{{Your family is probably out looking for you}} you say, once the sun has risen high enough to break the mood. {{And don't you have instruction in the mornings?}}
{{Oh, Hecate help me!}} Dizzy says, getting a pained expression. {{The elders are going to roast me alive}}.
You wonder if he means that literally. {{Is it too late to start?}} you ask.
{{They make whelps my age do exercise flights before starting their lessons}} he says. {{Well, I would have started earlier}} he adds bitterly, {{but my mother pulled me from training early. I fly with whelps that are barely more than hatchlings, and I get better exercise flying here and back. Anyway, if I get there in time, then I'll be there in time for lecture, only having missed that joke}}.
{{Hurry}} you say. {{I'll get some sleep while you're gone. I'm still too weak to be missing sleep}}.
Dizzy gives you a hurried kiss on your snout, and in another of his hop-flip take-offs, he snaps his wings open and flies off quickly. His belly virtually drags against the ground in spite of him being in flight, though, leaving a cloud of dust. That's an odd sort of maneuver, you think. You wonder if that's some sort of technique for moving quickly, to fly so close to the ground.
It's not long after Dizzy is out-of-sight that a wind-gust passes over you from behind, and you turn your head around to look in the direction from which it came. You hear a growl from the direction you had been facing, and slowly, your heart thumping in your chest, you turn to face whoever or whatever it is.
You come snout-to-snout with a dragon easily four times your weight, and he is the color of amethyst.
In response to this new visage, your limbic system is making a reasonably clear statement of rejection under the heading: "no purple dragons."
As for how you deal with this: