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Striker 2

A sandwing was casually strolling the beach, whistling a jaunty tune and flipping a simple golden goin, its gleam shining from the setting sun, painting the sky in purple and orange.

A group of dragon were attempting to be sneaky. Against the average dragon, yes, you take their crude movements to be quiet.

To an experienced professional? Not so much.

The dragon behind him were bumbling about in the sand, really just crunching it up. It was quite sad really, but you couldn’t beget amateurs.

Unfortunately, when the leader opened his mouth, they lost the chance to leave peacefully or to learn a lesson.

“We have you surrounded. Stand down criminal scum!”

What is with it with dragons sending children to fight him? Without even turning around, the voice told him that dragon belonged in a library reading action scrolls, than to be here.

And if he was the leader? Well, that was a poor indicator for the rest of them. Striker could feel a spear press against the scales of his leg.

Striker turned around. The spear holder scrambled and moved their weapon to his neck. He didn’t care. What was in front of him was one of the saddest displays he has ever seen. It was practically dragonets pretending to be bounty hunters. The minimal armor they had looked several sizes too big, and they held their spears and swords with such lack of confidence and poor posture.

Striker wanted to sob at the affront to the name of Bounty Hunting.

Striker leaned forward just a bit, the spear drawing crimson blood against his neck. He never stopped flipping his coin the entire saddening interaction.

“To give y’all a chance, Imma close my eyes and use only my tail.”

The leader, a snobby young little skywing, merely blinked at him. Striker simply closed his eyes, and tossed his coin into the sky, the circular piece of gold glinting like a miniature sun.

Of course, Striker couldn’t see it, but it was the last thing the dragonets posing as warriors saw. It was almost poetic in a sense.

The coin fell to the ground, but before it hit the sand, a sandwing caught it, and danced it about his claws with practiced ease. Seven bodies were posed about in the sand, the waves lapping at their corpses.

It couldn’t even be called a fight, Striker mused to himself, before continuing on his pleasant beach stroll.

Only slaughter.

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