Zavin was not the most learned man, but he could navigate the written word, and in every tome mentioning dragons, it asserted they were beasts. Large, temperamental, fire-breathing beasts, but beasts all the same. As a knight-errant trained by the greatest swordsmen in the realm, ’twould be but a pittance to storm its lair and slay the monstrosity to save the nearby hamlet and further secure his legend. Alas, little did he know that the dragon he was sent to kill not only had a scaly hide stronger than any shield, he would learn firsthand that the cur boasted an arcane wisdom that trivialised the powers of even the most wizened mage. Zavin was soundly defeated, weapons melted into useless smoldering slabs of scrap, but his woes would only be compounded from there. The creature would make an example out of the warrior, warping his flesh into something even less of a threat, more delicate. The dragon spared his life, snatching away his chance of a heroic death, forcing him to confront the townsfolk as he now was: a shapely wench that would not be out of place serving ale in a tavern, swimming in ill-fitting, scorched armor. In one cruel twist of fate, Zavin lost his pride, his sword, and his manhood for his failure.

Revenge would come soon enough for Zavin, but not before recuperating his strength to the point he would have a chance of triumph, gods willing. He could recall his countless adventures, all the time spent perfecting his skills with the blade, but now he was forced to (very slowly) relearn everything to adopt a fighting style to better fit his new form. As he was unable to continue his profession as an adventurer, he was forced to procure gold in less savory ways. He performed enough “favors” with his swordhand for the blacksmith’s apprentice that he was able to procure a formidable longsword, sharp as a whistle and infused with potent manticore oil. It would be enough to pierce the heart of that aborrent drake, but it would unwise to face it head-on yet again; he would have to strike silent and true. Though he still had his protective runes etched onto his body, the curse must have muddled his mind, rendering him unable to don any armor save the flimsiest of chain mail. Truly, even bulkier clothing (and undergarments, shamefully) had the habit of burning against his skin like wildfire. He felt more exposed than ever, but it would have to be sufficient. Zavin was sick of licking his wounds, but he knew that he was a long way away from contending with the dragon again, especially with how much his training was constantly being distracted by the thoughts of the smith’s rough hands grabbing his dainty waist and breeding him like a mare in heat.