It was his first venture away from family--the first time he was leaving Temperance behind, and Mercy, as well. He was only just now learning to fly, and the weak jump-and-flap-a-few-times gliding was tiring, but had brought him here: Tunnel J.

Dad--Mercy--had given him permission to explore on his own a little, and excitement flickered in his heart. He had a desire to roam, though he couldn't have quite said why, and this place--despite its bright light and seemingly safe confines--felt mysterious and fantastical.

The draconian carvings, the offering relics, the broken things scattered across the tunnel floor--all vied for his fascinated attention, and he cycled between them without being able to pick a single one.

Something about the carvings spoke to him, for one thing. The scales, the fins, the dragon horns--he lifted his own paw-hands, prodding at his face. He shared some of those features-! What did it all mean? He stood on his hind legs, serpentine body lifting so that he could peer into the bowl above. What were those things, and why were they stuck there?

Lastly, the armor and weapons interested him. They were broken, old, but he nosed among them nonetheless and if his tail had been less long and thick, it would've been wagging with happy interest.

The stuff smelled old. Metallic. Like dust and steel, left for ages. He nudged among the pieces--pieces so many others had sorted and sifted through for years. It was doubtful that he'd find anything of interest, but that didn't stop him from (in his childish excitement) trying.

Tunnel J was quantifiably filled with garbage. "One man's trash is another man's treasure" wasn't something that often applied to objects residing within it.

Beaten and worn-down metal scraps and materials lined the joint between wall and floor. Moth-eaten and rotten leather rags sat barely intact, prone to crumbling into dust at a single touch. Many of the broken weapons looked like they'd dissolve if one breathed on them. A few might have, in Ember's wake; at least the hatchling-pup (pupling?) was hardly at risk of cutting himself on dull edges. They wouldn't be able to slice softened butter.

So, finding a totally intact—and remarkably well-preserved treasure in the pile? Worthy of celebration.

Buried beneath gnarled sheets of some heavily-oxidized alloy, there was a skullcap made of large, dense scales. The brow was wide, and the entire shape was quite flat. (It'd fit great on something with a head resembling a great white shark's.)

Whatever leather padding inside was totally decayed out, so it was more like a turtle shell than something comfortable for any creature to wear. Aside from that, and the dust caking every concavity and the deep crack running through the back side... it was quite a nice find.

A little awkward, though, considering the scales were rather... familiarly draconic in nature.

@Ember

Here and there he waded, carefully lifting up old armor and laying it aside. He had to use his limbs along with other scrap like chisels and wedges, in places, to lift heavier pieces up--and beneath a couple sheets of old, discolored metal, he found something of interest. It wasn't shaped like the rest: it was more rounded, which drew his eye. And it was made of another material, one oddly familiar to him.

The pupling rocked back on his haunches, carefully using semi-draconic forefeet to lift this new treasure up before him. It was heavy, hard to manipulate, but after a moment he had it held in the air. He tilted it slowly this way and that, ember eyes rapt as he regarded it.

It was old, there was no denying that, even for one so young and inexperienced as he. Ember didn't know such fancy words, of course, as "oxidation" for the sheets of metal that had covered it, but it smelled of a scent he was quickly coming to know as "old," too. He examined it with touch (rough, scaly, smooth in other places, heavy and cool to the touch--warm along the scales themselves); sight (worn, battered, very well- and intricately-made); scent (musty, dusty, metallic).

A soft tap of claws here and there gave him the sense of sound, too; a quiet, metallic ringing clang when he tapped the alloy that had laid atop it, and a quiet, dull click along the scales of the helm itself. He didn't know what this meant, but he did turn and try a tap along his own belly, and it sounded sort of similar--though his own scales were softer, alive.

Ember tried to set the hat on the only real round part of his body--a part too small, far too round, for it to fit--his head. For a moment the broad helm settled down over his nub-like child's dragon horns, flopped heavily around his ears, then hung over his whole head at an awkward angle--even his eyes wholly covered. Only his youth-blunt muzzle stuck out--but after a moment, amused and content, that muzzle parted and a little tongue popped out to loll happily.

For a time he simply sat like that. His draconic tail swept the ground behind him in a 'wag,' and then he pushed back up, carefully making his way along the tunnel floor and through the rubble.

His eyes lit in their familiar flaming glow, more brightly than usual; warmth emanated from him. It was as though he were embracing the very aspect of fire--in a very mild form.

He explored the tunnel a little more before turning back; he had something to work with, now, and really that was all that he needed.

exit