FSE

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Deep beneath the surface, near the very bones of the Earth itself, where one can feel the heavy, silent weight of the mountains pressing down upon them, there is a cave, carved by natural forces and hewn by men's hands. In a small chamber, a single candle casts a feeble glow, just enough to illuminate the room. Spots of lichen and drakesmould dot the walls and ceiling. Shelves line all walls, filled with glass bottles of indeterminable liquids and objects. Most are unlabelled.

Another set of shelves hold various pieces of equipment, some familiar, some whose purpose can only be guessed. A copper alembic sits next to a glass retort and a mortar and pestle with remnants of bone-white powder. Flasks and containers made of fine steel and clear glass, well-maintained and cleaned so that the dried bloodstains are nearly invisible.

And sitting on the ground are jars half the height of a man. In this dim light, the only thing visible inside them are murky shadows of something vaguely man-shaped, but as small as a child. When the light is just right, some features within are visible; a scaled claw, a horn, a tooth. An unseeing eye staring into oblivion.

And in the corner of the room, a figure sits hunched over a desk, scratching words down into a thick volume with a feather quill. Near the journal is a goblet of wine, now nearly empty, and the top half of a skull which was never anything close to human.

The man writes with a patient, steady pace, stopping only to dip the pen into the nearby ink bottle. His lips form around each word as he writes it, and if he noticed this, he would surely stop. Occasionally he shifts position and winces, as if in pain, but never slowing down his writing. His free hand rubs his face, from his eye to the back of his head, where there is something growing.

If one saw him in the corner of their eye, they might not notice anything out of the ordinary. But even in this dim light, certain features stand out. His face is not entirely human; for scales grow around his eyes and down his neck. Short, stubby horns grow out the back of his head among thinning strands of white hair. And his eyes are not the eyes of a man. They are eyes that allow him to see with perfect clarity in this dim light, as if were a cloudless day at noon. They glow, even when turned away from the light. They are slitted and as red as fresh blood. They are the eyes of a dragon.

The man finishes writing and blows on the page to dry the ink. He turns a few pages back and reads what he had just written:

If this volume is to serve its purpose of recording my life and mission, I should at least like to be remembered in my own words so my actions are not misinterpreted. I realize there is a distinct possibility of me failing my mission, and failure would certainly mean death. I realize the things I have done, and the things I will do, will seem controversial at best and evil at worst. So to whoever is reading this, please understand my actions in the context of my own intentions. Whatever else you may hear about me, know that every word in this volume is the truth, as near as I can make it. This is not an autobiography, so I will spare you the mundane details of my childhood and youth. Nor is it merely a journal, recounting the day-to-day recounting of my time spent. It is nothing more or less than an attempt to explain myself. Very well, a manifesto it is.

** Caladar's Manifesto**

On Dragons

Goshev is ruled by a false emperor. He sits upon a pile of gold and answers to nobody but himself, and cares not for the whims and wishes of his subjects. There are no stops to his power and nothing preventing him from seizing literally anything he wants. He did not inherit his title, nor was he chosen by his subjects, but merely chose the position for himself, and continues to rule unopposed.

Public opposition to his rule is non-existent. Anyone who speaks out against his rule is quickly branded an outcast or a traitor. If this does not worry you, then I'm afraid you are not paying attention.

This false emperor, who calls himself Firaegin, is no mere man, but a foreign dragon who seized power and now rules over the entire nation of Goshev with an iron-hard rule. If he were a human, people would be calling for his head. This does happen to all dictators eventually. The only reason every king is not killed is if he is a good enough king that people do not want to see him dead. But a dragonlord, by his very nature, cannot be killed even if his subjects wishes him to be. That is the method by which Firaegin rules – he sleeps comfortably, knowing that he can never be overthrown.

The average person will mindlessly and gleefully support this abject dictator. And a dictator he is, objectively. A benevolent dictator, at least now, but there is nothing stopping him from being malevolent if he decides to. A lot can happen in a dragon's lifetime. And dragons are magnificent, yes, but they are also greedy, selfish, stubborn and above all, arrogant, thinking themselves above the common people. The false emperor Firaegin is merely one life of the millions over which he rules. Is his life really worth more than the lives of everyone who suffers under them?

He controls nearly every major aspect of the nation, as well as near incalculable wealth. From various accounts I've heard of his size (nearly two hundred feet long) and his hoard must be nearly his own size. Therefore, he owns more than a million times as much wealth as the average person does. I wonder, does he really work a million times harder? Are any one of his days worth a million of yours, or mine? One could take an amount of gold from his hoard enough to make a family rich for the rest of their lives, and the false emperor would not even notice it missing. While the average person toils in a field, works with their hands, barters, builds, repairs, Firaegin sits upon his hoard and barks orders to his subjects. Of course, a dragon needs subjects to do the actual work for which he profits. While men have the ability to resist a dragon's will, at least temporarily, the same cannot be said of the feral lizard men who infest the mountains.

On Kobolds

These kobolds, these lizard men, are not like us. They are more akin to cockroaches, or weeds; constantly spreading, choking the life out of everything they touch. Individually they are weak and aimless but massed in large numbers they breed like rats and infest and destroy every place they touch.

In my study of these kobolds, I have found them to be almost completely devoid of any kind of personality or free will, completely oblivious to anything that isn't immediately in front of him. A human alone can write a song or story, one man may plan or build a house. A man may live alone and sustain himself indefinitely. But a kobold? Get one kobold alone and he will stand there blinking in a mindless stupor until reunited with his own kind. Kobold society is only concerned with eating, sleeping, fighting, breeding, and spreading.

They have no culture of their own. They have no art except tapestries to glorify their dragon emperor. They have no songs of their own except mindless, repetitive tunes to keep the rhythm of their pickaxes in sync to scare away tarantula spiders while they dig their endless tunnels to spread to who knows where. They have no written works besides dull instructions on building simple machines or tunnel maintenance and so forth.

They are, by all trustworthy accounts, unconscious and unfeeling, which is why they follow the false Emperor so blindly and without question. Even the ability to wonder why they don't question is beyond them.

It is a wise man who distrusts kobolds. And one who relaxes in their presence finds himself deprived of his wallet, his equipment, or his life.

On Scalecasting

This nation is afraid of people like me. Even the great dragon Firaegin fears me. He fears what I might become. He fears that the common people may one day learn the power to rise up against him and overthrow him.

If you, reading this, are afraid of people like me, if the word “scalecasting" causes a shiver to run down your spine, then I'm afraid you've been a victim of the propaganda Firaegin has spread. If this journal is to have a purpose besides being merely a vessel for my thoughts, then I hope it can change the minds of the few who read it. As this is my manifesto, I will summarize it in one sentence.

The inherent power that manifests in dragons is available to any humans with the will to seek it out and the courage to act upon it.

I am a willing test subject and what I learn will be shared with all of humanity. I do not have lofty goals of being remembered as a hero or a liberator of humanity.

I hope people will at least remember me as someone who attempted to leave the world a better place than I found it. I hope they will understand what I did and what I tried to do. I hope, in some small way, that I achieve some success. This is a small hope, and one that even I admit is unlikely to succeed. It is just me against all of them, after all.

But still, I hope.

Musings

On the first day of the month of Clean Bone

I almost feel sorry for these Kobolds. They're so weak and pathetic.

The more draconic I become, the easier it is to bend them to my will, until the point where it's scarcely challenging. I see them cowering in their cages, whimpering and snivelling and avoiding my eye, and I wonder if they're even real. There is so little substance to them they scarcely can be said to exist at all.

I almost want to let one go just so I can capture it again. Maybe give it a fighting chance with a knife and some armour. But as easy as it would be for me to recapture him, he would pose a significant threat to one of my men, and I can't lose them.

Occasionally I am brought one which is more temperamental than most, and to a normal man, it would be quite dangerous to be near it. Even unarmed and naked, kobolds are surprisingly strong for their size and they bite and kick and scratch. If one were to let their guard down, even for a moment, they can lose an eye or finger, or end up with a broken wrist.

Good thing I don't ever let my guard down.

Test subject #1363 is watching me right now. When I look up his eyes dart away and I can see the fear in them. He's trying to hide it, but even a regular man would be able to see past it. There is so little emotion written on the reptilian face of a kobold – matching the little mind behind it, but it's enough for me to read as clearly as if it were a book. He's frightened, but not nearly as frightened as he should be, if he knew what I have planned for him.

He put up quite a struggle when I caught him. He even managed to land a scratch on my cheek before he was placated. It's hard to get angry at this, since he provided more amusement than I've had in weeks. Still, he will pay for it, a hundred times over. I can't have subjects thinking there aren't consequences for their actions.

Draconic sight doesn't merely allow me to see more clearly or better in the dark (although it does do that, to a substantial degree) but it lets me look into a person. I can see the magic coursing through the world, the hidden clockwork of reality itself. Always illusory, but right there in front of me this whole time. I can reach out and touch it, even now as I write these words. And I can see the small disruption people make in the fabric of reality.

Kobolds are like a dimple in this layer, tapping into it without even noticing. Watching test subject #1363 pace his cell, making subtle ripples in this layer of magic like walking through a puddle. I wonder if he even notices.

Most humans bypass this layer entirely. Once in a while a human dabbles in the subtle art of magic casting and calls himself a wizard. Like a sailor who dips a toe into the ocean and calls himself a sailor. True power, the ability to not only see this magic, but to control it, is available to only the most powerful of beings.

Dragons… if a kobold is like dimples in the surface layer of magic, then dragons are a cascading waterfall, pouring magic from that dimension and spilling into ours.… so effortlessly. Even the most mundane, unenhanced human can see it, can feel it. Just to be in the presence of one; there's a heightened sense of things, like time itself has slowed. Like the way the air feels right before lightning strikes. The hair raises on your arms. Your heart quickens, your breath catches in your chest…

And then he speaks…

Caladar paused and put down his pen. He looked up and glanced around, checking to make sure the door was closed. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and ran his scaled claws over his brow, feeling the bump of every scale that lined his face. When his hands reached the horns on the back of his head, he paused, unmoving. When his breathing returned to normal he picked up his pen again.

One day that will be me. To have that awesome power available to me in my voice and in my body. To fly and see the world from above. To have a host of kobold and human slaves bent to my will, waiting at my every whim. Compared to me, even the differences between men and kobolds becomes irrelevant. Perhaps I will let the kobolds live. An emperor needs subjects.

Caladar stopped writing and cleaned the pen with a cloth, laid it down next his journal, stoppered the ink bottle, and stood. The kobold in the cage looked up with wide eyes and shuffled into a corner of the cage, trying to get as far away from the man as possible.

“Don't worry, little lizard," Caladar said. “You're in service of something greater than you can imagine. Your life and your death will mean more than any of your ilk."

_ “Eraxhe_ ti!"

Caladar smiled. “Such fire in you, young Kobold. Soon it will be part of me." He layered his voice with deliberate calming tones, like he was dipping the words in honey, and remarkably, the kobold relaxed. Caladar unlocked the cage. “What is your name?"

The kobold stood, eyes darting back and forth. He held his elbows with both hands. Ruddy orange scales like old rust covered his runty body, and he idly scratched at missing patches on his arms while he looked around the cage.

“Tell me your name, kobold."

He looked up at the scalecaster with blood-red eyes. They were unfocused, partly due to exhaustion, and the effects of various experiments which had been conducted upon him. There was very little behind them. But still enough innate kobold stubbornness to resist. He shook his head.

Caladar allowed himself a small smile. So this one would be a challenge indeed. Very well. He let the draconic essence flowing through his blood seep into his words. Like liquid silver flowing from a crucible. The words seem to come not from him, but from everywhere at once. Tell me your name, kobold.

“Moda," the kobold said. No hesitation.

** Moda, tell me about your clan.**

“Red-Lake. Named for the iron-rich clays that turn the lake water dark orange. We're most known for our gold-threaded pottery. Clan Red-Lake is one of the first dragonlords to submit to Emperor Firaegin."

A frown tainted Caladar's bemused expression. Moda, tell me about Firaegin.

The kobold stretched his mouth wide without revealing his teeth, in a kobold approximation of a smile. “Emperor Firaegin is the rightful ruler of the entire nation of Goshev. He's the only emperor who secured the nation by negotiating instead of fighting. He's from Crater-Vale, originally. I've never seen him myself, but from what I've heard he's almost two hundred feet long and can shatter rock with one swipe of his tail and can knock down houses with the wind from his wings. He's as wise and wealthy as any dragon, but kind and fair, but anyone who crosses him-"

** Enough.**

The kobold fell silent. Caladar sat back and watched the kobold for a moment, then ordered him back into his cage. He tossed the keys to the kobold, who on his command, locked himself inside and threw the keys back to Caladar.

Scalegrafting

On the second day of the month of Clean Bone

Dragons are an endless source of art on paintings, tapestries, and windows. There is something about their power and strength that's beautiful to a human. And I myself was not unattractive when I was human. But I know what I look like now. I see it every day when I see my reflection. Man-shaped, but with draconic features; most strikingly in my face; scales run around my eyes and down my neck. Horns stick out the back of my head through thinning hair that I suspect will go soon. My hands are growing scales as well and my nails are sharp and tough enough to scratch steel or cut kobold skin.

This tail does provide some small amount of balance, especially while crouching or climbing, but it mostly gets in the way when I try to sit down. I had Grigori modify my chair to give it room and for some reason he seemed to find this funny, although I fail to see the humour in it. No matter.

I am mostly looking forward to having wings. It will be the most difficult part of this transition. Human bodies are not meant to have wings, as our skeletons are completely different. We are not designed to be supported by our shoulder blades. But I will make this work.

As potent as dragon blood is, and as powerful this magic, it doesn't “know" what changes to make in order to turn a human into a dragon. It is not enough to simply imbibe dragon blood and allow it to take over one's body; if it were that easy, I suspect there would be a great many more scalecasters in the world. So I must physically graft parts onto myself, while injecting dragon blood to merge the foreign draconic tissue to my own body. As crude as it sounds, this is the only way to make this work. Perhaps there will be an easier way when I complete my research so that way nobody in the future will have to suffer the way I do.

The corpse of a young red dragon is still preserved in formaldehyde; I have already taken his eyes, so I will take his wings next. However, simply adding his entire wings to my body would be too much of a shock to my system, my body would reject them and I would lose both them, and the use of my own arms, so I must do it piece by piece, starting with the shoulder blades.

The problem is, I won't be able to use my arms while they heal and I obviously can't use both my arms to operate on the other arm the same time, so I will have to do one at a time, all while imbibing a steady amount of dragon blood, slowly, so as to not to overwhelm the human parts of my body.

It takes nearly an hour to finish the injection but the effect is worth it. I admit I find myself unable to properly describe it but I will attempt to do it justice. It feels like waking up. Like the rest of existence is a blurry, dull stupor and the times immediately after are feelings of perfect lucidity. After the imbibing I feel more than human, which of course is literally true. I haven't been fully human in decades. It can become addicting, and I don't know how I would react if deprived of it.

The Siren dragon has been a steady, useful supply of dragon blood since she came into my care nearly four decades ago. I freely confess that I would not be where I am today if it were not for her. My only fear is that if she were to become unrestrained, as in free of the curse by which I have kept her compliant, she could be very dangerous. Similarly, if she dies due to neglect or stress, my only source of dragon blood would disappear. I've done as much as I can to keep her safe but there's no way to be certain.

Of course kobold blood works well enough, but I can't rely on my men capturing kobolds forever. So far we've escaped detection but if one happens to escape and warn the rest of Crater-Vale about us, we'd have thousands of feral kobolds swarming us, and they won't stop until my men are dead. Even I can be overwhelmed.

Simply increasing the amount I imbibe is an option, but there is only so much I can harvest from the Siren at a time. Increasing the amount I take also has diminishing returns; I estimate that taking twice the usual dose increases results not by 200% but by 150%. Infuriating. I shall take three or four times the usual dose this time in order to prepare my body for the wings. I will survive but there may be unintended effects, both physical and mental.

Untitled Journal Entry

Something new happening. Can feel (see?) sparks under and through my fingers. Hard to write. A thousand thoughts for every word. Kobolds looking at me, even when they're asleep. See the movements of their eyes under their lids. The dead ones I can hear their voices. How many are dead because of me? Doesn't matter, they're not real. Barely dimples in the skein of magic space, but I? They can't forgive me for what I've done. Breathe in the magic of the air. Feel the magic course through me, glowing bright, burning like lightning. Should have taken less, should have taken more. Is this what it's like, to be a dragon? To see the world AS IT IS. Grow scales to see the scale of the world and make Firaegin feel fear again. Fly up higher, ever higher and see the world at once and laugh at the tiny insignificant specks that make up humanity. All our accomplishments as dust. Just as I see what I see back down here now:

Look down and see the rust on the underside of the kobolds cage. See the rust, see it rusting, still is rusting more since writing those words. A single drop of condensation accumulating on one of my bottles sitting on their shelves. Look at my pen, it's now two years ago and I see a seagull who lives with his mate by the sea in Whiteshore-upon-Cliff. Shot by a hunter named Arius on the 18th of Long Melt, 1566 then plucked by the hunter's son Gell. The feathers are sold to a quill maker who sells them to me on a trip to Crayfield 22 days later. It sits in a drawer and is used for the first time eleven days ago. Close my eyes for a quarter of a second and see eucalyptus trees being stripped for bark in the southern Vhakram Republic. Boiled down and valuable gum skimmed from the pot. Mix it with charcoal freely given from the town's blacksmith to make this ink. Bottled by a man named Lucien Greene on the 1st day of Tearful Sky, 1568 and sold to me the same day I bought the quill. Look at this paper and I see it drying on a rack in a warehouse in Ardentiphe in neat rows with a thousand others. They were formed from sawdust bought from the carpentry shop and old cotton clothes too tattered to be repaired, except for a single, very small, bright blue shirt that has never been worn. The eyes of the man who sold it were red and as leaves the paper shop and cries for the tenth time in three days and it is it is ninth of White Soil, 1567.

When Caladar woke the room was nearly pitch black. If he was still human he'd be blind but there was plenty of light to see. He lifted his head from his desk and a page was stuck to his face. He pulled it off and looked at it for several long minutes. The words were smudged and ineligible, but that's not what Caladar was looking at. His eyes were near the bottom of the page where there were no words, but nearly invisible, a single strand of bright blue, as small as an eyelash.

On the future

On the fourth day of the month of Clean Bone

Grigori reported back and says he keeps finding sand and small rocks on the floor of the portal room. When I checked, at first I found little beyond a small gathering of detritus near the old, dead kobold ground portal. Through the portal itself there does seem to be some structural vulnerabilities that weren't there before. This is a useless passage anyway, and I have told my men to stay clear, but it does make me wonder about the expansion of clan Crater-Vale. Will look into it and test integrity of whatever is above. I will interrogate the next kobold I find and see if I can find out if their tunnels are anywhere near mine or these old grounds. It could be the stone-shell tarantulas burrowing as well. Any one of my men could dispatch several but if a swarm of them come through it would be disastrous. We may have to relocate the lab if it comes to it. As inconvenient as this is, it would be better than

Caladar paused writing when he sensed someone approach. Whoever it was moving quietly, well below the threshold of sound for an average human, but not for Caladar. He closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, sensing who it was… Lucas. He sensed the unique signature of his mind, and mixed with it, something else. Something like guilt. Had he done something? Is he planning on doing something?

A moment later Lucas entered the room, and Caladar saw what he was holding - a bag of tobacco and pipe. While Caladar watched, hidden, Lucas opened the bag and stuffed a small amount into the pipe.

“I hope you aren't planning to light that up in here, Lucas. Not this close to the apparatus." He said it as gently as he could. Of course, smoke could contaminate the sensitive equipment in the laboratory, and there was no way of knowing how dragon blood would react to smoke.

Lucas looked up and nearly dropped the pipe. “Of course not, Caladar. Just preparing the pipe for later." He turned and left as quickly as he could without running, heading to the portal chamber. Caladar watched him leave and frowned. At least Lucas was wise enough to take a portal to the outside where the fresh air would blow the smoke away. It would be preferable if Lucas stopped this habit, but Caladar allowed him this one vice if it relaxed him, and it was simpler than forcing him to quit.

He sat back down and wiped some dust from the open page of his journal, then looked at his hand. Not dust. Sand. He looked up at the rock ceiling above him. The surface was rough-hewn, covered with innumerable edges and cracks. As he watched, a steady stream of fine sand drifted down, like a stream of water, and collected in a little pile on his desk. He narrowed his draconic, slitted eyes, red as rubies. At the absolute threshold of his hearing, he could hear movement, like small feet scrabbling over stone. The red kobold, still in his cage? Caladar looked up but Moda was asleep and unmoving in his cage. It must have been something from above but the sound was obliterated by the voices of his men bantering on the other side of the portal, loud enough Caladar could hear them arguing: “Caladar's gonna kill ya!" and “piss off, mop-head." Then the sound of their heavy boots pounding through the cave, accompanied by more sand drifting down from the ceiling.

Caladar stood and spoke in a command that could shatter iron: No running in the lab! The footfalls stopped. Disengage the portal.

Caladar paused and listened. Silence, as far as he could tell, but not the absence of sound. The silence that comes before a storm, like the world itself is gathering its breath to shout. Goosebumps raised on the parts of his arms that still held skin. Particles of sand and dust floated suspended in candlelight.

Moments later, there was a crashing sound that shook the lab, hard enough to send some bottles falling from shelves. Caladar managed to catch two of them but even with reflexes beyond any man he couldn't stop the third from crashing to the ground and shattering. The deep booming sound echoed through the caves, nearly obliterating the voice of Maurice shouting “Loose kobold!"

“Catch it! I want it alive!" Caladar shouted. One of them must have managed to tunnel into the lab. If it managed to escape and tell the others…. Perhaps it didn't stumble into the caves by accident. If so, he wanted to know how it found them.

He rushed to the only physical exit to the complex and to his men's credit, they had subdued the kobold by the time he arrived. Grigori lifted an armoured foot off its head and crouched to check its pulse. It was smaller than most, even by kobold standards. An ugly yellow, clad in steel plate, dented but otherwise well-made and close-fitting. Too small to be a proper soldier, so perhaps a scout.

“Grigori, Sullivan, check the portal," Caladar said. “I want to know if we might have a new source of subjects."

“There was a collapse, boss," Lucas said.

Caladar glared at him. He wanted to say, “yes, I know there was a collapse," but he held his tongue. The man had worked quickly without panicking. Instead he said, “Ascertain the state of the collapse, then start repairing and clearing, if feasible. Take Sullivan with you. Lucas, Maurice; undress and secure the kobold with the other." He turned and strode back to his lab while his men stripped the yellow kobold and brought it to the lab where the red kobold, Moda, was watching from his cage.

** Back,** Caladar commanded and Moda complied, retreating to the back of the cage. Caladar opened it and the men tossed the new kobold inside, now unarmed and naked. He was already awake, at least enough to catch himself as he landed, rather than simply allowing himself to be tossed to the ground.

Caladar locked the door and sent the rest of his men to finish clearing and repairing the collapse while he stayed behind. The yellow kobold would be worth interrogating. If he truly was a scout, then he may be the only one. But if there were others, this one would know. As Caladar watched, Moda helped him up. Caladar withdrew from sight but stayed within earshot.

Already they were chattering in their insect-like incessant guttural speak, like two chittering insects.

“You okay, kid?" Moda asked.

“I think so. Thanks!"

Caladar considered quieting them but paused when he heard the yellow kobold introduce himself as “Lalep, clan Crater-Vale."

Caladar leaned in to listen. If this Lalep was one of Firaegin's own subjects, he might have some knowledge worth extracting.

Moda answered: _“…_Crater-Vale, eh? I feel like I should bow; I'm in the presence of His Mightiness' own."

Caladar dug his claws into the wood of the shelf at the mention of that title. It truly was mindless the way these animals worshipped the false emperor. He peered around the shelf he was hidden behind. The kobolds were sitting on opposite sides of the cage, already as comfortable as if they were long-time friends. The two kobolds chatted about their predicament, and although they mentioned their impending deaths, their conversation had a casual air, as if they were discussing things of no more consequence than the weather. They were even both smiling. Moda put his arm on Lalep's shoulder to reassure him.

Caladar thought back and tried to remember the last time he had a conversation with someone who wasn't an underling. Or a conversation that wasn't simply giving orders… and he realized he couldn't. As he watched them talk, a change came over the scalecaster. He seemed to shrink, somehow, and soften around the edges. His face lost its hardness, and his eyes lost some of the iron-hard glare he nearly always wore. At a glance he would seem almost human. Without realizing it, he was clasping his hands together, and laced his fingers together, as if holding hands with someone. If he closed his eyes and listened, he didn't even see them as kobolds, just two people talking. If only they always acted like this. If only these kobolds could understand the world and their place in it, they could be valuable. Never equals, but at the very least, useful. Would it be possible to live with them, if they kept to themselves? Think of the value they could have if they could be trusted to work, and trade with humans. These kobolds, as mindless as they were, shared a kinship with each other, and would work together, fight together, as long as they breathed. They may even die for each other. Caladar wondered if any of his men would die for him.

He heard his own name and listened intently. Apparently Lalep had never heard of a scalecaster before so Moda explained:

"... they're monsters, and I'm pretty sure the skin-rag fuck's using us to make him more dragon-like."

Caladar sucked in a breath that sounded like a hiss. If only these vermin would understand… he could lecture them for an hour and they still wouldn't get it. The fact that he was trying to free the entire nation from the clutches of the dragonlord they worshipped. But no matter. If they couldn't be educated then they would be subdued, by force if need be. He had better things to do besides lecture ignorant animals on the way the world work. And there was work to do. Always work. He turned to leave them to their idle chatter when he heard one last remark from Moda:

“your dragonlord's on the warpath against these freaks. Caladar'll get his eventually."

Caladar clenched his hands into fists and winced in pain when his claws stabbed into his yet unscaled palms. He opened his hands and saw four evenly spaced spots of blood on each of his palms. As he watched, eight rivulets of blood ran down his wrists and dripped to the floor.

So be it. If kobolds could not learn, they would be removed. After they had served their purpose.

_ _

New Blood

On the 4th day of the month of Clean Bone

Subject #1363: Lalep, of clan Crater-Vale. Ruddy yellow scales, dark pink eyes. Scout caste. Small, even for a kobold, but quick and agile, enough to be dangerous. Unusually well-spirited despite his circumstance. He will be my new source of blood. I wonder if his will be any more potent due to his proximity to the false Emperor Firaegin. It is unlikely, but worth trying. In any case, his small size means I cannot extract as much at a time, so it will not be entirely negative if any more happen to conveniently crash through the ceiling.

On that note: none more were found but they have located a large tunnel and disguised the hole for now. I'm also having the men be extra quiet for the next few days, just in case 1363's clanmates come looking for him and I've banned any use of the portals without my consent. This Lalep shouldn't be too much trouble, from the looks of him, so the next few days should be relatively uneventful.

Now that I have another kobold, I'm free to experiment on Moda without risk of losing my main source of kobold blood so he will be the subject of my latest experiment: using blood from the Siren dragon I've created a small amount of living, synthetic dragon flesh. Over the last few years, I have induced a basic degree of scalegrafting in my men, as gradual as the human body can sustain, to allow them to be effected by magic on a physical level; they are stronger than humans of the same build, they age slower and have a weak form of darkvision as a result. It was part of the reward promised for their service, but as a fringe benefit it also made them more susceptable to my ability to command them.

I give my men an early, stable but inefficient and short lasting concoction that doses the consumer with a dose of magic to enhance these traits. It multiplies the presence of dragon flesh, overriding the human aspect. With the slow change I have induced in my men, it causes them to take on more overt dragon-like traits for a short duration. A crude but functional way to make them greater than just human, useful if they are ever caught by law enforcement during excursions to the surface. I used to partake myself for more strenuous activities, but the induced transformation became too drastic as I grafted more flesh into myself, so I stopped.

At any rate, I used the early essence potion as a base for this synthetic flesh, along with a small heart tissue sample taken from an old preserved kobold corpse, regular doses of drakesmould and my own manipulation of magic to tease out a response. After a few days, the method bore fruit and it propagated into a vessel much like dragon flesh, even without the presence of a body. If I feed it to someone able to resist a lethal dose of mana poisoning, and if my theory is correct, it will excite the draconic parts of the body, merge with it and, with luck, induce a change.

Obviously I will not attempt to consume this myself, nor will I risk any of my men, but either one of my kobold subjects would be an acceptable risk. Moda, the larger one, is more likely to survive so it will have to be him. I will report on my findings.

Test Results

On the 4th day of the month of Clean Bone

Interesting. At first, Moda appeared to have suffered no ill effects, and I worried all of my efforts were in vain. But a change came over him; he grew substantially in size, and fell forward to become bipedal, becoming visibly more draconic. Wings even began to form on his back, thought they failed to form completely and merely stayed as misshapen pseudo-limbs. Still, this is encouraging. After further refining of the synthetic flesh, it will undoubtedly be more effective.

The transformation process was fascinating to watch. I could hear the bones creaking and splintering as they grew and were mended simultaneously. It would have caused a conscious creature considerable discomfort. While I am sure I could endure this, I don't imagine the average human citizen could, and if the point of this endeavour is the bring the process to the masses then I will work to lessen the pain.

He appeared to be at least somewhat cognizant of the situation throughout the entire process (even managing to apologize to Lalep, even while assaulting the smaller kobold) but powerless to stop himself, likely a replication of dragon behavior observed and documented in many treatises by dragon-hunters; dragons become increasingly feral the more wounded they are. Fortunately, even in this feral state, he obeyed my question without hesitation, and immediately stopped when I said “down."

(Side note: I also wonder if this is the natural state of kobolds when separated from their dragon lord – feral and mindless. It seemed natural to see him like this. Much more so than when they're conversing and working together, in a weak imitation of humans.)

As for Moda, I believe he's outlived his usefulness. I drained him nearly dry, but to my surprise, he survived. I imagine his strength and vitality has been greatly augmented by the draconic essence. Obviously, there is no point stopping now. I wonder how much farther I can push this subject, how much life I can take before it's too much…

At this time he is being fed a weak solution of drakesmould, a kobold diatary staple, to bolster his recovery. When he has regained sufficient strength I will drain him again, pushing a bit farther each time, until its too much.

Undated journal entry

No time for proper journal.

Lalep escaped when we opened to door for Moda, ran to the complex exit, Maurice went after him and the kobold managed to blind him – dagger through the eye. kobold took his keys so could be anywhere? There's little out there besides the Siren, so sent Sullivan to guard.

Maurice will live, but injury is beyond even my skills to heal. May have to replace him.

No word from Grigori. Never mind about keeping Lalep as a source of blood. Will find new kobolds. I will kill him myself.

Lucas yelling about fire in the

“Stop running in the lab," Caladar demanded as Lucas burst into the room. “What's all the commotion?"

“There's a fire in the barracks!" Lucas gasped. He paused to catch his breath. “I can't find anyone else and it's going to spread if we don't hurry!"

“Confound and damn it all! And in the most crucial time." Caladar frowned and put his pen down. He stood and made to follow Lucas, paused, and thought. This wasn't a coincidence. Lalep had escaped, and must have set the fire as a diversion. His only options would be to make for the surface, but he would need the help of the other kobold, Moda. Instead he told Lucas, “A mere distraction cooked up by the escaped subject, no doubt. Ignore it, and stay here and guard the exit. I will deal with the kobold." Lucas nodded, and Caladar headed for the one place he knew the escaped kobold would make for – the extraction room where Moda was kept and was now, at this very moment, being forced to imbibe a potion made from drakes-mould in order to help him recuperate from the previous experiment.

Caladar hurried to the extraction room and burst through the door but Lalep was already there – he was attempting to remove the drakesmould solution that was slowly draining into Moda's mouth.

“What the-“ Before Caladar could say more, the kobold grabbed a nearby bottle and flung it at Caladar, hitting him square in the face. The bottle shattered, staggering him and spraying his face with a sticky coating,

** STOP!** Caladar shouted as he wiped his eyes clear. Remove the essence bottle and bring it to me!

The yellow kobold paused, and a strained expression came over his face, as if he was trying to resist.

** Give me the bottle.**

Lalep took a few hesitant steps, fighting with himself and failing. He approached Caladar, bottle clutched in his claws, and obediently handed it over.

“Did you really think you could sabotage me?" Caladar said. “A minor setback; I shall enjoy developing more from your malformed body, subject 1,364." He raised the bottle to his lips and started to chug it down. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the kobold below him – and it looked like he was smiling as he raised a single middle finger to the scalecaster.

Caladar glanced down at the bottle. This wasn't the draconic essence he had been imbibing for decades. This was the potion that turned his men draconic, one he had stopped consuming because the changes became erratic and violent. He paused for long enough to release his hold on Lalep, who darted away.

“No. NO!" he shouted, then commanded, STOP! But the kobold merely paused and continued on.

The bottle fell from Caladar's fingers and shattered on the stone floor. He looked at his hand and watched as it spasmed out of his control, clenched in a claw as tendons stood out in relief as scales spread across his skin in uneven patterns. He could feel them growing in patchwork across his body, hardening his skin while bones grew and stretched under his flesh, straining the hardened skin and bursting free in a spray of blood.

He attempted to take a step but one leg had already grown larger and he fell to the floor, writhing in agony. As his body continued to change, pain shot out from every limb, overwhelming any sense he had, merging into noise that seemed to come from everywhere, obliterating all other senses.

He dragged himself on the floor with one working arm, leaving a smear of blood on stone, and reached out with a misshapen hand with claws hanging loosely from tendons barely attached to bones. Flesh sloughed off his outstretched arm like a tattered sail, revealing muscle and bone underneath, even as it mended itself together and half-healed together only to be ripped apart again. A tightness around his chest as his guts rearranged themselves and pressed against his ribs; causing a pressure like he was being squeezed in a vice, forcing the air out of his lungs in a spray of blood.

“I won't… let you.." the last words became garbled nonsense as extra teeth grew where there was no room for them in his mouth, stabbing into his tongue. He spat out blood and a handful of human teeth. He managed to draw in one rattling breath through his tattered lungs like the sound of gargling water, and in the last conscious action of his life, he gasped out, “I curse you both!" He took a resonance fork from the last scraps of his clothing, akin to a tuning for used by musicians but this awoke the senses in those sensitive to magic and struck it.

The Siren, a true dragon and far more cunning than a mere kobold, knew what he intended. She screamed at the kobold, sent him sprawling as he clutched his ears, but Caladar was undeterred; he had nothing to lose and felt only hatred as the Siren attempted to block her ears, but magic began to weave its way in.

“Servant and dragon, be lost in your minds, locked within, where no dragon born may save you."

He then fell silent with what only a mad fool would consider a smile on his malformed face. The last image his mind received; the Siren falling, blank eyed, and the crushing despair on the kobold's face as he watched her figure slump, lifeless but alive, and would be forever. All sensation deadened and his spine snapped from the pressure.

Deep beneath the surface of the Earth, near the very bones of the world, where one can feel the weight of the mountains pressing down upon them, there is a cave, carved by natural forces and hewn by men's hands. In a small chamber, shafts of light still manage to find their way down, illuminating motes of dust still lingering in the air and just enough to illuminate the chamber.

One can feel a heavy, emptiness in the room, a sound deeper than silence itself. Even the most mundane of people would feel a deep uneasiness, a feeling of being watched, and would quickly find a reason to leave. Curiously, there is no plant life. No buzzing insects, no sound of birds, no creeping vines on the walls, not even spots of mould one would expect to find in ancient caves. Here, shelves line most walls, filled with bottles of things long since grown rancid, evaporated through their cork lids and blackened with age. Many have fallen to the ground, staining the stone floor with unidentifiable chemicals.

Near the centre of the room, a stone plinth sits covered in bloodstains gone black with age. Each corner holds a leather strap, cracked and dry with rusted buckles. A shattered glass bottle lays in pieces with a few drops of a liquid that may have once been blue.

And in one end of the room, where part of the ceiling has partially collapsed to let in sunlight, one can see a body buried under broken stones and piles of earth. Tattered bits of robes still cling to it, robes that were once red but have faded and rotted into grey and brown.

Even if one saw the body in the corner of the eye, they would notice something out of the ordinary. Even in this dim light, certain features stand out. His face is could never have been human; for scales cover the few parts where there still is flesh. He has a misshapen muzzle instead of a mouth, with oversized teeth stabbing through the tattered remnants of cheeks. A pair of horns grow out the back of his hairless head, one snapped cleanly in two by falling rocks but still longer than the other. Parts of his face have rotted away to reveal yellowed bones beneath,

But his eyes are open. Still somehow untainted by time, they stare unseeing out into oblivion. They are not the eyes of a man. Slitted as a reptile, and as red as blood. They glow, even when turned away from the light. They are the eyes of a dragon.