ENTRY 014: DON'T PUT ALL DRAGON EGGS IN ONE BASKET
Dear Diary,
When someone walks into the shop cradling a bundle of eggs wrapped in enchanted silk and whispering the word dragon, you pay attention. Because dragon-related anything automatically doubles the price.
A seller came last week. He was a wiry man with a wild look in his eyes like he hadn’t slept in weeks—or maybe years. He placed three eggs on the counter with the reverence of someone delivering a royal heir. “Dragon eggs,” he said in a hushed tone, his hands trembling. “Rare. Powerful. Yours for a hundred gold.”
“Dragon eggs?” I echoed, keeping my voice neutral while internally laughing. “Where’d you find them?”
“Near a volcano,” he said, a little too quickly. “Hidden in a cave. Dangerous journey, but worth it. I almost feel bad parting with it.”
I didn’t believe him for a second. Dragon eggs are bigger, for starters, and are usually accompanied by a very angry dragon (not that there's any other kind). These were the size of large melons, speckled green and gray, and looked more like oversized pebbles than anything mythical.
Still, eggs are eggs, and sometimes even fake dragon eggs find their customers. I haggled him down to twelve silver pieces, and he left grinning like he’d pulled a fast one.
I stashed the eggs in the backroom, fully intending to unload them on the next overeager adventurer. But two days later, the trouble started. I came in to find one of the eggs rocking back and forth, cracks snaking across its shell.
“Great,” I muttered. “A dragon is exactly what I need in my menagerie.”
Within the hour, the egg hatched. Fortunately, it wasn’t a dragon.
Unfortunately, it was something worse.
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Out popped a cockatrice chick: a scrawny, half-feathered, half-scaly abomination with tiny wings, a beak sharp enough to cut glass, and an attitude that could sour milk. It stared at me with beady red eyes (I assume they were red, I quickly turned away and never actually looked), then screeched.
The sound was somewhere between a baby bird and nails on a chalkboard.
Now, if you’re not familiar with cockatrices, let me enlighten you: they’re like chickens, if chickens could petrify you with a glare. And even disregarding that, this was easily the most obnoxious creature I’ve ever encountered. It screeched constantly, knocked over potion bottles, and chewed through an entire box of spell scrolls before I could wrestle it into a crate.
Try to do that while avoiding eye contact!
I spent the rest of the day figuring out what to do with it. Selling it was out of the question—cockatrices are illegal in most kingdoms, for obvious reasons. Releasing it into the wild wasn’t an option, either. I heard too many stories of pawn shop owners getting decimated by the Department of Wild Life.
As the chaos unfolded, a savior walked into the shop. It was Mrs. Haversham, a kindly old woman who buys charms for her ever-growing collection of fleecemane cats. Before I could warn her, she locked eyes with the cockatrice.
"Well, aren't you just the cutest little thing!" she cooed.
To my astonishment, Mrs. Haversham didn't turn into a petite statue. I guess there are advantages to having weak eyes, after all.
The cockatrice seemed taken aback, too. It fluttered down to her, allowing itself to be scooped up like a common house pet. The old lady scratched it under the chin, and the creature made a purring sound I didn't know was possible.
"Uh, Mrs. Haversham," I began cautiously. "You might want to be careful with that."
"Nonsense, Garren! I've been looking for a companion for Mr. Whiskers, and this little darling is perfect!"
Before I could protest, she turned to leave. "How much for the lovely bird?"
I opened my mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. "You know what? Consider it a gift, for your loyalty as a customer."
She beamed. "You're such a dear! Come along, precious," she said to the cockatrice, who was now nestling into her shawl.
As she left, I looked back at the remaining two eggs. There was no way I was going through that ordeal again. I packed them up carefully and made a note to deliver them to the local magical creature sanctuary—let them deal with the surprise hatchlings.
Today's lesson: when life hands you cockatrice eggs, pawn them off on sweet old ladies who have a way with dangerous beasts. I'm just hoping Mrs. Haversham's cats can handle their new sibling.
Yours in profit,
Garren