Dragons - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
Behind these eyes of dragonish glare, in a language carved before the age of ice, is the mind of the serpent king, the beast of the darkened cave. And because I cannot abide your words, those sounds that flame too hot for this blood, I seek to end all that you are and prevent anything you could be. This is the way of dragons and seek not to make me what you are.
The dragons never appeared to have grown from anything at all. Moira said she thought they weren't born but carved. Perhaps once they were mountains, content to slumber, until the keen edge of a knife woke their dragonish ways. Perhaps she was right, for they were so very grey, almost as if they were something missing rather than present. It was as if they had found ways to be a little satisfied with food or a sun-warmed rock, yet happiness and joy eluded them. I'd like to think that to fly brings them a pleasure, to play in pristine air, to twist as a rollercoaster without the bother of rails.
The dragons had a way about them, a slowness and grace. In the summer sun they would be out there on the rocks, taking the warmth in through their scales. They would doze that way for hours and perhaps that is how they feel happy, resting just so. In the wintry weather they hibernated, having fed on elk in the autumn. We'd know when they awoke by the calling in the hills, those deep voices, beautiful in their rawness, echoing from the rocks. No matter how often we saw them fly, arcing with outstretched wings, each as brilliant as stained glass, we held our breath for a moment, eyes wide. They were kites without strings, celebrations of freedom with each rhythmic beat. Nana always said they were the first sure sign of spring, more than all the flowers and new buds.
The tales of the knights aren't quite the same in dragonese. They tell of living in the caves, of a life of peace until the ones clad in metal came, the men of cold eyes and cold blades. They tell of a frenzy in the ones of two legs, how they took even the teeth from their dead and wore them as a decoration. Perhaps that is why we think of their eyes as cold, for they only reflect what they see in us. It took someone special to change all that, brave and kind, that was my sister, Amanda. She watched so patiently until there was a chance to help, to save a baby and show her heart. She would say that after that their eyes were every green of every forest, liquid and alive. So many thought her foolish, to risk so much, but she saw it the other way around - that it was foolish to surrender to war when peace was there for the taking.
Scales cold as ice that blazes bright as an ever flickering flame. In his chest it holds often times a hearth of burning fire although in his remorseless heart lay rime. Eyes that turn skin into a sickly pallor, claws able to lacerate even the sturdiest to mere ribbons of flesh and bone, blood so black that night held an intense radiance that could blind your eyes. With his tongue he could smell your dread and taste your fear. He holds a wisdom like no other and, yet expresses a toxic greed. His bed crafted from jewels, gold, and the treasures he stole. Always trapped in slumber, unless he went to quench the hunger he could not satisfy, or when one was stupid enough to face him. When his death came all is gone and there is no hunger left, and gratitude is all he feels.
Her scales gleamed in the sunlight. The scales that were her pride and delight. violet streaks were shot through them brighter then the sun or so she claimed. Black attached itself to both sides of the violet. With teeth as sharp and cold as icicles they could rip through amour. She thought absently just for defense. Spells as slippery as snakes and as powerful as the night sky for convenience she elaborated. Eyes with deep violet seemingly endless pools streaked with intelligence and wisdom. To see you know she said tossing her tail. Her tail hard as rock and could go through a castle wall as if it was no more then a toy. For balance she explained. Wings that stretched leathery like a bats. To fly she explained. Colossal yet she thought humans were the evil murderers.
The dragon was deceptively strong. It stood no bigger than a pit-pony and was as spindly as the saplings in the orchard. It's eyes were lamp-like and orange, cute as hell. It walked forwards, head bowed submissively until it was in striking distance. Its prey was deceased before it could turn to run or raise any kind of defence.
The dragon was the colour of the night, not a coincidence, but merely a function of his multi-chromatic skin. In the forest he was a similar pattern to army camouflage pants. In the city he was concrete grey. Passing over the ocean in daylight he was blue, the exact blue of the waves from above and the blue of the sky from below. His eyes were able to zoom in from hundreds of meters away and his eyes could isolate sounds from one another. He could echo locate and mimic any creature, even the human voice. Now in his eight century he had matured and was seeking a mate, never something he'd even been curious about before.
In the gloom there is steam, rising in short puffs, miniature clouds disappearing into the twilight. Kalin crouched, resting the hilt of her sword on the rain-soaked ground before raising a licked finger to the air. Wind in her face, good, that might give her the edge. She stood, lithe even in her brother's armour. If it was her destiny to be sacrificed to this beast she might as well make a fairer fight of it. Being chained to a wooden post in virginal white was so last century. It wasn't appropriate anyway, but only one other person knew that and he wasn't telling anyone.
The dragon lies as still as the dead. With its all-bronze scales more than one of the party began to suspect it was either a statue or a beast turned to metal by a sorcerer. Janji stared at the belly and nothing else for a few minutes, straining to see movement. Then he turned his gaze to the nostrils, nothing, not even a wisp of vapour or smoke. He turned and ushered the others forwards. The beast was serpentine like most large worms but it's back was plated oddly and it had an odour Janji couldn't put his finger on. It was almost sweet but it had an undertone of something rotting. He signalled a stop, there were buds on the side of the beast he could have sworn weren't there a few moments ago. Before they could run the buds grew to legs and it turned hypnotic eyes on them, silvery orbs that moved like fog trapped in a land depression. Instead of running they became relaxed, somehow they knew they'd be OK here, the dragon was their friend and they really should bring it more treasure.
The dragon was scaled in delicate green shields, not much thicker than a human fingernail. Yet from every place possible were sharp claw-like projections. They lay down his spine and from the edges of his wings. They fanned like aggressive blooms from his feet and elbows. According to lore each one is tipped with poison enough to fell a grown man in seconds. Their attackers never even realize they're dead.
There he lay, a vast red-golden dragon, fast asleep; a thrumming came from his jaws and nostrils, and wisps of smoke, but his fires were low in slumber. Beneath
him, under all his limbs and his huge coiled tail, and about him on all sides stretching away across the unseen floors, lay countless piles of precious things,
gold wrought and unwrought, gems and jewels, and silver red-stained in the ruddy light.
The dragon always knew when to awake. It was pointless to be conscious unless there was an easy meal nearby. In the dank darkness that was her cave she opened both yellow eyes, not slowly like a creature groggy from sleep, but suddenly as if a switch had been flicked. Smoke poured unseen from her nostrils but to anyone near the cave entrance there would be a sulphurous odour. With little sound she rose, silvery scales sliding over one another. She kept her wings tucked in tight so as not to graze them on the rough rock walls, waiting until she stepped into the night air. She flared her nostrils in the damp air, the people were close, roasting a pig perhaps. But hog or human, they all tasted good to her.
In the time before the humans had captured fire or leant how to farm, the dragons walked among them so camouflaged that they blended in with the trees and the grass. The dragons were yet to love gold, for in that prehistoric time there was none. Instead there was just the joy of chancing upon a human morsel. Their favourite were the young men and women, full sized but still tender. They were already hoarders because that is the dragons nature. They selected the most beautiful rocks, seashells and driftwood to guard in their jealous way. Only in later times did they abandon the ordinary rocks for their gold lust. In return the humans became ever more focused on their gold, ready to risk life and limb to confront the dragon. But when they entered the lair they saw nothing but a free pile of gold, gold enough to fill their bags, socks and cloaks. They never heard the dragon make its move, but can how can you blame it? A dragon has a dragon's heart & mind and the humans were tasty.
Fire-drakes, breathe fire, some have huge bat-like wings, live for centuries, shun water, prefer darkness, stench of sulphurous fumes, black poisonous blood, bodies glow like a gem stone, laughter deep and reverberating can shake mountains, intense eyes cast dragon-spell that makes enemies wish to surrender. Example of a fire drake: Smaug the Golden in J. R. R. Tolkien’s The Hobbit.
Cold-drakes, no fire, no wings, powerful teeth and claws like swords, tough armour with iron scales, massive size, crush armies’ shield walls with tails, eye-site of a hawk, keenest sense of hearing to detect even the most silent of enemies, sense of smell so acute they can identify the cleanest and most odourless of creatures by aroma alone, merciless, stalk foes, take gold and silver as their prize. Intelligent, love of riddles, vain, greedy and gluttonous.
Her scales glistened and glittered in the sunlight as she stretched her limbs and her wings. Her den was behind her—a cave. Her belly rumbling slightly, she spread her wings and flew to the forest. She could feel the wind beneath her wings as she flew. She shifted her cranium to gaze downward, searching for food. The scent of deer wafted into her nostrils. Following the scent, she began to descend downwards and soon she landed. Beginning to follow the scent, she soon caught a sight of deer. It was chewing on grass. She curled her lips. She could almost taste the flesh of the deer. Prowling behind it, she flexed her talons, waiting for the perfect time to slaughter it. The deer halted, it was growing suspicious. She cannot allow that. She snarled, leaping on top of the deer. She dug her talons on its flank. The scent of blood filled her nose. The deer struggled, desperately trying to escape from the dragon's wrath. But she simply will not allow that. She sank her fangs onto the deer's neck, snapping its throat. The deep fell limp and withered to the forest floor. The dragon grinned, satisfied with her kill.
I've never seen a dragon, but I know there's a hive of them not too far from here: a dark cavern, filled with pulsating eggs and putrescent larvae. The dragons themselves come to the surface at night, mainly to consume moths and mosquitos but also, I'm told, to pay their respects to the moon. The idea of such insectlike creatures having a religion is strange to me, but I suppose everything about them is. The dragons leave us alone so long as we return the favor, and if that means never seeing one in the flesh, then that's fine by me.