The Mead Party
There he sat, looking over the entries. These were the finalists they had whittled down from about one hundred entries. Everybody wanted it for their own reasons. Atrophinius no longer wanted it for what it reminded him of. This thing was the polished skull of Froiadkjlalwdajs'de, affectionately called Fro’do. Fro’do was an accident. He never should have been. Atrophinius had been helping Tasuil with how to morph into other creatures, as dragons could, and didn’t help him guard his mind while doing so. He didn’t realize everything that went into the morph until it was too late. He awoke one morning to two giant spectral steeds, together in a field and knew the dalliance that had happened. He knew Tasuil was now a man, of a sort. He shook his head at the thought of it. As unnatural as it appeared to the old satyr there was nothing unnatural about it for a dragon. Very little was off limits for them. They were born of powerful magic.