Post by Rumer Lovell on Nov 10, 2016 23:36:58 GMT -5
"Damn baby dragons," hissed a young woman as she walked into a small pub tucked away admist the bustling shops in Hogsmeade, a slight scowl on her face. She slid into a booth, and pulled off her tattered, faded jean jacket, casting it aside. It hit the window next to her and plopped down into the booth next to her.
Rumer Lovell, twenty-one, stuck out her arm and winced at the sight. She had a long, bright red burn running from her wrist, all the way up her forearm. She managed to scrounge up a couple of Galleons from the pocket of her black jeans and ordered a firewhiskey and a water. She was still inspecting her fresh injury when her drinks arrived a few moments later.
She ran a finger over the burn, sucking air through her teeth in pain as she did so, and dipped that same finger into her cold glass of water. She gingerly wet the burn, trying to cool it down. It felt as if the little scamp were still breathing fire all the way up her arm. Stupid, she thought. Stupid for getting too close.
Stupid for following that maniac so far up into the mountains, and especially stupid for thinking she wouldn't get hurt-again. Rumer Lovell was a biographical author, and had spent the last four years since graduation hunting down some of the most notorious, infamous witches and wizards in the realm, just hoping for a chance at an interview, a few fantastic stories for her biographies on those crazy enough to take on jobs like illegal hippogriff flying, werewolf hunting, or dragon taming. "Dragon taming" was the phrase of the day for Rumer.
Nathan Grippkill, one of the most infamous dragon tamers in the wizarding realm, had been on Rumer's radar for years. He had been hard to track down, what with living deep in the mountains and rarely venturing out, but once she had found him, the last three months had been spent interviewing Mr. Grippkill, a tall, gangly man who never wore a shirt and smelled like a campfire all the time. He was interesting, however, and the stories he told Rumer could fill an entire book. Thankfully, since she needed a bookfull of content.
She had been studying Nathan Grippkill as he lived amongst the dragons, caring for them, taming them, and showing off his burn marks to Rumer, telling her each time the story of how he'd gotten them, each more gruesome than the next. That morning, Rumer recorded in her studies the birth of a litter of dragons, four of them. One died moments after birth, and she noted that Nathan just shrugged and told her sadly, "It happens." But she recalled the happiness that shone bright in his brown eyes as he cheered for the mother dragon, proud of her and excited to tame the newborns. The incident, however, occurred when Rumer got cocky; she needed to record the look and the feel of these newborns, freshly born into this world, and the little shit decided to barbecue her arm.
Rumer rolled her eyes as she remembered this, and knocked back her drink, rattling the ice left in the bottom of the glass. For now, she was far away from the dragons, and glad for it. Tomorrow, however, was a new, dangerous day. Just like every day.
Rumer Lovell, twenty-one, stuck out her arm and winced at the sight. She had a long, bright red burn running from her wrist, all the way up her forearm. She managed to scrounge up a couple of Galleons from the pocket of her black jeans and ordered a firewhiskey and a water. She was still inspecting her fresh injury when her drinks arrived a few moments later.
She ran a finger over the burn, sucking air through her teeth in pain as she did so, and dipped that same finger into her cold glass of water. She gingerly wet the burn, trying to cool it down. It felt as if the little scamp were still breathing fire all the way up her arm. Stupid, she thought. Stupid for getting too close.
Stupid for following that maniac so far up into the mountains, and especially stupid for thinking she wouldn't get hurt-again. Rumer Lovell was a biographical author, and had spent the last four years since graduation hunting down some of the most notorious, infamous witches and wizards in the realm, just hoping for a chance at an interview, a few fantastic stories for her biographies on those crazy enough to take on jobs like illegal hippogriff flying, werewolf hunting, or dragon taming. "Dragon taming" was the phrase of the day for Rumer.
Nathan Grippkill, one of the most infamous dragon tamers in the wizarding realm, had been on Rumer's radar for years. He had been hard to track down, what with living deep in the mountains and rarely venturing out, but once she had found him, the last three months had been spent interviewing Mr. Grippkill, a tall, gangly man who never wore a shirt and smelled like a campfire all the time. He was interesting, however, and the stories he told Rumer could fill an entire book. Thankfully, since she needed a bookfull of content.
She had been studying Nathan Grippkill as he lived amongst the dragons, caring for them, taming them, and showing off his burn marks to Rumer, telling her each time the story of how he'd gotten them, each more gruesome than the next. That morning, Rumer recorded in her studies the birth of a litter of dragons, four of them. One died moments after birth, and she noted that Nathan just shrugged and told her sadly, "It happens." But she recalled the happiness that shone bright in his brown eyes as he cheered for the mother dragon, proud of her and excited to tame the newborns. The incident, however, occurred when Rumer got cocky; she needed to record the look and the feel of these newborns, freshly born into this world, and the little shit decided to barbecue her arm.
Rumer rolled her eyes as she remembered this, and knocked back her drink, rattling the ice left in the bottom of the glass. For now, she was far away from the dragons, and glad for it. Tomorrow, however, was a new, dangerous day. Just like every day.