Blight, alongside Svartis, began to flap skywards. For each of Svartis' great, powerful wing-beats, Blight's tiny appendages slapped the air five or six rapid, struggling times. His little body bobbed, long tail thrashing at the air as he tried to keep airborne.

It was clear that he was still very new to this whole 'flying' thing, and despite his wish and eagerness to stay aloft on his own, he might not have the stamina for a true hunt. Still, for now he didn't falter, instead scanning the ground below with glowing eyes.

Distant movement had him squeak in excitement, and nearly fall from the sky--missing a wing-beat and dropping several meters. And then he made a mistake that, in some, might have haunted them for many years afterward, the memory drifting back to return with dark-faced cringing at the still hours of the night.

Luckily, Blight was still very young and oblivious, and wouldn't really care.

We all have our little brain misfires. Blight was still very young, and he began to call out Svartis' name, but the thrill of spotting prey short-circuited his mind. He remembered, halfway through, that Svartis was his new Dad (!) but he'd already begun to call out.

What he blurted, then, was neither 'Svartis!' nor 'Dad!' but-

"SVARDAD!" followed quickly by, "There!" Tiny body tumbled, then streaked with surprising speed (probably half-falling, half-gliding, in truth) toward a distant cave deer off near the Throne.

It took the hatchling a moment to catch up with Svartis, but when he did he at first passed him, bobbing unsteadily along in the air. When he realized that Svartis had paused--even landed--he turned back, doing a double-take (and peering confusedly after the deer, or at least, where it had gone) before wobbling back.

He nearly tumbled from the air, catching himself at the last second with a wavering grasp of wings, dropping the last foot or so with a wince. But it seemed good enough; he toddled quickly toward Svartis, peering up at him.

"Why did you stop?" he asked, confused, glancing off into the ruins. Surely Svartis could fly faster than a deer could run-? But the idea of magic not working, at least, seemed familiar to the baby, and he laughed in that unintentionally hysterical sort of way. Apparently, failing magic was just the funniest thing, and--too young to really register that it might come across as insulting (though really it was more nonsensical than anything)--he kept laughing for a long few moments after.

"You spat snowflakes," he said at last, grinning brightly up at 'Dad.'

The lesson about wingspan came and went, Blight only about half-hearing it. It wasn't that he was ignoring Svartis, or indeed even wandering in terms of attention. It was just that he was so tiny that the concept was a little beyond him.

Snow, though-!

He turned, and leapt for it. He spun and danced, flapping and falling, scampering along the ground, wide-eyed, at first, then laughing. Tiny jaws snapped for it. After only a moment, though, he pulled away and blinked, licking one off his snout and shivering.

"They're-" (a pause, as he searched for the word) "Cold!"

Blight wing-walked awkwardly backward a few paces, squinting up quizzically into the now-fading flakes. "Why are they cold?" he then asked, fixing Svartis with the blank gaze of the utterly innocent.

Surely the older dragon would know-?

He listened, rapt, but all interest in the snow vanished the second "not up for" emerged from Svartis' mouth.

"I AM!" Blight squealed, without explaining what, exactly, he "was" (the answer being, up for another hunt). Some spark of what might have been in store in his future--a fierce and restless nature--reared its head, and the hatchling turned and flew like a bumblebee, bobbing and smacking off terrain, for the ruins.

He vanished in among the broken buildings, and there were comedic sounds of scuffling and a few muttered cries of "oof" and the like.

And then, a single, small red rat--perhaps a foot long--came scrambling out at top speed. It raced toward Svartis, and off to one side--and then paused.

And sneezed.

Blight came tumbling out after it, dropping onto wings and legs, yelling: "Get it! Get it! I made it SICK!"

He hurriedly wing-waddled after it, though it was near Svartis by now. Caves only knew how the hell he'd found one that quickly--luck, perhaps--but he seemed too slow to actually catch the thing himself.

For a moment, the look of horrified betrayal on Blight's face said it all: he thought Svartis was about to eat the mouse himself! -But the black dragon left him enough, more than enough; and Blight blinked and settled down to it.

Wings clumsily pinned the body as he pulled free chunks of food, tossing his head back to swallow them down. In between bites, he answered.

"SICK! You-..."(gulp) "do ice! I do sick," he explained cheerfully. It wasn't really clear to him that eating a sick thing (at least, if you weren't the Gembound possessing the magic and illness harmlessly) might make the eater sick. And yes, there was every chance Svartis might immediately show symptoms.

Luckily, Blight's magic was restricted, as yet, to bouts of sneezing--a little annoying, perhaps, but certainly nothing dangerous or even weakening.

The baby paused, tail swishing slowly to and fro behind him, and licked his jaws as he looked up to Svartis, meal finished. For a moment, it seemed he'd come to some grand idea; perhaps he was realizing that he might've inadvertently sickened the black dragon-?

"I wonder if it could... could snow SICK. Or--or sneeze snow!" The hatchling dissolved into another fit of giggles, the idea tickling his toddlers' fancy.

No; he hadn't figured anything out. Oh well.