//------------------------------// // Chapter 57 - Building Bridges // Story: Bad Mondays // by Handyman //------------------------------// He paced up and down the hold of the ship as he contemplated his future course of action. He had already checked the engine itself, almost scalding himself in the process like the damn fool he was, but the pressure had been adjusted. Now he had to decide what to do with the damned dragon on his ship. He had several reasons for wanting to accept Princess Twilight’s request in the first place back in Skymount, not the least of which of course was all the political concerns—the High King’s little chat had done quite a bit to motivate him in that matter. Despite that, he did have something to get out of all of this. For starters, Spike himself. He had no illusions of suborning his loyalties, and he had absolutely no intention of gaining the lizard’s genuine friendship. The drake was just a pawn, a tool, but as it turned out, a useful one. Perhaps a profitable one if he pulled all this off. A princess of one of the most powerful countries on this world had come to him for a favour. That was not to be underestimated. He knew precious little about the alicorns, save for the fact that there were apparently eight of them in total, and four of them were in Equestria. That… was an exceedingly rare breed of pony, and all of them were apparently renowned in terms of magical resources and knowledge. He was well aware that the ponies had copped onto his interest in magic, especially in light of his previous protestations of humans not knowing magic. That meant they knew it was valuable to him, along with the knowledge that he had a personal mage to study the matter. So, what did one do when one found himself at odds with a regional great power ruled by exceedingly powerful mage-queens who commanded the sun and the moon? Make it seem like the youngest and least influential of them had power over him. A dangerous gambit to be sure, but he had noticed that contemplative look on Twilight’s face when he left the throne room. The woman was a thinker. That, coupled with his threat of forcing her to face up to her elder princesses about the matter? All the more likely the wilier princesses would coach her on using this to get him to trust her more, even lull him into thinking he had influence over her in order to reverse affairs if they saw through the first half of his gambit. Which was where the little drake would come in. If they pulled this off, and there was still a chance, however small, that this would be a mere taxi job, he gained the little bastard for a year. He was well aware that the drake would have some means of contacting or keeping in touch with the alicorn. Hell, if Handy had a way of contacting Chrysalis, however limited and one-sided it was and by accident no less, the personal servant of one of the leaders of a great power certainly had. He wanted that dragon so he could, at the least, have a means of studying the species directly. He knew about the dragon bones Crimson had reclaimed as her cut of treasure from Lepidopolis, but she would need more. He needed to know more about dragons if any decided to jump him again like that asshole during the fall festival whose name he had forgotten way back. Felix, was it? Ferrovax? Ferix? It didn’t matter anymore regardless. He would keep up the charade, try to hide things from the dragon, and lead him off on false leads when he ‘discovered’ more about what he was after. He’d make him think that the secrets that he was really after was some -obscure alchemical formulae, or odd and forbidden magics, or hell, even necromancy, which Crimson reliably told him didn’t exist despite animating the corpse of an undead dragon that he had killed himself... Handy didn’t get magic sometimes. In any case, he would feed Spike anything other than the truth about Handy’s interest in the veil and breaking through it to get back home. Perhaps he was being overly cautious, but he did not want them to know about Earth, for better or for worse. Besides the matter, he needed the dragon’s trust to get through to the princess and use that to somehow get information and material to aid in his quest. And who knew? Maybe he’d get more alicorn blood out of it. There was just one small hitch with this plan. He. Was. A. Fucking. Dragon. Handy was proud of how well he had kept his composure his entire time in Ponyville. It certainly helped that the thing was a five-feet-nothing which he towered over, but the truth of the matter, being this close to a dragon made Handy extremely anxious. It would only take one slip, one little accident, all the damn lizard would have to do was cough at an inappropriate time, and not only would his weakness suddenly become horribly clear to his enemies, but there was a chance he might go up like a Guy Fawkes puppet. That was why he was now pacing down in the hold of the ship to ease his nerves on the matter. He would need to be in close proximity to the drake for at least the journey to and from the Dragonlands, and he would definitely need to get his nerves under control if he was going into that hellscape of all things. He was confident, of course, about as confident as he could be. He was an official representative of at least two kingdoms in this affair, not that he thought that would impress the dragons. It did, however, give him sufficient excuse to not engage with the dragons directly, and a sufficient pass to not succumb to any… heated exchanges which he had been previously been prone. He hoped. That was assuming the dragons actually were sufficiently impressed with his title of Dragonslayer to actually allow them in. Or you know, they didn’t just immediately incinerate his entire airship before it so much as crossed the border. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all… He continued his pacing as his thoughts ran to and fro about his mind. He idly noted how large the hold actually was in comparison to the rest of the ship and how cramped the actual living quarters were. The entire stern was given over to the steam engine and the hideously complicated pipe work, pressure valves, and importantly, the ballast controls. The walls were shot through with riveted iron plates covering the intricate pulley system that allowed the captain to control things from the bridge. He stopped when he realized that when size, space efficiency, and speed were set aside, this ship was hideously slipshod in a lot of ways. It wouldn’t even be very hard for someone to sabotage the entire thing—all they’d need to do was limpet to the side of the hull, cut their way through in the dead of night, and start wrecking shit. He put the thought away for later and made note to never let the lizard down here. He checked the supplies and noted they had plenty of food and fresh water —for drinking, not for the engine—just in case they somehow pulled a Moses in the sky and got lost for a ridiculous length of time. In fact, it hardly took up even an eighth of the remaining space. He found his private reserve, opened it, and counted his remaining bottles, then downed a pint of pig’s blood to keep him going for the next week. Disgusting, but it would at least keep the hunger pains at bay so he wouldn’t be tempted to take a taste of the alicorn blood he had at hand… at least not while the drake was hanging around. He sighed and shuddered at the chill of the hold. Right, it was time he stopped putting this off. If he was going to make it through this, he was going to have to interrogate the dragon eventually. He replaced the now empty wooden container and climbed the steps to the upper deck to have a friendly chat. --=-- The sight was truly beautiful. The ship was flying at a relatively low altitude over an area of plains north of the Everfree, having chosen to go around rather than over the accursed forest. There was just enough left of the day for light to peek through a gap in the troubled cloud cover and bathe the distant lakes and wild lands in subtle blues and soft shadows. Thunder rumbled above like the troubled sleep of an elderly god and gentle sheets of rain fell lightly on the ground, washing down the sides of the ship’s envelope and falling in sheets and rivulets to the ground below. The three of them were gathered on the bridge around a circular table brought up from the spare room. Handy had figured it best if they were not far from the controls in case anything untoward happened. They sat there as Silvertalon dealt out the hands. Spike shifted nervously in his seat and Handy had to resist the urge to snort. Given the way the dragon was sitting, he probably found these Gryphonic chairs just as irritating as Handy did. “Comfortable?” Handy asked. “Huh? Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks.” “You ever play?” Handy asked, gesturing to the cards with a nod. Spike kept his eyes on the cards as they were dealt. “Uh, I have played bridge with the girls once or twice,” he answered. Handy blinked. They had bridge on this world? He put that matter away. “Well then, I guess we’ll have to teach you the rules to poker then. Silver? Care to do the honours?” Handy examined his hand while Silvertalon explained the rules to the nervous-looking drake. Two of blades, princess of stars, five of hearts, two of emeralds, six of stars—certainly not the best first hand, but surely he’d be able to pull one over on this dragon before Silvertalon cleaned him out like he usually did. He considered what he’d ask and decided on his first salvo just as Silvertalon finished. “Alright, so tell me, Spike, why exactly is it you cannot travel to the Dragonlands yourself?” Handy asked as he took a card. Spike blinked in surprise. “Well… kind of a long story.” “Shorten it, we’re not going anywhere,” Handy demanded, his face like stone. “Well… Alright, ya see we don’t actually know.” He shrugged slightly. “I find that distinctly hard to believe,” Handy commented dryly. “No, really! Uh, we were never given a reason?” He gave a sheepish grin that looked particularly odd on a dragon’s face. “You sound uncertain,” he pressed. Spike took a card and rubbed the back of his neck. Handy took note of that. “Well, you see, it was around a year ago, last spring even, the dragons just stopped letting anypony through,” Spike explained, holding his scarf to his mouth and coughing lightly. Handy sat very, very still. “No one?” Handy asked. “Yeah. I mean, before that, the Dragon Lord was pretty icy towards me in particular, but never really stopped us coming and going and generally letting the dragons do as they wanted.” “But?” “You have to understand, the dragons don’t let anypony through. Dragon or not,” he explained. That got Handy’s attention. “So it's not just you?” “No, why would it be?” Spike asked. “I mean, there’re a few dragons who have been exiled in particular over the years, I know of one young dragon who’s older than me and currently hangs around Griffonia. For some reason, he was exiled when he was half my age. Well, I know of him—never got into contact with him though. Twilight avoided the topic when I asked about him.” Handy decided to brush on past that particular issue. “And you know you’re not banished, how?” “They’d tell you. Also you’d feel it—the Dragon Lord makes sure you feel disconnected from the law,” Spike explained. “The law?” “Eh, it's hard to explain. It's a dragon thing. ‘Sides, if this was just to sneak in without the dragons knowing, pretty sure we wouldn’t need you.” Handy raised an eyebrow at that but ignored the unintended challenge. “The dragons have never before deliberately patrolled the edge of the Dragonlands to keep ponies out.” “Okay… So I at least now have a better appreciation of why you tried to get me specifically to help. That’s still no guarantee they won't just turn us around.” Spike shrugged as he took a card. “Only shot we got,” he said simply, as if he was resigned on the matter. Which, Handy reflected, he was. Even if they did get turned around, Handy fulfilled his end of the bargain, which meant he got Spike for a year. “So, this Dragon Lord. What can you tell me about him?” “Her. And hopefully we won’t need to speak to her directly.” Handy was about the question the title of lord for a female but decided against it. Maybe it was one of those cultures where the term was the same in their parent language, regardless of sex. “So we shouldn’t have too much trouble with her?” Handy asked. “Moooost likely.” Spike didn’t sound entirely sure. “Well, I know we didn’t do anything to anger her directly.” “You said she had been particularly icy towards you,” he pointed out, resisting the urge to sigh at his terrible hand. Silvertalon was happily humming away an air shanty as they played, the contented, confident bastard that he was. Spike looked somewhat dejected. “I’d… rather not talk about it. It's awkward, and like I said, if it was about her hating me, she’d have banished me and been done with it all. I don’t know what's got the dragons riled up.” “Hmm,” Handy mused, scratching his chin. Silvertalon smiled and Handy silently cursed himself for the tell. Spike hadn’t seemed to notice anything, however. “Tell me this, Spike...” Spike looked up from his cards. “What exactly is wrong with you?” “W-Wrong?” “Your illness. Why is it exactly that none of the doctors, or any of the medical professionals a princess like Twilight can easily get a hold of, are unable to do for you what the dragons can?” he asked. “Well, we tried. It's just that nopony really knows all that much about dragons.” Handy gave him a level look. “Honest!” “I still find that distinctly hard to believe. Dragons have been around forever, correct?” “Well, yeah.” “And more often than not, quite a few dragons can be found outside of the Dragonlands, banished or otherwise.” “Yeah…” “And you are telling me that not once in all of history, dragons have gotten sick and needed outside help? Like say, the advanced medical and magical knowledge of nearby powerful kingdoms.” “No.” Handy just stared. “Really?” “Yeah, dragons would rather die than show weakness,” he confirmed. Handy rubbed his forehead. “And what, you’re the only dragon who has been raised outside of the Dragonlands? There was never a dragon in your situation before?” “While there have been other cases of dragons being raised outside of the Dragonlands, they are usually always raised by, well, other dragons. Or in isolation,” Spike recited. He didn’t look the least bit discomfited by the admission. “What?” “I just… How can there be so little known about dragons?” Handy asked. “You’ve been interacting with civilization for thousands of years.” “How can there be so little known about humans?” Spike countered. Handy almost blurted out the truth but caught himself. “Probably because there is a huge ocean of horrors between here and where I am from,” Handy said plainly. “And are you so willing to let ponies know about your health?” “Well I…” Handy had to stop himself. The damn drake had a point. He had been in a pony hospital before, albeit once when he had no choice in the matter but he would never willingly allow doctors in this world to have the chance to study him, even if it was for his own benefit. The entire debacle with Mimae and Shortbeak happened only because he had allowed his arm to deteriorate as badly as it had done. No doubt the drake had at least heard about his little hospital visit way back in Spurbay. “Fine. Dragons are extremely proud,” Handy admitted, to which Spike nodded, “but surely you could at least ask a friendly dragon outside of the Dragonlands for help.” “By definition, banished dragons are not friendly. Most others are there because they don’t want anypony around. And besides, the Dragon Lord seems to have called most of them back,” Spike explained. Handy paused. “But not you?” “...But not me,” Spike said, slowly realizing what Handy was getting at. Handy sighed. “And you’re telling me you’re not banished?” he challenged. “I am not! Look, if I was, I’d know it!” Spike protested. “How would you know?” “The law!” Handy spread his free hand in exasperation, putting his hand face down. “What about this law? You haven’t told me anything about it, and I am supposed to take it as a legitimate answer? What law?” he demanded. Spike slumped back and looked side to side. “Look, I don’t know how to articulate it well, I just know, okay?” “No, it's not okay. Try,” Handy demanded, staring the drake down. He could almost see how Spike deflated. “It’s this… feeling. The Dragon Lord has a connection to all dragons under his or her authority.” “How?” “I don’t know! Something to do with bloodlines and authority and the first of all dragons. It's complicated and no dragon I have met has given me a straight answer about it. Basically, there are certain laws that all dragons under authority must obey, and nopony knows what they all are until they’re in a position where it matters. Like the Dragon Lord—at a certain age, a Dragon Lord must abdicate and pass the sceptre to a successor.” “And this sceptre, is it important?” “Mmmm, kind of?” Spike scratched the back of his neck again. “I mean, it’s somehow related to the dragon law, but it's not imperative, and no non-dragon can use it. The Dragon Lord can use it to summon dragons under their authority for an audience.” “And that's it?” Handy asked. “I think so? I’ve never seen or heard of it being used in other ways. I know young dragons have to do what the Dragon Lord commands, however silly.” At that, Spike snorted, rolling his eyes up and shaking his head at some memory. Handy shared a confused look with Silvertalon, who shrugged. “As they age, dragons are less and less under its immediate power, or so I think. I know there were no real adult dragons around when I and the other Equestrian dragons were summoned.” Handy was troubled at that. It only summoned the Equestrian dragons? Were there other dragons not under its authority? Were there other Dragon Lords, or were dragons extremely limited in number? He put those thoughts away for the time being to focus on more pertinent questions. “You were summoned once?” Handy asked. “Mm-hm! Yeah, it was this whole thing. The Dragon Lord was abdicating and he put all us young dragons to the test to be his successor,” he said. “I took part.” “And I take it you met this current Dragon Lord there?” “Oh yeah, her name’s Ember by the way. She, uh, won in the end.” Handy nodded. “Alright, so what is she like?” Spike shrugged. “I dunno, she’s a dragon, like the rest of them.” What a very general statement, Handy thought. “That’s it?” “Ever met a dragon before? Same thing, just in charge.” “Right. You say that like you don’t consider yourself a dragon.” “In a lot of ways I don’t,” Spike said, forfeiting a card. “You don’t? How could you not?” Handy raised an eyebrow. “I was raised by ponies. Your family is who you grew up with,” he said simply. “While I don’t deny that, that hardly stops you from being what you are.” “Yeah, well, trying to find my ‘true self’ in the past didn’t work out so hot,” Spike said, now seemingly uncomfortable with the topic. “Look, can we change the conversation? I’d rather not talk about it.” “Alright. There’s only one real personal matter of yours I need to know about.” “Yeah?” Spike asked. “Your sickness, what is it?” “I don’t know,” Spike replied, sounding sincere. “Yes, yes, we just covered all that. Dragons proud, no one outside of the Dragonlands knows how to treat dragons, I get it. I meant the symptoms. Am I going to wake up one night and find the ship on fire because you had a coughing fit?” Handy asked. “What? Oh! No, nothing like that. My coughing isn’t really that bad,” Spike said. “Right,” Handy said skeptically, “but why are you cold? Shouldn’t a dragon like you have a belly full of fire?” “...Y-Yeah.” Handy waited for the awkward moment that ensued to pass. “I… can’t.” “Can’t what?” Handy asked. “Breathe fire. I can’t breathe fire anymore.” That brought both Silvertalon and Handy to a halt. Silvertalon glanced between them for a moment, Handy just staring at Spike in disbelief. A dragon who lost his ability to breathe fire? Granted, he was willing to believe him if Spike had told him he was simply a dragon who didn’t breath fire—stranger things had happened. To have lost it? It was like imagining a bird that couldn’t fly anymore. Just sad in a way. And despite himself, Handy couldn’t help but feel a little relieved. ‘Well, that puts that worry to rest at least. On the other hand, this must be very serious indeed.’ “Well… alright then.” Handy looked at his hand once again, his face dispassionate. “Any other symptoms we need to be aware of?” “No, not really. I mean, I don’t sleep well, I don’t have much energy, migraines… It's like having a really bad flu for years on end,” he explained. “Years? How long have you been this ill?” “...A while. It was small stuff at first. A cough here, a bad day there. I grew more irritable the more the migraines piled up.” He began to cough, this time more sustained. “Then… I lost my fire. Literally.” “Right, right,” Handy said, wanting to move on from the topic. “Okay, look, how about you just tell me about what the Dragonlands themselves are like and what I should expect.” And so, for the rest of the game, that was what Spike did, informing Handy about the nature of the Dragonlands as Spike knew them, which was to say that they were a Godforsaken volcanic wasteland for the most part. Occupying a thin stretch of coastline from where it bordered Equestria, it consisted mostly of basalt rock formations, mostly dead volcanoes, and shale beaches, all the way up to where it bordered the colder regions of the continent beside the expansive kingdom of Henosis. The northern regions of the Dragonlands were cold but still habitable thanks to active volcanic activity. It was the midlands, where it more closely bordered the Equestrian territory known as the Crystal Empire, where most of the Dragonlands seemed to be. However, Spike had never travelled that far, and as far as he knew, no outsiders were allowed in as a matter of course even before this current Dragon Lord got all uppity. What lay beyond the Dragonlands? Spike had no answer for him. Northwest was the Forsaken Sea which was nothing but frozen wastelands and icebergs, and immediately to its west was a large subcontinent which was relatively unexplored. ‘Relatively’ in this context meaning anyone who so much as ventured farther than the beaches tended not to return. It was a good bet it was also dragon territory. By the end of it, Silvertalon, who had been listening patiently the entire while, called it and they placed their hands on the table. Spike’s hand was an ace of emeralds, a prince of hearts, a princess of stars, a scrivener, and a ten of blades. A flush. Handy had to take the small comfort in enjoying the bewildered expression on Silvertalon’s face as he watched the ten crowns he had be clawed up by the overjoyed dragon. Little bastard didn’t even know what he had. Handy snorted in disgust. “Beginner’s luck,” he murmured. --=-- Over the next two days, Handy could’ve sworn the lizard had grown an inch or two. It was barely perceptible, and he only really noticed when Spike was suddenly just a shave taller than a particular riveted iron plate in the corridor that hid a part of the ship’s control system. He also became aware of the dragon watching him, which honestly was not that surprising considering everything. He kept his distance, however. Fire or no fire aside, it would not be good to shatter any of the drake’s preconceptions of the ‘Dragonslayer’, and left him with Silvertalon to answer most of the drake’s questions. He seemed particularly enthralled with the airship itself and was surprisingly knowledgeable on the mechanics of balloon flight. Hidden depths, it seemed, could never be predicted. They neared the southernmost point of the Dragonlands on the second day, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Handy could see the great western ocean. He strained to see how far south he could discern, attempting to spot the lone mountain where he knew Spurbay to be. They must have been too far north, as he saw nothing sticking out over the horizon this close to the coast. “Alright, Spike, what are we to expect?” Handy asked as he kept a lookout, the shale beaches leading to ground made up nearly entirely of basalt columns from ancient volcanic activity. The hexagonal rock formations sometimes shot high up into the sky in small spires, like a colonnade put into place by giants. A quick look north proved a grim sight. Nothing but more basalt and lifeless wastelands as the Dragonlands expanded the further north one went. “Well… I don’t know if they would have anypony keeping a look out down here. Otherwise we would—W-WOAH!” The entire airship rocked and Handy was knocked forward, bashing his head against the captain’s wheel as he fell to the ground. Spike flat out keeled over the side of the bridge and struck the window frame below. Silvertalon was the first to get his bearings as he scrambled to get a hold of the wheel sent into furious motion by Handy’s impact, trying to stop the airship spinning wildly. The entire ship listed dangerously to the side as something colossal pressed down upon it and forced it down. Handy’s vision swam as he groggily pushed himself up. “What happened!?” he demanded as the instruments beside Silvertalon went ballistic. Something somewhere had popped a rivet, and boiling hot steam erupted out of an errand pipe somewhere in the background. “I don’t know! I’m filling the ballasts! Shut off the engines; we need to relieve the pressure now!” the old bird bellowed, his scratchy voice no impediment to the force of his voice. Handy scrambled back to his feet, clutching the doorway as the ship lurched violently to the side again, everything leaning at a steep, forty five degree angle. Detritus was sent sprawling across the bridge and at least one doorway was slammed closed after furniture spilled out of one of the rooms, crashing on the walls of the corridor. Handy pressed on, hurrying along the deck before the next hit. He got as far as the stairs down when the next lurch came and he was sent sprawling over the railing of the stairway, catching himself on the bannister for a mere second before losing his grip and falling to the ground, sliding on the hardwood floor before the ship righted itself again. His head throbbed from where he had been struck. He gritted his teeth and bore the pain, hoping he wasn’t going to be concussed. He managed to make his way to the boiler room and opened the door, only for a rush of boiling steam to explode out of the gap. Forced the door closed again while shouting a curse, he looked around quickly for anything that could be useful. There was a large basin half as tall as he was affixed to the ground. Most of the water inside had spilled out, but it gave him an idea. He locked the door, grabbed a bucket and threw water over himself several times, making sure he was thoroughly soaked. He then pulled the hood of his cloak over and grabbed a washrag, dunking it in a bucket of water and tied it around his face up to the eyes, the freezing cold shocking him as he pressed it to his face. He could be concerned about it being dirty or not when he wasn’t worrying about being boiled alive by steam. He braced behind the door, losing his grip as yet another blow struck the ship, this time from the opposite direction, sending him to one knee and causing the entire ship to groan from the strain. He got back up, readied himself, and pulled open the heavy door, allowing the steam to billow forth into the storage hold. He waited a few seconds for the built up steam to die down before throwing himself into the room. He was rudimentarily familiar with the small engine room’s layout, and knew that a distressing majority of it would be boiling hot to the touch. He felt his way forward nonetheless, keeping his stance to the side as he went along, using the insulated handhelds built into the walls and along the piping for such an exact situation. It was an agonizingly slow process as he felt the incredible heat and humidity press down on him, made worse due to blindfolding himself so he didn’t scald himself blind with an errant gout of steam. He reached what felt like the main controls, after jerking back and hitting his head off of a low hanging pipe as another burst of steam nearly seared his head. The main pressure release valve was normally a large red object, and the biggest one the panel. He found it easily and began forcing it to turn, stumbling again as another strike rocked the ship. Something broke somewhere in the engine room as he heard another gout of steam shoot forth, whistling under the pressure. He remained down on one knee as he waited to see how fucked he was. Fortunately, the steam was released upwards and fell back down again and out into the hold enough for him to safely get back to work. He put all of his might into it and got the valve to finally turn once, then twice, three then four times before the pressure was released, and the steam began to die down. He pushed away from the console and allowed himself to fall to the floor, crawling to the doorway and pulling himself out into the hold, tearing at his face and pulling the cloth off. He greedily gulped down air, his lungs burning. The washcloth in his hands was now bone dry, as was most of the rest of him. His skin felt singed and sensitive to the touch as he pulled his hood down. He waited, not feeling the ship shake again. Whatever was attacking them must have backed off when it became obvious the ship was descending. The pressure release switched off the cold water flow and expelled the steam out of various ports at the back of the ship. It’d look like the ship was extruding a cloud as it fell, the mental image reminding Handy of another thing he had to take care of. He carefully got to his feet and gingerly cupped the wash water in the tank next to him in his gloved hands and drank from it. You walk out of a steam boiler and see how picky you were with water sources. Having done that, he navigated around it and reached the boiler itself. It was wrought iron, self-contained heater which he occasionally had to shovel ridiculous amounts of coal into in order for it to stay hot enough to keep everything going. It sat inset in the back wall of the hold next to the boiler room like an ominous black beetle embedded in the corner of the ship. He pulled down on a large lever and heard the metal plates shift into place and utterly shut off oxygen access to the flames. No sense wasting the good coal. He then stumbled up the steps to the top deck and back to the bridge, where he found Spike alive and well, uninjured though quite shaken. Silvertalon was sporting an unsightly lump on the side of his skull, but the chaos of the bridge had been brought under control as he brought them closer to the ground. A few of the glass panels of the window sported sizeable cracks. “How are we doing?” he asked as he stepped over the overturned navigation bench, scowling at the ruined charts and maps on the floor now covered in ink. “Ballasts s-six, five and six are… are now filled,” Silvertalon said, his raspy voice sounded thoroughly rattled. “We’ll be on the ground shortly.” “You alright?” Handy asked. Silvertalon just nodded without looking around, eyes set dead ahead. “What was that? Have they stopped attacking?” “I think they’re waiting on us,” Spike answered. “Who?” “The dragons.” --=-- The ship protested audibly as it settled on the ground. While certainly built to take off from the ground, airships were never really intended to actually set aground again unless absolutely necessary. Silvertalon grumbled his concern about hypertension or how the ship was used to its weight pressing down on its superstructure without a supporting force from below. Handy told him the situation with the engine so he could get to repairs as his thoughts raced—might as well keep the bird busy while he got through this. The amount of scenarios that he had gone over about this moment was a little on the paranoid side, and most of them ended badly one way or another. Turned out that there was no way you could legitimately prepare enough for potentially fighting one dragon, let alone potentially fighting a few. Therefore, Handy decided to go for the practical edge instead, or as practical as one could be when dealing with two tons of titanic, flying murder lizards. That was precisely why Handy was abandoning his armour on the ship for the entirety of this mission. Why yes, of course everyone he told that to thought it was insane, but there was a method to his madness. Or at least he hoped. He followed Silvertalon into the hold but left him to the engine room while he went to his supplies. He opened the chest containing twenty rattling, long-necked bottles. The thick red liquid swirled lazily as he held the bottle up to the lantern light. Motes and long golden lines of… something could be discerned in the viscous liquid, phasing in and out of sight. He grimaced, uncorked the bottle, and downed the vile potion. It had the viscosity of honey, the rubbery texture of mushrooms, and the taste of week-old cheese mixed with mouldy bread. In short, it was disgusting and he nearly gagged on it. He persisted in forcing it down until he was forced to choke and gasp for air, coughing violently as he shuddered. He felt… heavier somehow. Nothing too extreme: his flesh felt leaden, deader to the ambient temperature around him, numb even. It took him a minute to realise he was in fact numb and couldn’t feel anything except pressure when he touched his own arms or his surroundings. He nicked himself and winced in pain. Nope, pain receptors were working just fine. “Well, here goes nothing.” He tossed the thick, empty bottle over his shoulder. It hit the floor and rolled over into an obscure corner. He lifted a leather bandolier with pouches for six more bottles out of the chest and fixed it around him. The hardened pouches should keep the bottles safe if he ended up roughing it up, but he couldn’t be sure. He filled them, covered himself with his cloak, and checked his weapons as he rose back up to the top deck. His hammer was secured safely in his side loop, with a strap to keep it in place. He now had two sharp steel daggers across his midsection and a hand axe on his free side which could always be useful. He paused as he considered taking the spear and shield. He still hadn’t decided exactly how ‘martial’ he should appear to the dragons, having forsaken his armour after all, and both the shield and spear would slow him down more than he’d like. He was wearing a light cloak and heavy travel clothes, something that afforded him basic protection without hindering his mobility or otherwise resulting in him overheating, if the Dragonlands were as bad as Spike described. And with living dragons? Mobility and speed was going to make all the difference. He just desperately hoped it would never come down to that, and seeing as the ship hadn’t been set ablaze while they were in it, chances are he might get his wish. “Ready?” he asked the dragon, causing him to jump. Spike looked up to him, dressed again in his heavy clothing. He nervously looked at the large heavy door that served as the airlock. “No,” he answered honestly. “Good.” Handy opened the door with more confidence than he honestly felt. Okay, here went nothing. Best case scenario, nothing bad happened, Spike got whatever help he could from the murder lizards, Handy got to fuck off with alicorn blood, a source of draconic information, and his life. Second best scenario was the dragons just told them both to flatly fuck right off, in which case Handy still won. Every other scenario worth considering went downhill from there. They entered the airlock and allowed the steel reinforced oak door to close behind them and lock into place. Handy pulled on one of the levers to the side and felt the heavy cogs move as the gangplank extended to its full extent. Once it stopped, he pulled another lever and waited to hear the audible crash as the heavy wood hit the ground. He took a breath and heaved the outer door open. Nothing. There was nothing outside except the cold, biting air as the wind nipped at them, the rough basalt ground and hexagonal rock formations stretching for miles and the crash of the waves from the nearby coast. There were no dragons. He looked down at Spike, who seemed just as unsure, and took the first step out into the achingly familiar landscape. He closed his eyes as he shook the thought from his head. Nostalgia for home could wait for another day; he needed his wits about him now. It was quiet: no cry of seagulls, no insects, nothing but the sway of the sparse grass and dead bushes and the crash of waves upon stone. Looking up at the ship as he stepped off the gangplank, he could see where gouges had been dug out of the hull of the ship and the dissipating remnants of the excess steam that had been ejected from the ship. He winced—the damage probably looked worse than it actually was… probably. At least the hull wasn’t fully breached. “Where are they?” His hand uneasily rested on the head of the war hammer, more out of comfort than any belief it’d do him any good. “They… I only say a tail in the window. They didn’t let themselves be seen,” Spike muttered, looking up into the sky. An all-encompassing shadow briefly cast them both in darkness before disappearing again. Both of them spun and looked to the heavens. Nothing, only blue sky and dark, heavy clouds pregnant with rain. “Spike,” Handy began, speaking very quietly, “exactly how do the dragons expect us to turn around if they forced my ship to the ground?” “Uh… well—” There was a tremendous, deafening cry that seemed to rattle the very teeth in his jaw. He had sensed the subtle violence and power of the dead dragon’s voice, had heard the roar of the young dragon he fought in Firthengart. This… This was something more potent, something vital and primal and alive with all the fury and destruction of a forest fire and the same cold disregard for all in its path as a snowstorm. He could not tell what direction it came. It seemed to be from everywhere at once, and he whirled on the spot, trying to discern where the dragon was. It was then he noticed the tearing in the envelope of his ship. Like the wood, it looked worse than it was and the dragons hadn’t punctured it, though Handy wondered if that was deliberate or just a happy accident. In either case, Silvertalon would have to fix that before he could trust it to carry them home. The roar sounded again, though this time it grew quieter and more distant as the dragon drew away. Handy had run as fast as he could around the downed ship. Nothing. He turned to look at Spike, who was busy scanning the skies. He had to be as nervous as he was but didn’t show it, seemingly more resigned than anything. He was just about to speak when a sudden force shook the ground beneath him as the dragon landed suddenly, like a lightning bolt out of a clear blue sky. Handy lowered his arm as the dust cleared. A large, intimidating dragon of gleaming sea-green scales with an impressive overbite stared down at him with yellow reptilian eyes framed by a crown of four curling obsidian horns. It smelled of burnt ozone and wood smoke, huffing through its nose loud enough to be heard over the whistle of the wind. Its mere presence seemed to banish the chill of the shoreline. It also happened to be half the size of the airship, envelope and all, but you know, details. Handy made sure to close his gaping mouth before he removed his arm from his face entirely. “I—” “Leave!” The dragon demanded, his voice a deep, rumbling basso, what one would imagine a cliff face would sound like if it could tell you to fuck off. “You don’t understand,” Handy managed, swallowing lightly as he made sure to look directly into the alien eyes. He wanted to move, to turn to face the dragon properly, but found his legs were leaden from fear. It was all he could do to stop it from looking like he was going to break down. “We’re her—” “Leave now, and do not return. I will not say this a third time, morsel!” the dragon rumbled warningly. Mighty gusts of winds threatened to make Handy tumble over as another dragon, this one an ocean blue colour, descended much more gently to the ground. Its underbelly was a dirty gold and it lacked horns, but whose spines arced out from its spin all the way down to its barbed tail, resembling the fins of a fish. It stood taller and slimmer than the more threatening one that lowered its face not more than half a metre from Handy’s own, but its eyes were a piercing, icy white that seemed to pin him to the ground. Spike stepped out from under the front of the ship. “Wait! Please just listen to us!” he shouted as he padded over to where Handy stood. He froze in place as the dragons immediately turned to stare at him. He suddenly seemed less sure of himself “I… Uh…” “What is this little one doing out here?” the larger and louder of the two demanded. “I do not recognise him. Isn’t he too young to be an exile?” “He is that pony slave the Dragon Lord despises. Not an exile but a foreigner,” the blue-gold dragon noted, their voice notable softer but no less resonant with power for it. Spike seemed indignant. “Hmph! Doesn’t even have his wings yet. He is weak even compared to the rest of the younglings of the borderlands,” the first dragon said contemptuously. “Slave?” Spike shouted. “I’m not a slave!” “Then what is this? This doesn’t look like any pony I have ever seen,” the boisterous dragon said, ignoring Spike’s protests. His head had not moved too far from Handy the entire time, and he had to suffer the thing’s sulphurous breath, intimidating presence, and the constant reminder he was staring down a beast with a flamethrower for a pair of lungs. ‘Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it,’ Handy’s mind repeated, trying to drown out his more primal instincts. He dredged up the courage to speak, hoping that focusing on words would keep his mind off of more immediate, lethal matters. “I am Handy Haywatch of Gethrenia. I have come seeking passage into the Dragonlands for my charge, Spike, who requires the help of fellow dragons. Our intentions are peaceable.” The dragon snorted. Handy tasted ash. “I don’t care who you are, I asked what. Now that no longer interests me. Leave now or else stain the coast with your ashes!” “We cannot, you have critically damaged our ship. We need to make repairs!” Handy protested. “Then walk, for all we care!” “Wait, I know of this creature.” the blue, more soft-spoken one said. That drew the larger one’s attention. “Yes, this is the one the Dragon Lord was hoping to get a hold of. It walks like a minotaur or diamond dog but is neither, works with griffons, and its face is bare of fur bar that scruff around its mouth. The windy creature told her about him.” Windy creature? What? Handy didn’t have time to enquire as the dragon in front of him reared up to his full height and squinted its eyes down at him. He was somehow even more intimidating like that with his wings spread. Might have something to do with how he was partially blocking out the sunlight. “Then they will come with us,” the first dragon announced. “Wait, you just told us to leave,” Handy said, taking a step back at the sudden change in the conversation, hand on his hammer, not that it would be worth half a beggar’s damn here. “That changes when the Dragon Lord says so.” Then, faster than he would have thought possible for something that size, the dragon grabbed him. Its fist closed around him and lifted him off of his feet with such dizzying force and speed that it took Handy several seconds to shake off the vertigo and realize he was now being held nearly fifteen feet off the ground. He felt as if he was trapped in a vice grip, as if a cave had suddenly constricted around him, and the rocky walls were coming just a hair’s breadth from crushing him completely. He couldn’t move, could just about breathe, and he struggled in futility. “Let… me… go!” he demanded. The dragon didn’t respond, utterly unconcerned about the struggles of the human in its grasp. It turned to Spike, who looked wide eyed at the sudden change in situation. “And of this one?” “I will take it,” the blue dragon said, moving like flowing water around the sea-green dragon, snatching Spike up before he could flee. With the two captured, both dragons launched themselves into the air with mighty flaps of their wings, the winds kicked up causing the damaged airship to groan in protest as it settled on the coast, leaving it on its own in the cold, bleak landscape. After some time, and after scrounging up some bravery on his part, Silvertalon stuck his head outside the ship, a bandage applied to where he had struck his head. He looked around cautiously, and up into the sky. “H-Hello?” he croaked to no reply. “I… managed to fix the engines. I just need to check the piping and we should be good…” he explained, slowly leaving the ship and looking up in dismay at the state of the envelope and hull. After circling the ship, and noting the lack of his employer and passenger and, more to the point, the utter lack of draconic doom looming above him, he blinked in confusion. “Guys?”