Wild animals do not make good pets. It's something your father told you time and again. When you tried to rescue the baby foxes after their mother was shot for killing the chickens. When you wanted to adopt the injured owl after nursing it back to health. Wild animals do not make good pets, but there's a baby dragon right there, and even if its mother is a terrifying death machine terrorizing the land for kilometers around, there's a young and innocent little wyrmling who's going to need protecting. It takes all your years of monster-hunting toughness to resist the urge to go pat it, but despite your occasional bouts of sentimentality you're a professional through and through. You hoist your cylmer carbine and mount it on your shoulder, steadying it with one hand as you go over the usual checks. Barrel clean, ammo loaded, armor stabilized, power in place. You flick the switch. The weapon hums as it starts to chill, spellfrost spilling out and crackling against the side of your helmet. The wyrmling lifts its head, tongue testing the air, its eyes big with uncertainty. "Just wait here, little one," you murmur, starting up the slope to the cavern entrance. "I'll be right back. Got to deal with the big one first." The elder dragon sleeps, bones both human and otherwise litter the ground, while behind it the glint of stolen gold and steel and crystals proves this particular wyrm's great successes as a gatherer of shiny objects. You aim the carbine square between its eyes, but before you can pull the trigger the dragon jerks awake, mouth already opening in a snarl as its eyes narrow in on you. You fire anyway. The bolt goes wide, ice shattering off the far wall of the cave. The dragon spreads its wings. Wind rushes into the cave as it inhales. If not for the armor you'd have been blown off your feet with the strength of it. You steady your aim, adjust for the new position, and fire. A spear of ice shoots out and slams into the dragon's open mouth. It coughs and roars, but its attempt at building up a fire breath was disrupted. You fire again, this time going for the eyes. The dragon shrieks and flails, wings battering the cave as it starts building up momentum, as it drops to all fours and gallops toward the entrance - towards you. You've done this before, so you're prepared. You flip a second switch and the carbine whines as its power increases. You count down the seconds as it charges. Three, two... You fire. The bolt fires with a recoil that knocks you down. Thicker than your forearm, more a battering ram than a spear, the jagged projectile strikes the pained, angered, afraid dragon straight in the skull. A groan and a crunch, and the dragon's momentum slows as it falls in a crumpled heap. You slowly climb back to your feet, trying to roll the crick out of your neck. You're not as young as you once were, and the third-gen cylmer frost carbine really packs a punch. You tag the dragon's body with your slayer mark, so the retrieval team can verify you were the one to slay it, then pack up the carbine and check over each piece with the swift professionalism of every professional monster slayer. You'll get a bonus for the baby. Potential future problem averted, after all. Wild animals don't make good pets. You're not a child any more. You can ignore your father's advice.