Tsorn slid down into the drake nest headfirst, knife extended out front, ready for anything. It was a tight squeeze, but widened as the tunnel gave way to the main pit of the den, the snug area where the drakes slept. It was cold inside, and damp; the wetness of the earth permeating into the nest's heart even though it was several feet beneath the ground. A few other tunnels ran off from the common; escape holes, cellar pits, and other necessities, but there Tsorn confirmed what he had guessed before even finding the nest.
The few cold eggs, some broken, all abandoned, partially buried in the corner told a sad story. In addition, there was a general raggedness, and an unnatural scoring on the walls. Aged about two weeks, by the weathering. The eggs looked ready to hatch about that time too. What could evict a Grek from its own nest, especially during breeding season? Tsorn asked himself. Rolling around on his belly, he turned back to the tunnel he had just come from, squirming back up towards the surface.
His head was barely out before a darting shadow swooped down on his face, with a screech. Instinctively, Tsorn threw up his arm, catching the leathery bundle of scales and claws before it could smother him to death. "Leon, down!" He laughed, pushing the affectionate watcher away from his face. The form jumped down and around, bounding off every stone and tree in the clearing energetically.
Leon was a Spying Spiegal; one of the smallest breeds of wyrm. They were little bigger than a barnyard cat, and just as mischievous, but worse because they came with a pair of wings. He put up with it because Spiegals had the best vision of any wyrm class watcher. Even if the little beast spent half his time licking his own balls instead of watching out for predators.
"Bad, Leon! I said, 'Spy!' Now go." He chided, suppressing his amusement and taking on a commanding tone.
The Spiegal's head drooped before springing off into the trees and catapulting itself into the sky.
"What good is a Watcher who refuses to actually watch?" Tsorn grumbled to himself, making a mental note to chew out his sister Aiegal out for spoiling Leon. He was barely finished with the thought before his hackles reared. Leon cried alarm a moment too late, Tsorns diving to the side, a thick glob of viscus matter shot through where he had just been standing, saved by his hunter's instincts.
Tsorn came up with his knife postured defensively, as he assessed the threat. A deep trilling, rumbled from the bushes as a male Grek crashed through, jaws wide and claws out. Waiting until the last possible second before the Grek lunged up at him: Tsorn pulled a short tab out of the metal box fixed to his belt, and dove forward.
The bracelet screeched, emitting a sharp metallic sound, as the rings and crystals in the mechanism resonated. The Grek stumbled, his head rearing at the noise, allowing Tsorn to dive under its outstretched claws safely. None too soon, as the drake tripped and tumbled foward, a mass of teeth and claws where Tsorn had just been crouching.
Most drakes and wyrms used highly sensitive hearing in addition to their eyesight, to hunt and fly in near complete darkness. The bracelet used some resonance to interrupt that. Tsorn wasn't sure how it worked, just that it did. But drakes were infamous for their adaptability. It wouldn't work a second time, as the Grek already had begun to vocalize a similar shriek, neutralizing the ringing. Tsorn had to make the opportunity count. While the Grek was righting itself, he rushed over to where he'd lain his gear before crawling into the nest. Ignoring the pack, he grabbed Torg, his thick, six foot drake-hunting spear and turned to face the beast.
Male Suro-Wilden Barking Greckers were smaller than their partners. But this one was smaller even than average, barely bigger than a dog. Its hide was still tender and oily. But most importantly it's forehead lacked the presence of a crown; the crystalline third eye which most draconic beast began to grow after reaching adulthood. On a guess, it was one of the brood from the nest, its egg just old enough to hatch when the nest was abandoned. Which would have put it at barely two weeks old.
The rate at which draconic breeds grew still fascinated Tsorn. Even so young it could and would kill and eat a full grown cow. Normal adolescents often single handedly fought off full grown bears and packs of wolves as they learned to hunt. If they had a brood to learn from.
The Grek spat again; this time Tsorn didn't dodge fast enough. The projectile exploded, even as it barely caught the edge of his jacket. Luckily its momentum carried most of it past him, leaving only a scalding remnant burning into his shoulder.
He knew better than to try to brush it off, instead he rolling into the dirt, grabbing a handful of mud and pressed it into the mucus. Scrapping away the excess or at least trying to cool it down quicker. Aside from that, treatment would have to wait, because the Grek wasn't. The beast was already charging. Momentarily exposed while neutralizing the goo on his arm, all Tsorn could do was whistled shrilly.
Leon thundered down into the Grek's face screeching and clawing, to the drake's surprise.
As it recoiled in shock, Tsorn brought Torg around and thrust. He caught the drake in the ribs, too low to hit the heart, but enough to piece its liver and probably stomach. It was as good as dead, but still too enraged to know it yet. The Grek twisted and tried to charge, but Tsorn dropped, putting the butt of the spear into the ground, so any charge would only push the weapon deeper. As the weapon caught on bone the Grek lurched suddenly to a stop swinging on the lever of the brace, to the side, where it collapsed, scrabbling helplessly.
There, they all held; the tension of the few seconds tumbling into a sudden exhaustion for everyone. Leon hopped and glided to Tsorn's side chirping with worry. Tsorn petted him reassuringly, pulling off his coat gingerly. The mucus wasn't poisonous, just scaldingly hot. It burned him where the jacket had laid against the skin, it was already inflamed. It wasn't a dangerous wound, there would be time to tend it later, and there were more important things to deal with at the moment.
Carefully he circled the prone drake, whose hind legs still clawed uselessly at the ground. It was trying to stand despite the spear. Every time it tried to get its legs under it, it turned against the pole, which by its own charge had been well rooted in the earth, pushing it back into the prone position. Each attempt only weakened the Grek, which now that Tsorn had the time to observe, was dangerously malnourished. Never having been taught how to hunt by its mother, the adolescent drake probably survived by eating carion and underbrush. It broke Tsorns heart to see the an emperor of the wild brought so low.
"Sorry, old boy," Tsorn said to the dying drake regretfully, "I-- Just, sorry."
Having made his way behind it, where it couldn't swipe at him, even if it had the strength, Tsorn stepped in, sinking his hunting knife deep quickly and accurately; ending the Grek's pain. When he was sure the drake was truly dead, he hastily pulled the knife free and began working out the spear; knowing the scent of blood would soon attract more dangerous game.
I should have brought Buckie. Tsorn thought bitterly, Buckie would have seen the juvenile coming from a mile off, we could have avoided this mess entirely. Damn my pride.
It took Tsorn a few moments later to pick out the two week old trail he was looking for, that brought him to the den in the first place. Following it, he hefted his pack and whistled for Leon to go and scout ahead. For all the good it will do. Might as well be walking blind. But I swear, I'll bring back a Celestial Crown if it kills me.
