Prompt: I read Eragon too much :)

Ares hated dragons.

He had heard the myths, the legends claiming how great they were, some splendid gift to mankind with their wisdom and might, and it had taken all of his self-control to keep from laughing. Dragons certainly weren't clever, not by any stretch of the word, and if they had any scrap of good in them it had been stripped away to depravity.

Since the dragons were practically brain-dead stupid he had made a habit of catching them. The smallest ones were the easiest, simply setting a scrap of meat in a cage and they'd come running, sometimes fighting each other to get in first. It was such a comical scene he wondered if he could charge people to come watch the foolhardy dragons vying over getting captured.

The larger ones were more difficult, especially when they got to be larger than houses. He had various methods, of course, with nets and traps and whatnot, but because of their size the dragons could snap him in two. As much as Ares liked to pretend he was invincible, he knew that one snap of the beasts' teeth would be his demise.

He didn't like the feeling, that feeling of helplessness, so he captured them instead. Better to give them a taste of his life than let them live their miserable existence burning and pillaging.

It had taken a while for him to be able to stomach it, but now he was one of the most renowned seller of dragon hides in the realm. Every day another letter in gold leaf and intricate seals would arrive in the post, some rich baron wanting to impress his suitor with a dragon-hide purse, or perhaps a full cape. Their requests were sometimes very specific, such as to have a single stripe down the side, or to be of one pelt, not many smaller ones pulled together, and those were the most difficult orders, but Ares always delivered. It was his job, and it pulled in good coin.

Of course, it helped that Daelfort was located right next to the largest known dragon nest on the side of the west mountains. The little town had paid for it, of course, and it was rare to see a building without the large swaths of burned wood slashed across it like an ugly scar, and roofs were rent with the telltale marks of dragon claws. The dragons might be stupid, but they were vengeful as hell.

Ares would often go watch them after he received an order, scoping out his next kill. A spear balanced on his knees, the serrated tip pointed to the dragon's hive. He sat perched on a small boulder, his usual spot, and propped his chin on his hands as he observed the dragons.

Baron Funar had requested a pair of gloved made from white dragon's hide. Ares had hoped for a more common color -- perhaps black or blue -- for white was very rare, although it was highly desired for its strength and fashion appeal. Try as he might, Ares was unable to espy a white dragon anywhere in the lair, not even a hatchling. The gloves wouldn't require much material, so a young dragon would suffice, but in the sea of black, brown and red he could see no telltale flash of his kill.

Growling with frustration, Ares spat the the side and drummed his fingers on the haft of his spear. His restlessness grew as he watched the dragons mill about. A few were challenging each other, battering their heads into each other's with tremendous force, then staggering away on wobbly legs. Some had horns that would interlock and they would twist their sinewy necks, forcing their opponent belly-up on the ground. One of the beasts went so far as to strike down his opponent with a swipe to the underbelly, shearing open the soft flesh to reveal a mess of blood and muscle inside. Ares reminded himself to skin the dead dragon later.

The lair was nestled in a large indent in the ground, freckled with deep cracks from lack of rain. A cliff soared up behind the lair, and the dragons had carved caves into the cliff's face, where they slept at night and even during the day. Ares had ventured to the caves before, since the dragons were easy targets while asleep, and some of the most magnificent dragons hid their hides in the caves.

Mustering his courage, Ares stood from his perch on the rock and skirted the edge of the indent, keeping low lest he be spotted by a dragon and turned into charcoal. His boots made no sound as he padded towards the caves, spear ready to be thrown. A single strip of coarse dragon skin ringed the grip of the spear, a token from a particularly feisty young dragon he had subdued a year back. Baron Blennran had paid a fine price for the skin.

The dragons were too occupied with their own affairs to notice him. A smirk crept over Ares' face as he watched them trundle about. Fools, they don't even realize I'm going to slaughter one of their ranks. If it weren't for the dragons' utter stupidity his work would be much more difficult. The day I meet an intelligent dragon, I'll quit this and pick up farming.

Neither was likely to happen any time soon -- if anything, the dragons were only getting duller, and he would rather cut off his own arm than exchange his spear for a plow.

The caves stretched far over his head, scraping the skies with their masses, and Ares found handgrips to pull himself up. Most of the caves were deserted, and the occupied ones held no white dragon from what he could see, so he kept crawling until his legs screamed with exertion and his hands grew slick with sweat. He had worked his way halfway up the cliff with no luck, and while he was tired the thought of the Baron's reward pushed him onward.

The cave he had reached was a deep one, stretching into darkness as it worked its way into the rock. Curious, he unslung his spear from his back and crept forward, wishing he had brought a torch. Soon the light of day faded and he stumbled forward, one hand stretched forward to keep from wandering into a wall if the tunnel had caved in.

A cave-in... Now that would be unfortunate. Shoving the thought from his mind, Ares continued his slow trek deeper into the cliff face, until he was completely blind in the darkness. The walls were indistinguishable from the path in front of him, and he realized with a spasm of fear that he could very well lose his way in the darkness. He was about to turn around when his outstretched hand came in contact with a mess of pebbles -- there was a cave-in, after all.

He froze, however, when the mess of pebbles moved.

A small tongue of flame ignited to his left and he leaped back with a cry of alarm as the form of a magnificent dragon emerged from the darkness.

Its heavily muscled forelegs were crossed, with claws almost as long as Ares was tall, tipped with streaks of white. A pattern of scales stretched from the curved toes up to wide shoulders, sharply angled shoulderblades where a thick joint attached to papery wings. The wings were folded against the beast's side, webbed and veined like those of a bat, probably larger than Ares' house when spread to their full length.

Its legs were as strong as its arms, the rest of its bulk cloaked in shadow. When Ares glanced down he noticed the scales closest to him were not the usual he would have expected, but rather a stark, pure white.

The most mesmerizing sight, though, was the dragon's eye. The iris was the color of liquid amber, with rays of yellow sunbeams radiating from the irises. The pupil was dark as night, utter blackness, staring further than Ares' skin, his appearance, but into his soul.

The spear clattered from his hand, fingers releasing the dragon-skin grip like it burned him. Under the scrutinizing gaze of the dragon he felt as though he was melting, all strength draining from his limbs. All the while the dragon stared, never making a move. For a fleeting moment Ares wondered if it were simply a statue, but slowly he watched the dragon's eyelid slide over its gazing eyes and realized that it was in fact alive and very, very real.

The dragon did not speak, didn't even growl or screech like the dragons outside of the tunnel did, but to Ares it spoke volumes. He watched as the dragon blinked again, its eyes closed for an interminably long time, then snorted a jet of steam into Ares' face.

Coughing, Ares waved his hand in front of his face and had half the mind to pick up his spear again, but the dragon's gaze held him in place. He wondered if he would ever leave again, just wither before the dragon's steely stare.

"I'm sorry." The words fell from his mouth before he could stop them. "I always thought dragons were foolish, stupid creatures. But now... Now I understand. Please, I'll never harm another dragon again."

He wondered if he meant what he was saying, or if he was simply trying to escape the white dragon's wrath. Dragon hides were as precious as diamonds, and he had a steady business going. How could he simply let go of everything he had maintained for so long?

The dragon seemed to know this, and it snorted a tongue of fire from its nostril, almost like a warning. Ares scowled, but he knew the choice he would have to make. Between a pile of ashes and setting down his spear for good, wasn't the choice obvious?

He didn't like it, and he wondered what would happen if he broke the dragon's oath. They were already wily and vicious, would he simply be exposed to the thing's imminent wrath? After all, the Baron was paying well for those gloves...

The dragon snorted again and Ares stumbled back, then turned tail and sprinted from the cave. Maybe dragons were as stupid as he thought -- it had simply let him go, assuming that he would keep his word.

"Foolish beast." He jeered, and vowed he would once again return to the dragon hive, spear in hand. This experience wouldn't change him, not one bit.

As it turned out, using a plow wasn't much different than using a spear.