Redtail Rise dreams didn't make us kings

words should now bubble to thursday evening's lips; or at the very least indecipherable babbles of language learning ...but there are only feral sounds; simple and easily understood. content in his developing world of the non-verbal.

he hears words, though, outside where the buttery warm sunlight lingers. of passerby's or well wisher's, or those checking upon new snow and augur.

he tucks them away; greedily like a dragon hoarding its gold, though he desires not to use them.

without truly understanding the how or why he knows them to be important; to learn and understand even if he deigns to never partake in them.

the young dragonling hoardes all the same, snuffling what tufts remain of his cardinal feathers; a gift well and possessively loved, small pieces of feathers tangled in the longer, wispier fur of his nape like badges of crimson worn as proudly as king would wear his crown.

a peek is stolen at his mother and sister before his almost too big paws pitter-patter ( hardly as quiet and stealthy as he'd like ) towards the beckoning sunlight.

thursday evening's hunger to explore was becoming hard to quench. a young dragonling quickly becoming discontent with the small world of comfort and shadows; intimately known to him when a world of unmeasurable fortunes and adventures lay just beyond.