The Chromatic Dragonling: A Tale of Mischief & Mayhem

The Most Unreasonable Egg

Roderic was many things—an adventurer, a scholar, a man who could drink his own weight in mead without embarrassing himself (too much). But he was not, under any circumstances, a babysitter.

Yet here he was, staring down at the newly hatched creature sprawled across his desk—a tiny dragon with scandalously bright scales and enormous golden eyes that screamed trouble. It had hatched from what he thought was a priceless gemstone he’d “borrowed” from the hoard of an elderly dragon named Morgath. Turns out, Morgath hadn’t been hoarding treasure.

He’d been hoarding offspring.

“Alright, listen,” Roderic said, rubbing his temples as the dragonling stretched its wings and yawned, completely unbothered. “I don’t know how to raise a baby dragon. I have very little patience. Also, I’m fairly sure your father would like to murder me.”

The dragonling let out an exaggerated sigh—as if it were the one suffering—and then flopped onto its back, kicking its stubby little legs. Roderic narrowed his eyes.

“Oh, fantastic. You’re dramatic.”

In response, the dragonling blew a puff of smoke in his face.

Roderic coughed, waving it away. “Rude.”

The dragonling grinned.

The Problem With Tiny Dragons

Over the next few days, Roderic discovered something important: baby dragons were insufferable.

First, the dragonling refused to eat anything normal. Fresh meat? No. Roasted chicken? A scoff. Expensive smoked salmon? Spat out onto the rug. The only thing it wanted to eat was a chunk of enchanted obsidian from Roderic’s alchemy stash.

“You’re a spoiled little beast, you know that?” he muttered, watching as the dragonling gleefully crunched the magical rock like a snack.

Second, it was dramatic. Everything was a performance. The dragonling would flop onto its back if ignored for too long. It would make tragic whimpering sounds when it wasn’t the center of attention. When Roderic dared to leave the room without it? Oh, the betrayal. The screams were enough to make a banshee jealous.

Third, and perhaps worst of all, it was an escape artist.

Roderic awoke on the third morning to find the dragonling missing. His stomach dropped. His mind immediately conjured images of it accidentally setting his cottage on fire, or worse—running into an angry mob that didn’t appreciate flying fire hazards.

Throwing on his cloak, he burst through the front door… only to find the dragonling perched smugly atop his neighbor’s roof, nibbling on what appeared to be a stolen silver necklace.

Lady Haversham stood below, hands on her hips. She did not look pleased.

“Roderic,” she called sweetly. “Why is there a dragonling on my house?”

Roderic sighed. “He’s a menace.”

The dragonling chomped the necklace in half and burped.

Lady Haversham stared. “I see.”

Roderic pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get him down.”

Which was easier said than done. The dragonling was thrilled with its newfound height advantage and had no intention of coming down without a game of chase. Roderic had to climb onto the roof, where the little beast made a show of dodging him—skipping, fluttering just out of reach, and chirping happily as if this were the greatest entertainment of its life.

Roderic, panting, finally lunged and caught the dragonling mid-air.

“Got you, you little gremlin,” he grunted.

The dragonling gave him an unrepentant grin and licked his nose.

And that’s when Roderic realized three things:

1. This dragonling had absolutely no respect for him.
2. He was completely and utterly outmatched.
3. He had somehow decided that looking after it meant it belonged to him.

He groaned. This was going to be a long adventure. Somewhere behind that groan lurked a less convenient thought: Morgath had never agreed to any of this.

A Very Illegal Dragon

Three weeks later, Roderic had learned two valuable things about raising a dragonling:

1. Nothing in his home was safe. Not his books, not his furniture, certainly not his dignity.
2. Baby dragons grew fast.

The once-tiny menace was now twice its original size, still small enough to perch on his shoulder but big enough to knock over shelves when it got excited (which was often). The dramatics hadn’t stopped, either. If anything, they had gotten worse. If Roderic didn’t immediately acknowledge the dragonling’s existence upon waking up, he was met with a series of high-pitched wails that could wake the dead.

And the appetite? Impossible.

Roderic was now regularly bribing the blacksmith for bits of enchanted metal, all while dodging questions from the local magistrate about why there were occasional flashes of dragonfire coming from his cottage.

Which, technically speaking, was a felony. The town’s fire ordinance prohibited keeping an unlicensed dragon inside its timber-built walls. Roderic had read it, which made his habit of pretending otherwise rather less impressive.

So when a loud BOOM echoed through the streets one evening, Roderic knew—instantly—it was his problem.

The Barn Incident

He sprinted outside to find that his neighbor’s barn had been blown apart. The owner and two stablehands stood safely beside the rescued animals. Nobody had been hurt, but winter fodder crackled in the wreckage, and the owner was staring at the place where his livelihood had been.

Standing in the smoldering wreckage was his dragonling, tail flicking, eyes wide with what could only be described as giddy chaos. Next to it stood a very unimpressed city guard.

“Roderic,” the guard said, folding his arms.

Roderic doubled over, panting. “Hey, Captain. Fancy meeting you here.”

“Do you want to explain why your dragon just exploded a barn?”

The dragonling puffed up indignantly. It chirped.

Roderic straightened, pushing sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I feel like ‘exploded’ is a strong word.”

The captain pointed to the burning rubble. “Is it?”

Roderic sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll pay for it.”

“You will,” the captain agreed, then lowered his voice. “You need to get that thing out of town. If the magistrate finds out—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Roderic turned to the dragonling. “Well, congratulations, you tiny disaster. We’re fugitives now.”

On the Run

Fleeing town in the dead of night with a smug baby dragon was not how Roderic had planned his life, and yet here he was—leading his horse through the forest, cursing under his breath as the dragonling perched on the saddle like a royal prince.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered.

The dragonling yawned, utterly unrepentant.

“Oh, don’t act innocent. You blew up a barn.”

It flicked its tail. Chirp.

Roderic groaned. “I should’ve left you on that roof.”

But they both knew that was a lie.

He was stuck with this dragonling. And, worse, a part of him didn’t mind.

The wind rustled through the trees. In the distance, he heard the faint sound of riders—probably guards searching for them.

He exhaled. “Well, little terror, looks like we’re going on an adventure.”

The dragonling blinked, then nuzzled against his cheek.

Roderic grumbled. “Ugh. You can’t bribe me with cuteness.”

It licked his ear.

He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

And so, with no destination he cared to admit and a very illegal dragonling in tow, Roderic took his first step into the unknown. The thought of Morgath followed more closely than the riders.

A Receipt for One Extremely Bad Idea

The riders caught them at a ford before dawn. There were only two: the captain, looking tired, and Lady Haversham, wearing a riding coat over her nightdress and an expression that suggested she had already buried Roderic in several satisfying ways.

“You forgot something,” she said.

Roderic looked at the dragonling. The dragonling looked at the horse. The horse declined to become involved.

Lady Haversham held up half a necklace.

“And a barn,” said the captain.

“I said I would pay.”

“Yes. Then you left.”

Roderic had prepared several explanations during the night. They had sounded splendid beneath the trees. In daylight, with soot still ground into the captain’s cuffs, they sounded like things a man said while other people cleared up after him.

He took off his pack and set it on a stone. Inside were three books, a brass astrolabe, his remaining enchanted obsidian and a purse that had seemed much more substantial before anyone mentioned construction.

“This won’t cover it,” he said.

“No,” said Lady Haversham. “But it can stop you pretending you have nothing to offer.”

The dragonling climbed onto the pack and curled around the obsidian. Roderic gently moved him aside. For once, the little creature did not scream. He watched the purse change hands, his enormous eyes tracking every coin.

The captain wrote down the amount, the damage and Roderic’s promise to appear before the magistrate in two days. Lady Haversham witnessed it. Leaving town with the dragon had removed an immediate danger; it had not removed Roderic’s obligations.

“Where are you taking him?” the captain asked.

Roderic stared at the hills beyond the ford. “Home.”

“Your cottage is behind us.”

“Not mine.”

The road to Morgath’s cave had been considerably easier when Roderic thought he was stealing a gemstone. Then, every difficult bit had felt like proof of his ingenuity. Now the narrow ledges seemed designed by someone who wanted him to have a long, uninterrupted conversation with his conscience.

The dragonling began chirping before they reached the entrance. Not the theatrical squeal Roderic knew, but a small repeated note, almost a question.

Something moved in the dark.

Morgath emerged slowly. He was old enough to have weathered horns and patient enough to be terrifying. One enormous foreclaw came down between Roderic and the path back.

“You,” he said.

Roderic had once delivered a lecture on negotiating with dangerous magical beings. He sincerely hoped nobody had kept notes.

“I took your egg.”

“I noticed.”

“I thought it was—” Roderic stopped. A gemstone. Treasure. Something beautiful that he could carry away. None of those explanations had improved since the ford. “I took it. I should not have.”

The dragonling wriggled out of his arms. Roderic bent quickly, lowering him the rest of the way rather than holding him tighter. Little claws scrabbled over stone. Morgath lowered his head until the hatchling could press his bright forehead against the old dragon’s jaw.

For a moment, there was no performance at all.

Then the dragonling sneezed smoke directly into his father’s nostril.

Morgath closed one eye.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Definitely mine.”

Roderic laughed once, weakly. Nobody invited him to do it again.

He told Morgath about the obsidian, the necklace, the roof and the barn. The old dragon listened without interrupting, which was worse than being interrupted. When Roderic reached the part about teaching the hatchling not to chew furniture, Morgath looked at the bite marks in his sleeve.

“With mixed success,” Roderic admitted.

“You have been feeding a growing dragon scraps of uncertain enchantment.”

“He wouldn’t eat salmon.”

“Neither would I, if someone kept offering me a mouthful of bottled lightning.”

Morgath nudged a bowl of dull mineral pebbles toward the hatchling, then settled beside him. There would be proper meals, supervision and no more experimental snacks. Roderic understood that this was advice for this particular child, from the parent who knew him. It was not another impressive theory for his next lecture.

“May I visit?” he asked.

Morgath’s silence lasted long enough for the dragonling to select a pebble, reject it, select the same pebble again and eat it indignantly.

“After you settle what you owe,” the old dragon said. “You will wait at the outer ledge. You will bring nothing enchanted. And you will ask before touching anything.”

Roderic nodded.

“That includes my son.”

“Especially your son.”

He returned to town without a dragon, which made his arrival less conspicuous than usual and considerably less enjoyable. The magistrate heard the captain’s account, examined the signed promise and imposed a fine for the fire ordinance. The barn owner accepted a repayment agreement and paid repair work credited against the debt. Lady Haversham wanted her necklace restored by a jeweler, not replaced with what Roderic described, disastrously, as something similar.

For the next six weeks, the adventurer hauled timber, held ladders and learned that a roof had far more opportunities to humiliate a man than a dragon did. He sold the astrolabe and two rare books. He paid the fine, the jeweler and the final balance on the barn. The owner inspected the new doors three times before signing the receipt.

“You could look happier,” Roderic said.

“You could have left my barn standing.”

“Fair.”

On his next free morning, Roderic climbed to the outer ledge with the receipts in his pocket and ordinary bread in his bag. He waited. A bright head appeared above the stone, followed by orange wings and a delighted chirp.

The dragonling launched himself toward Roderic’s shoulder. Morgath caught him gently beneath the belly with one claw and set him down again.

“Ask,” said his father.

The hatchling looked up at Roderic. He lifted one tiny paw with such extravagant tragedy that Roderic had to bite the inside of his cheek.

“Yes,” he said. “You may climb up.”

Morgath watched the ascent. The little dragon settled against Roderic’s neck, warm and solid, then investigated his ear with a familiar, appalling tongue.

“Still rude,” Roderic murmured.

From his shoulder came a deeply satisfied chirp.

He had no gemstone, less money, a repaired barn behind him and a friendship that finally belonged to both sides. It was a poor adventure by the standards he had started with.

Fortunately, his standards had recently become much less stupid.