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It was a little out of the fashion, to say one wished to have a tractable beast. Still, Jeremy Rankin's family was an old one with generations of sons in the Aerial Corps. And a man assigned to an egg was entitled to do as he thought fit, without any interference in his managing, at the hatching of it.
Rankin gave a bare acknowledgement to the covert's ground crew man as Rankin took the hood. (Rankin was an earl's son, soon to be a captain, and must remain ever conscious of his own place.) It was of new leather made to an old pattern, with chain running behind. The chain did not need to be very heavy; the expected dragonet would be small. Courier-weight, admittedly. But purebred, so that one knew what to expect.
He did not need a heavyweight to be a captain. The old dragon had turned up its nose at him; very well. An old, spoiled beast. Rankin would have his own, fresh from the egg, and it would know him master from the first.
He had a name of his own now: Levitas. He kept his head low, shaking it from one side to the other. The hood was heavy on him, a chain uncomfortable at the back of his head, and he did not like the dark. But when, clicking his tongue, the man who was to be his captain removed the hood, Levitas did not feel comfortable in the sudden brightness. Still, there was meat close to his nose, and the man holding it ready was to be a captain, his own captain. His captain would feed him, and hold him steady, and steer him to fly.