GRRAAA – BOOM!!
The entire side of the tailor’s tent, plus the next two over, went up in flames.
Sigh.
Turning to Azania, he said, “Do you want to pay for all this destroyed merchandise, or shall I?”
“Perhaps that wasn’t the wisest tease?” she said, rubbing her chin ruefully as they stood shoulder to shoulder, surveying the smoking ruin.
“Perhaps not.” Turning to the terrified tailor, he growled, “There goes that tidy profit Tarangis was just congratulating us upon, I fear. Tell me again how you were proposing to make her trousers fireproof? I feel we ought to get this detail just right.”
“A special leather treatment used by blacksmiths, Dragon,” the Princess reminded him. “Tailor, we’ll make good on all the damages. What’s next?”
He stammered, “M-m-measuring. Please, mighty Dragon, would you face the open air when I do so?”
“Why?”
“Because it involves me wrapping this tape about her –”
He pointed to the royal thighs.
Grrr-gnarrr – he struggled mightily, before jerking his jaw upward – BLAST THESE FLAMES!!
With a roar like a mighty ocean comber crashing upon a rocky shore, an incandescent white flower blossomed a hundred feet tall over Chakkix Camp.
Tailoring was a dangerous business.
Dragon lowered his muzzle with a toothy grin, blowing twin smoke rings from his nostrils. Nice! “Much as I enjoy terrorising the local populace, Princess, forgive me if I keep my nose in the air from now on. It’s not snootiness. This is called preservation.”
“I understand,” she smiled. “Tailor, what can we do to double the fireproofing?”
* * * *
The overloaded flying cart, alias the Dragon, glowered over the pile of gear he was supposed to be carrying in addition to no less than four riders, and added a curl of fire out of his nostrils for good measure. Unfortunately, the effect tickled his nose. Swiftly aiming skyward, he sneezed a plume of fire that licked the roof of the cavern.
“All essential?” he growled.
“Are we not feeling strong enough?” the Princess of Peskiness peeped pertly. Back to being an ornery, cranky chunk of male Dragon. Blame the early start.
“I hope for your sake this new clothing is as fireproof as they claimed,” he threatened.
“Who’s a scandalously handsome Dragon, then?”
“Me. Who’s a tiny Human about to be a Princess pancake, then?”
“My sister,” she said, without missing a beat.
They could not have been dressed less alike. Azania wore finely-tooled black boots, scandalously tight and certified fully fireproof black trousers, plus a shirt of the same sturdy material beneath her body armour. The Dragon talon blade hung at her right hip on a snazzy yet functional weapons belt. She had added three new daggers – one in each boot and one at the hip – and more weaponry in her slim, stylish vambraces. Silver trim on the armour, Princess? Crest of the desert eagle upon her belt? Aye, and she wore her curly sable hair loose, down to her middle-lower back.
Apparently, good taste need not be limited to ball gowns. Being the unconventional soul that she was, his Princess turned her outfit into a statement of lethal femininity. Slit of eye, he regarded the girl, who gave him the pointy-chinned, impudent appraisal right back. Based her fashion on a certain Dragoness they could both name, had she?
Including the attitude.
His wings buzzed with anticipation at the thought of this Princess displaying herself before King Azerim. Well, not that Humans formally courtship-displayed their attributes, but he had noticed several rituals that approximated this draconic tradition – modes of dress, flirtation, demands for ransom and covert admiration of royal posteriors, to name but a few behaviours.
Ah, Humans thought themselves so noble, so unlike the beastly Dragonkind!
Nonsense.
Her sister wore an all cream-coloured outfit of no style familiar to him – a one-off creation by Yarimda that comprised soft half-boots and full-length body-hugging undergarments, largely covered and flattered by a layered, charmingly tailored feminine over-dress of a darker cream shade that pinched in at the waist but flared into multiple splits to facilitate ease of movement. The layering made the silken material swish like a dress when she walked, but the functionality was also clear – multiple pockets for healing materials, a wide belt with generous pouches, and even places hidden in the collar and sleeves for equipment and aye, weapons. For the first time, she wore her black hair natural, a bouffant style that framed her face in at least six inches of curls. He blinked. Quite astonishing.
Inzashu smiled timidly at his zealous scrutiny.
He inclined his muzzle toward her. “You look amazing, Princess the younger. Let’s go.”
Azania cleared her throat.
“And you look lethal, Princess the older,” he added promptly, leaving her in no doubt that her immediate aggravation had been noted and sniggered at. “Come, o mighty Dragon Rider, your royal carriage awaits.”
“Wow, I didn’t get this treatment the first time you kidnapped me.”
“No, that day I whisked you forth in your royal bed and straightaway nearly landed us both in the moat. Lucky save.” He scratched at his flank and around his hindquarters. “Load up, ladies. I need no less than four minions to look after the mighty draconic personage these days, being such a mighty crisper of fabrics and annihilator of fripperies, and all that.”
Yarimda’s wrinkles arranged themselves into a fantastical smile. In fluent Draconian, she said, You remind me so much of my friend, Wavewhisperer! Dragon, this is such a gift to me. How can I thank you enough?
He said, To be blunt, you can tell us honestly how much travel you can cope with, honoured Yarimda. If you’re struggling, I want to know it right away. No holding out for the sake of the youngsters, or pride, or anything else … am I clear?
The old woman wiped away a tear. Clear as the waters of the Lumis Ocean.
Reaching
