The tavern was a cacophony of interesting smells and noises. Scritch’s inebriation gave halos of color and echoes to al the voices that surrounded them and the din of silence traversed through the thralls as scritch was escorted at the hand of Baldir. Jaws dropped as she looked around, fearless and eyes bright with curiosity. From where she stood, barely above knee height to the patrons, the place had a unique and unpleasant odor of its own.

She followed Baldir’s guiding hand, faltered when he approached and leaped onto a stool to face a rowdy looking bunch. They stared down at her with confusion, then looked up to him.

“So, you taught a kobold to speak?” a brutish looking half-orc said. Scritch looked up at him, and in true fashion, blinked one eye, then the other. It was unsettling as she did so, the orb of her eye sinking into her flesh with a wet sound in succession. His upper lip curled.

“Hi! You’re kinda ugly,” She said, extending a hand to wave up at him.

The half-orc caught himself waving back at her, bewildered, and not sure if he should be offended.

“PAY UP, BOYS!” Baldir said as the crew fished in their pockets to lay coin and gem alike on the counter.

Scritch reached up for a barstool and hooked her little claws into the wood of it to lift herself off the ground. She fanned her back legs in the air for a moment before the half-orc reached down to give her a leg up. Her forebody came over the breadth of the stool and she righted herself before peering over the counter to stare at the gold and gems before her. A bright green emerald sat in the midst of it all and she reached for it with childlike curiosity. It sparkled with fire, and scritch held it in her hands gleefully before lifting it to her mouth and chewing on it. She was curious and her teeth clicked over it. She put it back, having decided it wasn’t edible.

“Whassat?” She asked, pointing to the spittle-covered gem.

“Emerald,” Baldir said proudly.

A large flagon of ale, small by others’ comparison, was pushed before her and she stood on her tiptoes to look over the rim of the glass. Her pink tongue darted out to lap from the froth of the mug. It tasted foul, but everyone else was drinking it!

“It’s fake,” Scritch said, pointing to the emerald before dipping her maw into the surface of the ale. She lapped happily as Baldir’s voice rose.

“YE FUCKIN CHEAT,” He said just a moment before launching himself off the stool, right at the half-orc that had helped her up.

She turned, white ale cream dripping off of her snout, and stared at the ensuing brawl.

“Huh…” She said before returning to her beer and slowly tipping it on its side to get it into her mouth. It was almost as good as the dragonweed. It made her head feel swimmy. She licked the inside of the mug, which one generally shouldn’t do at a tavern of this quality, gathered the coins and glass emerald, then turned. Right before her, the half-orc was flung into a tumble. His unmoving form slumped at just the right height for her to step off of the stool onto him like a slope. From his belt dangled a satchel, purse-sized for her. She plucked the strings of it, dumped the gold in, and toddled off, winding between legs of the crowd above.

The beautiful thing about being less than 3-foot-tall was that people tended not to look at you. Her woozy gait brought her around one leg, over another, onto a foot. Someone stepped on her tail and she retaliated with a sharp bite that resulted in someone turning to deck the person next to them. That person, too, had a small satchel at their belt. Scritch inspected the small sack, found it to contain her preferred shinies, and emptied it into her first sack. She liked this game!

She toddled around from one distracted brawler to the next, grabbing purse strings and emptying gold into her own pouch with careless abandon. She heard colorful language, too, words she’d never heard before.

A few seasons ago, when she was a wee little hatchling, a cult had taken residence near QueQua’s lair. They were human and worshiped dragons. They never quite understood that dragons weren’t something to be worshiped; they were to be served. They had taught a lot of the kobolds the common tongue to facilitate in their prayers. Only a fool invades the space of a dragon and asks it for gifts. QueQua’s only gift was a swift death. One by one she heard their supplications and promptly ate them. Scritch was one of the few kobolds that had become fluent in human tongue and learned to read their scribbles.

She wondered if she could ask Baldir about what the colorful words she heard words meant, but he seemed busy. A wolfman had him by his legs, spinning to toss him across the room. Scritch had a thought that she probably shouldn’t bother him. She went back to pilfering coin purses. She had quite a keen eye for the larger hauls.

As her arms neared their capacity to hold, she toddled free out the front door and across the street to where Leoric lay out in the grass, staring at the stars with the gingerly napping Blast on his chest.

“I got shinies,” Scritch announced as she stumbled woozily and tripped to let her pilfered goods flow free from her arms.

Leoric looked across the ill-gotten gains. There were coins from many different countries, shiny buttons, gold, bits of shells with iridescent sheens and the odd badge from a city guard. Leoric tugged his beard as he saw the pile.

“Well, Master Blast…can I just call you blast?” Leoric asked. Blast gave him a dirty look.

“Since you are esteemed and in my first to be enslaved, you may address me by my untitled name,” Blast said.

“Cool. Okay, so I need to reach my pack. Your kobold needs to hide that stuff fast,” Leoric said, earning a grumble of warning from Blast.

“The spoils are mine,” Blast grumbled.

“Yes yes, I know. I have a spare rucksack in my bag. I’m just going to grab it. Scritch can carry it,” Leoric said as Blast stomped over his chest and thudded to the ground with a short chuff of smoke.

Leoric bent over his bag and carefully withdrew neatly packed and linen wrapped items. Near the top was a clean bundle wrapped in dingy linen. He untied it and presented a rucksack that had seen little use and was small enough to be considered just a little large on Scritch’s frame. She took the bag and gave it a snuffle. Everything in his bag smelled like dragonweed. She made an odd churring noise in her throat. Her eyes went wide and she toppled over into a limp flop.

“She smells like sour beer,” Blast said as she came over and prodded Scritch’s nose with her little clawed paw.

“Remind me to ask your dwarven companion if he got the ‘bad influence’ title, too. She’s drunk,” Leoric said as he poked her tail. She made a strange squeaking noise, but no effort to move.

Blast grumbled some ancient draconian swears the likes of which completely escaped Leoric and went about biting onto the canvas of the bag and tugging it with short frustrated jerks from beneath Scritch’s arms. Leoric assisted and opened the bag. Blast was excited, hopping from one foot to another and bouncing around in the short grass as she nipped up piece after piece of shiny finery. She scooped a particularly heavy coin into her maw and scampered to the bag. She dropped it from as high as she could manage, so she could revel in the loud clink that it made.

“Can I help?” Leoric asked.

Blast looked him over and nodded. He seemed trustworthy enough. Shady people often times showed you their colors right away, you just had to look. His clothes were plain, shoes were worn and everything he owned seemed ancient and cared for. This was not the type of man that stole and regarded relationships as disposable. Everything was dear to him.

Leoric was well-versed in dragons. He rolled his sleeves up, kept his hands visible and gathered the items as fast as he could, letting Blast glimpse each piece as it went in. Leoric stared at the sum and did a great deal of math in his head as he contemplated it.

“What is on your mind, grandpa?” Blast asked before he sealed the sack and rolled the top. Blast climbed atop it and curled up, watching him curiously.

“That this is a lot of gold, and I think of investments, long term things,” He said.

“Yes, like good Kobolds,” Blast agreed.

Leoric gave her a puzzled look. She didn’t seem to notice his confusion. He wondered if they could read facial expressions.

“Pardon me, but I’m curious as to what you mean by that,” Leoric said.

“If I have ten Kobolds and wait a year, I’ll have fifteen. If I have ten Kobolds and eat five, then wait a year, I will only have eight Kobolds,” Blast said.

“That’s a little different. Investment is where you spend some to earn more gold,” Leoric said, careful of his gestures. Dragons only used gestures when they wanted things.

“I assure you. I save what I obtain,” Blast said sternly.

“Yes, but I see us needing things to get more slaves and soldiers faster. Dragons don’t usually leave the nest until they’re strong enough to fight their way. You’re going to have to be cleverer,” Leoric said

Blast looked worried and pensive.

“What things do we need?,” Blast asked cautiously.

“Well, just from what I’ve seen, your Kobold needs some armor. You’ll need a wagon to transport things faster, a beast to draw that wagon. If we spring for a bigger wagon, we can sleep in it and save some money on inns in the long run… she also needs a weapon.”

“How much of my gold will I need to surrender?” She asked. Dragons did not have words for ‘cost’ and ‘pay.’ The concepts were foreign.

“Maybe about a third of that, a few gold more if you want the bigger wagon.”

“I think I do wish for a bigger wagon, if I have to surrender less gold,” Blast said.

“More gold now, but less gold later. It will add up.”

“This does make a strange type of sense. I shall think on it. I shall not want my kobold to die too soon,” Blast announced.

“You are wise and will make the right decision,” Leoric replied.

“Yes. I shall consort with you often, then. You are a fine grandpa,” Blast said before turning her head to look back into the brawling crowd. Baldir was being thrown by several men holding onto flailing limbs. He went tumbling into the dust, laughing maniacally and almost immediately picked himself up from the dust, brushed himself off and charged in, shoulders braced.

“A strong warrior, yes,” Blast said with an astute nod.

“He looks like he parties the right way at least,” Leoric said with wide eyes, raised brows and a noncomittal shrug. He knew he was going to like this late chapter in his life.