(Please note - all colloquialisms, dialect and unique local flavour have been removed and sanitised so that Lardy can read it without getting jealous and feeling he's missing out on something, and can continue to believe that everyone speaks the Queens English.
Or maybe not.)

--------------------------


High in the Cairngorms in the middle of January is a very dangerous place to be. The wind whips past, sapping energy, dropping the temperature by another 15 degrees Celsius. Although it is by no means the highest range of mountains in Europe - in fact possibly because of this - there is a tendency to dismiss the inherent dangers involved in 'taking a walk through the hills'.

Packs of English schoolgirls in plimsols and cut off denim jackets were always being rescued with no maps, compasses, whistles, nor anything to protect them from the conditions but their youth.

Although mountain climbing in Scotland is more of the walk / scrabble variety than the rope and crampon type, still, anytime from September to June you are likely to encounter snow, ice, freezing fog etc. appearing from nowhere, as well as unstable paths leading to ravines. Stacy wouldn't be the first person to slip off the edge, break a leg and then be found dead three weeks later if she wasn't very careful where she tread.


Stacy Sheridan (she had finally managed to shed the 'Officer' title) had come to Scotland on the offer of a job.

But there had been a secondary reason for her acceptance. It was the place where the man that she had loved, only for the briefest of times, had been born and raised, and Stacy had been aching to find out more about the environment which had helped mould him. They hadn't had time to tell each other very many stories of themselves before he had been cruelly ripped from her side, literally. She had been planning on taking the trip one day, so when the present circumstances arose, well, how could she turn them down.

The two biggest ski resorts in the country had hired Stacy, after consulting her mentor, the world renowned Sir Richard Egglethorpe. The job was to recover their seasons after the preceding four weeks disasters. She was to hunt down and capture, or kill - they didn't mind which - what had become known as the Beast Of Glenshee. (The other resort had wanted it known as the Beast Of The Lecht, but the Scottish media had got in there first!)

Even though it was perfect skiing weather, the people had dried up. Not too many people were brave enough to go skiing when 32 of their peers had been plucked from the slopes in the last few weeks and, on at least one occasion eaten in front of their fellow skiers. By what eyewitnesses had described as a "chuffin' big white dragon!".

There were a few snow-boarders who had deemed it their mission in life to expose what they saw as the inherent weakness in the souls of their fellow slope users. But now that half a dozen of their fellow tokers had added themselves to official figures their overall bravado level had shrivelled up in much the same way as a scrotum being licked by the cold North Sea on an otherwise warm day. Or at least that was how it had been described to Stacy.

The media frenzy had brought out all manner of head cases and utter baw bags, chancers the lot of them, seeking reward and glory. Some had indeed come very close to the glory that they craved, instead getting their Warholian fifteen minutes of fame when their bones and Blair Witchesque digital testimonials were recovered.

Stacey, however, had done her research. Most of the details were already known to her from her apprenticeship, but it had done no harm returning to the books to confirm facts and remind her of other pertinent points.

The problem that the British dragon hunters had encountered was that the beast they sought was not an indigenous species. This was no wingless Dorset Knucker that hid down wells and ate young children and household pets. Nor was it a Moors Wyrm, two legged with wings, that ate mostly goats in Yorkshire. The Brits would have had no problems in dealing with these or indeed another dozen or so varieties, well versed as they were in capturing and killing the local species along with a number of common visitors.

No - this little beauty was a very rare sub-species of the common or garden European Dracos Magnus. The big cousin of the Frost Dragon. This was the 45 feet long Icelandic Ice Dragon.

One hundred and sixty feet in front of and above the cave lay Stacy. Doing surveillance in an unmarked police car with a flask of coffee and donuts had never been like this.
Unmoving in the snow for eight hours under a white sheet is enough to test anyone who isn't David Blaine or an eskimo.
Taking the chance while the dragon was sleeping, she had headed for the spot she had determined would meet her needs best.
She had even put on specialist breathing apparatus so that no waste vapour from her breath would give away her location. Instead it was recycled into the inner lining of the white daggerproof coat she wore. These ice dragons were experts at catching seals and walruses and could sense them from miles away. Therefore every precaution was taken. This was not a beast to be taken for granted.
The nose plugs served a secondary purpose too, blanking out most of the eau de dragon merde in the latrine area in front of her, which Stacy used to form a 'natural' blanket over her own smell.

She sensed the subtlest of movement at the entrance to the cave, but didn't even adjust the focus of her white contact lensed eyes, even through the white sheet, until she was certain that the dragon was not looking in her direction.

As the dragon slowly came out of the cave, sniffing, seeing, sensing its way out, Stacy could finally see what a magnificent specimen it was.
She had to pull her thoughts back - she couldn't think of it as a specimen, that way lay defeat. It was, for the moment an adversary, majestic in its beauty. Deadly and unforgiving in its predatory expertise. She dared not forget that, lest she ended up like the others.

Although mainly white, there were small touches of black, and shimmers of diamond blue in the scaly hide of the dragon, all the better for camouflage in the ice floes of it's native land. And those palest of yellow eyes.

Although known universally as the Icelandic Ice Dragon, it is a slight misnomer. It is indeed only a visitor to the volcanic island, coming originally from the frozen ice lands of the Arctic. With the loss of habitat and food due to global warming, there had been reports of sightings further afield than normal, but this was the first confirmed in the British Isles for over two centuries. No surprise then that the locals had no clue how to deal with it.

The great beast made to fly off, great white wings spread wide, eyes scanning the skies. It's great shoulder muscles flexed, beating the beasts wings powerfully, trying to find the uplift it needed to force it from the ground. On frozen days that was much more difficult even for dragons reared in the arctic. As the cold ground absorbs what little heat the sun is giving out, there is more of a downdraught than an uplift.

Beat - wings folded in the upward part of the beat, and then opened up again in time for the downward part.
Beat
Beat
Beat.

Stacy could both see and feel the speed and power increasing, as the front part of the great animal lifted off of the ground.
The powerful beating continued, until it is almost standing upright, and with one last, most powerful, beat it lifted entirely from the ground. For a few beats it almost hung in the air, before it managed to get the uplift it required to lift it slowly into the air.

It may only have been midday, but hunting was just as well done in daylight as it was at dusk. The prey in this area had not yet learned the true fear that came with having a dragon for a neighbour. They thought they are safe when the sun was out - they would soon learn that no time was safe. Not even the darkest moment of the darkest night.

There was a more than plentiful supply of food for the forseeable future.

As the great white dragon disappeared into the distance, Stacy stayed where she was. Tempting though it was, she knows that, peculiarly for this type of dragon, the beast will always circle its lair before it finally departs on its hunt. Just because she couldn't see it, it didn't mean that it couldn't see her. That is an error that people generally only make once.

After ten minutes she received a call on her mobile phone, set to vibrate silently.

She dids not speak, but merely listened for a few seconds, just in case it was not the call she was waiting for. She would hate to have been the first official instance of Death by Wrong Number.

Finally she said, "Thank you officer, that's a couple of shandys I'm owe you boys tonight," and closed her phone.

They would get more than that, but she wasn't exactly sure how to officially go about gifting public servants a new fleet of landrovers. And a couple of skidoos.
The bottles of 25 year old malt they would each be given personally, however. She remembered well what it was like to be on the beat, and how much it was appreciated when thanks were shown. Thanks rather than bribes - there was a difference. Appreciation of a job well done, rather than a reward for a job not done.

And anyway, now that she was no longer officially an officer of the law, it did no harm networking.

She moved now, slowly. Easing her joints, stretching and warming her muscles. She rehydrated herself with a still energy drink from her pocket.

Then she eased herself down to the beasts cave and wandered in. Quite deliberately, she picked her way through the animal remains to the area in which the great beast slept, where she dropped her trousers and 'did a Paula Radcliffe'.

There, that would get his attention.

Just a small number of days before .......

Bring Bring
Bring Bring

The door had eventually opened to the semi insistent ringing of the door bell.
Exposed in the space where the door had been was an elderly stooped gentleman, white of hair or at least what there was of it, large of girth, badly shaven. The eyebrows and nasal and ear hair seemed to have a life of their own. In fact those eyebrows looked like they could alter tides if they moved quickly.
He was wearing a shirt and tie as if he was going to be leaving for work any time soon. Even though it was half past four in the afternoon and he was wearing an old pair of badly worn slippers.

"Good afternoon Mr. Thomson, my name is...." she had started.

"I know very well who you are," he had said, deep and icily, with a big slice of ill hidden anger. He straightened his back and stood as tall as he could. Given the added step up into the house he managed to tower over Stacy. A look of contempt sprung to his eye and the start of a feral snarl crossed the corner of his lips.
In his eyes she saw the pride that she had assumed would be there, but she also saw a fierce need to protect what was his. Stacy guessed that what he really wanted to protect was the small elderly lady who was now entering the hallway behind him to see who was at the door.

Rather than confront him, Stacy took a step back. It did no harm to let him think he had the upper hand.

"You haven't stopped hounding us......"

"ooh, who is it Johnny?"

"It's some dolly bird, Pam. What bloody trashy glossy magazine are you from? Eh? Heat? Hello?" he asked, eyes open wide, daring an argument. "Not content with just intrusive photographs in the street any more, eh?" He almost spat as he spoke.

"I am incredibly sorry for interrupting you both. If I had know that I was going to be in the vicinity I would have phoned and made an appointment, but I have literally just arrived in Scotland less than an hour ago..."

"Not the National bloody Enquirer again, is it?" Johnny sneered viciously, obviously having noted the accent.

Stacy closed her eyes for a second and exhaled. "No Sir, it is not." she opened her eyes and looked him in the eye, and this time it was he that could see the hurt and anger in her eyes. "And I must apologise for the hurt that rag has brought your family - there was only so much that I could do to fight them, given our nations right of free speech."

Mr. Thomson was noticably taken aback. His eyes blinked repeatedly, and Stacy could practically see the gears changing and the cogs turning as he read the LMBP Associate Membership card that she held in front of him. "You're ... you're ...." he stammered, visibly deflating, the fight suddenly gone as the penny had dropped.

Behind him Pam dealt with things in her own way.
"ooh, come in love. Do you want a cup of tea? ooh, Johnny, close 't' door, you're letting a draught in."

Later, sitting waiting atop what passes for a mountain in these parts, memories of that cold day brought a smile to Stacys lips.

Sitting talking to Johnny and Pam about their boys. Hearing stories of their childhood, getting an insight into their development. Looking through old photograph albums, old report cards, laughing at memories retold. Cut out newspaper stories from the old days in a scrapbook.

"Did Numf tell you he was ado..."
"ooh, Johnny tell her about Sonnie...."
"Shut up woman - I'm talking ...."

And, in turn, telling them the truth about their sons deaths. They had heard most of it before, of course, because Harbinger was an old family friend and had not neglected them in the time of her own grief.

However, the smear campaign that had gone on ever since, the almost weekly 'exclusives' in the press - you can bet that none of these made the scrapbook - the jokes on Letterman, the insults in the street, etc. etc. etc. had obviously worn Johnny and Pam down. The Legionworld Insurance Company were indeed shit stirrers supreme.

Even as she had told them her side of the story, she could see the pride and love on their faces. By the time she had finished they were all red eyed, tears running silently off their chins. But Numf and Sonnies parents both had big vindicated smiles on their faces.
This wasn't Harbie, whom they loved almost as much as one of their own, and could be trusted to spare them hurt. This was a beautiful young woman who had come out of the blue, when she could just as easily have stayed away, to verify everything that they had been told. Someone who had been there. Someone who knew the truth. Someone who .....

" ..sniff.... Finish the story, love," said Pam.

"You know, don't you?" Stacy had replied, ready to burst into a fit of tears, but had instead smiled ruefully at Pams look of temporary omniscience. "It's true, I came to love your son in the brief time that I knew him. Did you see it in my eye or hear it in the way I spoke about him or something?"

"Well yes, but,...........Belinda told us," came the reply.

She stood up when she saw the great white dragon flying deliberately through the darkening skies in her direction, finishing off her memories with a wry smile. The Thomsons had promised to show her around some of Numf and Sonnies old haunts before she left. She looked forward to that, but she had work to do first. Shielding her eyes against the red glare reflected off the snow, she reached into her pocket and produced a pair of very expensive glasses, which she slipped into place. It would be dark very soon, so it was a judgement call whether she should put on sunglasses instead.

It took a full five minutes for the dragon to reach her. He didn't seem to be in a great hurry - no doubt scouting the area. Time in which she went over her plan in her mind.

Finally the great beast landed on the small flat plain slightly below her, dropping vertically from above. His vast scaly wings kicked up small snow flurries as they beat powerfully.
The mountain had been picked for a number of reasons, one of them being that it would afford the opportunity for them to be eye to eye.

He truly was a magnificent beast. Majestic. Beautiful. Mesmerising.
Dangerous.
And very, very angry.

"Small being. Before I eat you I wish to know why you insult me so," he said in perfect, though heavily accented, English.

Taking note of the accent Stacy replied, in just as perfect, and just as heavily accented, European Dragon, bowing slightly, "Please accept my most humble apologies for the misunderstanding, great King of Beasts. It was meant as a challenge in the way of Ancient and Royal Dragons, not as an insult. I did not believe that you would deem me worthy of your attention if I had but left you a mere slab of runes."
Dragons weren't best known for reading yellow sticky labels stuck to fridge doors.

The great dragon blinked slowly, the nictitating membranes clouding his eyes for a brief second behind the eyelid. But Stacy could see slightly less anger, and a lot more respect in his eyes when they had opened fully.

"I was unaware that our ways were known on this island. Who are you, and what gives you the right to challenge me?" asked the dragon.

"My name is Stacy of the Lumbee Tribe, but that is not relevant. What gives me the right, however, IS relevant - I am your better," she said, matter-of-factly, still in the language of the dragon. "The reasons that I challenge you are many. For now, however, all you need to know is that I want the killing of innocents to stop."

"For one of the lesser sex, you have balls," conceded the dragon. "As for humans ever being innocent, there we do not see eye to eye. Their raping of our world has damaged my homeland. More ice melts every year, and the days and nights are ever warmer. They kill the white bears and the wolves for their amusement. They eat all the fish, so the seals and walruses do not grow so large, and cannot sustain us as they once did. Hence must I travel afield to feed. And the pickings are rich here. Why then should I desist?"

"Do you wish to live beyond today? To see the rising of another sun?"

"You threaten me?" the dragon asked incredulously. "How about I just kill you where you stand, and leave your crow-picked bones for your friends to find?"

Stacy slowly and deliberately leaned out to get a view down at the underside of the base of his tail, making sure that he understood where she was looking.
Then she slowly leaned back up and regained eye contact. Shaking her head slightly she said, "Sorry, but they don't look big enough to me." She could see that had hit home, so continued quickly. "But come, I have granted you my name, will you not return the favour?"

The huge beast stretched its neck out so that it was almost nose to nose with Stacy. She was grateful for the fleecy undercoat, as the exhaled breath was chilly. She did not back away even an inch. In fact, it was what she had been waiting for. Unfortunately, the time was not right yet.

"Why not?" the dragon asked rhetorically. "Even humans should know the name of what brings their death. My name is Shadowchaser of the ......"

" .... of the Stormbringer Clan. My, what illustrious company I find myself in. The famous Shadowchaser. Surely it must be more than mere hunger that takes you so far from your clan?" hazarded Stacy. She found herself automatically speaking the way that her mentor spoke, using phrasing the way that he would.

"Very astute of you. But not something you should worry yourself about in the short time you have left," said Shadowchaser impatiently. "Let me get this straight. If I don't stop killing these humans, then what?"

"I will say this slowly, because I want there to be no more misunderstanding. I will kick your ass, cut off your balls and give you to Aberdeen Petting Zoo for the local children to play with."

"Hmmmmm," pondered the dragon for a brief second, before indicating behind Stacy with one claw and a slight nod of his head.
"And what of my brother?"

Stacys glasses were the height of chic. Designed in Paris, manufactured in titanium. Similar designs were only now being seen on the catwalks. Though few were as expensive as the pair she wore.

The biggest advantage, apart from the street cred, was the small camera secreted in the end of the left leg, which sent a wide angled feed to the HUD in the top left of her glasses . Stacy had commissioned them, along with a pair of sunglasses, when her mentor mentioned the fact that it was a shame that dragon experts couldn't be born with eyes in the back of their heads.

Therefore she had been well aware of the dragon which had appeared behind her ten seconds or so ago. Flying through the sky in their direction, it had then stalled, dropping silently towards Stacy like a Stuka, wings folded back to increase its speed, talons outstretched.

This fucked her plans six ways til Tuesday. She guessed she'd just have to improvise.

In front of her she could see a look of victorious glee in Shadowchasers eye. She shook her head slowly, not turning round as he had thought she must. This elicited a confused look from him in return.

A years training had led to this moment. A year of hard physical work, of mental exercises and spacial awareness - judging timing and distances - being to the fore.
A years monastic training. In Snowdonia. Not as high as the Cairngorm mountains, but just as barren.
Stacy had never even heard of Wales before she had arrived.

After the abuse she'd put her body and soul through previously*, a monastery was just what she had needed.
And Sir Richard had really worked her hard.

Self discipline had been the first thing she had been taught. She'd thought that the Police training of her youth had been hard. But there she hadn't had to build and clean her own latrines, shower in icy waterfalls, nor catch and prepare her own food without weapons of any kind. In those aspects it was more like the army - but they didn't normally have to learn to speak Dragon.


Now, at a snow covered munro called 'The Devils Point' she would find out if it had all been worthwhile.


*See "Stacy's Story" for more details.

As Stacy dived to her left she was only inches from the outstretched talons. She heard behind her the powerful beating of wings as the newly arrived sibling came to a sharp braking halt, and felt the disturbed snow swirl around her.

Completing a forward roll she turned around quickly. She was just in time to raise both arms in front of her to protect her head as she dropped to one knee.
Unlike their warmer cousins who famously used fire, and their smaller cousins who used frost and blasting cold to freeze their enemies and prey, these dragons sprayed ice. Sharp, hard, shards of ice the size of Tyrannosaurus teeth.
Hence the reason that Stacy had worn her daggerproof coat.
Although protecting her from the sharp points of the ice, and preventing the shards penetrating, it didn't stop the flying icicles hurting like hell. It was akin to being pummelled with fist sized pebbles. However, she had known ahead of this meeting that she would have to trade armour for speed. Though she had only been expecting to fight one dragon.

Tomorrow, she knew, would have to be spent in a warm bath with soothing ointments.

Twenty seconds later, though it had felt like hours to Stacy, both dragons stopped to draw breath and survey the destruction.
Their laughter died in their throats before it had fully started. Never before had either of them had to deal with what they found - a survivor.

Stacy stood, breathing a sharp sigh of relief. She spread her right arm out to the side and activated a mechanism in the right sleeve of her long white coat. A spring loaded blade the length of her forearm revealed itself.
"Now then boys, if that's how you want to play," she said, looking from one bewildered fizzog to the next and back again through hooded, angry eyes. "Who wants their gonads to play with first?"

She started walking, fire in her eyes, sneer on her face, towards them both. The crampons on her white size 4 (English) 36 hole Doc Marten boots crunched into the ice and snow, giving her purchase.

She could see in Shadowchasers demeanour as he took a step backwards that realisation had finally dawned - this was not going to be an easy snack after all.

She moved faster then, legs powering, adrenalin driving her. Even with the crampons it was difficult to get up any great speed due to the shale and large pebbles under the snow and ice, which made up the crest of the mountain.

"We do not fear your shiny metal fang," said Shadowchasers brother, before taking a great intake of breath.

"Well you bloody well should," said Stacy to herself, as she dived behind a small cairn to protect herself from the hail of icicles fired her way.
"What's your name?" she shouted in the dragons native language.

"Why do you ask?" asked Shadowchaser, since his brother was too busy trying to kill the human.

"So that I know what to write on the plaque next to his mounted head!" Stacy replied, goading on the smaller dragon.

No-one knew why the cairns had been built all over Scotland - they were generally smaller than a mans height, a rough column or cone of roughly hand sized stones fitted together without need of mortar. Some thought they were there to appease the gods - a payment for allowing men onto their summits. At this moment Stacy didn't care too much why they were there - she was just glad of their shelter.

A smile crossed Stacys lips as the angered dragon tried harder to blast her to death with his angry frozen breath. This was her first real test against real live pissed-off dragons, and she had to admit that she was enjoying it. What a buzz it gave her!
A small number of stones were being blasted off of the cairn - with a bit of luck that would keep the gods on her side.

She knew that if Shadowchaser had any brains then he would be circling the cairn to catch her exposed side when his brother ceased the ice volley. She had to move soon.

Covering her head once more, she braced herself. She counted to herself, "..fifteen, sixteen, ...."

She exploded out from her cover straight into the full force of the ice spray. Once again her coat protected her from the shards of ice, but not from the force. It was only sheer willpower and self-belief that kept her going.

"...nineteen, twe ..."
Just as she had predicted, the ice stopped. She nearly unbalanced, but luck as much as anything kept her on her feet.
It was worth it just to see the look on the dragons face when she suddenly appeared, moving at speed, only three feet in front of him.

As he moved back instinctively she leapt, but not at his head as he had thought she would. Instead, she slashed downward at the wing membrane nearest his body. Her blade cut through the scaled flesh like a hot knife through butter, elliciting a scream of confusion, pain and fury from the dragon that Stacy found oddly satisfying. "Gotcha."
He wouldn't be flying anywhere for a while.

Stacy had been correct about Shadowchasers tactics. However, he was now out of position, and she quickly had his brothers body between them effectively blocking any attack from him.

The smaller dragons tail was thicker than Stacys body at the base, and shaped like a flat arrowhead the length of Stacys forearm at the point. And it whipped very quickly.

Stacy had to drop to the ground to avoid it, but this gave her the opportunity to slash across the tendons at the back of the dragons rear leg.

The sliced wing had been to disable the flight abilities, whereas this stroke severely hampered the ability for the dragon to move on the ground. And it hurt. As the smaller dragon let known when it bellowed in pain.

"Scared of my fang now, Cloudskimmer?" shouted Stacy, showing both dragons that she knew a lot more about them than they had assumed. Not only had she knowledge of their clan members, but possibly dragon politics too. And she knew how to hurt dragons.

"Shut up 'Skimmer! How can this be?" asked Shadowchaser. "All dragons know that no human metal can hurt them! What magic is this? An enchanted fang?"
He circled back around towards his brother, trying to catch a clear shot at Stacy.

Stacy was trying to keep the smaller dragon between herself and Shadowchaser. Cloudskimmer was trying to get off the ground, a natural response to attack at ground level. However he had not fully realised the damage that had been done by Stacys sword stroke. Being unable to bear his weight on one of his hind legs didn't help his attempt either. His wings were beating up and down, his heart pumping blood by the gallon, the torn wing spraying arterial blood over the snow-whitened boulders. The adrenalin coursing through his great body disguised the damage that had been done.

Crouching low now, Stacy dodged back and fore, keeping one eye on the larger of the dragons and using her training and instincts to dodge the movements of the smaller dragon, especially the whipping tail.

One Year Previous

Stacy stood nervously outside the doorway to a shop that she hoped would help her on her journey. In a dark Victorian mall just off Regent Street in London, England. Windows framed in black wrought iron, flaking hand-painted signs, shops the size of her shower cabinet back home. And smaller.

The mosaic floor of the mall was slick with melted snow. The twinkling colour from the Xmas decorations in Regent Street reflected in the puddles. The twenty degree wind cut through the mall uninvited, swirling snowflakes from outside. If it hadn't been for the semi-constant pedestrian traffic the place would have been an ice-rink.

It may have been almost 4pm in reality, but it felt like either 6am or 10pm. Stacy couldn't make up her mind - jet lag had screwed up her internal body clock, and the fact that you only got about 6 hours a day of 'daylight' here meant that it was dark outside already.

Stacy checked once more the business card in her hand. "Myrddin Manuscripts" was embossed in gold leaf, with the address below in smaller script. Oddly there was no phone number, email address nor website on the card.
She pushed open the sticky door and walked in. A small bell tinkled to acknowledge her entrance.
She stood just inside, mouth agape, staring at the shop that she had entered. She thought that shops like this only existed in the mind of JK Rowling, or in old films like 84 Charing Cross Road.

The whole place was brown, with the odd touches of gold and oxblood red. The floorboards were at least clean, although they were well worn along the most often walked areas. The original dark brown staining could be seen in the vicinity nearest the bookcases. The lighting looked like it was produced by candles, or gas fittings.
The bookshelves obviously hadn't been dusted in a very long time.

Stacy stepped tentatively forward.

"Ahem", came a polite cough from behind a pillar to her left.

"Oh, hello," said Stacy, leaning forward sligghtly to peer round the pillar, and seeing only the shape of a tall dark shadow in the dusky alcove. "I didn't see you there."

"Would you be an absolute dahling and close the door behind you so that the wet doesn't get in?" said the deep plummy voice of the beshadowed shape.

"Sorry," said Stacy, as she turned to close the door. Not only did it keep the wet out, but the noise from the traffic outside practically muted.

In the short time that it took Stacy to turn back, the shadow had stepped forward from behind the pillar, and now stood, towering over her. Stacy had expected a Peter Cushing or Vincent Price figure, based on the size and voice. What stood there instead gave her a bit of a surprise.

Instead of the dark sombre old creepy codger that her mind had persuaded her would run this establishment, before her now stood a tall, muscular, youngish, handsome blonde man, who looked like he should have been surfing on Bondi beach. Or at the very least modelling swimming costumes .......
His long slicked back hair was tied in a ponytail. He wore a crisp white shirt and three colour Spiderman tie beneath his dark charcoal Saville Row bespoke pinstripe three piece suit. With a pair of hand-crafted black brogues.
Stacys eyes couldn't help going on a tour.

"I'm sorry Ma'am, is everything alright? I could have sworn that I just heard you sigh?", asked the man.

Stacy could have sworn that she detected a glint of delightful wickedness in his eye. There was a restrained feeling of predator. But a predator that was playing, not hunting.

Stacy found herself having to swallow the gallon of saliva in her mouth before she could answer. And she

just knew that she was starting to blush. Like a little schoolgirl. Caught.
Damn, so much for trying to look sophisticated!

She closed her eyes and inhaled to try to regain her composure. When she opened them again she caught a naughty twitch at the corner of his mouth.

She turned around and grabbed the door handle. Swinging the door open she said ,"I'll just go out and come back in, and we can start again, shall I?"

"I wouldn't recommend that course of action if I were you, Ma'am," said the sculpted figure behind her, very seriously.

The tone of his voice made Stacy turn back again sharply. "Why not?" she asked.

"You only get one attempt," the Adonis figure said. "When you leave here you will not be able to find us again, unless you obtain another invitation."

"Won't be able to find you without an invitation? What are you talking about?" Stacy asked - shooting the man a look which implied that he was metaphorically trying to fit her with a catheter.

"You do have an invitation, don't you?" the man asked.

"All I've got is this business card," Stacy replied, handing it over.

"Yes, I'm afraid that they're not as elaborate as they used to be back in the 14th and 15th," he said, looking at the card.

"Fourteenth and..?" Stacy enquired, not quite sure that she had understood properly.

"Yes, centuries. This establishment has been 'around' for a very long time," said the shopkeeper.
"This one," he said, indicating the card he still held in his hand, "was, I believe, given to a very powerful magician who sometimes goes by the name 'Stu-Rat'."

"Ah, so that's who Harbi got it from!" Stacy nodded her head to herself. She had wondered.The shopkeeper obviously knew that name also.

"So, madam, friend of the lovely Harbinger and aquaintance of the mighty Stu-Rat, how may we be of
service?"

"Put the filly down Arthur, you don't know where she's been!" said a voice from the back of the shop in a strange lilting accent that Stacy couldn't place. But then, there were so many new accents and dialects around that she knew she definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore.

Under his breath Arthur muttered, "You'd think he owned the .... well, I suppose he does really."
This time it was his turn to blush. "I'm terribly sorry about that, ma'am. But he's becoming very rude in his old age."

"I heard that! I may be a cantankerous old bastard, but I'm not deaf! And don't feel that you have the right to apologise for me! So, what does she want? And hurry up about it - you know that wench of yours doesn't like to be kept waiting! For anybody, let alone another wench!"

Tempting though it was to let Arthur have to compose himself whilst turning more red with embarrassment, Stacy instead answered the question. Speaking loudly enough so that she was heard in the back of the shop she said ,"Tell the cantankerous old bastard that I'm here searching for information on dragons."

"Tell the pea-brained strumpet that she's wasting our time - she can get story books from Ottakers on Oxford Street. Just up the road and turn left. Tell her to bugger off and let us be on our way."

Arthur caught the look in Stacys eye and backed slightly away so that he wouldn't be caught in the crossfire. Stacy stepped forward slowly and deliberately into the space vacated. She spoke slowly. "Tell the old scrote," she wasn't sure what it meant, but it was a term she had heard Numf use, "that if this pea-brained strumpet had wanted story books then she would have gone to Ottokars. But instead she's looking for instruction manuals. And she had it on good authority that this would be her best bet. 'A bookstore filled to the brim with unparalleled knowledge' she was told. But obviously she was given a bum steer. "

Perhaps it was the cold and damp and jet lag getting to her, but at the moment she was in the mood for an argument.

"Tell the brazen hussy that 'Eragon' is being sold in the 3 for 2 sale and that there are a couple of chapters of 'Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire' that should satisfy her curiosity. They're both to be found in the childrens section," came the reply, emphasising the word 'children'. "Women and dragons, that's a laugh!" was barely, but deliberately, audible.

"Tell the old donkey fondler that I am looking for the original copy of 'Dragonometry - The Art Of Dragons'. And a copy will not be acceptable," Stacy stated acidly.

"Oh my, I've sorely misjudged our mystery shopper. Maybe she can read, after all," came the sarcastic reply. "However, no matter how pretty the pictures may be, there aren't any secrets hidden in the margins, nor between glued together pages. She won't learn anything new from the original that she didn't learn from her own copy. "

"How the ..???"

"Gotcha!" said the owner of the voice, as he stepped out from the back room.
Here, at last, was the dark, sombre old creepy codger that she had imagined running the shop.
Wizened seemed to sum him up. Long unkempt grey hair, long pleated goatee beard. Sun and wind worn leathery face. Lacking a goodly number of teeth. Slightly mad looking eyes. Long dirty broken finger nails.
Looked a bit like she would imagine a totally perverted Gandalf.
She imagined that she could smell him from where he stood.

Strike that. She could smell him.
Pickled onions ...and ..... sour milk. Yech!

Quality Kenny, pure quality!
As ever I love your prose and characterisations.
More, more, more!

Many Thanks, B - you're always so supportive of my work - it's really appreciated.
Big hugs!
Hopefully we'll see you soon. x

-------------------------------------

Once upon a time her daddy had bought her a book about dragons. It was a book filled with wonder. Tales of romance and adventure. Pictures of unbridalled beauty. As well as information about the capture and training of dragons. At the time she had thought that it was just a story book.

It was one of her favourite childhood possessions, one of the very few items that she had kept with her as she had grown up and left home. She had believed in the dragons in the book as a child. Believed that they really existed. Even when logic and grown up cynicism had been drummed into her she had still believed, deep down, that these magical, mythical dragons were real. Even though the world around her denied their existence.

What she didn't know, however was that this was not a common book. There were only ever three copies in the entire world. And now there were only two.

Still very confused, but trying her best not to show it, nor her disgust at the fetid smells arising from the man, she stated for the record, "You must be Mr. Myrddin." She stepped forward with her hand out, in the age old greeting. " I'm ...."

"Oh, I know who you are, Mizzzz Sheridan. I may run an ancient book shop, but I still occassionally pick up the funny papers," came the reply, whilst steadfastly ignoring the proferred hand. "Now, you said something of import - you, you, you," he stammered slowly, "called me a 'donkey fondler.'" He started to hyperventilate, great convultions started to wrack his body.

Stacy turned to face Arthur. "What's up with him? Is he having a fit? Heart attack? Where's his medicine?" When, strangely, she got no reply from him more than a slight shrug of the shoulder, she turned back to the strange old man.
"I'm sorry - I didn't mean any harm - I ......" she blustered.

He took three deeper than previous breaths, seeming to reach a point of saturation, and then he exploded.

"BWAhhahahahahahahah!!!!!!" he laughed with every cell in his body. He hugged his sides, curling into a foetal ball, and sliding to the floor. ".....donkey fondler ..... bwah ....ha.....ha !"

Stacy looked on in amazement.

After a goodly thirty seconds of uncontrollable laughter, the convulsing abated, and he sat up to expose two rivers of tears running down his cheeks. He sniffed.
He tried, not very successfully, to compose himself. In fact, he sniggered on and off for the next few minutes.

Arthur stepped past the gobsmacked Stacy and offered his hand to his boss. "Get up you old fart," he said, with a great deal of respect and love in his voice.

"See? That's as much in the realms of verbal sparring as I ever get around here. He may be good for reaching books on the top shelf, but not for anything requiring intellect," Myrddin sneered as he was picked up off the floor. "And most people who come in here just don't have the chutzpahs to insult me like that. Pity."

He sighed.

"So, dragons you say ...."

------------------------

"Dragons - one of my favourite subjects, actually. I think that I actually wrote the first book on the subject..... Not nearly as good as some of the ones that came later, but then, they all stole from me anyway. Just with prettier pictures. I'll tell you what - I don't actually happen to have the original, but, assuming that yours was destroyed along with your mountain home, I do have the only other copy. Just give me a minute." And so saying, Myrddin wandered back to the room at the rear of the shop.

"Can I offer you anything?" asked Arthur.

Stacy gave him a what-are-you-after stare.
"No, I meant, may I get you a cup of tea or something while you're waiting?" he blushed.
"Coffee, cream no sugar please." She hadn't got the hang of Tetleys yet.
"Okay, I'll be back soon - feel free to look around," said Arthur, turning his back and following Myrddin to the rear of the shop.

And she did - picking up books in Greek, heiroglyphics, a signed copy of Magick Book 4, early sketches by Da Vinci, and various others.
Then she noticed something glinting atop a bookcase. It was a leather helmet, the kind worn by knights before the advent of full body armour. Interwoven into it were golden circlets. "Wow", said Stacy, searching around for other artifacts above her.
And she found a few.
A great rams horn, complete with mouth piece.
A scabbarded sword, that looked as if it had been made yesterday such was the glint on its blade. The word Albion was etched into the flat of the blade in an ancient font.
A wooden box containing Otto Von Bismarks duelling pistols.
A fencing sword with the monogram CDB on the handle.
A white shield with a red cross on it, and next to that a 12 foot long lance, with the wickedest barbed point on it. A real killing implement. That one didn't take any prisoners.

"Hey, I like that lance - a lot!" Stacy said to no-one in particular.

The last thing she expected was for Arthur to come charging out from the room at the back like a bear, threatening to kill the motherfucker.
Okay, perhaps not quite the last thing that she expected. Her skin turning yellow and purple diagonal stripes was probably THE last thing she expected, but it was quite far up the list, though not quite as high as, say, talking dinosaurs in pinstripe suits sauntering into the shop and asking if they had the latest Barney annual. You get the picture, I hope. She was pretty surprised.

"Just like Pavlovs dog!" Myrddin said, appearing at the door shaking his head.

"Is that the one that ate the meringue?" asked Stacy, having a blonde moment, though she did know slightly more about desserts than psychoanalysis.

"No, it's the one in the HMV adverts."

"Oh. How do you know his owners name then? And what's he got to do with Arthur?"

"That's young Georges lance, you know," said the old man.

"George .... Pavlov? The man who owns the dog?" asked Stacy, getting more and more flustered.

"No - forget the fucking dog. George. He's well known in these parts, as the patron saint of England. St George is still venerated in a large number of places, by followers of particular occupations and sufferers from certain diseases. George is the patron saint of Aragon, Catalonia, Georgia, Lithuania, Palestine, Portugal, Germany and Greece; and of Moscow, Istanbul, Genoa and Venice (second to St Mark). He is patron of soldiers, cavalry and chivalry; of farmers and field workers, Boy Scouts and butchers; of horses, riders and saddlers; and of sufferers from leprosy, plague and syphilis. He is particularly the patron saint of archers, which is strange considering that he is most known for using that very lance you see before you to slay a dragon and save the life of a fair maiden."

"Oh, that George."

"Truth be told, it's actually a load of shite. That's the story for the tourists. More lies perpetuated by the Christians. But what he actually was, was a Roman soldier who was decapitated for complaining about the persecution of Christians, and a whole host of legends has arisen around him ."

"So, you mean it's a fake?" asked Stacy.

Myrddin nodded slowly.

"So why do you keep it?" she asked.

"It is a genuine lance, and has killed many a rider in battle - it just wasn't St. Georges." Myrddin leant forward and whispered in her ear, "I've been hoping for a long time that someone would say just exactly what you just said." He continued before Stacy could utter the Huuh? that was forming in her head, "Cos I'm just a nasty old bugger sometimes, and I need these small things to brighten up my interminally long days."

"Anyway - dragons. How urgent is your quest for knowledge?" asked Myrddin.

"Well, I think it's more of a calling than a quest," answered Stacy as honestly as she could. "I feel the need to find out all that there is to know about them. So I thought I'd start with a copy of the book that I knew, but I couldn't for the life of me find one, which is how I found my way here. But you knew that, didn't you?"

"And this has something to do with your man friend, doesn't it. And your fight with the metamorph," stated the old man, ignoring the question..

"Well ......"

"Now, search your soul and tell me truthfully."

"I can't deny that the fight with Kant piqued my interest again, and that part of me wants revenge, even though I saw her die. But I've always had a fascination about dragons, it was just put on hold for a while when I joined the police."

"If you had denied your need for revenge then this conversation would have ended here. So, you just want to kill them all, is that it? Is this a bored little rich girl thinking that she can do whatever she wants just because she's got more money than half the countries in the United Nations? Not that morality is in any way a field in which I am an expert."

"What, only half of them? Not at all. Money's not important to me. If my accounts were public then you could see the good I'm trying to do with it. I'm not denying that I'm spending some on myself and my friends - but there's a lot more to it than that. And no, I don't want to kill any dragons, let alone all of them. I respect them, they're beautiful, magical creatures."

"And they kill people, as you yourself have seen first hand - what about the revenge you wanted a moment ago?"

"That was revenge on Kant, not on all dragons. I know she wasn't actually a dragon, she just used the form to further her evil desires, because it was the most perfect form to use," Stacy said, giving Myrddin a look which could be read as "do I look fucking stupid?"

"So, what price are you prepared to pay for the best education that money can't buy?" Myrddin asked. "And you shut up Arthur, just stay out of it," he said over his shoulder, causing Arthurs mouth to shut before any words had formed.

"Well, Mister Myrddin, since you've already claimed to read the funny papers you'll know that I can buy just about anything I want - and everything has a price. So cut the BS and tell me what it'll cost me," Stacy said in a mixture of kitten playfulness and tiger rip-your-balls-off-ness.

"Ah, my dear Mizz Sheridan has spunk ...."

"Not for a couple of weeks she hasn't had," Stacy chimed up, to a snigger from Arthur.

"... and doesn't wish to play games. Dear me. Cut to the chase, I suppose would be the colloquial terminology," Myrddin said, in a faux-sad voice. "My price is...." he started, pretending to think about it for a few seconds. Stacy folded her arms and started whistling under her breath and tapping her foot.
"..... a blow job!" Myrddin said, triumphantly turning to see the look on her face. Arthur put his hands over his eyes and shook his head, obviously embarrassed.

Stacys expression didn't change, but she stopped tapping, and then a few seconds later, whistling. She looked him square in the eye. "No problem whatsoever..."

"..... I'll be back in about ten minutes," and so saying she turned and made for the door.

"But.... ?" stammered Myrddin.

"I'll just go back and procure the services of one of those skanky crack ho's that I passed on the way here. I'm sure they'll be only too glad to get away from shivering to death in a public doorway for a few seconds. Do you want a relatively clean one, or are you not fussy - I'm guessing the latter. But that'll only cost me a couple of bucks - I thought you could come up with something better than that. Oh, and I'll need another of these invite things to get back in again," she said over her shoulder, picking up a business card from the pile on an ancient writing desk as she passed.

"I wouldn't do that Miss Sheridan," said Arthur.

"What, don't you think I can handle myself in a city like London?" she asked over her shoulder.

"No - we're no longer in London."

"Excuse me?" she asked, turning round to face the two men. "You have GOT to be kidding."

"No, I'm not. Feel free to have a look out of the door - but if you leave you won't get back in for a long time," Arthur explained.

"Well, okay," Stacy said, dubiously.

She walked back over to the door and slowly pulled it open.
There before her, as promised, was no longer the Victorian mall with the quaint little black and white tiling.
She stared instead into a night of snow drifted hills, lit only by the light from the myriad stars above. And a rectangle of light extending out from the shop doorway complete with her outlined silhouette.

She stuck her head out of the door and looked around. Apart from a chill wind in the face, she could see that it wasn't an illusion, and there was no sign of civilization anywhere.
She wondered if the shop retained its Victorian quaintness wherever it went, but when she turned her head to look at the fascade all that she could see was the outline of the door in the winter landscape.

She closed the door behind her as she pulled her head back into the shop.

She turned round to face the two men waiting behind her with 'told-you-so' faces ready.

"I guess it is going to take me slightly longer than ten minutes to find those girls again," she said apologetically.

Both men smiled at her attempted humour.

"So, where exactly are we?" she asked.

"Wales," the men said in stereo.

"Don't be silly - they're big blue things that swim in the sea like big dolphins. We must be in Holland, or one of those other Scandinavian countries," she added.

Myrddin was the first to recover his composure enough to talk.
"Tywysogaeth Cymru, or the Principality of Wales is one of the four constituents of the United Kingdom, along with England, Scotland and Northern Ireland. It's people are Welsh, and they have a separate language all of their own, although most of us speak English these days. We are proud of the fact that we did not get overrun by the Angles and Saxons that overran our only mainland neighbour, England, and are, hence, more purely British than they are. Mongrels. 90% of the land area is hilly, and suitable only for rearing mangy sheep. We are mainly known these days for male voice choirs, rugby union and the export of Tom Jones, the late Richard Burton and more recently Catherine Zeta Jones. Oh, the shame of it."

Arthur had almost recovered as well. "Unfortunately I don't think we have such a thing as a current atlas in stock that we can sell you."

They both let the Scandinavian issue slide.

"We're almost at our destination," said Arthur. "Decisions need to be made. Miss Sheridan, how serious are you about all of this? Are you willing to live and breathe dragons for the next year without access to the outside world?"

"Yes, I am," came the sharp reply.

"Good, then there is a price to be paid for the passage and introduction. The price for the education must be negotiated with the Dragon Master, it has nothing to do with us," said Arthur.

"Damn, things are going too fast - I don't have time for that blow job any more," Myrddin lamented. "I know! Your payment wil be a curl of hair!"

"But," said Stacy, running her fingers through her long straight blond hair, "my hair isn't curly."

Myrddins eyes brightened, and a smile spread across his wrinkly fizzog. Slowly and repeatedly he pointed down.

Stacys eyes followed, until she was looking at her own crotch. "Oh," she said.

A resigned look crossed her eyes, and she held out her hand. "Scissors?" she asked. Looking up she noticed a look of embarrassed shame pass over Arthurs face as he handed her a small pair of nail scissors.

She turned around, away from from the two men. Shoulders hunched as she leant over.

Zzzziipp.

Snip.

Zzzzzipp.

Stacy straightened up and turned around to face the men. Arthur was resolutely looking out of the window.
She held out the scissors to him, forcing him to engage in the proceedings. A slight nod of her head vindicated Arthur of what was happening. He smiled slightly in thanks, still obviously embarrassed, but at least he met her eye. She smiled back.

Then she turned her head back to the small wizened man.

"Do your worst," Stacy said icily, opening out her hand for him to remove the small curl of hair from her palm. "I know how precious a magic you can work with that."

"Do you now?" he asked, victorious in his dealings. "Oh good, a natural blond." He took a small envelope from his inside pocket and placed the curl in gently, closing it, and returning it once more to his pocket. Women! It was almost too easy for a man of his cunning.

There was a slight jarring as the shop settled into place.

"Have we arrived?" Stacey asked, still icy.

"Yes, you may go," Myrddin said as Arthur went to open the door.

"You can do better than this," Stacy said quietly to Arthur as he passed her.
"Not any more I can't," he said with resignation as he found the door handle and turned it. "Once upon a time maybe, but I would die out there now."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Stacey said as she walked past him. "Goodbye Arthur, I hope we meet again."

When she turned to look there was nothing there - the shop had vanished.

"And goodbye to you too, Merlin. Have fun with the hair you old scrote."
She was owe Harbi a lot for this one - thanks to her forewarning she wouldn't end up as the wizards love slave in her sleep. She put her hand down the front of her jeans and pulled out a small plastic bag. In it were the remains of the clippings she had picked up from the dog groomers that morning. She threw it away.

"What was that?" she heard from behind her.

She turned to her fate.