Pest control
It had started as a single small striped tent in an abandoned lot. Within a week, there was a whole small fair there. After a month, an entire city block was now a large carnival. Soon, you had to evacuate your apartment as The Circus encroached further, inch by inch.
Retreat is unacceptable.
I like my flat. It’s spacious, bright and airy. I can turn with ease in the living room or go to sleep curled in my bedroom - on a cushy carpet being here for right this reason - in my true form, without smashing my human bed or turning the bookshelves lining the walls to splinters by accident, which would spell a disaster for my hoard. I will be able to do so for a century more, or two if my growth slows down as much as it’s supposed to in my fresh adulthood. Unfortunately, passing through standard-sized single doors without some serious redesign is hard to outright impossible for some time now, but oh, well. Locks are the least concern for anyone daring to tresspass, and the last one if they aim to steal anything.
I like my flat being close to many means of public transport. It eases my life considerably when I go to work, do grocery shopping, go on a small spending spree alone, with friends, maybe one of my siblings, or just a fancy strikes me to see in person the views a line or other offers.
I like more than half of its windows overlooking a pretty, English-esque park, and a balcony with a small table and a few chairs, a fey-bought grapevine growing out of a big pot onto a metal crate. It’s perfect to hide with a book in a scorch of summer midday, or to watch shifting gradients of a sunset when drinks flow and merry laughter from many throats permits the air. The grapes are delicious, too.
I like my flatmate and landlord, a sometimes-posessed warlock, with his candles of many shapes, colors and purposes laying on most flat surfaces, and numerous paraphernalia he sometimes forgets to tidy up when the research prolongs itself beyond reason or takes a sharp turn. I don’t mind him working nights - he takes care to soundproof his workshop, and looks outright adorable napping on a couch, especially with lightspots dancing on his face. On a few occasions my hoard proved to be helpful in his affairs, and he was perfectly respectful to it every time. I may or may not be starting to consider him a part of it by now.
At first I didn’t mind The Circus. What humans consider oddities and give many other names make about a half of my life, and a few people going there and not returning are not my concern - I didn’t busy myself finding out whether they join, end eaten or anything else befalls them. They aren’t mine to worry about.
It grew to be an irritation - loud noises day or night, illumination when one seeks to sleep. Then an inconvenience - blocked pavements, fair-typical trash on the ground, shops either joining in on the event or ceasing to open right about the time of engulfment.
Perhaps the main excuse for Circus reaching such a size is that no one really lives in that city block; merely a few folks hunt there. Predators must be getting angry by now - alternatively, getting slightly easier meals in the ever-growing chaos.
No matter; it keeps encroaching on my territory, and I won’t stand it.
Retreat is not acceptable!
Fury boils in my gut as I carefully get ready, the anger so strong I can almost taste fire and ash on my tongue. I clench my jaw, an urge to bite, tear apart, incinerate getting more prominent every minute I hear obnoxious festive melodies I grew to despise with my whole being.
Tonight, soon, I’m going there, looking for the cause of it all. Whoever - whatever - is behind it, better they listen and obey. If not, mysterious accidents do happen, after all, and magnificient fireworks truly warm a heart. If that doesn’t help, I know even more permanent means of persuasion.
They are gone, one way or another, they just don’t know about it. Yet.
I may be young, and I may be going not fully knowing what I’m dealing with, but I surely am going a prepared dragon. Commiting acts of utter stupidity widely known as heroism isn’t my forte.
My style is calling my asshole friends for barbecue on the town.
“Howdy, neighbour” I sneer, sinking into the noisy crowd. A harmonius laugh erupts behind me at something Gareth said, several other voices echoing the malicious intent. My scowl turns into an overly toothy grin.
The hunt is on.