One might think that after slaying a dragon and living to tell the tale was something to boast about even slightly. Certainly if one was a dragon slayer that had killed more than two the chances were even greater. But for Maynard of Breton this was not the case. Even after slaying more than fourteen. The small village was ripe with celebration. It spilled from the tavern and into the dirt and mud roads. Had there been a Noble there even he would have surely joined in. But not this village. It had been the prisoner of an Ancient Wyrm. The foul beast ruled them as slaves and did horrible things to them over the course of several generations. The village was now free and had the horde that once belonged to their captor. Maynard had quietly entered the town and heard of it’s plight. He could have gone and assembled his friends and returned as a group. He decided not to wait. He, without a word, found the lair, fought the dragon and slew it. Had it not been for a random shepard seeing him exit the lair no one would have known who saved them. He was badly bloodied and dirty and worn from the fight. His walk back to the tavern was difficult and he dragged his massive two-hander behind him. Though he traveled alone, and fought alone, and suffered alone, he was far from alone. The wizardess Snow, the woman who loved him more than she loved the Mystic arts could feel his pain and used her magic to go to him. She bathed and cleaned his many wounds and as best she could heal the damage done by yet another fallen dragon. She dressed him as much as he could bear and waited for him to complete his ritual. That ritual was to drink. though not to total drunkenness, but rather to curb the sharp edge of pain and to a small way celebrate his survival. But the villagers downstairs had heard it was Maynard what did the deed and were waiting to celebrate him as a hero. Something Maynard did not wish. Snow could hear they had started without their newfound hero so she cast some of her magic to hide them from view. Maynard of Breton, Dragonslayer, now sat at a table. A large tankard of Ale in his massive hand partly drunk with Snow sitting on the table so she was closer to his height. As the villagers sang and laughed and celebrated their salvation Maynard looked blankly at the roaring fire. There was no joy or happiness on his face. What he had done was needed and little more. Snow could feel Maynard’s anguish and sorrow for the beast and wished that his talent in death was not needed. But she knew what lay ahead for her warrior, and this was not the last time he would need to slay a noble creature as the one that now lay dead in a cave. All she could do was to hold his hand as he stared into the fire. A small token to remind him that he would never be completely alone, and at least one understood why he was the dragonslayer.