Heavy breathing, loud footfalls and a musty dragon smell.
Rankir lumbered down the deserted street, heading towards the cathedral.
He like his quiet time, a time of rest, a time where he was not fighting or argueing.
Rankir knew he had a bad attitude problem. His pen mates and his owner often told him.
Owner.
How he hated that word. To be locked up in a pen, and told what to do. It infuriated him.
He raised his head to look at the stars. There was no moon visible, it was midnight and a new moon.