'Where has it gone? Have I dropped it somewhere or did someone else...'
"Ptolemy went on to become king; both of Alexander the Great's sons were murdered in mysterious circumstances. That was one of the key events in him founding the Ptolemaic dynasty.
And that, young dragons, is yet another example of dragons, good or evil, interfering with the natural development of human evolution. Time and again we see rogue dragons trying to manipulate the populated world above. And time and again, so called good dragons are sent after them in an effort to rebalance everything.
Now, all of you, off to Lava Falls to practice your aerial acrobatics. This year's examination is only a few days away, and I expect you all to pass with... flying colours... ha ha... flying... get it?"
As one, the class groaned at the tor's feeble attempt at humour. (Tor is short for praeceptor. They are tutors to the young dragons, with their guidance not only covering academic studies, but also personal skills, in effect becoming more like guardians to the youngsters in their care.)
Perched on the wall that separated the courtyard of the nursery ring from the main walkway into Purbeck Peninsula, Peter shook his head and suppressed a smile at the thought of the tor's attempted joke, having only heard the tor say that about a thousand times, and it hadn't been particularly funny at the first attempt.
As the young dragons eagerly scattered, excitedly heading off to Lava Falls, he felt a pang of regret, wishing he were able to join them. Despite more than six weeks having elapsed since his ordeal on the Astroturf with the mysterious dragon Manson, he had still not fully recovered. So much so, that he'd been told by the best dragon doctors that under no circumstances was he to try and take dragon form, at least not until he was fully healed which was, at best, still some way off.
Gingerly shuffling off the wall and onto the busy thoroughfare, he headed towards the monorail station at a sedate walk. Dragons travelling in both directions gave him curious looks, some even daring to smile, at the left arm he currently had bandaged and in a sling. It was unusual to see any dragon in this condition, because normally they would have been completely healed by the dragon medics and their mantras. His fight with Manson had left him with some bizarre injuries, puzzling the dragon doctors as to how to cure them or indeed how they'd come about in the first place. In the end it had been decided that the best course of action was to let Peter's body heal on its own, something that was taking a seriously long time. Meanwhile, his heroics had been splashed across the front of the telepathic papers almost constantly. While from a certain point of view, he could see how it could be construed as heroics, he maintained now, as he had done at the hospital after the attack, that he had only survived due to luck, and that he just happened to be in the right place at the right time to thwart the dastardly Manson. The papers, like all papers everywhere, were having none of it, putting it all down to modesty on Peter's part. So now, everywhere he went, dragons stared, pointed and occasionally smiled. All of it bothered him, nothing more so than the fact he felt like a fraud, and couldn't shake the feeling that he'd done the least he could at all times and that it was only really with the help of his friends... Tank, Richie and Gee Tee the master mantra maker... that the whole situation had been resolved.
Continuing along the narrow path, gazing longingly at the bright orange slivers of lava shining through the thin cracks in the walkway's surface, to his relief, the number of travellers started to dwindle to barely a handful, a minute or so later. While nothing bad had happened to him through the publicity, all he really wanted to do was go back to his normal life and relative obscurity, something that seemed a million miles away at the moment.
Not due back to work at Cropptech until after Christmas, playing hockey, his favourite sport would have to wait until well into the New Year, due to the severity of his injuries. Richie and Tank had been wonderful throughout everything, visiting him regularly. Pretty sure they'd both been given instructions to do so by the doctors, he was certain they would have appeared anyway.
Over the course of their last few visits though, he'd gotten the impression that something was... not so much wrong, just... going on, and that both of them didn't want to burden him with whatever it was. Tank had been giving Richie some very curious looks. As their friend he always liked to think he could pick up on such things. Clearly the pair didn't want to tell him what the problem was, and after giving them a few chances to do so, he decided it was best to leave it alone, sure he would find out eventually, whatever it was. It couldn't be that important anyway, could it?
Cresting the top of the hill that overlooked the Purbeck monorail station, once again it took his breath away. Not in the same way as say, Salisbridge Cathedral, or the water meadows, but still it was a stunning sight. Keeping his head down as he approached the station in the hope that the other travellers might not realise who he was, in his heart of hearts he knew that the sling he was wearing would almost certainly give it away. Glancing up only to see which platform his carriage was departing from, he was glad to see it waiting there for him to step on as he arrived. Taking his seat, almost immediately the carriage accelerated away into the eerie darkness of the tunnel that led out of the smallish dragon enclave. Fiddling with his sling, he snuck a peek at the rest of the carriage, hoping to find it deserted. It wasn't, but it wasn't full either. Chuckling to himself, he noticed one of the other dragons nearby reading a human paper.
'What a typically human thing to do,' he thought, glad that it wasn't just him that had picked up more than a few of their mannerisms.
Arriving at Salisbridge, the monorail was on time to the second. Last to leave the carriage and step out onto the pristine, shining surface of the station, he quickly headed through the crowds, not for the first time today, wishing that he'd brought a jacket of some sort to hide the sling from everybody. Ignoring the delicious aromas of food that wafted across the plaza, he headed for the smallest exit that would take him back to his house.
Moments later he reached the underground entrance to his home, gingerly slipping through the small gap in the wall, before heading up the darkened path and the clumsy looking steps. As he got within reach of the solid block of rock that barred the way in front of him, it started to move silently aside, apparently without him having done anything at all.
'Ah,' he thought, 'looks like the 'relatives' are waiting. Hope my dinner's on the table... hmmm... fat chance of that.'
Striding into the dusty cellar, lit only by a cascade of light flooding down from the top of the black ornate staircase in one corner, he could just make out a frail old lady, dressed in a cardigan, skirt and slippers, standing off to one side. Huge glasses hung from the end of her twisted nose, small straggly hairs littering her jaw line. She could have been anyone's favourite old grandma. She wasn't. In fact, she was everyone's worst nightmare.
"Hi," ventured Peter, more cheerily than he actually felt. "Thanks for opening the door."
"You've been gone quite a long time," the old woman grumbled in rather a gruff voice.
"Just went for a walk and stopped off at the nursery ring, that's all."