There was once a little village at the base of a mountain. The climate was mild and the crops plentiful. But there were no shouts of joy, no foals playing in the streets, for they lived under the shadow of a greedy dragon.
Each Monday, the dragon would fly down from the mountain and stomp through the town square.
“Bring me gems!” he bellowed. “Or else I’ll dine on you!”
Each Sunday, the villagers would gather what they could spare, sending some ponies off to market. Each time they returned with a small cart of treasure. And each time the dragon gobbled it up before flying back to his cave.
As the months wore on, many ponies grew tired of living in fear. Those with the means fled to greener pastures. As the population dwindled, so too did their wealth. But the dragon cared not and demanded tribute just the same. The ponies began to sell more and more of their possessions to make up the difference.
One day, a young stallion, the smith’s apprentice, said to himself, “My people cannot live like this forever.”
He stood at the bottom of the mountain, gazing up at the lofty peak. With no sword to his name, nor even a shirt on his back, there was nothing he could do. He doubted he could even make it all the way to the top.
As he stared at the endless, winding path, he hatched a plan. He would build himself a weapon and some armour. He would train until he could no longer stand. He would free his people.
The stallion gathered some scrap and worked through the night. As the dawn broke, he had in his hooves a crooked sword and a suit of patchwork barding.
“I must become at home on the mountain if I ever wish to beat the dragon,” he told himself.
So he took his equipment and ventured into the lower hills. As he crept across the hard, craggy ground, he found his hooves aching and his brow dripping with sweat. He had underestimated the difficulties of adapting and yet, still he carried on.
After several hours, he stopped to rest at an old mine. It had long been lost beneath a sea of rocks, a few rusted out tools desperately clinging to the surface.
There he saw an antlered rabbit. It saw him too, and broke into a run, lunging at him with bared teeth. He realized, almost too late, that it was a dreaded Vampiric Jackalope.
As they struggled on the ground, the stallion found his blade just barely able to pierce the monster’s hide. Although beaten and bruised, he eventually emerged victorious.
“This will not do,” he panted. “For if a Jackalope troubles me so, I cannot hope to slay a dragon. I must become stronger.”
When he turned to leave, a glint caught his eye. A box, uncovered by the scuffle, peeked out of the ground. Inside were several iron nuggets. Though too small to completely fulfill his needs, it was a start. He returned to the village, his resolve stronger than ever.
Week-to-week, the stallion improved both his craft and his skill with the blade. Week-to-week, he squirreled away just a little bit of metal. Eventually, he had enough material to construct proper equipment.
He set to work again, struggling through many days and nights. But he remained adamant. Each tink of the hammer brought a sharper edge or a more beauteous curve. With loving care, he shaped his armaments.
As dawn broke on the fifth night, he took a step back. Although they weren’t perfect, the sword was keen and tall, the armour proud and stalwart.
The stallion let himself rest but a day. The next, he donned his armour and began his journey up the mountain. It wasn’t long before he encountered a tall, dog-like creature. The creature wore old, tattered clothes and carried a makeshift spear.
“Let me pass,” the stallion said. “I seek the dragon of the mountain.”
The dog laughed, leveling its spear. “You cannot kill a dragon with that. Nor even a Diamond Dog!”
The Diamond Dog leapt into the air, bearing down upon the stallion. But the pony was faster and his blade truer.
In the aftermath, he found a small cache. Gems, gold and, more importantly, rare metals he had only seen in the depths of his mentor’s dusty old manuals. Filling his saddlebags, he hurried back to town.
Week-by-week, he trained again. Inspired by his victory, he sought new heights. Both his muscles and craft continued to grow.
After many months, he finally felt he was ready. So he worked again, day and night. The metals were stubborn, but so was he. Each stroke was a gesture of loving fervour. As the metal took shape, it shone in the moonlight, boasting a flawless structure to all.
The stallion lost track of time. But as one dawn broke, he stepped back. Before him stood a hero’s blade and barding, the edge of the first so sharp as to cleft rock, the second impenetrable enough to deflect boulders.
“With these, I can surely win,” mused the stallion.
So his journey began anew. Up and up he went. Diamond Dogs watched from the bushes, but they knew better than to approach.
After many days and nights, he reached the summit, where the dragon’s cave stood. This particular day just so happened to be a Monday and so he found the dragon leaving its cave.
“What is this?” demanded the dragon. “Who dares approach my lair?”
“I am the voice of my village!” called the stallion in return. “We wish for you to stop terrorizing us and to let us live our lives.”
The dragon chortled, a gout of flame escaping his nostrils. “That is a very funny joke. I would keep you around as a jester if I wasn’t going to destroy you.”
Undaunted, the stallion readied himself. He knew where and when to strike. All he needed was a chance.
The dragon raised a claw, then wrapped his tail around the stallion before bringing his hand down.
The dragon ate the remains before flying off to town. He was even nice enough to lessen the demands of that day’s tribute.
To this day, the dragon still roosts on the mountain.
