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Evet was warm.

It wasn't the type of uncomfortable warmth, like the heat that had bore down upon her on the trek out to the pool - no, this was a warmth she felt contented by. It made her want to lay down in the grass, spread her wings, and take a much needed afternoon nap. Perhaps it was the cold - yet quite refreshing - water that had taken it out of her, or perhaps the delicious salmon, bread, and cider that had been heavily loaded into the picnic basket, and were promptly devoured following their swim. It could've also been the sheer exertion of energy she had partaken in. The chasing, swimming, and subsequent splash-fight with Savel were unlike anything she had done since she was nary more than a whelp, back when she was still living in Port Heris with family.

'Evet, dear,' she thought, her aunt's voice speaking within her mind, 'where on earth has your professionalism gone?'

Where indeed? Her eyes followed a distant figure, silhouetted against the bright autumn sky. Savel was more energetic than she had ever seen him, bounding hither and yon about the meadows, chasing some poor jackalope like an enormous dog. A great thing, she figured. Exercise was good for both the body and the mind. More archaic physicians, especially the ones who walked upright, wore clothes, and generally considered themselves more 'civilized' than their feral counterparts, would abhor her, she figured. Confinement and pacification were seemingly the only words they knew of when it came to the treatment of the mentally afflicted. They were cold in their ways.

The sun smiled upon her, and Evet tried to focus on something other than the distant society which lay outside the valley. The silhouette on the opposite hillock stood clumsily on its hind legs, trying to spy its quarry. She knew he would never catch it - jackalopes were not cunning animals, but they were small, nimble, and incredibly fast. Besides, despite his sharp claws and teeth, it was doubtful that Savel would ever - could ever - harm a creature larger than a gnat or tick. It made the warnings his parents had given seem like petty fables. 'The mad dragon that lived in solitude; forever in search of living flesh to sink his talons into.'

It was only when they scrambled down a steep embankment and onto a narrow pair of dirt tracks that Savel rejoined her, walking slowly in order to keep equal pace. He was panting, and grass clung to his legs and underbelly. They plodded along in silence the rest of the way, until the path descended the the western side of the valley, over the brook on an ancient-looking stone bridge, and up to the rear of the big house. A small aqueduct ran alongside the brook, fed by a dammed section farther up, and the drake stopped to lap at the cool waters greedily.

Evet continued on, passing beneath the old maples, which were just beginning to redden, and into the rear courtyard of the estate. The draconic architecture of the place was displayed in full splendor in this area, where every stone had seemingly been laid with the utmost of intention to bring joy to a feral. Everything was low, well spaced, and perfectly suited for winged and quadrupedal creatures. The aqueduct dropped off, forming a small waterfall into an inviting-looking cistern, before being piped into the house. The area was bordered on two sides by the house, and by a smooth cliff face on a third. It was shady and always smelled of sweet earth in this courtyard, and here she had spent many an hour with Savel.

A voice called to her, and she looked up to see a thin man in a wide, straw hat approaching, an enormous pair of scissors tucked beneath his arm.

"Where were you? I looked all o'er."

"Walking." Not entirely a lie, she reasoned.

"You weren't out eatin' my Pa's sheep, were ya?" he questioned, pointing the clippers at her accusingly.

Evet licked her lips, flashing a set of sharp teeth. "Gobbled up every last one. I figured it was apt punishment for a boy who doesn't show up to work on time."

He pushed the brim of his hat back with the tip of the scissors, eyes to the ground. "Yeah, I'm real sorry 'bout that. My bicycle's wheel was outta shape, an'-"

"Don't worry about it, Simon." she chuckled, dropping her fierce tone. "In case you've forgotten, I work here, too. And honestly," her tail pointed to Savel, who was rolling in the shallow water of the cistern, "I don't think the 'head of the manor' is going to be very upset about it."

Savel cocked his head at her. He lay on his back, the toes of his hind and forepaws locked together, tail lashing wildly. "And just what makes you think I can't be a strict employer?"

"Oh, please!" Evet growled. "I didn't mean you, you silly beast!"

The drake put on an absurd grin, lolling his tongue out. It was nauseatingly adorable.

"Me sister's scared of you." said Simon, "Whenever I leave, she grabs at me legs and says that I'm gonna get eatin' or carried off." He sat down on the steps of the back porch, taking off his hat and scratching at his dirty-blond hair.

The boy was sixteen, yet easily stood eye-to-eye with her. She imagined the visions of massive, terrifying beasts the young girl must have conjured up, and giggled at the thought.

"What all did you do while we were out?" she asked.

"Oh, well, I brought the mail and groceries and such, tended the garden, then I trimmed the hedges -- they looked outta control 'fore I start'd on 'em."

The wyvern was able to decipher only a few words of the lad's answer, for the thick accent of these mountain folk was still so foreign. "Well, thank you for that. There's some cold tea in the ice cupboard; you're welcome to have some if you like."

He hastily disappeared into the house, and Evet stood up on her hind legs, tucking her wings in and walking in the style of more dignified wyverns. Hopefully, this would be an afternoon of relaxation. Savel's mood was such that she hoped she could get him to open up a bit more, perhaps moving on from basic likes and dislikes, family history, and musings on the mountains and streams - though that last topic was, without a doubt, one of her favorite things to hear him talk about.

Getting past those innocent topics, she knew, wouldn't be easy. The worst thing in the world would be to have this happiest of days end in sadness and self-hatred, and gods knew, there had already been so much of that. How on earth would she ask him to talk about the marauding hordes in the Eastlands, or the euphoric high of Veverett?

Or the bite-marks on his forelegs...?

Simon returned with a large mug of tea, struggling to understand how to drink from a vessel designed for dragons. They laughed, and talked about petty things like the weather, the town, and how his father's farm was doing. Never did Savel make mention of the pool in the woods, and Evet, in her own pensive way, mimicked this silence. The pool was a secret; something obscured from all but the most knowledgeable of creatures. It lurked within its own realm, far away from the world called Gavamon, and there those who visited it found solace.

"Yewfe's day is comin in three days." said the boy finally as he rose to leave, gulping down the last of his tea.

"Oh," chirped Evet, intrigued, "I had forgotten all about it. Is your family having a harvest party?"

"That's actually somethin' I wanted to ask you two..." There was a clear apprehension in his voice, and even Savel, who lay dozing in the sun, opened his eyes to look at him. "Down by the stream, 'eres a nice stand of trees. Tis' a real nice place - 'ight next to the bridge."

"Yes, I know where you're talking about." Savel spoke up, rolling over onto his stomach. "About halfway between the house and the road, no? Where the big pines and the deepwater are?"

"Yes, that be the one!" Simon beamed.

Evet looked at him, flicking her ears. "What is it that you wanted to ask us about it?"

"I was thinkin' that it 'ould be quite the place for a harvest festival. Not a big one, jus' me family an' sorts. I know it's on yer land, but we wouldn't come up to the house or anytin'."

"What all do you have planned for it?" She blurted out the words quickly, getting the question in before Savel could voice any affirmation at the proposition.

The boy flashed a grin. "We'd bring our crops n' preserves n' such, 'ave a bonfire - ya know, the normal tings."

Truth be told, she hadn't a clue what a harvest festival involved, or what these 'normal things' were. It was a holiday of the pastoral folk, this Yewfe's day, and she had no business being an interloper within it. Merkok had its celebrations and street fairs, yes, but she had always assumed such events were exclusive to the cities.

"Will there be food?" cood the big drake, stretching his paws out in front of him.

"Oh, ya bet yer fins, there will be! Me uncle's been raisin' 'im a big hog, an' we're plannin' on roasting 'im good. Ma's gonna cook all sorts of things - every'on oughta bring somethin'."

"Except you." she laughed, "I've seen the suppers you make yourself."

"Aye, I don't bring food, but I'll bring me fiddle."

Savel was nearly writhing with excitement at this point. "A fiddle?" he purred, "Oh, it's been -- been so long since I heard one of those! Evet," he poked her with the leaf-shaped fin at the tip of his tail, "you could bring the harp."

Both the drake and the boy looked at her, and she felt a heavy stone of embarrassment form in her stomach.

"I-I'm not very good..." she began, stuttering slightly.. Her harp-playing was something of a secret she kept - having only revealed it to Savel after he had found an old, dust-covered one in some forgotten recess of the house. Even on his worst of days, the drake still loved to hear it, despite her clumsy plucking.

Simon shook his head. "If ya don't mind me askin', uh, how exactly do you, what with your, um..." He gestured at her wings, and Evet smiled.

"I have fingers and claws, you know." she said softly, holding out her wingpaw for him to see. Aside from the long, thin digits that supported her wing membrane, there were also two small, dexterous fingers and a thumb. She made a sudden grab at his shirt, and the boy jumped back.

"C-careful! She'll pinch you something fierce!" Savel called, rolling once more onto his back.

He was met with a prompt thwack on the side from her tail.

"Oh, be quiet -- I've never pinched you!" she hissed.

"Hey," Simon said, fidgeting slightly, "I have to go now, else I'll miss supper. Whadda you think about the --"

"Do whatever you like." Savel was quicker than her this time around. "J-just so long as we can join in, of course."

"Okay, thanks! I'll see ya there." he called, setting off.

"Wait," Evet interjected, but the boy had already disappeared around the house. By the time she caught up with him at the bottom of the front steps, he was swinging his leg over his bicycle.

"Simon, wait-"

"What's sa'matter?"

She sighed, wings drooping a bit. "I need you to make me a promise."

He looked over at her, gripping the handlebars tightly, and nodded.

"Look," she said quietly, casting a glance back towards the house, "Savel is still... not well."

"Ya' mean his wing?"

Evet shook her head. "No, I mean he's ill."

The boy furrowed his brow. "He didn't seem ill ta' me."

Once more Evet shook her head, searching for the words needed to explain. "It's not the type of sickness that would give him a fever or a cough. You would -- you would have to be around him for quite some time to notice it."

His quizzical expression didn't change, and again, Evet sighed.

"I'll explain it to you better another day. Just, I need to know that he's, well," she paused, thinking, "sensitive... to things. Loud noises and such. Can you promise me that you'll tell your family that they can use the woods here, as long as they don't get too rowdy?"

Simon, she knew, was anything but subdued in his day-to-day pastimes. Despite his wiry frame and mild-mannered character, the lad was fond of fighting, and often bore the bruises and cuts from his various scraps with the other youths of the village. On top of this, he and his cohorts were well versed in the art of troublemaking, or so the irate baker had informed her when he learnt of the boy's employment at the estate. It was easy to imagine that he came from a long lineage of rambunctious hill folk, all of whom would wreak havoc on Savel's fragile mind. Whilst never having met them, she thought it unfair to jump to such conclusions, yet it was the safest option.

Caring for the drake was forever a game of skillful bets. Calculation was key, and as she had learned, being wrong could be disastrous.

He promised, and she watched him grow smaller and smaller as he pedaled away.

---

"You look tired."

Savel was still lying on his back when she returned, yet his green eyes followed her nonetheless.

"I am indeed. Your observational skills are astounding." Though she tried to muster up an air of seriousness in her voice, it failed miserably. "I hate to do it, but I think I'm going to go in for a quick nap."

He gave a toe-curling stretch and a yawn. "Two questions: why on earth would you hate to take a nap, and why indoors?"

The question blindsided her, and she glared at the drake. "I'm always even more weary when I wake up-"

"Then you're obviously not sleeping long enough." he laughed, eyes slipping shut. "Isn't that what you doctors always say - that sleep is of the utmost importance for one's health?"

"I wouldn't know; I'm not a doctor."

"You give me medicine, you look after my health, and you make me feel better. You're a doctor."

"No, I'm not." It pained her to say those words, but they were the truth.

"Why not?"

"To become a doctor, I'd have to go to the High Academy of Physiology - that's where they teach you to become a doctor."

"Oh," Savel murmured, voice sounding distant, "When are you going? I think my family still owns a nice, vacant apartment in the Winged Quarters - we could live there in the winter while you're learning."

She forced a laugh, and growled quietly, "The day I wake up in the body of a sapient is the day I'll go to the academy. They don't allow ferals."

The drake gave a low chuff. "That's not fair. All species are supposed to be treated equally here."

"It's not that they don't like ferals... it's just that ferals can't be doctors. If you had a wound, would you want a pair of paws holding the needle and thread? It's the same as how men and kobolds and such can't be flyers."

"Yes they can be! They have the airships, and I seem to remember hearing about a kobold inventing a new type of small flying machine just recently -- what did he call it, an aero-plane?"

"That's not what I meant." Every question or explanation she posed, he had a counter for it, and his back and forth banter was beginning to grate her nerves.

"Either way, why would I want a two-legger healing me? How in the world are they supposed to know the first thing about ferals? They couldn't tell my toes from my cock." He opened one eye to a thin, green slit. "And to be honest," Savel continued, "if I had a wound, the only creature I'd want stitching it up would be a feral - preferably a wyvern, preferably named Evet."

The wyvern snorted. "Feral anatomy is something they study continuously. So yes, they could tell the difference." she said blandly, focusing on the latter part of his statement, whilst keeping her thoughts on the first part to herself. Those words, she knew not an adequate response for.

"Okay, aside from that, why would you prefer to nap indoors on such a pretty day?"

Sitting back, she licked the the end of her wing tentatively, trying to avoid looking at the drake. "I don't know. I'd rather lay on my cushions than in the moss with the snails and beetles, maybe?"

"Ah, we lived for thousands of years sleeping in nests and caves, hunting in the forests, flying where we damn well pleased. I'm plenty comfortable right now." He writhed about in the grass, rubbing the tip of his snout back and forth like a cat against trousers. "See?"

"You're going to track grass into the house." she purred, slightly amused at his display of happiness. "And do try to act a bit less, er, rolly at the festival. Shocking as it may seem, humans sometimes take offense to seeing their guests' slit."

The words came out quickly, before her self-consciousness could override them. His nonchalant manner had infected her, and it felt equally liberating and wholly embarrassing to be acting in such ways with what was, ostensibly, a patient of hers.

Patient. It was that word that had always given her reason to separate her personal feelings from the first priority: he was her patient, and she was there to console, heal, and watch over him. Yet they had melded together so much in these past weeks, personal feelings and first priority were nearly indistinguishable from one another. Why? Why on earth was that? What about this drake did she find so utterly likeable? He was immature, brain-damaged, and a Veverett addict.

And dangerous.

It was not present, not noticeable without prior knowledge, but that danger was all too real. By all means he ought to be detestable. The Merkokian high-guard ought to have locked him away long ago, thrown away the key, and left this bizarre creature to rot. Yet by some miraculous luck, here he was - placed in the care of a wyvern who had just barely finished her studies. It was difficult to picture this dragon, who rolled in the grass and coaxed a very different, very playful Evet out of her reserved shell, locked in a dungeon somewhere, shivering in the cold darkness.

Autumn sunshine filtered down upon them, and in this strange spectre of light and color, his dark flesh appeared strangely luminescent, turning to a more brilliant hue of azure. She left him and the courtyard behind, ducking beneath the veranda and into the cool darkness of the house.

The architecture within, like the gardens outside, was designed specifically for ferals. The halls were wide, the furniture low, and every room equipped with ample space for wings and tails. Despite this, beauty and grandeur had not been overlooked in the design, and the house possessed a sort of gothic styling that was unfamiliar and exotic to her coastal eyes. Arched doorways gave way to rounded, well-lit rooms, and there sat two large, circular towers on the back and side of the house, which provided spectacular views.

Once, she had heard Savel mention that the place was built some eighty years earlier, when his father had only just taken over a large portion of the trade routes and exports. Though the family was incredibly wealthy already, he and his brother had refused to accept even a coin of it, and funded the estate with their own earnings. Young draconic elites were rarely a humble breed, and their extravagance was reflected in every stone and tile and pane of glass within the house.

The grand staircase, for example, was made entirely of quarried marble and red granite. There were ten separate guest chambers, a great library, a cavernous dining room, and a sweeping promenade around the front. It was easy to picture the place in that bygone era - when the nation of Gavamon was drowning in its own wealth, and the ultrarich enjoyed their parties with reckless abandon. It made her wonder what amazing scenes had unfolded here; who had been loved, what conversations and questions had been posed; it made her sad to think it all stood silent now, collecting dust.

She walked through the kitchen, pausing to look over the supplies that Simon had brought: this week's issue of The Merkokian, three wrapped packages of varying sizes, a letter which bore the seal of Kergass, and a cluster of peppers from the boy's garden.

"Evet!"

The drake's voice echoed through the halls, and she gave an annoyed chuff. Perhaps he had found a particularly interesting slug, or a large toad hopping about the leaves and grass.

Returning to the garden, she found him on the veranda, clutching in his maw what appeared to be a massive sheet of moss-colored silk. He grinned happily at her from behind it, and beckoned her to follow. She conceited, and was led to a stand of trees at the edge of the garden which overlooked the valley, equally annoyed and confused as to what the drake was on about.

"You'll like this," he remarked, unfurling the silk, "I only just remembered it - still in the place it last was, too! Can you believe that?" The words were spoken as if he fully expected the thing to have slunk away long ago.

"What exactly is it?" Evet growled dryly, eyeing the silk with an air of skepticism. It was large, yes, but didn't look like anything one would sleep beneath - the bizarre, oblong dimensions would surely prevent such a use. Additionally, at either end there sprouted a strange loop of rope.

"It's a hammock!" trilled the drake, picking up one end of the device and hooking it around a metal eyelet screwed into a tree. He did the same at the opposite end, creating an inverted arch of fabric that swayed gently in the breeze.

"A 'hammock'?"

"Yes! You've never seen one before?"

Evet clicked her wing claws together. "I've heard of them... but they're only for smaller creatures."

"No they're not." he said defiantly, "The dragons of Jerfer love them. That's where I got this one - it's made of Re-worm silk, and plenty big." Savel lowered his head, and she noticed he was blushing beneath his dark blue hide. "I-I thought you might like it... to nap in, that is."

Her eyes studied it whilst her mind searched for something to say. The drake sat before her, white teeth gleaming in the sunlight, whiskers twitching in epileptically; a perfect image of contentedness and anticipations blended together so well that, she figured, he could've convinced her to lie within a puddle of muck. In the end, a curt, yet heartfelt, "Thank you, Savel," was all she managed.

The hammock, she found, was quite comfortable, if not a little difficult to get into. She lay on her side for a time, yet after she realized that Savel had quietly slipped away, she shifted on to her back, allowing the sun to warm her underbelly. Unprofessional, maybe, but she had been working with him almost nonstop for over a month - an afternoon of rest was due compromise.

The view from this point was sublime, and she wished she had in her claw a goblet of wine, or, better yet, a bit of hashish. All flowed unimpeded in the streets of Merkok, and it was on these lazy afternoons that Evet the Professional was fond of becoming Evet the Casual. In the city, around this very time, she would be reclined in an intimate flat or lounge, chatting ceaselessly with friends. If the night got late enough, or if she simply drank enough, she might even awaken the following morning next to Nera - a rather enticing dragoness whom enjoyed her company and friendship for reasons other than mere chatter. Entertaining indeed.

Enough of that noise though. Merkok was far away, and though she still missed it, the homesickness had passed. What would those friends say now, were they to see her?

'Face it, Eve, you've graduated from potion-maker to maid for the retarded. The world is strange, is it not?' Her friends and her had laughed to no end when Nera cracked that joke over the hookah. The night had been cool, and in the morning she would take flight towards Frether. She thought of him sitting there in the sun moments ago, and the thought made her hurt inside.

Blackness now as sleep overtook her, and she mused no more. Evet was warm.