Commission for  RomanProphet featuring his character Marcel Yousef, a young man who is also a dragon. For more stories with the character, check out his gallery.

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The dragon landed just outside the city with a mighty THUD. Its immense, silvery figure stood taller than any castle. Its fierce reptilian eyes, holding not a trace of mercy for the city or its people, promised their cruel extermination. Extending its neck up, it roared, the air itself trembling with the power of its voice. Below, the city's inhabitants fled screaming, a stampede coursing through the streets away form the dragon.

As the huge monster lumbered towards the city, a group of archers stepped out to meet its advance, headed by a brave captain. At his command, they let loose a volley of arrows, the pointed shafts flying through the air towards the beast.

With but a flap of its mighty wings, the dragon blew the arrows away with a gust of wind, sending them falling harmlessly to the ground, without halting its advance. The next volley met the same fate, as did the next, and the next, not even managing to slow the beast down.

By then the dragon had reached the city. It raised its forepaw above the first of the houses to meet its approach and deliberately rested its weight on it, pressing down harder and harder until the building crumbled beneath its mass, the rubble not even visible under its paw.

Seeing the house so effortlessly destroyed, the archers turned and ran. Only their captain stayed behind, yelling at them in the Kazakh tongue to come back and face the threat like men. Another earth-shaking step brought the dragon right behind him, and the captain, trembling, turned to look at the monster whose legs rose into the sky like huge towers. Its face bore a cruel grin, lips curled to show off sharp, white fangs, each of which stood as tall as a man. Then its head dove down, jaws open wide, and snatched the captain up like a lion engulfing a mouse with its jaws, all of it happening so fast the poor soul had little time to scream. The monster then swallowed, a resounding gulp heralding the captain's demise.

The dragon lumbered forward, chasing after the fleeing archers, smashing whatever building stood in its path as easily as a man kicking apart a clump of dirt, its tail wrecking yet more of them as it swung behind. Even at a measured pace, the beast easily outsped the archers, however hard they ran. In a few steps it had reached the laggards of the group, who couldn't keep pace with their companions. Its leg swung overhead to come crashing down right before one of them, who ran into it and fell down. With the monster's next step, its other forepaw fell upon one of the others, smothering him under its enormous sole.

The archer who had run into its foot yelled in grief and anger. In a blind rage, he attacked the dragon's leg, all his efforts going unnoticed by the beast. The paw rose and swung away, leaving him yelling insults at the dragon before falling to his knees, weeping. His grief wasn't to last long, however, for soon one of the hindpaws fell on him, consigning him to the same fate as his companion.

Onward the dragon came, crushing people and buildings underfoot with deliberate cruelty. Soon it had left all the archers behind, now going after the mass of fleeing townspeople.

The first to fall under its shadow was a young girl who was helping an old woman along. As the rumble of its approaching steps shook the earth, they caused the old woman to fall, bringing the girl down along with her. As the two of them lay on their backs, shaking with fear, they saw the monster's paw rise above them, obscuring its wickedly leering eyes, and knew they were doomed. With great deliberation, as though savoring the terror of the two hapless women, the dragon slowly brought its paw down on them until their screams were extinguished.

Further on, the girl's father turned just in time to see her demise. He started towards her, screaming her name. At the sound of his voice, the dragon's eyes turned to him, their cold glare freezing him in place. The beast lumbered towards him, raising its massive paw overhead before bringing it down on him. Just before he found himself crushed by it, however, the man jumped out of the way.

Rather than fleeing after his narrow scrape with death, he looked surprised to have escaped, and looked uncertainly at the dragon. The monster seemed almost taken aback by the man having avoided its paw, but it soon composed itself and lifted its foot over him. This time the man stayed put, only holding out his arms in a feeble attempt at saving himself from the dragon, one which was doomed to fail as its tremendous weight easily flattened him against the ground.

With that taken care of, the dragon looked up to see the furthest of the townsfolk having almost escaped into the forest. With a deafening roar, it jumped into the air, taking flight on its great wings and circling around the fleeing masses before landing in front of them, the impact knocking some of them to the ground.

Its gaze floated over them hungrily, its forked tongue darting out to lick its lips. Then, with a swipe of its forepaw, it grabbed a handful of the tiny morsels, holding them up before its waiting maw. The monster dumped them all inside, their screams and shouts being silenced as its lips closed around them. Then it swallowed, and when it opened its mouth again, their voices were no more.

Turning back to the remaining townsfolk, the dragon spread its wings in a show of its might, letting out a roar that left them shaking in their boots. With no escape in sight, it seemed all was lost. Everyone would die at the dragon's hands, with no one left to mourn them. The beast reared back its head, smoke filtering through its teeth, and then...

“CUT!” a voice yelled from somewhere outside the city. At that word, as if by magic, people the dragon had stepped on stood and stretched as though brought back to life. Those gathered before the dragon lost their fear, and the monster lowered its head to the ground and opened its maw, docile as a lamb, letting everyone climb back out.

Once they were all safely out, the dragon's body began to change, horns and spines retracting, silver scales giving way to pinkish skin, claws becoming nails, clothes appearing on its body, all the while it dwindled smaller and smaller in size. At the end of its transformation, it stood as a man in his early twenties, dark, wavy hair streaming down the sides of his head, wearing a white shirt, brown vest and pants, and a pair of shoes. The man, which anyone who hadn't been living under a rock these past several months would recognize as Marcel Yousef, the “last dragon”, bore the look of someone who'd rather be just about anywhere else.

Marcel had never wanted to be an actor; never cared for fame and fortune. He would very much have preferred it if, after seeing himself forced to reveal himself as a dragon—a secret he'd kept hidden for over two decades of his life—he had simply been allowed to go on with his perfectly normal life without worrying about the whole world constantly looking over his shoulder.

He didn't enjoy the spotlight in the slightest. Had he been able to get a nice quiet job where he could pass unnoticed, he would have taken it in a heartbeat, but no one would hire him for something like that anymore. Either they didn't want the attention, good and bad, that he attracted as the last dragon, or else they didn't feel comfortable working with someone like him.

Now the only jobs he could get were in advertisement or entertainment, using his image as a fierce and powerful dragon to sell products or draw an audience to some show or movie. Those were his only options, and given that even dragons needed money to eat and pay rent, he didn't have any choice but to take them. Even so, he still had his moral standards, and wouldn't work on just anything. Though he'd received many offers for much high-paying roles in advertising for various companies, in the end he had chosen to come work on this movie simply because he could sympathize with its message.

Yerbolat Nursultanov, widely hailed as one of the greatest directors to emerge in the past ten years, had contacted him directly, expressing quite insistently his desire to have Marcel star in his latest production. A Kazakh nationalist, Mr. Nursultanov had described the movie as being a symbolic narrative about the Turkic peoples of central Asia breaking out from the tyranny of Russia. Though Marcel knew little about central Asian politics, a message calling for people throwing off the yoke of their oppressors was one he could always get behind, so he'd been glad to accept the job offer, thinking he'd finally found a role in which he could make a positive difference in the world. He had soon arrived at Kazakhstan, where the filming would take place, excited to be working on the film. Now, almost a month into filming, he was much less enthused about the whole affair than he'd once been. The source of that disillusionment? Yerbolat himself.

As Marcel finished his transformation back into a human, a vehicle carrying the director approached him and the group of actors who had been playing the fleeing villagers. Meanwhile, those crew members who were still in the “city”—in reality the small, long-abandoned medieval village of Tengiz, near the shores of the Caspian Sea—began streaming out, coming to meet their fellows outside of the ruined location.

No sooner had Mr. Nursultanov climbed out of the vehicle than he began yelling at the gathered crew members, looking around as though trying to find someone in particular. Though Marcel knew next to no Kazakh, he could imagine what all the commotion was all about: the man who had jumped out of the way of his foot.

Indeed, as soon as that man came out from the city, Yerbolat ran up to him and started berating him. The actor, all meek and apologetic, would flinch and hold his hat in front of his face whenever the director raised his hands. He had good reason to protect himself, Marcel knew; he wouldn't be the first person today to have been roughed up by the director.

Mr. Nursultanov was a perfectionist—a man who would stand for nothing less than a flawless execution of his grand design—and should anything fail to meet his expectations, the fault was thrust on some poor member of his crew, often one having nothing to do with the matter, whom he would subject to abuse which didn't always remain purely verbal. Almost anything could trigger an outburst, and as the production of the film advanced, the director had only grown more exacting and more violent. Marcel himself had not yet suffered one of the director's tirades, but he suspected that was only because of how irreplaceable he was to the director's vision. Mr. Nursultanov valued genuineness in his work, and had from the first wanted to film a real dragon destroying a real village. No one else was so irreplaceable as he, not even the actual star of the movie—a young actor by the name of Anarbek who played the role of Karshyt Khagan, the film's titular hero—who Marcel knew had received a blow from Mr. Nursultanov the other day.

Marcel watched the director's tirade with his fists clenched at his sides until he couldn't take it anymore. He walked up to Yerbolat and, putting a hand on his shoulder, asked, “Mr. Nursultanov, what exactly is the matter?”

The director turned around with frenzied eyes, hand raised and ready to hit someone. Then, upon seeing his face, he calmed down. “Ah, Mr. Yousef,” he said. “Pardon me for not addressing you sooner; I had to set this man straight first. You were excellent today, my fierce dragon! Such strength! Such frightfulness! Such power! Your image will inspire fear in all who watch my film!” Marcel grimaced. He knew well enough what effect his dragon form would have on moviegoers, and didn't like thinking about what it would do to his public image. Perhaps taking the hint, Mr. Nursultanov said no more about it. “You followed my plan perfectly. This man, on the other hand, nearly ruined the entire thing when he jumped out of the way of your foot back there instead of letting himself be crushed like the script said!” He turned to the actor, his voice growing harsher by the second.

“But he didn't ruin the scene, did he? The footage is all usable. At most it needs a bit of editing, that's all.” Marcel said, once again dissipating Yerbolat's anger. The director turned to him, and the actor, who likely didn't understand what was being said, took the chance to mix with the rest of the cast.

“That's not the point. He should have stuck to the plan. How will the movie turn out as great as I envision it if the people under me will not even do the things I ask of them? But you're right that it's not worth wasting my time with these... little people. We have, as they say, bigger fish to fry. I have many thing to prepare; many things! You will take a break and meet me at the base with Anarbek an hour from now to discuss the upcoming scene.”

He turned and said some words to the rest of the crew, probably dismissing them as well, then got back in his vehicle to be taken back to base. Everyone else also left, making their way to the field just down the hill where they'd parked their cars. Marcel, who had come here flying as a dragon, was the only one left behind. He could have turned into a dragon again and flown back, but honestly, he would much rather remain human. He could also have asked for a ride, but he didn't think he was on close enough terms with any of these people; few of them spoke a language he knew, and he didn't speak theirs, so there wasn't much chance to make friends with them. Besides which, few of them showed any interest in being friendly with him. He imagined it was hard to relate to someone who had held you underfoot or in his mouth.

So he went for a walk around the countryside to clear his mind, taking some much-needed alone-time.

Some time later he got back to the base, where things were fairly quiet. He went up to the water cooler and was downing a cup of cool water when someone slapped him on the back, almost making him choke on it. He sputtered his water back into the cup and was still coughing when he turned to see a laughing Kazakh man. “Anarbek,” he said as he regained his breath, greeting the actor with a smile. “You almost made me choke.”

Anarbek was the only person here who Marcel could consider a friend. He was fluent in both English and French, so the two of them could actually communicate, and didn't seem to give much importance to Marcel being a dragon. He took it more as a role that Marcel slipped into for the sake of the movie than some vital part of his identity.

“So how did the shooting go?” Anarbek asked. “The director tells us you were magnificent today. We could see you flying and hear your roars even from all the way over here. Tell me, is it any fun being the dragon?”

“Fun? I guess there are fun parts about it. Flying especially. The rest I could do without. As for the shooting, it went well, I think. Almost everything went according to script.”

Anarbek winced. “Almost... Almost is not good. I take it the director had one of his moments at the set afterwards?”

“You could say that, yes,” Marcel said. He was about to explain what had happened on set when they heard Mr. Nursultanov's voice. The director walked out from behind a tent with a young assistant trailing after him with a mug of coffee. She handed it to him and he took a single sip of it before scowling and yelling at the assistant. He splashed the coffee to the side, not noticing nor caring that the scalding-hot substance almost hit an unlucky passerby, nor did that person dare to speak up about it. Yerbolat then lifted the mug above his head and swung it down.

The assistant yelled and raised her arms to protect herself as it flew from Mr Nursultanov's hand. Either the director had had enough restraint to not throw it at her, or else he had lousy aim, for rather than hitting her, the mug went smashing into the ground at her side, shattering into countless tiny shards, some of which scratched or dug into her leg. The director shouted at her to leave, which she did in a hurry. Everyone around looked at the ground awkwardly, not daring to speak up lest they draw the director's ire on them.

Marcel looked on the spectacle with growing fury, staring daggers at the director. It was only after Anarbek placed a hand on his shoulder that Marcel calmed down enough to notice he had crushed the paper cup in his fist. Its water dripped down the sides of his hand and onto his shoes. Sighing, he unclenched his fist, letting the crumpled-up paper cup fall into the waste basket.

Yerbolat then turned around. Seeing Marcel and Anarbek together, his face brightened and he waved the two over, saying he wanted to talk to them about the next scene. The two followed him, resigning themselves for what they knew would be a lengthy monologue.

The director pulled them into his tent and began talking at great length about the scene, describing it exactly as it existed in his mind, down to the last microexpression that each of the characters would have, waxing grandiloquent about its importance to the movie and going on and on about its thematic significance, lapsing back into his native Kazakh whenever he grew excited. Most if it flew right past Marcel, who had other thoughts on his mind just then, but when the director asked him to repeat back what he'd heard as though quizzing him on it, he was apparently satisfied with Marcel's reply. In the end, by the time he and Anarbek walked out again, they had been inside for almost two hours.

Anarbek then brought Marcel into his trailer, where they would be able to talk in peace. There they picked up their previous conversation, with Marcel describing to his friend what the director had done after the shooting today.

“He's getting worse each day,” Anarbek said, shaking his head. “You see what he did back there. Almost hit that woman with the coffee mug.”

“Why doesn't anyone do something about it?” Marcel asked. “Surely there's someone you can report all this abuse to, right?”

“It's not that simple, friend. No one wants to lose their opportunity to work on this movie just to make Mr. Nursultanov a bit better behaved. Some of us need the money. Others hope that working with him will help their careers. Still others believe in the movie's message. Besides, all of us knew what we were getting into when we signed up for this. I don't know how much awareness there is of his behavior internationally, but here in Kazakhstan, it's common knowledge. We all chose to pay the price,” Anarbek said, touching the bruise on his arm.

“I guess that makes sense,” Marcel said.

“You're thinking of doing something about it, aren't you? I can tell from how tense you get when Mr. Nursultanov raises his voice that you won't put up with it much longer. You're like a dog ready to fight. Tell me, what's your plan?”

“I don't really have a plan. When he starts abusing people, I just feel like... like socking him in the face.” “Like tearing him to shreds with my claws,” he was going to say before stopping himself. It was the truth, though, and he'd caught himself thinking about it on more than one occasion. He didn't actually want to kill the director, of course, but roughing him up like he did to his crew? That was another matter entirely. He certainly had that coming, and no one could argue otherwise.

Anarbek looked at him sympathetically, but said no more on the subject. Still, Marcel was convinced he had to do something about it all. Everyone else might be willing to put up with the director's abuse, but he couldn't bear to see people mistreated like that. Something would have to be done. He just had to wait for an opportunity...

—

As it turned out, that opportunity would come sooner than expected. That next Friday, after filming had wrapped up and the rest of the crew had gone back to Atyrau, only he and Yerbolat remained, the director having kept him behind to talk to him about something. He gave Marcel a ride to the village, all the while the Frenchman kept thinking it was time to confront the director about his abuses.

Upon their arrival, the director strode purposefully into the village, calling for Marcel to follow him. “Mr. Nursultanov,” Marcel said. “There is something I'd like to talk to you about first.”

“Yes? What is it?” the director asked impatiently.

“It's about your behavior. It was bad enough at first, but it's only gotten worse over time. You abuse the crew like they were a bunch of animals whose only purpose is to do what you tell them. I won't stand for this anymore.”

Yerbolat laughed. “Oh? Do you mean to unleash one of your famous French strikes against me? What a ridiculous idea. And who would even back you up? Ah, Mr. Yousef, that is quite a funny thought. Come now, leave behind this silly idea and follow me. We still have much to discuss.”

“This is not a joke,” Marcel said. “I'm telling you, you will quit yelling at your crew members, and you will especially quit beating them, or else I'll have to do something about it.”

“Are you serious about this? Who the hell are you to be telling me what I can and cannot do to my subordinates? They agreed to work with me; that means they agreed to do whatever I tell them. If they will not do it, then I reserve the right to punish them for it. What, do you think anyone would side with you over me? I'll just fire the lot of them! They're all easily replaced, even Anarbek, if it comes down to that. Where do you think all these people would be without me? Half of them would be out of a job. No, listen, friend. Here is what will happen. You will drop this topic forever and never bring it up to my face again, or I will make an example out of you to anyone who thinks thinks about disobeying my orders. I will beat you raw, boy. I will... I will...”

At that moment, Marcel, whose rage had been building up over the course of Yerbolat's tirade, began to transform, his neck elongating, his head growing horns, his nails becoming claws as sharp as knives. He fell to all fours, getting bigger by the second, his growing mass tearing through the earth, all the while Yerbolat backed away from Marcel. Then, his transformation complete, Marcel raised his draconic head and let out a roar before looking down at the little director. “You were saying?” he asked, his thoughts beamed telepathically into the man' mind.

“Alright, you have my attention now. Why don't you go back to your human form so we can discuss this more comfortably?”

“Oh, but I am very comfortable like this,” Marcel said. “Now, let me tell you about this great new idea for a scene I have: you stay right where you are while I step on you. You like it? How about we do a rehearsal right now?”

Marcel raised his forepaw above the director, who, as he was backing away, fell down on his rear. As Marcel's foot descended on him, he scrambled back up and scurried away like a cockroach threatened with a boot. “What's wrong? Did you forget the script already? I thought everything you did came out perfect. No matter. Here goes take two,” Marcel said. He stomped on the ground, the shaking causing Mr. Nursultanov to fall over, then raised his paw again, lowering it swiftly onto the director. The man struggled to escape under his foot, clawing and scratching at his sole, unable to move so much as an inch despite all his efforts. Marcel curled his talons around him, then brought him up to his face, dangling him by the legs.

“P-please, let me go!” Yerbolat yelled.

“Alright,” Marcel said, dropping Mr. Nursultanov, who fell screaming a couple dozen feet before being caught in Marcel's other hand. “Should I let you go again?” The director shook his head. “Now, I wonder... should I stomp you out for your insubordination? Or should I use my claws and fangs to tear you to shreds? Perhaps I should swallow you whole or burn you to a crisp instead,” he wondered aloud, opening his maw, smoke streaming out of his throat.

“T-there's no need for any of that! Mr. Yousef, I'll do whatever you ask of me.”

“Anything? Then stay very still.” Marcel brought his mouth forward, pushing the tiny man flat against his palm with his snout. Then, opening his jaws, he made as if to bite down on him, but instead hooked one of his fangs through his shirt. He raised his head up, the director dangling perilously from his jaw, scrambling for purchase on his mouth, then swung his head up, launching his “prey” into the air. As Mr. Nursultanov reached the apex of his ascent, he looked down to see Marcel's open maw waiting for him below. He screamed, flailing his arms as though trying to fly away from the terrible fangs.

Just before he slipped between those twin rows of teeth, Marcel snapped his jaw shut. He fell onto the top of Marcel's head and rolled down along his body before coming to a stop at one of the spines that grew from his back. Marcel craned his neck around and started walking, seeing how Yerbolat clung to the spine for support. “Hang on tight. We're going for a little trip,” he said. He spread his wings, preparing himself to take flight, before leaping into the air, his powerful wings flapping to keep himself airborne. Over their sound, he could just barely make out Yerbolat's screams as they arose behind him. Once he was a few hundred feet up in the air, Marcel began gliding along, flying out beyond the ruined village and over the surrounding countryside, always making sure that Mr. Nursultanov was still on him.

The director was paralyzed with fear, clinging so fiercely to his spine that Marcel could feel him. It felt not unlike an ant biting his skin with its feeble jaws. He flew for a long time, enjoying it as much for its own sake as for the knowledge that it was making the tiny director terrified, before landing back at the village. Giving one last flap of his mighty wings, he folded them up then turned to look at Mr. Nursultanov, who was still clinging fiercely to his back. “You can get off now,” he said. The director didn't seem to register his words. “Unless, perhaps, you'd like to go for another flight?”

That got a reaction from Mr. Nursultanov, who hurried to make his way down Marcel's body, running down his tail before jumping off to the ground. “I think I've made my point now. I'll see you next week, Mr. Yerbolat. I hope you'll reflect on this conversation in the meantime. See you then,” Marcel said, then he flew off, leaving the director behind.

—

After filming resumed following week, everyone was quick to note there was something off about Mr. Nursultanov. Something must have happened to him, they whispered, as he was much more mellowed out than he usually was. No, not mellowed; frightened would was a better word for it. He seemed almost out of it at first, though he found some self-possession as the day went on. Still, whenever it seemed he was about to launch into one of his usual tirades, the words would catch in his throat and he would take a look around. Sometimes, when he found whatever it was he was looking for, he would go pale and, stammering, excuse himself. Even if he didn't find anything, he would speak much more composedly than his crew was used to, sometimes even taking on the fault for whatever had gone wrong.

Seeing the strange transformation, everyone passed around theories about what might be behind it, some even claiming he must have been through a near death experience or else have received some sort of divine warning about his behavior. Only Anarbek had any notion of what was the real cause of it, having identified exactly what—or rather, who—caused the director to go pale. When he tried asking Marcel about it, however, the Frenchman remained silent, only saying that something must have put the fear of God into the director, assuring Anarbek that they wouldn't get any more trouble from him, at least during this production.