A weathered, but kindly looking kobold woman answered the door. "Erm, hello, you must be the mistress of the house. Do come in, I hope we aren't too much of a fuss." She gestured to a chair, then looked embarrassed by the fact that it was fitted for kobolds and would fit no dracon. "My apologies, mistress. This house must have been largely furnished by kobold hands. Say, you are in luck. This is the longest time I've ever spent without hearing about some trouble my son has caused. Speaking of which, you haven't seen him, have you? Rather large, answers by Rughoi."

"Go," came Rughoi's curt order. The farm's owner, judging from the windows, has blown out his last candle of the day. Slowly, ten pairs of kobold feet softly advanced across the flat fields. Upon arriving at the door, one gave a sharp knock. A sleepy-looking dracon answered, rubbing his eyes. To his surprise, at his door he found a kobold on another's shoulders, the top one wielding a comically large club. The club came down on the farmer's head, killing him.