“Remember, son, don’t ever laugh at dragons.”

Little Arvid hadn’t really understood what his Papa was talking about, but he liked the idea of dragons, and he loved his Papa, so he nodded vigorously, red mop bobbing.

Standing on the top of the bridge tower, watching the great red Wyrm stride four-legged along the bridge deck, casually crushing abandoned cars under its massive clawed feet, Arvid recalled his father’s words. The wisdom in those words was suddenly very clear.

Dragons were incredibly proud beasts. They looked like the kings of all monsters, they roared like rulers of the sky, and they walked like they owned whatever was underfoot. Pride was in the core of their make-up. Pride was the chassis on which a dragon was built.

Of course, Arvid also realized that he would need to be far more foolhardy to even think that dragons were something you could laugh at. Even from up here, that blood red lizard was scary as fuck.

Arvid Troelsen dropped his bag on the bench. Its old hide smote wood that had seen its fair share of backsides. His leathers creaked as he settled down beside it, arms crossed, ankles crossed, legs stretched out before him. He closed his eyes, and rested his chin on his chest. His reddish stubble rasped against his jacket.

A few seconds later, pale blue eyes blinked open again, to stare directly at the only other occupant of the terminal. A young man, patchy stubble, hair bordering on shaggy, sat upright across the aisle. When their eyes met, the young man licked his lips nervously. His palms pressed against torn jeans that had dirt rubbed into the dirt.

The young man looked away.

“Don’t even think about touching my shit,” Arvid rumbled. “You touch my shit, I’ll fuck you up so bad, nine months from now, you’ll be givin’ birth to a bastard demon of pain.”

“And I’m itchin’ to fuck somebody up.”