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Petra bowed her head as Sion's hand brushed over her scales, closing her eyes. "It's you." She repeated, her voice lifting with excitement. "I've waited for so long to find you." Her words were not spoken, but intoned directly in his thoughts. It was a strange, alien, but...comforting experience. Slowly, the other soldiers began to get up and look on in awe at the dragon that had scattered their formation, and then looked towards Sion. There were boots pounding on the ground as soldiers ran up - these ones with rifles at the ready, rounds loaded in the chamber. They only hesitated to fire when they saw Sion's hand upon Petra's muzzle, and how she sat faithfully by his side.

The base commander's fury lessened only somewhat at the sight, but it was enough to keep him from ordering the dragon from being put down. He strode up to the dragon and her newfound Rider, standing there quietly until the blood left his face. Even still, the firmness of his voice was still evident. "What do you have to say for yourself, young man?" He spoke as if chiding Sion for his actions. "You were not one of the listed Potentials."

The men left when they had finally finished repairing the door to her pen, but the soldiers remained there with their rifles, in case she tried to break free again. She looked at them dejectedly, but they showed impassiveness towards her. How could they understand what she was feeling? Then, a thought that alarmed her crossed her mind. What if they didn't let her out like they usually did when there were potentials for her to see? What if she had gone too far this time? Worry started to pool deep down in her belly, ruining the pleasant weight of her earlier meal. Petra climbed to her feet and started pacing back and forth inside her pen. That there wasn't really enough room for her to do so wasn't a concern of hers, she had to do something other than lay there. As the minutes passed and the shadows started to lengthen, her worry began to give way to despair. They should have brought her outside by now! Would they make her wait until tomorrow? Or even longer? Weeks? Months? She was sorry! She would behave! Just let her find her Rider and she would behave!

Then, a smell. Familiar. Petra rounded on the door as fast as she could turn, her eyes wide and pleading. The person entering the hangar was not the young man who had come in here before, the one who she had felt such a strong yearning towards, but an older man in a crisp gray uniform and a cap, his expression stern. The man was the commander of the base, and he had already heard of Petra's little 'breakout' and was far from amused by it. Even though Petra was a dragon, she was still an animal, and stubborn animals had to be broken in. If he had his choice, he would have had this dragon sent back to the Heartland, where she could be used for things other than damaging his base and eating up food that could be used to sustain the other, already bonded dragons. But, orders were orders, and one of the new potentials was some rich bastard's son with a growing amount of political influence. He ordered the gate to her pen opened up, but the men with the rifles would continue to stand guard until she was back in her pen.

Petra wasn't entirely sure of what had just happened, but the gate to her pen was open and she was being allowed outside. She moved slowly, looking back and forth between the base commander and the men with the rifles as they escorted her out of the hangar. Ahead of her was a gathering of men and women of various ages, all wearing uniforms with armbands. The potentials. But the grey-eyed human was not there with them, and she remembered that his uniform did not have an armband. She looked for him, hawkish eyes sweeping over the base for a glimpse of him, her nose trying to pick up his smell from the myriad of odors that filled the air. The base commander began to speak to them, about the honor and privilege of becoming an aerial cavalry soldier. Petra had heard the speech several times before, the words were just noise to her now. She was hardly paying attention to those gathered before her. She already knew that they were not her Rider.

One-by-one the commander called out their names and they walked up to her. She sat quietly, obediently, behaving under the watchful eyes of the commander and the armed guards. When a potential walked up to her, she paid attention to them then, but one-by-one they went back to the line disappointed. One particularly smug-looking potential strode up to face her. She had heard his name called out as 'Johan Müller'. When she did not respond to his presence, he got angry, furious even. He did not want to believe that he was not her Rider. He started yelling that she was just a stupid animal, before finally storming back to the line and glowered at her. The rest of the potentials went quickly, alarmed by Johan's outburst and not wanting to be seen the same way. Finally, there were no more. Once again, Petra did not have a rider. The base commander sighed and dismissed them back to their barracks, and ordered Petra back to her pen.

Petra had turned and began to walk away when she smelled something familiar. It was him. She stiffened like a hound who had just picked up a scent, looking around for him. There! Marching with a bunch of other men near the barracks. Despite the fact that she was under guard, Petra was not going to let the opportunity escape her again. She spread her wings and swept them down powerfully, pushing her gray body off the ground and into the air. The guards shouted with alarm as they swung their rifles towards her. Another powerful flap of her wings thrust her forward through the air. Rifle fire cracked past her, but none were close enough to hit her. She swept towards the group of men who had stopped running and were now flat on their bellies, trying to figure out where the gunfire was coming from. She picked him out easily amongst the crowd.

She covered the distance in only a few seconds, quickly flared her wings and thudded down onto the rough gravel, towering over the human that had come into her hangar before. Once again, she felt that deep yearning tugging in her chest, and she knew. She knew. All this waiting. It was done. She laid down beside him, like a faithful dog, her golden eyes bright as she looked at him. She had found her Rider.

"It's you." The thought resounded powerfully in her head, and she could feel it echo against his own thoughts.

The next few hours were a such whirlwind of activity that Sion wouldn't have been able to focus on his anger at Johan even if he had wanted to. The new recruits were all broken up and assigned to their barracks. The wooden buildings just barely kept out the cold, and the beds were little more than cots and uncomfortable to sleep on, but like it or not, it was home. Johan was assigned to a barracks for Riders and potentials, and women had their own separate barracks. The new recruits barely had enough time to get acclimated before an officer strode in, his head clad in a pointed Pickelhaube helmet. His uniform was crisp and pressed, dark grey fabric lined with red, epaulets on his shoulder marking his rank as Sergeant-Major. His mustache twitched slightly as he looked upon the new assembling of soldiers. He was obviously not impressed by what he saw.

"And what is this?" He shouted, his voice deafening. "I asked for soldiers! Not a bunch of ballerinas!" His arms were folded tight behind his back, his knee-high boots polished. "Oh!" He said with mock surprise. "You are the soldiers they have sent? Well! You do not look like soldiers to me! Now get outside and get in formation! If you are going to be soldiers, you are going to act like soldiers! And that means marching! Now move!"

['Cyrr: A Brewing Storm?']

This is a sci-fi intro post I am working on. I would love to get some critiques on it if possible.

A translation guide, for ease.

Kee - Night.
Ree - Light/Day
Cyrr - world
Cyrreekif - Worldstorm
Cyrrsci - Worldhome/village
T'k - star(s)
Kur'kuci - one-thousand steps/distance
Tsoche - death

- - -

          Being slightly smaller than Earth, and with over 80% of its singular landmass covered by unforgiving desert, it is hard to see just how the once widely unknown Cyrr has wound up at the forefront of galactic intrigue. It is not until one either steps back or looks closer that the value of this small, arid world becomes readily apparent.

          The location of Cyrr lies within the Tassau-Gründir Planetary Belt, almost directly between the territory limits of the Triumvirate Governments and the Victis Confederation, and could easily be established by either side as a waypoint for jump-drive equipped ships and used to strike deep into enemy territory. OSR (Orbital Support/Refit) facilities would make a formidable striking point, and with the addition of anti-oribtal weaponry and interceptor craft, Cyrr could also be used as a 'Jump Denial' planet for enemy warships. Both the Triumvirate and the Confederation have established military garrisons on Cyrr, and many fear that conflict is not only inevitable, but that it could quickly escalate into a full-scale and devastating war between the two factions.

          Beyond its military value however, Cyrr is also a treasure trove of untapped resources. The native species, the recently discovered Ke'trel, have lived for centuries at an S1 Technological level, and as such had been unable to exploit the natural wealth that lies beneath the towering dunes of their planet. Already, several mining and extraction companies have staked claims in the vast Cyrran Desert, and it is expected that the first set of facilities will be constructed within the next several weeks as both factions try to bring Cyrr into their spheres of influence. Already, the economic markets in the Triumvirate Industrial Sectors are rising in anticipation of the boon of incoming raw materials.

          However, several humanitarian agencies have been swift to condemn the sudden, and in some people's views, forceful ascension of the Ke'trel, who have seemingly been swept aside in the development of their own planet. NuPeace founder Victorina Bechtel stated in an appeal to both the Triumvirate and Victis governments: "This species went from not even having the wheel to being handed pulse rifles and told to kill anybody not wearing the right uniform that gets too close. There are more of them dead in the last four months than what typically happens in decades, mostly due to irresponsible exposure to technology advanced beyond their capability to use, much less understand. This was all done in a reckless bid for planetary resources and control by outside sources, and accidents and death tolls will only continue to rise until they are given space and time to develop the ability to properly understand the dangerous technology that has been given, crate after crate after crate, to a people that barely comprehend primitive metalworking."

          Currently, the Triumvirate Governments have over 50,000 personnel stationed on Cyrr in advisory roles, with plans to eventually increase that number to 80,000 within the coming weeks. The newly commissioned heavy cruiser TCN Tyrfing is scheduled to depart for Cyrr in the next few weeks, carrying much-needed supplies, equipment, and personnel. The Tyrfing will be accompanied by the destroyers Elysium and Aaru, as well as the Vellph escort cruisers Blockade of Nelien and Fall of Xsel. After departing, the flotilla will make a series of jumps until exiting in the Cygnis system, where it will only take five days of in-system flight to reach Cyrr.

          -Sample taken from 'Cyrr: A Brewing Storm?'
                    -SiGen Media Networks
                              -19.7.270 NDE (Sol Standard Calendar.)

- - -

   Tsik's life had gotten far too complicated far too quickly. After all, hadn't it only been two hundred kee ago that they had been alone and content in the Shadesea? Now, other creatures lived on Cyrr's sands, strange, soft-fleshed creatures who came from above in screaming shells of prismatic green. Who spoke strangely and carried weapons of a type that Tsik couldn't have even dreamed of! Who wore second skins that could deflect even the sharpest of knives. Who flew through the endless skies and even left the limits of the cyrr behind them and flew through the great Shadesea!

   Ever since then, his own cyrr had become frantic and strange, moving fast enough to make his head ache with blood. He had watched as a sea of dull gray had steadily flattened out the sands as those shimmering green shells swept back up into the sky and returned like a steady stream of insects. Each day that gray expanse was a little larger, a little more frightening. It was like watching the Cyrreekif rising on the horizon, dark and gray. Eventually, many of them had been brought to this strange place, full of noise and angular lines. There were Ke'trel there he had never seen before, not from his cyrrsci, and he realized that these new creatures, the whoom'ins, had traversed the deserts with impossible swiftness and united tribes that had never once met. Never even known the other existed. The fabric of their entire society was unraveling, and Tsik felt as if he were being swept up in the Cyrreekif's powerful winds, helpless to do anything about it.

   The whoom'ins quickly taught the gathered and stunned Ke'trel their strange and frustrating language over the course of several kee, full of sounds that he couldn't make, and instructed them to teach the others in their cyrrsci. In a strange twist of irony, most of the Ke'trel languages were incompatible with languages from other cyrrsci, and were soon they only able to communicate with one another through the strange, new language the whoom'ins spoke. Suddenly though, every answer had to be questioned anew. Every tradition, every custom had to be altered. For the first time, territory was no longer designated by the dunes. Trade was no longer limited to within ones cyrrsci. Shaky economies formed where there had once been none, as did rifts between individuals and territorial rivals. Even the Shadesea itself had changed. There were many new t'k above, little specks of light that moved far, far in the distance. The whoom'ins said these lights were vessels many kur'kuci in length! He could even see them during the ree, when the powerful sun blazed down upon him.

   Tsik stood under that oppressive sun, fidgeting uncomfortably in his new second skin, something that the whoom'ins called 'armor'. It was too tight in some places and pinched there terribly, and left his skin covered with blood-filled welts in those places. The fact that he was standing exposed during the day, many kur'kuci from his home was enough to show how much things had changed. Before, the lack of water away from the underground cisterns had made any great distances immeasurably longer, and the heat was devastating even to a desert-dwelling people as his own. But the whoom'ins had brought water to spare, as cool and as pure as the water in the cisterns. And they had so much of it! So much that they could waste it by dumping it over their bodies!

   They could carry it in large, gourd-like packs you wore on your back and sipped at it through a long, flexible tube. Tsik sucked down a mouthful of crisp, delicious water, his eyes nearly fluttering with bliss. For all his life, water was the most precious, most valuable thing in the cyrrsci. Until the arrival of the Cyrreekif, and the many months of rain refilled the underground cisterns, water had to be carefully distributed. Not a single drop could go to waste! And now there was water in abundance. He could drink and drink as much as he wanted! The whoom'ins were even building tall, silvery towers that he had been told could pull water right out of the very air! He exulted in that he would never go thirsty again.

   Along with endless water, the whoom'ins had also brought with them new and strange foods. After it had been determined that it was for Ke'trel to eat whoom'in food, they were able to sample exotic dishes such as 'roast beef', 'cornbread', and to the apparent amusement of the whoom'ins, a dish called 'fried chicken'. While they were all meals of interesting and new flavors, it was not his favorite food. That title was reserved for a delicacy called 'lime jello'. A savory mass of translucent green, it was not a liquid, but it behaved in such a such a fascinating manner! The taste reminded him only slightly of the seekweh fruit that grew underground, only with a sweetness that he did not think a meal could possess. He smiled and licked his thin lips in anticipation of his next trip to the 'mess hall'.

   Something smashed into his chest and crushed the air from his lungs. Even with his new armor on he was practically thrown to the ground, falling into the sand with a squawk of alarm. In the distance, another Ke'trel cawed with pride and hysterics. Tsik curved his neck down to look at the splatter of bright red on the chestpiece of his armor. His throat paled with embarrassment and he sighed, laying his head down on the hot sands. The whoom'ins had also brought something else with them besides water and food. They had brought weapons. Weapons that still amazed and frightened him. Weapons that could strike at far beyond the range of their best spear thrower. Could strike farther than one could see and farther. Weapons that could fire into the great Shadesea and blot out the t'k above. He had watched in dumbfounded amazement as the target exploded into smoking shards when he pushed the trigger of the weapon they had given him. It still felt awkward and bulky in his hands, but he was getting better at using it. At least, he thought he was.

   A whistle shrilled, painfully loud. "Goddamnit! Cease fire!" A voice bellowed from somewhere down the line of trench that he had been 'defending'. Tsik groaned as he sat up, his chest aching. He wiped off the bright red goop that was supposed to simulate blood and looked around. The Ke'trel that had 'shot' him strutted about triumphantly in his trench. "Who the hell just did the stupidest fucking thing I've ever seen in my service to the Corps?" That same voice roared, getting closer. Tsik climbed unsteadily to his feet, thereby making himself known to the approaching whoom'in. "Sike!" Tsik sighed at the mispronunciation of his name, something that the whoom'ins did with regularity, but he still stood to attention. He had refused to acknowledge to 'Sike' once. He had learned from that...mistake. The whoom'in that came charging towards him was tall for their species, but still almost a head shorter than him. Still he stood straight, as he had been trained to do. Sweat poured down the man's face, which was almost as red as Tsik's hide and twisted into a snarl of fury. "You were fucking daydreaming again, weren't you?"

   Tsik had also learned not to make eye contact when he was being yelled at. whoom'ins took this as a sign of disrespect, and often made punishments even more severe. He looked straight ahead, trying to focus on some imaginary speck on the horizon. "Noo, seerchent." He said crisply, even though his throat was still pale.

   "Oh! So I suppose you're just fucking stupid enough to stand still when someone is aiming a gun at you!" The man barked. "Makes sense, since you've got the brain of a fucking bird!"

   Tsik tried not to grimace. He was not accustomed to this kind of verbal abuse. None of his kind were, and not all of them had taken so kindly to the whoom'in's tendencies to scream at them for mistakes. "Sawree, seerchent." He said crisply. "Whon't awp'pen awken." He hoped that his promises of better performance would satisfy the higher-ranking (that was another confusing aspect of his society now) whoom'in and make him go away. It did not.

   "Get your worthless ass out of this trench!" The seerchent screamed at him again. Tsik wondered just how long that the man could yell like this, but he quietly did as he was ordered and climbed out to stand in the hot sands. "I will not have someone who is so fucking stupid as to stand there and get my men killed stand in this trench! Now, you are going to run, and run, and run your feathered ass off until you are too tired to think! Maybe that'll keep you from daydreaming!" The whoom'in cyrrsci was big, bigger than any Ke'trel village, but it would not be too bad of a run, he thought. Until the seerchent added "Ditch your water!" Tsik's eyes widened with alarm. Dump such precious water into the sand? It went against everything he had ever been taught! But the seerchent's anger only grew with each second, and mournfully, he removed the pouch from his armor and poured it onto the ground. The sand sucked it down with an all-consuming thirst. This was far more of a punishment than merely running would have been. He did not want to think on how thirsty he would become while running. Without water, the desert was death. Tsoche.

- - -

The weight of the meat slop she had eaten settled pleasantly in Petra's stomach, but the the dark gray dragoness still let out a mournful sigh. She rested against the far wall of her pen, watching as a couple of men worked to repair the broken door to her cell, while armed soldiers stood guard outside as if though she was a dangerous animal. Meanwhile, her Rider could be outside and she would never even know it! The new humans had shown up in those rickety trucks some time ago, and the sounds of activity outside were even more hurried than they were before. The air was full of new voices, new smells, already mixing in with the old. How would she find her Rider if she was sealed up in here? She thought of trying to knock her way out again. She could do it, she knew she could, but she might hurt the men who were fixing her pen, and the men with the rifles would start shooting without hesitation. She did not want that. And so, she waited like she had for many days before.

A group of Riders brought their dragons back to the hangar when their patrols had finished, some of them looking over at Petra and the repairs being done to her pen. A few of the humans showed sympathy, the others wore looks of annoyance. This wasn't the first time that Petra had been overeager in the search for her Rider. She had at one point broken into the barracks house, causing damage that had taken days to repair during the wettest part of the year. The other dragons however, were universally understanding of her uneasiness - they had all been without Riders once as well. Petra let out another sigh and lowered her head to the dry hay bedding on the floor and closed her eyes in rest, waiting for when they would bring her out to see the potential Riders. If they brought her out after what she had done.

There was a new smell.

Petra opened her eyes again, lifting her head to look sharply at the new human that had just walked into the hangar. His smell was new, even though it carried the familiar stinks of exhaust fumes and coarse fabric and cordite. His curiously gray eyes were focused on her, as if he knew she was the only unbonded dragon. That it also could have been that she was the only dragon with soldiers standing in front of her pen never once crossed her mind. When the young man came to a stop in front of her pen, Petra felt...something. A yearning deep inside her. The soldier in front of her was not dressed like a potential Rider, his uniform was the usual dull brown-green that the soldiers wore, and it lacked the armband that would have designated his advanced position. But could this human be...really be?

The human stepped closer to her pen, but the armed soldiers warned him away. The soldier apologized and turned to leave. Petra took a few steps forward, too quickly for the comfort of one of the guards, who swung his rifle back in her direction and raised the sights to his eye. Petra quickly shrank back and whined painfully as she watched the human leave the hangar, his last sight of her being that of the stone-gray dragoness being warned away by the barrel of a rifle.

A hand clamped down firmly on Sion's shoulder. Glaring at him was another one of the soldiers that Sion had gone through training with, although to call the well-groomed and arrogant boy in front of him would be a stretch and likely an insult to the uniform. Johan Müller III was the only son of an aristocratic family living near the capital city of Königshaven. Two years younger than Sion and infinitely more spoiled, Johan had not enlisted in the Imperial Army by choice, but because his father wished to make a good impression for the Kaiser - something he pointed out with irritating regularity. For some unknown reason, Johan had chosen Sion to be the target for the bulk of his bigotry, and even the supposed equality enforced by their identical rank could not erase the class difference between the two recruits. In Johan's eyes Sion was a peasant, someone beneath his contempt, and the mere thought of someone like him becoming one of the proud, elite few that commanded Eldra's dragon was enough to make him laugh. Unsurprisingly, his uniform had an armband, courtesy of father's political connections.

"Beautiful, splendid creatures..." Johan longingly eyed the winged beasts that stirred in their pens, even the one that was backing away from the weapons pointed at her. For a moment, he seemed no different than any of dozens of soldiers of all ages that had seen the flying creatures, but then he added: "It's a shame that you'll only be looking at them from the ground."

[The Grahnin Flats – The Eldran Conquered Territories - Spring 1916]

The Grahnin Flats – The Eldran Conquered Territories
               - Spring 1916

   
   Laying down in the fleeting afternoon sun, the creature known by her human handlers as Petra  shifted in her pen, fanning out her large, stony gray wings to soak up as much of the sun's rays as she could. The highland air was cool and damp from the frequent rains, two conditions that she did not greatly enjoy. Being cold-blooded, it made her feel lethargic and slow, so she took advantage of these rare moments of sunshine to soak in the sun's warmth. The adolescent dragoness watched as the humans rushed about in a display of near chaos that she found strangely intriguing. They circled and bobbed around one another like leaves caught in the current of a stream, but they always had a destination, a goal. Very rarely did they just...wander... But even watching the humans grew dull over time, and Petra yawned, a soft, keening sound that echoed throughout the small hangar that housed her, and nearly a dozen more of her kind.

   Dragons had been an integral part of this world before since the dawn of human history. At first, they had been gods to the humans, mighty and indestructible beasts that were feared, respected, and worshiped by all. Then they were legends, and the humans that slayed them were lavished with riches and fame. And finally, they were merely obstacles to human expansion, creatures destined only to meet extinction at the hands of human armies. But as the rest of the world hunted down the dragons one by one, the Eldran Republics captured them, bred them, and made them into weapons of war to use against their enemies. Traits were pruned away or passed on to the next clutch for centuries, until the dragons had finally become what they were now: domesticated beasts of war and burden.

   And this new breed of dragons had been the key to many of Eldra's military victories. The armies they faced could do little against soldiers who attacked from the sky, held aloft by the swift wings of smaller, more nimble dragons than the ones their ancestors had faced down generations before. Tooth, talon, and fire still inflicted appalling damage upon human bodies, while dragon scale still resisted arrowhead and sword edge as it had done all those times before. And even as time and progress marched on, and sword and bow became musket and bayonet, Eldra and its dragons emerged victorious. The last great battle between ground soldiers and flying cavalry had been during the 90 Days War two decades ago, only a few miles away from where Petra now rested in the sun.

   But this all mattered very little to Petra, despite being a direct result of that history. She had little use for history. Such knowledge was not passed down from one clutch to the next, instincts were. Emotions were. She could learn the rest when she found her Rider. Despite all of Eldra's experience with breeding dragons, it was still not understood how a dragon 'chose' its Rider, if it was even a conscious decision at all. There were many theories regarding the subject, but it was known that only a small number of humans had the ability to become bonded to a dragon, and that a dragon's performance and survivability increased dramatically once bonded to a human. Until then, she was only able to fly about the camp, under the close watch of a human caretaker, not allowed to freely explore the skies like her brothers and sisters.

   Her siblings also rested in their pens, basking in the sunlight that reached them. Unlike her, they all had Riders to call their own. The dragoness let out a great sigh, setting her head back down on the pile of bedding that covered the floor. She knew that she still had a few years until she was too old to find a Rider. It was plenty of time. But still, a lingering part of her feared that she would never find hers, or find it too late, and be given up as a beast of burden, hauling heavy loads around instead of flying like she had been born to do.

   That was not a life that she wanted.

   Petra smelled his approach long before he entered – the smell of hot blood and raw meat – and instantly her mouth started to water. She lifted her head and stared towards the open front of the hangar, watching. Pushing along a rattling, squeaking cart, one of the caretakers walked in amongst them. The cart carried several buckets of steaming slop. It smelled delicious. The man stopped at her pen first, reaching between the bars to rub the tip of her nose with his palm. He was a man whose hair had turned the color of ashes, his skin looked as tough and leathery as dragon's scale. But the man was nice to her; he talked to her, even though she couldn't understand a lot of what he said, and she enjoyed the company that a human brought. They were strange, fascinating creatures. Despite being unable to properly communicate with her kind, the humans still talked to them, even when they received no answers in reply. She knew it would be different with a Rider.

   "Hey there, Petra." He said, grabbing one of the filled pails and dumping the mixture of entrails and ground-up gristle into the trough in front of her. When one bucket was empty, he grabbed a second and dumped it in as well. "Hot and fresh from the slaughterhouse. And..." The man reached between the bars of her pen, rubbing the tip of her nose. He reached into his pocket, and produced a small white egg, holding it out towards her. "A treat."

   Petra licked at her thin lips. She had almost been ready to plunge her muzzle into the trough of hot, bloody meat when she saw the egg. Her tongue stretched out until the man set the egg upon it. She quickly pulled her tongue back in and mashed it against the roof of her mouth, swallowing the pulp. Eggs were a rare treat here, not just because of the distance needed to ship them from the farms, but because a healthy dragon could eat thousands of eggs if it was given the chance. All those years ago, dragons had eaten the eggs of weaker or defeated dragons. The taste was instinctual. So they were given out as treats, to make the limited supply last longer. It seemed that the humans liked eggs, too, and wouldn't be happy if their dragons ate them all.

   Immediately after finishing the egg, Petra buried her snout into the trough, wolfing down huge gulps of the meaty slop. It warmed her from the inside as it filled her stomach. The man was talking to her again, but she was so focused on her meal that she hardly noticed the sounds. She could pick up a few words though, words she vaguely understood. "...some good news for you, girl..." Petra slowly lifted her head from the trough, licking away the blood from her lips. The man was pointing out of the hangar, towards a line of rickety-looking trucks that had lined up alongside the barracks on the other side of the base. "Got a bunch of new potentials in today. One of them might be your Rider..."

   Her interest in the food was instantly lost, instead focused on the distant line of trucks that disgorged soldiers and supplies, trying to spot the potentials that the man had mentioned. Even with her hawkish eyes, she couldn't get a good view. The sounds melted together across the distance, and all that reached her ears was a mush of muffled voices, the sharp bangs of an engine backfiring, and the soft chant of boot steps. She would never find her rider like this. Her excitement bursting, Petra lowered her head and bashed against the door to her pen. The man's eyes widened. He said something, alarm creeping into his tone. She rammed the door again. The bars were thick, and made of steel, but it would take more than that to stop a dragon from going where she wanted to go.

   A final bash dislodged the sliding gate from its tracks, and Petra pushed herself free of the enclosure, rushing out of the hangar and into the center of the camp. There were hundreds of humans around her, hurrying back and forth. Some saw her and started walking in a wide berth around her. Others backed away when they caught her looking at them, still afraid of the beasts that they bred and flew. But, those humans were not of interest to her. Their scents were familiar. No, her interest was the trucks and the men and women they brought, new smells. She could hear loud voices braying to the lines of men and women that stood rigid. Was her Rider really among their ranks, like the man had suggested? Had any of them even seen a creature such as her? Would they be afraid? Or would they instantly know they were supposed to fly together?

   Even though she was much smaller than the dragons of old, she was certainly not 'small' by any standard.  A creature almost eighteen feet from nose-to-tail and six feet tall at the shoulder, and with a wingspan of nearly twenty four feet: Petra was still an imposing sight to behold. She continued to stride towards the lines of soldiers, but she never made it that far. Before she could get much closer, a group of men – soldiers – cut her off. They all carried rifles, and one carried a gun much bigger than one that would be used on a man. They warned her off, not knowing her intentions. To them, she was still a beast, still a dangerous creature that could kill many, many humans if not put down quickly. Petra let out a snort, looking over the heads of the humans blocking her to the lines of soldiers again. Reluctantly, she turned away, and the humans guided her back to the hangar.

   She had dislodged the door to her pen, and so while it was being repaired, the soldiers stood watch in front of it. Petra sighed again, pacing around before dropping with a soft thump against the bedding. The dragoness looked outside once again, before she lowered her head and resumed scarfing down the meal of meat slop. It had cooled significantly while she was out, but it was still meat. She ate every last morsel.

[Day One]

-Day One-

   Adam Wilcox drummed his fingers on the steering wheel of the White Creek Sheriff's Department SUV, watching the dismal trickle of cars that rolled down the main road through town. The air conditioner was cranked up to full blast, to counter the 107°F temperatures outside, and it wasn't even high noon yet. It might have been the beginning of October, but damned if the weather didn't seem to notice. He drained what was left of a cup of coffee and tossed the empty cup into a plastic bag down in the passenger-side footrest, turning his attentions back to the street outside. He was supposed to be on the lookout for speeding cars, but he figured it was an exercise in futility. School was back in session, so kids would – should – be at their classes, and the few delinquents who had tried to play hooky had already been reeled in for the most part. And the adults were either at work already or commuting to their job somewhere out of town. For all intents and purposes, White Creek was dead at this hour.

   And it wasn't like someone breaking the law here would go unnoticed. The town boasted a population of barely 2,000 people. Everybody knew everybody. Hell, Adam had probably met almost all of them at least once. Traffic stops were practically on a first name basis. If someone broke the law, someone was bound to know who had done it. And while there was some public worry about the rise of cartel activity south of the border, it was both his and the sheriff department's opinion that they were more of a concern to South Texas than a small community out in the middle of the New Mexico desert. The last time a town in New Mexico had come under attack was the raid by the Mexican revolutionary Pancho Villa in 1916, and that was Columbus, New Mexico, nearly 30 miles away. No one would find White Creek a juicy target. Not even the cartels.

   The radio clicked briefly and a gravely female voice crackled over the vacant airwaves. "Adam, This is dispatch. You there?" While such a casual nature of conversation might have been frowned upon in larger cities, in White Creek it was fairly normal, with less than ten people working in the Sheriff's office.

   Adam reached over and picked up the receiver. "Yeah, Midge. I'm here. What's up?" Midge Fletcher was the local dispatcher, had been for as long as Adam could remember. Sixty-eight years old and smoked like a chimney, but she was a warhorse, refused to quit her job. And as long as she could do it and wasn't slipping into senility, the Sheriff didn't have the heart to let her go.

   "We just got a call in from old Albert." Even through the static of the radio and the ravaging effects of decades of smoking, he could still hear the amusement in her voice. And he understood why. Albert McClintock, a.k.a Crazy Al, was the local loony, living at the very limits of the town's jurisdiction. He wasn't dangerous or anything, but every other week he called in to the Sheriff's Office with a report of some nature or another. Most of them were reports of alien spacecraft, or that he saw government agents spiking his water well with mind control agents. Crazy Al was all the proof Adam needed that living alone in the desert was extremely bad for you.

   "What is it this time, Midge? The cacti are walking around again? Or did JFK show up for a bottle of water?" He chuckled softly, but he checked the clock on the dash. As trying as dealing with Crazy Al was, it would probably beat sitting here doing nothing.

   "Nothing of that nature." Again, he could hear the amusement in her voice. "But he did say that he thought he might have heard a wolf last night. And that a 'strange' car filled up at his pump this morning. Paid in cash. Said she gave him a 'bad vibe'."

   "Probably just coyotes." He muttered when he was informed about the so-called wolf, but then he shrugged. "I'll go check it out anyway. If anything, I can ask him nicely only to call in unless it's serious. Not that he'd listen anyway." A harsh laugh rasped over the radio. Midge and the Sheriff had been dealing with Crazy Al and his calls since before Adam even joined the Force. Their requests for legitimate emergency calls had been ignored time and time again. As for the customer... "Did she actually harm him in any way?"

   "Didn't sound like it." Midge replied.

   "Not much about that, then. Although I feel sorry for her. When was the last time Al had those pumps filled? I can't imagine how much sediment was in there." Hopefully she – whoever she was – had managed to make it to town first. He started the SUV up and pulled out onto the main road, New Mexico State Road 9, and headed east out of town into the sprawling flat deserts beyond the town's limit.

HERP DERP

Scorpions - Rock You Like A Hurricane - 8-Bit Remix

I know it's kind of silly, but maybe making the 'Forsaken Lullaby' logo at the top of the page link to the homepage?