The Golden Dragon's Hoard

2 - 1

"Everything that comes together falls apart. Everything. The chair I'm sitting on. It was built, and so it will fall apart. I'm gonna fall apart, probably before this chair. And you're gonna fall apart. The cells and organs and systems that make you you—they came together, grew together, and so must fall apart. The Buddha knew one thing science didn't prove for millennia after his death: Entropy increases. Things fall apart."
― John Green

Welcome to the second part of this story! I just want to remind you all that everything you will read within this story is purely platonic! It might seem romantic to some as you continue, but I think that's because intimacy is seen as a romance-based thing rather often and I'm trying to explore options that don't revolve around that.
I'm also going to remind you of their pronouns:
Atlas, Ozzy, and Stray are all he/him/his. Erasmus' are she/him. The lost witch (until they're properly introduced, no name, sorry) are they/them/theirs.
Anyways! I hope you all enjoy, don't be afraid to comment, and stay hydrated!

Part Two - Chapter One
"The Dragon's Lost Witch"

On the edge of a ghost town, across from an abandoned orphanage and a row of burnt, uprooted trees, is a half-collapsed church made refuge by a witch.

It's old but large, with broken windows and fallen pillars half-hidden behind overgrown weeds. Inside, there are hundreds of things someone wants to avoid—holes in the floorboards, nails sticking out of place, glass on the ground. Splintered pews and shards of cement and tripping hazards, there's dirt and dust and cracking sculptures.

There's pots to collect rain and a bird's nest and rocks in every shape and size.

There's a box of matches, a couple torn blankets in a basket, and drawings of old memories: cages and whips and a little golden dragon sketched onto paper. A book to remember and fill with dreams, full of little scribbles and a mess of wild thoughts. Beads to protect against storms, crystals to ward off the dark, and clothes bundled together. Ropes and knives and things to survive tied together next to a to-go bag and an old, worn down grimoire.

Spells left a sharp tang and wards battle the mold in the back. A bed full of soft things and a container of food hidden behind a false door where the altar used to stand.

It's everything someone needs to survive, to stay hidden.

It's everything one lost witch has.

-——-——-

Stray isn't phased by a lot of things anymore—his childhood from when his hoard had yet to find him, or him them, assured that.

Before Athanasius and his red scales, warm hands, and all-encompassing love, there was no care and only hard hits. Before Oziamon with his guitar and gentle, wispy magic, there were empty rooms and cutting spells that dug down to bone. Before Erasmus, with his sparks and blue eyes and crooning voice, there were insults and cold cages and punishments.

There was a time when the clinking of metal chains, bruises, and the snap of a whip was his regular, a time that had too much pain and too little food.

Then he escaped. Then he wasn't the lost little dragon, but a loved one.

His coven didn't let a day go by where Stray doubted that love. The kindness was always a given and never had to be earned. He was welcome here and wanted, never used or hurt or pushed aside.

Ozzy was always there, steady hands over his or ready to bicker, Ras just a step away with a laugh and keeping them on track.

Atlas was his protector and always will be.