Ázeth sits at an old wooden table covered in papers, parchments, and vials of ink. The surrounding stone room flickers with dozens of candles arranged on various shelves hewn from the limestone walls. The large grey guardian dragon wears a colorful blue hood and neatly writes lines of verse with a dark red quill. He alternates between careful strokes and staring off into the shadows, lost in thought.

Two nagas accompany him. Both have the torsos of human women but with long snake tails instead of legs. Through some trick of anatomy, they stand without trouble. Citraka, clad in red scales and with a freckled face, sits with Ázeth at the table and works delightedly on a drawing of a red ridgeback dragon covered with bright green gems. Hasa, clad in green scales and nearly always sporting an impish grin, slithers, as it were, in and out of the shadows on the other side of the table. She prattles on about a dragon named Pinkerton.

"The other day, I heard someone at the market saying that he doesn't actually need to wear glasses. She said that she knew someone who said they had once seen him sorting through his pile of treasures without wearing them. She thinks he actually wears them as a fashion statement! So I asked her if she knew where he got them and she said she didn't. No one knows where he got them. I tried asking Pinkerton himself but he just says that his sister found them for him. I tried asking her and it was like she wasn't even listening - she just kept going on about an unhatched ice egg and asked me if I had one to trade her!"

Ázeth has been staring at the shadows for quite awhile, mumbling a few words under his breath. He waits for a break in Hasa's story and interjects.

"Someone should really find her a hatchling she could adopt. Might help her hoarding problem. But no, no one is going to trust her with that. Oh, and on an entirely unrelated note, do you happen to know any good words that rhyme with 'contagion?'"

At this, Hasa paces (as it were) even more furiously and mumbles to herself, "A rage in? No. Will phase in? No."

After several minutes of quiet murmuring, Coral, a small fae dragon with glossy white wings and a light, sea-green body, glides into the room and toward her brother, Ázeth.

"Slate," she says, using his more casual name, "There's something I need to talk to-"

Coral stops what she was saying as she perches on Ázeth's shoulder and glances at his papers. "Are you writing a poem?"

"Yes, Coral." He responds.

"You have a new penpal... from the Plague Lands?" Coral asks.

"Why yes, yes I do. A very confident, young gentleman by the name of Tlazolteotl, actually."

Ázeth sets down his quill and turns to his sister with his head held high. Coral looks back at him and then down at the letter he is writing. She turns her head from side to side, looking slightly confused.

"Isn't that a girl's name?" Coral asks.

"Says the dragon who named two of her sons after flowers!" Ázeth counters.

"And what's wrong with that? Surely, in all of your studies, you've learned that flowers are both male and female?" Coral states this as much as asks, her face full of a fierce pride.

"Well, apparently so are Tlazolteotls." Ázeth responds with a sly grin.

Hasa giggles and Citraka lets out a squeel.

"Slate," Coral say gently but gravely, "You do know that the Plague clans are known to engage in savage and barbaric customs, don't you?"

"It enriches us to learn about other cultures without judging them," Ázeth explains. "The more we know about each other, the less chance there will be of war."

"Even if that culture includes tossing hatchlings into death pits as offerings to their warped deity, the Plaguebringer?"

"Well, my dear sister, I'm sure this upstanding clan doesn't do anything quite that brutal." Ázeth speculates a bit nervously. "Besides, he's just a penpal. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Just don't let him anywhere near the hatchlings, okay?"

"They're not hatchlings anymore, Coral."

"I'm not joking, Slate."

"Neither am I. Coral, I'm not going to endanger anyone. It is my sworn Guardian Oath to protect all members of our clan, and that especially includes your children. Words are just words. Poetry is just poetry. Speaking of which," Ázeth takes the opportunity to change the subject, "Has Azalea made a decision yet?"

"That's actually what I came to talk to you about. He's decided that yes, he would like to travel abroad and join another clan." As Coral says this, her tail droops dejectedly.

"It's what he wants." Ázeth says, trying to console her.

"I know. But I'll miss him. And I'll worry terribly."

"He'll be okay. He's got a good head on his shoulders. And he could charm anyone with that beautiful voice of his. He's grown up to be an outstanding singer."

"He's my little boy, Slate."

"I'll find him a good clan, Coral. One with plenty of culture and good mating prospects. I've already been doing research and reaching out to potential candidates."

"Hopefully that Plague clan isn't one of them."

"Of course not! Though I do imagine they have some very interesting songs he could learn."

Hasa laughs until Coral turns her gaze to her. She then quiets abruptly. Coral turns back to her brother.

"Slate."

"Have Sakura and Agira heard the news?" he asks more seriously now.

"Not yet. But I think they've probably known for quite awhile. We all have, really.

Ázeth nods.

"I need to go see if Kuruvinda needs any help. Apparently your brother said something stupid and Silt ripped him to pieces."

"My brother? Assuredly not. No brother of mine would ever say anything stupid."

"Thanks for helping Azalea." Coral hugs her brother, wrapping her wings around his head before flitting off toward the door.

"Coral," Ázeth calls to her. "There's one more thing I'd like to ask you."

Coral turns upward and flips around in a wingover. She faces Ázeth, hovering.

"Do you happen to know any good rhymes for 'contagion'?" he asks.

Coral lets out an exasperated sigh, shakes her head, and then zips out of the room.

(© 2013 Cassander)