Sir Tad of Winslow shambles up to the circle of contenders bearing the bites of a savage battle on his slashed cheeks and punctured shoulder. On his chest, under a swath of shredded cloth, hangs a necklace made of fangs. Each milky tooth is capped at its point by a single pearl. He rips it off and offers this gift to the noble Ficliteers with a drunken wave of his arm. Fervent desperation flashes in his eyes. Dried beads of blood dot his beard and he collapses onto his knees. His peers, the great challengers of the tournament, hold their ground strong and stern sharing little more than the chiseled glances of silence.

“I have slain the dragon of Cellfeshniss!” He cries, “I am here to serve the people of Ficly with selfless honor!” He rises and takes his stance beneath an arctic blue flag.

Meanwhile, the dragon lies mortally wounded at the rock’s depth of Winslow cliff. The sea crashes and sprays. It hears Sir Tad’s welcoming cheer roll in with the waves that blanket its body and wash away its eroded soul.