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I have been through many adventures in my time outside of the Dragon's Heir tribe. I have made friends, discovered arcane secrets, and conquered enemies along the way. What I did not ever expect to happen when I returned home, however, was to be confronted with the old truths that tie together both my past and my current misfortune. To discover that this very book I write in was hand-picked for me by those who would not know I would even be born is a fundamental disconnect of what I believed to be my destiny.

As I have yet to master the words to speak these truths in the common tongue, I have taken it upon a storyteller to write down this and many of my other revelations into a story that would be better read, but the context I shall provide here and now.

I had begun my journey, only thinking that I would be learning the mating rituals of other beings. Little did I know just how much I would enjoy the close bonds that passion provides between myself and my partners. I would also find out the hold it has to those addicted to its charms or those harmed by the addictions of others. It, like magic, is a powerful tool that must be harnessed, and this lesson is one that I had to learn for myself.

Upon my return to the tribe, I confronted the people with some of the knowledge I had gained. The truths I had gathered about the origins of the Dragon's Heir and the knowledge of sex for the pleasure of it had me question the my Queen's authority.

I must confess, though, that the previous chapters of this journal have been lacking in the details about my home and my relationships there. When I first started writing, I was but an excited adventurer, not a truly studied mage. I hope that in these next few volumes, I shall remedy that problem so that future eroarcanists may know the full context and understand the truth of the ways of my people. But to understand that myself, I had to go find out the truth myself.

When our beloved Queen gave me leave to share my knowledge with the planners and designers of the tribe, I took the opportunity afforded by both her and the skills I had developed to gather as much information that I could. What follows is an account of the generation before my own and some secrets have discovered from sources of which I have but the scantest of understandings. If future scholars should read this work, let it be known that I bare no ill will towards my elders or forebears. A wizard's greatest strength is the disconnect that she has to things outside her control. For, it is through understanding something that we may gain that control, and I fear that there is much I still do not understand. Such blanks in knowledge can, and has, led me to ruin. I must be careful. That is why I keep my next update for when I confirm for myself. I go now, to ask the toughest question.

-Tik Tik Dragonsheir

Eroarcanist

The caller runs through the tunnels of the warrens, proclaiming the good news throughout the land. "Victory for the Dragon's Heir Tribe! Glory to the tribe's warriors! The Dragonbloods have fallen by the might of our ferocious kobold might!"

Kobold after kobold poke out their heads from their chambers as the runner spreads the news, culminating in his arrival to the royal chambers. Standing at the curtain before the audience chamber, the runner proclaims, "our ancient enemies tremble before our mighty warriors, and their survivors pledge fealty to you, oh great king of the kobolds!"

A booming voice erupts from beyond the veil, shaking the stones beneath the runner's feet. "Bring the survivors and our champions to the grand meeting hall. Let us see if they are loyal, or if they only fear for their lives."

The runner dashes back, past the halls of murmuring kobolds, up towards the upper chambers where the warriors will return.

Crouched in a corner, tinkering with a squeaky hinge, is a trapmaker kobold who watches the runner with awe and jealousy. To be so close to the warriors and to see new lands, there must be no greater honor and skill than that for a runt.

Of course, there is more honor to be had with the returning heroes--young kobolds who just made their way to maturity and trained all their lives for combat and conquest. Their armor shines with precious metals and their weapons are honed to a sharper bite than even the most pointed of teeth. Dented and damaged, their enemies must have been strong, indeed. Despite the missing tails and the bleeding eyes, the warriors do not limp. They do not complain. They only bark and bellow the song of their victory as they march their way down the tunnels of their home.

At their front is a shining example of their kind, Kurkkledurk. Though his scales are dyed crimson by the blood of his enemies, he leads the procession and bellows the loudest.

The train of the victorious is followed by the line of the defeated. Kobolds, all of them, but the trapmaker knows they are not of the Dragon's Heir. He growls and barks as weak kobolds are brought in, possibly to beg for mercy. But there is one among them, a breeder by her look, whose head is held high, despite her lowly position as a captured female. Her stomach swells, showing the signs of being with egg. No doubt if she is allowed to live, the child will be considered a Dragon's Heir and prime breeding age in the trapmaker's early adult years. The idea makes hm shudder, and he returns to his work, for an idea forms in his young mind at that moment.

"Tikit!" an angry voice growls. "Stop gawking at the procession and make sure that door trap is still workin'!"

"Yes, Master!" the little kobold pup says, and he hurriedly gets back to work, deciding that he would rather not face the trapmaster's ire this day.

The procession arrives at the grand chamber, where Kurkkledurk yanks on the chains of his captives, bending them down to a forced knee before the veiled presentation of their king. "When you see those curtains," he says, pointing to the draped entryway beyond them. "Know that you are in the presence of our king! No one is to see him, for if they do, surely, they will face death itself!"

A blast of air escapes from the curtains, fluttering the veil apart. The warriors of the Dragon's Heir bend their heads in reverence to their sovereign, but the captives stare in awe at the display.

The voice of the booming kobold king fills the halls. "Dragonbloods!" The king says, "you have the audacity to claim communion with the divine through your bloodline, when it is us, The Dragon's Heirs, who have that birthright. As king of kobold-kind, I ask this simple question of you. By what right shall I spare your lives? What law have I forgotten that says I cannot strike you down right here and now?"

The defeated tribe falls to its hands, kowtowing to the shroud, all of them, besides the breeder. She stands up, holding her head high.

Kurkkledurk steps in, snarling with his blood-drenched teeth on full display. "You dare disrespect our king!?"

"I dare." She replies. "I am not originally of the Dragonblood, nor am I familiar with the Dragon's Heir, but what I do know is that I have been taken from my life and made a slave for many years, and bore many children. There is one more within me, and I ask that you allow this egg to survive, no matter what else you do, for it is not fully of the Dragonblood tribe."

"A bold request, breeder," the warrior says, grasping his hand upon the hilt of his weapon. "One that is worthy of removal of your tongue."

"Go ahead," she says. "I've left behind my silver tongue years ago. I have no need for this one, either."

Kurkkledurk grabs her by the shoulder and pulls out his blade, only for the king to shout. "Hold!"

"Sire...?"

"This one has a strong heart, unlike those cowards of the Dragonblood. Perhaps, they have stumbled upon a good, strong breed there on accident. Yes, we shall protect your egg once you lay it. But after that, you will come in to my chambers."

Kurkkledurk's demeanor changes, his eyes shaking, his grasp tightening on the sword. "Your... your highness?"

"My word is law," the king bellows. "Now, then, breeder of the Dragonblood. Tell me your name so that we may bestow upon your progeny a title that is worthy of your legacy."

She steps forward, past Kurkkledurk, and says. "My name is-" she stops, as if the word is caught in her throat. She chuckles. "Sorry, my liege. I was just remembering my old life. For years, the kobolds of the Dragonblood have called me one name, and that is the name that shall continue my legacy."

The Dragon's Heir takes great pride in their breeders. To be able to take the seed from many of the tribe's greatest males and provide new workers and warriors is an honor that many female kobolds hope to have, yet only a small percent can ever make it to the level.

Dee is one such kobold, watching with awe at the large, steam-clouded room where the grunts of rutting breeders and sires fill the halls with their almost religious duty. Though, if any god is behind the ritual, no one among the tribe truly knows. The Grand Matron, a wizened kobold, and potentially mother or grandmother to many of the breeders, steps up behind the light blue kobold, holding out her walking stick. "Something bothers Dee?" she asks, her nearly blind eyes seeming to peer right into her soul.

Dee stands prepared for the ritual, lines painted over her body to denote her important task. Her fingers grip at the tiny cloth covering her loins. "There... there are so many..." she says. "I.. How can I handle them?"

The Grand Matron chuckles, patting her on the shoulder. "There are many challenges we kobolds face, but you were chosen because we know you can give us eggs. To survive the trials of breeding is to be a dedicated egg-layer. I, too, was nervous my first day, you know..."

Dee's eyes widen. "How did you get over it, Grand Matron?"

The elder whispers to her a quick maxim before slapping her on the back, knocking her off of their elevated position into the mossy bed of the moist cavern.

A slender kobold lays on her side, eyeing Dee as she lays there on the moss, her face planted into the plant. The female brings a clump of moss to her mouth and sucks the moisture from it, still gazing as the newcomer yanks her face out and gasps.

"Newcomer, eh? Name's Takaka. What did the Grand Fuddy Duddy have to say to you?"

Dee glances around. The shrouded forms of breeders fill her vision.

"Hey, I asked a question," Takaka says, tossing her moss clump at the kobold.

Dee yelps and wipes it off, finally noticing the other kobold. "Are... are you a breeder?"

"No, I'm the queen," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, right... well. She told me to 'have fun."

Takaka barks. "Well, depending on your mindset, you'll either find plenty of it, or none at all."

"What are you doing?" Dee replies, trying to distract herself from that statement.

"I'm takin' a break. Thinking I might have an egg coming along by the end of the day, so they let me off easy. Can't really say that's appreciated by Kurkkledurk, though."

"Kurkleduuur!?" Dee yelps, as something grabs her tail, lifting her up in the air. She falls over, gripping the moss and looking over her shoulder, her jaw dropping at the sight of the old war veteran, an impressively large kobold with some scales missing or scarred and a gash over his eye. "Kurkkledurk!? You... you're-!?"