World of Weirdcraft/Sherlock crossover. I'm so, so sorry.
A/N Blame fansquee. For serious.
Quite how he had come to be sharing a cave with a petulant, over-grown lizard, Hamwise Jamjar (Jammo to his friends) was never quite sure.
He'd fought in the King's Army in the Southern Desert, where the strange, savage tribes still drowned giant worms in ceremonial vats of mezcal (even now, he will wake from nightmares, with the eerie chant of 'te-ki-la, te-ki-la' in his ears) until a well-aimed spear had seen him invalided home. Ex-Army healers of the halfling persuasion not being in great demand, he'd drifted along, eking out his meagre funds, until a chance meeting in the tavern with an old friend. Mikkel Stampface was a dwarf, and they had trained together back at the Temple of Bartimaeus. There had been quaffing, and singing, and more quaffing, and somewhere in there, he had complained about the cost of living in dingy tavern rooms. Which had led to him following his friend down a narrow flight of steps into the vaults beneath the Temple.
“He's been looking for someone to share living costs with. He's got some long unpronouncable name, so we just tend to call him Smug.”
There is a leathery, slithering rattle, and then the shadows in the corner of the cave unfold themselves. And a great armoured head comes swooping down, to fix a pale eye on him.
“You have been in the Southern Desert, I perceive.” A deep voice, well-modulated. (For some reason, Jammo finds himself applying the word 'smoky', and then tries hard not to.)
“Right,” Says Jammo, feeling slightly light-headed. “So, you're a dragon, jolly good.”
“If you must know, a wizard did it.” The creature sounds supremely uninterested, prodding a claw into a crack in the floor.
“Well, if you meddle in their affairs...”
“I wouldn't call turning me into a dragon particularly subtle.” Then it, he, mutters something that sounds like “Bloody Mycroft.”
Continue Y/N?
Quite how he had come to be sharing a cave with a petulant, over-grown lizard, Hamwise Jamjar (Jammo to his friends) was never quite sure.
He'd fought in the King's Army in the Southern Desert, where the strange, savage tribes still drowned giant worms in ceremonial vats of mezcal (even now, he will wake from nightmares, with the eerie chant of 'te-ki-la, te-ki-la' in his ears) until a well-aimed spear had seen him invalided home. Ex-Army healers of the halfling persuasion not being in great demand, he'd drifted along, eking out his meagre funds, until a chance meeting in the tavern with an old friend. Mikkel Stampface was a dwarf, and they had trained together back at the Temple of Bartimaeus. There had been quaffing, and singing, and more quaffing, and somewhere in there, he had complained about the cost of living in dingy tavern rooms. Which had led to him following his friend down a narrow flight of steps into the vaults beneath the Temple.
“He's been looking for someone to share living costs with. He's got some long unpronouncable name, so we just tend to call him Smug.”
There is a leathery, slithering rattle, and then the shadows in the corner of the cave unfold themselves. And a great armoured head comes swooping down, to fix a pale eye on him.
“You have been in the Southern Desert, I perceive.” A deep voice, well-modulated. (For some reason, Jammo finds himself applying the word 'smoky', and then tries hard not to.)
“Right,” Says Jammo, feeling slightly light-headed. “So, you're a dragon, jolly good.”
“If you must know, a wizard did it.” The creature sounds supremely uninterested, prodding a claw into a crack in the floor.
“Well, if you meddle in their affairs...”
“I wouldn't call turning me into a dragon particularly subtle.” Then it, he, mutters something that sounds like “Bloody Mycroft.”
Continue Y/N?