During a massive storm they put their tent up over the nest of tiny yellow dragons with blue spots, protecting it from the weather, and then slept peacefully, if uncomfortably, in their carriage.
They awakened to find not only were they now completely immune to the deadly stings, but the small creatures now nested in the carriage protecting them from bandits and other deliberate hostiles. -- Anon Guest
[AN: Microdragons are fun creatures, but not that magical. I have to invent some special nonsense]
Tarme was wondering, not for the first time, how traveling merchants managed on their first venture. They had a few things for their own survival, and the rest of the cart was full of carefully-packed pottery and plum wine. They also had an idea, too late, as to why traders traveled in covered caravans.
Storms like this were intolerable with just a tent to protect them and their horse from the blustering weather. Tarme had enough sympathy to bring a small nest of tiny, infant draconic fingerlings into the thin shelter. They were blind, and impossibly small. Tarme also found them pretty, and kept the entire nest's worth of fingerlings tucked up against their chest. Tarme liked to stroke them gently from muzzle to tail-tip, avoiding the sharp tips of the fingerlings' tails. The fingerlings licked and bit Tarme's fingers when they couldn't feed the fingerlings shreds of dried meat.
Tarme dozed through the storm, wishing they had known more before they set out to become a traveling merchant. With luck, they would be able to upgrade their cart to something more weatherproof.
The next dawn was a lot better. Clear and crisp. The fingerlings, bright yellow and bearing little blue spots on their fine scales, had opened their eyes. They crawled all over Tarme and wouldn't part from them to the point that Tarme had to pluck the fingerlings off their pants before they dared sit to drive.
They were pretty little things, and all Tarme could do about it was hope that they didn't annoy their parental Dragon by taking the clutch along. They roosted on Tarme's head and shoulders, cavorted on the reins, and exercised their bright yellow wings. They had to hunt small game to keep them happy or they'd start testing their fangs on Tarme. The fingerlings went from devouring a couple of squirrels a day to needing three or four hares to sate their appetites.
They never grew beyond the size of housecats. Which made Tarme worry about them.
They hoped to gain advice at the next big town, and hopefully cheap. So there would still be something of a profit after their sales. It shouldn't be too long.
Then the bandits attempted to rob Tarme.
It happened so quick. One brigand with a crossbow blocked the way. Ten more emerged from the greenery bordering the road. All armed and dangerous. Then Tarme's little friends burst forth from the cart. Eleven bandits. Seven cat-sized Dragons against them should have been outmatched. Sure they were fast and didn't have the best flying skills, but they were still babies.
Or so Tarme thought.
The baby Dragons stabbed their sharp tails into seven of the bandits, who fell to the ground. Screaming and melting on the way down.
The remaining for bandits went running for their lives. Tarme's seven little friends were feasting on the bandit goo. Tarme, for the record, wanted to improvise a privy in a hurry. Yet they were too terrified to move. It was all they could do to clench and restrain their fight or flight instinct's internal reaction.
Tarme was therefore not tremendously shocked to learn that they were now the surrogate parent of a flock of the world's most dangerous Microdragons.
[Photo by Kris-Mikael Krister on Unsplash]
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