ORIGIN

Dread watched as Charon started digging, rapidly chewing through the sand. That seemed like it would taste disgusting--but it looked surprisingly effective. He wondered, idly, how long it would take before the worm-dragon hit the water beneath the sand; it would probably be nice and cool under there, he thought. He himself looked down, pondering, and made a sort of halfhearted few scrapes with the wrist-joint of his wing, rocking his weight to the other one to compensate--but all he could do was a shallow toss of grains. It would have taken him hours to dig himself in the way Charon had done.

He looked up, squinting, examining Charon's position and considering those tactics. "YOU SHOULD PUT SOMETHING DOWN FIRST," he suggested, fins along his neck raising slightly as he concentrated. "LIKE... BERRIES OR LEAVES, LIKE BAIT. I BET THEY WOULD COME FASTER THEN." It seemed to him like it'd be an improvement in the reliability of those tactics--maybe in time spent, too. He was wondering if there were places, like his fissure, that he could make or use for such things himself; he was imagining what it might be like to try it. He could probably just snap a section of land open, and then nestle and and sort of... wriggle around, until the sand covered him back up. But it seemed to him that it'd be less efficient than just sweeping down to snatch up anything he spotted while soaring around.

Then again, Charon couldn't fly, right? Nostrils flared in thought, and he jumped topics without warning, based only on his own train of thought. "IF YOU WANT WINGS, THERE'S SOME WHO CAN FLY WITH MAGIC. MAGIC WINGS," he explained, loudly. "THERE'S A FAT LIZARD IN THE SWAMP WHO CAN DO THAT." He remembered it, from the fight with Mother, in Cetus--the poorly-named alligator trying to keep up with him, and mostly succeeding, magic wings keeping it aloft. He thought he'd seen others do that, too, but he didn't know (or need) the magic himself, nor did he know quite where it had come from.

And then, as if to be polite (but also with practicality in mind) he added, "THAT HUNTING LOOKS LIKE IT WORKS THOUGH. ARE YOU HUNGRY NOW?" He didn't mind snagging something from the sky, if his guest--family?--wanted something to eat. Dread imagined it'd be awhile before something just happened along, out here.

Naps? Beneath the snow? Dread shuddered at the very thought. He hated the cold, and he couldn't imagine going to sleep beneath a blanket of fluffy ice.

The idea for hunting, however, was a good one, and he at once brightened, going from flattened fins (the closest his draconic form could manage to a grimace) to an arch-necked, upright posture, eyes bright with interest. "THAT IS A GOOD IDEA!" he boomed. "DO YOU WANT TO HIDE IN THE HOLE? OR SOMEWHERE ELSE?" He paused, then, flameglow eyes blinking. Neurons made some rare connection, a spark of inspiration striking him. "SCARE THINGS INTO HOLES I ALREADY MADE. USUALLY I JUST BITE THEM OR BURN THEM," he added, with something like a dragon shrug.

"PICK A PLACE! I WILL CHASE THINGS," he agreed again, and then turned, waddling into a bounding, leaping run, then launching skyward with a thwap and woosh of wing-leather. Again the light shone through dark hide, shining the wings a rich red-brown; again he lifted higher on warm updrafts with only a flap or two to carry him.

Dread gave them time to pick a spot, in the meantime canvassing the forest. It was hard to see through the leaves, true, but he had magic for that; the heat sense that would let him parse heartbeats from between the trees.

He picked up on a few, below--a herd of deer, maybe. Wingbeats turned him, his body angling into a curve. He circled once, raising higher along an updraft, then turned to soar up over the mountains. He waited for some sign that the other two were ready; now that he'd spotted his prey, he only had to wait for a signal.