Charming

To call the day she had had eventful would have been a dire understatement, but upon returning to the Glen, Gwyn had given Howell only an abbreviated version of events, with the promise of more detail once she'd had a chance to sort out her thoughts—proper mature of her, if she did say so herself, even if it was only a stalling tactic. After all, she had told the gruff head dragonkeeper she had something to show him, and she did not wish to play her hand so soon.

The creche was a little-used stone building with a greening copper roof and heavy iron door. Both were necessities, as barn-sized structure bore one purpose: housing young dragons in the event they could not be in the wilds—usually because they were injured or rejected by a parent. Fortunately for the Welsh Greens of the valley, it had been vacant for the better part of two years.

"Now," she prefaced as she stood outside the door, "it is important that you keep an... an open mind," Gwyn settled upon. The stubborn old bear was not one for whom open mindedness was considered instinct.

"Promise?" she asked, a cheeky smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

The sigh Gwyn emitted reeked of "long-suffering", never mind the fact that, on balance, she was far more vexing to Howell than he to her. Still, the young witch knew she was unlikely to get any more out of him, and so, without further ado, opened the door wide enough to admit herself, then a little wider to allow for Howell's larger stature.

"Come on, then," she directed, slipping through the gap.

This was the moment of truth. Gwyn Conway was as stubborn as an ox, but Howell could be as stubborn as the very stones that built the mountains around them if he put his mind to it—and if she didn't make her case before his inevitable No,  there would almost surely be no recovery.

"She's one of the dragons from the Hogsmeade... incident," Gwyn offered by way of explanation tone almost convincingly nonchalant. "Oh, the Beasts Division transported the rest, however, but as it's altogether a new species of dragon—" she assumed, at any rate. The biology of the genus* had never particularly been her skillset "—it seemed rather a wasted opportunity not to obtain a...a sample."

As the young witch spoke, that creature in question remained upon her perch by the grace of a dainty, charmed shackle, but did punctuate Gwyn's little speech by hissing sparks in their direction.

* Indeed, Gwyn herself does not actually know the word "genus".

She simply beamed at him by manner of response.

Lack of immediate "no", in Gwyn's experience, was almost certainly an eventual "yes".

"If you're worried about the care and keeping of it," she added helpfully, "I will of course take that on in addition to my regular duties."

"To be entirely fair, though, we've been alone for a matter of hours now," Gwyn pointed out, still beaming. "The creche remains intact, I remain intact, and neither one of us has given you even the tiniest bit of a headache!"

It’ll be your luck she lives eighty years.

There it was. Oh, it was no doubt intended as a warning, but Gwyn had spent her life in Avalon Glen, and had stalked the Keepers relentlessly since adolescence. She knew Howell's assent, however reluctantly given, when she heard it. Her face broke into a broad grin.

"She's a feisty one," Gwyn admitted ruefully, "but so am I, so we should get on well enough. Once she's more... adjusted, I'd like to take her out and see what she can do. Chain on, of course," she added hastily. Gwyn was bullheaded, occasionally reckless, but she was not stupid.

"Connie," she answered brightly. "After m'self, of course—men are always naming things after themselves, after all, and she nipped at me when I tried Gwyn. Connie, though, seems not to offend her overmuch!"

His other instructions were ignored as a given, at least in her mind.