(no subject)
Lindir tried to ignore the whelpling again.
He piled the mithril ore up, ready to melt it away from the rock, and the dragonling sniffed at it curiously. Lindir brushed it aside as he added more ore. The fat little thing perched on the edge of the cart and watched as Lindir filtered the molten mithril away into molds, set to cool.
the dragonling squeaked, flapped into the air, and breathed a cone of fire on lindir's pile of raw ore, lighting the cart on fire.
"No!" Lindir shouted. "Oh, look what you've done, damn it!"
A hasty bucket of water extinguished the cart, and the dragonling looked confused.
Lindir ignored it.
.o.O.o.
A cooking fire takes not just kindling and a bunch of sticks. A cooking fire is art, and Lindir had a nice starting cone of good sized twigs set, with thicker cured woods waiting to add once the fire was going.
He turned his back, and the Dragonling chuffed, and--
"No!"
The little dragonling looked confused again, while the carefully laid starter burned in a heap of disarray.
"i *hate* dragons. hate them! Why the hell did that meddling red give me her child? I don't want you. I don't like you! Go away, go away! Leave me alone!"
The little dragonling cringed, head retreating into the hunch of shoulder and wing. Lindir ignored it, but he clenched his fists.
.o.O.o.
Lindir ignored the dragonling and cllimbed up a loose rock scree, spotting the glint of a mithril vein before him. The dragonling flew this way, and that, stopping at plants thrust up through cracks in the stone, and sniffed them. Stupid thing. Lindir set his pick and swung, his back resolutely turned.
He heard an angry squeal, a deeper roar, and then a *chuff.*
He turned around to see one of the area's prowling cats, singed and fighting with the dragonling, who flew this way and that, little wings flapping furiously as it breathed fire and slashed with its talons. But from the effort, the little dragon was tiring.
Lindir knew it didn't take much to kill them, that young.
One cast penance and the cat was on him, snarling and biting at lindir's spell of protection, and the dragonling raged harder, shredding at its ears to make it turn back to fight, distracting the cat long enough for Lindir to finish it off.
The dragonling flopped down near the carcass, breathing hard, wings held low, and looked up at Lindir with a bright, enquiring eye.
"Yeah, go ahead," Lindir grumbled.
The dragonling nodded once, and began to eat. Lindir watched it for a moment, and then set a gentle healing spell on the little whelp.
It chirruped happily, and followed Lindir down the hill to the camp, where a cured cooking fire waited.
.o.O.o.
"I don't know why the hell Rhea gave you to me. Me, of all people! I hate dragons. My best friend hates dragons. Same reason I do, actually," Lindir tells the hovering whelp between mouthfuls of lentil stew and injera bread. "I don't know why she did what she did. Why'd she care more about some black dragon egg than you? and your brother or sister or whatever that egg bloody Deathwing torched was going to be. and then gave *you* away, to some dragon hater. She's a bad mother, is what she is." Munch, munch. "You got a bad deal, whelp. hey!"
The dragonling nosed Lindir's hands aside and got into the priest's lap. "Get *off!* I'm not a perch! Stop that!"
The little dragon's body was warm, warmer than the rapidly cooling night of the badlands. "Oh, I guess you will catch chill. It's hot during the day, but it cools down fast."
The little dragon sighed, and its breath smelled like burnt matchsticks.
Lindir liked that smell.
.o.O.o.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," Lindir said, and the whelpling stretches up to bump his--her--snout against, Lindir's nose.
"No, be serious, you need taking care of and I don't know anything about taking care of dragons. and I don't like dragons anyway, so I don't want to take care of you--hey! watch the hair!" Lindir squawked as the dragonling shot past--and chuffed.
A yowl made Lindir spin around, and the whelpling fluttered around the body of another prowling cat - not as mean as a badlands prowler, and so the little red dragonling was able to vanquish it on her own, her expression as she flapped around proud and triumphant.
"Oh well done," Lindir said, and the dragon shot towards the blonde priest for cuddles.
Lindir hugged the whelp before letting her go on and eat.
.o.O.o.
Kae didn't have any bright ideas on what to do about Rhea's whelp, and Lindir knew he couldn't stay out of orgrimmar forever. But he didn't know anyone else who could take care of Baby, and Baby... loved him. She always wanted to be nearby, had bonded with him, had taken on protection and a hunting partnership with him, and always wanted to be the one to light the fire - gently, she understood. And she understood what he said to her - at least some of it, even if she was too young to talk back. Was she too young? He didn't know.
And he didn't know any dragons to ask.
And Nathrae? nathrae was going to *flip.*
He piled the mithril ore up, ready to melt it away from the rock, and the dragonling sniffed at it curiously. Lindir brushed it aside as he added more ore. The fat little thing perched on the edge of the cart and watched as Lindir filtered the molten mithril away into molds, set to cool.
the dragonling squeaked, flapped into the air, and breathed a cone of fire on lindir's pile of raw ore, lighting the cart on fire.
"No!" Lindir shouted. "Oh, look what you've done, damn it!"
A hasty bucket of water extinguished the cart, and the dragonling looked confused.
Lindir ignored it.
.o.O.o.
A cooking fire takes not just kindling and a bunch of sticks. A cooking fire is art, and Lindir had a nice starting cone of good sized twigs set, with thicker cured woods waiting to add once the fire was going.
He turned his back, and the Dragonling chuffed, and--
"No!"
The little dragonling looked confused again, while the carefully laid starter burned in a heap of disarray.
"i *hate* dragons. hate them! Why the hell did that meddling red give me her child? I don't want you. I don't like you! Go away, go away! Leave me alone!"
The little dragonling cringed, head retreating into the hunch of shoulder and wing. Lindir ignored it, but he clenched his fists.
.o.O.o.
Lindir ignored the dragonling and cllimbed up a loose rock scree, spotting the glint of a mithril vein before him. The dragonling flew this way, and that, stopping at plants thrust up through cracks in the stone, and sniffed them. Stupid thing. Lindir set his pick and swung, his back resolutely turned.
He heard an angry squeal, a deeper roar, and then a *chuff.*
He turned around to see one of the area's prowling cats, singed and fighting with the dragonling, who flew this way and that, little wings flapping furiously as it breathed fire and slashed with its talons. But from the effort, the little dragon was tiring.
Lindir knew it didn't take much to kill them, that young.
One cast penance and the cat was on him, snarling and biting at lindir's spell of protection, and the dragonling raged harder, shredding at its ears to make it turn back to fight, distracting the cat long enough for Lindir to finish it off.
The dragonling flopped down near the carcass, breathing hard, wings held low, and looked up at Lindir with a bright, enquiring eye.
"Yeah, go ahead," Lindir grumbled.
The dragonling nodded once, and began to eat. Lindir watched it for a moment, and then set a gentle healing spell on the little whelp.
It chirruped happily, and followed Lindir down the hill to the camp, where a cured cooking fire waited.
.o.O.o.
"I don't know why the hell Rhea gave you to me. Me, of all people! I hate dragons. My best friend hates dragons. Same reason I do, actually," Lindir tells the hovering whelp between mouthfuls of lentil stew and injera bread. "I don't know why she did what she did. Why'd she care more about some black dragon egg than you? and your brother or sister or whatever that egg bloody Deathwing torched was going to be. and then gave *you* away, to some dragon hater. She's a bad mother, is what she is." Munch, munch. "You got a bad deal, whelp. hey!"
The dragonling nosed Lindir's hands aside and got into the priest's lap. "Get *off!* I'm not a perch! Stop that!"
The little dragon's body was warm, warmer than the rapidly cooling night of the badlands. "Oh, I guess you will catch chill. It's hot during the day, but it cools down fast."
The little dragon sighed, and its breath smelled like burnt matchsticks.
Lindir liked that smell.
.o.O.o.
"I don't know what I'm going to do with you," Lindir said, and the whelpling stretches up to bump his--her--snout against, Lindir's nose.
"No, be serious, you need taking care of and I don't know anything about taking care of dragons. and I don't like dragons anyway, so I don't want to take care of you--hey! watch the hair!" Lindir squawked as the dragonling shot past--and chuffed.
A yowl made Lindir spin around, and the whelpling fluttered around the body of another prowling cat - not as mean as a badlands prowler, and so the little red dragonling was able to vanquish it on her own, her expression as she flapped around proud and triumphant.
"Oh well done," Lindir said, and the dragon shot towards the blonde priest for cuddles.
Lindir hugged the whelp before letting her go on and eat.
.o.O.o.
Kae didn't have any bright ideas on what to do about Rhea's whelp, and Lindir knew he couldn't stay out of orgrimmar forever. But he didn't know anyone else who could take care of Baby, and Baby... loved him. She always wanted to be nearby, had bonded with him, had taken on protection and a hunting partnership with him, and always wanted to be the one to light the fire - gently, she understood. And she understood what he said to her - at least some of it, even if she was too young to talk back. Was she too young? He didn't know.
And he didn't know any dragons to ask.
And Nathrae? nathrae was going to *flip.*