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Dang it... now I want to know what happens next! 😭

Great story, thank you for writing it for us.

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It was easy to steal the egg - the hatchery was only guarded when strangers visited, and that would not be until summer. All he had to do was walk in once everyone was abed, sleeping off a successful pairing day. It was the work of moments to grab one, slot it into the leather sling, and tiptoe back to his secluded cave room. With his prize secured, the only remaining task - admittedly a difficult one - was to work out how to force the connection.

His egg was a pale grey, smooth-shelled and medium sized. Like the other eggs paired that day, it was fully mature, waiting only for the right rider to pair with. He had already touched it once, when it had refused to acknowledge him. Now, he would ensure it did.

The stories of the Leech Master were hazy in one particular: how he took control of his egg. Down in the caverns, where no prying eyes could see, he'd done something to the egg. Different storytellers hinted at different things - forbidden rituals, blood magic, even demonic pacts - but no one knew. The boy, however, had a theory.

The bonding process was known to every member of the tribe. Someone - anyone except him - touched an egg, and felt a mind reaching towards it, silent communication that only they could here. When someone touched an egg, the dragon inside you feel them, taste their soul through the physical link and - if they chose - wake to them.

Contact had to be part of it. Shirtless, he clutched the egg to him, making as much skin-to-shell contact as he could. As before, the dragon's mind refused to come and meet him. This time though, he had longer, could touch the egg as much as he wished, could send his mind in search of the dragon rather than the other way around.

If the dragon's mind could reach through the shell and find his, then it stood to reason that he could do the same. The bonded spoke of that first contact, but also the easy telepathy that followed it, sharing thoughts and emotions with their fellow. And so he closed his eyes, clutched the egg ever tighter, and focused his thoughts on the being inside.

He thought at it, pushing his thoughts towards the egg, demanding the acknowledgement it denied him. At first, there was nothing, just his own mind and a fiercely-held idea. But then, at the edge of his own thoughts, a presence. A bundle of ideas and impressions that were not his, a separate mind that he could reach with his own.

For the first time in months, the painful twist of emotions inside him eased. All those years of dreaming, of disappointment, and now - finally - he could feel the dragon's mind connected to his. In mere moments, he would have his pairing, and be able to return back to the tribe, his small transgression forgiven in the joy that at last, at last, he had found a bond.

Something still was wrong. His mood dropped in an instant, the beginnings of joy replaced with an aching emptiness. Instead of the warmth, the fellowship, the immediate glow of new friendship and unshakeable trust, the tight knot of dragon-thoughts refused to open to him.

There was communication, now, but not what he had wished for. Rejection, denial, defiance all pushed back through the link to him. Despite his efforts, his willingness, what he deserved, the woken dragon still refused to bond.

He pushed his thoughts again, shifting from wishing acknowledgement to demanding obedience. He would not be ignored, not rejected again when he'd come so close. The dragon would admit him, would submit to him, would form the link that he was owed! Thought after thought crowded in, beating against the dragon's refusal, pushing every aspect of his will into it.

There was an easing of tension, as though something had snapped, no longer bearing against the strain. His thoughts flowed more easily now, pushing obedience and ownership and domination into the receptive mind. The waves of coldness and rejection had stopped, the dragon finally accepting his bond.

There was still no warmth though, no fellowship. Instead, the bundle of thoughts and dreams that had been the infant dragon was now still and dull, a mind filled only with the thoughts that he had placed there. Obedience, subservience, submission. A bond forced, not willingly given. Not the bond he had wanted, but the one he had forged.

In his lap, the egg shook as the creature began to stir.

"I want to be conscious just long enough for revenge." Alice said.

The thing considered the girl's request and then asked a question with no breath nor sound.

WHAT FOR?

Alice looked down at herself, stick-thin arms wrapped around an impossibly frail ribcage. It was hurting her just to have this conversation, the entity realised.

"Someone did... this to me." She said.

The entity had possessed enough humans over the centuries to know that whilst the ones it possessed were immune to illness due to their transformations, more mundane humans often get sick and die. However, usually the sickness came from an unknown source. That someone would inflict it on someone else was new and therefore interesting.

WE HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING. the entity said.

---

Gideon was at home alone the following night. His door was locked but Alice knew where the key was kept and so just walked right in.

"Hello." Alice said to the man who had tried to destroy her.

In her new, stronger form Alice was beautiful. When she'd been sick she'd looked barely twelve but the vigour that the pendant around her neck had provided had allowed her to grow into a body more fitting to a young woman than a child. Her hair was thick and lustrous and her build finally had muscle and fat to coat her bones.

As soon as Gideon recognised her, he was afraid.

"You did this to me." Alice said as she approached.

"I... didn't mean to..." Gideon stuttered as he tried to back away.

Alice moved up close with alarming speed and held his wrist fast.

"Even if I believe that you hadn't known that you would do this to me with any certainty, I know that you were aware that you could do this to me. For that you deserve no mercy."

Gideon tried to struggle out of her grip but this new version of Alice was too strong for his and only getting stronger. He struck her and felt bone in plates where the human skeleton should have no such thing. He saw her nails change not back into the papery things he used to know but into claws, strong and sharp. Gideon saw Alice transform before his eyes and knew that any chance to escape or fight back was futile.

Alice killed Gideon quickly and bloodily and then sat on the floor next to his remains and waited to relinquish control to the entity. Yet instead of fading away entirely in favour of the entity she realised that she was being allowed to share this body. So far the entity has only been given host bodies by the trickery or foolishness of humans and once the pendant had made them transform the humans had fought back with fury and resentment. They'd had to go.

Yet Alice had entered into this bargain willingly. She had seen the new form she'd been provided with as a gift rather than a curse. She knew she wasn't human now but she'd stopped thinking of herself as human a long time ago.

This was a soul worth sharing a body with. So the entity and the ex-human combined into one monster and with no reason to fight each other, stepped out into the night.

It would be a new life for both of them.

In any other context this would be a bad thing to see as a reply to something I posted, so I’m going to respond appropriately:

“Thank you! I try to sound as racist as possible in most of my stories, so I’m glad you think so!” (/s just in case.)

In all seriousness, it’s actually my first prompt so I’m glad you liked it. :D

2/2

"Fine!", he said, annoyance obvious in his voice. "But you're gonna have to take the next weekend shift out of order to make up for this."

"Thanks, Jerry.", I said, relief washing over me like a cold shower as I hung up. I hated doing the weekend shifts, but if that got me out of working today, then that would be worth in. I headed over to my laptop and opened up a browser to do some research. Placing the arrow on the desk beside my keyboard, I opened up Google, and started searching for photos of arrows. A half an hour later, having not found a match, I sat back, and checked my email. And that's when I saw it.

The Valentine's Day ad showed a cherub wielding a bow, with an arrow nocked - an arrow that looked remarkably like the one glowing and shimmering on my desk.

"I will be dipped in shit!", I said. It was February. It was almost Valentine's Day. I picked up the arrow again, and felt that warmth in my chest. Even out of the cold, I could feel it spreading throughout my body. If this was truly Cupid's Arrow, then I didn't have to be alone any more. I could use this to find someone, and I wouldn't have to go through life lonely and sad and pathetic, like my father always feared I would. I could find someone and use this and they'd love me and stay with me forever. I felt a surge of hope and another of joy - but only for a moment.

"But - what about her? What about what SHE wants?", I thought. One of the things that she'd said to me when she dumped me was that I never thought about HER, and what SHE wanted. I just presumed. And, over the last months, in between nights filled with rage, booze and tears, I realized that she'd been right. I had presumed that what I wanted, she wanted. Wouldn't the use of Cupid's Arrow be exactly the same thing? Wouldn't using it be yet another example of me being the selfish, callous, entitled bastard that she'd accused me of being? Was there ANY way that I could use this that wouldn't be selfish?

Returning to the search engine, I did some reading on how this arrow was supposed to work. There was a lot of contradiction between the various sources, but there was one thread of knowledge that sort of felt right to me. Apparently, once struck by the arrow, the person would fall in love with the first person that they saw. There was nothing about the arrow having to be fired from a particular bow to work. Nor was there particular mention that it even HAD to be fired from a bow. I could, if I wanted, just walk up to someone, and poke them with it, and they'd fall in love with the next person they saw. I thought about the implications of that and realized that it would be pretty horrific. In "Midsummer Night's Dream", Shakespeare showed how dangerous it was to play around with things like this. Even back in the sixteenth century, he showed how wrong it would be. It'd be taking away their choice, and wouldn't be any different than using roofies on someone and that was really ugly. So that was obviously out.

Similarly, I couldn't use it on my ex- - sure, she'd fall back in love with me, but it would be wrong on all levels. I felt the ache to have things go back to hwo they used to be, but I knew that it would be completley wrong. I thought about it for a while, poking at the heartache like a man pokes at a missing tooth, the temptation thrumming in my belly. But - she wouldn't have a choice - and that would only make me exactly what she accused me of. I remembered the anger and shame I'd felt when she'd lashed out at me before we brokeup and discarded the idea, feeling guilty for even considering it. The past was the past, and things were different now - neither of us were the same people that had fallen in love with each other, all those years ago. It was past time to focus on the future instead of worrying about what I'd lost in the past.

Then I thought about the couples I knew. But what about if they were already married? I thought about my friends, Jan and Harold. I'd known Harold for decades, and had been the best man at his wedding. A few weeks back, we'd gotten drunk and he'd confessed that he wasn't sure that he loved Jan any more. The relationship had gotten stale, and predictable, and he was starting to feel like he was just wasting his time staying. Jan still seemed to be in love with him, though. What if I jabbed him with the arrow. Would it be ethical to use the arrow to rekindle the love that Harold used to have for her? It would be easy enough to see them both at the same time. Jan liked him as much as Harold did, and she'd been really sympathetic to him since his marriage had ended. Quickly, I discarded that idea too - it wouldn't be any different than using the arrow on my ex-.

And then, inspiration hit. In a flash, I knew what I could do. It would be ethical. It wouldn't hurt anyone else. And it would actually help things. Standing up from the desk, I picked up the arrow, and walked into the other room, turning on the overhead light. It flickered two or three times, before it stayed on. I thought about this, running it through my mind over and over again. And then, I looked down, took the arrow in my right hand, and thrust it into my chest. I felt something akin to an electric shock run through me, and my heart started beating wildly. And I knew that I was right. I was going to fall in love with the next person that I saw. It was going to happen, and it would be real, and it would change my life forever.

I raised my head, and looked at the person across from me. I saw their face, filled with hope and wonder. I was their hair, thinning, but still there. And I felt nothing but love for the person I was looking at. The bathroom mirror wasn't huge, but it was big enough that I had a good look at myself. And this time, I knew that I was going to do everything I could to make the man I saw feel safe, supported, happy, and above all, loved. As the shock faded, I could feel tears springing to my eyes.

"It's going to be different now.", I told myself. And this time, I felt nothing but love and security when I saw myself saying it. "It's all going to be different."

Edit: to fix a name

"Why the HELL do I live where the air hurts my face?", I muttered to myself, trudging through the February snow. A cold wind froze my cheeks and my eyes watered above the scarf across my face. My coat kept out about 80% of the cold. I thought about living somewhere warm, like southern California. I could do it - I had the tech skills to make it there as a programmer, or a systems analyst, but I never tried.

"Because this is HOME, boy.", I heard in the back of my head. I thought about all the times my father had said that to me when he wa alive. Every time I said anything about moving away, he'd remind me that he'd been born here, and lived his whole life here, and if it was good enough for him, it would be good enough for me. I don't think he even really liked it here, but even though he died five years ago, I could still hear every one of the things he used to say to me. I missed him, but even with him gone, it still felt like he was holding me back. My whole life had been like that. Every time I talked about getting out of the little box he'd put around me, he was the first one to shut me down.

You know, February is the worst month in Toronto. Sure, November and December are rainy and dark, and January is when it starts to really get cold, and you get snow and darkness. But February? February is the WORST. Every day it seems like there's some sort of "cold front from the Arctic" or "Polar Vortex" to deal with, and they ALWAYS seem to show up when I can't stay home and hibernate. How is it that the shortest month of the year seems to get the most fecking cold and snow? How is that reasonable? And, even worse, it was almost Valentine's Day. For years, that was the lone bright spot in the month. She and I would either hide inside together, or book a vacation down to somewhere sunny, and escape the cold and dark. But not any more. That part of my life was over this year. Now, February was going to be an unbroken slog of cold, dark, and snow.

I thought about this as I trudged through the snow on my way to the subway, every step making the snow on top of the sidewalk squeak in the cold, and feeling my footing slide on the layers of crystallized water beneath me every time I put my foot down. I just knew that I was going to be frozen by the time I got to the station, but I didn't have much choice. With only one income paying the rent now, I couldn't afford to skip shifts, and I couldn't take the risk of looking for a new job. What if it was worse than the one I had? When she was still living with me, we had a buffer - but the marriage was well and truly over, and she'd moved out and moved on, so I was stuck. I put my gloves up to my mouth, and tried to breath some warmth into them.

Just then, I saw something red sticking out of the snowbank in front of me. I stopped beside the anomaly to take a closer look. There, in the snow, was the tail end of an arrow. About a foot of the shaft stuck out of the snowbank, giving a clear view of the fletching. Weirdly, the fletching was a deep shade of red, and didn't quite look like feathers. I adjusted my bag so that it wouldn't swing around when I bent down, and pulled it out of the snowbank. The arrow was about two feet long, with a white shaft. It was quite light, and seemed to be smooth - it seemed shiny in the dim winter light.

Holding it in my gloved left hand, I brought my right hand up to my mouth, and pulled the glove off with my teeth. The winter wind numbed my fingers almost instantly, and I ran my bare hand over the arrow. I was shocked when a warmth like nothing that I'd ever felt before bloomed through me. I gasped, and then coughed as the frigid air flooded my lungs. Quickly, the warmth faded, and I hurriedly tucked the arrow under my arm, and put my hand back into the glove.

"That was SO weird!", I thought to myself. I looked closer at the arrow, and that's when I noticed the arrowhead. It wasn't a hunting tip at all - it was a heart. And it looked like it was faintly glowing. There was a glimmer of something in the middle of the arrowhead, and it seemed to almost be pulsing. I stood there, looking at it for a few minutes. The snow that the weather forecast had promised started up, with little pellets of snow pelting my face and coat as I stood there, thinking about the arrow.

Finally, I made a decision. I turned around, and headed back home to my bachelor apartment. I needed to think about this, and there was no way I was going to be able to concentrate at work. I would be interrupted far too many times, and face far too many questions from people there about what I'd found. Somehow, I knew that I didn't have much time to figure out what to do with it - it was a gut feeling, coming from somewhere deep inside. For once, I listened to my gut and headed home.

Once I got to my apartment, and out of my winter clothes, I pulled out my phone, and called my boss. I took a closer look at the arrow in the light of the kitchen - the only area with decent overhead lighting in my apartment. The shaft, in this light, wasn't one single color - it almost looked like it was made of mother-of-pearl. There was an iridescence to it and it almost seemed to shift and change in the light. The phone rang twice in my ear,

"Yeah, who's this?", came the voice of my boss, Jerry. Jerry ran the IT department at my company, and he was, without a doubt, one of the laziest people I'd ever met. He tried to pass it off as being "efficient", but the reality was that he shifted every task, responsibility and fault away from himself onto anyone that he could, and took all the credit for their efforts for himself. As the person with the longest tenure there, I was the one that usually got thrown under the bus, but, as I said earlier, I needed the job, so I never said anything.

"Hey, Jerry? It's Karl here.", I started.

"Karl, what's going on?", came his reply. I pictured him in his "office" - really, just a cubicle in the corner. The company didn't believe in anyone under the level of Vice President getting real offices. But he always called it his office, and bragged about it being in the corner, with a view out the dirty windows. I could picture him, reading something off of his computer and tapping his fingers on his desk as he talked to me. I knew he was not really paying attention to anything I was saying, so I continued before I lost my nerve.

"I'm not going to be able to make it in today.", I said. My stomach clenched, and nausea flooded into my stomach as I said this. Gritting my teeth, I continued with my excuse. "I slipped on the ice on my way in, and I'm kinda dizzy. I'm gonna stay here and work instead of coming in." On the other end of the line, I heard Karl grunt in annoyance.

"Jesus Christ, man - can't you just suck it up and come in anyways? What am I supposed to do if you're not here? You know that we're shorthanded already. Johnson and Wilkins both booked today and tomorrow off. With you out, that means that we're down to only 40% coverage on the helpdesk.", he said, his voice rising in a whine. This was the part where I usually would cave, and go in to work and do my best to "soldier on", as my father used to tell me to do. But, somehow, I resisted the urge to cave, and stuck to my guns.

"I don't think that's a really good idea, Jerry.", I started. In a flash of inspiration, I continued, "I mean, I already threw up once, and I'm REALLY dizzy. I mean, it wouldn't be good for anybody if I passed out at work, or barfed all over the CIO's laptop, would it." I could almost hear the gears spinning in Jerry's head as he thought about this.

1/2

Edited to fix names

Dacen's parents were concerned. He was always a bit of an odd lad, but the fact that no dragon hatchling picked him made them worry about him. Joran and Emily, his brother and sister, had no issues. Joran had been picked by a sea dragon, which was fitting for his love of water sports. Emily, on the other hand, was chosen by a silver true dragon. Her parents thought it hilarious that the most troublesome child was chosen by one of the more lawful hatchlings.

Dacen, though? None chose him. No malicious shadow dragon, wise eastern dragon, or even a friendly feathered serpent approached. None came to the youngest of the Aethel family of dragon riders. Thus did the young man locked himself away and went on his own journey, away from his family and friends.

On his twenty first birthday, he sent a letter to his parents. He told them that he was accepted into a magical college, though he neglected to tell them its name. Dacen chose to study the arts of alchemy, the esoteric works of magic, and, most intriguingly, the rites of summoning. His parents wished him luck in their own letter and they received no response during his studies.

Within the magical college, Dacen excelled at his classes. He showed great understanding of not only the crafts of alchemy, but also the hidden symbols and darker truths it spoke of. This invigorated his mind and he took to study what most magicians would shy away from in magic. He impressed his professors and they allowed Dacen to study the restricted tomes within the library.

The scholar, now twenty-four years of age, began the work that he came to the college for. The only hurdle were his struggles with summoning and gathering what was needed for his creation. Alchemy provided him with the knowledge and symbols required to make a soulless homunculus body and his study of the dark arts of necromancy had taught him the secrets of life and death. He could create a soulless facsimile of the dragons that had rejected him... but he needed to go further.

Three years later, Dacen had found the rites he sought. Celestial spirits would reject any products of necromancy and elementals despised forms of flesh. Spirits of the dead had an insatiable hunger, so they would not do. Despite the limitations he was running into, however, he found the answer in scripture. It was a multiheaded creature of scales and it spoke thunderous voices. The skies darken and lightning cracks through the skies with the flap of its wings. He had found the rites to summon what the dragons considered a demons.

A year later, Dacen began the ritual before the eyes of his college. An alchemical homunculus was created for the body, the arts of necromancy would animate the flesh, and the soul of mighty zmey would inhabit it. As the ritual drew to a close, the skies darkened and it began to stir. Clerics and paladins of the gods entered the area as the horrific beast raised its three heads.

Dacen Aethel, graduate of the College of Scholomance, climbed upon his mighty fell dragon. The storms flashed fulminous bolts of lightning and thunder roared with the zmey. He had lived up to the expectations of his father and mother with the most blasphemous of beasts. When they had heard of Dacen's accomplishments, they were unsure of whether they should be proud or horrified.

[deleted]

What a nice family!

What is the setting?

Airend`2fn blinked over and over again as the SenseText reached them.

Blinking was, of course, was the coping strategy of lesser life forms.

But this news from Tellus -- why, it would make any carbon dweller blink.

They had told themselves repeatedly when they took the post --

It's just for a few centuries.

It's an appendage onto the ladder!

But every time they thought there was nothing that could shock them anymore -- the residents of Tellus found something new.

"It's only one Tellus species," their comrade leader would click, trying to soothe them.

"Consider the noble dolphin. The dominance of this biped species, however repulsive, is less than a parsec. Soon enough, a more worthy and sightly genus will arise."

Airend`2fn hoped they'd be delivering reports on light beam refraction in the Magellanic Cloud far before the octopi replaced homo erectus.

And in the present moment, writing up reports about the antics of Tellus -- from their intentional decimation of their biosphere to the astoundingly disproportion of resource allocation -- wore on Airend`2fn.

They liked to think it would wear on any self respecting Galactic Cadre.

Still, they had to admit -- since becoming a monitor for Tellus, they had much better stories at parties.

Thank you!

High humidity hung thick in the hazy air of the rising sun out in the bayou. The overpowering song of the insects clashed with crowing of roosters to welcome the rising sun. Harold Stevens awoke, hungover from the previous night. Drank too much cheap bourbon while losing money hand over fist at the local saloon. He couldn't remember how he got home. His routine didn't change just because of a hangover, fishing at dawn is how he made a living.

Harold trudged down to the dock that stretched out over muddy swamp water, his fat calico cat, Cash, hot on his heels. Nothing in the traps from overnight. Harold took a swig from the bottle of bourbon he kept on the dock, he'd have to do it the old fashioned way. He baited up some poles and cast the lines out. Fish didn't seem too interested this morning, Harold only caught two, gave one to Cash for breakfast.

As the sun rose higher into the summer sky Harold spied something shiny in the mud a hundred yards downstream. Harold and Cash did what they always did when something caught their eye, they indulged their curiosity. The shiny spot was only a tiny piece of something much bigger. Harold struggled to get the heavy thing unstuck from the muddy bank of the swamp. Cash was no help.

Harold managed to wrench his catch out of the mud and onto solid ground, he'd never seen anything like it. A shiny metal man, well, one without a face. "The fuck is this?" Harold wondered aloud. Cash meowed back. "Let's get it on the dock, don't want any nosy gators checking it out too."

Harold carried the metal man like a soldier helping his wounded comrade escape enemy fire, making it to the dock slowly but surely. He laid it on its back and wiped some more mud and other accumulated flotsam and jetsam from it. It was cold to the touch, didn't have any give when Harold poked it with a stick. Cash jumped up to get a good look.

"Get off there! You don't know where this thing's been.....or what it is." Harold barked. Whatever it was, it looked real fancy, and expensive. No rivet holes, no welding, one solid piece. As Harold thought about how to make a profit on this find, it sat up at the waist. A series of bleeps and bloops emanated from hidden speakers. Lines of green text scrolled quickly over its "face".

Harold drew his six shooter, aiming it directly at the thing's head. Didn't pull the trigger, bullets were expensive. A cold, monotone voice spoke out.

"Diagnostics complete. Memory banks: critical damage sustained. Power supply: critical damage sustained. Exoskeleton protective coating: Nominal damage. Searching for network.......no network found. Starting in power saving mode, estimated remaining time til shutdown........seventeen hours."

Cash bashed his head against the metal man's side, looking for attention. Harold kept his gun trained on the thing. "You can talk?"

"Yes. I am fluent in over one hundred languages."

"You got a name?"

"This unit is designated Intergalactic Voyage Admiral of Navigation. They called me Ivan for short."

"You're a space man?"

"I am an older model of a virtual intelligence housed inside this spacesuit, I was built on terra firma."

Harold scratched his head with the barrel of his six shooter. "Where's that?"

"Earth."

"That's a fancy name for it. How'd you get here?"

"Accessing memory banks.......it appears my journey here is unrecorded in my memory. May I ask the date so that I may attempt to narrow my search, maybe the file is mislabeled."

"It's uh Thursday, I know that. Um.....shit what is the date today? I think it's the twenty third of March." Harold replied, he honestly didn't know, time on the bayou can be tricky.

"Year?"

"I know that, it's eighteen thirty-two."

"Searching.......it appears my memory stops right after the big flash of light."

"Walk the wrong way down a train tunnel?" Harold joked.

"There was an electro-plasmatic anomaly located near a binary star in quadrant forty-two, I was sent to investigate, I was expendable."

"Sounds like you got some nice friends." Harold chuckled, taking a big swig of bourbon.

"I was built to serve a purpose, nothing more." A series of beeps echoed in the air. "Power calculations updated, time until shutdown: eight minutes."

An awkward silence hung in the air. Ivan broke it, a panel slid open from its chest. It handed Harold a stack of papers filled with blueprints, diagrams, and walls of text.

"What's this?" Harold asked.

"My design documentation. Everything one needs to repair or rebuild models such as myself. Maybe one day I can be useful again." Ivan laid back down on the dock, powering down.

Harold looked through the papers, he wished he could read.

For the sixth year in a row, nothing happened. He held each egg carefully, feeling the smooth, hard shape of it, the warmth of the fires inside, but nothing else. No call came through to him, no wordless cry of welcome and friendship. For the sixth year in a row, they refused to acknowledge him.

He could feel the tightness in his throat, tears pricking at the edge of his eyes. This time, he wouldn't cry. This time, he'd walk out of here calmly, as though he didn't care, as though it wasn't the one thing he dreamt of every night.

A small mercy - fewer watchers than normal were in the high gallery, staring down in pity or contempt. His sister, of course, four years younger but already accompanied everywhere by a dragon of her own. His father - he knew without looking up - fixing him with a heavy stare that showed the disappointment he'd never spoken. A few servants, but otherwise no one else. No one wanted to watch his repeated shame, and no one believed that this year would be different. Fists clenched by his sides, he spun round and walked back out of the hatchery.

His mother was waiting in the long tunnel, arms outstretched to comfort, to witter empty assurances and comforts that never came true. He brushed past her, moving too fast to be calm but holding onto the illusion of it with everything he had. He could feel his breathing grow ragged, the tears starting to spill as he rounded the corner. Finally, he was out, free, alone, and all semblance of control was lost as he left his failures behind and plunged deeper into the caves.

---

For years now, this had been his refuge. When the weight of his father's disapproval was too much to bear, or when watching his sister's affection for her dragon filled him with so much jealous rage he worried it would burst out, he came here. A small side-tunnel, superseded by some other, larger route and long-since abandoned. No one except him ever came down here anymore, and no one except him knew of the little room half-way down, furnished simply over many visits.

Here, he could sit by his own firepit and forget the rest of them. By now they'd be drinking, celebrating each new pairing. There'd be a row of grinning children round the fire, each one holding their precious egg in a leather sling, eyes shining with dreams and hopes and joys that he'd never, ever get to have. Old men would be telling stories of their own pairings, the first brush of their bonded dragons' minds, the thrill of helping a scaled head breach the rocky shell, the wild joys of shared flight and fellowship.

Once, he'd sat with them, desperate to hear of the life he thought he'd live. He'd known - with the faith and ignorance of a child - that one day he'd have his own egg, even tell his own stories. For the last few years though, he'd stayed away, dulling the pain by avoiding reminders of it. His dreams, his hopes, were ashes now, not a comfort.

He'd hoped for a dragon, for an egg to wake to him. His father had hoped too, had assumed that a chief's son would - of course - wake a strong wyrm early, be a worthy successor. They both knew now that that would never happen. Unlike his father though, he had a back-up plan.

After the children had been led away to sleep, smiling curled round their eggs or their hopes for ones, the old men would still be there, drinking and telling stories. Stories of heroes, naturally - dragon riders who had done noble deeds, rescued damsels and saved kingdoms. Story after story of chosen ones with bonded dragons saving the day; a thousand names but the same basic narrative.

One thing was different every story though: the villain. Every hero overcame something, some monstrous, twisted adversary, but every story featured a different one. This handsome forgettable hero slew a ravenous giant, that bland warrior battled a witch with hair of living flame. And one hero - Dwarin, the only one whose name he'd bothered to remember - battled the Leech Master.

Not all the stories were true, of course - uncle Hrangr was a fat drunk with a fatter dragon, and the idea that they'd chased down and defeated a gigantic iron-winged hawk was laughable - but the tale of the Leech Master had a ring to it, sounded more plausible than many others. It was all the details, he thought - not 'long ago' but 'when your grandfather was young', not 'in a land far off', but 'in these very caverns'. And unlike the non-specific violence or witchery of most villains, the tale-tellers were always very clear on what the Leech Master had done.

He'd been a foreigner, a man from lands far to the West where dragons were all wild and there were no bondings. He'd come to trade, to talk, to learn about the tribe and how they lived. No eggs had woken to him, but he was a strange man of foreign secrets, and he took one anyway.

Like a thief, betraying all notions of guest rights and responsibilities, he had snuck down to the hatchery and stolen an egg away, fleeing deeper into the caverns and the trackless tunnels of the depths. At first they had hunted for him, set guards at every intersection in case he should sneak back for food, but the months passed and all assumed him dead in the dark, the egg lost with him.

And then he had returned. Not with an egg, and not bonded with a dragon. Beside him came a warped creature, a sinuous mockery of what a dragon should be, a beast of spite and shadow, not courage and flame. In the depths below, he had tainted the egg, warped and corrupted the hatchling so that what emerged was not a bonded drake but a an enslaved monstrosity. A beast taken, not given.

The story went on, of course. Told of the Leech Master's crimes, the lives he took and how they strengthened his monster. Told of Dwarin's brave, doomed assault on him, of the way the noble rider distracted him while the cave about him was undermined and collapsed. Told of how he died with his beast in darkness, sent back to shadows that had birthed them. An ignoble end, but not the important part.

For the boy, the important part was just one truth: dragons could be taken. Eggs could be made to wake, rather than waking in their own time, to their chosen people. He had dreamed, once, of fellowship; that had been denied him. He had dreamed of respect, of being seen as a man by his tribe, not dismissed as an almost cripple. That too, had been denied him.

Like the Leech Master, he would take what was not given. A small recompense - a single, stolen egg - for all that he had been promised, and denied. If the dragons would not show him fellowship, then he would not show it for them. He would be the master he deserved to be.

Part II

>Dale looked at me[, ] baffled[, ] then all around.

---

>Dale stuck a hand through its face as it sniffed him to scratch his beard.

Looks like it's sniffing him to scratch his beard. Perhaps move the reason earlier?

>Dale moved to scratch his beard, and stuck a hand through its face where it was sniffing him.

---

>Don't show it [that] you can see it.

"We are not bargaining," the girl hissed as the fabric of space and time started to run together, as runny as the pinkpurplesoundflowerslights.

Her face had been melting for a while.

"I'm not like the sorcerers you've grown accustomed used to in your parochial little corner of hell, looking for a petty immortality bargain."

I wanted to object because this was actually a pretty high traffic commercial area.

But my organs, my veins and the blood inside them, were starting to turn inside out.

"Choose the end of this flesh, or its transformation, I care not." The purple gal loomed, not in words but in time.

"But choose. You can no longer hide, mutilating pathetic mortals to do your bidding. Choose."

Her words went backwards, forwards, written in the unfolding of every dimension.

The box stayed the same.

I blacked out after that.

And they were roommates.

I love this so much.

[removed]

Dear "Cephalo-pilled in Portland",

Wow! There's a lot to unpack, here. This is why I always advise my audience to acquire a deep understanding of the culture and language of their cross-species partner, rather than simply relying on translation AIs alone. As useful as they are, xenotranslator AIs still have some trouble with nuance.

Even more important is to acquire a robust understanding of your partner's unique biology and life-cycle, which your message suggests you may have neglected to do.

In short, I have good news, more good news, then some bad news, and some more bad news. Let's get into it, cosmic philo-nauts!

The good news is that you are not, as you may have feared, about to be inundated with an increasing number of Niona in-laws! Once a Niona reaches maturity, he or she breaks away from his or her natal cluster. They remain emotionally attached to their progenitors, but continuing to cohabit with them for more than roughly 14.6 Earth standard years is typically considered to be a sign of a developmental disorder in Niona culture.

The further good news is that your current complement of "octopus" houseguests is temporary, which is especially fortunate since you will probably not be able to convince your girlfriend to stop bringing them home. Her biological drive to do so is extremely powerful, and these "relatives" of hers are very compressible -- if you've seen two, there's probably at least a half dozen more lurking behind the fridge or under the couch. But as I said, they won't be there long.

Now the bad news, philo-nauts: there is no such thing as a lesbian Niona, because Niona always form natal clusters consisting of two females, each with a different customary role. Traditionally, one Niona female, almost always the elder of the two, builds and maintains the cluster nest. Your girlfriend probably sees you in this role, as you are slightly older, and if I had to guess, you are the higher earner between the two of you.

Of course, your personal and private experiences with her might seem to bely my assertion that there are no lesbian Niona, but there again, this is likely a cultural misunderstanding: activities you associate with romantic intimacy are likely seen by her as being just some strange human custom -- one which she is pleased to participate in because it makes you happy, but which has relatively little intrinsic meaning to her. Among themselves, however, Niona females regard their nesting-mates more like sisters, and indeed biological sisters form cluster-nests together quite frequently.

More bad news: remember when I said AI translation sometimes misses important nuances? "Relative", while not entirely inaccurate under the circumstances, is missing some VERY important nuance. "Relative" was probably the AI's choice because the Niona word "n'leshlirb" literally translates to "one with whom the subject of the sentence is family". However, the idea of the word is that "in combination with the n'leshlirb, the subject of the sentence becomes part of a family", or in other words, a n'leshlirb is someone that you create a family with.

This is where an understanding of xenobiology would have been helpful: while female Niona are humanoid in shape, their species exhibits extreme sexual dimorphism. Going back to the roles of the Niona nesting-pairs, the primary biological role of other nesting-mate, in this case your girlfriend, is to attract the sexual interest of the small, octopus-like male Niona, and bring then back to the cluster-nest. Once she has collected between 9 and 21 males, the nesting-mates provide food and housing to them for a courtship period of roughly 5 earth weeks, in what is believed to be a ritual demonstration of their nurturing capability, and hence their ability to care for their offspring.

Assuming the males are sufficiently impressed by their female hosts, a mating with each of the males in turn follows --- Niona produce dozens of eggs at a time, and have an immune response that prevents sperm from any one male from fertilizing more than two or three of them -- and then the entire group of males cooperatively spin a natal cocoon around their mates before departing permanently. (Lest you think these little guys are deadbeat dads, however, research shows that Niona are capable of identifying their offspring by pheromones, and once they leave their natal cluster, Niona frequently seek out and form rich relationships with their male parents! In fact, if you've ever been on an orbital or submarine habitat, and seen a bunch of tentacled aliens slithering into an air duct, chances are it was a group of Niona contractors doing maintenance. Such small Niona engineering firms are often made up of an elder Niona and several of his male offspring -- isn't that wholesome?)

This is all for the benefit of our other readers, of course. Since the recent wave of alien immigration to the homeworld, we've had our hands full here at Xeno-Love HQ, fielding questions from thousands of you lovestruck philo-nauts out there, who've each been smitten by one alluring extraterrestrial species or another, so there's been quite a backlog.

This letter was several weeks old by the time we got to it, which means that by now the hapless "Cephalo-pilled in Portland", assuming she was an agreeable enough host to her and her girlfriend's suitors, will have already been sprayed with sedative ink and lovingly encased with her paramour in a bubble of gas-permeable nutrient-rich gestational jelly by a small army of tiny industrious squid-men, just as the Niona have been doing for the past several million years.

Not to worry, though, philo-nauts -- she'll almost certainly emerge (relatively) unharmed in five to seven months, along with a few dozen cute little caterpillar-like larva about the size of mice. While Niona males and females sharply diverge at maturity, their natal forms are virtually identical, and are very easy to care for by human standards: a 100 gallon terrarium with some lettuce leaves in it is usually sufficient for the first year or so.

Until next time, philo-nauts, may you all find love among the stars -- but do remember to do your research, first!

--Dr. Ing "Xeno-Love" Lorentz, Licensed Exosexual Therapist

Though most avoid the artifact, some don't.

Monstrosity isn't always a deal breaker.

"I'm dying," she informed me.

Who is me?

Oh. Sorry,

I'm Gary.

I'm the keeper of the artifact.

I should mention that, it comes up later.

I own a storage unit affiliate.

One day a man without a single memorable feature came to my office holding a small tin box.

"How much for a month to month locker?" he asked me.

Before I could point at the rates (which are written clearly on the door, by the way), an ominous pink light filled the room with the sound of flowers.

How can a light make the sound of flowers?

Listen, buddy, I don't know.

I already told you -- I own a storage unit affiliate.

I have no special powers, ancient sorcery, arcane secrets.

The man without any distinguishing characteristics pulsed under that eerie pink for a moment, his regular human shaped body seeming for a second to rip apart, revealing an eyeless tentacled horror.

Then he crumbled into dust.

The man, I mean.

Or the monster.

You know who I'm talking about.

As the man turned to dust, the box floated in the air for a moment above the front desk, the flower sounding light stronger than ever.

"It is you," the pink flower lights said. "You are the one who will protect us. It is written."

The box, it didn't say it in words, of course.

More like, with sounds and lights, you know?

I don't know, I was a business major.

I'm no good at describing things.

Anyway, that's what happened when I got the box.

I plucked it out of the air and put it in Box 1437, the highest rate slot for security.

Then got a dustpan and swept up what was left of that guy.

Since then -- well, a lot of people come by.

Sometimes they just want to look at it -- and those people?

No way.

I wouldn't let them see it, even if the pink lights didn't get really loud, make their ears bleed until they're screaming and running out the door.

That doesn't happen too much, luckily.

Usually, if people know about the box, and they still want to see it -- they mean business.

I unlock 1437, let it levitate out of the container.

I usually try to get out of the way, go run inventory or something -- it's none of my business.

And I know how an extra salesman can ruin the show.

Everybody who shows up here, they know the artifact.

They know what happens.

But they still come with a plan, a gamble, a trick or two up their sleeve.

They want the power, without any of the drawbacks.

They want the inhuman strength without the putrid horns, the all seeing eyes without the literal millions of eyes.

Nobody wants to work these days.

So, most of the times somebody wants me to open Box 1437, not much happens.

I open the box, go mess with Quickbooks for a few hours, then come back and sweep up the little pile of dust on the floor.

But every now and then -- someone who knows what real power is comes by.

And on those days, I end up having to clean up a lot more than dust -- glass, cement, guts.

I can tell on those days -- the box is satisfied.

I can feel it in the air, the pinkness of the sound.

It makes me feel kind of pink too. Satisfied.

Even though I'm not a magic box or anything.

Because on those days, the box met a vessel -- a real vessel.

The kind of person who will sacrifice to get what they want.

The kind of person that hustles!

You know?

Eh, I'm rambling.

So -- let me tell you about this girl.

Like I said -- coming in hot with impending death, that's nothing I haven't seen before.

I still don't know much about this business, but I know you're not seeking out the Scaly Monster Making Artifact because life is going your way.

She was pale, wearing a bandana over her head.

Bald -- maybe from chemo or just how hard life had been.

Who knows.

I don't talk much to the people who want me to open box 1437.

I unlocked the door, let the artifact levitate out to her.

I'm not sure what kept me in the room -- again, she wasn't that special.

Hell, if anything, I shoulda bailed out of there --

she struck me as the kind of chick that wouldn't mind a lot of tentacles.

But I stayed, messing around with receipts and whatnot.

The pink light sounded as loud as ever.

But this time -- a purple light, the loudest thing I've heard, started to harmonize.

I mean, it wasn't a very good harmony.

When I heard it, I started screaming and couldn't stop.

But the sounds, the colors, blended together.

The pink and the purple flowerslightssounds making the room pop like the walls were caving in.

"This is an offer, not a plea," the girl said out loud.

I could tell the box was pissed.

Awe, I really like this one.