The bad omen

The smell of burnt cabbage was always the first sign that Sir Reginald's magical protective amulets were of subpar quality.

The second sign was the crow.

It wasn't just any crow. It was a massive, glossy bird with eyes that gleamed with an unsettling, malevolent intelligence. It had landed directly on the brim of Reginald's polished steel helmet, its talons scraping against the metal with a sound that set his teeth on edge. Then, with agonizing slowness, it had reached down and plucked a single, pristine white feather from the decorative plume of his crest, swallowed it whole, and let out a guttural, human sounding laugh.

"Well," said Barnaby, leaning heavily on his wooden staff. "That's it then. You're marked."

Sir Reginald froze, his gauntleted hand hovering inches from the hilt of his broadsword. "Marked? What do you mean marked? It's a bird, Barnaby. A common, oversized, slightly aggressive bird."

"It ate a piece of your pride and laughed in your face, Reggie," Barnaby said, pulling a piece of dried beef from his pouch and chewing it thoughtfully. That is a Grade A, certified bad omen. In the wizarding textbooks, they call it the Corvis Damnationis. Or, in layman's terms, the 'You are completely doomed' bird. I'd give you until sundown before you accidentally impale yourself on your own scabbard."

"Nonsense!" Reginald snapped, though his voice pitched a fraction higher than usual. He took a rigid step forward. "We are Knights of the Order of the Radiant Snail! We do not bow to superstition. We have a quest to complete. The Dragon of Brimstone Crag will not slay itself."

"True," Barnaby muttered, falling into step behind the clanking knight. "But usually, the people slaying it aren't carrying around a metaphysical death sentence on their heads. Just saying."

They continued down the winding mountain path. The sky was an aggressive, cheerful blue, completely at odds with the profound sense of dread settling in Reginald's stomach. He tried to focus on his heroic posture, but the crow's laugh echoed in his ears.

Ten minutes later, the omen began to cash its checks.

A sudden, entirely localized gust of wind blew through the canyon. It didn't ruffle the trees. It didn't blow Barnaby's oversized robes. It simply targeted Sir Reginald, lifting his heavy silk cape over his head, blinding him completely, and twisting him around until he stumbled off the path and fell face first into a thicket of thorns.

"Omen: One. Reggie: Zero," Barnaby announced, standing at the edge of the path and peering at the disaster.

"It was a freak, meteorological event!" Reginald's muffled voice bellowed from the brush. He thrashed about, his armor clanging like a tray of dropped silverware. "Help me out of here!"

"I don't know if I should touch you," Barnaby said, scratching his beard. "What if the doom is contagious? I have a dental appointment in the capital next Tuesday."

With a roar of frustration, Reginald burst from the bushes, covered in scratches and sporting a rather large, aggressive burr stuck directly to his nose. He glared at the wizard. "We press on."

As they climbed higher into the jagged rocks of Brimstone Crag, the bad luck grew increasingly specific. A small, rogue boulder detoured around three perfectly placed rocks just to strike Reginald directly in the shin. A passing mountain goat stopped, looked Reginald dead in the eye, and sneezed a wet, messy explosion directly onto his breastplate. When Reginald tried to drink from his waterskin, the leather strap snapped, the cap flew off, and the water shot upward, drenching him entirely while leaving the rest of the ground dry.

By mid-afternoon, Sir Reginald looked less like a glorious champion of the realm and more like the victim of a very organized, very petty poltergeist. His armor was dented, he was damp, he smelled faintly of goat fluid, and his left boot squelched with every step.

"Look, Reggie," Barnaby said, placing himself a safe five feet away from the knight. "We need a counter-curse. The omen has a hold on you. If we face the dragon like this, you're going to trip over a pebble, fly into its mouth, and choke it to death. Which granted, wins us the bounty but is terrible for your legacy."

"I do not need a counter-curse," Reginald hissed, his knuckles white around his sword hilt. "I need a wizard who stops talking and starts wizarding! Can you not cast a shield of fortune? A bubble of basic safety?"

Barnaby sighed, raising his staff, "Fine, fine. Hold still. Let me remember the incantation. Fortuna, portuna, don't let him die-a..."

A spark of purple magic erupted from the tip of his staff. It shot toward Reginald, ricocheted off his shiny pauldrons, flew backward and struck a nearby bush. The bush instantly transformed into a flock of very angry, very confused badgers, which immediately charged Reginald's ankles.

After a frantic five minutes of high stepping and screaming, the badgers dispersed into the rocks.

"My bad," Barnaby said, wincing. "Dialed the frequency a bit too high on the transmutation spectrum."

"You are a menace to society," Reginald gasped, leaning against a rock, completely exhausted. "The crow didn't curse me. You are cursing me by proxy of your sheer incompetence."

Before Barnaby could defend his academic credentials, a low, rumbling vibration shook the mountain. The air grew thick with the smell oof sulfur and old pennies. From around the bend of the canyon, a shadow stretched across the stone - huge, winged, and jagged.

The Dragon of Brimstone Crag emerged.

It was a magnificent beast, covered in crimson scales that shimmered like hot coals. Smoke curled lazily from its nostrils, and its yellow eyes locked onto the two travelers. It drew a deep breath, its chest expanding as fire began to glow deep in its throat.

"Ah," Barnaby said, stepping neatly behind a large, fireproof boulder. "The climax. Good luck, Reggie. Try to die honorably."

Sir Reginald drew his sword. The steel caught the sunlight, gleaming bravely. For a moment, he felt like a hero again. He raised his shield, planted his boots, and prepared to shout his battle cry.

"Prepare to meet thy doom, foul beast of the-"

Splat.

A heavy drop of bird droppings fell from the heavens, landing squarely on the visor of Reginald's helmet, completely obscuring his vision.

"Oh, come on!" Reginald yelled, dropping his defensive stance to wipe wildly at his eyes with his gauntlet. "Right now? Really?!"

The dragon, thoroughly confused by the knight's sudden frantic self-grooming, paused. It tilted its massive head, the fire dying down in its throat to a faint flicker. It let out a low, inquisitive grunt.

Blindly, Reginald took a step forward, slipped instantly on the wet squelch of his own leaky boot, and lost his balance. He pitched forward, his heavy armor carrying him down the sloping path like a runaway boulder. He hit the ground rolling, clanking, and screaming, his sword flying from his hand.

He rolled directly between the dragon's massive front legs.

The dragon blinked, looking down at the spinning tin can of a human currently wedged beneath its belly.

As Reginald rolled, the sharp spike on the top of his helmet caught the edge of a loose, cracked scale on the dragon's underbelly - the exact spot where an old wound had never properly healed. The helmet spike acted as the perfect lever. With a loud pop, the loose scale broke free, exposing a highly sensitive, unarmored nerve cluster underneath.

The dragon's eyes went wide. It let out a sound that was less of a roar and more of a high pitched, soprano squeak.

Startled by the dragon's noise, Reginald panicked. He flailed his arms wildly, trying to push himself up. In doing so, his steel gauntlet accidentally punched the dragon in its ticklish under-wing joint.

The beast lost all dignity. It began to writhe on the ground, giggling in a terrifying, bass-heavy rumble that shook the canyon. It rolled onto its back, thrashing its legs in the air like an oversized, scaly puppy experiencing an unbearable itch.

"Barnaby! Help!" Reginald screamed, pinned beneath a flailing crimson tail. "The omen is crushing me!"

"Hold on, I've got an idea!" Barnaby shouted from behind the boulder. He raised his staff and yelled, "Ignis Extinguis!"

A beam of blue light shot from the staff. It completely missed the dragon, sailed over its head, and struck a massive overhanging rock formation directly above the beast. The rock formation cracked, shattered, and loosed a massive landslide of heavy boulders.

The boulders rained down, completely missing Reginald, but burying the dragon up to its neck in solid stone, effectively pinning it to the canyon floor.

Silence fell over the Crag, broken only by the settling dust and the dragon's soft, dazed whimpering.

Reginald crawled out from under the rubble, his armor entirely misshapen, his helmet askew, and his face covered in soot. He stood up, looking at the trapped, defeated dragon, and then down at his empty hands.

Barnaby trotted over, clapping his hands together cheerfully. "Wow, look at that. You did it, Reggie! You slew - well, imm0obilized - the beast!"

Reginald slowly turned his head towards the wizard. His eyes were wide with a mix of terror and profound exhaustion. "I didn't do anything,=. I slipped. I got pooped on. I fell. I punched it by accident."

"Exactly!" Barnaby beamed. "The bad omen! Don't you see? It brought so much catastrophic bad luck upon you that the universe underwent a local probability collapse. The luck was so incredibly bad for you that it inverted, making the situation completely fatal to your enemy! It's basic karmic physics."

Reginald stared at him for a long, quiet moment. He reached up, took off his dented helmet, and dropped it onto the dirt.

From a nearby ledge, a loud, guttural laugh echoed.

The big black crow was sitting on a branch, watching them. It tilted its head, gave Reginald a mock nod of respect, and flew away into the afternoon sky.

"You know," Reginald whispered, pulling another burr off his ear. "Nest time, we're hiring a rogue."

"Agreed," Barnaby said, picking up the knight's discarded sword. "But until then, we have a dragon bounty to collect. Do you want to carry the head, or should we just bring the whole mountain?"

Reginald didn't answer. He just started walking back down the path, praying with every step that his boots wouldn't explode.