This chapter is dedicated to @newlywrittenbooks for their devilish prompt.

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That was not a dragon. It oozed out of the leaden depths of Lake Raevare, an icy mist circling the serpentine tail that followed. The silence in the valley was broken by a single scream, "Run!" Chaos erupted as the provincial villagers ran for their pathetic little lives. Didn't they know that the Wyvern preferred to play with its food?

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The cloaked figure stood at a near-empty bar. A preoccupied bar-maid had barely enough time to collect payment before handing him an overfilled glass of meade and running off. Tavern doors swung back open as a much taller man paced around the bar before grabbing a spirit off a shelf and holding it to his lips.

"We're all going to die anyway, what's the point of paying for liquor?"

The figure removed his hood long enough to stare at the other man. "I think you shall live." He said simply before returning to his glass, humming a pesky tune.

Three for the night

But one more to go

Shrills before light

With even less to show

"Are you mad? There's a Dragon terrorizing the town. We're all going to bloody die and you're stuck here singing?"

"The meade is good." He said simply, passing the glass between his hands. "I like this place. I think I'll return. It's very... quiet." The man smiled but it came across rather alarming, like a beast learning to dance. There was something very wrong about him.

"We won't be alive come tomorrow. Dragon, remember?"

"It's not a Dragon it's a Wyvern."

"Same difference."

"Couldn't be more incorrect, actually; a dragon has four legs while a wyvern only has two."

"Right, because next time I see a flying monster spewing fire and getting ready to eat my bits, I'll take the time to count its legs. You know, wouldn't want to insult a dragon."

"You've got it."

"And do Dragons like know-it-alls like you?"

"I wouldn't know. I spend more time with Wyverns anyhow."

"You what?"

The man shrugged. He grabbed a stale dinner roll off a nearby, the contents warming his empty belly. The man peaked over the bar and found an unopened bottle. With a crack he shattered its beck on the table before pouring the blood-red liquid into his glass.

"Wyverns are more fond of people," he observed. More fond? "Well, sometimes at least. You would never be able to take a Dragon as a pet!"

The other man looked as pale as a ghost, but too angry to retreat into the shadows. This was a very dangerous man. He lowered his voice softly. "That thing killing people is your doing?"

"Heavens no! You can't tell a Wyvern what to do. I'm more like his caretaker - his steward if you will..."

He blinked. "So, let me be absolutely clear. You've a pet DRAGON."

"WYVERN; and yes, I suppose. Though he would say that I'm the pet."

And with that, the pair shared a vial of amber spirit. What was there left to do but drink?