Chapter Text
Collector’s Fee
Mama Ender
💙 🧡 💚
There's really something to be said about flying west on your mother's back, the sun arcing behind you like a phoenix from the dust. Everything's fuzzy in the early light. Morning's reach casts a great, winged shadow over permafrost and pebbles. Endermen scatter, poofing in zigzags. Ohhh, yes… Rhetoric latches his fingers more tightly in his mother's white and ginger neck fur. His tail streams behind in the wind, flapping like the edges of his open jacket. What a rush. It fights against him, threatening to rip him from the dragon like a picked-off scab.
Look at it all. A rosy pink, purple, and orange glow seeps across the hills. Blue shadows paint their undersides in lumpy triangles hundreds of blocks high, like they were painted with a brush too big for precision. The dropped brush itself could've created this waterless valley. Stray goats and wraiths flicker into view with every hill they pass. They dot the sagebrush and glacier chunks… or what's left of them these days. Slithering monsters with rattly bones and three great necks roam these lands now. Rhetoric can't see them even from the air, but the black roses below wave in the whistling breeze.
They're fresh. Someone would've plucked them up for dye.
The flowers stain the ground in rows like memorial stones. Sculk seeps from a deep scour in the earth just beyond them. Some hybrid in a midnight blue hoodie fights the good fight below, striking with a stone hoe. It's a slow and sticky process; the sculk clings in goopy lines like saliva in a yawn. Yikes. Write home and tell me how that turns out for you.
Charlotte beats her wings and flies beyond it. Rhetoric blinks. Her shadow skims the dry valley below. One by one, flowers slip out of render distance behind them.
The Ender Dragon lurks underground, deep within the cave city of Lower Evernight. Charlotte circles the hill twice, then swoops straight towards the sagebrush and ice. Rhetoric clings to her neck like a bur, arms and legs clamped like honey. The ground blocks blur together, then vaporize in a sweep of smoke. Fox Dragon and hybrid rider drop into the depths of the cave. With a twitch of Mother's claws, her world edit commands repair the gash. Rhetoric shifts, peering past her wispy fur as Charlotte glides across the underground city like a fluffy kite.
This isn't his first time visiting the City of Ever-Shifting Blocks. Granted, it… might be his second. But the cave's no less breathtaking than he remembers, and that's saying a lot for a guy immune to drowning. Endflame lanterns gleam far below, lighting the darkness with pricks of purple. Everything's arranged in a circle like a giant chocolate chip cookie. It'd take all 98 of the Between dimension's dragons to devour one of those, and he snorts at the thought. His mother's mane ripples against his cheek and he nestles tighter to her fur.
It's easier, traveling with a dragon in a place like this. The aboveground world's in anarchy and a city filled with enderman never keeps its streets and signposts for long. Everybody wants pretty things. The easiest way to keep things involves taking them when you see them around. In a way, it's no surprise Jean and Charlotte are thick as, well…
(He chuckles at his own joke.)
Jean's nursing cave lies tucked away, high on the underground city's wall, where her children can reach her if they need to, but will probably think twice before making the effort. Beyond triplet endflame lanterns (one to either side of the door, one above) and a small viewing platform encased in a fence, it lacks decoration. Only on the outside, though… What professional thief openly displays her goods in a city of pickpockets? Hm. Rhetoric's last trip to Evernight ended on that viewing platform. Will Jean step out again this time?
Or are we going in? The ever-present itch - the need - to go deeper coils in the backs of his hands.
With a few swishes and swoops, Charlotte lands like a perching parrot in front of the iron door that divides it. She folds in her wings, almost knocking Rhetoric straight off. Not today. Her form blurs, melting in size and color, until she's standing like a hybrid with a swishing ginger tail. And from there, she slides Rhetoric from her arm to the ground. Charlotte wore her fox-eared hoodie and baggy pocket-covered pants for this trip. Out of place? Undignified? Below her status? Perhaps… but Rhetoric can't blame her. Showing up at her mother's door in her usual treasure hunter's garb probably wouldn't go over well. At least this way, she's inconspicuous in a crowd. Only the five glowing dots pulsing on the underside of her left wrist would give her away.
Rhetoric unbuckles the saddle still hanging from her back. Since he has no inventory space himself (Born without it; long story), he goes to set it on the ground… then stops. He glances over the rail at at the violet lights of the city far below. Hmm…
The thing about Evernight is, not only are there thieves lurking here, and not only can they see in the dark, but endermen and endermites alike can teleport. They could be watching him as they speak. And there's a drop straight to the Void down there somewhere. Endermen and endermites can swim in the Void. Fox hybrids can't. He tucks the saddle under his arm instead.
Charlotte keeps her ear pressed to cold iron. "I don't hear babies," she reports. "Let's give this a shot."
"I'll be ready to grab."
Charlotte presses the button beside the door. It pops open, whacking her arm, and they both jump back. No babies scramble for freedom from the nursing cave, but the small hall between them and the next door is filled with water. Clever… Baby enderman probably make one attempt to escape and never again.
They wade over, taking careful steps in their boots. This iron door, though, must have its button on the other side. To be polite, Charlotte takes the stick from the wall and knocks, introducing herself with a call… but the grunt they get in response is as much of a "Let yourself in," as you'll ever get. Fair enough. With a wave of her hand, Charlotte dissolves the neighboring blocks with world edit, then steps around the door in the place they used to stand. Rhetoric follows with the saddle, ducking out just before the blocks rematerialize behind him.
Oh. Hels. Yes. Now, this is the treasure-filled cavern he'd envisioned on his last visit, lying awake in the embassy kicking and squirming, unable to lie still unless his eyes and fingers could caress secret ores and gems. "Kick me, Mother, for I am dreaming," he mutters.
A massive rainbow crystal looms from the vaulted ceiling. Huh! Custom-made in some way, because while everything's proper ore - no decorative shortcuts with stained glass and tricks of the light - it's statistically impossible for that many ores to generate in one massive vein, aligned beside each other, and in a decent rainbow order. Rubies, topaz, gold, emeralds, jade, lapis, amethyst, and opal sweep together in a chandelier, glowing gently and dripping dust. Tall mushrooms loom around satchels and barrels, some of which are lain on their side with riches spilling out in miniblock form. Stacks of magmamarine stand in a zen garden lit by multiple colors of flame. Cauldrons bubble over fires, looking like they're filled with melted gold. Armor stands pose like warriors in elaborate armor, and more delicate robes wrap the shoulders of mannequin nobility. Swords, scythes, bows, and axes hang on display along the walls. As they cross the cave, Rhetoric stops next to one he's only heard whisper of from wandering traders shuffling by.
"Baby crossbows…"
"Don't touch," his mother warns, flicking his leg with her tail. Rhetoric throws the dual crossbows a pained glance, but hurries after her.
"Mother." He whispers it. "Don't, um… Don't give her all my pronouns." She might not get it. He'd rather not explain.
"He/him?"
"Just those."
Jean lies at the end of the cave… and to no surprise, upon a pile of gems and shiny gold. Candles burn on little shelves all around her. She rests on her belly, one row of teats on semi-visible display. Rhetoric can't count them from here. Too many tiny endermen in the way, mobs and hybrids alike, all squirming and pawing for a place. They kick with long legs. Rhetoric pauses to get a better look at them. Baby mobs are born in their natural colors (or close to it), but spawnlings are born without their custom skins. They're the goopy blue ones - the souls - hungry for milk and not afraid to nip their clutchmates to get it.
Jean's scales gleam obsidian-black, like she's just come from a bath in a lake. Endermite mobs leap and scuttle across her scales. They don't look like they're feeding on her energy, though. Rhetoric flicks his eyes across them, combing through endermite biology in his mind. When Mother told him this morning that Jean requested a visit, he'd skimmed his notes as quickly as he could, but you don't keep the Ender Dragon waiting if you can help it.
Endermites can't fly. They scamper a bit and they can teleport, but not far. They hitch rides on other species when they can, eating ticks, fleas, and loose code strings, but sometimes they get greedy and take a bit too much. Endermen are one of their favorite hosts, probably for proximity or their teleporting ability. The feeling is… less than mutual, as far as he's read. Apparently, endermen are delicious when you're a 'mite, and not sinking in your teeth is a tricky thing to do. Classic parasites. Yuck; who would even want them?
At their approach, the dragon huffs, flaring her nostrils, but doesn't lift her head from the dirt. Endermen fight for milk while needy endermites chew on her wings and ears, but she doesn't so much as open her eyes. Nonetheless, Charlotte is not but brimming with poise and charm. Her words roll like butter and chocolate from the tongue:
"Mother. As you've requested, I've brought my attendant to advise you on your clutch." She lifts away the saddle. Rhetoric brings his hands in front and bows, displaying empty palms.
One endermite mob near her ear slips, falling along the neck with a squeak. It scrabbles for a hold. Jean snaps her teeth; it scuttles away, this time vanishing beneath her wing. Her paws shift. Gold coins and knicknaks skid down her pile. Rhetoric skims his eyes again, then wishes he didn't and hones in on her face. There must be dozens of endermites all over her, nibbling stray meat scraps from her claws or bugs between her scales. Just the sight of them stands the fur behind his neck on end. "It's an honor to aid you," he says, straightforward and simple, and it's not technically a lie. He doesn't give his name, though. Dragons can only address hybrids by their true names… and he'd rather his default moniker stay buried.
Jean shifts her tail, finally lifting her head for reasons other than nipping at babies. To Charlotte, she says, "I don't see what a hybrid can understand that a dragon can't, but I will watch him try. Share my gratitude."
"He speaks Ender," Charlotte cautions, and Rhetoric presses his lips in a line. Did she assume he'd just parroted his greeting? Regurgitated what his mother fed him?
"I research. I learn fast." He bites his tongue, holding back anything more. Jean turns her head to study him. Rhetoric's fingers twitch. With his gangly stature, scruffy black hair, oversized glasses, skin pale from a lifetime of lurking in the shadows instead of sun, and pin-covered denim jacket, he knows he isn't much to look at. Not to a dragon. He keeps his ginger fur clean - it sprouts in patches on his chest, back, and legs - and he rinses himself with water more frequently than he probably needs to, trying to keep off the pine sap and podzol. What, did she expect him to dress in elaborate robes or something? I'm not a flippin' illager. Let them fritter their lives away chasing pomp and circumstance; fox culture is more about getting down and dirty, and getting things done.
"You're not the attendant I expected."
His nails bite deeper in the meat of his palms. "Etho no longer lives at the Lone Spruce hub. I am Madame Charlotte's attendant now."
"Your eyes don't glow." Curious and accusing. "Gray, but not a trace of shine. You have no access to the online server-worlds."
Why this probing? Is she gloating somehow? Looking for weakness that will snap him into rage? Mother shifts one hand behind his shoulder, keeping him steady on his feet. Rhetoric can feel saliva slither across his tongue, but holds it back. He speaks only what's important to say, no judgment wrapped within. "Yes, ma'am. I consider myself the perfect attendant: one who doesn't chase the siren call of outside players beyond this world. I am at my mother's beck and call, and I welcome it. I'm loyal."
"Is your world experience, then, limited here in the Between dimension?" Her nostrils flare, spitting no smoke nor poison, though Rhetoric's body tenses up against his will. "You know nothing of The End."
So that's her play. "I've read books." Just three words, but it's all he can get out between clenched teeth. Jean whuffs a thin trail of steam anyhow, but lowers her eyes to something tucked between her forelegs.
"I seek advice regarding my youngest spawnling. Hatched from the egg yesterday, before evening. It eats nothing."
"'It eats nothing,'" Rhetoric repeats. It's a hybrid, then; baby is for mobs and spawnling's reserved just for hybrids. He cranes his head to get a better glimpse at the skinless soul resting near her chest, but doesn't move his feet. The first thing you internalize when working with dragons is to never make assumptions on how close you're allowed to get, even if you've been invited from several biomes away to share your expertise and do your job. "What's the full dietary range?" he asks. A safer question than "What is it supposed to eat?" straight on the heels of that accusation that he knows nothing of the non-Between dimensions. She's the expert on their biology. He'll bend his pride. That's just part of being good at this job.
"All things."
An endermite, then. He doesn't roll his eyes. "As a newborn?"
"Colostrum. It is newly hatched."
"When does it try other foods?"
"Colostrum and milk exclusively through the early levels. Then fungus and sculk. Any meat scraps. It can feed on loose code strings brought near its mouth. It will climb on living things and eat of their energy, but I feed them milk as long as I can. It's less dangerous. And they eat magic cast by illagers." She smirks, as much as a dragon snout can. "They do not bother me anymore."
"I see…" She probably means the illagers have left her alone, though frankly… she could have meant she doesn't mind her children feeding on her own energy, which is uncomfortable in itself. Even the milk's… unpleasant to think about for too long. Don't remind him he was once a newborn too; he doesn't like to think about where his snuffling nose and mouth went when he was blind and crawling around. Ick.
He moves on: "I imagine a newborn endermite doesn't know how to limit its feeding, so it takes too much from an enderman host; that's when they lash out. It's dangerous out there for little ones, so you keep them in the cave and feed them only milk. Is that right?" Who needs the Overworld? He's paying attention. Analyzing. Understanding. Jean looks at him, bemused or perhaps impressed by his estimate.
"This is true. They wean in time. I call in hosts to educate them, and they leave with these hosts and feed on energy and other food. They eat code. Ivy and clover. Mushrooms. Glowberries. Other berries. Leaves. Wheat. All the fruits. Things hybrids eat." Jean rasps her tongue along the endermite soul, though Rhetoric isn't close enough to see if she got its head or its back. Only a thin curve of cyan energy shows past her foreleg. It's still mute, as spawnlings are at that level, and she licks once more before withdrawing. "This one won't suckle. When I try to force it, it spits and wiggles away. Its throat or belly may be sore. I do not understand. This has never happened."
"I see your concern… May I pick it up for examination?"
Jean huffs again. Rhetoric glances at the Fox Dragon, even though he knows he translated that right: There's no greater indication that a mother is comfortable with your presence than her showing only moderate alertness when you're near her offspring. Charlotte dips her head, so he tiptoes forward.
Jean tilts her paws away, opening the walking path. Or… the climbing path up the heap of gold. The newly hatched endermite in front of her - no bigger than a loaf of bread - can't sit or stand on its own. It rests on its stomach, sucking on two fingers and flicking its antennae forward and back. Lens caps shield the empty eye sockets from dirt and grime. Rhetoric can only just glimpse its soul crystal, wedged neatly in its chest where an inventory slot will someday be (once the crystal drops out like a piece of flaking skin). Hatched yesterday, Jean had said. So it's… a first quarter moon spawn? The antennae fit the bill. Any other details are obscured by the blurriness of a glowing, naked form. No wings… Nothing much of interest that differentiates it from any other spawnling. It simply lies there, choosing fingers over milk.
First quarter moon. So… under THAT phase, it should spawn with more than one visible mob trait, not even counting basic fur or feather coverage. What do you call it on an insect? Carapace bits? Not sure. Sort of grew up in fox society; you know the drill.
"Hello…" The spawnling can't hear him, and you could argue there's no point in talking to it. But the antennae quiver regardless. Rhetoric's certain it's picking up vibrations even if it doesn't have the words. Maybe it can read his vocalizations, matching them with the language patterns the game automatically coded on its newborn brain; he's still speaking Ender. "Let's get a closer look at you."
He hoists the infant and it clings to his chest like a monkey. Its goopy form slithers across his pixels. Okay. Calm dragon? Calm newborn? So far, so good.
Now that he's close enough to get a good look, he can see faint ridges across the spawnling's shoulders, like some kind of armor plating. That answers that. Hybrids express their mob biology in three ways: features, coverage, and behavior. The antennae are a feature, just like Rhetoric's tail and pointed ears. The little plates are coverage; Rhetoric himself has fur on his neck, chest, back, and elbows. Both these things are coded to the hybrid's current moon phase form: the last one it respawned under (or hatched under in this case). Even if you dress the spawnling in a skin (once it's old enough to not overheat or mess itself), the antennae and plates will show through on the surface. Even if the skin wraps snugly around it and has no holes. Just the way of the world.
Rhetoric shifts the infant around. Not having a skin means a spawnling won't get scraped up or easily hurt, and it's one of the best things about them… right up there with the fact they're blind and mute until they wean. He's watched a lot of adult anime and noisy sporting events while holding a bottle in a newborn's mouth. Only foxes, though, up 'til now.
Huh. Well, as far as "full of milk" goes, this ain't it. He checks the stomach zone by pressing lightly with his palm, which makes the baby part its lips as though squeaking in response. Then he brings a finger to the throat and traces downward. The spawnling swallows automatically. "That's a good sign," Rhetoric murmurs. He kneels and sets the baby down, this time on its back, and places the edge of his thumb in its mouth. It nips. He yanks back his hand.
"It bit me! It didn't even try to suckle!"
"It bites," Jean says, too helpful too late. Rhetoric frowns, sucking the place he got nipped. The spawnling smacks its mouth and goes back to its fingers.
"Does it often bite your teats?"
"Yes. It does not suck."
Hm… Biting could be a precursor to suckling, but Jean is no fool; she's only been doing this 11,000 years (give or take). She watches, flipping her tail from one side to the other. Other newborns squabble at her belly, fighting for the coveted place near her rear legs where her milk is thickest and warm.
Why is it persistently nippy? "Can I bring it to your teats?"
Jean snuffs, showing a couple teeth (each the size of his head). Her breath ruffles across his hair, stinking of poison and warped fungus. Rhetoric blinks back. "It will bite," she says.
"May I let Madame Charlotte try? She's dry of milk; I just want to test a theory. Mother, would you mind?"
With some resituating, the scene is set. Jean turns her attention on the babies that actually will nurse, nosing and licking them. Endermites scamper across her back like they're waiting for horsie rides. Charlotte gives herself a shake and returns to dragon form: lithe, moon-white, and splattered with ginger fur. Her teats are tucked away beneath the mammary slit, but with permission, Rhetoric runs two fingers through and draws the flap of skin and fur back. The angle's not great, but it's enough.
They guide the baby to her belly together. The endermite snaps, mouthing and nipping at the teat. Charlotte winces and pats her tail. She grips her claws against the dirt, but holds her ground with the air of a woman who's raised thousands of foxes before. The baby kicks its legs and scratches with its nails, but it doesn't suck. Hmm…
The Fox Dragon won't have another litter until the end of the wet season. He can't squeeze any milk from her teat directly into the baby's mouth. "I wish we had sand," Rhetoric murmurs. "I'd love a glass bottle right now." Even wool would do in a pinch; he could drip the milk out. He looks woefully at his shirt, then strips it off. Jacket too. "Jean, can I soak my sleeve in some of your milk? I want to see if it hates the taste or just the sucking."
It's literally his job to ask; to A-B test these kinds of things. Why does he feel so out of place? His heartbeats trill. And the unhelpful Ender Dragon (So very unhelpful) folds back her ears. She looks so bird-like despite the rounded snout. "Does it matter?"
"It might."
Jean lifts her wing, but narrows her eyes. She keeps them pinned to Rhetoric as he creeps forward, stepping past squirming babies and skinless spawnlings. Gold crunches and slides beneath his boots. Endermite hybrids suckle beside the endermen, and Rhetoric wonders how much milk Jean actually has. I've no idea… According to the old creation stories, the Ender Dragon breathed life into all the dragons (shaped by the first player out of dirt and sculk), which is why she's classed as their mother and queen. Did Between's other dragons once suckle at these very teats where odd creatures and parasites nurse now? Or did they spring up fully grown? That's never been made clear.
With a few pulls and squeezes of an unoccupied teat near her chest (Low on milk and presumably where this non-suckling infant would be), Rhetoric soaks his sleeve as planned and brings it back to Charlotte. She's pushed the spawnling away now, or the spawnling pushed itself away; it looks like a tadpole half-turned frog with its legs flopped behind it. Its shaking arms brace it up among golden trinkets. It keeps its head back, mouthing the air. Muted, though (Thank goodness for that).
"Here, you," Rhetoric murmurs, sinking to his knees beside it. He itches for something else to call it, but the newborn isn't his to name. He holds the shirt above its gaping mouth and wrings out the sleeve. Golden droplets of colostrum dribble downwards, plipping like raindrops as they fall.
The spawnling pauses, perking up. It flicks its tongue around its lips and cranes its neck, begging for more. It does pine like a seal. Rhetoric looks at his mother, who blinks back in mild surprise. "So it likes the milk…"
Jean snorts in the background, smoke swirling from her nostrils. "It's lazy."
"Something's up," Rhetoric says, picking up the baby again. It squirms against him, still mouthing towards the air. "It's swallowing. Why can't it suck, though? Does its throat hurt?" He rotates the baby again, scanning its goopy blue body from head to toe. His eyes trace its back, then wander down the legs. Hmm. It's got faint ridges down the thighs. Nothing big. They're thinner and longer than the chunky ridges on the shoulders. Rhetoric bears his thumb against the sole of its foot, testing for plantar reflex. And all of a sudden, it makes sense. "Oh! It's a chimera!"
Not even this revelation urges Jean to raise her head. "It is a false baby? It is a brilliant beetle or firefly, snuck inside my cave?"
Not exactly. Rhetoric holds the kicking baby overhead, then sets it on the ground so it won't fall if it glitches through his arms. It tries to push itself up on its hands again, just proving his point. "This spawnling has two conflicting souls. The 'mite soul is dominant. It is an endermite, but it's got some avian influence mixed inside. See how it flexes its toes, trying to clamp its feet? Fox hybrids move the whole ankle, but birds make grabby motions towards a branch."
Jean doesn't look particularly impressed. She snuffs again, as she's fond of doing. "Endermites climb. It may be gripping."
"I think it's expressing avian behavior. Avians allofeed… They don't suckle. They hold back their heads and wait for food to spill in." Rhetoric crouches, running one hand down the infant's back. "I don't see any visible traits, unless some of these little ridges develop into feathers once it's older, but I think I'm right."
"So it is a false baby."
"It's a multiplayer account," Rhetoric corrects. "It's getting outside influence from at least two people; that's rare this early in development, and it's left a mark. It looks to me like the endermite influence is strongest, but the avian side is definitely there. Maybe a parrot, but it could be any of them- blaze, breeze, big beak, toucan, strider, ghast… Phantom, even."
"Ostrich," Charlotte supplies.
"Right; I forgot that one."
"Raven… Vulture… Sniffer."
"Are sniffers birds?"
"They have bills and feathers. That makes them birds, does it not?"
Jean stretches out her arm, cupping the newborn by its front. She draws it back towards her; it slides and moves its mouth as though squeaking. "I appreciate your expertise and will take your analysis into account. But if it doesn't wish to die, it will have to eat. And if it dies, it will respawn."
And at that… Rhetoric looks away from the newborn. "I'm not sure it knows how to suckle. It's behaving like a bird, chirping for food."
"It will figure things out," Jean decides, and lays her head down to prevent further argument. Uhh. Rhetoric shifts his eyes to Charlotte. She glances back at him.
I want it, he says in silence. Call it museum curator's instinct, but he knows a fine specimen when he sees one. Call him a true-blood fox hybrid in the way he itches to steal. Chimera are very rare, and a case study might actually be, well… enjoyable. Charlotte's eyes flicker too; she is no less fox than he:
So do I. But we can't just TAKE it…
So we play our trickster cards, he answers with his silence.
We're foxes, luv. It's what we do.
"Mother," she says, rising to her paws. "Have you considered an attendant? They're quite helpful, and they take quite a burden of communication and caretaking off your shoulders. With a difficult baby, perhaps you should consider it. You could visit my cave; I'd love to have you for tea. Perhaps Rhetoric could give your attendant some personalized training and show them how to care for unusual newborns."
Jean lifts her muzzle from her nest of gold, drawing wing and tail more tightly over her brood. Mobs peep as she forces their noses right up against her belly. "Do not conflate my age with weakness, daughter. I've raised many offspring. They do not trap themselves in death loops, starving and respawning. I will raise this one too."
"Yes," Charlotte tells her gently. She slides forward, brushing Rhetoric with her tail. "But you did call on my attendant for advice… It may be worth consideration. I know my dear son would love to train one of your own as your attendant, if you wish. The timing's ideal, what with your difficult child. I think with some research and proper care, it will grow up without suffering repeated starvation. That may be best."
"Madame Jean, it would be an honor." Rhetoric slides his words into place behind his mother's, as effortlessly as though they share a brain. "My duties go far above caretaking, and I'd love to share everything I know with some sort of… apprentice. A peer. There aren't enough dragons out there who've recognized the value of an attendant, and I could use the companionship. Or at least the chance to pass on what I've learned."
Jean's eyes stray across her treasure, drifting over her nursing babies (and the little one tucked between her forepaws). It squirms, pining for food again. She leans down to nose it, licking it, and Rhetoric waits in silence until she lifts her head again. "… I will consider your suggestion. I have faith my little one will not allow itself to starve. But perhaps if it stalls, I will visit you in Lone Spruce."
I'll take it.
One step at a time. Maybe that implication that only foolish dragons hadn't recognized the value of an attendant had landed with her after all. Rhetoric suppresses a smirk. He bows, hands in front like before, and moves back beside his mother's haunch, ready to buckle the saddle on again. Jean's words are cautious and promise nothing. But they've bought time to research chimera hybrids. Time to prepare. And luring Jean from her cave and all the way out to their hub brings them one step closer to prying the newborn from her claws. Or… her attendant's hands, anyway.
It won't be easy, but leave it to the foxes to think up a plan. Eat your hearts out, little one. But preferably… don't you do a damn thing.