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Kirimu’s practice lance gleamed in the early light. Though the Morning Fields may not have been named for the time of day, he always found it best to get his drills in as early as possible. That way, the rest of the bells could be reserved for other activities: roaming the lands, mingling with his vast family, bothering his father to finally share with him his power.
To that end, he’d taken to bothering his cousin Kuyutha of Tiamat’s latest brood to become his sparring partner. “Come oooonnn,” he coaxed, jabbing the lance’s blade in the air near her horn. “I need to see if I’ve improved any! At this rate I’ll be sixty and three before he says yes!”
In the eyes of other dragons, after all, such an age was but a blink. Kuyutha herself had lived Kirimu’s meager years times twenty, yet it was only recently that she’d had her first metamorphosis. The dragonet that Kirimu could snuggle in his arms the other day now dwarved him, like most everyone else he knew; thankfully, young as she still was and basking in the sun besides, his neck was spared from craning up like he had to with the proper grown-ups, not to mention the first-brooders that led them.
“Cease thy caterwauling,” the golden-scaled drake gruffed and humored him only with the flick of a wing like swatting a fly. “Time alone, that patient gardener, doth tend thy growth.”
Another jab from the lance. “You sound just like him,” Kirimu complained. “I’ll never improve by sitting on my paws!”
“Draugr speaks true.” Despite her irascibility, she finally gave in and granted him what he craved: a swift slam of her tail to the side that bowled him over. “‘Tis discipline that shall forge thy spirit into steel.”
He’d seen it coming, but his unhoned reflexes lagged behind; no amount of foresight could prepare for the impact, and he landed flat on his back with a yelp. He blinked at the sky in a daze, the wind knocked out of him—but mere seconds passed before he sprung back into action, his lance again spun in tricks that would’ve been more impressive had he learned how to apply them into combat. The first blow may have bruised him, but not his stubborn determination. If anything, it fueled it.
“Again!” he spat out as he rolled his shoulders with renewed vigor. “That was barely a tap, Kuyutha. Hit me like you mean it this time!” He rocked on his pads, still twirled his spear in a reckless flourish before settling into a proper stance.
A fanged grin split his face as Kuyutha snorted. Amusement gleamed in her glare despite herself. “Thou speak’st as one who courteth disfigurement, not duel. Thine aim is to slip my stroke.”
Kirimu’s claws scraped the dirt in impatience as he circled her. The weapon poised like a coiled wyvern thrummed with life in his palm, an extension of himself which echoed his restless energy. One day soon, he hoped, he’d be granted a real spear, one which channeled him true.
“Discipline, finesse, patience—you all drone the same tired lectures!” He feinted left before spinning into a sweeping underhand strike. “We both know the true strength comes from hunger!” The blade hissed through empty air as Kuyutha effortlessly sidestepped. Her wings sent dust devils swirling across the training ground.
“Art though perchance speaking of thine own bottomless stomach?” A hint of familiar mockery crept into Kuyutha’s tone. She lunged, and Kirimu barely evaded the snapping jaws attempting to close around his lance arm. He ducked and rolled, then popped up with a smirk.
“If only.” He bent under her claw and swung his weapon upwards in a parry. His body shook from the impact, but he held firm. “My cravings run deeper than mere sustenance.”
“Quell them thou must with wisdom, or ne’er a morsel of triumph shall cross thy wagging tongue,” Kuyutha chided, though with a flicker of warmth as she batted his stick aside. The force sent him stumbling, but he pivoted with feline grace, refusing to yield ground.
“Wisdom?” he shot back, breathless but elated. “What good is wisdom when Vector marches ever closer? They don’t philosophize when they raze villages!” Or so he’d heard of his own origin’s fate. With a lash of his tail, he surged forward. The tip of his lance flashed like a fang. “I’ll show you hunger, show you fire! Then maybe even he will at last see—!”
The gold dragon caught his weapon mid-strike between her jaws. Infuriating! “Or perhaps,” she mused through her teeth, “thy impatience blinds thee to the strength nested in thy bones.” She sent the lance—and Kirimu along with it—flying into the dirt once more.
He groaned dramatically, limbs splayed. “…That has to count as at least one point for me.”
Kuyutha snorted. “In what tally?”
“The one where I wear you down with sheer persistence,” he declared, then flopped onto his back to grin up at her.
A rumbling chuckle escaped her as she nudged him up with her snout. “Up, little spark, lest I mistake thee for a hatchling napping post-meal.”
“Spark?” Kirimu’s ears shot up straight in indignation. “I’ll have you know I’m a conflagration in the making!” He was already bouncing back on his feet, lance in hand. This time, he swore he’d land a proper hit.
What delusion. Yet Kuyutha humored this kitten all the same.