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Whitewillow, the Scaled Courtesan ~ Part 3

Some days, Tristan woke up questioning what he was doing with his life.

Today was definitely one of those days.

What was he even doing out here? He should be at the Guild, working with the Praetorians to solve Kodakoa's murder in an official capacity. Not following some crazy lead given to him on the whims of a scaly courtesan! And now, this crazy dragon-loving noblelady insisted upon tagging along with him, to meet with the most dangerous dragon clan in the city … gods, if Lilian knew about this, she'd fire him for his stupidity. And he'd deserve it!

He glanced to Whitewillow, who seemed oblivious to his turmoil as she walked in front of him. Her dull claws clicked on the worn brick streets of Concordia. She and Lady Jenivive were deep in conversation about the dragon's strange religion, leaving Tristan alone with his thoughts. He felt happy to be trailing behind them, forgotten – this was his opportunity to sort his head out while the girls were distracted.

He looked around, frowning at the soot-stained brick buildings and run-down warehouses. The old pre-industrial sector of Concordia's western district was a dangerous place to walk out in the open. After the steam revolution, much of Concordia's industry moved to the southern districts, leaving this area of the city underpopulated. And not long after the Dragon Citizenship Act passed, free dragons helped themselves to the abandoned buildings. Within ten years, the only human residents left were those too poor to find a safer place to live.

The three largest urban clans – Star Scry, Cracked Shell, and Mossmoor – nested within a few kilometers of each other. Sometimes, the citizenry became caught in the crossfire of petty clan skirmishes, leading to extra work for the Dragonhunter's Guild. The last time Tristan ventured into this part of the city, it had been with five other dragonhunters in full plate armor and flame shields. Now he visited as a civilian, with only Whitewillow (and his hidden revolver) for protection. He didn't like it. Here, dragons sun bathed on the roads, openly defying local law. Several of them glared at Tristan as he walked by, as if he had the audacity to walk on "their" territory.

Every instinct Tristan had honed from his time at the Guild screamed that he shouldn't be walking head-first into dragon territory. Yet without Whitewillow, Tristan would have never found Kodakoa's Red Mark, or discovered that he had fled the city. She was definitely onto something. And whatever that "something" was, she kept dragging him into the thick of it! Yes, there's something about this Zenshin Lionsmane and her refined charm that drew Tristan in and made him malleable to her nudges. Maybe the novelty of being on such friendly terms with a dragon had gotten to him. He had to admit that he felt giddy to even count a skyscale among his friends. But there's something else, too. Ever since she had nosed her way into his pants, the dragon had her claws wrapped around him in more ways than one.

"Admiring the view back there, draa-maakt?"

His mind snapped back to reality as he realized his eyes had wandered under Whitewillow's tail while he remained deep in thought. She raised her broad tail ever-so slightly, just enough to show off a peek of what lay underneath. Tristan blushed – not so much from being called out on his peeping, but that she had the audacity to do so in front of the noblelady, who had no idea of their true relationship.

"You wish," he replied, causing the dragoness to show her fangs in a smirk.

As affable and affectionate as Whitewillow could be, she was still a dragon. And Tristan knew from experience that all dragons – even the most tamed and submissive domesticate – retained an innate desire to dominate and control. Such a subversive, manipulative nature was a cornerstone of their behavior, much like how donkeys were stubborn and dogs were loyal. Sometimes, Tristan forgot that about Whitewillow. Whenever she nuzzled him in friendly greeting, put her wing on his shoulder, or even looked at him with genuine affection, his guard always lowered.

His experiences as a dragonhunter had taught him to expect a dragon to play every advantage they had. Would a dragon use sex to manipulate others? Absolutely. But was Whitewillow one of those dragons? He wanted to believe no, but a part of him couldn't help but wonder. She had persuaded him to experiment with interspecies sex. She had convinced him to travel to Kodakoa's lair. And now she had coaxed him straight into the enemy's den. How would she manipulate him in the future?

Tristan looked to the albino Lionsmane, watching her sanguine eyes light up as she talked to Lady Jenivive about her weird religion. And he wondered just how much of her charm was carefully practiced and rehearsed. Dragons don't usually express themselves through facial expressions like humans do – it's their body language that does the talking: tail movement, snout bobbing, gestures with their wings. But Whitewillow had learned to waggle her brows and curl her lips like any human. It made her so much easier to talk to, even if her smile contained an unsettling amount of teeth.

This was Lady Jenivive's first time hearing about Whitewillow's faith. And she soaked it all in with the enthusiasm of a giddy schoolgirl. Tristan had figured that anyone crazy enough to operate a dragon housing project in the city had to be head-over-heels for dragons, but now he really got to see Mrs. Broyal's passion come out.

"I still can't get over this!" Lady Jenivive babbled excitedly. "A dragon in service to a higher power! This goes against everything we Concordians know about dragons. Are there others like you in Zenshin?"

Whitewillow bowed her head. "Ferduus. In Zenshin, spiritualism is entwined as deep as its winding rivers. The Water Dragons of Zenshin's wellsprings have served as spiritual counselors for a hundred generations. But few draa pledge their lives as I have done."

Jenivie adjusted her fancy wide-brimmed hat to stare up at Whitewillow with huge green eyes. "You've pledged your whole life to sex!?"

The albino dragoness laughed. It wasn't a human laugh – more of a nasally chuffing noise – but it was a recognizable enough sound. "Nos, fair Homnu-fen. My devotion is to Taishui. Her divine mandate: to eradicate hate by sowing the seeds of harmony and love." The dragoness wiggled her spiny fins in that way she usually did when she wanted to appear alluring. "Sex is but a tool of my trade. For no form of love blooms as bright and passionately as physical love."

Tristan nibbled on his lip and said nothing. It didn't take a genius to predict where this conversation would go. It wouldn't be long before the scaled courtesan tried to talk the poor Lady out her clothing.

"So how does sex get the job done?"

"During orgasm, the mind blanks and the window to the soul opens, allowing Taishui to enter. But it is not a requirement. To make one feel accepted, loved, and cared for … this opens the heart to raashka, with or without coitus." She paused. "However, it is much more fun to share raashka through coitus."

Jenivive laughed.

"There are many in Concordia whose hearts are closed to raashka. Acts of selfishness, bigotry, and hate have instead filled their hearts with zusuu. This imbalance of energy poisons one's mind, corrupts one's spirit, and leads to acts of evil. That is why Taishui sent me here. To cleanse the zussu from this hateful city."

To do that, she'd need to have sex with the whole city, Tristan mused.

Lady Jenivive's eyes lit up with a curious sparkle. "So about this 'raashka' and 'zussu' thing. These energies are found inside every living creature?"

"Not just the living. A fundamental tenet of Zenshin belief holds that there is a touch of divinity in all creation, from the smallest pebble to the largest mountain. The Zenshinites have a saying: 'It chi'nigi yari mao zheng shu oni xian'." The dragon's staccato Zenshinese flowed off her forked tongue effortlessly. "In other words, 'To hate a thing is to hate the god that made it that way'. We are all connected through the divine, to each other, to the world, and to the stars. Even if we don't believe it." Her sanguine eyes glanced at Tristan for a moment. He looked away.

"And how does your goddess tie into creation? In your mythos, did she create the universe, as our Concordian gods did?"

The dragon chuffed laughter. "Oh no no no … that great work belongs to the Sun God, Qin. Taishui had begun her life as a mortal, same as you or me. She ascended to godhood upon her death and her ka now resides in the sacred Ginkgo tree within Temple Husia's sanctum."

"So your god has an actual, physical presence in the world?" Jenivive's eyes went wide once more. "How curious! Our gods don't reside on our plane of existence. That's why we pray to statues of their likeness."

Whitewillow's spines drooped. "Your gods must be lonely."

"If they were lonely, they wouldn't have retreated from this world in the first place!"

Tristan struggled to muster interest in all this spiritual nonsense. "Who's to say they ever walked this world to begin with? We don't have proof."

Whitewillow looked to Tristan as if she were about to say something, but then changed her mind and turned to Jenivive instead. "Would you be interested in cleansing your zussu, friend Homnu-fen? I offer a wide range of services to fellow females: my tongue and tail tip can more than make up for what I lack between my haunches."

"There it is," Tristan muttered under his breath.

"A flattering proposal!" The Lady rubbed her baby bump. "Unfortunately, I'm otherwise engaged."

"Oh? I'm told sex can ease the painful aches of human pregnancy."

"That's not what I meant. I'm married."

"I can cleanse both you and your mate – at the same time, if he so wishes," Whitewillow pressed. "Some love to join in; others prefer to simply watch." Like most dragons, Whitewillow had never understood why so many Concordians limited themselves to one mate for life.

Jenivive chortled with laughter. "My relationship with my husband is already complicated enough. I don't need to add another dragon to the situation."

"Another dragon?!" Tristan couldn't help but blurt out.

Jenivive tucked a lock of curly orange hair behind her ear. "Hah … that's not what I meant. My answer is a polite but firm 'No'."

But now Tristan's mind ran wild with theories. Was House Broyal made up of tail chasers? If any noble family was involved in scandalous skyscale sex, it had to be them. Ever since Dragonwing Express became the backbone of Concordia's trade network, the Broyals had been vilified by their economic rivals for developing such close ties to the local dragon population. Tristan recalled that whenever Lord Jacob spoke publicly for Dragonwing Express, he always had the company mascot by his side: a bubbly Bluefin Zephyr with a rare coat of lavender scales, if memory served him right. Quite the adorable dragoness …

"We're almost at the old steam factory," Jenvive pointed out, apparently eager to change the subject. "Look, you can see the nesting dragons from here."

Tristan adjusted his circular glasses. Over the horizon of the smaller buildings, he could make out the most dangerous building in the city – the old Elwood Steam Factory on Culver avenue. Long ago its roof had caved in. Scrap metal platforms extended from this cavernous hole, which Cracked Shell used as roosting platforms. It looked like a great steel mouth, of sorts.

While the wealthy Broyals had cornered the trade market, it was the Elwoods who had invested in steam technology. By the height of Concordia's steam revolution, House Elwood became the richest family this side of the Great Ocean. About twenty years ago, Elwood Industries purchased a massive shipyard in the Southern District and moved much of their machinery across town, leaving the aging factory abandoned. After Cracked Shell moved in, they built the place into a fortress, using dragonfire (which burnt much hotter than coal) to reignite the old furnaces and forge crude defenses. Now, not even the Concordian Skyknights could flush them out, despite multiple attempts.

Cracked Shell had a reputation for their stubbornness and brutality, with a long history of preying on humans. The dragonhunter guild's archives detailed that one hundred and twenty years ago, they were known as the most deadly clan in the Concordian Wilds: Wings of Dusk. Proud and powerhungry, their matriarch allied with several neighboring clans, forming a united dragon conclave – an existential threat to all humanity. The formation of this conclave resulted in the Third Dragon Crusade: a bloody war that lasted twelve years. The dragon conclave lost that war, and the conclave relinquished their original territories to what would become the cities of Wren's Passage, Fort Talon, and Drakesfell. The few surviving members of Wings of Dusk took a new name under a fledgling matriarch. The Guild record stated that their symbol of a cracked (but not broken) egg was a testament to the clan's ability to persevere in the face of great loss.

As far as Tristan knew, no human had set foot in this sprawling steam factory since Cracked Shell moved in. The windows had been boarded up with crude iron plates welded together by the heat of concentrated flame breath. Sections of the wrought-iron fence had been torn apart to reinforce the rooftop landing platforms. In the wild grass lawn littered with the bones of prey, the remains of a great smokestack laid – a line of crumbled bricks and mortar. Entering this urban fortress was quite possibly the most fool-hardy thing Tristan had ever done. Humans have been killed for merely wandering onto the premises!

Lady Jenivive stopped and turned to Tristan. "We have to go over some rules before we proceed. This is important, hunter, so listen close. The Kaarst Domuu – that's the matriarch – will only speak to the highest-ranking member of a delegation. In our case, that's me. So whatever you do, don't speak unless spoken to."

"I know."

"Keep your eyes down: never look a dragon in the eye unless they're speaking to you. And if they initiate conversation, you must reply with a formal address and bow with your arms out, like this–" The Lady performed a full bow, flourishing her arms out like a dragon would splay its wings. "Rrall, draakin."

"I know."

"Now, it's not just the Kaarst Domuu we have to worry about. She'll be surrounded by her Kaasrt Graath – that's her inner circle, her most trusted advisors and personal guard. They may challenge or antagonize us, and look for any excuse to attack. And don't think I hadn't noticed that revolver under your shirt! So for gods' sake, never, ever pull that out–"

"I know, Mrs. Broyal!" Tristan griped. "I'm one of the Guild's field scholars. I've studied their language, their ways, their culture. I'm not some idiot with a gun!"

Unimpressed, the Lady raised a critical eyebrow. "A field scholar, eh? How's your dragonspeak?"

Tristan pantomimed a bow with excessive flourish of his arms. "Rrall. Garm gru thuum, homn Jenivive_. Maak-thuu doh'u gith?"_

Her lips pursed tight. "Your glottal stops could use some work."

Tristan scowled.

"Regardless, I think we have a good chance of pulling this off, as long as I do all the talking. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"And you, Whitewillow?"

The dragoness bowed her head. "Rrah."

Lady Jenivive put on a brave face. "Good. Let's approach."

Long before the trio reached the fortress' grounds, Tristan had noticed a dragon circling overhead. Watching. Waiting. Letting his shadow hang over them. Judging from the unique braying sound of his warning roars, it had to be a Highland Ridgeback. When one thinks of a typical dragon, a Ridgeback comes to mind. Measuring some twelve meters long from snout to tail, their emerald green scales shimmered in the bright sun, and the wrinkled skin that hung from their throats flared a bright red-orange during their mating rituals. Despite being an ideal riding size, Ridgebacks were never domesticated because their spiny dorsal fin made it impossible to attach a saddle.

As they neared Culver Avenue, the scout folded its wings and dove. A gust of dust and wind billowed in Tristan's face as the Ridgeback landed with a heavy whump! He swayed his tail in a sinuous warning pattern and his leathery wings billowed outward – a threat display to make himself appear larger than normal. Ignoring Tristan and Jenivive, the dragon addressed Whitewillow directly.

"Koh rnk marr, draa? Doh noth malthiss homn'u dov-kaas?"

From his choice of words, Tristan surmised the only reason he had not already attacked was that a fellow skyscale counted among them. But Whitewillow lowered her head and deferred to Jenivive. The Lady stepped forward and performed a formal bow. "Rrall, draakin. Rii doh meek'u."

The Ridgeback snorted and stomped the ground. "Filthy two-leg rat!" he grunted in broken Common tongue. "You dare greet me like kin? No! Wicked human, false human! You insult Cracked Shell with your stench! Turn tail now, or I burn you to ash." Tristan tried not to smirk at the dragon's methodical, ill-practiced pronunciation: his struggle to enunciate his P's and B's would be cute if it were not for the threat of imminent death.

Unimpressed, the Lady held her chin high and spoke with authority. "Rii doh rr'fekk thuus rriir Kaarst Domuu."

Wow, Tristan thought. She rolled those Rr's on her tongue even better than he could!

The Ridgeback reared his head back and snorted in surprise. But he was eager to continue the conversation in dragontongue, which Tristan followed along as best he could (wildborn pronunciation tended to be harshly guttural, sounding more like snarling and grunting to the untrained ear).

"A human wishes to see the broodmother?" The dragon chuffed laughter. "Ra'akanii! She will not suffer the presence of any two-legs in her den. Not today, nor ever."

But Jenivive's poise remained unflappable, her voice as heavy and bold as solid gold. "I am Lady Jenivive Broyal, Proprietor of Tailwind Shelters!" she proclaimed with impeccable enunciation. "I have observed your customs and brought tribute. You will take me to your brood mother, we will have respectful discourse, and then we will leave you in peace."

Tristan half-expected the Ridgeback to attack at such an audacious statement. But his threat display faltered; his tail froze in place. He was evidently not used to being talked to this way by a human.

"The Homnu-fen?!" He snorted in disbelief. "Why has the Mother to Many come?"

Incredible, Trisan thought. Even among the fiercest wildborn clan, Lady Jenivive's name carried a lot of weight.

"That is for me and your matriarch to discuss. Grant us passage so that we may pay respect."

The Ridgeback stayed silent for a moment, as still as a statue (dragons tended to freeze up when uncertain). After an uncomfortable silence, he relaxed his tail and folded his wings tight against his flanks. "Present tribute for inspection."

Whitewillow slung the sack of cow livers off of her back with a shrug of her wing and opened the drawstring with both wing thumbs. The Ridgeback leaned in, sniffed it intently, searching for any suspicious odors, then reached in with a forepaw and pulled out a slimy, brown lump of flesh as big as a loaf of bread. He gave it a test lick. Satisfied, he then opened his maw and chomped the entire liver with one big gulp. Tristan understood this as a sort of tribute tax: payment for ensuring safe passage.

The Ridgeback swallowed and licked his chops with a satisfied hum. "Your tribute is acceptable, Homnu-fen. Follow me, and tell that thing –" he motioned to Tristan with his snout "– to not wander."

Tristan stared slack-jawed as the Ridgeback bowed his head and turned around. He leaned to Jenivive's ear. "How did you do that?" he whispered. "Never had a conversation with a wildborn go that easily in my life."

Jenivive tipped her feathered hat with a smirk. "You just have to know how to talk to them." She then strode forward, leaving him and Whitewillow behind. The albino dragoness flashed Tristan a knowing smile before slinging the wet sack between her wing shoulders and following.

Tristan stood there a moment in awe. In his time spent training as a field scholar, he had studied all the ways on how to talk like a skyscale. Yet he could never so easily command respect like Jenivive had done … how did she make it look so effortless? Was it her body language? It had to be! The Guild had plenty of resources on translating dragonspeak, yet no tome could properly teach the non-verbal cues. Something like that could only be learned by living among dragons. From the moment that Ridgeback addressed her, Lady Jenivive had taken on an entirely different persona: unwavering confidence, a booming voice, chin high and chest out, unflinching eye contact, a sway in her hips as if she had a tail to flaunt … Tristan took mental notes.

As the Ridgeback led the trio up to the doors of the decrepit factory, numerous other dragons came to inspect the unusual visitors. Each time, the scout re-explained the situation. Homnu-fen, Kaarst Domuu … and each time, the clan member snarled at Tristan and Jenivive. But they never attacked, nor even spoke, as their business was with the broodmother alone. Tristan could hear their forked tongues flitting as they hissed slurs behind his back.

The heavy iron doors of Elwood Steam Factory groaned with a metallic scrape as the Ridgeback pushed them open. The windows were all barricaded, leaving the inside devoid of light, save the cloud-covered sun shining through holes in the roof. As crepuscular creatures, dragons liked the dark; their slit-pupil eyes were well-suited for it.

Whitewillow ruffled her wings with a relieved sigh. "Ahh, wonderful shade," she muttered quietly. "That mid-day sun was burning my scales."

Elwood Industries had left behind all the machinery too large to transport, and what remained stood rusted in place. Ahead, a heavy crucible lay overturned from where it fell from a hanging track. It had cracked the concrete where it had fallen, and the molten brass it once held lay in a solid pool. A messy network of patina-covered copper pipes criss-crossed overhead, like the cobweb of a great mechanical spider. But Cracked Shell had put up decorations to make this metal jungle more appealing to Concordian Wildborn aesthetics – effigies of bone and shed dragon scales, skinned pelts of their prey stretched out on frames. Tristan admired the fractal spirals of ribs hanging from the ceiling. Great skill had gone into crafting these sculptures, both macabre and beautiful in equal measures.

"Fascinating," he muttered aloud. "I've never seen dragon artwork before!"

The combined musk of a dozen different species saturated the very air Tristan breathed. This unique, nostril-stinging odor reminded him of earthy mushrooms, sulfur, and charcoal. Roosting dragons stared down from nests built into the ceiling, their eyes glinting in the dim light. Tristan itched for the comfort and reassurance of his dragontooth necklace. Tailwind Shelters was bad enough, but this place … it felt as if every dragon wanted to sink their fangs into him. But they lay silently smoldering. Judging. Seething. Waiting for an excuse to strike.

In the center of the factory floor, a large pyre had been erected for social meat roasting and heat basking. It lay un-lit – a mound of charcoal surrounded by gnawed bones. A great roost lay before the pyre: a carefully-arranged basin of stained blankets and cushions. Contrary to popular belief, dragons did not lay on their hoard: gold coins and gems could chafe their sensitive scutes. Wildborn preferred to roost on skinned pelts. But Concordian pillows were a superior alternative, if one could get their claws on them.

A great tangle of dragons lay on this large communal bed. Tails and necks intertwined as skyscales of various sizes dozed and groomed each other's wings. The odd leg stuck out here and there. The pile groaned with the uneven rhythm of long, deep breaths. As more and more dragons realized the presence of humans in their midsts, pairs of slit-pupil eyes blinked open. A cacophony of snorts and growls and whispers emanated from the unfurling pile of skyscales.

The Ridgeback bowed dramatically before the communal roost and presented the three with a gesture of a wing. "Revered Broodmother T'sarrak, my most deepest apologies for this unprecedented breach of conduct. This two-legs claiming to be the Homnu-fen demands an audience with you. It has paid respect to our customs and brought tribute."

A large and fearsome Silver Kingfisher raised her long neck to peer down at Tristan and Jenivive with rows of spear-like fangs bared. Lady Jenivive removed her wide-brimmed hat with a flourish, lifted her arms out, and bowed with effort. She then looked up at the long-necked silver-scaled dragon that loomed over her. "Garm gru thuum, Kaarst Domuu. I am–"

"Down here," came a raspy, wheezing voice.

"What the …?" the trio looked around.

"I said down here! What are you – deaf, or just stupid?"

With a fussy growl, a plump little Ebony Scalehawk struggled to pry herself free from the unfurling mound of dragons. Tristan tried not to gawk: Cracked Shell's matriarch was no bigger than a goat! Scalehawks were the smallest species of dragon in Concordia, but what they lacked in size, they made up for with moxie. Broodmother T'sarrak showed her age with exceedingly long horns, saggy skin, and a lifetime of scars on her coat of weathered black scales. Having finally freed her tail out from under the tangle of dragons, she composed herself with a cat-like stretch and a flutter of her wings. As her dactyls spread, her wrinkled patagium revealed numerous circular holes. Hell, those bullet holes looked old enough to be from the crusades!

No less startled than Tristan, Jenivive composed herself and started over. "Garm gru thuum, Kaarst Domuu. I am Lady Jenivive Broyal, proprietor of Tailwind Shelters. I bring tribute, for I wish to partake in respectful discourse."

Jenivive's word choice of "respectful discourse" – gneff thuus, in dragonspeak – was both deliberate and strategic. As Tristan understood it, that phrase implied more of a formal, diplomatic meeting. Gneff thuus was used to parlay between rival clans, to forge alliances in times of peace, or used as an honorific when catching up with a treasured friend. If a wanted dragon wished to surrender to the Guild, they would take a pledge of gneff thuus. This pledge was a hunter's only assurance of a fugitive coming quietly, so the Guild always respected it.

"You!? The Homnu-fen, the Mother to Many? Tssssk!" She peered at Jenivive critically, her ruddy slit-pupil eyes narrowing in the dim light. "I have heard tales of the Homnu-fen. Hm, yes. Shelterer. Provider. Protector. But is this you? I expected more."

I could say the same, Tristan thought.

Jenivive's smile tightened. "Respectfully, all that I am is enough."

The old, gnarl-horned dragoness peered at the Lady for a moment, judging the worth of such a statement. After a tense silence in which the two stared unflinchingly, the dragoness relaxed her posture and huffed. "We shall see. Present tribute before I decide to hear words."

Whitewillow brought forth the sack of cow livers (nearly as big as T'sarrak herself!) and presented it with a formal bow. The huge Kingfisher took it from her claws and rummaged through it, presenting a chunk of cow liver to her matriarch's snout. She sniffed it briefly, then wasted no time in gorging herself. T'sarrak ate voraciously, with the loud gnashing of teeth and wet slurps. When she finished, she motioned for the Kingfisher to feed her another. Tristan and company had to wait in silence, listening to the disgusting chomps of masticated liver. After several uncomfortable minutes, the Broodmother pushed herself away from a half-eaten liver and licked her chops clean.

"I have determined that your tribute is …" A wet burp erupted from the back of her mouth. "Acceptable."

Lady Jenivive bowed her head in humble acknowledgement.

With a grunted order and a wave of her claws, the broodmother instructed the Kingfisher to share the rest of the tribute with her Kaarst Graath, who unceremoniously tore the sack open and began devouring the contents. With a grunt and some concerted effort, the plump Scalehawk climbed up onto the Kingfisher's silver belly and plopped down on the larger dragon like her crotch was a throne.

After situating herself with an elderly groan, she ruffled her wings and finally spoke. "_For this tribute, Homnu-fen,_ I shall allow you to bask in my presence until you become boring to me."

Her inner circle paused their feasting to hiss and grumble at their matriarch's decision. She turned – tail stiff and head held high – and slapped her tail down on the Kingfisher's belly with a terse growl. "Go bite your tails, you wuduuks!"

That shut everyone up.

Lady Jenivive bowed. "I shall honor your respect two-fold, gracious Kaarst Domuu. Will you partake in a pledge of gneff thuus with me?"

The matriarch's tail twitched like an annoyed cat at being so quickly cornered into formality. "I pledge nothing and I promise nothing! You may stay because your audacity has piqued my curiosity, that is all."

Damn, we really need that pledge, Tristan thought_._ Dragons were famously silver-tongued, but the laws of gneff thuus forbade falsehoods_._ That was their only way they could get the truth out of her. The pursed lips on Lady Jenivive's face told him that she shared the same concern. Only Whitewillow remained calm.

"So tell me: what could possibly make a homn act so bold as to tread upon my sacred lair?"

Lady Jenivive cleared her throat. "Wise Kaarst Domuu, we come before you asking for help on an unsolvable problem. This draa Whitewillow is looking for a … a dear friend. His last-known contact was either with you or one of your Kaarst Graath."

T'sarrak peered at Whitewillow discerningly. Her rusty slit pupils narrowed to thin lines. None of these dragons had ever seen a Zenshin Lionsmane before, let alone an albino one. Whitewillow's limber, elongated body stood out among the bulkier, burlier Concordian species. Her aquatic scales seemed usually small and smooth in comparison. Whitewillow's smell was distinct from the locals – less skunkier, more spicy, and accentuated by the cinnamon and clove-infused incense she always burned. Her gold jewelry and silk scarf looked out-of-place as well: wildborn considered clothing and accessories to be a chiefly human convention, and took pride in their nudity.

"And why is a homn speaking to me on behalf of a draa? Can she not speak for herself?" Matriarch T'sarrak pointed at Whitewillow with her wing's thumb claw. "You: explain this."

Whitewillow folded her spines flat against her body and continued to avoid eye contact. "Kaarst Domuu, I could not get an audience with you, for I am gnaar-fell. I have no standing in this city, nor can any draa swear for me."

The Scalehawk leaned forward, her nostrils flaring as she focused on Whitewillow's scent wafting in the air. Satisfied, she laid back on the belly of the silvered Kingfisher, resting her head against the larger dragon's thighs. The matriarch splayed her hind legs lazily, her tail draping over the Kingfisher's silvery chest. At her behest, the Kingfisher presented a chunk of liver for her to nibble on. That's a good sign; a relaxed dragon was a content dragon. "I shall allow you to speak freely, gnaar-fell. What is your name and bloodline?"

Whitewillow bowed in acknowledgement. She then raised her head and looked her in the eye for the very first time. "My name is Whitewillow, Kaarst Domuu. And I claim no bloodline – my broodmother abandoned me as a hatchling."

The Scalehawk's ruddy eyes narrowed to slits. "An outcast. Hm. Where are you from? The western shores?"

"Much farther. The Imperial City of Zenshin."

"And where is that?"

"Across the Great Sea."

The matriarch cocked her head and waited, expecting more.

"East of here – too far to fly – there is no single landmass, but hundreds of islands peeking out from the blue sea. Zenshin is a land of tall cliffs, winding rivers, and warm, salty skies. On the largest of these islands there exists a great walled city of homn, much different from the city you know. The Imperial City is as large as two Concordias, and three times as beautiful."

"Hrff. You speak of the homn with reverence."

"I do. The homn of Zenshin are respectful and kind. When I walk the streets, they bow their heads to me as I pass; when I greet them, they pat my snout with affection."

The Scalehawk tilted her head. "Curious. And how many of these homn were eaten before they learned their place among superiors?"

"None. In Zenshin, draa and homn live in peace as equals."

The host of wildborn erupted in growls and rumblings. The concept of humans and dragons being equal made about as much sense as fish that swam in the sky. By now, the commotion had drawn in a bit of a crowd, and Tristan felt more and more threatened by all the slit-pupil eyes glaring at him.

Broodmother T'sarrak motioned for the audience to quiet down with a gesture of her wings. "You speak nonsense, gnaar-fell."

"I speak truth! So imagine my great shock when I discovered that the homn of Concordia treat us like beasts." Tristan frowned in silence, recalling how he had to muzzle Whitewillow so she would be allowed to ride the streetcar.

T'sarrak looked amused. "Grn-maak! Such barbarism is expected from the two-legs. This surprises you?"

"It does. Since setting foot in Concordia, I have been yelled at, lied to, shoved, spat on, smacked, and I even had my horns pulled! The homn don't let me enter their shops, nor sleep in their inns! It is miserable here!"

"You expect the homn to share their beds?!" Several of her Kaarst Graath chuffed laughter.

"In Zenshin, they do!"

The laughter stopped. A cascade of expressions cast across T'sarrak's face, from disbelief to surprise. Finally realizing that Whitewillow was telling the truth, she relaxed. "Your Zenshin sounds like an impossible place, gnaar-fell. So tell me: what brings you all the way across the sea and to my lair? Surely you have been burdened with glorious purpose?"

"Absolutely, Kaarst Domuu. My purpose is of divine importance."

"Zrrt?"

Tristan understood the inflection on that snort to have a particularly unpleasant connotation. He nervously adjusted his glasses. Don't blow this, Whitewillow …

Whitewillow tamped her forefeet, searching for the right words to say. "I stand before you at the behest of the Temple Husia, as an emissary of the Divine Water Dragon, Taishui."

"A draa missionary!?" T'sarrak squawked in disbelief, sitting up. "Kutku-foss mol grn-duuk'e draa!" Her inner circle murmured in agreement. Tristan struggled to translate all of those words, but he could guess.

According to broken clay tablets discovered in the second dragon crusade, wildborn clan leaders traced their lineage back to primordial sky gods. Vain by nature, it came to the surprise to no one that dragons believed they carried the blood of divinity. For a wildborn, this made the worship of others not only unnecessary, but self-deprecating. Religion was something that dragons associated with humans, because humans were inferior beings and needed an authority higher than themselves to feel safe. Tristan himself chose not to worship, but that's because he believed any gods that allowed such an imperfect world were not worth worshiping.

Whitewillow shrugged her wings in an unusually human way. "It is true. Taishui is the goddess of love, harmony, and peace. It is her will to fill the world with raashka. I spread her glory by sharing my words, my spirit, and my body with others."

"Your body?" Matriarch T'sarrak slapped her tail against the Kingfisher's chest with a hollow thud. "Have you come to me expecting to spread your religion, or my hind legs?"

Whitewillow ducked her head in deference. "Neither, Kaarst Domuu. On the behalf of my goddess, I come in search of a draa whom I believe is dead. My only clue is that he owned a Red Mark hewn by your claws."

Matriarch T'sarrak blinked slowly. Tristan could see it in her eyes: she was already narrowing down the possible suspects in her head. "That information could cost you quite a lot, depending on which draa the roguu gnaaf belonged to."

Tristan leaned in close to Jenivive. "You told me we just needed tribute!" he hissed at her in Common tongue.

"Shhh," Jenivive hushed. "I'll think of something. Just stay quiet!"

Whitewillow wiggled each of her spines, causing her Zenshin jewelry to jingle. "Would one of my chains or rings be sufficient payment?"

The Scalehawk waved the notion away with a claw. "Riss! I care not for shiny baubles. Do you have something new, something interesting, hmm? Something an old draa hasn't seen before?"

Whitewillow opened her mouth to speak, but Jenivive interjected. "Gracious Kaarst Domuu, before we discuss terms, I request a pledge of gneff thuus."

All of the curiosity drained from Matriarch T'sarrak's face in an instant. She turned away, lifting her snout high in the air. "Grnk mah! I do not need to be impressed so badly."

"This missing dragon is wanted for murder. Help us find him before the Dragonhunter's Guild gets involved. If I could trace this dragon back to you, so could they."

The matriarch huffed and ruffled her wings. "Murder? Riss! More lies by the two-legs, I am sure."

"It is true: his crimes had witnesses. I wish to solve this quietly now, without an official dragonhunter inquiry. In the name of peace between homn and draa, I implore your help in exchange for amnesty!"

The matriarch closed her eyes, ruminating on her options. "Dar'tuuth. You should have led with that, Mother to Many. Very well, you may have your gneff thuus."

Nice Going, Mrs. Broyal, Tristan thought. Lady Jenivive bowed in appreciation. "Kaarst Domuu, thank you for your graciousness." She raised her fists over her head and pressed both knuckles together. "Maar fek rol gneff thuus'im, rii verduuk." Whitewillow and Tristan had to follow suit.

The old Scalehawk repeated the gesture by rapping her wing knuckles together. She half-heartedly echoed the words, appearing bored of such formality. "And thus gneff thuss has begun. Now show me the roguu gnaaf before I decide my price."

Jenivive nudged Tristan and whispered, "Give her the skull."

Tristan slung off his satchel and unwrapped the blood-stamped goat skull. Keeping his head down in respect, he solemnly approached the great flight of dragons, carefully stepping over tails to reach the little black Scalehawk that lay sprawled across the Kingfisher's belly. He offered T'sarrak the skull with a bow, which she snatched from his hands. However, as he turned away, he felt little claws curl around his wrist.

"Hey–!"

Matriarch T'sarrak gave Tristan's arm a long sniff, then yanked him closer and sniffed again, her snout moving all the way up his arm and then down to his crotch. As she pulled away, a toothy grin spread across her muzzle. "Ahhh! And here I had assumed you came to convert draa, gnaar-fell."

Tristan's cheeks burned red. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn't completely rid himself of Whitewillow's scent! He glanced at Jenivive, who looked tense at this unexpected development. She had probably suspected it before, but now there was no doubt.

Whitewillow waggled her many spines. "The homn are my area of expertise, Matriarch."

"Curious. Taking a homn for a mate sounds dirty. And sad. Like mating with a beast." Many dragons snorted in agreement.

"You would be surprised: the homn make for wonderful lovers."

"Zrrt? But they are so soft and fragile and diss'thaak!" She groped Tristan by the butt, causing him to yelp. "There's no tail back here, nor horns on his head. How ugly!" Several of her Kaarst Graath chuffed laughter at Tristan's expense. He had to remain still as her claws continued to explore with no regard to his dignity. "And look how scrawny this one is!"

"Actually, he's quite muscular underneath those clothes."

"Don't encourage her!" Tristan blurted out. Jenivive snorted as she stifled laughter.

Still holding on to Tristan, the Scalehawk tugged on him and snapped her teeth. "Gnaash grn! You were not given permission to speak, insolent pomf." She turned back to Whitewillow. "What could possibly drive a proud draa to debase themselves by mating with homn?"

Whitewillow bowed her head. "Now that is a subject I could talk about at great length, Matriarch. To be brief, the homn have superior lovemaking skills. Skills which I have in turn mastered for draa."

"Ra'ak thurn diss!" she squawked in disbelief. Her Kaarst Graath murmured and muttered in the background.

Whitewillow's forked tongue traced her scaly lips. "I speak truth. When the homn mate, it is slower and gentler than what a draa is used to. But it also more sensual, more passionate. Homn put a special emphasis on foreplay. They love to touch and stroke our scales. Such pampering can make any draa feel like she's the center of the world. And those dexterous fingers can give incredible sensations in the right places …" Whitewillow fluttered her spines. "Once mating begins, male homn last thrice as long as a drake. I often climax many times in that span."

The matriarch bolted up to a sitting position with a push of her wings. "This homn here has the stamina of three drakes?!"

"Oh, him?" Whitewillow fluttered her spines again. "He can last even longer than that."

The Scalehawk's jaw dropped as she stared at Tristan in awe. He tried not to smirk: from what he had knew of drakes, the time between penetration and orgasm lasted but a few minutes - but they made up for it with a short refractory period. One of the reasons the Guild found so much difficulty in cracking down on public indecency was because horny bastards were so quick at the deed.

"Kaarst Domuu," Jenivive cautiously interjected. "Regarding the Red Mark …"

The Scalehawk held up a claw. "Hush-hush, I'm already bored of that. You, gnaar-fell. How can this one's riik be large enough to satisfy a draa of your size?"

"Oh, he is of minor endowment, no different from the rest of his breed. But what the homn lack in length, they make up for in other ways." Tristan pursed his lips tight and struggled to keep quiet. He was a good size for a human, darn it!

"Hm. How hard do homn bite?"

"Homn never bite during mating."

"Never?!"

"But they love to kiss. You would be astonished at what the homn can do with their lips."

The matriarch's crimson slit-pupil eyes narrowed on Tristan's. He felt like a piece of meat being sized up for dinner. He respectfully averted his gaze and looked to Jenivive, silently mouthing 'Help me'.

Jenivive stepped forward and bowed her head. "Patient Kaarst Domuu, please give us a moment to discuss negotiations amongst ourselves."

T'sarrak flinched in annoyance. "Tch grn! Do not keep me waiting for long."

The three stepped away from the tangle of dragons and huddled up. Tristan wasted no time. "Whitewillow, what the hell are you doing?!" he hissed.

Whitewillow switched back to Common tongue, but kept her voice low in case any among the clan understood the language of humans. "We must bargain for information. If I can get her interested in you, we have leverage," she whispered.

"But if I'm on the bargaining table, I need a say in it!" He turned to Jenivive. "Lady Jenivive, you don't have anything to bargain with, do you?"

The Lady tapped her chin in thought. "I could pull some strings at Tailwind Shelters. I've got food, first aid, casks of mead. But I doubt she'll bite: the matriarch seems like she'd be bored of anything I could offer."

"This exchange will benefit us all, draa-maakt. The broodmother wants to be impressed with something new. And this can be a wonderful next step on your path to cleansing your zussu!"

"I thought you already cleansed my zussu …" Tristan was annoyed at how eager Whitewillow seemed to be.

She snorted. "Tssk! You clearly need more cleansing if you're still bothered by mating with draa."

"Hey, a professional courtesan is one thing … this is Cracked Shell's broodmother we're talking about here!" He dropped his voice lower. "I could already smell her from afar. And didn't you see how long her horns are? She's gotta be well over a century old!"

"Oh I dunno, she seems spry for her age," Jenivive smirked. "Scalehawks are a rambunctious little breed … I bet she can still give anyone a run for their money."

"Hey, who's side are you on?"

"Oh, don't mind me! I'm just appreciating the irony of a dragonhunter forced to make love to his enemy."

Tristan scowled.

"I have faith in you, Tristan. You will impress her with all I've taught you about pleasuring a draa."

"Willow!" Tristan snapped at her.

"Oh dear," Jenivive giggled, realizing just how close the two were. "How long have you two known each other?"

"Would you believe only a few days?"

Whitewillow lifted her chin, looking proud. "He is a quick learner."

Tristan let out a heavy sigh. "Gods, I really wasn't expecting to make a habit out of chasing tail. Let me think …"

Whitewillow nuzzled his face. "Please, Tristan. Taishui guides me to find Kodakoa through wordless whispers. She has been tugging on my horns for this very moment. He is important to this city, and to my future. I know not why yet, but I need you to trust me. If you lay with the broodmother, Taishui shall reward us, and I will be in your debt." She then leaned closer to whisper in his ear, her forked tongue flitting out to tease it. "And you will like how I pay back my debts."

Lady Jenivive cast a wide-eyed glance at Tristan, surprised at how serious Whitewillow seemed. Tristan could only shrug in response: he didn't understand the dragon's whims either. Her cryptic guidance was what drew Tristan into this mess to begin with. He didn't put any stock in this grand destiny she insisted on, and it baffled him how she could be so blind in her convictions. Each day since meeting her had been full of surprises. How many leaps of faith would he take before this whole thing ended?

"Well, mister dragonhunter?" Jenvive prodded, after a long silence. "I know this is a hard ask …"

Tristan breathed out a defeated sigh. "If this is our only play, I'll do it. But Whitewillow, you're gonna owe me so much liquid dragonfire for this."

Whitewillow licked her chops. "You can milk me dry, draa-maakt."

"Draa-maakt, hm? I'm impressed, dragonhunter. You two are quite a pair!"

Feeling hot in the cheeks, Tristan anxiously adjusted his glasses. "Whatever happens here stays between us, Mrs. Broyal. No one can find out about this! I mean it, my reputation at the Guild–"

"For a draa-maakt? My lips are sealed; you have my word."

Tristan nodded, gaining a little more respect for the Lady.

Jenivive broke the group huddle and approached Matriarch T'sarrak, who by now was looking thoroughly annoyed. "Make me an offer, Homnu-fen, before I grow bored of you."

"Sagacious Kaarst Domuu," she proclaimed with impeccable dragonspeak enunciation, "these are our terms: give us the information on the owner of that Red Mark, and in return, this virile homn will show you pleasures you've never imagined."

Tristan's eyes bugged out of his skull. He then remembered that such superfluous boasting was the norm for dragons: no skyscale ever negotiated at face value.

Several Kaarst Graath whispered into the broodmother's ears, each trying to sway the matriarch to their own opinion. "Is that all you offer? Nos, lifting my tail for a two-legs is beneath me." This facade of course was merely another draconic negotiating tactic: to appear disinterested in order to force a better deal.

"I have personally trained this homn in the ways of draa lovemaking," Whitewillow added, puffing out her chest proudly. "His ability to make a draa climax is without equal in Concordia. Such a specimen is exceedingly rare! This exquisite experience is a treasure worth hoarding, shrewd broodmother. You are a lucky draa to have this extraordinary opportunity."

T'sarrak looked mildly impressed. "And you, Homnu-fen? Can you attest that this homn has exceptional mating skills?"

Lady Jenivive blinked. "To my knowledge, he's the best dragon-lover in the city." That knowledge being limited to what Whitewillow had just said, of course. But where gneff thuus was concerned, one sometimes had to get creative with the truth.

More dragon whispers. More hushed growls and hisses. The Scalehawk idly inspected her claws. "I find it hard to believe I'll be satisfied by a mate that cannot give a proper love bite."

"He is enthusiastically eager to prove himself," Whitewillow attested. "He will throw himself at your feet to pleasure you, devote his every breath to your satisfaction!"

Tristan bit his tongue and silently cursed Whitewillow. Great … now he was going to have to put on a hell of a show!

Broodmother T'sarrak listened to the hushed hisses against her tympanum in silence. Finally, she shooed the intrusive snouts away with a wave of her claws. "I want his hair."

"My hair?!"

Jenivive elbowed Tristan hard in the ribs. The Scalehawk snarled at him for speaking out of turn. "Pomf! But yes. It shall make for a nice trophy."

"We have a deal." Whitewillow bowed her head.

Tristan fired a glare at Whitewillow, eyes smoldering behind his glasses. What in the absolute hell is she thinking?! He wanted to protest, but Jenivive reached up and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. It took all of his effort to not say a word.

"A deal indeed!" T'sarrak returned the head bow. "Now, as for the roguu gnaff …" She picked up the goat skull in her claws and took a moment to study it in the dim light. Extending all four claws, she planted her forepaw down on the bloody footprint on the forehead. Each toe lined up perfectly. "Hmm. This is indeed my sign, though I cannot recall to whom this belonged."

"I can. He answered to Kodakoa."

The matriarch froze – but for only a moment. Her lips then widened into a toothy grin. "Ahh … I see now, Homnu-fen, why you went through all this trouble of meeting with me."

Tristan and Whitewillow looked at each other with uncertainty. What could that possibly mean?

"What can you tell us about Kodakoa?" Jenivive asked.

Matriarch T'sarrak yawned and smacked her lips, seemingly uninterested in replying. "I know he was a clan affiliate. I know he had dealings with my Kaarst Graath. I know he smelled of this draa, here: I had not been able to place the scent until now."

A typical dragon response: to answer truthfully without revealing anything important. She was hiding something, for sure. But could they get that something out of her? "So you met with Kodakoa. You had respectful discourse?"

"Mak'tesh! Of course not," the matriarch scoffed, as if that was obvious from the start. "My Kaarst Graath assigned the roguu gnaff to him, not me. I merely stamped it."

"But you must have met with him, if you know his scent."

"We met. Briefly."

"What did he do to warrant giving him a Red Mark?"

"I do not recall caring enough to ask."

"A wise draa like you must know of everything that goes on within her clan."

That's it, Mrs. Broyal. Butter her up a little and you'll get her to talk, Tristan thought.

She snorted. "Kodakoa was merely a Kaarst Muut, not a true broodbrother!"

"'Was?' Did something change?"

Broodmother T'sarrak flinched. She knew she had revealed too much, and lying couldn't help her now. "I heard that he did not complete the task demanded of his Red Mark."

Damn this Scalehawk and her evasive answers, Tristan thought. A dragon only failed to honor a Red Mark for two reasons: either they cowardly fled to exile, or they died trying.

"Is Kodakoa dead?" Jenivie probed.

"I do not know if I can tell you that, Homnu-fen."

"Then who can?"

She opened her mouth to speak, but snapped her jaws closed. "If Kodakoa is wanted for murder as you claim, I shall not implicate my Kaarst Gaarth in this matter."

Tristan let out a frustrated groan. But Jenivive remained confident. "Gracious Kaarst Domuu! We have observed your customs, we have presented tribute, we have negotiated terms of payment. We have done everything expected of us. Please honor the respect we have shown you."

The broodmother looked ready to blow Lady Jenivive off. But after a long and uncomfortable silence, she instead bowed her head. "You are of strong will and noble tongue, Homnu-fen. Ferduus. Garmaak, fetch the records!"

One of the dragons in the pile stood up with a lazy stretch and left. The trio waited in silence for him to return with several clay tablets in his wings.

Tristan gasped. Wow, actual dragon script! Dragon writing was exceptionally rare, as typically only broodmothers and their inner circle were literate. The only tablets in human hands were on display in the Royal History Museum, so seeing one in person felt like a huge deal! The script looked like rows of claw marks arranged in clustered groups. The script also happened to be near-impossible for scholars to translate, as each clan had their own ways of spelling things. It took all of Tristan's willpower to resist the urge to creep closer for a better look.

The attending dragon carefully presented the tablets before T'sarrak. Squinting, her eyes dashed between the lines of claw script and the etched markings on the bloody goat skull. "Here it is. 'On the fifth moon of this year, Kaarst Graath Ragn'mawl presented this Red Mark to Kaarst Muut Kodakoa in return for the induction into clan Cracked Shell.' Tssk! Ragn'mawl … why am I not surprised it was him?"

"Ragn'mawl!?" Whitewillow snarled. Her shoulder still ached from his claws. "What task did he thrust upon Kodakoa?"

T'sarrak squinted again. "It lists 'the transport of valuable cargo'. Tssk! That is all? Such a small task for a roguu gnaaf ..."

Whitewillow stamped a foot on the ground. "I must speak with Ragn'mawl. Where is he?"

"Ragn'mawl is not in attendance. He and his cohort left to sell their ig-thuus this morning."

Ig-thuus. Pure, liquid dragonfire. Toxic, highly volatile, and spontaneously combustible in the presence of oxygen. Also, extremely valuable to the right buyer. Commercial milking of a dragon's flamesacs was an easy, convenient way for a skyscale to earn a quick payout. In the past, a dragon had to be dead to extract the liquid without it exploding. Though difficult, one could do it with handheld gadgetry, like the prototype Tristan was working on. But the safe extraction and storage of large quantities of liquid dragonfire required highly specialized equipment. There were only a few places in the city that could milk a living dragon.

"So he's at Dragonwing Express," Jenivive surmised. "That's not far from here."

T'sarrak snorted. "Riss. Haven't you heard? That homn Elwood is paying double for ig-thuus. Most of my clan has been going to him for several moons."

Tristan furrowed his brow. Lord Adrian Elwood … his base of manufacturing wasn't anywhere close to here: it lay near the dockyards in the southern district. What was House Elwood doing with all that liquid dragonfire?

"May we wait for him to return?" Whitewillow asked.

"You may wait for a time. After all …" the broodmother nodded her snout in Tristan's direction. "This one here must still fulfill Homnu-fen's end of the bargain, yes?"

Tristan gulped.

Broodmother T'sarrak rolled onto her belly with an elderly groan and slid her back half off of the Kingfisher's silvery scutes. She then lifted her tail and looked back at Tristan expectantly. "Well? Get over here, two-legs. Show me how a lesser species mates."

Whitewillow grinned. Jenivive snorted out a stifled laugh. And Tristan's jaw dropped. "P-permission to speak, Kaarst Domuu!" So startled was he that his dragonspeak came out sloppy and ill-pronounced.

The Scalehawk snorted with disdain. "Grn koss, pomf! Make it quick. I am not a patient draa."

Tristan bowed hastily. "I can't have sex here! Not in front of …" he gesticulated widely. "Everyone!"

"And why not?" She replied, annoyed. "Some of my Kaarst Gaarth would like to watch you try to satisfy me. They think you will fail. So far, I am inclined to agree."

Whitewillow stepped forward. "What this one is trying to say is … the homn view mating as a deeply intimate and personal affair. If you wish to indulge in an authentic mating experience, you will have to take him elsewhere, far from prying eyes."

T'sarrak growled. "I care not for homn eccentricities. Tell him to do it here."

"He cannot perform under such conditions, even if he wanted to. The homn are a sensitive species in matters of love. You must mate him somewhere private."

The Scalehawk breathed a growl out of her nose. With great reluctance, she lowered her tail and put all four feet on the ground. "Doh faast homn, grn-thaak rii dhuum rnk draa…" A grumpy muttering of agreement rumbled out from the surrounding dragons.

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief. Whitewillow to the rescue!

"Follow me, two-legs." T'sarrak beckoned Tristan with a curl of her wing. "And do not touch anything!"

Tristan glanced to Jenivive and Whitewillow, wondering if they'd be fine on their own. Whitewillow gave him an encouraging thumbs-up with her wing thumb. "I will pray for your success, draa-maakt! Don't forget to polish her pleasure horn!"

"Of course. How could I forget about the pleasure horn?" he muttered.

Whitewillow then leaned in close to Jenivive. "He's walking with Taishui now. I must go pray to her for blessings. Will you be okay without me?"

"Me? Oh, I'll be fine." Lady Jenivive turned her attention to a bone effigy, inspecting the craftsmanship with wonder. "I have sooo many questions to ask these wildborn."

Following behind the broodmother, Tristan hung his head to avoid the contemptuous glares of dragons as he walked past them, and thought about how weird this day had become.

TO BE CONTINUED

Post-story notes:

~ I sincerely apologize for how long it took for this story to come out. It's been sitting in limbo for quite a while due to factors outside my control. I've been anxious to get this story published for a long time!

~ Plot, plot, plot! With a hefty dose of world-building! But where's all the smut? Turns out I wrote too much that I had to split this chapter in two. Oops! I know it's a lot, and it's probably not as interesting as I think it is, but just hold on, you're almost to the good parts.

~ I'm curious as to what you think about the culture and society of the wildborn dragons. Let me know your thoughts!

~ Writing this dragonspeak language continues to be a hassle. I hate it. But I keep doing it. I can't help myself. The amount of nonsense words in this chapter may have been a bit much. I'll have to keep that in mind for the future.