It turned out, though, that Borg flambé wasn’t on the menu. Instead of unleashing a rock-melting stream of flames, the dragon started coughing and sputtering, falling back on its haunches and bracing itself against the wall with its front legs as it hacked, spat, and generally made the kind of sounds a cat makes a few hours after it eats a fluffmouse. After several moments of this (and watching it cough up what looked like fiery phlegm), Borg walked over to the dragon, put a comforting hand on its haunch, and patted it gently. “Are you…all right?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned that the creature who had just tried to turn him into char might be suffering from a case of the coughs.
The dragon hacked a few more times, sniffled mightily (sucking back in a fairly lengthy stand of orange, flaming snot, I might add), and nodded. “Yes,” it said hoarsely. It cleared its throat. “Yes,” it said again. It coughed softly. “I think I’m better now. Thank you for asking.” Its voice was surprisingly soft, deep and resonant, and I found myself thinking that he would make a great bard…
Well, except for the fact that he’d probably eat his audience.
The dragon pawed at its nose, sniffed again, and looked at us, blinking repeatedly to clear the smoke that lingered around its face.
(Side note: would we call a dragon’s feet “paws”? I don’t know if you’d call dragon feet “paws.” Hooves? I don’t know what the actual term should be. They’re definitely not hands, and not small—not in the slightest.)
“Well,” said the dragon, “what do we do now?”
“I’m pretty sure this is the part where you try to eat us,” replied Nadi. She raised her sword. “But don’t expect us to go down easy.”
“Yeah! We’re not Flendarian courtesans!” yelled Whiska, raising her staff.
“Why would I eat you?” returned the dragon, disgusted. “Are your pockets lined with lettuce? Are you filled with radishes? Are your feet made of sweet potatoes?” It licked its lips hungrily. “Are they?”
“Um…no,” replied Nadi, clearly confused.
“In fact,” added Rummy, “not a single one of any of our body parts is made of vegetables.” He paused and cocked his head. “In fact, I don’t think that any of us has eaten a vegetable in a week.”
“Oh,” said the dragon, disappointed. “I guess I’ll just kill you with fire, then, seeing as how I wouldn’t particularly enjoy eating you.”
“I don’t…like vegetables,” said Borg.
“That’s ridiculous!” roared the dragon, tipping its head back and waving dismissively with its right front leg (paw?). “How can you not like vegetables?” It shook its head and focused on Borg. “I like you—you’re polite—but you’ve got terrible taste.”
“I’ve never met a dragon who likes vegetables,” said Nadi thoughtfully.
“You’ve never met a dragon, you nitwit!” said Whiska. She pointed her staff at the dragon. “Are we going to sit here talking, or are we going to destroy this overgrown iguana and take its gold?” She cast her eyes over the piles of treasure and shivered with pleasure. “Gold!”
The dragon rolled its eyes. “The only reason you’re not a tiny stain on the floor is that I had a coughing fit. That happens once every few months. It’s over now. Do you really think you’re going to get that lucky again?” The dragon snorted a gout of flame. “Incidentally, I understand that getting burned alive really hurts.”
“Hold on,” I said. “Do you really want to fight us? Look, I’m not delusional—I know you’ll melt every single one of these jokers into candle butts. But, it’s possible that you could get hurt at least a little in the process, especially by the smelly, hairy one.”
“Heloise, what are you—” began Nadi, but I cut her off.
“You strike me as incredibly reasonable.”
“I am,” said the dragon, inclining its head forward.
“And smart,” I said.
“I am,” said the dragon, nodding again. “I’m also not gullible, susceptible to flattery, or easily fooled.”
“Right,” I said. So much for the subtle approach; oh well—I’ve always preferred the direct approach anyway. “Okay, you’re reasonable and smart, and you have a ton of treasure here—a hoard that we won’t contribute to if you kill us, incidentally, because, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re so hard up that we’re wearing poorly made magical muumuus that, I suspect, will just disappear at some point, and then you’ll have a naked Ratarian and whatever the heck Rummy is lying around your lair. And that’ll put you off your arugula for sure.” I think I winced. “Trust me about that—I’ve seen ‘em naked. It’s not pretty.”
“You noodle-haired lute plucker! I’ll have you know I’m considered a real catch back home.”
“We’ll take your word for that,” I said to Whiska by way of mollification. I turned back to the dragon. “All right, so in addition to all of those things I just mentioned, I’m going to suggest one more thing I think is true about you, but I need to ask you not to burn my head off for doing so.”
“I make no guarantees, but you may proceed,” rumbled the dragon.
“Hmmm. Well, that’s a little less surety than I’d like, Mr…you know, it occurs to me that we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Heloise the Bard—it’s okay if you haven’t heard of me, though I’d be surprised if that’s the case.”
“I haven’t heard of you.”
“I’m surprised.”
“I’m Melvin.”
“Melvin?”
“Melvin.”
“Hmmm. Are you sure it’s not ‘Dragonia’?”
“That’s a ridiculous name for a dragon.”
“It’s just a thing I’m toying with. Never mind. Melvin—so, here’s the thing I think is true about you, and I don’t mean this offensively, because it’s true of me, too, and I certainly don’t want to offend myself. See, the thing is, I think you’re lazy.”
The dragon narrowed its eyes. I knew I was playing with fire—literally. “Tread lightly, elf.”
“Half-elf, actually.”
“Hrrrm.”
“Is that a good ‘hrrrm’ or a bad ‘hrrrm’?”
“It’s an indifferent ‘hrrrm.’”
I nodded. “I’ll take that.” I glanced to the side to see Nadi looking at me with a combination of horror and admiration. I think she knew that she’d already be dead if I hadn’t been there—but, she could also sense that if I kept going, we were probably headed for the same outcome eventually. Ah, well—in for a fennig…
(A fennig, incidentally, is generally acknowledged as the smallest unit of money anywhere in Erithea—it takes a thousand fennigs to equal one Grinnarian ploufer, and it takes about ten ploufers to buy a loaf of bread. So, fennigs are pretty useless except when featured in outdated colloquialisms.)
“Maybe ‘lazy’ is too strong of a word—what I mean is that you like to accomplish as much as you can with as little effort as possible. It goes hand-in-hand—or maybe hand-in-claw, in your case—with being smart. Like I said, I’m the same way.”