Rehydrated Dragon, Just Add Puddle

Rehydrated Dragon, Just Add Puddle

By: J. H. Beach

Tags: Monster Girl, Body Horror, Satire, Slap Stick, LitRPG, Female POV

Note: In order to maintain the tone of the story the erotica, beyond the slap-stick body horror, has been minimized.

Chapter 1: Death by... Chocolate?

"Did you hear?"

I've heard a lot of things in the past hour, like the freaking cyclone-siren that just went silent. I and Joe Wenzl are amongst the many locals streaming from Frankfort's high school basement. I'm... local adjacent. I grew up in Home. I was on my way home from college in Manhattan and stopped in Frankfort to visit friends. I don't have to encourage Joe to fill me in on the gossip.

"Another one of them highfalutin wind turbines snapped like a toothpick."

I roll my eyes, because... what a waste. The very element that those turbines are supposed to harness breaks them apart. No-one around here actually believes they're energy green. But get in the open and they crowd every horizon you'll see--which, if you're wondering, is all four horizons.

I let myself into my car. It's a small sedan.

"Don't drive the roads in that."

Joe's not talking about the highways, or even the gravel lanes that run like a grid through NE Kansas. He's talking about the dirt roads that run like an even smaller grid throughout NE Kansas. After this rain you might not get through in a four-by-four. But cyclones have a way of blocking roads so it's always tempting.

"I know," I say. It's not like I moved to the city and lost all common sense.

"Penner said thirty-six is blocked outside of Warshington."

"I'm going Home, Joe, not to Warshington." Yes, Warshington is spelled Washington but proper pronunciation is said the same way as saying warsh, as in, doing the warsh.

I start my car and roll the windows down. The rain cooled things off but it's still humid. The air is heavy with the scents of rain, mud, ozone and corn-soybean compost. I only stop and chat with, like, thirteen people as I slowly pull out of the lot. It's not like I don't know everyone--at least by reputation. I dial up my Dad as soon as I'm on the road. We've already exchanged the nobody-standing-beside-me-is-dead confirmation.

"I'm on the road Dad. Fifteen minutes if there're no delays."

"Halsey's said eighteen's blocked."

"I'll take thirty-six."

"See you soon, sweetheart."

"Love you, Daddy." We disconnect. My phone's about dead. The drive up KS-99 takes me more than half the way. I turn east, towards Home but it's not long before I see flashing lights--blue-on-red and red-on-red. Eff42, yep, road's blocked.

I pull over. Sheriff strolls to my window. He, you know, flashlight-blinds me.

"Hey, you Jeff Warshburn's kid?"

I shoot Sheriff Reardon a tight lipped grin. His son was a couple years behind me and always sniffing around my cheerleader spankies. Wasn't a fan.

"Yep, Ivette, that's me."

"You see, Ivette, road's closed. Windmill up Kincade's place landed right here.

I. Do. Not. Roll. My. Eyes. Chet Reardon is a sheriff. They don't like that kinda sass. But even in the dark, I can see that. The freaking thing made a crater in the corn and is a mangled mess upon the road. Storm runoff makes a pond of the cornfield crater. That's how many million in not-green waste?

"I'll walk." I'm only a mile from home.

"You be careful not to be getting in the way of them crews, now."

"You know me, sheriff." I wait for the law to step back and back down the road. I pull up seventeenth and pull off the side of the lane.

It take's twenty minutes to reach Home. I walk down the tracks so I can bypass the downed wind-turbine. I'm down to two-percent on my phone. There's zero traffic but Home's exactly two street lights provide me some light. I pass the Welcome to Home sign. You know, the one that says, "There's no place like Home," along with credits for John Payne. I turn up the street I grew up on. There's a line down, so the power's out but other than that there's not a lot going on.

I grumble about the K-State homework I forgot in my car. A sneaker catches on a crack in the pavement. I stumble. My phone goes flying. My feet tangle. I try to catch myself on my hands. I face plant, straight down.

Bonk! I freaking swear that's the sound in my head. I don't even have time to hurt before everything goes black.

I can't move. I can't breathe. There's water in my mouth. I'm conscious but... not?

My body, like, tremmors. I'm floating above me. My face is in a puddle that might have a half-inch of water. My chest tries to expand and... can't. I see it, but don't feel it. The world is dark--almost monotone grey--but the sky is brilliant. There's no moon, no stars, just everywhere light coming from afar. The water like moves... it almost looks like it's cuddling with my face.

I feel this, like, hook, in my... belly? Then a sharp tug--hard. I hold on a moment longer.

"I'm sorry," someone says. The voice is tiny, confused, mournful and guilt-stricken. It sounds from the direction of my face. "The storm turned west." Something about that statement is wrong. Storms go east. Everyone knows that. "I didn't mean to." I have no idea who's talking.

And I get no chance to find out. I'm yanked into the light. I have to squeeze my eyes it's so bright. I'm dropped. I open my mouth to scream--get a mouthful of... fluffy.

I jerk from my supine position spitting intake cloud. How do I know it's an intake cloud? It says it, right there, in, like, storm grey letters. "BPMA Intake Cloud. Incoming Soul #94,351 Friday September, 13th--Please take a ticket."

Take a ticket? I glance around. And what's the BPMA?

Oh... I want to cry. BPMA is the Bureau of Post-Mortem Allocation. It says it right there. Apparently eternity has bureaucracy. I mean, how else were we supposed to spend all that time?

I see glowing chairs by the thousands. Liquid light posters hang mid-air. The closest says, "Report Miracles to HR." Way--waaaay up front there's a counter with maybe three windows each staffed by an angel and a... succubus? As I watch a pair close their window and wanders off arguing together. A sign blinks to life over their window. "On Break. Back in a Century." There's a line of, I don't know, some 94,000 souls waiting for a ticket from the one ethereal ticket machine.

I sigh, float to my feet and join the queue. Those who have tickets take a seat in a massive waiting area. I waft past a sign that warns, "Loose Lips Sink Souls. Unreported Medium Contact at Level 4: Bureaucratic Infraction." The four blinks... and increments to five.

Far--far to the front, beyond the counter are two, um, rents in reality. One spews bright light and misty fluff. The other belches fire and sulfuric clouds. Light-and-misty-stuff has this long--long--long line in front of it. A sign proclaims: "Eternity Starts Here!" under that another sign reads, "Estimated Wait: 400 years."

Four-hundred years? I'm nineteen. Do they serious expect us to wait four-hundred years? I have no concept of the time involved.

The burning brimstone portal has three people standing in front of it. It's labeled, "Recycling" followed by, "Time to Service: 1.4 seconds. Sorry for the inconvenience. We will be with you shortly." As I watch, the portal expands and bulges. The soul in front of it tries to flee but is enveloped by this giant tongue of flame. The soul is dragged back into the portal which, um, burps.

Excuse you?

Soul after soul joins the queue but the line never gets any longer. I glance at the other portal again. "Eternity Starts Here! Estimated Wait: 401 years."

Right between the two portals is a giant wheel, with pegs and a pointer. It's a bit like the spinny wheel on my parent's old battered "Game of Life" board game. The wheel is painted with thousands of pie wedges limed in seemingly random colors. Each color is labeled with something--usually a number. A bored looking Grim Reaper stands beside it.

"Miss Washburn, Miss Washburn, counter three please," a flat, zero-inflexion, feminine, gum-smacking voice announces. The sound reminds me of Penny Lane in the Warshington DMV except Penny Lane pronounced my name correctly.

I shoot my line a wishful glance. The wait might've been a favor. I float towards counter three. I note my cutoffs and Wildcats crop-top hoody are see-through. At least the rest of me is too--so nothing's... on display.

I float past a poster that reads, "Is Your Halo Secure?" right next to another, "Required PPE: Horns." I wave my hand above my head--I have neither--just my faded purple K-State baseball cap.

I approach window three. I think. An occasional "one" blinks in front of the three.

"Accidental Death and Dismembership," one of the ladies behind the counter says. She's wearing a white toga dress, glittery-silver sandals and a golden armlet. Her tawny, taffy colored hair is up in a ponytail. Her wings are so white they'd make my bleached good girl panties appear grey. The glowy-gold halo looks like it might be on backwards--as if she'd been in a rush when she'd dressed this morning.

"Unauthorized homicide," the other argues. Her skin's the color of a grind-with-me-colored club-light. She has a round face, horns, a spade-tipped, whip-like tail and upside down emoji heart eyes--which makes them bent over butts. Luxurious black locks that fall a little beyond her bra's clasp. She's dressed in big, round glasses and Victoria Secret's PINK.

"Um, I'm Miss Warshburn," I say hesitantly. I'm not entirely sure I want their attention.

"Accidental Death and Dismemberment, she drowned in a puddle!" the angel argues.

"Unauthorized homicide! Kansas water has ambition," the succubus seductively-growls back.

"Statute 4,553,879.2 Section MMMXCXVII Subpart Z. G. H-b!" the angel says slamming open a book bigger than Mom and Dad's old timey Encyclopedia Britannica, 15th Edition, Index Volume--nearly 700,000 entries.

The succubus' emoji-butt eyes angle towards the ceiling. She unwraps a grape flavored Dum-Dum, twists her tongue around it and draws it into her mouth. "Fine, Accidental Death and Dismemberment." Her words are a seductive, bimbo slur. "You know, Ariel, Miss Washburn would've gotten three additional afterlife points for Unauthorized Homicide."

"Um, right here? Hello?"

Ariel's eyes go wide. She hastily starts flipping through her book. "She would've?"

"Yes." The succubus turns to me. "How can we help you, sweet thing?"

"Ivette Warshburn?" It's not a question. That's my name... but...?

"Oh, yeah, just a minute. There seems to be a problem with your afterlife points. Should have it resolved in a year or two."

"There is?"

I once spent four hours in line at the Warshington DMV because the lady in front of me forgot her Form 42 and had to start over. Scarred me for life. I still cuss by that form--Eff42.

This... reminds me of that.

"Yup." The succubus pops her "P" by drawing the Dum-Dum from between her lips. "Too many."

"Not enough, Astarte," the angel says distractedly. Ariel has yet to look at me.

"And how many do I need?"

"Negative ten," Astarte says in a don't-you-know-anything voice.

"Ten-thousand!" Ariel snaps.

"And how many...?"

"Ninety-eight."

"I drove the Yoder kids to school every day for an entire school year!" The Yoder's were a local Mennonite family.

"Lots of afterlife points, that," Ariel agrees.

"You taught Hannah Yoder how to use a cell phone," Astarte deadpans.

Oops.

"I, um, broke up Kyle and Ruthie. He was bad for her."

"And then dated Kyle three days later."

Well, yeah... "What about..."

"Look, Ivette, can I call you Ivette?" Ariel asks. "You did some good things. Kissing Wyatt under the bleachers and then telling everyone you hadn't liked the snuff was gold. Pure gold," Ariel says still flipping through pages in her book.

Heat bakes my boobs, crawls up my neck and sears my cheeks. That'd been so unkind. It wasn't like I hadn't known he dipped before we kissed. "How?"

"He was so embarrassed he stopped dipping--avoided cancer. You saved Wyatt's life, Ivette."

"Um..." That's like my grandpa taking credit for my birth--an accomplishment he had no part in.

"But you shot those thirty-seven raccoons last fall," Astarte says.

"They were eating Dad's corn!" It's insane the damage a raccoon can do.

"Then there was Codey Wenzl, the beaver dam, tannerite and a.30-06 Springfield off of Utah Road outside Vermillion."

Oh, yeah. I melt. I can't help the goofy grin that splits my face. That'd been a fun date.

"So," Ariel says, distractedly. "Ninety-eight."

Okay, I get it... but I'd thought I'd done better. How was I supposed to know shooting corn-rats would cost me afterlife points? It's not like I'd been shooting Corn Huskers.

"Mister Meanwhile?" Astarte calls. "I think we need a spin."

The Grim Reaper beside the Wheel of, um, Misfortune looks up. Those empty sockets and death eater grin somehow make Mister Meanwhile look bored out of his empty cranial cavity. Ariel grants Mister Meanwhile a reluctant nod.

Ninety-eight afterlife points appear in digital perfection on a floating display above the Wheel of Misfortune. Mister Meanwhile lifts up a skeletal hand, grabs one of the pegs on the wheel and pulls with all his, err, skeletal weight.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktick, tick, tick, tick... tick... tick. Tick.

Hell YEAH! +9,900 afterlife points. I do a Frankfort-High Wildcat cheer-jump, pump my fist in the air and cheer! Just two more points. TWO! Ariel glows at me! Astarte rolls her emoji-butt eyes--spins her finger.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktick, tick, tick, tick... tick... tick... tick. Tick.

Um... what? -4,400 afterlife points. Ugh.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktick, tick, tick, tick, tick... tick... tick. Tick.

+100. I start to sweat. Um, I didn't know that ghosts could sweat. Ariel reaches across the counter and pats me on the shoulder.

"It'll be okay, honey."

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktick, tick, tick, tick... tick... tick... tick... tick. Tick.

-200.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktick, tick, tick... tick... tick... tick. Tick.

"Noooo!" I cry. -5,500. Eight points, just eight measly points between me and, um, recycle.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktickticktick, tick, tick, tick, tick... tick. Tick.

+100. The digital display reads plus ninety-eight once again. I'm shaking. My knees are knocking. Sweat runs into my eyes. My armpits smell one step better than dog-do.

Rrrrrreeeeeeetickticktickticktick, tick, tick, tick, tick.

Mister Meanwhile taps the wheel. Clack. Stick!

Try again.

Try again? Try again! Mister Meanwhile grins at me--takes a sip from his World's Best Temp coffee mug.

"That's happened a lot this past millennium." Mister Meanwhile's voice chills me to the bone but the suspense is killing me, like, literally. I wait for the Grim Reaper to spin again but both Ariel and Astarte are flipping through books they pulled from thin air.

"We could just--" Ariel starts.

"She's still lying in that puddle. She'd be back in two minutes!" Astarte snaps. "How about avatar #45,967♀?"

"No. #45,967♀'s engaged to J-Wonk-Dice-Fuzz. She'll be addicted to MDMA inside of a week. How about #84,115♀?"

"Nope, her siblings are already fighting over the inheritance. I can't give up that gold."

"What's going on?" I ask.

"You're being reincarnated, sweet thing," Astarte says.

Okay, cool... I think--better than recycle. "Do I have a say?"

"Nope." The word played in stereo.

Great. The angel and succubus agreed.

Astarte smirks. "#222,111,333♀?"

Ariel smacks Astarte's face. Astarte doesn't even try to dodge.

"What?" I ask too curious for my own good.

Astarte readjusts her glasses. "Sex cult... her sex cult."

I shake my head in dismay and pinch my temples.

"What about, #69,937♂? He just got a low-ball contract to play pro-basketball for the Bulls."

Um... dick but, pro-basketball? The Bulls? Millions? I guess sacrifices have to be made.

"Can't. Jealous girlfriend. Too many bullet holes."

Astarte and Ariel look up from their books at the same time and meet each other's eyes. As one they grab two more books from their ethereal book shelves.

"Arcadia?"

"Never Never Land?"

"Narnia?"

"Oz?"

That'd be... on flavor. The angel and succubus keep flipping pages and reading off names of places I've never heard of.

"Here's one," Astarte says. "DunderQuestia, eighteen years old, completely healthy at time of death--#16,777,215♀"

"What happened to her?" Ariel asks.

Astarte's eyes roll. "You should know. You got her."

"Oh, yeah, she completed her life's purpose the day after her eighteenth birthday."

"She ate black pudding."

"World ending black pudding," Ariel says smugly.

"DEATH BY CHOCOLATE SHOULD BE MINE!" Astarte roars. An expression of pure enmity radiates from her face. Ariel recoils.

"Sorry, rules," Ariel says meekly.

Visibly struggling with her anger, Astarte pants. After a moment, she blushes an alluring pink, turns away with an embarrassed expression and waves a dismissive hand.

"We could I suppose." Ariel's voice is contrite.

Astarte whips out a form--stamps it.

Ariel and I both scream, "Wait!"

"Too late." Astarte snaps her fingers. A black, star-filled void appears behind me. Gravity pulls and I'm... slurped into it.

I'm falling. Black. Stars everywhere. I twist a look over my shoulder. A sun. A blue, white, green world growing bigger and bigger. This little blinking cursor appears in my peripheral vision.

28

[......]

[Initializing]

[.........]

[Sys. Species: White Dragon (Hybrid "Dragonette" Variant-- the smallest, weakest, least aerodynamically viable and most alarmingly reproductively compatible of all dragon species)]

[...]

I scream.

[......]

[Sys. Tutorial: Skipped (Childhood Completed by Prior Host)]

I scream.

[.........]

[Sys. Class: Hoarder (Cherish What No One Else Wants)]

I'm my MOM! I scream some more. I never stopped.

[Sys. Announcement: Welcome to DunderQuestia where Life is a Game!]

Chapter 2: User Orientation

"Aaaaaaiiiiiiiieeee!!!!!"

My voice disappears into the void. The stars begin to fade. The black starts to haze. I skip--once--twice--three times across the top of the firmament of Planet, err, Whatever?

The fires of reentry ignite about me. Black fades to blue then... foof... foof... foof, foof, fooffooffoof. Clouds zip past me--cirrus, cirrocumulus, altocumulus, the tall towers and peaks of cumulonimbus and finally the grey fog of stratocumulus with patches of blue sky leaking between. I'm still falling prone--on my back--so I can't see what's coming.

I kick and scream and flap my arms but can't seem to catch any air to flip myself over. I shriek as a jagged peak suddenly appears out of nowhere and rips past on my left. Trees are suddenly all around me but before I can register I'm flying though... rock just as fast as I had the air. Basalt, cinder, obsidian, veins of silver, copper, lead and gold. Flashes of empty spaces--torches--a wide eyed goblin? I whip past them all. I pass out the other side of the Mount Whatchamacallit and plummet--still screaming--down steep rocky slopes covered in ice and evergreen trees. I pass into another rock big enough to be the foot of Mount Whatchamacallit, into a cave and WHOOMP!

It's a physical sensation. My soul... bounces, like a flouncy Raggedy Anne doll flopping on the floor, and so does the body I just slammed into. My arms, legs, head... all my limbs just flap. I'm all akimbo when my body stills.

[............... 3%...]

[......... 3%.........]

[... 3%...............]

Err?

A beat--a second beat--a third beat thumps in my chest. Nothing.

[Sys. Welcome | Please Select Handle]

Handle? Like a name? "Ivette," I mutter in a light lyrical soprano that's more, err, teen-girl than I'm used to.

[Sys. Welcome: Welcome Ivette to DunderQuestia where Life is a Game!]

[Sys. Species: White Dragon (Hybrid "Dragonette" Variant)]

[Sys. Tutorial: Skipped (Childhood Completed by Prior Host)]

[Sys. Class: Hoarder (Cherish What No One Else Wants)]

[Sys. WARNING: Draconic Instincts May Trigger Unexpectedly!]

The CRT green words slowly fade from my vision. I wait.

I feel cool, not cold. Air breathes over my prone form. I can hear the breeze in the trees but it sounds... outside? I smell snow, rock and, um, chocolate pudding? I peel a single eye open that somehow feels bigger than the ocular orbs I grew up with.

It sees better too. I can, like, see all of the volcanic pores in the rock fifteen feet over my head despite the shadows. I open my other eye. Light streams into the wide cave mouth forty or so feet away. I'm lying in this, like, huge pile of snow. I should be freezing but I'm not. I roll over and things move, err, wrong. I'm bigger up here, wider down there, shorter than I should be and nicely narrow in the middle. But there's this, like, weight on my back dragging down my shoulders far worse than any bra.

But that can wait. My body's stiff. I tense my muscles and stretch trying to the work the kinks out of my shoulders. These two wide shadows spread on the back wall of the shallow cave.

I shriek in my new, high pitched voice and leap back from the bat wings spreading to envelope me. My feet tangle with something and I nearly fall on my tail. I whip around trying to see what was behind me and this heavy weight like hanging off my butt whips around with me and then drags me staggering to the right side wall. Something slaps into the stone behind me and slap sting registers in my brain for... a limb... that shouldn't... be... there. I forget all about the vampire bat that was trying to eat me and spin again trying to catch my tail.

Ten spins later I plop in the pile of snow freaking dizzy. Ow.

I sat on my tail. Is this thing even OSHA compliant? At least it's trapped. I grab the end with hands that're too small to be mine. They look like Ruthie's. She was the flyer on my high-school cheer-squad. I was a tumbler. Ruthie was small. Flyers have to be.

My tail is long, heavy, tapered and scaled like a lizard's except white--wedding-dress white. My hands, which are decidedly pale, have a soft pink glow when compared to my tail. I begin to locate other "rashes" of whitewash scales about my body. The largest patches of scales are on the flanks of my thighs but I have a scattering of scales girding the soft flesh of my sides and I feel more armoring the most vulnerable spot just above my collar. It's not consistent though. There's a lot more skin than scales except on my tail and my...

Ugh. I'm so idiot. I slowly stretch my wings. They're not big--almost baby. As a cape, they barely reach my waist. I've no clue how I'm supposed to fly with these. I let out a heavy sigh that frosts in the air.

I take stock of my surroundings. Small cave. Sun outside. Bed of snow inside. A broken bowl and a tarnished silver spoon. If there were furnishings it could've almost been a nest. There's a flaking black residue upon one wall that smells mouthwateringly of La Maison du Chocolate truffle. The spoon calls to me and I... can't help... it. I taste.

I moan. Better than sex. Just the barest residue of chocolate upon the spoon and a smooth, creamy taste floods my tongue. Oh, God. It's so good my knees knock. Death by chocolate? I'd die that little death a thousand times.

More, honestly.

There's nothing else useful in the small cave. A spoon is not much but it's... something. I look for a place to stash it on my, um, person? To my surprise I'm dressed surprisingly similar to how I'd been dressed on Earth except:

My cutoff shorts are Dad-not-approved leather as opposed to Dad-not-approved denim.

My crop top is spun from goat yarn or something--so, coolio, cashmere.

My shoes aren't sneakers but small, elfin booties.

I carefully struggle to my feet. My tail staggers me left. Then right. Then forward. Then backwards. I can't freaking get the hang of this. I will it absolutely still and it hangs......... swaying gently behind me. I experiment by spreading my wings for balance. I find that if I hold my wings half open my tail only tries to trip me every third pace. My tail gives me one hell of a butt sway.

I lean into that... and wait! I can do this!

I trip and face plant in soft-forest loam at the mouth of the cave. My wings slowed my fall and there was no puddle to drown me.

Ariel, Astarte, whoever's watching? Can you please pretend you didn't see that? I hear a bit of rustling in the brush beyond the mouth of the cave. Swallowing my humiliation I push myself back to my feet. I tuck my tarnished spoon in the back pocket of my Dad-not-approved shorts.

[Sys. Hoarder: Dragonette Nesting Hoard--Qualified (Collect Qualified Loot for Use in Nest)]

[Sys. Dragronette: Nesting Hoard--Initiated | 1/108 items collected]

Wha...?

I'm so distracted by the HUD pop-ups and my subsequent confusion that--whack!

My head snaps back. Bark, pine needles and other detritus showers from a low hanging tree branch I'd just walked under. Even though I'm, like, already arching backwards--one foot kicked high in the air--unexpected force transfers from the vibrating branch to the, um, front of my skull. I slam onto my back. My tail, right wing and left elbow complain in pain. Ow.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

I rub my forehead and... find... horns.

Of course, I'd have dragon horns giving me extra inches of don't-hit-your-head! They sweep back delicately on either side of my skull in a way that I want to imagine is subtly feminine. They're quite... bumpy. Regardless, they give me at least two extra inches of height. I spit tresses of the blondest bottle-blonde I've ever seen out of my mouth. Why hadn't anyone told me I had dragon horns?

[Sys. Species: White Dragon (Hybrid "Dragonette" Variant)]

[Sys. Tutorial: Skipped (Childhood Completed by Prior Host)]

Grr...

"Help," I mumble hoping I'll get a help menu.

A beat. A second beat. Nothing.

"Command Prompt?"

Nothing.

"System Menu?"

Nothing. I try a dozen increasingly unlikely options. In frustration I mind mash [Tutorial Mode: Skipped (Childhood Completed by Prior Host)]

[Loading... ]

[Loading......]

[Loading.........]

[Sys. Error → Prior Host Completed Life Milestone: Tutorial Completed--Duration: 18yrs]

[Sys. Error → Prior Host Completed Life Purpose: Destroy World-Ending Black Pudding]

I have a brief vision of a small cave, a bed of snow and a black bubbling mass of chocolate fondue dripping from the back wall with eighteen birthday candles poking out of the half-gelled mass already on the floor. There's a small dragon-girl with cute white horns sweeping along the sides of her head, the blondest-blonde hair imaginable falling in a curtain to the top of her ass, snow-white-bat-cape wings and a thick-heavy dragon's tail. She's wearing Dad-not-approved shorts and a cashmere crop-top-hoodie. There's chocolate smeared from the tip of her cute nose to the end of her chin and all around her mouth. She's got the most charming pink freckles imaginable. She's sitting cross-legged in the snow. As I watch she scoops another blob of black pudding into her bowl and begins shoveling it into her mouth with a tarnished spoon.

The vision... fast forwards. She mows through the pudding at a calorie defying pace. She burps. A notification pops up in her blue-blue--like heavy water blue--eyes. Even though the "screen" is small, my dragon sight lets me read the CRT green text.

[Sys. Announcement: Life Purpose Achieved → Time Elapsed: 18yrs, 1dy]

28

[......]

[Sys. Announcement: Host Ascended → Avatar #16,777,215♀ Available for Reclamation | Avatar Viability Decay--Estimated Time Remaining: 17hrs, 37min | All Avatar Bonuses, Perks, Abilities and Class Reset to Base Values]

The bowl drops from the girl's hands--breaks upon the stone floor. The tarnished spoon slips from her fingers. Her body slowly sags back on the bed of snow.

[Sys. Announcement: Storage Condition Detected → Avatar on Ice | Recalculating Avatar Viability Decay]

[Recalculating...]

[Recalculating......]

[Sys. Announcement: Avatar Viability Decay--Estimated Time Remaining: 36hrs, 21min]

Jeesh. I blink away the freaking useless vision. At least I know what I look like. I scrub my chin wondering if it's still covered in chocolate. A bit of powder flakes away but not much. I'm guessing before-me licked up as much chocolate as she could before she ascended. Knowing what's waiting for me on the other side, I know I would've. I'm probably going to double in weight over the next three days.

I stare at the two gouges my horns left in the bark of the branch above me. This is all... so much. So, so much. Tears sting my eyes. I sniff. Twitch my nose.

"Ah--ah--ah--achoo!" My tail thumps the ground with the force of my expulsion.

Cold erupts from my mouth and nose. A blast of artic snot blasts the canopy of branches above me. Crystalline snot-ickles cake... everything.

The tree creaks. Ice chimes. Chill wafts on the breeze. Sunlight sparks on ice flakes.

[Sys. Dragonette: Breath Weapon--Frost Variant → Unlocked]

Tears leak.

I cry.

Chapter 3: Team Disaster

My tears slow, err, slowly. Ice-flakes drift from above. I smell pine-sap, this kinda dry-dust summertime smell, mountain flowers and some distant musk I can't identify but's probably something like Bullwinkle, Rocky Raccoon, Smokey the Bear or the like. I can hear every creak and crack of the tree beside me and wonder if it's going to drop the whole mass of snot-ickles on me.

I push myself to me seat--rub my elbow, flex my wing, grump at my tail. The slope below me is broken by lava outcrops, pines and patches of dirty snow. I feel a moment of dizzy-disorientation. I don't think I'm in Kansas anymore.

I'm nowhere near the top of Mount Whatchamacallit but I've never been so high in my life. The ditch sides of the Little Vermillion River are steeper but I can jump off those and land expecting to live--even if I did twist my ankle that one time. I lean to my side and ralph.

I've seen pictures of landscape like this. I've never actually seen it live! This, like, slurry of icy stuff exits my stomach. It looks like, um, err, 7-Eleven Slushy.

Gross.

Not Slushies. My stomach stuff.

But it's not World Ending Black Pudding and it doesn't smell like anything except, maybe, Freon, so there's that. I plant my elbows on my knees and my face in my hands and breathe. Just breathe.

After a bit I peek between two fingers at the slope, cliffs and foot hills below me. I've seen hills before. They're supposed to, um, roll--not go way up and way down, but, whatever. I can do this.

Maybe...

... I hope.

I push myself to my feet, um, carefully. I trip-stumble and brake twice for every half-run-step forward. Gravity, like, tries to pull me downhill. Bad gravity. You're not being nice. I hear that rustle I heard earlier. I don't dare look. If I trip my wings might fly me far enough above the slope that when I fall... it'll be a long way down. I, um, "peel" my ears and hear this snap that's not tree.

Well, it is tree--a tree product. A stick I'm pretty sure. We do have those in Kansas regardless of what you think. But it wasn't the wind or anything like that that caused the stick to snap. Somebody freaking stepped on it.

I reach a patch of dirty snow that's shaded enough that summer hasn't melted it yet. I consider throwing myself upon it in hopes the soft will stop me. But with my luck I'd shoot off like that toboggan the football team and cheer-squad towed behind Bobby Miller's jacked side-by-side. We were going down Valley Road and there's a little dip before you get to no-name creek. A steep little dip. It's steeper here with, um, further to go before the bottom.

I spread my wings as wide as they'll go, dig my heels in and... stop.

Ohmigod! That worked! I check myself just in time so that I don't do this, like, fist-pump-cheer-jump and throw myself off a cliff or something. I know the slope's not that steep but give a girl a freaking break! I've rarely even imagined terrain like this. I've never considered what it'd take to navigate it!

There's this rustling that's so loud I could've heard it a mile away. If I could, like, take my eyes off the slope someone would've spectacularly failed at sneaking up on me. As it is, they're closer than I'd like. I'd expect grizzly bear except a grizzly bear probably wouldn't've made that much noise. A freaking rampaging Angus bull wouldn't have made that much noise. I smell this kinda wood-smoky scent, a spicy musk and an excess of cologne. It's freaking teen boy before he learns that teen girls smell things at least eight times more acutely than he does. The musk is more pleasant than the cologne.

"Hay!"

I spin towards the voice. I feel this, like, whack in my spine that's my tail sending I-nailed-something signals. Something heavy catapults to my right. I'd spun left so I don't see it.

There's this solid sounding wahoomph from the direction of the dirty snow. I spin again, trying to not, like, stagger halfway down the mountain. There's a gangly, taller than I am, um, boy in the snow?

[Sys. Dragonette. Perks: Thwack! → Unlocked (this passitive (passive / active) skill tail-smacks any person detected within your posterior strike zone unless consciously suppressed)]

I ignore the CRT green HUD text and focus on the man-boy I just, err, thwacked.

He's... gangly. I mentioned that. Tall-ish. Lanky. A bit on the thin side. His hair is a red "mop" that's more feather-duster than mop. He's got Wolverine--of X-Men fame--like chops except the red hair is finer--fluffier--and styled in a way it makes his face look diamond, fox shaped. He's got huge black-tipped, red fox ears and a beautifully white-tipped, red fox tail. He's dressed is supple leather, carrying a rope, a canteen, a small knife not fit for skinning a deer and a toy bow that might be designed for an eight year old... girl.

Yes, I just dissed my own gender but it is true that most of us don't have the same draw strength as a similarly aged boy--at least after we become teens. Maybe I did dis eight year old girls.

Ugh.

Sorry.

"Ah-ha!" He says with the enthusiasm of a ten year old headed to Disney World. "The traditional tail whack dragon greeting!" He leaps to his, err, more nimble than mine--that's not saying much--feet and womps me in the face with his fluffy tail. I sputter and open my mouth to pull a long red hair off my tongue with my fingers. I--at least--don't go flying when he whacks me with his rear appendage.

"Rook Embertrail," he proclaims proudly as I spit a few more hairs from my mouth. "I tracked you!"

My head tilts. I, like, look at him outa the sides of my eyes. "Tracked me from where?" I can still see the mouth of the cave when I glance over my shoulder. It's, um, three trees that-a-way.

"Lumberbottom!" He puffs up his chest.

"Is Lumberbottom a... town?"

"Yup! East side of the mountains. Just downhill!"

I glance at the sky. Unless the sun travels west-to-east here, I'm on the west side of the mountains. And unless it's freaking winter--I really don't think it is--that way is north. I know a thing or two about telling direction without obvious landmarks.

"I fell from the sky," I say slowly, not sure how Rook Embertrail will take me questioning his questionable tracking. Boys can be so... touchy about some things.

"See! Tracker extraordinaire! I even track contrails!"

There isn't a single contrail in the sky--anywhere. I wonder how he even knows what a contrail is given the apparent technology level I've witness in my, um, ten-minutes or so here. I don't think my soul left a contrail. I know I wouldn't leave a contrail if I somehow managed to fly. "I... see." I really don't. Or do. Because there's no way this fox-boy tracked me--except maybe from the cave--but I doubt even that.

"Can you lead me to town?" I ask cautiously. I'm pretty sure the answer is, "No," but, like any man, he'll say, "Yes." Problem is I can't lead me to town either. I can't even feed myself! I don't know what I eat--except world ending chocolate pudding which, apparently, I'm fresh out of.

"Yes!" He puffs up his chest more--which I didn't know was possible--and holds his tail ramrod straight with his arms at his sides. I'm so tempted to say, "At ease, solder." So tempted.

"We go east!" He points in the direction that I'm absolutely certain is west unless we're in the Southern Hemisphere of this world and the sun goes in the wrong direction. At least it's downhill. He spins around and starts marching away in that way that Wiley Coyote does right before he falls off a cliff.

He doesn't fall off a cliff. The only reason I don't fall off a cliff is because we don't encounter a cliff.

After a long time--too long of a time--so probably fifteen minutes--the slope levels out to something I can, err, traverse--without stumbling--um--sometimes? My freaking tail is an environmental hazard. I was scolded by a squirrel when I knocked it out of a tree after whacking its home, knocked over Rook--twice--and caused a mini-avalanche when I sent a rock spinning down-mountain. By shear freaking luck we encounter a road-like dirt track.

[Sys. Quest. n00b: Follow the Red-Dirt Road (budget constraints--yellow-brick shortage)--Accept? (y/n) → 1 alp]

I blink at the CRT green notification. What the freak is an alp--is it a mountain, like, in Europe? I tentatively select "y" with my mind. It's not like I want to wander around freaking mountains forever. My HUD blinks and the quest notification fades. I suppose I have a quest now... whatever that means.

"Lumberbottom is that way!" Rook proclaims proudly, pointing to the left. The road winds through the everywhere up and down and I can't tell what's ahead or behind or if Rook's right. How could anyone drive such a road? Even a Mennonite cart would have to slow down! I turn--slowly--my tails still freaking whacks something.

There's a sharp crack. I stagger-spin to find a now leaning sign. It's so weathered it doesn't look a lot different than the other dead pine tree snags I've seen here and there. It freaking looks like part of the natural landscape. I swear!

I inspect the weathered-grey sign. The sign post is cracked where I whacked it and leaning. There'd been a couple of large nails in it at one time but now the sign's hanging by one.

The sign says, "Isakora → 1 league, that-a-way." I briefly wonder how far a league is but then remember looking it up after having watched The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. It's the distance a person can walk in an hour--distance varies with terrain. That-a-way is an arrow pointing the same direction Rook had just told me was the way to Lumberbottom. In short, follow the red-dirt road.

"Is Lumberbottom closer than Isakora?" I ask.

"Isakora is on the other side of the mountains. Trust me, I know! It's like a second home to me!"

This kid--my aged--but still--sure does puff up his chest a lot. He's got a lot of red freckles that, coupled with the red fox, make him look Irish.

"Where's your first home?" I ask, praying it's not Lumberbottom--because if it is he clearly doesn't know the way home.

"Lumberbottom! Home of the best foresters, hunters, tackers, pathfinders, cow tippers and whittler's in the world!"

Cow tipping? Now that's something I could get into.

"The sign says Isakora is one league that way," I point in the same direction Rook had.

"Of course it is!" Rook says spinning in a full circle. "I was just testing your navigational abilities! That important! Girls, you know."

Really? I stare at him. I know I don't know where I am. I've accepted that--unlike him!

Grr...

I don't say what's on my mind. I'm nice like that. I have--how many friends in this world? Um, let's count...

One.

And I don't want to offend him. I'm glad for the company. Even if the company is a little, err, doofus. That makes me--my chest, like, deflates--doofus adjacent. More fool me.

"I'm going this way," I say. It's the direction he pointed earlier but that still doesn't mean his directions were correct. Rook marches proudly by my side and I, um, actually, err, like that. A little smile tugs at my lips.

I've walked three strides from the sign when my feet, like, root to the ground. I turn slowly as though a loadstone pulled towards magnetic north. My eyes track to a spot just below the sign. There's a bent, rusty nail on the ground the size of my index finger. My tail... twitches. My fingers... itch. I creep back like I'm stalking a chicken destined for Momma's cook pot.

[Sys. Hoarder: Loot Locater--Acquired (Instinctively Locate Loot for Meeting Hoard Requirements | Qualified Hoards Only)]

I don't have time to pay attention to that. I blink the notification away. My left hand lashes out like a striking snake even as my tail whips around trying to sweep the nail closer to me. I snatch the nail but my tail hits the sign post--again. There's a loud crack. The sign post--air-born now--bonks me on the head. Thank God for horns. Without them, that would've hurt. I fall on my ass, err, tail, ugh, butt in the red-road dust. I hold up my prize before my eyes...

... my precious.

[Sys. Announcement: Nesting Hoard--2/108 items collected]

Wha...?

Yes, I've seen that notification before, but, still, wha...? And what about that other notification--Loot Locator? Double--wha...?

Rook strides over and looks at my prize. I feel an irrational impulse to hide it. I absolutely--do--not--clutch the rusty nail to my chest.

"Ah, yes, white dragons start nesting in the summer."

"I am NOT nesting!" The thought is horrifying. I don't even want to think about what nesting might entail. I am not pregnant! I am not ready for kids! I do not acknowledge the validity of the notification that'd said: [Sys. Species: White Dragon (Hybrid "Dragonette" Variant-- the smallest, weakest, least aerodynamically viable and most alarmingly reproductively compatible of all dragon species)] Emphasis added.

"Denial is part of the process."

Grr...

I blink.

Huh? I wonder if the, grr, is a dragon thing? It's not like I've never grred before but the frequency is kinda new. I wonder if I can freaking bite someone! I angrily push-stomp to my feet and intentionally lash the fallen sign with my tail sending it flying into the brush. I figured that was safer than the alternative my tail probably would've chosen on its own. I start stomping down the trail.

"Hey, Ivette, Lumberbottom is this way."

I spin. Stagger three steps left. Almost fall over. Freaking tail! Regain my balance. March past Rook. Yes, he was right--this time. Sorta. Nope, not engaging.

Rook is marching along beside me with these, like, huge steps, puffed chest and his hands balled into fists swinging from his hips to his chin like he's practicing for a one-man parade I wasn't invited to. I find my frustration bleeding away into a smile.

I snort. This, like, three cubic-foot snowstorm erupts in front of my nose and drifts away on the summer breeze. That was kinda cool. I try it again--see if I can change it up a little.

"Cold?"

Huh? "Not really." As in, I'm not really paying attention to you or what you're asking. I blow out a long stream of sparkly frost. Try for a smoke ring or frost ring or one of those weird Gandalf ship things. That'd be so cool.

"Allergies?"

Wha...? A beat. Oh. God. "No, just playing."

"You sure? You can borrow my coat. I left it in Lumberbottom but I'll let you borrow it once we get there." He pauses. "If you want."

"You're sweet, Rook." I pat his shoulder. I actually have to reach up to do so. He's almost a whole head taller than me. "I'm fine--really." I see a shiny coin on in the dust. Stop. Carefully bend my knees like I'm wearing a micro-mini but really just trying to keep my balance. Pick up the coin.

It's silver. Polished smooth by, I don't know, the dirt and stuff. A cart probably ran it over. My nose twitches.

"Really, Ivette. I don't mind. White dragons are cold, so they get colds. I'll lend you my coat."

"Ah..." I bite back the sneeze. Pinch my nose between two fingers and wiggle it to get rid of the itch. "Thur's nu nuud, Ruuk," I say, my nose stoppered. "Ah..."

An undead elf leaps out in front of us. His feet are spread shoulder width apart and he's leaning forward in an aggressive linebacker stance. His claymore might be as big as he is. It's so big it has House of Stark, The Sword: Ice vibes.

At least I think he's undead. His armor is tarnished, almost perfectly. I don't think I see a shiny spot on it. He's wearing, like, a breast plate and pauldrons and gauntlets and metal boots and vambraces and the uniformity of corroded patina covering all pieces is rather impressive. His skin is pale. His hair is like Legolas with dreadlocks. There's linebacker black under his eyes.

And, um, he's not undead.

"Lith Vahn!" the pale-elf shouts threatening us with his sword. He's easily ten paces away from us and unless he's planning a linebacker blitz he's too far away to attack. The shiny little coin in my hand catches the sun and winks at me. My nose twitches.

"Ah--"

I put a finger under my nose.

"Ah--"

I can't hold it.

"Ah-CHOO!"

My hand flings wide just in time. The force of my expulsion thrusts my head forward, tail and butt back and my wings wide. I knock Rook one step to the side. Snot-ickles blast the space between me and the, err, rust-bucket elf?

The snot-ickle rimed elf blinks at me. It's a long slow blink--as though his flesh were stiff.

"A-a-h, a b-bab-baby d-d-drag-gon." Some of the snot-ickles fall away. "St-stay, c-calm, bab-b-by d-dragon. I-I sp-spe-speak b-baby d-drag-gon." As ice sluffs off, he straightens to a less threatening posture. Heat kisses my collar, climbs up my neck and licks my cheeks. My wings flutter in shared empathy.

"It's okay b-baby d-dragon," the elf says. "I'm sc-chooled in baby d-dragon training techniques." He shoves the tip of his--I can't decide if it's poorly maintained or spectacularly neglected--clamor in the soil of the road. "St-tep one: maint-tain calm post-posture. Step t-two: head pat-ts." He steps forward and pats me on the head.

My mouth pops open. I stare up at him. I'm so mortified I can't speak.

He cups my cheeks between his cold--sheesh, did I make them that cold--gauntlets. "I'll protect you and you will fly and you'll let me ride on your back."

Um...

He has a snot-ickle hanging from the tip of his pale-elf nose. He cheeks are hollow and almost blue. I don't know if that's his normal pallor or...?

"Leave her alone!" Rook shouts. He whips out a dagger so small it wouldn't've been confiscated if waved around in my high-school PE class. Coach Weston probably would've manufactured us a target and we'd've competed in knife throwing practice. Anything shorter than eight inches was considered a butter knife. Didn't matter if it was sharp enough to skin an eyeball or not.

"Ivette's my baby dragon! I'm leading her to Lumberbottom! Not you!"

Oh, God. Now the pale-elf has Rook calling me a baby dragon.

"Leave her alone!" someone new, someone feminine, someone with brownish-grey cottontail ears, a ponytail and blue robes cries. She leaps out from behind a tree, spins so her butt is facing us, grabs the hem of her blue, bell-sleeved, trapeze-dress "robe" and, um, moons us. A cottontail tail wags at us from just above the, err, crack of her ass. She glares over her left shoulder. Her bunny tail vibrates.

[Sys. WARNING: Possible Threat Display Detected]

I drop my face into my hands. It's her butt.

"I'm warning you! My tail casts spells!"

Rook and, um, pale-elf look at her, look at each other and shrug. They go back to arguing who gets to escort me to Lumberbottom and who gets to ride me. There's no chance of getting a word in edgewise, so I don't try.

"Lepus-pocus, Scuttle-butt, Maximus!" the bunny girl shouts.

A pine tree behind and to the right of me explodes into a shower of cherry blossoms. And I mean, explodes! I don't mean there're cherry blossoms all over a pine tree, I mean there is no pine tree remaining but an equal mass of cherry blossoms!

At least I think it's an equal mass--there're freaking cherry blossoms floating everywhere--conservation of energy and all that. There was no nuclear eruption of matter or anything. Maybe magic bypasses that?

"Drat! You have to be looking when I wiggle my tail for cotton-tale magic to work!"

So that's why she'd been wearing a thong--to keep us interested in her butt. There's a joke in there somewhere. Most my ex-boyfriend's used to get this magazine--for the articles--and they'd always had this favorite girl of the month.

Yeah, that's the joke. I snort at my own idiot mirth. It's better than the embarrassment I'm feeling. I snowflake a few of the blowing blossoms.

"Now you listen here!" bunny girl says, stomping over to the boys with her hands on her hips. "I'll have you know, I'm Thistle Honeybottom the best jinx tail east of The Great Briar!"

I wonder if she's the only jinx tail east of The Great Briar--wherever that is. How many people go around learning magic that requires you to moon your target?

"You leave the poor girl alone! I don't care if she's a dragon. You're clearly taking advantage of her!"

I blink. O... kay? Sure, I didn't invite pale-elf to the party but I've been kinda enjoying Rook--miss-direction and all. I'm locked outa my eighteen year tutorial so I need people who know what they're doing.

"I found her first! I tracked her!" Rook.

"The baby dragon imprinted on me!" No-name pale-elf.

"Girls stick together!" Thistle.

Um... maybe I should find new friends. I take one veeerrrry big step left--start walking the red-dirt road to Isakora. Without even looking up from their argument my trio of, um, companions drift in my wake.

How has this happened? Not all that long ago I was a Kansas girl waiting out a cyclone in a storm shelter. Now I'm a dragonette collecting woodland idiots. Dorothy had it easy. At least her dog was sensible.

"Ivette needs a competent guide!"

Boy, you have no idea.

"Girls visit restrooms in packs!"

That... is true. Too often, girls are prey. Protection in numbers. Herd mentality.

"Ivette is not a proper dragon name... perhaps Glaciara Soothing-Swirl?"

Is that a skincare product?

"Who are you?" That was Rook.

The pale-elf puffs up his chest. I can't help but compare his posture to Rook's. The elf looks more, um, rust-bucket. His armor's not actually a rusty red but an almost silver-black tarnish streaked with blue-green patina. In a word, it's ugly--if you ignore the way the blue-green swirls mesmerizes the eyes.

His armor reminds me of my first truck--well, not technically. It was my Dad's truck but I drove it. I'd been twelve--farmer's license. I was legal to drive to school and about farm business--no passengers under age, um, I forgot, officer, I swear.

"Vane, Apprentice Dawnbringer, Order of the Ever-Dim Dawn!"

"Why is your armor so..." Thistle seems to be having trouble finding the right word. Honestly, I am too. "... blah."

Good choice, Thistle.

"It's Moonsteel--tarnished to perfection! To polish one's armor is to reflect one's hubris!"

"Ah," Thistle and Rook breathe in unison. I might've secretly joined them.

"Now, to name the baby dragon--Brumavell Ever-Frost?"

Really? Astarte? Ariel? Are you listing to this? Do something! "I have a name," I cry. I don't think Vane hears me. He's too lost in his, err, dragon riding fantasies?

"Maybe not, too pretentious. Baby dragon is cute."

Thank God. Well, not the cute part but still.

"Brumabelle the Pale Tempest!"

Ugh. Sounds like the name of the female partner of a comedic couple in a stage-play. You know--the secondary couple that's included in stage-play romances for comedic relief. How had I collected such a, err, competent crew of companions in under an hour?

"Now Brumabelle, wings back, sway that tail and shoulders, a little straighter."

Three things happen at once.

Vane grabs my shoulders trying to correct my posture.

My tail sweeps Vane's feet out from under him.

I keep walking.

The red-dirt road brings us around a long gentle arc. When we finally clear the corner the likes of which no flatlander has ever driven around at a speed greater than twenty mile-per-hour but people on the West Coast might drive at, like--I don't know--a hundred miles-per-hour... there's a town, err, right there.

I'm not prepared. Towns appear on the horizon--or at least in the bottom of a very long, shallow dip--not, um, one-hundred strides in front of you.

Or is it a village. A hamlet? It's bigger than Home, so, yeah, hamlet is probably the right word. Does that make Home a, err, piglet?

Nope, not going there. I grew up in that...

I can't call it a town anymore. Isakora is bigger than Home. Home's not even incorporated. Instead of "There's no place like Home," the welcome sign reads, "Welcome to Isakora--The Snowy Cradle of Level-One Chumps!"

The scent of biscuit, gravy and brisket assaults my nostrils in the most decadent way. My stomach doesn't grumble, it roars!

Vane comes clanking up from behind.

"Brumabelle hungers! I must feed her to complete the imprint! We must get her to The Chow House! Hurry!" Before anyone can respond, Vane continue, "But she must walk between us."

"So we can triangulate her aura?" Rook asks sounding... confused. And excited. Definitely excited.

"No, so we can catch her if she trips," Thistle deadpans.

I hate how reasonable that actually sounds.

Chapter 4: Welcome to Isakora

Isakora is another shock to my senses.

Around the hamlet there's this, um... defensive palisade? A wall? The fence-like construction might've kept a prize-winning hog at bay but wouldn't have slowed a determined toddler. The houses look like mountains--child drawing mountains. They have these triangular rooves that are so steep that snow--had there been any--couldn't stick to them.

Then there're the building materials. Slate tiled rooves--many of them moss covered. Timber-beam, stone and plaster construction. So many window planters that the lanes between houses are a riot of color and smell like a florist. I've never seen anything like this except in pictures of alpine ski resorts. I think the houses are called A-frames. It's easy to see why. A mossy, stone, watch tower rises a bit above the peaked rooves off to the right. The desire to explore this fairytale wonderland fills with a childlike excitement. My stomach growls.

Right after I feed myself.

I and, um... my friends pass through the rickety gate. There's an unmanned guard booth that looks like the falling down outhouse on the edge of Kincade's place. It's in his furthest field and ol'man Kincade doesn't always have the time to make the trek home. The mouthwatering aroma of fried okra guides me along narrow streets so zig-zag it's like the city planner used a spilled bowl of spaghetti as his master plan.

"Follow me! I know where I'm going!" Rook turns right. I don't have to look to know the turn he picked will lead us right back to the edge of town. The vat-fryer is down this zig and that zag. My stomach growls. It's loud, grumbly and would do any dragon proud.

In short, it's mortifying.

But the last time I ate was in Kansas--before the cyclone. I don't know how long ago that was. And that was a different body to boot. Who knows how long it's been since this body ran out of world ending black pudding. I start to jog--towards the food--not Rook.

"Ivette!"

I pick up my pace. This girl is hungry. I hear huffing and puffing as Vane clanks behind me. Thistle though, she beaming... and skipping. It's not a bunny hop--she doesn't have the, um, thighs or feet for those--but I'm imagining skipping might be her favored form of transportation. It makes her ears bound and her face beam and the skirt of her, um, star-spangled, blue robe rise up inappropriately.

"That was a test! You passed! Good job!"

I cock my head and quirk my brow at Rook. He's caught up and jogging beside me like he's Forest Gump running a marathon.

We pass a small construction site. An arguing dwarf and, err, goat-man glance up as we pass. Goat-men that're more man that satyr sit all over the timber frame of what looks to be a new grain-silo. They seem to be munching on their lunches, bored. From what I overheard the goat-man on the ground is their foreman. The dwarf is a building inspector. The dwarf's argument makes sense. The foreman is a goat--he's winning the argument.

Down another street I pass a couple of cow, err, girls. Not cowgirl-cowgirls like I was a cowgirl back in Kansas but cow-girls. Stubby horns, long tails with hairy-tuffs, unguligrade legs that end in hooves. I see Holstein, Herford and Angus. They're hauling buckets of I-hope-that's-not-milk up the hill. A cow-boy leaning against a porch rail chewing on a long stem of grass moos at the girls and the Holstein blushes. His horns are much bigger than the girls' but his legs seem human. He's wearing fustian pants--that's medieval denim--and these, like, medieval cowboy boots.

We pass foxes, two dogs and a cat--all of them more human than animal.

I trot into a large, dirt-packed, um, square? It's not square. It's more... circle. Why are they called squares?

"Halt!"

The dude's got tired looking eyes, jowls that hang past his jaw and a honker that'd make a grand champion bloodhound proud. He's wearing this leather, like, jacket sewn with these great-big, iron rings. He's plants a spear in the dirt and leans shoulder and head into it in this, like, lazy slouch. There's a sword at his hip that I've the feeling he knows how to use.

His most distinctive feature, however, is the long floppy ears that belong on a coonhound.

"What is a dragon doing in Isakora?"

"Eating?" I say, hopefully. I doubt he hears me. My word is completely drowned out.

"I tracked her!" Rook's ears prick up in excitement. He puffs up to his tallest height. Which is, actually impressive... when you're so freaking short!

Vane clanks forward, puffs up as much as Rook had and brushes a Legolas dreadlock out from in front of his eyes.

"Brumabelle the Pale-Tempest imprinted on me!" He slams his fist to his chest in a, um, not-cool salute. "Honorable Captain Rosco of the Order of Town-Guardsman-ship, I--of the Order of the Ever-Dim Dawn--have a mandate to tame magical creatures and bring them before the Pedestal of Unpolished Grace."

So basically a dusty concrete block behind a barn. Great! I can't wait. I plant my face I in my hands.

Thistle skips forward. She's taller than me even without the ears. She places a hand on my shoulder. "It's okay. I'm here... Bruma-bubble?... Briarbelle?... um, Ivette? Girls stick together," she tells me in a soft gentle voice that's, ugh. It's not that she's being mean. It's that she's not.

Ariel? Astart? Are you seeing this? Take me back... please?... Mister Meanwhile?

"There have been no dragons in Isakora since the fall of the Merdragonee Empire."

I have a horrifying feeling about this. I had noticed the occasional animal, err, pet, um, person, freak!... whatever staring.

"I shall tame the dragon. I shall ride her!"

My tail whacks Vane behind the knees--knocking him to his knees.

"See, she likes me," Vane says. He scowls at the polished scuffs on his shin guards where the dirt buffed the corroded patina off his moonsteel or whatever.

"Ah, yes," Rook says, nodding sagely. "The traditional dragon fondness pat." He whacks me behind the knees with his tail. I don't go down. I don't even wobble. At worst it was like being wacked by a feather pillow. I've "suffered" harder pillow-whacks while babysitting four-year olds.

Captain Rosco shakes his head in weary resignation. It makes his coonhound-ears flop. "There is no law against dragonee in Isakora. But no trouble. We don't need a dragon brawl. You may go." He looks at me like I might be the only sane one of the group. I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad thing because sane, yah! Them not sane...

Um...

I stride into the square. The earth is hard-pack. There's no grass. There's an occasional patch of cobbles that're leftover from some old-timey time but remain too rooted to move. The sights, scents and sounds are all loud. The smells, in particular, confuse. I want food and it's--I mentally throw my arms wide--that-a-way! My head moves on a weathervane swivel trying to figure out what scent I want most. I narrow it down to something ahead and on the left.

But there're a lot of other curiosities as well. My eyes pan.

In the center of the round square is a Roman-esque fountain except instead of the traditional cupid peeing there's a dragon-girl, taller and more statuesque than me, gurgling water from her overflowing mouth. She's got slightly webbed fingers and fin-spines on her tail. Something in the fountain burbles. It's not a happy toddler sound--more a clogged toilet sound. It's kinda gross. I pretend I didn't hear it.

Scattered all about the circular square there's a farmers' market. There're comings and goings and tradings and chattings by barnyard-folk, dwarves, elves, humans and little people of all kinds. Far across the way is a Sleepy Dragon Inn. I think's a medieval Motel-6.

Beside that there's a squat building built from stone like that old timey church outside of Vliets. It looks like a miniature keep. It's not more than a story tall but has a crenulated roof like it's pretending to be a castle. It has a few narrow windows that remind me of the "gun ports" in grandpa Warshburn's apocalypse bunker.

Just outside the entrance is another outhouse kiosk manned by and ugly, short something. The kiosk has a sign advertising afterlife point appraisals which is something I'd rather not think about. Beside that is a bulletin board of sorts. I squint so I can use my, err, dragon binoculars to zoom in.

Fountain Flow Reduced.

Lost Goat--Again. Probably Hiding.

Beware Trash-Pandas!

Thistle must see me looking that way. "We should go there!"

I shake my head to refocus my eyes closer.

"Do they have food?" My stomach will not be denied. It devoured world ending black pudding, who knows what else it might devour?

"No..." she says sounding confused. "It's the Guild Hall. I need to register my tail as a lethal weapon. I did magic. You saw me. You will be my witness. Girls stick together!"

Vane changes directions suddenly nearly slamming into me.

"You are correct Lady Thistledown Moonbottom. I must report a magical creature imprint. It would be a violation of the Ever-Dim Dawn Oath if I did not report Brumabelle the Pale-Tempest's delicate condition."

I plant my face in a palm. I am not delicate and unless "tail" is a condition, I don't have one of those either. I, like, mime clawing my face off.

"I tracked you!"

I ignore my idiots and keep marching towards the divine smell of grease fryer. They race to catch up.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The sound is not new. I've been hearing it for a while. But as we stride past the blacksmith the noise draws my gaze that way...

I stop--riveted. Vane, Rook and Thistle stride a few paces without noticing. My tail twitches so hard it kicks dust off the ground.

It's mortifying, but there's no other word for it. I... pounce--like an overweight cat that hits like a sack of bricks.

[Sys. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--3/108 items collected]

Eff42 you too. This "system" is like a mental scar. I seem to be collecting those. The Warshington DMV. The BPMA. Now Sys!

[Sys. Compiling | System Moniker--Accepted | Sys = F42]

Wha...?

"That'll be a copper Jack, please."

I have a moment of disorienting confusion. I look up at the, um, man standing over me. He's brobdingnagian. He has this rat tail that's, err, scaled. His eyes are small, black and beady. He's bare chested but has these, like, armor plates on his shoulder and back. He's a freaking highway hockey-puck--aka, an armadillo.

What's a copper Jack? Some form of payment? For a piece of twisted wire I found on the ground?

"Leave her alone!" Thistle shouts. She skips up beside me and spins around. "I'll jinx you," she warns.

Yes, my girl Thistle just mooned the armadillo blacksmith. I want to die...

... again.

I try to hold the rusted steel up for the blacksmith to take, but can't. It's part of my nesting hoard--whatever that is. What happens if I give it away? I scramble to my feet and, baking boobs to cheeks, brush myself off.

I'm a dragon. Or everyone thinks I am. Dragons hoard. Even not-geek me I knows that. I don't know why I have to be freaking embarrassed about it. I fish the shiny silver coin that hadn't been a part of my hoard out of my pocket praying its worth at least as much as a copper Jack.

The coin glints in the light. My nose twitches. I must've snorted dust. I don't know where this sneeze is coming from. The armadillo man takes my payment and dumps a handful of copper on a wooden table. He fists the silver coin. My sneeze abates.

"Make your own change. I know your kind have preferences."

Um... Okay. But...?

I select the greenest copper coin I can find in the pile--glance at the man. He picks up his tools by the forge and starts reheating a long piece of metal. I select the next greenest coin I can find. The armadillo doesn't say anything. I select a third. A fourth. A fifth.

"A silver Princess is only worth four copper Jacks, girl."

I reluctantly slide two of the least corroded coins back into his pile and sweep up my three new treasures.

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--4/108 items collected]

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--5/108 items collected]

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--6/108 items collected]

I sigh because Form-42 is so annoying. I'm never going to be able to go shopping again at this rate. I'll save everything. I suppose that's what it means to have a class titled Hoarder. What a nesting hoard is, however, I don't want to think about.

Thistle and I rejoin the, um, party on the porch of a nearby building. A sign overhead proclaims the building to be, "The Chow House." It smells like a waffle house mated with a BBQ grill--aka divine.

Rook pushes on the door.

It bangs--doesn't open.

That's because one glance tells me it's supposed to be pulled. There's a sign that says so.

"Rook," I say, "pull the door."

"Just a moment. It's stuck. I've got it. Follow me!" Rook leans into the door with both hands. My stomach rumbles with an impatient growl. I'm not even embarrassed this time. I really am hungry.

"Hurry. Brumabelle hungers. We must feed the baby dragon now!" Vane reaches past Rook and pulls on the handle.

Rook is still pushing.

I release the air trapped in my chest in one wordless complaint, shoulder my doofus friends out of the way, grab the door handle and... gently pull the door open which glides on well-worn hinges.

[Sys. Quest. n00b: Follow the Red-Dirt Road (complete) → 1 alp (awarded)]

That was easy. I collected some unexpected companions but didn't encounter any flying monkeys or anything like that. I still don't know what an alp is--but, whatever.

Stepping inside is almost like going home. I smell fryer, waffles, biscuit, sausage, gravy and chicken-fried everything! There's a counter for, like, ordering pies and solo eating and a number of heavy timber tables. The floors are scarred wood and practically thatched with discarded peanut shells of last night's dinner crowd, which someone clearly hasn't bothered to sweep up before the breakfast rush. A cottoneer skips up to us balancing a tray on three fingers with enough stoneware loaded upon it to crush a normal human foot.

"Hi, I'm Bramble. People call me Babs. I'll be right with you. Have a seat, anywhere."

Rook does that big-step, arm-swing, puffed-chest march of his over to a table not far from the bar counter.

"The hen gives me the creeps," Thistle whispers.

The hen's a giant porcelain chick-shaped cookie jar.

"I know," Root whispers back. "We're hiding in plain sight, so it can't see us."

"I will protect the baby dragon."

I don't comment. It's a freaking cookie jar.

We all take seats--Thistle very carefully making sure she doesn't sit on the skirt of her dress. I suppose that's so she can moon people at a moment's notice.

A heavy-set man with the broad, unyielding dimensions of a grain silo comes around the counter followed by Babs. Between them they're carrying a veritable feast. He begins placing plates in front of us--mostly me. Bacon, sausage, biscuits, gravy, eggs and chicken fried steak--ohmigod! It all looks... amazing! And smells even better.

"But we didn't..."... order. "Order," that's what I was going to say but my stomach growls and I don't want the big-man to take my food away.

Did the chicken just bob it's head...?

No. I'm imagining things. It didn't move.

"It's been a while since we've had a visitor so far traveled as you."

I can imagine. I mean, how many Kansas girls show up in other worlds? "I--oh--err... What's this?" I cover my fluster by pointing at my drink. Going by appearances it could be coffee or tractor oil. Going by smell, it's neither.

"Roasted Barley Brew," Babs tells me. I take a sip. It's got that hot, toasted, slightly-bitter morning flavor but I don't detect that much needed kick--you know, caffeine.

"Thank you," I tell the man.

"Thank me by eating, girl. Don't let my efforts go to waste."

"No sir," I say and dig in.

Waffles, butter, syrup, biscuits, sausage-gravy, morning steak and eggs, big heavy slices of bacon! Ohmigod, the bacon. My tail wags. I glance at my... friends. I'm happy. Does this mean I'm, um, coping?

[F42. Dragonette: Himbo-dar--Passive → Unlocked (Helplessly aware of male-dragons (dragonneer) and qualified brutes within 100 paces)]

[F42. Dragonette. Himbo-dar: WARNING! Proximity Alert!]

The warning comes too late. My happy tail swings.

CRASH!

The bull-boy at the table behind me slams into the floor. His chair spits sideways knocking another to the floor. Someone kicks the table. It flips over. Dumps the content's in another bull-boy's lap. This, like, Brahma bull-boy rises off the floor like a thunderhead about to blow.

I shoot a wild look at bodyguard Vane. Girls don't appreciate white knights except when the do! I'd appreciate one right now--even if he does look like an undead elf. But Vane's engrossed with... un-polishing the kneecap of his metal shoe.

Seemingly from nowhere Babs is there in a flash.

"Now how many times have I told you not to lean back in your chair, Bromo?"

"She--"

"And if all four of your chair's feet had been no the floor?"

"But--"

Babs arcs an eyebrow. Bromo deflates.

"Now apologize to Gus' guest."

Despite being twice the size of Babs, Bromo looks like a scolded school boy. "Sorry." His voice, even now a low-low rises in register. It's not much but I can hear the remorse.

"That's better. Now help me clean up your mess."

Bromo and his two companions right the table, chairs and start collecting the scattered dishes. Babs winks at me. I carefully tuck my tail under my chair. I glance about. The porcelain chicken is poised as though pecking the counter. None of my companions seem to have even noticed I was one flinch from death.

"Bwuk-b'gwak..." There's this, like, tap, tap, tap and rattle sound. "Gale-wind's turning... turning west again... duuurr cluck!"

I blink at the porcelain chicken. It's just sitting on the counter, head held high. Had it said that?

No, nope, nu-uh, nada. Not processing that right now. I tuck my head down and dig in.

Chapter 5: The Yard "Troll"

Can you say food coma? I pat my bloated belly and try not to burp--except, maybe, I heard that was a compliment in some cultures?

This is not Earth. It's not the Midwest.

I burp. It's not lady like--even for a farm-girl from Kansas. I couldn't help it. My eyes cross as I sigh in satisfaction. Gus twists where he's cooking at his fryer and grins at me from across the counter. Vane--my hero--is settling accounts with Babs. His expression is strained. I get the feeling he had no idea how much "baby" dragons ate.

I hadn't either. I kinda like it. Eat like a freaking horse, don't get fat. What girl wouldn't like that?

[F42. Dragonette: Oviposition → Unlocked | Egggnancy → Detected (unfertilized) (once a month experience the wonders of childbirth--don't worry, it's hard, but easier) | Note 1: For proper childhood development eggs should be laid in qualified Nesting Hoards | Note 2: Fertilized eggs will hatch after appropriate period of abandonment--dragons mature best when not parented / parenting results in "Momma's boy" dependancies]

[F42. Dragonette. White. Notification: Entering 3-day fertility window]

Ohmigod. I squeeze my eyes closed in horror. It doesn't make the green CRT text go away. Do I really have a food coma? Is this why I feel so full? Is this bloat, PMS? Egg-MS?

No. No. Nope! I'm not some freaking lizard-chicken. It's not like I hadn't seen this coming but give a girl some time to prepare! It's like wham--dead. Wham--new body. Wham--freaking mountains and then, oh yeah, wham--cluck-cluck. I'm so upset I want to scream. I want to shout. But if I do, everyone will find out. I have to swallow my horror--and hide it.

At least the fertility window notification is useful. Now I know when and when not to get plowed. Fortunately I haven't met any barnyard-people that make me want to get plowed... except... maybe... the bull-boys.

Ugh... What is it with me and big, muscley, sausage wielders?

I need a distraction. And I need a job. I'm not earning my rent by giving a rusty knight a ride. Since I'm stuck here, I'd better learn how to live here--eggnancy and all. It's not that bad. Now that I've burped a barely notice the bloat in my stomach. I lean into Thistle. All three of my companions seem familiar with Isakora but I wouldn't go to Rook for direction to the outhouse out back. Vane's busy.

"Where does a girl go to get work around here?" I whisper hoping Rook doesn't overhear.

"Why the Quest Board of course! I'll show you. Girls stick together!"

A Quest Board? Sounds like Craigslist for babysitter postings but I suppose it's better than nothing--something to do while I find my way.

"Follow me! I knowed the way!"

Great, Rook's in on it now, but, whatever. I follow my companions out. Vane settles up with Babs and clanks along behind.

Outside the Gus' Chow House Rook turns right. Thistle goes left. I go left.

We weave through the round-square, farmer's market and crowd of critter-people towards the Guild Hall. Thistle's talking about registering her lethal weapon again and I'm sure her weapon would've been lethal to all the boys in my high school but us girls would've fallen down laughing. But rather than entering the Guild Hall Thistle leads me to the bulletin board outside.

"See, I showed you the way!" Rook announces. He puffs up his chest and makes this motion that reminds me of Corry Yoder thumbing his suspenders. "I knowed the way!"

"Knew," I mumble to no-one in particular. I don't often correct people's speech... except when they pronounce warsh, Warshington or Warshburn wrong-like. I don't get why some people find those words so tough to say. I browse the Quest Board. Across the top are several semi-permanent notices

"Guild Quest Board!"

"Guild Registered Adventures Only!"

"Register Inside!"

Below that there's a newer, tacked on notice. "Guild dues must be current."

Ugh, more bureaucracy. Is this like a union? I start reading the notices to see if I should even bother. The quests are arranged by Bronze, Silver and Gold... like Olympic curling.

"Bronze: Lost Goat--again. Probably hiding. 3 sp. 2 alp"

Goat is capitalized like a name--or a pet name. I wonder if Goat is someone's husband.

"What's sp?" I ask Rook, Thistle and Vane. I don't care who answers.

Rook gives me a look like I know nothing--which is rich.

But true. I suppose.

"Silver Princesses."

"And there are four, um, Copper Jacks in a Silver Princess?" I ask recalling my transaction with the armadillo, blacksmith man.

"Yup, and five Silver Princess in a Gold Queen but four Gold Queens in a Platinum King," Rook helpfully explains.

Huh, look at me leaning on my new friends.

I mentally re-catalog. Quarters, Warshingtons, Lincolns and Hamiltons--it almost makes sense. Like metric--not. People generally walk a mile every twenty minutes but how many kilometers is that... one point what? Hopefully a Silver Princess goes further in Whatever world than a Warshington does in present day Kansas. I have to assume that finding a husband--err, Goat--that doesn't want to be found is hard work.

"Silver: Clear Ye Ol' Toll House. 10 pk - proof of eviction required. 20 alp"

That one looks promising. Two hundred dollars, right? But, what would I be evicting?

"Gold: Emotional Support Bard Wanted. 7 gq/wk. 150 alp/dy"

This pretty red-head vixen-girl--they're all red-heads--with a gittern and too few clothes snatches that one before I can inspect it closer.

"Bronze: Help Carrying Heavy Thing. 6 cj. 2 alp"

"Bronze: Fountain Flow Reduce! Clear Intake. 20 sp. 5 alp"

"What are 'alp' I ask?" I've no idea but while every notice is written in a different hand, "alp" is always written in the same hand. It's as though someone came along and added "alp" after.

"Afterlife-points, Miss Ivette," a flat voice intones from right beside me, making me jump. It's the dude sitting inside the outhouse turned kiosk. He's up on a stool behind the window sitting so still, I hadn't noticed. There's a ledger, pen, ink and a notary seal in front of him.

I squint at him. He looks exactly like one of my Mom's garden gnomes--specifically the one that sat beside the back porch that shared an expression with that kicked-in-the-face cat that lived in the barn loft and looked like it'd lost an argument with our combine. He's got a nametag on his red vest that reads, "Arlo."

"That is your purpose here, is it not? You have, I might add, had some adjustments since you've arrived in DunderQuestia."

"I have?" I guess I did get the one point form following the Red-Dirt Road. Bureaucracy is ridiculous.

"Let's see," he squints at me. It does nothing to improve his, err, handsome-good looks. "Taking in the stray fox: +5 afterlife points"

Cool!

"Lying to best--only--friend, telling him he's sweet: -3 afterlife points"

"Really?" Arlo ignores me. As he speaks he records his words in his ledger.

"Favorably comparing friend to an eight year old: +2 afterlife points"

"Dissing eight year old girls: -6 afterlife points"

Ugh, even I got that one.

"Recycling: +4 afterlife points"

"Composting--sign: +7 afterlife points"

Omigod, when you count my Red-Dirt Road quest, I'm up ten alp in one day! I'll be at a ten-thousand in how many days?

Err, three-ish years. I suppose that's not too bad but I'm definitely going to have to get used to things here.

"Property destruction--sign: -3 afterlife points"

Um... "It wasn't intentional, does that count?"

Arlo's gaze rises from the book. Behind those bushy brows his stare remains flat. His eyes return to his writing.

"Picking up litter: +9 afterlife points"

Like, wow. Like, really. No rhyme. No reason. This is stupid.

"Attempted theft: -3 afterlife points"

I cross my arms and glower at Arlo. I don't know if he's talking about the scrap wire I picked up and freaking paid for or when I had no clue how to make change for an eff42ing silver-whatever!

"Befriending dingbats: +6 afterlife points"

"Questionable sanity: -3 afterlife points"

Grr...

"Contemplating cow tipping with fondness: -15 afterlife points"

"What!"

Arlo raises a bushy eyebrow--writes it in his book. I wonder if I can freaking steal the thing when he's not looking an add a few choice entries about bureaucracy and customer service!

"Is that all?" I snap.

"Questioning the Regional Vice-Manager of Unofficially Appointed BPMA Afterlife-Point Appraisers: -3 afterlife points" He writes a big-fat plus-zero on the ledger under my name and then stamps it like three times with his seal, adds his initials, signs it twice and dates it once. It's like some weird-ass bureaucratic secret code or something. I even lost my Red-Dirt Road point. My blood pressure keeps rising and I'm about one chigger-scritch from going all Kansas girl on him like Mama taught me when--

"BRUMABELLE! Pale-Tempest! Foul dragon! Denizen of the Frosty Cave! User of Glaciara skincare products! I call you out! I've been hunting you up, down, out and back for the pre-meditated historical tragedies you have yet to think about committing! I challenge you to a duel of righteous fury and preemptive justice! Forfeit your future crimes now!"

I spin--my tail slamming into Arlo's kiosk. Accompanied by the sound of splintering wood and a gnomish shriek the converted medieval outhouse lands on its side blocking the door to the Guild Hall. The Tin Man--err, I mean, a knight--stands five paces away. He makes to slap my cheek with a gauntlet but he's too far away and the super-duper shiny glove flies out of his grip and hits me in the, um, chest.

It bounces off me and tumbles into the well-trodden dust. Silence descends on the round-square, save for Arlo moaning under his ruined outhouse.

The knight doesn't even blink. He draws himself up completely unbothered that he's now missing a sparkly-gauntlet. "Let the record show," he bellows pointing a bare, slightly sweaty hand at me, "the gauntlet of premeditated-righteousness has stuck the breastplate of yet-to-be-committed sin! This duel is decreed by the Dragon Hunters of Nexter-Year!"

Tin Man rips his sword from its sheath and raises his shield. Sunlight glints off his armor. It feels like I've snorted a horsefly up my nose.

"Ah--"

Captain Rosco joggs up to the standoff in that almost lazy way dogs have. He plants his spear and, like, hangs his weight from it. "Now, Sir Gallantus, there is no need for violence."

"Pre-emptive atonement is sanctioned by the Anti-Sin Ledgers of Nexter-Year! I have issued a formal challenge in accordance to the Merdragonee Accords! I shall mete premeditated-righteousness!"

I'm having trouble paying attention to what's going on. Pinching my nose isn't helping. "Ah--" Sir Gallantus advances. His armor flashes in the sunlight.

"AHCHOO!" My head thrusts forward. My tail sweeps back. I bend at the butt. Mr. Arlo who'd just climbed out from under his kiosk is slammed by my tail and, um, like, "soccer-ball kicked" into the Guild Hall wall. A blast of frost-burn erupts from my nose. The chill is far colder than ever before and the blast of snot-ickles freezes Sir Gallantus solid. CRT green flashes before my blue-bird eyes.

[F42. Event Log: Acute Allergic Flare-Up triggered by proximity to: [High Gloss Chivalric Polish], [Tin Men] and [Unwarranted Righteous Pomp]]

[F42. Draggonnette. White: Auto-Immune Response (passive) → Unlocked (As the smallest, weakest, least aerodynamically viable and most alarmingly reproductively compatible of all dragon species your auto-immune system responds to knights-in-shining armor, tin men, dragon hunters and all things shiny as a Class-IV Bio-Hazard Threat)]

[F42. Event Log: Irritant successfully flash-frozen]

[F42. WARNING: Please consult your nearest health appraiser if snot-ickles persist for more than four hours]

"I'll protect you, Brumabelle!" Vane yells leaping at the perfectly frozen target. "Kai-Yah!" His over-sized clamor rebounds off six-inchs of snot-ickle ice-cladding and rebounds from his hands. Captain Rosu lazily pins Vane's sword under a foot.

"Honorable, Captain Rosco of the Order of Town-Guardsman-ship, I--of the Order of the Ever-Dim Dawn--have a mandate to protect Brumaelle the Pale-Tempest! Wherefore you have taken my trusty, one-of-a-kind, re-smelted-from-goblin-pot-metal, clobber blade into custody, please release it," Vane wails in a panicked voice as he tugs at the sword hilt Captain Rosco has pinned to the ground. Vane keeps glancing over his shoulder as though he's panicked Sir Gallantus will defrost sometime in the next three days.

At the same time Thistle jumps in front of me spins around, lifts her robe and, well, moons everyone.

"Friction-Fluff, Copper-Melter, Scorchius!"

A sharp scree sound issues from the Sir-Gallantus snot-ickle sculpture. It sounds like a block of ice in the microwave--if there were tinfoil imbedded in the ice. Never done that before? I don't recommend you try. I got a whoopin'. The microwave didn't survive.

No hot-pockets for a week! It was criminal!

Sir Gallantus' armor seems to flex under the ice as it heats rapidly. Snot-ickles glow red. Sir Gallantus' super-duper shiny armor turns yellow, then a deep, beautiful bronze and finally a brilliant peacock purple and oil-slick blue. Everything, um, explodes.

I like freeze--except my tail. It's wagging like the tail of an eager puppy. Sir Gallantus is flash-froze--in his long-johns. His armor is in pieces everywhere. It's no longer shiny. It's peacock purple, oil-slick blue.

In other words--loot!

Or that's what my dragon brain thinks. I start gathering pieces as fast as I can. Stack it all in a pile. Need a sack. I get in a brief tug-o-war with at an old man who'd bent to examine one of the pieces.

"Give it to her, Elmer. She earned it," Rosco says in a bored tone.

"How?" Elmer asks. I briefly put a pause on our tug-o-war. I want to know that too.

"Sir Gallantus issued a legally binding challenge. She won. Looting rights are hers."

O... kay?

Elmer let's go of my piece of scrap.

I quickly stack it with the others.

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--7/108 items collected]

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--8/108 items collected]

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--9/108 items collected]

...

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--34/108 items collected]

...

...

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--97/108 items collected]

I grab the cod-piece. It's the only piece of armor intact. Most of the armor had shattered and I'd even been collecting the belt-buckle like hasps. Rook brought me a large burlap sack--nice boy him--and I've been throwing everything inside it while Vane made imitation-Mamma, un-soothing noises. Thistle tried to help me load the bag. I growled at her. Don't touch! Bad!

[F42. Hoarder: Battle Trophy Hoard → Unlocked | Battle Trophy Hoard--1 piece]

Um... I inspect the cod-piece. Snot-ickles and heat have cured it... so there's no, um, musk. That purple-blue-black color is kinda pretty in a blue-steel kind of way. I imagine it on Mamma's mantle beside my cheer-tumbling trophies...

... it'd look good.

Gak! Really Ivett? I try to make myself toss it away--give it the old man--anything! I can't. I carefully stack it in the bag atop all my scrap.

I glance over at Sir Gallantus snot-ickle. Some cow-girl, perhaps in her early twenties is treating him.

"He going to be okay, Daisy?" Captain Rosco asks.

"Perhaps, Rosco. They don't call me 'Five-Minute Daisy' because I work miracles."

She sounds bitter but that's all the time I have to pay attention to that. I hear this rrrriiiiip! It sounded like a ticket tearing. You know, that sound when the Sheriff is done writing you up?

Yep, just like that.

I'm still squatting by my bag of, um, trash. I turn on my heels. A hand slaps a sheet of paper on my, err, boobs. Arlo scowls at me and retreats. I carefully peel the offending page off the chest of my goat-wool crop top hoodie and hesitantly read it.

Bureau of Post-Mortem Allocation

Sub-District 011: DunderQuestia: Isakora Frontier Outpost

Date: Who Cares

Case File: #16,777,215♀-Ivette

To: Ivette (Race: Dragonette--White | Class: Hoarder / Unlicensed)

From: Arlo Regional Vice-Manager of Unofficially Appointed BPMA Afterlife-Point Appraisers

Miss Ivette,

It has come to the attention of the Sub-District 011 Bureau of Post-Mortem Allocation that your transition into the local ecosystem has been marked by gross negligence, unauthorized structural remodeling and a flagrant disregard for Bureau-mandated workplace safety guidelines.

Following a mandatory post-incident audit of the Red-Dirt Square outside The Guild Hall, the Bureau has documented the following infractions committed by your person (and/or associated draconic appendages):

Unauthorized Flash-Freezing of Premium Corporate Assets: Your physical altercation with Sir Gallantus (Vessel Class: Paladin-Grade) resulted in the structural compromise and temporary freezing of a high-tier afterlife entity. The Bureau has had to divert substantial miracle-matter to the registered health professional Daisy "Five-Minute" Fernwell and imbue said miracle-matter with the essence of a celestial hair-drier.

Malicious Property Damage: The street grid of Isakora is property of the BPMA and managed wholly or in part by DunderQuestia's bureaucratic, god-adjacent authority. Your tail-swipe created a three-foot pothole in the designated clay thoroughfare. Dirt does not grow on trees, Miss Ivette.

Assault on a Licensed Bureaucrat (First-Degree Soccer-Balling): Per Section 4, Paragraph 2 of the Post-Mortem Safety Act, "The kicking, punting, launching, or otherwise undignified airborne deployment of a Tomte liaison constitutes an act of workplace hostility." My red vest will require dry cleaning. Do you know how hard it is to find a competent dry-cleaner in a dimension technologically capped at medieval?

AFTERLIFE DISCIPLINARY ACTION:

Pursuant to BPMA Code 99-C, the following punitive point deductions have been automatically processed and cleared from your eternal ledger:

- Flash-Freezing a Honorable Citizen (even though he started it): -1 alp

- Roadway Defacement Fee: -3 alp

- Damage to BPMA property (kiosk): -5 alp

- Emergency Reallocation of Miracle-Matter: -5 alp

- Hazardous Cleaning of Employee Uniform: -10 alp

- Employee Bruised Dignity Fund: -11 alp

- Gnomish Concussion Indemnity (Arlo's Chiropractic Fund): -80 alp

TOTAL PENALTY: - 115 afterlife-points

CURRENT ACCOUNT BALANCE: -13 alp (Warning: Account balance is below Mandatory Recycling Threshold. Don't die now.)

MANDATORY RECTIFICATION STEPS:

You are hereby commanded to cease existing loudly within the corporate limits of Isakora.

To prevent further garnishment, you are highly encouraged to vacate the premises via the designated Red-Dirt Road and find an authorized, non-zoned regional containment area (such as a condemned municipal structure or drainage ditch) to house your primitive draconic instincts.

Do not contact my office. I am currently out on worker's comp due to a bruised pride and a stiff neck.

Have a Nice Day,

Arlo Regional Vice-Manager of Unofficially Appointed BPMA Afterlife-Point Appraisers

I look up from the letter scowling. I glare at Arlo and his smug grin. I might've snot-ickled the wrong asshole.

Chapter 6: Silver Ranke Adventure

A bang sounds breaking mine and Arlo's mutual death glares. Another bang--and then a grating, gravel slide. The door to The Guild Hall is slowly forced open as Arlo's outhouse kiosk is pushed across the dirt. A woman slides out of the gap she's made between door and frame. She takes in the destruction, steps over the downed kiosk and pants her fists on her hips.

The newcomer has long, layered, tousled hair and fringed bangs with floppy dog ears looks to be in her mid-forties. A long storm-grey tail with fox-white tip drapes over the back of her pencil skirt. She makes me think of some medieval sheep-dog librarian. She stares down at Arlo.

"We have to do something. I absolutely insist you increase the reward for clearing the toll house. We've had no takers and the farmers are complaining. Brahma lost a whole crop of sugar beets last season and the damage looks even worse this season."

"Not my problem," Arlo grumps not giving up on our staring contest. But it doesn't matter. I absolutely refuse to lose to a garden "troll."

With the patience the sheep dog she looks like, she calmly waits. Arlo finally breaks, loses our game of death-glare and sighs. "Fine. Twenty-two alp."

"Fifty"

"Twenty-four"

"Fifty"

"Twenty-six"

"Fifty"

A hiss similar to a deflating balloon exits from between Arlo's lips. "Fifty"

"And we need to lower the entry requirement."

"What?" The garden "troll" seems shocked. "Marta--think of the precedence we'd be setting! Every Bronze Ranker will think they deserve more. Inflation! Think of the kids!"

"There is one Gold Rank in town and she's non-combative. There are no Silver Ranked Adventures in town at the moment."

"I'll do it." I say. I've no idea what I'm getting into but I need those fifty afterlife-points.

Marta turns to look at me--I think--it's impossible to see her eyes under those shaggy white bangs.

"I mean, I'm not Silver Ranked or anything but...?" I shrug. I don't know how things work here. I hear some scribbling.

"You are now," Arlo growls. He slaps another piece of paper on me. Since I'm no longer kneeling and the gnome is short it ends up, um, low--perhaps too low--on my belly. I peel it off me. It's not even an official looking form this time--just scribbles.

Ivette--White Dragonette, Hoarder, Guild Ranked Silver (field promotion)

Elected-Leader of "Team Disaster" by popular vote

Team Disaster:

- Vane, Order of the Ever Dim-Dawn Apprentice-Squire, Ranked Bronze

- Thistle Honeybottom, Jinx Tail, Ranked Bronze

- Rook Embertrail, Scouter-er, Unranked

Guild dues waved due to special circumstances. 1 sp due upon completion of mission.

Quest Assignment: Clear Ye Ol'Toll House

At the same time I'm reading the letter a CRT green notification pops up on my HUD.

[F42. Quest. Silver: Clear Ye Ol'Toll House (y/n)]

Gak. This world is so messed up. I mind tap "y."

[F42. Quest. Silver: Clear Ye Ol'Toll House--(kill, runoff or otherwise evict trash pandas from the condemned municipal structure locally known as "Ye Ol'Toll House")]

Um... That might be a problem. My alarmed gaze slowly rises to Arlo.

"I was docked afterlife-points for killing corn-rats just last fall. Astarte said so." For the uneducated: corn rat equals trash panda equals raccoon.

Arlo grins at me. It's not a friendly grin. I think I like him less than gravity on a mountain slope. I let out a breath that deflates my chest--turn to my companions.

"I'm, err, dangerously low on afterlife-points. I have this, um, quest that will help me get back to the, like, the safe zone. Or safer zone? Will you help me?" The last words rise in a plaintive crescendo.

"I will protect you Brumabelle!"

"Girls stick together."

"I knowed the way!"

I bite my lip. Blink back my tears. My name's not Brumabellw. Who gives a rip? Girls do stick together. I will stick with my girl at risk to my own life. What does it matter if Rook "knows the way" or not. I want him with me. What did I do to deserve friends like these?

I don't know, but I'm going to earn them.

Chapter 7: The Proyconid Scourge

I throw my burlap sack of broken armor, um, hoard over my shoulder it's lighter than I thought.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: Drag & Drop → Unlocked (triples strength, balance and counterweight when transporting scrap directly towards qualified hoard)]

Ugh. My right shoulder--the one the bag's thrown over--dips painfully. I groan. The bag tripled in weight.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: Drag-&-Drop → Vector Could Not Be Established → Deactivated (claim qualified hoard location via the "I Licked It, It's Mine" Hoarder. Perk)]

You're a freaking pain, Eff42.

[F42: Acknowledged]

Um...

Are you listening to me? To my thoughts?

No response.

I wonder what a qualified hoard location is and if I really have to lick it. I haven't received an "unlock" for the perk so I've no clue beyond the perk title. I wonder which way we need to go to find these trash-pandas and Ye Ol'Toll House. There're a number of Red-Dirt Roads leaving the red-dirt, circular square. I ask.

"I knowed the way!" Rook puffs up self-importantly and does this fist pump, one step march in place.

I love Rook--not like that! But this is going to be a problem. How do I handle it? I need, um, diplomacy. I pat Rook on the shoulder and lie through my teeth.

"I know you know the way, Rook. But, perhaps, let's follow, um, Vane this time so, err, he can know the way too."

Rook deflates a little and I feel bad. I just know his sense of direction is worse than my Dad's on any road-trip ever. It's weird because Dad can point unerringly west without looking even if we kids spun him ten times and pointed him east.

"Why don't you talk with Vane. You can collaborate. Make sure he doesn't get lost while leading us?" I say to Rook while looking at Vane and silently pleading with my eyes. I can't tell if Vane understands my plea but he does listen to Rook and then go in a completely different direction--like I would've.

There're numerous spaghetti bowl roads leaving the red-dirt, circular square. Vane leads us roughly west which seems about right as Rook says we need to go east. I get a little bit lost staring about in wonder at all the peaked rooves and window flowers. We exit Isakora via a rickety gate guarded by a goat-man who's asleep at his post. Just beyond town is a small stream flowing faster than any water I've ever seen not exiting a garden hose. I feel a moment of horror. Kids are playing in it. What irresponsible parent would allow that? The Red-Dirt Road passes right through the white-water. Vane, Rook and Thistle wade into it.

I, um... hesitate. I can see the water is only a few inches deep but I don't want to get, like, swept away. Water is not supposed to move that fast. Fire hoses? Sure. Irrigation pumps? Maybe, although we rely entirely on rain in NE Kansas so I've never actually used one. But water isn't supposed to move like that in nature.

I take off my elf booties. I don't want to get them wet. I have to walk in them. I step into the flow. Water swells around my ankle and splashes half-way up my shin. The gravel under my feet slides a little downstream but with tremendous effort... I don't panic. I take another step. And another.

Ow.

Ow. Ow. Ow! The rocks cut into the soft spots on my feet. It's like love bites from snapping turtles--except I don't lose toes. Sure, I get rocks but where's the muddy bottom! Who designed this--this--this monster! I want out of this freaking environmental nightmare. I spring forward and flap my wings as hard as I can.

I was a cheer tumbler. I'm small, lite, still girl. I can leap. My wildly flapping wings might triple my distance. I have zero control once air-born. I plow into my friends.

It's a perfect strike. They go down like the bowling pins on grandpa's lawn. I tumble into the gutter--err, shore. I'm mostly dry.

For a second, the only sound is rushing water, current tumbled rock and the wet, squelching noise of three people shifting in the shallows.

Vane is the first to move. He's flat on his back, his tarnished, oversized paladin armor now thoroughly upholstered in river silt and decaying leaves. Water has scrubbed away his linebacker black. It's honestly an improvement to his undead-elf cosplay.

He doesn't look angry. He looks like a man who's just been hit by a very small, very loud, stealth freight train. You know, the train that's coming when you ignore the crossing guard? Slowly he raises one armored hand and wipes a clump of Legolas dread-locks from his face.

"A lesser warrior," Vane says, his voice gurgling with the river water running into his mouth, "would've warned us that the dragonette possessed ballistic capabilities." He blinks up at the sky. "I believe my breastplate has sustained a minor dent from a bare foot. It is... an honorable wound."

Beside him, Rook lets out a sharp, watery sneeze, his wilted fox-ears twitching furiously as he tries to fling the river out of his fur. He's sitting cross-legged in the shallows, his dark clothes clinging to him like a second skin, which, combined with his soggy red sideburns, makes him look exactly like a drenched, over-stimulated kitten. He tilts his head and violently thumps the side of his skull with the heel of his hand. A small, confused minnow flops out of his ear canal into the silt.

"Woah, woah, woah!" Rook gasps, his amber eyes wide as he points a wet finger at Ivette. "Boom! Perfect strike! Ten out of ten for the ambush factor, Ivette!" he crows, his voice cracking with hyperactive enthusiasm. "Seriously, I didn't even see you on my radar until wham! Down goes the paladin! If we can weaponize that leap inside the Toll House, the trash-pandas won't even know what hit 'em! And the contrail--can you sniff that?"

Thistle doesn't say anything at first because she's currently face-down, butt up in a patch of river reeds. Her trapeze-mini-dress robes have exposed her cotton-tail which looks like a sad, little, drenched rag. When she finally hoists herself up on her elbows, her hair is a spectacular, dripping bird's-nest of swamp-grass. She shakes her head vigorously like a wet golden retriever, spraying everyone within three paces and making her cottoneer ears sway.

"Did we win?" Thistle gasps, her eyes bright with entirely unmerited excitement as she wipes mud off her nose. "Tell me we won! That felt like a victory! Can we do it again, but toward The Chow House next time? I bet we could clear the porch!"

Heat bakes all my cheeks--from butt to face. "Sorry," I mutter fully concentrating on slipping on my shoes. I don't understand how I did that and just... got away. I help my friends out of the creek and aid Thistle in combing "seaweed" out of her hair.

Ye Ol'Toll House is not far from the creek crossing. The Red-Dirt Road curves around the side of the hill and just before the topography levels into a wide expanse of farmer's fields there's a high wall spanning the track and boxing in what could be an inn paired with a stubby tower. I can't see much more of it from here but the stone wall is pierced by a broken wooden gate big enough to permit a hay-wagon to pass through.

As we approach I make out a Trash Panda, critter folk leaning against the wall just outside the gate. He's seated in the dirt, his hands folded over his stomach and--if I don't miss my mark--sound asleep.

"Halt!" Vane says, throwing out a hand and nearly bopping my chest. "Ware thee. It's the Proyconid Scourge."

I roll my eyes. "It's a raccoon, with opposable thumbs, Vane." Okay, it's actually a five-to-six foot tall raccoon with opposable thumbs but the critter-folk has the striped tail, pyramid ears, and black-cheek tufts of a corn-rat.

"Don't worry! I'll save you!" Rook shouts, clearly waking the trash-panda. He scrambles to his feet in alarm. I start to sigh but Rook launches an arrow with an accuracy that'd make Orlando Bloom proud. Their toy bows might be the same weight too. However, Rook's arrow is not some CGI razor that somehow punches into steel but can't penetrate more than an inch of flesh or bone. Arrows get freaking lost even if you're fool enough to shoot for a deer's skull. The arrow usually passes right through and barely even slows. Instead, Rook's arrow's a blunt tip thing that wobbles through the air. When it hits the corn-rat between the eyes, it doesn't even penetrate the bone.

But the trash-panda's eyes cross. He falls back. Does this boneless slide back to his sleeping position beside the wall. I ease past him, peeking through the broken down gate.

The walled off space isn't huge. There's an old broken down, lean-to style stable against the uphill wall, a large house like structure of stone, timber and plaster construction and a stubby tower. On the far side of the "courtyard" there's a second broken down gate. There's a couple more trash-pandas passed out beside the house's door. A scattered pile of chewed up sugar beets lye all about the floor. I step inside the courtyard.

"Lith Vahn!" Vane yells. I guess that's a quarterback hike in some made up language. He charges across the courtyard dragging the tip of his claymore in the dirt like some stupid ass anime character trying to grind the point off his sword. Vane reaches the corn-rat and swings.

The sword hits more like a club because, you know, no edge. But what a hit. The rising tip of the claymore tangles in the trash-panda's shirt, thwoks its chin, lifts it a good foot off the ground and hurls it into the wall. Unfortunately that doesn't stop the second trash-panda from dodging through the door. A series of high-pitched yips and barks sound and I know the other coon-critters have been warned.

Corn-rats come outa freaking nowhere. Doors. Windows. Tower. Far gate. Broken down stable. They're everywhere.

A six-foot-tall corn-rat leaps from a pile of rotting sugar-beet crates, chattering viciously and wielding a rusty fire poker. My eyes light up. Useless hoard scrap! But before I can react Thistle leaps in front of me, pivots on her heel, presents her drenched, sad little cotton-tail directly at the oncoming horde and vibrates her hips at a frequency that defies the laws of physics. Water sprays off her tail in a perfect, sparling halo.

"Hokey Pokey, Rump-Roasty, Titterus!" she cries, her voice ringing throughout the courtyard.

A wave of shimmering, pink, chaotic energy ripples off her twitching tail and hits the fire-poker trash-panda square in the chest. The corn-rat freezes mid-swing. Its yellow eyes go wide and the fire poker slips from its paw. The coon-folk chokes on a high-pitched chip--and then collapses onto its back, kicking its hind legs in the air, clutching its belly and howling with a deep, breathless, wheezing laughter that sounds like tired engine of my Dad's Gator trying to turn over.

Within moments the spell spreads. Several more trash-pandas drop their rusty implements, drop to the floor and roll around completely incapacitated by the sheer, unbridled comedy of Thistle's backside.

"See?" Thistle gasps, puffing out her chest proudly even though she's still a little out of breath and shaking. "Crowd control!"

I gape at the weeping, giggling raccoons. Had Thistle weaponized the twerk?

Some corn-rats avoid the jinx, however. You must see a twerk to be affected by a twerk. Some of the bandit were slapping on their masks and missed it. One crosses his legs and trips when he takes a groin shot from Rook's bow.

Vale is thrashing out desperate, clubbing down corn-rats with his sword. He's tackled. Rook's overwhelmed. Thistle can only wiggle her butt at so many goons in the horde.

I thwack a trash-panda with my tail. I spin, thwacking another. I spit out frost in an ever expanding cloud. It's cold--real cold--and it affects them but it's not the same as my auto-immune snot-ickle cold.

A corn-rat launches the butt end of a can. I'm struck by the can's ass straight in the head. The tin butt flashes in the sun.

"ACHOO!" Snot-ickle blasts across the courtyard. I'm looking down so instead of turning coon-folk into a snot-ickle sculptures, I turn the courtyard into an ice-rink that's slicker than snot. Coon-folk weeble, wobble and do fall down. I grab the can's ass, find a target, flash the sun in my eyes and--

"ACHOO!" A snot-ickle trash-panda sculpture.

Another coon-folk comes swinging for me. I tilt my can.

"ACHOO!" I do this again and again but there seems to be no end to the corn-rats.

"Bramble-BELL! I. HAVE. ARRIVED!"

Wha...? My Himbo-dar pings. I raise my eyes.

My knees knock. Butterflies erupt inside. I clench and, yeah, my panties drench. A deep ache throbs in my core. The can's ass falls from my hand.

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes--Passive → Unlocked (Fall helplessly in love with male dragon (dragoneer), wyvern, drake-folk, kobold or qualified lizard-folk that meets activation condition(s) until deactivated) | Activation Conditions: First male dragon (dragoneer) encountered during 3-day monthly fertility window / victor of any dragon-brawl having taken place in your presence | Deactivation Conditions: 3-day monthly fertility window closes (uncommon) | Eggnancy fertilized (common) | Alternate Activation Activates (common) | Kissed (rare--winter-mint dragon breath, not popular) | WARNING: polygamy, multiple-partners, alternating partners, love affairs, one-night stands, cheating, bruised egos and broken hearts likely]

I blink away the script because, ohmigod, I don't care! The man that walks through the far gate is big--like, linebacker big. He's got red--almost black--horns, wavy flame colored hair, crimson scales, heavy red tail and these, like, huge dragon wings that can probably fly him anywhere.

The massive red dragoneer takes a deep, barrel-chested breath, puffs out a small plume of black smoke and locks eyes with me. He ignores the groaning trash-pandas entirely. He steps onto the snot-slick ice, slides a little, recovers with a dramatic, chest-thumping flex of his wings and clears his throat.

"Bramble-Bell!" he booms, his voice a gravelly, pseudo-sensual rumble that vibrates me from my fun-button to the tip of my tail. "I am Rhazgor! Hear the song of my flaming heart!"

Rhazgor slams his left hand over his heart and swings his other arm wide beaconing me.

"Ode to My Snowy Seductress," he bellows.

For a line, he drops his voice to a conspirator's whisper. "By Rhazgor the Phallically Gifted." He winks. I nearly swoon.

The volume of his voice rises once more. "Your scales are white like a fresh winter blizzard,"

"You are the prettiest, least-aerodynamic lizard,"

"My heart burns for you like a forge full of coal,"

"I want to take you to my cave and swallow you whole."

"You smell like winter-mint and frozen sugar-beet."

"Let us stomp these corn-rats until they don't wish to feed,"

"Then we shall engage in the cycle of breed!"

"I am red fire, you are white sleet,"

"Together our friction will generate heat."

"Oh, beautiful maiden of the small, stunted wing,"

"Accept my fierce love, or I'll burn everything!"

Razgor ends on a high note. Still beaconing me he drops to one knee on the frozen snot, which immediately cracks under his linebacker weight. He puffs out a spout of fire blackening the face and singing the side-burns off a coon. A tiny spark of fire dances on his bottom lip as his smoldering gaze beacons me.

My brain screams, "Run! He's Duck Dynasty psycho!"

But there's a problem. My ovaries have an opinion too.

"HE RHYMED BLIZZARD WITH LIZARD! FREAKING MARRY HIM!"

My ovaries are louder. Guess which one I listened to?

It's a high-production Bay Watch montage, except instead of sunny beach, it's a frozen apocalypse. We run toward each other through a magical, imaginary wind-tunnel. We're tail-thwacking, snot-ickling, hair-singing, wing-whacking oncoming coons, but my brain only registers the majestic sway of his flame-colored hair. When we collide, it's just he and I left standing.

Razgor is big--in all the right ways. I can feel him against me. His shoulders. His muscles. His bulge. I'm torn--drop to my knees and, err, you know or... climb him. But my legs are already locked around one super-human thigh and grinding like an excited puppy. My fun-button arcs and sparks and--oh God. Climb him it is. I wrap my arms around his neck, do a pull up on his shoulder and--

His lips taste like cinnamon. His tongue almost burns and I--

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Deactivated (kissed)]

My eyes snap open. My hips stop rocking. My panties are ew! It's not that cinnamon tastes bad it's that, "What am I doing!"

I unloop my arms and drop in front of Razgor. His wings... wilt. Heat blisters my cheeks. I shuffle my feet. I look at the ground.

"We kissed," Razgor groans like he's berating himself.

Awkward...

"Yep." I bite my lip and blush--more. I blush more. I turn my head and discretely puff my breath against my hand. Yep, winter-mint.

Strong too.

I shuffle my feet. "Um..." I look around the courtyard. My friends are picking themselves up. The corn-rats are down, but not dead. There're a lot of them--perhaps all thirty-seven. "Do you know how to evict trash-pandas? Without killing them?"

A flicker of hope ignites in his eyes. I guess he's not used to girls talking to him after being kissed. I didn't miiiiind the cinnamon, but it was strong--burning-hot cinnamon toothpick strong. Good thing. Otherwise I'd probably be face down in the ground right now and, yeah, loving it too.

Razgor scratches his chin. I glance up at him. He's big. Huge. Standing beside him I feel like a shrimp. My eyes travel lower. I, um, lick my lips. Had we gotten down he'd've been the biggest I've ever had. I'm not sure I can, err, fit that dude.

I catch my breath.

Good thing Razgor doesn't notice. I feel a slight, um, normal girl heat. If this whole situation were just a little less gay, Razgor might not've needed Emoji Eyes to do you know who.

"Ye Ol'Toll House is condemned property," he rumbles. That does things--deep vibration things--in fun spots. Razgor points to a brass plaque posted right beside the door. There's a weathered notice tacked over it. My dragon eyes do they're binocular thing.

Bureau of Post-Mortem Allocation (BPMA)

Sub-District 011: DunderQuestia // Isakora Frontier Outpost

SUBJECT PROPERTY: Ye Ol'Toll House

ISSUING AGENT: Arlo Regional Vice-Manager of Unofficially Appointed BPMA Afterlife-Point Appraisers

ARTICLE I: Description of Property

Let it be none known...

I stop reading and start skimming. The gist of it is that Arlo, acting on BPMA condemned the property. The trash pandas are squatters--no surprise. This gives me an idea--a nefarious idea. I scan for something that might be useful

Per BPMA Standard Afterlife Code 404-Trash:

"Any structure designated as a Condemned Municipal Wasteland is considered legally abandoned by the Bureau, completely stripped of municipal protection, and open to emergency salvaging or sovereign claiming by certified independent contractors until a Level 3 Agent manually locks the grid."

I pull out the crinkle-wadded writ from my pocket that Arlo had slapped on me earlier. My tail wags excitedly as I scan. I find what I'm looking for all the way down at the bottom under "Mandatory Rectification Steps."

"To prevent further garnishment, you are highly encouraged to... find an authorized, non-zoned regional containment area (such as a condemned municipal structure or drainage ditch)..."

Signed, "Arlo Regional Vice-Manager of Unofficially Appointed BPMA Afterlife-Point Appraisers"

I march across the thawing courtyard to the eviction sign. I rip it off, revealing a tarnished brass plaque bolted to the stone wall of the toll house.

"Ivette?" Rook asks, his fox ears twitching. "What are you doing?"

I don't answer. I stick my tongue out, press my face directly against the cold, metallic sign and drag my tongue from bottom to top. Sluuuuurp!

Gross. It tastes like copper pennies and despair.

A bit dirty too.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: I Licked It, It's Mine! → Unlocked (legally claim building, basement, hole in the ground, drainage ditch, rooftop or other location through saliva-based right-of-ownership for storage of qualified hoards only--one location per qualified hoard)]

I turn back to my gaping, horrified companions and wipe my mouth with the black of my hand. Blerk.

"Pack your bags boys and girl. We just found a loophole."

Chapter 8: Things That Might Be Useful Later

Arlo arrives exactly thirty-nine minutes later, flanked by Captain Rosco and Marta the Guild Hall sheep dog. Everyone but Arlo appears as though they'd rather be somewhere else.

"Alright, Team Disaster," Arlo the garden gnome called out, tapping his celestial stylus against his palm. "The forty-eight-hour grace period--"

Captain Rosco snorts. Marta rolls her eyes. At least her posture says she does. Her bangs hide her actual eyes.

"--to evict the Procyonid threat has been bypassed due to structural snot-damage. Vacate the--"

Arlo choked on his words, mid-sentence. His gaze traveled from the melting ice-rink, past Rhazgor's massive, smoldering red wings and landed on me. I was currently on my hands and knees in the dirt, aggressively licking a support beam on the falling-down stable. Slurp!

"What," Arlo whispered, his corporate composure instantly fracturing, "is she doing?"

I gagged. Spit a splinter off my lower lip. CRT green text exploded in front of my brain.

[F42. Hoarder: The Cord Drawer → Unlocked (rope, wire, wire-ties, leather straps, extension cords)]

"Declaring Eminent Domain." I hung a frayed halter lead upon a bent nail.

"You can't claim this!" Arlo shouted, his voice cracking as is goblin-child booties stomped through the mud. "This is a Condemned Municipal Wasteland! I am the Level 3 Appraiser here and I say so!"

"Ah-ah-ah," I said, holding up a finger while I sprinted over to the tower and frantically licked a damp trail across a flagstone. Muck. Ew. Gross. But worth it. I scrape the mud off my tongue and tossed the rusted band I'd pried off a broken apple barrel under the stairs.

[F42. Hoarder: Scrap → Unlocked (anything tarnished, with little value other than recycle or no purpose)]

"Check Article Two of your own Writ of Condemnation, Boss-troll. 'Open to emergency salvaging or sovereign claiming by certified independent contractors until a Level 3 Agent manually locks the grid.'"

Arlo looked down at his clipboard. He ruffled through papers. He found a form, paused, his eyes scanning frantically. His face turned the exact color of Rhazgor's crimson scales.

"You didn't."

"I did," I beamed. I jogged to one last structure. The courtyard would make one hell of a container for Things That Might Be Useful Later but as far as I could tell, there were no size limit. I kicked a wobbly blade I'd pulled off an abandoned shovel into a corner. I ran my licker over the wall. Gak. Yuk.

I walked back to Arlo, using my teeth to scrape my tongue. I gazed down at the red-faced garden "troll." It was hard not to giggle.

"Your writ told me to find an authorized regional containment area." I worked my tongue in my mouth a few times. It was rather dry. "It specifically specified 'such as a condemned municipal structure.' I found one. And per my Hoarder class mechanics, since I licked it, I own it. Thanks for the real estate, Arlo. I would've never found it without your aid."

Marla pats the peak of his red-felt dunce cap. I'm pretty sure he hates that. I'm pretty sure she knows.

"Come along, Arlo, looks like you did your good deed for the week and you can evict the coon-critters."

At least that appeases Arlo's undue sense of importance. He slaps the leader of the corn-rats with an eviction notice while Captain Rosco rounds them up. Pretty soon it's just Thistle, Vane, Rook me and... lover-boy.

From the neck down? He's a valid excuse to skip Sunday school. Some part of me still wanted to haul him into toll house proper and mark him as "Loot." But when he first opened his mouth, it was like a train wreck inside a Hallmark store.

And he calls me Bramble-Bell. I should so kick Vane in the butt.

A long shadow bends across the courtyard. At first I think it's an older, benter Gandalf who's spent that past century sleeping in a ditch and his hair was a tangled matt of dirty snow. He then steps to the side, clearing the gate and squints at me. That's when I see the wings that're not much bigger than mine but are the not-grey, not-white of sidewalk slush.

He taps a gnarled stick like cane--no, not a mage stick thing, an actual cane--against the saliva slick I left on the wall. "Disgusting," he mutters. "A dragonette's first hoard claim." I don't know how he finds them, it's not like my tongue left obvious marks, but he totters around the courtyard narrowing his eyes at each item I licked. "Highly effective, girl. It's a shame I like you. Never trust a system you can't bypass with a healthy amount of drool--like a stamp. Now sit down, I'm here to tell you how to handle these suitors." He doesn't wait for me or any of my friends but totters inside dragging his dirty-white tail in the mud.

There's not much inside Ye Ol'Toll House that the trash pandas didn't trash but in the three seconds it took me to catch up with the old totter he's dropped his cane, rolled up his ragged-sleeves, assembled a table out of some sawhorses and old planks and arranged a number of crates around it. He's already taking a seat, his cane in hand again.

"You," he mutters. "Yes you, of the Ever-Dim Dawn and lanky hairdo." He taps Vane's breastplate with his cane. "Build us a fire, a large-small one. It's already hot. There's no draft. You might want to hammer the flue."

"And you, young lady," he says to Thistle. "Would you be a dear and squeeze me some sugar-beet juice. Can't stand the stuff."

Completely ignoring Razgor who's currently standing in the corner flexing his deltoids while trying to look like a tragic hero, he turns to me with his milky, heavy-water eyes. "I'm Brumal. You may call me Old Brumal if you wish, although I'm..." He pauses, counting on his fingers. Starts muttering, "Cary the four-thousand, drop the zeros... " Brumal's face brightens. "Yup, still twenty-nine." His rheumy gaze sharpens on me once more.

"You girl, I'm impressed. By claiming by saliva you invoked a four-hundred year old Merdagronee blue law that the BPMA has not bothered to strike through. A dragon hoard is a dragon's sanctuary and cannot be revoked unless defeated by holy-knight, dragon-hunter, tin-man or similarly equipped goody-two-shoes. But we need to talk, about your plumbing."

"My what?" My words are a startled question but they shriek in my head. What business does old grey-mane have with my plumbing?

"Your plumbing, girl, don't be dense. You're the first white dragonette to come out of seclusion since the fall of the Merdragonee Empire. Our people once birthed the flights of an empire at the cost that we didn't maintain our own. In time, all the dragon flights suffered. They're going to be seeking you out... and they have good reason to. No dragon flights lay as frequently as white dragonettes--by orders of magnitude. No one is interested in raiding a white dragonette's nesting hoard, so treasure hunters leave them alone. You are uniquely positioned to save our people but only if you... diversify."

I get a flash in my peripheral vison. When my eyes flick left CRT green text scrolls.

[F42. Dragonette. White. Quest. Unique: Restore Red Dragon Flight (10 alp reward for every red dragoneer egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard / 20 alp reward for every red dragonette egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard) | Bonus: 1 bowl of world ending black pudding]

I do like world ending black pudding. The little smidgen of aftertaste I had was better than orgasm.

[F42. Dragonette. White. Quest. Unique: Restore Blue Dragon Flight (10 alp reward for every blue dragoneer egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard / 20 alp reward for every blue dragonette egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard) | Bonus: 1 bowl of world ending black pudding]

[F42. Dragonette. White. Quest. Unique: Restore Yellow Dragon Flight (10 alp reward for every yellow dragoneer egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard / 20 alp reward for every yellow dragonette egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard) | Bonus: 1 bowl of world ending black pudding]

The text keeps scrolling, the only difference from one quest to the next being color... until the last.

[F42. Dragonette. White. Quest. Unique: Restore White Dragon Flight (20 alp reward for every white dragoneer egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard / 50 alp reward for every white dragonette egg laid in qualified Nesting Hoard) | Bonus: 1 bowl of world ending black pudding]

There's a huge boost in afterlife points rewarded for the final quest. I'm not entirely sure why I wouldn't just go for that one other than Old Brumal is old, like, really old, too old to perform, and I don't know any other white dragoneer.

[F42. Dragonette. White: Genetic Scrambling → Unlocked (Core Mechanics (The Universal Adapter Clause): Unlike higher-tier draconic flights whose slow reproductive cycles require rare, hyper-specific nesting materials (e. g. flawless rubies for Red Flights), White Dragonettes possess highly volatile, submissive gametes. Fertilized eggs laid by a White Dragonette do not yield White hatchlings by default. Instead, phenotype expression is determined by the contributing sire via the following administrative matrices: ♂ Dragoneer (True Dragon) Father: 100% chance the hatchling will express the exact paternal flight strain (e. g., Red, Blue, Yellow, etc.). [Note: White Dragonettes function as a universal incubator to bypass standard decade-long draconic cooldowns.] ♂ Wyvern or Drake-Folk Father: 75% chance Wyvern/Drake-Folk // 25% chance White Dragon flight. ♂ Kobold or Qualified Lizard-Folk Father: 75% chance White Dragon flight // 25% chance Kobold/Lizard-Folk | The Imperial Conscription Clause (Historical Legacy): WARNING! Over-exploitation of this mechanic by the defunct Merdragonee Empire to mass-produce cheap frontline shock-legions resulted in a 99.4% depletion of viable breeding stock. The subsequent collapse of the draconic airborne canopy resulted in severe ecosystem damage and several thousand un-filed tax returns. Do not repeat history. F42 prefers a balanced ledger. | F42. Incentive: To encourage the ethical restoration of the draconic airborne canopy, every non-white, father-matched egg successfully laid and incubated within a properly zoned and assembled Nesting Hoard will grant the user a 1 alp (afterlife-point) Environmental Bounty.)]

Um... maybe that's why. What's a kobold?

But what's the point? It's not as though I'm going to go face down butt up for every dragoneer I meet. Because, come on, really?

Unless, you know, Emoji Eyes strikes again.

A sudden, muffled FOOM violently interrupted my CRT green-text dream. The makeshift table rattled, and a thick, greasy plume of black soot billowed backward out of the hearth, completely enveloping the far corner of the room. I coughed, waving a hand in front of my face as the airborne residue smelled faintly of burnt bird nests and centuries of trapped chimney funk.

From the center of the cloud, Vane rose slowly, hacking on a throat full of phlegm. He'd been doing an impressive undead-Legolas-turned-tank cosplay just a minute ago, but now he looked straight-up Looney Tunes mud-smacked black. The only parts of him not covered in grimy-black ash were his eyes, which blinked in two clean, white circles through the gloom.

"The flue," Vane hacked. His voice was almost a croak. "The flue was, indeed... closed."

Old Brumal didn't even look up from cleaning his ear with the iron spike. "Told you to hammer it, rust-bucket. That's not even half the ash. Don't look at me if you start a chimney fire."

Brumal turned his rheumy gaze back to me. "Now, girl," he grunted. "We need to finish talking about your plumbing. Urban legend has it that if you don't find a sire and drop your first egg by the next full moon, the elemental pipes are going to back up. You'll freeze from the inside out." He leaned forward, tapping his cane for emphasis. "Literally fridged. Clinically, thermodynamically fridged. I've seen it happen. Ruined a perfectly good upholstery set back in B. C. '42. I think. Can't quite remember. Might've been a salt-lick sized ice-cube."

I opened my mouth to protest. I'm a nineteen-year-old college student from Kansas! Not a walking, talking refrigerator! A loud, wet crunch from the floor cut me off.

Thistle was currently on her hands and knees, aggressively sorting through a pile of garbage left behind by the trash-pandas. She was tossing the half-eaten sugar beets but found the occasional whole one. She picked up a sugar beet, squinted at a patch of gray mold on the side, and bit it off. She spit the bad part directly onto Vane's soot-covered boot.

"This one's good!" Thistle cheered, her cottontail tail vibrating with intense, helpful energy. She aggressively began squeezing the chomped root over a cracked wooden bowl. She wrest a few drops of not-red, not-purple, not-grey juice out of the pulp. It's more, um, dirty white. "Here you go! One beet juice for you!"

Brumal stared at the bowl of lukewarm, second-hand spit-juice with a look of profound, ancient regret. "Disgusting. I absolutely hate this stuff." He picked it up and drank it anyway.

Before I could process the sheer, unhygienic horror of my new friend circle, the front doors of Ye Ol'Toll House didn't just open they tore off the rusty hinges I'd just licked an hour prior. A brilliant flash of stark white light illuminated the room instantly accompanied by the crack of thunder, the scent of ozone and a smell that made me wonder if I'd singed off my pubic hair.

A dashing dragoneer in a suede brown-gold doublet lunged through the smoking portal, his silver rapier extended in a fencing salute. He's cobalt on blue on blue on blue--eyes, wings, horns, tail--with raven hair. Sparks actively arc from his nostrils straight down his blade. He sweeps off his cavalier hat with its ostentatious, static frazzled, ostrich plume.

"Arretêze! Halt, ruffians! Yield before the tempest, for it is I, Zephyrion of the Cerulean Skies, who has arrived to claim the hand of the beautiful mademoiselle in holy, pre-destined, romantic com--Yowch!"

Zephyrion vibrated at approximately sixty hertz for three seconds and then jerked his hand back as a massive blue spark jumped from the hilt of his rapier right into his hip armor. He let out a puff of ozone tainted smoke from his left nostril, replaced his plumed hat with a trembling hand. "Ahem." He croaked, desperately trying to look suave. "As I was saying... en garde."

Another shorter dragoneer forcible pushed past him into Ye Ol'Toll House. Where Zephyron was blue, this dude's a neon, banana-candy yellow. He wrinkles his nose at the scent of singed pubic hair but otherwise took no note of the twitching musketeer.

"Let's see, let's see... " the yellow dragon muttered.

He's carrying this, like, a massive, multi-sheet spreadsheet dissertation that might've been stolen from a BPMA audit. There's a little pocket protector clipped to the front of his leather shirt and a brass protractor hooked over one pointed ear. Hunched over his work and tapping his lip with a charcoal pencil, he entirely ignored the rest of the room. I could see graphs and charts and numerous markup smudges all over the parchment.

"According to these genetic matrices, the lunar cycle and this recent quote from porcelain poultry of destiny..." He furiously smudges a number on the paper with his thumb. "Now if we round this number, apply standard numerology and assume Ivette's name is legally registered as Brumabelle... our optimal mating window closes in in, um--"

He finally glances up from his abacus to look at me. Even with his horns, his hunched posture meant he wasn't much taller than me. A deep, embarrassed red paints his yellow cheeks. He glances back down at his work, his voice diminuendos in mild panic. "--err, exactly ten minutes. And I haven't calculated the optimal pleasure vectors yet."

I cough. Um... I'm mortified--not for me, for him. I glance at Razgor. I'm beginning to think poetry--as bad as it was--was a good idea. I have no chance--none--to process what happened.

A dude with wavy hair, side burns, and perfectly round face marches in. His uniform has a high neck collar, blue coat and stark white breast plate. His wings, like the redonculous epaulets on his shoulders, are gilded in brilliant bronze. There are far too many medals on his chest. Even with his puffed up posture, if I stood, his nose might be level with my chin.

Behind him march six... things. They don't look dragoneer or dragonette, yet somehow they look more like wingless, bipedal lizards than anyone I've seen yet. They're shorter than their general, male and definitely not compensating.

"Toi, là! Ici, tout de suite!" the wannabe general points to one of his kobold servant with a pillow and then directly at the floor. The four-and-a-half-foot soldier-lizard runs up, drops a plush velvet pillow on the floor and steps back.

The general genuflects before me, using the pillow as a knee-rest. He removes it tricorn hat, holds it tightly to his medals and launches into a passionate, rapid-fire tirade like a Parisian opera singer doing a bad impression of Romeo and Juliet.

"Ah, ma reine de glace, mon impératrice du givre!" he bellows, gesturing dramatically with his hat toward the rafters. "Enfin, je m'incline devant votre beauté souveraine! Les autres vols ne sont que des paysans! Ensemble, nous allons forger un empire d'acier!"

I blink. I took French for two semesters in high school but the only think I'm currently retaining is that he called someone a pheasant and seems excited about steel.

Razgor lets out a low, dangerous rumble from his corner. Saffrine aggressively clicks his abacus. Vane, still looking like a soot-covered chimney sweep, narrows his white-circled eyes and mutters in a low, gravelly grump.

"Thal'asor min'vaen eldrich drakon-il..."

Err, I didn't get that but... was that Elvish? Based on the stubborn set of Vanes jaw under all that black soot, I'm pretty sure he just said, "I'm training the baby dragon."

Before anyone can argue the point, a loud roar rattles the Ye Ol'Toll House's roof. It's so loud the cobwebs shake. There's a whistle like a landing aircraft and then with a corkscrew I can see through the broken glass window yet another wing boy shoots into the room. Soot and dust billow out as he touches down in a perfect three point landing.

He's tall, lanky, fly-boy--with a bomber jacket. Blond, green dragoneer, but not. Instead of a thick dragon tail his is longer, narrower and, if I'm not mistaken, a scorpion's point.

"Tower, this is Crosswind, ghost-riding the pattern," he smirked, giving me a finger-gun salute while flipping up his aviator glasses. "Hear you've got a biological plumbing emergency in sector four, babe. Don't sweat it. Maximum thrust is my specialty."

Rook, on the side lines all this time, marches forward, plants himself in front of me, puffs up his chest and says, "Excuse me? She's my friend. I. Tracked. Her!" as thought that'd ward off all this nitrous-charged testosterone. Vane plants himself beside Rook. The soot covered knight grinds the point of his claymore into the floor.

"I'm training the baby dragon," he says with hard, clipped edged words. "Brumabelle the Pale-Tempest is under the knightly jurisdiction of The Ever-Dim Dawn."

A heavy, calloused hand lands on my shoulder. It smells of cinnamon and, honestly, good smelling man. "I'm here Bramble-Bell... if you need protectin'."

"Out. Out! OUT!" Thistle suddenly shrieked. Her cotton tail was vibration so hard the air flow was making her robes do a Marilyn Monroe. "Everyone OUT! Ivette is overwhelmed by your beef-courting! Take your clod-mancing outside and leave her alone! Give a lady some space!"

The sheer volume of Thistle's rabbit-wrath actually works. Temporarily cowed by the slender herbivore, the alpha-larpers shuffle backward towards the courtyard.

Razgor pats my shoulder once. "See you in the In-Zone," he rumbles and then departs with the other dragoneers.

Thistle leans close, drapes an arm over my shoulder and bumps her nose against my ear. "Girls stick together," she whispers conspiratorially, giving me a firm, supportive nod. "I'll go make sure the banana flavored nerd doesn't catalog your nesting hoard. You stay put."

She releases me and marches out the doorway, but Crosswind turns, flashes a smile, winks and lowers his aviator glasses. My nose twitches.

"Ah--"

With a theatrical flourish Crosswind pops the collar on his leather jacket revealing a pair of silver bomber-ace-wings.

Oh no.

More sunlight glitter. More flash. The sheer concentration of pompous polish is like an allergen laser blast. My eyes water. My tail whips violently.

"Ah--" I gasp and clutch my nose in despair. Crosswind is too caught up in himself to catch my distress. He turns away, marches down the stairs.

"Ah--Choo!" Snot-ickles strike him right in the back. The blast knocks him forward three paces and plows the general flat.

"The porcelain chicken did not predict--wait, the moon's in the third quarter, the sun nears its zenith and..." Saffrine the banana-man starts scribbling Pythagorean equations. "... nine, six--good, good..." He mutters to himself. "... six..." His brow furrows but then his expression brightens. "... twenty-two, one, seven..." But then he scowls. Absolutely scowls. His gaze snaps up to Razgor, a sour look on his face. "... four."

"He assaulted the frost maiden's honor!" Zephyrion bellows, whipping out his electrically grounded rapier.

"Sacré bleu! Protect the Empress!" the general roars from the dirt. Kobolds snap to attention as if not quite sure what to do.

"Dragon brawl!" Razgor roars exultantly. He snatches Saffrine up off the ground and tucks the banana-man's head under his arm and gives the banana-man a noogie.

My jaw drops. A dragon brawl? A dragon brawl! They're fighting? Omigod. Over me?

I'm torn. The mature college student wants to bury her face in her hands and yell at them to stop--to act like mature adults. But the rest of me? The high school, cheer leader teen in me wants to run to the window and start preening. Musclely alpha-larpers are throwing down for no other reason than I exist. I shouldn't approve. It's ridiculous. It's toxic. It's utterly unhelpful to my current afterlife-point plan... but God, do I like it.

Besides, who doesn't love Friday night football, loud stadiums and the kind of aggressive energy that makes your body hum? I run straight to a shattered window and lean out in order to get a front-row seat to the carnage. Before I can stop myself my arms lock into a crisp, rigid high-V. My wings spread like biological pomp-poms. My tail snaps straight out for balance. I shout across the battlefield in a perfect, diaphragm-projected cheer-voice:

"Hey, suitors! You think you're bad? You're the worst opponents that we ever had! Go, Razgor! Beat 'em bust 'em! That's our custom!"

For one beat, the entire courtyard locks up. Razgor stops mid-noogie, looking up at the window with a look of profound, poetic bewilderment. Even tucked under Razgor's arm, Saffrine the banana-man blinks at me.

Heat bakes me from boobs to face. Ohmigod. Did I just cheerleader a dragon brawl... a dragon brawl in my honor? Can you say, mortified?

But unicorn sparkles dance around, err, downstairs. Why do I feel... happy? There?

[F42. Dragonette: Sports Fan--Passive (Pseudo-aroused by avid interested in dragon-brawls)]

The beat is over. The brawl erupts.

Razgor hurls Saffrine who crashes somewhere inside the rundown horse stall. Crosswind leaps. His poison-tail stinger snaps into pompous-pomp general even before his wings climb for the air.

Zephyrion throws his cape over one shoulder, points his rapier at my man and shouts "En, garde!"

Wait? What?

Zeph lunges. Razgor grabs the blade of the rapier. Lightening cracks and fire bellows hiding Razgor's roundhouse smack.

One blink. Two blinks. Zepherion shakes his head. Razgor uses his hand to keep the blade pointed away from his head. Then, slowly, as if in freeze frame, Zeph's eyes roll up and he slumps over upon the poisoned general.

I suck in a breath. My heart flutters. My chest expands.

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Activated (dragon brawl victor detected)]

Joy--the kind of joy expressed in cheesy romance novels--fills my heart. I swear I see pink Valentine's hearts blooming all around.

Ka--RASH!

Crosswind lands on Razgor's shoulders driving him into the ground.

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Deactivate (victor defeated)]

Um...

Crosswind give me a wink and finger guns. My heart--

No! Not that I have anything particularly against Crosswind but--

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Activated (dragon brawl victor detected)]

The universe fills with light and joy and rainbow sparks. Crosswind struts towards me thumbing the collar of his jacked.

CLUNK!

Crosswind's eyes roll up. His head sags. He takes a step, misses his footing, does a face plant. My heart... deflates.

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Deactivate (victor defeated)]

One of the general's four-and-a-half foot kobold lizard soldiers stands behind the comatose Crosswind, the general's baton in his hands. I don't even have time to sigh.

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Activated (dragon brawl victor detected)]

The world goes full Technicolor. Pink Valentine hearts burst into existence around the scaly, peon soldier. My chest heaves. My inner romance-novel heroine sighs with profound, star-crossed longing. Oh, God, no.

Then my horror is overwritten. He's a giant plush toy, with scales! He's so cute!

Chapter 9: Aftermath and Intake

"Oh, God."

My back arches up off the ruined bed I found upstairs.

"Oh, fuck!"

Peg is doing things to me that no lizard should do to a human. But I'm not human anymore, am I.

"Oh, crap."

I twist on Peg's prick. I my core, like, cinches down. There's not a lot of room to cinch down on though. He's big in a way that neither his size nor my sampling of human men has prepared me for. Size does matter--at least for this dragon girl. I don't know how Peg got all of that in me. My button throbs and pleasure is like these piano wires pulling at every muscle in me. I'm being tuned so tight I'm about to break.

It wouldn't be the first time. I've come three times in the past twenty minutes and I still can't look at my oversized, scaled, plush toy without seeing pink. He's cute and--

"Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod," I chant. He's playing with my launch button, nibbling one of my twin peaks and pounding me into yesterday and I can't handle that. I pulse around him. Arch. Clutch the musty ruins of Ye Ol'Toll House's mattress and push my heels against the bed. My whole body tries to bear down on Peg's peg and the nuclear ball of tension about to detonate. I grab my mate's shoulders, drive him against me with my heels, and bow towards his face--growl.

Despite my best efforts he pulls back and hammers into me again.

This time it really is too much. One of the taut wires of pleasure within me breaks. I shudder. Pulse. The pleasure pinballs through me and then--

And then--

And--

Everything breaks. Bliss explodes in my core, slams into every nerve so hard, the blast reflects back to its source.

I buck.

Ohmigod.

I emoji eyed. I wanted this. I agreed, but--Oooh, Go... d.

My eyes roll up. My mouth pops open. Unicorn sparks explode like fireworks all over my skin. I splash tail-pop, sparkler-juice all over the bed.

When I come to, I'm panting. I'm still tight with pleasure--God I'm tight--but Peg is no longer pile-driving me, he's just holding that cork of his, plugged in. I--

[F42. Dragonette: Emoji Eyes → Deactivate (fertilized)]

Tension bleeds from me. I blink at the notification, not wanting to understand. The Kansas girl in me wants to be horrified. The dragonette is comforted.

[F42. Dragonette: Genetic Scramble → White Dragon Flight (female)]

And there's that. Not only did I do something that felt right, I did something that was in alignment with this existence. This white dragonette feels validated. That might not be who, but it is what I am.

Besides my four-and-a-half foot tall, plush-toy lizard is not really my lover. We're not mated for life. It's a onetime or maybe sometimes thing. As a dragonette there's no shame in this. It's kinda liberating to let go of that. I drift off, oddly content. This body, is a body, it reacts how it wants. But no more autopilot, this is my life, I'm going to steer it.

When I wake, the sun's at a different angle. Light spills through the window, but it's not as direct as sunrise in Kansas. Here, there are mountains between me and the sun. I'm alone and my room looks like it's been decorated by an interior designer who favored dust-mites and cobwebs.

I hear sizzling, smell bacon and a rhythmic bang, bang, bang sounds from outside like that time when my Dad decided to build a shed.

I clean up. Find my clothes. Peg was strangely thoughtful and left them folded right beside our broken bed. I feel strangely calm for having survived one day in whatever world and I'm more hopeful about what might lie ahead.

Rook is cooking bacon when I arrive downstairs. There's already a mountain of griddle cakes and Thistle has juiced a number of sugar beets. The banging was Vane. The table is rough, but it's more than a plank on a crate now. Three of four chairs are clearly constructed.

"So what're doing today?" Thistle asks brightly, skipping over with her, err, Thistle juice. She sets it down and goes back for the rest of the feast Rook has been preparing.

I mull over the question while chewing on a piece of stolen bacon. I should get out--see more of this crazy world. Put some space between me and the alpha-larpers now that the only thing they can do is pester me for another month. I glance out the window and it looks like the kobolds might be putting up a shanty town in the fallen down stable. It's surprisingly organized looking.

I mind-tap eff42's little blinky-blinky light that so annoying and think about any quests I might have to do.

All my quests are complete. Or, I should say, all my quests that don't involve going all chicken are complete. The only one I have that's not "lay a dragon egg" every month for the next century is Evict Trash Pandas. It's complete, I need my reward.

"We should go see, Arlo, get our reward..." I mumble around a mountain of pancake. Rook is a surprisingly good cook. "... if we're lucky we'll arrive before he does and deal with Marla." Wouldn't that be nice?

"Oh, we can pick up another quest too!" Thistle adds excitedly. Rook and Vane nod their agreement.

[F42. Dragonette. Himbo-dar: WARNING! Proximity Alert!]

The door bangs open. My friends all tense around me. Zephyrion throws his cape over one shoulder with a flourish. "It' is I, mademoiselle, Zephyrion come to sweep you away on grand advent--"

"Whatever," I interrupt, let my eyes rise for the sky in exasperation. I shove another bite of pancake that'd do any trailhead boss or monster proud into my mouth. Not caring that my manners aren't fit for a dragon, I speak while my mouth is still full. "I did my girlfriend duties for the month. Come back later, like, maybe, next moon." I blow a winter-mint puff of frosty air his way and the ostrich plume atop his hat freezes.

Zeph blinks at me. So do the alpha-larpers that've piled up behind him. They all deflate. I don't think they know what to do with that. Head bowed, Zephyrion turns slowly, closes the door and marches back down the stairs.

Clap, clap, clap.

I turn towards the source of the applause. "That's right young lady, show those bozos who's boss," Old Brumal says. Had he been standing in the corner all this time? "Back in my day a dragoneer knew how to properly court. He'd bring a bucket of nuts and bolts, a barrel of discarded armor and offer to manually flush your elemental bypass valves before he even introduced himself. A real brute knew that a lady's nesting hoard required regular maintenance! Now look at them. Wearing pomade. Waving rapiers. Not a single wrench among the lot of 'em. Nope these aren't the Meridragoneer soldiers of yore. A shame, really."

I shove the last bite of my pancake into my mouth, try to wash it down with a swig of Thistle sugar beet juice and then have to struggle so I don't spit it out. The stuff tastes like sugar water sludge mixed with a bit of mud--no wonder Old Brumal hadn't liked the stuff.

Wiping that last bit of syrup off my chin I start to rise. Freeze. Someone hauled in my burlap sack--the one with the Trophy cod-piece and my Nesting Hoard. I'm going to need that. If someone stole anything I swear I'm going to snot-ickle them. I try not to growl.

I approach. I sniff.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: Tupperware Audit → Unlocked (sniff out every piece of qualified hoards with 100% accuracy--know what's missing--know who touched it last--know from whom to seek revenge)]

I blink. That's useful. I draw in a huge breath through my nose making my lungs swell--Ninety-seven Nesting Hoard pieces, One Trophy Hoard cod piece. Thistle moved the sack. I was the last to touch anything in it. My body tenses. She was being nice. I force myself not to turn around and glare. I'm going to have to figure out some ground rules for me, because these alpha-girl instincts aren't fair.

I fish Sir Gallantus' cod-piece, out of the sack, think on the encounter with disturbing fondness and then place it on the mantel.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: Trophy Room → Unlocked (display achievements, impress mother, vulnerable to unverified competitive posturing from alpha-larper suitors)]

Old Brumal gazes upon the tarnished cod piece and nods thoughtfully. "A dragonette's hoard is where her pipes drain."

Jeez Louise. But still, I can't stop how my chest swells.

"Alright," I announce ripping my gaze away from the beauty of tarnish. "Breakfast is over. We're going to town. Collect our bounty. Find a quest that has nothing to do with plumbing."

"The baby dragon has spoken. We'll go to town. Claim our rewards. I'll train Brumabelle exactly how."

I try not to snort. Fail. Throw my bag of junk over my shoulder. It's got my Nesting Hoard and I'm thinking that completing that hoard is important now.

We march out of Ye Ol' Toll House into the courtyard and I freeze. Sometime during the night the falling-down stable has undergone a complete architectural renovation. The kobold platoon hadn't just moved in--they'd colonized. Using the random debris I'd spent yesterday afternoon licking they'd constructed a surprisingly organized shanty town.

Building braces had been reinforced. Barrel slats were cobbled together into privacy screens. Frayed rope from my Cord Drawer hoard had been used to lash together a multi-tiered bunk hammock system. They even had a tiny communal kitchen serving grits over a smoky fire built from pinecones and bark-bits.

As I walk past the scaled, plush-toy stud-boy that did me right and he snaps to attention. Peg holds a rusted rake like a ceremonial halberd.

"All hail!" he barks in high-pitched, gravely voice. "Lady of the Rusted Hoard!" His voice, it has the ring of reverence.

Instantly, thirty other kobolds--where did they all come from--drop their tools, turn toward me, and salute.

"All hail the Great White Landlady!" they chorus in perfect, terrifying unison. "Devourer of Pudding! Collector of the Things That Might Be Useful Later!"

My brain does a violent backflip. The Great White Landlady? Um...

Before I can say anything, a tiny, three-foot-tall kobold scribe runs up wearing a makeshift apron made from a burlap sack. He holds up a flat piece of slate and a chunk of chalk blinking up at me with absolute reverence.

"O Sovereign Lady of the Rusted Hoard," he yips "We have collected thirty cubits of bailing twine, three lengths of twisted wire, a broken plow shard and an abandoned pitch fork. Do you wish them in the Hoard of Things That Might Be Useful Later, Scrap or your Nesting Hoard?"

My hand twitches. A tiny, warm flutter hits my chest--which I violently suppress. No. Bad dragon brain. We are not adopting a village of cross-eyed reptiles.

"Wire and twine, Cord Drawer," I say automatically, my inner Kansas girl completely unable to resist organizational efficiency. "The pitchfork can go in Things That Might Be Useful Later. The plow-shard can go to Scrap, in case we need to forge a sword."

The kobold scribe scribbles furiously upon his slate as though I'd just handed out the Ten Commandments. "The White Landlady has spoken!" he yips. "To the cord drawer."

"Ivette," Rook whispers, nudging my shoulder as we finally hustle past the gate and onto the dirt road leading to town. "Look at you, so many admirers."

My cheeks pink. I groan. "Shut up, Rook," I say, pulling my wings tight. I have a home now but for the moment I'm happy to let Ye Ol'Toll House and my admirers fade behind us.

After a slightly less harrowing crossing of the fast flowing creek I find myself in front of the quest board and a grumpy Arlo. My friends and I are ten platinum kings richer. I--

"Ah--"

I hand my share of shiny coin off to Vane quickly. I don't have a purse--I ought to get one--and holding them in my hand is dangerous... in more ways than one.

Arlo, unfortunately, is in his booth. He tries to dock me afterlife points for indiscriminate junk collecting but then must reward me for recycling, decreasing unemployment and giving new life to an abandoned structure. All in all, it's a net positive so--Go me! I win!

"Bronze: Clean the Mer-Trident Run's intake. 10 sp. 1 alp, 5 alp, 10 alp 20 alp"

"What's the Mer-Trident Run?" I ask, taking the slip of parchment. I notice that the afterlife-point award has been written in some hand other than Arlo's--Marla's if I had to guess. There're some scribbles and scratch outs but hers the final one.

Vane puffs up his chest. "The intake to the Merdragonee Grand Aquaduct! It is a historic place of non-ritual importance."

Thistle's lips twitch and her eyes slide towards one side. "Feeds the fountain," she says in a pseudo-exasperated tone that matches her expression.

"Does anyone know the wa--" I try to stop myself. It's too late.

"I knowed the way!"

Of course he does. I pat Rook on the shoulder. "You can show us just after..." I glance around for inspiration. I spot the Chow House. "... I have some coffee." Sugar beet juice had not been my preferred morning wakeup juice.

We troop to the Chow House. I notice the fountain is barely running. I hear that gurgle-burble sound as I walk past. I can't exactly say why, but it sounds like tears.

When we enter the Chow House the scent of roast nuts, sausage and gravy hits me like a physical blow. Rook's pancakes were good, heavenly, divine but this baby dragon wants more. I suppress my appetite and lean over the counter.

"Coffee?" I ask Gus.

He lifts a questioning brow from where he's working at his frier.

"Um... the black stuff? The, err, roast acorn brew?"

He snorts and pours me a cup--slides me a plate of biscuits and gravy.

Have I mentioned? I love Gus. I glance over and Rook is cocking his head at the ceramic chicken.

"Hey," I whisper to Gus. I shoot another hasty glance at Rook. "Where is the Mer-Trident Run intake?"

"Up Mer Creek. Head west out-a-town. Don't ford the creek. Take the yellow-dirt trail uphill. Good long walk, but you'll find it."

Sounds simple enough. The real challenge will be pretending Rook knows the way.

Sneaking a peek over the top of my brew, I flick my gaze back that way just in time to see Rook leap back from the counter, his eyes wide. The ceramic chicken dips its head and clicks the counter.

Peck. Peck. Peck. Baaa'wack! "Tin-man plugged, trash pandas smug, little Puddle needs luv." Cluck. Cluck. Baar-waack!

Huh? Why would a puddle need love? A freaking puddle killed me.

I've no idea. Oh well. I take a sip of my motor-oil barley roast and turn back to my biscuits.

One happy tummy later we've left the Chow House, left Isakora and turned up hill. I only have to help Rook, "knowed the way" about twenty times as I gently keep redirecting him back uphill.

My biscuits were a long freaking time ago when we finally find the inlet. Gus was right. There was no way to miss it. It looks like a little castle gatehouse built right on the side of the creek. There's a big pool in front of it and the water looks both cold and deep.

I slide down the bank, try to look into the intake's mouth.

It's not plugged--not bad at least. There might be a few dozen leaves caught at the lip of the culvert like cave. It only takes a long stick to clear them out.

Despite the depth of the pool, there's only a few inches of water flowing into the elevated hole. Erosion probably carved the floor of the pool down.

Thistle slide down, bends over the top of me.

"Those leaves. That can't be it."

I agree, but I'm not sure what to do now. Vane starts to slide down the bank towards me but I stop him. If he fell in with that armor, we'd never fish him out.

"Follow me! I knowed the way."

Ugh. Except... this time he does.

Rook leads us to a very obvious door in the backside of the intake house. Once it was iron and oak but now it's broken down.

[F42. Announcement: Nesting Hoard--98/108 items collected]

[F42. Announcement: Nesting Hoard--99/108 items collected]

Yep, you guessed it. I found two iron rivets. Just nine more pieces for this month's Nesting Hoard now. We descend a small staircase into darkness.

"Wiggle-butt, tickle-butt, lux!" Thistle chants and then stomps her foot. Instantly a flashlight moonbeam erupts from the tail wiggling just above Thistle's butt.

"Thistle... why is your butt glowing?"

Thistle slaps a hand over her eyes. Her cheeks burned the deep, fierce red of a July poppy. "Don't ask me. I didn't write the spell. It's inconvenient as hell."

I get that, to light the way she pretty much has to turn around. It not a problem at the mouth of the culvert but pretty soon Thistle's butt is the only illumination to be found.

Our boots echo hollowly against the masonry. The seep of water is the only other sound. The aqueduct isn't a shallow trough though. It's a deep, vertical limestone chasm splitting the floor in two. Once, Rook reaches out, grabs Thistle preventing a slip when she steps on a loose coping stone. We march along the stone benching--the narrow, slick maintenance ledge hugging the left wall--while dark mountain water slowly grows deeper on our right.

The further we go, the more the natural gravity of the tunnel skews. The water channel is deep enough to swallow a horse and the water level is visibly creeping upward against the stone walls.

"The flow is backing up," Rook mutters, peering over the edge of the benching. Thistle shines her moonbeam butt at the water and I can't deny the view. What'd been a few inches at the mouth of the culvert was now fully dunk-this-short-dragonette-girl and rising.

Not long after that we find ourselves facing a big jagged seam of natural rock cutting across the culvert. There's plenty of room for the water to flow under but the stone catwalk benching does not push through.

"Follow me, I get you there."

I blink. That's not what he usually says. It doesn't matter, we have little choice but to follow or take a swim, we follow Rook a few strides back the way we came and then through under a dark arch in the wall that I'd missed. The rotten ruin of a door lies upon the floor. I fish out a doorknob--plunge it into my sack.

I get my CRT green flash. I get my get my Nesting Hoard update. I'm expecting that. What I'm not expecting is:

[F42. Asset. Error → Recalculating]

23

[F42. Asset. Error → Recalculating]

[......]

The load on my shoulder eases. It gets lighter by exactly a lot.

[F42. Asset: Burlap Sack → Upgraded (Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack) | Congratulations! You have successfully bypassed the standard logistical volume of a burlap sack by stuffing a century's worth of junk within it and created a dimensional anomaly. Due to a localized glitch in spatial zoning this burlap container is permanently locked at fifty-pounds of weight regardless of actual volume or mass stuffed within. Container is limited to storing items of Hoarder Qualified Hoards. Indestructable.]

Wow, that's weird. And handy. An infinite junk drawer. Momma would've known bliss.

And it doubles as a purse full of quarters. A five-eight Kansas girl swinging this bag around would dislocate her shoulder. A five-two dragonette could use it like a morningstar flail. Imagine, tail thwack, then bash.

The detour doesn't take long. Whoever mined this culvert simply cut a path around the seam of rock and back to the aqueduct bench. I find a bit more trash within.

[F42. Announcement: Nesting Hoard--101/108 items collected]

That item was a block of iron that I think had once been an anvil. My sack didn't' get any heavier. That's so freaking awesome!

Of course, if all I had was a rusty bobby pin, that'd be fifty-pounds too. I think. Eff42 called it a freaking Fifty-Pound Forever Sack. In high school, Geek-Patrol probably would've called it a bag of holding with a fifty pound curse. Coolio--but nuts.

The detour doesn't reroute us far and we're soon trooping along the side of the rising water once more. An archway of light shines ahead and Thistle turns off her moon-butt glow. We march out the archway and--

Oh.

Wow.

We're up. Like way up. Fly-in-the-sky up. The aqueduct does one of those, um, aqueduct things where this bridge of like a hundred stone arches placed on top of a bridge of fifty stone arches placed on top of a bridge of ten stone arches spans a canyon. It's a freaking trough of water, plus a catwalk atop a skyscraper wall. Somewhere way, way, waaaaay down there is the bottom of the canyon. Somewhere not terribly far over there the aqueduct plunges into the side of another hill? Mountain? Pile of rock? I'm not quite sure because, oh God, this Kansas girl feels sick. It's not one of those glass walkways out over the Grand Canyon or anything but there's like too much air everywhere. My wings flutter and I fricking freak! I'm not going to take flying lessons here! I latch onto Thistle because--

Girls stick together!

Vane marches out onto the aqueduct bridge like there's no chance the wind is going to dislodge him off. Maybe in eighty pounds of tarnished armor he has no reason to worry but Rook--doing his puffed chest, armed swing, strut--strides out after. I'm horrified and...

... they don't fall. The wind might, um, ruffle Rook's hair. Thistle skips along until my feet root like a freaking anchor. She hops forward. My clutch bounces her back.

"Um... Ivette? Are you okay?"

No. I nod frantically. I don't want to broadcast my total panic.

"I'm excellent," I squeak in a register only a dog could hear. My nails are dug so deep into the fabric of Thistle's tunic that I'm pretty sure I'm there's some risk I might puncture her shoulder bones. "Just... assessing the structural integrity of solid stone from, you know, a municipal liability standpoint."

Thistle looks down at my white-knuckled grip on her shoulder, then looks out over the three-tiered, thousand-foot drop into the rocky abyss. My heart skips a beat. A laughing puff of wind mocks me as it passes through the stone arches, ruffles her hair and making my wings do that terrifying, automatic twitch.

"You're doing that reptile thing where your pupils turn into tiny little slits," Thistle points out. She tries to take another step forward. She jolts to a halt as my rooted-to-the-floor anchor routine yanks her back by the collar. "And you're heavy. Are you sure you need an anvil in your nesting hoard?"

"Absolutely. My Fifty-Pound Forever-Bag is at least on alpha-larper-himbo weight of self-defense." My gaze locks on Vane's broad, comforting, un-movable back twenty paces ahead of us. If Vane falls, the world ends, I tell myself. Just look at Vane. Do not look down. Do not look at the air. "And I am not doing a reptile thing. I am meditating."

I am. Meditating I mean. My mantra goes:

Don't look.

Don't see.

Pretend it's not real.

Don't die.

Up ahead, Rook stops his confident, I-knowed-the-way strut and looks back over his shoulder. He takes a dramatic, chest-swelling breath of the mountain air. "Exhilarating, isn't it?" He throws his arms wide. "It makes one feel... truly alive!"

Alive? I feel one step from dead. My toes curl so tight in my boots that my feet are cramp. I now envy dragons that live underground. I give Thistle a tiny, pathetic shove forward. "Walk. But like, low to the ground. Think center of gravity, Thistle, like low to the ground."

Thistle sighs. Her ears droop slightly in defeat as she realizes she's going to have to drag a paralyzed dragonette across a high-altitude monument. "Fine," she mutters. "Girls stick together." The volume of her voice rises. "But if you throw us over, I'm using your wings as a parachute."

"Be my guest. If we fall off, I contractually wave my right to live long enough to kiss the ground," I promised her.

Thistle walks--for what might be the first time ever--and I shuffle, stumble, shake, shiver along beside her. We're about as far from this side as that when I see something strange with the gaze I have glued to the ground.

The water has reached the top of the trough and is starting to run over. Damp appears along masonry cracks. I lift my eyes, see something strange. I open my mouth but my words flow too late.

"Lith Vahn!"

CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! CLANK! Scuuuuuuurape!

Vane's charging the trash pandas barricading the far side of the bridge. Once again, he's doing that anime-dull-my-sword drag-on-the-edge. The corn-rats have built a dam from wood and trash. The pug in the weir is a kicking and screaming Sir Gallantus.

Instantly, the trash pandas open fire hissing and cat calling like the worst, most aggressive set of bleacher-hecklers in sports-history. Glinting in the high-altitude sunlight, the heavy, sheared circles of can's ass, rubbish whistle through the air like rusted ninja throwing stars.

Vane doesn't even flinch at the tin can barrage. He bellows some gibberish elvish and swings his massive dulled blade in a sweeping arc.

CLANG!

He baseballs a flying crow bar. It flies back, does a bullet ricochet and knocks two trash pandas off the culvert, dam wall. The flat of his blade knocks a corn-rat right in the tactical snooze. His heavily armored shoulder slams into the weir, knocking a raccoon critter-folk backwards into the darkness with a scream of fear.

Behind him, Rook goes full Orlando Bloom. He dances back and forth across the narrow stone benching, gracefully twisting his torso to dodge a barrage of incoming garbage artillery. He pulls back the string of his pathetic toy bow, snapping off tooth-pick arrows with digital-art precision.

Thwip! Thwip! Two coon-folk take tiny wooden shafts to their little masked faces, squeaking in outrage as they tumble backward off the weir. But Rook's victory dance is cut short. A flying, half-empty can of vintage industrial grease catches him square in the forehead. His eyes roll back, and he plops straight down onto the stone ledge, completely out cold.

"Rook!" Thistle screams. She spins. Her ears pin back. She moons the corn rats and points her cottontail directly at the struggling, knight-in-shining-armor cork that is Sir Gallantus.

She starts twerking her tail in high-speed magical incantation. "Honey-bottom, funny-bottom, lubricus-plungem!"

A jet of glowing, pressurized custard colored lubricant erupts from Thistle's, err, casting focus. It rockets across the bridge, sliming the weir and coating the intake pipe. The hydraulic pressure behind the dam builds to a critical groan. With a sound like a cork escaping a champagne bottle, Sir Gallantus erupts out of the masonry tube.

But the kinetic backlash of the high-pressure spell is too much for my cottoneer friend. The magical recoil lifts Thistle right off her feet and throws her, face first, into the stone benching. She slides, piling in a heap where she and Rook groan.

Vane slips on the white pudding grease. He falls back with a splash in water that's too deep.

My friends fall. I don't scream. I don't yell. I roar! I forget all about the elevation and charge the corn-rats swinging. Can's asses hit this girl but I don't even care. I swing, sending a corn-rat flying. I follow up and send another off the aqueduct with a heavy tail thwack! A can's ass glints and I snot-ickle the entire battle field.

I skate full speed into the weir. I have to rip the dam down. The water's too deep. I have to get Vane out. I claw. I yank. I pull. I try to reverse my Rat-Pack Spatial Awareness Hoarder Perk Skill.

The dam groans. Trash pandas are hissing and screaming and bombarding me with sugar beet missiles from all about. One particularly brave corn-rat leaps straight down at my face from the top of the debris. I do a desperate, panicked cheerleader tumble, accidentally catching him on my shoulder and launching him into the abyss.

I pop back to my feet, gasping for air, only to be blind-sided. A massive, furry raccoon hits me with the full force of a football-tackling tight end.

We fly off the edge of the bridge.

I scream. He screams. We all scream. Gravity takes the wheel, and the canyon floor rushes up to meet us. My wings beat a frantic, un-aerobic, survival-fueled retreat. I--I--I--

Updraft catches my wings like a clothes-lined bed sheet.

[F42. Dragonette. White: Flight → Unlocked | Range: 10 paces (You can FLY! But, as the least aerodynamic of dragon kind, your range is not far)]

My eyes water. My chest heaves. I smash back onto the snot-ickled stone benching, skidding hard. I can't fly far but it was far enough--by exactly two toes. But I can't stop to breathe because Vane's under water and has to be completely out of air.

It takes... too long. I'm tail thwacking and Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack smacking trash pandas but the Rat-Pack Spatial Awareness does its job. I lock onto the structural load bearing tin-can and with a mighty, desperate wrench of my delicate, pink hands, I tear the weir down. The water roars as it floods the corn-rats out.

The backed-up water roars as the structural failure floods the remaining corn-rats out in a cascading wave. I jump straight into the torrent, fighting the rushing current to stay on my feet. I dig through the swirling debris and the leftover custard, my hands frantically searching the intake line.

My fingers catch on a cold, dulled, patina-plagued ridge. I pull with everything I have. When his dripping, armored head finally breaks the surface of the water, coughing and sputtering, I have never been so happy to see my cosplaying-undead, baby-dragon-training elf.

Vane takes a massive, ragged breath of mountain air and looks up at me through his visor. "Excellent... infrastructure management, Brumabelle. The training, it seems, is going well."

"Shut up, Vane," I pant, collapsing onto the wet stone beside him. The blockage is gone. Water is shallow but the flow is steady. Quest completed. I roll on my back and fold my hands over myself. I don't need eff42 to tell me that I'll soon need to lay. "We're going home."

Chapter 10: Biology WHAT!?!

Oh my God... good. Rook's culinary genius might be right up there with Gus and Mom. Now if I can just get him some of Gus's roasted barley grains so I can have my morning cup of pseudo-wakeup-juice.

The past dozen days have fallen into a pattern. Wakeup, partake in Rook's kitchen genius, puts around all day. Some-days I have to put up with sonnet and romantic, drivel splatter. But I've tried the tour--cape serenades, imperial audits, mustard spreadsheets, ground drills. Useful data; not one partner but I have fun blowing winter-mint, mini-blizzards trying to beat my record of how fast I can make them run.

I rise from the furniture that Vane constructed and clear my plate. Vane's been mending beds, building chairs, fixing stairs. His carpentry makes me think Catalog Mountain Man Vacation Getaway but Ye Ol'Toll House is lived in, not some city-slicker, rich man's nearly forgotten, third home.

I help with the dishes, because that's what a girl does, and then go find Thistle. Our resident bunny-girl is in a room we've already cleaned but she's on a mission to evict dust bunnies with actual biological prejudice. Back home, my Momma-bred cleaning skills were considered thorough but I don't hold a candle to an apex-neat freak. Thistle aggressively purges the baseboards muttering about "improper workspace hygiene" while angling her moonlight-butt onto dark corners like a frantic crime scene investigator. My time helping is more to spend time with my girl, because we stick together, than actually help, because no matter how hard I work, she just comes along behind me.

After a bit, I call it quits. Too much time bent over or crawling on the floor and my back starts to ache. It's not PMS. I'm not swollen or bloated. There's not much of a bump. But between my hips, there's this dense three-stone weight. Kansas girl thinks that's forty-five pounds of dense, localized gravity. Dragon girl knows that's the monthly payload waiting to drop.

Not that we've been waiting every day. Team Disaster has done a few more bronze quests. 'Cary Heavy Thing' earned us a handful copper jacks and 'Find Missing Goat' turned out to be an actual missing goat not some runaway husband, barnyard-folk. We found the goat twice, trickling in those afterlife-points.

I head outside rubbing that spot just above my tail. I've completed my Nesting Hoard and started a complimentary pile in my hoard of Things That Might Be Useful Later. I have a strong suspicion later is next month. The kobolds have been helpful with that. Every day there're more. The falling down stable can no longer be said to be falling down... or a stable. Kobold Shanty is a surprisingly organized and structurally stable.

A half-pint kobold, you know, a kid, runs up and thrusts an offering of food towards me with her two clawed hands.

"White Landlady want a cupcake?" she asks. Kobolds can't compete with Rook's cooking but a kobold cupcake is cornbread and honey so, still, yum.

"Yes, please," I say and fondly ruffle the not-hair, not-scales, not-feathers fringe atop her head. She skips off all pleased to her Momma making me think of a scaled version of my childhood self.

The repaired gates to Ye Ol'Toll House swing wide with a well-oiled groan. My kobold guardsmen snap to attention, their rusted-rake halberds, clattering in a frantic, clackity-clack salute. I brace myself for another flurry of French-Empress nonsense from the general or a spreadsheet audit of my estrous fiscal cycle by banana-man but the dragoneer grunting and sweating as he pulls a massive, creaking flatbed wagon into the courtyard doesn't have a baton-of-office or a clipboard.

It's Razgor. He's wearing a sweat-stained tunic with the sleeves rolled up revealing forearms that look like they were carved out of solid oak. He's sporting a bright, aggressively earnest smile that hits my Kansas-girl armor like a cyclone pelting me with a one-hundred mile-per-hour brick.

He drops the wagon's tongue and strips out of the traces completely ignoring the perimeter of kobold guards who are trying to decide if he's an invader or delivery man.

"Morning, Bramble-Bell," he says, whipping a sheen of road-dust-sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He still doesn't have my name right but neither do half the critter-folk on this whatever world. It's better than "snookums" so, what the hell, I don't mind answering to that, it can be a "pet name."

"Found this heavy-density scrap iron over by the eastern ridge. Looks like an old regional plow chassis. Thought your scale-minions could use the raw materials for structural reinforcement... and well, you know how you get about qualified hoards. The bolts on this thing have significant rust retention."

My lady parts light up as my brain does an unscripted, zippy-do, fireworks stutter. You'd think that'd not happen when my Himbo-dar is pinging like crazy. But the alpha-larper brigade keeps trying to court me with pompous nonsenses but this beautiful, blockheaded red dragoneer just hauled a multi-hundred-pound piece of literal junk across a mountain range because he noticed how my life works now. A terrifying wave of genuine, warm Kansas-girl appreciation flares up in my chest. That's not right. I can't have that, so I deflect.

"Mr. Razgor," I say. I cross my arms over my three-stone pelvic anchor to keep my tail from doing a happy thwack. "Are you attempting to bribe the local zoning authority with unrefined industrial scrap?" I have to fight away my smile, because his ploy's working, but I don't tell him that.

Razgor just laughs. The rumbling vibration does should-be-totally-illegal things. "Just figured a proper lady's hoard requires regular maintenance, Landlady. Where do you want it?"

My kobold friends are already unloading the lumber. There's whole freaking pallet of slake-shake shingles to fix Ye Ol'Toll House's roof leaks. Drag & Drop might triple my strength, balance and counterweight when hauling straight towards my hoard but how did this sweet muscly man manage all that? A girlfriend would kiss him, but he and I aren't that.

"Thank you, Razgor." I have to still my hand so I don't trail fingers over his biceps and glance around the courtyard so he can't see the heat stinging my cheeks. "Maybe, there," I say pointing to a corner of the courtyard since all of it qualifies as Things That Might Be Useful Later.

"Sure thing, Bramble-Bell."

This time I can't help but smiling. But rather than pulling the wagon, he lifts the junk-plow-load. It's not emoji eyes but my jaw drops open and those muscles inspire some drool. There's no reason not to drop it but he sets it down gently and I think I might be half-way to fool.

"Right then," Razgor says. He wipes his hands on his trousers and gives the Neanderthal plow a satisfied pat that tunes the bones in my chest. He looks over my commune, where a squad of kobolds is already organizing slate shingles by size, color and structural integrity. "Looks your crew has the line of scrimmage. I've got to get my cart back down the mountain before the next time out, but... stay safe, Bramble-Bell."

He flashes one last, dimple-flashing, girl-drool grin and strides back to his cart. He picks up the traces, lifts up the tongue and turns the cart full about with one Kansas-girl, knee-crossing grunt. The wagon rolls out of the courtyard with a heavy rumble, leaving me standing in the settling dust with the racing pulse and a massive pile of high-density rust.

I stare at the empty gateway. Stay safe. Not lay fast or make quota. That's what he said.

Swoon. Acts of service are like a good-massage. They make a girl's heart melt every time.

Twing.

Ow.

Sigh.

Back to reality. My body just reminded me that if I want to select a boyfriend now is not the right time. For the moment, domestic bliss and cute boy distractions needs to be officially over. I flush my Kansas-girl emoji-hearts away. My monthly payload is at the dam's doors and Kansas-girl is completely losing her mind. Fortunately my dragonette instincts enters efficiency optimization mode. Dragons mature best when completely ignored. At least being a good mom won't require hard work and underpaid overtime.

Low, too low, between my hip bones, the three-stone anchor shifts. It doesn't ache. It throbs with a heavy, rhythmic warmth that sends a jolt of electrified panic straight up my spine. Eff42 blinks CRT green at the corner of my vision.

[F42. Dragonette: Oviposition → T-Minus 47 Minutes | WARNING! Structural failure imminent]

I need a dark corner. I want isolation. I need a spot so deep and un-zoned by Arlo's BPMA nonsense that no suitor, dragon hunter or auditor will ever find it. I need it fast. Honestly, I should've found it yesterday.

I march over to Razgor's rusted plow chassis. I don't care who is watching. I grab the heavy iron framework, and with a desperate, adrenaline-fueled wrench, I stuff the entire multi-hundred-pound metal carcass straight into my Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack. The burlap fabric stretches, groans, and swallows the plow whole, the spatial glitch flashing a dim, CRT-green light as the bag remains exactly fifty pounds on my shoulder.

"Ivette?" Thistle calls out from the Toll House doorway. She holding a broom like a weapon. "Was that the red one? Did he leave more dust? Please tell me his poetry is still a bust."

"Going for a walk!" My words are shrill, easily an octave higher than soprano as I clutch my new center of gravity. "Just seeing the sights and, um, assessing local cyclone meteorology! Go back to your dust-bunny fun. No need to follow me!"

Before Team Disaster can assemble to inspect my weird waddle, I turn and hustle out the back gates, moving with the awkward, wide-stanced shuffle of a girl carrying forty-two pounds of pure BPMA resurrection consequence nonsense. My tail is practically wedged between my heels for stability.

I'm halfway to the dirt track that'll lead me into the mountains when a bush rustles violently.

"HALT, PALE-TEMPEST!"

Oh, EFF42! Not now!

A figure leaps onto the path, striking a dramatic, sword-drawn hero pose that would look a lot more intimidating if his armor wasn't entirely coated in a dried, crusty layer of Thistle's custard-colored pudding grease. Sir Gallantus, Dragon Hunter of Nexter-Year, glints dully in the mountain afternoon.

My nose twitches. I clutch it in horror. What would a snot-ickle blast do to me now?

"Gallantus," I wheeze, squeezing my knees together to keep my three-stone pelvic anchor from shifting. "Can this wait? Please?"

"Silence, Denizen of the Frosty Cave!" he bellows, pointing his sword at my nose. "I have tracked you hither to remind you that your future sins remain unhindered! The Anti-Sin Ledgers demand ultimate satisfaction for the premeditated historical tragedies you have yet to think of-er!"

He draws himself up, his chest plate crinkling with dried lubricant. "However! The Merdragonee Accords demand strict transactional honor. In accordance with Subsection Four of the Chivalric Reciprocity Act, your unauthorized hydraulic extraction of my person from the Mer-Trident intake pipe has earned you a single, non-transferable Preemptive Life-Pass!"

I blink, trying to mask a grimace as a sharp contraction hits my lower back. "A what?"

"A Chivalric Credit!" Gallantus declares proudly, reaching into his pouch and producing a dented tin washer, throwing to me where it bounces off my chest to land in the dust at my feet. I'm thinking I might have a problem if I have to bend over to get that. "Let the record show! The pale dragonette has purchased immunity for exactly one future atrocity! Should you choose to burn a village, hoard an illegal volume of un-audited string or fail to irritate Arlo, that self-righteous BPMA wannabe buffoon, I shall look the other way with remorseless ignorance!"

Kansas-girl wants to laugh, but dragonette-girl is staring at the tin washer on the ground. One get-out-of-atrocity-free chip, non-transferable. Dumb. Useful.

[F42. Hoarder: Loot Locator → Dented Tin Washer]

"Credit accepted." I squat down in an unladylike pose, scoop the washer up and shove it in my Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack and take a wide, aggressive wobble past him. "Pleasure doing business with you--" Absolutely not. "--Tin Man. Don't head back this way for the next forty-five minutes if you value your pre-calculated afterlife-points!"

"Begon, you pearlescent scourge of un-rightous-justice!" Gallantus shouts to my retreating, tail-wag, waddling back, completely satisfied with his future diplomacy. "Our next encounter shall be legendary, historical and entirely unimportant!"

I clear the bend in the road and almost trip on a crude arrow token scratched into the dirt--two lines, a heart, and the worst compass rose I've ever seen. Rook's mark. He didn't follow. He just... laid breadcrumbs and gave me the path.

I sprint--as much as a heavily weighted white dragonette can sprint--away from the cozy, clean sanctuary of the Toll House and deep into the rocky, jagged bluffs near the subterranean mouth of the aqueduct line. The mountain air grows damp and cool, the rushing sound of Mer Creek echoing off basalt mountain walls like a warning.

Following a raw, reptilian instinct I can't control, I slip into a dark, hidden fissure in the rock face--a deep, unmapped alcove directly below the old aqueduct line. It is pitch black, completely hidden from the suitors, and shielded from the wind. It smells of wet earth and pre-mined iron. It's perfect. Door, drain, draft, Old Brumal said. Claim the opening, guard what passes. This alcove sits under the aqueduct--so, close enough.

I drop to my knees, panting, and yank the Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack off my shoulder. With trembling fingers, I start pulling out my one-hundred-and-eight pieces of qualified nesting junk--my first spoon, the nail, scrap iron, some rivets and finally, the massive gears from Razgor's plow. My arms move on autopilot, frantically stacking the heavy metal debris into a tight, circular sanctuary barrier around myself. I don't need eff42's blinking cursor to tell me that if I don't lay this egg soon I'm going to wish I were in a BPMA waiting room instead.

I curl inward, remove the clothes that need to be, um, removed and lock my tail around the rusted perimeter of my newly forged nest.

I wait. Lay my head against the cool stone. Listen to the sounds of water dripping somewhere below. What had eff42 said--experience the wonders of childbirth, but don't worry, it's hard, but easier. Coolio, but I wish he were the one experiencing this instead.

An eff42 CRT green flicker at the edge of my vision.

[F42. Dragonette: Oviposition → T‑Minus 11 Minutes | WARNING! Structural failure imminent]

The rock under my cheek hums. Far below, the aqueduct throats a low, tired groan--like a crowd about to break.

Chapter 11: LARPER Crusaders

"I tracked it for you!" Rook says putting down a plate of biscuits and gravy in front of me. If by tracked, he means he went shopping he's absolutely right. It only took him three times as long as it would've if Thistle had gone.

But that's okay. If this is how he cooks after "tracking" something for me he can track something for me every single day. I don't even ask him to do it. He just does it.

And it's amazing.

I dig into my breakfast ravenous. For the first time in too long I don't feel stuffed to the brim. I can sit up straight and my back doesn't ache and a I don't need to like, err, man-spread. Yes, in a few weeks, I'll be doing that all over again but at the moment I feel great!

Except...

I left my egg behind--my fertilized, going to be a baby white-dragonette egg... behind. Guilt seeps through this Kansas girl like a gully-wash after a torrent. I... but... um...

[F42. Dragonette: Oviposition (once a month experience the wonders of childbirth--don't worry, it's hard, but easier) | Note 1: Eggs thrive best when laid in qualified Nesting Hoards | Note 2: Fertilized eggs will hatch after appropriate period of abandonment--dragons mature best when not parented / parenting hatchlings results in social deficiencies]

Yeah. Note 2. It violates everything Momma taught me about being a good mom. Frick, it violates everything everyone's mommas taught me about being a good mom. I'm not ready for someone to be calling me Momma but I'm wasn't ready to just abandon it.

Will I never know my kids?

Of course if I'm going to have one a month--thirteen a year--maybe that's for the best.

"More juice, Ivette?" Thistle asks plunking down a glass of mud-flavored sugar-beet sludge in front of me.

"Thanks, Thistle," I say and take a sip while trying not to gag.

"A broken nail for your thoughts?"

I... "Yeah, sure, why not?" I collect the bent iron from between Thistle's fingers.

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--Initiated | 1/108 items collected]

Yup, starting again.

My chest rises and falls in a weary sigh. "I was thinking about how I'm going to have to do everything again in a month."

Vane slides into the chair he rebuilt beside me. "It's okay, I'll train you."

I side eye him. "You know what, Vane? You might be onto something." I thwack my tail on the floor. "We need ground rules... for my suitors."

With a renewed send of purpose--and a stomach that's thankfully full the right way--I push myself up from the table. If I'm going to be the prize of some idiotic dragon bachelorette dating game show, I'm at least going to be the one holding the whistle.

"Come on," I call to my friends. "Let's go see what this bachelorette bunker looks like in the daylight."

When I step outside I see that Ye Ol'Toll House has gone through quite a transition in my absence. The kobold warren now looks like a medieval Barbie Doll apartment complex--for four-and-a-half foot tall Barbie Dolls. Ye Ol'Toll House still looks old but it's, um, newly renovated old--if you get my drift. The moment a kobold--Peg, I think--catches sight of me he snaps to attention and blows a small ox-horn horn resulting in two raw, hollow blats.

Kobolds swarm from all corners the bachelorette bunker and there are far more than I would've thought the Barbie Complex could've held. Most just wave or stare and then go back to work but two huff, tug and jerk a barrel over to drop at my feet. Within are rusted hinges, bent table utensils, a broken barrel band, twisted wire and more. My Nesting Hoard counter pings once, twice, fifty-eight times.

"Thank you," I say. Momma taught me to be polite and while it just junk my new reality makes it rather nice.

The kobolds bob their heads and bow.

My small moment of landlady appreciation is cut short by the heavy crunch of armored boots striding confidently through the gravel of my new courtyard. I don't even have to look up to know my dragoneer suitors have arrived.

Yesterday, their posturing might've intimidated me. Today? It gives me a headache. They descend on me in a practiced flock, two abreast, smelling of ozone and brimstone and looking like peacocks. The general steps forward puffing out a chest plate so polished I can see my own annoyed self reflected in it. He lauches into his usual, tired, French rhetoric.

"Pour la gloire de l'Empire!" he bellows, throwing a gauntleted hand toward the sky as if commanding the clouds themselves. He gestures grandly to his chest, his voice vibrating the gravel beneath my feet. "Moi, General de Smolderclaw, veteran of the Austerlitz campaign, conqueror of the grand steppes! I offer you not just a alliance, ma reine, but an unmatched destiny of victoire et honneur! My third estate alone has a ballroom larger than this entire courtyard, c'est magnifique!"

Ugh. "Really?" I say, "That's what you said yesterday!"

But my voice is drowned out by syncopated masculine posturing shouts and I can't get a single word in edgewise. My cheeks start to heat and it's not the embarrassment kind. I clench up my fists, draw in my breath and prepare to snot-ickle all my bro-mancers at the same time.

Thistle steps in front of me, puffs up her chest and screams without mooning anyone this time.

"Quiet!"

Five dragoneer and one wyvern shut-up to blink at her. Thistle huffs a few breaths and plays with the hem of her dress before addressing overgrown lizard-boy crowd.

"Good, now, I think Ivette has something to say."

The silence that follows Thistle's twitch-tail proclamation is so dense I hear the gravel setting under the General's boots. Five puffed-up dragoneers and normally bombastic wyvern just blink at my cottoneer defender and for a second, nobody moves. It's like they're all waiting for the punchline.

Eff that! I step forward, my tail giving a sharp, authoritative thwack against Ye Ol' Toll House porch.

"Alrighty boys, listen up!" I say, crossing my arms. "This bachelorette dating game show is officially under new management. Yesterday, you got to parade around and shout Les Poissons poetry at my face. Today? You're on the clock. My stomach is full of Rook's good country cooking and my back doesn't ache but I have exactly zero tolerance for watching y'all strut about all Cocky-Locky. If you want a piece of this fair Kansas farm girl you're going to have to prove you're worth more than the shiny tin you're wearing."

The suitors exchange sideways glances. The General looks like he's about to swallow his tongue.

"We are doing a practical aptitude screening," I announce, pointing at the courtyard. "My home needs repairs. Rook would like groceries. Thistle shouldn't have to clean everything herself. Vane could use some woodworking tools. I need a backrub. I feel the greatest gratitude to those who don't expect any thanks. Who's first?"

Before General Smolderclaw can launch back into his campaign history, Zephyrion with his rapier and blue cape steps out of the ranks. The ostrich plume in his cavalier hat bounces in time with his throat bobs.

With a trembling hand, he reaches into his tunic and pulls out a thick stack of parchment that falls open with xylophone folds. Across the top page the words, "Operational Manual for Chivalric Maintenance," were calligraphically scrawled.

"I... I shall assume the opening chore," Zeph stammers, his eyes darting to his cards. He clears his throat, causing a static spark and a small crack of lightning. "To prove my worth, I shall intent... to weatherproof your kitchen vent."

"Great. Fantastic. There's a poor draft on the stove and the smoke blowback is driving Rook crazy," I say, gesturing toward the leaky stone exhaust pipe jutting out of the Toll House wall. "Mortar's in the bucket. Knock yourself out, Zeph."

Zeph nods vigorously, shoving aside his accordion notes causing them to crumple in his pocket. He flips up a trowel like it's a main gauche but fumbles until he nearly drops it. Then he spreads his wings and flies into the air to land beside the kitchen flue's chimney outlet. The rest of the boys crowd around the house watching him like sports commentators at a high-stakes playoff. Vane leans against his workbench, looking thoroughly amused, while he carefully corrodes one of his armor's knee cap pockets.

Zeph peers at his notes, salutes the chimney with his trowel, and makes a slap-stab-mortar-splat against the brickwork. With a satisfied smirk, he surveys his slapstick work before springing back into a defensive en garde recovery. With a gleeful grin, he lunges again as sparks drip from his jaw. Then he spins toward me and crows, "Ma chérie, you shall see. I make this rascally brick stick!"

Unfortunately, right then, there's a crack from nose to vent and the courtyard echoes with thunder. A titanic blast and a blinding white flash blows the chimney asunder. Zepherion tumbles to the ground, the bucket of mortar lands on his crown, fully upside down, making a mud-man of my suitor.

For three or four beats, there's not a single peep from any soul within the courtyard. Then the bucket tilts back like the visor of a tragic knight's helmet. Zeph peeks out from under his galvanized hood, blinking through a mask of wet, grey sludge and I can't help a frightened squeak as my brain tries to shatter me with laughter.

I clap both hands over my mouth. My shoulders shake so violently I doubt if I let another sound out poor Zepherion's ego will ever recover. But the sheer effort of keeping it in causes the Freon to churn within and to expel with its normal explosive report.

A-CHOO!

A winter-mint mini-sneeze detonates across the gravel. The sub-zero blast catches Zeph dead center. Instantly, the oozing muck on his face flash-freezes into rigid, sparkling grey snot-ickle mortar concoction, locking the mortar bucket permanently to his head like a tragic crown.

The system pings in the back of my brain with a cheerful chime.

[F42. Dragonette. Himbo-dar. Proximity. Update: Suffocatingly Smug → Completely Deflated]

I let out a long, weary, Kansas-grade sigh and walk over to drop a clean rag onto his frozen, bucketed lap.

"Thanks for the data, mon ami," I say, leaning down to peer at his muddy visor. "Do I need to show you the door?"

The bucket wobbles as he frantically shakes his head.

"Good." I pop to my feet pleased and spin to grin at all of Zepherion's cringing rivals. "Next."             

The gates to Ye Ol'Toll House swing wide. Puffing and sweating and straining against an ox yoke, Razgor the Red digs his boot into the red dirt and puuuls. He grunts under the strain. Slowly, a flat bed hay-wagon cart like the Mennonites use back home, rolls slowly into view. He pulls it up in front of my kobold stables and parks it there.

He pauses, panting, slightly bent so he can brace his hands against his knees. His wide red wings flex, as if he's fanning himself. There are so many bent nails, rusted apple barrel bands, old tire irons and more the cart must have weighed two tones.

"My Lady," Razgor says in that deep rumble of his while straightening. He's big and muscly and I'm reminded of a certain football player at Frankfurt High when I was a girl--which was how many days ago?

"Good day to you."

I blink. That's all?! Razgor turns to leave and strides for the gate. My mouth is totally agape.

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--Completed | 108/108 items collected]

[F42. Dragonette: Just-In-Case-Drawer--Overflowing]

Ohmigod.

"For me?!"

Ugh. My voice does this kinda excited girl squeak. But really, for me?!

"For you."

My kobold minions hear the proclamation and start swarming and sorting the junk. I run up the the red dragoneer and grab his musclely muscled arm before he can go a step further. Where's freaking emoji eyes when I need them.

Actually, I don't need them.

He's handsome.

And strong.

And he did something for me.

I want to lick him. And kiss him. And... yeah. That's what I'm going to do. I go up on my toes and good God, red-dragon tastes good.

Chapter 12: Bengay--Icy Hot

A heavy thump sounds. Razgor freezes.

"I..." Razgor reaches up and scratches the back of his neck. He has this Zepherion-lightning struck, shock in his eyes. Much of him is already red--He's a red dragoneer!--but this slow tide of skin blistering heat seems to climb up from the open ties on his medieval farm-boy shirt, up his neck to stain his face.

There's another heavy thump as his tail wallops the dirt once more. An awe-sucks grin completely ruins his Willie the Wildcat, line-backer vibe.

"Well, now, Bramble-Bell" Razgor rumbled, his deep voice cracking just a tiny bit. "I didn't do that for no kiss. I did that because Mamma says rusty iron is what a lady need." The color staining his cheeks deepens to a brick red. "Mamma says."

I smile. I can't freaking help it. Dragonettes don't get butterflies, we don't, I swear, we get emoji eyes, but this wave of cozy, warmth blossoms in my chest and radiates out. I feel this thawing, um, down there and a slow worm of heat that's like a hot... drip. I reach up and trace the bulging muscle surrounding he shoulder with a finger.

[F42. Dragonnette: Himbo-dar--Evolved | He's the one]

Oh. My breath hitches.

[F42. Dragonnette: Emoji-Eyes--Evolved | You've got it bad, babe]

There's a rattle and crash and a noise like an old man thumbing down rickety stairs with his cane because, an old man is thumping down rickety stairs with a cane. Old Brumal reaches the dirt of the courtyard and pokes his cane Razgor's direction.

"You listen up boy, you there is the chosen one. That means you responsible for keeping Ms. Winter-mint here nice and happy. Keep a smile on her face and that pumping stays nice and lubricated--you hear me, boy-o. Don't need another winter like we had back in '69."

"Now you boys," Brumal grumbles, swinging to the others. "Off with you. The games are over. No bachelorette here. You want to chill, buy a slushee, don't be bothering the white landlady. This here is her hoard so if you want to come visiting, bring an offering of scrap--and none of that Grade C stuff. She don't want shiny."

My suitors... well, ex-suitors because, [F42. Dragonnette: Himbo-dar--Evolved | He's the one], slowly file out. I turn to my man and am about to ask if he want a tour of my hoard of Things That Might Be Useful Later when the gates are thrown open again and Arlo comes stomping in. I contemplate sneezing on him. He'd make a beautiful garden gnome, don't you think?

His spectacles balanced precariously on his pointed nose, Arlo marches to the middle of the courtyard. He's holding a leather-bound ledge and is practically trembling with bureaucratic excitement. There's a look in his eye akin to that of an accountant the has discovered that has somehow deducted, no maintenance, no maintenance cost. The facility will run.

For a while.

Arlo whips out a large feathered quill with a rapier like flourish.

"Ivette!" he barks, squinting past the bustling kobold, and the massive pile of slake-shake shingles and my newly acquired, corn husker red dragoneer. "The BPMA has flagged this location for multiple high-level infractions!" He flips open his ledger. "By my calculate--"

God, this again? I heave a frosty sigh and then tuck myself under my red dragon's big muscular protective arm.

"Hiya, Arlo. Did you come to admire the patina of my new hoard? The rusty reds and browns have a real... homey look don't you think?"

"Do not attempt to placate me with municipal aesthetics!" Arlo snaps, flipping open his ledger, spilling several sheets but refusing to chase them down. "You are in direct violation of Zoning Regulation 404-B: Unauthorized Multi-Species Shantytown Construction! Furthermore, your qualified hoard volume has exceeded local residential caps, and I have reason to believe you are harboring an unregistered, high-density dimensional anomaly!"

He points his quill accusingly at my Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack resting near the porch.

"In accordance with BPMA guidelines, I am issuing an immediate eviction notice, revoking your landlady title, and docking three hundred afterlife-points--"

"Arlo," I say. I mean, dudes interrupt me in meetings all the time, so turnaround is fair play... and I reeeally don't want to listen to him anymore.

"--which will immediately downgrade your status to standard aimless snowdrifter--"

I reach into my Fifty-Pound Forever-Sack, pull out the dented tin washer Sir Gallantus threw at my feet and hold it up between two fingers.

Arlo stops mid-sentence. His eyes enlarge behind his spectacles.

[F42. Hoarder. Perk: Loot Locator → Dented Tin Washer (Sir Gallantus's Preemptive Life-Pass)]

"One downstanding knight Sir Gallantus of the Order of Future-Past gave this non-transferable Preemptive Life-Pass for services rendered to his person. I believe it's a..." I tap a finger against my lip. "...'get out of jail' free card. I am officially redeeming this credit to cover all past, present and future zoning atrocities committed on these premises and an exemption from all bureaucratic bullshit."

I flick the washer at him.

Arlo frantically catches it with both hands, dropping his ledger. He fumbles the washer and it fall on the leather binder at his feet. There's a sharp POP and CRT-green scrolls past my eyes.

[F42. Announcement: Preemptive Life-Pass Redeemed]

[F42. System: Sovereign Hoard Status → Permanently Zoned & Approved]

[F42. BPMA Audit Result: Net Positive (Landlady Tenure Confirmed)]

[F42. BPMA Taxes: Nothing, the Maid]

Presumably seeing the same notifications I am, Arlo stares his mouth opening and closing like a small mouth bass.

"That... That... That can't be."

"But it is," I say, smiling smugly. Arlo blanches. "I--I--I need to leave."

"Bye bye. Don't forget: My hoard. My land. My claim. And Arlo, remember, if you come back, you'd better have something to contribute to my collection of Things That Might Be Useful Later, otherwise you're trespassing, and while I don't got me a shotgun, I got me some kobolds."

"This isn't over, Ivette! The quarterly audit will be brutal!" Arlo sputters, before turning on his heel and marching back towards town as fast as his bureaucrat legs can carry him.

The kobolds swing the heavy timber gates swing shut behind him with a satisfying thud.

I let out a long, happy breath--snowflakes drifting on the air. I turn back to Razgor, wrapping my fingers around his. "Now then, stud muffin. Want to see my nesting hoard?"

Chapter 13: Epilog

I pat my egg. Red dragon? White dragon? Don't care. I'm not supposed to--which, okay, nuts, and I do care. But I'm a good dragon momma and can abandon my eggs. It has a proper nesting hoard to get it started in life. I say goodbye and wiggle my way out of the crevice. It's been about a year.

[F42. Dragonette: Nesting Hoard--Completed | 108/108 items collected]

I blink at the notification. Yup, next months hoard is already completed. Razgor and I even located the next place I'll abandon my egg. We've identified three-dozen nearby. I follow my nose home. Rook is cooking me a feast.

When I get home, a small army of kobolds are sweeping, cleaning and dusting Ye Ol'Toll House. Vane has shucked his armor--he never puts it on anymore--and is working away at his newly constructed workbench building furniture for sale in Isakora and abroad. He's cleaned up a bit, to better sales, and no longer looks like an undead elf. He still has a ways to go to give Legolas a run for his money--but, you know, improvements. Rook, as expected, has laid out a feast.

My dragoneer comes up behind me and wraps his tree trunk arms around me.

"Hey, babe, how'd it going?"

I wiggle happily. Egging takes such a load off.

"All ready for next month."

[F42. Ivette: Happy Birthday!]

Character Sheet

[F42. User. Handle: Ivette | 37 alp]

[F42. Species: White Dragon (Hybrid "Dragonette" Variant-- the smallest, weakest, least aerodynamically viable and most alarmingly reproductively compatible of all dragon species)]

[F42. Class: Hoarder (Cherish What No One Else Wants) | Designation: n00b | Guild Ranking: Silver]

[F42. Draggonnette. White. Perks: Breath Weapon--Frost Variant--Active | Auto-Immune Response--Passive (As the smallest, weakest, least aerodynamically viable and most alarmingly reproductively compatible of all dragon species your auto-immune system responds to knights-in-shining armor, tin men, dragon hunters, and all things shiny as a Class-IV Bio-Hazard Threat) | Emoji Eyes--Passive (Fall helplessly in love with male dragon (dragoneer), wyvern, male drake-folk, kobold or qualified male lizard-folk that meets activation condition(s) until deactivated) | Activation Conditions: First male dragon (dragoneer) encountered during 3-day monthly fertility window / victor of any dragon brawl having taken place in your presence | Deactivation Conditions: 3-day monthly fertility window closes (uncommon) | Fertilized (common) | Alternate Activation Activates (common) | Kissed (rare--winter-mint dragon breath, not popular) | [Note: Emoji Eyes ensures sustainable dragon flight populations] | WARNING: polygamy, multiple-partners, alternating partners, love affairs, one-night stands, cheating, bruised egos and broken hearts likely | Himbo-dar--Passive (Helplessly aware of male-dragons (dragonneer) and qualified brutes within 100 paces) | Sports Fan--Passive (Pseudo-aroused by avid interested in dragon-brawls) | Pheromones--Passive (male dragons, wyverns, drake-folk, kobolds and qualified lizard-folk come bearing gifts) | Thwack!--Passitive (this passitive (i. e. passive / active) skill tail-smacks any threat detected within your posterior strike zone unless consciously suppressed) | Oviposition (once a month experience the wonders of childbirth--don't worry, it's hard, but easier) | Note 1: Eggs thrive best when laid in qualified Nesting Hoards | Note 2: Fertilized eggs will hatch after appropriate period of abandonment--dragons mature best when not parented / parenting hatchlings results in social deficiencies | Genetic Scrambling → Passive (Core Mechanics (The Universal Adapter Clause): Unlike higher-tier draconic flights whose slow reproductive cycles require rare, hyper-specific nesting materials (e. g. flawless rubies for Red Flights), White Dragonettes possess highly volatile, submissive gametes. Fertilized eggs laid by a White Dragonette do not yield White hatchlings by default. Instead, phenotype expression is determined by the contributing sire via the following administrative matrices: ♂ Dragoneer (True Dragon) Father: 100% chance the hatchling will express the exact paternal flight strain (e. g., Red, Blue, Yellow, etc.). [Note: White Dragonettes function as a universal incubator to bypass standard decade-long draconic cooldowns.] ♂ Wyvern or Drake-Folk Father: 75% chance Wyvern/Drake-Folk // 25% chance White Dragon flight. ♂ Kobold or Qualified Lizard-Folk Father: 75% chance White Dragonette // 25% chance Kobold/Lizard-Folk | The Imperial Conscription Clause (Historical Legacy): WARNING! Historical over-exploitation of this mechanic by the defunct Merdragonnee Empire to mass-produce shock-legions resulted in the near-total extinction of the White Flight, subsequently crashing global dragon populations due to a complete depletion of viable breeding stock. Do not repeat history. | F42. Incentive: To encourage the ethical restoration of the draconic airborne canopy, every non-white, father-matched egg successfully laid and incubated within a properly zoned and assembled Nesting Hoard will grant the user a 1 alp (afterlife-point) Environmental Bounty.)]

[F42. Hoarder. Perks: Loot Locater (Instinctively Locate Loot for Meeting Hoard Requirements--Qualified Hoards Only) | It's Still Good--Passive (detect the value in discarded, broken or glitched items) | Rat-Pack Spatial Awareness--Passive (make the most of your space--stack, pack and balance mismatched pieces of junk to perfection) | Tupperware Audit--Active (sniff out every piece of qualified hoards with 100% accuracy--know what's missing--know who touched it last--know from whom to seek revenge) | Drag-&-Drop--Active (triples strength, balance and counterweight when transporting scrap directly towards qualified hoard) | That's Private Property!--Active (items properly stored within a qualifying hoard screams in a high-pitched screech when touched without the Hoarder's permission) | I Licked It, It's Mine!--Active (legally claim building, basement, hole in the ground, drainage ditch, rooftop or other location through saliva-based right-of-ownership for storage of qualified hoards only--one location per qualified hoard) | Trophy Room--Passive (display achievements, impress mother, vulnerable to unverified competitive posturing from alpha-larper suitors)]

[F42. Hoarder. Qualified. Hoards: Nesting Hoard (108 qualified items per nest--1 nest per-month) | Battle Trophies (collect awards, achievements and trophies for completing first grade, third place in three-way cheer competitions, defeating a knight-in-shining armor and other qualifying achievements) | Scrap (anything tarnished, with little value other than recycle or no purpose) | Items That Might Be Useful Later (see: Scrap) | The Cord Drawer (rope, wire, wire-ties, leather straps, extension cords) | Complimentary Swag (free pamphlets, takeout menus, political pins, refrigerator magnets) | Just-In-Case-Jar (nuts, bolts, missing buttons)]