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Leif couldn't believe his luck. On one of his walks to gather herbs from the forest, he stumbled across an old tunnel that bore deep below the earth. Though large for a kobold, the gold-scaled kobold knew his way around a burrow network. And what a network it was! The system winded and intersected for miles and miles but thankfully his sense of direction after many years of dungeon crawling gave him an upper hand. Whenever he became exhausted in the middle of an excursion, he reached out to his horns which more resembled antlers. He plucked one of the healing herbs that grew from them, grinded a quick herbal remedy and restarted the expedition. By the end of the week, Leif poked his head through an exit hole to find an old ruin lodged deep within a forgotten cavern.

Within his superior darkvision, Leif could see collapsed stone walls, crumbling architecture from times long gone, and the layout of what might once have been a courtyard. Attaching a rope to a sturdy rock inside the tunnel, the kobold rappelled down. His claws clicked against the stonework as he delved deeper inside. A part of him, mostly the craftsman, admired the make of this place. The courtyard forked outward into two paths. The left path led to a barracks filled with rusted weaponry and old, useless armor that looked like it would fit kobolds like himself or even dragonborn. Deeper down, he discovered a dead end with a collapsed ceiling making the rest of the corridor impassable. The right side led to a more residential area, bedrooms, a mess hall, but most importantly: the Throne Room.

To his shock as he entered, the majority of the throne remained intact and to his delight it appeared to be made of pure gold. Hands rubbing together, he walked down the ceremonial hall with gold coins in his eyes. If he could melt down this find, he could make enough talismans to last him through several winters. As he got closer, he caught sight of the various tapestries within this room, all surprisingly intact as well. All of them seemed to depict some sort of tall, red draconic figure which piqued his interest more. No dragonborn had sat on the throne in recorded history. To make things even more confusing, the same dragon was depicted in statuettes that lined the columns on either side of the red carpet leading up to the throne. The threads wove deeper as he reached the throne itself and caught sight of the painting which hung high on the back wall. Depicted in water colours without a single speck of dust was an impressive, triangle-framed dragonborn. His sclera were completely black, pupils shimmering with a blood red that seemed to project more life than a painting could reasonably render. His scales faded in and out between red and black, seeming to change according to what angle Leif viewed them from. It awed Leif for a moment how well this room held up under the many centuries between the present day and whenever a dragonborn king could have reigned. That awe quickly gave way to pragmatism as the kobold rubbed his hands together and licked his lips at the thought of his future funds. However long this jackpot had been down here, he already had several schemes to reap the spoils.

As he approached the throne, he noticed something on the armrest. An urn of cheap make, cracked and dusty, rested on the armrest of the throne as a blemish on the otherwise pristine time capsule of a room. Curiosity, as it so often did, spurred him to take a look. He hefted the urn into both hands, shaking the piece next to his ear tuft. He heard a slopping sound, like a thick honey. Wrinkling his nose, he lifted the lid, intrigued as to what would have survived this long.

Wow. That was simple.

Surging from the open urn, a river of red, viscous slop ran up his scaled arm. Before he could cry out, the kobold's face became slathered in the substance. Instantly his senses were overwhelmed with a flush of stale muck and the scent of mothballs. He let go of the urn and stumbled backwards, arms flailing. He turned around and hobbled forward while struggling to keep his nostrils and mouth from taking any of the miasma in. A rush of goop snuck beneath his loincloth and stuck between both his thighs. He felt the goo run down his calves and ankles. There was a pull, both his legs snapped together, and he crumpled to the ground. Muffled shouts escaped his muzzle as the substance claimed more and more of his body.

Relax. You're about to be beautiful.

His lungs screamed for air. In a last ditch effort to free himself, he reached up with his good arm to pry the sludge from his face. A new tidal wave of slime encased that hope as well as his arm within the goo before he got halfway there. The wet slime gained solidity for but a moment to yank his arms to his sides. He writhed against the furious pressure that built up against him all around, squeezing him from every angle, tempting him to draw another breath.

In the end his body surrendered. His jaw opened and he felt his breath inevitably leave his lungs. He awaited the pain and inevitable loss of consciousness as the substance rushed into his mouth. However, breath came easy. That didn't seem possible, but his continued consciousness proved the theory true. Leif's struggle went on, especially now that he could breathe. However, the onslaught of goo had no end, the thick sentient substance turning him horizontally so his back faced the floor. Then, he felt the cocoon wriggle towards the throne like a slug with him inside, hefting him onto the seat with little effort.

From his seated position, Leif could feel the goop begin to seep beneath his scales. As it did, a narcotic wooziness overtook him. He knew the effect of a sleep aid when he felt one, but this wave of fatigue was far more intense. He couldn't surrender however. He was a brave adventurer. He was strong. His power wasn't to be questioned.

Thoughts began to seep into his mind. Despite his dozy state, his mind began to race. Like the last bits of thought before sleep. Fortune smiled so well on him that day. He wouldn't--couldn't fall here no matter what. The Great Leif, undone by a pile of slime? No, he, a being from the blood of dragons would never fall so far. He wrenched his jaw open and he felt the goo on his muzzle solidify. A maniacal laughter rippled through the throne room. That's right. His fingers clenched into fists which he managed to split from the cocoon, the goop solidifying on his arms as well. His red scales flexed with power, heat from ancient draconic fire steaming off his body as his scales took in the essence of draconic royalty long past, his true ancestors. He spread his legs. Yes this castle was a good find indeed. He should make it his own. Raise it up from where it lay and fill this room with gold. Why should he debase himself for ungrateful customers for pittances of pocket change when he could revel in the riches of false Kings?

The substance blended, merged, and became a part of his eyes, turning his sclera black. His blue eyes became burning red coals as the King of Kobolds, Scaled folk and Dragonfolk alike settled into his throne. His body radiated magic. With a snap of his fingers, a wave of arcane influence spread from this buried castle, washing through town, beyond rivers, mountains, and over the lands beyond. The wave would impact every draconic descendent for miles and remind them of their inherent superiority. Remind them of their glorious ruler, King Leif.