“Valur polzhys!” sings — no, chants — an imperious voice. A line of arcing flames lances out from the earth beneath a downturned palm to meet a crackling ice demon, where it explodes in a mix of water shards and flame.
The rifter awoke abruptly in a shower of oozing green, his own sack of spell-books narrowly missing clobbering him in the skull, his locked trunk plopping to the earth with a cringe-inducing crash just several meters to his right. He was sprawled in an undignified spread-eagle, a splat of an aristocrat enrobed in velvets and leathers and utterly tousled from a violent fall.
And then the attacks came at his face, and he could no longer afford any hesitation. He catapulted himself to his feet and fought back, mouth blazing with impossible strings of lyrical incantations, hands working just as fast to direct streams of magic.
He would never admit it, but the befuddled, aching, downright aggravated wizard has a head swirling with something resembling panic and desperation. He is confused, abundantly aware of little else aside from the demons that are apparently intent on taking his life, and unable to recognize in what realm he has managed to slip into. Or careen into, as it were.
Considering his current situation, though, there simply isn’t the time to puzzle out what has happened to him. Survival takes precedence, followed by teasing out which of these foul creatures were fighting alongside him and not against him.
As another string of commanding chants ripples in undulating waves to another pair of demons, this time to rend them to pieces, he does not hear the faint crackle of a fire-demon reaching its tendrils to his turned back…
II. The Aftermath. Utter Exhaustion.
The Dragon staggers to his tooled-leather travel trunk and sinks down in blessed rest.
He is abysmally drained. His body aches from head to toe. His confounded hand shines and throbs with an alarming sliver of sickly green light. It is not that the battle he fought was a particularly trying one, by his standards — The Dragon did manage to carry on a full-scale battle through day and night, cutting down both army and demon, with only a single girl witch at his side, and survive — but something is wrong with this place. Foreign. Casting even his least complex battle spells felt like slogging through tar, and it all compounded and exacerbated the pains reverberating through his bones.
Still, ever the proud one, and quite conscious of other eyes in the vicinity piercing his skull and back, he knows he must at least make a show of sure-footedness and stability.
The Dragon pinches the bridge of his nose, takes care to straighten and stiffen his sagging posture, casts a rueful, irritated grimace down at his singed travel-clothes, and crosses an arm across his chest.
“Vanastalem.”
His clothing explodes in a trembling ripple, the burnt and shattered remnants of his cloak gone. In its place unfurls a rich black-and-red ensemble, laced in silver and gold. Aside from the ashes in his hair and dirt smudging his face, he looks positively splendid — well, as far as his state of dress goes. The deep lines at his eyes and mouth and the unsteady quiver in his hand betray a deeper weariness, and through a dark scowl, he realizes with creeping and utter horror that he may regret his next few (absolutely necessary, in his opinion) cantrips in the wake of his recent scuffle.
—Or the next few cantrips he intends to cast, if he can find the rest of his things. He glances around at the carnage in mounting frustration, scanning the ground from his vantage point atop his (locked) trunk with a steely, red-rimmed gaze. Books, books and tomes and heavy, vast swaths of vellum — all his — scattered everywhere, but no carry-sack.
He snaps harshly, perhaps slightly breathless, at the nearest intact and living body near him, “Well, don’t just look at me that way! See these effects?” He thrusts and sweeps his arm around in what he hopes is a self-assured manner, referring to the litter his arrival left behind. “I am looking for a red and black velvet travel-sack. Have you seen it?”
Resident Dragon Tumbles In
“Valur polzhys!” sings — no, chants — an imperious voice. A line of arcing flames lances out from the earth beneath a downturned palm to meet a crackling ice demon, where it explodes in a mix of water shards and flame.
The rifter awoke abruptly in a shower of oozing green, his own sack of spell-books narrowly missing clobbering him in the skull, his locked trunk plopping to the earth with a cringe-inducing crash just several meters to his right. He was sprawled in an undignified spread-eagle, a splat of an aristocrat enrobed in velvets and leathers and utterly tousled from a violent fall.
And then the attacks came at his face, and he could no longer afford any hesitation. He catapulted himself to his feet and fought back, mouth blazing with impossible strings of lyrical incantations, hands working just as fast to direct streams of magic.
He would never admit it, but the befuddled, aching, downright aggravated wizard has a head swirling with something resembling panic and desperation. He is confused, abundantly aware of little else aside from the demons that are apparently intent on taking his life, and unable to recognize in what realm he has managed to slip into. Or careen into, as it were.
Considering his current situation, though, there simply isn’t the time to puzzle out what has happened to him. Survival takes precedence, followed by teasing out which of these foul creatures were fighting alongside him and not against him.
As another string of commanding chants ripples in undulating waves to another pair of demons, this time to rend them to pieces, he does not hear the faint crackle of a fire-demon reaching its tendrils to his turned back…
II. The Aftermath. Utter Exhaustion.
The Dragon staggers to his tooled-leather travel trunk and sinks down in blessed rest.
He is abysmally drained. His body aches from head to toe. His confounded hand shines and throbs with an alarming sliver of sickly green light. It is not that the battle he fought was a particularly trying one, by his standards — The Dragon did manage to carry on a full-scale battle through day and night, cutting down both army and demon, with only a single girl witch at his side, and survive — but something is wrong with this place. Foreign. Casting even his least complex battle spells felt like slogging through tar, and it all compounded and exacerbated the pains reverberating through his bones.
Still, ever the proud one, and quite conscious of other eyes in the vicinity piercing his skull and back, he knows he must at least make a show of sure-footedness and stability.
The Dragon pinches the bridge of his nose, takes care to straighten and stiffen his sagging posture, casts a rueful, irritated grimace down at his singed travel-clothes, and crosses an arm across his chest.
“Vanastalem.”
His clothing explodes in a trembling ripple, the burnt and shattered remnants of his cloak gone. In its place unfurls a rich black-and-red ensemble, laced in silver and gold. Aside from the ashes in his hair and dirt smudging his face, he looks positively splendid — well, as far as his state of dress goes. The deep lines at his eyes and mouth and the unsteady quiver in his hand betray a deeper weariness, and through a dark scowl, he realizes with creeping and utter horror that he may regret his next few (absolutely necessary, in his opinion) cantrips in the wake of his recent scuffle.
—Or the next few cantrips he intends to cast, if he can find the rest of his things. He glances around at the carnage in mounting frustration, scanning the ground from his vantage point atop his (locked) trunk with a steely, red-rimmed gaze. Books, books and tomes and heavy, vast swaths of vellum — all his — scattered everywhere, but no carry-sack.
He snaps harshly, perhaps slightly breathless, at the nearest intact and living body near him, “Well, don’t just look at me that way! See these effects?” He thrusts and sweeps his arm around in what he hopes is a self-assured manner, referring to the litter his arrival left behind. “I am looking for a red and black velvet travel-sack. Have you seen it?”