Skellian and Joe McShoots landed on their arse, once again. They were sick of doing that, but it seemed to be all that happened to them recently.
“Skell,” McShoots said, head down. “I don’t know how much more of this crap I can take! If we go spiralling through one more damn portal thing, I’m going to hurl my lungs out, ya know?”
Skellian coughed, and rubbed his eyes. “I’m with ye, lad. I’m gettin’ too old for this nonsense.”
As they lifted their heads, they noticed a large, red, oak door in front of them. A golden knocker with the head of a lion circled the middle of it. And above that was a sign reading, “The drunken sods Inn.”
“Huh,” said Skellian. “Well, he did say he was sendin’ us to an inn, didn’t he?”
Joe McShoots spat. “Aye, Skell. Guess we better get inside.”
Skellian pushed open the large door. It creaked as it opened, and dust moved around their feet as they crossed the threshold.
As they approached the bar, an old barkeep greeted them, and asked them what they wanted to drink.
“Well,” McShoots said. “I certainly don’t want anythin’ that’s goin’ to kill me instantly again!”
The barkeep raised an eyebrow and opened his mouth.
“Pay no attention, man,” Skellian said. “We’ve had a long day is all. Two ales. Don’t matter which, just pour ’em.”
The barkeep nodded, and began pouring two dark ales.
“Skell,” McShoots said. “That … thing. It said we need to look for a red dragon? Or sumin’? What do you ‘spose that’s all about?”
Skellian hit himself in the ear a few times, and then said, “None too sure, lad.”
The ales were placed down in front of them on the hard wood of the bar. “Thanks, Barkeep,” Skell said, and tossed the man a few coins. “Come on, McShooty, let’s grab a seat. My back’s achin’ more than a torture victim.”
They sat down in a comfortable booth, facing each other. Each of them had their own bench to sit on, with an array of different cushions and pillows. “Well,” Skellian said. “This is the most comfort we’ve had in some time, Shoots me lad! Cheers.” Joe McShoots clinked glasses with Skellian but soon hung his head.
“Skell, I really think we ought to listen to what that geezer said. The Red Dragon. We need to find out what, or who, it is.”
Skellian thought for a second. “I’m no expert on the subject, lad, but I’m assumin’ it’s a dragon, that’s red.”
Joe McShoots’ head fell into his hands. “Skell, you flamin’ oaf! Don’t take it so literally. Don’t mean it’s actually a bloody dragon that’s red, does it? It could be some sort of gang, or sign, or village of sentient tree trunks for all we know.”
A croaky voice spoke up from the booth next to them. “Red Dragon, you say?”
Skellian stared at McShoots. “That’s right.”
The voice spoke again. “Hope you don’t mind me joining you.” An old man got up from the booth next to them and sat down at their table, picking up McShoot’s ale. “Mind if I have a swig? Ran out of coin, you see.”
McShoots looked at the man, then down at the ale. “Uh … sure.”
“Thank you, kind bloke. Now, Red Dragon, eh? What do you need to know?”
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