Dragon Convention, Not just European please, there are Chinese, Pernese, Cartoon dragons, Reluctant and Mu Shu, Better stick to the Mythical and Literary type. Have Fun.
The place was huge. It had to be. Some attendees needed to break the rules of physics just to exist[1]. And even a relatively small number of attendees managed to make a crowd.
Neg’ret waited patiently behind a Rainbow Serpent making out with a Quetzalcoatl and tried to pay more attention to the singing Luck Dragon dancing in the darkening sky. Luck Dragons had the best voices. Mortals frequently likened it to the ringing of a gold bell. But mortals didn’t have the sensitivity of Dragons.
His personal sense of pitch and tone that made him perfectly suited for his day job in the mortal world. But today was not a day for mortal things.
“Squishy,” rumbled a voice behind him. A claw poked the small of his back. “What are you doing here, two-leg? Are you in the buffet?”
He checked over his shoulder. One of the greater dragons of Europe. A snub-nosed one. And, judging by the dull appearance of hir scales, one of the inevitable ones about to start the traditional convention plague. This was a Dragon who couldn’t smell what was right in front of hir.
“I’m a dragon just like you, hombre,” said Neg’ret. “I just find this form more convenient.” He had been amongst mortals almost too long. While it was still an effort to maintain his human guise, it was starting to be an effort just to become himself. “There’s other shapeshifters in the queue. Go bother them.”
“What are you gonna do about it, Squishy?” Poke, poke, poke. “I could eat you for a snack.”
That did it. Neg’ret relaxed into his true form. Twenty times his mortal size, red of scale and claw, and thoroughly more flexible. And, incidentally, just a smidgen smaller than the infectious European Dragon. “You might want to think twice about snacking on me.”
“Ahem,” said a rather ordinary-looking man in a suit.
Neg’ret waved. “Hey, Oolong. Sorry about that. Every year, it’s the same thing.” He absently signed the book and paid his fees. Gold coin, of course. Nothing less would do for dragons.
Oolong checked the signature. “Er. Who is Steve Negrete?”
“Whoops. Mortal name.” He crossed it out and signed his true sigil. “I should get out more. The squishies are getting to me.”
“It’s not entirely unpleasant,” murmured Oolong.
Neg’ret waved him a farewell and strode out onto the convention floor. Someone was hawking collectable craw stones. So funny.
[1] I’m looking at you, J.R.R. Tolkein.
