The day had started off almost too normal, which was the first sign of things to come. Ming rose at the crack of dawn, refilled her ink nibs, harnessed her scroll case to her back, and settled any awoken hatchlings back into bed. Tea preparation was next and sacred to the morning process, so inevitably all hatchlings from the first steps were liable to awake once again at any moment and throw the whole thing off kilter - meaning of course she budgeted approximately thirty extra minutes into this step to take care of any mishaps. If all went according to plan, then she would end up with a pot of boiling water and a satchel of freshly harvested herbs, courtesy of Mavenlark gardening ingenuity and arranged by herself the night prior. Both ingredients would meet in Ming’s traveling mug as she prepared herself for the day. Mane brushed, glasses wiped, nails primed, body freshened, lapels polished, she hurdled through self-presentation with the grace of a Cerdae and the mindset of a Raptorik, preparing herself for the day’s work ahead. As secretary to clan leader Mother Bitestrith, Ming needed to walk a steady line between approachable and steely - half of that was in mentality, and the other, in looks.
She didn’t put so much thought into how she carried herself to be tossed about in some rowdy boy’s club, that was for sure.
Whether Mother Bitestrith knew how and where to prod Ming’s buttons as a result of being her boss or lover was yet to be decided upon by the latter. When Ming arrived for work that day she geared herself up what was becoming their own morning routine of sorts.
“You need to take a vacation,” the Mother said for what was probably the fifth time that week, sipping a cup of tea prepared by a set of claws that certainly weren’t her own. The fae was curled around the very top of her desk chair, the seat of which she only sat in front of clan representatives and outside leaders. Her and Ming had far outlived the need for that kind of formality.
“And let you have all the fun around here? You wish.”
“Too late. You’ve already got a two-way ticket to the Man Cave.”
Ming wrinkled her nose. She didn’t expect Bitestrith to act on her threats, and certainly not in this manner. “I don’t appreciate euphemisms being used during our working relationship. I’m not quite sure I’d appreciate it off the clock either, if I’m being frank.”
“No, I’m being serious. That’s what this clan I want you to scope out is called.” The fae shrugged. “I...don’t entirely appreciate the name either, but from what the Guard’s scouts have told me, they could be excellent allies to Mavenlark.”
“I’m going to kill you if you’re sending me to some…fraternity.”
“Nothing of the sort. These dragons are well past fraternity age. Some are even female.”
“Not helping.”
“Ming, please. I know you love this stuffy old office” - Bitestrith offered the disparagement of her workplace with a flair of the claw, motioning to the stacks of tax returns, building permits, and red tape, both literally and figuratively, that Ming was looking forward to cutting through today - “but seriously, I don’t think you’ve departed from your schedule in over three moon cycles.”
“Neither have you!” she added defensively.
“Perhaps, but I can’t afford to. You can. And besides, it would be an awfully big help...”
“Alright, alright, keep your batting eyelashes to yourself. I’ll go. What do you need me to do?”
Bitestrith smiled. It was always a pleasant day for a leader when they got exactly what they wanted. “Here, why don’t I just provide you with the invitation?”
“Invitation?”
Ming immediately began to heave violently at the sight of the paper; or, more accurately, the smell. Bitestrith had preemptively pinched her nose, handing it to the tundra one-handedly.
“Thank you for the warning!” Ming said, grabbing the paper from the fae with irate furor. Bitestrith crooked her arms in a sort of “what-can-you-do” slouch, trying and failing to mask a smile.
The paper was thick with the scent of cologne. It might have been Sornieth’s most high-end stuff, but there was no way of telling - the paper had obviously been soaked in it, granting it not only a horrendous smell, but a completely smudged, waterlogged mess of an invitation. Ming glanced it over, deciphering it to the best of her ability.
“...why, by the Arcanist’s disgraced name, is this written like a book synopsis?”
“Ming, you’re asking the wrong dragon. That’s something to direct at our friend Manly McBro.”
“I refuse to call him that. I refuse to even believe that there is a dragon under the sun who is called that.”
“Be civil. They’re our potential allies.”
“Why?” Ming tended to respect Bitestrith’s decisions, even when she failed to understand them - but this one went way above her head.
“Because as ridiculous as their general presentation is, these guys are serious warriors. The Guard is impressed with their prowess and drive for glory. And we could always use more of that around these parts. I need your secretarial skills to give me a general overview of these dragons, so I can know who to best sweet-talk into lending their power to us, if Manly has no interest in allying.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“I tell myself that every day. Now, leave with the procession I have planned for you. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” The fae leapt over her desk and planted a small kiss on her much larger lovers’ cheek. Ming rolled her eyes, trying to distract the small blushing working under her skin that only someone as small and observant as Bitestrith could see.
She hated how correct the letter was. The Guard procession had dropped her off at the very end of the line, with a few sticking around for general safety measures. At first, the general assumption was that the line had grown to this length as the dragons in front to carefully check each dragon in. Mavenlark did the same with its boarded refugees and travelers, the policy creating a similarly long line. Imagine her annoyance, then, when Ming noticed that almost every dragon ahead of her carried a pizza box! She didn’t care how big the party was - the polite thing to do would have been to create a separate line for catering staff, and a second for important guests such as herself. She scribbled down a chuffed note, happy to know that Bitestrith would have to read through her displeasure - “no manners or ability to plan among this lot.”
Getting to the front of the line was a chore that took a year off of Ming’s life. By the time she reached the entrance to what she presumed was the clan’s headquarters - some ridiculously large and elaborate estate that Ming took spoke volumes about their ego - her feet had become one with the ground, vibrating painfully with every step and threatening to break a nail. She certainly was in no position to be dealing with the nonsense that was about to occur.
The spiral at the front door wore nothing more than a skull mask and net at her side, the latter of which she swept around Ming at the sight of her.
“Get this awful thing off of me!” she shrieked, not caring how high-matinence she was sounding. The spiral complied, laughing.
“HOT DOG, you’re one HECK of a big Tundra! I mistook you for a BEAST of some kind. The LUNAR kind. One of them STAR BEARS. On account of all of your STARS. My name is MACHOMCMANNOODLE. I am the WIFE of ManlyMcBro.”
“...how are you speaking in all caps?”
“You must be one of those MAVENLARK FOLK. Aren’t you all great artists, or something?”
“...wait, circle back, did you just make an image with your mouth?”
The spiral clapped her hands together in recognition. “I GOT IT. Someone with your power...your artform must be LIFTING.”
“Sure, if it’ll get me in faster.”
“THAT’S THE SPIRIT. Faster is better. ALWAYS. Because faster can end two ways: in slower or in EXPLOSIONS. And I’m partial to” - she mimed handing a microphone to Ming, but immediately pulled back before the tundra could respond - “THE LATTER. Go right in. And remember: HAVE FUN!”
Barely into the house, and Ming already had some notes to compile. She knew that it would have been wise to ask the spiral where her husband was, but something felt strange about staying among her too long and blocking up the line further. Those poor pizza dragons.
It was if the entire house halted for her. A record screech broke out across the room. Dragons turned away from their screaming matches across the blasting sound to look at her up and down. Someone booed. A punching sound ensued, as well as a sharp “what did I say?!” Ming didn’t feel very bear-like. She felt like an alien. How could Bitestrith have failed to tell her the most important part of her mission - that there was a color code?!
Every single dragon here had something she didn’t. Bad taste, namely, but secondly, they were pink and purple, through and through. A few radioactive members of the party trilled through the crowd, looking every bit as disgusted as their peers, but they were few and far between their pink and purple peers. Ming, decidedly, was none of these things. She felt frozen to the spot. It was like being in school all over again, and not the fun parts, where she was smarter than everyone else. She felt that familiar blushing sensation washing all over her again, though unfortunately, it was not pink enough to make her fit in.
“Uh...you lost, dude?”
A spiral of highly suspect color palette snuck up behind Ming and nearly made her scream. “Arcanist beyond–no, I am not lost, thank you very much, I’m merely...visiting.”
The clan murmured among themselves, very much in the way that they would if they hadn’t just flung open their doors to the general public for a party. Ming was burning now. Did Bitestrith misinterpret the invitation?
“Let’s...try some things out, okey? Okey. Leaving now. Kthanksallbye.” The spiral grabbed Ming’s hand and yanked her to the side and pushed her into what appeared to be some sort of broom closet - so they did clean up after themselves, at least, every once in a while. As quickly as the party had come to a halt, it started up again. It made her feel a little better knowing that she hadn’t made too big of a splash, but not enough to object to the spiral shutting the door behind them. He pulled on the ceiling light, and the two sat in the uncomfortable crampedness.
“Hey, name’s PABROPICASSO. Gr8 artisan, gr8er bro. You get it.”
She absolutely did not.
“Okay, so you’ve committed, like, what we’d refer to as a social suicide. Kinda bummer of a name. Suitable, tho. Like, I’m not asking you to change your skin...but like, change your skin.”
“...do you mean I have to look like one of you?” Talking with these dragons was a constant game of telephone.
“Yeah, uh, it would be the polite thing to do.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“You already are, man.”
Ming was ready to push back this nutcase and leave the party with a general denouncement of her treatment at the clan prepared for Bitestrith, but that would have meant denying that at the current moment, her claws were turning bright purple. Now she screamed. PABROPICASSO didn’t even flinch. And certainly no one would hear her outside.
“Yeah, I don’t really know why you followed me into the SUPER NOXIOUS TOXIN closet. I come here to think when I’m feeling ‘sad x(‘, but usually, nobody actually, like, follows-follows me.”
“YOU LEAD ME IN HERE!”
“Oh, hey, nice caps-lock speak. The toxin must be working its way through ya.”
“If this is permanent, so help me, the international incident I am going to raise…”
PABROPICASSO raised his claws. “Hey, now, no need for that, my man. It should be temporary. All of the stuff in here is like, ‘highly experimental’. I doubt that they engineered it, like, well enough to actually last.”
“...that’s not what experimental means.”
He scratched his head, perplexion reflected in his eyes. “Is it not?”
“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”
He kicked open the door, smiling shyly. “After you.”
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough! Maybe it was the lighting, as in her absence the entire room had switched over to some sort of overhead blacklight - Arcanist above, she hoped it was the lighting - but her entire hide was reflecting purple. Her tell-tale stars still stuck in her coat, but for how long? She looked around the clan worriedly. If they had someone make these chemicals, then surely they’d be at the biggest party of their clan’s history?
Ever the diligent secretary, she scribbled notes on her recent captor as she scanned the room for potential leads.
Ming was so good at providing information to her clan that they’d be interested in that she didn’t even know what she was saying half of the time.
The two purple-pink dappled dragons that she had tried to talk with thus far had only brought trouble. Perhaps a change in pace was in order. She eyed a pastel fellow near the clan’s snack table, an audacious thing lined with cakes, chips, meats - and a ceiling-high stack of pizza. Ming’s stomach grumbled. Surely, a bit of unhealthy food wouldn’t stick with her for too long.
“Excuse me,” she said, motioning to the food-booth dragon. He turned to look at her, immediately shooting out a spire of flame from his mouth.
“EXCUSE ME!” she again repeated, this time with disdain. The guilty skydancer shrugged apologetically.
“Ah, you know, instinct. Sorry about that, love. What can I get you?”
“Do you work here?”
“I’m working this catering booth, yes. Interested?”
Ming’s stomach rumbled again. Perhaps the poison could wait a minute. “Sure, Mister…” - she squinted and read the dragon’s nametag - “Honeybun. Pizza, please.”
He handed her black tar, beaming proudly at what he had done.
“I...what is this?” she asked.
“Pizza, charcoaled to perfection! It’s a secret recipe.”
She should have known better to have expected any competency in this place. “I think I’m actually full now.”
If the third time wasn’t the charm, the fourth had to be, right?
Yes, all the stereotypes of Sornieth said that skeletal dragons would bring you bad luck if you fraternized with them, but this was the Third Age, darn it, and Ming was a forward-thinking dragoness. She approached the bone-clad coatl with ease. “Hey there, do you think you can-”
She then witnessed him reach down to a nearby hatchling - “what on earth is a baby even doing here” was a question Ming knew best to suppress - and tug the clothes right off of him in one clean grab. Creepy. When the child started crying, the coatl shook them out, grabbed a piece of candy falling out of one of the pockets, and laughed. Creepy, cruel, and really unhygienic.
“Hey, freak!” she yelled at him. Causing him to look up. “Drop that this instant!”
“Uh…”
“Yeah, didn’t expect to be caught, did you? Hand it over!”
“You tell that radioactive nightmare!” some pink dragon yelled from the sidelines.
“Yeah, NUTS to SnugglyWuggly!” yelled another.
This house was like schrodinger’s traphouse - dragons could hear over the music only when it was plot-relevant.
“FINE! Whatever! I’ll just, like, buy some candy, like an ADULT or something.” He dropped the belongings in Ming’s outstretched claw, the very same tactic she used when one of her own hatchlings latched onto something they didn’t own, and slunked off into the flow of the party.
“Nice job on scaring that weirdo away!”
She was prepared to pass a polite “thank you” to whoever was bugging her with small-talk, but even the usually cordial Ming - though tonight was not exactly her shining moment - could not keep her mouth shut at the sight. A large Guardian was hovering over her, wings from her rear-end furiously flapping while her back ones stayed unusually silent. She had never seen anything like it - a birth defect? She shook her head, knowing that there would be no occasion where it would be polite to ask such a thing.
“Yeah, I was born like this. My clan called me Winga$$ at birth because they thought it was, like, super funny, and I gotta give them this, it totally is. But my BROS let me pick a more self-confident name just in case. And now I’m reborn as BuTtWiNg, the glorious!” The guardian stretched out her rear-wings, fluttering to the ground. “So anyway, what’s your deal? You got wings hidden underneath you, or…”
By now, Ming was growing quite tired of the antics of this clan, if she hadn’t been already before. Wasn’t there one normal dragon among them?
A spiral ran by screaming maniacally, its eyes engulfed in red flames. No, evidently.
Interrupting her notes was the crowd of party-goer’s sudden decision to split down the middle, allowing a few warm bodies through. A mirror and tundra duo decked in budget-blowing duds sidled up to her with an indifference would have made Ming feel much smaller had she cared any more about impressing the clan. The partiers whispered among themselves as they examined the three, who by now were closing in drastically on Ming’s personal space. A few instinctively grabbed at their wallets. Outcasts? Highwaymen?
“Ming?” the tundra asked.
“SixNine?!”
How could one dragon’s luck go from bad to worse in one day? Sure, the party had been advertised as large, but to find a face from the past here of all places…
The princess gave Ming a smirk. So much for not feeling small - she steeled herself regardless, not wanting to be bullied back out the door.
“I see you’ve...rejuvenated your looks.”
“I see you have yourself a dowry-sink.”
The mirror shuffled uncomfortably, clearly thinking the two of them would be calling the insults here. SixNine did not appear as rattled. She had always had a flair for taking a hit or two to her ego before letting loose on her targets. Mean girls always did.
“How are you, old friend?” Ming asked.
It seemed to Ming that SixNine had not changed much in the time that their families had tried to make them friends as hatchlings. Still shrill and ever so mean, the tundra before her still had that air of childish entitlement Ming had come to know and hate during her childhood as the daughter of a mercantile family. It was dragons like her that made Ming flee what most would consider to be a life of luxury - living mentally if not literally indebted to coin was no way to go from day to day.
“Here alone?” she replied, ignoring the question. “I take it you remain unpartnered. Your mercantiles roots not working out for you anymore? I always thought your money was too new to stick around long.”
Ming rolled her eyes. “Actually, I went the dead parent route.”
Even SixNine, for all her social aggression, knew where to draw a line. “I’m...sorry to hear about
that.”
“Sorry enough to get me out of this party?”
If there was one thing a daughter of a merchant knew, it was when to strike a good social deal.
Ming was surprised to hear SixNine laugh. “The Men are known to throw some uniquely awful parties. Much too rough around the edges for someone of our ilk.”
“I kind of like them,” the mirror mumbled, but the tundras ignored him as they had been.
“Fortunately for you, I’ve seen this before. Outsider wanders into a Man party, gets poisoned, needs ManlyMcMan to heal them up. I’ll take you to him.”
“Oh, thank the Arcanist.” She didn’t even care enough to ask how so many dragons kept getting poisoned.
“I-I know where he is,” the mirror said again, clearly uncomfortable with but used to being ignored. “He should be at the DJ’s booth. My name is Trageon, by the way. Not dowry-sink.”
It was a strange return to the past to walk with the two dragons, whom everyone seemed to recognize the distinction of. The party still raged lawlessly around them, with dragons shoving into one another and breaking endless rounds of furniture, but the chaos ebbed away from them as they approached. It was refreshing to Ming to see that the Bros, radioactive and magenta alike, had some form of respect for what one would call “higher breeding”, though she wasn’t quite sure that her kind deserved it. Maybe there was some good in them after all.
The DJ booth was predictably situated on a large stage, though for all its size, it was the first time Ming was seeing it since entering the party. It was so far back in the house that Ming was amazed that the sound it produced even travelled that far - though the closer they drew, the closer the trap beats being laid rattled her brain into goo. Motherhood had fried her ability to appreciate loud sounds. Despite being a stage, the dragons on it did not perform, but rather milled about holding drinks and dancing, sometimes both at the same time - she was grateful to have missed whatever kinds of events they held there, not wanting to know what the clan saw as entertainment.
Trageon weaved through here, clearly familiar with the landscape. He took them to a small door at the side stage, whose window was netted with tarp. Bright lights lashed from within.
Suddenly, a bushy faced pushed past the tarp moustache-first, emitting a large scream.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD EVENING FELLOW DRAGONS! THIS IS YOUR CO-DJ TOOMUCHMAN, COMING AT YOU LIVE FROM THE HEART OF SORNIETH’S GREATEST HOUSE PARTY! WHAT IS YOUR SONG REQUEST?!”
Ming had been here long enough to avoid lapsing into shock. “Actually, we’re just here to see Manl-”
“‘Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting’!” Trageon yelled, cutting her off. He was already mouthing “sorry” when she glared at him.
“PERFECT ANSWER! I WOULD HAVE HAD TO KILL YOU WHERE YOU STOOD HAD YOU REQUESTED ACCESS TO THE ROOM WITHOUT FIRST ASKING A SONG. THAT’S JUST RUDE.”
Ming felt quite like she was at the final stage of a long battle when the door opened and TOOMUCHMAN permitted them entrance. For standing above the ever-vibrating record disks was the guy himself, the big man on campus, the original bro. MANLYMCBRO looked softer than Ming would have expected. She discovered with unfortunate reflection that indeed, he looked much like the kind of man she would have developed an insanely one-sided crush on in her youth. He did not notice his new audience at first - how could he, over the pulse of the music - but with a quick whip of his head, discovered them.
His wings curled in anticipation. Trudgeon gripped onto his partner’s legs, who rolled her eyes. The ridgeback took a centering breath.
Silence. The music stopped, as did all outside noise. It was if all partygoers knew to hold their breath, conversations, dances, all at the same time.
Then, thunder. Literal thunder.
He clapped his wings once, twice, three times, and the torrent began to wreck the DJ booth. The equipment shot out distressed sparks of electricity, unamused by the display. Rain and thunder circled his body, something Ming had ever seen in insane Arcane magics. His eyes burned with recognition as he approached the group, bringing the storm with him. Ming’s feet began to grow wet.
“MY FRIENDS!” he bellowed. “GREAT TO MEET YOU! WHAT MAY I HELP YOU WITH?”
“My skin color, please,” Ming said. “It was changed by one of your toxins.”
The ridgeback gave a great laugh, and the floor of the booth shook beneath his feet. Ming noted that silence had still overtaken the clan, save for the sound of the storm MANLY was kicking up. “IT IS MERELY EXPERIMENTAL, MY FRIEND. THAT MEANS THAT IT IS NOT ENGINEERED WELL ENOUGH TO LAST. OBVIOUSLY.”
“...so what you’re telling me is that this is temporary?”
“YES, FOR UP TO EIGHT HOURS.”
“...and I could have left whenever I wanted to without having to come all this way to you.”
“IN THEORY.”
“...I am going to kill every last dragon in this clan.”
No such lessons were learned by Ming. She went home damp, angry, and a little purple.
The end.
She didn’t put so much thought into how she carried herself to be tossed about in some rowdy boy’s club, that was for sure.
Whether Mother Bitestrith knew how and where to prod Ming’s buttons as a result of being her boss or lover was yet to be decided upon by the latter. When Ming arrived for work that day she geared herself up what was becoming their own morning routine of sorts.
“You need to take a vacation,” the Mother said for what was probably the fifth time that week, sipping a cup of tea prepared by a set of claws that certainly weren’t her own. The fae was curled around the very top of her desk chair, the seat of which she only sat in front of clan representatives and outside leaders. Her and Ming had far outlived the need for that kind of formality.
“And let you have all the fun around here? You wish.”
“Too late. You’ve already got a two-way ticket to the Man Cave.”
Ming wrinkled her nose. She didn’t expect Bitestrith to act on her threats, and certainly not in this manner. “I don’t appreciate euphemisms being used during our working relationship. I’m not quite sure I’d appreciate it off the clock either, if I’m being frank.”
“No, I’m being serious. That’s what this clan I want you to scope out is called.” The fae shrugged. “I...don’t entirely appreciate the name either, but from what the Guard’s scouts have told me, they could be excellent allies to Mavenlark.”
“I’m going to kill you if you’re sending me to some…fraternity.”
“Nothing of the sort. These dragons are well past fraternity age. Some are even female.”
“Not helping.”
“Ming, please. I know you love this stuffy old office” - Bitestrith offered the disparagement of her workplace with a flair of the claw, motioning to the stacks of tax returns, building permits, and red tape, both literally and figuratively, that Ming was looking forward to cutting through today - “but seriously, I don’t think you’ve departed from your schedule in over three moon cycles.”
“Neither have you!” she added defensively.
“Perhaps, but I can’t afford to. You can. And besides, it would be an awfully big help...”
“Alright, alright, keep your batting eyelashes to yourself. I’ll go. What do you need me to do?”
Bitestrith smiled. It was always a pleasant day for a leader when they got exactly what they wanted. “Here, why don’t I just provide you with the invitation?”
“Invitation?”
Ming immediately began to heave violently at the sight of the paper; or, more accurately, the smell. Bitestrith had preemptively pinched her nose, handing it to the tundra one-handedly.
“Thank you for the warning!” Ming said, grabbing the paper from the fae with irate furor. Bitestrith crooked her arms in a sort of “what-can-you-do” slouch, trying and failing to mask a smile.
The paper was thick with the scent of cologne. It might have been Sornieth’s most high-end stuff, but there was no way of telling - the paper had obviously been soaked in it, granting it not only a horrendous smell, but a completely smudged, waterlogged mess of an invitation. Ming glanced it over, deciphering it to the best of her ability.
Quote:
So there is a really, really big house party going on, in like, the biggest house ever. It's MANLY MCBRO's MANLY MANGENTA MANNIVERSARY, and by gosh, does he want everyman to know it. There are over three hundred dudes in attendance, doing sick flips, eating pizza, punching bears, knitting sweaters and just generally being manly. Even the RADIBROACTIVES, MENEMIES AS THEY ARE, have turned up to the party, and a truce has been declared - though it's only for 'pizza time'. Your Intrepid reporter is finally on the scene, after sixty minutes being trapped in an unmanly fashion behind an epically long line of pizza delivery dragons. Their task? To report on the house party and attempt to find the Coolest of Dudes. ...If they're man menough for it, anyway. They'll have to use their keen [eye colour] eyes, awesome [weapon colour] [weapon name] weapons, and all of their INNER MAN POWER to get through this one.
Be there LATE. Being on time is for NERDS.
Be there LATE. Being on time is for NERDS.
“...why, by the Arcanist’s disgraced name, is this written like a book synopsis?”
“Ming, you’re asking the wrong dragon. That’s something to direct at our friend Manly McBro.”
“I refuse to call him that. I refuse to even believe that there is a dragon under the sun who is called that.”
“Be civil. They’re our potential allies.”
“Why?” Ming tended to respect Bitestrith’s decisions, even when she failed to understand them - but this one went way above her head.
“Because as ridiculous as their general presentation is, these guys are serious warriors. The Guard is impressed with their prowess and drive for glory. And we could always use more of that around these parts. I need your secretarial skills to give me a general overview of these dragons, so I can know who to best sweet-talk into lending their power to us, if Manly has no interest in allying.”
“You’re lucky I love you.”
“I tell myself that every day. Now, leave with the procession I have planned for you. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” The fae leapt over her desk and planted a small kiss on her much larger lovers’ cheek. Ming rolled her eyes, trying to distract the small blushing working under her skin that only someone as small and observant as Bitestrith could see.
She hated how correct the letter was. The Guard procession had dropped her off at the very end of the line, with a few sticking around for general safety measures. At first, the general assumption was that the line had grown to this length as the dragons in front to carefully check each dragon in. Mavenlark did the same with its boarded refugees and travelers, the policy creating a similarly long line. Imagine her annoyance, then, when Ming noticed that almost every dragon ahead of her carried a pizza box! She didn’t care how big the party was - the polite thing to do would have been to create a separate line for catering staff, and a second for important guests such as herself. She scribbled down a chuffed note, happy to know that Bitestrith would have to read through her displeasure - “no manners or ability to plan among this lot.”
Getting to the front of the line was a chore that took a year off of Ming’s life. By the time she reached the entrance to what she presumed was the clan’s headquarters - some ridiculously large and elaborate estate that Ming took spoke volumes about their ego - her feet had become one with the ground, vibrating painfully with every step and threatening to break a nail. She certainly was in no position to be dealing with the nonsense that was about to occur.
The spiral at the front door wore nothing more than a skull mask and net at her side, the latter of which she swept around Ming at the sight of her.
“Get this awful thing off of me!” she shrieked, not caring how high-matinence she was sounding. The spiral complied, laughing.
“HOT DOG, you’re one HECK of a big Tundra! I mistook you for a BEAST of some kind. The LUNAR kind. One of them STAR BEARS. On account of all of your STARS. My name is MACHOMCMANNOODLE. I am the WIFE of ManlyMcBro.”
“...how are you speaking in all caps?”
“You must be one of those MAVENLARK FOLK. Aren’t you all great artists, or something?”
“...wait, circle back, did you just make an image with your mouth?”
The spiral clapped her hands together in recognition. “I GOT IT. Someone with your power...your artform must be LIFTING.”
“Sure, if it’ll get me in faster.”
“THAT’S THE SPIRIT. Faster is better. ALWAYS. Because faster can end two ways: in slower or in EXPLOSIONS. And I’m partial to” - she mimed handing a microphone to Ming, but immediately pulled back before the tundra could respond - “THE LATTER. Go right in. And remember: HAVE FUN!”
Barely into the house, and Ming already had some notes to compile. She knew that it would have been wise to ask the spiral where her husband was, but something felt strange about staying among her too long and blocking up the line further. Those poor pizza dragons.
1 wrote:
MACHOMCMANNOODLE was the first dragon that I encountered in the clan. I have to say that I am impressed with her accessorization. Many clans’ leader dragons are decked out in expensive, elaborate outfits to accentuate their importance. Not our friend MACHOMCMANNOODLE. She wears only a handful of accessories, and those blend into her overall coloration, barely distinguishable as clothing. I like it. It’s simple and efficient, all of it lending purpose to her clan role, which is apparently catching bears. Flair isn’t everything, after all - personality is, and with a name like MACHOMCMANNOODLE, you know that she has tons of it. I wonder what her best catches in that net of her’s are?
It was if the entire house halted for her. A record screech broke out across the room. Dragons turned away from their screaming matches across the blasting sound to look at her up and down. Someone booed. A punching sound ensued, as well as a sharp “what did I say?!” Ming didn’t feel very bear-like. She felt like an alien. How could Bitestrith have failed to tell her the most important part of her mission - that there was a color code?!
Every single dragon here had something she didn’t. Bad taste, namely, but secondly, they were pink and purple, through and through. A few radioactive members of the party trilled through the crowd, looking every bit as disgusted as their peers, but they were few and far between their pink and purple peers. Ming, decidedly, was none of these things. She felt frozen to the spot. It was like being in school all over again, and not the fun parts, where she was smarter than everyone else. She felt that familiar blushing sensation washing all over her again, though unfortunately, it was not pink enough to make her fit in.
“Uh...you lost, dude?”
A spiral of highly suspect color palette snuck up behind Ming and nearly made her scream. “Arcanist beyond–no, I am not lost, thank you very much, I’m merely...visiting.”
The clan murmured among themselves, very much in the way that they would if they hadn’t just flung open their doors to the general public for a party. Ming was burning now. Did Bitestrith misinterpret the invitation?
“Let’s...try some things out, okey? Okey. Leaving now. Kthanksallbye.” The spiral grabbed Ming’s hand and yanked her to the side and pushed her into what appeared to be some sort of broom closet - so they did clean up after themselves, at least, every once in a while. As quickly as the party had come to a halt, it started up again. It made her feel a little better knowing that she hadn’t made too big of a splash, but not enough to object to the spiral shutting the door behind them. He pulled on the ceiling light, and the two sat in the uncomfortable crampedness.
“Hey, name’s PABROPICASSO. Gr8 artisan, gr8er bro. You get it.”
She absolutely did not.
“Okay, so you’ve committed, like, what we’d refer to as a social suicide. Kinda bummer of a name. Suitable, tho. Like, I’m not asking you to change your skin...but like, change your skin.”
“...do you mean I have to look like one of you?” Talking with these dragons was a constant game of telephone.
“Yeah, uh, it would be the polite thing to do.”
“And how do you propose I do that?”
“You already are, man.”
Ming was ready to push back this nutcase and leave the party with a general denouncement of her treatment at the clan prepared for Bitestrith, but that would have meant denying that at the current moment, her claws were turning bright purple. Now she screamed. PABROPICASSO didn’t even flinch. And certainly no one would hear her outside.
“Yeah, I don’t really know why you followed me into the SUPER NOXIOUS TOXIN closet. I come here to think when I’m feeling ‘sad x(‘, but usually, nobody actually, like, follows-follows me.”
“YOU LEAD ME IN HERE!”
“Oh, hey, nice caps-lock speak. The toxin must be working its way through ya.”
“If this is permanent, so help me, the international incident I am going to raise…”
PABROPICASSO raised his claws. “Hey, now, no need for that, my man. It should be temporary. All of the stuff in here is like, ‘highly experimental’. I doubt that they engineered it, like, well enough to actually last.”
“...that’s not what experimental means.”
He scratched his head, perplexion reflected in his eyes. “Is it not?”
“LET ME OUT OF HERE!”
He kicked open the door, smiling shyly. “After you.”
She couldn’t get out of there fast enough! Maybe it was the lighting, as in her absence the entire room had switched over to some sort of overhead blacklight - Arcanist above, she hoped it was the lighting - but her entire hide was reflecting purple. Her tell-tale stars still stuck in her coat, but for how long? She looked around the clan worriedly. If they had someone make these chemicals, then surely they’d be at the biggest party of their clan’s history?
Ever the diligent secretary, she scribbled notes on her recent captor as she scanned the room for potential leads.
2 wrote:
PABROPICASSO is a particularly eye catching dragon amongst the bros, in part thanks to his opal’s unique color. I have a particular soft spot for artisan dragons, given how they comprise the bulk of my own clan, but I know that it is not merely projection that draws me to him. Not only is the commissioned art in his biography incredibly indiviactive of his personality, but his own self-drawn art is as well - despite the two being nothing alike. I love how the essence of manly-mcmanly dragonhood is captured in one small doodle of a dragon lifting (though I have to say, his form is a bit off!). It’s hard to make a dragon “look” like an artist just by looks alone, but if I had to scan the lair for the one dragon with artist-lore, my guess would definitely be this guy. The opal makes him looked watercolored; it evokes a very strong memory in me of being a child and messing around with those cheap, pre-dried paint palettes where you’d have to drop water on the colors to make them usable. I imagine that they are the type of paint PABRO exclusively uses in his works.
Ming was so good at providing information to her clan that they’d be interested in that she didn’t even know what she was saying half of the time.
The two purple-pink dappled dragons that she had tried to talk with thus far had only brought trouble. Perhaps a change in pace was in order. She eyed a pastel fellow near the clan’s snack table, an audacious thing lined with cakes, chips, meats - and a ceiling-high stack of pizza. Ming’s stomach grumbled. Surely, a bit of unhealthy food wouldn’t stick with her for too long.
“Excuse me,” she said, motioning to the food-booth dragon. He turned to look at her, immediately shooting out a spire of flame from his mouth.
“EXCUSE ME!” she again repeated, this time with disdain. The guilty skydancer shrugged apologetically.
“Ah, you know, instinct. Sorry about that, love. What can I get you?”
“Do you work here?”
“I’m working this catering booth, yes. Interested?”
Ming’s stomach rumbled again. Perhaps the poison could wait a minute. “Sure, Mister…” - she squinted and read the dragon’s nametag - “Honeybun. Pizza, please.”
He handed her black tar, beaming proudly at what he had done.
“I...what is this?” she asked.
“Pizza, charcoaled to perfection! It’s a secret recipe.”
She should have known better to have expected any competency in this place. “I think I’m actually full now.”
3 wrote:
HoneyBun has one of the stranger outfit choices in the lair - which is saying something - but I like that it lends him a sort of Peter Pan, boy-who-will-never-grow-up kind of look. There exist plenty of chef dragons in the world, but few of them actually cook the way that I would expect a dragon cook to - which is with an insane amount of flames, naturally. Begone with these dragon coinceurs! Give me extreme barbecue! He’s also one of the more subtle radioactive bros in the lair, which naturally draws the eye to him. Pastel dragons often get typecasted as soft innocents, and I appreciate HoneyBun bucking that in favor of unbridled chaos. If only his homeclan could see how far he’s come now.
If the third time wasn’t the charm, the fourth had to be, right?
Yes, all the stereotypes of Sornieth said that skeletal dragons would bring you bad luck if you fraternized with them, but this was the Third Age, darn it, and Ming was a forward-thinking dragoness. She approached the bone-clad coatl with ease. “Hey there, do you think you can-”
She then witnessed him reach down to a nearby hatchling - “what on earth is a baby even doing here” was a question Ming knew best to suppress - and tug the clothes right off of him in one clean grab. Creepy. When the child started crying, the coatl shook them out, grabbed a piece of candy falling out of one of the pockets, and laughed. Creepy, cruel, and really unhygienic.
“Hey, freak!” she yelled at him. Causing him to look up. “Drop that this instant!”
“Uh…”
“Yeah, didn’t expect to be caught, did you? Hand it over!”
“You tell that radioactive nightmare!” some pink dragon yelled from the sidelines.
“Yeah, NUTS to SnugglyWuggly!” yelled another.
This house was like schrodinger’s traphouse - dragons could hear over the music only when it was plot-relevant.
“FINE! Whatever! I’ll just, like, buy some candy, like an ADULT or something.” He dropped the belongings in Ming’s outstretched claw, the very same tactic she used when one of her own hatchlings latched onto something they didn’t own, and slunked off into the flow of the party.
4 wrote:
SnugglyWuggly reads “creep” from a mile away. Those slanted eyes and crown of bones really scream “crime”, the type where I wouldn’t leave the children or elderly around the guy for even a second in fear of him selling them out for a bag of chips. Scarfs usually have the effect of softening a dragon’s appearance, but it’s quite obviously a trick on old Snuggly’s part to draw in the trusting to his schemes. No wonder he changed his name - has anyone reported him for tax evasion, on that note?
White skeletal markings stick out wonderfully on radioactive skin, though I’m sure this coatl would prefer to be as under-the-radar as possible. Too bad for him that anyone visiting your lair can tell who’s not to be trusted from a mile away, which is an accomplishment in its own right.
White skeletal markings stick out wonderfully on radioactive skin, though I’m sure this coatl would prefer to be as under-the-radar as possible. Too bad for him that anyone visiting your lair can tell who’s not to be trusted from a mile away, which is an accomplishment in its own right.
“Nice job on scaring that weirdo away!”
She was prepared to pass a polite “thank you” to whoever was bugging her with small-talk, but even the usually cordial Ming - though tonight was not exactly her shining moment - could not keep her mouth shut at the sight. A large Guardian was hovering over her, wings from her rear-end furiously flapping while her back ones stayed unusually silent. She had never seen anything like it - a birth defect? She shook her head, knowing that there would be no occasion where it would be polite to ask such a thing.
“Yeah, I was born like this. My clan called me Winga$$ at birth because they thought it was, like, super funny, and I gotta give them this, it totally is. But my BROS let me pick a more self-confident name just in case. And now I’m reborn as BuTtWiNg, the glorious!” The guardian stretched out her rear-wings, fluttering to the ground. “So anyway, what’s your deal? You got wings hidden underneath you, or…”
5 wrote:
You’ve got to give your hands up for a dragons whose name is straight to the point, and Buttwing’s certainly is. She has wings on her butt. Simple as that. Also on her head, but I guess “Earwing” doesn’t have the same ring to it. Many dragons try to pass off - “questionable”, I suppose you can call them, mean as it sounds - skins. They might be beautiful, but dragons are more than just palettes. There are technically living, breathing creatures under there that have to live with the consequences of beauty! And live with it, Buttwing does - or, moreso, thrives with it. She’s a gorgeous guardian through and through, and her palette/skin combo is just a small part of that fact. But let’s face it, the wings steal the show.
By now, Ming was growing quite tired of the antics of this clan, if she hadn’t been already before. Wasn’t there one normal dragon among them?
A spiral ran by screaming maniacally, its eyes engulfed in red flames. No, evidently.
6 wrote:
Loremipsum’s “joke” took me a while to get, which I feel like might be an ongoing theme for me as I continue traversing your lair. Even after reading “heehoo eyeburner” for myself. Like an idiot.
Anyway! Lore’s coloration is magnificent. I know cohesion isn’t exactly the goal of the Mangentas, but Poison/Noxtide is incredibly easy to overdo to the point of insanity, and Lore’s all stand out without turning into total vomit (though certainly you have other dragons to fill that needed gap). The poison gives him a quasi-Glowtail and the skin, a fake Contour, giving him the appearance of having many genes that he doesn’t have. A stand-in for many of the site’s genes: living up to his name, I suppose, though it would be foolish to designate him as merely a placeholder when he’s this beautiful in his simplest form. It genuinely surprised me to see that he was only wearing a single accessory and a skin. I would have bet anything that he was wearing clawtips, at least. You chose the perfect spread of genes to give him so many unique color placements, to the point where further accessorizing simply isn’t needed.
The actual translation of Lorem Ipsum is largely nonsensical, but is kind of beautiful in its own right (“Rrow itself, let it be sorrow; let him love it; let him pursue it, ishing for its acquisitiendum…”) - much like our friend Lore here.
Anyway! Lore’s coloration is magnificent. I know cohesion isn’t exactly the goal of the Mangentas, but Poison/Noxtide is incredibly easy to overdo to the point of insanity, and Lore’s all stand out without turning into total vomit (though certainly you have other dragons to fill that needed gap). The poison gives him a quasi-Glowtail and the skin, a fake Contour, giving him the appearance of having many genes that he doesn’t have. A stand-in for many of the site’s genes: living up to his name, I suppose, though it would be foolish to designate him as merely a placeholder when he’s this beautiful in his simplest form. It genuinely surprised me to see that he was only wearing a single accessory and a skin. I would have bet anything that he was wearing clawtips, at least. You chose the perfect spread of genes to give him so many unique color placements, to the point where further accessorizing simply isn’t needed.
The actual translation of Lorem Ipsum is largely nonsensical, but is kind of beautiful in its own right (“Rrow itself, let it be sorrow; let him love it; let him pursue it, ishing for its acquisitiendum…”) - much like our friend Lore here.
Interrupting her notes was the crowd of party-goer’s sudden decision to split down the middle, allowing a few warm bodies through. A mirror and tundra duo decked in budget-blowing duds sidled up to her with an indifference would have made Ming feel much smaller had she cared any more about impressing the clan. The partiers whispered among themselves as they examined the three, who by now were closing in drastically on Ming’s personal space. A few instinctively grabbed at their wallets. Outcasts? Highwaymen?
“Ming?” the tundra asked.
“SixNine?!”
How could one dragon’s luck go from bad to worse in one day? Sure, the party had been advertised as large, but to find a face from the past here of all places…
The princess gave Ming a smirk. So much for not feeling small - she steeled herself regardless, not wanting to be bullied back out the door.
“I see you’ve...rejuvenated your looks.”
“I see you have yourself a dowry-sink.”
The mirror shuffled uncomfortably, clearly thinking the two of them would be calling the insults here. SixNine did not appear as rattled. She had always had a flair for taking a hit or two to her ego before letting loose on her targets. Mean girls always did.
“How are you, old friend?” Ming asked.
It seemed to Ming that SixNine had not changed much in the time that their families had tried to make them friends as hatchlings. Still shrill and ever so mean, the tundra before her still had that air of childish entitlement Ming had come to know and hate during her childhood as the daughter of a mercantile family. It was dragons like her that made Ming flee what most would consider to be a life of luxury - living mentally if not literally indebted to coin was no way to go from day to day.
“Here alone?” she replied, ignoring the question. “I take it you remain unpartnered. Your mercantiles roots not working out for you anymore? I always thought your money was too new to stick around long.”
Ming rolled her eyes. “Actually, I went the dead parent route.”
Even SixNine, for all her social aggression, knew where to draw a line. “I’m...sorry to hear about
that.”
“Sorry enough to get me out of this party?”
If there was one thing a daughter of a merchant knew, it was when to strike a good social deal.
Ming was surprised to hear SixNine laugh. “The Men are known to throw some uniquely awful parties. Much too rough around the edges for someone of our ilk.”
“I kind of like them,” the mirror mumbled, but the tundras ignored him as they had been.
“Fortunately for you, I’ve seen this before. Outsider wanders into a Man party, gets poisoned, needs ManlyMcMan to heal them up. I’ll take you to him.”
“Oh, thank the Arcanist.” She didn’t even care enough to ask how so many dragons kept getting poisoned.
7 wrote:
SixNine has the look of a high school bully, which is an incredible feat considering that Tundras are normally so soft-looking and motherly. Not our girl. Literally stone-hearted. If Sornieth had lockers, surely, she’d be shoving nerds into them.
The seemingly random layering of festival apparel may be just par for the course in the lair, but yet again, it stands out with SixNine. I couldn’t look away from this specific dragon if I wanted to - nothing quite sits right on one another, and the contour makes her look like there is an extraordinarily long line of gloop bleeding from her jewels. She doesn’t seem to care much about my opinion, anyhow. There’s a real mastering of the so-bad-it’s-good dragon dressing in this lair, and Six Nine is the epitome of that.
It’s very possible that I’m college literature professoring-it, but I think that it’s quite clever that Six Nine’s personality is childish when her name alludes to one of the most childish jokes in the book. I can hear a gaggle of children giggling every time I look at her.
The seemingly random layering of festival apparel may be just par for the course in the lair, but yet again, it stands out with SixNine. I couldn’t look away from this specific dragon if I wanted to - nothing quite sits right on one another, and the contour makes her look like there is an extraordinarily long line of gloop bleeding from her jewels. She doesn’t seem to care much about my opinion, anyhow. There’s a real mastering of the so-bad-it’s-good dragon dressing in this lair, and Six Nine is the epitome of that.
It’s very possible that I’m college literature professoring-it, but I think that it’s quite clever that Six Nine’s personality is childish when her name alludes to one of the most childish jokes in the book. I can hear a gaggle of children giggling every time I look at her.
“I-I know where he is,” the mirror said again, clearly uncomfortable with but used to being ignored. “He should be at the DJ’s booth. My name is Trageon, by the way. Not dowry-sink.”
8 wrote:
Trageon - the wallet breaker. Every lair has one. Does he deserve to be it? Frankly, it almost doesn’t matter whether he does or not. He’s so insane looking that you almost forget about his gene coloration anyway. What better a dragon to be married to royalty - uninteresting apart from his loads of fancy apparel, money-hungry and budget-fearing all the same, and able to say “brat” in mere appearance alone. I love his little wing-hands - it’s as if they’re grabbing upwards, looking for all of the money they can shovel into their owner’s pockets. His formal title is also indicative of his excess - “Sir Master Lord”. I like how they are all practically the same thing, in the spirit of his tendency to frequently buy into “specials” (how many times has he bought the same exact thing, thinking one was better than the other?).
Compared to some other dragons in the lair, he’s got some quite detailed lore that I enjoy; it’s enjoyable to see the humor of your lair taken to a more detailed state.
Compared to some other dragons in the lair, he’s got some quite detailed lore that I enjoy; it’s enjoyable to see the humor of your lair taken to a more detailed state.
It was a strange return to the past to walk with the two dragons, whom everyone seemed to recognize the distinction of. The party still raged lawlessly around them, with dragons shoving into one another and breaking endless rounds of furniture, but the chaos ebbed away from them as they approached. It was refreshing to Ming to see that the Bros, radioactive and magenta alike, had some form of respect for what one would call “higher breeding”, though she wasn’t quite sure that her kind deserved it. Maybe there was some good in them after all.
The DJ booth was predictably situated on a large stage, though for all its size, it was the first time Ming was seeing it since entering the party. It was so far back in the house that Ming was amazed that the sound it produced even travelled that far - though the closer they drew, the closer the trap beats being laid rattled her brain into goo. Motherhood had fried her ability to appreciate loud sounds. Despite being a stage, the dragons on it did not perform, but rather milled about holding drinks and dancing, sometimes both at the same time - she was grateful to have missed whatever kinds of events they held there, not wanting to know what the clan saw as entertainment.
Trageon weaved through here, clearly familiar with the landscape. He took them to a small door at the side stage, whose window was netted with tarp. Bright lights lashed from within.
Suddenly, a bushy faced pushed past the tarp moustache-first, emitting a large scream.
“GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD EVENING FELLOW DRAGONS! THIS IS YOUR CO-DJ TOOMUCHMAN, COMING AT YOU LIVE FROM THE HEART OF SORNIETH’S GREATEST HOUSE PARTY! WHAT IS YOUR SONG REQUEST?!”
Ming had been here long enough to avoid lapsing into shock. “Actually, we’re just here to see Manl-”
“‘Everybody was Kung Fu Fighting’!” Trageon yelled, cutting her off. He was already mouthing “sorry” when she glared at him.
“PERFECT ANSWER! I WOULD HAVE HAD TO KILL YOU WHERE YOU STOOD HAD YOU REQUESTED ACCESS TO THE ROOM WITHOUT FIRST ASKING A SONG. THAT’S JUST RUDE.”
9 wrote:
TOOMUCHMAN somehow looks rather dashing. Her greaves look quite like a tuxedo when layered with the bow and her underbelly, and of course, what gentleman would be complete without a luscious set of grey whiskers? Her combative nature is a perfect familiar fit for the Longneck Gladiator, even if the two have little in visual common, though I can’t help but feel that it all stems from a bit of unconfidence on her end. Not being able to fly and having more blue than pink in one’s gene pool? Sacrilege. Don’t worry, her secret is safe with me.
It surprises me that the bros need a brotivational speaker to begin with, though I suppose even kings have their off-days. I do quite like the idea of her standing in front of a sea of testosterone-sweating punks screaming about raw meat and sports.
And that lineage list, especially for an uncommon dragon? What a long, fruitful life TOOMUCHMAN has lived. Certainly, with all of those MAN dragons in her offspring list, she truly does have too many men.
It surprises me that the bros need a brotivational speaker to begin with, though I suppose even kings have their off-days. I do quite like the idea of her standing in front of a sea of testosterone-sweating punks screaming about raw meat and sports.
And that lineage list, especially for an uncommon dragon? What a long, fruitful life TOOMUCHMAN has lived. Certainly, with all of those MAN dragons in her offspring list, she truly does have too many men.
Ming felt quite like she was at the final stage of a long battle when the door opened and TOOMUCHMAN permitted them entrance. For standing above the ever-vibrating record disks was the guy himself, the big man on campus, the original bro. MANLYMCBRO looked softer than Ming would have expected. She discovered with unfortunate reflection that indeed, he looked much like the kind of man she would have developed an insanely one-sided crush on in her youth. He did not notice his new audience at first - how could he, over the pulse of the music - but with a quick whip of his head, discovered them.
His wings curled in anticipation. Trudgeon gripped onto his partner’s legs, who rolled her eyes. The ridgeback took a centering breath.
Silence. The music stopped, as did all outside noise. It was if all partygoers knew to hold their breath, conversations, dances, all at the same time.
Then, thunder. Literal thunder.
He clapped his wings once, twice, three times, and the torrent began to wreck the DJ booth. The equipment shot out distressed sparks of electricity, unamused by the display. Rain and thunder circled his body, something Ming had ever seen in insane Arcane magics. His eyes burned with recognition as he approached the group, bringing the storm with him. Ming’s feet began to grow wet.
“MY FRIENDS!” he bellowed. “GREAT TO MEET YOU! WHAT MAY I HELP YOU WITH?”
“My skin color, please,” Ming said. “It was changed by one of your toxins.”
The ridgeback gave a great laugh, and the floor of the booth shook beneath his feet. Ming noted that silence had still overtaken the clan, save for the sound of the storm MANLY was kicking up. “IT IS MERELY EXPERIMENTAL, MY FRIEND. THAT MEANS THAT IT IS NOT ENGINEERED WELL ENOUGH TO LAST. OBVIOUSLY.”
“...so what you’re telling me is that this is temporary?”
“YES, FOR UP TO EIGHT HOURS.”
“...and I could have left whenever I wanted to without having to come all this way to you.”
“IN THEORY.”
“...I am going to kill every last dragon in this clan.”
10 wrote:
MANLYMCBRO. The OG. The grand prince of the philosophy that this clan stands for. And yet, so delicate in appearance - a soft pink, a sakura-petal savant, a rose-clenched-in-the-teeth kind of guy. Not who you would expect to head the clan of a bunch of MANLYMCMANS. And yet, doesn’t that make it all the better? Being a man isn’t about appearance, or adhering to a strict set of rules. It is about expressing yourself in whatever manner you see fit - mostly loudly, because we are expected to do so in an unobtrusive matter, and the dragons of this clan know that better than most. It isn’t toxic, it isn’t unnecessarily overbearing. It is in your face for the necessity of the thing. To make you look. To make you question. To think for yourself “hey - what do I want to do?”
ManlyMcBro has decided that this is his ideal appearance. That for all his bench-pressing prowess, he also quite likes flowers, and his partner, and his clan. And isn’t that beautiful in of itself?
ManlyMcBro has decided that this is his ideal appearance. That for all his bench-pressing prowess, he also quite likes flowers, and his partner, and his clan. And isn’t that beautiful in of itself?
No such lessons were learned by Ming. She went home damp, angry, and a little purple.
The end.
tundra monolair (except when i'm not)
