Serendipitea
Syl the Sentimental Serpent sat serendipitously sipping a preternatural cup of tea. Or perhaps he sipped serenely? Hmmm. Serenely? Regardless, whether serendipitously or serenely, the tea was hot and frothy and left a soft warm glow in his tummy.
I say preternatural because the tea was brewed from etheremille, a plant in season but once every two hundred years, blooming a week and a day and said to have certain ephemeral, mystical qualities, though nothing at all intoxicating or hallucinogenic, as one might suspect.
I say serendipitously because he had come upon the plant quite by chance, while searching for rubies in the Caverns of Sleep, between the Gardens of Night and the Desert of Dancing Lights. He’d found no rubies, but returned to his lair pleased nonetheless at his magnificent discovery. I say serenely because the tea soothed him, relaxed him, made his insides tingle and his purple scales glow. I wondered at the use of the word serenely, being that serenity was an effect of the tea, not necessarily a mode of drinking, but more a mood caused by the serendipitous sipping.
In any case, the tea was like liquid peace, like love in a bottle, like a back rub in an old copper kettle. Syl leaned back on his mounds of golden goblets and glistening jewels, rubbing his tummy with his serpentine tail, remembering the last time he’d felt such warm frothy goodness.
He’d been a different dragon, back then: young, rash, arrogant, bad smelling; a terror to villages and kingdoms alike.
Ah, the memories. He sniffled emotionally (an effect of the tea), a tiny tear forming in the corner of his eye.
He missed the knights in shining armor, braving his lair with dreams of fortune and glory, only to be roasted and eaten alive, armor and all, in small, short bites (to avoid armor sticking in his gums); he missed the damsels in distress, with their sweet, funky girly smell and their teary, fear filled eyes; he missed the stolen plump young cows, the plump young cow hands who writhed and wriggled (a joy and tickle to his palate) as he ate them whole.
The more he thought about it, the more he missed his glorious youth. A fat sloppy tear rolled down his face (tea effect). An epiphany rooted in etheremille exploded in his mind; he didn't really like his new self very much.
The Sentimental Serpent? Egads, man, was that what they were calling him now? Serpent? Had he gotten so soft as to be considered unworthy of being called dragon? He looked at his fat, unscaled under section and his muscled arms and legs.
Granted, he had the long, serpentine body of dragons most commonly seen on the backs of shiny jackets and kung fu gym walls, but so what? Look at his ears, his claws, his long white mustache and eyebrows. Look at the silky red mohawk that ran down his back, the small but powerful wings! He was definitely not a serpent.
And sentimental? Sure, he hadn't burned anyone alive in nearly a millennium, but did that make you sentimental? Okay, okay, so he helped that princess once. Big deal. She was young, and pretty, and smelt like roses with a slight tinge of underarm musk. Ummmm.
Oops, can’t forget about that school boy he’d taught to read. Oh, yeah, the school boy . . . . But that was nothing, just. . . Hmmm. . . . . And then there was that calf in that tornado. . . .
Nope, no denying it. He’d gone soft; spending his time with books and medicines, being nice to peasants, flying villagers to and fro, going vegan- what kind of meal is chick pea and carrot soup for a dragon of his might, his nobility?
