Some dragons collect gold. Some collect rubies. Others collect diamonds. I collect the ones in need, my hoard is a fleeting thing. This pile? Eh, that's just for scrubbing loose scales, the kobolds are very kind, go ahead and grab some. Excuse me, I have patients to treat. -- Anon Guest
Dragons had a lot of adapting to do when the smaller species turned up. The Elves scattered into disparate environments. The Dwarves mined their way into Dragon caverns. The Trolls emerged from the forests. Or were them. It wasn't quite clear. And a weird bunch of hairless apes turned up and started spreading settlements across the face of the world, growing like fungal infestations across the map. They also seemed to think that slaying Dragons was essential.
They were very weird about that part.
So while Troll fought Elf fought Dwarf fought Orc fought... who knew what, the Dragons sought a means of protective camouflage. They solved the riddle of polymorphing, learned to disguise themselves. As the smaller kinds infesting the world originally made for them.
And that's how Draconic Sorcerers came to be. Halfbreds and their descendants had their marks left on their bodies, but also had significant power to defend themselves.
But apart from the halfbred Sorcerers, there were those who blended in. Those who made... allies. And those who decided on their own peculiar brand of diplomacy. Those rare few... decided to help their neighbours.
There was still the desire to hoard, but there were ways to satiate that. Hoard things that the smaller beings didn't always crave. Some hoarded knowledge. Some hoarded stories. Giltahardrt hoarded patients.
Most of the day, she worked in her hospice looking like a halfbred Elf. Her Kobold assistants rushed to keep things clean, to see that patients had water, or good food[1]. The kitchens were always bustling, as was the laundry. A team of ten Kobolds could change a set of bedclothes in less than thirty seconds.
Giltahardt always thanked them as she went from patient to patient. Working her magic or applying her remedies or, in some cases, sitting with the dying.
Adventurers kept coming. Finding the hospital, in utter confusion, and poking around until they found what they thought was the hoard. And sometimes, they woke Giltahardt when she was attempting her annual, postprandial nap.
"Take what you need," said Giltahardt, much to their further confusion. "I only use them when I'm shedding. Just... let me rest? My patients need me alert."
Very occasionally, those Adventurers thank her for her hard work, and only take what they need from the pile.
[1] According to the patients' definitions of good food. What Kobolds consider food is often considered nightmare fuel by other species.
[Photo by Katherine Hanlon on Unsplash]
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