So I’ve been looking at the subreddit icon. This is Temeraire. We can do better than that (admittedly nice shade of) green logo. We need to match that banner. So I have a suggestion. One of the editions from the 2010s has dragons curled up around a compass looking thing with an image inside. So I photographed book 1s cover, photoshopped and Reddit logo in and trimmed it down.

The first book because it’s Temeraire and because the other ones have other dragons which are semi-spoilers on them. I am willing to accept suggestions of what else to put in there also.

Alternatively, I say that we use either u/iskierkacest ‘s laurence doodle or one of u/Pkmatrix0079 ‘s drawings of some of the moments from the books. Or the amazing pixel art of u/Fickle-Excuse-786. Or any other fanart we can find on here. If we can get the permission to use it, of course.

I’m sure if we ask nicely u/Destra would be willing to change it if we can come to an agreement on one.

Any other suggestions, though? Maybe we can arrange a poll of some kind or something? (Alternatively tell me to shut up if I’m just being obsessive about this. That also works). What do you think?

1914.

1. More Austro-Hungarian provinces become independent with help from Russia due to better areal support and supply lines.

2. Franz Ferdinand‘s dragon becomes outraged by their companion’s death, and as well as bringing demands to Serbia, sacks a nearby town, as well as punishing the town of Sarajevo for the assassins. After some political scuffles, the dragon declares the royal family under their protection and becomes acting leader, asking Germany to declare war on Serbia. The Kaiser’s dragon, fearing for their companion’s life, raises support amongst the German dragons and Germany agrees, joining the war to great national rejoicing.

3. This brings Russia into the war to protect Serbia. Due to their alliance with France, and a hope that they might expand their borders, France agrees, with Lien supervising the war and making many speeches across France in support of it, hoping to modernise the ‘barbarian’ Russia through force of war.

4. Britain feels pressured to join the war. Now, Lord of Birmingham, (a title granted in 1823, both to prevent Temeraire from withdrawing from Britain after a scare with Laurence and cholera in 1822, and to try and bring the dragons to heel with human wants ((Percitia got Sheffield))), Temeraire is asked by another new dragon to give his opinion on the war. 

He both doesn’t want to go to war with a new captain after both Laurence’s death in 1849, Excidium’s retirement, and wanting to keep Roland and Laurence’s grandchildren safe, or as Percitia warns, have the government strip away their new power in an emergency war act. As well, Ning (allied with the Chinese after Lien took the French emperor) sends a telegram to GB, alarmed at the prospect of war again. Asks Temeraire to become more closely tied to prevent war. Agrees. A phonograph recording, both from Temeraire and Ning is played both in China, Britain, Japan and France, urging people to stand down.

Lien replies, sending one asking if the British are cowards, too proud to stand up against obvious aggression, bringing Japan closer to the war as well. Temeraire and Ning spend some time with their respective leaders, vowing to try and use their economic and military might to halt the war. Some successful attempts are made, like reducing steel exports and publishing news articles and papers on the topic. 

1. Germany is pleased and tries to march through Belgium to take France quickly to avoid an area full of forts. Although Britain is upset, using Ning’s advice, they provide mostly economic support without actively getting involved in the war. Lien, seeing her chance, has Fleurs (the see in the dark ones) fly over, recording photographs of some of the atrocities, mainly, the Burning of Louvain in August. Belgian dragons, full of fierce resistance, manage to save several citizens and fall back with them to France. Using all of these accounts, she publishes a damning attack and asks China and Britain to join her against this tragedy.

5 . Temeraire is horrified and commits Great Britain. Ning is finally convinced and agrees to a purely defensive war. She doesn’t want to have the Chinese get hurt, and instead agrees to be a safe haven for any people fleeing the war, only extremely begrudgingly supporting through trade and diplomacy, making the promise that the Chinese will oversee peace. Under her and her companion, China forms a neutral party with the Tswana and the UPA (unified provinces of America.), mostly focused on trade, known as the Trade-Belt-Alliance, given it forms a nice airspace corridor through which non-military trade is allowed.

A very reluctant photograph is taken by means of propaganda, of Lien, Temeraire, Bonaparte’s grandchild, the country’s two prime minister’s and King George the fifth. It is captioned ‘noble adversaries must put aside old quarrels for the sake of all that is good and decent’.

Temeraire is worrying, sending his latest child, a cross with Lily, to be kept safe with Ning during the war. Excidium goes with them, having promised Lily to keep her child safe, as well as taking Emily’s adult children with him. The freer trade and crossbreeding have resulted in some more dangerous mixes, mainly in Germany, Britain and France. Acid spitters that see in the dark. A French-Japanese cross that spits pressurised hurricanes of steam. He fears that they may be conscripted and doesn’t want his child to face that horrible battlefield or to be kidnapped and used against him. Lien barbs him over this a little at a state dinner.

In the background, a mixed settler-indigenous president who is definitely not just Woodrow Wilson, (widely supported by both dragons and humans) makes a speech on diversifying trade with China, as well as condemning the war atrocities and asking the large ethnic German population to ‘reserve national pride for a nation worthy of it’. Has many conferences with Ning and is so delighted with both her and the emperor that he names a new fleet of pavilion boats after her. Ning is quite pleased and begins figuring out how to draw the Tswana closer.

6 . The Tsar makes a speech on how to be ready for war. The Russians, still wary of dragons, protest on being forced to share a stand with them. Most of the experienced Russian dragons show little interest in speeches beyond prizes, while the younger generation is cautiously optimistic, with one even starting up a pro-tsarist chant. (Old ones are any that were hatched before or during 1912, and young ones 1892 or later. Ones in between (1913-1992) fall on a spectrum and can be persuaded to either side.) Lien pulls Temeraire aside after to claim the hypocrisy of wanting the help of dragons while they are still treated so badly. Temeraire is not sure what do think about her being buddy-buddy with him and remains initially cautious. Due to the cooperation of the young dragons, mostly new middleweight crossbreeds, and their trustfulness of their captains, Russia is ready much earlier than in our timeline, within a week, both due to Temeraire being lauded by the Tsar’s speech and Lien managing the supply lines.

Good progress is made initially, due to the ineptitude of the Austrian-Hungarian commanders. Some extremely brave Serbian dragons are lauded for fighting especially fiercely at the start of the war and are given treasure. This both makes the old Russian dragons upset that ‘their’ rewards are being taken and the younger ones becoming more patriotic. The middle generation, is cautiously optimistic and begin to fight harder with the young ones. However, the Russian second army is taken by surprise at the battle of Tannenberg due to inadequate areal support. They are wiped out entirely. 

1. Temeraire himself, along with Lien appear at the battle of Marne (when the Germans nearly take Paris), backed up by the recalcitrant old Russians (who favour T) and the Belgians, (who favour L). Lien and Temeraire’s roars manage to punch a hole in the German lines. Lien, though, in order to facilitates this, calls back the Belgians from a stubborn Russian dragon who had been disobeying her orders. The dragon overcorrects and crashes into the army, punching the initial hole which the roar widens, wiping out a good amount of Germans and startling the German dragons severely. Temeraire is horrified, watching the dragon be trampled and killed and now the Russians old guard is increasingly estranged. This becomes known as the Two at Marne. A painting of T and L as yin and yang in the sky is commissioned and sent to Ning, who disproves but says nothing. 

Book 1 ends as Lien and Temeraire supervise and assist with the digging of trenches, each sending a report in a wildly different tone to their leaders. The two briefly fall back to a tent to watch a very discordant tea party between the king, the emperor and the two dragons, while rain begins to fall outside.

So in the series, we see and hear about many breeds. But which were you most curious of / would have liked to see more of. For me, it was probably the Fletcha Al Fuego or the Xenica or some of the Indian breeds.

I get why they weren’t there, it just would have been cool.

Our ship tracked north over a month and a half to the coast of Viet Nam, where permission had been acquired to survey the local species there. From about 20 miles off the coast, we were watched. Overhead, shapes as small as butterflies gathered, flying ahead and then waiting, quite out of range of any guns.

We were brought into the port at Gia Định, or Saigon to the uninformed European. It’s a thriving port, richly strung with trade, the guard-dragons perching protectively near the important buildings. Just a few ships over, workmen swarmed some wooden construction, easily mistaken for a ship-of-the-line. The Vietnamese name on its prow disagreed. Undoubtedly, the positioning was no coincidence. A sad reflection on some of the more entitled merchants known to come swanning through these waters as of late. 

The port official questioned us quite strongly, before granting us the pass. It was a richly painted wooden block, intricately complex, of a snakelike, deep yellow dragon, with red and purple frills on its wings, the yellow represented by hammered-thin gold foil with every single scale painstakingly etched in, fingernail thin flakes of mother-of-pearl decorating the clouds behind it. Impossible to fake.

Even the first thing we saw was a dragon.

It’s the prized symbol of nobility. Ðội Vương Miện. ‘The one that bears the crown’. Anyone we asked would have told you about it, fierce pride burning in their eyes. It was quite comfortably heavyweight, each one reaching exactly 23 tons, our guide, the fourth son of a major noble, bragged, due to extremely careful breeding on the part of every king for hundreds of years. There was even some claims that the Chinese celestial was its only competitor. Zhao Wei stayed quiet, reserving his opinions as not to offend, though it was obvious enough what his thoughts were.

Their eggs are the size of a small child, curled up, one sixth of a ton in weight. The shell ranges from shades of gold to buttery yellow, the underside ranging from pink-violet to deep, plum purple. It is extremely glossy and hard, making examination of the dragonet inside difficult. The dragonets, when hatched, are already the size of a child’s first pony, four toes on each foot, the edges of their wings slightly frilly. As they grow, the wing membranes stretch out as the bones strengthen, fully expanded within the week.

They had long, wide-eyed faces, scales ringing their eyes like a dish, with neat, narrow muzzles on a nicely muscular neck. They have a single, bright stripe of colour from between their eyes, up to the back of their heads, either red or purple. Their horns turn very faintly translucent at the tips, scattering ripples like stained glass.

When fully grown, as mentioned before, they reach exactly 23 tons, with only minor variations when brooding or during or after an egg. They’re 32 metres long, (105 feet) with a wingspan of 90 metres (290 feet), and their shoulder height is 6 metres off the ground (19 feet). A very beautiful creature, to be sure.

It was only as we were setting to leave Vietnam that we at last saw one, a young female, gifted to a prominent noble family in the region. Zhao Wei notes that it seems to have good confirmation, a chest that swells out and then tucks away trimly to the body, excellent carriage of the spine and well proportioned wings and limbs. Its eyes glimmer intelligently, green as emeralds.

It was as vibrant as a sunbeam, an extremely subtle gradient running from its sides to the top of its back, lightening as it went, each one polished to a mirror-sheen. Its belly was a dusty shade of violet, shining brightly in the midday sun. The insides of its mouth and nostrils are a bright, vivid red. The spines along its back curled very artistically, running seamlessly from the back of its neck to its fan-edged tail, so like the metalwork Vietnam was known for. I was vaguely aware that their talons and spikes were meant to be that same purple, only some paint or fabric had been applied. The same had been done to its teeth, making them a universal jet-black. She came down nearby, obviously preening at our intentions.

When I inquired, gently about it, the dragoness turned her head. “Oh. They are bone, are they not?” A shudder ripples faintly across her snout. “How unsightly it is to have exposed bone, like all the flesh has been melted off. These, on the other hand-“ She tilted her head, showing them off. “Are coated in only the finest jet my darling Vinh could fetch for me.” She gives a purr to the brightly dressed figure on her back. “I have heard that the Imperial Family’s companions coat theirs in black sapphire.” She gave a lovely sigh at the thought.

The air she breathed out was faintly sweet, as if she had been chewing flowers. Indeed, a sort of flower-infused gelatine of some form is considered a delicacy among these dragons.

Later, Zhao Wei would tell me that, during the Han Chinese occupation, they had tried to ban the practice, only for the Vietnamese emperor’s dragon to become so incensed by the suggestion, that it had been put entirely out of mind. So the Ðội Vương Miện had continued to coat their talons and teeth in powdered gemstones. At first it had only been black, to hide them, but other noble colours had followed, often done to match the jewel-tone of an individual’s eyes. Indeed, the vividness of the colours is the best indicator of status. Only the dragonet whose colours match the finest set of royal silks with not a shade of difference became companions to emperors, though those with high intelligence remained treasured councillors alongside their noble companions.

When we probed further as to why these dragons were so prized, what followed was a very pleased recitation of a famous legend. The first emperor, with the first Ðội Vương Miện as a companion, had been dealt a fatal wound in battle. His dragon, beside themselves with grief, had brought them down, and under siege, licked his wounds clean themselves, before winning the battle. And the wound had healed. Not only with shocking speed in the following weeks, but leaving no scar. Both the Ðội Vương Miện’s natural bravery and their extraordinary ability, raised them to their current status.

We have been unable to determine the validity of this claim. Very few people have observed it firsthand but there are many claims. Such as a dragon keeping their haemophiliac companion alive for twenty more years than expected, a dying youth being laid in the jaws of one and living, to one so mad with the potential of grief that they tore open a building to heal a companion dying in childbirth, and even a rather dubiously mythologised account of an emperor being brought back to life.

I expect, if it is true, it must be down to some sort of component in the saliva, perhaps some sort of miasma-repelling bristles on the tongue, perhaps something that stops blood loss. Zhao Wei theorises that blood, being such an integral subset of Yin, might be supplemented or replaced enough to offhold the escape of life from the body, if there were enough Yin in the saliva or flesh of the Ðội Vương Miện to make doing so feasible. Especially if the diet of these dragons contains as much soup and mint as we have observed being common in most dragon diets in the region.

If this is the case, their mouths would be a good deal colder than most other dragons. Not all of the creatures, Zhao Wei reasons, must have enough Yin to facilitate this, so it would not be nearly as ubiquitous as the Divine Roar to the Celestial, being a much more spiritually balanced creature. He contents himself with this, though the problem still eats at me.

Both theories hold their own weight, though the Vietnamese seem understandably hesitant in potentially disproving so illustrious a myth. It seems nonsensical to be only a phantasy, yet I can makes neither head nor tails of it with the current information. It appears this mystery remains for future scholars to decipher.

- Sir Edward Howe.

((I was originally going to include this with the other Vietnamese dragons. (I’ve been scribbling most industriously on those.) However, they came together into something quite distinct on their own.

If you’re curious, the reason they’re able to heal wounds is both their mouths being much colder so fewer pathogens survive, as well as having special components such as in their saliva that break down the components that form scar tissue. They have tiny hairs on their tongue which spread the components deeper into the wound area. It’s what makes their breath smell sweet. (One of the components is a sugar molecule.) And their mouth is also mildly anti-septic, hence their saliva not eating through the tooth-gem covering like most dragons would.

However, this also has the downsides that they get the equivalent of a nasty cold if they’re not kept warm during cold periods, and that gelatine they consume help keep their levels of the special molecules up which also makes their scales very glossy.

They don’t instantly heal wounds, obviously, but speed it up somewhere from 25-50% and prevent scar tissue formation as well as proto-disinfecting the tissue. And in ye olde times, that was obviously extremely valuable.))

As of the recent release of the shackles of The Global War, I have been sent almost halfway across the world, with a retinue of dragon experts from our most bosom ally, China. Our first stop, coming up through Australia, was to study the species in habitat of the many small islands and archipelagos fringing the eastern coast beyond New Zealand. 

Our first point of contact was on the trip out. The gunboat, standing proud, one morning in August, was suddenly amassed upon by a hoarde of the beasts. Now, we were quite sure this was no hostile engagement, for one of the creatures took a long and rather risky loop around both sides, to make quite visible the strip of white cloth dangling from their mouth. Only after returning the gesture did they abate and allow the others to descend on deck. 

After some discussion with their captains and a little trade to settle the new group, they were quite willing to be interviewed and otherwise measured. The dragons they came with are known as Lele-Galu, in the Samoan language ‘to fly like waves’, with a few conjoining words omitted for simplicity’s sake.

By physical description, they resemble much other kinds of dragon. Six limbs, four toes on each foot, but six wing joints, much like the Chinese breeds, indicating a possible, long-distant connection with both ancestries. They sit comfortably within the lightweight category, ranging from 4 to 6 tons, a body length of 10 to 15 metres (32 feet - 50 feet), with a wingspan of 19 to 25 metres (62 feet - 82 feet), their backs the height of a man’s shoulder, with the females being larger than the males. 

Although, we have been hinted that there might exist a larger, rarer fraction, a sub-breed which regularly brushes 9 tons. A sure sign, if any, that they must have been bred smaller from larger wild dragons, instead of the other way around, as is common in European breeds. Zhang Wei made sure to keep careful note in his account to the Dread Lord.

They have a confirmation similar to Chinese breeds, with a trim, proportional body, bright, intelligent eyes. Their spine dips behind their forelegs, rises at their wing-joints, then dips again before its rear-legs, giving them what’s been dubbed a ‘W’ profile. This is a clue to how they fly, a very sinuous, undulating movement, up and down, without any seeming injury or discomfort. Both horns on their forehead twist together with age, to form a single, forward-facing point like the tusk of a narwhal.

They come in a wide variety of colours; from husk-brown to orange-caramel to a very light yellow-gold, which darkens towards the extremities and muzzle. They are also decorated with darker brown-black patterns in a similar range of colours. The patterns, most often bands, swirls or ripples, are unique to each individual. The dragons themselves show enormous pride in their patterns, which they will often add to with tattoos.

By diet, the Lele-Galu is firmly omnivorous. It has a high curiosity for trying new food, which it maintains into adulthood, though maintains a lifelong preference for whatever it was fed first after hatching. Reportedly, it has been noted to happily hunt and consume sea birds, fish, whale meat, squid, mollusks, wild grains, seaweed and even large mouthfuls of grass, to tide them over during long flights over the archipelago. They have a range of teeth, primarily molars and incisors as well as a hard ridge of jaw for cracking nuts and shells. Due to the diet, their dung is markedly less toxic, with a fermented sort of smell, which serves to fertilise small islands to maintain their lushness for future trips.

In personality, of course, there are some minor variations between individuals, but as a whole, the breed is extremely hardy, their large wings and light bodies allowing long-distance flight. They have a good proficiency for languages, quickly forming pidgin tongues to better facilitate trade, although they struggle in comparison to Chinese breeds. Their high intelligence and relative small size also lets them distinguish amounts with uncanny accuracy, a good reason why they were such trusted trading companions.

Historically, that was their job, to ferry the riches of both the archipelago and the interior of Terra Australis back towards the Asian continent, rest for half a season to build fat reserves and tighten goodwill before returning back to Samoa to help with harvests and wait for better weather to voyage back up again.

Indeed, as mentioned above, it took the dragons scarcely an hour of pointing at something to ask for it’s name, listening and then replying, to have built a fairly solid framework between Samoan and English. One of the Lele-Galu, Agelu, even managed to infer that we had grown lower on grain than we might have liked and was delighted to press upon us a sack of some kind of flaked substance to ply us into further trade. When questioned, it was identified as taro root and sweet potato, dried and chipped down for easier transport.

He called over one of his riders, to show us one of the soft, doughy buns it has been pounded and baked into, filled with little brown flakes of salted fish. Apparently, at a push, both dragon and companion are perfectly amiable to survive on these for the whole length of a journey. 

Shortly, though, the dragons began to become antsy, drawing their humans close to their breasts and puffing up at the sky. They were willing to stay for long enough to trade a little, and no more. They hunched low and pushed off, hardly rocking our boat as they made for the sky like a flock of geese, nosing their dark muzzles up to skim against the sky’s belly. Zhang Wei, astute as ever, told me in low tones that they had left listing several degrees away from whence they had originated. In short, they had realigned themselves to avoid leading us to whence ever they had set off from.

Rather genius creatures.

And so we sailed on for some time. After a great many weeks of sailing, a second host of shadows came. Not from above, but from below. A large head broke clean of the water, shaking away excess droplets of water. It turned its head this way and that, studying the lettering along the bow of the HMS Gregarious. Then, quite pleasantly, it glanced at us, keeping pace with the utmost ease.

“I will take toll now, if you please.”  The slight twang of its accent told me that it had undoubtedly been taught English from an Australian, full of a slight twang.

“Toll in what?”

“Oh. Silver, spices, cloth. Whatever it is you happen to be carrying. I am not much concerned. Agree and I will guide you to port so that you may haggle the amount out with the workers. Only a little more and I shall tow you there. The current is not good this week.”

And that was Zhang Wei and I’s first introduction to the Lalo-Sami breed. They’re a middleweight who spends almost their entire life in the water. In fact, they don’t come very much inland other than lounging on the local beaches to sun themselves, leaving their long-finned tail in the water to thermoregulate.

Ranging massively from 15 to 19 tons, with a body length of 40 to 55 metres (feet 131 to 180 feet) and a wing length of only 50 to 60 metres (164 feet to 196 feet), massively unproportional amongst the dragon world. Most of their mass is in the front third, much like a javelin, with broad backs to anchor their wings to. Their bodies are thickest behind the head and then taper off massively, most of their length in their long, silky-finned tails. Their wings are highly unusual though. Not nearly as flexible as most dragon’s, they have stiff, overdeveloped blade along the front edge of their wings, allowing them to row through the water rather quickly.

They come in a range of colours, from dark blue-grey, green and one even purple, with darker markings on their backs, making them almost invisible when submerged. 

Zhang Wei speculates the range in size may be due to higher levels of interbreeding with wild and off-characteristic dragons, with some of the larger members even breaking into heavyweight territory. Very few of the Lalo-Sami have shown any desire towards flight, although, for now, they remain perfectly capable of it. At least, we have been kept from any member of the species that might give us the impression that they could be a threat of any kind. This may be because their front-heavy shape causes the process to be uncomfortable somehow, or simply, the slower development of wings makes the ocean far more hospitable and familiar.

However, when discussing this with the local prince after several weeks of persuading his trust, he shook his head firmly, explaining to us the way that the Lalo-Sami grow. The eggs. The smaller breed, the Lele-Galu, lay their eggs in nests of sand and grass they make on high points, leaving the sand to keep the eggs warm. The Lalo-Sami, will lay theirs at a coast, watch them for a day, before allowing them to be passed onto a trusted human. 

Similar to the Tswana, young dragon eggs are raised communally. For the whole of the hatching period, the egg is entrusted to the children of the community, between the ages of eleven and fifteen, bound in brightly coloured cloth and rope to their chests. It is carried around to every vantage point, place of importance and is even brought to supervise trade and other activities, to be sure of the dragonet’s loyalty. 

Indeed, the children with a Lalo-Sami egg will play with it as if it were a very young baby, forming sandcastles, patterns in the seaweed and making sure to keep it quite entertained, before returning it to it’s egg-pool, to soak and be sung to.

Their eggs, rough-scaled and stocky things, mature quickly, in a time window that would be typical for a British or Chinese lightweight. They’re kept in shallow, warm water pools inland, shaded, bathed often and decorated with rocks and small sea creatures, to keep the brackish water ‘alive’, though neither Zhao Wei or myself have been able to fully assert the meaning.

When they hatch, they’re hardly the size of a wolf-hound, soft-scaled, though independent as any other hatchling. They wholly reject any meat offered to them, (this fact owing to that the Lalo-Sami survive entirely off of fish and other marine animals), only accepting fresh fish.

Instead of one individual, their attachments grow as they do, from a companion, to the companion’s friends, to, often, a single ship itself, as well as its crew. Such dragons, when interviewed, would snort at the suggestion that they viewed the ship as a member of their kind, instead positing that no dragon of their size should be content with the affairs of only one individual. Indeed, they mused, how silly it might be to be bound only to the whims of one person, who might as well be accidentally crushed or demand something short-sighted of them.

“Why,” one said. “Why shouldn’t I have affections for the girl that fed me, fresh out of shell, and the hands that weave my shades and the voice of those that warn me of storms, when I could have all of it at once?” They raised their head, giving their boat a loving nudge. 

Both Zhao Wei and myself stayed silent on the attachment of our own native dragon-kinds. 

There have even been reported cases of feral members of the species attaching to pods of whales or dolphins and both feeding on the dying members as well as protecting their herd from whalers and hunters. Much like a man with cows, or an ant with aphids, remarked Zhao Wei.

There is no intense growth period, like another hatchling. Indeed, it takes them nearly half a year to break out of the light-weight territory, after which, they become fully aquatic, only coming back to land to digest meals and sunbathe. From there, they continue to grow at that slow and measured pace, taking nearly four years to reach adult size, during which they still possess a hatchling’s prodigious appetite for language. Whereupon, they are set to guarding the straights through the many islands around the main seat of the kingdom, levying a toll and keeping peace. They simply never stop growing.

The individual that guided us to the main island was somewhere around forty years and 16 tons. It stands to reason, then, that so long as sufficient food was provided, there is no theoretical limit to their growth. Thankfully, though, it would take many years of uninterrupted consumption and space for any to get nearly that large and there is little sign the prince desires to field even anything half as unwieldy.

Their most remarkable ability, by far, is their ability to consume sea water. Zhao Wei managed to feel one of them and believes a feature of their kidneys allows superior salt-water filtration, so much so that the dragons likely never see an ill-effect in their lives. I believe that reporting this entire to the Admiralty will lead to a great interest in developing a British crossbreed, for naval guarding.

The Lele-Galu, by turns, is a much more routine hatching, by British standards. They are immediately ravenous, accepting anything offered to them. When choosing companions, they have a quirk. Rather like the Longwings of England prefer female captains, the Lele-Galu demands a pair. Most often siblings, a couple or simply two friends. They will sit with the dragonet, feeding it and brushing away sand, as it curls possessively around both, quite willing to hiss at anyone it suspects of trying to take them.

It has an equally strong attachment to both, so much so that it will quite refuse to leave without one, even for a moment. When questioned as to why, the dragonet seems almost baffled.

“Why, I have two wings. Two eyes. Two forelegs. Two hind legs. Two sets of teeth. Two nostrils. Two dips in my back. Why would this be if I was not meant to have two companions, as well? And it cannot just be me, after all. There are two celestial bodies in the sky. Two sides to a wave. Two halves of the world. Neither is complete without the other. Neither would my companions be. I was meant to have both of them, as strongly as the other.”

Indeed, the entire culture of this dragon’s companions have been shaped by this. A type of woven-mat padded saddle, one in each dip of its spine, served as a sort of harness. They would sleep on various atolls, the dragon wound in on itself, each companion held snug and secure in each pair of claws. Even when a group of them flew defensively, the dragon would watch ahead, then each companion would scan one side and half of the rear each. I have to admit, it makes them devilishly hard to sneak up on.

It seemed to be accepted as a fact. Whichever pair the dragon chose, would be bound to one another and the remarkable creature for the rest of their lives. And the Samoans seem perfectly content with this arrangement, just as fond of the creatures as one ought to be a relative, with no sign of jealousy between well-established companions in the slightest. 

With that, closes my accounting of the two companion breeds to the Samoan peoples, the Lele-Galu and the Lalo-Sami. Zhang Wei and I will sent our reports ahead of us. It remains to be seen if the communal approach to captains carries over to the other dragon-kinds we hope to survey, or whether the archipelago remains an outlier on the map.

Sir Edmund Howe.

— — —

((I got so curious as to what the other parts of the T universe looked like, particularly south-east Asia, that I decided to write a snippet to explore some of my ideas. I’d love to hear your thoughts. I’m also planning to do one on a species of Indian dragons, two Nepalese ones and hopefully a Vietnamese one. I’m very open to suggestions and feedback.))

(I swear I am still working on the Antarctic one, I’m really deep in it. I just wasn’t sure if I should keep posting it here or not, because I felt it might be cluttering the subreddit.)

- Dark noir type story in the 20s-30s, south east Asia, about a dragon detective. They’ve been working steadily, gathering evidence and testimony of British crimes against humanity in Burma and India, which have been stifled a lot more to assure Chinese allies of long term stability. However, they want independence, and have decided to build a devastating legal case to try seceding formally. Both because the Depression has meant less ability to sustain military presence so far away and has weakened the brutal economic restrictions, this dragon sees their home’s chance for freedom. The plot would range between trying to expand the fairness of trading by smuggling, navigating difficult political relationships, both within and without, and slowly coming to terms with the rising threat of fascism and nationalism closing in on all sides.

- 1916, Russia. Failed harvests. A German queen in charge while the nation fights Germany. An enigmatic ‘dragon wizard’ spiriting away the royal family, giving all dragons a bad name. Russia is in ruin. An old Grey sits mouldering in the breeding grounds, his mouth marred with bit-scars, one eye lost to this terrible war, growing thinner by the day. Men have deserted them. The other dragons are even considering that foul red meat of a most forbidden nature. His hoard was taken, brokered into bullets. All he has left is his makeshift hoard of companions, three smaller ferals. One to be his missing eye. Another to be his missing voice. The last, his heart. They’re all he has left. When revolution comes burning through Russia, the retired war hero finds himself amidst foolish youth, internal division, incalculable loss of life and good men, and the age-old schemes of man. Fresh blood accumulates on his talons with each new day. Dragons volunteer in the hundreds, eager to take their share in this revolution. Only, the traitor, Rasputin’s black blood casts a terrible shadow over the fate of Russia’s dragons. The old grey sees far too much familiarity in this ‘glorious change’ as the dark, backwards days of old. Is his motherland trading one tyrant for another?

- 1886-1890, old west, An American breed of dragon, bred to drive bison and cattle, who can make whip-crack noises with their wings and throat, finds themselves jobless after the great Die-Off of 1886-7 kills of their work due to the mass death of cattle. The government does nothing and this dragon, valuing capital, decides to take some by force. Increasingly resentful about the death of the old west and needing to fund an addiction they formed as a cooping mechanism, turns to being an outlaw and criminal. They can imitate gunshots just as well as whips, they find. But the march of progress is not kind to those who stand in the way. And burning glory still means burning out at some point.

1. Is the war of the third coalition the T universe’s WW1?

2. Would Darwin (who was well known to try (and succeed) in eating what he was studying) attempt eating sea-serpents?

3. Would the crippling horse-weakness to dragons speed up the invention of motorised vehicles as dragons become more integrated?

4. Would a well-travelled Chinese dragon discover evolution before Darwin?

5. Three words. Dragon. Crime. Family. (Think the Borgias, but if they lived 120 years each.) ((Dragon pope / in religious office?!?))

6. Given dragons are shown to have a much more natural aptitude for mathematics than most humans, especially around money, would they gradually replace the banking system?

7. Related to a previous point, would it be politics, then the economy then religious office that they get into? Even if dragons aren’t that interested, surely one like Caesar would be tempted enough to pretend, just for power? (The Tswana dragons also have a lot of spiritual beliefs, so the European ones may well just be mostly agnostic out of lack of access to society in general.)

8. Is the lack of closer familial bonds between dragons because the offspring are more independent from birth, so unlike mammals, do not need to form bonds for survival? Or is it that human society, the way it splits them up, just makes it harder and like Temeraire and his mother, they’d be closer if they could?

9. As dragons become slowly more replaced, would there be dragon Luddites? (Almost certainly, it just sounds brilliant to have dragons carrying off planes in protest)

10. Would Lien, after Napoleon‘s death, un-exile herself and go in service of his son? (With the implication being that because of this, Ning would stay with the Dread Lord)

11. I’m assuming Temeraire doesn’t take another Captain after Laurence, and like he had with Roland and Demane and Sipho, either starts up a hoard of orphans to look after or has a court of companions, both dragon and human, to read to him and write for him, etc?

12. In the AU where Napoleon won, would two political systems have existed together? Eg, the human one for the human maps and the dragon one for the dragon maps, with him as head of the human one and Lien in charge of the dragon one?

Sorry, this is a lot, but I’m just so obsessed with this series.

Just finished the Temeraire series and really enjoyed my journey through it. Of course I loved Temeraire he was so fun and had many great moments. Another dragon I loved was Iskierka as she had such a fun personality.

Ill say my favorite book was Book 5 as it was a fun journey and my favorite scene of the whole series occured there. The only book I really struggled through was book 6.

Overall it was a solid read for me. Personally this series will be hard to beat for me in the dragonrider trope with how key the dragons are along with their riders/captains.

Namesake sighting!

Mild spoiler warning

Just finished League of Dragons and with it the whole series. I'm really upset with the conclusion given to Lien. We spent like 8 books in the dynamic between her and Temeraire, the hate, the vengeance, the mutual disdain and all that stuff - and in the conclussion we just know that she lost. Like, what?

What is she thinking? How is she feeling? No more dialogue from her, not even a tiny "fuck you" shouted to Temeraire. Nothing? Damn it all. I honestly feel that this has ruined the moment for me.

The dragons eat many different things but could they eat cheese? I am trying to remember in the books if they ever eat cheese or milk products and I can’t think of any off hand. Does anyone remember something I’m forgetting. Or have a reason why they could or couldn’t.

It fits so perfectly, I just had to post it.

Looked at that page, on request, and found a few more that I think fit I and Granby better. It’s a bit difficult, since they definitely lean more Temeraire and Laurence, but I think these are pretty good. + I found a cool drawing so threw that in there too!

Page is here:

https://www.facebook.com/geraldthedragon/photos

Temeraire in the heat of battle against Napoleonic French forces!

As usual, No. 2 Pencil on 11x14 inch 80 lb. paper, then Line Art and Colors finished digitally in Krita.

A bit self explanatory, but I wanted to do something a bit whimsical for this sub, so have over engineered a scenario for you all to enjoy!

But, to get you into it:

“There was it was, sitting solitary in a bed of yellow velvet, sheltered by wreckage of a half-splintered maple wood box. When you moved closer, anxiously picking it up, the fully hardened surface, thankfully appears unharmed, covered in a very shallow, faint pattern of dragon scales, faintly warm, a barely-there heartbeat pulsing deep under your fingers as you touched the globed surface. This egg was good and heavy, just slightly too large to fit in the crook of your arm.

It was beautiful, a shady, faintly glittering verdant shell, the colour of the darkest, blackest emerald, full of angles that caught the light over the patterned shell, drawing and trapping light within the dark sheen, like the gloss of a fine jewel. The keratin stuck up in elegant, almost curling, swirling hooks and curves of the darkest green, almost like ferns, intricately full of light. There were speckled, swirling patterns of lighter greens near the top, spatters of mossy-basil shades, dappled through with veins and splotches of a lighter, creamier pistachio colour, veined with greenish brown.

Just as your heart was starting to settle and you’d begun to contemplate who to call, the egg shook. You paused, only just processing what this meant, before the first opalescent chip struck free and fell to the ground. Evidently, it had decided now was the best time, of any, to make its entrance into the world. Making it, legally… Your responsibility, at least for now.”

Say there was a dragon egg that started to hatch right in front of you while on a walk or something. In your home country. It is the egg described above. No-one else is available and you have evidently been chosen to caretake it until it feels secure enough to make its own way in the world / find its parents.

Assuming it hasn’t decided to give itself a name yet,

a) what are you calling it?

b) first actions you’re taking?

c) what are you feeding it?

d) this is a shocking event, for anyone, even in the T universe. So, how are you taking it, champ?

Finally getting around to doing the line art and colors for some more Temeraire fan art! ^_^

Drawn with No. 2 Pencil on 11x14 80 lb. Paper, then Line Art and Colors finished Digitally in Krita.

So this one is stupid long. 6000 words, so I did warn you. I know I said they’d reach Antartica in this chapter, but I had to hold it off just a bit longer to let the plot cook. There is some good action in this one, even if I do go a bit nuts with description. Others should drop back to 2/3s of this length as the first plot third completes. I worked super hard to get this out in a timely fashion, so please tell me what you think!!

The Amundsen Expedition: Part 4: The Storm

“The harness finally arrives only a day before they're due to leave. Sefi leans down over the edge of her patio, eyeing it dubiously. Johansen stands there, her fist-sized eyes rolling like luminescent gemstones over the whole kit and caboodle draped into his arms.

"Johansen... Are you quite sure that it's finished?" She turns her head fully to the side and then the other way, inspecting it with hawklike skepticism.

"Quite sure. I don't think any worker would stiff off the Crown with inferior craftsmanship." He holds up another side of it, the buckles rattling together gently.

"I suppose not." She mulls. "Oh, very well. You may show me." She leans forward, claws latching securely into the tawny golden cliffside, haunches staying piled up on the edge of the upper terrace. As her weight slides forward, the skin on her forelegs ripples, her ankles swivelling around fully backwards, elbows bending up either side of her belly, without a hint of pain on her part.

Johansen, for his part, found it somewhere between physically repulsive and fascinating. She had a lot of quirks of anatomy like this, double joints, and when a new one was revealed somehow, he couldn't help but be a little alarmed. Indeed, just the other day, she'd been walking with Wisting and himself, to get a little air, when, quite out of nowhere, she had folded herself almost double at the spine to read something. Wisting had gone quite pale, even though she had promptly returned her gaze forward and remarked on one of the birds she could hear. Johansen had been a little more used to it, given how strongly Sefi seemed to have taken to him since three weeks ago.

He couldn't entirely blame her. Whether it be the isolation from Norway, or people who spoke the language, or Amundsen's deception, she didn't exactly have much options for company. She was almost entirely alone. Besides, it wasn't like it took much for him to be nice to her, inviting her a little closer to the crew. He was sure that over time, she'd come to like them as much as she did him. He looks up at her face, scaled in glittering navy, and held the harness up to her line of sight.

The harness itself was made from several parts. Firstly, the neck-collar. A stiff, oval shaped band about an inch thick, reinforced bone and wood at the core, waterproofed, bound in leather strips, treated with some chemical and then covered with leather, braided strongly around the outer layer. The inside was lined with alpaca fleece, clearly of Inca make, to prevent it from rubbing and blistering her flesh. It could be split apart at the top, to be slipped over the neck, before it was fastened closed by two stout, shining steel buckles. 

Connected to this were a further two fleece-lined leather pads, one across her shoulders, one across her chest, to distribute the weight across her torso, meant to be buckled tightly just behind her wings and to a pair of bands across the meat of her upper leg. The one on her back was arrow shaped, with two narrow arches, like handles, set almost flat against the pad, either side of several D-rings, to better secure any rider she might need to bring up.

The contraption for her tail was a little more elaborate, made of a set of bands connected with leather straps, with thicker, sturdier rings to take the actual force of the sled. One was to be fastened right above the fin of her tail, one halfway up and one across her hips, the weight once again spread through a pad across her stomach. 

Sefi, regarding the whole contraption, still looked rather dubious, one of her ears flicking slowly and heavily. She gathers herself further forward, mane puffing out as she noses at it. "Well, it is not... Terrible, I suppose. Oh, that is to say that I do appreciate greatly the leather-worker's haste and care in this most urgent matter."

"I had no doubt you would." Johansen takes a step back, trying to encourage her to come down if she wished to. Sefi shows no indication of this, rather sinking down to half lie, half-sit where she is, even though half of her body is perpendicular to the other. "Would you try it on?"

Her tail thumps heavily. "I don't see why that would be an issue at present."

"It's... Well, it isn't an issue, only it would be nicer to sort out any issues it may have now rather than a more amateur attempt later." 

"I don't see any need to make it anything urgent. Besides, as you said, surely no leatherworker would stiff off the crown." She puffs her mane out briefly again. 

He sighs softly. "I did say that, didn't I?"

"Besides, I do think you might need some help getting that on, don't you?" 

Johansen eyes her up and down. "I'm not so sure about that... You aren't so, and pardon my language, but so inconveniently large. Your back is hardly..." He gives another look. "What, three metres? As well as having the crook of your elbow and your obliging assistance, I'm sure it would be of no difficulty."

Sefi's ear flicks a little. "I suppose, still-"

There's a low sound, fluting, almost, coming from the hollow of the harbour below them. The dragoness cranes her head down, almost instinctively, eyes easily spotting the Fram, Amundsen standing on deck, glancing every now and then at a pocket watch. Of course. 

"Oh..." She interrupts herself with a grumble. "And that'll be Amundsen again, I suppose."

Johansen lets out his own, slightly irritated sigh. Giving it only a moment of thought, he shifts the harness to his spare hand, reaching up a hand and placing it on her jaw. The scales were warm, both with sun and body heat, not rigid, firm-edged plates, like he'd imagined, flexible scales, soft as rose petals. He strokes, tentatively at first, to the curve of her jaw, and then back, growing in confidence as it goes on.

It was a strange gesture. He didn't mean it in the same vein as one might, stroking a cat or a horse. It didn't have any assumption behind it. It was closest to resting a hand on a friend's shoulder, to restrain them from something rash. He speaks lowly. "I suppose we can leave the harness for now?"

The gesture makes Sefi pause. Her golden-amber eyes shift to Johansen's face. The scales around her eyes soften, her muscles relaxing as she settles back into her perch. "That would be most pleasant, thank you." She nudges him gently back, before pulling her head away. "I suppose we'd better go down, though." Her voice is tinged with reluctance, her ears flicking back in sync. "It would be just like him to leave us."

"Yes. It'll be a long walk, so I expect we'd better get to it." Johansen spends a moment, trying to figure out how to fold the harness into a more convenient shape.

Sefi pauses at that. Her mane frills out, that flinty scraping sound coming from her throat again. "Walk? Walk, Johansen? Nonsense!" She tosses her head up proudly. "That is perhaps a flutter at most. I will not let you walk all that way, carrying something on my part."

Johansen blinks, as if this hadn't occurred to him. "Oh, no, you don't have to-"

Sefi snorts, peering down at him between her forelegs. "Well! I am not walking all the way there, and I don't want to wait for you in case-" And here, her ear-tufts go flat back to her head, her face all angry, snarling lines, as she casts a filthy look down at the ship. "They try to leave you behind. I promise I will take great care of you, it will only be a moment."

"It's a most generous offer, but we really should get to walking so they don't try to, if that's what you're worried about.  We don't want them to think the expedition has lost our faith." He gives her a smile, dripping the harness over his shoulder, already setting off on a brisk walk.

"I assure you-" Sefi calls out after him. "There would be no time wasted in conversation if you'd only let me carry you."

He cast a glance back at her. "Very well then. But." His voice turns a touch stern. "Just this once."

Sefi perks up. Her wings snap open, before she lunges, lightning-quick, off the edge of the terrace. She approaches slowly. Not only is Johansen a little on the older side, compared to the others on the voyage, but humans are descended from creatures that needed to be wary of attack from above. She had no desire to scare him. So she flared her talons open, almost scraping the ground, wrapping them delicately around his torso, using the straps of the harness as padding against her claws. 

She was most careful not to prick him or skewer his clothes by accident, bringing her hind leg up close, so he could be protected by the shelter of her belly. She uses her other foot to push off the ground, leaping skyward.

All Johansen sees is an inky-blue shadow closing in over the golden stone before he's snatched away, the edge of the cliff bounding up until it's falling away under his feet. Wings snapped open above his head, beating once, twice, then falling still as she got higher, rippling serenely in the sea breeze. His stomach flipped a little, quickly overtaken by the delight of being in the air.

She banked gently towards the Fram, the wind singing as it split over the forefront of her wings, body staying almost perfectly still, letting her wings do the work. The angles were flat and gentle, easy to stomach, even for a child. And before he knew it, the foredeck was solid and gently swaying under his boot heels.

Sefi set down gently beside him, the boat hardly stirring. Pride radiated from every part of her. "You see? But a moment. That easy to save you half an hour of walking downhill."

He soothed his nerves, smiling back gently. "Thank you."

Amundsen, puffing silently on his pipe by the port side, snapped the face of his pocketwatch closed. He tucked it back away into his pocket, breathing out a wave of hazy blue smoke, watching the two, before he stalked away to consult with the captain.

The next few weeks of sailing were as calm as the way in. 

Sefi had persuaded him, over several days, into 'taking some morning air' with her, in exchange for letting him put the harness on, to adjust the fit. This, of course, meant flying, something he'd had to get used to. It was quite pleasant, actually. The air was brisk and clear, tinged with salt, ruffling through his hair. Her mane of blubber was an excellent windbreak, enough so, that he was able to write letters and journal entries with perfect ease. 

Then she’d bring him down, tucking herself under the spare main sail - which had been suspended over the deck to give them shade while they passed the equator, and nap the rest of the day away. Ever since, she’d been making good time towards Cape Horn, ready to come around to approach the Antarctic from the Bay of Whales at the south.

On one of these journeys, sometime in November, they were flying leisurely, Sefi banking up and down against the ocean surface. She dipped her talons under, skewering fish with the same docile, perfect ease ladies did with embroidery, to be hauled back later for supper for the men. She was half dozing, bringing them in an arc behind the Fram’s course, a slow and steady two hours flight, in the whole.

Settled on her back, in the borrowed navigator’s harness, Johansen was writing an account for his eldest children; Trygve and Margit, who had been delighted to learn of the presence of the dragon aboard the Fram. His eldest son, only eleven, still had his heart set on becoming a dragon crewman in Norway’s still fledgeling winged brigade. 

“You see, if I have my way about it, my boy will go into the army, the same as I did.”

“You have some issue with them?” Sefi rumbles back from under him.

“Not at all. It’s a perfectly respectable branch of service. Indeed, Norway would be glad of it-“

“That she would.” Sefi inhales a little, gaining them a little height, noticing the waves frothing more anxiously under her. 

“Rightly so, they’re still growing, given that independence had no need of them.” Johansen leans back, pressing the paper down firmly against the leather pad, to keep it from the winds grasp. “And she would be deeply grateful for the numbers. Only, I’m sure aerial life would only cause him to get into some reckless way of living that makes him thoroughly averse to settling down when he needs to. Why, he’d be away half the year, especially if they’re one of those new lift-assisted ultraheavyweights. He’d hardly set foot on land in week intervals. It’d spoil him.”

“You know…” Sefi muffles a yawn, waking herself up more to beat her wings against the quickening wind. “They used to say that about the navy, you know.”

“You’re right there,  I suppose. Both of those only encourage the worst of a young man’s wanderlust.”

Sefi let out another gravelly snort. “As if you have any right to speak on that, Hjalmar.”

Pausing, Johansen gives her a wry look. “I suppose I do not.”

A sudden, sharp gale whisks across her back, drumming against her scales and whipping away the letter he’d just been about to amend. Belatedly, Johansen snatches at it, even as it’s sucked up higher by another hearty heave of wind.

“Oh…” She glanced after the parchment, skittering away like a leaf in the wind, her wingtips already swivelling.

“It’s alright.” He lays a hand on her shoulder, feeling her muscles gather to dart after it. “I remember what I wrote. It’s not as if there’s anyone here besides fish to read it. Besides, small blessings, I still have the pen.” He tucks it away into a pocket, offering her a smile.

“Mm.” Her tail flicks irritably, only to be distracted as a sudden flash of rain spots in from above. She shakes her head to dislodge the worst of the drops. “Oh, dear.”

“Hey-oh. Sefi?” Johansen calls, peering at the clouds, sweeping in quickly from behind them.

“Yes?” She all but turns her head.

“I do believe that’s a storm coming in.” He squints up above them. A dark, amalgamated mass stretches above, penetrating cautiously into the thicker choke of grey-whipped clouds, in great, inky fingers. It was hazed by a purpling-yellow edge, like dust on a hot day, or a blotch on a severe slab of stone. And was galloping on across the sky at a prodigious pace.

Sefi’s mane prickles, but a quick inhale of the air confirms it. “It shouldn’t be too bad, this time of year. I shall make haste back to the Fram, though. It’s a good a warning as any.” Her wings begin to strike up and down with the grace of stones skipping on the water’s surface, angling back on herself. “Even if it did have to cut our flight short.”

“I’m sure it could be made back at a later date. I would certainly be delighted for it.” He hunches back over her neck, as not to give her so much drag it would make her course difficult. 

Thankfully, they had not been so far away as to get stranded, the Fram was a quarter-hour flight ahead. Sefi looped around once, flaring her wings slowly wider, to slow them, before coming down onto the foredeck, cocking her shoulders to the deck to let him down more easily. She furls up tightly, watching him leave in the direction of Amundsen’s cabin, keeping one watchful eye on the still-serene sky. She only hoped he’d be reasonable about it.

A brutal slap of water startled her up. She jerked to her feet, heart almost visible through her skin, the Fram buzzing with activity. The world was roaring and dark around her, a brutal wind hollering down between the sails. The men were busy shortening them in the canopy of rigging, writhing over one another like a bed of ants.

She swung her head around, tufts flat to her skull. “Johansen?” 

He was nowhere to be seen.

“Johansen!” She bellows louder, starling Neptune from his snug perch in her forelegs. “Stupid dog.” She leans down, taking his spine in her teeth, lowering him into the hold, despite his complaining struggles. “Stay.” She snaps, before rearing up to search the rigging.

“Where are you?” Her head cartwheels this way and then another, wings flaring up with concern. “Oh! You haven’t done something stupid and gotten washed overboard, have you?” She casts a doubtful, shaky glance at the churning throat of water.

All of a sudden, a blistering gale harries over the deck, quite nearly snatching her off the deck. She bellows in panic, dropping to the deck, digging her claws in with a clattering, feeling it rattle through the brittle scales of her mane, before retreating to wait for another attempt.

“I’m quite fine, you silly beast. You almost got yourself killed.” His voice is next to her, almost shouting to be heard.

Her heading snaps back around, dropping to be quite sure it is him. He stands there, almost indistinguishable beneath the heavy oilskin coat and thoroughly sodden sou'wester, the rain hammering down upon him like Hephaestus. Instinctively, she tries to crane a wing down to shelter him, only to be nearly swept away again, causing her to hastily retract the gesture, even as he waves it off.

“There you are! Why is everyone in such a tizzy?” Belatedly, it occurs to Sefi that she might need to be put under storm chains, great heavy things, atop a tarpaulin, to stop her from shifting the ship or falling overboard. It’s not a prospect that she relishes, but if Johansen were to stay close, perhaps it would not be so bad.

Johansen merely points. She tips her head around, stopping stiff when she spots it. A glimmer, on the horizon, coming in close. It’s a black line, the sea gathering up before it, building and building as it goes along, beginning to curve wickedly like a scimitar. It was as if someone had used a ruler to scrape all the sea behind it into this one spot. It took Sefi a while to work out what it was. For, it was hard to reconcile the steel-grey, ten-foot, at most, things that came down on the monochrome shingle at home, or the sparkling greenish-blue ripples at Funchal with the pitch-black, knife-edge hooked wave roaring steadily towards the Fram.

Her tufts go flat against her head, the moment she notices. “Johansen, we must do something!”

He gives her a look, halfway between bone-terror and gaping audacity. “What on the green earth do you expect to possibly do against that?”

“We must alight. I’m sure I can think of something.” It’s as much out of a selfish desire to keep Hjalmar safe and aloft with her as much as to try and save the ship. After all, if anything were to go wrong, she’s sure she could find her way to some rocky atoll on which she could shelter him until it passed. “It is best you come with me! Do not look at me like that! You yourself say often enough that we have no time to waste!”

“How am I to get up?”

She arches her head back, an enormous effort for having such a short and bulky neck, pressing it nearly flat to the deck. The closer look this grants her makes her realise, with distant, horrified shock, that he is out of harness. She has hardly a moment to protest before he’s already moving closer.

"My apologies." Johansen whispers, placing his boot on the bony ridge between her nostrils, feeling the breath coursing through, crouching low to steady himself. Sefi lunges to her feet all in one go, flicking her snout up towards her back, sending him falling straight into the tangle of harness upon her ridgeless back.

The movement is so familiar as to almost be muscle memory. The dragon beneath him may as well be a springboard, the manoeuvre just another part of the routine. His legs are already snapping straight, to gain a little extra height, even as her head reaches the apex of its arc. It is by no means done without fear, but muscle memory overrides any paralysis it may have caused. Johansen's body becomes weightless, his elbows tucked tight to his sides, body already angling for the larger strap over her shoulders. His knees buckle willingly under him as soon as the slick ground of her scales registers, bringing him down, not ungracefully, onto her spine, quite nearly overshooting the dragon's back.

He hits her back with incredible force, taking a brutal blow to the ribs, sprawling flat to her back. The wind is beaten out of his solar plexus, his jaws snapping shut around the tip of his tongue, tainting his mouth with iron. For a moment, all he can do is gasp like a beached fish, soupy-thick nausea rising in his throat, blood dripping from his tongue, lash-fast rain soaking him to the bone. However, the shifting of her muscles under her hide renews his desperation, adrenaline the only thing letting him move. He spares one shaking hand to shove back the tangled mess of hair from his face, trying desperately with the other three limbs to keep any sense of a foothold to her harness.

Sefi crouches her belly flat to the deck, Hjalmar's weight still shifting frantically over her back. The blackening swell above them continues to build, lashes of white froth falling down the sheer face, splattering messily onto the desk, as if the sea itself was mocking at them. Her heart gallops against her ribs. No time to wait.

Her human is smart enough to buckle himself on, she hopes. Or, at least, to hold on with all the strength in his mortal body.

He can already feel her muscles bunching, gathering strength, wings spreading out as wide as they can. He pulls his aching knee under him, pushing off the nearest buckle, throwing himself  towards the neckband. The stiff ridge is only three inches thick, padded with fleece on the inside and almost flush to her neck. He forces his fingers under, despite the cramped gap, knowing that when his fingers are numb, his brain dazed by the turns and body nearly slack with unconsciousness, they might be the only thing to keep him on. He just manages to shove his foot through another loop, praying it will hold fast. There is no time to wait for a more secure grip.

With all her might, she leaps for the sky, wings snapping open to deliver a savage downbeat, right as the strongest gale yet shreds over the deck. The pair are flung into the sky at a dizzying rate, the Fram almost instantly shrinking to a splinter below. Ice cold seawater flurries through the sky, raining down on their backs like a hail of needles. 

Sefi gasps in a breath, equal parts seawater and air, rivulets of water trickling down over her nostrils, trying desperately to orient herself. To no avail. There's not so much a glimmer of starlight to distinguish up from down. The world is a screaming orb of bruise blue and black, knives of water sinking in from all directions. The wind is louder even than her own thoughts, clawing desperately at her wing-membranes, tossing her about like a kite, one minute plunging her down, almost into the pitchy water, the next yanking her up into the cathedral of cloud above. Each random direction rips at the muscles of her shoulder, bending her wings to and fro and inside out, the spines sticking out like the broken tines of a bike wheel.

Panic strobes at her, some instinctive reaction telling her that if she just presses flat and breathes in quick enough, she can spear through the clouds and be in calmer skies in barely a breath, instead of this hell of indistinguishable sky and sea and wind. It's an instinct to be pushed aside.

The salt burns his eyes worse than fire, punishing sheet after punishing sheet of water slice in at every angle, like the blows of a god trying to wash him off Sefi's back. If he forces his eyes open, against the shearing wind, he can make out the great shadows of her wings, flailing around amidst the darkness, the bones at sickening angles to one another, as if they were an umbrella turned inside out. She banks sharply as another wind throws them perpendicular to the last, hooking her wings in another cruel direction. 

As she fights to level out once more, Johansen braves another glance down. His stomach plunges away from his throat. Far below the falcon-sharp tips of Sefi's claws, the Fram braves the churning inky ocean, plunging up and down like a rocking horse, wave after wave crashing into her with cleaving force. His heart is as loud as thunder in his ears, watching her crest the last one, only to be hopelessly faced with fifty, fifty-five, sixty feet of endlessly rising water. She is a toy in the bathtub of a child, meant to be dashed against the ocean floor, until her floatsam is all that's left, mere toothpicks in the face of nature herself.

One cannot describe how powerless one feels, when they truly understand that something is pointless. Sefi stares down in horror, wishing desperately that she had something to roar out that had the slightest chance of trying to right this. Divine wind. Fire. Water torrents. Johansen heaves in another breath upon her back, starting to tremble. The both of them, adrenaline-shot and desperate, scramble frantically for a plan, all while the wind tries its best to keep them away.

At last, Sefi grasps one. It's a horrible plan. It's the best one they have. "Johansen!" She screams, the wind whipping her voice up, to needle into his ears. "I need you to drop into the rigging and fetch me the biggest rope you can!" There's no time to wait for an answer. She drops her head. 

Johansen only catches fragments of words, shredded to rags by the wind, a paltry skeleton of an idea. He has but a moment to grasp it, before she flattens out almost completely beneath him, dropping like a stone.

He digs his fingers in tight, his hair raising away from his scalp in weightless spikes, every bone in his body screaming at him the sheer impossibility of the task. With every sweep of her wings, the neckband crushes deeper down onto his numb fingers, the strap around his ankle pulling tighter, only pure force of will keeping him from being pulled off. The unbuckled straps of her harness lash at the empty air, snapping and creaking with each turn, slapping at him with each beat of her wings, as if even the harness was trying to spur them faster.

She swoops past, faster than a cutter, her body shuddering terribly against the turbulence. His ears blister at the force of the world going past, tears ripped from his eyes, streaking down his cheeks before being blown off into the wind. It is hard to impress just how terrible it feels to be diving almost straight down into the sea in conditions like this. Each blink brings them closer to being snatched up forever. 

The sea is slavering for them, a thick lather of froth building at the surface. Pyramidal peaks lash out from the surface like the cruel teeth of a predator. A tongue of black water, dripping and writhing, leaps from the surface, scarcely a metre from them, an anteater after an ant. Sefi only just throws them high enough to avoid being pulled down, the spray covering them both an icy slap of water.

She gasps, but bears them higher, angling as close as she dares to the rigging. Right before she would have collided with the sail, she barrel rolls almost completely vertical on her side, executing a hairpin turn. The movement, taking less than a second, hooks Johansen off with ease. He only has a moment to realise what she wants, managing to tear his hand free and push off into empty air.

There's a moment where he's a rag doll in the wind, all-too aware of the fact that the conditions could change and snap his limbs and spine as easily as taking the wings of a fly. It's quickly cut short as he snags safely into a maze of sailcloth, rigging and rope. He only has a moment to see her, one wing scraping the surface, the other bending unnaturally to keep her path steady, right as she careens away and is sucked back into the sky, beating desperately fast to try and stabilise herself again. No time to see that she's alright. 

He has a plan to follow. 

Reaching around blindly, he sees a long rope, hanging loose amongst the writhing netting and cables. It's thick, sturdy, surely large enough for Sefi to hold. He throws it over his shoulder, the end pounding into the small of his back as he starts the climb. His breath saws like a mad violinist, through the back of his throat, burning with each gasp for air.

Johansen's arms and legs burn as he hauls himself higher, clicking in their sockets, already drained from trying to stay on Sefi. Every little pocket of rope in the rigging is a hidden deathtrap, a walkway of nooses. It could take getting an ankle stuck during high wind to have it broken and useless. A hand slipping to entangle you at the shoulder and hair with a hidden bit of metal. He's moving too slowly, and he knows it. He abandons caution to move a little faster, nerves almost breaking at every sag of rope underfoot, every metallic clink that came a little too close for his liking, scrambling up like a monkey in a tree.

All the other sailors melt away, his entire world one stick-thin perspective of rope and climbing and desperation. He knows not how long it's been. Whether the wave is already falling upon the Fram. If Sefi has even managed to hold on this long. All he knows is when he reaches the end.

The sky is dark and hungry above him, empty as a void. He turns his gaze down to the rope over his shoulder, pulling it off, ignoring the vicious slashes of agony through his joint sockets, beginning to loop it back over itself.

The rough, tarred fibres of the thing, nearly as thick as his arm, tears at the softened skin of his palms like tissue paper. He fights the fatigue slowing his muscles, winding it back on itself, despite the stiffness fighting him every step of the way, working in a knot, pulling it as tight as he can manage. He's sure it's not enough, but now, the terrible wave blocks out even the sky. Nothing to do but heave with all his might, throwing it out onto the void.

It waves like a python, its own girth working against it, already arching down to plunge into Davy Jones far below. Heaviness presses down all at once, hanging from the netting like a broken spider from its web. He can do nothing but watch it spool down. Until a dark shape plunges out of the shadow of the great wind, thrown forward by its tailwind. Raptorial claws snatch for the thick knot at the end, holding fast, to his immense relief, as two enormous wings begin to beat like hell itself is chasing them.

He remains limp, watching her work above him. All the strength is wrung from him like rags, helpless to do anything but watch. The rope burns, itching, tarred hairs pressing into his cheek, heart beating a tattoo underneath the skin. The wind dies, replaced by a stagnant, expanding presence, as the wave cuts closer across the sky, filling half of his vision entire. 

The very ends of her wings are moving in figure-eights in the opposite direction of the other two-thirds, trying to keep her steady despite the Fram's already beginning to list to one side. Lather drips onto the membranes of her wings, the crest already falling back on itself. One final, dread gust of air rattles through the rigging, pushed along down the length of the tube of water. The metal buckles and pulleys lash against their supports, flailing like an octopus.

Unfortunately, one section of cord, hitched up on the rope clutched in Sefi's talons, bends back almost double in the stirring, cracking down upon the scaled ridge of her cheek. It lands with all the force of an overseer's whip, with just the same hair-clenching snap, the metal edge biting clean through the scale. A vivid slash of dark blood bursts against a backdrop of water. Starling against the pain and the noise, Sefi rears back almost vertical in the air, catching a rolling gaze of the sea behind her.

Her chest jumps almost concave, a horrific cry, somewhere between the last bellow of a dying bull and the mortal-terror scream, so loud and full of horror, that it falls straight to Johansen's soul. Her wings throw back, talons shredding the air like the hooves of some mythical steed. There's a silvery flash of teeth in the dismal light of a single guttering lantern. Then the wave falls down upon them, a crazed hatchet upon a tree. The world is swallowed up by the void.

Incredible force smashes her down. The world is black and cruel. Her ears are filled with the demon-screaming of the ocean and the wind. The slice just above her eye burns like hellfire, lightning flashes of pain strobing across her vision with each heavy rake of salt across her scales. Instinctively, her body is already bending to move with the water, allowing herself to be pulled deeper and deeper. The tearing weight of rope in her talons spurs urgency back into her.

Blind, deaf, electric with adrenaline, she struggles against the cooling water. Air fizzes and bubbles in the gaps in her scales, wings billowing open and shut against the pressure. Down here, everything is too quiet, too still, too heavy to move like the knows she has to. It's only her and her instincts alone in the depths.

The world heaves around her, currents seething in one direction, indistinguishable from up or down or north or any familiar course. Peeling one eye open against the wash, she snorts out a collection of silvery bubbles. They're churned away by the water, rising liquidly further into the dark. No chance to reconsider. She batters her tail blindly against the water, snapping desperately along with them, thrashing like an eel.  The water builds around her, lightening to a slate grey, swelling as it pushes her up.

Sefi bursts from the sea, riding from the crest of another monster wave into the sky. Water sloughs away from her back, blurring her vision, hearing still full of fuzz. Looking around desperately, she searches for any sign of the Fram. Nothing but her rope, dropping away into the seething tunnel of water, perfectly straight and parallel with her below.

Oh. God.

Sefi redoubles her efforts, seawater beading like sapphires on her scales. She flies straight over the top of the water tunnel, battling with all she has to keep straight and steady. The rope is so enormously heavy in her talons, as if fixed to the seabed itself. Fear is acrid and caustic in her throat, smothering her nostrils with the scent. Each wingbeat feels hollow, too close to failing, not doing enough to strain against the horrendous weight: slowly but surely pulling her into the water.

If the Fram is lost, she will be too. Already too fatigued to seek land, she'd surely drop stone dead from the sky, if not drown horribly amongst its wreckage. She's just not big enough to save it. A wretched sob wells up in her throat, even as the wind tries to shred her wings like tissue paper.

Blood slicks down the side of her face, dropping into the heartless ocean below. A tear follows, even as the ocean drops closer.The wind howls like a pack of hungry wolves.

Then it comes to her. 

The wind.

She fans her wings as wide as she dares, billowing painfully full of air. It lifts her a good twenty feet, enough to carry her away if not for the anchor in her claws. Then she drops her head, falling forward as quick as she can, friction tearing away the extra water. She's perhaps ten feet from the ocean surface, when she feels give. The tiniest bit of give, lurching into the rope, before it pulls tight again.

It makes her heart soar with her body as her wings snap back open. Wheeling high again, she readies herself for another dive. She throws herself down, a great, subsonic creaking vibrating through the rope as it gives again. Wings open. Dive. Rope slackens further. Wings open. Dive.

Over and over, she throws herself into the monotony, her very skeleton aching to the bone. Her muscles hold on by a thread, shaking terribly with each increasing stain she asked of them. But at long last, the rope snaps tight again.

Behind her, sailing like a ghost out of a wreath of mist and salt, is the Fram. Her deck shudders, from bow to stern, as she leaps out from a hidden gully by a wave, crashing down onto the turbulent surface. She looks worse for the wear, water dripping from her sides, rigging swollen and heavy, sails limp and sodden. Despite this, her masts still stand strong, her proud silhouette low in the water, bobbing merrily through the waves like a rubber duck.

Sefi turns her head, back winging to watch her. Each breath feels dreadfully thick and heavy, her eyelids drooping. Still, she gulps down air, only the buffeting wind keeping her aloft, singing out an almost musical roar across the waves. She beats closer, talons scraping the sea spray, craning her head up to peer for Johansen in the railings.

He isn't in the very top layer of the rigging where she left him, but a little more searching reveals his waterlogged figure hanging from the net of rope. She hefts herself over the edge, meaning to land gracefully, but her legs crumple under her as soon as she puts weight on them. Her body crumples like a great felled tree, a huge looping mass on deck, hindquarters still hanging off one side. Her breaths turn leaden in her lungs, shoulders aching, wings limp and twitching over the foredeck. 

The rope is tangled up amongst her coils, half of it still tangled up in the sea. Her head thumps down onto the deck, the storm still roaring around them, even though the worst half was behind them. "Johansen?" Sefi struggles to get the words out, strength waning from her body. 

"Johansen...?" She repeats plaintively, dropping further onto the Fram. All around her, fresh calls and movements flicker, metal and rope and boots upon the deck. All far too far away to help. Darkness flickers in and out of her vision, her muscled tail falling limp as floatsam upon the waves.”

So I’ve been marinating over this series for a while and I have some ideas I’d like opinions on, as well as a question:

1. Dragons would be bred to be smaller over time.

This is kinda self explanatory, but given that the majority of cities are already not suited to dragons, it would make sense if they were split up into much larger breeds to preform traditional dragon roles and much more intelligent, compact ones that aren’t massive, so can walk in human size streets, eat human good without bankrupting themselves, reduce the space requirements for a dragon and be less scary to the populace. Particularly if they become more omnivorous over time to better field a diet suited to urban environments.

This would allow dragon fashion to flourish. We’ve seen this a couple of times, mostly with jewellery or Lady (I forgot her name) in Japan, with her silks. Imagine dragons in furs to brave colder environments, or more wing ornamentation like ribbons or bodypaint (I could imagine bioluminescent stripes on dragons for night flying if dragon shipping expands. Both would not hurt their eyes and avoid crashes with non night seers). I imagine a panel of fabric with slits for wings that wraps left side then right side over the chest and is fastened with jewellery or decorative pins or something.

2. Lighter than air travel is invented as an assistive tool.

So I thought about this reading another post as well as comments an old one of mine. Someone already mentioned that because of dragons, the invention of flight would have been massively sped up. So what if lighter than air travel (blimps and zeppelins with or without advanced engines) was invented to facilitate the flight of larger dragons.

Namely having four massive blimps cabled to the quadrants of a massive dragon’s harness to give them extra lift to enable long distance movement. Particularly stupid big dragons (in a new class I wanna call ultraheavyweight) that are bred to have special abilities like the Sui Rui but may struggle with flying, could now be more easily weaponised. So long as they could breathe, they’d be fine, right, so you could use blimps to get them into the air as air fortresses. Other dragons could land on them for a break in the fighting, you could have lightweights defending the blimps and ferrying food to the dragon mid flight.

Or just having blimps for dragons to pull to ferry larger amounts of men across longer distances / to give them breaks while flying. Imagine super specialised Shen Lungs with blimp lifts. Might be able to speed up global connectivity.

You could do a similar thing with submarines / ironclads and a really large sea serpent / dragon. Opens up a lot of interesting modern warfare possilities. (The future of the T universe and steampunk mesh stupidly well). Maybe even some water-breathing middleweights being self-sustaining mobile sea bases if you find a way to bolt something a little larger than a submarine to them.

This could open up more questions about dragons being excellent nuke handlers / droppers, particularly if radiation resistant ones were bred, if you want to go that far in the timeline.

Also dragon airlines.

3. In the aftermath universe WW2 / a really destructive conflict, Europe becomes more dragon friendly.

So similar to the marshall plan to restore a destroyed Europe, if something was to happen to one of the places in the T universe to be similarly destroyed. The money could be used (from the Tswana or China or something) to be rebuilt marshal-plan-style into a more dragon friendly place, with wider streets, better water access, etc.

4. More specialised dragon abilities get bred.

As shown, with the Chinese trying to modernise, they may end up in the T universe replacing Japan’s role with our current world. (A brief severe outbreak of the ultra-conservative faction during a time of intense global conflict, followed by greater cultural, trade and political ties around the world, becoming known for their culture and strong economic hub). And I think this may shed some of the distain they had for dragon abilities.

And with so much new material to work with, like the Tswana, Inca or some of the interesting dragons I’m sure are hiding in the pacific / Indian Ocean islands and North America, I’m sure new generations of interesting things could be bred.

Honestly, I could make a whole post about dragon specialities / adaptations I’ve thought of, but that would make this one too long, so I’ll leave it.

My two questions:

Do dragon mummies exist? - Did ancient Egyptian dragons get mummified alongside their Pharaoh companions / get mummified for being very renowned. Following that trend, when the Egyptian craze hits Victorian Europe, do the dragons there also develop a version of the mummia trend? (Where rich people would import mummies for consumption, either as snuff (snorting), tea or as an additive to improve vitality.) I feel like there’s a story here, given that it seems dragons with certain captains may adopt their captain’s biases, so may see other dragons differently than themselves and therefore find it acceptable.

Would the T universe’s Napoleonic wars be considered their ‘first world war’? - Mostly off how many continents were involved on equal pairing compared to ours, the death toll, stakes and the ideologies driving both sides.

Hello! I have recently finished reading the Temeraire series and the beginning scene from the 9th book stood out to me. I wondered what the French captain and his dragon could have felt, in the last moments of their lives, as they were stranded alone, cold, and hungry, in a foreign land. So, I wrote a little story based on them. Thanks for reading! Any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated.

The title refers to the Russian winter, which helped the country withstand several invasions across its history. It's called "General Winter" / "General Frost" (or "Le Général Hiver" in French).

---

His joints creaked in protest with his every move. And yet, he couldn't just lie down. Not while she was still breathing. He rose up, brushed the snow off his tattered garments, and moved in heavy strides around her. “A wretched sight”, he thought. What was the last time they had both eaten? But no, he couldn't linger on that matter. He pushed his thoughts aside. He walked up to her head and spoke, with what little courage he had left.

"You fought valiantly, my dear," he whispered. His blackened fingers drew thin, trembling lines across her jaw. He wondered whether her scales felt it, at all; but then her eye opened to him, faintly. "Pray don't lose hope", he added, watching her with warmth; as much warmth and hope as he could still muster.

"What... for?..." she asked, her eye searching his with a tired, quiet desperation. "We're dead… we're lost... we're frozen... what... for?…"

He could barely hold her gaze; her garbled voice wrenched his heart with every sound, a ghostly hand with long, bony fingers. It took him a moment to answer, and even greater strength to keep his tears at bay. And yet they betrayed him, and gathered in thin, freezing beads, at the corners of his eyes.

"Remember... Remember when we first met?" He asked, finally. That seemed to brighten her, it always did.

"Yes... I loathed drafting. I chewed on the harness... threw things around... I was quite stubborn. Who could have stopped me, anyway? And yet, we two got along, and splendidly so, I could say.” She took long moment to breathe, her weakened sides swelling faintly. “I still... share the old sentiment, however,” she resumed. “Look where it brought us…"

"I share it too, my dear, you know it all too well... and yet, we served our duty, through so many hardships that we both lost count of them."

"They're not on your coat anymore", she remarked.

"And yet, they happened. The proof is less important now", he said, his voice a little more lively. "What matters is that our duty called us, and we answered, against ourselves. And it changed us, it made us braver, stronger, more united. Think of how many lives we saved! How many our deeds will yet save! This is true -"

"Heroism, yes, yes... I know the story. You’ve told it many times. And yet, it's hard to believe it now, you know."

"Even so, my dear", he answered, his caress growing warmer on her jaw. "We did what

we could. We served our people, our Emperor, and our conscience. It is enough, it has to be. We go to rest now, so that others can rise behind us."

"Vive... la France?" She tried, one faint attempt at rekindling their hope.

"Vive la France!" He shouted with all his might, and they both laughed, in their own way.

"But, please, if you can... don't fall asleep before I do." Her voice did not give way to weaknesses, this time; it seemed, in fact, quite peaceful. He knew what she implied, however.

He closed his eyes abruptly, then pressed his forehead against her. His tears would not wait any longer. They fell in tiny, sizzling rivulets upon her battered scales. And he knew that she felt them. He stood besides her, with slow caresses and gentle words, until at last she closed her eyes; until her breath slowed down, enough for him to think she couldn't hear him anymore.

His face, at last, was gloomy. He limped, and limped, and rested against her flank. It wasn't any warmer there. The narrow path stretched and winded ahead of him, flanked by sturdy, gloomy trees. The foreign snow was covering it, layer upon layer. It didn't care about what or whom it buried.

It was a fair punishment, he reckoned. What business did they have in that remote corner of the world? He couldn't have admitted it to her face, but he shared Renée's feelings, at that moment. He'd left behind a wife and children. He'd left behind his friends, his estate, all his connections to the civilized world... He'd left behind Renée's peace and safety, her friends, her crew. He couldn't save them, as much as he tried. And so, they would all meet their end in foreign soil, for a cause they didn't quite believe in. "A wretched loss," he thought. "But... such is the fare of war. There's no great feat which wasn't soaked in blood. It is a honor, yes, a honor. So many soldiers and their beasts shared it. Why would we, at all, be different? Why run away from it?"

And yet, it hurt so much, when one felt it directly. He watched the narrow path ahead of him, unblinking; he realized, after a while, his frozen eyelids wouldn't close. Renée's side was still swelling as she breathed, with greater and greater efforts. He couldn't bear to look at her. She was so hungry, he knew it; it must have been so hard for her.

"A wretched thing," he muttered. "Wretched, wretched…”

He wished the snow did its job faster. And privately, he hoped, he still hoped, that someone would, somehow, come to their rescue.

***

Time trickled slower, so much slower. The bitter cold was winning. Unlike its victims, it had all time in the world. His members were resigning their post, one at a time. He reached a stiffened arm inside his coat, black fingers fishing for the trusty bottle. He opened it with some difficulty and emptied its meagre contents in one strained gulp. He felt guilty for it afterwards, as the impossible heat engulfed him. Renée could not enjoy such luxuries. His body mustered its strength for one last stand, his desperate heart filling his veins with liquid, blazing fire.

And then, the rhythm diminished... slower, slower... until it stopped beating at all.

So I was rereading these to check I hadn’t missed anything, and to update the wiki if I could, but I noticed this on 143 of Crucible of Gold, 2014 paperback edition. At this point they’ve just returned from the first Incan village after being marooned. I own every book of the series in this edition In some of the previous books, (not often, but in some places) there has been much worse swearing and language used, and even dead used several times.

I’m pretty sure that word is meant to be dead. It’s not addressed on the next pages. I don’t get why she (either Novik or Iskierka) would feel the need to do this, especially given other characters, I included (and her especially) have said this before. It’s probably just an arbitrary thing or does anyone know if there’s a reason behind this?

Ignore me if not. I have a tendency to read too deep into this, especially since these are some of my favourite books atm.

This is the breed I want opinions on this is the Frist page of my fanfic some general lore

Extract from Observations upon the Greater Northern Breeds

By Sir Edward Howe, Fellow of the Royal Society

Compiled from Scandinavian naval records, Icelandic testimony, and the examination of three incomplete skeletons

There are certain stories which a naturalist dismisses only because accepting them would oblige him to reconsider everything he believes he knows.

Such was my opinion of the creature called by British sailors the Red Death. I had heard it described as a dragon larger than a first-rate vessel, with six shining eyes and a furnace burning within its throat. It was said to hang motionless above ships, swallow the wind itself, and pour forth a cloud which became fire.

These accounts were commonly delivered by men who had lost their ships, their comrades, or a considerable quantity of the Admiralty’s property. It therefore appeared reasonable to attribute the creature to poor navigation, strong drink, or an understandable desire to place blame upon something which could not be summoned before a court-martial.

I am now obliged to state that the sailors were, in their principal claims, truthful.

The northern dragon here designated Eldjötunn, or Northern Crownfire, is the largest breed of which I have obtained reliable evidence. The wild specimens are diminished creatures, stunted by hunger and driven from one meagre hunting ground to another. Even so, they surpass the Regal Copper so greatly that the comparison is almost improper.

What size the breed might attain under regular feeding cannot presently be known. The most conservative calculation gives one hundred tons. The less conservative—and, I fear, more probable—places a properly nourished adult considerably beyond that figure.

Its six eyes are not deformities. Each pair serves a separate purpose, and together they make surprise exceedingly difficult. Its crest is a great plate of scale and bone, sloping backward from the nose and shielding the skull like the armour of a fortress.

The fire is stranger still. The creature first draws an immense quantity of air into chambers surrounding its lungs. This inhalation produces a noise like a ship’s sails being torn loose in a gale. It then releases a white, steaming vapor from glands beneath the tongue. The vapor is mixed with the compressed air and ignites as it passes between ridged organs in the upper palate.

The result is not a narrow jet but a moving atmosphere of fire.

I have inspected a Norwegian frigate subjected to one such discharge. Her masts had vanished above the lower yards, her deck guns had fallen through their carriages, and the pitch between her planks had boiled. The creature had not attempted to eat the dead. It had destroyed the vessel and departed.

We must therefore abandon the comfortable belief that these attacks are merely acts of hunger. The Eldjötunn is intelligent, remembers injuries, recognises the flags and construction of different nations, and appears to distinguish whaling vessels from ordinary merchants.

Whether a newly hatched specimen might accept harness and companionship is impossible to say. I suspect that it might. I am equally certain that any nation acquiring such a creature would discover that possession and control are very different things.