Huge rock formations that
piled and stacked together made up the Roost. The spiraling, branching stones
sat like one large, proud tomcat in the hollow created from the surrounding
hill country. Vast plains sprawled on all sides, curling un into jungle Blue skies reached as far as his whirling eyes
could see, and in the distance, the sea glittered quietly.
He turned his head slowly to
regard the younglings that tumbled about on the nesting flats. The newest
mothers crouched in the sun, their scales glowing in good health even though
they were lean from birth.
Even over the sand slopes
and the rocky cliffs, the raucous cries of sea birds could be heard as the sun
rose.
It was early in the spring
yet, and there were several queens that still had litters due in the coming
weeks. There was plenty of time though, and there was plenty of food to go
around. They lost an egg or two every season; not every egg in a clutch of five
would have a hatchling, and sometimes a runt was born and they were sent
quickly to the smaller prides that lived in the mountain range.
Of course the hatchling wasn’t
killed, but they had long since learned that only the strongest could survive
outside the protection of the mountains, with their solid walls and steep
cliffs. An open mesa like the one Aine ruled was much more dangerous, what with
the rocs on the southern coast and the griffins in the eastern jungles that
raided when autumn came.
Even worse were the wyverns
that had their own nests in the crags to the far north. They almost never came
out, but when they did there were always deaths, and they hated drakes with a
passion. Their wicked fangs dripped acid, and their sickly yellow scales were
hard enough to armor them against flame.
A contest of claw and tooth
was the only thing that would stop them, and only after most of the attackers
were dead would they retreat, leaving the pride to lick their wounds. This year
had been quiet so far, as had the winter leading up to it. The rocs were only
trouble in summer, when their chicks were learning how to hunt, but the
griffins had a different hatching season, and their young learned in the fall.
Every year it was the same;
a few skirmishes here and there, one or two deaths if the pride was having a
bad year. Usually the wounded were sent to stay in the mountains until they
were well again, but sometimes there was no time and it was too late. It had
been several years since the last death, and numbers were beginning to swell
into the thirties. It wasn’t as if they were pressed for space, as the mesa
they lived in and around had so many holes and caves it was a wonder it stood
as firm as it did.
There were tunnels that ran
from the lower caves into the ground, even, vast openings into open space and
cracks that seemed to run down forever. Here was where they lived in the
winter, sleeping away many days until the sun came back from the long darkness.
The cold came with snapping fangs and reaching talons, scraping away the warmth
The pride’s roost wasn’t
quite in the center of the valley, but it was close to it, clawing high into
the skies and housing the largest number of drakes for days of travel. They had
come here seeking food for the expanding numbers of the mountain prides, but
had realised that expanding and separating would be better to support everyone.
So the strongest young drakes came to live in the few mesas scattered around,
and the elderly and smallest survived happily on the herd of mountain goats and
deer that roamed the valleys.
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