Lady Bloodfall, the sovereign of the North Plaguehold, is a legendary green dragon of formidable power, master of the lands under her and the skies above. She is also Standroad's mother.

The Druid, who whispers through the trees and calls himself "Rotbark," is an old creature of 400 years, whose race has become unknown to many, but he serves as the custodian and emissary for Lady Bloodfall. Both his influence within the estate and his latent individual power are formidable enough to warrant Standroad's cautious respect.

The young green dragon startled, retracting his hostility. "My mother? Ah, then, does she know about my... err... joke?"

Rotbark grunted in a grim tone: "Your 'joke,' lethal to the diligent slaves here."

Standroad flicked his tail nervously back and forth. "Is she very angry?"

The old Druid didn't speak, and Standroad couldn't tell if he was rolling his eyes or not. Suddenly, a thought struck the green dragon: "Hey, did you snitch to the dwarves that I was going hunting today?"

Rotbark avoided the question and extended his sequoia-like branches, touching them upon Dunback's chest. From the twigs emerged several fleshy little worms, which burrowed into the skin with sharp mouthpieces, wriggling under the skin. The green dragon watched the druid's healing method with disgust but soon, Dunback's swollen joints softened, and he grumbled to his feet.

"It's been a long while since I've seen her this enraged, young master. And I believe with every second you delay, her fury only grows," Rotbark warned.

"Fine, fine, I'm on my way back to Plaguehold."

The old Druid addressed the dwarf: "As for you, Dunback, go and calm the miners, ensuring the extraction operations proceed as usual tomorrow."

Dunback grumbled: "Calm what's left? They'd be delighted with my demise," but he still bowed to the ancient tree, "Thank you, Master Rotbark."

Standroad, just about to spread his wings, coughed at hearing this, startling Dunback, who quickly turned and bowed: "Farewell, young master Standroad."

The young dragon's triangular wings, each tipped with a hook, allowed him to climb deftly to the treetops and take off from the canopy. He mentally noted his debt to the Druid, "Disgusting old tree fork, I'll burn you away someday."

He flew past the tavern that came to life only at nightfall, the aroma of smoked meat and mushroom soup rising with the smoke into his nostrils. The dwarves at the window raised their cups to the green dragon, knowing their "hunting" at the mountain base has concluded, as the dragon dare not wreak havoc on the settlement, where every stick and nail belonged to Lady Bloodfall's assets.

Standroad snorted, flying higher until he brushed the clouds. With a panoramic view from above, he spiraled through the clouds, the mist swirling with his movements. When gravity tugged at him, he would unfurl his wings wide, feeling the thunderous response of the air, like the earth's resigned sigh to the mighty dragon's presence.

He flew over four mining veins, past lumber yards and hunting grounds, over the chaotic Kobold settlement, until finally, he saw Plaguehold halfway up a mountain peak.

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Plaguehold, hollowed out by three thousand grey dwarves, had towering towers and watchtowers constructed at its entrance, the fortress bristling with anti-dragon spikes, with twenty heavy ballistae mounted through shooting holes. These were not to deter the humanoid confederations to the east and south; the mountains and cold were sufficient. They were to face challenges from their kin. Ever since two white dragon tribes from the northern mountains united fifteen young and adult dragons in a failed attempt to seize Lady Bloodfall's territory, hanging forever on the fortress's outer spikes, they have been unnecessary.

The dragonkin soldiers in the watchtowers sounded their horns upon sighting Standroad. As he landed on the vast platform extending outwards, the fortress's steel gates were just opening.

Keeping in mind the legendary dragons' size, the corridors inside the fortress were scandalously wide. Braziers hung every hundred feet, none lit, as all servile races under her—the grey dwarves, dragonkin, Kobolds, and others—had dark vision. Standroad walked through, occasionally saluted by grotesque dragonkin servants. Lady Bloodfall trusted bloodline governance, thus did not oppose, even encouraged her consorts and children to favor their servants—be they dwarf, Kobold or goblin—creating many peculiarily featured, robust half-dragonkin to fill her guards.

The green dragon wondered how his siblings adapted to humanoid appearances, deeming such aesthetics a fall from grace, as those petty things were even scale-less—a supreme ugliness. Approaching the main guest hall, a figure came towards him, casting his previous thoughts aside.

"Aisia," the green dragon called out.

Aisia, a blue dragon's offspring, stood taller than most humanoids. She held a brass staff and wore a dyed rabbit fur robe; her humanoid features were delicate and lithe. Her dragon lineage showed in scaly outer ears and a short horn protruding backward from atop her head, her dragon tail gently swaying behind her. Her long, deep-blue hair floated in the air, occasionally sparking with electricity.

Her father was Lady Bloodfall's previous previous consort, the blue dragon Castio, her mother, an elf slave taken from the Neverwinter Forest. Aisia, older than Standroad by over forty years, both dragon and elf being long-lived races, still had the appearance of a young girl. She had cared for Standroad since he was a whelp, and their relationship had grown close as he matured.

Aisia stamped her brass staff on the ground: "Where have you been? She's in a foul mood." This half-blue dragonkin admonished, one of the few who could speak thus with Standroad.

The green dragon shrugged: "I haven't done anything. I haven't bitten or burned anyone. Just a grey dwarf breaking a bone. Why the fuss?"

"It's not about a few grey dwarfs' lives; it's that you've disappointed her again."

"Who snitched to mother?" Standroad grimaced with annoyance.

Aisia shook her head helplessly: "You understand, Send," she used Standroad's pet name. "Being her chief maid comes before my role as your caretaker. Some information cannot be disclosed."

"Hmm, even if you won't say, I'll guess who."

"What use is guessing? You can't touch them. Better consider how you'll face your mother."

Dreading the impending wrath of the legendary ancient dragon, Standroad slumped again.

"You need to seem genuinely repentant, speak little. Your actions were foolish, childish, any explanations would seem like excuses, and could backfire," advised the half-elf, contemplating.

Aisia began to counsel the young dragon earnestly: "You idle your days away, why not do something serious? When I first learned magical tricks, you were already besting your elder brother, and now I'm a sorceress versed in fourth-circle spells, while you're still frolicking."

"Look at my claws, do they look suited for copying spells and handling scrolls?"

At the meeting room's door, Aisia told Standroad to wait outside, entering first to announce his arrival. Even blood relations could not intrude upon another dragon's lair without announcing.

"My lady, young master Standroad has arrived."

"Enter!" The Lady summoned her son in draconic, her roar echoing through the cavern.

Standroad hurried in. The hall was vast enough for horses to gallop, with grey dwarves' crudely painted frescoes of Lady Bloodfall conquering human towns, annihilating dark elves settlements, devouring ogres. All depicted were grey dwarves' sworn enemies. Five corridors, all sealed, led to other chambers, and several burning braziers warmed the hall.

Atop a high platform in the hall's center, piled with gold, gems, and valuables, Lady Bloodfall lay on a small portion of her wealth, idly shifting a cluster of amethysts. To her left stood a bowl of honeyed fruits from the Neverwinter Forest, to her right, orcish spirits from the far north. From the platform, lush shrubbery and vines radiated into the cave, the entire ceiling a veritable greenhouse. Every plant bore vicious spikes, their stems and fruit potent with various poisons. These plants, not native to cold climates, thrived under the influence of the green dragon's lineage. Just as black dragon-infested lands slowly turn to swamps, silver dragon realms become ice palaces, dragon magic subtly permeates the environment.

In his mother's presence, Standroad, the size of a two-story human building, seemed but a cub.

"Good day, mother," the young green dragon greeted, not daring to look at her, bowing his head low.

"Lift your head, my son; dragons should never cower." Standroad mustered courage and looked up at his mother. Lady Bloodfall narrowed her eyes, her golden pupils growing long and thin; the regal look was almost suffocating.

"Send, I hear you attacked my mine today，is that so?"