Albion

Hunting in a boneyard was always a challenge.

It was a surprisingly clean place. Dry, full of the dust of years and a long, rainless summer. Today even the bones had little to say, sitting in their neat piles or messy jumbles. Empty sockets stared up at the pale sky. Long ribs cast striped shadows in the dust, taking prisoner what little light filtered through. No wind sighed through the piles, making old teeth whistle. No rain pattered on the hollow remains of dragons long past.

Not excellent hunting. Not even the vultures were interested in the scrapless piles. No, it was a very rare, very special kind of prey that dared venture here.

Very curious, too.

Albion watched from atop the bone pile, silent as the grave as the dragon drifted from skeleton to skeleton, taking measurements here, examining tattered clothing there. It wasn’t right to disturb the bones. They didn’t like it – they wanted nothing more than to rest, and to listen. Being prodded like this was disrespectful – he could feel their displeasure, feel the disturbed memories, old grievances and long-lost woes of the dead stirred up like dust in a wind by this daring explorer’s venture. He had some goal, the explorer. Something that drove him forward. A question, perhaps, or a mystery.

The boneyard did not allow questions or mysteries. The boneyard needed quiet.

Albion could feel its demand, like cold frost creeping up the back of his neck. He stood slowly so as not to disturb his pile and began to wind his way down, stepping on only the steadiest of bones, the ones that knew they had the strength to support his quest. In silence he stepped onto the dusty ground, his steps falling neatly into the dusty prints left behind by the stranger.

Slowly and carefully he followed, whiskers twitching as a breeze wafted the scent of the stranger back to him. He could smell sweat, and coffee. Wine too, whoever it was had sought to fortify their courage before stepping onto this sacred ground and defiling it with their inquisitive invasion.

The fool.

Albion caught up when the fellow stopped to try and pry open a skull the size of a large horse. Albion leapt into the air with a single flap, landing on the skull and slamming it closed on the invader’s paw.

“OUCH!” Bellowed the stranger, collapsing against the skull in a panicked scramble. “OW, You’ve got my-OW, let me go!”

Albion could smell the blood, could see the red stain leaking down the side of the skull. He probably shouldn’t have done that, it would make them all hungry. “Leave,” he suggested, quietly. “Now.”

“Y-yeah right! Get OFF, you’re crushing me!” The dragon gasped and tried to heave the skull open again, but Albion was too heavy.”

“You have,” Albion said, unmoving. “Five seconds.”

“Yeah? Or what?” The dragon sneered, drawing a deep breath, then another. Albion could smell the smoke on his breath as he spoke. “You gonna kill me, whitey?”

“No,” Albion said, turning and sliding off the back of the skull. “But she will.”

The stranger’s terrified cry was cut off in a wet-sounding crunch. Albion heard the grinding of ancient, giant teeth against fresh meat. He sighed and went back to his pile, carefully stepping up one bone, then another, until he settled on the top again.

Well, he had tried his best. It was not his fault if they did not listen.

Still…the stranger was welcome here, now. There was always room for more bones.