Life of a Dragonologist

Winds howled and shrieked in the Valley of the Dragons. Thunder blared, lightning flashed, and rain pelted the hillsides, sending sprays of mud into the air and running down the mountains in roiling rivulets. A torrent of rain thundered down into the little enclave where I had pitched my tent. The tent collapsed, and I woke up smothered under canvas with a small creek pouring over me. I struggled out of the former tent and took shelter under a shelf of rock.

I had come all the way to this remote valley in order to see the mountain dragon’s acrobatic spring courtship display, renowned by dragonologists all over the  world. But soon after I arrived, this hurricane blew in and ruined everything! And now, how was I to get home with a tempest raging?

Then I heard a pitiful screeching from out on the lake. It was unmistakably a baby dragon, crying for help. The baby dragon, the size of a shoebox with glittering azure scales, was sitting on a rock a few meters out in the lake. The lake had risen quite a bit, but I was able to wade out to the dragon and rescue him.

The storm ended early that morning, and I departed in a hurry with my dragon, named Shenlong after the Chinese bringer of storms.

Back home, Shenlong grew quickly, eating almost any type of food with insatiable appetite. Finally, he grew old enough to release, so, with a heavy heart, I set him free.

He never really left me, living in the woods about my home. Often I would be taking a walk when Shenlong would suddenly leap out of the bushes, hissing happily like a teakettle.

Finally one day, he repaid the favor I had done to him. I was going over a bridge when the dragon leapt onto the bridge, hissing and snarling. He forced me back off the bridge and took off with a whirring of wings as the bridge, old and rotten from years of usage, collapsed.

He was one of the truest friends I ever had.