“It’s confusing out there, hatchling,” The old dragon spoke, the ripples of smoke rising around him.

“We’re big and fearsome in our dens and to the younger kin, the humans in their tents and caves, the great elf lords in their palaces of bone and green. Older yet than the Fey invaders in their bright towers of glass and crystal. We are the oldest beings in this green land”

The younger nods and pauses for a moment twirling a spring of grass in her paw “Why don’t we rule them, why does each rule each?”

The older expected this question. He still sighs. An early dreamer, he thinks. Born to question, born to burn like the younger ones.

“Because child,” he pauses uncertain, best to narrow the focus of the flame, more precise than a senseless open maw.

”we are nothing to the skies and wilds. The hills dwarf us, while the mountains loom in the distance.”

“What does that have to do with—” the younger whines, mouth barely open

“It is the duty of the elder, to look to the younger. You would not interrupt a hatchling involved in the game. You watch and if they question, you answer.”

The elder continues, “Even our greatest flames are nothing to mother volcano, and she interrupts only rarely. You are small hatchling, and as you get bigger and know more the smaller you feel”

“Ah” the younger says. “Nests, then. The world is a nest and all of us children”

“Yes” the elder says. “Yes, Yes, and Yes.”