A small child once again tried to swipe Wraithvine's hat. A common enough occurrence. What was uncommon was how protective the tiny dragon that lived on hir hat with it's tiny 'hoard' of a single gold coin, got of the child. -- Anon Guest
[AN: Corrected Wraithvine's gender in this prompt]
Walking sticks and wizards' hats are irresistably attractive to small children. Many is the king or other holder of a crown who has had to shoo a tiny toddler off the royal throne. At least one let the kid attempt to lift their shiny, fancy hat.
Heavy may be the head that wears one, but the crown itself is a weighty burden, too.
Wraithvine was used to having hir hat abducted by some scurrying giggle who had just learned how to run. Ze generally let them have the game before using some magic to retrieve hir property. It was such a common occurrance that Wraithvine forgot about the other entity using hir hat.
Spytfyre, the fly-dragon and its singular gold coin 'hoard', nesting in a cave/pocket sewn into Wraithvine's hat.
In this particular inn, the pitter-patter of little feet was only briefly accompanied by the victorious giggle of a toddler who had made off with a funny hat. The joy was punctuated by a squeal and then tears. Almost lost under the caterwaul was the hiss and sparks of Spytfyre guarding its hoard, and therefore its cave.
Wraithvine leaped up to heal the hurt - just a scorch and a cat-scratch - and to scold the criminal Dragon. A task that nececessitated crawling under the table with the child, hat, and nominal pet.
"It bit me," complained the child thief, more scared than hurt.
"Yes. Spytfyre does get too rough. Naughty Dragon! Bad!"
The glowing eyes visible in the folds of the hat issued a low, whirring growl.
"That was a baby," Wraithvine scoled the creature. "We do not hurt babies."
Hiss!
"Monster," said the child.
"Yes. A very little monster," said Wraithvine, adding the hat to hir lap. Putting hir hand over the little cloth 'cave' where Spytfyre was sulking. "The tiniest kind of Dragon ever found. It's so small, it can only hold one feeling at a time." Ze looked around. Still no sign of the guardian. Interesting. Wraithvine extended them the benefit of the doubt for the meanwhile. "Right now, Spytfyre is very angry because you ran away with its home. Would you be angry if someone stole your home?"
Nod. Sniffle. Staring at the hat.
"If I had a home, I'd be angry if someone stole it," said Wraithvine. "The good news is that you can say sorry so that Spytfyre isn't mad any more." Which was a little cube of butter. "You can hold this where it'll see it and tell it you're sorry."
Very carefully, the toddler offered the butter. "I sorry, Spi'fye."
"Now," whispered Wraithvine, "we stay very still and quiet, and we wait."
Whiffling draconic nostrils emerged. Followed by the tiny Dragon head. One front paw. Then two. A long tongue licked the melting cube. Three such flickers of tongue, and the rest of the fly-dragon emerged. Tail still wrapped around its hoard. It wasn't long before Spytfyre was guzzling butter whilst half-perched on the child's fingers.
"It's very small, so we have to be gentle," recited the child.
"That's right," cooed Wraithvine, demonstrating how to pet the creature with one finger.
They were giving Spytfyre belly rubs by the time the child's guardian found them.
A sickly man, suffering from one of the many road fevers. Still lathered with sweat and looking wan. "Oh there you are. Has my little Nittl been a pest?"
"Not as much of a pest as my tiny boarder, here," assured Wraithvine. "I can help you with your illness if you wish, which will help you keep track of your little mischief."
Nittl said, "D'agun," pointing out Spytfyre.
[Photo by Birmingham Museums Trust on Unsplash]
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