Letting the kobolds handle you is a weird sort of experience, and at times, it tests your tolerance.
For one thing, the creatures, once emboldened, don't seem to recognize the idea that personal space can apply between species. Once their initial fear has diminished, their little paws seem to roam and poke everywhere without invitation, not unlike the way that a human child would handle a tolerant animal.
For another thing, the kobolds are avid artificers, and they seem to giggle rambunctiously as they play with pieces of some sort of cord or other as they drape it and wrap it around you and Dizzy-tail, seeming to think that it is as much fun as there could possibly be. Before too long, you both end up with devices strapped to you that lets the little creatures easily climb up on top of you and Dizzy-tail. The quick-witted creatures don't take long to invent the idea of a crupper and a breast-collar to hold their invention in place. It isn't long before they even fashion a bitless bridle, and to your chagrin, you find that they can, indeed, direct your movements just by tugging lightly on the reigns they attach to it.
At an intellectual level, you realize that you know enough about leather-making that you can figure out that their people's scientific advancement must be reasonably high, since it is strong and supple like a good textile. A raw hide dried-out in the sunlight would not produce leather either this strong or this comfortable. Their metallurgy seems to be acceptable enough for a bronze-age civilization, but you can't detect any evidence of advanced iron-working. They might just have greater access to gold, which they use extensively.
This makes a discordant impression on you. What took humans thousands of years to figure out seems to occur almost immediately to the imaginations of the little kobolds, who never seem to stop giggling as they dress their dragons up like dolls. As a former human, you have your own reason for being embarrassed: these flighty, little creatures have outclassed your former species by such incredible leaps and bounds that it's almost incredible. It's a little bit mysterious to you that they are working only with bronze age technology. With such quick reasoning skills, it seems like they could shoot off their first rocket into space within only a generation if given the opportunity.
At a considerably less intellectual level, you have not been able to take your eyes off of Dizzy-tail's posterior since the cruppers were added to the tack, which has the same effect on him that a jock would have on a human. First, you can't stop looking at it. Second, you can't look at it without getting hard. Consequentially, your shaft has spent more time hanging out in the open than staying where it belongs.
((Draping these funny trappings over us seems like a sort of grooming behavior,)) he says pompously. ((I suppose these creatures must do something similar with their youngest offspring, which they might be treating us as large versions of, and if we could get access to wherever they keep their youngest offspring, we could point this out to Blunt-snout and get ourselves out of here.))
It's almost a shame to break it to him that he might be wrong. ((Dizzy-tail,)) you start carefully, ((I know you mean well, but I am pretty sure that Blunt-snout is right.))
He turns on you, glowering at you with suppressed fury. ((Don't tell me you're really on-board with this crazy scheme!)) he says tartly. ((Even if it were possible, to want to resign our entire species to being beasts of burden is so deplorable that--))
You hold your fore-paw up for peace. ((Please, Dizzy-tail, I am not talking about his plan, I'm tal--))
He cuts you off, ((So you can see that it's bonkers to think that these creatures think, and if you still have your senses, we need to try to figure out how to get Blunt-snout to come out of his dementia enough to realize how futile and silly this is.))
((But Dizzy-tail, the problem is that, on one hand, he's on to something, but on the other hand, I think he's taking it in the wrong direction.))
((Like these silly bindings,)) he says, glowering at the tack resentfully.
((I sort of like that, actually,)) you admit.
He stares at you in disbelief.
You look appreciatively at the nicely crafted leather that you are both covered in now. ((I mean, come to think of it, I was hoping they would make us some lightweight barding, eventually. This business of galloping around naked is getting a bit stale.))
((How does covering your body in this weird material, which they probably vomit up, actually benefit you?))
((I just like it,)) you reply, considering that discussion to be settled. You get back to the topic at hand. ((Although I agree that Blunt-snout's scheme is madness, what I am actually seeing doesn't match up with your own views on kobold intelligence.))
((They are not views!)) he snaps sternly. ((They are facts, and you can discern those facts by just looking at what you are seeing logically.))
((Let me explain!)) you plead.
He interrupts you by stomping his forefoot. ((Amber-fields, you have disappointed me. It was one thing when we were just going along with this mad-drake with the hope that he would come out of this dementia he is obviously in, but you not recognizing the obvious is causing me to seriously doubt your good judgment. You're getting some strange Stockholm syndrome, and feeling like I am the only rational drake left is making me feel alone and scared. Nothing is making sense anymore, and I just wish I could go home.))