hunting a dragon
The fog swirled around Prospero’s legs as he trudged through the misty Chronoscape. Its blue curtain clung tightly to the world, and he could barely see beyond the next tree in the ancient forest. He kept his ears tuned to the sounds of the world, but they were as alien as ever. Gurgles, growling, keens, and croons kept popping up near and far. Chasing the sounds would do no good, but keeping his ears peeled would keep him safe. Without a chronocompass of some sort, the only thing he had to go off of was the information right in front of him. The ground was full of information—how long ago something had passed by, what sort of creature it was, its weight, its diet, and so on. Food could be gleaned from the plants, presuming they were edible. Spoors were the most important part of his journeys. A fresh spoor meant fresh prey, and tracking it would lead him somewhere concrete. Of course, finding it in the first place involved trekking through all kinds of times, but the tracks themselves connected him physically to their path. As long as he followed them quickly, their times would converge, and he would have his quarry.
Before him lay the footprints of a reptile, freshly left behind. It followed a straight path and ignored the dens and hollows of the smaller creatures. Its purpose was something other than food, and that meant it likely had a Rider. He could at least identify it as a dragon—the toes were too skinny for a megalania, and the depth of the prints too shallow and sure for a quinkana. Still, there was no telling if it was feral or elemental in nature. The claws were reptilian in nature, but that could include a Fire, Earth, or Wind dragon just as easily as a feral. Elemental dragons were troublesome prey, but a successful hunt was worth the effort. Feral dragons were far easier—less coordinated, with no magic to worry about—but their harvest brought in fewer Silvence. He said a quiet prayer, wishing for a Wind dragon. They were the easiest to deal with. Never mind that this dragon appeared grounded.
The realm grew darker as he went on, but fireflies lit the path before him. They buzzed close to the footprints, which were growing more difficult to track with each step. They were still fresh, but the ground was growing too moist. Was the hunt still viable? The mud had even started clinging at his own boots. He reluctantly removed his boots and swapped to his sandals instead. The boots had too much grip, and weren’t suitable for this sort of terrain. The soft leather of the sandals offered a quiet approach, even if it meant staining them a bit.
Murmurs and the panting of a large beast started to echo from in front of him. The sounds could be mirages—figments of a time long past—but the tracks were here before him. He was close. He slowed his pursuit, peering into the haze before him. The silhouette of a large beast loomed ahead. Its horns were large and jutted straight from the sides of its head. The leather wings flapped lightly at its sides as it clambered loudly through the mud, helping it to balance. The tail was tufted and swung back and forth. Prospero was careful to approach now—to keep the dragon in sight even as he broke from the tracks. It had the makings of a light dragon, though fire was also an option. If it was feral, it was quite a breed, with rare traits that would fetch a fortune among collectors. A Rider was perched atop its back, lightly holding the reins and offering encouraging words. He grinned. Feral, then. There was no mental connection if they needed to speak out loud. This would be easy.
No matter what sort of eyes it had, it would have a blind spot directly behind its tail. Prospero gripped the whip at his side, ready to release. The wings were the obvious target. He had no idea why the dragon was grounded when it seemed perfectly capable of flight, but it was convenient for him, and he wanted to keep it that way.
“Only a bit longer, and that will be enough for today.” The dragon snorted its annoyance, but the Rider continued. “You’ll never get stronger unless you use your legs, too.”
Prospero peered at the Rider; It would be problematic if he turned around. As he grew ever closer to the duo, the silhouettes resolved into shapes. The Rider had feathered wings and a long tail tucked close to the dragon’s back. The flight feathers were long, even as the wings were furled; they were the feathers of a bird of prey. The feathers in his hair were enough to confirm that they were a Quetzalcoatl. Prospero immediately stopped in his tracks. He wanted nothing to do with them. Quetzalcoatl were dangerous game. They could easily shred a party of poachers. A Quetzalcoatl with a dragon was an anomaly, but a danger nonetheless. Even more troubling was the egg in its hands. It did not belong to the Rider.
The dragon suddenly stopped, its tongue flicking out to smell the mist. The stagnant air did nothing to help Prospero hide his scent. It arched its neck high now, its head twisting to peer towards him. Its golden markings began to glow, illuminating the Rider on its back. There was no doubt it was a Quetzalcoatl now, and they now followed the gaze of their dragon. Prospero gripped the whip at his side; He could quickly attack, catch it off guard, and maybe kill it. The dragon might be a problem, but blood magic was nothing to trifle with, and the fangs of a feathered serpent were not something he felt like taking. He could run, too, but they may hunt him. Even if his steed wasn’t hungry, the Rider himself could still be ravenous. But would it be safer than fighting the serpent directly? Would it be safer than leaving the egg behind?
Their eyes locked. Too slow. The serpent’s eyes widened, and he hissed out quietly. “It’s you.” The dragon whirled around, claws slicing through the mud as it tried to find its bearings. The position was tense, but not defensive. The Quetzalcoatl remained seated, and unless he was responsible for the pounding of his heart, it wasn’t using blood magic on him. There was a stillness between them. He should have done something then, while he could. The dragon and its Rider had their guard down. But his hands were cold now—trembling, unsure. Then—“Prospero.”