Predaking looked down at the extremely small organic, and whuffed out a blast of heated air in exasperation. He had never had to deal with the young, for he and his had been created ready to conquer the world. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour, he scooped the organic close and cycled his furnace-burning Spark hotter in an attempt to lull the small one to sleep.
Toothless had just been beginning to figure out what his feet were for, stumbling around like a drunken cat, when he was suddenly scooped from the ground and brought close to a big, warm chest.
He roared a tiny hatchling roar in protest (which was maybe more of a wail, but he thought he was very ferocious-sounding). He’d been doing things! He didn’t want to sleep yet!
Still, the smooth, hard surface he was nestled up against was just so warm and nice and he found himself staring sleepily up at a a pair of burning yellow eyes. This must be his mama. Weren’t hatchlings supposed to have mamas?
Chirping in concession, he settled back down, sticking a paw in his mouth for safe-keeping while he slept (and maybe some noms).
