The herbalist carefully tucked his glass vials away before closing his worn leather pouch.
“I’m sorry,” he told the owner, his examination concluded. “There’s nothing more I can do.”
The owner gazed over at his dragon, a furious look on his face. He had once imagined possessing a majestic beast that could breathe fire or ice or even acid on command.
Instead, he was left with a helpless reptile that could only spit… saliva.
“Examine him again!” the owner snapped.
The herbalist grabbed his pouch and exited the cave, shaking his head.
Sometimes you just get a spitter, he thought.
The Weekday One Hundred 