He listens, interest slowly teasing his ears away from their habitual backward slant, while the white-faced stallion describes his acquisition first of the red and then the gold, though not with the level of detail the older stallion is hoping for. How does one just ‘find’ a dragon egg? Do they all look the same or is the color of the dragon inside deducible from some aspect of the shell? The other stallion claims he was young, or simply younger to the elder’s view, when he bonded to the reptiles, so is there no trial of worthiness involved in bonding? Are all companions, even the illustrious dragon, reduced to nothing more than fancy ducklings tottering around behind whatever warm body happens to be nearby at hatching time by the laws of instant visual imprinting? He has a hard time picturing such a thing, little dragon hatchlings marching along in a row with their spiky tails and horn-bulb heads held high, but who is he to be incredulous when everything else he assumed to be truth about dragons has so recently been shown false?

So he remains quiet, attentive, at least until the monochromatic bundle of muscle and masculinity mentions ensuring the eggs hatch, as if there are factors that might prevent them from doing so, but the comment is made in passing and quickly followed by a counter question, cutting off the elder’s curiosity. He balks at first, used to avoiding such queries with bold, off-putting lies or otherwise distracting commentary, but he wants to learn more about mythical companions. He wants a gold, a ‘queen,’ of his own, despite the bitter irony that he can’t quite ignore about that thought.

“Well… I was kept mostly.” In all honesty, survival had never been a thing of question until he’d moved well past adulthood. There was never a time in his memory, excluding that winter and all these months following it, where the thought of death intruded in his daily life. He’d been comfortable, casual, well liked. In those days he was more likely to be crushed beneath a throng of admirers than victim to some clandestine assassination plot.

“I was… likable then. Lucky. If you're looking for advice, all I can say is to depend on no one. Live for yourself, nothing else.” The words stumble from his lips, less clear than he'd meant them to be, but the idea is crisp in his mind - a sense of total autonomy - the ability to live within ones own being and be unaffected by outside influence, to let the rest of the world continue on its way or crumble to nothing and not feel a thing. So long as there is air in his lungs, grass in his stomach, his needs are fulfilled. Nothing else needed - no purpose, no justice, no home or anyone in it, no emotional attachments - Impervious, if not immortal.

He's not sure how a companion would factor into this equation, but if what he understands of the companion bond is true, that it's a supernatural merging of mind and soul between two conscious beings, then the creature wouldn't be capable of betrayal, hatred, or abandonment, no matter what his crimes. He reasons that such an exception could be made without negative consequence, especially if said exception also works as a badass fire - or less preferably ice - breathing protector of life and limb.

“So how would someone find a dragon egg, if they were looking?" More accurately, how would a crippled old man find a dragon egg and ensure that it hatches?



@Volterra