A Displaced Guest From Way Out Of Town

Written for “Smogust’s Story Hoard”, prompt 10.

Thing is, Craig had never been an imaginative sort. Not even as a child. He was a stolid, quiet, firmly grounded in reality kinda guy. So having him rush into the tavern blathering about a monster from tales was… odd.
People soothed him. Listened to his wide-eyed account of a dragon flying over his field and vanishing into the forest. Delicately asked if he’d been drinking, and were unsurprised - though concerned - when he confirmed he was as teetotal as was his habit.
He did take Barman Carl’s kindly advice to have a tipple to calm his nerves, while everyone else spoke in earnest, hushed unease.
Must be the summer heat, surely. For Craig had showed no sign of going funny, nor had he been struck with the kind of tragedies which drove one to it suddenly. But it was perishing hot out there right now, and there was lots of heavy work to be done, so stood to reason that a diligent fellow toiling alone might start seeing things.
Which, being a sensible man, Craig accepted when they explained it to him. He mumbled that perhaps he had imagined it, yes, could’ve been a cloud moving fast because of that sudden breeze, goodness he felt right foolish…
Everyone assured him that no harm was done, and to get himself home and drink plenty of fluids and get to bed early.
And Craig thanked them, sheepish and relieved, and promised to do just that.
So he left, far more calmly than he’d arrived, and after concerned murmurs the conversation returned to its usual hum.
Until Craig slammed the door open again, visibly shaking, and shouted “It’s sitting on MY FUCKING HOUSE!!”
Oh dear. He really had gone funny. Which was always tragic, but especially in one so… well, alright, not young, but he certainly wasn’t old either. So it was a great shame.
But this time he would not be comforted, so his friends accompanied him back home. Figuring it was best for other, sane people to see what was causing him such upset, and hopefully fix whatever it was.
Craig insisted that they creep the last stretch of lane, and they humoured him. Peering carefully around the tree as he directed.
And promptly ruined the whole thing by yelping and leaping up in shock.
IT WAS A DRAGON! A REAL, LIVING DRAGON!! Perched on top of Craig’s cottage like a bird on a tree stump!
They all pelted back down the lane, Craig with them, to report that it did certainly seem to be a real dragon, and yes they were aware how unbelievable that was, and anyone who doubted was welcome to come look.
So near the entire village trekked down that little lane, clutching what hunting gear they had - or what farming gear seemed best suited for trying to defend themselves.
The dragon was still there. Now comfortably lounging across the thatch. Soaking in the baking sunshine.
“Oh, hello!” It called, ruining any hopes of it being merely some giant lizard or carefully constructed fake. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I got lost, you see.”
Everyone looked to Old Edna. Who hadn’t signed up to talk to monsters from legends, but that was being village chief for you.
So she drew herself up, and with admirable stoic dignity paced across until she was close enough to call up “You must be lost indeed, for I have never heard tell of anyone actually seeing dragons. Where did you come from?”
“Never?” The dragon peered down at her. Though its expression was opaque to the humans, its tone sounded incredulous. “What do you mean, you’ve never seen a dragon?”
“Er… just that.”
“But…” The dragon reared up, causing much concern, but it was merely peering about in an agitated fashion. “Where am I??”
“Sweetbrook.” Seeing this didn’t help, Old Edna elaborated “Southeast of the kingdom of Ardon, close to where it boarders Mawly and Vestal.”
“I’ve never heard of any of those!” The dragon sounded near panicked. “What… what year is it?”
“Ahh… we measure from the founding of the Southern Circle, which if you’ve never heard of Vestal…”
“Oh, no, that’s no use at all.” The dragon’s tail thrashed and it pawed at its face. “This is terrible! What by the broodmothers happened? One minute I was flying through a storm, trying to find someplace to land, then everything went white and suddenly I was in the dry, which I thought was a stroke of luck, but…”
“I… I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
The dragon didn’t seem surprised by this, though naturally it wasn’t comforted either.
Old Edna looked back at the huddled villagers, who had lowered their tools (and in many cases were now leaning on them), and made an Executive Decision. Something else you accepted when you took on being village chief.
Turning back to the dragon, she kindly said “Why don’t you come down, and we’ll see about getting a barn or something cleared out for you. And send someone to - to the nearest city, ask them learned folk what they think about all this. See if we can get you help. Or, um, maybe if a thunderstorm blows up, you can try flying through it and see if…?”
“I…” The dragon took a deep breath, visibly calming itself. “Thank you. Normally I’d say I don’t want to even risk getting hit by lightning, but right now I think it’s worth trying!”
“Well, wait and see what scholars we can find, and what they say.” Old Edna cautioned uneasily. Clapping her hands, she briskly said “Now, what kind of, um, do dragons make nests? And dare say you’ll want something to eat, after all that…”
“Lunch would be wonderful.” The dragon said gratefully. “I don’t suppose you have bacon in this wherever-it-is?”
“Matter of fact, we do!”
“Oh good.”

Prompt was “Write about a farmer who witnesses the impossible: a dragon souring overhead. They go into town and tell everyone what they saw, but no-one believes them. That is, until the dragon comes back…”