Smaug alighted on the islet with confidence. He thudded to the beach with a spray of sand, though he couldn’t put weight on his injured front leg, which kept him from impacting quite as hard as he would have preferred. An array of several unmade junker ships had been dragged out of the water to form makeshift barricades, along with trenches dug into the sand. The scribbler would probably find this intriguing, if Smaug had allowed her to see, but to him it was merely another amusing ploy by creatures that did not understand the immensity of the power they sought to oppose. Trenches and walls? That would not stymy a dragon!
Smaug roared fearlessly as unmade gunfire splintered off his scales ineffectually. He advanced slowly, letting the enemy see the hopelessness of the situation. The enemy continued to spit bullets at his glorious hide, heedless of their approaching end. It was perhaps the most disappointing part of their current situation. The unmaking did not cower, did not run screaming when they caught fire. They merely continued to fight until they were broken, even against opponents that any true being knew they could not defeat. Smaug inhaled a large breath, before pouring green-red flames out in a wide arc, warping metal, burning wood and scorching flesh. The unmade did not stop fighting, did not recognize they were dead until he made them.
A bellowing roar sounded above the battlefield, as Karakul poured molten death from above. Smaug narrowed his eyes as the larger dragon crashed down to earth nearby, burying a dozen or so enemies simply by crushing them into the sand. In terms of wretched abominations that should have realized they were dead, those scions were a far greater atrocity than the unmaking of these pitiful pirate crews. He had initially planned to simply allow the course of the fighting to prove their ineligibility to the title of dragonkind, but perhaps a more active approach to the situation would be required.
A cannonball struck the side of his head. Thrown off-balance by the impact, Smaug lashed out with his tail, splintering the offending weapon and scattering its crew in a cloud of sand. It wouldn’t do to hesitate here amidst the enemy, even when they could barely endanger him and his minions. Smaug surged forwards, crushing any opponent that stood between him and his objective. Karakul fought like the dying beast she had become, swiping about with deadly claws and eager maw. That was proof enough of her depravity to Smaug. The thought of eating such clearly spoiled food did not sit well with him.
“Lost shadows of Yucatan!” he bellowed, speaking in the dragon tongue lest the accompanying forces or the scribbler be listening, “I would know what paltry reasons draw you to this gruntwork. I would expect even the faint memory of a dragon to do more than dance upon the strings provided.”
Karakul glanced towards him with a snarl, but remained focused on the battle, her massive jaw clamping down upon one of the Unmade monsters that was organizing the opposition.
“If you have not the courtesy to answer my questions, I can only believe you have none. That the sputtering embers of the once great dragon queen are merely here to seek blood without purpose or reason.” Smaug rumbled a chuckle to himself, as though shaking his head.
“An unsurprising result for one who has fallen so close to the lessers we fight, but I remain disappointed.”
“Measure your words carefully, Whelp!” Karakul growled back, “The reasons of a dragon queen do not concern you.”
Smaug chuckled again, his wings beating the air around them both whipping the sand up in a blinding, biting, shredding tempest. The unmade cried out as they died, at least that bit of enjoyment had not been stripped from the fight.
“I should think that you are the one who must prove their dragon-mettle to me. I would know what separates your grand cadaver from the mindless foes we face.” Smaug response was measured and pointed. A prodding barb by which to make measure of the former dragon queen.
Karakul seethed, and for a moment it seemed she was considering her chances in a contest of blows. Either she mastered her anger, or she did not like the prospects, because her next response was not to snap her jaws towards his throat, instead she trampled a ship-full of machine guns that had been firing upon the troops that were following behind the two dragons to secure the remainder of the fight.
“Eszter is the newest incarnation of Yucatan. This is to be her declaration of power to the Crossroads. They will know that Yucatan survives!”
“And this is what will remind them of that, is it? The missing piece to string along the near-dead form of your earlier self? You grasp at a setting sun like a mewling whelp!” Smaug sneered, “Your idea of declaring power is to play lackey to pitiful humans! A true dragon would not be directed, but would be begged and entreated for aid!”
“Our aid was requested, in fact.” Karakul sounded pleased with herself, “We entered the contest as a result of Syntech’s direct searching. And be assured, when we are finished here they shall all know our wrath for the state they have kept me in.”
“Indeed.” Smaug growled by way of response, unimpressed.
A hinting of Yucatan’s great power and pride remained alive in them yet it seemed. While he had never encountered the dragon queen in her prime, there were stories enough to respect. It was indeed a tragedy that the crossroads had reduced her to such a miserable state. She could only grasp at the importance that she remembered, for it belonged to her former, better self. Still, her words were uncomfortably close to his own reasoning upon being petitioned to compete in this effort.
Even an echo of a dragon could claw words into your head if handled carelessly.
Smaug snarled as a particularly enterprising pirate slashed at his injured forelimb with a cutlass. He slashed its brittle body with his other forepaw, sending it flying several meters, before it crumpled in a pool of its own blood. There was nothing here that could contend with them in earnest, and little to be gained in terms of the enjoyment of battle. His minions were the only thing really alive here. His ally and enemy both bordered upon the living dead.
With a growl of disdain, Smaug lifted himself into the air, wings blasting his foes with wind-whipped sand. He circled above the battlefield, watching the conflict with a growing disinterest. He had been promised a grand conflict, and a hoard worthy of his time when he proved the inevitable victor, but more and more he was finding himself serving as Syntech’s janitor. This battle was hardly worthy of his attention, the foe was neither a threat to be crushed in earnest nor an enjoyable prey to hunt.
Smaug paced languid circles above the battlefield as he considered, swooping down to unleash the occasional breath of fiery destruction, but growing more and more content to let the battle to play out below him, only stepping in where Syntech’s forces were starting to flounder in their assault. The fleet that followed behind the two of them would keep the enemy from focusing enough on Karakul to prove truly dangerous to her. It was time to let them earn their own portion of the success they had enjoyed by following in his wake.
A true dragon’s time was more important than rushing into the fight at the beck and call of pitiful mortals, after all.
