The Iron Spout

I strode out from the stone drainage alcove into the open courtyard. Cold morning air hit my scales. Ahead rose a broad stone fountain basin, completely dry and silent. An iron drain grate stood embedded in the carved stone floor. In its center rested a heavy brass turn-valve, crusted with dark green verdigris. A direct challenge. I did not circle around. I lowered my skull, braced my hind claws firmly against the masonry seam, and slammed my forehead directly into the rigid metal spoke. A dull, heavy clang rang through the basin. The stubborn iron shuddered, grinding half an inch across its rusty threads. Unyielding, but marked. Superior ground held.