Truthfully, the first died of old age but you can’t very well walk into a village declaring you’ve saved them from a dragon, when in fact the terrible beasty just died of natural causes.
So I lopped off its head, faked a few claw marks on my own body, dented my helmet, and strode forward victoriously.
The second I did kill, but I didn’t go looking for it. It was the offspring of the first and who knew that dragons mourn? There it was, head draped over the pool into which I threw the body of the first – they give off a foul smelling odour, enough to wake the dead – when up came me.
Well, I was behind it as I approached the sight of my first victory, leading a trail of village people behind me. They were here to see my accomplishments. Running would have thrown off the whole charade and I had a career planned.
So there was the dragon.
I grabbed the axe of the fellow behind me, ran as fast as I could, and before the critter knew I was even there attacked its mid section.
Yes, I was as surprised as any when it dropped. Now I know that all dragons have a soft underbelly. I didn’t then. It was just pride that happened to work out well for a change.
The third I stole from the poor guy who gave me the idea to be a dragon slayer in the first place. “Osbourn the third.” He was sleeping, I was fed up with my lousy pay. Left that night and took the dragon head, along with a satchel and two sets of clothes.
So there you have it really. I found the dead dragon three weeks later, walked into the village, came back and slew the dragon’s offspring. Moments later I’m proclaimed “St George the Dragon Slayer.”
The rest is history.