By the time I'd run out of mana to summon more bombs, I'd gathered about forty more midgets to join our rowdy crew of musicians. Most of them were soldiers in groups of four of five, marching through the hallways with their weapons at the ready. Luckily, my bombs stopped them from hurting me.

I had Betsy bring us to the nearest kitchen; I was mighty hungry from making new friends and singing. She led our party to an empty cafeteria and wandered off into the attached kitchen to get some grub. Her rough voice barked out something and two male Dwarves shuffled into the kitchen to help her. They came back out with a large platter of a roasted-to-perfection acid cow; it even had an apple in its mouth!

It smelled heavenly, even from so far away. Completely enraptured by the gleaming green calf, I drooled at the thought of sinking my fangs into its body. I could hardly contain myself from jumping off of the table and ripping into the meal now, but I forced myself to be patient.

I wanted to share it, after all. The Dwarves sitting on the long benches placed on both sides of the stone tables were just as eager as I was to dig in. I flexed my paws, mentally urging the three midgets to hurry up and put the platter down.

Finally, after two seconds of gut-wrenching eternity, the acid cow was in front of me. Betsy produced a wicked sharp dagger from her boot sand sliced off one of its hind legs. With a pleased smile, she presented the leg to me and said, "Ÿs dá, dah best sothy Mì could ask thú."

Blushing, I brought my paw up to my muzzle and shook my head. "Aw, shucks, Betsy."

She smiled even wider and put the leg down on the table in front of me. The Dwarves around me leaned forward, their eyes watching my face intently.

"Here I go," I muttered, opening my maw nice and wide to take the biggest bite out of this thing.

"Commander Battlegrip," Captain Torermat Windbrand greeted the older Dwarf grimly, snapping a perfect salute.

"At ease," Dukgraeg muttered, adjusting his equipped gauntlets. "Yer said de aberrant wus seen 'eadin' toward de mess wi' a bunch av our tren, 'uh?"

Torermat nodded, gripping his long sword tightly. Dwarves weren't known to use such weapons in battle, but he liked them better than the shoddy spears the smiths were pumping out. He missed the days where the beautiful war hammers and battle axes lined the racks in the armory but the Council was favoring quantity over quality these days.

"We aim to catch it before the beast can seduce any more of our soldiers," he said, handing his commander the battle plan their head strategist, Bezzir Woldhelm, had drafted up. Said man was mumbling to himself in a chair seated on the other side of the room. The lesser tacticians eyed him carefully while talking amongst themselves in hushed voices. Every so often, one of them would glance over at the two soldiers, sneer, and go back to their conversation.

Torermat sighed. The thinkers and the warriors had never gotten along, and the tension between the two sides only worsened when the new Head Maid came into power. It was no secret that she favored the brains of society over the Dwarves kept said society safe. Torermat himself was on the road to becoming a tactician until the Head Maid started pushing for more maidens to start working under Bezzir. His name had been crossed off the list and he'd struck up with the army, thinking that working under the Great Commanders would be better than misguided politics and snobbish wannabe strategists.

Unfortunately, his commander seemed to like going head to head with the Head Maid. Those under his command often caught flak for the old Dwarf's squabbles with their clan leader. There was nothing to do about it, though. All he could do was try his best to stay out of the line of fire.

"Issa gran' plan, Captain," Commander Battlegrip rumbled, dropping it onto the table. He picked up the helmet attached to his hip and turned back to him. "What're our scouts sayin' that's got our tren under its wee paws?"

His perfect memory came in handy, as the scouts had told him nearly an hour ago. "Some sort of glass ball that sprays a cloud of orange mist," he answered. "Elkhilda says that the mist is what's controlling them."

His commander grinned at him. "You're fancy wi' de Orebrow lass, aye?"

Torermat flushed. "I-I'm not sure how that's relevant, sir."

Dukgraeg laughed, drawing the subtle ire of the maidens talking on the other side of the room. "Oi'm joshin' witcha, laddie. Canny be so tense 'eadin' into battle nigh, can yer?"

"Ah...Well, um, I've set up a platoon down in the armory that is awaiting your command, sir."

Dukgraeg grunted, pulling on his helmet. "Let's go capture dat aberrant, den."

"Capture?" Torermat frowned. "Shouldn't we kill it?"

"That was my thought, too," his commander sighed. "Head Maid's orders."

He pursed his lips and nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir."

"Everyone," I cried, "I'm afraid it's time for our party to end."

Shouts of discontent rang through the crowd of midgets. I raised my paw, quieting them down. "I know, I know. But I came to this hill for a reason; every dragon needs her hill and this one," I threw out my paw and gestured grandly at the cafeteria, "this one's callin' to me. It's a mighty fine hill to call home, ya know?"

They agreed, looking up at me fondly.

"Uh, well...I'm not all that sure how to conquer a hill. So, uh..." I cleared my throat and roared with all of my being:

"THIS HERE HILL IS MINE!"