Ampullae

Excelleron beat his wings furiously against the shifting air.  The slightest error in  compensation would send him plummeting into the valley below.

“Must I endure this any longer?” he thought to himself.  A splinter of self doubt had tainted his resolve.  Were his brothers and sisters right?  Had he been coaxed into a fools errand?  Was this old wyrm who he said he was?

“It is only a little while longer to the eyrie, young one.  Stay the course,” an unheard voice echoed in his head, intercepting his thoughts.  The old one’s timing was impeccable.

Despite his best efforts, Excelleron could not match the speed of the old dragon, whose great size and ancient magic allowed him to cut through the mountain winds with ease.  Excelleron could barely make the shape of the old one’s long, serpentine tail peeking through the fog.  Then, it vanished.

Excelleron panicked.  He was lost the fog, and his tiring muscles wouldn’t keep him aloft too much longer. “I can’t lose him,” he thought. His wing muscles throbbing in fatigue, he made one last push, surging forward blindly through the clouds.