Reckless
Today’s #Inktober2025 prompt was "reckless". I started with a drawing: two hobbits singing by firelight, unaware of the dragon behind them. But the story flipped the danger—and the lesson—on its head.
The Sunrise Ritual
The trouble began when Skarn refused to join his parents at the sunrise ritual.
“It takes forever,” he groaned, tail lashing. “And it’s boring.”
His father bristled. “It’s tradition. We dragons honor the fire of the sun. It’s the source of our flame—”
“—It’s a folk tale,” Skarn cut in, curling his lip. “Staring at the sun’s not gonna make my breath burn hotter.”
His mother gave him a long look. “Not all beliefs need to be true to be powerful.”
But Skarn snorted. “I’ve got better ways to spend my morning than watching a ball of light crawl up the sky. I’m the strongest dragon in the mountain. Nobody can match my fire.”
His father opened his mouth to argue. But his mother lifted a wing and gave a small nod.
“Let him go,” she said. “It’s time he makes his own choices.”
And so, as the rest of the dragons perched solemnly on the ridge, watching gold spill over the horizon, Skarn went hunting.
The Bird
He hunted the lower slopes at dawn, diving from the cliffs to scatter herds of deer. His fire licked through the trees—hot enough to kill, but not char the meat. Burned venison tasted like boot leather.
Each day, he hunted bigger. Wiser. Meaner. One morning, he torched an aggressive hippogriff mid-lunge, snatched it from the air, and soared high over the peaks with the carcass swinging from his claws.
“I am might!” he roared to the wind. “I am power!”
“You are reckless,” chirped a voice beside his ear.
He snapped his head sideways. A tiny bird flitted there, no larger than his eye.
“Reckless, reckless!” it chirped again.
With a growl, Skarn sucked in breath, fire building in his throat. “I’ll burn you into feathers and ash, you annoying—”
Peck.
Something sharp drove into his right eye.
“OW!” he roared, blinking hard.
The hippogriff slipped from his grip, tumbling through the air and vanishing into the snow-covered trees below.
“You little—”
Peck.
The bird struck his left eye. Pain flared. His vision blurred. He twisted mid-air, wings flailing—
—and saw the mountainside rushing up to meet him.
He crashed into the slope. Snow exploded in every direction. Pain seared his chest, and red streaks flickered across the backs of his eyes.
When he came to, he saw the bird again—sitting on a rock, head cocked. Cheerful chirping.
He growled, low and dangerous.
“Do you believe me now?” the bird asked.
Skarn blinked. “What?”
“I was there when you hatched,” said the bird. “Our nests were close. I watched you flap those oversized wings for the first time—so eager to fly.” And this morning, when you stormed off, I saw the look in your mother’s eyes. That’s why I followed.”
“Followed me to lecture me?” Skarn growled, trying to stand.
“To warn you,” said the bird. “I know recklessness. I buried mine.”
The words stopped him. The bird’s voice had lost its song.
“I rushed my own children from the nest,” it said. “I wanted them to fly early. High. Before the others. My wife warned me—they’re not ready yet. But I didn’t listen. They followed me into the sky. And they fell.”
A pause.
“She never forgave me. I never forgave myself. And when I saw you, burning bright and careless, I saw it again.”
Skarn’s headache faded—but something else rose. A low simmer of rage.
How dare this little featherball preach to him? One set of nagging parents was plenty.
He dragged breath into his lungs, flames crackling up his throat.
But the bird was already gone. Its voice echoed between the cliffs.
“Don’t be reckless. Don’t be reckless...”
Second Breakfast
Something else echoed too—his stomach.
He’d been saving the hippogriff for breakfast. But it was long gone now, picked clean by scavengers.
He squinted toward the valley. There. Two tiny humanoids climbing a snow-trimmed path toward a hidden grotto. Littlefolk, from the valley below. They looked tired. Perfect.
Skarn’s snout curled.
“Appetizers.”
He circled wide, flew over the ridge, and slipped into the mountain’s other side, entering the tunnels from below. He crawled through the narrow dark, eyes gleaming.
Their scent grew stronger. So did something else.
Smoke.
And potatoes.
Roasting.
He salivated.
“They’re cooking my breakfast,” he muttered.
He crept closer.
“I’m glad we found shelter,” one of the Littlefolk said. “And thank the stars for dry wood. This fire is a miracle.”
“Mmm,” said the other. “Let’s roast the spuds. We already skipped second breakfast.”
Skarn stifled a chuckle.
“Enjoy it,” he whispered. “It’ll be your last supper.”
Their voices echoed off the stone.
“I love the acoustics,” said one. “Bet it sounds great when we sing.”
“Should we really be making noise?” said the other. “Who knows what’s lurking out there.”
“Oh come on,” the first said. “Cheerful music keeps enemies away. It’s tradition!”
And with that, they sang.
A ridiculous tune about dwarves and dragons, elves and golden rings. Nonsense. Yet something in the melody prickled at the edge of Skarn’s brain. The rhythm swayed. The notes curled through the air like smoke.
His limbs slowed.
“Wha…?”
Sleep.
Heavy. Sweet. Enchanting.
His eyes drooped.
He collapsed, head slumping forward, snout nearly in the firelight.
Then—darkness.
It’s a Trap
When he woke, he couldn’t move.
Hundreds of ropes coiled tight around his body. His snout was shut. His limbs were bound. And surrounding him—Littlefolk. Dozens. Maybe more. Holding spears. Daggers. Cleavers.
Hungry eyes.
“I told you we’d catch the dragon,” one said. “Perfect for the village feast.”
“And a big one too,” said another. “They’re getting more reckless every year.”
Skarn tried to roar, but only a muffled growl came out.
The cave glowed with firelight. Laughter echoed from stone walls. Axes gleamed.
And all Skarn could think was:
I should have gone to the sunrise ritual.
Good story! I enjoyed it.