In this story I'm exploring the outside world of the Dragon Booster world. Though not mentioned in canon, it definetly exists. Thus, I decided to make it up as I go along.
Silvyr sat in a grassy field, watching the birds, and completely bored out of his mind.
He'd finished his tasks for the day a little over an hour ago, and thus had nothing to really do, except become really, really bored.
There was a resounding thud as a large white dragon hurled itself off a hill and hit the ground. Hard.
Silvyr turned around to face the dragon.
'Tyfoon, you daftie, don't you realise by now that you cannot fly?' Silvyr said.
Tyfoon gave a look that seemed to say 'You lie, filthy mortal' and ran back to the hill and attempted to fly again.
Silvyr sighed.
Tyfoon was a unique dragon. Not unique in colour or powers (he was much like all the other white dragons in the world) but for the fact that his dearest wish was to fly like the eagle-drags that soared overhead.
It was strange, even though he was a white dragon. Most other white dragons were simply content with running really fast and jumping as high as they could.
Not Tyfoon.
As a young dragon, growing up in the Ulstyr mountains, he had spent days simply staring up at the sky watching birds and other flying creatures. Somewhere along the line he had taken it into his head that he could fly if he really tried to. So thus he started to jump off steep hills.
The other dragons regarded him as completely nuts and generally steered well clear of the 'crazy white fool' as they called him. Not that Tyfoon really cared about what they had to say. As a result, none of the other dragons liked him, and for that matter, most of the humans as well.
Except for Silvyr MkNamera. Fifteen, ginger-haired, and slightly taller than average, he'd been friends with Tyfoon since their first meeting. The two shared the same frame of mind, except, of course, when it came to attempting to fly. Even though he knew Tyfoon would never be able to soar, he didn't really try to talk his big friend out of it. You need something to aim for, even if it is impossible. Plus, Tyfoon never believed him, anyway.
Tyfoon attempted to fly a few hundred more times over the course of the afternoon, without success. Eventually he got bored of smashing into the ground at high velocity, so he flopped over on the grass and started to snooze.
Silvyr went over and lay down beside him.
Suddenly, a bright pinprick of light lit up on the horizon.
Neither human nor dragon was amazed by the sight, for it appeared unfailingly every evening.
It was not a bright star, nor a comet.
It was Dragon City.
Silvyr often dreamed about going to Dragon City and making a name for himself (his chances of making a name for himself here were about zilch, he calculated) on the dragon tracks that he had heard about from visiting gear traders. Compared to life in the Ulstyr Mountains, it seemed pretty darn exciting to zoom along a track jockeying with other dragon racers for supremacy. He generally kept this little thought to himself, as his parents (and indeed most people in the Mountains) had the mentality of a green dragon, i.e. Keep your head out of those clouds and help me plough, dammit, which didn't help when it came to asking if you could go off to a far away place. So Silvyr only ever told Tyfoon about his dream.
'You know, Tyfoon,' said Silvyr. 'If we could just go to Dragon City, we'd strike it big-time. We could have our names up in lights, and be more than this. But nooooooo, they don't want us to go.' He sighed, like he had many times before. 'If only we could convince them otherwise.'
He got up. Tyfoon rolled over and snorted loudly.
'Weeeell, I've got to go Tyfoon. Something special happens today, although I'm at a loss for what it happens to be.'
Silvyr began to trek back to the village from the field.
Tyfoon stared after him for a long time, thinking to himself about what Silvyr had said.
Halfway along the path, Silvyr remembered what was so special about today. It was so damn obvious that he kicked himself for forgetting.
It was his birthday.
But not just any usual one.
It was his sixteenth.
And sixteen was regarded in the Ulstyr Mountains as the age when someone became an adult, and then they became tattooed in blue to signify that fact.
Silvyr grinned to himself and picked up his pace.