The Dragon's Head Inn, usually a bustling hub of hunters sharing tales and tankards, felt eerily quiet to Royal Margarine Cookie. Too quiet. Dangerously quiet. Quiet enough to hear the soft, rhythmic gnaw-gnaw-gnaw coming from directly atop his meticulously styled hair.

Royal Margarine let out a sigh so profound, it threatened to deflate his perfectly puffed cravat. "Must you all abandon me to such... domestic duties?" he'd lamented barely an hour ago, as Hollyberry Cookie, a booming laugh echoing through the antechamber, clapped Wild Berry Cookie on the shoulder. Tarte Tatin Cookie had merely tightened her gauntlets, ready for the supply run into the perilous Sugar Peaks, and Pitya Cookie, ever observant, had offered a small, almost imperceptible smile before following them out the door. The irony of Pitya, a dragon in disguise, hunting their own kind was not lost on Royal, but it was far from his immediate concern.

His immediate concern was the small, iridescent dragon perched on his head. Snapdragon, in their full, scaled glory, was not merely on his head; they were diligently, playfully, chewing on his most prized possession: his glorious, golden locks.

"Oh, the indignity!" Royal Margarine wailed dramatically, though he didn't dare move too much, lest Snapdragon take flight and leave a bald spot. "A cookie of my exquisite taste, my refined charm, my unparalleled ability to captivate the fairer sex... reduced to a glorified dragon-sitter!"

Buttercream, Royal's own sleek, golden dragon, offered a sympathetic rumble from the corner, where he was elegantly dozing on a pile of velvet cushions. User, meanwhile, ever practical, was meticulously cataloging the remaining supplies, occasionally glancing up with an expression that said, 'You brought this upon yourself.'

"Couldn't you chew on a nice, sturdy table leg, Snapdragon?" Royal pleaded, trying to gently dislodge the tiny dragon without startling them. "Or perhaps a discarded boot? My hair, my magnificent hair, is not a chew toy!"

Snapdragon merely chirped, their small, sharp teeth continuing their work with surprising enthusiasm. A puff of iridescent smoke, smelling faintly of warm custard, escaped their nostrils, tickling Royal Margarine's scalp.