“Insufficient seating” my ass. I wondered whether Emory would mention the size of the table to his wife.
I was slightly disappointed that the dinner would have only two other participants. I had to admit my curiosity about what actual parties looked like here in the dining hall. Based on the size of the space, it appeared Lord Relobu’s dinner engagements usually involved a huge number of people. That meant he’d likely entertained at least a few non-dragonspeakers in the past. There weren’t this many employees in all of DRACIM. I wondered how the general public felt about being surrounded by dragons, and whether they, like Carol, thought the entire species was dangerous.
It wasn’t unheard of for non-dragonspeakers to mingle with dragons—it was almost impossible to avoid, actually. Because the dragons controlled quite a bit of the world’s money, most businesses were more than happy to open their doors to the creatures. But it wasn’t often that dragons and humans got together just to socialize. Humans were leery of a dragon’s unpredictable habits, and dragons were mostly confused when presented with a human social function. We were just too different, I guess.
I smiled. Maybe Lord Relobu hosted a lot of business dinners. I’d have to ask whether he made regular requests to DRACIM for social translators. My department handled only his business ventures. And the dragon did a lot of business. I’d seen that firsthand. Although Richard rarely, if ever, made the call himself, Emory’s department was regularly tapped for dragonspeakers when Mr. Green’s staff was stretched a little too thin. And, of course, DRACIM happily provided the service. My organization was careful to stay in the good graces of our main source of revenue.
There were no dragons to be seen, and Lord Relobu had yet to make an appearance. The butler had politely hustled us into the room and left with a promise that dinner would be served within minutes. I covered my hand over a yawn and did my best to look interested in Emory’s rant. He was still ruffled about the injustice done to his wife. I made some vague conciliatory noises to Emory while I scanned the room for a clock. My banged-up wristwatch just hadn’t gone with the dress.
Where was our freaking dinner? Food was the only thing likely to stop Emory from yammering. My dreams of a star-studded Hollywood party were falling faster than an aging actress’s bustline. I sat down in one of the chairs, thinking maybe my actions would prompt someone into starting the show.
I guess it did. As soon as my rear hit the chair, the enormous doors at the end of the hall opened, and in walked a dragon.
I wasn’t sure of the protocol when meeting a dragon lord, and I’d never learned how to curtsy, so when Lord Relobu himself stepped through the door, I scrambled to my feet and bent into a slight bow with my eyes on the floor. Emory stop his tirade mid-sentence—finally—and did the same.
Lord Relobu approached the table, his long beard brushing along the floor at his feet. One of the first dragons “born” on that fateful night a century ago when Dr. Smith’s genetic cast-offs decided to thrive inside the kiln that was supposed to kill them, Lord Relobu painted a mighty picture even in rest.
His dark green body was huge but graceful, and his wings stretched the entire length of his back. The dragon lord’s eyes were the color of an Oklahoma wheat field at harvest, and they framed the power and fierce intelligence expected of someone of his rank. Despite Lord Relobu being somewhere near one hundred years old, his appearance was closer to a dragon in his thirties. The ultimate mix of good genes. This was an ancient, and I couldn’t help the hair that rose on the back of my neck.
Lord Relobu had a presence.
“Mr. Glask,” the dragon lord rumbled in Emory’s direction, “I’m so glad you could join me.” I waited a beat to see how much Emory understood. He didn’t like to
I was slightly disappointed that the dinner would have only two other participants. I had to admit my curiosity about what actual parties looked like here in the dining hall. Based on the size of the space, it appeared Lord Relobu’s dinner engagements usually involved a huge number of people. That meant he’d likely entertained at least a few non-dragonspeakers in the past. There weren’t this many employees in all of DRACIM. I wondered how the general public felt about being surrounded by dragons, and whether they, like Carol, thought the entire species was dangerous.
It wasn’t unheard of for non-dragonspeakers to mingle with dragons—it was almost impossible to avoid, actually. Because the dragons controlled quite a bit of the world’s money, most businesses were more than happy to open their doors to the creatures. But it wasn’t often that dragons and humans got together just to socialize. Humans were leery of a dragon’s unpredictable habits, and dragons were mostly confused when presented with a human social function. We were just too different, I guess.
I smiled. Maybe Lord Relobu hosted a lot of business dinners. I’d have to ask whether he made regular requests to DRACIM for social translators. My department handled only his business ventures. And the dragon did a lot of business. I’d seen that firsthand. Although Richard rarely, if ever, made the call himself, Emory’s department was regularly tapped for dragonspeakers when Mr. Green’s staff was stretched a little too thin. And, of course, DRACIM happily provided the service. My organization was careful to stay in the good graces of our main source of revenue.
There were no dragons to be seen, and Lord Relobu had yet to make an appearance. The butler had politely hustled us into the room and left with a promise that dinner would be served within minutes. I covered my hand over a yawn and did my best to look interested in Emory’s rant. He was still ruffled about the injustice done to his wife. I made some vague conciliatory noises to Emory while I scanned the room for a clock. My banged-up wristwatch just hadn’t gone with the dress.
Where was our freaking dinner? Food was the only thing likely to stop Emory from yammering. My dreams of a star-studded Hollywood party were falling faster than an aging actress’s bustline. I sat down in one of the chairs, thinking maybe my actions would prompt someone into starting the show.
I guess it did. As soon as my rear hit the chair, the enormous doors at the end of the hall opened, and in walked a dragon.
I wasn’t sure of the protocol when meeting a dragon lord, and I’d never learned how to curtsy, so when Lord Relobu himself stepped through the door, I scrambled to my feet and bent into a slight bow with my eyes on the floor. Emory stop his tirade mid-sentence—finally—and did the same.
Lord Relobu approached the table, his long beard brushing along the floor at his feet. One of the first dragons “born” on that fateful night a century ago when Dr. Smith’s genetic cast-offs decided to thrive inside the kiln that was supposed to kill them, Lord Relobu painted a mighty picture even in rest.
His dark green body was huge but graceful, and his wings stretched the entire length of his back. The dragon lord’s eyes were the color of an Oklahoma wheat field at harvest, and they framed the power and fierce intelligence expected of someone of his rank. Despite Lord Relobu being somewhere near one hundred years old, his appearance was closer to a dragon in his thirties. The ultimate mix of good genes. This was an ancient, and I couldn’t help the hair that rose on the back of my neck.
Lord Relobu had a presence.
“Mr. Glask,” the dragon lord rumbled in Emory’s direction, “I’m so glad you could join me.” I waited a beat to see how much Emory understood. He didn’t like to
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