"Morality, justice... the gods. What use are these in the dealings of predator and prey? Does the beast shout blessings at its creator before it rips at your limbs? While you scream and you plead, its only thought is to prolong the delectable taste of warm living flesh. Where is god in these moments? Even the victim is lost to god at this time. In anticipation, I suppose, the feasted often cry to their saviors, dying to live. However, as tooth and claw meet flesh, there is no thought of the divine. No hands clasped in prayer. Those praying hands turn to desperate talons, their verbose rites reduced to a saddening yelp. A return to primal form. If there are gods, they are not here. None that any good man would pray to as I see it. I know this. I have examined it closely and I intend to behold its savagery yet again. After the feast, when the thing belches and breathes and it basks in its sustenance. In this moment of relief, when the winged thing admires that it has fed well yet again, I fall like the rain. I drop and I work. Drenched in cold reptilian blood, I revel in my labor. I am the dragon monger. So I would say to the gods, that slaying is my only business, and that business is good. That is, if they care to listen. Somehow, I suspect that they do. The bounty on a dragon’s soul is too damned good these days."