Prompt: Write a story that begins in a forest and ends in a teacup.

The hero walked almost silently through the woods, his white leather boots scarcely making a sound upon the fallen leaves. His ermine-trimmed cape brushed the ground – he despised the cape, thinking it too fanciful, but they had insisted that heroes wore extravagant garments and he couldn't resist them.

The woods were quiet, which he liked. A reminder of simpler times, the nostalgia of humdrum. Life seemed much simpler now after facing what he had faced, and he only wanted to return to a quiet life, free of ermine capes and shining golden breastplates, with the sun at your back and a tunic belted at the waist. Those were the good times, the best times, the times when you really could enjoy life for what it is: the fallen leaves untouched by trampling feet, or a gurgling brook shadowed by shrubbery and as clear as crystal. He flexed his fingers shrouded by pure white gloves and sighed. He had left his horse back at the liege's castle and now wished he had it back, but it was too late now. He had decided that life was not for him, and could retain no trace of it.

But, hero as he may be, he was tiring, and the light was growing dim through the dappled golden light of the tree leaves, and he wished to retire somewhere for the night, to sit by a warm fire and make conversation with a local villager who wouldn't treat him like some sort of war-god incarnate. They might talk of the harvest or preparations for the oncoming winter – low and certainly dull talk for a member of the liege's court, but enjoyable for the hero, the sort of talk he was used to and now craved for the lack of it.

As if by magic the next clearing he approached happened to have a small, squat cottage seated in the middle of it, puffing smoke merrily out of its chimney, with lights shining in a welcoming sort of way through the windows. A broom sat propped against the door and the hero hastened to the porch and knocked on the wooden door, bowing his head respectfully. When the hinges creaked open he looked up to see a stooped old woman with a patched apron tied round her waist squinting up at him, smiling openly.

"You're that hero from the castle town, aren't you?" She asked, positively beaming at the hero, and he bowed at the waist.

"Ma'am."

"Oh, no, that won't do." She said, shooing her hand in a playful gesture, and opened the door wider. "And it isn't proper for a celebrated man of the realm to wander so late at night. Come in, come in! I've just put a kettle on."

The hero thanked her kindly and the woman shooed her hand again. "Oh, no, dear, it's my pleasure. Do come sit, now, you look awfully cold in that armor. Sit, sit!"

He sat on a small stool by the woman's worn table and gazed about the cabin, feeling the fire warm him as he watched. It was a small cottage, but certainly large enough for the woman, who had filled it with a myriad of trinkets and strange supplies that were quite the sight to behold. One wall was was entirely covered with ivy, but some other plants were peeking between the vine's thick stems, straining for the firelight. A few vines had small white blooms peeking from their buds, giving the wall a Christmas-like appearance that warmed the hero almost more than the fire did.

From the ceiling dangled a multitude of dried herbs that smelled what the hero imagined Oriental would smell like, exotic and spicy, but also small glass beads hung by leather straps that clinked together when a draft would blow through the wooden walls, and odd little talismans and symbols that tangled together and emitted curious sounds when they would collide. A small rack held ground spices, a few the usual green, but some of the oddest colors, a shimmering gold or opalescent white that certainly could not contain spices. More trinkets lined the walls: a long, twisting horn of some sort, a variety of whittled sticks, too short to be walking sticks, even though the old woman was rather diminutive, and a collection of bottles of all shapes and sizes. In fact, the cottage looked most nearly like an apothecary's shop. The woman took no notice of the strange items as she bustled about with the tea, talking over the whistling kettle.

"I'm afraid it may not be much compared to your rich castle fare, but anyone can appreciate a warm cup of tea on a cold day. But you've faced the fiery humors of dragon's fire, so perhaps the cold is a mere trifle in comparison." Her eyes sparkled and he hero bowed his head again, embarrassed.

"How did you come about being the savior of the realm, anyhow?" The woman asked as she collected tea leaves from a small basket by the fire. "Your family isn't nobility?"

"As far as possible from it." The hero admitted, with a quiet laugh. "I'd never seen finery like the stuff of the castle town until I paid a visit for the dragon slaying."

"Oh, yes." The woman's cheerful expression tugged down into a frown. "They called all of the noble youths, didn't they?"

"Yes, ma'am. However, I was only a shepherd then, and my pastoral duties were nowhere near the duties of a knight of the realm."

"Then how did you come about slaying the dragon?"

Again the hero laughed, realizing how truly humorous his incredible situation was. "Well, you see, the king didn't want all of his spry young knights perishing in dragon's fire, so he issued a decree in secret for other youths to come try their luck with the dragon. There was compensation, and my family owed a bit of money to the king as it was, so I offered my services."

The woman hurried past the table and set a tray of raisin cakes before the hero, who took one with thanks. She had to brush aside a great many slim bottles to make room, and the hero raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"If you don't mind my asking, ma'am, do you happen to be an apothecary?"

"No, no." Said the woman, chuckling. "All of this is a hobby. It gets a bit lonely in the woods. Have to keep busy. But go on with your tale!"

The hero obliged. "They fit all of the other young men with the finest armor and weapons, gave us horses, and sent us off to find the dragon's lair. It wasn't very difficult – the dragon had a tendency to lay waste to any land he flew over, and you needed only to find the trail of destruction in his wake. It was an incredible sight to behold, whole swaths of forest torn and burned to cinders, blackened under dragon's fire. Some parts were still burning, so was the heat of his malice. I approached his cave and left my horse at the entrance, then crept into the deepest parts of his lair."

"What was inside?" The woman asked, and the hero saw her eyes shined with excitement, maybe even greed. The smallest seed of discontentment settled in his heart, but he ignored it.

"Treasure, enough to make every member of the realm as rich as the king himself. Golden coins, enough to fill the triremes of old, enough to fill thousands of triremes, so many were they. And the gems! Rubies that glowed like hearthstones, emeralds as green as glass and sapphires as clear and lovely as dew, with all colors imaginable scattered in, marbling the surface with veins of silver and bright pigments. Scrolls by the dozens, old and yellowed with unfathomable age, and in the middle of it all a pile of armor, shining like the sun, but with mortal wounds ingrained in the metal – a puncture of the chest, raking claw marks, but all polished to the finest shine."

"And the dragon, what of the dragon?"

"He was a magnificent beast. A coiling serpent head, with scales set deep into the flesh; and tusk-like protrusions along the cheekbones and frilling about the neck in a manner most delicate and savage. And his eyes – oh, how can I explain his eyes? Deep as tarnished copper, radiating from an iris so dark it could be midnight, or pitch, with streaks of mellow gold intertwining with the rust, and the look they gave you made you want to melt onto the floor, and the fight ran out from you in an instant."

"Was he frightening?"

"Not frightening. Sad. Horribly sad, and desperately alone."

"What did you do then?" The woman asked, at last taking the kettle off and pouring the tea into two small teacups, swilling the leaves about in the piping hot drink.

"I cried out to him, 'Dragon! What ails you so? Why do you look so melancholy?' And he turned his great head to me, with the sorrow in his eyes, and asked simply, 'Are you here to kill me?' Now I was in a predicament, for I had come to kill him, but could not bring up the little courage I had left to say I did not, so I simply told the truth. And his head bowed and he spoke again, in that wonderful rumbling tone, like an earthquake that shakes you to your knees, 'You are the first who has told me the truth.'"

"So he knew of the other knights?"

"Yes, ma'am, and the armor I espied upon the ground at his feet bore the marks of some of the men I knew well. It was, in a way, a test, and I had passed."

"What next did he say?"

"'Why have you come to kill me?' He inquired of me, and, thinking again of no good alternative, simply said that he had caused havoc to the realm and needed to be dealt with. And, heaving a great sigh much like you or I would, he lowered his head to the ground, quite vulnerable, and said, 'Then you may do your job.' And I was just as shocked as you are, so that my sword clattered to the ground, and I asked, 'Dragon? Why are you so glum?'"

"And did he speak to you after?"

"Yes, yes. 'I am glum because I know my time has come,' said he. 'I have indeed caused much damage to your realm, and the people fear me above all else. My purpose has been fulfilled.' And he gazed up at me with those eyes, and my hand moved for my sword before I could stop it. I spoke again to the beast, 'And what of your purpose, dragon? Why does it bring you such pain?' 'Because I despise it, and want nothing more to be rid of it. Please, my brave knight, my honest knight, save your people.'"

"A dragon, wanting to save humans? What kind of strange tale is this?" The woman asked, checking the kettle again, which she had placed on the fire.

"Indeed, ma'am, strange indeed. And when I looked into those eyes and saw all of that pain, I knew the dragon's death was a sacrifice for us. The task of slaughter and fear was not one he wanted to bear any longer – odd, I thought, for dragons were notoriously cruel creatures. But those eyes, ma'am, I cannot explain. I simply knew my task. I took up my sword, whispered, 'Forgive me, my friend,' and slew the beast upon the floor of the cave. His purpose had been fulfilled, a purpose he had hated for so long."

"And what of the other knights?"

"When they lied to him he had no choice but to slay them. I like to believe he wanted someone pure of heart to kill him, someone who would not gloat in his victory."

"And what of your recent gloating, hero? What of the dragon-slaying festival, and your newfound fame?"

"I wanted none of it. When I returned I could only think of the dragon's eyes, the pain in them. Who could wound such a creature, by giving it a task like that, a task he hated with all his heart? A dragon who despises plunder and murder may seem an anomaly, but I knew his choice when I laid eyes upon him. I did not want to kill him. I wanted to free him."

"But you are a hero now! You are revered across the realm! Every child looks up to you, aspires to be you! You are our savior!"

"Then why do I feel like a murderer?"

There was silence in the cottage, broken only by the breezes fluttering through the cracks in the walls. The old woman set the teacup before the hero, who took a tentative sip, calming himself.

"You are not a murderer, dear hero. You are a savior."

The words sank into him, as warm as honey, and as he sipped the tea a drowsy feeling came over him, a feeling of relief. Perhaps the dragon would forgive him. Perhaps he had done the right thing.

The woman took her own teacup but did not drink, simply observed the hero as he sat upon his stool, comforted and at peace.

"The townspeople love you, and all the nobility wish to be in your shoes. You are a savior, do not lower yourself to the depths of murder!" Her smile was thin, though, and the seed of discontentment grew more within him, despite the dullness of his thoughts caused by the warmth of the fire.

"Do you believe so?" The hero mumbled, finishing the last sip of his tea.

"I know so." The old woman smiled again, but it looked more like a grimace, then a sneer. The hero's stomach turned cold and he tried to stand to leave, but his joints were heavy from his journey and he felt as though he had gained many pounds.

"I should continue – your hospitality is most generous..." He said, speech slurred, and the woman pushed him lightly back onto his seat.

"Oh, don't go yet... We're just beginning."

The teacup fell out of the hero's hand and rolled on the table. He examined it for a second, his eyes widening with shock, then slumped to the side and pitched off of the stool, lying still on the cold stone floor of the cottage.

The witch stood, casting her own teacup aside, and peered inside the kettle, muttering to herself.

"Forgive me, dragon – bah! Too noble, that one. And our poor, poor dragon... But you'll enjoy your work, won't you, dear? Yes, mother will raise you just right. And mother avenged him, didn't she? Look at him there, still as a statue? Once you hatch I'll let you devour his flesh, get a taste for noble blood. Bah – everyone knows the haughty ones taste much better going down."

Simmering in the kettle was a single egg, shimmering with heat and glowing like a candle, a single dragon's egg, waiting to be hatched.

And on the table, on the inside of the upturned teacup, were written three words.

You've been poisoned.

So, the first ten prompts are done! Comment your favorite one (yes, that means you) because I LOVE to hear feedback from you! Thanks again! :)