The dragon was very sick, it knew, save for a miracle, it would not survive until its egg hatched. A human woman with an infant, kind, even if very poor. The egg gifted, a vision given, please take care of my child. The hatchling loved the human as if she had given birth to it. And loved its human sibling very much to. -- Anon Guest
Time runs away from all of us. We like to believe we have more than we get. I had thought that the Dragons were lucky to have millennia, but even millennia end. I found that out when I was given my Dragon son. I already had a child of the between kind, quite happy to be neither boy nor girl but enjoy life regardless. But that's neither here nor there... as we frequently joke.
My son came to me by other means. Adventurers steal children. City folk find them in middens or in the gutter. Farmers find them in the woods. Well. Most farmers do. I got mine when a Dragon gifted him to me.
I was teaching my child to plough when the Dragon lit in the fallow field, one leg tucked up near her chest like it was injured. I went running, not for the pitchforks, but for the Dragon. She wasn't going to harm us, and it's always good luck to help a Dragon in need.
She was sick. Very sick. Her scales were pale and dull. It must have taken all her energy just to get to us. As I approached, I saw why her forelimb was like that. She was carrying an egg.
"You... must care... for the one inside," she managed. "Please. My life is ending. Let there be hope... for the new."
Of course I took it in, and set it by my hearth where it would stay nice and warm. I'm told that anything of a Dragon can fetch a tidy sum. Dragon scales, blood, bone... other bodily fluids. Even the egg I was handed could have made us rich.
She was a mother with a dying wish. I do not hold the disrespect necessary to do that to her. I got a bunch of other farmers to carry her with respect to a hollow and cover her up like you would for anyone who'd died. We even planted trees and sod there to keep her safe. It's called Dragonbarrow and it's sacred ground because we say it is. And we will be the ill luck happening to you if you dare try digging it up for treasure.
I tended the egg for a month. Turning it, cleaning it, telling it of its true-mother's demise. Introducing my own child by getting them to pass along stories they'd heard. When he hatched, he was not a pet. He was my son.
I called him Daubling because his scales are while like the daub of the house. Sure, he eats a lot, but there's plenty for him around here. Pigs grow quick off of what they root out of fallow fields, and they breed quick, too.
So no, rude stranger. I'm not selling my son for any price. Now you be quick on your way else your time will run out for you, too. See... my son here is old enough to get his breath in, and we're all right curious to see what he can do.
[Photo by Alyzah K on Unsplash]
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