Featherlight

One.

Two.

A little more.

One, two, paw in front of the other…

As he stumbles, dazed and heaving, Featherlight counts his steps to try and focus on the act of walking, of pushing himself forward. All he wishes for is to slide sideways and into unconsciousness's sweet oblivion. But even though his limbs are barely holding him, even though his mind keeps giving up and resetting its count, he knows falling asleep here is going to be the last mistake he'd ever make.

He keeps pushing through the gloomy flora that forms the Wandering Contagion, unsure if the swaying of the landscape he's experiencing comes from the reeds or from himself.

One, three…? No.

One.

The observer watches the retreating dragon with interest. He doesn't try to hide - he knows the other is too sick to spot him. And even if he were to do so, then what? The observer has already done what he had planned.

The other dragon stumbles and falls, a pitiful heap. It doesn't get up again, but the observer knows he's alive - and that he will be, for a while. He's made sure of it, after all. He needs him to be.

"Why did you pick that one?" the small voice next to the observer's leg whines. It's owner's deformed and ugly, scar-covered head too heavy for its thin neck, yet sturdy. The observer smiles.

"He's the perfect tool. Did you see those clumsy mannerisms? Those big, doe eyes? The feathers, the colours, the whole work? He's precious. He needs to be protected, cared for. Brought to the cave and nursed back to health."

From the lush jungle in the distance there is a rumble. A group of dragons must be getting closer. The observer turns to hide.

"And that is exactly where I want my vector," he tells his assistant, as a shocked 'ah'! is heard from not so far.