Saving Azeroth (By Stealing the Black Dragon Princess) - 14

Chapter 14: Dragonspawn Construction

Dustwallow Marsh's putrid fog churned in the morning light, carrying the stench of decay and sulfur on every breath. Onyxia stood atop the lair's high platform, black robes snapping violently in the wind. She gazed down at the assembled dragonkin, whelps, and handful of adult black dragons gathered below, golden vertical pupils sweeping across every greedy, expectant face.

"Do you like gold?" Her voice was not loud, yet like molten lava seeping into ice, it instantly silenced every creature present.

The lair filled with restless rustling sounds of scraping scales—whelps nodded frantically with desperate enthusiasm, dragonkin guards' claws unconsciously scratched deep furrows in stone, and even the eldest black dragon present could not help licking its fangs with anticipation.

Onyxia sneered coldly, suddenly pulling a bulging leather pouch from dimensional storage. When she released her grip, coins cascaded down like a glittering waterfall, silver and gold light splashing intoxicating ripples across the swamp's murky surface.

"Look at yourselves!" Her dragon tail shattered a stalactite with explosive force, sending stone fragments raining down. "Hiding in mud licking your wounds, every raid ending like beaten dogs fleeing with tails between legs—last week's three lost warriors had their bones made into armor buckles by dwarven smiths!"

A broken-horned black dragon could not suppress a bitter growl. "But Dustwallow Marsh offers nothing—even the rats are diseased and putrid. Where could there possibly be—"

"Silence!" Onyxia suddenly materialized before him with supernatural speed, her draconic aura pressing this massive creature directly into the mud like a child's toy. "I have negotiated a deal with the goblin cartels." She kicked the coin pouch at her feet with deliberate force, a single gold coin rolling to stop at the broken-horned dragon's trembling claw. "Trading fertilizer products for gold—far safer and more profitable than robbery. This represents only partial deposit payment."

A young whelp whispered to a nearby adult black dragon with childish confusion, "How could those skinny green creatures possibly have gold to give us?"

"Goblins are the most skilled merchants in Azeroth. They certainly possess vast wealth," the adult dragon answered lazily, not bothering to lower his voice.

"Then why not simply rob them?" the whelp said with excited bloodlust.

"You think no one has considered that option? Many tried. More failed catastrophically." The adult black dragon snorted with bitter experience. "Goblins hire numerous powerful races as mercenary protection for their gold reserves. If you attack them, you will merely be captured and auctioned as exotic magical components."

"This human expert will teach you proper production techniques." Onyxia's claw settled possessively on Deren's shoulder, scales and fabric grinding together with dangerous intimacy. "And you will serve him exactly as you serve me."

A particularly bold whelp suddenly burst out with typical draconic arrogance, "But he is just food—"

Black flame flashed with surgical precision. The whelp's tail tip scales instantly carbonized, filling the air with the stench of burning keratin. Onyxia grabbed its scruff, lifting the shrieking creature to eye level. "Know how goblins handle uncooperative business partners? They are rendered into demonstration specimens for accident insurance claims." She casually threw the whimpering whelp back into the crowd with contemptuous force. "Now, those who have smelled sufficient profit motivation may volunteer for factory construction duties."

The dragonspawn surging forward to snatch scattered coins reminded Deren of starving wolves dividing a fresh kill in Westfall's wilderness. The broken-horned black dragon squeezed beside him with surprising gentleness, suddenly pulling a rust-covered pocket watch from beneath his scales—inside was embedded a yellowed family portrait from Stormwind.

"Looted from Redridge Mountains seven years ago during a raid." The black dragon's sulfurous breath scorched Deren's cuff, leaving brown marks. "Human, can we truly earn gold through this method?"

Deren gently closed the watch with respectful care, returning it to the dragon's massive claw. "Why do you think dragons live in wilderness while humans and goblins inhabit warm, solid, secure cities? Because they understand how to generate wealth rather than merely steal it."

The broken-horned black dragon nodded repeatedly with dawning comprehension.

In the following days, Dustwallow Marsh's foul waters were disturbed by unprecedented activity.

Onyxia's dragon wings spread magnificently in morning light, her shadow sweeping over the raw timber framework being painstakingly erected. Twenty dragonkin shouted rough work songs in the Draconic dialect, dragging a century-old fir trunk through the swamp—their scales caked with layers of drying mud, claws wrapped with Deren's specially manufactured hemp rope to prevent splinters.

"Lift the left side higher! Mind the beam angle!" Deren stood atop a hastily constructed watchtower, waving Chromie's friendship-sponsored copy of Introduction to Gnomish Engineering like a conductor's baton.

"Human—" A black dragon coiled steel nails expertly with its prehensile tail, impatiently spitting sparks of frustration. "We are usually far better at demolishing structures."

Onyxia's dragon breath suddenly swept over everyone's heads with perfect control, precisely welding nails into mortise joints with surgical accuracy. "Now you learn to build instead." Landing with ground-shaking impact, she transformed to her elf form, though her immaculate black robes could not hide wood shavings clinging to her tail tip.

Deep rumbling sounds echoed from the swamp's depths. Several mud-covered whelps excitedly scurried back to report their discovery, voices high with triumph. "We struck clean water! Using exactly the method you described!" They spat small celebratory dragon flames, covered head to tail in putrid mud that made them nearly unrecognizable.

When twilight fell across the marsh, the lair entrance, once scattered with picked-clean bones, now boasted three sturdy wooden pavilions covered with acid-resistant tree bark. Carefully dug trenches diverted sewage toward deliberately preserved poison pools, while purified water flowed through a series of glass pipes Onyxia had personally forged, refracting strange prismatic halos in the sunset's golden light.

"The reactor equipment can be installed here once it arrives from Ironforge." Deren crouched before the architectural plans, circling the core industrial area with red ink. The blueprint's corners still bore crooked whelp doodles—some enthusiastic young supervisor's artistic masterpiece.

Onyxia suddenly pulled the quill from his ink-stained hand. Her fingertips still retained shadow flame's residual heat, yet she deliberately restrained the temperature when touching the human's vulnerable palm. "Come see your office space."

Inside the easternmost wooden pavilion, a desk embedded with glowing energy crystals cast steady illumination. The legs were carved into dragon claw shapes with remarkable craftsmanship, and the drawer handles were miniature black dragon sculptures—clearly plundered from some princess's private collection.

"More luxurious than Stormwind's government hall." Deren smiled with genuine appreciation, knocking the desktop experimentally. The echo mixed with barely suppressed whelp giggles from eavesdroppers outside the thin walls.

Night wind swept across the swamp, carrying mingled scents of sulfur and fresh timber—decay giving way to growth. Onyxia gazed at the fledgling industrial park with complex emotions, suddenly recalling primitive night elf villages from ten thousand years past. The vibrations beneath her claws represented not destruction's familiar roar but construction's unfamiliar rhythm.

In the distance, the broken-horned black dragon used his tail as an improvised measuring stick for the reactor foundation, muttering human-taught measurements of "three and one-quarter inches" with endearing concentration.

Twilight flowed like molten gold across newly constructed roofs. Onyxia in human form stood upon the lair's highest observation deck—Deren had insisted on adding this "management exclusive area"—watching lights gradually kindle throughout the settlement below.

The three wooden pavilions' glass windows emitted steady light from arcane lamps she had personally forged with dragon fire. The eastern purification pool reflected the last evening glow, its surface remarkably clear of floating corruption. Farther away, the new communal cafeteria wafted roasted lizard fragrance mixed with spice aromas Deren had smuggled from Theramore's markets.

She suddenly pinched her own arm with her claw, testing reality.

"Feeling unaccustomed to peace?" Deren's voice came from behind. He held two drinks—one dwarven mead intended for humans, the other a dragon specialty mixed with volcanic lava powder that glowed faintly red.

Onyxia took the mead cup without comment, draining it in one long gulp that made Deren's eyes widen with alarm. She muttered half to herself, "Yes, quite unaccustomed. Suddenly so much activity and purpose. Originally these creatures had nothing productive to occupy their days except hunting or wandering aimlessly. I also spent such boring, meaningless days for centuries."

Her eyes fixed on the patrolling dragonkin below—that particular fellow actually wore Deren's designed leatherwork apron, tools hanging neatly from the belt instead of bloodstained weapons from raids past.

"When I infiltrated Stormwind," her dragon eyes reflected the scattered lights with unusual softness, "I especially loved the Old Town bakery at dusk." Muscles beneath scales unconsciously tensed with remembered longing. "The fresh honey bread fragrance could cover even the sewer's stench completely."

Deren suddenly pulled something from his pocket. Oil paper rustled as it unwrapped, revealing a delicate music box resting in his palm. Opening the ornate lid released a gentle, achingly familiar melody—Stormwind's famous Pride of Lions.

"Previously had Chromie order it from Stormwind during one of her temporal visits." Deren explained quietly.

Onyxia's tail tip suddenly coiled around the precious box with possessive care. Note after crystalline note danced through the air, as if returning her spirit to Stormwind's peaceful small towns and ancient forests.

"Childish sentiment." The Black Dragon Princess complained verbally while carefully tucking the music box into her dimensional storage, yet allowing the melody to continue playing. She suddenly pointed west toward vast undeveloped swampland. "Excavate an artificial lake there tomorrow."

Deren raised an eyebrow with surprise. "For the fertilizer cooling system's water requirements?"

"For raising ornamental fish." Her nails traced the cup's rim with affected casualness. "Red ones specifically... they complement gold coins aesthetically."

Night wind carried laughter from the worksite—the broken-horned black dragon was boasting enthusiastically about today's bolt-tightening count to admiring younger dragonkin. Onyxia clutched the empty cup tightly, suddenly realizing with startling clarity: what lingered at her nostrils was no longer millennia-unchanging sulfur and decay, but fresh pine wood, sweet honey wine, and a trace of that scent uniquely belonging to humans...

She whipped her head around to find Deren grinning foolishly at design drawings, completely oblivious that a dragon was actively sniffing in his direction.

Night deepened across the marsh. The wooden house's new bed emitted a pleasant pine resin fragrance. Deren lay with hands pillowed behind his head, gazing through the skylight at Dustwallow Marsh's surprisingly clear night sky—something previously impossible in this territory perpetually shrouded by miasmic fog. Starlight scattered across the black jade sky like shattered diamonds. He could not help smiling with satisfaction. This achievement of transforming desolate wasteland into productive stronghold proved far more interesting than manipulating pixel characters in video games from his previous life.

Creak—

The window frame suddenly emitted a soft protesting sound. The freshly constructed wooden bars still had gaps between them, creaking under external pressure.

Deren jolted upright to see Onyxia crouched on the windowsill, moonlight outlining her sharp silhouette from behind with silver fire. Her human form looked somewhat disheveled, a blade of grass still caught in her long hair.

"Your Highness?" Deren's sleepiness vanished completely. "Did your lair spring a leak? Or did someone anger you enough to warrant—"

"Be quiet." Onyxia flipped down with feline grace, black robes billowing with sulfur-scented wind. She stood before the bed with rigid posture, pointed ears twitching suspiciously, and dragon tail unconsciously scraping several charred marks into the wooden floor.

Deren's gaze moved from her tightly clenched robe hem to the faintly glowing golden vertical pupils—emotions there were complex enough to occupy the most scholarly blue dragon for three centuries of study. After guessing fruitlessly for several moments, he silently lifted a corner of the blanket, scooting inward to make space.

The mattress creaked softly under new weight. When Onyxia stiffly lay down, Deren noticed she wore a strange cotton nightgown beneath her black robe—the collar embroidered with crooked wheat sheaf patterns, clearly the whelps' awkward tribute attempt.

"I am merely inspecting building material quality." She stared at the ceiling through gritted teeth, yet her tail quietly pressed down Deren's blanket hem with possessive weight.

Deren observed the gap between them—wide enough to comfortably fit another Chromie—suppressing laughter until his ribs ached with the effort. "Of course. This bed uses premium ironwood construction."

Silence spread through the room like swamp night fog. Onyxia's body heat transmitted through the sheets was significantly higher than human temperature, yet unexpectedly not uncomfortable. When Deren counted to the seventeenth visible star through the skylight, he suddenly heard rustling fabric sounds—something cool touched his hand's scarred back.

The Black Dragon Princess's fingertips were slowly, cautiously tracing old scars on his hand—permanent marks from sickle cuts during Westfall's famine years. Her nails retracted to their safest possible length, touching as lightly as a falling dragon scale drifting on the wind.

"Remember to return before dawn." Deren suddenly spoke, voice lower than usual with genuine concern. "Our relationship cannot yet appear too intimate, making me your obvious weakness. You should not display affection for a mere pet."

Onyxia's tail slapped Deren's foot with stinging force. "Who displays affection for you!"

The moon's shifting angle showed only half an hour had passed, yet Deren heard even breathing beside him. He slightly tilted his head to see the Black Dragon Princess—legendary terror capable of making adult red dragons flee—curled up like a vulnerable human girl, a strand of hair stuck at her slightly parted lips. Her hand unconsciously clutched Deren's sleeve as if it were some precious trophy she refused to release even in sleep.