Tribulations of a Dragon

A stout and proud dwarf works to empty the last wheelbarrow of ore into our wagon, leather vest swirling with his hasty movements. Thick boots protect his feet from dropped goods, though a human would struggle to wear them, such is their weight. The work emphasized by jingling from rings and tools hanging from his canvas pants, creating a lovely combination of melody and song as his grunts motivate his shoveling.

"Place yer trust on me shoulders, Nenny. I'm a dwarf an' ours is a nose for gold! And hold me hat."

Although confidence flows from his words, our coin pouches billow in the wind as their contents have been spent on the wagon and a surplus of ore to fill it. Though I must admit I favor the choice of basilisk to draw our wagon. I believe Lord Tootsie is an appropriate name for such an adorable critter.

The green-gray scaled basilisk appears akin to a broadened horse, with fearsome claws to dig deep into the soil and a telltale flicking tongue to taste the air. For a creature such as a basilisk, the long tail must be fastened underneath the wagon to prevent any injuries. Though this also presents a unique fashion of guiding the animal, as you may use simple prodding of the tail to provide commands. That is a matter for tomorrow, as we do not wish to leave the Lord bridled overnight, and we have final preparations to perform.

As is our custom, we both carry out inspections of our supplies to cover anything the other might have missed. And what marvelous discoveries are hidden within the supplies Kaldren has purchased! My search unveils a small pouch of marbled surun fruits! A small, green, and watery fruit the shape of a ball, coated in sweet tree sap. I suspect this devious companion of mine expected me to find the pouch as a peace offering.

I shall accept.

My search does not yield any further goodies, and I must admit, Kaldren has done admirably in his task to secure the necessities for our trip to Tuiran. Although I have my reservations regarding his notions of trade and schemes to unlock riches, I must admit that I find my curiosity uncontainable as it is unheard of for a Dragon to build their hoard so close to civilization.

The Great Dragon, Deannon'Tathir, has explained the powers of a hoard, the swirling magics in its vicinity, and how it requires a natural defense to withstand them. Yet the goblins appear undaunted by the whole situation, celebrating a mighty creature willing to protect them.

Though I find myself enjoying the stories coming from Tuiran, I am unsure that Kira has considered the possible consequences of her actions. The goblin Raya shows great promise in her journey of becoming a legend, yet should the town's every citizen gain such power, the region might soon tremble under the threat of war. I cannot blame the goblins, should it happen. By Lord Faran's mercy, I pray my fear does not come to pass.

"Yer lookin' pensive. Thinkin' 'bout what's to come?"

"Indeed. I find myself worrying once more..."

"Bah! Yer ain't gotta worry yer scales gray, Nenny. Mire panther's a bigger threat than Tuiran's Dragon. 'Less yer plannin' tae attack, then yer fucked. Common vein in all 'em stories. Fuckers attacked 'er first."

I do not intend to attack her. But the meaning of his words is clear. There is a ferocity to be feared, bound in mercilessness, yet the words of one of the instigating groups swear by the kindness shown as they surrendered. Our own experiences appear to depict a person more interested in social amusement than the destructive tendencies of her kin.

"'Sides, she didnae kill us after learnin' we were 'venturers. An' she's got a taste for proper cuisine. Oi! We got me spices?! I reckon a proper dwarven stew would broker friendships by its lonesome!"

Friendships brokered at the graveyard, perhaps... I appreciate his enthusiasm at the prospect of having one to share his cooking with, but dwarven cuisine is literal poison to most blessed species... Humans and elves in particular are susceptible to the poisonous properties of dwarven "spices."

Kaldren is not likely to be deterred by my doubts, rather, he'll take them as a challenge to the detriment of others as they are subjected to whatever his insanity at the time might be.

The night approaches and we will depart come morn. Our time is best spent resting for the evening. As I suggest it, Kaldren's rambling ceases as he ties a tarp over our cargo. It is enjoyable to hear of his dreams once he earns enough wealth to make them happen. Though they frequently involve acquiring new goods to trade rather than gaudy mansions, staff to ease his burdens, or luxuries for his own use.

"Tie down yer side, 'stead o' starin' at me like I stole yer forgin' hammer."

"I will stare as I please."

As I get to work tying knots around the tie pegs, I keep my eyes focused on Kaldren, knowing it will annoy him. Though that is not the only reason. He's a proud man and not likely to admit the particular mistake I know he's made.

"Bah! If yer ain't lookin' at what yer doin', yer gonna make mistakes! Move aside, an' let me do it. Then ya can buy me an ale for me efforts."

The soft wrinkles on his forehead, as well as the slight redness of his ears, betray his motivations. He spent all his coin and has been left without any for the brew he so enjoys. It is a dance we have enjoyed many times. He does not like asking for others to cover for his mistakes, so by taking my share of the work, he may leverage the perceived debt to spare his pride. Yet we both know I would have paid without issue regardless.

With the knots tied and the tarp secured, it becomes time for his pre-travel ritual that I may never understand. Gripping a rope, he stretches it and listens for the sounds with satisfaction, and as it quietens, he always says the same thing.

"That ain't going nowhere."

He casts no spells, carves no runes, yet his ritual fills him with confidence and pride. Whether he strums a string or slaps the tarp, it always works for him. And we have yet to lose cargo to the risks involved in travel, so I must assume that it works.

With our goods prepared for departure, we leave the stable grounds for the tavern. The sounds of snoring can be heard as we leave behind the smell of draft animals, the source of which are young merchants and adventurers. Those who fear for their goods being whisked away by shadows in the night, but such a fear is unwarranted in a labor town as this.

Offend the reputation of a labor town and you will soon find yourself under the judgment of the Gods themselves as every miner, woodsman, and hunter in the region will cease work to find you. Only a hell-cursed fool would attempt such folly. Yet the worries of the young and inexperienced should not be mocked, as it is a stepping stone from which they must grow to become wiser.

In common labor town fashion, the town itself is secured by no more than noxious spices, aiming to deter beasts who would attempt to hunt in the area by peaceful means. The lumber costs of a palisade are likely to have affected the decision as well, yet should the locals be asked whether that's the case, they will often defend the decision with a statement such as "If the wolf is brave enough to get closer, then it's brave enough to fight me." And I must say that the wolf has to be brave to take on the burly citizens living this far north.

Their frugality does not end there, as the only areas lit by standing lights are the main road leading to the trade square, justified by the notion that newcomers either stay and learn the darker paths, or leave before it becomes necessary to light the darkness. For a folk of such peculiarity and a general unwelcoming demeanor, their trade deals are fair and the hospitality rivals that of the wealthiest cities.

Crossing into the town proper, the squelch of mud underfoot signifies the well-used state of the road leading to the main warehouse. Near it lies the tavern we seek, located as such for the purpose of trade deals and negotiation. Before we see the timber-built structure, we hear the jolly laughter of folks drinking more than is wise.

"Ale's flowin', Nenny! They'd better have saved me some!"

"I'm sure they have an abundance, Kaldren. Worry not."

With a grin of anticipation, Kaldren rubs his hands together as his stride hastens, forcing me to match his speed to keep up. I much prefer the leisurely pace of his short legs, as it offers me an abundance of time to simply enjoy the day. Though I do find great amusement in the surprised look of people who believe the short and stocky dwarven folk to be slow. A common misconception often corrected with a flurry of strikes as the compact folk react harshly to offense, most of which is instigated by those who think the dwarves easy prey.

The moment we reach the tavern, Kaldren rushes ahead to open the door, a tradition among his people and a sign of respect to the person handling the payment for the evening. With a nod, I accept the gesture as well as the responsibility for the costs as we make our way inside.

As expected, the room quietens as newcomers arrive, but as we take off our coats and sit at the longtable, the boisterous laughter and joy resume as we become uninteresting. The establishment has chosen benches rather than chairs, giving tailed people, such as I, a better opportunity for seating. Behind each bench lies a log for the sake of the shorter people, allowing them the dignity of a step to reach the bench, rather than forcing them to climb as a child would.

At least his legs fit under the table without awkward positioning... That is why we often sit opposite each other, as his shorter legs leave an abundance of space for mine to occupy.

The prospect of a free meal brightens his mood, as is our custom, yet I do not follow his reasoning, as we share funds. I will be repaid as soon as we earn more coin, meaning I am simply loaning him the coin to pay.

With the waitress approaching, Kaldren becomes almost giddy as he flags her down and orders an ale with a simple meal and a side of greenery for each of us, barely giving her a chance to reach us. She takes it in good spirit as she turns to fetch our food. Another person brings our ale first, allowing us to wet our throats after a long day, which is something Kaldren does not hesitate to do.

"Ahh! Proper fookin' ale! Proper spiced, 'stead o' the bland big city ales."

As I take a swig, I cannot disagree. The spiced flavor is delightful, with an emphasis on sweetness and a woody, slightly sour flavor. They must be importing the cikurum bark from the southern jungles.

We're not left with much room for conversation as the waitress returns with six bowls balanced on her arms with a practiced expertise earned through years of dedication. As she sets them down, the delightful scent of fresh stew wafts up from the first two, another two with dipping bread, and the third set with the unsightly greenery Kaldren is so fond of.

"Eat yer greens, Nenny. Can't live on meat 'n' stew."

"You know I cannot tolerate it in such amounts."

"Bah! Fine, give it here."

Such magnanimous behavior from one who knows my dietary requirements. Though his selflessness isn't without sacrifice, as he always leaves half a bowl of stew for me as repayment, making sure to not let his natural greed impact me.

"Yer should be tryin' some greens, Nenny. Cook's good 'ere."

"Would you use a sword or a hammer to break stone?"

"Don't ruin yer sword on a stone! Grab a hammer an' get to work! Aye, I know what yer gonna say. Yer teeth are blades, an' mine are hammers, ain't fer the same work."

A discussion we've had many times, though I appreciate his pestering in the hopes that I find new pleasures. Unfortunately, my particular breed of kin is not blessed with a belly capable of dealing with the plants so often used in elven and human cooking.

His deception is shallow and does not hide the fact that he simply enjoys the greens served in these labor towns. A collection of wild and fresh vegetables drenched in spiced oils and creamy sauces, a favorite of his, denied to him by his heritage as it is deemed crude topsider garbage by the elite of his clan.

"Kaldren, tell me about Dragons. I am utterly lacking in knowledge about their kin."

"We're damn lucky she's a woman, I'll tell ya that much. Women Dragons will kill an' eat anythin' threatenin' 'em or their kin within their territory, but the men Dragons... Them fuckers roam. They'll hunt yer down and anyone they think might be yer crew. 'Venturers doin' what they did tae her, but tae a man Dragon, an' we'd be seein' smolderin' ruins from east tae west. Angry Dragon thinkin' all 'venturers are the same? Not a single town's safe. 'Cept that she's a she."

"I believe she did roam and hunt, did she not?"

"Nay. T'was huntin' within her territory. Barely more than cleanin' house. Nay, Dragon truly cuts loose, an' yer gonna need the top-grade fighters fightin'. Remember how many missin' folks we've had? Always some missin', but more lately. Could be accidents, could be attackin' a Dragon. Won't be anythin' left tae find out, an' we lost some good folks after that attack. Leyro's crew's missin', Jonjon's crew as well. Both groups of skill, and they had the gear tae prove it... Yer ruinin' me ale with gloomtalk!"

Giving him a nod, I drop the subject. I had not intended for it to become a matter of lost adventurers, but such is the nature of conversation. It is a shame we cannot determine the fate of those lost in the fall of Plainshold. It is tempting to suggest that they may be found alive and well, yet such a blessing is rare, and I do not wish to dismiss the worries with platitudes. We must hope that others learn and become more careful in the times to come.

Reaching for my dipping bread, we begin eating in earnest, making quick work of our delightful meals. I am not one for ale, so I end up with half a mug left. With barely an offer uttered, Kaldren grabs my mug with a smile, knowing my intentions by heart.

Stolen novel; please report.

"You mentioned Dragons protecting their kin, and I find myself curious... How do Dragons reproduce? I did not see any slits or visible genitals on Kira. And I have not seen any on Deannon'Tathir either. I would think that is a requirement for procreation."

"Ye'd think, aye, but nay. First's the Dragon egg, y'know the price o' a shell. Damn things are made of pure metal an' gems. Cooked up in the crop o' the woman. Can't do it on her lonesome, she needs magic an' hoard from her partner tae begin formin' an egg. Man Dragon cooks up his crop full o' coin and wealth until it becomes a molten mess, fills it with his magic, and barfs it into the mouth o' the woman. Lost a mate like that once. Boyo walked in on a couple o' dragons matin' and the male turned to him, barfin' molten metal all over him. Richest he'd ever been, shame it killed 'im."

I had not expected it to work in such a fashion. I must say I am surprised as well as somewhat disgusted, though Dragons do seem fond of consuming anything without much in the way of reservations.

"Does she then need to consume her hoard to strengthen the egg?"

"Nay, hoard's like a nest. Build a shite nest and yer chicks die. 'Cept fer Dragons; she builds a hoard tae draw in magic fer her clutch, tae strengthen the unborn hatchlings with magic. Bigger hoard means stronger hatchlings. No hoard and yer got a runt on yer hands. Won't grow proper without magic near. 'Tis why that mad mapper elf got the right of it. Ain't the body yer gotta watch fer age, 'tis the flame."

Kaldren's knowledge of Dragons far surpasses that of the common topsider, and I find myself quite enjoying listening to him talk about the subject. Unfortunately, as his explanations continue, we're interrupted by a fellow adventurer.

"How kind of you, but that's a waste of effort. There's no point in teaching your slaveling about beasts. They're far too dumb to understand you."

"Ye'll get one chance t'pologize tae th'lady, fookin' topsider. And y'better not wiggle yer slag-smothered tongue in t'same channel or y'likely t'make a mess."

"Why would I apologize to a sl-"

Once more, we have a human underestimating the speed of a dwarf as Kaldren jumps up and slams his clenched fist into the jaw of the fool with a crunch, making it obvious that someone will require a healer. With a pleasing thud, the human falls to the ground, struggling to get his bearings as Kaldren stands on the table above. Without any consideration for the safety of his opponent, Kaldren jumps down, landing knees first in the stomach of his target.

The position causes Kaldren to fall forward, his forehead connecting with the would-be adversary's nose. A solid crunch makes it obvious that the healer's bill will be costly. As I reach for his mug of ale for a sip, Kaldren's fists can be heard impacting the rude fool's face.

It takes a moment, but as Kaldren's hammering fists stop, he gets up and walks up onto the table again.

"Any other fookin' softskins lookin' fer a beatin'?!"

Judging by the groaning, the brave hero on the floor is still alive, so at the very least, we won't be detained for murder. It is unusual for the rest of his group to not have interfered with Kaldren's generous lesson, and as he addresses the room, all we can hear is muttering about the foolishness of offending a dwarf as the room returns to drinking and merriment.

"Y'shouldn't put up with shite like that, Nenny."

"I know, Kaldren, yet I have grown accustomed to such behavior, and often it is best that I do not act, as I will often bear the consequences while they simply scamper off."

Kaldren returns to his seat and eats the last remnants of his meal while staring daggers at the stolen ale in my hand.

My assessment is proven accurate as the tavernkeeper walks toward our table with clear frustration on his face. And sure enough, we're asked to leave as he reaches us. Though fortune smiles on us as he does not enforce payment!

"Sorry, Nenny... Didnae mean fer us t'get kicked out."

"Worry not, Kaldren. I don't mind a night under the clouds. I did make sure to pack camping equipment for such an eventuality. Did you know that your dwarven accent shines brighter when you become upset?"

A cute blush fills his cheeks as he speeds up toward the stables. He often tries to hide his accent, as many in this region struggle to understand it. In his own words, you will struggle a lot more as a trader if people can't understand you. Though I believe that to be true for most professions.

A free meal, the open skies, and Lord Tootsie in our company, tonight is quickly becoming quite pleasant.

As we reach the stables, Lord Tootsie makes his presence known as he no doubt smells us. Kaldren approaches him to take the reins, but is met with ferocious licking. The poor dwarf is soon assaulted and forced to the ground as Lord Tootsie demands a blood sacrifice and Kaldren doesn't wash his hands and face after his scuffle. A problem solving itself.

Leaving him to his struggles against the fearsome basilisk, I fetch the harness fit for a lord. As he notices me, Kaldren is released from his merciless punishment with a far less bloody appearance. Being an expert on the matter, Lord Tootsie tracks down our wagon faster than we would have, scenting the air to find the one matching us.

Kaldren mutters some words about messy beasts, but joins me in carrying the gear for Lord Tootsie. Much like a horse, we'll need a bridle, breastplate, saddle, breeching, and the reins. Though the breeching in particular stands out as different compared to their draft counterparts. A horse's tail being much easier to work with compared to the thick and scaled basilisk tail.

Without any commands, Lord Tootsie gets into position by the wagon, ready to be harnessed. The first piece to put on him is the saddle. Though it shares a name with a riding saddle, it is barely more than a thick strap circling his chest. As I place and prepare it, Kaldren's height shows its benefits once more as he fastens the straps on the underside of Lord Tootsie, allowing me to avoid bending down so far.

The second piece to fasten is the breeching. This will fasten the harness to his rump and secure it as well as the saddle, preventing the saddle from moving forward. Being a good boy, Lord Tootsie allows us to work without objection. With a horse, the tail would have a strap underneath to keep the breeching straight, but with the thick basilisk tail, that is not a possibility. To overcome this issue, the breeching is fastened to a pole hanging from the wagon, which prevents the saddle from slipping to the side.

Though this did once present an issue of risking injury to the animal, it has since been made deliberately flimsy, allowing the animal to break loose should it be necessary.

For being such a good boy, Lord Tootsie deserves a treat. His tongue-flicking intensifies as I open a bag from the wagon. It's filled with treats specifically made for basilisks, small balls consisting of dried meats and plants, made to burst with flavors favored by the large lizards.

He's doing such a good job of containing himself as I bring the treat. Holding it out for him, his mouth envelops my hand and a flick of his tongue steals it away, leaving my hand coated in a thin layer of spittle. A quick wipe in the damp night grass takes care of that, and I may now return to the harnessing.

The process of fastening the breastplate is left mostly to Kaldren, as he can reach the straps with ease, but I think we will leave the bridle and reins up to Lord Tootsie. He is quite well-trained, and I do not believe they are necessary. They are used to convey commands, but verbal and tail commands are often sufficient. We will bring them nevertheless, as we did pay for them.

As we've finished our preparations and Kaldren has completed the fastening of the harness to the wagon, we are ready to quietly head out. The present snoring is a clear sign that any unnecessary noise would be quite unwelcome. Though the creaking of a loaded wagon being pulled to a start is to be expected, as will happen once we depart.

I must admit that Kaldren did well to acquire the wagon. It's simple, but sturdy, with a low bonnet available should we need it, though the rough surface of raw ore is likely to make such an experience considerably worse.

"Go on, take the seat, Nenny. 'Twas me fool handlin' causin' us problems, least I can do is let yer be comfortable."

"Do not pay it any mind. A simple visit to a healer and the brute will be ready and able once more. Though I prefer a peaceful resolution, I am appreciative of the defender of my honor. And I would be taking the seat regardless. You did spend our funds, and I will be leveraging that to my favor."

"Bah! If yer so pinched for coin, lemme repay ya and keep me own profits from me fool scheme."

"Let us not go that far, I believe I am owed interest."

With a joyful chortle, he climbs up the back of the wagon as I take my rightful seat. Kaldren's vibrant mood softens with the task of creating a comfortable seat in the ore's surface presents itself.

"Thank Irathmar fer makin' me kin tough. Yer won't be findin' a human or elf willin' tae rest on a pile o' rocks."

I must agree with his assessment. Though dwarven skin boasts superior toughness, my scales provide ample protection from such a surface. I do not envy those born with softer skin, as even simple knives can pierce them without issue.

With his earthen nest complete, Kaldren stands with his hands behind his head, ready to fall toward the front of the wagon, hoping to land in a resting position. A simple tap to Lord Tootsie's tail sparks the animal's attention and, with a jolt, he begins meandering forward. A remarkable amount of grumbling erupts from the back of the wagon as Kaldren falls forward instead of backward. As expected, the sound of his hands slapping each other to clear any dust or debris makes it clear that he did catch himself.

"Yer did that on purpose!"

"The notion would never enter my mind, Kaldren."

With a squint of his eyes, he turns and repeats his actions, though this time joltless, allowing him some rest. As strangers around us complain about our noise, we head out properly. And now our journey south begins once more.

Lord Tootsie makes his approval of our journey known through bellowing, a rumble from deep within his chest.

"Kaldren, do you wish for us to stop by Oakhold?"

"Nay... Heard 'bout the lord lookin' tae kick out 'venturers. Always been odd, that one, but the Guild seems tae think steerin' clear's fer the best."

Which means our journey involves camping over the coming while.

------------

Fookin' sun's a right bastard. Looks tae be 'bout noon, good time fer Nenny tae get some rest. Peerin' up from me ditch proves me right as the scaled lass yawns with a maw wide enough tae frighten children.

"Come get some rest, Nenny. 'Tis me turn tae steer. Where we at?"

She taps the beast's tail while gettin' up, lettin' him know that we're changin'. Admirable and proud beasts, those basilisks. Smart enough tae not need a rider, yer can merely point at the sun and trust it tae keep followin' roads that way.

"We will soon be northwest of Oakhold. Do wake me should trouble arise."

Been on the road comin' on four days. Even me cheeks hurt from sittin', but we got just one camp left 'fore we'll see Tuiran. Damn fine beast, that bassie. Fer shorter transports, ya want a horse, but fer long like this, stalkin' predators like bassies will win. They ain't got speed, but the damn things can walk fer a week without meal or drink, happy as can be tae get some fresh wind.

Common reason says every merchant should be usin' 'em, but once yer trip ends, ya better get yer coin purse ready fer buyin' a whole mess o' meats. Unless ya travel near prey critters. Just so happens Tuiran's forests have walkin' venison, perfect fer Bassie's hunger.

Rummagin' through bandit loot's a good way o' findin' feed, but we ain't met any trouble. It don't stop me worries from flarin' like an unkempt foundry, and I pray me hunch pays. Should others 'ave got the same notion, we might find ourselves screwed outta some fine coin. Got 'nough fine ore tae smelt a militia's worth o' weapons. If Tuiran's blacksmith's still buyin'. Yer better be buyin', Knotten.

"I can tell that you worry, Kaldren. Calm your mind and trust that we made a wise decision. Your merchant's heart has yet to steer us false."

Damn scaly lass readin' me thoughts.

"Y'should be restin', Nenny. I cannae be t'only one with me axe ready should dimwits try t'strike."

"I am always ready for combat."

"Were yer ready fer the Dragon showin' up at midway?"

"I am almost always ready for combat."

Aye, she does have an affinity fer readyin' as the first blade swings, readyin' her magics fer battle. Shame she won't use it fer defendin' herself when the humans get uppity.

Grabbin' me steerin' stick, I give Bassie a poke, lettin' him know we're headin' south from here.

------------

As Kaldren wakes me up once more, I pray to Lord Faran, thanking him for keeping us safe in our journey. Kaldren gives me a stare with a raised eyebrow as he does not understand the reasoning for praying to a being not of the Pantheon. Yet it brings me deep comfort knowing that Lord Faran keeps my kin safe in the Lands Beyond Death.

With Tuiran in sight, it becomes clear that it is undergoing changes. The northwest part of town has been repurposed for clay works, with wheelbarrows aplenty streaming from the town itself.

"By Irathmar's assbeard, fookin' goblins're tearin' down the town."

It would appear so. As we approach, more becomes visible, some of which are cartloads of brickwork dumped in piles outside the town, and other bricks are brought in from the kilns with an efficiency likely to make a dwarf envious.

The clever little beings have adapted the wheelbarrows to their shorter stature, going for length rather than height. I would have thought them unwieldy, yet the goblins appear to suffer no such weaknesses.

"Kaldren, how is it possible that they can produce construction materials in such a quantity?"

"I don't know... I ain't a crafter by trade, but they're doin' somethin'."

With his sight locked on the importers, a plume of bright yellow flame erupts from the kilns, further marked by shouting as a flurry of movement rush toward the north end of the structure.

Barely audible sounds of climbing from behind us alert us to a presence on our wagon. Looking back, a goblin, eyes slitted like those of a Dragon, stares back at us.

"What's your business in Tuiran? Got any harmful things?"

Rather than wait for a reply, the tiny creature scurries under the tarp, commenting on the well-smelling rocks before emerging once more.

"Follow me!"

We are not offered much choice as the tiny creature leaps from our wagon and runs toward Lord Tootsie. With a gentle pat to his snout, Lord Tootsie is instructed to follow our guide, which he does happily. Our trip has kept a steady pace, but now Lord Tootsie appears to be excited to explore the town of Tuiran as he follows the goblin without our instructions.

We're taken to the eastern entrance, over a newly built road of stone, so that we may avoid disrupting the workforce of the northern entrance. The goblins we pass appear quite more... darkened, since our last visit. Some exhibiting scaled cheeks and arms.

"Kaldren, do you know of what has transpired to cause such a change in the locals?"

"Nay. Don't know much 'bout Dragons. Only reason I know 'bout their breedin's 'cause me friend died tae it. Yer'd have tae ask someone from the beastforges."

"Pardon me, guide, but I would like to know what has happened to cause such a call to action."

"Oh! Guardian Dragon left a gift for us before she left to take care of something."

"Is her business a secret?"

"Nah. I just don't know."

"Yer don' know where yer protector is?"

A prudent question, as it seems unlikely that the goblins would be capable of defending themselves, should bandits or fools show themselves, looking for prey.

"She left us a gift before leaving, see? I have dragonscales now!"

With a toothy grin, our guide pulls up her sleeves, revealing an arm coated in dark green scales. As we reach the gate, it becomes clear that this is not a change limited to a mere few. Rather, it seems to have spread throughout the town at large.

Crossing into the town, the scale of their work shows itself. The houses built along the main road are being torn down, widening the streets, which we are informed is to allow Kira's growth. A fearsome prospect, as the streets appear to be widened to fit three large carriages.

"What of the housing being removed? Surely your people do not intend to evict those who find themselves without a roof."

"Of course not! Turo told us to build down, so some houses are made under other houses. We need the clay for more bricks!"

"What do you make of this, Kald-"

Oh, he appears to have left in search of other entertainment. I barely manage to catch sight of him as he enters an alley accompanied by several goblin workers. It appears the task of managing our trade falls into my grasp.

"Do you need him, scale lady?"

"I do not. I apologize; I did not introduce myself. I am Shae Tara Nenka, and he is Kaldren. We are acquaintances of your Guardian Dragon and we wish to trade this ore for Dragon's Gold, if possible."

"Up to Jarna and Knotten. We're going there now, so you can talk to them."

She does not seem concerned with introducing herself, and I won't be pressing the matter. It appears quite fortunate that we arrived during midday, as the lights throughout the streets are being torn down alongside the buildings.

"Pardon me, but might I ask what motivated such a considerable rebuild of the town?"

"I told you. It has to fit the Guardian Dragon, and she keeps growing."

"Yes, thank you. Though what I mean is that I do not understand how your town funds such a project. Or who would organize such an effort."

"Elder Turo did it. Him and Cranky are making all the plans and people just do it. Why wouldn't we do it? We're safe now, and we can defend ourselves, and we have trade to make coin. The Guardian Dragon gave that to us. Wouldn't you want to repay all that?"

I believe I can relate to such a notion. It appears we must pay our respects to this Elder Turo as a precaution to avoid causing offense. Judging by the reverence in my guide's voice, she holds the elder in high esteem.

Our path has us cross through the main square, reminding me how human this town appears. I would wager it was a frontier town abandoned by the settlers, and now these goblins make the best of an opportunity given. And they certainly have made it their own.

With a few noises, my guide draws the attention of Lord Tootsie, guiding us through winding streets as we close in on the thick smell of forge work. I can feel my scales tighten with our approach, a sign of my nervousness. I am ill-prepared for what I might find ruling the forges of a town run by what most consider monstrous pests and a beast of calamity.