Otari Misfits - Session 5

Preparations

"I can help heal these wounds," came Mortarion’s labored words from within his enclosed helmet.
Avdiy glanced at the scrape he had suffered that day. "Very well," he nodded, though skepticism tinged his voice. He had endured the inventor's methods of healing before, but this one was new. As he watched, the armor plates on Mortarion’s gauntlet and forearm glowed orange with heat. The exposed muscle hissed as it seared shut. It did little to ease the pain—if anything, it worsened it—but at least the wound was closed. The air thickened with the acrid scent of burnt flesh, mingling with the sharp aroma of liquefied healing herbs and oil.
Avdiy thought back to the gentle ministrations of the acolytes of Sarenrae. "You know what, let’s go to the temple ," he muttered.
Given the state they were in, it was hard to argue with the psychic’s suggestion. As the rest of the Misfits prepared to ascend back to Otari, one of them hesitated. Igni stood near the hallway leading from the throne room, staring toward an unexplored section of the dungeon. He had consulted Avdiy’s cards, asking if he would find a dragon of true fire, and the answer had been clear. All signs pointed to something waiting beyond that tunnel.
But for now, it would have to wait. He and his friends needed to recover first.

  The remainder of the day was spent tending to wounds with the help of the acolytes at theDawnflower Libraryand piecing together everything they knew about Red Dragons. The largest and most powerful of the chromaticdragons, red dragons are a menace to civilizations everywhere, their strength rivaled only by their arrogance. They see themselves as the rightful rulers of dragonkind, their crowns of crimson spikes and mastery of blistering flame reinforcing what they believe to be undeniable fact. To them, lesser creatures are not worth conversation—only conquest. They enslave weaker beings to maintain their lairs while they slumber, demanding tribute from their supplicants and punishing failure with fire or death. Their arrogance drives them to raze entire settlements, delighting in the fear they inspire. They hold no remorse for manipulating, bullying, or killing to achieve their goals, and their brutal displays of dominance serve only to cement their legend.
As infamous as their cruelty is the splendor of their hoards. Red dragons prize gold above all, shaping their lairs in the most perilous locations—volcanoes being a favorite choice, offering both an imposing presence and constant warmth. Regardless of the setting, they sleep atop piles of treasure, guarding them with zealous obsession. Sometimes, their internal heat fuses coins and metals together, creating gilded landscapes of molten wealth.
Hearing these grim tales, Igni reconsidered his eagerness. Perhaps they needed to be cautious when confronting such a magnificent, yet terrifying, creature.

      That night, they found rest in the backroom of the Otari Fishery. This time, however, the usually bustling space felt different. Fewer visitors passed through. Something—though none could say what—had turned the usual clientele elsewhere.

   

How to Train your Dragon

The next day, the Misfits once more descended into the depths beneath the Fishery, pressing onward into the cavernous unknown. The air was thick with dampness, carrying the lingering scent of brine and decay. They passed the Kobold warrens, where a dozen lifeless forms lay sprawled, untouched by scavengers—for now. The silence here was oppressive, as though the walls themselves held their breath.
Beyond the throne room, they moved into an eastern tunnel, their steps cautious but determined. Mortarion led with his shield raised, his movements slow and deliberate, while Glandallin Hamerslag, ever watchful, prowled beside him. The passage was narrow, the air growing heavier with the scent of earth and something faintly acrid.
Then, the tunnel opened.
Before them stretched a vast cavern, its floor blanketed in a dense thicket of towering yellow mushrooms, some reaching over ten feet high. A ghostly phosphorescence clung to them, their pale light casting eerie, elongated shadows that twisted with each movement. Splintered barrels lay in ruin, their broken wood darkened with age, their contents long devoured. Whatever had raided them had left nothing behind.
A low, guttural snarl shattered the uneasy stillness.
From the darkness beyond the fungi, something stirred. A rustling sound, slow and deliberate. Then—a flash of crimson.
The young Red Dragon landed in a single, fluid motion, its leathery wings snapping open before folding neatly against its body. Though no larger than its would-be intruders, its presence filled the cavern like a king reclaiming his throne. Its molten eyes, brimming with intelligence and contempt, locked onto them. Sharp ivory fangs glistened in the pale light, and with a sharp huff, it exhaled a curling cloud of yellow vapor—a silent warning.

  For a long moment, neither side moved.

  Then, Mortarion stepped forward. His voice, and breath, emerged like grinding stone. "We are friends."
The wyrmling recoiled, its muscles tensing, sharp teeth bared. Smoke puffed from its nostrils in an unmistakable show of distrust. It took a half-step back, wings twitching, ready to take flight.
Avdiy acted fast. He shoved Igni forward, raising his hands in a gesture of peace. "Wait, wait, wait!" he stammered, his thick Ustalavic accent bleeding through the cracks of his desperation. "Our friend—this kobold friend, Igni—he is great fan of dragons, of mighty creatures such as yourself! He has long awaited an encounter with a being of true flame!"
The dragon's muscles relaxed, if only slightly. It tilted its head, staring down at Igni with a mix of curiosity and predatory interest.
Igni knew well the ways of Dragons. He had watched how their past servants had tended to them, how they had been fed and revered. With deliberate care, he rummaged through his belongings, extracting the morsels from his rations he suspected the dragon would favor. Then, bowing low, he presented the offering with an outstretched hand.
Beside him, Glandallin moved with quiet intent. His instincts, sharpened by the primal draconic forces he wielded, told him that there was more to dragons than mere rage. He softened his stance, his movements becoming measured, deliberate—an unspoken gesture of respect. His body language mirrored the dragon’s, playing into its pride, acknowledging its superiority without a word. He did not like to subjugate himself, but for now, it had to be done.
The wyrmling's tongue flicked out, tasting the air. It glanced at the food, then suddenly turned its head as Mortarion moved.
Something gleamed in the dragon’s molten gaze—greed.
Mortarion, ever the craftsman, had lifted a handful of gold coins. Slowly, methodically, he clasped his gauntlets together. The metal plates of his armor heated, glowing bright, until flames flickered between the seams. His hands kneaded the molten gold, shaping it with practiced precision. Then, when he was satisfied, he carefully held out his creation—a crude but unmistakable figurine of a dragon.
With measured care, he tossed it forward.
In a blur of movement, the dragon was airborne. It snatched the trinket mid-flight, its hind legs sweeping up the offering of food as it soared. With an effortless arc, it disappeared deeper into the cavern, depositing the molten idol onto a high ledge where the faint clinking of metal hinted at a growing hoard.
Then, circling back, it landed atop one of the massive mushrooms, peering down at them with an expression of impatience and superiority.
Avdiy spoke again, this time with less panic, more reverence. "See? He is great admirer. As you are great creature of true flame, as he said."
The dragon puffed out its chest, and with a flourish, let loose a small burst of fire—an unmistakable display of power.
Igni dropped to his knees in awe, the sheer magnificence of the dragon’s flame overwhelming him. To a kobold, this was the purest form of power, the ultimate testament to greatness.
With a heavy clunk, Mortarion followed suit, mimicking Igni’s every move.
The dragon roared approvingly.
With its guard lowered, the beast took to the air once more, swooping low over the cavern, picking at the last remnants of fish from the shattered barrels. It fed with quick, sharp movements, but its appetite was far from sated.
Mortarion straightened, watching it warily. "So, I guess it was him, eating all the fish."
Igni, still kneeling, nodded. "Kobolds steal fish. Fish for dragon."

  At the sound of their voices, the dragon turned its gaze upon them once more. Its nostrils flared expectantly, its hunger not yet fully satisfied.
The creature was barely pacified, for now.