Each of the Drakes began to settle into the comforts of the Hall of Heralds, removing their insectoid helmets to gaze upon the crackling hearth, and tuning their tools. Be it plucking a string or sharpening a sword. They accepted the offered benches and broth, though they all politely rejected the blackened bread. “A matter of diet.” Was all one said on the matter. Before the cane had struck the ground their pointed ears had pricked to a new presence and they stood at attention. The force of one going so far as to crack the bench underneath it. Merlyn Dewr Arthyr approached the High Herald, gazed into his wrinkling human skin, and smiled.
“May I?” She gestured to his pipe
”We do have a crest with which to call our own. We three are a few survivors of the Dragon Land, true wielders of fire and smoke, to the far off east where our former captain absconded with an egg. The Salamanders of that realm defended their home viciously, scraping tooth and nail to keep us from retrieving their kin, and we wish to embody their fiery spirit. Cloaked in scales like a hundred shields we of the Order of the Drake would bear their likeness with pride and honor.”