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caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

"So kind," the Glasswitch says, all tall hat and cashmere shawl, dark eyes soulful and serious between them. Many people would call them mesmerising; some, of course, in fear, knowing enough to mean it literally.

Dragons are rarely susceptible to smaller things' little hypnotic wiles.

Coilthraum has had a finely-made cherrywood table and single chair brought forth from one of its storage galleries, and set with a spider-lace doily, laquered brass samovar, and bone china cup and saucer. The dragon reclines on the opposite side of the table to the seated witch.

"Not at all," the dragon purrs, flexing a claw enough for the doll standing nearby to serve the tea.

"That's remarkable," the Glasswitch says, delicately holding the cup, gaze lingering on the doll as it returns to parade rest. "The workmanship, of course — one expects that, of draconic standards — but...she was of singular focus, and her work always reflected that. It suprises me they took it well."

Coilthraum chuffs modestly, under the calculated pinpoint goads of flattery and implied curiosity. Witches can be so like dealing with one's peers, sometimes.

"One hasn't had dolls before," it says, spilling a measure of indulgent affection into its tone. "And these, certainly, haven't served a dragon. Witches do a similar thing, with their dolls, one believes? Underscore their commonality, and their belonging, via uniform. But dragons seldom trouble themselves with clothing, so this seemed fitting to foster such a mutually novel sense."

The doll stands impassive. Once plain, it has been redecorated; the exposed dull steel of its limbs and the once-matte black of its torso polished to a high shine. Mechanical detail has been picked out in gilt and metallic lacquer of a ruddy bronze. The pale porcelain of its face has been fringed with a stencilled design — traditional draconic knotwork, ornamentation ambiguous between leaves and flame, in a palette of ash and ember.

"There seem to be rather fewer of them than I remember her having," the Glasswitch says, mock-sombre, sympathy precisely faux. "A harder adjustment for them than hoped, perhaps?"

"Losses on the field have been remarkably light," Coilthraum observes in a tone of sweet agreement.

(In the far reaches of the dragon's caverns, a number of glass-hearted dolls inch themselves out of a winding ventilation tunnel a quarter-mile long, one by one; they are gauntly shaped for it, their porcelain parts black for merging into shadows, auspiciously sevenfold in number. Each has a long oilcloth bundle; in silence, they unwrap and check rune-carved muskets, heavy with significance, laden with wyrm-smiting power.)

"She was good at what she did," the Glasswitch says, smile tight, and sips her tea.

"A terrible shame," the dragon says, and the witch's expression tightens further into something that's no longer remotely smiling.

"Indeliblis," the witch says, in a voice that's larger within the cavern than its low volume should permit, "if there had been some matter between you and a fellow dragon, since the days when the hills were mountains that scratched at the sky, I would not presume to insinuate about it."

"If there had been," Coilthraum says, "I'm relatively certain neither would unrelatedly declare war on a witch over it."

(Seven dark dolls pick their way, as silently as possible, through an overflow vault of less-attractive coinage. The rearmost, swivelling to check the way behind them, does not see, amid the clink and trickle of coins around their feet, a gilded hand slowly sliding from beneath the drifts of treasure. The first warning comes with the lunge, the snatched ankle, the coin-dune beneath them erupting and collapsing into limb-filled quicksand.)

"You took her dolls," the Glasswitch says with unguarded liquid hostility, before controlling herself and sinking back into the chair, breathing deliberately and raising the teacup. "—I would not presume to insinuate myself into such a situation, either."

"They're dolls," the dragon says, and pauses, flexes, coils. "...Ah. You expected to take them."

"Dolls belong to witches," the witch says coolly.

(The Glasswitch learned, from the relentless loss of her dolls; the infiltrators' glass hearts are better protected, hidden deep and densely protected within their slender bodies. But the lessons learned were against a dead witch's combat dolls, not these gilded, kohl-eyed, heat-hazed things, dragging the intruders into a mire of loose coinage with many hands, pressing searing sticky-mouthed dragon-aether kisses that burn and burn, running liquidly between porcelain lips and down and down into dollish cores, glass melting and shattering under blast-furnace intensity.)

"I find the dolls are not that discerning," Coilthraum says. "More tea?"

The Glasswitch drums angry fingers on the teacup, extends her other hand to snap open and consult a pocketwatch.

"Don't let me keep you, if you have another engagement," the dragon adds, and the witch raises her gaze to meet its knowing, glittering eyes.

"One more cup of tea," she says, precise and prickly.


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