The amber light of dawn creeps into your cave, gently awakening you from your slumber. You rear your long, scaly head and sniff at the air, which is ripe with the scent of morning dew, the droppings of various mammals and birds, and of course, the ever-present stench of rotting meat from your private stores. You rise to your feet, your long black talons scraping against the stone floor, and peer over the ledge of your side of the mountain. The crisp autumn air is inviting, and a playful breeze entices you to spread your great leathery wings, to stretch your fingers as wide as they will go. You draw back, coiling your rear legs. Unconsciously, your long, spiked tail curls, lifting itself into the air. With an almighty heave, you launch yourself off the face of the cliff, allowing your wings to fold ever so slightly, and you plummet towards the distant ground, picking up speed. Once you feel that you are going fast enough, you flare your wings, ignoring the searing pain in your shoulders from the strain of holding onto nothing, and you immediately begin to glide forward. You pump your wings down and backward, scooping air behind you and lifting you upward, then return them to a gliding position. The sharp wind bites at your eyes and exposed teeth, but it's not enough. You pump your wings, down and backward, then raise them and pull them towards your head, down again, gaining height until you once again become level with your cave. You cock your head to the left, raising your snout ever so slightly, and twist your left wrist forward, allowing air to spill over the wing and pull you into a graceful turn. You level out again, and below you a great sapphire river twists and bends beneath you. You feel the air pushing against your wings, carrying you. Every tiny adjustment you make; the twitch of a single finger, the position of your thumbs, is so important in keeping you on the exact course you're traveling. You battle the tiniest changes in the speed and direction of the wind, you dive or beat your wings every now and then to keep your speed constant, and as you travel over an empty, burnt-looking meadow, it happens. A burst of hot air rises beneath you, warming your empty belly and pushing against your wide, sail-like wings, and you let the thermal carry you high into the clouds, until you can barely see past your own snout. You let loose the tiniest burst of flame, and the clouds disappear. You steer yourself back over the river, and fall into a stoop, plummeting towards the water. At the last possible second, you pull up, but not before reaching down to take a large mouthful of water in your powerful jaws. As you flap yourself back to a safe gliding altitude, you swallow the water, which, lucky enough for you, had a couple of small fish as well. You shake your great scaly head and veer back to your cave, and as you reach the mouth, you swing your powerful legs forward and flap your wings to slow yourself down, then duck your head into the cave and fold your wings rather haphazardly. You let your wings droop lazily, but keep them from dragging along the floor of your cave as you effortlessly navigate the maze you had set out for any potential thieves. After a full ten minutes of twisting, turning and bending, you reach the end, and settle yourself down at your stockpile of food. Carefully choosing the freshest of kills, you dig in greedily.