"This one told you to dust the hoard," the combat doll commander says severely to the dragon's modified doll, as it lies limply face-down on a dune of octagonal coins.
"The dragon told this doll to lie down in the hoard," the doll says, muffled. "The dragon says this one is treasure."
The doll commander falls silent, staring in baleful suspicion.
"Where is Miss?" it says eventually.
"The dragon is reviewing its broken materiel," says the dragon's doll.
The combat dolls' witch built them to fight, and to recover their broken afterward. Absent her repairs, the grievously smashed have been stacked in one of the side galleries of the dragon's lair, excavated to house certain ceremonial armours.
("I have the most complete collection of Ystvalian regalia in existence," the dragon boasted, on opening the space for the dolls. "Each rank and station from each revision of the Title Code, including both revisions retroactively declared heretical, from the foundational Ystmoot to Ystvalia's fragmentation. The only one I don't have is Gervar VIII's Lord-Temporal of Tides plate, because the only set in existence was lost with him inside it, in the Golfo Sanguinaro." Draconic eyes gleamed, contemplating the shipwreck. "...One day.")
The doll commander arrives to discover Coilthraum presiding over the commander's remaining assets, as they pull apart one of the fallen; the wrecked doll — riddled with vitric javelins and missing a leg and an arm — only moaning without words as its compatriots hold its remaining hand, stroke its remaining hair, and lever off its chest with crowbars.
"Miss," the doll commander says, standing to chilly attention.
"Show me that," Coilthraum says to the other dolls, delicately indicating some part inside the ruined doll with a talon-tip, and nimble dollish hands begin to work it free. The casualty in which it's embedded emits a series of sharp gasps.
"Miss," the doll commander says.
"I think," the dragon says, in a lecturing tone, not taking its attention off the disassembly, "that I understand a little better, now. A doll is a machinery of devotion, an engine of acts of service. It's not a loyalty in there; love is stored in the doll. Isn't that right?"
The wrecked doll on the floor lets out sudden long sigh, and nothing more.
"Do you love your Miss, doll commander?" Coilthraum says, predatory smug, finally looking over at it.
"This doll loves its witch," the doll commander says, after as much delay as it can manage.
"You're implacable and fearless," the dragon says, and stretches, stroking the great curved back of one doll-rending claw down the commander's porcelain face, with minute and menacing gentle precision. "Terribly useful. I could put the love of me into you, instead, I think; and then you'd be treasure."
"This doll is built to fight," the doll commander says, standing very rigidly to attention; very precise and very proud, and displaying no fear.
Coilthraum Indeliblis flexes and flickers its tongue. "I have a great many useful things," it says, "all piled in a great shiny pretty heap. Dragons like treasure." It crosses its forefeet theatrically and rests its long face atop them, eyes bright and intent. "Please have your squad hold you down and disassemble you, doll commander; I have an interest in your components."
