"Most of my kind are greedy. So am I. I just have, other things that I value over overt wealth. Not to say that I would not take your coin, more that I might take that, and more"

It is an old one, this one. Having fought battles that its scales no longer carry with them, and soared across skies that seared its senses.
Mandargar is. That is how he is. Wealth, while a fancy for any self-respecting dragon, fades, when you have burned the mighty castles of kings and demons, when you have walked among the people of a hundred places, none of them knowing, and sampled the delights that was offered.

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[collapse=Ch 1]To walk under the sun, to see it in eyes not his own. It is what we do. It is how we move. Those of us who are, not about the wealth, who have other, ideas, other wants, other needs. To take the shape of something else. To taste what they taste, to listen to their music, to watch as they do their things. To march along their armies, to fight those of his kind who have lost their mind in their greed. To give for lost friends, and celebrate those who lived. To partake in the lie, to become the lie. To be, for a moment, just the trader. Having my name forgotten, used only as a tale to frighten children. Wasting away from the histories.

And then she arrived. Awash in new scents, covered in cloth so fine, there were no finer things in life. I was stunned, taken aback, shocked. To watch as she stumbled, before walking, barefoot. I was, amazed. Her skin was so soft looking. Her words, as she called out were, strange, alien to my ears. Understanding was easy, as the gift of tongues is one of the benefits of my kind. But still. I replied to her, walking towards her, guiding the clearly shaken thing to my small camp. She spoke of wonders, of things that I had never before seen or head about. Even in the great vaults of the cliffs of Zendarvar, I had never heard more then mere mad rambling about such things. And yet. Here was one such.

She rested, we spoke, and we arranged a trade, for her gown, the cloth was so fine, its seams were perfect. I would supply her with food, water, shelter and new clothing and footwear. Be her guide as it were. To me, it was a bargain. I got to talk to this wonderful creature, to hear all its tales and wonders, and to explore its own language. She surely felt that it was she who had the better deal. But still. Arriving in town was, easy, and I had her sown a fine gown, even if I was properly shocked by some of the, ah, suggestions from the seamstresses. They knew me as a traveling merchant, and thought this one was a coming wife. I will spare the acts described from my pages here. Then I went to have my own goods sold, and returning a few hours later, to bring her to the local inn, where we shared a meal, a bath, and, strangely enough, a bed. She was warm, soft, and comforting. I did not sleep that night, lost in exploring her scent as she rested against me. It spoke of many things, complex things. Marvelous things. There were smoke there, wood, oil, and, other things. And smells I had never smelled before. She was a marvel.

I shall write more later. This helps to clear my mind, keep it from falling into the traps that claims so many of my kind. [/collapse]

[collapse=Ch 2]This is another memory, another fragment. I had wandered in human shape for a long while, in the guise of a priest this time, spreading the word of this new religion. Religion, like all faith, have power. The power comes from faith, and it can be very, very strong. Dragons have often been killed by those who wield faith. Mind you, those are the kind that have let themselves go, becoming feral, wild, problems. But it was a good time, tending to minor wounds, discussing wisdom with the people, watching over the village. It, comforted me, warmed me. And to wander among them, listening to them, talking to these, brief flames, it was, enlightening. To tend to their wounds. Even one such as I could use the power of faith. I used it to power my own abilities, to use as a filler while my will formed the framework of what I wanted. It was humbling to see, and the thanks you got when you save a mother and her child in a challenged labor. I would have died for those people. My village. And yet, they, unlike I, aged. I watched over them in generations, becoming somewhat of a legend there. The small priest of the growing village, soon to be town, who never raised his voice, never tired. It was a good thing. It helped to make them forget my name, forget me. Forget the fire`s that I had started, the skies that I had burned.

And yet. There came a time. Where I felt compelled to act. A drive. A calling. Have you ever heard the drumbeat of a thousand drums beating out the same beat. The powerful beat of a hundred thousand men marching to that beat. The simple song, the simple cadence call from that mass? Such an army marched upon my home, upon my people. What was mine. Whatever else might be said about me. I am still Dragon. Threaten what is mine at your peril. And so. I too beat the drums of war. My voice compelled, and demanded obedience from man, beast, the very soil, the stone and the sky. I called the village to me, wanting them all to know. To know that I cared for them. Loved them. And now. Would go and leave upon their enemies a lesson that they should never have to soil themselves with. They did not understand at first, I was merely the priest, merely the one who tended, who spoke, the unchanging rock in their midst.

Returning to my shape was, like stretching a long sleeping limb, like opening your eyes for the first time, having wool pulled from your ears and nose. I could feel, I could hear, I could smell, and see. The village grew quiet as I stared down at them, and they back to me. Whatever else. I still remember the single question that was asked, just before I leaped into the sky. "Will you still read us stories" It was with such a smile, and simple question that I took to the skies. The skies. Like an old lover. Then I roared, letting my frustration, my anger, and my regret be felt, more then heard. It did not take more then a few more beats of my wings, locking onto the warm air of the rock basin bellow, and then, hours of waiting, gliding.

They tell stories of Dragons. They tell of those who are either young, eager for their own legacy, or those who have their minds lost to the ages. They whisper about the battles that happen, when one, is wrapped in anger, when they devote themselves to the single minded goal of destruction. One curse that I have had since I cracked the shell of my first cage, was that of memory. Any act I do, that involve my will, my very being. I remember. It is burned into me, like my own fire burns its mark in on the world. The sky burned as I fell upon the marching army. I do not know how many died in that first shock, in that first barrage. My fire soared, unleashed for the first time in several ages. And I feasted upon the unleashed destruction, rending, ripping and tearing away those who would dare to threaten what was mine. MINE. It hurt, when the first large arrow hit my wing, and I screamed in rage, turning my wrath upon its builders, as I drew them back in, landing in a crash. The killing never stopped for hours. And then, my shame, I hunted them, I hunted down those who fled. I hunted them, burned them, ate them. On that day, not only the army died. The followers of the army died. Men. Women. Children. Innocents caught in the fury and fire. How could I ever look at my own people again, care for their children again, knowing that I had once more done this, feasted on so many?

Blessed are the humans, and the lesser beasts, for they live, they die, they forget.
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[collapse=Ch 3]
The new jungles look kinder, more, civilized then the old ones. Now they are concrete, iron, steel and glass. Vines of information replacing other vines. The monsters that hide in them however, are no less real. No less there. They are just, different. The lions, tigers, and bears, oh my. Indeed. And yet. We are. I am. We stand here, we watch, we fight. Less so with direct violence. But the intent is still the same. Power. Submission, wealth, intelligence. The old games. Just with new wrapping. And just like the old games, there are few things more pleasing then bringing your opponent to his or her knees, and taking what is the victors due. To walk among the people here, watch them as they mingle and grow. It is humbling. Inspiring. To watch the younger ones. The ones too young to have never burned a field of corn, to never have perched on the battlements of a castle, screaming your defiance at the world and those who style themselves its masters.

They called me master back then. Now, they call me Chief Executive Officer. There is no difference.

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To soar between the planes, to tear a rift in the very world. That is what a real Dragon ought to do. To fly far, to fly wide, and seek out the finest bits around. Knowledge is power after all, and power, is wealth.

I am not all that into writing a lot of things here, it sort of spoils it, would you not agree?
This one is meant for a mixture of story and lewd. Why go for just one good thing?

Oh, and before you ask, Dragons never went away, they just discarded their own shapes, as to better shape the world into one of their liking, but at times, someone needs to be remembered why, just why, they offered up bound maidens, food and wealth, and trembled beneath a burning sky.

Look at the images.