“You know, it was your skin, drew me to you directly.” The pretty young thing so addressed giggled delightedly and blushed a very healthy, fetching color. The predator seated beside her at the bar leaned closer and pressed his advantage, trailing his index finger up along her forearm. “So delectably clear and fair.” He lingered over the plump flesh of her upper arm appraisingly; when she lowered her eyes, murmuring unintelligibly, he favored her with a smile. Had she looked, his victim would have seen the hunger that laced his expression.
The scent of wintergreen wafted through the air at his left, followed by a rustle and a creak of wood. “Might I trouble you for a few moments, sir?”
The Cannibal Elf twirled his finger one ringlet tighter in his quarry’s glossy hair. “I’m rather busy at precisely this moment,” he muttered from the side of his mouth.
“I do sincerely apologize, sir. I’m afraid I’ve come a frightfully long way, and I haven’t long before I’m obliged to return,” the voice, sighing like the whisper of wind through leafy branches, insisted softly.
Letting his quarry’s hair uncurl from his finger, the Cannibal Elf rotated sinuously to his left, clearly irritated; the tension in his sinewy body promised violence if he were offered any further provocation. He took in the unusual creature sitting next to him and pursed his lips- it was just barely passing as something that could possibly be human if the light were dim and one neglected to squint. After letting the interrupter marinate in his glare for several seconds, he ground out in a low, dangerous voice, inaudible to human ears, “You’re not food. Scram.” Considering the matter closed, he began turning back to his victim.
“I’ve come seeking you on a most urgent matter-“
“No.” The Cannibal Elf snapped his eyes level with the persistent interrupter’s vividly green ones. “Dinner first,” he hissed.
Appearing to be sincerely apologetic, the being sighed, its coarse, twig-like hair rustling. “Forgive me.” With a slight creak, it leaned forward to address the Cannibal Elf’s prey. “Ma’am, have you given any attention to your companion’s teeth?”
“I-I have… what?” At the prompt, she focused on his mouth, which was half open to unleash a furious rebuke- revealing a set of astonishingly sharp, white teeth, complete with prominent incisors. He snapped his mouth shut, but not fast enough. Instantly, her raptured obliviousness shattered. “Oh, gods, you’re a vampire,” she gasped, shrinking back in horror.
“I am not!” the Cannibal Elf exclaimed with great offense. He scoffed. “Vampire! You take that back this instant! I don’t drink blood.”
“He does, however, mean to eat you, ma’am,” the dryad supplied helpfully, ignoring the Cannibal Elf’s baleful glower.
“You’re- you’re a, uhm, a zombie, then?” she eyed him with growing disgust.
“Gods below, zombies aren’t real, and even if they were, you’d obviously be safe, you brainless twit.” The Cannibal Elf tossed back the contents of his glass. He knew that, in this moderately busy bar, the game was irreversibly up. Nevertheless, he had a grievously wounded pride to soothe; he indicated the creature who had ruined his dinner. “So, what do you think he is, brain trust?”
The human peered around him at the creature leaning forward onto the bar, and scrutinized his shimmering mocha skin and vibrant green eyes. He had shiny emerald green leaves and catkins of small flowers, both yellow and green, in the twiggy tangle of his hair. He was clothed loosely in a material so exquisite that the leaves in its patterns looked alive. What she could see of his body had a slender, yet sculpted cast to it. “Oh!” she exclaimed, awestruck. “You’re an elf!”
Groaning, the actual elf pushed his empty glass out of the way and buried his face in his arms on the bar. “He’s a dryad, you moron. I’m an elf.”
The dryad was rustling, his leaves shaking in amusement, which only increased when the Cannibal Elf’s erstwhile dinner fixated on his hair. She ducked toward the Cannibal Elf and whispered, “But, if he’s a boy dryad, why’s he got flowers in his hair?!” The Cannibal Elf’s despairing response was, thankfully, muffled by his arms, since it seemed to mainly consist of a string of appalling expletives.
“Ma’am,” the dryad interpolated, “I should think it would be singularly apparent that you ought to be making tracks, so to speak, since your companion is a Cannibal Elf.” She blinked slowly, seized her purse, and scampered out of the building.
“I suppose,” the Cannibal Elf said with a grimace as he straightened up and signaled the bartender, “I ought to thank you. I’m not sure I could have digested that much stupidity. For the record, though, I’m not a cannibal. I have absolutely, positively never eaten another elf, rumors on why the Elvenking banished me notwithstanding. Used to eat dwarves, until they ran out. Switched to humans after that- couldn’t bloody well become a vegetarian. I’m a strict humanitarian.” He cast a glance over the dryad. “What’re you, beech? Birch?”
“I’m a Birch Dryad, a cherry birch, if it pleases you, sir. I am dreadfully sorry for my rude actions, but-”
The Cannibal Elf held up his hand to stem the Birch Dryad’s words. “Another for me- a double,” he told the approaching bartender, “and a bowl of sugar water for the kid, before he wilts.” The bartender raised an eyebrow when the Cannibal Elf set the dish of simple syrup and water under the Birch Dryad’s woody feet, but she shrugged and turned away, counting up his sizable tip.
“Rather a long ways from the forest, aren’t you? So that’s why you’re in such a rush- been detached from your roots for a while now and need to get back. You lot are the damn electric cars of the supernatural world. You know, tell me why I shouldn’t glue you to my cellar floor and let you wither away for scaring off my meal.”
The Birch Dryad’s hair twigs dropped a number of leaves and flowers in alarm. “Please forgive me, Erlkönig-“
“-Don’t,” the Cannibal Elf interrupted sharply, “EVER call me that. The bleeding Elvenking sued me for trademark infringement.…” The Cannibal Elf trailed off and took a deep breath. He seized his glass of whiskey and leveled a glare at the Birch Dryad over its rim. “Well?”
“The forest has been invaded by tree-eating monsters,” the Birch Dryad groaned wretchedly.
The Cannibal Elf sprayed a mouthful of whiskey into the air. “Get out! What kind of monster likes eating trees?”
“They are very large like camels, but also spotted like leopards- perhaps twenty feet high,” he struggled to describe the threat. “There are scores of them.” He shuddered, the noise reminiscent of a percussion ensemble playing woodblocks. “They eat leaves. Their horrible tongues and lips- they don’t even mind the thorns on the acacias and honey locusts.”
The Cannibal Elf cocked his head to the side. “Losing a few leaves off the bottom doesn’t kill a tree- or a dryad.”
“Many of the mature trees are too tall to be in real danger, that is true, but some of us- we do not grow to such heights, and the saplings…. The Camel Leopards, they are- awful. They strip us… bare, and then they come back and do it again when we try to regrow. They run faster than we do, and we cannot abandon our roots in the forest indefinitely. Please, Erlkön- Cannibal Elf, sir, the humans don’t dare trespass in the forest due to you. Will you not aid us similarly with the Camel Leopards? We beseech you, on our behalf- on behalf of our young ones- for all the trees.”
The Cannibal Elf was not really in any mood to fondly recall his gruesome exploits during his ghastly Erlkönig phase, which had ended abruptly when the mighty Elvenking, adding insult to banishment, had grown litigious. He snarled at the Birch Dryad, “Do someone a solid once, and this is what you get- the endless expectation that you’ll do it again. I didn’t clear the humans out of the forest for your benefit, popsicle sticks. I just recklessly over-hunted, and twenty-foot monsters, quite frankly, do not sound like a terrifically promising food source for me. Go ask the werewolves. What’s tonight? Tuesday? They’ll be at the bowling alley, around the corner on State Street.”
The Birch Dryad made a low, eerie moan of distress. “The last time a dryad spoke to them, they threatened to rip her apart into sticks and play fetch with her.”
The Cannibal Elf snorted. “Then they’ve clearly never tried to eat a dryad- I have. You’re a disaster for a carnivore. It took me months to regrow the teeth that snapped off. They won’t rip you apart. You lot are incredibly hard to take a bite out of.
“Anyways, if there’s a hunt in the offing, it’s a pack of werewolves that you want, I promise you, not ‘the Elf Formerly Known as the Erlkönig.’ Now, skedaddle.”
—-——————-
Three days after the next full moon, a dull, wooden knock sounded on the Cannibal Elf’s door. He opened it to reveal the Birch Dryad, quaking like an aspen in a fresh breeze. Thoroughly annoyed, he extended an invitation to come through into the living room, then stepped outside. He returned shortly, sprawled himself across an armchair, and began stuffing his mouth full of the leaves he had just ripped off the tree in the yard.
The Birch Dryad gave a pained wail when he registered what the Cannibal Elf was eating. The elf swallowed, then paused to take a meaningful look at the greens still in his hands. “Oh, I’m sorry- this a cousin of yours?” With a surly expression, he bit into another wad of leaves.
“You’re doing this on purpose to put me off,” the Birch Dryad realized, a pathetic note in the sighing of his words.
The Cannibal Elf paused mid-chew. “Is it working?” Bits of green were wedged between his glistening teeth.
From trunk to twigs, the dryad flinched, but he stayed stubbornly rooted in place on the floor. “Very much so, sir.”
“Gah, thank heavens. These are revolting.” The Cannibal Elf tossed the remaining leaves away and spit into an ashtray. “But you’re still here- what’s up?”
“I went to the werewolves, as you suggested, sir, and they came to help us, but… the pack was slaughtered by the monsters. These Camel Leopards- they are awful, awful. A kick, or a strike from their heads- that was enough to kill a wolf, and the Camel Leopards are fast. The werewolves only took down two; there are scores of them yet.
“It was over quickly for the wolves, and- I am ashamed to say it, sir- I am envious of them. We- we do not die quickly when the Camel Leopards strip us of our leaves. We… linger.” The Birch Dryad’s voice was raw with emotion, its quality like that of two dry branches rubbing together. “We try to regrow, but, as soon as we do, they come back. We- we starve to death. It is a horrible way to die, and we are perishing thus by the thousands. Please, sir. Please, come to our aid. We are not fighters; we are not predators. We reach into the earth and grow in the sunlight. We are so desperate.”
The Cannibal Elf was, of course, not the sort of creature who was much moved by others’ pleas, but even he was reluctantly stirred to something resembling pity. The Birch Dryad appeared significantly the worse for wear since their last meeting. His hair twigs had dropped all their flowering catkins, and the leaves were dull and discolored. His skin had lost much of its sheen, and it seemed to be sloughing off unsightly patches of dry birchbark.
Despite himself, the Cannibal Elf nibbled his lip thoughtfully and attempted to be helpful. “What about getting the humans involved? Or that cranky dragon who lives in the mountains northwards?”
The Birch Dryad had objections to both of these suggestions. The Stealth Dragon, a weredragon whose bad temper was even more legendary than her hoard, was probably a poor champion for a species as highly flammable as the dryads. She was known to enthusiastically chargrill her meals before consuming them. Humans were out of the question, since nobody wanted them back in the forest, cutting trees and harassing the intelligent species. Their very proficiency at mass destruction was a mark against them.
“I realize you’re essentially a walking lumberyard, but you’re not being sensible about this. Picking what frightens you the least is an outstandingly terrible way to choose a monster hunter,” the Cannibal Elf pointed out in frustration, but, at last, he threw up his hands. “Fine. I’ll drive out and take a look at these Camel Leopards over the weekend, how’s that?”
—-——————-
The Cannibal Elf could not remember a time within recent recorded history when he had pursued prey with more than two legs, unless one counted the house spiders that kept cropping up in his bathroom. Still, although the Elvenking had banished him, he was an elf, and there were expectations. He glided into the forest with a bow in his hand, a quiver of arrows over his back, and a hunting knife on his belt. If he had chosen a compound bow, screwed the latest broadheads into his carbon arrows, and brought his concealed SIG Sauer P220, too, well- he was scouting creatures that had exterminated an entire pack of werewolves on the full moon, after all.
The trees went all aquiver in welcome, the news of the Cannibal Elf’s arrival rippling out along their roots; the elders recognized him from his Erlkönig days when he had frequented the ancient forest, which he found equal parts annoying and flattering. He stopped to inquire directions from one of the red oaks (the busybody gossips of any forest). It helpfully indicated the way, then proceeded to lovingly pelt him with fistfuls of acorns it seemingly had reserved through the entire winter for the express purpose of showering him with affection. He gave an undignified yowl, dropped his bow, and leaped straight up in the air, drawing his .45 instinctively. The truth dawned on him even before he landed on the ground again. Swearing, he holstered his SIG, rubbed a delicate eartip that had caught a particularly hard nut, and picked up his bow, scowling at the oak.
“The next tree that does that, I’ll girdle it,” he threatened. “And then I’m coming back here for you. You tell that to the grapevine.”
He set off at a determinedly graceful lope, and soon found signs of the invading monsters- the Birch Dryad had not exaggerated their destructive capabilities. Stunned, the Cannibal Elf slowed to a walk and nocked an arrow to his bow as he threaded through a stand of young trees that had been decimated. He gritted his predator’s teeth against the unfamiliar stench hanging in the air, clearly animal in origin. That settled it- he was absolutely not going to be eating these unpleasant things when he found them.
The sound of something crashing about among the trees up ahead had him stiffening and drawing his bow, but it was a false alarm. Moaning softly to itself, a blind, bald dryad wandered by, swaying pathetically. It toppled over, getting hung up on a bare tree’s branch; it went silent and moved no further.
So distracted and disturbed was the Cannibal Elf that he failed to observe the sizable pile of animal droppings ahead, and he waded right into it. He spent some minutes hopping about and fussing over his hiking boots, attempting to rid them of the disagreeable matter soiling them without getting it anywhere else; when he at last looked up, he found himself nose-to-knee with a foreleg joint the size of a football. The Cannibal Elf’s head snapped up as his jaw plummeted down, contorting to take in all of the towering beast before him.
As the Birch Dryad had described, it was a nightmarish chimera of camel and leopard- a gigantic cloven-hoofed monster whose dappled hide camouflaged it effectively against the forest backdrop. The Cannibal Elf had blundered into a herd of them, perhaps a dozen (the Elvenking would have gleefully banished him all over again for such carelessness in the hunt). Yet, the monsters appeared utterly uninterested in his presence, and the Cannibal Elf found this fact vaguely disturbing and not a little insulting. For the most part, the Camel Leopards were placidly browsing on the helpless trees; but, every so often, one would plant its forefeet wide, sweep its astonishingly long neck through the air, and bring its devouring mouth to bear on something at ground level. The Cannibal Elf thought them rather ugly, as he did most herbivores; their unusual proportions gave them a very ungainly appearance.
The nearest Camel Leopard bent down to nibble at a heap of dark gray fluff some scant yards from the Cannibal Elf, who retched when he identified what the monster was eating. The bloated werewolf corpse was well past its expiration date (the precise reason the Cannibal Elf kept a large chest freezer in his cellar). Consuming such rancid meat triggered waves of revulsion in him, but the monster clearly found nothing objectionable about this. It continued browsing, periodically taking a bite of werewolf.
Then, in the midst of its revolting grazing, the Camel Leopard altered course somewhat. Before the Cannibal Elf could react, blunt teeth and strong lips descended on his head. The putrid smell of the Camel Leopard’s saliva was nauseating. Its long tongue slurped directly over one of the elf’s delicate ears and tangled unpleasantly in his hair. The Elf Formerly Known as the Erlkönig trembled with shock and rage as it turned its attention to a tree- how dare this thing that ate rotten werewolf meat decide to lick his hair?!
With a cry of outrage, the Cannibal Elf loosed an arrow at the monster, but it struck lower than he had intended. It came up against the solid bone of a massive vertebra, scarcely penetrating the hide. The monster hissed furiously, and, the next instant, its heavy, horned skull was hurtling down toward the Cannibal Elf in retaliation. He flung himself aside in a graceful twist, seized another arrow, narrowly ducked a hoof aimed squarely at his chest, and, with his second shot flying true, brought down the monster. Its collapse nearly crushed the Cannibal Elf, who nimbly launched himself into the air again. He had not anticipated such gymnastics would be required against these creatures.
Meanwhile, the other monsters had stopped eating to observe the fight, and, as their comrade crashed to the earth, they surged toward the Cannibal Elf. He landed gracefully from his backflip and gaped at the oncoming herd of angry Camel Leopards. “Ohshit.”
The Cannibal Elf fled with a speed that, had it not been for the purpose of a headlong retreat, would have done his race proud. He doubted he would be the faster runner in a straight sprint, but he swiftly, silently slipped through the densest parts of the forest like a curl of smoke. Soon enough, the enraged Camel Leopards were lost in the distance, and the Cannibal Elf stopped to catch his breath and get his bearings.
On the principle that being licked and almost killed by big, smelly monsters was enough adventure for one day, the Cannibal Elf wished to ignore the ear-splitting howl that drifted down from the nearby cliffs. However, the greater imperative was to cleanse himself of all traces of Camel Leopard before leaving the forest. He especially refused to get in his car with his boots in their current state, and he recalled a waterfall on those cliffs.
As the elf had feared, the source of the mournful howls was crouched despondently beside the pool at the base of the waterfalls. “Oh, gods, the Cannibal Elf!” The werewolf whimpered piteously and dropped to all fours, groveling. “My whole pack is gone. I didn’t think it could get any worse. Please don’t eat me. Please!”
The Cannibal Elf snorted and made directly for the water. “Werewolf is stringy, and I’m in no mood for making stew.”
“Oh.” The werewolf settled back down onto his haunches and licked his hand self-consciously. He sniffed the air as the elf thoroughly scrubbed everything that had been contaminated. “Guess the Birch Dryad managed to convince you to help in the end, after all.”
“These damn Camel Leopards,” the Cannibal Elf sighed, straightening up from the water at last. “They’ll have to go.”
The werewolf growled. “Nothing I’d like better than to be a part of that. What do you have in mind?”
The Cannibal Elf gazed toward the waterfall, but his eyes were unfocused, his expression distant. He planted his fists on his hips. “Did you know that elves can occasionally see the future?”
“No kidding? You seeing something now?” the werewolf inquired ingenuously.
“A bolt action .300 Winchester Mag, and 100 pounds of ground sirloin,” the elf announced, before spinning on his heel, picking up his bow, and striding off into the forest.
The werewolf whined and dashed after him. “I sure appreciate the thought, but I’m a bit more of a ground turkey man. Unless- are- are you- are you trying to fatten me up?!” The werewolf stopped short in alarm.
“Not for you, Lassie. We need a monster from further up the food chain, and, last I heard, sacrificial virgins are clean out of fashion with dragons. It’s all cow meat and NFTs these days.”
—-——————-
For the next week, the Cannibal Elf busied himself with preparing to take on the Camel Leopards in earnest, and, since he needed a hobby, tormenting the lonely, gullible werewolf that was dogging him like a lost puppy. The Cannibal Elf overnighted the ground sirloin as close as UPS would take it to the Stealth Dragon, making certain the accompanying note was large, colorful, and covered in enough rhinestones to catch her eye before she swallowed it along with the beef. He stocked up on ammo for his rifle, saw to it that the werewolf bathed and was properly armed, and put in long hours at the range reacquainting himself with his Browning and its telescopic sights. After due consideration, he regretfully left his armor in his storage unit, since it offered little protection from a Camel Leopard, while its weight and bulk would impede him. Besides, it was rather shiny and valuable, and, loathe though he was to admit it, historically, an elf and a dragon were only evenly matched when the elf (a.) mustered an entire army and then (b.) made a surprise attack. It would be best to not tempt her.
—-——————-
At the appointed hour, the Cannibal Elf and the Sidekick Werewolf awaited the Stealth Dragon at the waterfall on the cliffs. While the Cannibal Elf rechecked his rifle for the umpteenth time, the Sidekick Werewolf anxiously scanned the skies. “What is it about the Stealth Dragon that makes her stealthy? Is it because she’s a weredragon?”
The Cannibal Elf threw him an exasperated look. “Didn’t you ever bother to learn anything about other species?”
“Never had to. If you’re a wolf, you just kind of run with the pack- you know, drink beer and go bowling. Plus the teambuilding murderous rampage once a month.”
The elf shook his head. “You lot really do a fine job living up to your reputation as slobbering idiots. Dragons absorb anything they sleep on for long enough. There’s no such thing as a natural weredragon- she picked up the shapeshifting from something in her hoard.”
The Sidekick Werewolf narrowed his eyes. “Like what?”
The Cannibal Elf sniggered and smirked. “Maybe she sleeps on werewolf pelts. Anyways, as for the stealthy business, all I know for certain is she doesn’t show up on radar. Rumor has it that a few years back she took down a jet fighter, hauled it home, and slept on it every night until she’d incorporated the stealth aircraft technology into her scales.”
Whilst the Sidekick Werewolf was digesting this information, there was a rush of air above them and a flicker of shade. A large black shape plunged into the pool, disappearing too quickly for identification. A moment later, the Stealth Dragon waded out onto land in a billowing cloud of steam, for the water was boiling off her impressively thickset humanoid form. She had retained many of her dragonoid features, including her scales, which essentially formed a flexible, protective exoskeleton over her rippling, heavy musculature.
“Thank you for coming,” the Cannibal Elf greeted her.
The Stealth Dragon stalked over the distance between them. She acknowledged them with a slight tilt of her head as her yellow, vertically slitted eyes scanned them. “Monsters terrorizing your friends, is it? Didn’t take you for the sort of bleeding heart elf who’d be a dryad savior.”
“Not my friends,” he corrected abruptly and grimaced. “I accidentally- did them an unintentional favor a long time ago, and now they’re a trifle attached. Although, there is something… endearing… about creatures that you can’t eat,” he admitted reluctantly.
The dragon grunted understandingly. “I can’t eat them, either. They give me terrible indigestion. Too much cellulose, probably.”
“You can’t help liking them,” the Sidekick Werewolf added. “I guess everybody kind of likes the dryads- they’re so sweet and don’t prey on anyone and… and, man, they are just so freaking inedible.”
“I don’t actually know any well enough to have much of an opinion. They always seem rather skittish,” the Stealth Dragon admitted. “Well, I think I spotted some of these Camel Leopards when I was flying in.”
“Yes, there’s a small herd a few miles from here. Shall we go take a look from the ground?”
They set off at a lope- all but the Stealth Dragon, who made a powerful bound that gave the impression of being only fifty percent complete, and fell face first into the dirt. “Drat,” she hissed, springing back to her feet. “Not enough legs.”
—-——————-
The Cannibal Elf gave the Stealth Dragon the grand tour. He showed her the destruction done to the trees and dryads. He detailed his and the werewolves’ experiences bringing down three of the Camel Leopards, by way of a grudging explanation why they needed her. He intended to conclude by stealing up on the small herd to observe them, but he had grossly overestimated the massive Stealth Dragon’s capacity for any sort of stealth out of the air. Fortunately, the Camel Leopards were entirely unconcerned and unthreatened by the three predators.
The Stealth Dragon watched them in silence for thirty seconds, then guffawed, smoke drifting out of her lips and nostrils. “Sure, easy peasy. I don’t even have to shift back to my true form. I’ll sort this right out for you and be back in time for my two o’clock.” She planted her feet shoulder width apart, sucked in a giant breath, and-
“-WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!” The Cannibal Elf shrieked and swung a panicked uppercut at her, just in the nick of time; he drove the dragon’s jaw shut on all but a few tongues of flame, and felt the skin on his hand crackle most unpleasantly for his trouble. “Trees are made out of wood, remember? We’re here to save the dryads, not immolate them with a wildfire!”
The Stealth Dragon’s tail lashed from the pain of being forced to smother her own fire; it splintered the trunk behind her into thousands of toothpicks and nearly smushed the Sidekick Werewolf into SPAM. Eyes watering, she swallowed repeatedly with obvious difficulty, before exploding in a thick, hoarse voice, “Elfling, you do realize that the ability to literally breathe fire is my biggest offensive capability. It’s why you call a damn dragon in.” She dissolved into an imaginative swearing streak whose least offensive elements included “hurt like holy hell” and “sodding rude.”
She paused to rub her throat and jaw, swallow a bit more, and step toe to toe with the elf. “Tell me why I shouldn’t do you medium rare and eat you with a bottle of A.1. right here.”
“Because not everything is a bloody barbecue, you crazy pyro, and- and- A.1.?? Are you serious?!” the Cannibal Elf spluttered in mortal offense. “I wouldn’t even put that on a werewolf!”
“Werewolves are stringy. Only thing you can do with that is ketchup,” the Stealth Dragon replied, to the great horror (for very different reasons) of both elf and wolf. “You elves are gamey- A.1.’s just the thing.”
The Cannibal Elf gasped. “We are not gamey. How dare you!”
The dragon raised a scaly eyebrow at him. “Oh, yes, that’s right- according to the Elvenking, you would know. Pardon me, I haven’t eaten any pointy ears for a long time. I generally don’t eat anything intelligent unless it tries to steal from me.”
“Then why are you-….” The Cannibal Elf’s face got a pinched look. “For the last time, I am, categorically, not a cannibal, and that is a vicious, unproven rumor about my banishment that I highly resent. It’s simply that we’re too civilized and refined to possibly taste gamey.”
The Stealth Dragon rolled her eyes, showing the black sclera clearly. “Civilized and refined, is it? How civilized and refined can you be, when you don’t even cook your food, Erlkönig? You eat meat raw. Gross.”
“Don’t call me that,” the Cannibal Elf seethed, taking a long, meaningful look over one of the Stealth Dragon’s more prominent features that carried over into her humanoid form, “thunderthighs.”
The dragon huffed, then chuckled. “Sorry- the Elf Formerly Known as the Erlkönig. That lawsuit was hilarious- funniest thing I’d heard of in decades.”
“Well, it wasn’t very funny for me,” the Cannibal Elf crossed his arms and muttered sulkily.
The Stealth Dragon’s temper, like her breath, was beginning to cool a bit. “It sounds like the Elvenking is a bit of a dick,” she offered, “but, then again, I imagine any elvenking worth his tiara would have to banish a cannibal.”
“I am not-“
“-You know, I have round the clock heartburn,” she cut off the Cannibal Elf’s protest, thumping her broad chest with a meaty fist. “Part of being a dragon. What’s your excuse for being a moody little pill, elfling?” She frowned over his shoulder. “Where’d the werewolf get to?”
The Cannibal Elf waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll be back. I’ve been trying to shake Rover for a week- I couldn’t possibly have gotten so lucky. Wolf who lost his pack- bloody annoying, impossible, weepy clingfest. I think he may have imprinted on me or something absurd like that.”
“Ah, pack animals. Well, back to the matter at hand,” the Stealth Dragon turned around to gaze at the undisturbed herd of browsing monsters, “what exactly are you proposing we do about them?”
“You provide the air support; I’ll shoot them with my rifle. I was a sniper for a human army, a few wars back. Woof-woof was going to be backup when I reloaded.”
The Stealth Dragon made a displeased noise. “That’s going to be fairly dangerous for me to do, without fire. This is far from open ground, which is bad for maneuvering. And from what you’ve described, I’m concerned about what they can do with their heads and necks if I get in close, although I’m probably safe from their feet unless I go down. Besides, I’ve had about as much friendly fire as I can take for one day.”
“Oh, please. I’m an excellent shot, and dragons are notoriously always spoiling for death and destruction. And it isn’t like you have anything better to do.”
She sniffed and tossed her head. “It’s Tuesday. I have bridge at the senior center with the gals.” The Cannibal Elf goggled at her, too shocked for words, and she shifted uncomfortably, a defensive tone creeping into her resonant voice. “What? Burning down villages for entertainment was all well and good, but that was before the humans could drop a nuke on my hoard.”
The Cannibal Elf stared hard at her. “Camel Leopards haven’t got nukes.”
“No….”
“There’ll still be bridge at the senior center next Tuesday.”
“I suppose….”
“I have a bet going with the werewolf about whether or not you can snap a Camel Leopard’s neck in one bite. It’s actually pretty substantial, because now he has the entire pack’s assets,” the Cannibal Elf purred in a seductive tone that he had used to keep himself fat and happy for centuries. “I’ll split it with you, if you do it and I win.”
“…. Low blow, appealing to a dragon’s greed.” The Stealth Dragon growled. “Damn it, fine. Let’s do it.”