The Chronicles of a Thieving Dragon

3. | A Taste of Intrigue

Mirk hadn't figured anything out.

He sat slouched over a tall palomino roan draft horse with feathery legs. The mare possessed a striking wide blaze that extended over her eye, adorned with tiny white dots resembling a splatter of white paint on her warm, almost pink roan coat. Her tail and mane were so light they almost appeared white.

He didn't particularly care about the destination of the ride. The fae had assured him that the mare knew the way, so he was merely along for the journey. Secretly, he hoped they might venture in the opposite direction or even get hopelessly lost. Mirk had no qualms about getting lost; he relished exploration, considering it one of his favorite pastimes.

The only scenario he envisioned was if he managed to pilfer something expensive from the fae—surely, the fae must possess golden picture frames, antique decor, or pure silverware. If Mirk could gather enough, he might pay off a witch to create a scent-hiding pendant, a costly item.

And witches always overpriced their goods.

He groaned and buried his face in the horses thick mane.

Suddenly, he sat upright on the horse, struck by a brilliant idea. Until he got his money, he would do anything in his power to annoy the fae, and if there was one thing he knew they didn't like, it was filth.

He dismounted the moving horse, which stopped as soon as his feet touched the ground. He scampered up a small hill, the horse trotting closely behind him, snickering quietly, as if encouraging him to climb back on. Despite nearly slipping a few times, Mirk chuckled to himself as he reached the top.

"What do you think, Horse? Is this grass good enough?" he asked thoughtfully as he let a couple of strands fall from his scarred fingers.

Mirk wore the same leather pants from the day before, albeit with different suspenders and a billowy shirt. Over it all, he had a long, dark coat stolen from a drunk lord a while ago, still in somewhat great condition.

So, he laid down and rolled himself down the hill.

The horse slowly followed, making sure not to slip as Mirk giggled to himself once he made it to the bottom of the hill. The world spun for a few measly seconds, his clothes were now covered with grass stains, perfect.

He cared little about his appearance. However, he was certain a fae would be bothered by the dirt, he hoped it would help him along in throwing Mirk out of his surely pristine home.

As he pushed himself up, the horse nudged him, her dark, wet eyes seemingly accusing.

"What? It's just for fun, can't believe even the horses of the royal palace are stuck-up snobs."

She nudged him again.

"Fine, fine, relax. I'm getting on now." he shook his head, he had barely managed to seat himself before the horse started moving again, as if eager to reach the fae's home.

Once more, he paid little attention, resting his head on the horse's mane. Too soon, they passed the old tree and the self-made totems hanging from its branches.

"Do you have to take me to my doom, Horse? You could have started grazing on the lush fields, no? Would have much better life roaming the grounds as a free horse. But no, I guess the high and mighty life has gotten to you as well huh." he asked bitterly, getting no answer.

Treadfully fast did they exit the calm forest road, high gates towering in the distance, behind them, enormous manor or a small castle towered behind the gates.