Srydon flew over the mountains, not really paying attention. He was daydreamimg, as he often did, of the day he would be called into battle, like his ancestors before him, and die fighting. He did a small dive, then came level again above the ground, skimming the rocks and low shrubs with his talons. It was a beautiful day, it was a little warm, but the sky was clear blue.
But all Srydon could do was dream about his death in battle, with a small smile on his face.
But all Srydon could do was dream about his death in battle, with a small smile on his face.