The monk stood in the rain, face upturned, eyes closed, waiting, listening for the beating of the wings. By the time he heard them, he was soaked to the bone. The noise grew loud, was joined by monstrous snorts, and then a thunderous crunch on landing.
The dragon intoned, “Abbot, do you have my tribute?”
“I do, indeed.” Two head of cattle had been left out in the pasture, and were now cowering in the far corner under the old ash tree. “May I ask, my Lord: do you miss the sport?”
“It has never been sport, Abbot.”