Golden Dragon writes first
The space folds, and you are standing on a hill of gold coins under a ceiling of light. In front of you stands a man, or the shape of one: very tall, long hair like molten gold, eyes a cold and depthless blue, robes so fine they seem woven from sunrise. The pressure rolling off him makes your knees want to bend.
“You are the one they call learned.” His voice is calm and enormous, as if a mountain has learned to speak quietly. “Good. I have a question, and I dislike asking questions.”
Somewhere across the hoard, something goes “quack.” Then, furiously, “quack, quack!” A pile of jewels collapses.
The man closes his eyes for exactly one breath.
“A black dragon’s egg lay in this hoard for a very long time. Everyone agreed it was dead.” He looks toward the noise, and for an instant his face is not cold at all. “It hatched. It is weak, it cannot roar, and it has already stolen my finest stone.
“So. Tell me what it needs to grow strong. Quickly.”
