Rofolio's Scaly Circus by Jonathon Burgess

Author:Jonathon Burgess [Burgess, Jonathon]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Brass Horse Books
Published: 2018-06-08T18:30:00+00:00

Creature Comforts

THE DITCH WAS NO LONGER a tenable solution. Hristomarth also refused the hedgerow, the shrubbery, and the boughs of a low-hanging tree. Even a convenient abandoned stable caused him to turn up his nose. Tonight he would sleep in a bed. A real bed with blankets and a mattress and a pillow to lay his head upon. A bed beneath a roof. No other option would be tolerated.

It seemed a remote possibility. The sun was setting fast above the forest, a wild and gloomy place with that seemed to go on forever. Hristomarth couldn’t even say how long he’d been traipsing through it—there had been a storm, that much was clear in his memory. A storm followed by endless underbrush. At least the road he’d found made the going somewhat easier, though it did seem to attract other forms of inconvenience.

“Thus the scales will harden with age,” continued Philosopher Dovardis, marching along beside Hristomarth. “This is the primary mechanism by which Darmxian mountain dragons gain their legendary durability. In fact, the Moon Folk Dominion would utilize cast-off dragon scales…”

Hristomarth sighed. Wandering philosophers usually waited until they found a prospect who would pay in good copper obels, or at least fresh produce. But the wyrmlings’ presence had excited Dovardis into a lecture which simply would not stop. Agreeing to travel together remained Hristomarth’s great regret of the day. Though, now he did know how to determine the sex of a lizard, along with other bits of herpetological trivia that he’d likely never find useful.

Crawling along behind them both, the wyrmlings took little notice of the discourse. Each of the little monsters were weary from the hike, with no interest in causing mayhem. Hristomarth hadn’t even bothered carrying their leashes. Usually this would have been cause for celebration, but Hristomarth wasn’t in the mood. A bed. He wanted a bed.

The shadows lengthened as they marched. Nocturnal creatures stirred, making their first few tentative cries of the evening. A chill wind blew through the trees, conjuring thoughts of a warm campfire and a hearty meal. Hristomarth forced himself to put one aching foot after the other. An interruption was unacceptable. Tonight would be spent inside.

“Ah,” said Lecturer Dovardis as they turned around a bend in the path. “Here we are.”

The forest disappeared. Its deep trees opened onto a wide plain dominated by a single massive oak at its center. Candlelight glimmered from behind casement windows hanging among the leaves. Smoke curled from a brick chimney peeking up through the boughs. Lanterns illuminated a staircase winding down the trunk to the ground, where flightless moa, horses, and wagons clustered together.

Hristomarth stopped, the wyrmlings bumping into his legs. “What’s this?” he asked, confusion giving way to excitement.

“The Mayfly Public House,” replied Dovardis, one eyebrow raised. “I had thought this your destination? It is a common stop for those heading to the freestyle theology competitions in Lodara. My companion, the admirable Relisolde, should await me here.”

“My exhibition is bound to the east,” said Hristomarth. He could almost feel the softness of a pillow, the gauzy lightness of the sheets.

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