Book Two Letter Seven

Dear Smok,

I have lately attended my annual family reunion. I have not disclosed an account of this holiday in my latter years of communication as the very thought of divulging those memories upon paper is horrifying. Also for several years now the reunion has been discontinued, as the injury count, damages expense and all around semi-nuclear state of it, (to quote the exact wording of a distant great aunt Biggagutta Of The Lack Of The Need For A Title “this so called family reunion is merely an enigmatic loophole for all relations to mobilize their revenge on each other and an excuse for any Dragon attempting nuclear war’) has subsequently ended these periodic episode of disaster. But this year I have been informed that Scaligar restarted this scarring episode. I shall get him for this.

          The reunion was held on a large meadow in Banroc, a province on the coast of the Dampening Straights at the southern end of the western provinces, just shy of the southern continent. Thank heaven. I would have retired before I was a hundred if the curse of Yovi would be added to the c rse of th s cursory reun on, curse it, my quill is r nn ng dr

          Anyway, I arrived early to the party, curse my water clock; I had planned to be three hours fashionably late. The spot had not changed much, although the entrenchments had been filled in and I could no longer smell the customary scent of black powder. Odd, although Ixtor the Explosive hadn’t arrived yet, so that stench was soon to come.

          I learned that Semithino could not come, his excuse being that he had his claws full keeping the cave from collapsing as apparently Remdrix and his cohorts, er, relatives, had paid an extended visit. In hindsight, the metaphor concerning keeping the cave from falling in may not have been meant as a figure of speech seeing as Bortas the Bloated had accompanied Remdrix. I feel for Semithino, bwaha, oh wait, no I don’t! Serves him right for dodging out of this torturous occasion and leaving me to undergo the experience alone.

          Eventually the entirety of the extended family arrived, all six dozen (except for you, my nephew. How you managed to dodge this ballista bolt I am much wanting to know). My first incursion upon insanity began with my conversation with my cousin Bellatos the Abrasive. He insisted on berating me on my every failing, finding room for aspersion in almost everything I said or did.

          At last, after his final jab on my molecular structure beings crooked, I gave him a wide smile, then clobbered him with my tail, covered him in sand, then crystallized it with a single blast of my fiery wrath, and then hollowing out some air holes just in case a flea wanted out. Then I put it up for sale and sold it to a relative from Kokaslavia, an alien province from outside the compass continents, all this I did in the space of a few seconds. This done, I continued on with my quest against violence.

          I next was stricken in conversation with Rubiyub the Salesdragon, stricken as one is with a plague; a cousin so far removed that he has to throw a rock to reach the top of the family tree. After he tried to sell me an extra foot, a frog skin poncho and a portable dolphin I managed to distract him long enough to melt into the crowd of other relatives. This melting-into-crowd started off a disastrous course of events.

          I first accidentally stepped on a Dragonlett of infantile age, barely into his twenties and his ensuing squeals and screams of protest gave inspiration to my sister-in-law, Hecta the Soprano, and the following wailing demonstration of her singing ability shattered the glasses of my aged old grand-uncle Diletrio the Poet, causing him to blunder blindly off a small hillock.

The placement of the mine shaft was most unfortunate, and he only saved himself by grabbing onto the sides of the shaft, but the resultant din of cracking vertebrae spooked a nearby pack of wolves, whose howls woke a sleeping Dragonlett, whose antics concerning the hat stand, the Falafel tray, and the new-age dictionary only served to deepen the chaos of the ecosystem of destruction that is my family.

          On the bright side, I survived the reunion; the bad news is that I don’t know whether permanent quill ink is actually permanent (I hope it isn’t), and if Pogno the Golfer will ever get his driver back. Unlikely, as I myself liquidated it, after his eighth golf ball found and left its mark on my person.

          Concerning other matters I have just received a letter from Doraha the Explorer—a world famous discoverer who is a good friend of mine—, which involved her pet talking monkey’s recovery from an injury caused by a semi-homicidal fan, an involvement with a tribe of pachyderms, and the plea for help concerning a vindictive plague of Dragon-slayers who have been lately encroaching themselves upon her property.

          This was no factor of great surprise for me, as I had warned her that that ‘latest model’ valentine print cave cover was bound to draw trouble before long. I imparted this judgment into a replying letter and am certain that it’s arrival will remedy her troubles, at least until they publicize the next ‘latest model’ of crackpot-crocheting.

I believe, my nephew, as all (alright, most) of the erratic happenings of late have been subdued I believe it is time to continue your mentoring to become a respected and well known Dragon of the age. I believe whilst I was still in the opposite psych of Gargazath I attempted to council you on your maturing Draconian abilities. From what I heard, most of his mentoring involved butterflies, chewing on beasts of burden and re-possessing other Dragons’ hoards.

All this has merely led to your turning from your rightful training, which I shall be much obliged to carry out, as I take most of the blame for swaying you from your actual objectives. Although I believe my brothers took some part in you parting of the ways…Yes, all their fault.

Continuing from the subject of your erstwhile uncles, I will be continuing you’re mentoring in my next letters, which shall concern history, literary accomplishment, and the proper use of one’s Draconian attributes. Although I hear you uncle Scaligar has already attempted to delve into the latter category of your learning, although, having run over his advice concerning such things, my objective criticism is that he really should be committed, single cell too.

Your loving uncle,

          Trubodox the Scarlet