OIFU by feeding the dragon beer

Good gentles, lend me thine ears, for I have made a most grievous miscalculation.

Our village of Dunmere hath long dwelt in uneasy peace with the dragon of the northern crags — a vast, soot-scaled creature named Thraxxidor the Immoderate. Each year we offer tribute: gold, goats, and the occasional troubadour (for he did enjoy music, if not musicians).

This year, the council in its wisdom did appoint me—Edric, humble innkeep—to deliver the offering. I thought, “Mayhap if I sweeten the deal, the beast shall favor us.” So, like a proper fool, I rolled forth a barrel of my strongest dragonfire ale, aged three winters and potent enough to fell a mule.

At first, ’twas a triumph! The wyrm lapped the ale straight from the barrel, smacking its smoky lips. “Ahh,” quoth it, “this brew hath bite.” I glowed with pride. The village cheered from afar. Then came the merriment.

The dragon began to hum. Then to sway. Then to attempt dance. Imagine, if thou canst, a creature the size of a chapel, inebriated, flapping its wings in delight whilst belching great plumes of flame.

Within moments, the thatch roofs of the lower village caught light. Chickens exploded. The baker’s cat achieved sainthood midair. The mayor fled into a pond, shouting, “Fetch water, fetch water!” as though the pond were not already water.

Meanwhile, the dragon, full of joy and hops, clapped its wings and declared, “A round for all!”—which, in practice, meant more fire.

By dawn, half the village was ash, the other half soaked from bucket brigades. Thraxxidor slumbered atop the ruins, snoring contentedly, muttering, “Good ale… good folk…”

Now the villagers call me “Edric the Brew-Bringer,” though not kindly. The council demandeth restitution. I have but three coppers, a singed beard, and a lifetime ban from brewing.

So, yea. Today I f***ed up by feeding the dragon beer. I hath learned that diplomacy and drunken dragons make poor bedfellows.