Chapter 1: Leaders Don't Listen
“I’m telling you, Talc, she’s gone crazy,” a disgruntled Garble said to one of his remaining cronies, a translucent white twig of an uncrested drake.
“I know what you mean. Dragonlord Ember is the biggest Cunning Optimist ever,” Talc said, eyes not rising from the mildly table-like rock he’d been seated at for the past quarter-hour. “What’s she done that’s crazy, again?”
Garble decided to let Talc’s obvious tail-kissing and backside-covering slide, once again. After all, Talc was a spineless wyrm. Primo minion material, and minions of any sort were nigh-impossible to find for a dragon not currently on the rise.
And, like most spineless wyrms, Talc was creepily good with math.
“What she's doing now is she’s put out a call to some elder dragons. The kind with literal mountains of treasure in their hoards. And for what? To burn down Pony Princess Land and capture their treasure? No!”
A gout of sulfurous flame roared out of his mouth, giving the table-ish rock a fresh coating of soot.
“So, uh,” Talc said, peering back up over the lip of the rock, “what does she want the elder dragons for?”
“She’s calling them 'advice-ers’ or something,” Garble said, fuming. “An advice-er’s job, apparently, is to tell the dragon in charge how to do their job. What kind of leader listens to their underlings?”
“What kind, indeed?” Talc muttered under his breath.
“A leader is somedragon who bosses people around. That's the whole point of being a leader. If you’ve got people bossing you around, you're not a leader at all! You’re just somedragon's lackey. And I won't be some lackey’s lackey! This just stinks of pony madness from letters from that pretty purple pony princess I almost got to thrash in the Gauntlet of Fire. Or worse, from that runt,” Garble said, smashing a fist through the corner of the table-oid rock.
“Why, I oughta walk right up to her right now and snatch the Bloodstone Scepter right out of her claws, rules be charred. Like she’d be able to stop me, with that weak, pony-brained nonsense her head’s stuffed with.”
Talc timidly raised a claw.
“Maybe, Garble, you should—”
“You can’t be saying you’re okay with this!”
“No, no, I’m not. And I swear I’m not trying to boss you around. After all, I’m just a spineless wyrm—”
“Spit it out, lackey, before I decide to rip it out of you and start looking for a new minion.”
“By my, uh, calculations, maybe we should, y’know, wait a little bit. Once everydragon sees how weak and crazy she is, you can swoop in, challenge her for the Bloodstone Scepter, and nodragon will complain at all about having a new, strong Dragonlord in charge.”
“Hmm… Just had an idea: Maybe I should wait for her to show everydragon how weak and crazy she is, and then I’ll challenge her for the Bloodstone Scepter! I’m glad I thought of that. Things like this are why I should be the dragon in charge!”
“Indeed, my lord,” Talc said, a warm smile blinking across his features.
Ember stood in a darkened cavern, with only a few flickering courtesy magelights to see by. They cast intriguing glimmers and shadows across the hoard of Soapstone, one of the few elder dragons to respond positively to her call for advisors. She'd grown a little during her few months of being Dragonlord, but she hadn't really felt like she’d owned the title yet, or, consequently, the Royal Hoard that came with it.
Ember looked up at the sinuous elder spineless wyrm, a wicked grin slowly unhinging her maw.
“So you're saying,” she said, “that doing that would not only grow the R— my hoard, but the hoards of all those around me?”
“Not only that,” he said as he lowered his snake-like neck to grin back at her, “the other dragons will see these growing hoards and throw themselves at your feet to join the fun.”
“I love it! You are quite the Cunning Optimist, aren't you?”
“Indeed, my lord.”
Chapter 2: Dragons Stand Alone
Garble had been watching Ember. Not so much like a hawk, as like a vulture. A vulture watching a sun-addled creature stumbling through the desert in August. A creature that had the gall to not only fail to die, but also to fatten itself off of cacti and other such impossible food sources.
Months turned into years, and Ember's rule continued to stubbornly refuse to visibly weaken.
Not that Garble had been idle in his years of waiting. He’d been taking every opportunity to grow his hoard. Digging up treasure, beating up smaller dragons... Well, not every opportunity. He hadn't been raiding pony towns. His Dragonlord had expressly forbidden that, and he was just sure that any ponies he stole from would tell on him to their pretty princesses, and one of them would send a letter to Dragonlord Ember. And ticking off the Dragonlord when you had a grand total of two dragons on your side? Not, in Garble’s mind, a winning proposition.
Despite the limits imposed on him, though, Garble had amassed a modest hoard for himself. He had grown past being a mere teenage dragon and into the realm of young-adulthood. He was taller, broader, stronger… While bipedal locomotion was still plenty efficient, he was beginning to see the advantages of going down to all-fours once-in-a-while.
Lately, Garble had been hearing rumors. Crazy rumors. Rumors of teens and even whelps going about with pieces from the Royal Hoard.
So Garble had trekked his way back to the crag-ridden heart of the Dragon Lands. As much as the Dragon Lands had a heart, anyway. Outside of a cave’s mouth, in the shadow of a cliff face, he ran into an old acquaintance of his counting treasure at a rough stone table.
“Talc. Haven't seen you in a while. Looks like you’ve gotten yourself a bit of a hoard,” he said, noting Talc’s size.
Talc had grown as well in the intervening years, though not in the same ways as Garble. Rather than broadening out, his general body shape had graduated from “twig” to “noodle”, leaving him a little longer than Garble was tall. His legs hadn't grown to match, either, consigning him to a state of obligate quadrupedalism.
“Of a sort, of a sort. It’s more that I take my accounting personally, like any proper spineless wyrm. There's been quite a bit of that to go around here lately, by the by. All these little drakes and vixens just coming into treasure for the first time wanted somedragon to keep track of how valuable their new hoards were, and I was in the area. More coming by the day, too.”
Garble blinked owlishly. He’d never known Talc to be so… talkative. Or forthcoming, for that matter.
“So, Garble, what brings you to these parts? It can't be the Bloodstone Scepter's call, as the Dragonlord explicitly sent that out to the young and hoardless—”
“So that’s why I’ve been hearing rumors of whelps running around with chunks of the Royal Hoard? Because our Cunning Optimist of a Dragonlord is giving them away!?”
“Well,” Talc said, smoothing his nonexistent crest, “I suppose that answers my question.
“And to answer yours, ‘Not quite.’”
Garble raised a claw, opened his mouth, closed it again, and scratched his head. “Explain to me how she is not throwing away the Royal Hoard.”
“Because, Garble, she expects to see it come back. With interest.”
“I can see why she’d be interested in getting it back, but how's that make her any less crazy for giving it out in the first place? Greed is one of the main ways a dragon grows, after all.”
Talc saw then that attempting to educate Garble on the ‘finer’ points of finance right then was a losing battle.
“Never mind that for now,” he said, his eyes resuming their resigned cast of years ago, before brightening up again. “Say, Garble, you know I’m trash at explaining things. How's about we get you the word, straight from the vixen’s mouth? She’s set to give a speech to all the dragons around here this evening. Something about unveiling the scheme this all has been leading up to.”
Garble was leery of his former minion’s apparent support for the latest craze. Maybe it was contagious?
Then again, Garble had always considered himself to be eminently sane and draconic.(1) Surely he’d be able to resist whatever madness was catching among the weak.
“Eh, why not? It's not like there’s anything else I was here to do.
It was time for the speech. Whelps and teens were scattered around a sort of ceilingless cave lined with concentric quarter-circles of cut-stone benches that got higher towards the back of the cave(2). Garble and Talc weren’t the only larger dragons present, either, or even the largest. A few adults and young adults were interspersed with the audience, complete with areas of empty space surrounding them corresponding to their size. There were even a couple of elder dragons peering down from where the ceiling should have been.
Well, it was almost time for the speech.
Garble and Talc had arrived early, and were seated about midway down the center-left portion of the cave. They had a modest clearing of free space around them.
“Heh. Those door guards were pretty enthusiastic, eh Talc? The way they were flexing and bumping into stuff, you’d think they’d just tripled their hoard sizes.”
“You might not be too far off there, Garble…
“Ah. There she is!”
The golden, sapphire- and topaz-studded doors at the head of the cave swung open, and in walked a tall, lithe-limbed vixen on all fours. Her cerulean scales gleamed, though not so brilliantly as did the branching lines of gold inlay set into the horns curving around her head. Wrapped in the coils of her tail was the Bloodstone Scepter(3).
She reached the front of the raised flat area, sat on her haunches, and transferred the Bloodstone Scepter to a foreclaw.
“Wow,” Garble whispered. “She, uh, really grew into her position.”
“Yeah. Keep telling yourself that, only silently,” Talc whispered back. “She's about to speak.”
“Vixens, and gentledrakes,” she began, her voice clearly loud enough to reach the back of the stepped ceilingless cave. “Welcome, to the Grand Amphitheatre! The firstfruits of my project. A great gathering place for the dragons of the world, and you made it yourselves!”
“Made a cave?” Garble whispered. “Also, just how new is this place?”
“Well yeah,” Talc whispered back. “It’s not like these stepped benches formed naturally. And quite new; this is the first time I’ve been in here, too.”
“You may have noticed, coming in, the strapping young dragons guarding the doors. Every one of them worked to create the building you sit in now! And every one of them started out a year ago as a hoardless whelp, and has been paid handsomely from the Royal Hoard for their services.
“There will be many more such projects, and many more opportunities for advancement, for those willing to work for it.”
Some scattered cheers rose from the audience, and greed flickered in the eyes of many a whelp.
“The dragon of yesterday was parasitic, caring for nothing but theirself. They never made, only took what they could and destroyed the rest. Where is the pride, the nobility in that? Dragons were a people of lonely raiders, only ever coming together for their great migrations.
“But we. We are different. We are here together to remake the image of dragonkind! We will become not just a mighty people, but a great one! And that greatness will start with this, our capital city of Drakkenstadt!”
“Capital what?” Garble whispered.
“For those of you not in-the-know,” she said, twirling her scepter with affected absence, “a city is a place where thousands of people live, work, and create. A city is typically filled with buildings, not unlike the one you’re sitting in right now. A capital city is the heart of a nation, so this is where I will live. At the center of everything. And it's where you’ll live, too, if you're strong enough.
“What if I told you, that you didn't have to steal to fill your hoard with gold, gems, and whatever else you desire? What if I told you, that you could make those things yourself?! What if I told you, that all you’d need to do so is the knowledge that I’m going to impart to anydragon willing to listen?”
“I’d tell you you were crazy,” Garble whispered to himself.
Everydragon else was looking to their Dragonlord with keen interest.
“Together, we can make our own treasure. With draconic strength, magic, and fire, the wonders we create will see the hoards of today and yesterday treated as mere dross!” she shouted, rising to her hind legs and thrusting the Bloodstone Scepter heavensward. “Who will rise with me, to this shining tomorrow?!”
All of the lesser dragons cheered, and the amphitheatre erupted in a chorus of flames. A few of the adults joined in, too, though a few looked unsure(4). Even one of the elder dragons was grinning widely, though she refrained from providing a conflagratory contribution of her own.
Garble turned to Talc, eyes wide. “Our Dragonlord's going to get herself killed.
“She’s going to get herself killed,” he said, applying both hands to his cheeks, “while draining the Royal Hoard, and making the office of Dragonlord into a laughing stock.
“Tiamat take us all. It's a really dark day for dragonkind when a Cunning Optimist is in charge.”
(1) Or he would have, had he known what those words meant.
(2) Or, as ponies would call it, an amphitheatre.
(3) For the size Ember was when she first earned the Bloodstone Scepter, it would have been more proper to call it a staff. It’s called a scepter regardless, as a Dragonlord is meant to grow into their position.
(4) “Unsure” was the closest concise translation, though the word has no perfect analog in Draconic. The literal translation of the Draconic word is “before the decision.”
Chapter 3: Dragons Don't Share
Drakkenstadt was roaring. In a good way. In the early days, Ember had wasted little(1) time teaching the populace the arts of smithing, metallurgy, construction, masonry, and other such needful things for building a city.
Once she had educated what she felt was enough teachers of the practical arts (and taught them the concept of trading knowledge for more tangible treasure), she moved on to the fine arts.
Little effort was spent on painting(2). More effort was given to jewelry(3), with higher levels of success among the more mature dragons. What dragons really took to like fire to linseed oil, was sculpture. Clay, metal, marble… just about any medium(4) that could be considered permanent at high temperatures, as long as it could be made to look like a dragon.
“How do you like your new statue, friend?” Talc asked.
“I like it,” Garble replied. “I think it really captures my essence.”
“It looks sort of… angry. Like it wants to rip off my head and breathe fire down my neck.”
“That’s sorta what I meant.”
Garble was quite pleased with the somewhat larger-than-life(5) statue. Its polished red granite body upright on its haunches, claws ready to eviscerate the unfortunate creature its yellow scapolite eyes were presumably glaring down at. The gaping maw being lined with teeth cast in white gold was a particularly nice touch, he thought, and the detailed lines being accentuated with gold inlay didn't hurt either. It was a likeness any proper dragon should be proud to display in their front room.
It may have cost him more treasure to commission than he’d earned in his entire life before coming to Drakkenstadt, but it wasn't a large enough expenditure to make him lose sleep over nowadays, and hadn't been since a couple years after he’d taken up finance(6) as the smart drake’s way to grow his hoard. After all, nodragon defaulted on a Garble loan.
“So, uh...” Talc said with fidgeting claws, once they’d made their way to Garble’s sitting room. “Have you heard the Dragonlord's most recent proclamation?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
Talc’s expression went instantly from nervous to floored.
“Bu— Wha— You can't be telling me that you, that Mister Wait For the Dragonlord to Get Torn Limb from Limb and then Swoop in to Take her Place, are okay with this!”
“Eh, I can't exactly say I like it, but when has that ever meant anything? So the Dragonlord wants us to trade with other species. Big whoop. I’ll let a few early adopters take it in the teeth, and then move in in a way that actually makes sense. Like I always end up doing whenever she makes a proclamation trying to turn the world upside-down. Hate to say it, but everything that Cunning Optimist touches turns to gold, even if it spends some time as coal along the way. Tartarus, even the Acquisitions Tax I was sure would go over like an osmium balloon led to dragons clamoring to donate their finest works, in hopes that they’d get featured in the gallery of the Cobalt Palace(7).
“Anyway, my sources in Wyrmwood have been telling me that the small-scale pony-dragon grey market trade there hasn't been hurting things for them. I’d actually considered importing some pony-made quartz cake from there, if you’ve got to know.”
“So, you are okay with this,” Talc said, visibly relaxing.
“Close enough. I figure if the world is as mad as Ember is, I might as well roll with it and take what I can get. And ‘what I can get’ has been pretty good so far.
“Besides,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “it was really hard to argue with her closing remark. ‘Greed is good.’”
(1) Some time was admittedly lost on false starts translating theory to practice.
(2) Not only are canvas and linseed oil quite flammable, dragons find the heavy-metal-based pigments delicious.
(3) More time was lost on trying to give dragons the concept of fine jewelry. Jewelry, to a dragon, is viewed very similarly to how flower arrangement is viewed by ponies. A particularly fancy gem setting has about the same life expectancy around a dragon as would a specially arranged bouquet of exotic flowers around a perpetually starving earth pony.
(4) Some of the more eccentric dragons even commissioned statues made out of pieces of their personal hoards.
(5) 1.2:1 scale, at the time of its creation.
(6) Once Talc finally managed to explain the idea of financial interest to him, Garble found giving out loans quite interesting indeed.
(7) In much the same manner as a mother might hang her child’s hoof-painting on the fridge.
