Funny what comes up in conversations with friends, eh? We were discussing Crystal Chronicles, and somehow the topic of selkies lit on fire came up. Yay for making fun of game physics! Anyways, I ramble; enjoy the show!
At the end of Conall Curach, the dragon zombie loomed ominously over his opponent. Four great, tattered wings beat the air, his blood-red scales flashing every time they moved. He roared angrily at the impudent selkie, hoping to scare the little wretch away with his sheer size alone.
The selkie, however, didn't back down. With a howl, the male wolfie ran forward, a holy spell already on his lips. The dragon, knowing that such a spell would allow the small, blue warrior to bring him much pain, summoned a stone sahagin to defend him. Unfortunately, the selkie either didn't pay attention to his surrounding, or just didn't care. Instead he finished his spell and use on the dragon. It roared painfully in response.
In the meantime, the sahagin had charged an attack of its own and used it on the selkie, who winced, realizing that it might be a better idea to take out the frog-like lizard thing before its incessent little magic potshots actually did something major. As such, he quickly ran over and dealt with the sahagin, dodging around one of the dragon's attacks in the process. Then he turned around, glaring at the undead monster, fire in his eyes.
Literally.
And on his hair, in his shoes, all over his clothes...
The dragon blinked, moderately stupifed, then it shook itself, grinning maliciously. It knew that the flames would cause the selkie pain until they were put out, and thus increase his vulnerability to attacks. With a triumphant roar, he leaped forward, intending to crush the mortal in his jaws and bleed the ever-so-delicious life out of him.
And promptly missed.
A fact which the selkie berated him for with his racket. On his tender snout no less.
The dragon jumped back, snorting in annoyance. Just a small mishap. He flew up slightly, beating his wings viciously and sending a storm of razor-sharp winds at his foe. And missed again, receiving a few psionic blasts for his efforts.
...Another fluke. That's all it was. The holy spell had worn off by this point, so the dragon felt absolutely no need to hold back.
Poisonous breath covered the small platform his opponent was stood upon.
It missed.
A beam of petrifying light ripped from the dragon's jaw.
That missed too.
Infuriated by his own poor aim (or perhaps the selkie's sheer, dumb luck), the dragon began peppering the caravanner with every single attack he knew, repeatedly, again and again, pouring every ounce of power he had into his attacks.
And every time, he still missed. Worse yet, after each attack, he would receive some sort of retort from the selkie, whether it was a holy spell, psionic blasts or even just a swat from the wolfie's odd weapon. At one point the selkie stopped using holy spells and simply beat him down with his racket, swinging at a frenzied pace (apparently casting the holy spells was more trouble than it was worth, judging by the caravanner's sighs of exasperation). In the end, the dragon gave a roar of utter frustration, then disappeared from whence it came, flying away into the distance in defeat and muttering the foulest curses it could muster from the ageless repertoire of its memory (it was an undead after all).
Most of which were aimed at the selkie below.
The selkie's moogle companion winced, understanding more than his fair share of the foul oaths. Regrdless, he turned to his companion as it disappeared into the distance. "Heh, you sure showed that old dragon! You were great! I thought for sure he'd had you in his reach a couple of times, kupo! "
"Me too," replied the selkie, somewhat humbly. He was an unusual specimen of his race, after all. He turned to leave, but the moogle gave him an odd glance.
"That's the best you've ever done yet! Kupo! But, uh... How'd you do it? Honestly?"
The selkie faced his travelling friend, looking thoughtful for a moment, before finally responding with a cheeky grin, "Turns out that being on fire makes you faster."
Mog, the moogle, stared confusedly at his friend before nodding sagely, chalice still held in his mouth. "I suppose it would, kupo."
The pair stared at each other for a while.
"Uhh... you're still on fire, you know."
The selkie huffed indignantly, "Well of course! You need water to put out fire." He pointed down at the marshy waters beneath them, slick with oil, filled with slimy algae and weeds, and reeking of centuries old decaying corpses, rotten eggs, skunk oils, and anything else that would make an outhouse smell like a rosebush in comparison.
"That's the only water around, do you really think I'm going to jump in there!"
Mog continued to stare.
"It's either that or continue to break physics, so... Yes."
Klunk!
With a swing of the chalice, the selkie learned the joys of swimming in rancid water.
Mog learned more than a few new (extremely colourful) selkic swear words soon after.