UNMARKED

44: Dragonling

The egg was self-destructing from the inside out. Fragments of opalescent shell fell off, bit by bit as the crevices widened like a cracked goblet of wine, dwindling away to reveal a writhing, living creature.

Fletcher was backing away from the scene, a distinct look of trepidation transforming his visage. Blayre, was more awestruck than fearful as she watched with riveted attention as a small serpentine creature emerged from the ruins of the egg shell. There was a pop of magical energy that Blayre felt, followed by a dissipation of the ancient magic. It was replaced by something that felt similar, yet somehow foreign.

"Small" was perhaps not the proper use to describe the dragonling. It was about the size of one of the terriers used to hunt vermin on the palace grounds. It's body was round and muscular and covered in smooth grayish scales that lighted an iridescent purple and blue in the meager light that was showing through the cloud-ridden sky above the treetops. The thing stretched out it's serpentine neck, exposing a lighter underside, and two large obsidian eyes that blinked at her from below two protruding growths on its head. Blayre recalled the dragons of legend, come alive in the rich illustrations of old library books. Books that Caval had studied in great detail. Those dragons had horns, and sharp teeth. They had clawed feet, talon-tipped wing, and scales like armored jewels.

The dragonling opened its jaws, revealing a surprisingly toothless mouth, and let out a feeble squeaking noise. Despite the innocence of it, Blayre nearly jumped out of her skin and took a step back. Fletcher's arms steadied her, though she could feel the trembling in his hands through her drenched clothing.

The dragonling arched its neck and squeaked again. A pathetic, hungry sound. And when she looked down at it, and their eyes met with a clash of obsidian and gold, she felt her Sense shudder as something clicked into place.

Blayre crouched down, and reached out to the dragonling, slowly, wishing she were wearing a pair of falconers gloves, even if the thing was toothless. She touched it's neck and was surprised by how smooth and warm the small creature was. Its magic tingled along her fingertips and through her entire body.

"Hello," She crooned to the dragonling, not knowing what else to do. It squeaked at her again, opening its maw.

"It's hungry," Fletcher said shakily. "But what do dragons even eat?"

"It doesn't matter what it eats." Blayre sighed, standing and wiping her hands on her wet breeches. "We have to take care of it."

"Take care of it?" His incredulous look hadn't missed the tone in her voice, for she did not mean that they were going to care for it, but rather get rid of it. "Blayre, it's just a harmless little thing," Fletcher said, holding out his hands.

"You were just trembling at the sight of it a moment ago." Blayre pointed out, dryly.

"I was, but I've had a change of heart."

"It may be harmless now," Blayre said, looking down at it, forcing as much bitterness into her words as she could. Perhaps if she spoke bitterly, she would feel more of the bitterness that she'd harbored before it had hatched. "But if we allow it to live, one day it won't be harmless." She drew her blade from its sheath - the wolf-engraved dagger - and leaned down to end the dragonling and the power bid that it would surely cause - that it had already caused - once and for all.

"Don't!"

Blayre froze and looked up, startled as Caval approached them. She'd been so absorbed in the dragon that she hadn't even felt him approach - or perhaps he had not wanted her to notice this time.

Blayre realized that the rain and wind gusts had died down while she had been absorbed with the dragonling's hatching.

The sorcerer looked haggard - more exhausted than he had been down in the caverns - with sunken eyes and a drawn face. And horror-stricken too when he looked at the blade in her hand. "Blayre, what in Twelve Hells are you doing?"