Dragons a Dozen: Ten Pence a Pair

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. There weren’t always dragons nesting in the bustling city of Acklemare - not until a little magic trick decided otherwise - a trick so small and quaint, harmless and repetitive, to be confused with the act of stewing carrot and onion broth. Only, without the carrots and onions. Any old literare squibbler could read up on the process if they pleased in a pocket sized, ornately illustrated manuscript titled: “Mars AnteCariot’s ‘Cooking Up Dragons,” not to be confused with simply “Cooking Dragons'' by a very different author. The little ritual goes as follows:

1. Prepare a jug of fresh seawater, preferably from an ocean which makes tide upon a bare rock face, rather than a sandy beach.

2. Bring the water to a boil over a wood burning campfire. Any other method simply will not do. Once a rolling boil is achieved, brew in one cup of only the wisest leaves from an ideally waist high tea plant. Allow the brew to steep for thirty minutes. In the meantime, proceed with step 3.

3. Finely sharpen a black handled Athame and with it, cleanly slice up half a span’s length of solidified salamander grease. Freeze these grease chips well with a charm, and then throw them into a mortar and save for later.

4. To ensure you do not accidentally cook up a swarm of bats, take the same knife and chop half a pennyweight (ten standard grain weights) of garlic into a fine paste. Throw in the mortar as well.

5. With a chisel, remove one cubic finger breadth of stone from a brick recovered from an abandoned crypt. Place this mass in the mortar as well, and then finally grind up the entire mixture with a pestle.

6. Throw this granular product into the tea when it is finished steeping, then occasionally stir until the fire has died. Once this occurs, recover two cups of the smoldering ashes and then stir it rapidly into the mixture, until a gray composition manifests.

The steps following down the line then become increasingly semantic and aloof, often being where the average literate and true academics part from one another (if they did not already close the book at realizing they do not have salamander grease, a brick from an abandoned tomb, or a freezing charm).

However, that doesn’t mean that the effects of the remaining recipe cannot be laid bare. Upfront, the mixture produces a small collection of crystal vials which are always stored in a mahogany box with a bottom full of volcanic rock shards. Each vial will be tinted differently, usually shifting to a rosy pink, misty blue, muted green, or grainfield yellow, all speckled with cloudy white.

Then a somewhat aged hand will proceed to take one of these vials, and measure out half a gill of fluid into an ashy skillet. Once it starts to aromate the room over high heat, then asp scales and dowsing parsley are gently sauteed together with a dash of cave salt to produce a potent arcane dressing. The contents of the pan are then poured into a culinary press, and meticulously processed into a quaint dram of draconic oil.

When this oil is then smoked with incense and quartz in a medium sized alemic, and distilled generously into the designated enclosed environment - voila, there be a dragon, witnessing their murky birth with a chef’s kiss from above. This morning’s batch produced seven: two scarlet, two azure, one green, one gold, and the last, a colorless anomaly. They all flap about gracefully inside their little jar enclosures, which could have previously held raspberry jam, perching atop mountains made of garden rocks, castles built by pebble architects, forests of grass, and lakes of glass.

In the cozy storefront of Mars Antecariot’s Illusionarium sits a great valley-like display, and in it dozens of jar terrariums, each bearing a magnificent drake the length of a man’s thumb - all squabbling like they were the pinnacles of their kind, rattling their jars and browning the glass with match sized, terrible flame. Towering in the center of the miraculous assembly is a wooden sign poking out of a flower pot bearing petunias. It reads:

"Dragons a Dozen:

Six Pence a Single,

Ten Pence a Pair."

In order of height, the red dragons are kept on the bottom (as they appear to be the favorite of the young children), ascending up to the more refined green at the top, with the odd anomalous colors being kept behind the counter by Mars himself, who now is beginning the process of fully notating the rest of the Illusionarium’s expansively curious inventory.

In an enigmatically animated atmosphere, populated both by the stirrings of holed up life and the commotions of early morning out in the street, he wanders the shelves with a long finger counting his way along, and, with a runically-carved charcoal pencil, writing down quantities and scratchily underlining shortages into a leatherbound housekeeping log. Out loud, to trick his mind into the presence of company, he mutters all the while:

“...yes running low on bottled spiders…the armored knights need polishing…treelings need to be trimmed, yes you heard me, it’s good for you, don’t protest…old leviathan stock need to be re-watered, yes, ‘tis as I thought…oh the mirror specters have sold surprisingly well!”

After concluding that endeavor, Mars checks his boastfully mechanical pocket watch and scoffs emotively.

“7:03, terribly late. Thirty three minutes, what a lump that boy is.”

Upon acknowledging the hindrance of his second pair of hands being apparently elsewhere, the dark and wiry Mars AnteCariot ushers the morning along by hastily and particularly setting up the coin counter. Surrounded with display cases catching the morning daylight through an adjacent east facing bay window, the illusioner prepares for the labor of business exchange under the jaded eyes of sleepy, to-scale enchanted creatures of miniature proportion.

Another eight minutes passes until there is a sign of real authentic life manifesting from the back of the store. Mars doesn’t raise his eyes, simply exuding a countenance of disappointment as the creaky door to the herb garden unshackles its way open, leaking the quaint calls of birdsong and market bartering into the building. A disheveled, young boy who looks just barely dressed scurries in. Mars senses a glance over in his direction, as the boy seems to hurry into the secluded workshop, avoiding the bright and exposing store front. The illusioner sighs and slowly makes his way over. He steps under an archaic wooden archway, laden with incantations and blessings, into the organized oddity that is his workshop.

Before him sprawls a long line of a room, half of it resembling a traditional library and office, one quarter appearing like a foreignly incomprehensible alchemist’s den, and the last corner of the room putting on the airs of a very normal and unassuming kitchen. All are illuminated by beams cutting through horizontal rectangular windows lying close to the wooden ceiling, built into a wall of chiseled granite bricks. Occasional tapestries representing the heraldry of the land decorate the walls, with a few paintings as well. In his academic office, a self portrait of Mars resides, and over in the kitchen sits a charming vegetable still life, a wise and magnificent long-eared owl watching over a colorful cornucopia. All about, beaded talismans and almost toylike apparatuses hang in suspense from bright twine, rendering a flashing wave of color that undulates with the movement of the eye. In the kitchen, standing in the spotlight of the morning light, an ashamed and awkward apprentice hobbles about, reaching for a bowl and spoon. The light spans across his speckled face, dancing between great columns of hanging spice plants suspended from an arched window nook that sits built into the wall, gazing out at the herb garden beyond.

“Skipped breakfast at home again eh, Pierre?” are the poignant words which break the silence, punctuating the authoritative air.

“Yes Uncle. Sorry Uncle.”

“I hope you have a good excuse to go to bed late, Pierre. At least putting good use to those nice candles I gave you? Do you know your advanced charms yet? That book had better be dog eared and notated to the cliffs and back next time I see it.”

The boy apprehensively shrugs in pseudo affirmation, while he starts to spoon out a handful of cold scrambled eggs from a pot sitting stagnantly on the stovetop.

“Most of them, Uncle. I’m working on it.”

Mars says nothing and watches apprehensively. He normally keeps eggs on the stove for his nephew, though after a string of tardiness, something has to change. Pierre feels the grin beaming to the back of his neck, and flashes a nervous glance back over his plump, tunic covered shoulder. He takes the bowl of cold and unseasoned breakfast back to a stool which sits squat next to the dry mop buckets in the corner. After squatting down uncomfortably, the apprentice digs into his food, trying to delay the onset of a lecture. Instead, he shovels a great heap of dirt into his unsuspecting mouth, eyes wide with confusion and brow repulsively furrowed into a lump of roots.

Spitting the shocking mouthful back into the bowl, Pierre sees his food for what it really is: a dish of garden soil, with the faint tail of an earthworm poking through a crack in the scattered, now spit-speckled clumps. His uncle Mars exudes a low, mature laugh.

“Don’t keep being late to an apprenticeship with the likes of me, boy. Next, you will find your arse permanently spouting a peacock’s tail, and your face covered in flies and warts. Do you understand?”

Pierre nods profusely while trying to purge the filth from his mouth, in vain. As he comes to the defeated terms that he will taste sediment the rest of the day, the illusioner speaks once more.

“Clean up the mess you’ve just made on the floor, then after that, you have fifteen minutes to give me an inventory manifest of the pantry before we open. I’ve already done the menagerie numbers and set up the business counter in your absence.”

Sternly, but not unlovingly, he continues:

“Do well today, and I’ll remember to make you a good and hearty lunch. I hope you have learned to do away with your tardiness. There will not be a next time.”

“No Uncle, there will not be. Sorry Uncle.”

---

At precisely 7:30, Mars AnteCariot approaches the door to the Illusionarium’s foyer. Altogether, it is a fairly unremarkable door, with the exception being an ornamentally paned window in the shape of a threshold sitting stoutly in the center. Around this time of morning, he usually starts to hear shoppers already outside right on the dot, which is the case today, and gazing through the stained glass of the door port, he can see clear blurs of motion.

As he places his hand on the doorknob, he concentrates and hums to himself. With minimal effort, a small charm escapes his palm and pulses through the door. A carving outside, which he knows to read closed, morphs and transmutes at his command to now read open. He humbly grins at the muffled remarks of awe and impression from those lying in wait across the front garden. With that, he turns the handle and gestures the door open, while the little silver bell above rings melodically an enchanting chime of the fae.

Laid out in front of him gleams the kaleidoscopic entrance to his storefront, being a lawn of flowers and statues which sits along the cobblestone streets of Acklemare. The space is further isolated from the civil chaos beyond by mossy brick walls which teem with ivy. Outside stands a quant line of curious individuals who stand along the stepping stones which create a path up to the squat, semi-circular porch.

“Come on in, see what I have to offer!” Mars says agreeably from behind the door frame, while preventing the door from swinging back shut with a well polished black boot. He steps aside as three amused parties enter: a pair of well dressed, academy aged young men, an upper class seeming mother and child, and a boney mustachioed man dressed in thespian clothes, remarking on everything he sees.

Corresponding with the entrance, Mars hears the characteristic footsteps of Pierre shuffling over behind the coin counter, which is to be his perch for the rest of the day.

“Welcome…” attempts the chubby faced adolescent, his freckled face glancing downward when he speaks. After receiving a reassuring smile from his uncle, he brushes a little bit of his unkempt dark hair from his forehead, and speaks again.

“You can come to me if you have any questions, and I’ll do business with you when you’re ready.”

As the illusioner watches his customers converse happily with his nephew, remarking incredulously at what they see dotting the shelves, Mars feels pleased and steps fully outside onto his front porch, heading out towards the entrance gate. He squeals open the iron bars and slips through, wincing at the commotion which offends his ears. Voices by the hundreds, incomprehensible and unintelligible, and the horses, so many horses…clopping and neighing, carrying rickety carts which loudly move on rusted axles. Thankfully his goal is simple, and brief. A small wooden mailbox sits bolted to the archway into his residence, and he quickly slides it open and happily procures a few bundles of parchment, then retreats back to his work at a quickened pace.

Entering the shop once more is akin to stepping through a portal. As the door shuts behind him, the cacophony of a metropolis is sucked into a vacuum, and the tranquil atmosphere of the illusionarium swiftly fills the void. The child, a boy, jumps up and down in glee at the sight of a spiny seafoam dragon, meanwhile his mother can’t help but reciprocate the youthful, wide pupiled grin which is smeared across the jar’s reflective glass.

“Careful, don’t break it.” Mars humors him, bending ending down slightly to level with the boy, and continues:

“Or else, that little dragon will just poof!” his hands flair up with dazzling finger motion.

“....out of existence!”

The boy and his mother both giggle, and Mars looks up to her with a coy smile and a nod, to indicate that he is being completely serious. The little illusionary beasts cannot leave their jars, bottles, tanks, globes, whatever they inhabit among the jumble of warm wooden shelves, else they will simply cease to exist, leaving a mere faint smell of smoke and spice in their wake.

After making this point clear, the Illusioner strolls pleasantly back to his office, remarking idly when more customers enter the shop, meeting his nephew’s greeting. Letters in hand, he scrapes back a leather bound chair which sits before his unfathomable desk, and sits to open them. He flitters through the bunch until he sees what he is expecting: a rather resilient feeling bundle of parchment, kept shut with a wax seal which bears a familiar coat of arms. It signifies the Academy of Errol Drumley A. C. (Arch Caster), which sits holed up in the keep of the capital city, Dultex.

Mars AnteCariot, leaning back into his impressive well-carpentered chair, breaks the seal with a remote, semantic distancing of his fingers. Faint lines usher themselves outward and penetrate the wax, quickly evaporating it into oblivion. He then pulls the letter out quite ordinarily, and reads:

Dearest Cousin:

I will preface this note with a wish for your well being. I pray that your work keeps your hands busy, mind sharp, and youth happy. Every time I have visited, your shop populates itself with a miracle more charming than the last. Next I hope to see great armies perpetually battling about within a glass arena, or a paragon ship of the line braving a billowing, bottled up storm.

Though I fear that such time and creative peace might be delayed…I will remain brief, but there is trouble brewing in Dultex and its neighboring districts. Nothing has properly been announced yet, and I of course see no armies or invaders, but things feel bottlenecked over here in royal academia. Whispers seem to usher about, and generals are buzzing about the palace for the first time I can recall within my fairly short time lived. The process of letter writing has become especially secure - messengers proofread everything that comes in and out of the keep, and there are specific fellows who make long trips on horseback without ever saying a word to anyone - yet they appear as monthly regulars.

All I’m saying is, have caution, cousin. Conflict may be well along its macabre way, and that may mean that it is time for us arcanists to put our skills to more practical and deadly uses. Especially those which reside in populated, military cities like Acklemare. Best wishes, and stay sharp.

Pluto Karm, S.C

Mars sighs and hums to himself.

“Much love, but how slow you are, Pluto…”

He then proceeds to thumb the rest of the letters briefly, deciding that nothing among them is of any immediate importance, and casts a subtle glance out into the business counter of the shop. Pierre can be seen making a trade with the Thespian, who eagerly boasts a precarious collection of bottled beasts in his hands.

After confirming that Pierre seems to have it under control, Mars then glances at his watch, realizes he already knew the time, and slips out through the back door into his overgrowing herb garden. After a few eager foot taps and a passing minute, two rabbits emerge from the slender alleyway gate, their fluffy ears wiggling under the rotting wood. They then stand before Mars up on their hind legs, noses sniffing loudly and teeth out to the world.

Mars concentrates with his vibrating hands out in front of him, mouth whispering rapidly, and not without subtlety. The rabbits then proceed to erupt into a plume of mist which vaguely smells of carrot puree, and out step two haggard, grateful looking boys in commoner’s clothes.

After a pause, he breaches the silence with a lofty:

“And are the suspicions correct?”

A dirty blond, slightly bearded welp replies.

“Yes sir. Scouts were located in the eastern brush, not a day’s ride from here sir.“

His partner nods in concurrence.

“Very well then,” says Mars. “As I thought. In a week’s time I will prepare Pierre, my nephew, to take temporary ownership of the store in my absence.”

He then turns back to the door, which opens slightly ajar at his behest.

“I shall write to the King this afternoon. He would do well not to hide his plans from me in the future. Good day, and thank you. May luck be yours.”

The illusioner then slips behind the door, which rattles a characteristic echo into the bustling alley. With a nervous exchange of nods, the youth pull patrol uniforms out from behind a series of bean plants, and inconspicuously slip out into the streets as young guardsmen, carrying the faint aroma of vegetable broth with them.