Burn if you've got 'em

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

There were definitely wyverns, sphinxes, harpies, kitsune, even a cockatrice or two. The griffons never showed, just couldn't be bothered to leave their nest in the Windy City.

But the dragons usually avoided the place, mumbling about how the dry heat was just too harsh on their skin while everyone side-eyed each other and huffed delicately in mock commiseration. The manticore just sighed.

You would think the place that had once been known as THE destination vacation for dragons wouldn't have suddenly become their biggest allergy, but there you are.

The truth is, the dragons were embarrassed to be seen in the Valley. Long ago when the human race was barely out of caves (such an adorable stage, look at all those little wobbly pictures, would you?) there was a mob of them who beat up an elderly dragon and made a religion out of it while the rest fled, disgraced.

And why would multi-ton fire breathing beasts with armored scales have run away from little better than apes with toothpicks?

Because on that day, the dragons found out they had lost their fire.

It came as a nasty shock. Not to mention a phlegmatic one.

Here you go, for centuries on end, egg and trotter*, thinking you're the absolute baddest beast on the block, and the one time it really mattered? Limper than a wind sock on a sunny Tuesday.

Losing that much social collateral all at once was just too much for the dragons, and they splintered off from the other Mythos for generations.

Dragons were so passè by this point, they barely made it into speciesist jokes. No one wanted to age themselves by admitting they remembered those horrific hulking horkers.

Even the dragon band of the same name who had attempted to make some dross out of gold from the incident were ultimately disbanded by force for causing too much laughter in the vicinity.

A tikoloshe tried to argue the point that dragons were Mythos same as anyone, and should be sought out, embraced, or at least remembered with dignity. But he couldn't keep his face from agreeing when the swamp beast rumbled that without dragons, you'd never know what rock bottom looked like.

Those in the Valley community who remembered dragons conveniently forgot dragons had ever breathed fire, but the political cartoons about dragons trying to cough humans to death continued.

At the edge of the lower Valley, pocket neighborhoods of different Mythos usually coexisted in sleepy, cheerful, or at least neutral peace.

All that, while not about to change, was about to get a lot more complicated.

Picture a typical town for the majestic, mythic, and macabre: here's the pastoral fields, just barely scorched by landing marks, plowed by wrestling games, and only a bit flat from exuberant parties.

There's homes of all sizes, styles, and conceptualizations of physics, some of which existed only because there were no humans around to disbelieve in them.

And there's all the usual suspects, er, neighbors.

There was always that one basilisk who knew everyone's business, and could barely keep zemselves to zemselves when the phoenix was in town.

The local chimera and his husband the chupacabra had the most adorable babies, bar none.

Nobody asked the jinn how it made its money, and in return the jinn wouldn't tell anyone how it met their mother.

A beloved family of pegasi, no more or less than three naga, and a solitary but friendly yeti share a rambling household. They lived in exemplary quietude and turned out a ridiculous number of handicrafts for sale.

The only time any of them had ever seen a dragon outside of a comedy sketch was on Bogle's Night-- a costumed celebration involving candy and spookiness, with no additional resemblance to anything else whatsoever. There was always that one kid whose parents bought them the dragon costume thinking it was "cute" and guaranteeing their nestling hours of torment.

What these chummy neighbors could never understand, and what the dragons faced on a daily and sometimes minutely basis, was this: how do you come back from the greatest embarrassment of your life? How do you rebrand yourself when everything everyone knew about you has changed? Most importantly, who are you if you can't be known for what you do?

The dragons needed both PR and therapy, and it was all about to arrive in the form of a dastardly witch named *Mx. Eldritch. (First names are for friends, dear.)

Eldritch knew what neighborhood she'd moved into and hung a shingle on. There's only so many places an outcast human can go before they have to start keeping company with non-humans.

Oh, why was she out cast? The answer is in the name, ze was a witch.

Even in these modern times, that old word held a lot of power and engendered a lot of fear. Which was about the only gendering that was allowed around Eldritch's cauldron, not to mention coffee pot.

It was always something, wasn't it?

Save a baby from choking on a ridiculously small spoon, and your technique accidentally dislodged the rest of its genitals and messed up the monogrammed linen idea. (Excommunicated.)

Help a young person with their abortion, and an angry uncle tries to kick your door in before realizing your guard dog is loaf-size with a protection drive stronger than the uncle's sperm. (Driven out of town.)

Give someone a charm that was meant to help them make up their mind, and they come back angry about the results of the choice they made. (This was when Eldritch decided to move to the Valley and let humans see other people.)

But even Eldritch wasn't prepared for meeting the most mixed up mess of all the clients they had ever fielded: a dragon. And not just any dragon, but one dealing with an existential crisis.

The intake form began, "I've started to breathe fire..."

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*"Trotter"--an adult dragon

*Pronounced "Mix", Mx. is the gender neutral honorific