It was the golden rule of monstering: “People are easier to eat when sleeping,” but Fhar’s current snack seemed to have missed that class. So instead of a quick slurp and swallow, he might actually have to fight. He snorted a thin flame of annoyance and shied as the adventurer shrieked and started trying to climb the sheer rock face.
“Hey, hey, stop that.” He waved a wingclaw at the panicking thief/cleric/whatever, and sent it cowering back under the ledge it had been using as shelter.
“I don’t want to die!” it wailed.
“Then you should have stayed home.” Fhar eyed the rock trying to find a way down under the ledge. “There is a very big, very colorful sign on the edge of the woods. A sign in five languages I might add.” He tried a grip, only to snarl in frustration as the stone crumbled when he tried to put weight on it. “You read the sign, right?”
“Yes,” at least it was whimpering and not wailing.
“And what did the sign say?”
“Here there be Wyverns.”
“Right then.” He found a solid clawhold and inched closer to the adventurer.
“But what’s a Wyvern?”
That stopped him. “I am a wyvern.” He narrowed sulfur yellow eyes thoughtfully. “You truly didn’t know?”
“I swear! I thought it was some sort of gazebo!”