Aquarela

The smell of pancakes with apple syrup filled the house when the little whelp opened his eyes, nestled among the pillows of his crib, feeling the sweet aroma coming from the kitchen where his parents' voices echoed.

The sun came gently through the window bringing with it the morning breeze and the distant sound of the Silvermoon City market, bustling with vendors and all kinds of races that the small eyes had not yet seen. Slowly, the little whelp sat up, stretching his small wings while yawning, stretching his little claws as he looked attentively at Flame the cat, who rested on the windowsill being bathed by the sun that made his fur shimmer with an orange glow.

Feeling the weight of his own body, the little whelp stood up, using his tiny claws to hold the crib's railing before flapping his little wings and jumping out, sitting in the middle of the room, on the fluffy white rug, the color of Duchess the cat, who in turn, slept peacefully in mother's rocking chair, beside the window.

Like lazy guardians, the cats who should have been attentive to the little whelp's figure, ignored any movement and remained trapped in their morning nap.

The little whelp, in turn, was discovering the world around him. And what a world! Vibrant, full of colors and sounds he had only heard inside the egg.

The smells, the softness of the rug, the brightness of the sun.

The small simple wooden table was in the middle of the room, with children's books he didn't yet understand along with blank papers and colorful crayons, with colors whose names he didn't yet know.

Inside the egg, he had heard his mother say she wanted her hatchling to be a great creative artist, that inspiration should come early. He also heard his father say he would have great magical gifts and, although he already felt the energy of life and light within him, he didn't yet understand what that meant.

But something had already awakened in the little whelp.

Curiosity about colors.

All those crayons, organized on a mug at the small table, within his reach, all with a particularly pleasant smell, attracted the little whelp like a dragon drawn to a pile of gold coins.

Flapping his little wings, he rose from the floor and flew slowly around the table, analyzing his options, before with his small three claws, grabbing a red crayon, bright, vivid that smelled like... crayon! What a wonderful aroma!

Carrying the innocence of a small creature, the little whelp brought the crayon to his small mouth full of already sharp fangs and, before he could chew, a resounding "BONK" echoed. His little eyes closed and his claws dropped the crayon on the table.

A small grunt of pain and when his little eyes opened again, there it was, the magical mop with green kaja'cola bristles, floating beside the small being. As a warning, the mop moved its handle, as if saying no to the little whelp, who in turn looked at the mop's bristles and then, in an impulse he had certainly inherited from his mother, taking a single breath, the little whelp released a breath of fire toward the green bristles which, dirty with kaja'cola, quickly ignited, making the mop fly rapidly toward the door as if fleeing trying to extinguish the flames.

That's when the little whelp noticed Duchess's presence, the white cat who was now sitting on the table, among the papers and crayons, as if judging the little whelp with an air of superiority. The feline certainly thought the little one hadn't developed enough neurons yet.

On the floor, sitting, looking up, was Flame, the cat with fur vibrant as flames, looking at the little whelp, who carried the same brightness of flames in his gaze.

The three creatures looked at each other and Flame gave a long and lazy meow, stretching before walking toward the door, leaving the room to certainly find a quiet place to finish his morning nap.

Duchess, in turn, remained sitting on the small center table.

The little whelp decided he would ignore her.

Still flying, he approached the table again, seeming fascinated with the color possibilities of the crayons, now choosing the yellow crayon. When his three small claws were about to reach the crayon, Duchess's agile paw pulled the crayon close to her.

Could this be a provocation?

The little one flew quickly, spinning around the cat who seemed impassive and after a few seconds, stood up elegantly, taking the crayon in her mouth and walked to the bedroom door, finally leaving the little one alone.

A provocation!

Confused, but curious, the small creature landed in the middle of the small table.

Now all alone, amid all those crayons! Giving his attention to each one, smelling them individually, admiring the color and brightness of each before noticing that one of them had rolled onto the blank papers, leaving a bright colored trail, in a color whose name he still didn't know.

And that's when the little whelp made his first great experiment.

Using the red crayon, his new favorite color, clumsily, only with his three little claws he tried to rub the crayon on the paper, which to his surprise, worked! A vivid red trail! How beautiful! What a color!

The small tail moved to hold the blue crayon and now, together with the red, he scratched the blank paper, leaving a beautiful colored trail. Color by color, the little whelp discovered a bit of the magic of the world around him.

When he had already learned to draw shapes whose names he didn't even know, like circles and even something that looked like a square, a voice echoed.

"Your mother is worried." It was his father's voice, who was standing in the bedroom doorway, in his elven form. Wearing a large and comfortable red velvet robe pajamas.

"She saw the mop catching fire and asked me to check if you had woken up yet." He said walking to the table, analyzing the abstract artwork the little one had made.

"I see you've already learned to use the crayons." The father offered the little one an affectionate smile and picked him up. "Let's just avoid telling your mother that you also ate some of them." He said cleaning one of the whelp's fangs, stained with red.

"But come see the kitchen... your mother made pancakes with apple syrup." He said as the whelp nestled in his father's lap, placing his chin on his shoulder, looking at the room as his father walked toward the kitchen. "You're going to love apples."