Big Baraan Drakebone

Commission for anonymous!

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Elves in swimwear frolicked across the mega screen in Archmage Square, seen by millions of daily commuters. They danced in the shallow water of Azaria’s famous beach, which gave the whole display a striking contrast when the pink sand met the pale, monochromatically adorned models. Their partying drew the attention of a sea deity, who brought an enormous chest with him from the depths of the ocean. When he opened it to the elves it was filled with cans of Omega Potion, specifically the tropical edition. A restorative drink which became less effective at closing wounds every year, but grew in popularity among soda addicts for its addictive taste, and barely legal quantities of sugar. The ad made little sense narratively, but it tested well with audiences. According to the statistics, people were fond of skimpy celebrities; they didn’t test nearly as well with the alternative, which featured an accurate portrayal of ocean-god worship. Boobs and bikinis beat blood and crab guts, who knew?

Ernaak watched the ad play out about a dozen times from the coffee shop window. The store was crowded and understaffed. If it were up to him he would just go somewhere else to purchase his latte; unfortunately it wasn’t up to him. He had strict orders to get a cinnamon and blueberry iced latte from this specific coffee shop, made by one specific barista, with a very specific volume of syrup. He apologized every day for the inconvenience, the staff didn’t even try to hide their disdain anymore. He heard one of them yell “the gofer’s here again, make the drama.”

The drama. That was a good word for the drink that was a metaphor for his life. A balancing act of powerful contrasts, and the threat of upset if those elements lacked cohesion. Ernaak tapped his tablet and opened up a game app, by the sluggish gait of the line, he would be waiting a while for his drink.

The screen turned black in preparation to boot up the game. Ernaak looked at himself reflected in the black mirror, his slim green face slightly haggard but presentable. He adjusted his tie and ran a hand through his hair. He had a habit of letting his appearance slip, a trait he inherited from his father. He came from a traditional family of highland orcs, where aesthetics came second to function. It was a value he had to suppress in the big city. He worked at an ad company, appearance was everything. Especially to the one person that mattered.

Ernaak sighed at his tablet screen. By algorithm or by luck, he was presented with an ad for the very company he worked for. His boss’s square jawed face winked at him, complete with his distinctive slick backed hair and prominent widow's peak. He was an orc, like Ernaak, with a deep shade of forest green skin and a big charismatic smile. While Ernaak descended from the blue-tinted seafaring orcs of the highlands, his boss came from the closest thing to royalty. Dragonslayers. The old money of the orc world.

The game's banner displayed Baraan, head of Drakebone Advertising, in gold trimmed dragon bone armor. It was in poor taste considering how many people were descended from dragons, and the forum for the game had been uproarious in their demands to have the promotion canceled. The company which ran the game assuaged the players with a helping of free gems. It seemed ironic that people were placated by a helping of currency they would then use to pull units from a banner, which featured the figure they were revolted with originally. Ernaak swiped his finger across the screen. He pulled a four star unit, a handsome round bellied half-dragon with a golden harp. He was afraid for a moment he might have won his boss.

It amused him when he remembered the meeting about the crossover. Baraan demanded he be made a six star unit. The head of development for the game sheepishly told him the maximum was five. To keep his swollen ego appeased they gave his game self a resplendent golden aura. This worked to calm him, but only just.

"Ernaak? Got a minute?"

The enormously fat elf who managed the coffee shop stood with a drink in one hand. He had his other hand on his hip, and wore a deep frown that was at odds with his cherubic face. "Look, I know your boss makes you order these, and that you're the one who loses his job if he doesn't keep the big man happy," he said.

Ernaak waited for the but.

"But we need to start charging extra. Especially during rush hours. A custom order is bad enough, but when it has to be as exact as Baraan Drakebone wants it, it stalls the whole damned shop."

Ernaak put his phone in his pocket and received the drink from the elf. "I'm sorry."

"So am I. You practically run that company, all he does is float around and demand people laugh at his jokes, like some orcish zeppelin with an outdated sense of humor. He's full of more hot air than a volcano."

Ernaak hummed. He imagined Baraan floating over the table of his next investor meeting, growing in size with every barked out word until he filled the dream bubble and popped. Ernaak had a red blush that contrasted his blue skin.

"Yeah that would be funny. I'm really sorry, again, excuse me."

Ernaak made the walk back to the office building with practiced haste, careful not to spill the coffee in his hand, while simultaneously trying not to grip it so tight his fingers warped the styrofoam cup. It was a wonder to him that his boss, despite all his wealth, would skimp on something like the container for his favorite morning beverage. Especially for a drink he had such specific instructions for. The cost of the extra ingredients made it more expensive than half a day’s work at Ernaak’s current rate. He glared at the drink as he made the final bound over a crossing to the front door of the office, and muttered under his breath.

“I wish someone else had to grab his coffee, it’s not like he couldn’t use the exercise,” Ernaak groaned.

The headquarters for Drakebone Advertising shot up through Azaria’s uptown area, penetrating the heavy low-hanging clouds the city was known for. Golden lines ascended from the base of the architecture, splitting apart into symmetrical geometric patterns that terminated in similarly squarish depictions of ancient battles. The scenes depicted harkened back to the age of warring tribes and dragon slayers. A time willfully forgotten and scarcely remembered, except with disdain from those who descended from the blood of dragons themselves.

Behind an especially ostentatious arrangement of golden lines piercing a dragon’s heart was the CEO's office. The room’s high arching window was set inches above the cloud layer, allowing its occupant to look out over the rolling white fields with a god-like perspective. An even match for the gilded ego of Baraan Drakebone. The carpet was fine elf-spun velvet in wine red. It cost as much per square inch to purchase and install as most employees made in a decade. Just walking on it with even the lightest step required an equally obscene amount to be spent on its cleaning. The walls were made from black marble, slashed with gold. The entire East facing wall was dedicated to the Drakebone lineage, and the West facing wall was dedicated solely to Baraan. The window pointed north, and according to orcish culture, towards the crown of heaven.

When Ernaak stepped out of the elevator Baraan was sat facing away from his desk, his ring festooned hands rested on the arms of his swivel chair. A plume of smoke rose above him, the scent of his favorite cigar brand. The fact that he was in his desk chair and not the comically expensive high-backed Relax-o-Mancer 6000 parked in the Northwest corner, meant that he was in ‘business mode.’ Innumerable interns had been sent from the office in tears, unable to tell the difference between his mercurial moods. Ernaak approached quietly but coughed to announce his presence, the coffee placed delicately on a coaster. He unrolled a newspaper across the desk, as he had been instructed to do for the last three years, and waited patiently.

“Y’know,” Baraan’s voice was as smoky as the plume above his head. “I could have sworn you made yesterday’s drinks run in half the time.”

Ernaak felt like hitting him, but he didn’t let it show in his face. “The coffee shop was busy today. They didn’t have time to make your order as expressly as they usually do,” he said with a coolness derived from years of practice. “They apologize profusely and will ensure they are expedient in the future,” a white lie to soothe the dragonslayer’s temper. He made a mental note to offer the baristas some extra money for tomorrow’s drink out of his own pocket. It would hurt his finances, but it was better than letting them absorb the brunt of an entitled customer. Especially one with as much power as Baraan Drakebone.

Baraan spun around and leaned his huge arms on the table. He had a broad nose and a strong jaw, with a sharpness to his eyes that aided him well in the boardroom. Ernaak suppressed a shudder. The older, greener skinned orc took his drink and gave it a sip. Just a sip. It always annoyed him how demanding he was of that damned thing, how precise it had to be made, just for him to pick at it like it was something he was expected to drink every day. Baraan stubbed his cigar out and ran a hand over his slicked back hair, black as the exterior of the building.

“Hope you got plenty of time sitting on your ass at the shop kiddo,” Baraan said, then got up. He walked past Ernaak and made a straight line to the elevator. The infamous drink sat on his desk, waiting to go cold. “We’ve got a fitting to get to, and my head is fit to burst with great ideas today. Real home runs, the sort of stuff that gets remembered for decades. Naturally, you’re going to write them all down. Kapeesh?”

He followed without protest. He wanted to comment on how Baraan was fit to burst out of his pinstripe waistcoat. The video game rendition had omitted his growing stomach. Each golden button had to be replaced by hand at least three times because he refused to slim down, and he refused to change his wardrobe purely because someone else suggested it. So he walked around with four golden buttons practically sunk into his bulbous stomach, ready to tear free and potentially injure someone at projectile speed.

Ernaak suppressed a frustrated sigh, and put on his best sycophantic voice. “Are you sure you want to divest yourself of such knowledge during the fitting? You specified a rather… difficult tailor. You do realize that your appointment is with the Scalesbough brothers? And how they already have little time for families who descend from dragonslayers. A constant stream of information, while ordinarily something most people would be thankful for coming from yourself, Mister Drakebone, may exacerbate their feelings of discomfort.”

Baraan guffawed. “Nonsense. There isn’t a soul in the city who wouldn’t pay for my earned wisdom! Those dragonkin will be grateful they’re getting to eavesdrop on my genius,” the fact he could say something so wrong with such earnesty was impressive.

The two departed and Ernaak rushed off to the coatroom once he got out of the elevator to fetch Baraan’s blazer. With his boss properly dressed in even more obscenely expensive fabric, he got into a car and had Ernaak sit in the front next to the company chauffeur. He expressed wordless exasperation with the driver, and enjoyed a moment of peace before they crossed an easily walkable distance to a rustic tailoring boutique on the edge of Azaria’s garden district.

Ernaak got out of the car first and walked around to the curbside door to open it for Baraan. The larger orc emerged from the luxurious automobile with a lit cigar between his teeth, and strolled past to enter the store without extinguishing it. Sounds of frustration and irritated dragonic yells followed, Ernaak was glad his boss didn’t speak the language. The things the shop owners were saying were thoroughly unpleasant, and he couldn’t blame them. If the most notable old money orc in the city strolled into his shop, with such a brazen swagger, and a smoldering mound of tobacco in his mouth, he would be calling him a ‘Gormless Bloat’ in dragon-tongue as well.

“Just get through today Ernaak, you can do this,” he said and lightly slapped his own face to psyche himself up. He put on his best mediator face and walked into the tailors.

The sight which greeted Ernaak brought a redness to his blue cheeks. His boss had stripped down to his black silk underwear, a thong that strained against his unwieldy package. It looked like someone had stuffed a medium sized balloon underneath the fabric; Ernaak choked.

“He gets right down to business, doesn’t he?” An older man said in dragon-tongue, with an ostensibly human build and fair skin.

Ernaak replied in the same language. He was fluent in several languages his boss had never deigned to learn. “Unfortunately. I am so, so sorry. Please just do your best to accommodate him, it will only get worse if you don’t play along.”

The man’s skin was marked with a blue and gold scale pattern from the cheekbones down to his neck. He had a pair of curved ram-like horns that protruded from his head above his ears. He had a severe look to him, tidy and professional, and kept his blue hair tied up in a bun. He looked at Ernaak with slitted pupils, and jagged stark orange irises. He was a dragon’s descendent, and his disdain at having to play host to a Drakebone. He seemed one irritation away from snorting smoke out from his ridged nose.

“We have dealt with his like before,” he continued. “Large, powerful, but ultimately fragile. They think they have the dragon’s fire in their belly, when all it really is, is hot air. You place them in any true danger and they pop, go to pieces. You understand?”

Ernaak covered his mouth with his clipboard to hide his laugh from Baraan. He needn’t have bothered by the looks of it. He was too busy giving the poor tailor’s assistant an earful of his ‘earned wisdom,’ while the shorter horned humanoid skirted around his frame with a tape measure. When he gave the measurements for the belly, Baraan declared it was wrong. He didn’t say the boy had measured incorrectly, no, he was stating the immutable fact that his stomach was NOT as large as the evidence proclaimed. He wasn’t fat, the numbers were wrong; he wasn’t overweight, the concept of numerical measuring itself was simply wrong. He was right, he was always right.

“You know. You’re not the first person today who’s said that,” Ernaak quipped.

“Oh?” The shop owner intoned. “So someone else can see him for the blowhard he is? Interesting. Perhaps more people should be able to see him as clearly, let them witness the sort of man he truly is.”

Ernaak shuffled on the spot. “What is it he ordered exactly?”

The ram-horned man pointed as another of his shop hands brought out a three piece suit made entirely of gold. Ernaak recognized it immediately. Elasticated gold. It wasn’t just fabric made to resemble the prized mineral, it was genuine metal that had undergone the coveted warping process practiced by those who descended from dragons. Wearable luxury of the highest caliber. The descendents tried to outfit him with some difficulty. Pulling his thick legs into the trousers looked like two men trying to encase sausages in their skins for sale at the market. Sweat beaded their foreheads. The elasticated gold eventually yielded, and snapped to fit the contours of Baraan’s body. The waistcoat went on without a problem, but the formal jacket put up a fight. Ernaak watched two fully grown dragon-kin work in tandem to fasten the buttons.

“We have a saying, you know. It goes as follows. ‘Gold shows the measure of all men in its gilded truth, not just the greed of dragons,’” he chuckled. “He is a fool, and his wealth is made from the flesh of my ancestors, but to be fair my paternal forebear ‘did’ raze an entire mountain range because the local tribes refused to sate his hunger.”

Ernaak chuckled. “I wouldn’t know, I’m from the coast.”

The horned man smiled. “The sea-borne are hard workers, often to a fault. When you are due for a pay rise, or time off, I recommend you treat yourself. I believe you may be due for some quite soon.”

Ernaak was puzzled by the man’s words. “What do you mean?”

“Assistant!” Baraan called. “We’re going back to the office, it’s time to dazzle the masses with my new look. Can you believe it? Fits like a glove,” he ran a hand through his hair. Each article of the three-piece ensemble fit him, but like a canvas covering fit the gas-filled chamber of an airship. If not for the shimmering beauty of the gold, he would look like a man encased in over-polished latex.

“Sorry, I have to go,” Ernaak said to the tailor in dragon-tongue.

“Enjoy,” he replied. This time in common.

“Oh I will,” Baraan patted his belly and walked out of the store. The chauffeur ushered him into the car and Ernaak followed.

The ride back to the Drakebone skyscraper took longer than it did on arrival. An accident had occurred at a junction at the beating heart of the city’s busiest roads. This left the driver to take the scenic route. He dutifully rounded corners, weaved through the complex veins and arteries of Azaria’s metropolitan heart, and kept looking for a way back to the office that wasn’t back-flowing with traffic.

Ernaak slid a pane which allowed him to look past the partition into the back of the car. “It’s going to be a little while longer, sir, seems there’s a traffic jam.”

Baraan huffed. “Bah. I blame the architects who set up these city streets, if I had the chance to redo them, we wouldn’t even have traffic. Everywhere would be where they wanted to go, lickidy split, I tell you!”

Baraan’s voice had a booming quality to it. Ernaak patted the side of his head to make sure he wasn’t imagining it. The gold draped orc kept patting his stomach, and rubbing at it. It bulged against the ensemble in a way Ernaak didn’t remember it doing when they left the tailors. He squinted and watched. The buttons grew tighter when Baraan piped up again.

“Actually. I should just tear down a bunch of these buildings and build them up again, bigger and better!” His belly expanded. It was like he had swallowed a balloon, and someone was pumping it full of air inside of him. He grew and grew, but the jacket buttons held. The golden outfit stretched with him. Ernaak couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The most shocking part of it was that Baraan himself seemed oblivious to the fact his stomach was now the size of an exercise ball, and that the fullness it exhibited had started to migrate outward. His proud chest rounded out and his square shoulders billowed. All definition in his upper muscularity was lost, instead, sitting in the back of the car was a golden orb, with a face and limbs.

The chauffeur succeeded in finding a winding route through lesser known streets. He parked the car outside of the building and went to open the door for Baraan. When the door opened the chauffeur was greeted by an expanse of soft, pliable gold. It pressed into him and then continued to emerge, like a hot air balloon confined to a small space and then released, and was only just returning to its full sphericalness. It creaked ominously, making Ernaak fear it might burst. It creased and squealed against the edge of the car door’s frame, eventually freeing itself with a hollow “bwoomph” noise. The chauffeur was bounded away by the bouncy orb, and the orc commanding it.

“Sir, are you alright?” Ernaak got out and asked.

“Never better. Fabulous. Amazing! I always wanted to make an impact, now I have. Look how far he flew!”

Ernaak noticed there was something in Baraan’s eyes. A glittery light, like gold dust. It was then the words of the tailor rang in his mind, about the true nature of people, the way gold revealed it, and his comments about Baraan being full of hot air. “Sir, I think you need help.”

Baraan whipped around. While his inflated body was vast, it wasn’t perfectly round. It stuck out several feet in front of him, and posed an intense risk of bludgeoning-by-blimp to anyone who got in his way. Ernaak was lucky to have the common sense to step back before speaking. He narrowly avoided being whalloped into the side of the car by his boss’s rubbery form.

“Sir I REALLY think–”

Baraan cut him off. “That’s the problem my boy, you think. The only person who needs to think around here is ME. Look, I’m filled with good ideas. I’m so full of them I could burst at any second!”

Ernaak winced at the thought.

Baraan barged forward and barrelled his way through the double doors that led to the entrance foyer of his company. He grew faster than before. His muscular limbs receded into the uneven golden ball he was becoming. He laughed and began ranting. It was mostly nonsense and self aggrandizing gibberish. He had always been a selfish blowhard, but now he was full on obsessed with himself. He teetered on his comparatively tiny feet, and his grip on gravity slipped in an instant. One of his fine leather shoes fell to the floor as he soared up and up, the lights from the chandeliers above reflected off his overblown body in variegated beams. His rants grew increasingly hard to understand, until he was basically booming out half-legible sentences about how amazing he was.

“I’m the biggest orc, I’m the biggest orc. Everyone pales compared to me!” Baraan exclaimed. At this point Ernaak was too exhausted to even try and help him. If he had stopped to listen to him, even once today, this could have all been avoided. It was obvious to anyone with half a brain that buying a magical golden suit, from a demographic that despised you, and who were known to weave magic through gold, was a bad idea.

“I’m stupendous, I’m great, I’m Big Baraan Drakebone, bwahahahaha! Look at me, peasants. All of you. Your lives are in my hands, you work for me. You can’t hope to come close to MY opulence!” The jacket finally gave up its valiant effort to encompass the rounded Baraan. He teetered on the size of an enormous art fixture in the city square, one that required its own stage. The foyer was massive, but with the building’s owner pumped up like a freak indoor hot air balloon, there was no possible way he could be squeezed out.

“I don’t get paid enough.”

“I’m… going… to grow… forever!” Baraan’s forehead was slick with sweat. He grinned from ear to ear. The waistcoat buttons popped one by one, ricocheting through the foyer. Everyone ducked for cover and more than half of the workers refused to stand back up, fearing an eventual explosion from the inflated man. His arms and legs had been swallowed, and his hands and feet were fast disappearing into divots where his thighs and biceps used to be.

“Oh god he’s not going to–”

POW!

Ernaak winced and looked away. When he slowly turned his focus back to the ceiling of the foyer, he didn’t see the confetti remains of his employer. What he saw instead was a golden speedo dug tightly into a green orb, with a very red face.

“What happened!?” Baraan yelled, slowly spinning in place. “Get me down from here, who did this!? Why am I so… so bloated!? I demand all sharp objects be taken out of the building, and that whoever is responsible for this be immediately sued! Are you… you listening to me? DEFLATE ME AT ONCE!”

Ernaak blushed. “Huh, he’s back to normal, I guess.”

“Ernaaaaaaaak, fix thiiiiiiiiiiis!”

No one lifted a finger to help Baraan that day. No one had any patience left for his egotism. Not even Ernaak, who had been appointed temporary CEO after Baraan’s board of directors had witnessed his hot air-filled rant via security footage. They declared him “immobilized by unfortunate incidental magic” and “rendered unfit for duty due to possible arcane tampering to the mind”.

Ernaak’s morning routine became much simpler after that. He received a simple coffee from the same shop as before, and left a generous tip. He thanked the chauffeur and ensured he was well compensated for his time. The best thing, in Ernaak’s mind, was the new decoration in ‘his’ office. He had swung a few favors with the modern mage’s guild, and relocated a particular hazard that was really grating on employees in the foyer. Ernaak looked up, and grinned at Baraan. Who had remained at his enormous, nearly room filling dimensions for about a month now.

“Do you have any wisdom for me today, Big Baraan? You look like you’re fit to bursting with them,” he winked.

Baraan creaked, and for once in his life, had nothing to say.