Ambition
Kobolds, magic, draconians! This is what happens when something wonderfully small aspires to be something more, even if he doesn't quite know it yet.
_ This is the 'intro' of a story arc I've been sluggishly working my way through. It's meant to be a 'clean' story, so don't expect smexytimes to show up here. I know it's a bit on the longer side and covers a great deal of time, but...eh, work in progress. Expect more to come as I finish it! _
There was a collective sigh of relief as the final rope was fastened in place, securing the sphinx to the ground. It was, now that teeth and claws were no longer a factor, quite an impressive beast. Gleaming feathers coated the wings whilst a flowing mane ran down the shoulders of a lion. Though, admittedly, the teeth were still gnashing and making the almost human-ish face seem far from appealing.
Kish ignored the harsher side of it, instead taking his moment of rest after the fight to settle down and make a quick sketch of the sight before him while others moved about, checking the rope-net to make sure it would hold. He secretly hoped it wouldn’t, though only if that meant watching the beast fly away. That alone would make for an interesting sketch, just to see the wings in action.
Shouts went out from the two more brutish looking kobolds nearby, each gallantly astride their dire-weasels and waving their spears about to accentuate orders while the others scrambled to comply. It was strange, Kish reflected, watching everyone. This was not a group of kobolds in the traditional sense. There was no mine, no digging, no den, no collection of artifacts to appease the great Wyrms. No, this was a war party without a war. He paused, frowning as their commander, clad in over-accessorized robes, climbed the downed Sphinx and perched atop the shoulders, raising his hands to both bring a crescendo and decrescendo to the cheers of those under him. Kish finished the first sketch and started the next, showing their commander standing tall atop the beast, addressing the rest, pausing to look at a few of the more prominent features of those around him.
Most kobolds were similar, in a way, depending on where they hailed from. The desert tribes were usually a mottled tan with black, the forest kobolds more greens and the sorts, rumors even spread of tribes dwelling in the water, and some in inhospitable colder climes. But most hailed from the same ancestry and had very particular shared traits. They were draconic. All of them. The blood of dragons was their beginning and would forever be a part of them. Though, admittedly, it ran stronger in some rather than others. Their leader was one such kobold.
While the rest gathered around possessed the darker brown and drab green scales common to their tribe, the leader, Drak Firescale, was a bold crimson-red, boasting his shared lineage with the great red dragons of old. The boned ridge over his eyes was more pronounced, a few bone-spines protruding near the back, and he even had a peculiar crest of spines that ran from the back of his skull down his neck, like the crest a red drake might sport, though to far less effect.
Recognized as having been born with a draconic birthright, and having magic in his blood, Drak had been ushered off to be trained in the ways of sorcery at birth, as was the beginnings of life for others in that very same position. It was an honor, a privilege, and brought a kobold one step closer to that blessed dream of being whole with the Old Ones once more.
Kish looked at his hands, his own blue-tinted scales glinting ever so slightly in the sunlight. He had gone through much the same, though even he had a hard time harnessing the arcane in the same manner as Drak. He felt a bit more at home being able to use his spear in a clutch. He’d seen far too many spellcasters meet their own demise by not having the ability to parry a blade.
His attention turned back to Drak as he quieted the war party down and began to speak. The area echoed with the flowing draconic as he, in rather obvious fashion, used a common cantrip to project his voice.
“This was a triumph! A huge success! We set out after this beast, knowing full well that our ability to topple it would bring us one step closer to greatness, and now here it lies, defeated and at our mercy!”
The rabble cheered, raising their spears. Rabble. Kish frowned. It was not the first time he’d thought of them as such. It certainly seemed to fit, but it shouldn’t have. Kobolds were not rabble. Should not be rabble. They were blood of the dragons. Somehow, ‘rabble’ seemed to be undignified.
“As we have always done, we shall finish what we started. We shall burn our dead and pray Kurtulmak brings them home to be born anew. Then, and only then, will we take what is ours! I’ve scouted, and rest assured...there is plenty that will be ours Though take heed of this, most of what we will find will be used to bolster our greatness. We’ve come far, and our own equipment, while very fine, has suffered. We cannot continue without sacrificing some of our own earnings to repair, rearm, and resupply.”
Amidst murmurs of both agreement and unspoken disagreement, Kish looked at his own spear. It was, admittedly, in poor shape. The wood was worn, the tip needed sharpening, but the metal itself was wearing thin to the point that honing the edge would render it brittle and far from reliable in more demanding situations. And his spear was far less used than the ones belonging to those lacking all magical inclination whatsoever.
He looked back to his sketchwork, capturing the speech in pictographic form.
“My brothers,” Drak smirked and reached for the spear belonging to the kobold nearest him, “with this stroke, I claim this moment of greatness for us! This is our victory!”
There was a roar of cheers from the kobolds that was almost drowned out by the bellow of the sphinx as Drak drove the spear down into its head. The struggle was almost nonexistent as life swiftly fled the body. The ‘rabble’ set to pillaging their share.
Kish focused on completing the sketchwork as Drak hopped down. The two sergeants would fetch the claimed gold and treasures for ‘resupplying’ the party.
“You know, Kish, you should have been a bard. With as much history as you’ve recorded, you would have done well.”
Kish hardly glanced up as he finished framing the image of Drak driving the spear into the sphinx. “Someone has to preserve the story, or it will be lost. Then we will have nothing to share when we return, and those who died and returned before us will have nothing to see of their past feats and accomplishments.”
Drak laughed. “A bard.” He sat, pulling a strip of dried, salted meat and tearing it in half, offering a piece to Kish. “I was watching you fight. You handle yourself well, but you could do better with the magic. Look at me! I answer to myself, and everyone answers to me. That is the way of the colored-scaled that are birthed into the tribes.”
“We all answer to someone, Drak.” Kish took a bite of the meat, holding the remainder in his teeth as he resumed. “I do not use my magic as often as you because I do not find taxing myself in that manner to be fully...required. Why expend a large amount of energy to burn something when I can just as easily exhale, thrust with a spear, and leave them just as wounded?”
Drak frowned. “You think too much.”
Kish shrugged and tore another bite from the strip of meat. “So, we can look forward to repairing our spears?”
“I’ve found a place that will yield improved spears. The old ones will be disposed of.” Drak picked up a rock from the road and eyed it critically. A throwback to the days in the mine. “And new robes, of course. I could always use a new pair. Could also get some for you, if you wanted.”
Kish frowned at that. “We are not here to get new things simply because we want it.” He motioned. “The spear needs replacing. My robes do not.” He stood, closing the book with his sketches and tucked it away in his travelpack. “I’m going to scout the den the sphinx lived in. Perhaps I’ll find something important.”
Drak nodded and dismissed him with a faint wave of the hand. “Of course, go pretend to be a bard.”
The ‘den’, if it could even be called that, was massive. A single, cavernous room with a high-vaulted ceiling. Everburning torches were lit and spread evenly along the walls, casting peculiar flickering shadows as the kobold-party raided what it could find. Reflections could be caught in the gold-colored paint, hinting at the extravagant quality that went into the room’s design, while large sections of the walls and ceiling were turned into portraits with clean, sheen white paint. Even the dust from the wind blowing daily outside did not seem to settle on the pristine white surface.
Kish leaned in, gently pressing a palm to the cool surface. Thankfully, the torches were not being touched. In part because the kobolds were too short, but also because they had their own darkvision to compensate for darkness. Torches were not needed, and at times could be a bit blinding in the right circumstance. However, there were spots where the gold paint had been chipped away by a spear-tip to see if it was indeed metal, or just paint. It was, obviously, the latter. A fact that made Kish frown. The craftsmanship was superb, but was slowly being ruined in a moment.
He let a few marauders pass by before taking in the various murals that adorned the walls. They were breathtaking. Subtle lines that you could miss if simply walking by, but could not help but see when looking head-on at each individual section showed the telling of countless stories. Adventurers all finding the sphinx that now lay dead outside, being asked riddles and questions, being given quests and rewards. He was momentarily stunned to stillness by it all.
Somewhere deep inside the further recesses of his mind, he could not help but feel that a mistake had been made.
Night came swiftly. Bodies were burned to ash, the sphinx rather unceremoniously picked at for food, decorative feathers, and pelts, and anything that could be deemed as worthwhile was looted and hauled away. Kish had helped to haul everything back to the camp, listened to the obligatory speech about greatness and glory to Kurtulmak, and promptly took his leave to return so he could capture the things that, in his mind, were worth far more than the gold Drak had taken to have new spears made.
History.
There were things here that needed to be remembered. Things that needed to be stored away in case others wished to learn. True power came from knowledge, that was the very reason the histories depicted on the walls of every den a kobold tribe moved to were so painstakingly carved, preserved, and remembered so that if the tribe moved they could be carved out again, identical to the first. History lost was the single most tragic thing a kobold tribe could endure, as it took with it all of the experiences, trials, lessons, and knowledge gleaned by both ancestors and past lives. Here, before him now, was a chance to capture a vivid series of stories from a source outside the dens, outside the tribes. A chance to gain, without expenditure, knowledge.
He settled himself back against the far wall and began to transcribe the first mural onto the page, moving carefully so as not to alter the message. Granted, the murals were done on a level of detail he could hardly hope to match, but he could at least capture the story behind it. Several times he would have to pause, watching as the flickering light from the torches altered the shadows so he could see something more clearly, but these delays were far and few between.
He paused once he was through with the first panel, comparing the two. His was decidedly crude in comparison, but he had anticipated that much. Carefully, he folded the page into his journal for safe-keeping and shuffled to look at the next. He was almost certain that the walls here were covered with the odd history of the sphinx, though the depictions ranged from pleasant to outright cruel. Chaotic without a doubt. A yawn made its way out of him and he instinctively glanced towards the entrance of the den. It was getting late.
Drak was also approaching.
“Thought I would find you here,” he said as he drew near. “Not getting into trouble, are we?”
“Hardly,” Kish glanced at the journal in his hands, closing it. “Studying these pictures. They’re the beast’s history. Was going to see if they’d lead us to anything beneficial. Perhaps a hidden room or compartment.”
Drak let his gaze roam over the various murals. “I see.” There was a moment’s pause. “Should you find anything....”
“I will let you know.”
Drak nodded his approval and took a seat nearby as Kish produced a candle and holder from his pack, setting them on the ground. Drak lit it with a deft snap of the fingers. This was something the two of them had taken do doing since their days learning under the sorcerers back home. Careful, quiet meditation, thoughtful discussion and conversation, and at times simple reflection. The goal was much the same as the traditional morning meditations every kobold went through. It was a search, a journey of the self as they strived to become more in touch with the very being of their creation.
With the candle lit, Kish resettled himself on the ground and closed his eyes. Behind his eyelids, he could barely make out the soft flickering motion of the candle’s flame. Slowly, he began to calm his own mind, shutting out the noises around him one at a time. First, the drone of the insects. The rustle of the leaves. The wind. The soft crackle of the torches burning in the den. The skittering of a vermin. Drak breathing nearby. Even his own heartbeat was soon shut out until he was left alone with only the innermost thoughts in his mind.
His eyes snapped open as he suddenly became aware of his surroundings. The candle had nearly burned all of its hour-long life away, but even that was not what truly kept his focus. It was the noise from outside. A howl, followed by answering calls. Wolves. He looked towards Drak, who was still deep in his own trance, and pushed himself to his feet, reaching for his spear. Even though he was alone, unless Drak woke up, just holding the spear brought a strange sense of familiar comfort. So long as he held it, there was something to fight with.
The howls sounded again, closer. Undoubtedly with the sphinx gone the local predators had seen an opportunity to scout the den. Or scavenge what was left behind. He squinted against the firelight cast by the torches and could see them, faint outlines of grainy white against black in the night. Of course, at his height, the wolves were probably a bigger threat than they would be for anyone, and also due to that, both himself and Drak would undoubtedly be seen as easy prey. He frowned, hearing the scrape of scales on stone as Drak stood to join him, looking at the gathering pack outside.
“Wolves.”
Drak nodded slowly and looked at the candle, waving his hand and sending a small breeze to blow it out. “Light’s out...we’ll give ourselves whatever advantage we can get.”
Kish joined Drak in carefully weaving and guiding bursts of wind to extinguish the torches and darkness settled over the den. The world turned from muted colors to blacks and grainy whites, giving contrast and depth to the otherwise unseen. He had to grin, the joys of a kobold. So many days and years underground, mining, living, avoiding the glaringly bright sun did bring about benefits. The darkness was their domain, they could see better than most.
The wolves were outside the entrance, slowly moving and positioning themselves to cut off routes of escape for their prey. It took them a little longer to adjust to the moonlight, but their other senses were keen enough that vision was the least of their concerns.
“I count five,” Drak closed his eyes, concentrating.
“Seven. Two are hanging back, rear security,” Kish could barely make out the traces of their bodies as foliage masked most of it. “Middle is the alpha. Burn him quickly and the rest may run.”
Drak set his eyes on the lead wolf and began the soft incantation to draw up fire. “I’ll handle him, hit the flanks.”
Kresh followed suit, though rather than fire, lightning crackled to life at his fingertips. The wolves were initially startled by the display of pyrotechnics, but soon the confidence of having cornered prey and numbers in their favor won out and they continued advancing.
The boom of thunder echoed as the lightning bolt struck home. Rolling in the background was the roar of fire as the wall of flame erupted under the Alpha. The smell of burnt fur and flesh hung heavy in the air as two of the five collapsed in a heap. Two of the remaining turned to flee while the third attacked. Kish was preparing a spell, but Drak beat him to the delivery, a blast of arcane sending the creature sprawling back as its face was collapsed inward into its skull from the magical blow. It was over just as swiftly as it had begun.
Kish calmly surveyed the scene, making certain nothing else was attempting to ambush them both before giving the den a look. “I’ll have to come back tomorrow to finish.”
“You and your stories, Kish.” Drak started picking at the slain wolves, checking their teeth, nails, and pelt for possible use. “I’ll send Bix up to skin and flay these, we can use them in a stew. I’m headed back to the town to check on a few things, try to stay out of trouble, Blue-scale.”
With that, Drak was gone. The den was silent once again. Kish muttered and made his way back through the woods towards the camp that the war-party had claimed as its own.
The meal was to be expected. A paltry stew of mixed meats and scrounged herbs, all mixed together in a mess of flavors that did very little for the palette, but when one was accustomed to such things, then one could stomach it without much question or concern.
Around camp everyone was settling into their usual nightly routine. Bix was working with Grik on the hides from the wolves, Kel was with Frith and Trisk, desperately trying to prove his worth to the latter...though Trisk was more likely to pursue Drak as a mate. Frith wanted Kel, but...well, that was the way things went sometimes.
Drask and Grak were tending to their weasels, the right and left hand leaders under Drak, those two were a fair bit hard-headed at times, but decent in holding the group together in a scrap...which was far too often, in truth. Takt was taking a whetstone to the tip of his spear and having a hushed conversation with Krell, the two were a mated pair, but were not having luck with their endeavours to have eggs. Must have something to do with the travelling.
There were others, but on watch, roaming the area around the camp. Rish, Tyrl, Pash, Fren and Hrat. He muttered. Odd man out, really, without Drak here. The others were born lacking the affinity to cast spells, had not gone through the entire process to train in sorcery and hone their skills. He rubbed his eyes wearily and looked down at the closed journal he carried with him. None of the others seemed interested in collecting history and knowledge, either.
No, this group had strayed. They had taken the drive of amassing wealth to tribute the Ancient Ones and instead sought self-gain and power. It was unfortunate, in truth. But, he had to reason that such things were what happened when a group lost sight of its roots.
They’d left the Den as a scouting party, to look for a home to expand their domain. The colony had begun to outgrow its current home and was in dire need of a new one. Drak, along with himself, had been dispatched with a team to seek out a decent sight to begin prospecting and digging, but things changed. Drak had appointed a pair of brutes as his lieutenants and, when Kish had challenged the move, pushed Kish down a few notches. Now it was conquest. Attacks on solitary or otherwise vulnerable targets....
He tapped the cover of his journal and stood, drinking the broth from his stew before rinsing the bowl out and placing it back in his pack. He idly let his thoughts stray back to the den. They’d failed it, in his eyes, having not found a new home. By now they would have sent out another party, his assumed lost, most likely. It was not uncommon, for such things to happen.
Trudging back along the path that led to the sphinx’s lair, he played various ideas through his mind. What would happen if they were to return to the den? Granted, he’d have a pack full of new knowledge, the records of what the group did in their time away, but would such things even be welcome? They’d failed at their task, that much was clear, and no amount of victory otherwise would compensate for that. Perhaps there would be an understanding if he returned alone they might understand the plight of someone stuck in a group of others who lacked focus on the true goal.
Come to think of it, what would the Ancient Ones even say? It was a known truth that wealth accumulated by any kobold was to be added to the mass stores of the nearest dragon, both as tribute and understanding that the ancient wyrms would protect it. They had access to it, of course, but use of it was rarely needed. A kobold tribe was very adept at amassing wealth for which they had no use. But this group, this war-party, had been amassing for personal gain, they’d let greed cloud their judgement and vision. He imagined the ancient wyrms would be quite...upset.
His steps halted short of the clearing that led up to the den. There was someone else there. A human, by the looks of it, clad in some kind of dark robes and armor. A foul smell carried downwind, almost like death, and Kish had to press his palm over his nose to ward off most of the offending odor. The strange figure was staring at the sphinx’s lair, unmoving.
Part of him, the curious side of him, wanted to move closer, but there was a strange, icy chill, one that instilled a sort of unnatural fear, that kept his feet from moving any further. The man hovered there in silence for a good while before noiselessly turning away, and for just a brief moment Kish swore that the glowing eyes, ice blue in color, hovered on the spot he stood....
He waited, crouching until he was certain the smell of death had moved on before sneaking his way closer. There was no sign, no footprints, no trail, nothing other than the lingering scent that even indicated a man had been standing there. Hesitation set in as he considered making note of it in his journals...and finally opted against it, stepping into the lair.
Things were as he had left them, dirt blown in by the breeze sticking to and covering the blood from the slain wolves being the only true difference. He glanced back to see if there was any sign of the glowing-eyed man, but saw nothing. Settling himself down, he began sketching out the next mural on the wall until falling asleep.
Daylight roused him from simple dreams and he blinked away the fog in his vision as eyes refocused on the world. Standing, he stretched and reached into his pack, pulling out a small ration-pack with some salted meats to chew on as he looked his journal over. He’d gotten about halfway through the mural before falling asleep. He frowned, looking the mural over and tried to get his bearings. Would probably take another few days to finish, though he wasn’t quite sure how long until the group would move again... He swallowed the bite, wrapping the ration up and tucking it into his pack. Something about the mural caught his eye and he frowned, standing and gathering his belongings to look closer. There was something there...a strange crease in the wall that offset the picture, causing the lines and curves to not match up precisely.
Pressing his hand to the crease, he could faintly feel, and smell, the older air trapped behind it. Another passage, perhaps? A concealed chamber, or compartment... He started looking for the trigger or panel that might open it.
“Beg your pardon,” a voice hissed in draconic behind him.
Kish near jumped out of his scales, turning to face the speaker, spear held slightly at the ready. Though, what he was faced with he was far from ready for. It was a creature coated in gold scales and robes, standing taller than most humans he had come across, and leering at him in a fashion that made him instantly uneasy. Others were with him, but he hardly paid them enough mind to find out what they were. Though he’d never seen a dragon, there was something about this creature, this person...a presence that left little doubt.
Born of a dragon’s egg.
“What are you doing here?” The creature asked.
Kish found himself stammering, looking around him. “I...recording, looking, studying.”
The creature nodded slowly. “Drop the spear and help us and we won’t harm you.”
Kish complied without question. Who was he to even think of challenging one descended so closely from the dragons? The spear clattered to the ground and he kicked it across the stone floor, watching as the creature knelt to pick it up.
“You can call me Ras’Dhin. What is your name?”
“Kish. Bluescale. Kish Bluescale, Sir.”
The creature spoke something in common, Kish had a hard time following it, and the others all seemed to relax their postures. Ras’Dhin’s attention returned to him.
“We’re looking for a group of kobolds responsible for slaying a sphinx, do you know of these?”
Kish’s cold blood chilled. The sphinx had been a companion to a dragon-kind? He balked, his mind moving faster than it ever truly had before. This... Well, maybe he only sought to congratulate them? Hardly likely, he knew that much deep in his gut.
“I know them, yes. This would be my group.” He hung his head slightly.
“They are not here now, are they?”
Kish slowly shook his head. “A camp, nearby.”
More common, words being relayed, no doubt.
“Your leader, where is he?”
Drak. Kish somehow knew in the back of his mind this was the price the group would pay for having become the misguided rabble they were. The dragons were punishing them for losing sight of their goals, for not seeking to ascend to their level.
“He may be there, he may not,” Kish answered, wincing at how cryptic the response might have sounded.
“Can you show us?”
Kish suddenly felt that unseen weight pressing down on him that he knew would come. He had a hard time answering, but deep in his core, that part of him that lived to serve the Dragonkind nodded and responded with a hushed ‘yes’.
He stepped out ahead of them and could hear the footfalls of the dragonbeast behind him as he made his way through the forest. He took a longer time than was needed, of course, to try and settle his own mind. He knew how certain creatures, humans especially, treated kobolds... He rationalized that this was simply the ancient dragons sending punishment down on the others for losing their way. That they’d allowed him to live at all was remarkable.
“There,” he finally said, pointing. The route he’d taken had occupied most of the day. “You’ll find them there.”
“Will there be guards?”
Kish nodded again and detailed the posts as best he knew them. It was nothing complex. There was more talk in common as words were passed over his head and the dragonbeast looked down at him.
“You can either leave or stay, no promises about what will happen if you stay.”
Kish didn’t wait, not at all. The Ancients were absolutely giving him the chance to live.... He turned and sprinted for the heavier underbrush, not stopping until he was just out of earshot so he could slump against a tree, panting for breath. Something crashed through the growth and thudded behind him. He looked...it was his spear.
He reached for the device just as there was an explosion of fire from back near the camp. He could hear orders being yelled...and ignored them. It was done. He leaned back against the tree once more, tuning out the sounds as he focused on simply offering a prayer to Kurtulmak for the souls of those left behind.
Sunlight woke him again and he startled at the unfamiliar surroundings. It took a few moments for his mind to recall what had led to him being where he was, and he pushed himself to his feet, using the spear to support his weight. The details of the night before slowly returned and his attention was drawn in the direction of the camp. There was no sound, no smell of fires, nothing. He made his way through the woods until the clearing broke and his heart near sank.
The camp was occupied by the group accompanying the dragonbeast. Surrounding it, the members of his own group were on ghastly display, their heads separated from their bodies and placed atop their spears as trophies. He swallowed and slowly walked down, dumbfounded, as he looked at the familiar features, naming each one off in his mind as he recognized them.
Suddenly, gold filled his vision and Ras’Dhin was standing before him. There were a few words in common he didn’t recognize, and he instinctively tossed his spear aside to quickly to dispel any thoughts of hostility on their part.
“Ah... Kish, was it? Good to see you again,” Ras’Dhin smiled disarmingly. “Your leader...he would not happen to be here, would he?” He gestured to the heads.
Kish looked over the lineup and shook his head. “No...he’s not.”
“We need to find him. Where would he be?”
Kish actually had to think for a moment. Drak spoke of the town where he was getting the new spears made... “A town, that way, I think.” He motioned. “I don’t know where he would be, though.”
“Is there any way we might recognize him?”
Again, Kish had to think for a bit. Drak was a sorcerer, but not the most adept... he had a tendency to hide himself using the same spell over and over. “He disguises himself as a gnome most of the time.”
Common broke out as the group spoke amongst themselves for a bit, Kish forgotten. He breathed a soft sigh of relief, wondering if they’d let him go or add him to the collection of heads.
“Show us,” Ras’Dhin finally spoke up, gesturing Kish on.
Kish retrieved his spear and turned, trying to recall the path that led to the town. It took a few odd turns, but the group following behind him seemed too involved in their conversation to notice. When they finally arrived at the old, small town, the group broke off and Kish found himself alone with Ras and an elf. They didn’t ask much of him, instead relaying questions in common to the shops and people in town until arriving at the Blacksmith.
Kish listened faintly, not understanding a word being said, as he looked over the smith’s shop, noting with a faint twist in his gut the stack of short spears set to one side. There was more conversation in common and suddenly Kish found himself alone with the blacksmith. He frowned, shuffling about as he looked the room over.
The blacksmith said something. Again, in common. Kish, as best he could manage, simply stated he didn’t know what was said in Draconic. It was a terribly failed conversation, and he finally just found a corner to sit, the blacksmith returning to his work and pointedly ignoring the kobold.
It must have been easier to overlook a lizard than Kish thought, because at the end of the day, the Blacksmith closed up shop and simply walked out. Kish heard the tumbling of a lock as the door was secured in place and soon found himself alone with the sounds of the furnace as it cast a dim orange glow through the room.
With a sigh, he resigned himself to sleep.
The morning was greeted with a clatter of metal and a shout of surprise. Common spewed forth and Kish let his gaze focus on the blacksmith, who seemed very understandably surprised at finding the kobold still in his armory. Kish had to take a few moments to let his senses settle into a decent state of wakefulness before simply offering a low bow and backing away slightly, an attempt to pantomime both a lack of hostility on his part and to disarm the situation before finding himself the victim of an angry blacksmith’s hammer. For a bit of added effect, Kish set his own spear aside and began cleaning and straightening the metal pail of rivets that had fallen over in the process.
It must have worked, the blacksmith gave him a dubious look before simply crossing his arms and watching. Kish took it as a sign of appraisal and to continue, so he did just that, straightening out a few things here and there as he saw best. When he finally heard the noise of the bellows stoking the flames, he knew at the very least the threat of being pummeled had passed. Once done, he watched the blacksmith work and started learning the various items that he commonly reached for, scurrying about and nabbing them preemptively to offer them over, affording a few words in common followed by a chuckle from the man.
Well, at least it gave him something to do. Right up until the gold-scaled dragonbeast walked through the door. The smell of blood, kobold blood, was unmistakable, and he knew it belonged to Drak instinctively. The dragonbeast had a satchel that was leaking a few drops of blood onto the floor. He frowned inwardly, the last of his group was now dead. He muttered a soft prayer to Kurtulmak and listened as words were exchanged in common, gestures made to the stack of spears nearby.
After a few moments, the blacksmith, seemingly a bit amused, handed one of the weapons over to the dragonbeast, who promptly thrust it into Kish’s hands.
“For services rendered, kobold,” was all he was told before the dragonbeast left without a further word.
He was stunned to silence. Even the blacksmith seemed a bit taken off-guard as Kish looked back. It was bittersweet, in truth. He lived to serve both the ancient ones and Kurtulmak another day, but at the expense of the others. His gaze settled on the spear...it was admittedly very well made. Good balance, a fine tip. He made his way over and set it beside the door, unwrapping the beads and feathers that decorated his previous spear and moving them to the new one, looking the work over. Satisfied, he looked at the blood trail left behind by the head in a bag and crouched to wipe it up with his hand, smearing some over the leather-wrapped spear tip to stain it. There was nothing else to do beyond that.
He heard something in common behind him and turned, the blacksmith had his arms crossed, watching. He didn’t know what had been said, but it at least seemed understanding, sympathetic even. Finally, the man pointed to a few tools on the wall and said something further before returning to his work.
Kish understood, not fully, but enough to know what was being asked. He hopped onto the workbench to pull the needed tools down and spent the rest of the day assisting around the shop. It was uneventful, for the most part, discounting a few dropped and tripped over tools due to size, and the language barrier offering its own share of challenges, but by the close of the day he felt accomplished, and at least the blacksmith had a few laughs come out of the ordeal.
When the day finally came to an end and the bellows stoking the fire died down, Kish once again found himself at a loss of what to do. He straightened the shop a bit, cleaned a few things while the blacksmith sorted the items made that day, and found himself looking at an open door. Though, when hesitation set in, the blacksmith offered a curious look that Kish could only answer with a shrug.
A moment of simple silence seemed to pass and the smith nodded slowly before stepping in and motioning the Kobold after. Kish dutifully followed and watched as a rather basic bed was set up on the side. Granted, it was something a dog might use, but in his case...he was accustomed to far worse. At least the furnace heated the room to a desirable level.
As best he could manage, he expressed a bit of thanks for the offer and soon found himself locked inside once again. He settled into the bed and curled up comfortably, still able to smell the trace of blood left behind by Drak’s bagged head. It took a while...but he closed his eyes to rest once more.
Years, it felt, had gone by since the routine started and was settled into. Kish assisted about the shop, learning a very harshly spoken common, and things seemed to be doing well. He’d even been able to exchange names with the Smith, who identified himself as Corbin. As time progressed, Kish became slightly more comfortable venturing about on his own, stopping off at shops to gather supplies for the blacksmith being one of his usual routines, though there was always a painfully obvious undertone of distaste directed his way. Most viewed him readily as the blacksmith’s slave, or as an animal, and were quick to treat him as such. Corbin was different, though, the two had their own jokes and, while Kish was entirely unable to handle the unwieldy larger weapons, had taken to assisting with such things as basic scabbards and the likes. It was not much different than weaving traps, simply stitching a few things together, but it occupied time all the same.
Though, as with all things, the end comes far too swiftly. Kish was greeted one morning to the news of Corbin’s death due to age. Tragic, but part of him imagined that if a patron such as Kurtulmak could guide a kobold’s soul to the next life, so too could some patron guide that of humans. The shop had been left to him, but unable to properly work it due to size, he bartered and brokered a trade, selling the shop and the remaining weaponry and equipment off.
The funds went primarily to acquiring him a room at the inn, a special one in the basement that afforded him a level of privacy a standard room would not allow, with access that did not involve travelling through the main rooms of the tavern to get to. The rest of the funds were carefully stowed and used sparingly for both rent, and to acquire various tomes. The urge had set in once more to seek out his own ancestry, something he had put off far too long.
Passing adventurers who cared to hear him out began to bring both rumors and, thanks in part to word-of-mouth, tomes to trade that detailed the ancestry of the dragons, various sects, orders, and groups that worshipped and followed their disciplines. He would read every last word, making his own volumes of notations and observations, conflicting information that arose, evidence that resolved them. He’d even rekindled an older practice he’d all but forgotten to adhere to, spending the first hour or two digging deep within himself to try and awaken the dragon’s blood within him, practicing cantrips and spells he used to know to rekindle the bloodline he had inherited.
It wasn’t until he found a tome, though, emblazoned with the crest of a dragon soaring, and wings outspread, which he found something worth pursuing. Years had passed, his shelves were filling rather dramatically, the ‘den’ beneath the Inn had become more tailored to his tastes, and even the town had learned to ignore the strangely robed hermit, which was for the better. Crowds made him nervous. He felt closed in, surrounded, suffocated....
His nails traced over the cover of the book as he opened it up. It was not a book, truthfully, but rather records. He thumbed through the first few pages, a small introduction that sounded akin to a journal recounting a journey to find and imbue one’s self with the essence of a dragon... To serve, to be like them, more like them than any beast or human was truly capable of. He furrowed his brow with intrigue as he began reading the chapters. They were more than simple tales. It was a road map, a guide... His mouth turned up in a smile as he closed the tome and rubbed the intricate cover... His calling. His goal.
He turned the book on end to read the spine. Bold gold lettering caught the light from the sparse lanterns hanging from his wall and he hissed his satisfaction.
Dragon Disciple.