Yes, he very much matched Charles's impression of a half-elven.
The man on the dragon's back appeared tall and slender, with handsome features. He was beardless, with short, pointed ears—at first glance, almost human, but bearing some of the distinguishing traits of elves.
He wore green, studded leather armor that shimmered faintly with magical energy. A massive, hideous wound across his upper back drenched the whole area in dark red.
At his hip was an empty scabbard—its scimitar missing—and his quiver, slung over his back, was also completely empty.
Given also his ability to command a drake, it was easy to deduce his class.
A Ranger, of the Drakewarden archetype.
Charles made this judgment, and not only that, he reasoned that the Ranger was likely high-leveled, or else his drake would not have grown to such a size.
And, considering it was a gold dragonborn drake, this must mean he was a member of the Golden Dragon Bank?
Hiss...
Could this be, as Gandren had mentioned, one of the members of the squad that went out to hunt Montport?
If not, well, while Drakewardens aren't exceptionally powerful, given the drake's size, there was no way they should be in such a miserable state.
What exactly had he encountered?
Countless scenarios ran through Charles's mind, when suddenly the massive drake slowly stood up. Its wounds, which had never been that severe to begin with, had already mostly healed after swallowing five Goodberries.
It snorted heavily, but—facing Charles, who had saved it and its master—the creature showed absolutely no enmity. Instead, it even lowered its massive head, nuzzling against Charles's forearm.
It was an affectionate gesture.
Charles wasn't surprised, for he knew his high Charisma often attracted all manner of supernatural and magical creatures, and among them, dragons—supreme among material plane magical beasts—were most susceptible to his presence. It was only natural.
He scratched the drake's chin, then patted its great head as if it were a cat. In halting Draconic, he said, "Come with me, I'll bring you both somewhere safe."
Drakes can understand Draconic, though they cannot speak it—their speech function is underdeveloped, so they understand but cannot respond.
On hearing this, the drake showed no resistance, carrying its master and following at Charles's side. The dwarven guides, on seeing the drake's great maw and considering their own size, suspected this beast could swallow them in a single gulp, and reflexively kept their distance.
The surrounding nuns, both frightened and curious, stared in awe. Growing up in the slums, they were tough, but none of them had ever seen such a grand, golden, awe-inspiring beast.
A few brave nuns eventually gathered the courage to approach and reached out as if to touch it. The drake immediately snapped around, baring its teeth and glaring fiercely, sending them scurrying backwards.
Charles had to soothe the beast by stroking its head repeatedly, calming it down. But whenever anyone else dared to approach, the drake immediately reverted to its hostile posture.
Even Nidalee was rebuffed, despite her attempts to pet the drake and even cast spells. But nothing worked: except for Charles, the beast let no one near.
Helpless, Charles could only shrug at the group with a gentle smile and say, "Alright, let's make our way back—we'll try to return to the dwarven headquarters by tomorrow night."
The group set out, leaving the mine and retracing their steps before finally making camp for the evening. The drake shadowed them closely, bearing its master, and never permitted anyone to get close—except Charles.
Once they made camp, the drake settled itself in a corner, planning to weather the night there. Its thick hide was impervious to the winter mountain cold, but its severely injured master could not endure the frigid wind.
After dinner, Charles used an extra tent just for them, gently carried the unconscious half-elven off the drake's back, and tucked him inside.
Throughout this, the drake offered no resistance, placing complete trust in Charles even as he bore away its master.
In this way, Charles settled the ranger for the evening. When he emerged from the tent, he found Nidalee, Carol, and the other nuns all wide awake—none seeming to want to rest.
Their eyes kept darting toward the drake, curiosity sparking as they whispered amongst themselves, clearly itching to approach.
The drake, for its part, warily curled up at the edge of the camp, baring its teeth whenever a nun drew near, deterring any bold intrusions.
Noticing the girls' true desires, Charles sighed to himself. "Really, do you all want to pet it that much?"
At that, the nuns blushed, but a few—already familiar with Charles—were outspoken: "Of course! It's beautiful. Priest, can you let us pet it?"
Charles sighed again, but didn't refuse. Walking over to the drake, he gently scratched its massive head and, in his halting Draconic, reasoned, "See, we gave you food and saved your master. Let my nuns pet you for a bit, that's not too much to ask, right?"
Even with a drake's appetite, five Goodberries were more than satisfying—and they healed its wounds considerably as well.
"And besides," Charles continued, "you can see, tonight we still need them to look after your master, don't we?"
The drake clearly appeared reluctant, but slowly stopped baring its teeth and lowered its eyes, taking on a grudgingly submissive pose.
Charles muttered "Thank you for your trouble" in Draconic, then beckoned to the girls: "Come on, it's agreed. Don't be presumptuous—form a line, one by one."
The girls gleefully crowded around. But order quickly broke down, and soon a dozen pairs of hands were running over the drake from head to tail.
The drake lowered its head; as a noble dragon, the experience of so many female mortals touching it was humiliating—yet for its master's sake, it endured.
Unconsciously, it began to feel a strange sense of comfort amidst the humiliation. This startled and shamed it, and it sternly warned itself against succumbing to such bizarre impulses.
But, though the spirit is stubborn, the flesh is honest. Eventually, as time passed, the drake's body relaxed, its eyes closed, and it gave up resisting, letting the girls do as they wished.
...
Morning, the next day.
Charles woke to one of Nidalee's classic "good morning" bites, washed up, and had just started on breakfast when the life domain nun—who was caring for the unconscious half-elven—dashed up to him. "Priest, he's awake!"
Charles quickly followed her to the tent, where he saw the half-elven ranger lying with eyes dazed, staring around in confusion.
"Hello," Charles greeted him tentatively, worried his brain was still muddled. "How do you feel? Try counting for me—one, two, three, three, two, one… Ah, ah?"
The half-elven's expression changed, a hint of exasperation on his face. His dry lips moved, and finally he spoke in a difficult whisper: "I'm alright. Are you the ones who saved me?"
Charles nodded. "Well… strictly speaking, it was your drake that carried you to us and called for help."
"Anywhere in particular hurting? Don't worry, you're safe here."
On hearing this, the half-elven's eyes lit up with excitement. "Drake? You saw my Zach? Where is it now?"
Charles replied, "It's resting here in camp. Don't worry—its wounds have nearly healed, and it's healthy and safe."
The half-elven breathed a sigh of relief, then cautioned, "You must be careful. Zach is highly intelligent, but by nature is irritable and wary of strangers. If upset, he may become violent."
Charles paused, remembering last night when the drake's eyes rolled up, its tongue lolled out of its mouth, and it even rolled over to expose its belly—all signs he doubted matched the half-elven's warnings.
But he nodded. "Alright, I understand. I'll make sure my subordinates are careful."
Beside him, the life domain nun stifled a laugh, barely able to keep from giggling.
The half-elven didn't seem to notice, continuing: "My name is Adelan Starsong, just an ordinary ranger."
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