I’ve been traveling now for what feels like forever, but I’m not old enough to have gone that long. I guess I’m what you would call a “child,� if I was human. But me? No. I’m a dragon. I’m about 10 years old, which would equate to a weanling. I am, however, fully grown…or as close to it as I’m going to get. I was the runt of the clutch, and my sire was disappointed, but Mama didn’t care. She loved me all the same. And I was the only female. Ok, ok, so out of four eggs, one female isn’t too bad. Sire was happy that he got his big, strong males to carry on his line, but he refuses to claim me as his own. To him…he only has three offspring this season. That’s fine by me. I don’t look much like him, either. He’s a big, strong red dragon and Mama was like me - a blue. But they fell in love and Sire got his three male reds, and me.
At this point in my life, I’m about the size of a Clydesdale, if you don’t count my tail and neck. Body size I’m about 17 hands at the shoulder. My tail is long and whip-like, ending in a spaded end. My wing span is about 20 feet across - you know - they have to be able to hold my weight. My eyes are a sapphire blue, though I’ve never seen them. I’m armor-plated and have twin horns on my head, sharp teeth, and long claws t hat are great for ripping and tearing my prey into bite-sized morsels. But I don’t use them often. My brothers always tore into deer and wild pigs and the like - Sire was proud, but Mama said that they would over-hunt the area … and they did. I didn’t fit in, so I left. That…and it was weaning time. Sire drove out the boys, but he wasn’t violent like most dragons are. Not this time.
But back to my story. I’ve traveled for ages and am tired. I’m dirty, hungry, and I have a tear in my left wing, rendering it mostly useless. I’m barely crawling along on my soft belly, feeling every rock and stick that pokes into me. I’m bloodied, staining my multiple-shades-of-blue scales with the crimson. Hey - there’s one way to make Sire proud - come home a red. But that will never happen. Mama would have to kill me. Once a clutch is hatched and weaned, they don’t come back unless they disgrace the clan, and then they go to their parent, explain the deed, and they are slain. I guess it would be the equivalent of the Kamikazes of Japan. Only I don’t get a helmet or goggles.
I have finally reached what appears to be a civilization - and I smell fish. My stomach rumbles loudly and I’m afraid that someone will be convinced it is me growling. I haven’t growled at anything in a while now. I’m too weak, too tired, too hungry! But I think I just mentioned that. My sapphire eyes take in the sights before me - people and other races with food, weapons, animals. Oh they all look so delicious! But I am too weak to try and kill, and as I know I mentioned - I don’t kill just because I can. So I bleated softly, much like the sound of a deer being slain - not that the author has heard that noise, mind you. My eyes beg for help, won’t someone help me? Feed me? Train me? Love me?
