Starflights never had a worse headache.
The desert is suffocatingly dry, and his heart pounds in the back of his skull and all the way to the tips of his ears. He thought living on a volcano for all of his life would prepare him for this. He was very, very wrong.
"Here," says the small dragon, her harmless tail tapping against his arm as she settles in front of them with two bowls of water, "I can't promise it'll help, but it's better than nothing."
"I knew you'd bring these," Fatespeaker beams, nudging him with her elbow, see Starflight? Patience."
He hums an agreement, and nods to the gold dragon, murmuring a thank you before gingerly picking up his bowl, careful not to spill.
"Drink slow," she tells him, talons fiddling with her copper arm band, "I might not be able to get more."
He drinks slow. It's icy relief, and he barely manages to stop himself from drinking it all right then and there.
The gold dragon smiles as he puts his bowl down. Fatespeaker sets hers down too.
"Much," Starflight answers, "thank you."
"Cold," Fatespeaker answers, and Starflight nods in agreement, "it scared me."
"I was hoping it would," the gold dragon beams, "well- taste cold, that is. Not scare you."
