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Whitewillow, the Scaled Courtesan ~ Part 4

Elwood Steam Factory's upper floor went largely unused. Only hatchlings and whelps could fit through these doorways, so clan Cracked Shell used the space to contain their rowdy young. This particular room appeared to have once been the executive office, judging from the size of the desk. The walls were pretty scorched, though not as bad as expected for a dragon playpen. Everything that could fit through the doorway had been removed, leaving the desk … which had been converted into a charming play cave marred by scratches and burn marks. In the empty floor space, a pile of blankets and furs were arranged in a shallow nest. Despite the rank musk and the occasional gnawed bone, it still wasn't the worst place Tristan had had sex.

Ugh, why is it that every time I get intimate with a dragon, it's somewhere dingy and dim? What I wouldn't give for some clean sheets and a crisp breeze …

Through the smudged window pane, Tristan could see the shrouded shapes of dragons nesting in the rafters, staring curiously back at him. He hurriedly grabbed the singed, moth-eaten curtains and closed them, causing plumes of dust to slough off and waft into the stale air. It was dark before the curtains were closed, but now Tristan struggled to see anything at all.

Matriarch T'sarrak went straight to the corner and opened the small iron furnace. She tossed in a few lumps of coal and hacked up a puff of dragonfire into it, illuminating the rusting interior. Soon enough, the furnace had a steady blaze crackling inside, and the room had just enough light for Tristan's eyes to adjust. As far as romantic atmosphere went, this would have to do.

T'sarrak licked a spot of soot off her snout with a sly grin on her face. She circled Tristan, sizing him up like prey. "Are you sure you want to be alone with me, two-legs?" She teased. "The last homn I was alone with, I ate – liver first!"

Tristan knew he must maintain eye contact with her, though her intimidating gaze made that difficult. He had to impress this dragon if he wanted any chance of walking out of here un-scathed. What would Whitewillow do? Probably say something charming and playfully sexy. Unfortunately, he didn't know many sexy words in dragonspeak …

"You can taste me all you want, wise matriarch, as long as you don't bite."

The elder Scalehawk snorted. "I shall bite if I wish, two-legs! You are in no position to negotiate." She lunged at Tristan, her jaws snapping shut with an audible click as he jumped back just in time.

Despite the broodmother's small size, this dragoness radiated a daunting presence twice as big as Whitewillow. Cracked Shell's matriarch amounted to wildborn royalty, of sorts. What was he to her, except a minor curiosity, a plaything to be used and discarded? Whitewillow was always so gentle and encouraging with him, but this goat-sized menace could take a pound of flesh without hesitation!

"Now take those silly clothes off! I want a look at your meat," T'sarrak growled, speaking in quite literal terms.

"No pressure, Tristan, no pressure at all," he muttered. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he loosened his collar and unbuttoned his leather vest. The elderly Scalehawk watched with minor curiosity as his shirt opened up, revealing a well-toned chest with a dusting of hair. His shirt had to be carefully removed to not reveal the revolver underneath. Carefully, he bundled the shirt around it and set it down on the desk with a thunk.

A broad smile crossed the broodmother's snout as she took in Tristan's strange body. "Tssk! Look at you, not a single scale to be found! How do you homn put up with looking like that all the time?"

With a metallic clink, Tristan unhooked his belt and dropped his trousers. "By wearing clothes, of course."

"And how do you put up with wearing clothes?"

Tristan laughed. "It's better than the alternative."

"You keep those things on even when alone!?"

"All the time, more or less."

Dragons of course took great pride in their nudity, and flaunted it on the premise that fine art should be put on display. Their complete and utter disregard for modesty made it necessary for the city to pass a law that made public sexual acts a finable offense. Even four years later, that law was still one of the most common bounties Tristan collected. So it was no surprise to him that Matriarch T'sarrak appeared baffled at the idea that a human might actually prefer hiding their genitals from others.

Off came Tristan's briefs. The Scalehawk squawked with disdain when she saw his manhood. "Is that floppy little sausage all you can muster? Dak muut fen muruu'u homn-riik!"

Tristan pursed his lips tight. He had always been a bit of a grower. "Oh, it gets bigger. Trust me."

"It better! Otherwise that morsel is better off filling my belly than my slit."

Tristan opened his mouth to reply, but he struggled to come up with a witty retort in dragonspeak. He finished stripping in silence.

T'sarrak studied him curiously, her crimson slit pupils narrowing in the firelight. "Do I scare you, two-legs?"

"I'm not scared of you, no. I just prefer to keep all my blood on the inside, where it belongs."

"Grn thaak morkaar-az! Allowing a homn to mate with me is an unprecedented honor. So do not waste my time with your tepidness, lest you leave this place without your sausage. Understand?" She stamped her paw, causing Tristan to flinch. "Do you understand?!"

Tristan closed his eyes and breathed out a calming exhale. Dragons thrived on flaunting their own superiority. But they also disdained weakness, which meant he couldn't cave to her bullying. He found that the best way to handle a dragon's threats was to not take them seriously. It's all just posturing and pomp, anyway. Remembering how Jenivive handled herself, he puffed his chest out, held his chin high, and looked the broodmother straight in the eye. "Yes, I understand. And I hope you understand that you're in for an experience no wildborn has tasted before."

T'sarrak chuffed with approval. "Chsh! That is better."

With a toss of her head, she spread her hind legs, raised her tail, and waited for him to make a move. "Go on. Sniff me, lick me, get me ready for mounting."

Tristan frowned. Is this what wildborn foreplay amounted to? He wasn't about to dip his head under this dragon's tail and go to town on her! Instead, he knelt beside her and placed hand between her wing shoulders. "You misunderstand, Kaarst Domuu. You expect me to claim you like a drake in season. But I am a human. And I won't pretend to act like I'm not."

"Zrrt?"

He ran his hand down her spine slowly, feeling the bumpy, wrinkly skin pass under his fingertips. The Scalehawk arched her spine a bit, unconciously leaning into the stroke. He ended at her tailbase, and pushed her raised tail down gently. "Lie down on your side for me, matriarch."

She growled. "I shall not!"

"Do you want an authentic lovemaking experience? Or do you want this to be no different from every other drake you've had under your tail?"

The ornery Scalehawk considered that for a moment. "I shall agree to this for now. But do not bore me with more nonsense." She grunted and hesitantly lowered herself down on the matted, musky furs, getting herself comfortable on her side.

Tristan settled down beside her and pet her slowly, with lingering fingers. T'sarrak's loose, wrinkled skin displayed a well-maintained coat of black scales, no doubt polished to perfection by the lesser members of her brood. Unlike Whitewillow's waxy, smooth scales that were meant to reduce drag while swimming, Concordian breeds had thicker, rougher armor with a tiny ridge that ran down the middle of each scale. Her coat of armor felt like polished pebbles of obsidian, rigid and warm to the touch. The matriarch had accumulated a hefty layer of fat underneath, from years of decadence. As a species that gorged themselves frequently, yet depended on flying to get around, many scholars theorized that dragons were genetically resistant to weight gain. T'sarrak wasn't fat by human standards, but she was definitely more plump than the average skyscale.

"What are you doing?" snapped T'sarrak, her tail twitching with uncertainty.

"Getting to know your body. Here–" He grabbed her forefeet and guided them to his chest. "Feel me. Explore me. But be gentle with your claws: my skin is delicate."

Whitewillow kept her claws dull, but the wildborn kept their razor sharp for hunting. Tristan simply had to trust that Matriarch T'sarrak would behave herself. If a single claw grazed him, he'd stop. And he'd tell her to stop, too, before she drew blood. As the saying goes, give a dragon a nibble and they'll take the whole steak.

The Scalehawk explored Tristan's chest and sides, her movements stiff and uncertain. Dragons preferred to explore with their noses and tongues, not their feet. She pulled back her lips in a snarl, exposing her yellowed teeth. "I can't help but wonder, two-legs, if you are simply stalling."

"Give it time. Foreplay is essential."

"Hrrm. Curious little bumps…" She dragged a single claw across his nipple.

"Ow!" He grabbed her forefoot and yanked it away. "I said easy on the claws! Those 'bumps' are sensitive."

The matriarch flitted out her forked tongue with a smile as she wrenched her wrist away from his grip. "Just testing your limits, homn."

Tristan's hand moved down to the dragon's haunches, cupping them and giving her meaty thigh a squeeze. "Please take this seriously, gracious broodmother. Don't tell me that in all your years, you've never taken time to explore the body of your mate." He traced his hand up the curve of her rump, admiring how her layer of fat added a pleasing squishiness to the broodmother's haunches. He could feel her abdominals working to maintain her posture, tensing underneath her smooth belly scutes. The warmth radiating off her was astounding: a dragon's body temperature could surpass 40 degrees centigrade!

"Tssk! If I wanted to cuddle, I would go back to my roost," T'sarrak rumbled. "A proper drake would have his tongue deep in my slit already!"

"I'm not a proper drake," Tristan reminded her, annoyed.

His hand moved up her scaled flank, stroking his fingers over her wing shoulders. Unique among dragons, the membrane of Scalehawk's wings stretched from their flanks all the way down to their tails, like bats. Tristan had always been fascinated by their anatomy: this superior wing surface area allowed them to remain aloft for hours by surfing thermals, earning them the nickname "kite dragons". Back when he was a boy, he remembered traveling with his parents to the township of Hanover, for his aunt's wedding. He spent much of the reception watching the kite dragons soaring high over the farmland.

Even though he had done this before with Whitewillow, this moment still felt surreal to Tristan. Being able to explore such a magnificent creature so intimately sent a rush through him. Any dragon that allowed him to touch her body without imminent death was a moment to savor! His fingers moved to explore her leathery patagium. "Did you know that your wings are a genetic marvel? The strength-to-weight ratio of dragon bones–"

"Touch them not!" T'sarrak nipped at his hand with a terse growl.

"Ow, no biting!" He inspected the bite marks for blood, finding some. "I have no intention of hurting you, Kaarst Domuu."

Her lips pulled back in a toothy smirk. "Riss, your weak little hands could never hurt my wings! It is the act itself that I dislike." She spread and beat her wings to show them off, blasting Tristan with gusts of warm air. "These beauties are for viewing only. Understand?"

Tristan set his teeth and forced himself to bow his head in acknowledgement. The Scalehawk's black wings had the same texture as the rest of her scales, save for the membrane. This patagium gleamed a soft charcoal gray, networked with dark blood vessels and coated in a healthy oily sheen that reflected the firelight. A lifetime of scars and bullet holes marred the membrane. A similar such wound on her haunch had healed poorly and was a discolored circle of scar tissue that failed to regrow any scales.

"How did you get these scars?" Tristan asked, continuing to pet her.

T'sarrak's claws dug into his sides. "How do you think, two-legs? I was shot at."

"Mind your claws! And entertain my interest for a moment, please."

The Scalehawk snorted. "It happened during the Kuurma Tolth. I was only a whelp at the time, ignorant of the viciousness and power of homn thundersticks." She paused. "Do you want to hear this story, or do you want to mate?"

"Both, actually." Curious, Tristan sat up. He wasn't sure he heard her right - Wildborn enunciation tended to mix their words with growls and snarls - but the low inflection her forked tongue placed on Kuurma Tolth indicated great reverence. "What's this 'Great Delving' you mentioned?"

"Ignorant pomf!" She kicked him in the stomach with a hind leg, causing him to gasp in pain as his breath got stolen from him. "You already test my patience, now you insult my clan. Are you not supposed to have your homn way with me? Get on with it!"

"My most sincere apologies, gracious matriarch," he growled through clenched teeth.

He reached out to the Scalehawk's head, where he began to scratch behind her horns. His other hand massaged the top of her snout and under her chin, where dragons typically nuzzle when they greet each other.

Broodmother T'sarrak let out a quiet growl and kicked a hind leg in the air. "Rrrr … that is better."

T'sarrak leaned into his touch, pressing her muzzle against his arm. After enjoying this touch for a moment, she slid her snout down to his chest. Tristan felt the little bumps of each individual cheek scale.

"That's it, matriarch. We humans touch and caress, just like that."

Snorting, T'sarrak explored the odd sensation of chest hair on her snout. She nuzzled up and down Tristan's torso, taking in the strange mixture of tactile sensations and smells. "Hrrmf. You homn certainly smell better when you're alive." She lapped his perspiration with a stroke of her forked tongue. "And you taste salty. Mmm." The tip of her snout found Tristan's face, where she flicked out her tongue experimentally.

Tristan chuckled as the forked tongue tickled him. "That's my sweat. It's warm in here."

She licked her chops with her forked tongue. "I like it. Sweaty homn smells good, tastes good." Her snout moved down to his neck, sniffing and licking. "I wonder, if I bit your neck here –" she pressed her snout into his throat – "how long would it take for you to bleed out?" Her forked tongue pressed against the jugular vein. "Grn-tuuh, I am tempted to find out." Tristan tensed up as he felt her yellowed fangs rasp against his flesh.

"Easy, easy ..." Tristan's hands tightened around her, ready to push her back.

The matriarch chuffed laughter. "Your pulse just quickened. Mmm." She licked his cheek, drawing a slow, teasing circle around his ear. "Such a fragile creature, yet within it lies the courage to mate with a draa." She blew a hot, humid breath across his neck, causing Tristan's skin to prickle. "You are brave for a homn. You must be aware that draa are renowned for our burning passion." She snorted smoke in his face. The acrid exhale swirled out of her nostrils and up into his.

Wildborn typically considered figurative language to be pretentious and annoying, so the pun surprised Tristan. "I consider myself braver than most," he retorted, coughing up her smoke.

"You understand that I could kill you right here, and there would be no consequence, yes?" Her claws clutched him closer. He felt hot breath on his skin: a slow, growling exhale. "You are at my mercy, two-legs. Every second you remain alive is a testament to my grace."

All pomp and posturing, Tristan reminded himself. He forced a cocky smile."If you draw one more drop of blood, I'll pull out mid-fuck."

T'sarrak churred with amusement, wiggling on the bedding. "Rrr … my brood is too timid to stand up to me, even when I mate. But you – a frail homn – threaten to stop pleasuring me during mating? I admit, two-legs: at first you had my curiosity, but now you have my attention."

Tristan smirked. "I'll have more than that, when I'm done with you."

She snapped her teeth at his cheekiness. "Do not push your luck."

The Scalehawk's claws trailed down Tristan's body, her touches growing more enthusiastic. Excitement began to bubble underneath her scales, though she'd never admit it. But the tailtip wrapping around Tristan's ankle gave it away. Tristan guided her front feet carefully down between his legs. "Go on, explore. But mind your claws down here."

Playing nice for now, Broodmother T'sarrak wrapped her gnarled, sinewy toes around the flaccid shaft. "Mekk'u rrin, it is so … so soft!"

"Go lower, play with the sac if you want. But whatever you do, don't squeeze the balls!"

Tristan watched the Scalehawk run her dark claws through his pubic hair. She seemed to find the sensation amusing. Her other foot reached further down to cup his sac. Tristan tensed up as he felt the sharp points of the dragon's talons close around his scrotum like long fangs. "Your gn'thuu are inside. So precious, so vulnerable. Tssk. A fatal flaw in mammal design."

Tristan could only assume that gn'thuu was the dragonspeak word for testes. "Just think of it as another fun thing to touch and play with."

As her leathery toes closed their grip, his scrotum immediately tightened. "Ra'ak! It shrunk!"

"Yeah, it does that sometimes. Keep going and you'll get me erect."

"Gn'thum rinz-gu." She snorted.

The broodmother didn't seem impressed with his strange anatomy. Her bulbous toepads fondled his wrinkled scrotum a little longer before getting bored and returning to his penis. She stroked Tristan's length with her clawed feet, dragging her tough soles up and down his shaft. "Always thought it strange that you homn have this sausage flopping about at all times."

"And you wonder why we wear clothes," he said, chuckling.

"Tssk! If I was cursed with a floppy sausage between my hind legs, I would wear clothes too!"

Tristan couldn't argue with her. Dragons had internal genitals, and even most mammals had a protective sheath to keep their bits safe: humans were definitely the weird ones, all things considered. He squirmed, keeping an eye on her claws as the matriarch kneaded his dick like a baker working dough. Despite her constant antagonizing, the little dragon seemed interested in helping him grow hard. He continued to squeeze her scaly butt, admiring the squish it had.

"How big does it get?"

"Keep going and you'll find out."

The dragoness growled eagerly in response. The matriarch's sharp talons danced along the contours of Tristan's limp rod, toying with him. Slowly but surely, it began to stiffen in her claws. This seemed to excite the Scalehawk, who smiled toothily as the inches grew in her paws. "Rreh!" She crooned, feeling it expand between her toes. "I feel it getting harder!"

"Grip the skin gently and pull it up and down."

Doing so, T'sarrak sat up and stared closely at his growing erection, watching his glans slip in and out of his foreskin with a mixture of fascination and disgust. "Your sausage ends in a mushroom! Now I am hungry ..."

Before the dragon got any ideas on putting her teeth down there, Tristan decided to distract her. "Spread your legs for me, Kaarst Domuu."

T'sarrak eagerly kicked a hind leg in the air. "You better not disappoint."

His hand traveled down the Scakehawk's belly, searching by touch for the cleft between her dusky scales. Down between her hind legs, where the scutes were softer and more pliable, like leather. Right now, T'sarrak's slit lay flush and flat against her groin, but he knew it could swell outward from increased circulation when aroused. He wiggled two fingers between the scaled cleft, feeling the point where smooth scales gave way to an intense warmth. Going no further, he explored higher instead, searching by touch for the dragon's internal horn-shaped clitoris. He found the nub nestled safely within its hood and began a slow massage.

The Scalehawk tensed her hind legs up and growled with approval. He felt her claws tighten up around his manhood. "Rrr ... so you do know how to use your hands! Raath-mal azh."

The Scalehawk's inexperienced strokes lacked finesse and focus. Yet with time, her awkward groping coaxed his manhood to an engorged state. Tristan could see her ruby eyes gleam with fascination, reflecting the glow of the furnace in the darkness. She laughed in triumph, clearly impressed with herself for getting him hard. In truth, her attempts felt more like a mediocre handjob, but Tristan was determined not to say anything but encouragement.

"Keep going. You can squeeze it harder than that."

She snorted. "Do homn really mate with their hands like this?"

"We usually do. At least until the female is wet enough."

The feisty little dragoness ground her groin into his hand. "I am not wet enough!" She growled, bucking into his touch. "So hurry up, youngling."

"Have patience, Kaarst Domuu." Tristan said, petting her.

They shared a moment in silence, each taking a moment to familiarize themselves with each other's anatomical quirks – her horn-shaped clit, his strange pubic hair, the intense heat of her slit, the mushroom-shaped glans of his dick. After a few more minutes of mutual masturbation, the matriarch pulled away her talons with a grumpy grunt, stretching the old joints wearily. "How can you homn stand performing this hand-mating for so long? Do you not use your mouths like draa?"

"Sometimes we do, yes. But–"

"Good." Without further explanation, T'sarrak curled her neck down between her and Tristan's stomach.

"Wait wait wai–"

He gasped as the wet lash of her forked tongue wrapped around his manhood like a snake. The heat from the dragon's breath radiated like a furnace. T'sarrak took a long, slow lap at his rigid length, coating it with a generous layer of dragon saliva. Her tongue curled around the ridge of his glans and left it glistening. Slowly the wriggling organ retreated back into her maw, and the dragon smacked her lips. The matriarch shivered, causing her wings to flutter. "Grn dhuum maak'u, this meat has been salted! And the smell–!"

The dragoness immediately buried her snout in Tristan's pubic hair and took a series of deep inhales, each ending with a growl. She had already sniffed him earlier, of course, but now that her nostrils were buried in the source, she could fully appreciate the cornucopia of masculine smells. "What is this scent, this strange scent?" T'sarrak seemed mesmerized, unable to resist the aroma. "It is different from draa-riik, yes ... but somehow, more savory ... mmm."

Tristan had to laugh. No wonder that Whitewillow always treated his musk as a bouquet of flowers. He had always assumed that quirk was some sort of unique kink to her, but it made more sense if her reaction had a biological origin. He knew of course that dragons have sensitive noses – over a thousand times sharper than a human's. But as to what the dragon smelled in him, only she knew.

The feisty dragoness plunged her snout in between his thighs and huffed in time with her growls. Her large nostrils flared with each desperate sniff, while her forked tongue explored his pubes with genuine interest. Gradually, the matriarch curled further down, showing off that impressive dragon flexibility that not even age could diminish.

Tristan gasped when he felt the heat of her mouth on his tip.

"Careful, careful! No teeth!" he yelped.

His hands shot down to her cheeks and he gripped her as the heat initially proved to be too much. But it was too late to stop the matriarch. Within moments she had taken him down to the root. The Scalehawk's black snout nosed around his crotch, the hairs ticking her nostrils as she huffed and growled and slurped. Scaly toes pawed at his hips. The broodmother's muzzle was smaller than Whitewillow's, and her maw much tighter – but her long, sinuous tongue coiled around his dick in the exact same manner. Tristan felt glad that she had warmed up to him, as he had no choice but to trust her now.

While T'sarrak explored with her mouth, Tristan continued to polish that pleasure horn of hers. He felt it throb against his fingers, gradually coming out of her cave – as Whitewillow had put it. As the horn swelled larger and harder, heat began to radiate from her slit, which puffed outward and blushed with increased bloodflow. His fingers slipped deeper in and her egg-laying muscles constricted, pulling at his digits in waves. Soon they were up to the knuckle in dragon pussy! Already blazing hot and silky smooth inside, like a tunnel of lava.

"Gods," Tristan hissed, thrusting his hips into her snout. T'sarrak only responded with a muffled churr as her tongue squeezed him tightly. Her wing wrapped around his shoulder and clenched with its taloned thumb. Dragon drool ran down her chin in thick strands, wetting his sac. It was all so sudden that Tristan struggled to catch his breath, but eventually, the shock of the heat abated. The Scalehawk's lips closed around him as tight as they could. Soon, her molten drool dribbled down his balls.

It wasn't long before Tristan throbbed and released a spurt of savory pre-cum onto the dragon's coiling tongue. T'sarrak froze for a moment, contemplating this new flavor with a lusty growl. She swallowed and began to suckle hard, trying to draw more out of him. Tristan clenched his inner groin muscles, trying to oblige her. When she could suck out no more, the dragon lifted her head. Tristan jerked back quickly to avoid being stuck under the chin by her horns.

The matriarch seemed giddy with delight. "Never imagined your taste would tickle my tongue so. You homn are full of surprises." She licked the lingering juices off her lips, her crimson eyes locked on the source of the taste. "More," demanded the broodmother, smacking her lips.

"Eager, aren't we?" he chuckled, continuing to finger her. "You feel ready for penetration. Roll on your back for me, would you?"

The matriarch bared her fangs and hissed. "Ssissith-naar! I shall tell you when I am ready, two-legs! Do not forget who you're speaking to. I said I want more of your taste, so you will give it!" T'sarrak dug her dagger-like claws into Tristan's cock, causing him to wince.

The dragoness had returned to intimidation tactics again, to establish dominance. All pomp and posturing, again. He would have to play this game if he wanted to earn any respect from her.

Most of the Guild's tomes focused on the subject of killing dragons, but a few were dedicated to behavioral research, including one invaluable book on how to talk to dragons. Not just in the sense of speaking their language, but conversing like they do. Before the days of the dragon crusades, some renowned Dracologist (Tristan was always terrible with names) published this handy book on how to earn a dragon's respect, and a copy of it ended up in the stack of archives that no guildmate ever touched. The author argued that dragons were fundamentally bullies who preyed on weakness. To gain a dragon's respect, one must project strength when conversing with them. Push back, but not too hard or they'll see it as a challenge. Deflect, don't escalate. And always show respect back. That's how he'd deal with T'sarrak.

Of course, Tristan thought, only I can be moments away from sex and all I can think about is dragon research ...

Tristan's mind raced for something to distract her. "Do you want me to finish in your mouth, or your slit? You have to choose one, because I will exhaust you before I can give you both."

The matriarch's eyes widened, and for a moment her breath hitched in her chest. Tristan smirked. For a dragon this old, her stamina likely wasn't what it once was. Of course, she'd never admit that out of pride!

"The slit! Inside my slit!" She snapped at him. "If you are to mate with me, it better be a proper seeding."

"Then if you could roll onto your back, gracious broodmother, I shall satisfy."

T'sarrak's tailtip thrashed excitedly, and her hindfeet kicked in the air. That's how Tristan knew he had said the right words. Her claws dug into his side, her wing thumb gripping his shoulder hard enough to hurt. As she growled eagerly into his ear, her black throat vibrated. "Rrrr ... yes. Do as I command: lay atop me and show me how homn mate."

He tried not to roll his eyes – did she forget this whole "human mating practice" was his idea? But as long as the matriarch played nice, he'd go along with it. "As you wish, Kaarst Domuu."

The broodmother rumbled in approval at his words. Tristan pulled his fingers out of her clutching vent, and with it came the unmistakably heady, spicy odor of aroused dragoness. Even though he knew what to expect this time, he was struck by how pungent T'sarrak smelled compared to Whitewillow. All this time, he had been taking the scaled courtesan's hygiene for granted!

Eugh … I'm never going to get used to that smell, am I? Tristan shook the thought out of his head. Now was no time to hesitate!

The Scalehawk rolled onto her back and splayed her hind legs wide, showing off her cute, pudgy belly and the plump slit that lay underneath it. In the warm glow of the furnace, T'sarrak's impeccably-oiled scutes gleamed like cut slabs of shale. The dragon's entrance appeared visibly swollen, with the pink, pointy tip of her clitoris sticking out of the cleft in dusky scutes. She wiggled on her back a bit, flexing her wings and grunting in exertion to get in the comfiest position. Tristan climbed over her, coming nose-to-snout with the red-eyed Scalehawk. He studied those vibrant, crimson slit-pupil eyes that had wizened with age. Her humid panting washed over his face – the smell of cow liver was strong on her breath, which fogged his round glasses.

The dragon growled in approval as she felt Tristan guide the tip of his drool-covered erection to that yielding tunnel under her pleasure horn. He stirred his tip around the entrance a bit, teasing her while he tried to acclimate himself to the intensity of a dragon's internal body heat. Tristan could feel her breath quicken, and her forelegs curled tight against her chest.

"Mmm. I do not get many opportunities to take a me-sized mate. Some of my brood have riik as long as my tail. In my youth, I would enjoy trying to take as much of their length as I could. But now? Tssk! It is a hassle, and I always ache afterwards. Yes, a small riik such as yours will be a nice change of pace."

Tristan once again resisted the urge to yell "I'm not small for a human!"

He placed his free hand on the floor for balance as he slid in slowly, bracing himself for the fiery depths. Once he felt himself part her slit, he slowly pushed inward, letting her silken, muscular walls wrap around his shaft. The matriarch felt dripping wet down there, her slit greedily accepting his entire length with ease. And she felt so ... so hot!

Tristan hissed with pleasure as that wonderful inferno swallowed every inch of his penis. Soon his groin was flush against T'sarrak's cloven slit. Her scales pressed firmly against skin. When the matriarch felt him bottom out, she pulled on him with her internal muscles to try and get him even deeper. Tristan swore as the muscles tugged in waves, like the pulling of a strong tide out to sea. T'sarrak's teeth parted in a slithering smile, exposing the yellowed daggers inside her maw. "Is that truly all you can reach? Weh!"

"Oh, shush," he chided.

"You dare shush me, two-legs?!" she snarled at him.

"Shush please, revered Broodmother," he tried again, this time with the proper draconic platitudes. "Don't talk. Just hold on and look into my eyes."

"And? Do what?"

"And do nothing. Just enjoy the closeness, the intimacy, the novelty of having a human inside of you."

The Scalehawk huffed with disdain but didn't argue.

His first thrust was slow, explorative. Just to familiarize himself with the muscular, scalding hot tunnel so snugly wrapped around his dick. He savored the way those powerful muscles clenched and relaxed, rippling around him like a hungry serpent. It felt even more intense due to T'sarrak's smaller size: she happened to be much tighter than Whitewillow, and Tristan struggled to pull out without the matriarch's egg-laying muscles dragging him back in.

T'sarrak looked away, resting the side of her head against the floor. "Do you expect me to stare into your eyes the whole time we mate? Rra'gashi tuul."

"Does that make you uncomfortable, matriarch?" he asked, petting her.

Her eyes reluctantly darted back to his."Grn voss! Riss, I ... I am not used to mating face-to-face."

Tristan put a hand to her black snout and guided it upward so that it pointed directly at him. Her gnarled horns hit the padded ground with two dull thunks. "You'll get used to it. Now shush."

For the moment, T'sarrak remained quiet. She was as still as a statue at first. But as Tristan continued his slow thrusts, her muscles relaxed: first her forelegs, then the hind legs and the tail. Her claws loosened their grip on his skin, and her wings spread out limply along the bedding of blankets and furs. T'sarrak's mouth slowly opened in a quiet pant, her eyelids narrowing as she processed the slow, rhythmic thrusts of a human.

Tristan paused briefly to wipe the sweat from his brow. T'sarrak's body heat combined with the coal furnace turned this office into a sauna. A glint caught his eye when he lifted his head, and he looked across the room. An inch of exposed window lay between the moth-eaten curtains, and he caught the pale blue-green glow of a dragon's reflective retina in the darkness.

"Someone's watching us!" he griped, pausing his thrusts.

"Let them watch," the matriarch growled. Her long talons grasped by the jaw and forced Tristan to look back in her direction. "This is just getting good! Do not turn timid on me now."

His eyes flashed back to the window, but the eye had disappeared. Tristan scowled. Of course, dragons had no respect for privacy when it came to sex! He tried to not let it bother him, but he couldn't help but feel a twinge of annoyance.

T'sarrak snapped her jaws at him to get his attention. "Gnash-grn! Are these tepid thrusts all you homn are capable of?"

Again with the antagonizing! Deflect, don't escalate, he reminded himself. "We humans start slow." Forcing the peeping dragon out of his mind, Tristan found his rhythm and began to rock back and forth, grinding his pelvis against her scutes on every thrust. "Meet my gaze and breathe with me."

"You homn have odd mating practices."

"Shhh."

Tristan studied the dragon's face as she stared back at him, watching her red eyes dart around. Being this close to a dragon's face, one could see all the individual scales that covered their snout. Each and every scale had subtle ridges in it that were accentuated by the shadowy firelight. Her mouth opened slightly, showing a hint of yellowed fang and forked tongue. Warm breath washed over Tristan's face in hot gusts. She huffed and growled under her breath as Tristan contended with her powerful muscles pulling on his throbbing rod. His glasses fogged up completely now, requiring him to peer over the top of the lenses. He wanted to see every minute expression that crossed over her snout, and gauge her reaction when he angled his thrusts differently.

Gods, she's so hot inside, Tristan thought. It's like making love to a volcano!

T'sarrak began wiggling her scaled haunches, meeting his slow thrusts. Her crimson eyes studied his face in intense silence, with the only noise being the crackling of the furnace in the corner. Tristan leaned in closer, his face barely inches away from the broodmother's snout.

"There we go. Concentrate on the way it feels when I'm inside you."

The dragoness said nothing, not even a snarky comment. She remained completely still, taking in his scent as it wafted off his face. The slow and gentle pace of Tristan's lovemaking had seemingly entranced the dragoness.

"Good, good. Think of nothing but you and me, together. Savor my smell, my warmth."

T'sarrak's nostrils flared, her breaths quick and shallow, her eyes unfocusing. She appeared to be concentrating on the sensation deep inside her vent. A sensation so different that no dragon could replicate! Tristan had seen enough randy drakes to know that their penises ended in a pointed, diamond-shaped tip. He could only guess how a human's dick felt to her. Probably quite strange in comparison! But also exciting and novel, hopefully.

Of course, no human lovemaking experience would be complete without some proper pillow talk. Again his thoughts turned to Whitewillow. What sort of things would she say? He wasn't sure what a dragon's preferred platitudes were, but being called beautiful seemed like a safe bet.

"You're so beautiful, Kaarst Domuu," he murmured, kissing her on the snout. "Your ebony scales, your striking red eyes ... perfection in dragon form. I am honored to mate with such a majestic matriarch." His voice low and tender, a mere whisper as to not break the spell.

Judging from the Scalehawk's eager growl, flattery was the way to a dragon's heart."Raak-thurn rii, homn. Such honeyed words tickle me." T'sarrak's eyes became fixated on Tristan's own, and her lipless mouth hung open, panting softly.

Tristan felt that he was getting the hang of this! "Shhh. Say nothing, just relax." Words jumped into his mind seemingly on their own. "A respected clan matriarch such as you deserves this. Not just pleasure, but adoration, respect, worship. l can give you all that and more. A dragon as beautiful as you should be cherished like treasure."

A quiver in the Scalehawk's vent betrayed her excitement. The dragoness shifted and grunted, grinding her pleasure horn into his pubic hair. The sounds of her pleasured grrunts steadily grew louder. Her lips stretched back as she panted. Tristan saw her forked tongue dart out and wiggle as though trying to taste the air.

"That's it. Concentrate on you and me, sharing bodies, sharing heat."

He thrust extra deep inside her molten vent, eliciting a low churr from the matriarch's chest. Something had come over him – he couldn't quite explain it, but it felt as if he suddenly knew exactly how to appeal to the broodmother's sense of draconic pride.

"Do I please you, Kaarst Domuu? Because I intend to stay like this for a while. Inside of you, pleasuring you, satisfying you. All night."

The dragon's crimson eyes shot wide open. A growl escaped her lips as a sudden climax caught her off-guard, causing her vent to clamp down around him.

"Dhak-haak! Rrrak-ti!"

Her legs twitched in the air, her tail thumping between Tristan's legs. He felt the dragon's egg-laying muscles rippling around his shaft in powerful, continuous waves. It was over as suddenly as it begun, leaving her panting with a bewildered look in her eyes. Tristan couldn't help but laugh: this little dragon looked as shocked as a maiden after her first bedding!.

"Mekk-grn," she muttered, her red eyes wide with astonishment. Her wings curled up tight against her sides. "You ... you gave me tirimuus without even so much as a love bite. How?" she demanded.

Tristan was learning a lot of new dragonspeak words today! He planted kisses down the side of the dragon's snout. "There's more tirimuus where that came from. Relax and hold on."

He resumed his thrusts, picking up pace. T'sarrak shuddered underneath him. Tristan could feel the dragon's tail swishing between his thighs. Her taloned toes clenched, her claws digging into his shoulders. Her wings reached up and wrapped around him like a leathery cocoon. In this way she drew him closer, close enough that they could press their faces together. Tristan felt her soft, leathery cheek rubbing against his. His stubble tickled her scales, and T'sarrak churred with approval as her senses were stimulated.

A part of Tristan couldn't believe this was working! Minutes ago, he had to contend with the dragon's sharp tongue and even sharper talons. But now the sassy matriarch had dropped her guard. How incredible was this, to see how different wildborn acted once you got past their projection of arrogance. T'sarrak's transformation only reinforced Tristan's belief that once you got to know a dragon, they could be quite lovely creatures.

He wondered if the matriarch had undergone too many years of being serviced by subservient broodmates, with not enough genuine desire behind it. Dragons mated freely between species, but they also took great pride in their bloodline and smashed any hybrid eggs. Given the lack of other Scalehawks around – hatchling or adult – it had likely been some time since T'sarrak had mated for love. Perhaps she had forgotten what physical romance felt like, Tristan thought. If that were the case, he was happy to remind her.

He began to thrust faster, listening to the matriarch's pleased churrs and growls. Her body rocked with his, the heat building between them. His sweaty skin glided across the smooth dusky scutes of her belly. Their coupling soon became noisy, with each impact of skin against scale filling the office room. T'sarrak's enveloping wings gripped at him with rapture. The dragon's conical clitoris stiffened further, like a pointy pillar. Tristan pecked her on the snout once. Twice. And a third time, moving down to the tip of her nose.

"Kiss me, as a human would."

"Tssk!" She grimaced in disdain, but pressed her scaled lips to his anyway. Immediately, her forked tongue entered his mouth, sliding across Tristan's palate and along his molars. He was more prepared for the tongue this time – after his experiences with Whitewillow – and reciprocated the best that a human could. The Scalehawk explored his mouth with genuine curiosity. She tasted his saliva, nibbled on his lips, and flicked her tongue against his own. Her taste, however, was less appealing: the flavor or raw liver spread across his tongue, mixed with the ashy, sour flavor of her saliva. Nevertheless, Tristan dove right back in for more.

The Scalehawk's eager kissing surprised Tristan, and he felt it brushing off on him. He slammed his manhood deep inside her, giving the dragon a hard pounding. T'sarrak broke away from their kiss and as her wings clutched at his back. She clasped him tight, pressing her snout up against his throat.

"Mmm ... rrrr ..." she groaned into his skin, the vibrations tickling him. "Yesss …" The wildborn's tongue lapped at his sweat, her teeth nipping playfully.

It didn't take long for the dragoness to reach another climax. This one started slow, as her claws dug into his skin. The dragon's hind legs spread wider, and her tongue's strokes became more urgent. The claws of her wings twitched and her pupils dilated. "Rrrr ..." the broodmother groaned, "I think ... I think I am –" She reared back, horns pressed against the floor to expose her wrinkled neck. "Bite me!"

"You can't be serious!"

"Bite now, you stupid homn!"

Tristan didn't hesitate. He bent down and sunk his teeth into the underside of T'sarrak's neck – just below the jaws, where the scaly skin was stretchy and supple. He had seen drakes bite there while claiming their mates: the area must be an erogenous zone, he reasoned. As his teeth gripped the dusky scales, he pulled back, causing the skin to stretch.

"Rraa-aa-aak!"

The matriarch's scaly body sized beneath him. Tristan felt her vent clamp down on him like a squeezing python. She roared into the bedding, her wings flapping around him and chilling his sweaty skin with gusts of air. Her thick tail thrashed between his legs, the tip coiling around his ankle and squeezing as if it had a mind of its own. Tristan stopped thrusting as the quivering of the dragon's vent became too much to handle. Instead, he held onto her neck with his teeth and let the dragoness work his manhood with her sympathetic clenches. Her pleasure-horn ground into his pubic hair – he felt the pointy thing throbbing against the base of his manhood. Tristan gasped as the dragon's claws pierced his skin and raked trails of blood across his back.

"No claws!" he yelped, letting go of the mouthful of dragon skin.

But the matriarch was too far gone to pay him heed. Only after the Scalehawk's climax died down, so did her grip of his back.

"You clawed me!"

"Tssk, not my fault … you homn have skin like birch!"

Tristan scowled. He knew he wouldn't get an apology out of her. But neither would he follow through on his threat to pull out. "Be careful!" he warned, and dared to resume thrusting. Despite her muscles being exhausted for the time being, he quickly picked up the pace and pounded her mercilessly.

T'sarrak squawked in surprise, her wings gripping him tight. "Wait, you insolent thing!" She tried pushing him off with her wings. "I must rest for a moment! Dhak, dhak!"

He paused, briefly. "But I'm just getting started, Matriarch."

The dragon's slit-pupil eyes opened wide. "Zrrt!?"

"I'm not even close to finishing. So, I'm afraid you won't get to rest yet. Hold on tight." Tristan grabbed one of her taloned forefeet and helped the broodmother's claws hook onto his waist. Her other foot soon followed, and soon the dragoness was hugging him. She stared up at him in a mixture of awe and wonderment.

"Grn-dwamaak! The gnaar-fell was not lying: you homn do last forever!" She smiled a mouthful of gleaming, yellowed fangs. The dragon made cute little grunts on every thrust. "Ng. Rrf. Ng. Grz ..."

"Do you think you can keep up, Karrst Domuu?" He thrust deep and grinded against her, feeling the dragon's throbbing pleasure horn poke his groin.

T'sarrak rested her snout against the bedding. Her forked tongue lolled out the side of her mouth. She took steady, measured breaths as her talons flexed against his shoulder. "Ra-ak! I ... I think I can keep up, but – ohh, ghr-nirr dos rii ut fekk..."

Minutes passed. Sweet-nothings were whispered. Scales rubbed against flesh, and claws dug into skin. Tristan grunted as the Scalehawk's vent tightened up around him once more. Another climax. And so soon! This was a dragoness who clearly hadn't been pleasured so thoroughly in a while. Tristan grinned, enjoying this unexpected role of stud-service provider. Was this what Whitewillow felt like when she doted on him? He buried his nose in T'sarrak's scaled neck and nipped her again, causing her juices to flow out of her and onto his balls.

In a brief moment of clarity, Tristan tried not to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. If Whitewillow had told him this morning that today he would be biting the neck of Cracked Shell's matriarch like a drake in mating season, he would have laughed in her face.

The matriarch's tail felt up his calf, ticking his leg hairs. Her wings unfurled and grasped at the air. Her vent was still a furnace of molten heat, but her insides felt slicker and more accommodating, welcoming him inside on every thrust. He focused on plowing her deep and hard, each thrust sending a ripple through the broodmother's plump body.

Tristan focused hard, trying to ignore the rising discomfort from her body heat. He sweated continuously, the perspiration running down his back and stinging his claw wounds. T'sarrak's forefeet continued to clutch him with possessiveness. Tristan had to peel off his glasses, which had fogged up beyond use. He set them on the bedding before returning to his task. The matriarch was reduced to a drooling, panting mess as another orgasm struck. Her toes flexed against Tristan's shoulder blades, her forepaws digging into his back once more.

"For the last time, stop scratching me!" He paused to pry her talons off his skin.

The dragon's eyes rolled up in her head. She fell back limp against the bedding, her limbs falling limp as her mind gave into the bliss. "Rraak thuum-mal! If you do not ... finish soon, homn ..." the dragoness paused to gather her breath. "I shall become malaak-thiir!"

Tristan couldn't translate all of that, but he wasn't sure how many more lacerations he could take. He had to finish inside of her – and quick – before she drew more blood! "Brace yourself, Kaarst Domuu," he crooned into her tympanum. "I'm almost there. Just a bit more."

The broodmother licked the sweat off his face, and moments later her tongue thrust unceremoniously into his mouth. The dragon's forked tongue met his in a lusty dance as they shared slobbery, lewd kisses interspersed with lusty growls. The Scalehawk was too far gone to think beyond instinct, and that gave Tristan a jolt of pride. This proud dragoness who had spent generations ruling over a mighty clan of skyscales was now putty in his hands. And the knowledge that an ancient, wizened matriarch would let a young human pound her senseless in ways that even other dragons couldn't get away with – that ended up being a strange sort of turn on in and of itself!

"Kazt fell, I can take no more!" The broodmother's demands were muffled by her tongue flitting into his mouth, but Tristan got the gist. The dragoness broke away from the kiss with a snarl. "Inside, inside! Fill me, homn. Like a proper draakin!"

She growled and nipped at his lips with her teeth as her internal muscles clamped down around him in a desperate bid to end his relentless thrusts. The dragon had somehow become even warmer than before, and the heated glide of her scales slid against Tristan's sweaty skin with each thrust. He smelled the smoke radiating from her nostrils as the broodmother growled in a rapturous daze.

Tristan concentrated hard, urging himself to go tipping over the edge. He rammed deep and hard, relishing in the heat of T'sarrak's scaled body. He had to finish fast, before this dragon's claws flayed him open. Just a bit more! The Scalehawk rocked her hips into him now, the two of them grinding together as one. He could feel her wing's thumb talons dig into his shoulders. Her forelegs pawed at his chest. It felt as though her whole body pleaded for him to finish inside of her.

The broodmother pulled away her head to roar in pleasure as another climax sent tremors through her scaled body. Tristan felt right on the precipice now, and as her vice-like muscles began its rhythmic clenching, the euphoric tide of the orgasm hit him hard. He grit his teeth as the dragon's inner muscles coaxed his seed into her scalding vent. It was almost too much stimulation!

"Here it comes!"

Tristan slowed his thrusts to a near-standstill as his sensitivity spiked. And he let the dragon's inner muscles milk him to completion. He came undone deep inside T'sarrak's tunnel, dousing her innermost vent in hot, pent-up semen. And after each spurt, her slit tightened around him, as if in thanks. His balls tightened up against her slit as he emptied himself into the volcanic vent.

"Grn-daak! Rrah, rrah!"

The matriarch continued to mumble, her words trailing off into growls of pleasure as yet another climax welled up inside of her. In the euphoria of his orgasm, Tristan had just enough forethought to give the matriarch one final love bite. His teeth sank into her scaly neck as skin rubbed against scales in a glorious dance. T'sarrak's egg-laying muscles continued to clench in response, wringing him out.

In those few moments, as Tristan emptied himself into the dragoness, his consciousness stretched out into an eternal plane of bliss. And he felt ... oddly clear of mind. He became aware of this strange tingling sensation in his spine – like the way lightning ran through clouds. And he realized that it had been coursing through him for some time now: this weird sense of something ineffable about the act of sharing bodies, of something magical that transcended the boundaries of species. But the more he concentrated on it, the more the feeling waned. Within seconds, his orgasm waned and Tristan felt a bit silly. He chalked it up to a delirious combination of excitement and the warm fuzzies one experienced when making love.

As his cock relinquished its last spurts, Tristan rested atop her, their bodies melded together by their respective bodily fluids. The fire in the corner furnace cracked and popped, casting the dark office in a warm orange glow. The air smelled heavily of sex, both dragon and human musks intermingling and making an odd combination of scents. T'sarrak's slit remained tight against him, soaking up every drop of seed. Tristan heard the clicking of claws outside the door, followed by a swoop of wings. After that, the office room lay quiet. He wryly hoped that whatever snoopy dragons that happened to spy on them were impressed.

"Gods, that felt intense …" he breathed.

Tristan pulled out of the matriarch with a wet squelch, finally freeing his manhood from the molten-hot vent. White globs immediately began to leak out of her. The broodmother's muscles twitched and clenched with every trickle that flowed from her vent. The thick, viscous liquid oozed down and pooled in the crease between her rump and her tailbase.

Tristan wiped the sweat from his brow and put his glasses back on. "Whew, it's hot in here! So … did I satisfy, Kaarst Domuu?"

Matriarch T'sarrak said nothing. The plump goat-sized dragon rested her head against the bedding, hind legs splayed wide and wings fallen to her sides. Every muscle in her elderly body relaxed. Her rapid panting caused her forked tongue to pulse. The only movement out of her was the labored breathing that caused her plump belly to jiggle. Tristan thought the dragon must be in a sort of post-orgasmic stupor.

"Are you okay, Matriarch?"

When the dragon finally did speak, her words came out as a muddled jumble. "Urru ... dhak ... grn... ahh, I ... I must say ... the homn have ... some redeeming qualities … after all."

Tristan couldn't help but laugh. He pet her belly scutes, smearing the collected sweat along them. "Oh, we got a few. We're good at making beer, too. And have you ever tried cheese?"

The matriarch continued to lie there, eyes half-lidded, tongue lolling out like a panting dog. He expected her to continue the banter – it was one thing she seemed to enjoy. But the dragoness said nothing. Her silence felt just as meaningful.

Tristan ran his hand along his back, wincing at the sting of sweat entering his wounds. When he pulled back, he frowned at his fingers all streaked with red. "Damn this blood! You really mangled my back." He waited for an apology he knew would never come. "My shirt's gonna be ruined the moment I put it back on ..."

With an elderly groan, the Scalehawk pushed herself up with her wings. She curled her snout down to her ruined slit and began lapping up the mixture of cum and dragon juices that had dripped out. The broodmother's slurping and growling filled the quiet air. After giving her slit a deep cleaning, she lapped off the remaining juices from Tristan's groin as well. He let her work in silence, encouraging her with gentle pats.

Finally, T'sarrak licked her chops, slurping the leftover traces off her muzzle. "Mmm, delectable … homn seed is a proper mating-snack, almost as good as draa seed."

He chuckled. "So what do you think of the way humans make love?"

The Scalehawk groaned with contentment. "Grn toth malek-thuu. Your performance was ... adequate."

"Ah, there's no need to play coy!"

T'sarrak chuffed in response. She said nothing, but the smirk spreading across her scaly lips spoke volumes.

"I suppose we should go back soon."

"Riss! You have exhausted me, two-legs. Need ... need some time to rest." She flopped to her belly and rolled her aching wing shoulders, which she had been lying on this whole time. "Rrsha. You will keep me company while I recover."

Tristan propped himself up on one elbow and reached out to pet her snout. "For as long as you like, Kaarst Domuu. But may I ask some questions in return?"

Dragons were partial to transactional agreements. T'sarrak gave a slight bow of her head. "Rrah. Ask what you will."

Tristan had something stuck on his mind from earlier. Something he couldn't wait to ask about. "Earlier, you mentioned an event called the 'Kuurma Tolth … a 'great delving'? Did I get that right?"

T'sarrak snarled, her crimson eyes narrowing in anger. "Ignorant doh-niir! Tolth means to enter a cave, yes. But it also means to bury our dead."

Tristan winced, knowing he had just waltzed right into another blunder. Most Wildborn clans laid their dead to rest in a special chamber of their caves - usually deep underground where no light shone and no living thing ventured. This was why dragon bones were so rare and valuable in the human world. If a clan could not move the whole body, they bit off the head and carried it away. What Tristan thought was some sort of strange cave party actually referred to a mass burial!

Tristan braced himself, ready to be bitten. But to his relief, she merely scoffed and turned her snout away from him. "Mekk toth. You just ruined what was an excellent mating." She exhaled a puff of smoke from her nostrils. "If you must know, the _Kuurma Tolth s_ignaled the end of my old clan, Wings of Dusk."

Tristan gasped. The fabled dragon clan Wings of Dusk! "Do you mean this happened during the Third Crusade?"

The ebony-scaled dragoness billowed her wings out and gusted him with stale air. "You homn have the … audacity to call the murder of my clan a crusade?! Grn-thisiss homn'u ssith!"

As far as dragon insults went, that was one of the worse ones. "I give a most sincere apology for my ignorance, Kaarst Domuu!"

"Wings of Dusk did not know the homn had mobilized for war until soldiers began scaling our mountain. They marched to our lair and unleashed their thundersticks on every skyscale they found, including the hatchlings. There was no glory, no righteousness. Only slaughter!"

Tristan's jaw dropped. He could muster no proper words.

"With our Kaarst Domuu and her entire Kaarst Graath slain, my mother took the remnants of our clan under her wings. She rallied the other clans and fought for twelve long years, to make the homn pay for their sins. But homn are nothing if not ingenious, yes? They built new thundersticks: not the kind that must be loaded slowly and shot in volley at close range. No, these were more powerful, more accurate – accurate enough to kill a draa from afar. The day my broodsister was felled by a homn she never saw was the day my broodmother knew we had lost. Our only option was to flee from the lands we had once called home, far away enough that the homn would no longer bother us."

Tristan could hardly believe his ears. When he was but a lad, school devoted a large portion of history class on each of the three dragon crusades. While only the third ended in victory for Concordia, each was presented as the highest points of humanity's history: a time where bickering factions set aside their differences to unite under one common foe. He remembered doing a presentation on Sir Auric's masterful rally against the Stonehew clan: his shield wave tactics continued to be studied in military schools to this day. And who didn't know of King Ulric the Defiant, and his doomed last stand against Clan Foulmaw that culminated in the fall of Old Concordia? These were stories of heroism, glory, and sacrifice. Stories that Concordians were proud to have in their history.

But hearing T'sarrak's side of things, this indiscriminate slaughter of entire dragon clans? He found it hard to reconcile. Were the stories he grew up on only one half of the truth?

Tristan had always known that Wings of Dusk had attacked humanity first, that the crusades were led by Concordians simply trying to fend of draconic aggression. Just as he had always known that dragons couldn't possibly be gracious, nor kind, nor any of the other things Whitewillow was. What a world Tristan's eyes had been opened to in these past few days. He wondered what other truths would turn out to be lies in the future.

As Tristan chewed on those questions, Matriarch T'sarrak glowered at him, expecting a response. "Please accept my deepest apology, Kaarst Domuu," he choked out on shaky dragonspeak, bowing his head. "I had no idea of the truth. It was insensitive of me to prod so boldly. Humans have done some terrible things, but we're not all monsters. Some of us are honored to live among dragons. Including me."

Broodmother T'sarrak huffed and rolled to her side to stretch out her hind legs. "Ferduus maar fek. Were it not for tales of the Homnu-fen, I would not believe you."

Tristan figured that was about as much of a compliment as he would ever get out of her. "Much respect, Kaarst Domuu. Will you grant me another question?"

The dragoness thought for a moment, then bowed her head. "Rrah."

"How come a clan that hates humans as much as yours ended up living in the city?"

A smile played across the matriarch's snout. "Now that is a good question, two-legs. One that warrants a proper story." She cleared her throat and made herself comfortable on the bedding. "We draa know that Concordia has stood for thousands of moons, but I did not visit it until my sixtieth summer. My broodmother took me flying as close to the city as we could go, just outside the range of its cannons. She wanted to show me the heart of homn infestation, how bad it had become. So that when I became the next broodmother, I knew my enemy well. But where my mother saw only a filthy rat's nest in need of extermination, all I could do was marvel. The city's great walls stretched even taller than I was told. The towering citadel which the homn king called home shone a brilliant white in the sun. The ports bustled with ships like lines of ants on the ocean. So many homn gathered in one place, thousands upon thousands upon thousands! Living together, working together … thriving together. I smoldered with anger as I gazed upon your great city. Anger not at homn, but at draa. For we could never build a Concordia for ourselves. We are too selfish, too proud, too stubborn to help each other thrive as homn do."

Tristan thought about this. A popular debate amongst philosophers centered on why the intelligent, noble dragon never established a civilization, as humans and goblins and nagas have done. Some reasoned that they were simply too large: that a city of dragons would need unsustainable amounts of meat. Others argued that dragons – being four-legged – could not craft tools with their clumsy claws. Still others attested that they lacked the social proclivity to coexist in large numbers, like the feline jak'kar. But to hear T'sarrak describe it made the most sense. Building a civilization required putting the needs of others above the needs of one's self. And a dragon's pride made that nigh impossible.

"The day I visited Concordia was the day when I realized that we would never best the homn in war again. They would continue to breed, continue to expand, and continue to conquer until their territory reached every shore. Then, where would draa live? Even back then, there were fewer hunting grounds, fewer prey, less territory for draa clans to squabble over. We could not live forever as our ancestors did, as lords of this land and the sky above. Sooner or later, we would need to adapt. And so, when word reached me that your king would allow draa to live and work in the city, I chose sooner."

Tristan raised a brow. "It was your idea to move the clan to Concordia?"

T'sarrak nodded. "Rrah. A decision not made lightly. Many of my clan disowned me. They said I disgraced my bloodline and self-exiled in protest. And my rule has not been any easier since! I must contend with not only my begrudging clan, nor my rivals, Clan Star Scry, but the ire of the homn on a daily basis. But I will say this: within the walls of Concordia, never have I had more food to eat, more ale to drink, and more riches than I have ever hoarded. So do I regret my decision?" She slapped her plump belly with a loud smack, causing it to jiggle. “Absolutely not! We draa are covetous creatures. And your city has much to covet.”

Tristan smiled at the matriarch's introspection. There was still so much to learn from dragons. "You honor me for indulging my curiosity, Kaarst Domuu. Thank you."

The matriarch snorted with indifference. "Now homn, no more questions. It is time to consummate the gnaar-fell's arrangement, yes? I am owed a lock of hair as a trophy."

Tristan grimaced. He ran a hand through his messy, pale blond hair. Wet with sweat, it stood straight up. "Are you sure? I'm rather fond of my hair …"

"Not that hair!" the little dragoness squawked. She pointed between his legs with a wing thumb. "I want the hair down there."

"You're kidding!"

She slapped her tail against the floor. "I am not. That hair tickles my nares. Come, my talons shall do the work."

He grimaced. "Ugh, fine. Take as much as you want."

Tristan quickly regretted his words as the Scalehawk got to cutting. The inner edge of her claws were sharp, but not as painless as scissors. He did his best to not complain as she pulled on his pubic hair to slice it off. She brought a tangle of it to her nose and gave it a long whiff. "Mmm. I can smell both our scents on it. Delectable." She then lifted his scrotum with two claws and peered underneath. "Ooh, there's more!"

Tristan grimaced. "Be extra careful down there!"

A loud roar from afar interrupted his unconventional shave.

"What was that?" He whipped his head to the door.

The matriarch snorted with disdain. "That sounds like Ragn'mawl. Tssk!"

Tristan's eyes opened up wide. An angry Ragn'mawl could only mean one thing. He jumped to his feet and scrambled to pick up his discarded clothes.

"Where are you going?" T'sarrak grumbled. "I'm not finished!"

"Whitewillow's in danger!"

The Scalehawk did not seem impressed by his urgency. However, a moment later, a flash of flamebreath lit up the room through the curtained window. Seeing this, T'sarrak grumbled. "Raak maar ignu?! Must he vex me so?"

Tristan hopped up and down on one foot as he struggled to put on his socks. "Come on, we have to stop whatever trouble she's getting into."

Groaning, the matriarch got to her feet, took a few wobbly steps, and plopped back down onto the bedding. "Riss, I need a moment, still." She waved him off with a wing. "Go without me."

–=-=–

Tristan raced out of the office room – hastily making sure his revolver stayed firmly tucked under his shirt – and rushed towards the distant sound of the dragon's roar. Out on the factory floor, flights of dragons scrambled about in a panic to distance themselves from the rampage. Through some fallen scaffolding, he caught a glimpse of Whitewillow fleeing from a huge Northern Ironscale: his rust-colored scales unmistakable even in the dim light of the factory. He sprinted toward the confrontation, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Tristan!" Jenivive came running as fast as she could, one hand on her baby bump. "Thank the gods, there you are! It happened so fast: an Ironscale flew down through the open roof, and he went into a rage the moment he recognized Whitewillow!"

"Looks like it's going about as well as their first meeting. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I got out of the way in time. But this is terrible!" Jenivive peeked around the corner for a better look at the stand-off. "That Ironscale looks ready to kill her!"

Tristan joined her for a spy across the factory floor. Whitewillow had managed to take up a defensive position between two old steam generators. There she assumed a threat display: head down, wings flared out, and tail raised over her head like a scorpion. Whitewillow's many spines vibrated in a heartbeat-like pulse, causing their frills to flutter and hum like an angry beehive. The sound shocked Tristan: he had never known her spines were capable of thrumming like that. The threat display was as beautiful as it was off-putting, and it commanded attention from every dragon within earshot. Despite Ragn'mawl measuring about one-third larger than Whitewillow, he cautiously kept his distance, instead pacing back and forth like an angry wolf. Tristan suddenly remembered that she had never answered his question of if her spines were venomous or not.

Another bellow echoed from Ragn'mawl's maw. He extended his flame-colored wings wide and beat the air, kicking up little dust devils. The dragon's flared nostrils glowed like coals as a heavy haze of smoke billowed from out of them. "You DARE show your horns in MY lair, gnaar-fell? Sithiss grn-draani! Come out of that corner and duel me as I have commanded!"

"No."

"Coward! Snake! Worm! You cannot refuse the command of a Kaarst Graath in his lair."

Whitewillow hissed in response. "I am not fighting you!"

Ragn'mawl took two bold steps forward. But a single whip-like flick of Whitewillow's tail and he jumped back with feline reflexes. "Kaak thos! I shall tear your wings off and gut you like an ox! I shall rend the very heart from your chest!"

"Why do you think I'm in here and not out there?"

Ragn'mawl snorted sparks of flame. "Do not taunt me, gnaar-fell. I shall flush you out like prey!" The Ironscale reared his head back and took a full, dramatic inhale.

Now, dragon scales could reflect a certain amount of heat - everybody knew that. But the real reason why dragons never dueled with their flame breath was because their wings could repel dragonfire like drops of water. Dragons preened their leathery patagium with moisturizing oil glands located on their snout. That special oil was called dragonbalm, and a single tincture of it could sell for hundreds of reales due to its miraculous fireproofing abilities. While it worked on wood and even clothes, sustained flamebreath could cause the underlying layers to start cooking. Tristan didn't know how long Whitewillow would have before she'd start feeling the heat.

Whitewillow wrapped her wings around herself in a leathery cocoon and tucked her head in just as the blast of flame enveloped her. The stream of burning dragonfire splashed off of her pale wings, causing miniature fireballs to spray out in all directions. The sudden light caused Tristan to squint his eyes. He had to break them up! But how? Tristan couldn't pull his gun here, not inside the lair of so many dragons.

"Stop, stop it!" he shouted. Dragons wooshed by him, taking flight to find safety in the rafters. They would not intervene with the actions of a Kaarst Graath. The interior of the abandoned steam factory lit up with brilliant, flickering orange and yellow hues, casting long shadows of spidery pipes along the walls. The sound of rushing air and roaring flames filled Tristan's ears.

Tristan dropped his shoulder and charged. "Stop! Stop stop stop stop st–oof!"

He hit the armored scutes of Ragnmawl's flank at full speed. It felt like running into a scale-covered brick wall, and he crumpled to the ground instantly. But the jolt broke Ragn'mawl's concentration. Coughing out smoke, he looked down and reared back on his hind legs when he saw a dazed human staring back up at him.

"Rrra'ga'gaash?!" He sputtered as thick globs of drool dripped from his maw - his body's way of flushing out the toxic chemicals from his mouth. "A two-legs, here?!"

Tristan jumped to his feet and held his ground. He stuck out his chest, clenched his butt, and glared into the drake's eyes. On the inside, he was terrified. But he couldn't let the dragon know it. "I said stop, Ragn'mawl," he commanded.

The Ironscale's eyes danced between Tristan and Whitewillow, who frantically patted out her burning scarf. "Gnaar-fell, it was not enough that you defiled my home with your own stench, you brought this filthy two-leg rat as well?!" He crouched low before Tristan, fangs bared. "I will eat your rat first, gnaar-fell. Then I will come for you."

Tristan held a hand up, defiant in the face of ten hundred pounds of angry dragon. "You cannot harm either of us. We have shared gneff thuus with your broodmother."

The rust-colored drake froze mid-bite."It claims gneff thuus?" His eyes narrowed to slits. "Does it even know what gneff thuus is?"

"We all pledged, including your broodmother!" Whitewillow spoke, looking no worse for wear – save her burnt silk scarf.

Ragn'mawl appeared unconvinced. "Only a draa with status may request gneff thuu_s, you vexatious quim." He looked around the lair. "Who here dares speak for this _gnaar-fell?"

"The Homnu-fen. Right, Mrs. Broyal?" Tristan turned behind him, only to find no one there. "Hey–?!"

A good twenty meters back, Lady Jenivive peeked out from behind the safety of a rusting compressor. "Hello there!" she yelled.

The Ironscale froze for a moment to gauge this unexpected situation. His eyes darted between Lady Jenivive and Whitewillow. Slowly, he sat down on his haunches. A toothy grin spread across his snout. "Ahh, Homnu-fen! You are a bold one, to show your squashed face in my lair. Come closer, let me get a proper sniff of you."

"I'm good, thanks."

"I said … come," he growled, tongues of fire escaping the corners of his lips.

After a moment, Jenivive stepped out and tentatively approached. A tense silence fell over the steam factory, punctuated only by the echoing of Jenivive's heeled shoes on concrete. The drake leaned down and made a show of giving Jenivive a long, contemplative whiff. "I believe we have never properly met, Homnu-fen, though my cohort has told me tales of you."

Lady Jenivive bowed to full effect, making an effort to stress civility. "Garm gru thuum, Ragn'mawl, Kaarst Graath of Cracked Shell. Please accept my apologies for any misunderstanding: we are here on diplomatic terms. Each of us have met with your matriarch and undertaken gneff thuus. After our business has concluded, we shall leave you in peace."

Ragn'mawl snorted."How cute, it has learned to talk like a draa." His heavy head rose up to look at Whitewillow. "Well, gnaar-fell ... if you are truly under gneff thuus, it appears that you live. For now."

Whitewillow sighed with relief.

"However …" He took a step towards Jenivive. Then another. And another. Each time, the Lady backed up the same distance. "It is laughable that these morsels think they can invoke our laws just because they speak our tongue."

"Kaarst Graath, I implore polity. We all agreed to gneff thuus!"

"Gneff thuus is draconic law: no two-legs may sully it!"

The Ironscale's haunches tensed, preparing to strike. Jenivive froze in fear as he widened his jaws and snarled. Staring down the open maw of a huge dragon had a way of seizing even the bravest with terror. But Tristan's training allowed him to perform without the need for conscious thought. He grabbed Jenivive's by the arm and yanked her out of the way just as Ragn'mawl launched himself forward. His teeth chomped closed around the air with a sharp clomp! Jenivive fell onto Tristan and the two tumbled to the ground.

"Hide!" Tristan hissed at her. He rolled over and pushed himself back up on his feet.

"No!" Whitewillow pounced on Ragn'mawl, her blunt claws digging harmlessly into his hardened scales. "Grndaas riir mahkduu, you cannot disregard your law!"

Ragn'mawl held her back with a shove of his hind leg. "The law was created for draa and draa alone, gnaar-fell. Stay out of my way." He lunged at Tristan next, who timed his dodge perfectly. A second lunge was cut short as a whip from Whitewillow's tail swatted him on the snout. With a pained yelp, the Ironscale turned and punched Whitewillow in the head with his wing knuckle. The other dragons in the room erupted into a chorus of confused yelps and hisses as the violence escalated.

"ENOUGH!"

The sound of Broodmother T'sarrak's echoing squawk caused everyone to freeze. The fluttering of wings announced her landing. The little Scalehawk's claws clicked on the concrete as she approached Ragn'mawl and positioned herself between him and Tristan. She panted, still – it had taken all that time to gather the strength to fly over. Her crimson eyes glared with a patience-worn fury. "Kaarst Graath, you insult me by bringing violence into my lair!"

Ragn'mawl appeared just as shocked as everyone. He lowered his horns to her height. "But great auntie, these worms–"

Her tail swung upward, slapping the sensitive side of his snout so hard that it caused the surrounding flight of dragons to cringe. "Don't you 'But great auntie' me, you insolent whelp!" T'sarrak barked. "I took gneff thuus with these three. You break our law by attacking them!"

The Ironscale rubbed his snout. "The law does not say that homn can take the pledge of gneff thuus!"

"It does not say that they can not!" A second tail slap ran in Tristan's ears.

"But a homn taking gneff thuus has never happened before!"

"I am the Kaarst Domuu; the law is mine to interpret!" she snarled. The feisty Scalehawk slapped his snout again, causing him to snarl with pain. "Childish wuduuk! Causing discord, breathing fire indoors, fighting protected guests ... your sire would be ashamed of you for dishonoring the sanctity of your Broodmother's lair."

Though furious, the great Ragn'mawl cowered before the goat-sized dragoness like a scolded dog. "Yes, great auntie. I apologize, great auntie. It will not happen again, great auntie," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"It better not! My horns, ever since you hatched, all you have ever done was start trouble and be a pain in my haunch! Do not make me regret the day I took your father under my wing!" A fourth slap echoed out in the dim light of the abandoned factory. "Apologize to this gnaar-fell."

Ragn'mawl averted his gaze and bared his teeth. "I apologize, gnaar-fell."

"Now apologize to these homn."

The Ironscale hissed with surprise, his slit-pupil eyes growing huge. "You expect me to lower the horn to homn!? Riss! My horns will not bear such a dishonor! I refuse to–"

SLAP!

Smoldering with rage, Ragn'mawl turned to Tristan and Jenivive and lowered his head. "I ... apologize, two-legs." He then forced a bared-teeth grimace with lips pulled back as far as possible to expose the gums – a rather ridiculous-looking display that denoted submissiveness or guilt. This was one of the reasons why wildborn disliked socializing with humans: they were suspicious of all the smiling.

Tristan savored every precious second of this dragon's toothy appeal. To be humiliated so thoroughly – and in front of his entire clan – the scaly bastard had this coming.

Satisfied, Broodmother T'sarrak sat back on her haunches. "Good. Now, explain to the Homnu-fen why you recently presented a Red Mark to a clan affiliate – a Ridgeback of the name Kodakoa."

At the sound of that name, Ragn'mawl tensed up. "Why? What does this gnaar-fell have to do with Kodakoa?"

The broodmother raised her chin high in the air. "It matters not. They came here to find out, and you will tell them."

He turned away. "A trivial matter, not worth discussion."

"I shall be the judge of this discussion's worth, nephew!"

He grumbled something under his breath that Tristan couldn't make out.

"Louder!"

"I said … during a fight, Kodakoa cracked the horn of one of my drinking-mates. The Red Mark was an obligation to settle a simple matter of wounded pride. Understand, Homnu-fen? A trivial matter. You waste your time here."

Tristan already expected the first thing out of this dragon's mouth to be a lie. Same as the second thing, and the third thing ....

"Could you repeat those words during gneff thuus?" Asked Jenivive, who clearly thought alike.

"I could … but not to you, filthy two-legged rat."

Dragons had many, many slurs for humans, but Tristan's personal favorite was the classic saak'u scit-ssithiss, or "Filthy two-legged rat". This bit of a tongue twister ended in a particularly long slurping hiss. The angrier a dragon was, the wetter and longer and more viscous that hiss sounded. Ragn'mawl's lasted a good five seconds.

"Oh, Raggy," the matriarch cajoled, "Could you repeat those words during gneff thuus for your great auntie?"

A long grinning glare from Broodmother T'sarrak shattered Ragn'mawl's facade like a hammer smashing a pane of glass. His tail curled in and his wings folded like a shut umbrella. "I cannot repeat such words during gneff thuus," he admitted. After an uncomfortable silence (and more staring from T'sarrak), Ragn'mawl reluctantly rapped his wing knuckles together and grumbled out the pledge. Everyone else had to do the same before the Ironscale continued.

"These words spoken during gneff thuus must never be re-spoken." Ragn'mawl waited for acknowledgement from the group before continuing. "A quarter-moon ago, me and my cohort visited the Dark Horse Grille. Kodakoa left to drain his lizard in the alley when a group of inebriated homm approached. They told Kodakoa they did not appreciate draa relieving themselves where they pleased. Bricks were thrown, fire spewed in retaliation. Three died. Fearing a bounty, Kodakoa begged to be inducted into Cracked Shell for protection – a thing he had wanted for years." Ragn'mawl stared Jenivive in the eye. "Understand this, two legs: all clan-affiliates must take on a Red Mark before the broodmother can accept them as kin. I had refused Kodakoa before, but this time, I had a special task available. A task he was perfect for."

Broodmother T'sarrak stamped her foot. "You did not inform me that Kodakoa's roguu gnaaf would induct him as clan-kin! Why was this decision not mine?"

Ragn'mawl snorted. "I would have told you, had he completed his task. He did not; therefore it does not matter."

Tristan's eyes narrowed. "We know you put him on a smuggling run. What were you smuggling?"

The drake flinched with surprise. He opened his mouth to deny the accusation, then thought otherwise. "How do you know such things?"

"That's not important. Tell us about the smuggling."

Ragn'mawl set his teeth and said nothing.

"Tell them, nephew!"

"... two-feet barrels of ig-thuus."

Dragons counted on their toes, so two-feet-worth meant eight barrels. Tristan did the math in his head: roughly 920 liters of liquid flame! "Woah. Who was buying all that dragonfire?"

He snorted. "Does it matter? The ig-thuus combusted mid-flight."

"What!? Then what happened to Kodakoa?"

"Two of my draa cut loose their harnesses, but Kodakoa's emergency release jammed. One draa cannot steer a barge that heavy by himself. He stayed with the cargo until it crashed."

Whitewillow's spines flared out wide. "The Citadel tower explosion! That was Kodakoa!?"

Ragn'mawl looked her in the eye. "I cannot tell a lie under gneff-thuus."

The revelation hit Tristan like a wave of frigid seawater. All this time spent looking for Kodakoa, when he had seen the dragon die first-hand three days ago. If he was transporting liquid dragonfire, no wonder the crash had caused such a big explosion. There wouldn't even be anything left of Kodakoa to find. He looked to Whitewillow, who stared at Ragn'mawl with righteous anger, eyes alight and spines rigid. Yesterday's communion with Taishui had her convinced that Kodakoa had died and that his body wouldn't be found. And now she was proven right. Again. How did she keep doing that!?

"Where did you get that barge?" Jenivive demanded.

Ragn'mawl ducked his head and said nothing.

"Nephew?" T'sarrak warned.

"Elll Wood ... Air-o nau tiicssss," he enunciated in a rough, methodical Common tongue. Each syllable came out more reluctantly than the last.

Tristan remembered back when news buzzed that House Elwood had broken into the flying machine industry with a public expo of Elwood Aeronautics. He skipped college classes to attend and had been amazed at how large the crowds were – Jubilee Park was so packed that people lined the streets beyond. While Dragonwing Express used lightweight Zenshin bamboo and dragon-based propulsion, EA's first contraptions utilized steam power! But the boilers were so heavy that even the smallest engines could barely be lifted by the hydrogen balloons. Still, the promise of flight without reliance on dragons had impressed a lot of investors. He wondered how much advancement the company had made since then.

"So you stole some towing harnesses from my husband and hooked them up to an Elwood Aeronatics barge," an angry Jenivive snapped her fingers. "Everyone has been blaming my husband's company for this crash, but I knew it wasn't us!"

Ragn'mawl idly inspected his claws, appearing bored. "Good. I hope that house of slavers goes up in flames."

Jenivive's hands balled into fists.

"We need proof of Kodakoa's involvement with the Citadel crash," Tristan suggested, trying to focus the conversation. "Something we can show the Dragonhunter's Guild and get them to close the case."

Ragn'mawl's demeanor switched from calm to furious in the span of two seconds. "You shall NOT go crawling to those filthy butchers, little morsel! Our arrangement was born in secrecy. You would bring shame on my horns to tell anyone of my involvement!"

Tristan crossed his arms. "I can keep a secret. But we need _some_thing to work with."

Broodmother T'sarrak retrieved the bloody goat skull and presented it to Lady Jenivive. "Take the roguu gnaff, Homnu-fen. You tell the Hunters that you had gneff thuus with the Kaarst Domuu of Cracked Shell, that she told you that Kodakoa acted alone when he smuggled ig-thuus. There is no inquiry, no bounty. Both draa and homn get closure."

Jenivive cast a quick glance to Tristan, who nodded. He wasn't happy about lying to the Guild, but it wouldn't be the first time, either. "These terms are acceptable, Kaarst Domuu."

Ragn'mawl snorted at Lady Jenivive. "Are you satisfied now, Homnu-fen?"

The Lady graciously bowed. "I am."

"Good." Ragn'mawl once again rapped his wing knuckles and recited the closing statement of gneff thuus. He then approached Whitewillow and snorted in her face. "If I ever see you again, gnaar-fell – or you two morsels – there will be retribution for defiling my lair."

"Go break your horns, Raggy!" The goat-sized Scalehawk headbutted uselessly against Ragn'mawl's hardened scales. "If you lay a claw on these three, I give you a Red Mark for each! Understand?"

Ragn'mawl vibrated his scaled throat with a particularly low-pitched grumble. "How can you protect these two-legs, great auntie? Has age dulled your memories of times past when we would happily gorge ourselves on their flesh, as family?"

"These two homn have done nothing but observe our laws and show proper respect. More than I can say for you, pomf!"

Ragn'mawl snorted in suspicion. His orange eyes darted back and forth between Tristan and Jenivive in bewilderment. His nostrils flared several times, and he leaned close to Tristan to confirm his suspicions. Catching a good whiff, he snorted out the air as if it offended his nose. He then turned to his broodmother. "Your actions have once again dishonored our ancestors."

The little Scalehawk billowed her wings and stamped both forefeet. "You DARE accuse ME of dishonor, after the indecency you have displayed before the entire clan?"

A smoky, punctuated snort was the drake's only response.

T'sarrak pointed to the floor with a single claw and growled out every word. "Kaarst Graath? Lower. Your. Horns!"

Fluffing his wings with indignity, Ragn'mawl nevertheless did as ordered. T'sarrak raised her tail high over his snout. She then brought it down eight more times. Ragn'mawl flinched in pain on every blow, but he never once took his baneful stare off of Tristan. He couldn't look away as the drake's fiery orange eyes burned into his own.

Satisfied, Broodmother T'sarrak lowered her tail and stepped back. "I tire of your presence. But we will have words later, nephew. Leave us now."

Ragn'mawl spoke no further. But as he backed up for a take-off run, he gave several hard stares at Whitewillow, Tristan, and Lady Jenivive, as if committing each to memory. He then spread his fiery wings and took off in a gallop, soaring out of the great hole in the ceiling. As his mighty wingbeats abated, the abandoned factory returned to a hauntingly quiet state. Several curious dragons peered out over the edge of roosts in the rafters, murmuring to one another of the commotion they just witnessed. Whitewillow, Tristan, and Jenivive let out a collective sigh of relief.

Broodmother T'sarrak fluttered the bad vibes off her scarred wings and turned to Lady Jenivive. "I believe that concludes our business, Homnu-fen." She pressed her wing knuckles together and concluded gneff thuus with the proper recitation. "Maar fek'u xol gneff thuus'im, rii grnkoh."

The trio repeated the gesture in unison and recited the words, formally ending their oath to diplomacy. "It has been an honor, Kaarst Domuu," Jenivive replied, bowing deeply. "You have been a gracious, helpful host."

The elderly Scalehawk waved the platitudes away with a gesture of her wing. "Yes yes, of course. And if you ever have need to meet with me again …" she pointed to Tristan with a wing thumb. "Bring that one along."

Lady Jenivive looked at Tristan with bemusement, while Whitewillow beamed with pride. He felt his cheeks flush hot with embarrassment, but bowed with respect.

–=-=–

The walk back from Elwood Steam Factory felt considerably less anxiety-inducing than the walk to it. Despite all odds, Tristan had done the unthinkable: he had met with the most dangerous wildborn clan in the city and lived! And he had managed to solve not only the mystery of Kodakoa's disappearance, but also the Citadel tower explosion that's been in the news these past few days. He couldn't wait to file his report with the Guild – his mind fantasized of the commendations he'd receive … and the hefty bonus that would soon be weighing down his pockets. His mentor Lillian would no doubt be furious that she wasn't a part of the job, but she'd forgive him in time. He hoped.

Only Whitewillow remained in a somber mood. The scaled courtesan seemed uncharacteristically quiet the entire trip back, her eyes and spiny fins drooping down toward the road. These past few days, her mind focused on a singular goal: finding Kodakoa. Now that her quest had reached its end, the dragoness didn't know what to do with herself. A sense of loss pervaded her mind. It was difficult not knowing what to do next. She needed to consult Taishui for guidance. With Tristan's help, if possible.

After all this time spent outdoors, the albino Lionsmane had become flushed from sun exposure – her white scales having turned a rosy pink. At her request, the trio took a longer way back to the trolly station, down the narrow alleyways of the Western District. The crowded buildings provided shade from the afternoon sun, easing her tingling scales.

Urban squalor tended to be worse here than other parts of the city. Trash littered the winding, narrow streets, houses on each side stood leaning and crooked. The higher floors were built decades after the original foundations, and many extended beyond the original walls, requiring support on external posts. There were no electric streetlights here, nor even gas lamps that older districts still used. Few buildings had power, though the ones that did relied on old steam generators on the roof with great metal cogs that clanked loudly, belched smoke, and dripped condensation down into the streets.

The trio were deep in conversation as they traveled.

"You can't be serious!" Tristan griped, red-faced. He could hardly believe Lady Jenivive acted so openly curious about his sexual escapades! Weren't noblewomen supposed to be prim and proper?

"Spill the beans, dragonhunter!" Jenivive said, gazing down at him from atop Whitewillow's back. Weary from the traveling and excitement, the Lady needed rest, and Whitewillow was happy to accommodate the pregnant woman's needs. "You were given an unprecedented honor by being personally invited back by the broodmother herself. Whatever you did with her must have rocked the ol' Scalehawk's world! So what happened, hmm? Did Whitewillow teach you some secret technique for getting a dragoness off?"

Tristan searched for the least awkward way to word this conversation. "It wasn't any one thing. The whole time spent with her, I kept trying to think what Whitewillow would do. She's always made me feel desired, comforted, and cared for. So that's how I made T'sarrak feel, too. I went gentle and slow, and … well, she didn't like it at first, but she warmed up to me."

Lady Jenivive sighed wistfully. "Aww, that's surprisingly sweet, Tristan. Good on you."

"The great and wise Taishui worked through you to open that matriarch's heart to raashka," Whitewillow interjected, breaking a long silence. "I sensed her presence within you when you returned. I am proud of you, Tristan."

Tristan felt certain that he had experienced no such thing as an ephemeral dragon goddess guiding his lovemaking, but he wasn't going to argue. "Thanks, Willow."

"The entire time you were gone, Tristan, Whitewillow was praying for you. You're lucky to have a dragon so concerned about you."

"Ferduus. As you mated the matriarch, I watched over you and beseeched Taishui to bless your consummation."

Tristan's eyebrows furrowed. "Wait … was that you outside the window?"

A slight smile spread across Whitewillow's pale snout. "I could not let you go without some measure of oversight, draa-maakt. But I made sure to keep my self-pleasuring quiet so as to not disturb your glorious work."

Tristan scowled, but his expression softened as he reasoned if any dragon had to be watching him make love, he'd prefer it be her.

Jenivive nudged Whitewillow's neck from behind. "You did what? You told me you left to go pray!"

"I did pray. I prayed fervently, passionately … hysterically." The dragoness licked her chops in a dramatic fashion.

An amused smirk spread across the Lady's face. "Well now! I can't say I've ever prayed like that before, but it sure did work!"

Tristan raised a critical brow. "All of a sudden, you believe in Whitewillow's love goddess, too?"

The Lady shrugged. "Who's to say if Taishui is real? But one thing's for certain: Ragn'mawl came this close to killing one of us." She pinched two fingers together. "The fact that we all got out of there in one piece means that _some_one is watching out for us."

"Yeah, I suppose so …" he muttered. That someone was himself, Tristan thought. His bold confrontation of Ragn'mawl to spare Whitewillow his flame, his quick thinking to pull Jenivive out of the way in time. To put all the credit onto a non-existent deity felt like an offense to all the training and knowledge that went into being a dragonhunter. But Tristan decided to not make a fuss over it: spiritual matters were not his forte.

"I have to say, Tristan, you're quite unlike any other dragonhunter I've met. They all seem to be the type that'd sooner shoot a dragon than talk to one! Are you sure you're in the right line of work?"

The question caught Tristan off-guard. "Oh, absolutely. If anything, the Guild needs more people like me. People who understand dragons, who sympathize with them, and can reason with them without resorting to violence."

The Lady adjusted her wide-brimmed hat for a moment, considering his words. "Well, if you ever change your mind, you can always come work for my husband. We have plenty of jobs that let you work with dragons that don't involve hunting them."

Wow, a job offer for Dragonwing Express! And even more exciting than the job offer itself: a personal recommendation from someone of House Broyal's prestige. The boon of a social elite as a contact could open so many new doors. "That's incredibly gracious, Mrs. Broyal! Thank you. I'll keep that in mind for the future. But working as a field scholar for the Guild is an exciting life, and right now, I feel like I'm where I'm meant to be."

Lady Jenivive's sharp eyebrows raised in mild surprise. "Suit yourself, hunter."

As the trio chatted, it was easy to miss the quiet woosh of leathery wings as they swooped down, or the subtle scratching of claws on roof tiles. Those noises became drowned out in the ambience of the inner city. For even the largest of dragons could go unnoticed when they wanted to be. Clever and tenacious, dragons preferred to approach silently from the air, hovering behind their prey before diving onto them. Such was their nature as large predators, preferring ambush tactics over a protracted chase.

What finally tipped Tristan off was the fluttering and squawking of fleeing birds. He whirled around, eyes scanning the rooftops of the narrow alleyway. Nothing. It could have been anything that scared the birds away. Might've been a stray cat, or a city hawk. But Tristan's instincts had him convinced otherwise.

"Hold up. We're being followed," he warned.

Whitewillow stopped. Lady Jenivive turned, surprised. "What?" She looked down both ends of the alleyway.

Whitewillow sniffed the air. "I sense no one."

"Look up!"

With the advantage of surprise lost, the Mossback Thorntail decided to reveal himself. He descended from the rooftops, his billowed wings extended as wide as the narrow alleyway would allow. This mottled green breed measured somewhere between Whitewillow and a Ridgeback in size, at about ten meters long. Thorntails nested on the chalk-white coastal mountains of the southern continent. Their extremely long, hook-shaped claws were equally suited for climbing sheer walls and disemboweling prey, and their sturdy tails came tipped with thick spikes. Thorntails had a nasty reputation among the Guild for being a particularly dangerous breed of skyscale, even compared to the larger and more brutish Highland Ridgebacks. Extraordinarily agile for their size, Thorntails were also fierce fighters, as they practiced tail dueling for prestige and impressing mates. Two of the last three dragonhunters that had been killed on duty were at the claws of Thorntails.

"Rrall, gnaar-fell." The Thorntail's long, scarred snout curled into a toothy grin.

Whitewillow's spines flared outward in alarm. "What do you want?"

The green-scaled drake took a step forward, then another. "Ragn'mawl sends his most sincere apologies, for he could not be here himself." His dragonspeak came slathered in long hisses.

"Let's get out of here." Jenivive clung tight to Whitewillow's neck.

The dragoness turned around, only to be met with a second Thorntail. Approaching boldly, he spread his greenish-brown wings to each side of the alley, blocking escape. Whitewillow backed up until she bumped into Tristan.

"This ride ends here, Homnu-fen," Whitewillow murmured. She relaxed her spines and knelt down, allowing the Lady to slide off.

"Bold dragons! Don't you know who I am?" Jenivive demanded in angry dragontongue. "You wouldn't dare attack if you did."

The first Thorntail chuffed hollow laughter. "The life of the Homnu-fen matters not to clan Cracked Shell. You have disgraced our Kaarst Graath, defiled our Kaarst Domuu. By Ragn'mawl's decree, your penance is death."

Jenivive's eyes went wide with fear. Tristan grabbed her by the hand and pulled her behind him. His other hand reached for the dragontooth necklace hanging from his neck, only to recall that he had left it at home at Jenivive's insistence. Instead, he extended his empty hand, palm out. "By the authority of the Dragon Hunters of Concordia, stand down. Attacking a guildmember incurs the maximum bounty of one thousand reales, or your head on a stake. Whichever comes first."

The Thorntail hissed. "It claims to be a hunter!" he shouted to the other in dragonspeak.

"Gnaash-grn! Where is the necklace?"

Uh oh, Tristan thought. Without it, he had no legal authority, and these dragons knew it.

"It has no necklace."

"Then it lies!"

Tristan went for the large revolver tucked in underneath his shirt. Chambered in extra-wide rounds designed for killing dragons, the Guild-issued single-action Sidewinder was a field scholar's primary weapon. Though it wasn't anywhere near as large or powerful as a Guild knight's long gun, the Sidewinder still boasted a deafeningly loud retort, kicked like an angry mule, and packed enough punch to pierce a dragon's skull. Tristan planted his feet and cocked the hammer. "I'll give you one last chance to stand down."

The dragon froze mid-step. "It has a thunderstick!"

The other drake snarled. "So kill it quick, Kiff'raak! I can handle the gnaar-fell."

The Thorntail took a deep inhale and opened his maw wide. Tristan had only a second to line up a shot. He aimed for the head, in hopes of taking this one down cleanly.

BAM!

A concussive blast washed over Tristan as the gun jumped in his hands. The deafening retort echoed off the alley's narrow walls, his ears rang loud. But as the smoke dissipated, he saw the dragon hadn't even flinched. A miss! How could he miss such an easy shot?

A glowing fireball spewed from the Thorntail's maw, hurtling towards Tristan and Jenivive. In this narrow alleyway, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

"Get down!" Whitewillow snarled.

A fluttering whirl, and his vision became obscured by a wall of pale white. He felt Whitewillow's wing wrapped round the pair tight.

Then the heat came.

Through the blistering light of the dragonflame, he could see the shadow of her veins through the patagium, like the curving, branching roadways on a city map. The pair of them huddled close for what seemed like an eternity.

A slam from the other Thorntail knocked Whitewillow back, sending Tristan and Jenivive tumbling to the uneven cobblestone road. Patches of it burned from errant splashes of dragonfire.

"Find some cover and keep your head down," Tristan shouted to Jenivive, before pushing himself up on his feet. She crawled to the gutter where a rotted, empty barrel lay and cowered behind it. Behind Tristan, he heard the roars and snarls of Whitewillow and the second Thorntail engaged in a fight. In front of him, the first Thorntail puffed his chest out as he readied another blast of flamebreath.

BAM!

He had no time to go for a headshot. But a bullet through the chest stopped the drake from taking a full inhale. He sputtered and coughed as globs of burning bile dripped from his maw. A trickle of red ran down his tan chest scutes. Struggling to manage the staggering recoil, Tristan attempted to line up a kill shot.

BAM!

But the Thorntail recovered quickly. He swayed his long neck back and forth like an angry cobra – this dueling tactic was good for dodging rivals' tails as well as bullets. Tristan wracked his mind for a strategy. The Guild taught dragonhunters to always go for the head: skyscales boasted a secondary heart to power their flight muscles, making them notoriously hard to take down quickly. He could easily unload all his bullets into the chest and still get eaten before the drake collapsed! No, he'd have to be patient and wait for an opening.

Clutching his chest and wheezing, the Thorntail approached on three legs. His wings shot out and gripped the alleyway buildings for support. Tristan held his ground and watched carefully, waiting for a clear headshot. But the dragon continued to evade, ducking and bobbing with an unpredictable pattern.

When the Thorntail turned around in the narrow alleyway, Tristan braced himself and watched: when a dragon's tailbase tensed up, that was the time to dodge. As soon as the tail began its swing, he threw himself to the ground. The drake's tail swung with the force of a wrecking ball. A terrible crack sounded out as the tail spikes slammed against a house. As the tail pulled away, the building's gutter came with it. The entire thing ripped off the side with a metallic groan. Growling, the Thorntail shook his tail violently to get the long metal tube to dislodge.

This was his moment.

BAM!

Tristan heard a crack, and the drake recoiled with a snarl. But as he lowered his snout back down, Tristan saw he had only managed to hit his left horn. Dammit!

The drake grasped at his broken horn with a wing claw. "Saak'u scit-ssithiss!" he wheezed, "For breaking my pride, I shall gnaw your bones to splinters!"

He lashed out again, quicker this time. Tristan fell back onto his butt, feeling the woosh of air from the tail spikes just inches away from his face. The tail slammed down onto the street between his feet, a twisted piece of gutter still skewered onto it.

Tristan scrambled backwards, under a second story balcony of the next building over. He leaned against the support beam, panting. His hands were shaking. That last swipe was close. Too close. Two bullets left, two more chances …

Another tail swipe. Another loud crack. The Thorntail pulverized the wooden beam where Tristan's head had once been. The balcony above creaked in protest as the boards and nails became stressed. He looked up in astonishment, then crawled further underneath the platform.

"Come out from there, you fur-less rat!" the drake bellowed.

He tried sucking in a deep inhale to breathe fire, but coughed with pain. Without a lung-full of air to properly aerosol the liquid flame, there was no rushing blast of fire. Instead, it squirted out in twin streams from pressurized glands in his lower jaws. Tristan hid behind the other support post and shut his eyes tight as the spray combusted, showering the balcony with flaming droplets. Globs thick dragonfire dripped down between the wooden slats. Hunched behind the support beam, the back of Tristan's shirt and pants caught on fire. He patted himself frantically to put the flames out, but liquid dragonfire had an oily texture and stuck to fabric. He felt searing pain as the flames burned through his clothes.

Tristan's Guild training kept him cool-headed in the face of fire. He didn't panic, didn't make himself vulnerable by dropping and rolling. As he smothered the flames, his gaze never left the drake. The spiked tail swung again. Tristan timed his dodge and rolled out onto the street. With a shattering crack, the tail smashed through the other support beam. The balcony came crashing down in an avalanche of splintering wood. The drake tried to pry his tail out, but his long spikes stuck fast under the wreckage.

With the Thorntail distracted, it was now or never. Tristan rolled onto his back and gripped his revolver with both hands. Closing one eye and aiming down the sights, he sucked in a quick breath and let it out slowly.

BAM!

The bullet caught the Thorntail through his cheek and exited out the top of his head with a messy splatter. The dragon staggered, snarling and writhing. His wings thrashed wildly, the clawed thumbs gouging out furrows the side of the alleyway buildings. But he didn't go down. Even a bullet as large as a .50 caliber couldn't guarantee a one-shot kill on a dragon. Tristan readied his aim and remained patient.

The Thorntail stumbled and crashed into a building. He attempted to step toward Tristan, but the drake's legs gave out under him. He collapsed in the alleyway with an earth-trembling thud. The dragon tried to stand back up. And failed. Slowly, his wings fell slack against the ground. Tristan waited a few more moments before lowering his gun.

One bullet left, Tristan reminded himself. He hastily pushed himself to his feet and checked his burns. His leather vest had absorbed a large glob of dragonfire and still burned, so he ripped it off and cast it to the ground. The sleeves of his shirt were peppered with burnt holes, exposing red, blistered skin. It hurt. A lot.

Down the alleyway, Whitewillow struggled against the other Thorntail, who was not only larger than a Zenshin Lionsmane, but considerably more practiced in fighting. The two were a tangle of gnashing teeth and swiping claws. Whitewillow was on the defensive, more focused on subduing the Thorntail than killing him. She had wrapped her tail around his own, to prevent him from using it as a weapon. But it also ensured that she couldn't get away from his sharp claws, and blood ran down her white scales from multiple gashes. Currently, the Thorntail worked to pin Whitewillow down so he could get a bite at her neck.

Tristan came running. "I can't get a clear shot!" he yelled, struggling to keep the heavy revolver steady in his hands. "Pin his head in place!"

Both dragons looked up at the sound of his voice. The second Thorntail gasped when he saw the first lying in a pool of his own blood. "Kiff'raak! Riss!"

Whitewillow used the moment of distraction to whip her head backward, plunging both of her horns into the Thorntail's shoulder. He reared back with a roar of pain, allowing Whitewillow to wiggle her hind legs underneath him and kick the larger drake off. Trembling with rage, the second Thorntail ignored the wounded Whitewillow and fixed his golden eyes on Tristan.

"Gnaaf ssith homn! You killed my brother! Now you burn!" Plumes of fire erupted from the corners of his maw as he snarled. The Thorntail inhaled a deep breath. Tristan skidded to a stop and looked around. But he saw no cover in this narrow alleyway. He swore.

As the drake's chest filled with air, Whitewillow launched herself forward. She latched onto a horn and pulled back, yanking his head upward as he exhaled. The torrent of flames spewed just over Tristan's head and arched up towards the sky. The narrow alleyway lit up with a bright blast of orange light. Tristan raised his revolver and squinted hard.

"Hold him still!" he shouted.

Whitewillow grimaced around the horn she bit down on. "I'm … trying!"

She wrapped both wings around his shoulders to prevent the drake from extending his own wings and throwing her off. Still coughing plumes of flame into the air, he staggered to the right, then the left, slamming Whitewillow into the buildings. She yelped in pain but held on tight, keeping the Thorntail's head pulled back toward the sky. Whitewillow's blunted claws dug into the Thorntail's scales as she struggled to hold on.

BAM!

The flames sputtered to a stop as the bullet entered between the Thorntail's jawbones and exited the top of his snout, between the eyes. Whitewillow slid off of him, limping in pain. The drake staggered off to the side clutching his bleeding snout, but he didn't go down. Tristan realized with a sinking feeling that he had missed the brain.

"That's my last bullet. Finish him off!"

Whitewillow's eyes grew wide with fear. "But, I … I can't …"

"You have to!"

With blood filling his eyes and mouth, the Thorntail lashed out blindly with his tail. He missed Whitewillow by several feet and hit only air.

"Go for the throat, Willow!" he yelled.

Still, the albino remained frozen, like a statue.

He shook her shoulder hard. "Now, before he kills us both!"

The sudden lurch shook Whitewillow out of her fugue. Steeling herself, the Zenshin Lionsmane charged forward. The half-blind drake lashed out with his long sickle claws. She ducked under the swipes and went straight for the neck. Her jaws clamped down, causing him to yelp. Whitewillow twisted her head and pulled away hard. A chunk of the drake's throat came with her.

Gurgling, the Thorntail collapsed to the ground. His wing thumbs clutched uselessly at the hole in his throat. Blood poured out like an uncorked wine barrel, filling the cracks between the cobblestone road. Panting, wounded, and exhausted, Tristan and Whitewillow could only stand and watch as the Thorntail's writhing slowed to a few last twitches. His body relaxed, his ragged breathing grew still.

Silence fell over the alleyway. Thick and heavy emptiness, broken only by the drip … drip … drip … of condensation from the steam-powered generators on the roofs above. Tristan became aware of the pulse of his blood pressure from all the adrenaline in his veins.

"We … we did it. We actually did it!" Tristan exclaimed.

His pistol felt suddenly heavy. He nearly dropped it as he bent over to rest both hands on his knees. A sudden rush of exhilaration came over him. This was more than survival. No, it was a victory! A dragonhunter's first solo kill was a momentous occasion; heck, most field scholars didn't even have a solo kill!

"My first solo kill! I can't believe I did it!" He flinched with self-awareness and whirled around. "Mrs. Broyal? Are you okay?"

Lady Jenivive peeked out from behind the broken, rotting barrel she had been hiding behind. "Is it over?"

He offered a hand and pulled the pregnant Lady up gently. "Yes! It's over."

"Thank the gods we all survived!"

Her eyes surveyed the carnage that she had only glimpsed before now. Two dead Thorntails lay in the narrow street, their blood flowing through the gaps in the bricks. She gasped, one hand flying to her mouth.

"Hey, are you okay?"

Mrs. Broyal turned her face away from the dead dragons. "Yes, it's … well, I'm fine." She wrapped him up in a tight hug. "Thank you, hunter. I owe you my life."

Tristan felt giddy with adrenaline as he pulled away from the hug. He gesticulated wildly with both hands. "Did you see me fight? I thought I was going to die a dozen times … I had only six bullets … that moment when the balcony collapsed … I had no idea if that would actually work or not … then Whitewillow saved my life … gods, the Guild is gonna go wild when they hear my first solo kill was a two-fer! This means I get two more teeth to add to my necklace!"

His grin slowly faded as he took in Lady Jenivive's expression of revulsion.

"Those 'trophies' of yours had names, hunter," she remarked coldly.

"I … sorry," he muttered, feeling foolish for being so disrespectful. "You're right, of course."

Lady Jenivive turned her attention to her baby bump, clutching it. "You're okay too?" She closed her eyes and focused her breathing for a moment. "Gods, today has had enough close calls for a lifetime. I need to get back home, curl up in the bathtub, and stay there for the next few hours."

Tristan turned to his scaled companion, who stood hunched over the dead Thorntail. "Whitewillow! Whitewillow?"

He noted the multiple crimson gashes streaking across her white scales. Her green silk scarf – already singed from Ragn'mawl's flame – now appeared sodden with red. She appeared not to notice her dripping wounds. Her sanguine eyes stayed fixated on the dead drake whose blood continued to flow onto the street.

"Those gashes look deep. Are you okay?"

She didn't look up. "I … I killed him." Her voice a raw, trembling whisper.

Tristan's hunter instincts kicked back in. "A quick kill, well done."

The dragoness trembled as anger welled up in her. She lurched her head his way, teeth bared in a snarl. "Riss! There is nothing here worth celebrating!"

Tristan jumped back, startled by her outburst.

"Murder is a detestable act according to the tenants of Temple Husia. It is ssithiss – dirty and foul. A sin of the highest order. Do you understand?"

Shit.

Tristan scrambled to find more appropriate words. "It wasn't murder, it was self defense. If you didn't do what you did, the Thorntails would have killed us all."

Whitewillow wiped her snout on the back of her wing, then stared at the bloody smear in horror. "Ignorant hunter! In the process of taking a life, I have tainted my own kaa. Never will I be whole again, forever stained by zussu. I shall be exiled from Temple Husia for this!"

She wiped again and again, desperate to get the blood off her. After a half-dozen attempts, she gave up and began to cry. Dragons could not shed tears like humans. Instead, they yowled a distinctive, mournful wail that Tristan had only heard once before. Whitewillow shut her eyes tight and trembled with heaving breaths. Her cries echoed in the empty street.

"Riss … rissssss!" she hissed between sobs.

"Hey, hey … it'll be okay, it's okay." Tristan clutched her bloody snout and cradled her against his chest. "Shh, shh … you're alive, I'm alive, Jenivive is alive. That's all that matters."

The dragoness chimed her tingsha and looked to the narrow band of sky between the crowded houses. "Taishui, Taishui … my goddess, my light, my purpose! Hear me: I beg forgiveness!"

No answer came. She chimed them again in desperation. "Do you not hear the call of your sacred tingsha? Please do not forsake your faithful servant!"

The metallic chime of her tiny cymbals waned. A heavy silence fell over the street. And in that silence, Whitewillow collapsed, inconsolable.

Tristan knelt down. He reached out and wrapped both arms around her neck. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Willow."

The dragon's sobs muffled in his arms. Behind them, a shaken Jenivive looked around the two dead dragons and the damaged buildings, and wondered aloud how to explain this mess to the police.

TO BE CONTINUED

~ The story is ramping up. Consider this the end of the first act. Expect more plot focus in the future.

~ Special thanks to my beta readers for this chapter for helping me identify certain poorly-written spots. You da real MVP!

~ Action scenes are hard. I'm still trying to improve how I write them. Got any critique? Share it in the comments!

~ I already have the next chapter halfway done. I promise to get it out in a shorter time frame than it took between chapters 2 and 3!

~ Let me know what you think of the two other dragons, Ragn'mawl and T'sarrak!