ORIGIN

The baby dragon spread his wings, stretching and yawning.

He had rested, and rested well, and now his eyes lingered on the pinpricks of light that drifted in from high above. He liked shiny things, he was finding. Shiny glowing lights, glistening rocks, the shimmer of fish in the water, the reflection of the light dancing over Fornax's lake--even the iridescent blue-green glow of a dragonfly's carapace. The lights in the distance fascinated him.

Although very young, his tiny body was easily borne aloft by his billowing little bat-like wings; wobbling with each wingbeat he raised himself higher and higher toward them.

He wanted to see what was beyond. Some instinct ached for open sky, perhaps, or perhaps mere curiosity drove him toward the lights. They were likely only distant orbs, but he did not know this--instead, he aimed for them, higher and higher in Fornax's warm and misty air.

His limbs tired, however, long before he reached it; his wings trembled, and he faltered in the air. At first he failed at rising higher, for an instant--and then he found himself falling, tumbling, the ground quickly rising to meet him in a dizzying fall. Terrified, he spread his wings wide, shaking finger-bones catching the air, and--panicked--managed to glide out over the water. He banked, and turned, splashing down and (now even further terrified) flailing his way to shore, his wings only dragging him down, here.

When he reached the loose stone and crawled his way up, he collapsed, stretched his full small length, and panting--little heart hammering in his delicate ribcage.

The little dragon soon learned a new trick. He had rested, for a time--but his little wing-arms were still trembling, and it made capturing the insects (in his wobbly glide downward from the den) far more difficult.

It occurred to him at last that there might be an easier way to do it. Instinct took over as he clambered back up into his niche; he inhaled deeply, feeling his inner fires stoked. He then turned, sharp eyes picking out a few nearby bugs--and carefully, balancing himself a few times first in a catlike manner, he launched himself outward.

Tiny wings billowed and caught the air, spreading their thin fingers; his little jaws opened, and a blast of superheated, shimmering air--boiling hot--roiled forth.

All of the insects in its path faltered and fell to the ground with a quiet rustle.

With a triumphant "SQUEAK!" the hatchling flapped twice and landed, carefully, stumbling some among the loose stones. His sharp, keen gaze quickly picked out most of the fallen bugs and he snapped them up, tilting his head quickly back to gobble them down.

Good--this new hunting method was efficient! He looked around, sighting for new prey.

The next thing that he found was, quite simply, a rock.

He wasn't looking for a rock, but one caught his eye: tiny, flecks of gold shining over its surface. He pranced over to it and started to nudge it, poking it this way and that, flipping it with his snout. Something about the way it reflected the light, the gold within--it was beautiful.

He wanted it.

He quickly glanced around, ensuring nothing else was near, watching, ensuring there was no threat to his new possession. Then he snatched it up in his teensy jaws, and clambered loudly over the loose stones, clattering them aside. Close to his wall-niche he broke into a loping, clumsy, hopping gallop, forelimb wings hauling him forward as stubby hind legs shoved him ahead. He then climbed rapidly up into the crack in the cave, and--after glancing back to make sure he hadn't been followed--stuffed the shiny rock as far back as he could.

It was his shiny, now.

He would keep it, and look at it whenever he wanted, and nobody would take it from him, because nobody would even see it.

After some thought, the vague thought of "where there is one, there might be more" crossed his mind--in a primitive, wordless fashion--and he glided quietly down and set himself to picking over the stones.

Exactly eleven pretty rocks later--a few ruby red, a couple silvery or otherwise metallic, and the rest again flecked with gold--the little dragon had a lovely, if utterly worthless, hoard in his tiny niche. He'd moved each of the little stones into his cave one by one, and nudged them back with quiet shoves of his snout, then curled up on them to jealously guard them, and to rest.

It was a strange instinct that drove him to do this. Perhaps it was a dragon thing.

He was resting among his rocks when he heard a skittering noise just outside. He snapped fully awake almost at once, alert, spike-fringed neck arched up and outward as he listened. Quickly but carefully he crept forward, slipping to the edge of the niche and peering down and around.

It took him but a moment to spot it--a small creature, fluffy with brown-grey fur, nosing about where he'd apparently missed a few dead bugs in the rocks.

He hesitated, at first, for a beat. Though his instinct had fully kicked in--the heart of a predator urging him to leap down, to pounce and to kill--his common sense made him hesitate. The rat was likely heavier than he was.

The dragon lifted his head, sniffing. He could catch the faint odor of the animal--warmth, urine, meat. Hunger flickered in his belly and he spread his billowing wings, leaping out as quietly as he could. His ridged tail ruddered, eyes locked on the rat, and he swept down, opening his jaws. If he could stun it with heat, as he had with the fish, and the bugs...

His body was horizontal as he lept forth, and as the wings caught air with a quiet ruffle, fell mostly vertical. He flapped them once, and as the rat instinctively turned to flee, let out a jet of superheated air. The animal turned, skittering sideways, squeaking in pain and alarm, and Dread swept clumsily down, sinking his hind talons into its fur and skin--fierce triumph rippling through him.

The rat, stunned, pained and squeaking, thrashed and turned. Sharp teeth gnashed into his limbs, and though his hide would one day be thickly armored, the rat's incisors for now were far sharper. They ripped through his leg, tearing at flesh--and his own talons tightened, his wings flapping over the downed creature like a bird of prey's. He hissed angrily down at it, rage fuelled by the pain, and struck down, biting here and there with small, pointed, back-curved teeth of his own.

He felt fur in his mouth, and the parting of meat, and the taste of blood; the creature struggled harder. He bit at its neck, and head, inflicting rows of tiny lacerations all over it; he then hopped back, flailing it upward and shaking it hard. It hurt his neck--the thing was heavy--but after a few brisk shakes, it stopped moving. He dropped it down, again hunching over it like a hawk or an eagle with its prey, panting and glancing about.

He hadn't drawn any undue attention, at least. Nothing else was coming to steal his prize. Quickly, he began to tear at the rat with fangs and talons, disemboweling it, snapping up the warm meat with ravenous hunger.

Blood quickly streaked his dark-scaled face.

Soon there was nothing left but broken limbs and fur that fluttered gently in the cave's mild air currents. Dread hopped back, shaking himself out, licking the gore from his jaws and stretching his wings before folding them back down.

After feeding, the little dragon hopped down to the water's edge. He drank, cautious as ever that something might erupt from the depths and snatch him down--and quickly retreated again.

It hurt to walk, he realized; and looking down, he saw that red liquid streaking down his leg. He knew the stuff tasted good--he'd tasted the rat's--and he licked at it cautiously--but the place hurt, and the blood kept coming. His neck-spines bristled up in dislike at this, and again his instinct took over his actions.

He inhaled, but instead of the shimmering hot air he was used to, he felt something else burn through him. It hurt. Quickly he hopped back, giving a few pained shrieking squeaks not unlike the rat's death cries--and skittered right back to the water, gulping down a few splashes of the stuff to cool the pain in his throat.

At least the water soothed the wound. He waited there, hissing a few times, half-closing his ember eyes--but never fully, just in case something else came. He rested, full and heavy, spines erect in pain, but always alert in case of danger.

The bleeding went on for only a little while longer; he licked the place, and left the water's edge, and eventually it stopped. He crept into his niche, to rest.

Hours passed; night fell. More hours passed, and morning came again.

He awoke groggy, but feeling strong and content--full, warm. He stretched his wings and yawned, rolling in his hoard of pretty pebbles, then clambered out. He had eaten, drank, his wound was minor. The air outside was balmy, pleasant.

And his wings felt stronger. He stretched, flapped them, looking around; the lights high above again drew his attention. He wanted to see what they were.

He stretched for a time longer, then leapt from his niche, flapping his billowing wings. The finger-bones again spread as leathery skin caught air, and his lithe, lightweight little lizardlike body dangled for a moment. He remembered the mistakes of last time--this time, he kept close to the cave wall, so he could try to grab onto some stones should he grow tired. If he failed, well, at least he would glide down, this time, and not simply plummet.

He went up, and up--and eventually, he felt his wings grow tired. Well, there was a little outcropping along the cave wall, regardless; he angled for it, flapping unsteadily, hovering there. Eventually talons scraped over stone, and he balanced on this new and precarious perch--he hadn't made the cave ceiling, not yet, but he was close.

He turned, peering down at the cave below: Fornax from so high was terribly large. The lake was far more vast than he'd realized, and it scared him with its endless dark--this was, for him, the entire world. So much dark water... The baby dragon didn't like it.

Dread looked over the tiny islands dotted through the water; they would be difficult to fly to and, somehow, he didn't trust them. Too easy for something big to launch from the lake and swallow him whole--no, he'd avoid those, he thought. Likewise the thick foliage over on the far side of his big island--too unsafe.

He turned and peered upward, resting his wings, eyes on the lights high above--his goal.

He was still optimistic, still content. Perhaps the bright light was bolstering his mood, but he thought he could do it.

Had anyone looked up, they might have seen the tiny black-brown speck high on the cave walls, perched on the teensy rock outcrop that barely held him. Eventually he leapt forth, once he felt sufficiently rested, spreading those tiny billowing wings once more and catching Fornax's warm air. This time he felt lifted, almost; the updraft raised him higher almost on its own. This was new to him, and for a moment he faltered, nearly tumbling from the air as he struggled to beat his wings; after a brief fall he caught the column again, and cautiously, shakily unsteady on its pillar, rose higher.

He beat his wings, struggling, aiming for the roof. He wanted to see what those pinpricks of light so high above were. And if there was a hole, well, he'd try to shoot right through it--if cautiously--and see what lay beyond.

The closer he got, the more his wings and chest and back ached. Even more, now, he felt the wounds from the day prior--wounds that had stopped hurting, but now, with the strain of flight, bit at him. Still, he pressed on, peering up--until he could see, in the distance, that the roof here was but crystal.

A high-pitched cry of frustration rang out, and he turned, banking from his unsteady, struggled wingbeats. A single final beat of wings and he settled into a long glide, looking down over Fornax below.

The cave was truly vast. Below glittered the water with its myriad islands, and the single crescent one with water lapping at its shores. He let out another cry, listening to it echo through the cave, liking the sound of his own voice. It was easier, he found, to glide than to fly, and the warm air kept him from falling too quickly. He relaxed some, settling into this, giving a cry now and then--a sound that would, given time enough and survival, become a roar.

He banked, circling slowly lower and lower as his altitude dropped, wings billowed out to either side. Where ought he to land? He didn't want to have to deal with the snake, again. It would kill him, undoubtedly, but for now he could see no sign.

The ground seemed to be coming up far too quickly, and he began to beat his wings, alarmed. His descent slowed, but he still crashed into the loose stones, tumbling head over heels and skidding for some distance. He dragged himself back up, blinking and shaking himself.

Well, it hadn't been a good landing--but it had been, at least, a good flight.