The youngling’s eyes told the tale. Pools of fear glimmered at their heart as the youth suddenly realized his peril. Slowly the youngling edged back.

Probably when the runt landed he had been thinking about how easy it would be to steal a scrap from the doddering elder, a creature so old that his scale edges were turning a pale violet. Only now would the youth realize that this was no aged and toothless wyrm. Only now might the youth think of stories told of the great and venerable progenitor of the local black dragons.

“Do you have a name, youngling?” said Thauglor, posing the question in the most archaic and exact tones of Auld Wyrmish. The scent that wafted from Thauglor’s scales underscored that this was no polite request, but an imperious demand.

“K-Kreston,” said the youth, stammering slightly, handling the ancient tongue with all the discomfort of a schoolboy in grammar class. “Spawn of Casarial out of Miranatol, grandchild of Hesior, blood of the mighty Thauglorimorgorus, the Black Doom. Sir.”

“Your mother Casarial was often impetuous,” said Thauglor. “Ask her how she gained the scar over her left eye.” After a moment, he added levelly, “You should put that question to her carefully and politely.”

The young dragon nodded, and Thauglor rumbled, “Wait at the edge of the clearing. You may have the remains. Better next time that you watch the hunt and learn to catch such meals yourself.”

Another gulp and nod, and Kreston retreated to the forest’s edge. His eyes still held their fear and never left the elder dragon. Though Thauglor never gave his own name-the youth was wise enough not to demand it-the purple-scaled elder was sure the young dragon had recognized his forefather.

Thauglor cut the choicest meats from the forest buffalo’s corpse, wielding his dewclaw with the slicing skill of a master butcher, and took them into his mouth with a tongue that curled in indolent ease.