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The dragon beat its wings once, twice, exulting in the feel of the on rushing wind and the muscles shifting in its chest. Higher and higher it flew, reaching for the stars, then tumbling back down towards the earth and catching itself just in time then flying higher again in ecstasy, reveling in it's own strength and freedom. As it dived down again, just as it skimmed over the puny houses below a shaft of wood sprung up, digging deep into its flesh. The dragon screamed in pain, a strange metallic screech, all revelry gone, the dragon shot back into the sky, but it's wing strokes were hampered by the shaft of wood still lodged deep within it's chest. The dragon keened once, a small helpless sound and its wings wrapped around its body as it fell from the sky, tumbling over and over in the air. The dull thump when the dragon hit the ground could be heard from the nearby village and the dragon attempted to move weakly, vainly struggling to regain the flight that it had so loved, but only driving the lance in deeper with its wings. Finally the dragon died as it drove the lance into its own heart in its desperate struggles. It shuddered and lay still, its immense form looking like a hill from the safety of the village. In the morning when the villagers plucked up the courage to investigate the once proud beast they had slain the dragon was not there, there was not even the slightest mark in the ground to prove the dragon had died on that spot, only the blood stained lance, and no matter how the farmers tried nothing would grow in that field.