Draconic - Chapter 6

I eventually fall asleep. Though I am certain of my ability to remain awake throughout the night (having slept once already earlier the same day), I do not want to walk through the next day like a zombie, and besides, it allows me to forget about my burnt-out throat which quite frankly won’t stop pestering me, making its presence clear with every breath. I am surprised by how easily I manage to summon forth sleep, though, as I find that even concentrating on wanting to fall asleep is enough to summon forth a grudging tiredness which actually does the job surprisingly well. Before I know it, I wake to the return of daylight, watching it illuminating the entrance and, through said entrance, letting in a dim glow which significantly weakens the shadows within my cave. Feeling remarkably well-rested, I make my way back out of the cave, feeling the sun’s light as it illuminates my right-side scales. I have made it away from immediate danger (or so I hope, at least), which means it is time to start learning.

Flight, I decide, is to be the thing I shall learn first. Of course, my stomach is already complaining about being empty (it was more than a whole day since I last ate, after all), but without my wings, catching anything would be exceedingly difficult. Not only would I be hard-pressed to actually find something, but I would be far too slow to keep up with whatever I would actually find. Besides, the ability to roam the skies with unrivaled freedom is highly tantalizing, and quite frankly, I can’t wait to learn how to use my wings properly. As such, I set my course towards the small, grassy field that remains close-by, and begin my training.

The following hours are filled with more crashes than I can count. I attack my self-imposed task with a stubborn zeal, leaping into the air again and again and again in my attempts to let my wings catch the air. Yet despite my vigor, each and every time it ends in failure, never allowing me to stay in the air for more than a few beats of my wings, at the most. I keep losing control – leering even slightly to one side soon sends me into a full-out spin, gradually making my body flatten more and more of the grass as I repeatedly fall onto it. I am doing something wrong, that much is clear, but maybe if I could just flap my wings faster, with more strength...

It takes quite a while before I figure out that I need to use my tail. Up until now it has just sort of followed me along without any real thought to its position, but when I suddenly get the idea to try and use my tailfins in order to stabilize myself -cursing the fact that I had been completely missing the obvious all along- my performance starts to improve. It is slow at first, since I am completely lacking in regards to knowledge on how to use my tail properly, but gradually, I start to get substantially better. Once dusk starts to encroach, I am tired-out and possessing a highly vocal, empty stomach (well, it is mentally vocal about it, at least), but my mood is still soaring high – I made it several meters into the air, almost halfway to the tree tops. Of course, that was just before flying head-first into one of the trees which the tops were attached to, but the point still stands. I actually flew. Oh this is great! I can't wait to get up into the skies for real. Flying amongst the clouds, watching the world from above, it all speaks to me in a primal, irresistible fashion.

As it turns out, falling asleep is a lot harder when one is stuffed to the brim with excitement. It takes quite a while for me to subdue my exalted mood -and steadily hungrier stomach- enough to let sleep in. However, I manage it, and before I know it, I wake again. It is still dark this time, if rather close to dawn, and as my stomach is now complaining loudly for sustenance I know right from the start that food simply has to be my focus this day. Real hunger, the strong kind, is not a pleasant sensation, and I would rather chase down food now than continue learning how to use my wings only to end up too weak to do either of them. However, whilst before it had almost seemed like the forest had been filled to the brim with life, now that I am actually looking for it I can't seem to find it anywhere.

The whole place is still and empty as I set out from my rocky dwelling, finding myself accompanied by a quiet, unnatural stillness hanging in the air. It is a stark contrast to the far more cheerful surroundings of yesterday, but then again, that might just be my hunger impacting my mood. With no real sense of direction, I roam the forest, hoping to come across something edible. Whilst the image in my head is practically identical to the piece of ham I ate a few days ago, I know quite well that the chance of running across a refrigerator filled with food in the middle of the forest is practically zero. I suppose, once I do run across something edible, I will find out what my meal will be.

The birds are the first ones to appear. Gradually, their song begins to fill the air, and the small avian creatures begin to whizz by above. I briefly consider trying to catch them, but it is painfully obvious how much more skill and grace they have with handling the air than I do, leading me to giving that possibility up before it has even begun. My throat doesn't hurt anymore, so the idea that I could try to set them aflame does visit my mind, but I eventually discard that as well. My aim is too poor, and I do not even know what the range is on my fire breath, not to mention the fact that it certainly takes quite a lot of energy to create that... stuff which my flames are fueled by. In essence, I simply believe that I would expend more energy than I would gain, making bird-hunting -at least in this stage- a fool's errand, unless I can catch one off-guard on the ground or something, and the birds aren't that stupid, surely. The rustling of a bush alerts me to the presence of another being. I turn, but barely get the time to blink before something rushes straight past me, disappearing into the underbrush once more. Whatever it was, it is gone now.

Over the course of the next several hours, I encounter several other beings. A few rabbits, which keep running away before I can get even remotely close, some small rodents, one of which I almost caught before it disappeared down into a small hole, too tiny for me to follow it through, and a large deer with a grand crown of horns, which I figure it would be wiser to steer clear of. My mood has soured remarkably by the point that the sun starts to set, returning home with a still-empty stomach. Hunting was a lot harder than I anticipated, and now I am suffering the consequence of my failure: going hungry. As the night drains away the birdsong, the growling of my stomach becomes the music to which I sleep. It is not until the afternoon of the next day that my luck begins to change.

Beneath a cloud-covered sky, touched by a slight drizzle of rain, I walk. The weather is not enough to make puddles or even mud beneath the shelter of the trees' canopies, but its presence proves sufficient to moisten the air and dampen the sky's light, partially draining the world of color. I am just strolling by another cluster of bushes, eyes and ears alert in search for something, anything to eat, when my interest is caught. The thing that catches it is a bird, more specifically a large crow lying on the ground some distance away. I approach. As it sees me, the dark-feathered bird tries to move, however it does not take off, and as it barely manages a stumble across the forest floor, I catch up to it within moments. Rather quickly, it becomes clear to me why the avian being did not take off. Its left wing is twisted at an angle that does not look even slightly natural, and as such flight is certainly beyond the bird's grasp now, even further away than my own. Pity flashes through my mind, but hunger soon overtakes it, and before I know it, I suddenly find that my limbs are pinning the injured bird to the ground, holding it down with sheer weight alone. The crow, overcome by terror, wiggles and pushes in its efforts to get away, but to little effect as I simply weigh too much for the injured being to push me away.

I've caught something, I realize, looking down at the crow beneath my feet. However, the revelation is accompanied by a second realization: now that I actually have caught something, I do not really know what to do with it. It's a bird, not a prepared piece of ham. What do I do with this thing? Specifically, how do I turn... this into food? I can't very well eat a bird which was crawling under my feet moments ago. Talk about awkward.

An audible snap sounds from within the bird. It stills, ceasing all movement. Is... is it dead? Did I just kill another being? What? How? Did I crush it or something? Does this make me a monster?

...I wonder how it tastes. With that thought, my question is swept away like leaves in the wind. Of course I am not a monster. I've eaten meat before, and I wasn't a monster then, so why would I become one just because I shortened the meat's path between death and mouth? Now how am I going to taste this thing? There's feathers practically everywhere on it, and I do not really think that those would taste very good at all. Then again, I wouldn't know that until I have actually tried it, and so I hesitantly lower my head, preparing to take a bite out of my kill. I open my mouth, and my teeth descend, biting into the dead creature despite the fact that I feel rather awkward doing so.

Feathers, I notice, do not taste much of anything. However, the taste beneath catches me by surprise. By the merit of not being cooked, I had expected the crow to taste bad, but when I bite into it, the sensations are overwhelming, and my instincts take over. The ham may have tasted good, but this is better by far. Amplified by my hunger, the flesh of the bird tastes better than the greatest of gourmet meals, with a symphony of flavors all working together to create a taste for which there are no words to describe. The raw meat poses an intense, strong flavor, overpowering in its sheer excellence of taste. Blood flows along with it, providing a softer compliment for the stronger flesh from which it came, and the cracking of bones supports it all, granting solidity and opening up to reveal the bone-marrow, which is probably the best part of the entire thing. I tear into it, and before I even know what is going on, the bird is just... gone, leaving naught save for a carpet of bloodied feathers spread across the ground and sticking to my scales. What just happened? I- I lost control. I just tore that bird into pieces like some... some beast. No, no, this isn't happening! I'm not going to become a mindless monster! Surely I can control myself better than this. I may need to kill for my food, but at the very least I can do it with some dignity, instead of making such a mess. Now look at my scales. They have gone all bloody and dirty.

After a while, the sudden horror over my lack of control fades away, replaced by a minor embarrassment at the state of my scales. I will have to clean myself off somewhere, maybe with the grass-field near my cave. Grass should work pretty good, or so I guess. With that in consideration, I continue moving, discovering to my dissatisfaction that I am still hungry, and thus, my hunting efforts will have to continue.

Later the same day, I catch a small rodent. It wasn't so much a case of skill as it was of quick reflexes, as it ran by rather close only to be slammed into the ground by a swift movement of my tail. I am still surprised that I actually hit it. The tiny, furry animal is small enough for me to consume in one bite, so after quickly making sure that I did in fact kill it (however accidental it may have been), I simply swallow it whole after a few moments of uncertainty. The fur in itself does not really taste much, and as I neglect to chew it (half for fear of somehow managing to splatter down my scales again), I don't really find much else in the way of taste. It does, however, tickle my throat on its way down, almost triggering a sneeze of some sort, though I manage to stop that whole ordeal from taking place. As I had planned, I clean my scales off in the grass and, though I am not wholly successful, they are at least cleaner than before.

Day after day comes and goes. I catch something here, do a little bit of flying practice there, and though my hunger never fully leaves, I at least manage to stay alive, and my skills slowly but steadily begin to grow. After a while, the days start to blend together as I begin to lose track of them, and before long I find myself wondering how many have actually passed. Somewhere around two, maybe three weeks, but the actual number of days I find exceedingly hard to pinpoint, and that is from someone who is -or at least used to be- rather good at keeping track of her days. I suppose I should be thankful that I have managed to keep some manner of grip over their count, though.

However, this day is worth noting, at least if my plan works. Through a generous dose of effort and liberal use of my claws, I have managed to climb one of the place's taller trees, a birch tree to be exact. Now, my plan is, if I can just take off from here, I should be able to fly high enough to get me past the forest's main tree canopy and up into the skies! Now, step one, climb out on a branch where I can actually fold out my wings...

Safely nestled in the crook of a naturally splitting trunk (with my tail hanging lazily off to the side), I look around, my eyes searching for a suitable branch. There are quite a few of them, but the one that looks the most promising, giving me enough space whilst still not looking too un-sturdy, is pretty much straight to my left, and so I get up and carefully begin to make my way over there. The branch creaks ominously as I move out onto it, but seems to be supporting my weight, at least for now. Below me, the ground is quite the distance away, but I do not really seem to have any fear of height (at least none that I have noticed thus far), and so I am not even the slightest bit intimidated. With the branch still making ominous groaning noises, I carefully fold out my wings, taking special care not to tangle my left wing in that one branch which seems to be placed where it is for the sole purpose of being in the way. With the branch being just on the edge of the miniature meadow, there is a spot of clear sky ahead of me, more than enough space for me to get through provided I manage to climb fast enough.

I prepare to leap, my feet push downwards and -crack!- the branch promptly decides that enough is enough, snapping off just behind me. With that single motion, my oh-so-perfect plan suddenly encounters a solid dose of failure, and though my wings keep me from plummeting uncontrollably, it is not really the glorious ascent I had planned for, either. I start to leer a bit to my left, dangerously close to triggering an unstoppable spin, but unlike a week ago I now have knowledge on how to stop such a thing from happening, and the crisis is averted before it even gets a chance to begin. I pump my wings, circling around as I try to figure out whether I should go up or down. My landings are still a bit iffy, but then again, climbing higher is only going to make it harder to get back down without hurting myself.

Then again, now that I am already up here, I might as well go a bit higher, and with that thought in mind, I begin to pump my wings with greater strength, slowly but surely letting me gain more and more altitude. At one point, I am dangerously close to getting hit by a few of the branches, but I manage to escape unscathed in the end, and before I know it, I rise above the treetops. The air is calm and the sky is practically spotless, only a few fluffy clouds spread around the blue canvas. A plane streaks through it in the distance, its jet-engines creating vibrations in the air strong enough for me to notice them even with the considerable distance serving to separate us. The forest flows like a hilly landscape reflecting the ground beneath, with the occasional opening granting sight to the land below.

I sail through the skies, carried by my wings across the rolling currents of air and reveling in the sensation of unrivaled freedom. Right now, I could go anywhere, do anything, or so my position makes me feel. A few small birds whizz by, their speed far greater than my own. Without thinking, I snap at one which came a bit too close, but my jaws find naught but open air, leaving the startled, brownish bird to fly off in the distance. I am not really bothered by the loss. Not much food in that bird, so what does it matter, really? I am hungry -that is pretty much a constant these days- but not desperate. No, far from it. If a bit of food escapes me here and there, I can live with it.

Flying is, much like swimming was back before I hatched, a tiring activity. Though I have no doubt that, with enough training, I will be able to fly wherever and for how long I wish, in their current state my wings tire quickly and, after but a minute's worth of circling around in the open air, I begin to descend. I sink back through the hole in the canopy from where I came, steadily bringing myself down with regular, lazy strokes. The descent goes well. The landing... not so much. It starts of good enough, but then one of my legs gets tangled in the grass, leading my face right into the ground without mercy. My scales protect me from any scratch wounds that may have otherwise been the result, but I still end up in a most awkward position, lying on my left wing. With said wing feeling somewhat crushed, I get out of that position as soon as I am able, though after a bit of checking I find that the wing is fine, only somewhat sore.

The rest of the day is spent on the ground. I catch a small rat in the evening, but otherwise there are no events worth mentioning. I still haven't quite gotten used to the taste of raw meat. It does not blindside me, not like it did the first time, but keeping myself from going outright berserk on my prey still takes a bit of mental effort. I can do it, but sometimes I forget, and in those cases the result is always pure, unadulterated carnage. Once I lose control, when rational thought falls from the air, I- I don't really 'come back' until whatever caused it has been dealt with, usually in a very... gruesome manner. Not only does it tend to leave my pride worse for wear with the mess it can make on my scales, but I also fear that, one day, I might hurt something I hold dear. Then again, there are not very many such things right now, so I probably do not need to worry about it, and scales can always be cleaned. Besides, I find there is some sort of... tranquility, almost, over letting my mind go and just silencing thought for a moment.  Despite my feelings about it, I must admit I did feel rather refreshed, mentally, after those times when I just released my mental grasp and let my body flow freely with the more base instincts that seem to have followed along when I hatched.
A speck of movement catches my attention, and in that moment my entire line of thought goes up in smoke. As it turns out, it is just a small squirrel that is quick to scurry off once I approach, but the damage is done. What had I been thinking again? It really does not matter, I decide a few moments later, and before long the whole event is forgotten altogether.

The rest of the day is spent hunting fruitlessly, and the two following it are unremarkable in every sense of the word. However, on the afternoon of the third day from my flight above the trees, I hear a sound which I had hoped would never follow me here. It is the sound of voices, and thus my rather relaxed hunting-stroll through the forest grounds suddenly turns into a hiding session. I dive into the closest, large enough bushes that I can see, my senses on full alert and my ears erect, listening intently for the sound's source even as my eyes dart around seeking the same thing.

Silence is omnipresent. Then, a word, a familiar smell from upwind, the sound of a snapping branch, all of it working together to grant me knowledge of the human's location. Or humans, rather. This other voice is different. Higher in pitch. It is not alone, as a third voice soon joins it, and a fourth is not far behind. For a moment, I fear that there is a whole horde of the bipedal creatures, but when no more voices are added to the pile, I eventually assume that those I have heard are all there are. That still leaves me outnumbered four to one, and though my claws, fire and hard scales would grant me an advantage individually, even if I were to fight -and come up on top- other humans would come looking for the missing ones. No, the risk is too great.

The voices have been growing nearer, the smell of human and their clothing growing more intense. One of them appear to be wearing some sort of perfume – it is tickling my sense of smell with an annoyingly strong odor in the way that a buzzing fly would towards hearing. Not exactly harmful, just incredibly annoying. It is one that is supposed to smell like roses, if I am not mistaken, though it still annoys me to no end as it tries to get in the way of all the other smells.

They are close now. Far too close. I really should run, yet my curiosity and fear keeps me in check. It is better if I know where I have them than if I unwittingly flee into their arms. A bush rustles, and out comes... a child? The little human comes running out of the underbrush about thirty meters away, looking totally oblivious to my presence. A moment later, a second human, looking about the same age and wearing an identical, forest-green jacket as the first one comes chasing after it. Both of them are laughing, caught in that juvenile brand of fun that really only small children can muster, and for a moment I get the absurd desire to join them. However, the arrival of a woman chasing after the smaller humans (which are most likely her offspring) abruptly turns that idea into ash, as grown humans are still very much associated with danger. She, too, is smiling, face framed by short, golden-brown hair and a generous dose of the annoying perfume. So she is the source. I’ll admit, with the ugly-looking, bright red jacket she is wearing, I am not all that surprised. Stupid human.

A second adult, male with night-black hair, a deep-green jacket and carrying a brown basket of some sort comes in after the female just as she catches one of the children and lifts it into the air. A whole family. They seem quite careless (at least, they seem very lacking in the way of wariness towards danger), and I do admit that the children look like easy prey, but I will not let myself be tempted into doing something stupid. Dead humans would draw too many eyes. Instead, I simply observe, painfully aware of the fact that I should have chosen a hiding place from where one could retreat without becoming blatantly visible in the process. Thick as the bush may be, its position is rather isolated, and running would involve passing over a stretch of open space where I would undoubtedly be seen were anyone to look my way. Flying, even more so. I can just hope that they pass me by without notice, and then everything should be able to return to normal before long. I do wonder why they are even here in the first place, before coming to the conclusion that it does not make any difference, and with that the focus of my mind is brusquely brought back to my observations.

The little humans’ paths are most erratic, running in circles for some purpose that for me remains unseen. Their parents’ conversation is calmer, though with the smaller beings’ constant noise-making it is exceedingly hard to make out what they are saying. For a moment, it seems that they will pass by without issues, but then one of the small ones suddenly starts to pull on their sire, complaining that they should eat something. The other one soon catches on and before long the parents are bombarded by their repeated complaints. To my great dissatisfaction, they give in, picking the absolutely worst place imaginable for me. It is a mostly flat, sizeable rock which I admit would work well as a table – that part is not an issue. The problem lies with the fact that, from that rock, it is clear that one would have a perfectly good view of every path I could possibly take, something which I blame on the other rock, placed just so that the only direction where my bush would have actually served as cover is impassable short of taking to the air, and that would be a dead giveaway.

They start to pick out various edibles –well, human edibles– out of the brought basket, placing them onto the rock they decided to use. Bread, cheese, an orange-coloured liquid, glasses made of plastic, butter and… oooh, hamburger. All this and more comes out of the basket, and the small burger is gone by the hands of the little ones within seconds. Too bad. It was the only thing looking remotely edible in the whole pile. The grown-ups start to make sandwiches, only to find them snatched away by the kids as soon as they are finished. The mother makes a half-heated attempt to stop them, but the sandwich dances out of her reach before she gets that far. Meanwhile, a pang of jealousy shoots through me. It is unfair how easily these kids get their food as soon as they ask for it, whilst I have to actually hunt and search for mine. Still, due to their behaviour, it is really no surprise that the children finish their meals and start running around long before their parents finish their own snacks, seemingly incapable of sitting still for more than two seconds.

For a little while I watch their antics with something that, though I would not call it amusement, certainly lies in that direction. However, one of them starts to come far too close to my own location, and I push myself deeper into the growth around me, unfortunately rustling the bush in the process. It catches the youngling’s attention, and the diminutive human starts to approach, accompanied by a curious noise. My fire flares up within me, its heat gently embracing me from the inside, the previous time having been when I accidentally grilled a squirrel and almost started a forest fire about a week ago, give or take a day. My mind starts to work overtime. Run or fight? What should I do? I find myself practically paralysed by indecision, incapable of acting in my uncertainty. My indecisiveness keeps me still as my mind frantically tries to figure out what the best course of action would be. However, time runs short, and with no solution in sight I find myself with no choice but to drop my thinking and just go with the flow.

The kid comes around the corner, and I move.