Dargon. (Original Fantasy)

Honestly surprising that there's a few planned votes. 🤔

Dargon 2.4: Complications

You are a dragon, and currently you are in the middle of gobbling everything around you. What can you say? You were about to leave after planning out your general course of action, and currently you were in the midst of your Grandmomma's dining table, chowing down on everything that was on the table.

Odd that the other dragon from the front desk was here… but then again, she was Grandmomma's child. It would be odd if she were absent in a feast. But certainly, it also meant that the other dragons that were part of the family would be joining you here as well. And yet, there's only the three of you here.

"Grandmomma", you began, ripping off the meat from the loin of a titanicow. Cooked to perfection by your Grandmomma's lackeys, of course – dragons loved taste as much as any other mortal, but their finest palate meant that only the finest of foods could be eaten lest they gag and destroy a settlement or five. In any case, where were you again? Ah, right. The lack of your fellow family members. "Where are the others?"

The other dragon from the front desk – you swear you could remember her name – glances up to stare at you, blinks, then goes back to eating her own meal. The fillet of a titanicow cooked well-done. A philistine, in other words.

In the meantime, your Grandmomma pauses and stops from taking a bite out of a skewer of meats, turning her ruby gaze towards you.

"Why my dear, the rest are off doing their own thing at the moment. Learning how to hunt, access ancient ruins, fly – the basics. The older ones are with the juveniles to watch over them just in case anything happens." Then she continues eating, even though you both know that she doesn't have a sense of taste anymore. Your Grandmomma says that it's because of her alignment as a dragon, but you're much more willing to chalk it up to sheer age. "In fact, if you hadn't come here to provide me with at least a little something to do, I would've gotten a bit annoyed by my current circumstances and go out and destroy a few settlements."

And by 'settlements', she meant kingdoms. You remembered quite a few times where your Grandmomma left her lair to take out her frustration on some mortals, with your Momma complaining that the entire geopolitical landscape of the region was going to be changed again.

Whenever someone or something annoyed Grandmomma, kingdoms disappear basically overnight. There was no defense save for a last stand whenever that happens, as far as you remember. Whatever kingdom annoyed her was locked in time, frozen underneath a sea of unending crystal. It's just what elder dragons do.

Frankly, you're sort of lucky that for all of your life, you've never seen your Grandmomma truly angry at something. Goodness forbid you get to see what happens then.

"That would be…"

"Bad? Yes, I know. But the elven folks at Yrisstra are cracking down on their own darg operations for no good reason, and I am this close to making an example out of them." The other dragon from the front desk – you really need to remember their name – shudders at your Grandmomma's blasé statement that she would be murdering an entire civilization. While you do the same, the action was more muted, and coupled with a more annoyed look. "Yes, yes, I know. Murdering entire civilizations are bad, mostly due to the fact that dead civilizations can't make me profits off of dargs. You don't need to remind me like your mother, my dear."

Yrisstra was… south, southwest? A flight time of about one day and five hours. Still within your Grandmomma's iron grasp. What made them believe that cracking down on dargs (even if you wholeheartedly agree with them) such a good idea when they've got an elder dragon living just by their doorstep? Did their archivists make a mistake somehow and throw about a thousand years' worth of history right out the window?

… Well, it wasn't your problem. "Dear, I have a problem."

You shouldn't have tempted fate like that. Gulping down the rest of your meal, you quickly tap thrice on the enchanted part of your table, commanding Grandmomma's lackeys to give you another titanicow steak. "What is it, Grandmomma?"

"Mestina over here–" The juvenile squeaks, and the name finally makes you remember who they are again, "–Was supposed to be trained along as well, but sadly I do not have freeloaders– ahem, I mean dear family members living in my lair – to supervise her in such matters. I trust you understand what I'm getting at?"

It was so obvious that you can see it even with your eyes closed. "You're not shacking me up with anyone, Grandmomma. Especially since they're technically my aunt."

"I am?"

"Of course not, my dear. There are better alternatives than Mestina." Said dragon tries to squawk out an objection. Emphasis of 'try', because your Grandmomma shuts her down with a look. "No offense to you, daughter of mine, but you're the least impressive one out of the brood. Perhaps spending some time with someone who actually knows what they're doing would inspire you to actually do something useful, for once. Writing out reams of epics is fine and all, but it should be a hobby, not a lifestyle."

No doubt that your Grandmomma was referring to your Momma. And as much as you liked your Grandmomma, her statement was enough to rile you up nonetheless. "Grandmother…"

"There is no offense to Konnto. She has grown up to be a fine dragon in her own right, albeit an extremely lazy one." Not that your Grandmomma's hasty apology-but-not-an-apology was enough to satisfy you for the moment. Besides, it was Grandmomma describing someone else as lazy. Granted, she was busy micromanaging her own darg smuggling ring across multiple kingdoms and empires, but that didn't mean that she had the right to diss your own Momma, doesn't she? "Mestina over here however, requires some much needed traits. Restraint, for one."

Common sense does not apparently run through the juvenile's veins, since they turn a venomous glare – a glare! – towards your Grandmomma and bare their maw. "I do not–"

"Watch your tone when you are speaking to your betters, girl." Your Grandmomma snarls, and the blood from Mestina's face quickly fades, leaving their scales just a touch paler. With a huff, your Grandmomma comes down, turning towards you with a hint of a plea in her eyes. "Do you see what I mean, my dear? Please do your Grandmomma just this teeny-tiny favor."

"Aren't you already dumping your task of getting rid of your mortal proxies in my territory on me?"

"That was your idea, my dear. The fact that I already gave you the go-ahead to do so despite the profit investments is as far as my assistance would go." Something crosses your Grandmomma's eyes, and she grins. Once again, you can't help but hate what she'll do next. "One could say that it was a favor that you requested from me. This is just me evening the scales."

In short, you aren't getting out of this. With a sigh, your shoulders slump forward, taking a glance at Mestina… and watching as the juvenile dragon glares back at you before taking another (inelegant) bite of what she calls a 'steak'. Ugh.

Your Grandmomma's lackeys deliver your second serving of titanicow steak via crane, and you get back to eating. This time however, your brows are furrowed, and your shoulders are hunched in what could only be additional stress.

You have a lair to build. You have darg dealers to exterminate. And now? You've got to train a juvenile in skills unknown, to your Grandmomma's acceptable standard. Which is by all means, impossible.

…

Though it certainly explains why you're now here with Mestina a week after leaving your Grandmomma's lair, staring down the entrance of one of the ancient ruins that dotted your territory. There were bandits – of course there were bandits – and Mestina was now haranguing you about how to approach them.

Goodness, it was like watching over hatchlings, but worse.

[] You were supposed to train her. And training her would mean knowing a baseline. Which would mean letting her stroll up and engage the bandits in d-d-diploma– oh goodness you just can't finish the word without letting out a laugh.

[] You're on a time crunch, what with the fact that those goblins are plotting something and all that. You'll train Mestina later – for now, a concentrated blast of starfire at their current position should do the trick.

[x] You're willing to compromise. While you're more than willing to blast the bandits to their constituent atoms and Mestina wants to play diplomat, it would be better if the two of you jumped into the fray and just… do what needs to be done.

[] Write-in.

Go in, claws flashing, killing hapless mortals... there's a certain sort of base happiness in that. Hopefully your little student (who's technically your aunt -- it's complicated) sees that.

Dargon 2.5: Savagery


"No."

"No?" You ask, crossing your arms and raising your brow as you turn towards Mestina. Before the both of you left, your Grandmomma had pulled you aside and cautioned you about her personality. Her rebellious, rambunctious, I-just-want-to-sit-down-in-a-cave-and-write-out-epics personality. There were great similarities with your Momma back when she was a juvenile herself… or so your Grandmomma said. Given her biased view of your Momma, you can't exactly trust her opinion on such matters, even if you want to. "We could stay here, watch over these bandits and see if they have anything to hurt us, but we're running out of time."

"Time for what?"

"Unlike you", Mestina hisses, but it was nothing more than bark. "I am busy with other, more important things. I'm building a lair. I'm managing my underlings. I'm tearing down a darg distribution center in my territory. I'm supposed to be searching these ruins for artifacts that were supposed to expedite my lair-building process, but then someone had to be dropped into my wings due to their crass personality driving away everyone around them."

"I am not–"

"If you wish to be taken seriously child, then I hope you shut your maw until you come across a productive idea." You growl, just the slightest bit annoyed at being interrupted, "What's stopping me from just blasting them all with starfire?"

Despite the lesson that you wish to impart, the juvenile was apparently off in their own little world, rolling her eyes while trotting along, babbling about nonsensical matters. "'I, I, I, I, I', it's all 'I' and 'me' with you. With dragons. Those are people over there–"

"They are not."

"–No doubt with friends, family, loved ones–"

"Let me stop you right there." You let out a sigh. Why she chose to be difficult now of all times you don't understand. Or perhaps she's just trying to be a pain. In that case, she was doing a stellar job. Ha. Star puns. Starfire. "To us, the lives of mortals is free to do as we please, the same thought that a mortal deals with ants. No doubt that the ants have friends, family, loved ones. But does it matter? Should you care? The answer is no. Nature tells us that–"

"–The strong survive, which is why your father is no longer among the living?"

A pause in the air. Silent, and lasting for but a few seconds. You stare at Mestina, wondering how they are able to grin like that when they were so close to death. Of course, that was just a small part of you.

The rest of you was seeing red.

You roar, a sound that uproots trees, shatters rock, and splits a fissure down the mountain as you surge forward in a burst of speed, smashing against the juvenile and sending you both careening down towards the little encampment that the bandits had made. Your ears hear something like a shout of 'DRAGON!', but you aren't listening. Or to be more specific, you refuse to listen.

Frankly, you were more busy with trying to maul your so-called 'aunt' to death, rather than anything else.

She barely lets out a squawk before you grip her throat in an arm, squeezing it shut so that she couldn't breathe nor speak. Her eyes bug out, golden orbs widening at the look of absolute fury in your expression, and she tries clawing her way out of the deathgrip that you've given her.

A juvenile, versus a fully-grown adult. It was hilariously one-sided in your favor.

Both of you slam into the ground, but Mestina was the one to hit it first, causing her to cry out in pain as a sickening pop echoes through the air, the sound of her wing sockets dislocating. Rock splinters and shatters under both of your weight, but it nonetheless holds, shaking forth centuries of dust and rock from the ruins and letting it all come free. By this point, Mestina was roaring as well, blinded by pain and trying to claw her way out of your grip with greater urgency than before, but your grip holds strong.

You don't bother to just dig in your claws and crush her spine, for you don't want that. You want this death to be slow, to be agonizing, for her to realize that badmouthing your father was naught but a one-way ticket to her death–

Twang.

–Your tail smashes the ballista bolt down into the ground with contemptuous ease, and you release your grip on Mestina's neck before turning towards the rest of these bandit scum. The juvenile gasps, arms reaching for their neck as they could finally breathe, but you ignore her.

These bandit scum weren't a threat. To even peg them as one was laughable, really. Insulting the capabilities of even a juvenile. But you were doing this for a reason.

You have objectives. You've regained just a little bit of the reasoning that you've lost just a few moments ago, even if it was only a bare fraction. The bandits have apparently thought that it would be a clever idea if they used the ruins as defensive positions, using their lone ballista to take down bigger threats like dragons. Mestina was trying to charge at you, but a simple bat of your wing sends them flying off to the forest. Hopefully unconscious.

No. The main reason you were dismissing the juvenile out of hand was because you want to hammer in one single thing, despite the large, murderous break in your calm. That she wasn't worth the effort.

That it would take more effort to kill these bandits rather than kill her. If she didn't feel stung by that, then she wasn't meant to be a dragon in the first place, and it would be best to put her out of her misery.

… By all means, that murderous thought was due to the fact that she had the gall to insult your Pops.

Still… Killing these bandits shouldn't take long.

You can't use your starfire. Not at this close of a range. Not because that you'd fry yourself, but because you'd fry the ruins. And they might hold something important. So instead, you swiftly surge forward, dodging another ballista bolt with contemptuous ease, and slam a clawed hand on the damned mechanism.

It shatters under your grip. As it should be. The rest of the bandit scum manning the ballista shared the same fate as the machine, rendered into nothing more than a red smear of clothing and guts on the rocky ground.

Arrows shatter underneath your scales. You close your eyes, zeroing in on the archers with nothing more than sound, and a flap of your wings sends you straight at them, as well as having the effect of blasting back the other bandits who thought that it was a good idea to engage you in melee.

What idiocy.

The archers die. Unlike some of your more feral brethren, you didn't even eat one of them. Scum was scum – human scum even more so – and you'd only eat one only if your Grandmomma all but commanded you to, and even then you'd hate her for it. So they died. Rendered as nothing more than bloody offal and rags. And then, you turn your attention towards the idiots who thought that it was a good idea to charge you.

You jump back down to ground level, opening your eyes to find them fleeing deeper into the ruins. Underground. At a height much lower than you could fit through. A good idea. You wouldn't be able to follow them that way. If you had your goblin army…

Still. Little things. They left loot. At least, that was something.

Little trinkets that they took from within the ruins, either something that looked expensive or shiny. And one that didn't kill them on the spot, of course. There were some nasty artifacts that did that.

…

You glance towards the nearby forest, eyes hardening as you think about the juvenile in its depths. A part of you wanted to just trot over there and kill her. Another part of you wanted to pump her for information – no one but a select few knew of your father's fate. But on the other hand, a small, tiny, insignificant part of you feels just a little bit sorry for the overreaction…

… But you ruthlessly quash it down, and eventually decide to do nothing. Mestina's wings are out of commission since your opening exchange – you made sure of it – and if she didn't come to you for help soon, then she would be rendered wingless. Whether or not she'd get over her own form of pride to do so however, is up to her.

For the meantime, you've got relics to browse.

[There's not much time before you have to see if Mestina's alright, despite your… opinion of her. You can only pick one (1) relic from the list.]

[] A collection of crystals. Familiar, since you're pretty sure that these were your Grandmomma's breath. No doubt the bandits thought that this would sell for a pretty penny, what with the mortal predilection for equating shiny things to wealth. Dragons were above such things… most of the time. The shinies you collect are actually useful.

[] Metallic trinkets, filled with old yet seemingly-intact mechanisms. Good sell for mortal archivists and scholars who would pay much for such items, though you can't help but wonder how many of these bandits died just to secure this little bag of trinkets. Then you put it out of your mind, since their lives matter less to you than a mere bug.

[] Specimens. Frozen specimens. They looked like tiny little ogres floating in some kind of liquid, trapped in some kind of complex mechanism about the size of your palm – quite a large thing, by the standards of mortal scum. But what could this be? And could you awaken the ogres within by doing… something to it?

[x] Nothing more than a simple sword, if you discount all the unnecessary glow and constant intrusions into your mind that kept on babbling that you could do better. Frankly, it's getting annoying, and a particularly dark thought of snapping the sword in two keeps it quiet for a little while. Sapient swords, bah. What's one doing in a camp full of bandit scum, of all places?

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QM Note: Can I just say that I'm liking the new textbox? I don't have to manually delete the spaces between paragraphs anymore. Kudos to whoever did this, man.