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The Passing of the Flame

A Retelling

3rdSeason, 1566

1stDay

Panic clutched him and his senses were overwhelmed by searing white pain. He snapped awake; a torturous dart of light striking from a thin crack in the ceiling and blinding him. He calmed himself, aware he was in no danger but simply growled at the offensive brightness, and collected his thoughts.

He was Underboss, the kobold leader of clan Crater-Vale and liaison between his kin and their dragon, and his name was Figin. Today, as with every day since taking the position thirty years ago, and would no doubt all those to come, he would guide his kin to be the best they can for their dragonlord. To reach this rank at such a young age made him rightly proud, especially as he wasn't a native. He had lived here most of his fifty five year life and climbed in rank through hard work and and simply knowing his people. He intended to spend the rest of his typically hundred and forty years making Crater-Vale flourish.

The underboss was a deep forest green scaled bipedal lizard with a dull yellow underbelly that ran from chin, down his front to his body-length tail, with hard scales all over his body except for his abdomen, inner joints, palms and the bottoms of his feet which yielded in a softer, finer mesh of tinier scales. Two broad, furrowed horns crested his head with shorter flukes protruding down the back to his lower jaw; vestigial protrusions and a sign of his draconic heritage as a greater drake would have many horns. Figin's amber coloured and vertically slitted eyes fluttered as he came to, with vision capable of seeing all details and colours one could desire in the absence of light, but anything brighter than firelight would overwhelm it.

Figin sat up and squinted, waiting for his eyes to readjust to the near pitch black room and looked about as the details returned; a simple and unremarkable space with a tightly bundled hay-bale as a bed, a solitary desk made out of a slab of stone covered with books on topics as broad as he could find as well as journals, ink bottles and quills surrounding a simple stool.

He sighed, aware he was due to begin his tasks for the day despite wishing to continue his studies; Figin spent most of his spare time learning all he could from these books. The world beyond the clan grounds was a truly fascinating place, and he knew that every bit of knowledge he could retain would make him a better underboss. He felt he owed it to the clan to know a bit of everything on their behalf so he could always be useful to them.

For now, he had to dress the part. Kobolds did not wear clothing as a general rule, other than soldiers and scouts with their armour and a few speciality professions like alchemists, but there was a single sash of sewn together red and dark grey patchwork cloth that was hung over a stone protrusion near his bed. He wrapped it over his right shoulder and down across his body. It was his sign of office, in the colours of his master, and he stood straighter to ensure that he looked the part.

Figin stretched his muscular frame and took a long breath before exposing himself to the rigours of the day. He walked to the aged, ramshackle door, grabbed and tugged the knotted rope handle several times to unstick it, and left his room.

A sixty foot wide and two hundred foot long communal hub greeted him on leaving; kobolds of a vast breadth of colours and ages walked with purpose around the clan village. A hundred strong by last count, each was busy sharpening spears, carving rock and tending to the sick and wounded; it was a grand expression of kobold efficiency all under the watchful eye of its ruler and dragonlord; the Master of the Southern Slope, Karajan.

Banners were hung with prominence above the hub, each depicting the great dragon and his stunning scarlet scales, breathing flame skyward. Figin looked at them with a prideful smile, despite the fact that the flags were showing age and wear; tattered strands fluttered about on their edges, and a few weren't fully attached to their hooks, yet they still hung proud, enduring, everlasting.

A number of the section leaders were present, Figin first spotting Vusha and Tuha, dark scaled kobolds who were mother and son respectively, on in-clan guard duty, clad in crudely sewn cloth and leather underclothes with equally simple roped iron plates over them and holding spears. The soldiers, scouts and sturdier kobolds made up the twenty strong military, although all kobolds had some combat training.

Kugu, a light green scaled and miserly skulker, wandered listlessly as the few scouts they had were assisting on guard duty and routine busywork, leaving him to keep an ear out for anything unusual and training the more gifted recruits. Kugu slowed his pacing and shook his head at a young, prospective scout named Lalep.

As much as Figin trusted Kugu as a brilliant scout with a cruel mind suited to wetwork, Figin knew Lalep was better than the poor reports the master-Scout sent. Kugu could find a human hiding in a forest during a blinding summers day, and had, as a matter of fact, but he struggled with the kobold heart and soul.

Lalep himself spotted Figin, beaming an energetic, toothy smile, and ran towards him.

"Ah! Underboss Figin!" His screeching tone was shrill and distinct; the young mustard-yellow kobold was in his late adolescence and demonstrated his lack of experience with a less than perfect salute. Figin smiled at him; young, inexperienced, and scatterbrained as he may be, the underboss knew there was something to him, but he needed time and training that Figin simply couldn't provide to bring it out of him. In time he could... no, would be an exceptional scout.

Even when he did reach his potential, however, Lalep wouldn't strike the most inspiring of figures, as the underboss towered over the youth since the pair were on opposing sides of the average three foot kobold height. Figin was a towering four feet tall to the still developing runt's two foot six inch height; the recruit only came up to his belly, giving the larger kobold a good look at the youngster's short, smooth horns and then his deep, pink eyes.

"Good dayfall, Recruit Lalep. How's the trainin' comin' along?" Figin asked, his voice potent and clear but his tone casual; he found it easier to talk with his kin if he didn't put on a show of superiority as most underbosses used, like his predecessor, Voko. A smart kobold, certainly, but not well respected, distant and at times, mistrusted.

"Um... Mastery-Scout Kugu said I's should be having's a long hard thinking about what I's doin' and ain't gonna train me until's I's do, sir!" Lalep said, staying at attention.

"Tsk, this again? Don't you worry, Recruit, I'll set'em straight for ya. Oh, and at ease! What's occurin' around the clan?"

"The mining's are goin' as scheduled, sir! We've sadly lost two kobolds to sickingness, sir! But... but three hatchlings of five are healthies as can be, sir! All Glories to The Mighty Karajan!" Lalep saluted again, but his eyes flicked about before he stared at his feet and fidgeted. Figin frowned at the losses, an ongoing problem that he had no ability to stop, and beckoned for the recruit to follow as he moved on with his duties.

"I said at ease, ya don't have to... ah, never mind. Speak ya mind, Lalep. I've got a little time, but not much, I've gotta go attend our master." Figin greeted his followers as he proceeded through the hub, nodding and waving as he passed by several kobolds on their way to their tasks, as well as those that kept to the hub itself such as those on cooking duty and equipment repair.

"It... I's, um, U-Underboss Figin, it's justing's t-that..." Lalep stammered. The poor boy barely passed basic education because of his irregular grasp of the draconic language. "Everyone's talking's"

"Yeah, they do that; Our Mighty Karajan allows them the right and they damn well use it!" Figin said loudly, so the others could hear. "Everyone should count themselves lucky they don't belong to some of the other dragonlords! Y'know, the ones that execute underperformin' kobolds? Or strap'em to the rocks outside the lair facin' the sunrise?"

This was no time for disorder or rabble rousing and Figin trusted their dragonlord. He knew Crater-Vale was suffering a mild downturn of fortune, but he also knew Karajan had a plan; he always did, so said the records of Craver-Vale's history.

"B-But, Good and Stronging Underboss!" Lalep said, sniffling. "We's used to get monthlies talks from Our Mighty Karajan, but he ain't done one for three's months innie row..."

"Keep faith, Recruit Lalep!" Figin stopped and placed a hand on the young kobold's shoulder, smiling at him. "His Greatness is simply takin' his time to recover after his most recent raid on the man-kin settlements, not to mention that attack by another dragonlord that His Grace protected us from."

"One of two." A female voice, firm and proud. Figin turned, noticing Vusha nearby, who held a grim scowl. Figin moved from Lalep and stepped up to the three foot four, black scaled and red eyed veteran; one eye had been lost a long time ago in her countless defences of the clan, granting her an intense and frightening stare, but Figin knew her well and stood before her, proud and tall.

Vusha was the first kobold in Crater-Vale he'd met, and the one who insisted they take him in as a child. Her scowl melted as they held eye contact; as with then, she was always a caring sort despite her intense persona.

"We're deeply proud of ya for doin' so, Warchief Vusha. No kobold I've ever heard of could slay a rival dragonlord like that; Crater-Vale is blessed to have you. This is a bad patch, that's all." Figin gave the soldier a deep, heartfelt bow.

"Tsk... damn it," she growled as the last of her grouchy front faded, then sighed. "I... thanks, Underboss," Vusha smiled at Figin as much as she could muster; the barely healed skin beneath the missing scales caused her to wince. "Look, I didn't mean anythin' by it, but we're all worried. The sickness ain't clearin' and we're strugglin' to get our numbers up."

"Something's not right, Underboss." Kugu said in a hushed and raspy voice, as he skulked up to Figin, "His Grace isn't himself... I fear he isn't well."

"What's gonna happen to the clan!?" called another kobold.

"We're doomed! We're all goin' under!" cried one more.

Several other kobolds approached and the voices merged into a cacophony of concern. The gathering grew into a mob that included most of the clan outside of the miners and those tending to the sick; a rising din of voiced troubles, worried expressions and even Lalep stood there, tears in his eyes and looking panicked. Figin sucked in a deep breath.

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed; the silence was immediate, letting Figin lower his voice. "I understand your concerns; we have to be strong for our dragonlord in these less idyllic... less than ideal times! We must bond together and help each other where we can, and as underboss, I first and foremost will show the way!

"Now, I've gotta attend to His Grace, and I'll tell him your worries as I do, but when I finish I will see to the wounded and sick first and offer what aid I can, then I will see about helpin' the miners. By days end, I will take a turn on guard duty to allow Vusha to recover from her wounds. I'm sure between Sergeant Tuha and myself we can keep the entrance safe until the trapsmiths finish the repairs!"

"Underboss, I'm fi-" Vusha began but Figin pulled the elder into a friendly embrace.

"Your bravery's the stuff of legends, Warchief," Figin said and patted her on the back, "and you're the best of us! Make no mistake, though, I can see ya still strugglin'. It's alright! You get well first. Please, Vusha." Figin released Vusha but kept a hand on her shoulder. The Warchief did her best to look defiant, but once more caved, bowing her head and nodded. He saw Tuha crack a relieved smile before resuming his usual taciturn expression.

Figin then spun to the master-scout. "Kugu! Get back to trainin' Lalep; the sooner he passes the sooner we can start expandin'! Those new tunnels will need mappin' and safeguardin'! Our numbers'll be up in no time!"

"Hmph... drake's spit, this again? He ain't worth tr-" Kugu cut himself off as Figin gave him a firm stare. "Alright Underboss, fine, but I still have my doubts." The grim faced kobold bared his teeth at the boy, "Lalep! Get your tail over here!" Kugu waved the squat kobold over, who pattered past Figin but stopped and turned.

"Thankie-ou's, Underboss, you's the best!" He bowed, then saluted, looking unsure before bowing again before scampering off after Kugu into the training hall.

"We'll make it through, everyone!" Figin turned in a slow circle at the slowly dispersing crowd which filtered through the various side doors to their work sectors. "I'll voice your concerns with His Grace! For now, work hard and I'll do everythin' I can to make Crater-Vale thrive! We're all in this together!"

The underboss sighed and moved towards the lair of their dragonlord. The grand passage was lined with the old, skeletal remains of human invaders; overcavers or man-kin as kobolds called them. Recent illness concerns meant the old practice of displaying bodies anywhere near the clan grounds was forbidden so recent victories lead to the dead being left for the crows outside.

Figin admired these successful defences of Crater-Vale as they were brought down by what he'd heard humans call 'vermin' and 'scale-swine'. The arrogant bastards lacked magic yet they gave themselves names longer than dragons! It made them hard to like; any kobold worth their salt had a short name because it was efficient, and it took to say a name of a dragon, so you knew they were important. Even kobolds with five letters in their name were expected to be something special, which made Figin glad that he, Vusha and Lalep were up to the task, or would be at least.

Human 'adventurers'. Figin's face screwed up at the thought of such a self-aggrandising title and clarified to himself what they really were; thieves. He didn't hate the the man-kin but any who would dare attack his dragonlord or his clan deserved no mercy.

Figin took a few breaths to calm himself as Karajan's lair opened up around him. He turned his eyes towards the floor, Figin dared not look at Karajan unless addressed, although familiarity meant he could at least picture the large, circular hall around him. Even the underboss' soft footfalls echoed in the vast, tomblike stillness.

The kobold felt tiny in the vast hall as he approached a single spot on the ground. Nearly a thousand years of kneeling before Karajan's majesty had left a pair of well worn divots in the stone. Beside it was an aged and dented bronze gong hanging from a well kept wooden stand, complete with a padded hammer, which Figin took and struck the gong twice. It reverberated with a soft, mellow thrumming, echoing for a good twenty seconds as it always did. He knelt in reverence and wondered how many had known the pleasure to serve his master. Karajan was ancient, over a thousand years old, yet still so powerful.

"Your Mightiness?" Figin said, as calm as he could but loud as he dared, his voice echoing softly, filling the room, with nothing in response. He clenched his teeth together and broke protocol by peering up to his master. The great dragon lay motionless atop his hoard, which spread beneath him a good ten feet in all directions. Figin could see the slow movement

His vibrant scales, a sea of scarlet shields. His black claws, sharp and wicked, capable of slicing stone. His smooth and corded musclular build give him an air of balanced power. His horns, a regal arrangement of six, were impressive but his primary horns were truly massive; an indication of his superior experience. Some would call him unremarkable in his size, as he would stand forty feet tall on his hind legs, eighty from nose to tail, but the true focus of Karajan was his superior arcane might. The stories from previous underbosses could scarce be believed, but Figin knew them to be true from personal experience; he had witnessed it many years ago and it's what drew him to Crater-Vale.

Karajan could manipulate the minds of his foes and twist the very fabric of what was or wasn't, spinning his own sensory tale; a beguiling facsimile of reality that even other dragons could not resist, leaving them exposed for a single bite of his mighty jaws. Figin pressed his head against the floor, feeling unworthy to worship such a majestic dragon.

Figin waited, but in the pit of his stomach, he began to panic. He was stuck in an awful position of breaking the rules if he approached his master. Perhaps it was a test? Perhaps Figin's loyalty was in question? Or perhaps his master was in dire need of help; dragons who had lived for a thousand years were rare and passing away from old age wasn't something he'd read or heard of.

He summoned all the bravery he had and stood, approaching with gentle steps. He was shivering in fear drawing this close, but for the sake of the clan, he took a shaky breath and spoke as firmly as he could.

"M-my most humble and boundless apologies, Oh G-Great and Mighty Karajan, but are you awake? Do you wish for me to return at a later time to conduct my duties?"

The sound of coins shifting and tumbling from the pile made Figin equally frightened and relieved; he was about to be of service his dragonlord and get back to his plans in assisting his kin or he was about to be punished for breaking the rules. He stepped back to the kneeling position as Karajan's muscles flexed and a deep, bass rumble of a growl filled the cave; the simple act of the great dragon breathing could be felt in the cavernous lair.

Kneeling once more, Figin awaited his master's voice to allow him to look upon his splendour. The vibrations of the ground, the greater cascade of his hoard being disturbed and finally a loud yawn mingling with a feral rumble. His yellow eyes opened and his narrow pupils grew and shrank as he focused on the underboss.

"Hmm... what...? Figin? Why have you disturbed me?" Karajan's voice shook Figin to his core.

"Oh Great and Mighty Karajan," Figin said in a more refined tone than with his kin, "I am here to perform my duties for you as you ordered! If you so desire I can return at a later time if it would please you, master!" Figin said as he pressed his muzzle against the ground and glad to have his master's attention.

"No, my subject, be at ease." Karajan said, "I have simply been fatigued as of late, but I have slumbered enough. Go and prepare."

Figin leapt to his feet and ran to a small crevice in the wall, pulling a large, wooden stoppered urn and then an equally great, metal braced and thick bristled brush from within. Each took much of the underboss' strength to move, and so he made use of his studies into the arcane.

Figin's studies into the world beyond the clan grounds through books weren't just to know what existed out there, but to know how it worked; to understand something often allowed manipulation of it magically. Dragons were magic incarnate, and as their lesser kin, kobolds had it ever present in their blood.

Almost all kobolds would learn to use this magic as they grew older, usually slowly emerging from dreams, and some of the simplest spells were those which proved the connection of kobold and dragon; what easier magic could there be than something that was easily understood as dragons being greater in both size and strength than kobolds? This was why Figin needed to know more, to make the most of this gift that so many other of his kin took for granted.

Just as true drakes were the largest and most physically powerful beings in the land, kobolds still had this aspect in the blood but a kobold needed to learn how to trigger these effects, tapping into these traits of physical enlargement and unnatural strength.

Figin drew upon this magic now; within his mind he recalled a series of words, and the number of the page of each, from an overcave book; 'On the Anatomy of Dragons'. Figin ran a four fingered hand over his chest, inhaled deeply, and felt the casting complete. This was how spells were formed and every kobold had a different method unique to them, with the motions, words, numbers and memories combining and the spark of magic awakening within.

The warmth of the magic within flooded his body, each muscle gaining further strength, though a true dragon of his size would easily overpower him. Still, attaining even a fraction of his master's greatness was invigorating, a deeper kinship that brought him closer to his dragonlord. With a second casting, this time looking down to observe the ground pull away, Figin enlarged himself. His feet adjusting on the floor as they dragged increasing sized scrapes of his claws on the dirt covered rock. He outgrew even most overcavers, leaving him at an imposing eight feet tall.

Figin brought his focus back onto his task, and watched the majesty of his master as he finished moving to the centre of the lair. The great drake flexed his limbs, a deep popping sound as each bone and muscle stretched and loosened. Figin placed the urn near Karajan and looked at the scope of his work but felt his jaw go slack and his breathing still for a few moments.

"Oh Great One, are you prepared?" The underboss watched as Karajan breathed a deep sigh.

"I am, my subject. You may proceed." Karajan grew still as Figin finished his approach, upturning the brush and unstopping the urn. A sweet aroma emerged; it was a scale pumicite, a light and perfumed abrasive. Many years ago, all kobolds would wash themselves with it, but this last urn was exclusive to their master. Figin gave it an even spread, then took the brush to Karajan's limbs.

Scale detritus and dirt were soon scattered below as Figin put his strength to use. He was no threat to a drake as mighty as Karajan, and he knew how hard his master's scales could be. Each swing brought the scarlet scales up into a glorious lustre; Figin had to resist staring.

These close moments, once every couple of days, were now twice a month at most, and he would do anything for Karajan, as any kobold should. That he was blessed to touch his master; his duty wasn't even work, it was a privilege, a show of trust. If Karajan had even the barest sliver of the adoration Figin had for his master, then the underboss was truly the most favoured kobold in the land.

It was a precise and time consuming task as well, but one Figin was well familiar with. Minutes passed by and each leg in turn was polished to its utmost, and he finished by giving each menacing claw a special buffing each. Figin once more recalled a spell; a passage from a book on celestial bodies of the overcave, a theory that stars were dragon souls in waiting, and Figin blew on his index claw, causing a gentle glowing light to spark to life and float around by his thoughts. He swept it around his masters limbs, the light glistening on the polished scarlet.

"Mighty Karajan, please inspect my work. I shall start from scratch should you so wish it, Your Grace!" Figin said and bowed. He saw Karajan lift one of his forelegs, looking over his hand and claws and lightly tapping his tongue against a tip as the light slowly danced around his digits.

"As always, my devoted Figin, you impress." Karajan's backmost teeth were visible; a smile! Figin felt his heart skip a beat.

"I'm honoured beyond words, Mighty Karajan!" Figin exclaimed, "I hope I continue to please." Figin applied more pumicite to his brush as Karajan lowered his head, and the underboss moved over to the powerful, slate toned and finer scales beneath the dragon's jaw. To be so near the face of his master, Figin stood, enraptured. Karajan's bright yellow eye met with his servant's amber own, and both froze.

At first, Figin wondered if his master would lose patience and bark or snarl but instead there was something else; their familiarity with one another coming to the fore. The kobold had been the personal servant of Karajan for every one of his years thirty as underboss, and the dragon himself had lived for over a thousand years.

Figin liked to believe an exotic surfacer quality could also exist in kobolds and dragons. There were books of pairings that took place out of a greater meaning than breeding or pleasure. Love, they called it, a word that didn't exist in draconic; theirs was a language born from mating for building numbers or simple fun in kobolds and by instinct and politics in dragons, often breaking off when copulation was fruitful. A strange concept, but the idea of joining deep friendship with the important act of breeding or even sex often danced in his thoughts; one of a few reasons he hadn't mated in his clan, besides giving his kin all the pleasures he could allow, as he held on to hope that such a thing could happen to him.

In this moment though, as Karajan stared him in the eye, Figin knew deep within that it must just be curiosity that lead to his master looking at him this way. Figin's wishes were nothing but a fantasy.

"Forgive me, Oh Great One." Figin moved beneath the long neck of his master and resumed his task. He could feel the dead scale fall upon him, but he would happily wait until rainfall outside to clean himself. The current water supply was being rationed for drinking; he could have reprimanded Lalep earlier for weeping openly and wasting such a precious resource, if he so chose. It was an understandable ruling imposed by Karajan, along with a list of other restrictions, to ensure the longevity of the clan.

Figin reached the hard, corded chest of Karajan. This was most densely packed and muscular area of a dragon, where wing, shoulder and pectoral muscles merged into heavy, rounded masses. The kobold finally succumbed to his infatuation and couldn't resist running a hand over the finer grey scales. There was the slightest twitch of the dense muscle and Figin gasped in awe. What were his followers thinking, doubting this strength? How could one not be dedicated to such a wondrous dragon?

Yet just the same, Figin realised he had assured them all he would bring their concerns to their dragonlord. The concept terrified him; turning this mutually pleasurable experience into business would likely see him cast from Karajan's lair. The underboss plucked up his courage and hoped his favour would cushion the blow.

"Master? May we speak?"

"Hrrrrmph," Karajan's long growl gave Figin immediate pause, "if you feel it necessary."

"I only do so out of my duty to the other kobolds, oh Mighty One, I swear it is their words! There have been concerns about the state of the clan." Figin continued his task for the moment, hoping the attention would further smooth the uncomfortable issue over.

"I suggest you extrapolate, my subject, I have been at rest for some time. What do the others believe is so important that it demands my attention?" Karajan hadn't moved, so Figin felt hopeful perhaps his master and followers will both be pleased; all duties fulfilled.

"Please forgive their ignorance, Mighty One, but they feel that... they are missing your presence. They have the absurd belief that you aren't healthy, that our most sacred bond isn't instilling us with the vigour th-"

" Be silent, my subject, and continue your work." Karajan said calmly but his voice invoked a draconic order; the means by which all dragons could force their will on a kobold. The utterance didn't echo, as that would be a waste of their power, and instead Figin felt his muscles seize and his mind succumb to nothing but those words and he silently resumed brushing the head, neck and underbelly of his master.

The underboss finished the first part of his task and Karajan moved away from the growing pile of dust and lamina flakes. Figin even felt unworthy of being coated, he had clearly upset his dragonlord who only didn't sound angry as the kobold was no doubt unworthy the effort. The dragon lowered himself on a cleaner spot, laying on his belly. Figin prepared his final brushing of the thickest scales on Karajan's back.

He could have broken free of his order, if he chose; the power of the order wasn't as potent as it usually would have been, but Figin was just as upset with himself and so he chose not to resist. He could at least keep his master's favour and hope assisting his kin would be enough penance for failing to get the answers they felt they needed. The kobold used cautious strokes on the wing membranes on each side of him, as well as the wing itself, but as he took stronger strokes as he walked back towards Karajan's tail, the dragon growled softly, a heavy sigh as he looked at Figin.

"My subject, concerning the clan. It would..." Karajan paused for a long time before continuing. "Actually, Figin, conclude your duties, and we shall commune in earnest." He was deep in thought, but the subtle flicker of his eye-ridges, the twitches along his muzzle spoke of a conflict. Sadness, perhaps, but a determined grimace pervading the noble visage was the strongest. Figin had never seen the like, and it gave his own weary heart new purpose. He finished his labour with firm kobold efficiency, dismounted and bowed before the dragon as he himself stood and shook to throw off any last fragments. Figin dispelled his light after his master had one last look and approving nod at his shining scales.

"Rise, Figin," Karajan said, and Figin obeyed. "I was hasty and misguided in dismissing your attempt to placate the fears of the clan. Indeed, my subject, I would offer a solution that would benefit us all."

"Your Greatness! I would ask nothing of you if you do not wish it, but if you would grant us such a boon, the clan would be forever indebted!" Figin clasped his hands and gave a soft bow.

"Do not take this lightly, Underboss Figin!" Karajan lowered his head, bringing his snout mere feet from the kobold, still enlarged yet small, "I desire to enact a ritual seldom seen of our kind! Succeed, and know that the clan shall benefit tremendously."

A ritual? Figin had studied much on magic, and yet rituals were the domain of false spells used by overcavers. They partook in all manner of bizarre acts to gain benefits or ward themselves from harm, and yet few man-kin could actually cast true spells. The few that could were known to believe themselves powerful despite the fact the average adult kobold could access magic inherent in their blood with as much practice as writing or using a weapon.

Of course from Karajan, it was a certainty.

"I shall do everything within my power, Oh Mighty One! For you, my dragonlord, and for the clan." Figin went to bow, but the hand of his master gripped him around the shoulder. The magic bolstering his size and strength was forced from him, reducing his size and power to normal, before he was plucked from the ground. Figin didn't resist, even as his heart hammered within him in panic.

The underboss was brought before the eyes of his master, so close that if his arms weren't pinned at his sides, he could have touched the beaked muzzle of the dragon. The yellow orbs stared at his, slits narrowing, power focused. Figin's mind was stripped from him; he could feel the powerful fingers wrapped around him, he could see and hear his master breathing by the twitching of his fluked nostrils, but he could not think. Just those eyes and a presence. Time passed, but it felt both instant and everlasting.

Karajan smiled and Figin was placed on the ground once more. The moment all physical and visual contact was ended, Figin felt his mind spread free as though a dammed river had burst and filled the corners of his self. The scarlet drake turned and climbed atop his hoard, his forty foot long tail swaying with a vigorous, smooth flow.

"My servant, return to the clan and allay their fears," Karajan said, breathing heavy as he settled down, coiling about himself, "tomorrow, we shall conduct the ritual."

Confused as Figin was, he dared not argue, he just had to trust his dragonlord, even if nobody else would. Surely such a change of heart bode well for the clan. Figin also couldn't shake a discomfort since regaining his mind, as it seemed... bigger? That seemed correct, but he could only think in the same spaces. It was like working in the mines and someone had broke through into a cave but it was immediately caved in before he could take a look; curious but frustrating.

Figin returned to the hub, which was still in full sway. He wandered the chamber for a few minutes in case any of his kin had any pressing issues before starting his proclaimed work, beginning with the clans wounded and sick.

They were currently housed within the alchemist sector, and upon his approach Figin winced at the warm, pungent and acerbic air pervading from within. The moment he entered, his heart sunk. Any promise of improvement of the clan's fortunes felt a mile away as Figin watched the last two hatchery nurses, who also acted as the clan physicians, pace about in their attempts to look after eleven afflicted kobolds, near motionless and struggling for breath in their cots.

A wide berth had been made between those with sickness in the far corner and the crude, dirty glassware on stained, scored and scorched alchemy tables. Sconces used to illuminate the tables, as well as act as a source of ignition for any alchemical processes, were now being used to heat the foul smelling vapours that roamed the room as a faint mist.

Figin had read the reports; an infectious disease presenting a fever, a wet cough and a swelling of the throat in the late stages. Fatal left untreated, and their ability to treat it was dwindling.

"Underboss Figin. Thank you for coming." A pale orange kobold, a female both mature and serious in her bearing approached, her muzzle wrapped in a chemically stained rag and pink eyes betraying her fatigue.

"Just tell me what to do, Yula. Don't think of me as your boss; whatever skills I have are at your command." Figin offered a smile, which went unnoticed as Yula moved to an alchemy table and pulled a few soaked rags from a trough. She quickly pulled the one she wore from her face and applied a new one, binding it with string then handing off a second rag to her dark red companion, before she approached the underboss.

Figin remained still as the foul smelling rag was wrapped and bound on his muzzle, leaving a thin layer to breathe through over his nostrils. Already overwhelmed by the odour, the moment he inhaled he coughed as his lungs burned, his vision swam as his eyes watered; a powerful alcohol and herbal mix to ward off the infection. Usually reserved for treating wounds, it was the only remaining protection they had against such an disease when they usually had outfits for such purpose.

Sadly these materials had deteriorated over time, the wear and tear typical of clan work making fools of them all and with no ability to replace them; usually bartering or even raiding caravans would yield the necessary materials, or perhaps a hunting party and tanning leather themselves.

How had things become this bad? Figin was struggling to work it out, but his head hurt again so he tried to focus on the task instead.

"If you could help Jiri to change the bedding, that would help us considerably," Yula said as she gently tugged Figin over to the bedridden kobolds, "we've been applying the disinfectant in light doses to the blankets to sterilise and prevent further spread and vaporising a little in hopes of cleaning their lungs. It's crude, but... we simply lack the materials to make a cure."

"Alright, let's get to work." Figin replied then followed Jiri's lead, carefully lifting each kobold in turn as the blue eyed nurse replaced the blankets and sprinkled more of the disinfectant on the cot fabric in turn. It was easy work, which made Figin feel a little ashamed he couldn't help with anything more, but while he had read many topics in many fields, medicine was a lacking subject. He likely knew more about overcaver maladies than typical kobold ones as there simply wasn't any texts or manuscripts about the issue in Crater-Vale's collection.

The underboss lifted the last kobold from the cot, only for the sickly male to stir.

"Mmh... U-Underboss?" he rasped.

"Calm, Ceyu, we'll have you good and comfortable in the blink of an eye." Figin responded, quiet and calmly.

"I'm sorry, Underboss. We're lettin' the clan down..." Ceyu rasped as he was placed back down in his cot

"Nah, it's fine. All the clan know you're all damn good workers," Figin knelt beside the cot and clasped Ceyu's hand in his, "you can't help bein' sick. Keep strong, fight it off, 'cause when this downturn in our luck is over, I'm gonna make sure everyone gets a proper reward. You'll see! We'll look back on these days and realise it's just a test."

"Thanks, boss... I hope so." Ceya closed his eyes and wheezed deeply, and the underboss squeezed his hand.

"I know so! Our dragonlord has a plan I'm gonna help with it. You just focus on restin'. I'll bet they're missin' your voice in the mining songs, eh? I'm gonna go help them next. It'll be just like the old days!" Figin stood, giving Ceya one last pat on the hand and returned to Yula. The nurse immediately pulled the underboss to the trough and immersed his hands in it.

"Can't be too careful. I'm not sure if there's anything else you can do here, but thank you all the same. I'm sure it will raise their spirits to know you risked your own health for them. And... thank you for believing in Lalep." Yula escorted the larger kobold to the door and retrieved the cloth from his muzzle, giving him a smile as he took a few deep breaths.

"Think nothin' of it, Yula. You're doin' fine work and your boy'll make you proud too! You've got a good lineage and I'm not gonna let it go to waste. I promise." The underboss put a hand on the healer's shoulder and gave a short bow before leaving for the hub. Figin needed every strong bloodline carried if the clan was to overcome this rut; kobolds didn't have conventional families, at most hatch brothers and sisters shared a bond, but parents were often distant at best and little more than a more experienced face in the crowd.

With Crater-Vale struggling, partnerships such as Vusha and Tuha, the foremost soldiers of the clan, were more common; a lineage often showed worth in a particular field, clutches born of a soldier were almost certainly destined for the same. Kobolds of a more intelligent stock used to have a number of fields they could apply themselves to, but healers and hatchery nurses were the focus, then trapsmiths.

Figin was an anomaly; he was accepted into the clan as an outsider, his old one dead and buried at the hands of a dragon he did not want to remember and he was cast into the world at the age of twelve. It was by chance he happened upon Karajan, and thus Crater-Vale when they still had some three hundred kobolds. His powerful build and status as an outsider had him put in as a cart-hauler in the mines; important work but easy to watch and it kept his hands away from anything one could construe as a weapon.

The underboss made his way to his origin in Crater-Vale now. He frowned as the disquieted murmuring of the hub was further silenced beyond the sound of picks striking stone, the occasional squeak of wheels on crude rails and the clatter of tumbling stone chunks. Why was it silent? Why weren't the mining tunnels filled with songs and banter? Why hadn't he noticed this before? The pain in his head was becoming a frustration, a challenge to overcome.

He saw the foreman, Moras, supervising. The turquoise kobold, short but broad of build, paced about with his hands hooked together over his muscular tail with a simple rag bound around his muzzle, the same as the rest of the miners, to ward off dust. They used to have alchemically treated glass goggles, backed with thin wire to protect their eyes from errant chips and body suits similar to the alchemists for further protection, but what usable material had long since worn out and the scrap material used elsewhere. They lacked any ability to make more, but they could make do. They didn't have a choice otherwise.

As Moras turned and saw Figin approach, he gave a nod.

"Fair night to ya, Underboss. This an inspection? The iron haul's coming as scheduled despite the fact we're missing a few." Moras said. Figin extended his arm and they shook hands.

"Nothin' official, Foreman Moras. I'm actually here to take up a pick for the clan, so act like I'm one of the regulars! Are we diggin' or carvin'?" Figin hefted a pick-axe up and tested the weight; it felt like a part of him. Moras returned with another cloth, which Figin bound around his own face, glad this one wasn't awash in alcohol.

"Oh, we're carving. Got a solid vein that we cut into last week. We're light on the left side if you want a place.

Figin smiled and joined the other miners as directed. He felt at home; the rhythm of pick on stone, the spark of carved ore struck blinking in the darkness, the banter between miners and the collective mockery of the foreman giving a singular, familial purpose. And songs, usually... he was still baffled but the ache was fading.

Six years of his life, every month, fourteen of the kobold standard fifteen day week, twenty hours each day. This was kobold work, and Figin settled into pace as if he'd never taken over as foreman or later underboss. The hunks of metal rich ore were as wet clay to his powerful swings and his aim was true, both for carving and for each chunk was thrown into the cart.

As much as he enjoyed wrapping himself in his thoughts, often pondering the last thing he read before sleeping, he grew bored and fought through the headache.

"So, what does everyone wanna sing?" Figin called out. The sound of picks didn't change, besides the silence of Figin's own. "What, you all deaf? I said what does everyone wanna sing!?" He shouted and several picks slowed, the wielders turned and looked at the foreman, who in turn looked at Figin with a shrug.

"We aren't really into the singing thing any more. We ain't done it for months. Spirits're a bit... lacking." Moras stepped back as Figin approached and loomed over him, a scowl on his eye ridges.

"What, you all been replaced by a bunch of fuckin' overcavers? What kinda kobold don't sing while mining!? It's how spirits are lifted and a tempo gets set!" Figin glowered at the slowing pace of the miners as more attention turned to him.

"Alright, forget what I said about ignoring I'm here. Underboss Figin needs to tell you softbellies some facts! Everyone gather round!" Figin clamped the brake for one of the mostly full carts and stood on top as the mining group, some forty kobolds strong, gathered around.

"Park your tails!" He pointed to the floor, the clan obeying. "I wanna tell you a story, but first a question; who knows the reason for Crater-Vale's name?"

A few moments passed before a kobold raised his hand. Figin pointed to them with a hopeful smile.

"Um... I... " A tall, deep blue scaled and well muscled female in her teens seemed to shrink as Figin looked at her. The underboss dropped down to the floor and walked over to her, crouching beside her and putting a hand on her shoulder.

"It's alright. Casai, isn't it? Speak your mind, I ain't gonna judge." A good, strong kobold this one, bigger than most and still growing. She would be a soldier if they had better numbers.

"Y-yes, Underboss." Casai said, clearing her throat "I heard that a big rock fell from um... the sky and hit the mountain... and..." A few of the kobolds chuckled to themselves, making her go silent, but Figin stood tall with a huge grin.

"Absolutely, Casai. Yes," he cheered as he climbed the cart again, "long before even our Mighty Karajan was born, a huge rock, a meteorite, crashed into the Goshev mountain range. One of the ancient clans realised they might have a chance of gettin' some Farsteel. They sought the crater, hidden in an underground valley the meteor formed after the mountain collapsed on top of it. Hence, the crater valley, Crater-Vale. The iron we're diggin' right now and have been for centuries surrounds that Farsteel and when we find it? You'd better believe our clan'll make weapons and tools that'll last forever!

"See, us kobolds were made to work. We've been blessed with strength eternal, endless hearts and minds of perfect focus. Kobolds are suited to all sorts of things, we are all part of the dragonlord. There's a poem about us, even! It goes like this..."

"Our soldiers are the claws and teeth,

the alchemists bring her fury and fire,

the scouts, the eyes keeping swords in sheath,

trapsmiths as scales 'gainst foes most dire."

"The mines, though, are her beating heart,

with veins of copper, iron and gold,

the pulse is smithing the tools to impart,

for glory to dragons, their lairs and wold."

"A rhythm of picks, a percussion strong,

us miners, you see, are her endless breath,

with powerful lungs, for want of a song,

so sing as one, from birth unto death."

"So you see, friends," Figin continued, "you can be a soldier, you can be a hatchery nurse or a trapsmith, but the real strength of a kobold and their clan is, and always will be, their miners. In times before and hopefully again, someday, kobolds could trade their iron with overcavers for exotic goods, we can make tools for every other kobold to make their lives easier, and when we find veins of gold, we can craft amazin' gifts for our dragonlord!" The underboss spread his arms wide and high, his own rapturous heart filling his words with a passion that had his crowd begin to stir.

"But how do they know that their miners are workin' hard? How do they know we're settin' a rhythm? How does a miner work!? With song! PASSION!! Fill the clan halls with your voices and everyone will work twice as hard in return!!"

The crowd leapt to their feet and took up their picks, rushing back to the walls, barking with excitement. Figin moved into place with them, the atmosphere livelier and energetic.

"Alright, anyone got a request?" Figin called out, glad for the chatter but nobody called out a song, "alright, no problem. Rik-Chik! Who knows Rik-Chik?"

"The fuck's Rik-Chik?" A disgruntled kobold over the talking brought them to silence.

"Aw, c'mon, guys! Rik-Chik? Named after the onomatopoeia-" Figin paused, rolling his eyes and looked around at the confused glances, "uh, the written term for the sound our picks make when they strike stone at double-time?"

"Oh, ooohhh! That'un," another kobold chimed in, "yah, yah! I's knowin' that'un, Underboss!"

"Rewo! Good stuff! Alright, you teach the others during the collection at the end of the shift, and when I come and join you tomorrow, we're gonna sing the shit out of Rik-Chik. Let's just get some damn ore chopped up and ready for the weekly smeltin'!"

Figin settled into his old rhythm once more, humming to himself. Considering how few true miners were left, he supposed it wasn't too shocking they had lost their musical ways. Ten hours passed and he gradually felt the burn of his muscles as his endurance was stretched; he had lost his stamina in his time as underboss, it seemed. He was covered in dust, even more since the scale shavings as before, leaving him a pallid grey tinge. Even so, he finished helping the miners haul their carts to the mine entrance and bid his fellows farewell.

A ringing of a bell sent ever kobold scampering; it was time for the daily meal. The community, all one hundred of them shy of the nurses and soldiers, arrived in the hub. Vusha had clearly been helping out, as she helped spoon out a rat and mushroom broth from a large cauldron. It was good enough fare all things considered with the lack of seasoning. Figin supposed it was a mixed blessing that their numbers were limited; enough to go around and no half-measures with the final, most intense and flavourful bowls being sent to the still on duty kobolds and the sick.

A din ensued as clan Crater-Vale ate, relaxing and chatting. It felt like a rare calmness, like it was a mere decade ago when the clan numbered two hundred and everyone was in good spirits, but Figin couldn't help but overhear some of the elder kobolds regaling the story of The Collapse.

He remembered it bitterly, although he knew he wasn't to blame; the clan was setting up for expanding the grounds. They had flowing water, separate alchemy and nursery halls, a prosperous mushroom garden and even a dedicated architect who was working between the scouts, miners and Figin himself. Sadly, the lack of wood meant they had to use longer corridors without struts. Certainly far longer than was safe.

Figin looked at the far corner of the hub, not far from his door, towards the loose rocks and rubble left as a grim reminder, a mass grave. They went against his command. Why would a century old architect obey the command of a young outsider, even if he was the new underboss? Fifty lives gone in an instant. He remembered one kobold was alive but his lower body crushed. The screaming, the pleading, the eyes growing dull and lifeless... it drove Figin mad, unable to sleep for days as he buried himself in books, seeking some spell that could have saved him. He only stopped when he created a power he had never seen or heard of before, too late then but if such a tragedy happened again, maybe he could save a few lives. A spell that could make his body or that of another kobold compressible, pliable, able to be pulled free from crushing.

Figin supped down his soup and sighed, grimacing; the tragedy had set trust in him beyond reproach, he would always help his kin and they always respected his commands, but at what cost? It drove him to make sure he did everything he could to protect the rest, but the more he thought about it, the more it seemed they were all doomed.

A pain through his mind; nonsense, Karajan would deliver them from this little depression.

It was just bad luck causing this downturn; arriving at a time of few supplies.

The lack of supplies were just higher consumption from harder work.

Everyone was working harder because of low numbers.

Low numbers because of bad luck, like the rock fall.

It was cyclic. Figin had to just hold on.

Right? That made sense.

Right...?

No it di-...d?

Yes?

YES.

Figin gasped for breath, on the verge of panic as his head throbbed. He sniffled when felt something trickle from his nostril. He wiped his nose; was that blood? Hide it, conceal it, don't let the others worry.

Karajan's ritual would work. It had to. It barely needed to, these problems are overblown, but it would work.

Figin yelped as a hand clapped over his shoulder.

"I've gotta go and take my turn on watch, boss... you still helping?" A deep, firm tone; Tuha.

"Ah, yep! Right you are, Sergeant Tuha. Just treat me as you would a recruit!" Figin stood and saluted with a plucky grin.

Vusha was the pride of the clan, but Tuha was right on her heels. A couple of years shy of a century old, this seasoned soldier may not have the grand, strategic senses of his mother, but no kobold could beat him in a fight. The second tallest of the clan, with Casai just behind him, this three and three quarter foot, charcoal grey kobold had a physique like a dragon; dense muscle, a body that you could spin tales about by just looking through the tapestry it wove in damaged scales and written in scars. He even had chipped, rugged and outwardly curved horns to complete the look and dark speckled purple eyes that put a fear in Figin despite his concerned expression.

"You sure you're okay, boss? You're looking a bit..." Tuha began but Figin started towards the clan entrance, moving to the weapon rack by the entrance.

"C'mon, let's go relieve the recruits; I'm sure they're gettin' their eyes dulled by the mornin' sun." Figin said, placing his sash on the rack's corner and taking up a spear, giving it a quick flex and poking a thumb on the tip. Tuha took one as well, alongside a crude iron shield to accompany his most striking armament; a pair of steel hatchets, secured in the rope belt of his armour. They were from a more prosperous time, and even in a kobold clan where everything was shared, nobody dared deprive him of them. Not when they knew what he was capable of.

The clan's largest kobolds headed out of the hub, through one of Craver-Vale's most famous features; the Goshev labyrinth. Thought to be the result of crag-biters, a subterranean species of giant spider known for their twisting tunnelling nests, the coiling caves were a tremendous defensive line. There were so many small caves that routed through choke points that a defensive line would be nigh unbreakable, and traps were extremely easy to hide or even give invaders little chance to avoid them.

The remnants of such traps were scattered here and there; they lacked the parts to repair most of them. The few that remained were basic, simple things designed to slow and frustrate; spiked walls and oiled floors, caltrops and well polished spherical stones and the like, all of which were being maintained and repaired by the few trapsmiths currently doing the maintenance. Figin and Tuha moved through a tunnel they both knew was safe, soon squinting as sunlight poured through the entrance

A couple of soldiers, clutching spears and crude iron plated clothes looked towards them with glad expressions.

"Ah, Sergeant! Underboss! Nothin' to report! All quiet out there from the hearings of it!" one said as they both saluted.

"At ease, boys," Tuha said, nodding, "good work, we'll take it from here."

The pair nodded and moved back through the caves while Figin and Tuha let their eyes adjust to the daytime sun. It was physically painful, overwhelming to the senses, but nonetheless they had to remain near to listen for approaching threats; a series of strings and ropes with crude iron chimes lined the canyon before the entrance, and they could hear the gentle clatter echoing in the high-walled canyon outside along with the whisper of wind. They remained quiet and still, on opposite sides of the entrance and facing each other as best they could through skewed, screwed up eyes. The verbal silence was usual for the soldier, but Figin, after distracting himself by dusting himself at last, could only handle an hour before he cleared his throat.

"So, has there been any movement the past few days? Most reports say nothin', but give me your honest opinion, Sarge."

Tuha snorted, running a claw over a nasal fluke and looked to be pondering. Figin cocked an eye ridge before the sergeant finally responded.

"Nah, nothing."

"That's a funny way of sayin' no, Sarge. Be honest; you and Vusha have a gift for knowin' which way the wind's blowin' and I know that you've seen somethin'" Figin watched the robust kobold raise a lip, growling a low response.

"Alright, fine. It's probably nothing, but some of the night watch have felt like they've been being watched. I trust my kobolds, but whenever I've been going out to check the grounds, I've not seen much out of the ordinary... except someone 'dropped a stone' by the road beyond the canyon." The slang term for drake leavings would have normally been a topic to chuckle about over a drink, but it made Figin feel cold and take a slow breath as he responded.

"Wait, kobold or dragon?" He asked. Barring size, the two were similar. All drakes had an impressive efficiency when they ate as almost all of what they consumed was digested, leaving only a small, easy to pass and hard shelled 'stone'. At a glance, it really did look like a smooth, dull pebble, but it would dissolve in water and the crust would break if crushed. It made useful, easy to transport compost for herb farms as well.

"Kobold. I stepped up patrols but nothing came of it. Could have been an outcast, or maybe we've scared off a rival clan, but it's been days since it happened. It wasn't worth putting in the report. We've got enough troubles as it is."

"I'd still like to know this stuff, Sarge," Figin said, running his fingers along his muzzle, "but I trust you'd tell me if you really thought somethin' was up."

"I'll be sure to pass it on if we find any more shit." Tuha grinned and gave a low chuckle, "want me to send you one next time, just to make sure I'm not drake-shitting you?"

Figin chuckled back, glad for the sergeant to relax like this; maybe it really was nothing.

The hours rolled by, the pair taking turns having a wander through the caves to stretch their legs and stop their eyes getting too strained. The gentle, discordant chimes gave a rough tune to break the boredom. The sun began waning, long shadows effusing into the cave opening beyond and gave a gracious mercy of sight beyond the cave mouth.

The stillness beyond became an increasing cause of concern for Figin, having been left to ponder if Tuha was wrong about his assessment of the findings. He stared outside with his clans safety in mind.

"Do you think it's dark enough to maybe have a quick patrol?" Figin whispered, "I really wanna make sure nothin's out there, or maybe at least scare them off until tomorrow."

"Eh... sure, alright. Getting bored sitting here anyway. Hopefully give the next watch a bit less to worry about."

Still squinting against the red and orange skies, the pair slowly emerged, lifting the chime wires over themselves and causing a break to the steady rhythm. The entrance was so seldom used any more; the last surface raid performed by kobolds was about six years ago. Karajan attacked settlements on occasion, mostly to harass and steal the occasional merchant wagon, but even those had slowed. They were a crucial part of clan life; the dragon would take the valuables for their hoard and the kobolds would enjoy the food and drink, the cart would be broken down for materials and any beasts of burden would be food for the next few days.

It was pretty here at the foot of the Goshev mountain range. The dormant volcano central to it lead to fertile land surrounding the mountains, and the land was surrounded by the sea from the north anti-clockwise to the east. The canyon to Crater-Vale had a single path leading by it, most trees had been felled and taken by Crater-Vale in decades past, and now the area around it was a series of twisting gulches for rain runoff and high cliffs covered in grass. During the first and third seasons the rainfall would turn many of them into rivers and lakes where fish would swim upstream and breed, ripe for night fishing. They were waiting for the rainfall now and it was unseasonably late, further worsening the food situation.

Even so, Figin felt an insidious tension at his heart. Long shadows offered comfort from the blinding light, but the deep and shaded cracks in the cliff walls could house any number of ambushers. Tuha's mention of his soldiers feeling like they were being watched unnerved him, causing the green kobold to glance about while the sergeant maintained an even pace, eyes making slow sweeps but his shield ready and he tapped the haft of his spear as one would a walking stick.

They were still in sight of the clan entrance when Tuha stopped dead in his tracks.

"Fuck," he said in a whisper but looked still and calm, "you know how to handle a shield?"

"Just gotta hold it between you and the enemy, right?" Figin chuckled, but his voice high, tense and a twitch to his smile. Tuha stared at the underboss, his mouth hanging open as he tried to build a response.

"I guess that'll have to do. I've seen two already but there's probably more. We've gotta get you back inside, boss. Take my shield and break for it, I'll follow once you're in cover." Tuha started to unstrap the crude plate from his arm. Figin put a hand on the sergeant's shoulder.

"I'm not abandonin' you to be picked off, Tuha. Keep the shield, we'll both just run for it."

"Shut it," Tuha growled, "you're more important than I am, so do what I fucking say."

Stubborn, strong willed, a terror to his foes but inflexible; Figin knew the sergeant well enough that he wasn't going to back down. The underboss also knew that Tuha was right, but the aggression gave him some inspiration. He wondered if he could get some distance and sow some confusion against their attackers at the same time while leaving the sergeant with his shield.

"Tuha... reprimand me and give me a smack." Tuha's face twitched with incredulity so Figin carried on, playfully shoving the shorter kobold and raising his voice. "I ain't listenin' to you, Sarge, you're a moron!"

A few moments more passed and finally Tuha collected himself, sucking in a harsh breath.

"And you're a fucking disgrace, you worthless skinrag stone-sucker! Back to your post!" The soldier punctuated the loud verbal jab with a backhanded slap across the face. Figin reeled from the blow and began an ashamed walk back, his tail dragging on the dusty floor. Even as he turned he spotted an errant colour at the corner of his vision against the dull grey rock and green patches. He barely resisted the urge to look at it again, simply focusing on the cave back to safety. He hoped the ruse would buy them a few seconds and put the focus on Tuha, as he demanded; who cares about a grunt, when a proper soldier was better prey?

Seconds after, the subtle creak of leather and patter of metal plates upon it followed; Tuha's footfalls. A small comfort as the sound of a stone tumbling down the canyon wall made Figin's spine shiver.

"RUN!" Tuha roared. Figin responded in kind as a javelin and a crossbow bolt skipped off of the floor near the underboss' feet. His strides were long, but his bulky body was never good at sprinting. Tuha fared no better, but he began a more gradual retreat, shield brought to bear as a bolt embedded into it.

The sound of chimes ringing filled the canyon as Figin rushed through the strings and ropes, his lack of experience in a fight dragged any front of bravery to a quick end. Deep down he knew he was abandoning Tuha, and as soon as he reached the cavern mouth, he spun about and clutched his spear as one would a rope whilst hanging off a cliff.

Beyond Tuha's slow retreat, four kobolds were loading and loosing bolts while approaching. They were lightly armed and armoured; scouts, no doubt, seeking an easy score. Figin hated leaving Tuha with the focus of the attack, but he had no time for guilt as two more attackers dropped behind the sergeant. Figin grimaced and rushed at one, spear poised for the thrust.

'Every scout is a soldier, but not every soldier is a scout'. The proverb came to Figin as his target, a slim but well toned kobold, spun and evaded the clumsy thrust with the swipe of a crude single edged sword. These were trained fighters with honed senses and suited equipment. Figin was a big, lumbering miner holding an old spear.

Figin jumped back, earning a gouge on his chest scales from a wide swing, just shy of earning blood. He jabbed with the polearm a few times to try and generate distance even as the other kobold approached Tuha's back. Figin growled, pulling back into the cave; he wondered if he could muster help by shouting but it wouldn't save Tuha getting stabbed in the back, so he threw his spear instead.

A hit! The wooden pole flexing as the iron spike breached the padded armour and drew blood from the shoulder of Tuha's flanker, earning a cry of pain and stopping him in his tracks.

Figin, disarmed, barely held his nerve; Tuha might still need him, and this alone kept him from sprinting back home. He was glad to see the dark scaled kobold flick his eyes behind him, at the pair Figin had engaged, and acted with cool nerves but violent intent.

Tuha's launched his own spear at the crossbownmen, who all raised their arms in defence. A feint, as the sergeant wasted no time rushing the impaled kobold behind him, plucking the spear free with a spray of blood and flailing the bladed tip against Figin's attacker, to distract him.

These weren't well crafted tools any more, but the blade still cleft scale from muzzle, drawing blood. With allied bodies between the crossbow line and their targets, Tuha made a break for the cave, Figin following before the scouts could get organised.

"Get to the clan and raise the alarm!" Tuha growled and handed Figin's spear back to him, drawing one of his axes. "I won't let them through without a fucking fight!"

"I ain't abandoning you!" Figin barked back, "besides, we can't let'em anywhere near the clan, too many sick and wounded! Gotta stop'em here!"

"You dumb shit! Fine!" Tuha barked, throwing his shield to Figin and drawing his second axe, "first choke point! No size magic! Take the right tunnel and I'll meet you there!" The sergeant waited for Figin to start running before splitting off down another path. Both tunnels lead the same way, but Figin knew his was easier to defend, whilst Tuha's was a jagged path of spikes from a disused trap.

Upon reaching the choke point, Figin spun about, catching his breath with shield poised and spear raised. Three figures, a crossbowman and both kobolds Figin's spear had bled. Figin felt his arms shaking at the sight of them and his vision blurred with tears.

"You'll not g-get any farther! W-what clan are you!?" Figin bellowed, or tried to, but it came out high and panicked. His three foes looked unimpressed.

"Guess our dragonlord wasn't wrong; this place is ripe for the takin' if this is the best they can muster for a defence." Said the kobold with the crossbow.

"How's about you drop the spear and maybe we'll kill ya qu-," said another, cut off as a piercing screech filled the halls from nearby. All three kobolds looked about before one chuckled.

"That's yer soldier getting chopped up, ta be certain," said the sword-bearer, who pointed the scratched blade at Figin, "last chance, ditch the gear and surrender."

Another scream, cut short by a low, visceral gurgle. Figin's wouldn't budge though; the prospect of losing more of his kobolds was a worse fear than his own life.

Footfalls from behind and a grin from the crossbowman made Figin finally drop the spear, but then the smiling kobold frowned, making the underboss look behind him.

It was one of the scouts, but he walked in shaky strides, arms outstretched. He caught the wall and turned, bathed in blood, half of his snout and a horn missing and a section of his head cleft open, including an eye.

"H-helph... m-" he croaked before he slumped, remaining upright against the wall and his eye dead.

"W-what the..." the blade wielding scout muttered, eyes wide and panicked. Figin looked at them again, a dark figure with furious purple eyes behind them. Tuha, holding a kobold back-to-back over his shoulder like a sack of grain by an axe lodged in his lower jaw. The unfortunate victim slowly writhed and gurgled in pain. The crossbowman turned and was met by the sergeant's other axe across the neck with a wet hiss of air, causing the next kobold, the one with the shoulder wound, to then be met by the same axe, thrown with expert precision into his chest.

The final standing kobold spun as Tuha drew his dagger and pointed the blade at the eye of his still living, shoulder held victim. The crossbowman by his feet clutched his throat, then reached for a flask at his belt, then grew still.

"I'm gonna make this quick," Tuha said, flat and calm, "drop the sword and I'll let you try and save the life of that poor fucker." He nodded to the kobold wheezing and gasping for breath as blood seeped and spat around the axehead.

"I recognise the poultices you're carrying, so he might just make it. Any sudden moves besides and I'm killing ALL of you really fucking slow!" Tuha just kept staring, unmoving, just this intense hatred. If Figin wasn't of the same clan he would probably be dropping a stone right now.

"Th-the fuck..." the scout gibbered. He looked at his companion, lying on the floor and clutching the axe embedded in his ribs and coughed blood. With his panic subsiding, Figin realised the remaining scout was likely a clutch brother; the same scale and similar eye colours.

"What in drake's spit are you doing!? Drop the blade and help him!" Figin implored; there had been too much death already. The scout finally threw his blade down with a clatter of iron on rock. Tuha lowered the dagger as the scout went to assist his sibling but kept the kobold on his shoulder aloft.

"Hold on, Beke! Don't you die on me!" The scout pulled a small flask from his belt, pouring the contents around the axe wound as he pulled the blade free, then running his finger along the gash to force the dark blue gel inside. As Tuha had mentioned, it was a healing poultice; a sticky, herbal blend that stemmed the bleed, patched the wound and even revitalised the user with stimulants through inherent magic and clever alchemy that Crater-Vale had long since run out of.

Even as Beke's writhing and breathing eased, Tuha seemed ignorant of the continued pain he was causing to the kobold on his back.

"Sergeant, that's enough! Help that poor bastard!" Figin called out. Tuha knelt down, rolling the kobold off of his back and pulling a similar container from the scout's belt, giving the same aid while withdrawing his axe, though with no care, slapping the kobold's chin to force the stuff into place. Figin took up a spear again and kept it pointed at their foes as the sergeant brought both axes to hand, now on both sides of the three survivors.

"Now, maybe you could indulge me," Figin asked Beke's sibling, "submit, answer my questions and we'll turn you loose; what clan are you from?"

"I can't say, our dragonlord'll kill me!" the scout whined, but Beke coughed a response, breathing shallow, wet breaths.

"*huuuhk* You might as well kill us yerselves... she don't take failure well..."

A female dragonlord narrowed things down, but not by much. Figin realised that even if they did discover what clan they were from, it wouldn't matter much; Karajan's ritual would set things right and they would be better prepared next time.

"Want me to squeeze them a bit, boss?" Tuha offered, raising his axes.

"No, enough, Tuha. Take their things but let'em go." Figin sighed and lowered his spear, scowling at the survivors as they gathered together, "get out of here and don't come back! Tell your clan that Crater-Vale will face any threat and vanquish any dragonlord!"

Beke's brother helped him up with the crossbowman moving to assist, drooling blood from his newly disfigured muzzle. As the three moved off, Tuha and Figin collected their meagre spoils. A few blades, crossbows, bolts and simple but functional armour, along with more poultice. Figin sniffed one of the flasks, catching the sweet and heady smell of herbs mingling with the strange, musty scent of sticky puffball.

They were planning to build a garden of the miraculous growth in the collapsed mushroom farm. The blue slime coated grey fungus could nourish a kobold for a day when mature and eaten raw, or it could be used by alchemists to form many functions, including a wound binder when mixed with antiseptic herbs and stimulants like these flasks contained. Even by itself it could be boiled into an extremely potent glue, strong enough to pin a kobold to a wall for a work-week. Figin would have chuckled at the recollection if he wasn't still coming down from the adrenal high.

Few as the prizes were for this encounter, Figin still smiled both in relief at any gain for the clan and without losing anyone. The pair retreated back to deposit their new resources, then Tuha turned to Figin as he put his red and grey sash back over his shoulder.

"Hmm, only another hour and we'll be done. Thanks for the help, but I'll take it from here; I'll get some of the trapsmiths to help out to keep a presence with me. Also... I don't know if moth-...uh, the Warchief would have handled that ambush well. I know you could see through her pride and all, but even so, she wasn't in a good way."

"You're welcome! Just glad I could be of help..." Figin uttered as he wrung his hands together, "heh, I'm suddenly well aware why I was never put forward as a soldier; that was terrifyin'!"

"We're all playing to our strengths, boss. Maybe when things get better I can put you through your paces, eh? Takes pluck to stand up to scouts though, let alone three of them. I respect that... uh, not that I didn't respect you before, but I'm used to underbosses who just kinda piss about and talk a lot, afraid to get their hands dirty." The charcoal kobold offered a genuine smile.

"All for the clan, Sarge! Y'know, I'm surprised you never made scout..." Figin watched Tuha grimace.

"Yeah, well, I'm fine at the fighting and sneaking, but I'm not much good for the tracking or mapping or the magic stuff."

"Then let's make an agreement; when things get better, I'll train you in spellcraft, you can train me in fightin'!" Figin reached out and patted the brawny soldier on the shoulder, who nodded back.

"Sounds good, I'd like that. Right, I've gotta get back just in case those skinrags make another attempt. Good working with you, boss."

They parted ways, Figin fully coming down from the fear and excitement and feeling the fatigue set in from the day's actions. He still had a couple of hours left, so he walked the grounds. This was the bulk of an underboss' duties in better days, but Figin was finding less and less time to just mingle with the kobolds beyond handling book keeping, records and messages alongside his recent spur of getting stuck in with the physical work of the clan. There were no scribes, not any more, as every able hand was needed for physical work to keep the clan afloat.

"Hey, Underboss? Was wondering where you were." Figin spun about as Kugu made his approach. The scout-master tugged one of his horns, looking sheepish.

"Look, about Lalep... he, uh... I kinda snapped at him and he ran off somewhere. Boss, he REALLY ain't scout material, no matter how many damn letters of exception you keep posting to me. There are two other kobolds who're far better qualified if you'd just send them to me."

"Oh, drake's spit, Kugu. I've seen you deal with difficult kobolds before, so you damn well listen!" Figin growled, unable to keep calm after a day of troubles. He loomed over the older kobold, resisting the urge to grab him and drag him muzzle to muzzle. "I don't know if you have a personal issue with him, or he has one with you, but I'm gonna settle this once and for all!"

"Boss, he won't listen to instructions!" Kugu pleaded, his own tone becoming terse. "He's scatterbrained! He can't focus! He can barely fucking swing a fist, let alone a spear or a knife! He loses obvious trails halfway through, he can't even cast a damn body heating spell! It's a waste of time!!"

"Fine, you know what, Kugu?" Figin wrapped an arm around the pale kobold's shoulder and pulled him forcefully back into the training hall. Once away from prying earholes, he continued, shouting.

"I'm gonna bring him here, and he's gonna kick your arse! Best of three bouts, painted stick method! If he fails, he won't trouble you again, deal!?"

Kugu pulled away, spitting on the floor.

"Fine, anything to be done with that waste of scales. I'll be getting the stuff ready."

Figin stormed out. He knew Lalep needed focused training, but Figin had put the boy through a series of tests once used to grade kobolds for duty, tests usually only used during time when their numbers were stronger. All it did was confirm what he knew; the boy had serious potential.

He scoured around, asking his kin, and they pointed him to the mines. Once more, Figin settled into the distant rhythm of picks striking stone, and he could already hear one tap out of tempo with the others.

Tucked in a corner, smacking a pick he was struggling to lift over his head against a large rock and with tear drenched cheeks, was Lalep. His sobbing, laboured breaths told Figin he'd been at this for a while.

"Hey, kid." Figin said, Lalep sniffled and dropped the pick.

"I's sorry, I's no good, Oh Good and Strong Underboss! I's can't fights, I can't do magicks an' I's can't do anything's right... I's useless..."

"Well, I can't do a bunch of stuff either," Figin pulled the little kobold into a hug, "I can't fight worth a shit, I can't heal our sick, or make traps, or cook up alchemical stuff or do a whole list of things. But y'know what, Lalep? It doesn't matter. If there's one thing I know I can do, kid, it's see greatness in my kobolds." The underboss moved his hands over Lalep's shoulders, pushing him back a little so they could look each other in the eye.

"Do you trust me?"

"Uh-huh." Lalep nodded, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Then follow me."

Figin kept a friendly hand on Lalep's shoulder as they headed back through the hub. The yellow scaled youngster started resisting the moment he saw they were approaching the training halls, but the underboss kept his grip and the pair soon saw Kugu, standing ready with a sour expression.

"Let's get this over with." The scout-master said, offering a stick to Lalep. The end of it was covered in a thick red paint usually used for marking digging sites but it helped mark 'wounds' in sparring.

"B-but, Underboss! I's don't wanna be a scouting's or a soldier any's more!" Lalep whined.

"Ah, so I'm a liar, an idiot and a fool for sendin' those letters of exception? And I guess you're a liar for sayin' you wanted to help out Crater-Vale the best you could?" Figin asked.

"U-um... no, Underboss." Lalep mumbled.

"Then take that stick and whip Kugu's arse with it! He's old and goin' senile. This'll be a snap." Figin saw a little smile develop on Lalep's muzzle as Kugu's frown deepened

"Oh, that right?" Kugu spat again. "Brace yourself, runt, because for that, I'm not fucking around. Best of three! First blood!" The scout-master cricked his neck and rolled his shoulders.

The two squared up, standing apart, shoulders square on to each other and their training sticks crossed about two inches from the coated tips. A tense quiet ensued, with Kugu giving his opponent a long, fierce stare. Figin watched Lalep begin to shiver, and in a heartbeat Kugu struck the smaller kobold's 'weapon' aside then beat him across the muzzle with the back-swing, painting the yellow scales red and sending the runt sprawling.

"One." Kugu shrugged, then resumed the ready stance. Kobolds don't fight fair as it's a fruitless exercise in a land of stronger folk like man-kin, and scouts were the epitome of this mindset. If a scout was facing you on even ground, it meant he probably had two allies about to slit your throat or his blade was slathered in poison and he planned to flee once you got a scratch. Figin knew Kugu was a dangerous fighter, both conniving and cruel. He wasn't a match for Vusha or Tuha, but if you gave the wily pale green kobold an inch, he would take a mile, invade your home and piss in your bed before you knew what hit you.

"Lalep, c'mere a sec." Figin helped the boy to his feet, turning their backs on Kugu, leaning in and whispering to him. "Why don't you take the offensive? He's gettin' you to overthink and takin' advantage of it 'cause that's his game. You're more of a coiled spring in a trap, Lalep; don't think, just react."

Lalep nodded and once more adopted the ready stance. There was no hesitation; moment the scout-master's grey eyes blinked, Kugu wheezed as a red tipped stick was driven right beneath his sternum. The scout-master fell to his knees from the blow in a fit of coughing. Figin chuckled; he had his eyes open the whole time and he barely saw movement, Lalep was in one position and then another.

"One for Lalep!" Figin called, triumphantly, "you okay there, Kugu? Do you need a minute?"

"Fuck you, Figin! Damn..." The pale green kobold stood with bared teeth, wheezing but readying himself once more. Lalep looked back to Figin, his expression eager but looking for advice. The underboss scratched his chin, then chuckled. When Figin sparred with him, Lalep loved tumbling; he was small and flexible, leaping and rolling with ease and he had a knack for parries and deflections, even trapping the opponents weapon against walls or the floor. Kugu was a damn sight quicker than Figin, but he started wondering just how fast Lalep could really be.

"Y'know what, Lalep? Now he's old, senile AND winded, so see if you can get the stick out of his hand! Just like we used to when I practised with you, right?"

"Okies!" Lalep bounced on his feet for a few seconds, then stilled himself in the ready pose. No tremors, no shaking; Lalep had a focused, if excited, look in his pink eyes. Kugu maintained his stare, clearly trying to unnerve the recruit, but suddenly his own stick got batted away, then a second time before the seasoned scout could even begin to bring it back into a defensive position.

Lalep could have ended the fight with a weak tap, but instead hopped back and forth with a widening grin. Kugu's own frustrations manifest in a wide swing. The youth snapped his head back, watching the painted tip whiff past by less than an inch, and seeming disappointed in the speed, he helped it on its way. The youngster struck the back of the still moving cudgel with his own, making Kugu overextend and lose his balance. Once more, Lalep didn't make use of the opening; he was having fun and revelling in the challenge Figin had given him.

The underboss watched with amazement as Kugu swung with well aimed strikes but in increasingly savage rhythm that Lalep merely danced with, relaxed but engaged in a rapid staccato of clacking wood together as he stepped hither and thither. Figin couldn't help but cheer; both at Lalep realised in the way that he knew the youngster always could, but at the sheer spectacle of it.

Suddenly, Kugu roared raised his weapon above his head to make a massive downward swing, leading to Lalep to make a move that caught the underboss' breath in his throat; the recruit leapt up onto Kugu's chest and took the pole out of the scout-master's hands, then kicked off of his opponent, Lalep flipping and landing softly on his feet.

The boy looked shocked at himself as he stared at the two sticks in his hands. He lacked strength or weight, but the speed and momentum of the impact made Kugu tumble onto his backside, and Lalep simply poked him with both painted tips after a few seconds of stunned silence.

"Lalep," Figin called, making the victor slowly turn to him, still in a daze, "outstandin' stuff, kid! Good job! Go get some water." He patted Lalep on the back as the recruit obeyed, wordlessly putting the sticks down and walking out of the training hall.

"What in drake's blood just happened!?" Kugu finally muttered.

"The kid just kicked your arse, old timer." Figin chortled, offering a hand to Kugu. "Like I said in my letters; the kid's a rough diamond, but he's a damned big diamond nonetheless." The scout-master accepted the help and was pulled onto his feet.

"I remember; second highest reactions on record, fifth highest running speed despite being that small... shit, yeah, I guess so." The pale kobold shook his head, finally smiling, incredulous. "He's still got a lot to learn, but... I get it, I've never seen anything like that in my life, but I still don't know how to bring it out of him though."

"Just keep at it, but remember not all kobolds are the same, scout-master. Let him relax, try and make him a friend and he'll open up and listen. I get you like pushing, but it helps to pull sometimes, eh?" Figin smiled as Kugu nodded back, rubbing the red paint dots just beneath his sternum and on his belly.

"Alright. Oh, and... sorry for the snap, boss. That was out of line, even if you were taking the piss out of me in front of a recruit."

"It's all fine, Kugu." Figin felt the last shreds of his energy leave him; it had been over twenty hours of work and stress, but they were well spent. "I'm gonna turn in. I've got a good feelin' about tomorrow, though! Mark my words, things're gonna change for the better!"

"I hope you're right, boss. Can't get much worse but yeah, if you're certain, something must be on the rise." Kugu offered his hand to shake, Figin gladly returning the gesture and pulling the senior kobold into a friendly hold and patting him on the back.

Figin made a slow walk back to his room, a warm smile on his face as he watched Lalep chatting by the water barrels to some of the other younger kobolds. This would be their clan someday, and Figin would be thrice damned if he would let it fall when such promise was ready to be tapped; Crater-Vale would know glory again.

The underboss forced the door open again, the warped wood sticking as usual, and leaned against it as he yawned. Away from his responsibilities, he removed the sash and hooked it with care over the outcrop.

As much as he would have liked to sleep, he sat at his stone desk and wrote a journal entry; everything from the health of the sickly, the miner situation, the ambush outside and Lalep's sparring match. While the ink dried, Figin then started digging through the book pile, finding an overcaver book on medicine and began researching what he could on the affliction of the clan.

He knew it was a waste of time, very few conditions were shared between human and kobold, but he was desperate to be of some help. He'd found a way to do something for the rest of the clan, but the disease was the biggest issue and he felt powerless to watch his people suffer. He could only hope the ritual would help. It had to, or no amount of clever help or physical labour would stop the spread. He felt helpless, but he was determined to find something, anything! He reread the book again, cover to cover.

Determination, however, didn't prevent his eyes finally closing or consciousness fading.

* * *

2ndDay

A tall hatchery nurse was pulling him along by his arm. She was covered in blood. A broken spear lodged in her side, yet she kept pulling him along. It was night outside, the moon glistening against the crimson that seeped and covered her light blue scales. Her amber eyes locking onto his as angry cries and pained screams echoed from the cave; clan Sand-Diver was dead, a victim of clan wars that had existed in the desert for so long and a more powerful dragon savagely carving a path through his own kin, kobolds on both sides crushed and poisoned with the drake's vicious breath.

A petty war of resources in a barren overcave and limited liveable terrain beneath it. But, as usual, dragons were acting as they always did; proud, savage and stubborn, unable to be convinced that moving on, or living in peace and sharing resources would be the best outcome for every drake-kin.

Figin hated dragons. He was sure some out there existed that had their kobold's well-being in mind, but he hadn't heard of one. He detested Baraeshik more than any other, Sand-Diver's bastard 'King of the Depths', but he was dead now, and so was Figin's mother. He wept over her body for but a moment before running into the night as far as his legs could carry him; she had told him to go, to never look back, to live.

It was strange, he remembered more of his escape and learning to survive in the overcave, but his mind wouldn't let him follow the trail. Suddenly, it was months later. He was starving, but he had recently found a freshwater stream and drank his fill, following it along and staring into the water to try and catch a fish. He hid as a dragon swooped overhead, a purple scaled drake. It made Figin follow his flight path over a hill, and he witnessed this dragon leading a long formation of kobolds. A clan out for war.

Then, in the distance, a scarlet dragon. Smaller, more lithe. He flew to intercept, and the strangest thing happened; the purple dragon spewed a glowing blue fog in random directions, apparently confused or blind, and the scarlet drake gripped his foe and the pair fell. The red dragon released his foe at the last minute, scraping the ground as the now injured drake tried to stand, only to continue to flail wildly at something that wasn't there. The red dragon sank his teeth into the purple drake's neck, and without receiving a single scratch, roared in victory.

The kobold army fled, unharmed, and Figin knew he had found his dragonlord. A dragon who would spare an enemy's kobolds! That was a drake worthy of worship.

'Pragmatism, nothing more. too much effort to face an army. Too old. Too tired.'

Yellow eyes. Somewhere?

Figin was now approaching what he now knew to be Crater-Vale. Guards with pointed spears, relaxed when they realised a mere boy was approaching, falling to his knees, exhausted and gaunt from hunger.

A firm but fair soldier. Black scales, scary red eyes yet motherly and surprisingly kind. That's right, it was Vusha who took him in and cowed Underboss Voko into letting him stay. Young as he was, Figin soon sprouted like a weed when fed, natural strength lending well to working in the mines. It was fun, full of talking and song. Every day he would talk to someone else and listen to their experiences, learning each one intimately; they were his new family, after all.

Figin would ask listen to the stories of his dragonlord's magical prowess, and spent every moment out of the mines reading. He had to learn magic, just like Karajan, so he learned to read. He read everything in the clan library, then moved on to overcaver dialect since they had primers on spellcraft. Figin was going to do everything he could to make his new clan proud.

'You know kobolds like no other. A leader, an inspiration. What could I contribute?'

Eyes, watching again? Never mind.

The foreman passed away. He was old and took ill. The miners didn't want to work.

It was an insult! Karajan deserved the best of his kobolds! Figin stepped forward and told them that they had to work harder than ever in those troubled times. His young, inexperienced vigour and enthusiasm seemed to get the younger miners moving, but the older ones took more coaxing. A competition! All kobolds under the age of fifty against those above. Whoever mined the most iron would win the other team's ale rations for a week.

Figin got so drunk that day. So very drunk and had his first experience with a female miner called Zana. He was suddenly reminded of those overcaver books about 'love'. He maybe wondered if he had found his perfect place in life. Of course Zana went on to lay a clutch to another kobold, none with amber eyes or green scales, and Figin swore he would wait until he found the right female. He had time, he was still young. Very young for a foreman, but he knew the kobolds, so he knew how to get the best out of them. A few years passed by.

Then Underboss Voko died. The whole clan was just like the mines when the foreman passed away, but with more violence. A lot of kobolds wanted to become underboss, Vusha called every single one of them a "bunch of pricks not worthy of polishing freshly dropped kobold 'stones'", let alone leading.

Nothing was getting done. Karajan would be furious.

Figin shouted over every single loudmouth; everyone had to work or the clan would fail. The soldiers needed to guard the entrance and keep the peace, the miners had to mine and supply the crafting kobolds with materials, the scribes had to keep records and keep people informed of what was going on. Everyone had their place, yet nobody was doing what they were supposed to.

Figin got named underboss after that. Strange, he thought they had to be special.

'You are, Figin. More than you know. I can see that now. I feel_it.'_

There! The yellow eyes. He could see them, feel them upon him. They stared, filled with adoration. The eyes moved, drawing nearer, he felt an aura or presence, a strength of will waning, of physical might failing, seeking something. Seeking Figin? Or something within him? Inside. Something was inside him. The presence pushed him to the ground, enveloping him, he could taste and smell smoke. It was too much! The pain!!

**

Figin awoke mid-fall, toppling from his chair and bashing his head against the edge of the table. His head swam and ears rang, he rubbed a hand over the impact site and was glad when he saw no blood, but the most confusing thing that caught his eye was when he looked down at himself.

His vibrant four inch red cock was fully erect, standing from the androgynous slit at the base of his softer belly patch. Even stranger was that for a split second he swore his dick was twice as big as normal. He stared at it with utter confusion, then chuckled to himself while running a hand over the dull ache on his face and his stiffness fading.

"Fuckin' weird dream. Just the stress... probably need to have a good 'poke'. It's been a while..." Figin mumbled to himself, his mind wandering back to his drunken night with Zana before remembering she had been taken in the collapse. He no longer felt aroused. Figin knew he'd only slept for an hour so he stumbled over to his hay-bale bed and threw himself on top and closed his eyes.

**

He was flying, a bright summer day with blue skies. Wings outstretched; vast things capable of carrying his impressive mass. A huge landscape spread before him, an awe inspiring scene; vast mountains wreathed in clouds as if to hold aloft the sky itself. Sparkling lakes, rivers and tributaries sustaining life as if they were the veins of the world, pumping crystal clear blood through verdant green swells of hills, flat grasslands teeming with life in harmony and balance.

He saw a man-kin city and swooped nearer. They didn't scream or panic, they simply lived their lives, jovial conversation and revelry, celebrating a life of peace and simple pleasures. Humans moved from city to town to village, each greeting each other, carefree.

Then the skies shifted, turning dark, but it wasn't to be feared, it was a glorious night, with the bright moon above awash and afloat in a sea of stars, a calm and peaceful night. He saw a set of caves at the foot of a mountain and movement within. Flying near, he saw kobolds staring skyward, waving to him; he was their dragonlord. He was everyone's dragonlord.

'As it should be! Master! Unifier! You are the one! Take of me! Take my flame!'

Once more he was wreathed in the entity. It filled him once more, but it was comforting. A warmth, a deep heat that flowed through Figin's body. This was love. He knew it as he stared into those yellow eyes that looked him over in return, attraction and lust backed by a bonded soul.

**

Figin stood from his bed. He was beyond aroused, a thick fog on his mind, his red cock twitching with his rapid heartbeat and his scales were slightly raised, a sign of a kobold at the plateau of pleasure. He could feel spittle drip from his muzzle and he stared at his shaft, unsure why he couldn't bring himself to grip it and relieve himself of this relentless tension. His conical shaft throbbed, the semi-hard protrusions which supplied the strongest stimulation were at their firmest, sticking out the sides and larger ones underneath.

" Karajan." Figin moaned and his voice seemed to quell even the near silence of his room so only the name rumbled in his hearing. The focus of his worship, wilful alongside the compulsion to serve. Pre dripped from his length as he reached his door. He tore it from its hinges as if it were made of paper, his muscles swelling for a moment and a shiver ran along his spine and made him gasp and smile; so much for it being stuck.

The hub looked empty, or he hoped it was; as their numbers drew few, most kobolds rested together with a handful keeping watch, so Figin made a quick dash for Karajan's lair.

"Hey, Underboss! Everything alright?" A voice. Figin didn't care who it was, he simply slowed for a moment.

" Begone." His voice made him tremble; such power infesting his form and that uttered word echoed so heavy that Figin was surprised the ground didn't quake. He heard the obedient patter of clawed feet walk away as another shudder ran through him. The ground seemed to move away for a moment, forcing him to steady himself against the wall. His claws dug into the stone in deep gouges. He was nearly there, nearly in Karajan's presence.

The sound of low, hungry growls filled the tunnel. Figin finally saw his master awake but lying on his hoard but the scarlet dragon stood as their eyes met.

"The rite... yes, my subject. You feel it too!" Karajan's smile gave Figin a sense of ease; reciprocation at last. It was meant to be! The kobold broke into a run to get closer, only to notice the dragon's vast purple cock as hard and in need as Figin's own.

"Take of me, Figin, but I give a challenge!" The dragon smirked, taking a hand and pinning the underboss down on his back; the simple and firm contact almost made him climax as he stared longingly into those yellow eyes.

"No 'dragon magic'. As you are; no size or strength beyond a kobold. Spill not a drop of my essence!"

"Yes, Karajan!" Figin cried out as he was released. For a split second he thought he would be rebuked for not addressing his master properly, but they were beyond that. He felt it; they were nearly equals.

A driven purpose flooded Figin's body, but his mind began to spin and turn. Karajan hadn't mated in decades; his last attempt was Jaraesi, 'Empress of the Vast Ocean', an unsuccessful coupling that lead to Karajan returning to Crater-Vale deeply unhappy. Figin had done his utmost to please his master then, to relieve his tension, but Karajan bellowed and roared at him, threats were made, born of frustration. Figin knew that his master meant him no harm, but Jaraesi was a demanding female dragon, probably the second most powerful one besides Karajan himself; who else could have kept her at bay but he?

Karajan hadn't mated in so long, he would be backed up. Figin couldn't let his master down, and he couldn't enlarge himself but nothing was said about augmenting his form to both improve the pleasure he could give and to sup on his master's potent seed. The spell he had researched in case of another cave collapse; pliability.

He had never read of such a spell before used on a living creature. Humans used it to soften objects, but Figin had learned to make himself or anyone or thing he touched soft and yielding.

He placed a hand against his snout, and remembered the sensation of a half filled water-skin, a set form but malleable. He pushed as the comforting sensation washed over him; his face bending slightly as the magic took hold. Figin was ready.

Karajan hadn't been looking, instead rolling onto his side and raising a leg to give Figin better access to the dragon's impressive cock; similar to Figin's conical own, with the same cartilage protrusions, although it was thicker at the base. Figin licked his muzzle as he began running his hands over the slick, warm mass that was about as long as he was tall plus half more.

The rumble from Karajan's aroused moan made Figin smile. He ran his tongue along the thickest part of the purple flesh as his hands pushed into the slit folds, into the hot insides of his master's body before making a long, drawn out stroke of each side, his hands caressing each of the side protrusions as he nuzzled the underside prongs. Each time the shaft twitched, pushing against Figin. The motions were slow but powerful, and by the time Figin reached the tip, he saw oozing pre-cum begin to seep.

The essence, as demanded, could not be wasted; Figin slid his mouth around the tip, and feeling his magically flexible body yield, pushed himself onto the shaft proper. Karajan's roar filled the cavern as more and more of the salty, smoky and exotic taste filled Figin's senses, his eyes lidding, his hands grasping the front-most protrusions to give him more grip as he felt his body stretch around his master's dragonhood. The kobold pulled back to take a final breath, then plunged himself further.

"Figin! Nnggh! Yessss!" Karajan's deep, tender words were everything he could have dreamed of. Figin clenched his body, tightening around the purple cock and running his hands around the prongs in raking motions; his little claws were no match for the flesh of a dragon, and the pinprick sensations clearly had the right effect as the dragon began to writhe, a feral tone on his lustful cries echoing about the chamber, filling Figin's senses with the approval he craved.

They were both enjoying every moment, but they had begun already at peak arousal, and Figin knew his master was about to cum. He wished he had the control to slow the pace, to enjoy this for longer, but he had to have more right then and there.

The cries reached a crescendo and flame spouted from Karajan's outstretched maw, and Figin hooked his arms around the now iron hard flukes and his arms stretching longer so he could enjoy the taste. He felt his insides get sprayed with his master's seed. Surge after surge, Figin swallowed and gulped; the flavour was rich, heady, smoky and oddly sweet. His belly swelled as every last drop flowed into him, stretching him beyond his body would have been able to take, and after these greatest of moments, Karajan flopped onto his side and panted. Figin had succeeded!

The kobold pulled himself free, sitting down and sucking in air as he recovered, watching the rise and fall of his master's chest with pride as the sated dragon purred and sighed. After a few minutes, lifting his long neck to look at his subject with a deepening smile.

"I did not believe you could... no, never mind. As always, my precious Figin, you exceed and impress. How I wish I could return the service rendered, but there is a final step."

"I need a moment, master." Figin groaned, rubbing his distended midsection. It grumbled in response, and both master and servant watched in amazement as it began a steady shrinking back to Figin's natural flat and toned belly scales. His already tense body felt inadequate all of a sudden, as if Figin was supposed to be grander, bigger, more than a mere kobold, while the dragon struggled to stand on his shaky legs.

"Just one final step." Karajan raised his tail, but suddenly stopped, growling and walking back to his hoard, slumping onto it.

"Master, what's wrong?" Figin climbed to his feet, walking over, before Karajan snarled at him.

"Leave me, Figin! I do not wish to continue this!" Karajan's angry tone seemed impotent, and even Figin himself seemed confused. It should have been a draconic order, but he felt nothing within except the rising frustration as his own needs weren't met and that power growing within him.

"But we must complete the rite! The Clan needs it, and I promised it was gonna solve their problems!" As his anger rose, Figin's scales flattened and his length retracted.

"Damn the kobolds! They aren't worthy! Leave..." Karajan gasped, sucking in a long breath and closed his eyes as his teeth clenched, " LEAVE!"

Figin shivered and turned away. At last, he felt his masters power force his hand, and once more he wondered what was wrong. Then within himself, a spark, a violent and overpowering force rose within him along with rage and indignation and the order meant nothing to him. Figin bared his teeth and spun about once more, pointing a clawed finger.

"Y'know what, Karajan!? I'll leave, but it ain't because of your fuckin' words, you selfish bastard!!" Figin strode towards his master; a four foot goliath cowing a dragon many times his size.

"The kobolds... MY kobolds were right! Things are wrong with the clan and you're the fuckin' cause! Slumberin', never listenin' to their concerns, never offerin' advice! Kobolds don't need selfish pricks like you or ANY fuckin' dragon!! I'm gonna make my people thrive and you can sit here and brood while I go and save them from their problems. I'm gonna have them collapse the tunnel so we don't have to suffer your shit any more!" Karajan opened his mouth to speak, but Figin screamed at him, his voice gaining a bellowing, feral edge that even the dragon shivered at.

"Even worse!? The thing that actually hurts?" Figin snarled and felt burning tears in his eyes, "I believed in you... I thought we had something. I adored you, Karajan! I thought we had a rapport, a bond! All gone... FUCK your ritual! I don't need it!"

The underboss didn't wait for a response and returned to the clan grounds, and having left the source of his anger, he felt at ease as his people gathered in the hub. His kin looked at him, respect and gladness at his presence but something more, perhaps the same way he once looked at Karajan; awe and dedication now visited upon the underboss, making his heart thump hard in his chest. They were one.

"My people! Crater-Vale!" Figin felt a shiver run through him; his voice seemed to reflect from his devoted followers and amplify, bolstering his confidence further. He wondered if this was how dragons felt.

"We no longer follow Karajan! We will succeed on our own merits, as one clan. I may be your underboss, but I am just one part of your collective greatness. I am your servant, not that selfish pile of scale in that lair!"

Figin almost expected an argument, or a disquieted whispering. The clan nodded as one in agreement, voiced approval from a few in the crowd growing into a full cheer. The underboss raised his hand, and silence; this was power, and Figin felt the need to spite Karajan by spending it as wisely as he could.

"As with yesterday, I will do my part; I will once more attend the infirm, I will work the mines and I will protect the clan alongside the soldiers. I will also see if the trapsmiths need help. When the week's mining yield is accomplished, we're gonna collapse the tunnel to Karajan's lair so we never have to deal with him again!" Figin basked in the overwhelming energy his kobolds granted him as they all ran to their stations; it was going to be a great day.

He immediately followed Yula back into the alchemy lab-turned-infirmary. Within, sickly kobolds once more lie within their cots, and Figin joined the nurses in wrapping their muzzles with the chemically oppressive rags. Something felt different, and Figin could see why; Ceyu sat up from his rest, coughing but stretching his legs off of the bed.

"Ceyu! How do you feel?" Figin said as he crouched by the miner, who looked back at him with a smile.

"I feel better, boss! Like a weight's been taken off of my chest and my throat don't feel anywhere near as tight."

"It's the strangest thing, Underboss," Yula said as she helped one of the sickly kobolds sip water, "ever since this sunfall, every kobold's started recovering. None are ready to return to duty, but in another day or so, I'm hoping a few will be able and ready."

"Well, no need to rush," Figin said, giving Ceyu's hand a friendly clasp, "I don't care if it takes a day or ten; that these kobolds are gettin' better makes me feel like the clan's finally on the up! Keep up the good work, Yula, Jiri!"

Figin saw each kobold in turn, and once more helped with their bedding before moving on. Everything felt right, and he wanted to use some of this energy in the best way he could; he moved to the mines. Even as he entered the entrance, he heard a low communal humming; a rhythm kept in time with the sound of chopped stone. It sounded and felt like the mines he used to work in. No sooner that Figin entered the main floor and took up a pick that Foreman Moras waved him over and once more gave him a breathing rag.

"Good to have ya back, boss! We spent some time practicin' Rik-Chik, but we had some... uh, concerns over the lyrics." Figin smirked; he knew the words well.

"Oh, don't you worry about me, Moras. I'm well aware and it's exactly why I liked it! It's just banter, foreman, it builds character, keeps spirits high and everyone above these fine kobolds humble. Lemme get in place, I've been lookin' forward to this!" Figin cricked rolled his shoulders and took his place beside his people.

"RIK-CHIK!" He bellowed, striking the stone as he repeated the bizarre term slowly. Every kobold on his side started rhythmically tapping their pick on the 'rik', and the other side on the 'chik'. The tempo grew, the kobolds on each side acting as one, and each line alternating between the two.

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Miners go and grab a pick!"

"We're gonna swing it 'til we're sick!"

"The sound of Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Jus' hold the axe up by the stick!"

"We're gonna swing'em double quick!"

"To hear that Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"A few more chips!"

"Another chunk!"

"For iron strips!"

"Then go get drunk!"

"An ale or five!"

"A dozen more!"

"To feel alive!"

"Iron galore!"

"And so another day is done!"

"Rollin' out iron by the ton!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Another cart in just a tick!"

"'Or else we're gonna get a kick!"

"So keep the Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"We say the foreman is a prick!"

"So suck my hole or kiss my dick!"

"Jus' one more Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"It's how we thrive!"

"Our way of life!"

"A common drive!"

"No lack of strife!"

"The greatest clan!"

"We're all as one!"

"'ccordin to plan!"

"Won't be undone!"

"The Underboss might be a twat!"

"But he's in charge, so that is that!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Go get a mate, we like'em thick!"

"A meaty boy or girl to lick!"

"And give my Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"Rik-Chik!"

"The shaft is getting' mighty slick!"

"So time to suck or 'dip the wick'!

"And wet the Rik-Chik-Chik!"

"We're gonna get our end away!"

"Or won't give'em the time of day!"

"Another shift is done, it's through!"

"And just what else is there to do?"

"Until tomorrow, drink it up!"

"Another sip or gulp or cup!"

"The sunrise hours are upon us and my back is goin' 'crick'"

"So take a pew and get some rest, so no more Rik-Chik-Chik!"

A collective cheer signalled the end of the song, and Figin was beaming the biggest smile he'd worn in years. This was like the old days for him; everyone in good spirits, with hard labour and a bonded purpose uniting everyone.

"YES! You glorious bastards are gonna do just fine! We're gonna have so much damn iron, the man-kin'll come crawling to barter with us! We'll have ale and wine for weeks, just you watch!!" Figin yelled out, still carving the stone with HIS kobolds. While they had yet to learn more songs, they had nothing but time now. The underboss let the hours slip by, in glad service to his people, but a sadness set in as his mind wandered. It grew and festered, slowing his swings, until an hour before he was set to finish, he let the pick slip from his hands.

"Everythin' good there, Underboss?" Moras called out, approaching but stopping as Figin turned and began walking out, shaking his head.

"Keep up the good work, foreman. I've gotta do somethin'." The underboss moved with a firm pace, ignoring everyone around him on his way through the hub, up to the tunnel leading to Karajan's lair. He didn't even slow as he went through, unafraid but nonetheless worried. He passed into the grand cave itself.

He expected to see Karajan sleeping, or perhaps gone completely, but instead he was sitting and staring at the brush Figin had used the other day to clean him, pinching it between his fingers with a delicate grip. The kobold wasn't sure if he was being ignored or Karajan hadn't noticed him enter, and some old trepidation set back in, slowing him down before he came to a stop only a short distance away.

"Karajan?" Figin called. The silence in response was palpable. "Master?"

"... No." Karajan's voice almost failed to echo from its softness. Figin tilted his head and raised an eye-ridge. The dragon lowered the brush, sliding it into the crevice where it belonged by claw-tip before he turned and faced Figin.

"Do you know what I have seen in my thousand years, my subject-... my Figin?"

"A lot, I'd imagine," Figin said with a shrug, "you never really talked about it. Well, not to me, but the records and journals of the previous underbosses are full of bits and pieces. You've always been secretive though." Karajan nodded sombrely and slowly drew a long, almost final seeming breath.

"I have seen a world through eyes tainted by the spirit of a coward, a wastrel and a fool. I am the subject of the All-Dragon, He Who Hatched the World and gave unto his children power unchallenged. Each sibling giving birth to dragons all across this world with the strength to rule all whom they so desired, and as these first dragons died, no forms could withstand such power alone and they would breed too slowly. In this, the All-Dragon created the kobolds, forms to house and teach the spirit, to humble them, to show them the gift of kinship.

"I have known this incontestable truth and believed it in all my years. And yet, despite this, despite the absolute truth that kobolds are dragons at their core as much as I or any other, I have been malignant. I have been a coward for not knowing when my time is up when I should have gone for the Final Sleep. I have been a wastrel, slumbering for weeks and months while you and your kin have suffered from my weakness. I have foolishly held on to this deplorable life as if it was worth ANYTHING else but scorn when I should have sacrificed my final days to ease your burdens."

"It's our place to serve, master! Why else would dragons be able to command kobolds like they do?"

"To serve a lie! It is nought but a corruption of the kobold way; to work as one and obey the many. We dragons are nothing more than many draconic spirits within a larger form, giving one voice power over the few. It is an intoxicating and seductive power to wield, designed to do keep kobolds on the right path, to build a hoard in worship of the All-Dragon.

"Kobolds serve to gather the magic of the land, both of themselves as a community and from the earth itself, and we dragons were to serve as the conduit of power of our spirits merging with that of the hoard. A greater hoard would be as a temple to the All-Dragon, promising every kobold spirit a channel through their dragon, a voice to speak to the All-Dragon, and a chance to ascend, to merge with their fellows and live as one in another life. It can be a truly blessed existence... but only if a dragon can resist the urge to abuse this power, which I failed to do. I can fool myself no longer."

Figin watched as Karajan's breathing hastened, his eyes filled with a fear he had never witnessed before. He took a step towards the dragon as Karajan lowered his voice and shivering, glaring wildly about as if seeing some approaching predator Figin could not.

"I am ancient, but my power has waned. I wished nothing more but to enact this ritual with you, my precious Figin. The Passing of the Flame. To give such power willingly, to preserve the soul and give it a chance to flourish again, to not fail as I have. But the cost... I at once long for an end, but I am afraid..."

Before Figin could respond, a shrill screech and an overpowering echo. Both leaders turned their gazes towards the lair entrance, spotting the scrawny form of Lalep running towards them, then bowing, then crawling and then running again before bowing on his knees to the pair.

"We's bein' invadeded!! It's clanning Hoar-Frost!!" He screamed. Figin felt the power fade from him; he was once more a simple kobold and his people were facing a clan of a thousand and a dragonlord infamous for her brutality and strength; Jaraesi. Figin knew it was over but his instincts as the underboss took over.

"Place up whatever barricades we can muster!" Figin barked. "Deploy all the poison we have in stock. We'll make'em suffer for every inch of Crater-Vale!! Let's go!!" The two kobolds started back towards the hub.

"Figin! What are you doing!?" Karajan roared, the panic strong in his tone. Figin stopped and turned, wet eyed but with a grin.

"Bein' your kobold to the end, Dragonlord! No sense goin' out unfaithful; we're all doomed. Except you, I guess. I won't hold it against you if you wanna flee. But..." Figin gestured to Lalep to carry on and once alone, he rubbed his neck, looking coy.

"For what it's worth... strange as it sounds, I always thought we could have been good together, but I guess it's my turn."

Karajan had the look of someone who had been run through with a sword; the pain was overwhelming as he roared, causing Figin to freeze in place.

"It is not your turn, Figin! It is MINE! I shall pass my flame to you. I am afraid no longer! All-Dragon take this pathetic, traitorous form!" A pulse of magic pushed from Karajan's body, and his form withered; scales cracked and discoloured, muscle shrank, horns chipped and snapped. He slowly walked over to Figin, lying down and presenting his belly and slit to him.

"I submit to you, Figin. You have taken of my mind and body, but now take my spirit and soul. I name thee Firaegin, and you will be magnificent; like no other dragon seen before!"

Figin felt another shiver, like those he had felt since he awoke this day, but this one caused him to fall to his knees. Like with his dream, something was pushing inside of him. Raw power, manifested and concentrated by a millennia of building magic that had flowed into and from Karajan every moment of his life, now all merging with the energy that already existed within Figin, and found his form too weak.

It needed him to become greater, and it would make him so.

Karajan raised a clawed hand, making gestures in the air as what little magic left with him was brought forth; he shrank himself in size, the eighty foot long dragon shrinking to a meagre twenty and with visible strain, he then pointed to Figin himself, who felt a familiar growth within him, much like his own size spell but with just a little more potency.

Karajan smiled as Figin grew to a similar size to himself, the kobolds amber eyes glowing with might as his body twitched and flexed, muscle swelling and form subtly twisting.

Figin felt it; another entity, an aspect both of himself and yet not; an ego of draconic origin. It was a primal, overbearing entity that began stealing and breaking parts of his mind to better fit itself. It was still in its infancy, but it grew stronger by the second, and it demanded to be appeased in the most base things it desired.

The underboss climbed to his feet, snarling as his cock swelled fully erect, then pulsed and twitched; this was no dragonhood, and the ego took hold of Figin's lusts. The red member thickened and lengthened in a smooth swell, doubling in size and gaining extra girth, as a dragons should. He smiled as the ego felt joy at having a true mating tool, and it wanted to test it. The eager and exposed opening on Karajan would suffice.

Karajan saw the approach and smiled; he would serve as he could, knowing he was likely to die here as the power was expunged from his form. It wasn't his power any more, as he neither deserved nor wished for it to remain, a damning reminder of his own failings. He saw the changing Figin as his final reward for doing the right thing, so he closed his eyes and waited.

Figin could feel Karajan's mind as memories and sensations transferred into him, instincts and knowledge on how to use the draconic body and he knew he was no longer bound by that name; Firaegin took over. He placed himself between the dragon's hind legs and pressing his throbbing cock against his former masters passage, the seeping pre slowly lubricating the opening before he forced his way in, earning a pained snarl from Karajan.

A threshold was reached, a kobold was dominating a dragon, and the spirit, the flame that made Karajan a dragon, was fully passed. With a deepening roar and a surge of size, the growing kobold started thrusting, the alien sensations of his changing body only serving to amplify the pleasure. He was aware of Karajan's wings, shrivelling, the membrane splitting and the limbs turning to ash. Karajan's once mighty horns fell loose in a seeping of blood, leaving only his two longest.

As Firaegin's body grew, he forced himself on top of Karajan. The scarlet dragon had begun shrinking in kind, the magical size alteration now becoming truth. His limbs twisted into a bipedal shape; he was a dragon no longer, but a kobold with scarlet scales. The budding green dragon smiled, and leaned his lengthening neck along to put his head side by side with his former master, staring into each others eyes as his own body took the four legged shape needed. Even through the pain of two more limbs growing from his spine and spreading forth, stretching further giving the budding drake a regal appearance, Firaegin desired more from his follower.

"Do not cum until I tell you, 'my subject'." Firaegin rumbled, his voice an earthquake. Karajan, despite the discomfort, smiled and nodded even as his body trembled from the pleasure of this magnificent new dragon's surging form having his way with him. It was all he dreamed of, and better yet, far from passing away, the All-Dragon had given him a form to feel and see the fruits of his sacrifice.

As Firaegin's ego indulged in his carnal lusts, the kobold trapped within was still awash in a sea of sensations, emotions, experiences, each filling the gaps in his mind that he had felt since yesterday. He could feel a dormant part of his insides swell with magic power, his lungs and heart feeling a pressure as new a new organ expanded between them to house the power of his dragon's breath. The energy of it tickled his muscles and a creaking of bone filled his ears as new limbs finished growing from his shoulders, reinforced with huge slabs of muscle that sheathed his upper body like a cloak of raw strength. He clenched his eyes shut as his head ached, the small flanges on the back of his skull stretching out, pushing through his scales and forming a full crown of ten back-swept horns, his existing ones widening and stretching longer.

Firaegin opened his eyes, looking at the diminishing kobold squealing in a worsening bias of pain and pleasure as his own body fast approached the smaller dragon sizes. The dragon felt his magic flow through him as easily as breathing; merely the thought of the spell pushed through into the scarlet kobold and the pain eased, and Karajan's moaning fully gave to the joy of their pairing. Firaegin's growing hands wrapped around his subject, using him as a toy for his own pleasure, but something was blocking him from reaching his apex.

Karajan came, screaming with a final rush of pleasure and slumped long before Firaegin was going to, and the drake realised he was missing something. Something deep in the blood of his growing draconic body that he wouldn't get here, not alone or with this new kobold.

Firaegin pulled Karajan off of his length and roared at the cave ceiling in frustration. It felt good, liberating, and his body responded by surging up to Karajan's former size and then continued, heedless of any limit. His bellowing invoked his breath, a thick green cloud that sprayed the rock before exploding in a shower of sparks and arcing light. His breath was as a violent storm; Firaegin was a lightning drake, the deeply buried kobold within mused as his body flexed, testing its physical limits even as his erection twitched and demanded attention.

He was running out of room, so he stomped over to the opening that lead from the lair. On his hind legs, he was sixty feet tall and still growing. He'd never heard of such a dragon besides perhaps one rumoured and legendary figure from hundreds of years ago. A dragon that assaulted the man-kin capitol and was slain for his trouble by a human imbued with draconic power.

Firaegin wouldn't make the same mistake; Figin's cunning was a welcome partner to the savage ego. He would truly be magnificent, just as Karajan said, and his body responded by thickening with muscle, as big as he had ever read about in his books.

The new dragon looked over at Karajan's prostrate form, his dark grey chest heaving with exhausted breaths and covered in his own seed. The kobold's yellow eyes looked at Firaegin with pride and longing, Firaegin's own kobold side wanted to see if his former master was alright, pushing back against the overwhelming storm in his mind but the ego focused once more on its most base instincts; his arousal, his urge to mate.

He then remembered what had caused all of this; Jaraesi's invasion. She was attacking his kobolds! The dragon took what it wanted from this thought, as dragons always do; awareness of a viable mate that was invading, assaulting HIS domain. This would not go unchallenged.

Firaegin spread his wings, taking flight through the confined tunnel. He would demand a larger passage when he had brought this invasion to a stop. He would claim Jaraesi's kobolds as his own. He would force Crater-Vale to grow stronger, unify it... he had such designs!

First things first, though; as his body surged larger, he collided with the cave walls, and crawled free of the well hidden, foliage covered entrance as he felt his muscles bulge one last time. The flex caused him some pain; the scales around his shoulders and wing-pectorals were forced apart from the abnormal mass he possessed. It was a prideful pain, one he would no doubt have to get used to. It was soothed by a heavy rain running down his thick armoured scales; it was a muted experience compared to water on his old body, almost disappointing.

Then he looked around and his disappointment faded.

The sun, once the bane of his senses, now peered beneath a blanket of rain clouds, the gentle amber light, the same colours as his eyes, dancing through the droplets like a thousand tiny fragments of his newfound power; it was the most marvellous thing he had ever seen and the kobold within would have loved nothing more than to watch it unfold as he never could have before.

Then he heard the chanting of a kobold war-band, and that brief softness burst into a rage. He once more took to the skies, and his instincts flared up as he witnessed this Jaraesi in all her splendour.

She was a truly large and powerful female, a dragon with a clear aquatic lineage; a finned tail, short and stocky neck and webbed digits. Deep blue scales, paler on her underbelly, with perfect sky coloured eyes that watched Crater-Vale's entrance with impatience as her forces struggled to breech Crater-Vale. Eight horns, broad and smooth, swept back and her muzzle bore a hard, beak-like form suited for diving.

Firaegin tucked his wings and landed as hard as he dared to. He wanted to be a distraction, or to show off; his mind couldn't decide, but the mountainside shook and rocks fell from the upper reaches, the canyons collapsing on part of the kobold forces and the invasion halted.

The mud and soil that his violent landing kicked up obscured his form as Jaraesi spun about in shock and her icy, steaming breath forming around her mouth, preparing to unleash a fathomless, blood-shattering cold.

That came to a stop as the dust cleared; Jaraesi was impressive, ninety foot from nose to tail, equally split between her shorter than normal necked body and finned tail tip. Firaegin stood on his hind legs, flexing, and her eyes went wide, pupils shrinking and back arching with fear.

He was twice her size and even thicker with muscle.

Jaraesi was a conqueror; she was feared by dragons and humans alike, and Firaegin knew she had to have been kept at bay by some ploy Karajan had formed or a treaty he wasn't privy to. It mattered not now as when Jaraesi finally spoke, her powerful voice was cowed into a whisper.

"By the blood... w-what are you!?" She gasped, eyes slowly centring on Firaegin's erect cock, her wide eyes growing wider.

"I am Firaegin! You WILL submit!" He bellowed, looking around at the fear-paralysed kobolds in their full war armour, spears and shields in slack arms and slumped shoulders. He felt the urge to annihilate them for attacking his clan, a feeling bolstered by the kobold inside of him also fearing that his people were being killed, but the baser needs and desires stayed his wrath.

He growled, lowering himself over Jaraesi, forcing her to bow low, his presence making the once impressive blue dragon seem meek and impotent.

"Cease the attack!" She screeched, voice breaking. Firaegin could smell her fear and arousal as the dragoness once more looked at his cock and licked her muzzle.

"I-I beg...uh, propose an alliance, oh g-great Firaegin! I have long sought a mate as mighty as m-myself... mightier, I mean! Truly, I could find none better!"

Within Firaegin, the kobold mind and dragon ego were conflicted. Their deepest desire was to see this threat to his people torn limb from limb, but both aspects were at odds, unable to decide what to do with the submitting dragoness. He simply stared at her as she desperately kept herself as small as possible, before she rolled onto her side, exposing her belly and spreading her cloaca with her hand, the indigo flesh dripping and sending a shiver down Firaegin's spine. Two dragons, victims of their own desires. An alliance struck, a mating bond formed. A once forbidden fruit, desperately given.

He was confused, though. Figin would have wanted nothing more than to broker such a deal, to bring about a peaceful resolution, yet it also felt like the most draconic thing he could do, succumbing to his lusts as she suggested but she was also an attacker, pathetically begging for her life after not a single claw thrown in anger.

Figin felt he had a choice. He felt that this would be the moment that defined his new life. Does he act like a dragon, or a kobold? Does he seek domination or diplomacy.

Then he caught the scent of her eager, waiting flesh and the blood took over.

Firaegin pushed Jaraesi onto her back and began running his cock against her parted folds, the natural lubrication merging between the two. He pushed the tip into her, both growling as one, but it was obvious he was far too large for her. Desire drew his magic forth as if an afterthought, what once took effort now instinctual, and Firaegin's pliability spell was once more invoked, a subtle quivering of Jaraesi's form and even her aroused face twisted in confusion at the feeling.

With caution that surprised even himself, Firaegin resumed his insertion. Foot by foot of his shaft went into her, teasing her wide cloacal slit beyond natural limits, the flanges raking on her eager mating passage and making her writhe and cry out, a fog of icy breath venting with each gasp.

The great green dragon watched the bulge of her midsection spread higher, the dragoness slowly taking a cock that was half as long as her torso, her eyes losing focus as more and more of him raked against her sensitive inner ridges, the contact point for the male flanges rubbing against her insides in the longest insertion any female would ever experience. Jaraesi was wordless, her expression twisting into a maelstrom of overstimulated bliss as she screamed in climax, an angry and animalistic roar punctuated with a billow of absolute cold snap-freezing the rain into snow and hail over her dumbfounded kobolds.

He was fully embedded into her and her chest rapidly rose and fell, distended from the tip of his dick. He could feel her hammering heartbeat, the flexibility of her insides completely dominated by him even as fragments of frozen spittle cracked and fell from her wide-spread jaws. Then Firaegin began pulling out.

That was a single thrust, and the colossal dragon smiled as he knew he was only just getting started. Jaraesi shivered and began writhing once more, the flanges tickling and vibrating against the most sensitive parts of her cloaca all over again, the usually brief experience drawn out and protracted.

The green dragon was still building into a rhythm to please himself, but he felt an honest attraction with this female, an affection as he remembered his desire for deeper companionship. He began to enjoy her pleasure and it gave him a warm feeling in his heart as dragon and kobold found common ground.

He tried to resist the baser urges, to find that deeper meaning, to understand it, but he had to be sated as his instincts warped his mind. Firaegin's every thrust caused Jaraesi to squeal and tense, climaxing repeatedly and incessantly until, at last, he felt every scale on his body quiver, a long and drawn out tingle run along from his neck to the tip of his pendulous tail. For the first time, he experienced a dragon's climax.

The energy flowing in his body spiked and surged, flooding his muscles and making his whole form tingle, as if being given a reward for giving in to his lusts. It almost felt like Firaegin had exploded and in a sense, he had; he roared with such force the earth shook, his voice carrying a vast and angry cloud from his mouth. The green mist enveloped the mountainside, painting it the colour of his scales, before the magic within it flared, lighting crackling and shattering rock in a blast that sent fragments hundreds of feet away.

Jaraesi went limp even as Firaegin's cum pumped into her, flooding her insides and gushing from the excess onto the rocky ground in a cascade. The haze of his lusts began fading even as he continued to shoot a ridiculous amount of seed into the far smaller dragoness. He caught his breath and slowly pulled out, the ground soaked with white as his ejaculate poured in gushes from Jaraesi. Her body re-formed into its natural, powerful shape, although her belly was still bulging as if already gravid beyond all measure.

As his length retracted, he looked at her limp form. Firaegin recovered that budding feeling, that certain affection for this female; her slack-jawed, half-lidded and nearly dead-eyed expression even caused the kobold within him to realise that she wasn't a threat, she was just a victim of the same overpowering draconic ego to just submit to him like that.

His mind clearing, Firaegin felt guilty for betraying his morals; the kobold within started gaining more and more control over this monstrous form and considered her desire for an alliance and how he had taken advantage of her fear. True, it was a chance to bolster Crater-Vale with her kobolds and their supplies but he also thought of Karajan; he had been a victim of this ego as well when he tried to back out of the Passing of his Flame, but he had learned to overcome it, to sacrifice himself despite being uncertain he would survive, giving this power freely.

He was likewise torn; was Karajan still himself, still aware of his new-found feelings for Firaegin? Would it be right to have a dragon mate while trying to pursue this connection with his former master?

Once more focused on Jaraesi, Firaegin was staring at the slow rise and fall of her chest, at how delicate she seemed right now. Could she, too, be made to become greater than her instincts? Her rage and lusts? He once more considered his desire of a deeper affection. Without his own savage instinct forcing his actions, he could finally appreciate Jaraesi's form for what it was; she was remarkable to look at.

The miner within him adored her broad and powerful build. Kobold miners would swing a pick all day at full force and a flimsier mate wouldn't do; they needed someone who could both take the strength and endurance a stone chopper had. Couplings between miners and soldiers were common, although it became a contest; the miner would outlast a soldier, even if the soldier would dominate first. If Jaraesi were a kobold, she'd certainly be a soldier, and Figin would have been first in line to savour her powerful limbs, the cords standing out against her scales, deep curves of her flanks, the sturdy tail. He could stare all day, although he almost regretted the bulge of her abdomen he had left; he remembered she had muscular grooves and lines as muscle pressed against the normally soft and flat underbelly.

That which was still Figin in his mind focused on her colours. Her sparkling eyes, lidded as they were, the colour of the daytime sky. He had so seldom seen such a colour before! Only in passing during the winter, when the sun was still low behind the canyon walls, casting long, stark shadows deep enough that he could squint skyward and witness the miracle of sweeping, endless colour it represented.

The night sky was always amazing to look at; the stars as a million blazing points to a kobold's sensitive eyes, and the subtle flow of colours between them, the nebulae as humans called them, but these new experiences and sensations had an exotic flourish that he knew would never be surpassed. Even the single solid colour, which always reminded him of dragonscale, such as the blue of Jaraesi's body was intoxicating to look at. He grinned as he he realised her scales were nearer to the darker blues of a late summer's day, a subtle contrast to her eyes and the deeper indigo of her indulgent flesh.

The dragon Firaegin had become took in the tiny details, almost studying her, grading her. The scratches and damage to her scales from countless battles, the rough texture of her tough, chipped horns, the marks and scratches on her claws told him she had bested many dragons in her time. He shivered despite his sated desires and realised he wanted her claws dug into him, to nip her neck. Jaraesi really did fulfil every dreaded rumour that he had heard and read about as underboss, but now it made her a challenge, and his ego desired such a thing like no other.

Even so, he once again pondered how different he was, how different Crater-Vale would be, and how his relationships would be altered. Jaraesi, Karajan, his kobolds...

He had much to think over, and right now he needed to see if his clan was alright. Firaegin took Jaraesi's limp form in his forelimbs and took flight back towards his lair as her forces dropped their weapons and submitted to the smaller force emerging from Crater-Vale.

* * *

It was raining. This was Jaraesi's element and she had a plan for if this old, pathetic drake attempted to try his usual trickery. Karajan was clever, but he was weak and his prior attempt to mate with her now filled her with revulsion; that she once desired his once potent lineage made her seethe, the promise of his arcane blood mingling with her physically superior own seemed a fair barter. What a fool she had been.

The rain felt glorious on Jaraesi's scales and she felt a deep comfort being covered in this basic necessity of life. The droplets moved in a gentle swirl around her; less potent than when she was at sea, or in any other deep body of water, but it would suffice. She would drown the fiery bastard, quell his waning flame and claim the only thing he left had of worth; his lair.

Water moved as if an extension of herself, with her already dense muscles bolstered by this liquid by forming claw extensions and shields of supernaturally hard ice strike from afar, and even obscure her location to observers by vaporising the water with a thought or refracting the light. If Karajan wanted to hide himself, she would play his game and win! She had considered every possibility and had nought but confidence in her ability to succeed! Crater-Vale would be hers!

It would take nothing important, just time and a few hundred kobolds, as the lair was a truly marvellous defensive spot but her scouts had reported a feeble response to their incursion, even showing mercy! Truly pathetic.

Jaraesi was already planning the changes she would make, such as freeing the volcanic spring beneath to give her comfort and power. Her kobolds would mine it free and flood the caves for her pleasure while they built higher into the mountain or whatever they needed; it concerned her not.

There, a presence! An energy shifting and swelling within the mountain. An attack was imminent, but Jaraesi remained calm. Karajan would start twisting her surroundings, so she simply unfocused her gaze; becoming unaware of potentially distracting details, and only noticing subtle changes of motion, or scent and sound. The energy itself was peculiar; it was at once his as he'd felt it before, yet it felt different, as if spread out but just as strong... or stronger? It couldn't be...

A ploy, of course! Most ingenious, distracting even her supernatural senses; she needed to force his enfeebled hand into attacking her before he could enact whatever he had planned.

"Hasten the attack! If this pathetic lot aren't put to the sword by sunfall, you shall not eat for a week! FIGHT HARDER!!" She roared to motivate them. Perhaps Karajan had noticed her intent, as the power stopped shifting. It was becoming difficult to pinpoint his location any more. It had moved, but where? Jaraesi once more unfocused her eyes and simply 'felt' the area.

An almighty crash behind her! Was he so brazen that he would attack directly? Jaraesi spun, inhaling and letting the air mingle with her magic in her lungs. A great plume of displaced mud, the ground not quite sodden from the rainfall as dust mingled with it, obscured her view. Was it a trick? No, she could sense the presence clearly. So clearly she started to taste it. What was this...?

Green scales barely covering the most immense slabs of muscle, atop a frame that made her feel like a hatchling, standing proud and tall.

Complete with a cock that was bigger than she had ever dreamed of as so many of her prior attempted mates were woefully inadequate. Jaraesi could taste him cleanly on the air; the aroma of after a storm, the pheromones of a dragon needing to breed.

His name is Firaegin. She had never heard of such a dragon, but clearly she had been beaten to the punch in taking over clan Crater-Vale. Her instincts, usually her ally and the way she had survived so many battles before, fought against her at first as she wondered about how to face this threat, but she fast realised that she had no options. She couldn't outfight him, he was far larger and stronger. While the rain was her ally, he could feel his energy; a storm drake could turn her power against her, even if it made their breath less reliable as the power dispersed through the droplets. Even if she could flee, no doubt he would pursue her for this invasion of his new domain, or attack her lair where the fight would be fairer, but it was too risky.

No, Jaraesi was no fool; she stood no chance against this truly exemplary specimen of draconic might and had only one path before her; she sought to barter, to appeal to his arousal, although she found the thought of being mated by Firaegin... intriguing, and her instinct desired it even more so. Her need for conquest became that of being conquered. She would becoming the mate of the most powerful dragon in the land, and want for nothing!

The two of them joined would be the stuff of legends.

Everything became hazy; the pleasure she was subjected to, like nothing she had ever experienced. A spell was cast, making her stretch and bend to his will and form. The erogenous areas of her mating passage weren't just stretched, but intensified, duplicated in amount. Just raw pleasure, her instinct demanding to be fertilised! She didn't remember what happened after the first few thrusts... no, when he pulled out the first time. Such potency!

It had all fallen to pieces.

Or had it all come together?

She was Jaraesi, Empress of the Vast Ocean. She had slain seventeen dragons in her three centuries of life, she was the biggest female alive, that she knew of at least, and she had so much raw strength she could overpower even the biggest males she had encountered. Now she was aware that she had been broken by a truly magnificent drake, this Firaegin; a dragon of that size and strength was impossible, and yet what she had submitted to was indeed flesh and blood.

She was not forced, strangely, she felt she could have fled but she wanted this, deep down. A lineage that would rule the land from a mate with no equal.

* * *

3rd Day

"...and you will share every last scrap of your resources with my clan or I shall make examples of you!" A deep, rumbling voice. Powerful. Authoritative. It made Jaraesi shiver, but she couldn't tell whether in fear or arousal.

Mostly the former, or perhaps a little... no, a lot of both. She was still fully sated from the experience. She felt her belly; it was still distended from his seed; her eggs were certainly fertilised. A powerful brood for a powerful mate. It helped ease her fears as she tried to stand, but she could barely feel her hind legs.

The patter of kobold feet leaving the lair were masked by the sound of Firaegin growling. Jaraesi could just see him out of the corner of her eye, pinching a tiny golden object between his claws. He looked deep in thought, devoid of anger or rage, instead looking perhaps sad as he moved to a larger rock outcrop and placed the trinket on it, away from the hoard; a tiny, golden chalice.

Jaraesi once more attempted to stand, and managed to rise on shaky legs and causing the meagre pile of coins to shift and clink together, making Firaegin's deep, amber eyes lock onto hers.

"Are you well, Jaraesi?" He asked, a whisper she could feel within her.

"I... am, my most blessed mate." She responded, tilting her head; he was so different than the dominant drake she had been conquered by. Was it a ruse? A ploy? He had little to gain in that regard, Jaraesi supposed, which confused her.

"I apologise for how events unfolded. I did not intend... I was not myself." Firaegin said, hanging his head as if ashamed. It was almost insulting; he showed little concern in having a rival dragon in his lair, no assertion of dominance.

"So am I free to leave?" Jaraesi fully climbed to her feet, testing her balance, "I believe we had an agreement? This is most assuredly your territory, and I shall return to my lair."

"Yes... no, wait!" Firaegin took a few thumping steps towards and loomed over her. Jaraesi once more lowered herself, submitting and reaffirming her suspicions; her instincts were conflicted with her own mind when usually they were so well meshed.

"I have need of your kobolds to improve my own. I need resources, numbers to bolster the defences, repair the traps and more. I will be keeping half of your clan, and I suggest a free exchange of their number."

"I agree...? Of course, yes." Jaraesi tilted her head at the bizarre request, but she cared not for her kobolds. Of all the resources he could have requested, the servants and base materials? None of her hoard? Truly, he was not of sound mind. She wanted to leave and deal with this unfortunately soft-minded dragon from afar; she had almost everything she wanted.

Jaraesi peered about the lair, spotting the only exit she could fit into, a cave in the ceiling. She walked over slowly before stumbling; her legs were still weak.

"You're still recovering," Firaegin said, "you must... you may rest here, if you please. I was about to go and hunt. I would not mind sharing, Jaraesi."

"I'm fine!" Jaraesi snapped, hating the pity but seizing up and slowly turning her head in case of an attack at her disrespect. Firaegin was still, sitting and watching her. She stared into his... fetching amber eyes for a moment, finding a depth to them that many dragons lacked, a softness perhaps. No, weakness.

That was enough. While she could see the benefit of this alliance, she was offended by his presence. Jaraesi stretched her wings and took flight, making slow progress through the unfamiliar cave, and out into the pitch-black night. The rain had stopped, but a low rumble and flicker of light in the distance; a storm, thankfully the opposite way than Jaraesi intended to go. Her weakness was troubling, and the sooner she returned the sooner she would be in the ocean caves, submerged in water and her hoard. She set off to the north-west, towards the seaside human town of Whiteshore-on-Cliff, where they rightly bowed to her majesty for their petty trade vessels to go unmolested.

Jaraesi wondered if she would plot against Firaegin. If she intended to, her mind wouldn't let her, at least not now. She felt strange, but that might just be a maternal instinct; not wishing harm on her young by proxy. Leverage, perhaps.

Another flash of lightning. A high, noisy crackle.

Jaraesi realised too late that it wasn't from the sky.

The water dispersed the worst of a bolt of energy in a harmless flourish of light, but the pain shut Jaraesi's senses down as the worst of it tore through her muscles, her body clenching and causing her wings to stretch high and wide, forcing her to sweep skyward and over onto her back. As she stalled, a large form collided with her and sent her sprawling, her icy breath carrying her panic in the form of hail and sleet as she tried to get a fix on her attacker.

Jaraesi barely managed to take wing before striking into the rocky ground as her legs dragged across the surface. She tumbled, cleaving a path of stone and shale in a wide spray. Her right wing shattered and she screamed a feral, terrified roar as she tried to recover, her weakened limbs gashed and scales shattered.

"My thanks, Oh Empress, for doing the hard work for me." A hissing tone, a male dragon. A hand grabbed her horns and kept her head pinned to the fractured ground and a rear leg pinned her injured wing. He rested his weight on her and a painful sting of crackling lightning around her throat as he licked her neck.

"As brave as always, Nuraemar." Jaraesi bared her teeth but couldn't move her head to see him, but he could picture him well enough. An old rival, a lesser drake of jade scales and beige underbelly with a paltry four horns. "You never could best me in a fight, you cowardly, soft-bellied fi-"

Jaraesi's words formed back into a scream as he sent a bolt of lightning into her neck, forcing her body to convulse. He stopped, letting Jaraesi catch her stolen breath before he began pulsing the energy, toying with her. The indignity of it all made Jaraesi push herself up, adrenaline fuelled by raw hate.

Nuraemar sank his teeth into her foreleg and vented a full blast of his power into it, the muscles shearing and splitting like overstressed rope and she screamed again. She was bested.

"Pathetic." He chuckled, licking the savage wound, a passive crackle of power making her gasp in pain. "Now, do I fuck you into submission? Perhaps I should tear off each leg and make you bear my offspring. Or perhaps I put a sorry little end to such a sorry, upstart whore of a dragon; I can smell a male on you already... strange, it doesn't smell of Karajan."

A bass rumble of thunder filled the air, but Jaraesi felt it through the floor. A second thump, separate from any lightning, caused Nuraemar to relax his grip and make a confused rattling noise with his throat. With a raking of his claws as he desperately tried to hold on to her, Jaraesi's attacker was pulled away as if he were weightless, a flash of light illuminating a vast, darker green hand encircling his throat and lifting him up to Firaegin's snarling visage.

There were no words, just a futile snapping of jaws, a scrape of claw on scale as Nuraemar desperately attempted to escape, even causing a little gash on the unstoppable drake's hand that only served to enrage him further. The fury in Firaegin's eyes made Jaraesi shiver with excitement and the soft and gentle demeanour she detested was no more; this was a dragon of such strength that the world may never be the same, like a similar figure that had appeared before, a story from Jaraesi's mother of a legendary dragon named Gashadrak.

He was a vast dragon as well, though a score of feet smaller than Firaegin. A beast of dark orange scales and an explosive vapour for breath. Nobody knew where he came from either, but he had a vendetta against the humans, destroying several cities far from Goshev and causing such ruin that a legendary hero appeared to face him. This human had taken on draconic traits, such as claws and wings, and wielded a blade of pure Farsteel, slaying the great dragon alone in his lair, then seemingly vanishing if such a tale had any merit.

Jaraesi certainly didn't believe it. She simply assumed it was a cautionary tale for dragonlings not to constantly attack humans in case they put aside their petty differences and banded together. However, she believed this dragon existed, and conceded that some power, perhaps the All-Dragon himself, occasionally put a drake of truly exceptional blood into the world to demonstrate his potency.

There were none more potent than Firaegin. Jaraesi felt a tingle run through her as he seemed to grow bored of waiting for the wretch in his hand to die from suffocation, throwing him against the ground. Nuraemar bounced off of the wet stone with a heavy slam and his damaged throat squealed as he took breath; Jaraesi would have laughed if she wasn't still in a great deal of pain.

Far from being finished, though, Firaegin stood on his hind legs, plucking the lesser storm drake up by his tail and a forelimb, and began pulling with a terrible din of popping bones and screaming dragon before slamming him down into the ground yet again, the broken fool scarcely alive. He would live, sadly, Jaraesi mused. Dragons could recover from almost anything, given time.

"I will make this perfectly clear right here, and right now." Firaegin snarled and brought his head next to Nuraemar, his growl shaking the floor and Jaraesi felt her heart flutter; such presence was intoxicating, how had she doubted such a drake? "When your pathetic carcass has recovered, you will deliver a message to every dragon you know, and demand they do the same.

"I will unify this land. Every dragon, kobold and human will become part of my clan. My Empire! Jaraesi is my mate and you are my subject!! If you, or any other upstart weakling believes themselves to be better suited to rule, they can challenge me! I will have peace and order! I will have cohesion and unity!"

Firaegin clearly had a sense of dramatic flair as he stood upright to his utmost, his massive wings unfurling to their full hundred and eighty foot span, the lightning striking his crown of horns as if the world acknowledged this titan, this majestic drake of unfathomable power letting the breath of the sky wash over him and cause him to roar skyward in response, matching the deafening thunder with his own.

" I am Firaegin, and this land will know my rule!!"

His proclamation rippled on the air, thick with magic. A draconic order invoked, and while it would not work on Jaraesi or the broken Nuraemar, it still caused the sound of rain to cease.

The wind fell silent. The world accepted. Jaraesi felt her arousal stir as she salivated at the taste of his strength on the air, her pain lesser to her rapturous glee.

"Yes, my emperor! My blessed mate!" She squealed, struggling but lifting herself from the ground to bow her head. Once more, Firaegin's expression softened and he lowered himself, lifting her head with a gentle hand, their eyes meeting. Through her pain, through the indignity suffered, through any doubt, right here and right now, Jaraesi knew he had to be hers and she had to be his. The power they would represent would be beyond anything seen or heard before, unstoppable, irresistible.

"My precious Jaraesi," Firaegin whispered, "I have brought you to harm twice with my actions. Please, remain with me, at least until you have recovered. I would have you as my life-mate, if you desire it." Far from her prior distaste for his coddling, she nodded, convinced of his power and now curious of this unique tenderness. He moved to stand over her, and Jaraesi lay flat, allowing his mighty hands to surround her body and, for the second time, took flight back to Crater-Vale.

* * *

1stSeason, 1568

Firaegin felt a sense of nostalgia, bringing him back to those simpler days. So much had changed since then, and yet here he was, wringing the neck of another upstart dragon. Naebas, Master of the Endless Plains, took issue with the rules and laws that Firaegin had given to drake and human alike. Before him, watching with fear in their eyes, stood the delegates of Marfield, the surfacer capitol of the nation of Goshev; a group of one of the nobility with six armoured guards, deprived of their weapons on entry of Crater-Vale.

They were in the right, Naebas was wrong, and the slender purple dragon began spitting barbs and threats after Jaraesi began mocking him. Firaegin had to set an example, striking the damned fool against the ground and grabbing him around the neck before he could unleash his poisonous breath. Twenty kobolds, armed and armoured, stood to attention and possibly some amusement as their emperor strangled the smaller dragon, more a ceremonial position to protect any meeting groups from each other, even of nobody usually dared to speak out as Naebas had.

So much had changed, yet Firaegin still hated dragons. They could be obedient and brought to heel, but many frustrated him with an arrogance that lingered in spite of every drake in the country now earned more gold than their petty raids and thefts could muster; every human settlement had a dragon protector, who would patrol the skies and protect merchant caravans, earning a percentage of the trade. It was so simple and easy to follow, yet they always demanded more; more coin, more respect, more tribute. Always more.

Firaegin bared his teeth as the light in Naebas' eyes began to fade, so he released the purple drake who crashed into the floor, wheezing and filling his lungs but made the sensible decision to stay low and humble. The line of kobolds turned their spears on the gasping dragon just in case.

"Emperor Firaegin," Naebas gasped, "mercy! Forgive my disrespect!" Firaegin sighed and looked behind him to his mate.

Jaraesi lounged upon their vast hoard, Karajan's once meagre pile now filling most of the chamber in spite of the fact it had been carved out larger, both for his size and her presence. She giggled with amusement, as she often did when he demonstrated his strength. Firaegin did not approve of it, but he knew Jaraesi was learning to resist her compulsions and old habits, even if it was to impress him more than out of genuine kindness.

The blue dragoness was once prone to excessive violence and cruelty. She had detested kobolds as worthless, considering humans only slightly more useful. She had been vain and lackadaisical to Firaegin's cautious plans, simply wishing to enjoy the benefits of his rule. Yet now, while her obvious pleasure at Firaegin's show of force was an old habit she still held, Jaraesi then looked into his eyes and the wicked smile turned warmer, softer look as she winked at him.

Every time she spoke to their kobolds with a respectful tone or took interest in his meetings with the representatives of Goshev's more prominent settlements, he knew that dragons weren't the monsters that he once thought they were.

Jaraesi, once almost an experiment for Firaegin, was now indeed someone he wanted to spend his life with; she enjoyed debating his ethics, which forced him to re-evaluate his plans and ensure he had thought them through. She knew about dealing with humans, even if she had a distinctive and aggressive style, which had helped Firaegin secure a relationship with them that now had open trade between Crater-Vale and the settlements of Goshev. Truly, beneath every dragon's bluster and fury, there was a beating heart.

It was a state of mind. Dragons had something within them, an ego that was almost a separate entity; a primal, angry giant lurking beneath the intelligence and suppressing all kindness to take what it wanted. When Figin became Firaegin, he struggled to contest with this aspect; it lead to many decisions he came to regret and fought with it a great deal in his first year as a dragon, taking control when frustrated in short bursts or clouding his judgement. He remembered landing on the castle roof of Marfield's great castle, demanding to meet with King Goshev himself, and accidentally crushing a good part of the ancient building beneath his tremendous weight.

It made Firaegin act more forceful than he wanted; his requests for peace took a diabolical turn in the human mind as yet another bully to slay had tried to take over. He now had to strike a balance of power and charm, enough of both to instil a sense of understanding but not appearing weak.

Thankfully, it did not take Firaegin long to quell this ego, and he had found his equilibrium. It was still present, taking hold when his anger or lusts were at a peak, but he felt more like his old kobold self, allowing him to enact his desire for a land under a calm, firm hand.

He looked at the Marfield delegate, a respected advisor of the king himself, and now that Naebas was calming and tempers had cooled, the human looked to Firaegin as one would, and should; with respect and gratitude.

"My Emperor! Thank you." The well dressed man removed his feathered hat, bowing low. Firaegin sniffed the air, taking in his sweat, the waning fear, the perfumes he had smothered himself in; he was satisfied, surprised at the ease of which this matter had been dealt with, perhaps just a little too smug. Firaegin found this frustrating as well. He needed to make sure he was not seen as unfair as he looked at the still bested dragon, and cleared his throat.

"I am not finished, Sir Bernasi." Firaegin's utterance of the name made the human snap to attention, who replaced his hat and he began to sweat once more. "While my rule is in your favour, I feel a compromise may be struck. Should trade prove greater than projected in any given season, it would behove the human populace to offer a tribute to their dragon in thanks. Perhaps some surplus food and drink for their tireless kobolds and a celebratory hunt staged for the drake to feast upon the catch? It would be a good show of togetherness, of drake and man in harmony, wouldn't you agree?"

"A most excellent suggestion, my liege! I shall have messengers sent forthwith to ensure all of Goshev follows your words!" Sir Bernasi bowed once more, and Firaegin nodded first to him, then to Naebas and then his kobold soldiers.

They were armed with the finest spears and clad in expertly smithed plate armour, lead by Vusha. She had given up the Warchief position, as even after recovering from her wounds back when Firaegin was 'reborn', she felt she was no longer the fighter she had once been as her hundred and sixty years began to take hold. The position was currently empty, and the new combat instructor struck the butt of her spear on the ground and her companions did so in turn, filling the lair with the echo of metal capped wood on stone.

"Company! Escort!" She roared as the kobolds surrounded the human group, herding them back through to Crater-Vale's hub. Naebas slowly stood, keeping his head low as he took flight out through the ceiling passage out of the lair.

Alone at last, Firaegin shook his head and returned to Jaraesi's side, as she smiled at him. She grunted as she adjusted her position; it was difficult to see with her on the hoard as the coins and treasures conformed to her shape, but Firaegin couldn't help but chuckle as Jaraesi's once trim midsection swelled outrageously. Her gravid belly would drag on the floor if she walked and flight was impossible, as three enormous eggs were nearly ready to lay, which Firaegin knew he would need his pliability spell to assist when the time arrived, just like the first four. Jaraesi was eager for more children before the first four had even hatched, which were housed safely in a small side-chamber and swaddled in the thickest blankets made by human hands. Firaegin was eager to please, especially with their ongoing enjoyment of each other's simple company. Still, he sighed and lowered his voice, despite the lair being empty of anyone but the two of them.

"I wish you wouldn't antagonise the guests, precious one; I feel Naebas' pride may never recover." Firaegin nuzzled Jaraesi, who licked his cheek in return. He climbed behind her, higher on the pile of riches and wrapped his body around her back, wriggling deeper into the pile until her back fit against his underbelly and his wings surrounded her as she smirked and looked up at him.

"Oh, please," she said, "I know deep down you enjoy watching them squirm, blessed mate. Perhaps he will think twice before daring to threaten you or any of OUR subjects again." Firaegin licked at the back of her neck, and while he enjoyed the silence, he couldn't help but let other concerns flood back. He growled low, expression troubled.

"Are you still upset about the missing scout? You're so funny, my emperor, having such concern for one kobold."

"Not just any scout, Jaraesi, and besides; if we do not show each kobold their due respect..."

"I know, I know; each kobold will never grow to greatness," she continued his phrase, "as each is as a sapling to the exemplar's tree, and each tree to a dragon's forest. Even so, you can't save every kobold, my sweet, lest you coddle them all into never putting themselves at risk."

Firaegin grumbled, detesting that she was correct. Still, to lose him...

Jaraesi grunted with effort as she stood, turning about and lowering herself, her head brushing against his groin.

"Perhaps I can assuage your worries? A little tenderness and a little force, as you so love to apply in all things, my emperor?" Her tongue danced across his genital slit and he purred deeply. His vast cock responded, slow and powerful just as she stated, and she giggled as it pushed against her, making her slide against the coins beneath them; that such a sensitive thing could overpower her whole body always impressed her and he wasn't even fully erect as she began to suckle on his tip, tongue lapping hungrily at the twenty foot long, deep red shaft.

Firaegin brushed a hand over her body, and she shivered as his magic made her flexible. Far from just receiving such attention, though, Firaegin snaked his head beneath her tail and began lapping at her cloacal folds, making her purr in response. They shared their passions, Jaraesi growing excited as her body once more submitted to his enormity, her throat bulging as she took more of him into her, tongue raking against the sensitive protrusions even as Firaegin's own muzzle pushed deep into her, licking at her mating passage and smirking as she writhed in pleasure, her throaty gasp filling the lair.

He could feel her throat tense, squeezing him, making him shiver. She was going to make him cum before she would; a challenge to his authority! He could not abide such a thing and began licking deeper, wondering if he might accidentally caress her eggs as he swirled the thicker mass of his tongue around her most sensitive ridges, making her legs kick out as she convulsed, back arching from the overwhelming sensations.

Her clenching intensified, and he felt himself near his climax.

Then a screech in the distance. As his lusts grew, the ego found the sound an annoyance and ignored it, even as his mind swore it seemed familiar. He would finish indulging himself and his mate and perhaps investigate.

It was drawing nearer. He snarled and dug deeper, Jaraesi's muffled cries and the coldness of her inner form intensifying; it was at first unpleasant, but oddly gratifying as she lost control of her energy.

"MIGHTIEST FIRAEGIN!" The screeching was in his lair; this intrusion would be punished! He tasted Jaraesi's honey as she squeezed his length as hard as she could, a shared climax causing his tongue to briefly crackle with energy and his mate shivered as the electricity-enforced orgasm knocked her unconscious even as his seed gushed into her stomach, swelling her form even more.

Firaegin gently pulled her off of his length and more kobold voices, shouts of intrusion and rules broken, continued to build, but the emperor needed to make sure his mate was alright; her breathing kicked in with a violent cough as she settled into a more comfortable sleep.

Firaegin stood, snarling and turned to see a sight that cut his anger short. A scuffle of a few kobolds, which he tried to dissect.

The former master of Crater-Vale was most obvious; his kobold form that of a handsome and regal looking kobold, his long horns making him stand out alongside his sharp yellow eyes and vibrant scarlet scales, the once ancient drake now a young kobold in his prime. He had introduced himself as Kaja to Crater-Vale's denizens, but the colours and other hints at both his and Firaegin's former identities had forced the emperor to make a draconic order to ensure the clan's animosity against Karajan wouldn't bring him to harm.

Firaegin wished he wouldn't need to do this, but at least Kaja had found his place, even as he struggled and learned his new position as a 'mere kobold'. His intelligence and experience made him an obvious choice for underboss, a role he was having to learn a great deal to cover for his flaws. Firaegin still felt his heart flutter on seeing him, and they shared quiet talks when Jaraesi slept some evenings, keeping the flame lit between them. Firaegin was deeply glad that their old attraction had held fast, even if his ego had a clear preference to Jaraesi.

Kaja was pinning a yellow kobold that made Firaegin smile deeply with relief. Lalep, the missing scout, looking battered and a little bloody, with tears in his eyes. He had grown a little in mind and body since proving to Kugu that he was indeed skilled enough to join their number but still came woefully short of the average kobold in height yet far exceeding them in many other traits. He had been on patrols and mapping runs into the growing clan grounds and demonstrated he had found his place as well, even if he still struggled with his confidence. Without being able to speak to him as Figin, the emperor sadly had to hope that Lalep would flourish alone.

The scout, who had been missing for several days after vanishing from a patrol in a new tunnel that connected Crater-Vale with Hoar-Frost's grounds, was reaching to an unfamiliar and exotic kobold indeed. With pristine white scales and deep grey eyes, vacantly staring at the ceiling, the subject of Lalep's desperate reaching. A female both fetching in appearance and, as Firaegin began trying to sense her, filled with power far beyond her slight and slender form.

"Your Grace," Kaja grunted as Lalep struggled to free himself, "I fear Scout Lalep has lost his mind! Forgive the intrusion!"

"Please's, Mighties Firaegin! Helping's her! Help Vala!"

The end