Quill and Compass, Entry 13: Black Dragons

Swamps are never quiet. They fidget endlessly: insects whining past your ears, unseen creatures slipping into muddy waters, roots creaking under their own weight. The air smells of rain and blooming algae, warm and humid enough to make every breath feel borrowed. But when that restless noise stutters, when the water stills, and the insects lift in a single wave, that hush is not peace. It is the moment a Black Dragon’s gaze settles on you.

Black Dragons are creatures shaped by the wetlands they rule. Their bodies are broad and heavy, cloaked in dark scales that shift between muddy black, olive green, and swamp-water brown. Up close, if you survive that long, you can see patterns on their scales that resemble algae blooms and sediment layers, as if the swamp itself painted them. Their jaws are immense, lined with dagger-like teeth, and built for crushing bone or clutching struggling prey in a vise grip. A ridge of stout spines runs down their back like a broken obsidian saw. But their eyes are the most unnerving part: pools of black, like a tar pit, with olive green irises that observe with a patience bordering on cruelty, though there is no malice in their stare, only calculation.

They claim swamps, marshlands, mangrove forests, and any place humid enough to sustain their eggs. In these places, they act as both apex predator and ecological regulator. Their Draconic breath is a rolling cloud of thick, poisonous miasma; not meant simply to kill, but also to cull. I’ve seen them unleash it into an overgrown thicket, clearing rot and invasive growth in seconds. It’s the way the swamp breathes through them: renewal through destruction, balance through death. It is a grim kind of caretaking, but a necessary one. Without a Black Dragon’s culling, the wetlands would choke themselves into silence.

Their mating rituals are less dances and more hunts. A Black Dragon interested in a partner begins by tracking them through their own territory, moving with a patience and precision that would impress even the most seasoned ranger. If the target senses the stalker and turns the tables, the courtship ends abruptly with a simple judgment: you were not careful enough. But if the stalker reaches the heart of the target’s lair undetected, they must either consider or challenge the potential mate. Though I have rarely seen a challenge go unissued. What follows is a violent clash of snapping jaws, slamming tails, and gashing claws; though oddly enough, neither seems to go for the kill, even when the opportunity presented itself. When the dust settles, if the suitor stands victorious, they've earned their mating rights for the season, if not, they are usually allowed to slink away to recover, often nursing both wounds and ego.

Their eggs rest in nests built from knotted mangrove roots, braided willow canopies, or sodden tree hollows kept humid by the constant rise of swamp water. During incubation, the incumbent Black Dragon typically allows their partner to stay in the nest so both can defend the clutch. It's a rare moment of cooperation among a notoriously isolationist species. But the moment the hatchlings emerge, after more than two years, the truce ends. The visiting Black Dragon is given one opportunity to leave peacefully. If they decline, they are forcibly removed, lethally if necessary. From that moment on, the parent trains them alone; dragging them through murky water, teaching them how to stalk, how to strike, and, most importantly, how to disappear. When a young Black Dragon can bring down its first solo kill, the parent drives it from the territory with a single warning: this is no longer your home, you must make your own way.

Their hunting methods are a study in violence and patience. They lie camouflaged for hours, moving only when the strike is guaranteed. Their speed is frightening, a sudden eruption of teeth and claws that can end a life before a scream even begins.  When prey is scarce, they eat anything that lives or has once lived; their stomachs have adapted to digest swamp vegetation, carrion, and anything in between. Survival is their only culinary rule.

Their hoards are made of bones and trophies. Not decorative piles, but organized displays of victory. Skulls of fearsome beasts, broken antlers and horns, teeth and claws from would-be challengers, even fragments of old weapons or armor taken from mortals who wandered too far and ignored the Dragon's warning. These trophies are not just prizes, but also memories. Each one marks a challenge survived, a boundary defended, a reminder that the swamp is theirs and always will be, that they are alive when so many more are not.

While a Black Dragon's speed is legendary among their kind, it comes at the cost of their stamina. They are capable of terrifying bursts of speed, power, and violence, but sustaining those explosions of force for a creature of their size is a daunting task. If a prolonged fight is forced, I've observed them using hit-and-run tactics in their swamps, using their natural camouflage and stealth prowess to buy them time to recover before striking again from cover.

Their view of mortals is simple: stay out of their home, or become part of it. Black Dragons give exactly one warning before they strike; a courtesy owed to Ikozra, nothing more. I received such a warning once: a ripple on a still pond, then a low, rumbling voice behind me saying, “Nek'alrek.” Translated into Common, it was a simple, yet terrifying command, "Leave." I simply nodded and left. Quickly.
I'd say it's a good thing I brushed up on my Draconic before venturing into the field for study. Most Dragons will use the Common tongue to make sure their point is understood… this one did not. Which probably explains why the entrance to its home was decorated with numerous empty armor sets.

I respect them, though I’ll never claim to understand them. They are keepers of a world most never visit, hunters that kill without malice, and guardians that protect without affection. I’ve spent nights in their territories, unmoving, breath shallow, praying that the darkness watching me would remain just that: darkness. One day, when dawn came, I found the faint imprint of a clawed hand beside my tent; not an attack, but a message: "You live because I allow it." I decided it's for the best that my research concluded and I move on to my next entry before tempting fate further.

Should the swamp ever fall silent, pray it is not because of you,
Yours, ever truly,
— Tobias Elanor, Bard, Scholar, Explorer Extraordinaire

© DracTheDrake

Hello hello!

Black Dragons were an interesting thought experiment: how does an isolationist creature become prolific? The answer came from one of the oldest proverbs: survival of the fittest. To continue their species, they have to be stealthier than their potential mate, strong enough to win an issued challenge, and intelligent enough to know when to strike and when to observe.

Their mentality fascinated me in a way while developing them. Humans are social creatures by nature, even introverts in a way, so having to throw all of that out the window and think like a Black Dragon felt alien in a way, but also refreshing after the Coppers and Reds.

Once again, thank you for taking the time out to read entry 13! I'll see you in entry 14 for Green Dragons!