Ptolemax

Fiction. Ptolemax is a piss-yellow hipster dragon.

As the beast shifted, so did it’s hoard – a rusty spoon dislodged itself, rolling down the great mound of useless junk, dislodging further items until the entire side of the pile was moving. Endless knives, kettles, bedpans, fence posts, sword hilts and bow strings were pulled free and spread liberally about the inside of the tent by the force of their descent. Again, Ptolemax shifted, trying to find the most comfortable configuration atop his pile of paltry items. A great eyelid lazily opened, slowly focusing on the small group at the mouth of the unreasonably large tent. A group of commoners? No – the apparently rough-spun tunics were made of the finest giant-spider silks, the shoddy foot-wraps of fabrics richer still. The seemingly unkempt and unwashed appearance was an excellently maintained façade, their faces unblemished and skin un-calloused.  They were four in number, and they were like no group Ptolemax had seen before. Most noticeable was the slender woman towards the front – despite clearly being an elf of the Leafhaven courts, she wore an extravagant fake beard, a near-perfect imitation of a poor dwarven warrior’s battle-braids. This and the great quantities of drink Ptolemax could smell piqued his interest enough to fully awaken from his days-long slumber. His head rose like that of a snake about to strike an unwitting victim, and he spoke thusly –

“Why are you wearing a beard, knife-ear?”

Traditionally, a dragon’s voice would be booming and commanding in the worst of circumstances, or perhaps contain a certain whispered malice befitting a being of such advanced age and power. Often, an individual’s lair would be chosen to amplify the effect of such speeches. Ptolemax’s spoke in an affectation of the Black Reach Kobolds, known for their deeply ingrained lack of success in any sphere of life. The cloth walls of the tent worked to further lessen the impressiveness of the dragon’s speech, leaving a somewhat limp-wristed auditory signature when considering the beast in question.

The small band of travellers were thoroughly nonplussed at this display. They shared worried glances, made small gestures and generally pissed about until the bearded-she-elf replied.

“Aye ye wee bastard tis nowt but irony, dis ye nay see?”

The torrent of incredibly poor dwarven which spilled forth from her lips grated on the ears of Ptolemax. It was stereotypical to the point of caricature, and spoken with a rough, gravelly tone to emphasise such elements natural to the dwarven tongue. Any dwarf would have been thoroughly offended by this outrageous display, and staked the honour of his beard upon righting the wrong. The irony of such a stereotypical action itself would go over their heads entirely.

Frowning, though the small pink creatures in his domain could not possibly tell, Ptolemax retorted –

“And I suppose the same goes for your voice?”

“Nae!” Cried out one of her companions, “Tis most fashionable ‘mongst the folk!”

“Aye!” Chorused the rest of the party.

Ptolemax felt elated. He could really get these guys.