"No," you say, and then realize where Deathfang's gaze is. "My staff was carved from one that was slain long ago. But I have spoken to a dragon. An Ice Dragon, by the name of Cython."
"Cython," he says with a snort. "Such a name. A Serpent of Wisdom and Knowledge, given in the tongue of the people it has no right to. What does it know of either? The rebels turn their backs on the heavens to play in the dust, and crow and strut when they build a filthy mound that will be blown away in the wind."
"Not all dragons followed Draugnir when He joined the courts of the Cadai," Asarnil explains. "There's little love lost between those that did and those that did not."
"Their devolved forms are their reward for treachery," Deathfang continues. "They have bound themselves to this world and will die with it. I do not blame the younger races for embracing the Winds, they are no more or less than what they have been made to be. But dragons should know better. They should be better."
"It's a sensitive subject," Asarnil says solemnly.
"Sensitive subject," Deathfang echoes. "Human, have you met any Druchii? Would you like to boast of it to Asarnil?"
"Once, actually," you say, and two heads turn towards you. "I mean, he was only conscious for a few seconds after I met him. Then I put him under Mockery of Death and delivered him to a Nagarythian."
"A proper response," Asarnil says with a grin.
"Would that you did the same to this Cython," Deathfang grumbles.