Small even for her breed but perfectly made was Dearling,
a courier-grade lightweight who had retained from her hatching an endearing inability to accurately judge her size in relation to significant other things,
such as the formidability of a dragon she had determined to fight, or the accessibility of a room she wished to enter.
Even so, the Chasseur-Vocifere moved with care through the damp heat of the Egg Room,
setting each articulated foot as lightly as a cat on ice and furling her red-brown wings tightly around her long torso.
Her serpentine tail trailed in an elegant wave, and she touched her nose, very lightly, to each egg nested into its straw-padded box as she moved past.
“Coming, Dearling?” asked the young airman as he unhooked the latch that led to the Regiment’s bath house. Clouds of steam billowed from the room ahead, dampening his wild hair around his ears.
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