Яikyn

"I don’t make threats," I answer, undeterred by the frosty puff which slips from Verzes’ lips, though I am curious as to why it isn’t fire (didn’t dragons breath fire?), my gaze cold and unwavering, "but I will also not be disrespected by a dragon while his master watches, allowing the behavior or powerless to wield him."

As Ashamin learned, I don’t usually provide warning to any foe, even if the enemy is but a temporary one (or a simple spar mate in view of our fellows), and the colt wouldn’t have gotten much warning but the tension of my figure if I’d decided I wanted to hit him. The warning I’d given before was just that – a warning, a suggestion, one that hinted that he had taught me he either was ruled by a beast or he was no better than one as far as his sensibilities were concerned.

The next guy might be a bit older and bit more experienced than me, he might be having a bit worse of a day and be readily available to snap that putrid little red beast in half for such an offense.

I smile. How cocky could anyone be with their soul rendered in half, tormented forever with a hollow darkness that ached?

The smile broadens into a chuckle as mention of evil unicorn empires rises – he apparently hasn’t been there, and whatever information he has is old as dirt. Things had changed in the year I was gone; I highly doubted any plots were being coiled upon the mountain that pertained to something as nefarious as the initial painting of the Aurora Basin had been.

I think of the Sentinels, and my father’s absence; I think of Zikar’s moon eyed madness and the stark contrast of Ashamin’s sun warmed, butter heart. Still, I am among them now, and I have seen the Reaper like a dark shadow prowling along the boundaries. D’Artagnan is our General now, and the silence of the tent is still solid, the magic of the God of the Spark still humming along the fabric.

Perhaps not all has been lost.

But why would I tell this oaf as much?

"A whelp of the Qian, then?" I ask, noting an old hatred to hint that the prejudice has been reversed, "would explain your affinity for things one had to build to hide stolen children behind."

Ah, sometimes I do thank my mother for her endless talking (borderline exasperated, hot aired bitching); I know a lot more than a boy my age should, and not all of it is politically correct (or having any of the other side’s version at all). This story, in particular, I know absolutely nothing of the Qian’s motive on, only my mother’s construed ideas of some sort of underhanded subterfuge – and, as previously mentioned, as will be mentioned many times again, I am skilled at talking about things I have absolutely no clue about.

Some might even say I enjoy it.

And then I’m lured away from jabbing at some group of absolute strangers (because I legitimately know only one of them, and she was actually pretty nice despite her physical detriments) by the promise of magic, of growth. I find with some measure of surprise that the boy does as I ask him to, though the dragon flies away.

Perhaps in distrust that I’d keep him out of the deal after his nasty bit of behavior earlier – it’s probably a good idea.

Then the world goes weird, and it’s hard to tell what all happened other than I come to and find the white faced stag sweating, rising up from where he seems to have been sitting in the water.

Well, that’s not what I wanted at all, but still… a smile crosses my face as he nods that it had, describing how it had felt as I’d hoped but not asked.

My small smile grows into a grin, and I find a vigorous bounciness rising from within at my success despite the wooly weariness of my head, which mildly aches at the temples now in the aftermath. Its all worth it if it means that I truly can make someone else do whatever I want them to, and with a little bit of practice…

A certain penchant for conversation shines upon me as I just absorb my delight in utter silence, smiling like some wicked devil with a fire burning deep in my aureate eyes. The possibilities are nearly shudder inducing, and as I manage to slip out of the mental trance at the promise of the power I have found and back into reality, I cannot help but wonder if that is the sweat of fear which lines the dragon child, not just excursion to evade my magic.

More than the yearning to kiss the Moon’s cheeks, I hope it is.

Ripped from my sadistic fantasies of the domination to be found in fear (knowing it from the frantic beat of my heart and the senseless flailing of my weapons in the midst of the wolves), his voice summons my attentions back from my avid thoughts.

They are gone…

A wave of crackling excitement, the drowsiness found in the aftermath of my magic is almost lost as I step closer, my motions slow but every pore on my body alive with interest in what my magic has done, gilded gaze gleaming with a fire of feeling absolutely mother fucking amazingly Godlike at this moment.

Assist in the death of two immortals in as many weeks, earning the praise of one (who happens to be the local divine)? Check. Find an artifact while learning you have puppet magic, and that you can heal people of the weird boil disease with that magic as well?

Did I just win?

I sure as Sun’s Insanity think so!

"I don’t know," I manage, "but it’s pretty fucking awesome!"


[ OOC: Lirl he's apparently full of Helovia lingo and sass today. ]

in every heart a hole