Anxious villagers packed the field, murmuring, “It’s a dragon!” All but Titus- he eyed the field’s dimensions, wondering if there’d be room to accommodate a dragon.
Easily four and a half feet long, the visitor stood favoring one foreleg. “Give her room.” Titus raised a hand; people scattered like sheep facing a wolf. He strode towards the visitor and offered his palm.
She sniffed it, then flicked out a thin forked tongue. “You’re a smith, aren’t you?”
He didn’t so much hear the words as see an image of a forge in his mind. “That’s right. How are you called?”
“Alaira,” she replied. “Is there a healer or a priest in town? It’s urgent.” This time the images came thick and fast: a male dragon, glimpse of dense woods and a spring…
“Is it so urgent that you had to almost kill yourself? Abel will see to your friend. In the meantime, rest yourself.”
Alaira’s deep-copper eyes blinked. She lowered herself to the ground, stretching out her left foreleg
This is a great foundation, now make it glorious.
