Ash and Steel 6.5 - Of Ground Crawlers and Lush Lizards

 The Grand Estate to Grimstone Broadcast
The night was supposed to be peaceful. At the Duke’s Estate, Gideon was lounging in a velvet-lined chair that he was far too large for, feet kicked up on a mahogany table. Porphyreus was out in the courtyard, his purple scales shimmering in the moonlight as he belched a playful fireball at a decorative fountain.
Gideon closed his eyes, scrunched his face into a mask of pure agony, and "pushed" with everything he had.
/HEY CRES! YOU AWAKE? CHECK THIS OUT. I AM THINKING AT YOU FROM THE ESTATE! IT’S LIKE A MAGIC STRING! CAN YOU HEAR ME? I THINK I’M GETTING THE HANG OF THIS!/
Across the miles, high in the cold, brooding spires of Grimstone Keep, Acreseus was trying to read a scroll by candlelight. He didn't just hear the thought; he felt it like a physical slap to the back of his head. He lurched forward, his forehead hitting the desk with a dull thud.
/Gideon! By the Seven Hells!/ Acreseus projected back, his thoughts a chaotic, jagged mess of pain and annoyance. /I am in the Keep! Everyone is in the Keep! You’re not using a 'string,' you’re using a battering ram! Stop shouting! My ears are actually ringing, and I’m not even using my ears!/
/SORRY! IS THIS BETTER?/ Gideon’s "volume" didn't drop a single decibel. /HEY, SINCE YOU'RE THE KING NOW, CAN YOU DECREE THAT ALE IS FREE FOR DRAGON RIDERS? PORPHYREUS SAYS IT WOULD BE GOOD FOR MORALE. ALSO, I CAN'T FIND MY FAVORITE BROADSWORD. HAVE YOU SEEN IT? I'M SENDING YOU A PICTURE OF IT./
Suddenly, every bonded rider in the region—from the stable hands to the high-ranking Tide captains—was hit with a blurry, distorted mental image of a notched broadsword leaning against a pile of dirty tunics.
/Gideon, stop!/ Acreseus pleaded, his mental voice italics with desperation. /You’re 'Reply-All-ing' the entire mountain range! I don't want to see your laundry, and I certainly don't want the Tide to see it! Imagine a tube, Gideon! A tiny, narrow, private tube from your estate to my Keep! Focus!/
/A TUBE? OKAY. FOCUSING. TUBE MODE ACTIVATED./ Gideon squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. /IS THE TUBE WORKING? HEY, I'M THINKING ABOUT THAT ROASTED BOAR WE HAD AT THE INAUGURATION. CAN YOU TASTE THE GRAVY? I'M SENDING THE GRAVY THROUGH THE TUBE!/
A thick, greasy sensation of lukewarm gravy flooded the DracoNet. It was accompanied by the //vibe// of a dragon dreaming about honey cakes and a stray thought about whether Gideon should grow a mustache.
High above the Keep, the flighted dragons of the Tide began to hiss in their sleep. Veridian actually woke up and tucked his head under his wing to drown out the psychic "static" of Gideon’s gravy.
Then, the air inside the network didn't just go quiet; it went frozen. The "Mod" had arrived.
/Log off. Both of you./
Anaya’s voice arrived like a guillotine blade. It was the "Ban Hammer" of a woman who had reached her absolute limit.
/Acreseus, my king, mine anchor... if you don't stop broadcasting your grain-tax anxieties into my dreams, I am going to move into the guest wing. And Gideon—/
/HI STEELHEART! IS THE TUBE WORKIN’?/
/Gideon,/ Anaya’s mental presence loomed over him like a dragon about to snap a neck. /There is no tube. There is only you, screaming into the void like a twelve-year-old at a festival. I can taste your gravy. I can see your notched sword. I can even feel your confusion about your mustache. If you 'shout' one more time, I will have Citron burrow under your estate and sink your wine cellar into the bedrock./
The network went deathly silent. Gideon’s "All-Caps" energy vanished instantly, replaced by a tiny, flickering spark of genuine fear.
/Yes, my queen,/ Acreseus whispered, his mental voice now so small it was almost a hum.
/Yeah... sorry, Valkyrie. Closin’ the tube,/ Gideon added, his "vibe" sulking like a kicked hound.
/Good,/ Anaya snapped. /Practice your 'tubes' with tin cans and string tomorrow. Tonight, we sleep. If I hear so much as a 'ping' from either of you, I’m banning you from the Net for a month. Goodnight./
The DracoNet went dark. The only thing left was the faint, fading mental afterimage of a very greasy roasted boar.

The Duke of Disaster and Lush Lizard Meet the Earthbreaker

The purple dragon spiraled down toward the main courtyard of Grimstone Keep, his violet scales catching the light like hammered amethyst. He didn't just land; he arrived with a flourish of wings that sent a swirl of dust toward the gatehouse.
As the dust settled, Porphyreus caught sight of Citron standing near the heavy stone masonry. The orange dragon was as still as a statue, his wingless shoulders thick with muscle. Porphyreus couldn't resist a dramatic opening.
//Still scraping thy belly upon the base and common grit, I see?// Porphyreus’s voice rang through the DracoNet, dripping with theatrical disdain. //Alack, it must be a weary life, thou ground crawler! To spend thy days staring at the underside of greatness while we of the wing do taste the first, sweet light of the morning sun. Doth the dirt not taste of bitter failure?//
Gideon, sitting in the saddle, winced. "Easy, Porphy! Don't start what you can't finish!"
But Citron didn't cower. Instead of retreating into the shadows of the gatehouse as he would have done months ago, the orange dragon planted his shovel-claws firmly into the flagstones. He turned his heavy snout toward the sky, his golden eyes locking onto the purple dragon with a low-frequency intensity that made the air hum.
//I do not stare at the sun, purple-one,// Citron’s voice boomed—not through the air, but through the very bedrock, vibrating the marrow of Porphyreus’s bones. //I hold up the world you are too fragile to touch. You fly because you fear the weight of the stone. I walk because the stone is mine.//
Before Porphyreus could offer a witty retort, Citron braced his forelegs and struck. He slammed a single, massive limb down, sending a precision tremor rippling through the courtyard. Just as Porphyreus shifted his weight, the solid flagstones beneath him buckled and rolled.
The purple dragon let out a startled, undignified squawk. His wings flailed as the ground turned into a shifting wave of granite, causing him to stumble forward and plant his snout directly into a mud-filled puddle near the drainage grate.
//The sky is a thin veil,// Citron projected, his mental voice steady and cold as a subterranean river. //But the earth never forgets. Call me a crawler again, and I will make this mountain thy grave.//
Porphyreus hauled himself out of the muck, shaking his head with a series of wet, indignant pops. He flared his nostrils, his scales shimmering with bruised pride.
//Fie! What treachery is this that stirs beneath my feet?// the purple dragon projected, his tone shifting into a grand, high theatrical lament. //Doth the very earth rise up in mutiny against its betters? Citron, thou base and wingless knave! Thou hast turned the noble flagstones into a sea of turbulence! A hit! A very palpable hit!//
Porphyreus sneezed out a spray of muddy water and looked toward the stables, where a basket of honey cakes was being moved.
//But soft! What light through yonder stable breaks?// he continued, his eyes widening. //’Tis the sweetness of the golden comb, and my belly is the sun! My wrath is cooled, Master of the Marrow. Let us sheathe our claws and break cake, as the fates decree.//
Acreseus, watching from the balcony above, felt the fierce, quiet pride radiating from Citron. He looked down at a mud-splattered Gideon.
"I think he's done with the name-calling, Gideon," Acreseus called down, a smirk playing on his lips.
Gideon hopped down, wiping a streak of muck from his cheek. "Yeah, well, apparently 'The Earthbreaker' doesn't take kindly to reviews from the balcony."

Honeycakes & Ale 
The courtyard of Grimstone Keep was warm with late-afternoon sun, the kind that made the stone glow and the dragons stretch like oversized cats. A wooden cart sat between two massive forms — one purple, one orange — piled high with honeycakes and two casks of ale that had definitely not been cleared with the castle quartermaster.
Porphyreus lounged like a drunken prince, wings draped dramatically, tail curled in a perfect theatrical flourish.
 Citron sat beside him like a carved idol of the deep earth — unmoving, steady, golden eyes half-lidded in quiet contentment.
Gideon crossed his arms. “Hey, Porpoise, if you drink both barrels again, I’m not hauling your scaly arse home.”
Porphyreus flicked his tail.
 //Thou art a man of little faith, Gideon. And littler shoulders. Stand aside whilst I partake of the noble brew!//
He plunged his snout into the first cask and inhaled half of it in one gulp.
Acreseus sighed. “Citron, please pace yourself. You’re not used to ale.”
Citron didn’t answer in words. He simply picked up a honeycake the size of a shield, placed it on his tongue, and closed his eyes.
A low, seismic hum rolled through the courtyard — the kind that vibrated in the ribs.
 //Warm… sweet… good.//
Porphyreus paused mid‑swallow.
 //Good? Thou describest ambrosia with the vocabulary of a rock.//
Citron turned his head slowly, fixing the purple dragon with a stare that could have cracked granite.
 //Rocks endure. Honeycake is good. That is enough.//
Porphyreus gasped, scandalized.
 //Enough? Enough?! Thou brutish boulder! Honeycake is poetry! Honeycake is the golden hymn of the comb! Honeycake is—//
Citron nudged a honeycake toward him with one massive claw.
 //Eat.//
Porphyreus seized it with theatrical flourish and bit down.
There was a beat of silence.
Then the purple dragon froze.
 His pupils dilated.
 His wings rose like curtains at an opera.
And then—
 //OH SWEET COSMOS ABOVE! THIS IS DIVINITY! THIS IS—//
Citron rumbled.
 //Good.//
Porphyreus flopped sideways into Citron’s flank, crumbs raining everywhere.
 //Brother of the Stone… thou hast opened my eyes.//
Citron accepted this with a slow blink.
 //Eat more.//
Porphyreus immediately obeyed, grabbing another honeycake with reverent urgency.
Acreseus leaned toward Gideon. “Are they… bonding?”
Gideon shrugged. “Looks like it. Honestly, this is the healthiest relationship Porphy’s ever had.”
Porphyreus lifted his head, ale dripping from his chin.
 //CITRON! LET US FORM A PACT! A BROTHERHOOD OF CAKE AND KEG!//
Citron considered this with the gravity of a mountain deciding whether to move.
 //We eat. We drink. We do not fight. That is fine.//
Porphyreus slapped his tail on the ground in triumph.
 //A pact sealed! Let the chronicles record this day!//
Citron reached for another honeycake.
 //Good.//
Acreseus and Gideon exchanged a look — the resigned, affectionate look of men who knew their dragons were now in a food‑based alliance that no mortal force could ever undo.
And honestly?
They wouldn’t have it any other way.

Fin