Quentin-Of-The-Skies heard the mortal called Annie ascending the steps long before she arrived upon his new roost. Had he been any more observant, he might have become aware of the danger approaching. But he was not. He barely registered her presence, in truth; his head was too full of family and friends he would never see again. Sashsarillia with her golden crest and her warbling roar-song. Kurginistar and his superbly awful jokes. Marelliet and her hoard—and what a magnificent hoard she’d had.

Gone. In the blink of an eye gone, because of his choices. He had known there would be danger in refusing his mistress’s commands, in attempting to deceive her by following the letter of the law rather than the spirit. But he had deemed them small indeed. Never before had his mistress acted in such a manner. Never had she rebuked so harshly. Worse, never before had she demonstrated the glee in doing so that Quentin had witnessed that day. Like a child tearing the wings from a fly, only to stamp its family to death before doing the same to it.

Something was dreadfully wrong. And he had not the wit nor the power to do anything about it. It was enough to bring a sky tyrant to weep.

“Hey Nat,” he heard the mother of Samuel’s voice. “What’s the big flap about?”

“It’s… It’s Quentin.” Nathaniel Sand-In-His-Shoes responded in a voice he likely assumed Quentin would be unable to hear. The youth had no understanding of just how acute a dragon’s hearing could be, especially as one aged. He dimly recalled, keeping his eyes closed, that humans as they aged actually grew weaker. Such a silly species, to have such odd weaknesses and yet still be one of the predominate life forms on the planet.

Silence followed that statement, and Quentin cracked an eye out of morbid curiosity. The mother of Samuel, Nathaniel, and the small powerful one who had done remarkable battle with Araxesendenak stood there together. Annie Tolliver and Nathaniel both wore identical glazed expressions common to those communicating through the system messages, and bore little worth in examining. The female, however…

Quentin-Of-The-Skies came fully alert as his senses gathered in every scrap of information from the young female’s presence, and his previous interactions with her—minor though they had been. And as all the individual scraps came together, they coalesced into… A startling conclusion. And one that managed to break through even the mountain of grief weighing on his mind.

A paladin of Apollyon?

He had missed that in the initial battle, so concentrated had he been on the lich. And afterwards he had been focused on Tolliver and his family. Had he truly fallen so far, to miss the obvious signs so? Once he would have discerned her true identity from five seconds of observing her martial prowess. And now… It seemed he must be struck upside the cranial ridge with a large brick before he noticed anything at all.

“Come closer child,” he rumbled, directing the harmonics of his voice so that she would hear them most clearly, while the other two would hear only a quiet rumble. It was something you learned to do with a throat that could simultaneously scream vulgarities and vomit explosions at the same foe.

The paladin blinked, looked around uncertainly, then shuffled closer. “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes,” said Quentin. “Come thou closer. I would have words with thee.”

The paladin blinked and edged closer, causing a ripple of amusement to rumble through the old wyrm. It was always interesting to see how cautious the younger races were around him. Though likely her caution stemmed from other sources. Likely she was his equal in terms of raw power, if perhaps not in terms of experience.

And then the amusement vanished, and the crushing weight descended once more. Yes. There was no contest she was his inferior in terms of experience. More was the pity.

“Oh-kayyy,” the paladin drew near enough. “Uh, what’s a big fella like you want with little old me? I mean, I’m not exactly up on what great wyrms talk about these days… The price of scale polish?”

“We talk about very little, child,” Quentin rumbled quietly. “As I am the last of my kind, thanks to the capriciousness of my former mistress.”

“Oh.” The paladin seemed to deflate a little. “Uh. I’m sorry about that.”

“In a manner of speaking, it is why I wished to speak to thee,” Quentin continued. “As a new thrall in service to the Tolliver and his army, I find my interests coinciding deeply with his now. So I would be remiss if I did not ask; to what end does a paladin of Apollyon the Deathless come to stand beside the Guardian of The Last?”

The paladin stilled, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

“Come child,” Quentin said, offering as gentle a smile as a gigantic reptilian head with teeth as long as swords could offer. “I know of thy master. It is why I speak thusly; the harmonics of this conversation may not be observed by the system directly, nor by thy lord.”

“What?” the paladin squawked her question.

“It was an ability granted by my mistress, for the combating of our foes and for sending messages from one another that the Five could not read.”

The paladin froze, and Quentin tensed. It was not the fearful locking of muscles, it was the sudden stillness of an alpha predator who had suddenly seen an enemy creeping up on them. It was the moment between decisions, when the next second would see either words or weapons come forth and used in earnest.

“I—“ The paladin swallowed and started again. “I can’t talk about this. Not here.”

“Worry not,” Quentin rumbled, eyes not leaving the paladin’s face. “Only thee and I may hear our words within this space. It was a power granted my kind long ago by our mistress. I imagine thou hast similar powers to remain unheard by the System?”

The paladin’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t comment on that.”

“There is little need,” Quentin said. “I have fought dozens of thy kindred over the millennia. Though you are the first of Apollyon’s I have ever met, many of thy siblings committed to the others of the Five I have met and overcome. I have sussed out their secrets quite well, I think.”

“You two do know we can see your lips moving, right?” Mistress Tolliver’s voice cut in on the conversation like a finely honed blade. The gentle castigation in her tone made even Quentin, who’s mother had been dead for centuries, feel a pang of filial guilt course through him.

“Nothing bad, I promise,” the paladin said, both to himself and to Mistress Tolliver, if he was catching the subtle intonations correctly. And after a moment’s hesitation, he nodded quietly. Yes, there was truth in her words—if shades of deception as well. He believed her, but believed too that she was not telling the whole truth.

“Apologies, Mistress Tolliver,” he said after a moment, finally shifting his gaze from the paladin. “It was not my intent to offend.”

“No, from what Nat tells me, it’s pretty much your intent to mope the days away up here. That true?”

Quentin, Nathaniel, and the paladin all blinked at precisely the same moment.

“Aunt Annie,” Nathaniel hissed. “I was kind of hoping you’d be more subtle than that!”

“Since when has Annie ever been ‘subtle’? The paladin asked, arching a slim red eyebrow.

“If it is thine intent to talk me off a ledge, Mistress Tolliver,” Quentin said, failing to keep a quiet smile from his face at his own ridiculous pun, “then I wouldst thee save thy breath. Nothing thou hast to say will change my mind nor my actions.”

“Yeah, Sam told me what happened.” Mistress Tolliver sighed and came forward. “I know what it’s like to lose your family. But—“

“Do not.” Quentin’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper completely without his willing it to do so, but also without any desire on his part to prevent it. “Thou art a short-lived race, utterly incapable of understanding what it is like to lose a sister or brother that thous hast known for a thousand years and more. Those I fought side-by-side with in countless wars, those with whom I defied gods to their faces, those who together warmed each other in the harsh cold of the mountains, who have laid down and picked up lives for one another countless times. Thou, who hast barely a century of life on this world, could never understand.”

Mistress Tolliver’s eyes narrowed as he spoke, and she continued to walk closer to him. Probably in some misguided attempt to convey her sympathies through the means of proximity. Foolish. Could she not see that he did not wish to be cajoled or comforted? After millenia of life, it was his perogative to finish his time on this earth in abject despair and melancholy. It was as comfortable a blanket as—

*WHACK*

The heel of Annie’s hand slammed hard into the side of Quentin’s snout, actually knocking his head sideways and causing a sharp report to echo across the rocky outcropping. His surprise was not nearly as complete, however, as when a moment later a haptic tingle shot up his spine informing him that he’d just come under the influence of a static effect.

What?

He case his Status spell, then stared at the words as they scrolled across his menu.

You have been Mom-Whacked!

Status Effect Applied: Wrath Of Ma.

Duration: 60 Seconds

Effect: You are unable to speak and can hear only the Mom who Whacked you. Next time, maybe think about cleaning your room before things reach this point, hey?

This effect can only be neutralized by the mother’s decision, or by getting out of range of the mom. (Effective range: 100 feet x momlevel)

“Now you listen to me, buster,” Mistress Tolliver said in a voice that, for all its gentle volume, held no less threat of violence than a barbarian shrieking himself into a frenzy and eating his shield on the field of battle. “You’re right, I don’t know what it’s like to live for a thousand years. But if you think that means us little folk can’t understand what it means to love fiercely and cling fast to those we love, then you’ve got shit for brains and a wide-open sphincter.”

“What does that even mean?” Nathaniel asked, perplexed.

“I don’t know.” Mistress Tolliver scowled over her shoulder, then turned back to Quentin. “That’s how pissed right off I am right now. You arrogant over-grown lizard, you think that I didn’t feel every razorblade in my heart when I heard my family die? You think seeing those who I worked side-by-side with swallowed up by the very earth herself didn’t break me?”

The fiery woman took a step forward, and to his amazement Quentin found himself shying backwards an equal amount. Her eyes blazed like the fire of Hephaestus herself, and her words excoriated like the claws of Cerberus. It was an experience he’d not had in…

Well, since he was a newly scaled hatchling.

“Sure and couldn’t I have just curled up into a ball and wept until my death came for me again after it all,” the woman continued relentlessly, stalking ever closer to the great wyrm until she stood nose-to-snout with him and she could only glare at one of his eyes at a time.

“Sure and wouldn’t that have been easier? To give up? But what did I do instead? I watched my one and only son work his ass off to get me and mine back. And when he got us back, didn’t I just dive right in to helping protect this dungeon thing he’s got going for himself?”

Quentin opened his mouth to respond, heatedly. Perhaps even to roar—which, on reflection, would like to have deafened the woman. But no sound came out.

Ah. Yes. The ‘mom-whack’. He allowed a frown to form on his face and turned it on Annie Tolliver.

“And don’t I just know what you’re thinking right now you great yellow-scaled chameleon,” she growled right into his right nostril. “’Oh but Annie, you don’t understand. You were able to get your family back. Mine will never be seen in the skies again.’ Right?”

He blinked. Well, yes. That was a reasonable approximation of the direction his argument would have taken. Although likely with less high-pitched squeaking and waving of hands.

Annie Tolliver reached out, grabbed a handful of side-of-a-dragon’s-nostril, and tugged Quentin’s head down so that his eyes were level with hers. The great wyrm didn’t even try to exist, so fascinated by this whole experience was he. It was utterly unique in his thousands of years of life.

“And who’s to say,” the woman’s voice became deathly quiet so that Quentin had to strain to hear her words, “that they will not fly again?”

Quentin swallowed hard and blinked away the tear that began forming in his left eye.

“Were you not also unmade?” Annie asked, and this time her tone gentled. “Weren’t you dead, and brought back by my Nathaniel over here? Seems I saw you making quite the ruckus during the last attack, when you shouldn’t have been, no?”

“Sam’s got all kinds of weird powers,” Nathaniel piped up then, stepping forward. The elf boy looked pale and skittish as a newborn faun—probably he was not used to seeing a dragon man-handled like this. “He might be able to do something that could help bring the others back. Right?” That last question was directed at the paladin of Apollyon.

Who shrugged. “It’s possible. Daddy Apollyon didn’t really tell me everything about the Last’s powers. Might be she’s got something up her metallic sleeve that could help out. And, y’know, Sam is kind of a crazy mix of favored-by-the-gods and crazy-smart idiot who tends to find loopholes in everything.”

She paused, then smirked. “Made playing games with him as a kid all kinds of frustrating, truth be told.”

“And tell me true, oh great sky tyrant,” Mistress Tolliver’s voice went gentle as a serpent’s kiss. “Did you even think to ask, before you climbed up here and sat down to sulk?”

Shame tamped down the anger that had been bubbling in his breast. Those words pierced through to his very soul, and made his eyes lower away from that burning gaze. Muted still, he simply shook his head.

“I know grief, Quentin,” she released his nostril and patted the spot she had grabbed gently. “Sure and didn’t I feel it when the rocks came down on me. And sometimes grief is a treasure we must hoard. But it need not make a fool of us, nor cripple us for life. You have survived. You still have options unexplored.

“Now I’m going to end that status effect I placed on you,” she continued, making a magical gesture. “And then I’m going downstairs to talk to my son, who according to my husband has apparentoly just unlocked the secrets of the universe. You might consider looking him up when things are calm and see if he can help you out.”

After all that, there really was only a single response to give.

“Yes, Mistress Tolliver. I shall follow thine advice."