On Dragons: A Primer for Humans

I penned this a few years back as a writing exercise and never did anything with it; it recently occurred to me that those of you who enjoyed The Chronicle of Heloise & Grimple might enjoy this as well, so I thought I’d post it here. Happy reading, and please use this information to be less ignorant the next time you discuss dragons.

On Dragons: A Primer for Humans

By Acidius Darkolius Eathumanus

It’s difficult to lay too much blame on you for your ignorance.

After all, how many humans can honestly claim to have encountered a dragon and lived to tell the tale? I fear your own deliciousness works against you; even if we didn’t find you vastly inferior, and even if you had some modicum of value to offer in conversation, I suspect that your tiny but succulent bodies would prove too hard to resist. Not as gratifying as grazing on cattle, perhaps, or even a nice dolphin, but there’s something very appealing about a bite-sized snack. But, I’m getting ahead of myself, as I intend to cover draconian dietary habits below.

Perhaps I give your feeble brains too much credit, but you might wonder why a dragon, particularly one as renowned as I, would stoop to offering a primer on my kind to a species we are far more likely to consume than converse with. Perhaps I grow soft as I approach middle age (that’s around 500 human years) and wish to benevolently educate subcreatures, but my primary motivation is more selfish: I am tired of rumors, half-truths, and outright fabrications sullying the good name of the world’s most perfect beings.

The bards would have you believe that being a dragon entails an orgy of gluttony, sloth, and wanton destruction, but show me a minstrel who has actually come face to face with one of my kind and I will show you a stringy-haired shish kebob with poorly grown facial hair. It should go without saying that living life as a dragon is hardly as easy as humans might think, and if you just so happen to be a gay dragon (as some of the greatest dragons are)…well, that’s an entirely different ball of flame, so to speak.

Be thankful for the knowledge I am about to impart, and use it wisely, for I would hate to spend valuable time I could be using to eat you re-educating you.

Species

There are dozens of different types of dragons, with brilliant hues spanning the rainbow from red to violet, and those of like color usually share certain general characteristics. Blue dragons, for example, tend to be somewhat docile (relatively speaking), favor cooler climates, and frequently band together in loose communities. Red dragons, conversely, are fiercely independent, selfish creatures of malevolent intent, bent on burning to ash anyone or anything they encounter; they’re also likely to lose to a steaming pile of their own feces in a battle of wits.

As you might imagine, these common subspecies characteristics regularly lead to internecine strife between different-colored dragons; try to conceive, then, how difficult it is for a dragon who, in addition to being a male dragon who prefers the company of other male dragons, is black as well. Yes, painful though it may be to admit, dragons do share some of humans’ more reprehensible characteristics, including shunning those of certain colors. In the dragon world, it is the glitzy gold dragons that lord above all.
Where to begin with gold dragons? Majestic creatures, certainly. Large, powerful (both physically and magically), and hyper-intelligent—characteristics beyond dispute. Humans tend to attribute other qualities of more dubious veracity to the golds—nobility, righteousness, and heroicness among them. Even the gold dragons refer to themselves as the “good dragons,” but in truth, they’re little more than self-righteous bullies intent on perpetuating a draconian—pun fully intended—caste system that belittles smaller and less powerful (not to mention blacker) dragons, whom they view as nearly as inferior as humans.

As an alternative to characterizing golds as heroic and noble lords of the sky, I submit to you a more accurate representation: boorish and pompous dickheads.

As for black dragons, we couldn’t get positive press if we shat gold into the coffers of every human king in the world. Even the greens, who smell like dead swamp rats and have a tendency toward uncontrolled public masturbation, are more revered than we are. I understand why humans regard us with such disdain—they can’t help being the prejudiced, feeble-minded pricks that they are. Other dragons, however, have no such excuse, and while I could postulate several brilliant social theories that are likely to be far too complex for my intended audience to comprehend, I suspect that the real reason for the vitriol we encounter on a daily basis can be explained by the simple fact that we can accessorize with pretty much anything.

Anatomy and Mating Habits

Here’s a little-known but interesting anatomical fact about dragons: unlike humans, whose facial features, voices, hair, and body shape all suggest a particular identity (recognizing, of course, that gender is fluid), you can’t tell if a dragon is male or female without seeing its underside.
Let us suppose that I were to meet some other dragon out in the field as it grazes on unsuspecting sheep and we get to talking, and we think we might be into each other. Sure, this dragon might have some great T&S (that’s “tail and scales”), but unless he/she decides to hop up for a quick flight around the meadow, I’ll be left wondering whether it has a nice set of plump dragonberries or a ghastly crevasse I wouldn’t touch with even a gold dragon’s tiny sword. It’s quite awkward, and, for reasons I, despite my vast intelligence, have never quite been able to comprehend, it’s considered gauche to simply ask whether a dragon is male or female.
As you might imagine, the situation is doubly complicated for one of my preferences, as I not only have to try to determine whether my potential conquest is equipped with a staff (and, let’s face it, how mighty that staff is), but then somehow ascertain whether he shares my proclivities. And, it’s not as though we have a secret handshake or anything to figure that sort of thing out discreetly; our forearms are somewhat short, making them ill suited to handshakes, as our snouts—which feature powerful jaws filled with rows of dagger-like teeth and which are ready to burst forth with a deadly breath weapon at the slightest provocation—tend to bump up against each other when we try to clasp hands, making an already-awkward embrace potentially disfiguring. Frankly, I don’t see why we can’t just wear scarves or ribbons around our horns or something, but none of the other dragons I’ve suggested the notion to have warmed to this idea.

Based on my observations—and I have reason to pay very close attention—no subspecies of dragon evinces any higher a population of gay dragons than any other; in fact, I have yet to meet a gay pink dragon, with most of them having been so overwhelmingly heterosexual that it makes me want to throw up in my mouth a little (a “hot snack,” as I believe you vulgar humans call it), which is particularly painful when one can spew bone-melting acid. I wonder, though, if many of them are doing what humans call “covering,” a taxing emotional and psychological undertaking, and one that isn’t mentally healthy for humans or dragons.

For some inexplicable reason, straight dragons tend to regard the sex act as necessary rather than pleasurable, something that functions as a means to an end—namely, the creation of immense eggs that, after a month or so of sitting on, hatch into bothersome little dragons who can’t do anything but burp fire and beg for cows they can’t kill themselves. Dragons don’t breastfeed (for what I hope by now are obvious reasons), so they have to catch and kill food for their brood from day one (and those little parasites eat a lot). Dragons, like humans, occasionally mate for life, but, also like humans, that’s usually only the case for the ugly ones.

The actual act of intercourse is, as you might imagine, no easy feat for large reptilian bodies that can weigh up to 12 tons and stretch 75 feet (or more) from snout to tail. Our tails, which are less functional than we’d like them to be, tend to get in the way, making it difficult to get all the right parts in all the right places. The fact that most of us live in caverns barely large enough to contain our precious hoards of treasure (more about that later) further complicates matters, as it’s almost impossible to mount (or be mounted by) another dragon without ending up with a jeweled chalice, mystical sword, or some other such pointy item getting stuck in an uncomfortable place.

Due to the particular construction and location of our genitalia, it can be difficult to tell the difference between rudimentary and functional straight dragon sex and exquisitely pleasurable gay dragon sex. I would recommend not venturing close enough to observe any of the subtle indicators—the look of pleasure instead of boredom on the bottom partner’s face, for example—lest you find yourself inadvertently crushed or charred to a blackened crisp by an orgasmic spout of flames.

While I generally consider myself an optimist, I cannot deny that it is difficult being a male-loving male dragon in a reptilian world where procreation is the order of the day and sex for fun is considered as abnormal as it is logistically difficult, a dully dark-skinned behemoth in a world of dazzling colors. Sometimes life, just like a silver dragon, can be a real bitch.

Social Life

As noted above, dragons’ social habits tend to derive from their skin color, though there are exceptions to this general rule. While it is true that red dragons generally eschew company, I have known one or two to be quite companionable, and I even once met one who hosted weekly dinner parties for a coterie of different-colored dragons. Now, it turned out that the dinner parties were preceded by a barbaric round of melees whose unfortunate losers had the dubious honor of being roasted and served as the main course, but, still, this is notable behavior for a species that often goes to great lengths to avoid interacting with others of its kind.

Unlike humans, dragons do not consider familial bonds a sufficient reason to spend time with dragons we don’t like; the fact that a cranky dragon once pushed out an egg that happened to contain me does not seem like a logical basis for an obligatory visit during some ridiculous holiday. Frankly, we find your blood loyalty rather stupid, as it tends to make you unprepared for dragon strikes during such holidays, when the warm embrace of kith and kin becomes superheated by the liquid fire we use to turn your happy smiles into death masks. Religious holidays are one of our favorite times to strike—in fact, it’s become something of an ironic ritual that we ourselves gather to give thanks during certain human holidays, just before we sally forth to take advantage of all those unsuspecting warm snacks massed in one place.

Having no need to huddle together in one place to build protective shelters and grow weak and reliant on others for everything from basic foodstuffs to the uncomfortable homespun garments humans use to cover their hideously misshapen bodies, dragons do not create the same sorts of social or governmental institutions humans do. That is not to say, however, that we completely lack a pecking order, or that we never congregate in one place to debate larger issues.

Once every decade (as humans reckon time), a dragonmoot is convened in a location completely inaccessible to other creatures. The purpose of this meeting is to exchange news and information about potential threats (few and far between though they may be), settle territorial disputes (occasionally through diplomacy, though more frequently through the rending of flesh, which always seemed to me a much more definitive way to resolve differences), and, for those dragons so inclined, find mates. Not every dragon attends the dragonmoot, and any agreement negotiated at a dragonmoot can easily be overruled if a larger and more powerful dragon decides he or she does not like the current arrangement.

Frankly, I find dragonmoots about as entertaining and useful as a severed limb. In some respects, I suppose I have always been what humans might call a “black sheep,” though I frankly do not understand the negative connotation of this metaphor, as I find black sheep delicious.

Diet

Dragons are carnivores—plain and simple. I can think of no type of meat we would outright refuse, though it goes without saying that coastal-dwelling dragons tend to favor seafood more than their landlocked counterparts. Preference on consuming raw meat or cooked meat—courtesy of an exhalation of flame, naturally—depends on whether or not a dragon has a breath weapon, a characteristic enjoyed by greens, reds, golds, blues, and a few other less common varieties (black dragons have the ability to spew acid, which is extremely handy when it comes to separating eviscerated humans from their cumbersome armor—which tastes like the end of a pitchfork—but slightly more problematic when one drools in one’s sleep…not that one has ever done that).

We prefer to kill our food ourselves—no self-respecting dragon would eat carrion (though, naturally, reds love nothing more than to tear into a maggot-infested carcass; disgusting freaks).

The frequency with which dragons must seek sustenance depends on age, climate, race, and other variable characteristics. That said, we differ from humans in one major way: we eat only when we’re hungry. Forget every story you’ve heard of draconian gluttony—they are the embellishments of halfwit poets who can’t conceive of a creature who doesn’t succumb to the same base urges that make the poets themselves constantly seek a new pot in which to dip their pen.

Though, to be fair, we really like killing things for no particular reason.

Migratory Patterns

Dragons face something of a conundrum: we cannot remain too close to our mothers for fear they will eat us before we are large enough to defend ourselves, but we are also not sufficiently strong fliers in terms of endurance to travel vast distances to seek out our own territory. Fortunately, mature female dragons are incredibly lazy, and never more so than when they are rearing their young. Consequently, assuming young dragons are sufficiently enterprising, they generally have few problems seeking out and killing enough food for both themselves and the wretched creatures who, by virtue of pushing an oblong shell out of an uncomfortable place, feel they are owed a lifetime of deferential behavior and tributes.

As young dragons grow larger and their mothers more wary of attacking them for fear of being wounded (or killed) in the fracas, they are faced with a conundrum: where do they carve out their own territory? Do they remain close to the hunting grounds they have grown to know, knowing that if they do, they risk regular encounters with their mothers (run-ins far more likely to result in torrents of self-esteem-defeating strings of invectives being unleashed than the trite and pedantic mewling human mothers spout to their offspring, no matter how useless and lazy they may be)? Or, do they strike out for new territory, not knowing whether there will be sufficient food or if there are more powerful rival dragons who have already staked a claim to the territory?

It probably goes without saying that most young dragons choose the latter course of action.

Treasure

Perhaps one of the few correct conceptions about dragons that humans have is the fact that we love treasure. We will stop at nothing to add to our hordes, which is, I admit, something of an irrational compulsion, given that it’s not as though we have any need to use such treasure for its intended purpose. For us, it’s, well, frankly, a size issue. The bigger the treasure horde, the more respect a dragon is accorded by his or her peers—we are, in that respect, not dissimilar from humans. That said, while all those piles of gold coins, diamonds, and gem-encrusted goblets may look fabulous, they have a tendency to get stuck in crevices you didn’t even know you had every time you roll over in your sleep.

One way in which humans are grossly misinformed vis-à-vis draconian treasure, however, is the myth that if a human can answer a dragon’s riddle, the dragon will part with whatever piece of its horde the human most desires. I suppose that all legends have a grain of truth in them somewhere, and it’s not completely impossible that, at some point in time, some mentally deficient (and likely quite bored) dragon engaged in such tomfoolery. Is it, however, a practice in which dragons habitually engage? Absolutely and unequivocally not. The very idea is anathema to dragons for two reasons: 1) we greatly covet treasure and utterly loathe parting with it unless physically forced to; and 2) as a general rule, we’d much rather eat humans than converse with them, and we’d certainly rather eat them than give them something for being clever.

But, far be it for me to discourage an easy meal from walking into my lair under the misguided notion that I would be willing to trade the answer to a riddle for treasure, so I would request that you continue to perpetuate this particular misnomer.

In Conclusion

In closing, dragons are amazing, powerful, fantastical creatures, unquestionably the world’s most fascinating and worthy beings. They are, however, extraordinarily dangerous and, lamentably, share some of humanity’s less admirable characteristics. Still, I would never trade the glory of being a dragon—even an occasionally unfairly scorned one—for anything, and if I can only eat as many humans in the second half of my life as I have in the first, I will consider it a life well lived.

Please don’t hesitate to call on me for further information. I’ll be in my lair, eagerly awaiting your arrival.