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12-28-2012, 11:22 PM
I am roused from my casual grazing by the chaotic shouting of desperation and determination. I lift my black gaze from the swath of green strewn before me like a cheap buffet. I see the glittering scales of the dragon caught in the sunlight, a turbulent array of beams stabbing haphazardly through the fog, before my gaze yields the commotion. Death is on the loose. I start, exploding into droplets of ink which scatter like blood spray on my meal. Art is my only crime today, mortality my only death; I rise as a small dragon into the air. I am pitch as black and as iridescent as silver fish, but the beauty and the wonder of what I am is not long recognized by the truth. I am not a dragon, not truly. I am a mere drawing, a scrawl, a scribble, of the mighty beast. These are not scales flickering on my backside but droplets of ink whirling off my body as I fly madly into the mists. I must find Rishima. She is the only one who can stop death. I can only hope I am in time for Lace to retain his life, and we our bargaining chip. I must admit I am confused. I remember eavesdropping on the bargaining not long before, and had thought the deal had been set. We were but waiting on the simple act of conducting the trade as far as I knew, yet this blight chooses to flee, selecting the hour when his guard's eyes are turned, likely content with the inevitable swap and heavy with the task of containing such a behemoth of war. I press my beak together in despair and hatred and I fly.  |
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
