The top of the stack--where Dread roosted--was a large, bowl-shaped enclave. A tree growing at the top, gnarled by wind, provided dappled shade. Bones and hides, and chips of massive chrysalises, were scattered here among lesser treasures. Those "treasures" were shiny objects, mostly little gemstones that had caught the dragon's eye.

Down below, however--in the cave within the stack--was the real hoard. This place was a dozen or so yards below the sea stack's top, and only a creature with wings, like Thief, could get inside. It was visible enough: a gaping maw in the island's side, entering into the damp, cooler darkness where a number of treasures--real treasures--lay scattered.

There were softly-glowing crystals that chimed a constant, soothing song. There were gemstones, gleaming, and chunks of shining gold and fool's gold given to him as payment for a variety of tasks. There was, too, an enchanted collar: maybe ten inches in diameter, solid heavy gold, shining as it sat discarded amongst the other objects.

A crystal bat perched on a ledge within the cave overlooking all of this. It was larger than a typical Crystal Bat--the size of a big vulture, with a ten foot wingspan, and its skin was colored solid gold. It looked rather like a gargoyle or a statue, there.

Depending on whether Thief lit atop the upper bowl of the stack, or the cave beneath, they would find either Dread basking in Leo's light and breeze, or the golden Crystal Bat dozing by the hoard.

Dread, half-asleep, slid his gaze to the black winged cat landing among his things. For a moment, he simply assumed--given the general shape--that it was his daughter, Bug.

Bug, after all, was half black cat and half dragon, and didn't look entirely unlike Thief at first glance. He even lifted his head a fraction and got that first word of greeting out: "BUG," and then paused. Things clicked into place rapidly: first, that this thing was baby-sized where Bug was fully grown, the size of a medium dog. Second, that it had red eyes, the tail was wrong, the wings were wrong. Third-...

"WHO ARE YOU?" he demanded, shoving hastily upright with a rush of dust. He was still more baffled than angry: his mind was (slowly) churning through possibilities. Like-... maybe Bug had had a kid. Maybe this was her idea of a joke: introducing a new child by way of her own prankster ways. But then his throught process was sidelined by another, far more important realization and the question on its heels: "WHY ARE THERE STICKS??"

He did not yet realize the cat-beast was going for his scattered treasures, here; he was too utterly thrown off for that, for now.

Confusion mounted, compounding. Generally speaking, a confused Dread was a dangerous Dread--the more frustrated he got, the more aggressive he tended to be. Most problems went away, after all, after they were set on fire. But this--this was a child, he could see that. And Dread was a parental type, so that even now his head was sweeping down, nostrils flaring, in attempts to sniff and nudge and prod at the strange black fairy-kitten.

HORNS? he thought (loudly) to himself. Maybe... this child was simply self-conscious about not having horns?! Maybe they were Bug's child, after all, and sad about the no-horns thing. He huffed, blinking. "THEY ARE NOT HORNS," he informed them gently. "BUT THAT IS OKAY. YOU DO NOT NEED HORNS!" (For, he assumed, 'being a dragon.')

The had child correctly assumed that Bug meant a name and not, in fact, Dread's assumption that Thief was an insect; this was even more puzzling. "WHO SENT YOU? WHY? WHY HERE?" he asked, pulling back a little to get out of the child's way.

It didn't occur to him even for a moment that they were a stranger, sent to steal. Maybe if they'd looked at all different-... Oh, but they'd introduced themselves. He should do the same, unless they already-... "-DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?"

It was only now that Dread began to cotton onto the fact that this was not one of his family. That the names--Fug, Mug--were just parroted, echoes of the Bug he'd spoken first. He... didn't underestand why, and his reaction was again confusion first and foremost.

His large, taloned right hind foot slowly came down to grasp, in a loose sort of way (more a claim of ownership than a real grip), his haphazard collection of "shinies." "THESE ARE MY SHINIES," he explained, although again, almost gently. A rare patience gleamed in his fiery eyes as he tried his best to explain. "YOU CAN TRADE FOR SHINIES. YOU GIVE ME ONE THING. I GIVE YOU A SHINY. THEY ARE MINE," and it was... sort of an offer.

He didn't say what things he wanted, and possibly hadn't thought of that. But--with another cursory sniff of the child--he continued. "I AM DREAD. ARE YOU HUNGRY?"

This sounded like an offer, too.