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If one were to venture north of the famed Loch Ness and take the roads into the mountains of Northern Scotland, deep within the heart of the North West Highlands, there rests a hidden valley, nestled in the shadow of Ben Hope and Ben Kilbreck. A valley hidden by the oldest of magics.

Gleann nan Leylines. The Valley of the Leylines. A convergence of five leylines from north, northeast, northwest, southeast, and southwest, all meeting beneath a town built on that hallowed ground, the candidate for the Heart of Magic.

Summer's Vale.

And surrounding it, a ring of old towns, five of which sat above those leylines.

Winter Hallows, famed for its magnificent Fallen Snows Library, sat upon the northernmost of the leylines. Once a vassal town of Summer's Vale, now ...

Well. Now it held a small say in its own fate as far as the magical community was concerned. The populace, at least, could count on the fact that they needn't pay exhorbinate protection rates for the Mage Knights serving under the Lords and Ladies Musk. Which, naturally, meant that some branch members of the Musk family had lived in those villages. As governors.

Governors of those old feudal towns weren't looked at in any particularly affectionate light. Certainly not in those days--would you quite like someone whose justification for taking a cut of your hard-earned gold was "don't make me turn you into a sofa cushion"?

Enter Nigel Musk.

You see, Nigel came from one of those branch families, but his circumstances were quite a bit more fortunate. Though, the older generation of the Musk family would probably tell you otherwise. Nigel, on the other hand, quite liked this new modern age. It opened up literal world of possibilities and knowledge, and sharing of ideas!

And stories.

It might be a touch odd, given that he was a skunk who would accomplish fantastic feats with a touch of will and channeling of magic that he should find such interest in the fantasy genre, of all things, but ...

Well. There was just something so whimsical about the imagination.

And how true it was to the reality of magic, and the affect such things had upon its own innate whimsy.

The little skunk hummed a jaunty little tune to himself as he let his ocean blue eyes peer through a set of matching, square rimmed glasses over the crowded shelves of Fallen Snows Library, the fingers on his right hand twiddling idly through the air as if tapping against the spines of each book in turn. His tail, nearly his body length and half again and so bushy it was double as wide, twitched excitedly. In its wake, a faint hint of a skunk's natural musty odor trailed and wafted through the air.

A dabbing of his custom cologne, chocolate and freshly brewed tea upon his neck, like his more--ah--enthralling spell scent only did so much for that.

In what world, Nigel wondered, would he let his imagination wander this weekend? Perhaps through the gritty streets of Chicago in a rather grim and cynical world of magic? Or that of the children of old deities of the Olympian pantheon? He briefly considered a certain series about dragon riders, but he dashed that thought with the memory of the literary sins committed in the finale.

Nigel was a little skunk, but one who tended to hold rather big opinions. And grudges.

Especially against those who dogeared the pages of his books. Or writers who went off the bloody deep end.

The skunk turned, and there was an indignant squeak, followed almost immediately by a drumming of books falling on the floor like a series of cannon retorts.

He grimaced and glanced over his shoulder, lifting his tail high to he could see.

A vole of middling age glared at him through squinting brown eyes. "Kin ya nae watch yer tail, lad?" she demanded with the air of a thousand angry patrons in search of a manager.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. MacDougal!" he said, hurriedly, ducking his head and letting his ears lower. "I just got so excited--I didn't mean to--"

The vole stuck a finger in his face, shaking it at him. "Ya bloody Musks are all the same!" she snapped. "Think ya own the place, just 'cause ya can do a few parlor tricks, ya kin! Well! Not all of us want to smell like a--" she sniffed, wrinkling her nose "--like a bloody hoity-toity teashop full of kids in from a smoke!"

She turned on her heel and stomped off, leaving that collection of books she'd been carrying laying on the floor like bodies of fallen soldiers. In search, no doubt, of someone else to complain at about his impertinence.

And leaving Nigel to clean up after her.

Nigel sighed and knelt down among the fallen books, and set about gathering them into his arms. Mrs. MacDougal could go and nag at whomever she pleased, it'd do her little good unless she wanted another to serve as her glaring partner. Any in the older crowd, those still clinging to the ways of family grudges passed down by generations and history, would happily join. The younger, thankfully, didn't care so much.

Naturally, that made them a bunch of hooligans, all listening to the Musks, in the eyes of the old crowd.

A thousand years of Musk lordship didn't just abide so easily.

The looks some of them shot his way when they thought he wasn't paying attention still made his tail bristle such that his stripes looked like twin lightning bolts arching from the tip to his rump.

A familiar name snatched Nigel's attention as if it could reach out and grip his face--there, in stylized block script, "erry tchett" stared up at him, half the name hidden beneath an old text on Winter Hallows peerage. And upon its face.

Well. It was difficult to forget the familiar picture of a dragon breathing fire from its nostrils.

The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. Nigel plucked it free from its place trapped beneath its fellows and let his eyes trace over the title: Guards! Guards!

"Been a while since I've gone through this one," Nigel mused. He shifted so he could sit cross-legged, curling his tail against his shoulders so he could cushion and cradle the back of his head. The diminutive skunk coaxed the paperback open with his thumb, and settled into read with a fond smile on his face and his ears settling into a calm setting.

One of the benefits of the family magic, despite some of the looks it garnered from the older crowd, was a healthy imagination. Illusions and beguiling required a little ... finesse to work properly.

And so, Nigel let his conscious mind float free of his body for a little while. A welcome distraction from the voices rising in ire down on the first level. Through his mind's eye, a vision of a large, sprawling city set upon a river of waste and slurry of corruption nearly as thick as the denizens of the city itself.

Ankh-Morpork.

A voracious reader ever since his childhood, Nigel's eyes practically danced. Page after page, vision after vision flitting through his mind until he came, at last, to one of his favorite scenes not just in this book, but in all fantasy.

Just picturing it made his tail twitch and fluff like he were flirting with a fetching lady. Imagine if he, as the Supreme One during those first summonings, could enter the mind of a real, ancient dragon!

For once, he'd actually be big!

Nigel couldn't wighold the giggles rising n his chest.

Oh! Wouldn't that just show those old crones! Little Nigel Musk wouldn't be so little then!

Or fluffy, or clumsy, or so--so--so fragile!

No.

Nigel would be big! And mighty!

A great, glorious dragon! A single flap of his wings would send hurricane winds over the rooftops! His roar would shatter windows and send terror into the hearts of every fur! A swipe of his legs or tail would send cars flying like ninepins, and his claws, sharper than swords, would rend through steel! And his breath, de--wait.

The skunk brought a finger to his chin, thinking hard. "No. No. Not fiery, holocaust death. That's too trite," he muttered. "I'd be ... hmmm ..."

A tickling against the back of his neck drew Nigel's attention. He turned, gazing into the mass of fluff that was his tail, and began to consider. His big, beautiful tail.

Come to think of it, he would miss it a little. It'd always been there for him. Like an old friend, really.

Not to mention, a warning of his latent scent magic growing up. As well as the, er, natural defenses of a skunk, and how they might be mixed with said magic.

Suddenly, his ears perked. Scent magic! His scent! The one he used to dazzle and weave illusions!

The very same he dabbed upon his neck.

"That's it!" he chimed, his tail swishing gaily. "Sleeping gas! Tea and white chocolate scented!"

Perfect.

No reason to go about immolating some poor town or city just because he lost his temper. Ha! That famous Musk temper, for a fire-breathing dragon! Heavens, that would be a mess! The history of the Isles had been written, in no small part, by that temper.

Little did Nigel realize, though, that his will, this delightful flight of fancy, was all the spark needed to set of a magical powder keg. And he, seated on his rump in Fallen Snows Library, was right atop one of the most powerful leylines in the world.

The keg lit.

At first, he barely noticed the change. The little tickle in the back of his mind, barely more than a prickle, like a thought he just couldn't pull from the aether. A memory he couldn't grasp.

Nigel read onward. The prickle spread from his mind down, down to the back of his neck on a trek toward his shoulder blades.

Soon, he began to squirm and dance in place like a child struggling to sit still. His tail twitched and lashed, trying to rid him of that sensation. Nigel felt it brush againt the back of his neck, but, oddly, with it didn't come the familiar tickle.

Instead, there was something ... hard. Smooth. Like the touch of a wooden brush handle, right up against the back of his neck. That tickling sensation seemed to dance upon the very tip of his tail.

Nigel gave a frustrated groan and closed his book, holding it in place with a furry digit between the pages. Why was it always something when he got to the good part of the story?

He turned to inspect his tail, cupping a hand around it to hold it in place. "What on Earth has gotten into my fur--wha?"

What greeted him wasn't that big, beautiful, bushy striped banner he so knew and loved. No. Every bit of lovely skunk fluff was gone! Even his stripes had disappeared! And in its place ...

Scales. Crimson scales so bright and vibrant they shone like rubies. In place of his lovely stripes, spaded ridges rose from either side of the bone like stegosaurus spines. They began at the base, right where it met with his rump, hidden by his trousers, and seemed to almost run down his tail like paint. Steadily creeping toward the tip.

The tip, he noticed, his horror mounting, now looked decidedly more ... spaded and thick. Much like the ridges. Fatter, even.

Nigel helped and leapt to his feet just as they burst from his trainers and heavy claws with thick talons gripped into the woodwork. The book slipped from his fingers even as they melted into a matching set of claws.

It hit the ground with a thud and rustling of dried pages.

The sound jolted Nigel out of his stupor. Thinking quickly, the startled skunk tried to cast. The spells in his head, all gathered by years of study, collided together on their way to his lips, all spilling forth in a nonsensical jumble.

Impotent blue sparks crackled from his thickening talon tips and bouncing lazily against his tail, fizzling out of existence.

A tightening around his midriff drew a pained gasp and wince. Almost on reflex, he tried to hook a talon around his waistband and give a tug, but found them stretched to the limit.

His tugging came with strength he'd never had, the elastic in his waistband snapping and belt straining.

That tightness spread down to his rump, to his very thighs. Even around his belly. With it, the scales--he could feel them sliding against one another!

Nigel watched in stunned horror as his entire body from belly on down seemed to billow and fill out. The sounds of fabric crying out as the threads tried to hold, his belt creaking in protest filled his ears.

To hell with this! Some primal part of him roared. Nigel gripped the waistline of his trousers in his claws and made to rip them clean off. Damn the improprieties! These trousers, this shirt! This coat! This ... this ... stupid belt needed to go so he could breathe! So he could feel the air upon his scales!

The belt snapped. The buckle shot off over the distant, fallen shelves and embedded itself in the far wall.

Nigel clenched his eyes shut, his teeth grinding together. His trousers now clung and squeezed at his thighs like a vice. The skunk dared to sneak a peak, just in time to see the fabrics pulling apart enough to give a generous glimpse of rough, crimson scales.

A second later, the sounds of trousers shredding tore through the air. Followed, in short order, by a set of leathery wings with ridges rending his shirt and coat to fragments.

His glasses shifted down his snout--mercifully, still that of a skunk. But for how long?

A panicked whine built in the back of his throat. "What is--how?" Nigel cried out in agony as his ears melded into the crown of his head and grew spiny fins. "What's happening to me?"

His tail thudded against the floor like one of the Loch Ness monster's flippers. The thick, scaled appendage flexed and lashed in panic, and struck a bookshelf, starting off a chain reaction of crashes and splintering wood through the Fantasy section. Some thousand odd books tumbled from their homes with a rumble like rolling thunder.

A voice carrying the wrath of a swarm of bees floated from the first level. "What on Earth?" Mrs. MacDougal snapped. "What is that--that Musk brat doing this time?"

"Probably some hex," her fellow muttered under her breath, low enough that a skunk's ears shouldn't have heard. The widow Addair, by that tone. "Ruddying bowfing bairn, just like the rest of his cousins ..."

Every stomping step they took echoed toward the stairs and floated to his ear fins. His heart sank into the pit of his smoldering belly.

His bellow, now pressed rather precariously against another shelf. Each panicked break rocking it, and sent books tumbling from their homes.

"Oh, no," he whimpered. A low, demoralized rumble rolled within his chest. Nigel covered his face with his massive paws and turned his eyes away.

His hips bumped into another pair of shelves, and thus began the sacking of the bastions of History and Magic.

By the ringing in his ear fins, there would be no survivors when the rustling and splintering ceased.

Those poor, poor books, Nigel thought, moaning his dismay as he let himself plop down on his backside. They didn't deserve this!

Unfortunately, in his state, Nigel hadn't thought that the floors of Fallen Snows Library were meant to be tread upon by, well, average sized furs. And with his rapidly increasing size and girth and weight, he had quite surpassed its design. So, when he sat back and dropped his full weight upon the floor ...

Rather than weight of a spindly-armed little skunk, Nigel dropped several tons of dragon rump, all of it straight onto a single point on the floor.

No support, magical or not, could've possibly held under such sudden stress.

An unearthly groan was all the warning he received before the very ground beneath him bowed inward and exploded. The newly-minted dragon fell through the floor, and with him came a cascade of woodwork, nails, and dust raining down like a summer storm.

Nigel hit the ground with such force that decorative paintings and light fixtures shook, a cannon's retort sounded through the building. Somewhere, a set of glass cups and a pitcher toppled from one of the reading tables and shattered against the floor.

Sitting but a step or two from the spiral staircase, Nigel blinked owlishly through his glasses. He reached up with a claw, gingerly adjusting his glasses so they sat better on the bridge of his snout--still, mercifully, a skunk's shape.

It did little to distract from the deep burning in his cheeks.

I'm so dead! Again, he covered his face. The dust wafting through the air began to tickle his nose, teasing his allergies. "It's gonna take forever to fix all my shelves! And reshelf all my--my--these books!"

Where had my books come from? But, weren't they his books? In a manner of speaking, sure, they belonged to everyone in Winter Hallows. Thus the nature of the community library and all. But none spent nearly as much time in Fallen Snows Library than he.

They are mine, a primal voice growled. These books. The stories they tell. All mine!

A wriggling beneath him jolted Nigel from those thoughts. Curious, he turned to look over his shoulder and found two sets of legs sticking out from beneath his generous backside and tail. Both kicking desperately, as if trying to escape.

The realization hit him like a cricket bat.

Nigel gave a mix of a startled growl and a snuffle as he fought against the dust. He sifted his weight to the left so he might move his ample rear enough to let Mrs. MacDougal and the widow Addair a chance, at last, to roll free and breathe again.

He watched as the pair gasped and struggled to roll to their hands and knees. Nigel ducked his head between his shoulders, his long neck now letting his chin nearly touch his belly in doing so. "I--I--I am so sorry," he warbled piteously.

Mrs. MacDougal managed to rise with a stagger to her step. Her beady eyes seemed to swirl, the elderly vole held her head in her hands and groaned as she waited for the world to come back into focus. Once it did, those eyes locked right on Nigel's, and her face twisted, her jaw quivered with barely suppressed indignation.

She jabbed a trembling finger at him as though to send a bolt of lightning through his face. Nigel winced.

Then, she took a moment to observe Nigel. All of Nigel.

He could see comprehension dawning across her features. Fury slowly gave way to mounting terror, her finger wilting like a withering rose.

Time stood still. The elderly pair gawked, barely daring to breathe.

And Nigel could tell. He could nearly count along with each beating of their tiny hearts within their chest.

The tickling against his snout refused to go ignored any longer. Nigel sneezed, his glasses leapt off his face, and felt a sudden tugging against his snout, his snout stretching and fur melding into scales until any evidence he'd once been a skunk was gone.

Any save those square-rimmed glasses as they landed right back in place, despite all odds. Only slightly askew.

It was like a spell cast upon them finally broke. Both ladies shrieked and turn tail, feeling for the door, for help and safety from the terrible beast towering over them.

All Nigel could do was blink and cover his head with his claws, thoroughly abashed. He flinched at the sound of the door slamming shut. The bluebell flower pots resting on the windowsill danced and jiggled, but managed to stay balanced. Already, he could hear them running as fast as their aged legs could carry, their cries fading into the distance.

"The town is going to be furious!" He snuffled. A wisp of smoke slithered from his nostrils, a faint scent of freshly brewed tea and white chocolate spread through the air. Nigel dared peek through his talons to survey the damage.

It didn't get any better.

The Fallen Snows Library, the crown jewell of this little village, looked more like the aftermath of a battle scene of a fantasy novel involving the Wee Little Ones and Gnomes or something of the like. Broken, fallen shelves, cases strewn across the floor, books laying open, pages torn and spines battered. Some tomes, he knew, were priceless. Were priceless.

Now, it was destroyed. Generations of knowledge left damaged and classic printings of some of the world's greatest works, all kept in pristine condition by the full community. All ruined.

By him.

Something in his mind stirred. His horde had been damaged. His horde should be properly maintained, ready to be appreciated. Books must be appreciated.

No one would ever dream of visiting his library if they knew it was in such a state, and if no one visited, there would be no fur to come and see the wonders of history, or observe the old trends of farmers' almanacs, or research the deep magics or let their minds venture on flights of fantasy in their new favorite fiction series!

No. No, no, no, no, no. That wasn't right.

Books must be cared for, and they must be read. Books which weren't read held no value--his horde didn't just have mere value, his horde was perfection. Priceless!

The horde must be fixed. And expanded.

His pupils elongated into reptilian slits. "Yesssssssss," Nigel hissed.

There was work to be done. Much work.

Nigel rose clumsily to his feet, every step he took made the ground shake and glass rattle in their window panes. The dragon gripped the first shelf in his talons, growling in frustration as they pierced straight through the wood. Damn!

More careful. He'd have to be much more careful if he was to ensure Fallen Snows Library was returned to its former glory. So, when he reached down to take up the shelf again, he did so with but the lightest squeeze of his joints rather than the tips of his claws and a one armed heft to bring it back to a standing position.

To his surprise, he doesn't just tip it up, Nigel actually managed to lift it clean off the ground such that he had to pull his efforts to avoid hitting the ceiling with a corner.

"O-Okay!" he yelped and gently set it down again, then shuffled on to the next of the fallen shelves. "Good to know. Slow and gentle. Good to know ..."

The sound of the doorknob turning made his head snap up. Nigel turned clumsily on his paws, his tail sending a nearby set of wooden chairs flying through the air in pieces, and watched with wide, attentive eyes as the door opened inward to reveal a young vixen of lovely silver coat, dressed in a fine blue skirt and white top with matching coat to protect against the wind. And held tight against her chest with an almost protective grip ...

The vixen took one look at him and started. "Oh!" she squeaked, flinching back and clutching her books tighter.

Books! The dragon's pupils dilated. My books! A reader of my books!

She took an uncertain step back, her eyes never once leaving his, even as she slowly reached for the doorknob. Her hand trembling and faltering with it in her state.

Nigel jolted out of his stupor. She'd read a book! One of his books!

A quick glance at the title nearly made him squeal with delight. Nearly.

Though, he did rumble, "Tolkien!" like one might imagine an excited little drake in whatever might serve as a dragon's equivalent of a candy shop. Razing their first village, perhaps?

Either way, it was enough to give the vixen pause. She blinked a few times, cocking her head to one side. "You ... you can talk?" She stepped away from the door, her mouth agape. "And--and read?"

Nigel bobbed his head.

"Since when?"

How to answer that? This young vixen looked to be a few years his junior--young enough, perhaps, to still be in school, learning the ways of magic. Druidic magic, by the looks of the living vines wrapped lovingly up her left arm. Proper magic, as far as they were concerned.

Rather than the blend of druidic and sorcery the Musks used.

Nigel licked his lips. They felt leathery, how interesting. "I don't know about, er, other dragons." That part, at least, he could say with honest certainty. "But I've always been able to talk--as long as I can remember, at least."

The look upon her face was nothing short of awestruck. "Really?" She came closer, closing nearly half the distance in but a couple steps. Her arms clutched those books tighter, like a blanket she used to hide her excitement. "I--I'd only heard that dragons were mindless killing machines!"

Some, yes. Certainly. But there were plenty throughout history contrary to that case, but why should a druid think a being built to raze towns and fields would be anything otherwise?

Unfortunately, Nigel didn't quite manage this salient argument on the spot. "I like books," was all he managed. The dragon shook himself, adding, "I--I also like hearing about what effect they have on the reader as well. The discussion part is, er, a bit lacking. For me."

A gleam of kinship sparked in her eyes. "A reading dragon." She licked her lips, telling of nerves, and moved to sit at one of the reading tables which managed to survive his tumble. "Do you have a--I mean, my name is Blair Sionnach," Blair said with a slight nod of greeting as she took her place at the table and set down her books. "And you?"

And prompting.

Nigel thought quickly. Should he tell? He glanced at the remaining seat, then his rear. Already, he could hear the sounds of wood disintegrating beneath him. With an awkward half-laugh, he moved the chair out of the way and just sat down--still towering over her by a good head and shoulders. Yet, here, that almost felt like that wasn't so.

Here, they were just equals.

A librarian and a reader.

"I'm--"

The doors exploded inward and slammed against the walls, the bluebell planters toppled, the clay shattering upon the floor. A crowd of enraged furs, some wielding whatever makeshift weapons they could find and ready to protect their home while the more magically inclined began to call upon the natural magics available to them.

Instinct took control. Nigel Musk the skunk would have tried to cast a few defensive spells, just a few common shield and deflection charms he knew would hold while he tried to stammer out an explanation.

Nigel Musk, dragon of the Fallen Snows Library, drew in a deep, sharp breath, filling his lungs for every dragon's primary means of defense. His cheeks filled to the brim. He saw the fear in their eyes, realization sparking just a moment too late.

In just the same instance as Blair cried "Wait", Nigel expelled a thick plume of glittering lavender gas straight into the faces of a pair of burly wolves, the frontrunners of the pack. They breathed in, shocked, and froze in place. Then, their eyes rolled back into their heads, their makeshift weapons slipping from their fingers, and collapsed in a heap.

Everyone stood stock still, gaping between the fallen wolves and Nigel, standing over them like a victorious predator.

"Are they ..." Blair began.

"Sleeping," came his answer. Blunt and straightforward, supplied by the same impetus within him. "They'll wake soon. With headaches. Bad ones." Nigel blinked and shook his head. New instinct. What a curious thing. Unimportant, though.

There were books and a reader of them. Which meant so much to discuss!

He leaned toward Blair, his eyes wide and smile expectant. The dragon managed to clasp his claws without issue. "Is--is Tolkien your favorite author, then?" he prompted, eager to return to previous topics.

Gawking, Blair tilted her head at him. She held up a hand to forestall exclamations of outrage at the attack and sudden change of subject, her brows knitting together. "They'll be fine?"

"I'd recommend they have tea and sit down for a spell, but yes." His pupils began to dilate. "Is he though?"

"No. No, he's not. I prefer Lewis." The young vixen gave a disbelieving laugh. "You're a very strange dragon."

Nigel gave an awkward smile. "I suppose. Yes, I think I am. But ... Lewis?" He blinked thrice. "I've actually never read anything by him."

All eyes watched with stunned interest as the vixen slid one of the books from her stack and held it aloft so he could read the title, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe written in glittering silver script. But, rather than explain, she simply raised a brow. "I never got your name ..."

A collective intake of breath seemed to suck the air from the room.

The dragon thought hard and, at last, made his decision. A fresh body should mean a fresh start. Let Nigel Musk fade away, and let a new life begin. "My name is Callan, and I love books. And this ..." He looked around, smiling to himself.

Yes, this was all he needed in life. A big, wonderful library.

Albeit one in need of cleaning and some, ahem additions.

"This is my horde. From now on, I am Callan the Librarian."