The young dragon shivered in the algid bloom of frost, sneeze or not, produced by Svartis.

At the big dragon's offer, he considered.

"Okay!" he decided--but not before plodding over to the mouse carcass, oblivious to his "dad's" sneezing, to eat it.

It was very unlikely that Blight would, in fact, be able to pick up frosty magic too quickly, if at all; his power was oriented to prokaryote, and perhaps shadow, for now. But his enthusiasm was real, at least, and he toddled up to Svartis with clumsy wing-walking, mouse remains in his jaws, and sat awkwardly before him. After gulping down the last of the heavy (for the baby, at least) meal, he looked up, waiting, attentive and bright-eyed.

So Blight's sojourn into caves unknown had brought him to this point: sitting attentively before a sneezing black dragon a hundred times his size, watching closely as the larger dragon essentially vomited snow.

He watched. He sat, coiled plump and tiny, that permanent grin twisting up his features as bright green-glowing eyes blinked.

He observed the drift of flakes spinning and melting in the air.

And when it was his turn, Blight concentrated, opening his own jaws, thinking about his magicka, his butter jade flickering green.

And, quietly, he burped.

Paused.

Considered... sniffing the air.

"Not snow," he informed Svartis, matter-of-factly.

Svartis' sneeze sent Blight into another round of hysterical giggles, the hatchling leaping into the air and spinning there with flaps of his little wings.

Then he turned, lowering himself down again, and yawning--tiring, perhaps, from all the excitement--but looked to Svartis again. Again, he tried to summon up snow which--wouldn't work; but perhaps he'd make something else, quite by accident.

What he coughed up definitely wasn't snow. It wasn't even visible, and he stared, perma-smiling, at nothing.

Blight looked to the black dragon afterward with a squint. "Show again?" he requested, and then--as if remembering some long-ago tidbit of conversation--"What is Dad-Dad like?"

Blight very clearly delighted in the display, unenthusiastic as it may have been, squealing and flapping back excitedly. It took a moment for this round of giggles to wear off.

Warm, and loud? Blight thought about this, and then, at length, fixed Svartis with a knowing expression. He then spoke, magnanimously: "You can still be my real dad," he informed the black dragon.

And then, after another moment's thought: "Can I meet Dad-Dad? I have--have not!--seen a windy room!" The brief pause for correcting his own confused, childish wording gave way to an excited, hopeful peer, despite the little dragon's obviously-encroaching weariness: he yawned again, large, tiny needle-teeth glinting in Orion's dim light.

He squinted up earnestly, and at the teasing challenge blinked, puffing himself up and trying, pridefully, to not fall asleep.

He bobbed, blinking, and stifled a yawn.

"NO," he assured Svartis, and then hesitated as he realized he'd forgot the wording of the question. "-Yes! -I won't fall asleep!" he insisted.

He remembered, then, that Svartis had offered to carry him before, and so he paused, with a child's questionable cunning. "...But can you carry me?" he asked, his tone plaintive.

Obviously, that wasn't related to his being tired, at all.