DRAGON RAGE: ORIGINS.

[murderbaby]

WHO: Aziraphale, Julius, Val, Mhavos
WHAT: Everyone loves Canadian rappers.
WHEN: Probably around Harvestmere.
WHERE: The Storm Coast
NOTES: Stop dragon my heart around.

• For reference.
• Top levels in comments, feel free to make ur own.

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TRANSLATIONS IN HOVERTEXT.

[murderbaby]

A rifter, a mage, an Orlesian noble and an elf walk into a bar.

They are not comped for drinks.

Mhavos has never been much of a drinker. He orders the thing least likely to poison him, and nurses it like it's taken sick. Idly, he says, "that Beshlin fellow... I don't know the Trade word for connerie. But in collaboration with the other stories... well. What do you think?"

He oughtn't speak his own ideas so readily.

[overharrowed]

"I think the surprising thing about his story, under the circumstances, is that any of it seems to be true," Julius says, quietly rueful as he sips his ale.

He's not in robes for once, in the name of getting slightly more people to talk to him (and ease of moment in the rainy, muddy landscape), but he still doesn't fit here any more than the other three. It keeps his focus mainly outward, even if he appears relaxed. After all, it doesn't hurt to be careful.

"But the dragon seems to have been real enough, which is heartening. We didn't come all the way out here for nothing. And whatever did happen, it hasn't been well-known enough to contradict Beshlin's story, at least in this corner of the world. That's odd, isn't it? Dragons don't typically just vanish at random."

[aziraphlail]

"I would think, if I was a dragon, that as soon as the local population grew too aware of me I would vanish. Or leave quickly enough that everyone thought I'd vanished. But it doesn't sound like your world has dragons that are as intelligent as some stories show them to be."

He's cheerful as he talks, sniffing his wine with no little skepticism before he takes a drink. Sure enough, he should have been skeptical. No matter. He's fitting in! A drink is how you do that! He's even in clothing that fits in somewhat, linen top under heavy jerkin over normal enough trousers. The lack of bow-tie makes him a little wistful, but no one wears one here. It's a shame.

"I think there was one here. And that Beshlin wishes he was the sort of man to challenge one."