A sword hit it in the thigh and blood poured onto the sacred grounds. Ropes clung to it's back and dragged it down to the Earth. The last dragon screeched and roared fire as the army swarmed over it's back. The Executioner-Lord arrived in black cloak and crown with a black scythe at the ready. The last dragon cowered in shame as the scythe rose. It moaned. "Funny," it thought as the scythe crashed down, "I never noticed how blue the sky is."
The crowd left and soon the men of the tribes were quarelling about who should get the head. A little girl walked to the blood-stained remains of the once proud animal. She walked towards the tail and saw a little white object on the ground. She ran up to it and saw a snow-white egg lying in the dirt. She gasped and picked it up. "Guinevere," said the voice of the Executioner-Lord, the little girl's father. She sighed, hiding the egg in her jacket. "Coming, daddy," said Guinevere. "Good girl," he said. "Mister executioner," said one of the men of the tribes. He turned. "Who shall receive the head?" He sighed. "The head is mine, as par our agreement, Flavius. And you will refer to me as Saint George." he nodded. "Yes, sir." Guinevere felt little cracks opening in the egg. Soon. Very soon.