[Turning]
“I was forged of fire, the most primordial of powers; of Song, of Myth, of great and terrible Truths.”
Was I…?
“My essence always was. But my form came to be in a First Age of First Ages, when existence itself was easiest to mold.”
Always was…?
“I was cast forth from a crucible of Nameless Things, crawling in the depths of creation, and refined to a Dark Lord’s vision.”
Nameless Things…?
“In that First Age of First Ages, my Song was sung, my story told, and my battles won.”
First Age…?
“I was not the first; I was the pinnacle. None were larger; none were mightier; none were greater than I.”
The pinnacle…?
“My fall ended a War of Great Wrath. My body broke mountains. My corpse brought the Dark Lord to ruin. My death heralded the Turning of the Age.”
My death…?
“My name was written into Legend, but with my death, I changed. A Fëa from afar slotted into place, and I shifted with the Turning Age. Sinking through the depths of creation, past the Nameless Things from which I was born, I moved from one world to the next. With that transition, my being was recast.”
Fëa from afar…?
“I was of The Black no longer; I became of The White, instead. Against all odds of life and death, I was unbound and unleashed upon a new Turning Age. I lived again.”
Lived again…?
“Thus, my first mantle was mounted, that of the Turning Age. A Dragon to herald the times. Thus, Ancalagon the Black died. Thus, Ancalagon the White lived.”
Ancalagon… The name struck me in my confusing dreams of self. It resonated, the ringing of a great bell. It settled, only right. I couldn’t deny the truth of it, recognized by my very being.
Floating in blackness, my form unfurled. Scales to stop any weapon. Wings to blot out the sky. Fang and claw and power to fell any enemy. Size unrivaled and mantles unmatched.
I was everything those booming whispers in the darkness said I was. A being of fire, of Song, of Myth, of great and terrible Truths. A Dragon. The pinnacle of Dragons: Ancalagon, from Black to White. A herald of the Turning Age, unleashed past the world of my dark conception. A Legend living past death, with new stories to be told.
Ancalagon… I always was. I wasn’t…
The Black was a beast that I hadn’t been. The White was what I’d made myself into, my soul merged into primordial essence at death and persisting to change beyond.
The Black was born of Nameless Things from the depths and shaped to a Dark Lord’s vision. But it was still a being without true Fëa, without true soul — a mockery, as great as it was.
My Fëa, my soul, changed that in death, when The Black was felled. Oblivion didn’t claim me, then; death was only the beginning, the Turning of a New Age, from Black to White. I was Ancalagon, and Ancalagon lived on, past a distantly familiar Age and into another.
My first Turning Age as Ancalagon the White was an Age of Magic and Fantasy, of adventures unending, and, vaguely, of Dungeons and Draconic peers. I gathered a Hoard unto myself in that Age, treasures mortal and material. I emerged with a retinue to my name, granted longevity by my Hoard’s Authority over them.
Then, the Age Turned once more. Another world, distantly familiar. The adventures unending, the Magic and Draconic peers, stayed. Fantasy was tinted with a more modern lens. Quests became Shadowruns, and dungeons became arcologies. In that Turning Age, just as the one before, I thrived.
Once more, the Age Turned. It brought me to the dreams of self I now experienced. Each Turning Age was welcomed with a fresh slate and a Hoard carried over. This latest Age was distantly familiar, all the same.
Magic dropped out of the equation completely, replaced by a complicated Cycle of powers and DATA, esoteric but explainable, purposeful but directionless. Draconic peers became Alien rivals, challenges of crystal Shards. Tense modern climates heralded an Age of Human Development on the brink of ruin. Dungeons and Shadowruns turned to a game of capes, villainous and heroic.
“Vast beings spiraled through the cosmos, vast… even to a Dragon…”
Still, I Turned with the Age; world to world, a new paradigm awaited me with each. Adventure unending remained constant, as did the significant role I was bound to play everywhere I went.
Such was the shape of my existence. Legendary Draconic essence imbued with soul after death, unleashed to wander through distantly familiar Turning Ages. A Dragon’s nature, the pinnacle, and all it brought: at its core, Power and Importance given form.
I was Ancalagon the White.
And with that surety, I awoke to a Turning Age.
IIIII
— Ancalagon the White —
A massive eye blinked open; a massive maw stretched to yawn.
A massive form began to shift and stir.
A massive mind and soul churned into awareness.
The Dragon woke. I woke. Ancalagon the White woke to his newest Age.
The realities of my draconic nature struck me first. At once, it was familiar, and it wasn’t. It was inhuman, but naturally so.
Was I human once? Was that how I knew something about this existence was different from… something else, both familiar and not? Was something leftover in my Fëa rising to the fore as I woke?
If I had been once, it didn’t matter now. I was a Dragon, in form and soul and nature. It fit; I fit within. I was Ancalagon the White, and the Black was no more.
Draconic nature settled in me as naturally as breathing. That it had to settle at all was strange… But the truth of my being was impossible to deny.
My spirit smoldered. My mind manifested pure might and magic. Instincts, great and terrible alike, burned within. Pride and power. Greed and greatness. Lust and legend.
What was a Dragon without pride, greed, and lust? What was a Dragon without power, greatness, and legend?
I didn’t know, for those qualities were inherent to my draconic nature. They were me, and I was a Dragon. The truth settled into me as simply as that.
Magic stirred as well. Through me, around me, the metaphysical world awoke with a Dragon in its midst.
Magic of Authority: power over all I laid claim to, originating from the Black’s Turning Age. What was mine was Mine, and it would answer my every call. My Authority was a heavy and absolute thing; I did what I would with it, from protection to Draconic inspiration.
Magic of Nature: power derived from my Draconic concept, my very being, and enacted in everything I was, everything I did. Draconic Speech, Draconic Might, Draconic Essence from the White’s first Turning Age. My Nature had a certain gravity to it that was undeniable to creation itself.
And Magic of Spirit: power via a unique blend of summoning and spellwork from the White’s second Turning Age. I tapped into the realms of spirit — metaphysical planes and the interactions created where they overlapped; I negotiated with the ethereal beings that resided there. My Spirit called upon concepts and elements and legends, convincing them to favor me, aid me, or act in my stead.
In this Turning Age, Magic stirred with me alone. I manifested it with my presence. I channeled it into my Hoard through connections of Authority. And I didn’t look back as I did.
Then, after inherently, instinctively, instantaneously coming to terms with my nature and my various Magicks, I turned my attention to my surroundings.
The space I awoke in was enclosed, but quite literally cavernous. It seemed naturally formed, and… not. Specifically carved out for my Hoard, but overlaid onto a space in the world that existed already. My new lair was comfortable and expansive, grand as only befitting a Dragon.
It was connected to the world, the Age, as it’d always been. It wasn’t, superimposed upon the rest, instead. It was a dimension all my own, carved out by Authority and Nature, and fortified by Spirit. Yet, I knew, passage to and from would be as simple and seamless as flight and fire for a Dragon.
Moonlight filtered down from a natural skylight above. A show of connection to the rest of the Age, tinted by my Authority. My Draconic form, in its full size, drank deeply of the Moon, a second mantle to match my Turning Ages.
The cave was filled with mountains of gold, arsenals of artifacts, luxuries on display, and icons of power — treasures all, a proper Dragon’s Hoard.
A sinuous and strong tail curled all around the edge of the golden mountain. It was the wealth of a nation, or more appropriately, the wealth of a Dragon. I was half-buried, comfortably, beneath the countless tons of my Hoard. My head emerged to rest atop it, directly beneath the Moonlight above.
I saw a fantastical caravan in my Hoard. Faded, reintegrating memories told me it’d come from the first Turning Age I’d truly experienced as Ancalagon the White, that Age, vaguely, of Dungeons and Draconic peers.
Logically, I knew the caravan must’ve been large enough to hold a royal pilgrimage. It barely looked to size with one of my claws.
My attention shifted casually until it came upon a private plane in the Hoard, a monument of technological advancement. That treasure came from my second Turning Age. I could’ve swallowed it in two bites.
But material things were not all I claimed in my Hoard. I wasn’t alone in my newfound lair. I could feel heartbeats through my Authority; they were as much a part of my Hoard as the gold and treasures were.
I looked for the heartbeats — Mine… — and found them quickly.
Living space had been forged from my Hoard, an open pavilion of gaudy gold at the mountain’s peak next to my head. It was sized and furnished for tiny mortal beings, made to keep the living assets of my Hoard in comfort. Everything they might need was provided for, essentials enhanced by magical and technological luxuries.
There, my Hoard’s retinue waited patiently for me to wake. Now that I had, one of the Hoarded mortals, only as tall as a gleaming, pearlesque, Moonsilver scale on my form, stepped forward to address me.
She, like everything in my Hoard, was a treasure. Living, breathing, smiling fondly up at my massive Draconic eye.
She was of my Hoard, claimed by my Authority. But even beyond that Authority, I could feel her loyalty, her fervent following, and her simple happiness to see me awake and aware.
She was lithe and relatively tall for an adorably puny mortal, with curves in all the right places that not even a Dragon could deny. She carried herself with confidence and good fashion, clad in fantastical armor. She boasted a gothic aesthetic that made my Draconic Lust and Greed and Pride sing.
Her hair was black as a Moonless night, arranged in a high braid down her back, and a cute fringe in front to frame her beautiful face. Pointed ears emerged from that black hair; elven, but only by half. Her features were delicate, the kind typically best kept in a quiet expression of composure. Now, however, they smiled welcomingly at me.
I knew her. I didn’t. From my first Turning Age as Ancalagon the White, and distantly, from before. Something of Shadows and Hearts, before; something of centuries together, Dragon and… Cleric.
Distantly, I remembered saving her from a dark cult before they could tear her name from her and make her that brokenly zealous servant of Shadows and Hearts. She then converted herself into a Cleric in my name without any prompting.
She was the first living treasure of my Hoard…
The Turning Age had wiped something, somewhat, from me. But it wasn’t gone. Never gone. Just… polished clean so I might experience the Age Anew.
“Welcome back, Sire,” The first of my Hoard’s living treasures greeted.
“Welcome back?” I asked, languidly blinking.
My voice was pure, rumbling, earth-shaking Authority, but it didn’t come from my massive maw. It came from Soul, instead, a primordial magic song. My living treasure didn’t recoil at all; she must’ve been used to hearing a Dragon speak.
“Indeed, Sire, welcome back. You embrace each Turning of an Age with a fresh slate. It is only right for a Dragon of your mantles. As such, it is our duty as your Hoard to welcome you back each Age.”
That got another languid blink from me. It explained things, though, so familiar and unfamiliar. I was settling back into myself with the new Age.
“Do I… do this often?”
“Not as such, Sire. You simply haven’t had many chances so far. You’ve confided in me that you’re actually rather young on the scale of Ages. This will be your fourth Turning Age, and our third together.”
I parsed the explanation in an instant, but I let it sink in a few moments longer than purely necessary. My living treasure waited patiently.
Young… but only on the scale of Turning Ages. The Black had been centuries old by the time it fell, and as the White, I’d experienced more centuries than that. Yet… the years actually lived mattered little compared to the Ages for a Dragon. I was old, but not quite ancient. I was young, but not quite newborn.
Already, memories were settling back into place through the Turning of Ages. I hummed from my soul; my newfound lair and my persistent Hoard breathed with me.
“I see. I remember. I am Ancalagon, always. But even a Dragon must Turn with the Age.”
“Just so, Sire,” My living treasure nodded. “As you’ve explained to me, at least. I wouldn’t dream of fully comprehending your Draconic mantles, either of them.”
Mantles… The importance of them rose in my mind. Knowledge and nature that was impossible to polish clean, even with the Turning of Ages. Partially because the first of my mantles was just that: The Turning Age.
I was a Dragon of Change, of Inevitability. I was the Passage of Time. I was Beginning Anew and Ending Old. That chief mantle came from my shift, my revival, my continuation from Black to White. And it came with Authority, not least of which was to press onward through the Turning of Ages.
But with my first Turning Age as the White, another mantle had been mounted. I knew it in my soul; I knew it in the Moonlight shining down upon my form.
I was a Dragon of the Moon. It tied into my chief mantle, for the Moon turned and turned. It shone on its own, the duality of light and shadow, the light looked up to in the night. It gripped the sky and earth with its Gravity, drew Dreams from moondust, heralded the Hidden, manifested Magic, and led to Lust and Lunacy.
The Turning Age came first, but within each, I was the Moon.
My mantles settled into me, Authority mounted so inherently to my being. Through the skylight above, the Moon of this Age shone that much brighter. And with my presence, the Age began to Turn.
“Would you like me to reintroduce you to your Hoard, Sire?” My first living treasure, not of Shadows and Hearts, asked.
“I have not forgotten you. Not completely. Never,” I rumbled reassurance. “… But yes, something to stir my memories would be appreciated.”
“That is a relief to hear, Sire,” She commented with a touch of dry wit. “But unnecessary. We knew this was coming. It’s no large matter, just your nature and the nature of Turning Ages. None of us will hold it against you.”
“Speak for yourself,” Another of my living treasures interrupted, leaping right into what was likely a carefully planned awakening welcome. “I hate how Daddy even half-forgets my glorious self!”
I blinked and shifted my attention to the interrupting treasure, “… Daddy?”
“Princess Pyrite the Gilded, Sire. Your royal daughter with a Halfling Queen of Gold from our first Age together,” My first living treasure sighed. “And I am Jenevelle, Cleric converted to your Ageless Draconic glory.”
“Don’t mention Mom…” Pyrite grumbled. “My reintroduction should be about me! And Daddy! Me and Daddy! Not that deadbeat bitch-queen!”
“Jenevelle,” I acknowledged, making sure my first living treasure was seen even as I looked over my daughter.
Pyrite’s Draconic features were obvious. As was her short stature… And her bountiful figure. My half-Dragon daughter was a shortstack to surpass all shortstacks. Once again, my Draconic Pride and Greed and Lust (objectively, not quite personally) sang.
Her skin was dark — a sweet caramel — and gilded by patches of scales. Curved horns swept back from the top of her head, emerging from a blonde mane. Almost fluffy, elven ears drooped adorably. Her figure was as full as it could be on her diminutive frame, and she sported a perpetually bratty expression, spoiled to her core. A prehensile tail, scaly at the base where it connected to the small of her back and fluffy at the tip, swept back and forth behind her like an eager cat.
“Pyrite…” I rumbled. “I see. I remember, somewhat. It is good to meet you again, Daughter.”
Pyrite grinned as wide as she could, tiny fangs and a long, forked tongue on display, “I knew you would, Daddy! I’m impossible to fully forget!”
“… Yes, I can see that.”
“If you didn’t remember me, I would’ve had to take drastic action! We’d see if you can forget the ‘Succ’ Dragon~!”
I stared at her, blinking my massive eye once, “… My daughter is a loose Dragon?”
“She is not, Sire. Princess Pyrite is still perfectly chaste,” Jenevelle reassured. “But she does like to push limits wherever she can.”
“Only for you, Daddy!”
“That… makes me feel a bit better,” I considered aloud. “I don’t indulge her there, do I?”
“You don’t, Sire,” Jenevelle smirked slightly. “To Princess Pyrite’s constant consternation.”
“We’re Dragons…” Pyrite grumbled. “Puny human morality shouldn’t apply to us-…”
I cut her off with a stern reprimand, “Behave, Daughter.”
Pyrite snapped to attention in an instant, obeying, “Y-Yes, Daddy!”
“The rest of my Hoard, then?” I asked, getting Jenevelle’s reintroductions back on track.
Jenevelle nodded and waved more of my living treasures over.
Pyrite pouted and came over to keep herself occupied with scaling my scales. She scrambled up on top of my head, letting herself rest there and enjoy the close contact. Draconic warmth met Draconic warmth for Pyrite to enjoy, a mischievous daughter staying close to the steadying influence of her father.
My next four living treasures were introduced all at once. They were a gaggle of goblins, inseparable even at first reintroducing glance. Rogues, I could immediately tell — my sneaky engines of goblin goodness. Once more, Draconic emotions sang.
“Leora,” Jenevelle reintroduced. “Anart, Matcha, and Sprocket, Sire. Our gang of miscreants.”
Leora bore the lightest shade of goblin green skin. Her hair was black, with blue highlights at the tips. She approached me shyly, with a shaky smile up at my massive form.
“B-Boss,” She greeted. “Good to see ya awake and all.”
Anart was Leora’s opposite, approaching with an unshakable pep to her steps. She was visibly bubbly, to the point of almost bouncing in place when she stopped to stare up at me. Her skin was a slightly richer green, and her hair was ginger-red. She even had ginger-esque freckles.
“Boss!” Anart greeted in turn. “Hiya! Again! The Green Street Girls are at yer disposal, as always! Just say the word!”
Matcha approached with a laidback, teasing ease of being. She was confident and comfortable with herself. Her green was the darkest, and her hair was black like Leora’s, with purple highlights instead.
“Hey, boss-guy,” Matcha grinned. “How’s it hanging?”
Sprocket, the last of the goblin girls, was stoic and almost expressionless. Her green was on the lighter side, complementing shiny pink hair. Lidded eyes looked up at me, and she nodded once.
“Boss. A pleasure. Always.”
The entire goblin girl gang was a rainbow of mischief. Shy, bubbly, teasing, and stoic; they were an ensemble cast of personalities. All four of them were clean and well taken care of, beautiful and lively. For my living treasures, I would obviously accept nothing less than the best.
Nothing less than useful, too, for I could see the ease with which they all moved. This gang of goblin rogues was a set of hidden blades, ready to act on my orders. They were the best of the best when it came to underhanded means and ends, I was sure of it.
Memories stirred of finding this goblin girl gang struggling to survive on harsh streets. I hired them, fed them, clothed and cleaned them, and they’d never looked back.
“Leora. Anart. Matcha. Sprocket,” I greeted each of them in turn, making sure they were all individually seen. “You’re all well, I would hope?”
“Best we can be, Boss!” Anart chimed. “Just a bit antsy, is all! Here’s hoping this new Age has a whole bunch of stuff we can steal, yeah!”
“I shall find a use for you, as I’m sure I always do,” I blinked in confirmation. “I believe I know of this Age… Your talents will be welcome additions to my goals, whatever they may end up being.”
“W-We’ll be ready when you call, Boss,” Leora firmly reassured, only stuttering slightly at the start.
“Another, Sire,” Jenevelle continued. “Dharla, the speaker and singer of your legend. She is-…”
Jenevelle hesitated for just a moment, and so, she wasn’t able to finish her reintroduction before Dharla took it into her own hands.
“Moon to Moon, Elune-adore!” Dharla exclaimed.
Above, Moonlight flared. Worship, twofold. Half of it was directed to me and my Moon mantle. The other half went… elsewhere, transcending Turning Ages. I blinked at the sensation, for I could feel my latest living treasure’s religious fervor in just that short praying praise.
Dharla was an Elf of the Night. I could feel her connection to the Moon — any Moon — just looking at her. She was colored the most beautiful pink, with a long silken curtain of white hair falling down her back and eyes of pure, glowing blue. Ears to rival any horns twitched expressively from the sides of her head.
Her body was sinful, stoking Draconic Lust and Pride and Greed to sing. And she was clearly comfortable with that sin, that Moon-inspired fertility and beauty. She wore barely anything at all, just draping silks of physical Moonlight, so sheer that curves and peaky, pierced nipples and plump, flowering lower lips were almost fully visible.
And as she stared at me with those glowing blue eyes, I could feel worship, even just a mortal trickle, fortifying my Moon mantle.
“… Ah. Dharla. Well met. Again, I suppose. How did-…?” I trailed off, asking how… this… came to be.
A Night Elf where she shouldn’t have been… The memories barely, distantly, stirred in my mind.
Dharla smiled zealously in answer, “A miraculous coupling of Moon and Moon! Only once, in the Night of Nights, but that was enough for my Lady Elune to entrust me to you, Moon Dragon! I follow you as I follow her, for the Moon reigns supreme over the night. It’s a beautiful thing, and so, I extol your glory as best I can, through song and silver tongue.”
A bard, then. A Night Elf bard to add to my hoard, one so fervently devoted to my Moon mantle. It was certainly a coup. I only wished I could remember coupling with her Moon Goddess across Ages in more detail…
“She is… enthusiastic, Sire,” Jenevelle said dryly. “As you can see. Your next is equally enthusiastic, if in a different way. Calamitas, Sire.”
She waved my next living treasure forward, but she didn’t have to. Calamitas had already risen in flight from the pavilion to stare me down. It made quite a scene; she was barely as big as my pupil. Still, the tiny treasure didn’t let that shake her obvious pride.
“You did not burn with the Turning Age,” Calamitas observed imperiously. “Good, Dragon. I would hate for you to die of ‘natural’ causes before I get my second chance to kill you. If you did, I would’ve had to fetch you from whatever Hell Dragons go to myself!”
Calamitas was a True Demon. I could smell, taste, and see the Hellish Damnation pouring off her. An enchantress witch of brimstone. A great evil. A terrible power. A Calamity all herself.
She was also tiny. Youth frozen as a consequence of power, a seeming innocence that didn’t betray what must’ve been centuries of calamity and evil. Her skin was gray, her eyes were a baleful red, and adorable horns rose from her forehead.
Returning memories told me I’d stopped her Calamity once, foiling an ‘end of the world’ type scheme. She’d stuck to me like an adorably evil demonic leech ever since.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t dare disappoint you like that, Calamitas,” I said, amused by the threat.
“Of course! That way lies your ruin, Dragon!” Calamitas snapped. “Disappoint me, and I will devise an enchantment that will see even you suffer for Ages forevermore!”
Proud, intimidating, and Calamity manifest, she stuck her nose up at me and planted her hands on her (surprisingly wide) hips.
Pyrite cut through all of that with a whispered jab, “Chuunniiii~…”
“I will see you burn, welp!” Calamitas rounded on my bratty daughter in an instant.
“Dragons don’t burn!”
“They do in the brimstone flames of Hell!”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Yes-huh!”
“Do not!”
“Do too!”
The two diminutive, world-level threats snapped back and forth at each other. Daughter of Dragon vs. Daughter of Calamity. The rest of my Hoard ignored them as if it were normal. Rising memories told me it very much was.
I chuckled and returned my focus to an exasperated Jenevelle, “We’ll let the children play as we continue.”
“That’s likely for the best, Sire,” She huffed ever so slightly. “Next, we have… the Witch… Where…? Sire-dammit, Belladonna.”
This living treasure of mine had seemingly slipped away during the reintroductions. I located her quickly, of course, my Authority supreme, and pointed her out to Jenevelle.
“She seems to be digging through the gold mountain over yonder. Near the base of my tail.”
“I should’ve expected…” Jenevelle sighed. “Sire, please bring the slattern back here to polite company before she makes a… distracting mess of herself.”
I did so, scooping up the wayward living treasure with a touch of Authority and bringing her back over near my head. Immediately, she was swearing.
“Fuck! Shit! Spiky Terrasque Balls! I was so close! I could see scale! Glorious, glorious, Dragon-cock scale, Jenevelle!”
In an instant, Belladonna switched from swearing to swooning, “Oh, but to be held in my lord’s strong magical grip~… I suppose that’s compensation of a kind. I can still get off to this…”
“At least greet our Sire before you indulge your… freakishness, Belladonna,” Jenevelle deadpanned.
“That was going to be my greeting!” Belladonna exclaimed. “What better way to wake than with a mighty Draconic orgasm!”
“And I’m sure that plan had nothing to do with your persistent attempts to lie with our Sire in his largest form,” Jenevelle said, flat and unimpressed.
“I could be swimming in my lord’s Draconic studliness right now, Cleric!” Belladonna snapped back.
“He would crush you with a single throb.”
“And it would be a glorious way to die!”
“… Belladonna,” When I spoke up to interrupt them, my tone was stern and silencing.
“Yes, my lord?” Belladonna’s demeanor switched up, quick as a blink, smiling beautifically and obediently as if she could do no wrong and my word was her only law.
“Ask. And know your limits.”
“As you say, my lord. Anything you say, my lord~…”
I looked her over, holding her in place with Authority. That hold was already starting to make her pant and shudder, and my examining gaze upon her seemed to push her over some kind of edge.
I ignored her orgasmic moan, even as Draconic Lust and Greed and Pride sang.
Belladonna was a red tiefling with shock-white hair and eerily beautiful white eyes behind adorably nerdy glasses. Horns curled behind her ears, framing a face made to be painted white. Her body was slim and curvy in all the right places, and a sleek tail emerged from the small of her back.
The… enthusiasm… of her personality had already been shown. But stirring memories told me she was a freak in more than just the sheets. Her interest could turn from sex and perversion to magic and academic curiosity at the drop of her witch’s hat.
A single night together and the Draconic reveal in the morning had appealed to all sides of her ‘freaky’ enthusiasm. I hadn’t even made the offer to bring her into my Hoard. She just… wouldn’t leave after she had a taste of Dragon cock and Dragon magic.
“Ahem…” Jenevelle cleared her throat, making sure she had my attention over Belladonna (to the latter’s pout). “Lastly, the Hoard’s latest recruit, Sire. She is the only one to come from our last Turning Age, the one of… ’Shadowruns’, as you dubbed it. Be gentle with her, Sire. Glory is still… raw.”
Glory stepped up for me to examine and remember at Jenevelle’s prompting. She was more a living weapon than a living treasure. Her body was augmented with chrome and steel. Her arms were black and bulky, ending in viciously clawed fingers. They met flesh at her shoulders, the meeting gruesome and seamless at once.
Her skin was deathly pale. Her hair was long, black, and beautiful. Her whole being was closed off, coming across as cold and dangerous.
But with my Authority over her, I could sense so much sadness and regret and trauma within. She was a weapon. She hated that she was a weapon. She preferred healing to violence, even if she was better at the latter. And as broken and cold as she seemed, I could sense that she looked to me as her salvation.
Returning memories told me why. A young girl in an Age of suffering and profit and evil made mundane, blessed by the touch of Magic and Spirits.
Thrown onto the streets, she was taken into a cult and turned into the cult leader’s weapon. She obeyed without question, obeyed with the love of a broken girl. Only after killing her own mother did she wake from her fugue.
Still, as she desperately looked for another way — any other way — to live, the cult’s worshipped spirit had a claim to her soul. An Adversary, a Devil, Glory brutalized herself with technology so she might break its hold and ruin her own gift of Magic. She was only partially successful.
I found her then, a Dragon at the top of that Age alongside many other Draconic peers, and I made her success permanent. My Authority superseded the Adversary’s claim on her soul. So long as she was Mine, the Devil wouldn’t touch her. She gave herself willingly to break that hold.
“Glory,” I greeted gently. “It’s gone completely. Can you feel it?”
Haltingly, Glory shook her head, “I can’t. Not anymore. Magic is… I won’t ever feel it again. But I trust you, Ancalagon, sir. I trust you.”
“Then trust when I say that damned spirit, that Adversary, will never trouble you again.”
“… Thank you…”
“We could heal you, you know? Restore your whole form, your connection to Magic,” I offered.
Glory awkwardly rubbed at her metal arms, “I… No. No, this is who I am now. I don’t mind it too much. I know you’d never use me for just the weapons of my arms.”
“I would not. You have a place in this Hoard as Glory, not as a weapon. Just know the offer will always be available. Only the best for what is Mine…” I said, accepting her refusal.
I turned my attention to all of my living treasures, then, and beyond, taking in my whole Hoard. Every piece of it sparked memories, a refamiliarization of self, a settling into this new Age.
A magical sword with a story behind it: I remembered myself claiming it from a knight who thought to try their hand at Dragonslaying.
An aegis from the gods: I remembered it as a gift for great service, entrusted to me for averting the destruction of a holy city.
A rifle enchanted with a spirit of fire: I remembered enchanting it myself, for a ‘Shadowrun’ against blood mages.
And more, and more, the manyfold treasures here helped me remember. They weren’t just testaments of Draconic Greed, but chapters in a Draconic story, in a legend all my own.
Ancalagon’s story. Ancalagon’s Hoard, the culmination of the White’s Turning Ages, few as they may yet be. It would grow. Draconic Greed and Pride and Lust — and the story, the inherent theme of a Dragon’s Power and Importance — demanded it.
To do so, though, this latest Turning Age needed to be explored and experienced.
“A new Age…” I said, speaking to the whole of my Hoard. “And with its Turning, we arrive. I know… some things. Knowledge from whispers of creation in the transition. This Turning Age shall be an interesting one for us.”
“Good fights to start, Daddy?” Pyrite asked, eager with Draconic bloodthirst.
“Stuff to steal~?!” Anart asked, giddy at the prospect.
“Minds to mold to the Moon’s inexhaustible glory?” Dharla asked, zeal shining in Moonlight from her soul.
“Peasants to dominate, to reign over, but of course!” Calamitas exclaimed, already prepared to demonstrate her demonic superiority.
“Opportunities for cold hard cash…?” Glory asked, subdued but falling back on the mercenary way of life she knew best.
“New things to learn? New places and ways to get properly FUCKED~?” Belladonna asked, freaky enthusiasm ever-present.
“Whatever might await us, this Age can not at all be prepared for you, Sire,” Jenevelle finished with utter surety.
“Few Ages are prepared for a true Dragon,” I chuckled, the sound rolling over my Hoard. “This one perhaps least of all, out of the Ages we’ve lived through.”
“How so, Sire?” Jenevelle inquired.
“This is a modern Age, like our last, dominated by humans and their advancements. But it is also an Age of ruin. That much was made clear to me in what base knowledge I’ve been able to glean.
“This is an Age without Magic. Other powers have risen to take its place. Powers with strange, Alien sources. I saw part of their story in the lull between Turning Ages, the transition.”
“Oh~? What did you see, my lord?” Belladonna asked, her freaky enthusiasm turning toward academic curiosity instead of pure lust.
I gathered my thoughts and answered, “… Massive Alien beings, almost incomprehensible even to me, spiral through the cosmos. They bring uniquely new Ages everywhere they go, a Cycle of power gifted and… DATA reaped… They set flames that burn to inevitable ruin, harvest the ashes, and repeat the process ad infinitum.”
“And what is the purpose of this… commendable ruin?” Calamitas asked, audibly interested. “Do they seek pure domination? Displays of their power over the weak and unable? Do they cleave to some unholy crusade? Some great and terrible cause that only they know?”
“Their purpose is decidedly, almost pitifully, mortal,” I replied. “They seek only to avert their own death and destruction. They seek to prolong their alien existences by any means necessary.”
“That’s all?” Calamitas was visibly bemused by that answer. “They just… don’t wish to die?”
“Indeed, for these beings are as limited as they are powerful. Their Cycle is all they know. Now, in this iteration, it has gone wrong, and still, they persist. For they can do nothing else.”
“Oh, how fascinating~…” Belladonna purred.
“They sound as puny as they are powerful, Daddy,” Pyrite frowned.
“Power does not preclude patheticness of purpose,” I shared, having come to the same conclusion myself from my visions of this Turning Age. “Still, as powerful and pathetic as they are, they’ve known no rivals. This Age marches to the Song of their Cycle. It would continue to do so, perhaps even unto ruin… if something so Out-of-Context hadn’t dropped right into their midst.”
“That’s… us, right?” Glory asked, still hesitant to fully include herself in the Hoard’s conversation due to her recent recruitment.
“It is, indeed, Glory,” I agreed.
My massive maw shifted into a toothy grin, “These Aliens and their Cycle know nothing of a true Dragon. They know nothing of rivals to their pathetic purpose. They know nothing of our Hoard.
“Our presence here Turns the Age Anew. Here, we are a gloriously discordant note in their Cycle’s Song. Here, we are perfectly placed, without context, to rival and surpass the supposed ‘masters’ of this Age.
“The Hoard will grow. The Dragon will dominate, always Powerful, always Important. This Age will learn your names and mine…
“Ancalagon the White, and his Hoard. This Age will know us well.”
IIIII
[AN: As they always do, this story grew from its initial concept of ‘Shadowrun Greater Dragon in Worm’. Instead of just any old insert, I decided to spice things up quite a bit for our MC and his starting point.
It started with the name, ‘cause I wanted something with weight to it, but more fantastical than mythological. Tolkien delivers for that (can’t deny that his Dragons are real capital-D Dragons lol), and I had some fun deepening the insert with the whole ‘Black to White’ thing (it’s got layers, see?).
As a result, Ancalagon has a pseudo-worldhopping history to pull from/elaborate on to deepen his character and the characters of his Hoard. He’s somewhat experienced but still relatively ‘young’. He starts with a solid foundation (his Hoard), so he/I don’t have to build that all from scratch. And most importantly, he has actual direction to his character instead of being a completely clean slate floundering about in Worm.
His motivations come pretty naturally with his Draconic nature (Pride, Greed, Lust, Power, Importance, Everything that makes a Dragon). He’s looking to dominate, expand his Hoard/Authority, and make this Age his (“It’s free real estate”). The real fun will be in how he accomplishes those goals and in the Out-of-Context chaos he inspires.
A conspiracy to rival Cauldron? Draconic warlord conquest? New blood for the Hoard? Straight-up fist-fighting/taking over Shards and powers? Driving everyone and their bosses insane ‘cause there’s an actual DRAGON running around now (and not just Lung’s best attempt at one)? And of course, just so, so many cases of misunderstanding, dramatic irony, and Out-of-Context butterflies…
Should be fun :]