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09-07-2015, 04:10 PM
but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams
Die, Mauja thought.
Yes, the flames answered, and kissed him with all the tenderness of razors and hunting lions.
He knew it. He had fucking known this would happen, that he had dodged fire not once but twice just for it to come back and bite him in the ass. Oh gods, he had known it would've happened, but he thought he had taken care of that—that it would've been fine because he'd sent the dragon careening into the soft snow, he...
He should've learned that nothing ever was what it seemed. His horn skidded and slid against solid silver scales, finding no purchase, and for a moment—that moment before yet another gout of flame lit up the night—he had thought that he would run headfirst into the hulking beast.
Then—
—fire.
Roaring, biting agony, hell's scourge flicking along his skin—the reek of burning hair, of sizzling flesh, the low, violent mumble of the flames themselves.
He knew that too, that feeling, that pain—and he knew the way in which it encompassed everything, overwhelmed every sense, bit and bit and bit and bit, and—
Somehow, he did not stagger. Somehow, he did not scream (shock). Somehow, he just fucking stood there and stared as ice punched into the body of a dragon, one by one.
Until the dragon toppled, ice snapping off and sticking out of him in a macabre display of the violence that had transpired.
Mauja remained where he was—short-circuited in every way. Charred flesh with blackened edges, angry swathes of red and slowly weeping blood covered the better part of his neck and shoulder on the left side, tapering off towards his flank.
He hated pain.
He hated being burnt.
He didn't care that he had won—that it seemed he had killed a fucking dragon—didn't care at all.
All he could think of was the blast of light that came before the torment, the split moment in which he was still whole but knew what was to happen—
All he could feel, was the heat crawling deeper, destroying more, chewing its way into his soul—
He was so fucking tired, placing ice in his own veins to stop the fire's rampage but barely able to summon a thing, his tears fucking vaporized as nothing fell from his eyes.
"Fuck. You." he finally whispered at the downed dragon, before closing his eyes—standing still to lull his screaming nerves, fighting to keep a hold of himself in the face of the agony thrumming through him.
In the back of his mind, he knew that Torleik was there.
And somehow, he had the time to wonder if the black King would condemn him for what he had done.
[ @Lace || Closing defense || 457 words. ]
Yes, the flames answered, and kissed him with all the tenderness of razors and hunting lions.
He knew it. He had fucking known this would happen, that he had dodged fire not once but twice just for it to come back and bite him in the ass. Oh gods, he had known it would've happened, but he thought he had taken care of that—that it would've been fine because he'd sent the dragon careening into the soft snow, he...
He should've learned that nothing ever was what it seemed. His horn skidded and slid against solid silver scales, finding no purchase, and for a moment—that moment before yet another gout of flame lit up the night—he had thought that he would run headfirst into the hulking beast.
Then—
—fire.
Roaring, biting agony, hell's scourge flicking along his skin—the reek of burning hair, of sizzling flesh, the low, violent mumble of the flames themselves.
He knew that too, that feeling, that pain—and he knew the way in which it encompassed everything, overwhelmed every sense, bit and bit and bit and bit, and—
Somehow, he did not stagger. Somehow, he did not scream (shock). Somehow, he just fucking stood there and stared as ice punched into the body of a dragon, one by one.
Until the dragon toppled, ice snapping off and sticking out of him in a macabre display of the violence that had transpired.
Mauja remained where he was—short-circuited in every way. Charred flesh with blackened edges, angry swathes of red and slowly weeping blood covered the better part of his neck and shoulder on the left side, tapering off towards his flank.
He hated pain.
He hated being burnt.
He didn't care that he had won—that it seemed he had killed a fucking dragon—didn't care at all.
All he could think of was the blast of light that came before the torment, the split moment in which he was still whole but knew what was to happen—
All he could feel, was the heat crawling deeper, destroying more, chewing its way into his soul—
He was so fucking tired, placing ice in his own veins to stop the fire's rampage but barely able to summon a thing, his tears fucking vaporized as nothing fell from his eyes.
"Fuck. You." he finally whispered at the downed dragon, before closing his eyes—standing still to lull his screaming nerves, fighting to keep a hold of himself in the face of the agony thrumming through him.
In the back of his mind, he knew that Torleik was there.
And somehow, he had the time to wonder if the black King would condemn him for what he had done.
[ @Lace || Closing defense || 457 words. ]
man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same
