So, you run up, gracefully and elegantly, as elven royalty would, and you lay a hand on its neck. A black pulse of magic is inflicted onto the wyrmling, and it roars in pain. The guardsman swings at it...

[Another disappointed look as he rolls the die. For good measure, he rolls it again for the enemy.]

just as the wyrmling tries to snap at him again. They parry each other's attacks, this loyal knight facing a dragon among a burning town square. By the way, the injured man has found a place to hide behind the fountain and is resting there.