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Fern glanced at the completely armored dragon standing beside him. On the armored dragon’s pauldrons, two large-barreled cannons were mounted, one on each side. “Alright,” Fern said. “I’ve already given my advice, and it was your choice to ignore it. Are there any other weapons or armors you’d like to equip? Maybe you want to drink some potions to receive some buffs while we’re still here.”
“Oh, shut it,” Volearden said and rolled his eyes. “The number one cause of unnatural deaths for dragons is not having appropriate armor to defend themselves against whatever killed them.”
“You made that up,” Fern said, navigating through the wooden tablet in front of the two dragons.
“I didn’t just make that up,” Volearden said. “If you think hard enough about it, you’ll realize it’s true. Any time a dragon is killed by something other than old age, if they had the appropriate set of armor for the occasion, they would’ve survived.” The armored dragon tapped his head with his claw, which had a metallic cover attached to it. “Humans are inherently fragile creatures, but they’re strong and sturdy thanks to their armors and weapons. Why shouldn’t dragons follow their example when it’s working so well?”
“Pride?” Fern asked as the wooden tablet shone with an amber light.
“I’m proud as heck of this armor I’ve made,” Volearden said, puffing his chest out. “You’ve seen for yourself what it can do against phoenixes.”
“And other dragons,” Fern said, rolling his eyes. The amber light washed over the two dragons as the tower transported them to their destination: Vur’s residence.
Volearden blinked once his vision cleared, and his head swiveled about as he took a look around. “An elven grotto,” he said. “Not a bad choice; it’s a pretty standard living arrangement back on Erde.”
Fern looked around as well before standing on his hindlegs to see over the trees. He waved his front leg upon seeing Vur and Tafel standing in the center of the burnt clearing. Behind the couple, there was what looked like a fortress constructed from barrels.
“Hello!” the yellow dragon said and glanced at Volearden. The armored dragon was still standing on all fours, keeping himself beneath the treetops. Fern turned his attention back onto Vur as he crouched and jumped, leaping over the trees to land in the clearing. Despite the yellow dragon’s size, he touched down without much impact; Tafel’s robes rippled, but that was all. Fern grinned as he sat on his haunches and leaned his neck forward to look down on Vur and Tafel. “I’m Fulferminis, but everyone I know calls me Fern.”
“Hi, Fern,” Vur said. “I’m Vur.” He nodded. “Everyone I know calls me Vur.”
“It’s nice to meet you Fern,” Tafel said from Vur’s side. She held onto his arm. If Fern suddenly decided he wanted to eat her as a snack, he’d have to eat Vur too. “I’m Tafel, Vur’s wife.”
Fern nodded before turning his head. Vur and Tafel looked in the same direction as well. From beyond the trees, accompanied by crunching sounds, Volearden walked through the forest and came to a halt in the clearing. The sunlight shone off of his armor, causing rainbow patterns to decorate its metallic surface as if oil had been spilled on top of it. Upon seeing the three staring at him, Volearden stood on his hindlegs before walking next to Fern. The armored dragon took a seat on his haunches before peering down at Vur and Tafel, his eyes unable to be seen thanks to the helmet he was wearing.
Vur turned towards Fern and pointed at Volearden. “Is that my great-gramps?” Vur asked.
“Well,” Fern said. “We’ll have to see your imprint first to confirm, but if you are who you say you are, then, yeah, he’s your great-grandpa, Volearden.”
Vur turned to look at the armored dragon. “Hi, Great-Gramps Vol, are you made of metal?”
“I’m not made of metal,” Volearden said. “This is dragon armor.”
“Don’t make it sound fancier than it is,” Fern said and rolled his eyes. “Just because you’re wearing armor doesn’t make it dragon armor.” The yellow dragon leaned his head in close towards Vur and Tafel. “He’s not right in the head. As you know, he’s been fighting a war against the phoenixes for centuries now.”
Volearden turned towards Fern. The cannons mounted on the armored dragon’s pauldrons shone with a white light. “I’ll show you not right in the head,” Volearden said as the light from the cannons grew brighter. “See if I won’t shoot you if you keep planting ideas in my great-grandson’s head.”
Fern chuckled and shifted to the side, distancing himself from the armored dragon. “Alright, I’ll shut up, sit here, and let you do all the talking.”
The cannons on Volearden’s shoulders stopped glowing, and he turned his gaze back onto Vur. “Can you show me your imprint?”
Vur nodded before taking a step to the side, bringing Tafel with him. He gestured towards the barrel fortress. “You have to drink first.”
“What?” Volearden asked and tilted his head. He reached forward and hesitated before taking a barrel off the top of the structure. It was large enough to comfortably fit in his paw, and it made sloshing sounds as he brought it up to his face. He gently pried the lid off the barrel with one of his claws and gave the contents a sniff. “This is phoenix liquor. Did you rob one of their nests?”
Vur pointed at the barrel fortress. “You have to take another and drink it before I answer.”
Volearden hesitated before leaning forward and grabbing another barrel of phoenix liquor. Who was he to question the customs of the youngest generation? If dragons from Erde had developed drinking problems because of the war, it’d be hypocritical of him to scold them as one of the major proponents of war at the time. Volearden opened his mouth, revealing another layer of armor hidden within, guarding the roof of his mouth and back of his throat where smaller creatures liked to stab spears in an attempt to destroy dragon brains.
Volearden held the barrels over his gaping maw before rotating his ankles, letting the liquid flow freely down his throat. He breathed out a small flame when he was done. “Alright, do I get answers now?”
“Another question, another barrel,” Vur said, pointing at the brown fortress.
Volearden stared at the stack of barrels stacked on top of more stacks of barrels. There must’ve been enough alcohol stored in them to knock out several dragons.