text: Attacking him head on would be suicide. Sure, it would be nice to blind him or cut into his underbelly, but he would just fry you with a blast of fire before you even got close. There is only one course of action to take in times like this: dodge.
  
  
  Like a timid bear you perform a false charge, pulling up at the last second as a blast of fire scorches the ground in front of you. Without your bulky armor you are able to twist and twirl, spin and swirl, dip and dive, jump and jive and pirouette away from the dragon fire while inching ever closer to the monster. Since when did you get moves like Jagger?
  
  
  “Die mortal,” the dragon shouts, releasing another blast of fire.
  
  
  You duck behind a conveniently placed boulder just in time to escape. The dragon stalks closer. His massive limbs quake the ground with every step: his tail smashing the wall without purpose. Another blast of fire. The heat coming off the rock is like lava. You fear it is about to melt.
  
  
  Is this it? Is this the end?
  
  
  “Foolish mortal. The only way to kill a dragon is with a disorganized band of heroes and a bard, or with a magic sword. And you don’t have either. Mwhahaha.”
  
  
  Shit. I’m totally fucked. Why didn’t I read that book on dragon clichés Jon bought me last Christmas? Think fast, think fast, think fast. Brain blast! Music! Music soothes the savage beast. Shit, I forgot my fiddle.
  
  
  The dragon rumbles closer, taking his sweet time. Any more bright ideas, Mr. Hero?
  > You how about you steal one of those sweet magic swords sticking out of his treasure pile.
  You make a mental note to thank the dragon for providing you with the recipe for his death at his funeral as you yank the first magic sword you find from the mountain of plunder. The sword shines a brilliant blue-gold and has a queer hourglass shape carved into the blade: yep, definitely magic. Though, something feels awful familiar about this. Oh well, you can worry about that later. You have a dragon to kill.
  
  
  “Your day of reckoning has come, dragon!”
  
  
  “No, you fool,” the dragon rasps. “Put that down. Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to meddle with magic you don’t know how to use?”
  
  
  “Nope.”
  
  
  The dragon breathes fire at you, but you knock it away with a swing of the sword. The resulting fireball explodes in the treasure hoard. Molten gold and silver splatter everywhere. Droplets burn into your arms and chest, but you struggle through the pain and raise the magic sword for the killing blow.
  
  
  “You’ll doom us all,” the dragon pleads.
  
  
  Not that it’s my place, but I think you should listen to the dragon.
  
  
  What do you expect me to do, negotiate a treaty?
  
  
  I would endorse that. 
  > You fine.
  “Alright dragon,” you say. “The asshole narrator told me not to kill you. What’s the deal?”
  
  
  The dragon sighs in relief as steam spouts from his nostrils. “Of all the fucking magic swords, you grabbed the Time-Warper.”
  
  
  “And I care why?”
  
  
  “Once the blade slices into something living, the last five seconds of all life are replayed on an infinite loop.”
  
  
  “How do you stop it?”
  
  
  “You can’t.”
  
  
  “That’s fucking retarded. Who would make such a stupid sword?”
  
  
  “A villain.”
  
  
  “But the villain would be damning himself for all eternity too.”
  
  
  “I said a villain. Not a smart villain.”
  
  
  Agreeing you are at an impasse, you and the dragon negotiate a treaty the two of you find mutually acceptable. The dragon receives 50% of all taxes collected within Irelandshire, 1 out of every 3 sheep, 1 princess of his choice per year, and you receive one dragon ride every Sunday after church. You are not very good at negotiations.