Name: Munchie
Age: 15 days
Gender: Male
Species: Wyvern
Element: Unknown
I took a deep breath, steeling myself as I stood outside the entrance to Munchie's den.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of wet stone, with just a hint of sweet chocolate from the cart I was pushing. Its wheels creaking as I rolled it forward. This was it, my final baby dragon of the day.
I thought I was ready for anything.
After all, I'd survived an overzealous dragon throwing fruit at me, a full-on birthday song performance to Princess (complete with accidental high notes), and, not forgetting, an impromptu sing-along session with Sweet Tooth (cause he heard me singing to Princess and wanted to join in along), who I still wasn't entirely convinced wasn't part dinosaur, part marshmallow.
But I was determined to get through this. Munchie was my last dragon and after my previous encounters, how hard could it be?
I adjusted my utility vest, checking for the 20th time if all my tools were secure. That's right—I was professional now. This wasn't my first rodeo.
"Munchie?" I called into the dimly lit den. The name alone gave me hope. If he was called Munchie, surely that meant he was a big eater, right? Just a baby wyvern with an enormous sweet tooth. How bad could it be?
The only sound was the echo of my voice bouncing off the cave walls.
No response. No movement.
Great. Maybe he's just asleep. My shoulders relaxed, and I pushed the cart closer, my hands sweaty from the anticipation of whatever came next.
But just as I rounded a sharp corner in the den, I heard a sound—a whooshing noise. Before I could react, something cold, wet, and distinctly slimy hit my face like a brick wall.
I gasped in horror, trying to scream, but the wetness was everywhere, dripping into my eyes, my mouth...my very soul. It was like a wall of dragon drool that covered every inch of my face, heavy and oppressive.
I was lifted off my feet. My body twirled in mid-air, like I was in some grotesque carnival ride. I could feel my body being twisted, and I realized—somehow, absurdly—that this was it.
I was going to die.
Not like this.
For a brief second, my life flashed before my eyes... that one time I tried to pet a raccoon back in my friend Sam's backyard, my disastrous attempt at karaoke, and the time I accidentally walked into a door while texting... and now, this.
My obituary was going to say: "Zoologist Intern Eaten by Baby Wyvern. Cause of Death: Swallowed Alive." How utterly ridiculous.
Then—Munchie spat me out. The sheer force of it sent me crashing to the ground with a sickening splut.
I lay there, gasping for air, drenched in something that smelled distinctly like rotten fish and chocolate.
Had I just been assaulted by a dragon with literal dragon spit?
I wiped my face and blinked as the world came into focus.
I should've been relieved. I was still alive, after all. But instead, I felt… offended.
Truly, deeply offended.
Munchie stood a few feet away, looking absolutely disgusted with me, like I was some kind of filthy snack he'd just rejected.
He wiped his tongue with the back of his claw, then took a quick swipe of his tail, like he was trying to scrub his mouth clean.
I stared at him, trying to shake the slimy goo off my goggles. "Oh, so I'm not good enough for you, huh?" I growled, attempting to stand up, my legs still shaky from the whole debacle.
Munchie blinked slowly and snorted, as if to say, No, you're not.
I raised an eyebrow. Maybe I had underestimated this wyvern. But you know what? I wasn't going to back down.
"Alright, Munchie," I muttered, stepping closer, trying to muster some sense of confidence. "You think I'm gross? Come at me, then. I'm not scared of a little spit."
For a split second, his eyes narrowed.
Big mistake, Carl, I thought.
His wings flicked. It all happened so fast I didn't even have time to blink.
Munchie's wing shot out and collided with me, sending me crashing back into the cold stone wall of his den with an impact that made my teeth rattle.
"Okay," I coughed, gasping for breath.
"Noted. Never provoke a wyvern."
My chest felt like it was being crushed under a ton of bricks, but thankfully, the magical fibers of my uniform absorbed most of the impact. It felt like being hit by a heavy, rubbery pillow. A very, very heavy pillow.
I was sore, but I was alive. Barely.
Munchie, apparently not satisfied with just one slap, decided to make me his personal punching bag. Before I could even get my bearings, he swung his tail like a battering ram, hitting me square in the chest and knocking me backwards again.
I couldn't even get my feet under me before he headbutted me, sending me tumbling across the floor. My vision swam, my breath coming in short, painful gasps.
Finally, Munchie stopped.
"Well, this is great," I grumbled, rubbing my sore ribs as I tried to get back up. "Really great." I felt like a human chew toy at this point.
He cocked his head to the side and stared down at me, his tongue lolling out as he panted.
I felt my chest tighten in frustration. I couldn't even fight back. Not because I was scared, but because, quite frankly, I had no idea what his elemental powers were.
Baby wyverns could be territorial, sure, but they also had unpredictably destructive powers. And all I had were cookies and a utility belt filled with snacks and calming sprays.
I groaned as I sat up, rubbing my sore shoulder. This was turning into the worst day of my life.
"Alright, Munchie. You win this round," I muttered, feeling like a deflated balloon. "But don't get too cocky. I'll figure you out eventually."
Munchie blinked at me, then turned away and waddled over to his stash of treats, happily munching on the cookies and chocolates I had brought for him.
I just sat there, utterly defeated, my mind reeling.
Did he actually just… ignore me? I mean, seriously. The audacity.
"I swear, dragons are the worst," I muttered under my breath, limping toward the food cart. "I'm starting to regret making them my favorite species."
Just as I was about to wallow in self-pity, Munchie did something that completely threw me off. He picked up a cookie between his claws, waddled back over, and with an exaggerated huff, dropped it in front of me.
For a brief, hopeful moment, I thought maybe—just maybe—he was offering to make amends for the brutal smackdowns he had just delivered.
Then, he licked the cookie.
He actually licked it, like some sort of sick joke.
Then dropped it in front of me, as if to say, 'Take it or leave it'.
I blinked at him. "You've got to be kidding me…"
I stared at him. "Really, Munchie? This is how you apologize? By making it worse?" I scowled, but he didn't seem to care, just looking at me like a smug little gremlin.
After a moment, he offered the cookie again, and I glanced at it, the sharpest edge of my frustration bubbling up. "Nah, buddy. You can keep that one. I'm not that desperate."
Munchie rolled his eyes. He actually rolled his eyes, as if I were the unreasonable one here, and went back to his pile of snacks. The nerve!
I pushed myself to my feet, feeling like I had been through a washing machine and left to dry on a line.
As I stumbled out of Munchie's den, my mind was buzzing.
Munchie was a handful, sure, but there was something undeniably adorable about him, too. Even after he wiped his drool-covered tongue on me and knocked me around like a ragdoll, I couldn't help but feel a strange bond with him.
"It seems I still had a lot to learn if I was going to survive with magical creatures, not just here, but in all of Mythica. No Zoology degree could help me with that."
Deep inside I couldn't shake the feeling that these dragons, mischievous and temperamental as they were, were going to be the least of my problems.
********
Zoologist Guide: Tips for Feeding Munchie (and Surviving)
1. Gear Up
Uniform Check: Make sure it's secure—those magical fabrics can handle claws, bites, and saliva.
Goggles & Gloves: Because getting dragon spit in your eye is not a fun way to start the day.
Tools: Load your vest with treats and a calming spray—your best defense (or distraction).
2. Sweeten the Deal
Cookies & Chocolates: Munchie's favorites! Have a stash ready to keep his attention (and keep yourself off the menu).
Hide Treats: Stash a few around his den—think of it as a snack scavenger hunt to keep him occupied.
3. Sneak In Like a Pro
Announce Yourself: Let him know you're coming with food. He might respond better when he knows the goodies are on their way.
Enter Slowly: Keep the cart between you and Munchie. You're the waiter, not the entrée.
Watch His Body Language: If he's crouching or twitching, brace yourself—baby wyverns love surprises.
4. Play it Cool
No Eye Contact Battles: Just a friendly glance, don't stare like you're challenging him to a duel.
Small Bites: Give him treats slowly. Rushing could make him think you're desperate... or delicious.
5. Avoid Provocation
Don't Challenge Him: As tempting as it might be to establish dominance, baby wyverns can become aggressive if provoked. Maintain a calm, steady voice and avoid making sudden movements.
6. Always Have an Escape Plan
Know the Exit: Keep an eye on the quickest route out. Trust me, it's crucial.
Keep Path Clear: A cartload of cookies won't save you if you trip over it while fleeing.
Calming Spray on Standby: One spritz and a handful of treats. Your best strategy for a quick getaway.
Good luck! And remember—if he spits you out, just be glad he didn't like the taste.