Funkefae School of Monsterology and the Mythical Arts

Chapter Eight: Into the Trunk

The roar was deafening as Emma climbed down the ladder. She hopped off the ladder a few rungs from the bottom and clambered through the cabin-style building and over bits and bobs and knickknacks. Her father had had this for years, normally using it to transport dragons safely across long distances. The two of them had basically lived inside this for a few years before going back to Draken Cottage. She grabbed a pair of aviator goggles and fireproof leather riding gloves hanging from a hook in the cabin, before rushing out the door. She immediately ducked below a small rock formation outside of the cabin as a wave of fire blasted across the ground around her and the cabin. Glancing around the rocks, she was glad to see her father had indeed renewed the fireproofing charm on the bloody thing as the Russian Hornmaw crashed down on top of the little house. She easily dwarfed it, considering she was the size of two elephants stacked on top of one another, and bellowed loudly as she flapped her wings, the ragged protruding spines on her lower jaw glinting in the light. She roared at the circling shadows and Emma's eyes drifted up to see what enraged her so. Soaring in the magically expanded space of the trunk's secret compartment, were the Scottish Thistleback and the Irish Cloverhorn. They were small as dragons went, only two Shire horses tall. Emma sighed. They had probably ransacked the Hornmaw's nest again.

Before he had left on the German Zippleback job, her father had procured a trio of orphaned Russian Hornmaw eggs, which the female that they had already had become fiercely protective of. It was excellent to see her natural instincts at work, honestly. Hornmaws tended to work in familial groups, and even elected so called 'godparents' if the true parents were killed. Those were the instincts that their Hornmaw was playing off, but unfortunately it made her irate, something the smaller dragons enjoyed taking advantage of.

Stepping out of the shelter of the rocks, Emma brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, calling down the Scottish and Irish breed of dragons. The Hornmaw snarled as smaller breeds landed, and they hissed in return, but shuffled sheepishly under Emma's gaze.

            "That's enough from you two. Sean," the Cloverhorn's ears pricked up, "Fergus." The Thistleback snorted gently. "Apologise to Nikita. I mean it, you two have done this far too many times." The two sniffed and huffed but hooted quietly to the Hornmaw in apology. "Honestly, if I knew you two were going to behave like this, maybe I should have left you to be cared for by John Corner." The dragons' heads shot up and they hooted and cried angrily at the thought. Emma sniggered as she gently hooked her fingers around the spines on their lower jaws and led them away from the cabin. Nikita took off, heading back towards the ridgey, snowy section of the trunk she inhabited with a few others. Emma picked her way through the marshy, boggy section of the trunk that all the native species dwelled in, with Sean happily hopping in and out of puddles and Fergus plodding along behind him. She could make out the red-gold tinged shape of the English Royal Misery laying serenely on what may have been the only dry patch of the Bogland habitat. Henrietta raised her head as they approached, but sniffed disdainfully at the drabble, huffing and turning on to her other side without a second thought. Emma happily clambered over the red dragon, leaving a trail of muck across the disgruntled dragon. The old Welsh Heathertop, with withering tips on her heather hat and four hundred and sixty years of experience of being stepped on easily raised her shoulder blades and lower back out of the mud to act as stepping stones for the girl.

Her goggles began slipping down her nose as she traversed the entire space, ensuring that the dragons were comfortable, especially the Korean Mul Yong and Japanese Dorēku in their fresh water springs. They were both over a thousand years old, and did not suffer foolish behaviour well. The Spanish Bronze Clipper and the Greek Diamondtips were well established in the hotter, drier expanse of the trunk.

Her checks were cut short however by multiple shrill shrieks and yells and an angry roar cutting the air. Pushing her goggles back up her face, she ran back to the cabin as the roaring grew louder, rousing the curiosity the other dragons.