City of Dragon

A fairytale I wrote to my friend.

Once upon a time, long, long years ago, there was a city of Morror, industrial city with their own steelworks, their own forges and their own steam-machine factory. Every day  the pistons pound, the ashes were tossed far up into the sky, the sound of people shovelling the coal into the collosal machines rang as a song to their new future. Cogs were turning, people were crafting both their life and a complex, intricate song of sweat, steam and metal. This is the town I was born in, this is the town I live in now.  My story is about how my people once took down a dragon, a deity which was living just like we do: lots of steam, fire, might. The man of steam and coal, once weak and shivering in his hut of wood, now became strong, standing up to the fears of the past with unbreakable will.

It was just another day when the dragon attacked Morror. Usual creaking, whistling of steam machines were suddenly interrupted by bell chimes, though few heard it in the first moments. And just as people came out into the streets, the dragon flew above the city. Its’ black scales reflected no light, and it looked like at home in the smog created by the city. Fiery eyes, blazing breath, deadly and magnificent suppleness that went along with unparalleled, unchallengeable might. It was a glorious, powerful creature, which represented everything that us, new-age people, believed in. It seemed to represent the power and beauty of industry itself.

But no matter how beautiful it was, we had to put it down. The dragon incinerated people and cattle alike with its firey breath, and, diving like a bullet, it gave out a loud whistle by its’ body tearing the layers of air, deafening everyone nearby. It seems that it was alerted by this much of smoke, thinking there was another dragon in their territory, and there was one. Our town was a giant unliving dragon, breathing fire, living off on the mountains with ore in them, guarding its’ own treasures. And now was the time for these two dragons to fight for territory. At that time I thought: will we really be able to bring down a dragon? In the days of old these creatures terrorized people, whole valleys were desolated if a dragon lived nearby. And now we had to challenge one of them, prove to ourselves and to the whole world that we’re not the same as we used to be, prove that we’re not shivering mice, but powerful people. 

And hardy, robust men, which were boiled with the water in the steam tanks, melt with ore in the smelteries, brought up the cannons and armed the guns. A whole army of engineers and hard workers, who created and designed their child. And they aimed the cannons, and they shot the guns, and soon they injured the dragon’s wing when it was about to dive into the city’s walls.
The Beast roared and fell to the ground, destroying the wall, crushing people and cannons, burying folks under the rubble. It breathed another time, yet again setting on fire wood and people, but the walls of stones withstood the heat. And then… well, other cannons made a short work of the dragon, destroying its’ head. It hissed and hissed, dying, but it could not give out a firey breath once again. The Beast gasped for the last time, longing for air, its’ caustic blood gushing out of all the wounds, corroding the cobblestone and the unwary people, who came near the dying creature. 

It died, and, the first lionheart having checked on it, the dragon of Morror roared, victorious. It was the first dragon in history to be slain, but, what’s more, it was a triumph of the people who protected their home against a god-like creature, alone, without the help of any heroes. Although, truth be told, everyone in the city of Morror now became a hero himself.

And long were the feasts, and teary were the mourns, and high danced the flames of interment. And long were people restoring the town, but it was a happy work for them. Everyone in the town sacrificed something to get here or to make this place exist, so Morror, precious to everyone, came to its’ former glory in a matter of weeks. And happy were the folks, and better went their work, and went on the pistons’ pounding, cogs’ creaking. Went on the powerful heartbeat of the mighty dragon of Morror.

And what of the dragon’s carcass, you ask? Well, the blood and meat went to the apothecaries, bones were carved by the carvers. But the skull of the Dragon was cleaned, dried and hung above the town’s gates. Morror now became the «City of the Dragon», and the beast still lives on in our town’s coat of arms. 

Author's Note

I really hope that You can find some grammar, vocabulary errors, typos and etc. Will be happy to receive reviews.