The room you find yourself in is warm and crowded, but the upshot of there being so many dragons in the small space is that the room isn’t really dark at all. Once you manage to fight your way to the door, you can clearly see the inscription written on it, although you would have been able to see it anyway, because it is written in a bright, glowing ink.
“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places.”
~Roald Dahl
The next room is done up beautifully, by someone very skilled in magic. As you pass through the door, you find yourself walking along a darkened forest path. Above you, starlight shines through the leaves. The night is cold and clear. Looking behind you, all the dragons coming through the door behind you now appear as though they are walking up along the path. A very skilled bit of magic, indeed. You follow the path, and after a bit of walking you find it blocked by a towering tree. There is a door carved into it, and a wooden sign nailed above it with a dire warning splashed across it in bright red paint.
“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease forever to be able to do it.”
~J. M. Barrie
This next room is a sudden change from the cool openness of the forest. It is stiflingly warm, and all the dragons who have been playing with you all along are cramped together in the small space. It is hard to walk, not only because of the crowd, but also because of the soft, shifting sand beneath your feet. As you step, your hindlegs sink past your ankle into the sand. Nevertheless, you struggle your way to the next door. It is made of a metal of some sort, and knocking on it produces a sort of hollow ringing sound that makes your head hurt. It exudes an aura that is chillingly impersonal, featureless except for the words printed on it in in perfect, neat block letters.
“With great power comes great responsibility.”
~Voltaire
This room is done up a bit like a hatchling’s nursery. In fact, it is very similar to the nursery you were in as a hatchling. Almost identical, in fact. It’s weird. You hurry to the door, eager to leave. You don’t know what the door is made of, because it is covered in a sort of scaly leather. It’s colorful, maybe from a Serthis. A very big Serthis. There is nothing written on the door. You’re confused, until the rock in your hand speaks again, simply and without inflection.
“Just because an animal is large doesn’t mean it doesn’t want kindness.”
~A. A. Milne
As you enter the next room, you take deep gulps of air, glad to finally be away from the deathly stench. The little rock in your hand, which has been silently glowing in your in your hand all this while flares brighter. All around you, you can see that the other’s dragons rocks have changed colour, a rainbow of varying shades and hues. Your own is a bright shade of lime green. The floor is a smooth, polished stone. Looking down, you can see that each step causes a pool of light to grow around you, and then fade. It matches the colour of your rock. The entire room is alight, and you can’t decide if it’s pretty or painful. Both, probably. The door is easily visible, as it is bright and flashing, cycling through an array of colours. You shade your eyes and approach it, squinting to see what is written this time. Again, there is nothing, but your rock remains silent. Slowly, you become aware of a strange, erratic beeping.
- .... . .. .-. ..-. . .- - .... . .-. ... .- .-. . - --- --- -... .-. .. --. .... - --··-- - .... . .. .-. ... --- -. --. ... - --- --- ... .-- . . - .- -. -.. .-- .. .-.. -.. ·-·-·- ... - . .--. .... . -. -.- .. -. --.
When you enter the next room, you almost turn around and leave. The smell is overpowering, sickly and sweet like rotting fruit. As you walk you hear the crunching of leaves beneath you, but it is not the crisp snap of newly fallen autumn leaves. The sound comes closer to a squelch than a crunch. Looking down, you can see that the leaves have blackened and disintegrated. Possibly they are leaves recycled from last autumn. You force down your disgust and make your way to the door, treading as lightly as possible. The door is as blackened and rotten as the rest of this room. Brushing a claw across it, part of it crumbles. The rotting scent grows stronger. However, you can see something gleaming beneath where you’d touched it. Intrigued, you quickly clear away the rest of the rot, breathing as shallowly as possible. The wood below is warm and brown, gleaming comfortingly. You find the expected words burned into the surface of the door.
“With the coming of spring, I am calm again.”
~Gustav Mahler
