《The Adventures of Myron O'Connor》


 Time to Find a New Home

    Myron O¡¯Connor weathered another scolding session from his mother. Normally, being a grown man, he¡¯d be above such things- however, no one could really walk out from the same room as a 8 meter tall gold dragon loomed over you and the entrance of the lair in question stretched roughly a half kilometer down the hall.


    ¡°I¡¯ve told you numerous times, boy, that my gifts aren¡¯t for philandering, thieving, plundering, and robbing others!¡± Roared the old gold, or better known as Haevornix the Wise- alongside a plethora of other titles the good aligned clergy of the realms have graced her sleek, powerful frame as judgmental eyes radiate cold disapproval upon her adopted child.


    ¡°And I¡¯ve said,¡± retorted Myron O¡¯Connor, ¡°That I didn¡¯t steal, they were perfectly dead when I took the equipment that I needed to remain alive!¡± He placed special emphasis on the , ¡®I¡¯ in the phrase, as if to point out that he, at the time of being in a dark, dank crypt filled with roaming ghosts and an angry lich, that his actions were quite justified.


    ¡°Oh? And who said the crypt was ¡®filled with trinkets ready to be plundered and easily gathered?¡± She harrumphs as she looms over him further, wings furling. Oh yes, her scales were also glowing- definitely a pissed off mom.


    Myron furtively looked around as if to find some sort of way to flee from his enraged parent. The sole parent for his short, eighteen years of life- it was she that raised him from a young age to become a hero. Filling his mind with stories of great men and women she met in her lifetime, how she even subtly aided them by placing his treasures along their path and weakening foes before they fought them. She wanted her son to become a great hero- and that he came back not with the broken phylactery of the lich she tasked him to destroy (after thoroughly equipping him in the proper equipment to take on such a dangerous foe) as his first heroic mission- he returned with the trinkets, gear, and equipment of his dead teammates and offered them to her as appeasement for his failure! Turns out, this stood out as a poor decision. Who would¡¯ve thought that mom, a normally treasure-lusting individual by how often she groomed her hoard and polished her treasures- would refuse that (ill-gotten) gains he procured as compensation?Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°Erm, well- uh, sorry?¡± He offers meekly, knowing full well that ¡®sorry¡¯ wasn¡¯t going to be enough in this particular situation. His palms grew sweaty as he tilted his neck back to keep a nervous gaze upon her whiskered face as the sleak, golden- majestic gaze looked down at him, as if she were a just tyrant about to deliver a verdict. The poor man quivers in his enchanted boots of temporary haste. His mithril chainmail hidden beneath leather and worn traveling clothes. The side of his person possessing an adorned scabbard where a magical longsword named Elenor resided. However, most offensive of all- was that his outfit was varying shades of pink. Glorious pink, the most gaudy sort of pink. The sort of pink that stands offensively out from a crowd. The sort of pink that makes a man question, ¡°Why?¡± The sort of pink that makes the eyes squint in pain upon gazing upon it- and guaranteed he will never hide, anywhere, effectively. Possibly, his most redeeming feature was his glorious brown hair.


    ¡°Myron O¡¯Connor, it¡¯s time you left home.¡± The verdict passed, the old, majestic gold dragon huffing out through her whiskers as she gazes down at him in disappointment, as she promptly kicks him out.


    "Wait, what?"

 Time to Find a New Home- 2

    "Well, this sucks." Commented Myron as he strode out the cave. A looming orifice in the side of a mountain, decorated with proud statues of heroes that his mother once sponsored. He studies the one he took after the most, the statue of Hewitt the Rogue. A fastidious looking man with a dashing house, roguish moustache, and a mischievous grin spreading across his marble face. The statue adorned itself in a practical but fashionable leather suit of padded armor, meant for mobility and to absorb blows. He looked up to Hewitt for one reason: he wasn''t a brave man. In fact, Hewitt was a coward, and fled from battle more often than not- a trait his mother disapproved of, but grudgingly admitted he always got the last laugh. Evil blackguard with an army of skeletal knights riding behind him? Hewitt got his pals together and dug a hole, covered in with a carpet, spread some sand on it- and the blackguard fell into the pit trap. Dead blackguard, the undead were a bit more problematic- but that is what paladins are for, and the matter was soon resolved. His mother added his statue after the rather anticlimatic victory over evil, but it was a victory nonetheless.


    Myron exhales as he patted the base of the statue, absently commenting, "Well, Hewitt the Clever, I can''t stay around to keep you nice and shiny. Mom kicked me out- well, long story short- she wants me to ''grow up.''" Myron rolled his handsome green eyes as he chuckled, "As if I weren''t already grown!" He huffs, continuing to talk to the statue as if it understood every word he said, "I am twenty years old, I am fit, I am handsome! Mom just doesn''t consider me ''dragon,'' enough for her. I keep reminding her, I am not a dragon!" He kicks a rock away from the statue with an angry scowl on his face as he harrumphs, crossing his arm as he slowly walks down the poorly made trail down the mountain side.


    Soon, rugged terrain turned into flat forest as he walked over logs, nimbly tread over brooks and grumbled underneath his breath the entire way. "Hero training, wizard training, theology- I was even taught economics! What the fuck was she thinking? I just want to laze about all day and enjoy fine wine, food, and women." He grumbles grouchily. The painfully pink attire the adoptive child of dragons wore remained- much to his mother''s chagrin, she nearly ripped it off him before he left so he''d be ''respectable,'' out in public- but he refused, and they finally compromised he wouldn''t invoke her name in any shape, way, or form so as to maintain her dignity and not be associated with some pink-wearing adventuring rogue. Oh, the scandle that would''ve been created made Myron smirk, but if nothing else, he never lied to his mother- and he didn''t intend to start now. She was a dragon. She didn''t like lies. Especially to her. He knew better- he saw what happened. He didn''t intend to end up like that kobold. Notably, kobold barbaque- not as appetizing as it sounds.Stolen novel; please report.


    He hops over a boulder, using a branch to break his fall as he rolls over his shoulder as he finally breaks out of the woods after a long, uneventful walk. Being the son of a dragon, most predators simply smelled his mother on him, and avoided him. Like the plague- and no goblin, orc, or gnoll stalked in this forest. Haevornix the Evil Slayer, Haevornix Evil''s Bane, Haevornix this, Haevornix That- bah. She made sure no such evil denizen was within a mile of her cave, and further out if she were feeling ''motivated.'' Myron reminisced all the titles his mother was bestowed by the ass-licking clergy of Tyr and Helm for her ''dutiful service'' in protecting the ''light of justice.'' Myron didn''t care for the fight of good versus evil- a struggle that encompassed much of his mother''s life as a Gold Dragon, instinctually valuing the Tyranny of Law and the pedantic nosiness of being ''good,'' and meddling in the affairs of others. Something that- while being mildly appreciative, firmly decided wasn''t meant for him- as he frankly could care less about others unless they so happened to effect him.


    Well, that wasn''t entirely true, he mused. A fair maiden in need of rescue? A wealthy merchant offering a reward? A wealthy  merchant in dire straits in need of rescue also worked- but it was a plus if she was ...well, developed to say the least. Yes- a rich, well-to-do woman who is hard working and would care for him the rest of his days. A broad, imaginative grin touched his visage as he ambles through the grass land towards the nearest road he knew as he imagined the parties- the horses, the pageantry. He enjoyed dressing up in stylish outfits, and yes- they''d all be pink, if for no better reason than it''d piss off his mother. See mom? I can be successful- I just need to find a hard working wife.


    Spotting the sun in the sky, he guessed he roughly walked a couple miles. He made a mental note that the next time he visited mom- whenever she gave him permission to visit again, to thank her for the boots. They were very comfortable as he sat down to make camp. Bags of holding sure came in handy when your tent was almost as large as an inn room, and you practically carried a feast with you.

 Time to Find a New Home -3

    Myron hated traveling. The sun shined way to hotly for his comfort. The nights were way to cold. The wind blew to strongly and made his hat fly off, so he needed to go chase it. The bugs the size of fucking horses constantly tried to eat him- did he mention the bugs? Yes. A fly fell into his soup rations. He tossed the whole beef and carrot stew out. Consuming fly-tainted soup already proved way past his bottom line. Myron, most of all, hated traveling alone. Especially on dirty roads. Very dirty roads where weeds grew along the middle and smelled foul if you stepped on them. Can''t this kingdom pave their fucking roads? He could accept his mother didn''t wish a road going to her lair. Dragon''s valued privacy, and he agreed making it difficult to find would protect the treasure much more easily. However, his mother lined the floor of her cave with marble tile to give it a sense of majesty and welcome! What better way for a kingdom to display its power than to pave their roads? Stupid dirt roads, ruining his glorious pink outfit. Ruining his beautiful shoes. Ruining his beautiful face- he longed for a bath, to be squeaky clean, to admire his adonus (in his own perspective) like body in the mirror, and to thank Lathander in Celestia for gracing him with the finest athletic body the realms knew to man.


    Shower equivalent thoughts about roads aside, Myron made poor time along the road. Opting to use every excuse to rest beneath the shade of a tree. Opting to lay down in the waving grass as the perfect breeze blew through so he could enjoy such wonders of Akadi and the benign antics of nature. The seldom traveled dirt road that ran parallel to the Thunderpeak Mountains of Cormyr rarely sees much travel- with much of the trade and traffic between the Dwarven Kingdom of Thunderstone trading down and up the Thunderflow into the Wyvernwater lake towards Immersea and Yeoman''s Bridge. As well, land traffic preferred to go down through High Castle from Thunderstone then head west along the roads patrolled by the Purple Dragon army of Cormyr. Reasonably, the route Myron takes- which edges along the dangerous Hullack Forest, the Realm of the Wailing Fog, and the uncivilized, untamed corners of the Thunderpeaks- weren''t popular at all. The one of many perks of being the son of a Dragon who valued their privacy enough to make a lair in an entirely inhospitable corner of the world hostile to human civilization, one can suppose.


    This being said- Myron, while perfectly happy to keep himself company- grew bored. One can only idle away and wander down roads for so long before boredom sets in- the agonizing state of finding nothing to do despite there being tons of things to do to improve one''s lot in life and or exercising the mind with mental puzzles beyond, ''how will I get this rock out of my shoe today?'' The sort of boredom that a not very bright individual falls into when they sigh terribly and stare at the ceiling and state, "Well, I am bored." Which is precisely what Myron did with the sky, gazing up at the clear blue sky with the shy cloud hovering in the far distance. A few birds flittering through the sky- and an obnoxious crow staring at him from a tree branch. Lathander''s sun shone roughly in the noon-day position- making it the hottest part of the day. Truth be told- the heat remained tolerable, roughly 77 fahrenheit, warm enough to cause a sweat, not hot enough to cause heat stroke unless one intentionally tried to cause it.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.


    Okay. That fucking crow. Myron frowned as he noted the filthy black bird followed him for the last two days. Same bird. First, he ignored it. Then he tried to bait it with food to send it away. Third, he attempted to use a wand of fireball on it. Fourth, he lured it out with shiny objects- but the clever thing proved smarter than him, and avoided the spike trap beneath the shiny objects. Turns out, the instruction manual said it required at least ten pounds to set off- which the crow, clearly, did not possess in mass. Who reads the instruction manual? No one, that''s who. Suffice to say- he didn''t know how to disarm the thing short of tossing a ten pound object into the center of the trap- and that felt like work, so he simply moved on and left it off the side of the road to let nature take its course. Clearly, it can''t be his fault if someone was dumb enough to walk into it, right?


    Regardless, extreme times meant extreme measures- and the bird, clearly an omen from the gods of death and strife, meaning him no good will, must be dealt with in a post proper and classic manner possible.


    "Alright bird, time to meet your doom for certain!" Said a now heroic Myron O''Connor. Speaking righteously- he lifted up a rock from the road and took aim upon the branch-resting crow. Rested in an old oak, the beady bird of evil stared at him with the intensity of an unnerving type. It opened its ugly beak and cawed at him tauntingly- daring him to try again and set fire to another tree, expecting a wand of fireball to see use again. However, in a tale unworthy of David and Goliath, Goliath through the stone at poor David- and with an indignant cry at an unjust world, a crow fell dead upon the ground, lifeless and- wait, why is it dissipating?


    Myron considered briefly and concluded he just murdered a wizard''s familiar. Well, he knew he wanted to find some excitement- but he knew this wasn''t the sort he wanted.


    "Well, shit."