"What, do you mean the biology of it?" Kutur asked. "Well, let's see. It is true, as the scholarly texts say. Precious few of them are left, or rather, have never existed in the first place. Our library draws primarily from dracon sources and the transcription of tribal shamans, both of which are not completely empirical, or for the matter, without bias. However, we may be reasonably certain that your feet won't develop the callouses of an adults until about nine years or so, whereupon . . . " Kutur began to drone on about his knowledge of kobold anatomy, muttering more to himself than to his son. Trying to recall the various scraps of knowledge he had dredged from comparing the sources of the Librarium Constantseae, the various dracon lords' texts throughout the continent, piecing them together in his head as he tended to do. Eventually, he stopped talking altogether, save for the occasional "hmm, indeed" when within his own mind he broke though his own fog of questions.
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Mardex looked out from his perch on the great walls at the growing village below. It was not sizable, certainly not yet. No settlement in the empire could yet hope to compare with the might of Xigyll city. Mardex' own hadn't even yet a name, excepting its various descriptive nicknames by the locals. However, his fort was impressive, no question about that. Behind the Rughid palace in the capital, he might say without a doubt that his own domain is the most magnificent from the Northriver to the Varganix. Dracon names, once common in use, were being eroded from the minds of Xigyll's inhabitants, and being replaced by their own. New counties, new commanderies, were being drawn on the maps. It was as if the land itself were changing, becoming a true kobold home. He had yet to think of a name for what would one day become the centerpiece of a mighty city. "Greygrass? Narvandul?" he mused to himself. Then, a flash from the horizon caught his eye, and from it a plume of smoke. Rage filled him then. His army was in the fort. This was an infringement upon his supremacy, possibly from that traitor the Count Risi. Every day he wears at the line drawing his lands, which he was quick to arrogantly name Risihold, and his own. Immediately afterword, a scout rushed to him from a wall barrack.

"My lord! Word from the north!" he shouted as he approached.

"I can see," Mardex replied. "Let me guess, Count Risi is leading another drill over his line. He wants more space." The scout, stunned, nodded.

"It would seem so, my lord," he said. Mardex huffed at the answer, and crossed his arms.

"I am done bowing to him, who should by rights be my lesser. Send for my strategoi. Send for Prefect Zandex as well. We will need to discuss strategy."