dev 11 - descending dragon

"None if it does matter. That was the answer I'd been hoping for." Ever smug, the male tilts his chin higher. Such comfort denotes his ability to gauge the confusion which may trace upon the drakantie's features, amusement perhaps found in the fact that he could weave such words to his liking.

Yet there is genuine honesty, and curiosity which derives from the fact Tiernay sees more. Or at least, he is always hoping.

"I'd have fought for whoever asked that day. Or at least, the me now figures it'd have been more interesting had I the option to pick, and choose..." Quiet laughter flows between the words which leaves his lips, a single digit pointing towards none other than the drakanite himself.

"What is Theria, without you? What are you without Theria? You say that snowy town atop the mountain is the reason you move, but I've ascertained the answer. If there'd been so much to lose up there, you wouldn't have be so excited every time you clash blades with someone." Flashing a quick grin, the purple haired male couldn't help but feel a little giddy himself.

"The blood excites you more than anyone else on that mountain. The flames, and the dance itself. Ah... that sort of promise can't be as appealing as camaraderie. You are strong, but them? Hmn… they don't know how to revel it like you do." Tiernay shakes his head, and points to the spot before him.

"Come down here and lets put it to the test. Hope and pride aside. I bet I could bring a smile to your face.."
(Tiernay)

Each word was followed with a kind of disinterest that wasn't due to his lack of focus on Tiernay, but the growing heat that burned in his upper chest and spread out to each limb. A hot headedness that demanded action, where he wasn't satisfied with vocalizing thoughts far too scattered. The drakanite licked his fang while staring down, bright pink eyes thinning out in his gaze.

"There are many reasons. But above all, it's for myself. In fighting for them, for my home - for my people - I'll carve my name out into the halls of the greatest warriors and be remembered forever." Sythaeryn called out, having an idealized vision of his heroes. They fight for the prosperity of their kingdom and in that they acquire fame, becoming more than men.

There was no greater honor or ambition.

The shadowmancer makes his challenge, and Sythaeryn's lips are pulled up at the ends, grinning. "Why don't you come up here, instead?" The demand was followed with two great crimson and silver wings bursting out from his shoulder blades, horns curling up into the sky. A beat of those wings takes him soaring into the sky above, some meters away from Tiernay, floating nearby.

"...You're not wrong. In the end it's the dance of life and death, but what comes after is what's truly important to me." The thrill of living to fight another day, the climb, one step at a time. All for everything and nothing less.
(Sythaeryn)

"..."

Something about this was rather quaint.. for as much as he imagines that Tiernay might've been working hard to ensure that he would improve greatly, there's a tint of worry for someone whom he considered an ally and friend.

And while he leaves it up to Tiernay, considering he would not butt in and simply take something that's important to him.. there's at least re-assuring word.

"Beat him up, Tier."

"I know ya can do it."

Blind confidence and faith in another, or genuine assurance? Who knows. One thing is clear, however..

He isn't leaving. Just in case a certain fiasco repeats and Sythaeryn feels less merciful this time.
(Basil)

Alike in more ways than one, the hunger for excitement is but a trait that seems to consume a once quiet soul satisfied with the thoughts of contentedness.

"I wonder if all the glory you're seeking will set fire to this boring realm. Ah... Or will it just stop once you've seated yourself atop a pile of cold snow..." Tiernay grins, his single hue having narrowed upon the drakanite whom takes to the skies.

"I guess I'll just have to make the climb and see..." The male was learning, hungering, seeking to hunt for the opportunity to find his foundations proper.

For now, the climb is all he desires. To see just where this thrilling elation would lead him before the end comes. The desperation which swells within his chest would be reciprocated, if only for a moment to see whether or not he could have this drakanite yearn for the present, rather than what remains after.

Shadowy claws shoot for the sky to snatch him down this time, if only to bring Sythaeryn down to his level proper.

"Now... we dance."
(Tiernay)

A dance was a fitting word to describe what would unfold when the violet claw reached off for him in the air, stretching the boy's reach. Sythaeryn is punted of the sky, but he continued to soar nonetheless, brushing it off with a spin and dive, reversing the momentum to curl right for the shadowmancer. "I want nothing more!" The drakanite snarled out, breaching the distance between them.

It's a game of chase. The snowy-haired drakanite dived into Tiernay and dragged his blade across vulnerable skin, then made distance. His opponent moved with a quickness and a keen eye, terraforming the forest around him into his own personal garden of horrors, all for the purpose of dragon hunting.

Soon, though, Sythaeryn found his mark--he cuts right past Tiernay, a rolling arc of magma following his trail, sending the teeanger up and off of his feet from the scalding blast. And during that clash of volcanic magic and flesh, Sythaeryn's claw finds the delicate throat of his prey...

Squeezing. Crushing. The ground breaks Tiernay's fall when he snaps the shadowmancer right into the soil, only to lift him back up again, holding them mid-air...

The smiled showed itself, just as he wanted.

A lopsided grin that revealed a single sharp canine.

It looked dangerous, and so did the look in his eyes.

"Have you ever watched some burn alive? I did just that to an Osronan knight, right where we're standing..."
(Sythaeryn)

An arduous climb it is, one that leaves one subjected to the searing waves of heat that'd have the male rebound back in hopes of regaining his ground. The shadows hug his person, masking the magi which lied beneath. What wounds he sustain is endured with not but excitement, a reminder of the strife that one could seek in order to overcome.

He is still hungry for defeat, and such could only prove to make the vicious claws which reaches out towards the opposition all the more prominent.

To be snatched from his foundations upon the earth warrants something worth worrying for, and yet the single hue which snaps upon Sythaeryn's own is filled with focus. So much so, that the exhaustion within his beaten and brusied frame could hardly draw away from it.

He is agitated, frustrated, and so much more... And yet? The dancing light of fascination is all he can wield while gripping at the fiery hand which had snatched his neck.

"Ah... But I was there that day. Is this the conclusion to our story? A shame if it reminds you of some puny Osronan.." Frightening, but such is a sensation with which he danced with constantly.

"Go ahead.. show me more." If there'd been any means to ease the searing grip about his neck, he'd have taken it. Yet Sythaeryn had claimed victory once more.
(Tiernay)

He would not tarnish the fight of another.

And so, amidst the battle between Tiernay and Sythaeryn, he awaits- even as the battle seems to shift from something favourable to something that could only spell out the failure for the shadowmancer; but he would not admonish Tiernay for this, for he knows all too well that there are times in which the failure creeps onto the life of another.

Sometimes, it cannot be helped.

This only means that there would be room for improvement, room in which Tiernay would have to soon guide himself through- or else, keep faltering against another in such manner. But.. could it really mean that he'll actually improve?

If Tiernay is snatched like this between the claws of the drakanite?

It is here that the intent in which Tiernay may find himself powerless and weak, Basil acknowledges all too well- but there's no hesitation to draw upon the weapon; whatever meaning of excitement in the combat is quick to fade..

When someone of value is in danger.

"Ya ain't gonna be doing anything else to him."

The step forth is take, and the rolling stardust, accompanied by the flames is already something that becomes all too evident- for while he knows that Tiernay is simply too prideful at times, simply too lost in this endeavour of excitement for battle, or whatever other hurt may follow..

He isn't one to let him sink in that.

"Whatever you decide to do to him, I will unleash upon you - tenfold."

"Let him go, now."
(Basil)

Dragonic claws sink ever deeper into the man's throat, and smoke began to billow off of the skin where he squeezed. Sythaeryn was impressed that Tiernay had held back a scream of pain- It shows in his eyes, the way they're animated and moving. His grip on the violet haired boy tightened into a fierce hold, now, easily carrying him in a step forward while his boots barely touched the grass.

Sythaeryn eyed Nox for a moment. An accomplice?

His serpentine eyes turned to focus on Basil, briefly appraising the Rhoynish. Starlight followed the challenger's steps, only pulling the grin on Sythaeryn's lips wider. "Then come and take him. I'm waiting."

"...Right now, he's mine. And a dragon doesn't give up their claim so easily."
(Sythaeryn)

Problematic, he'd have certainly welcomed the intervention of another had the circumstances been different. There is never a desire for one to be at the aid of another, and yet there'd been a need for it. A guttural growl escapes the shadow magi, following that a pained and burdened gasp that'd been his attempt at mustering any strength he could.

Yet it'd been hopeless. Surely though, they'd revel in the thought of victory brought about another, and yet he doesn't have the time to focus.

The pain is dizzying, though one thing remains certain. He would not deny anyone their means of glory should they be seeking to fight. There'd been no choice.
(Tiernay)

War is in the blood of Rhoynish.

And it often becomes the absolute in which they thrive, as if their very lives depended on it. Basil, as far as he's come in controlling the boiling blood that flows his veins, was no different- and the golden eyes that stare upon the drakanite ahead were only frowning; the said frown only deepening as the time went on. More, and more, and more..

Until it was enough for him.

"Ya want this?"

"Then ya will get this."

The glimmer of gathering stardust only paves path to the intense heat. One that grows by the moment, until it becomes a colliding light akin to the gathering of a supernova; overheated by the myriad type of flames that would seemingly fail to cease. If anything, it only grows intense with the flicker of rosegold, the reach out to the star of his own, Alph, to lend him even more strength.

A war cry.

Enough to deafen, enough to cause the blood to become still and for inferior warriors to shudder away; he's truly grown far ever since the cub of the Rhoynish that once roamed about and harassed for petty payday - or for petty cause overall.

This, now?
It was different.

There's no other word spoken. There's no further dialogue to speak of; instead, this overheated supernova collapses..

Right onto Sythaeryn..
Right as he charges in.
(Basil)

As soon as Basil stepped forward, Sythaeryn's fingers gradually unwinded from Tiernay's neck and dropped him like a bad ex, disinterested in the boy for now. The disregard easily lets Nox slip in by while the drakanite's serpent gaze was on Basil, watching with interest when the starlight coalesced around the Rhoynish.

His tail swayed behind him, left and right, slow and excited. His sword, still bloodied, was lifted with forceful intent. The smile that was ever present following his duel with the shadowmancer faltered when the deafening cry pierces his ear drums, causing him to please, and then there's the charge-

-Sythaeryn meets him head on in the middle. Beats of his powerful wings have him lift up off of the ground slightly, a few inches high. There his sword's edge sought Basil wantingly.
(Sythaeryn)

That's a lot of fire, isn't it?

The duel of the two felt as if being caught between two realms of Hel, clashing one another for which would eradicate, eviscerate another in the flames as hot as sun; for while he finds himself opposing against the drakanite, quickly he realizes just how far he's come, for he would not be able to oppose someone like him not so long ago. Yet, at the same time..

He realizes just how far he still has to go..
For it remains terribly, terribly close.

It's no surprise that the sword colliding against his flesh has become something of a common-place; try as he might to weave and dodge around this factor, it is something that he cannot so steadily persevere against - perhaps, the wounds of the past catching up to him, the wounds that still mar his body, that still weaken him.. but would he take it any different? Even ifthe risk is so immensely great, even as he bleeds upon the sword of the drakanite that so readily slashes him..

Another roar.
Another war cry.

Like a beast of war- for while he took steps in becoming something much more, deep inside he's still the man that finds the thrill from this; he's still the Rhoynish that finds himself incredibly excited at the endeavour of spilling blood, both his own and another - to the point that he finds himself engaging against Sythaeryn once more.

He lives up to his promise, and the flames, with stardust, with the tint of rosegold upon which the fury and passions of the Rhoynish are poured - they all bombard the drakanite relentlessly, so much so that even the might of the Dragon begins to crack underneath such volatile assault.

Is it tenfold, like he said? Probably not...
But it hurts all the same.

"I told you--"

"To let him go!"

To say that Basil was unhurt by the endeavour would be very, very wrong- for even now, the amount of blood spilled serves as a testament to the fact that he finds himself incredibly weakened by this; had it been any worse, perhaps the drakanite could topple the Rhoynish, but..

A slight mistake.
That's all it took.

And cascading supernova connects upon his flesh- searing, burning him in the flames that are only rivalled by the realms of Hel; to the point of marking his flesh with the scars that would appear once he heals. For now, though..

There's an exhale. He had no strength to pursue Sythaeryn- he had no strength to grasp upon him. Try as he might to put up a façade..

The drakanite has, truthfully, gotten him pretty bad too.

"--Tiernay is ours."

"And ours only."
(Basil)

There's so little time in this world and so much to discover. When Basil rode starlight and surged towards Sythaeryn, the drakanite admittedly expected to be able to brush him off despite being fresh off of an intense encounter with Tiernay--but he was dearly wrong. He soon realized that as blasts of golden light met with arcs of rolling volcanic magic, he would need to be at his best.

And today... that wasn't the case.

Edged out by the Rhoynish warrior, a barrage of concentrated astral magic hits him dead on and sends him on a twirling spiral right towards the dirt below. Shot out of the sky and the vulnerable parts of him burnt by overbearing cosmic magic, Sythaeryn crawled to his feet weakly and strained his eyes, defeated and dazed. There in the distance he can see Basil and Nox recovering Tierney...

As well as Rinn and Owyn.

She'd beat him for him, right?

The snowy-haired drakanite gained his bearings, slowly, breathing out fumes of thick smoke. It hurt to move -- and it felt good all the same. His body had taken a beating and would surely be stronger for it.

He stumbles, near falls, then stumbles some more, until...

"--Cerise?" Sythaeryn would recognize those wings anywhere. "What are you doing here?" He resisted a pained cough, forcing himself upright despite it all.


(Sythaeryn)

A hot contest. Owyn has seen her fight befor,e witnessed her previous failings against Tiernay. But where Tiernay is one who plays on his back foot in battles, keen to avoid, these two are unapologetic bruisers. The blunt of her gun meets the blunt of his fist, and they.

They beat the shit out of each other, really. The battlefield is scorched by either's drastically different offenses, but in the same they both dance in the same ranges and fight the same battles.

They're of pure strength and resilience.

The Dragonlord wins out, this day. As countless and flurious as each assault by either is, she tries slowly to lean his footworkings whilst they wear each other down. And as they do approach their limits, she intertwines her two elements, and then showcases her strength.

Cosmic energy is beckoned from deep within her, and explodes out to cover the landscape around the two of them in her choking glimmer.

Behind it, she comes, cutting past him with a harsh blow. Flames tickling beneath the cosmic gather behind her heels and explode upright, cut short just before his waist. His legs are buffeted by the assault, and a trade becomes impossible.

It cripples him, albeit temporarily, and he feels that essence of both elements sunk into his legs. Severe burns, radiating from pinpoints of something that gleams left behind.

Nothing seems severely damaged, at least. With a quick breath and a pause, distance made great by the parting slide of that last attack, they pause.

First things first, is she turns back to Syth- who has backed away, and has no more captive.

And then to Owyn, some distance away.

"...Seems like everything's over with anyway, huh? But a heck of a fight. That'll heal."

There's a little bit of ego in that, pride of the dragon showing- but she does mean it, too. A good fight had made her feel a lot better than just watching others, to be entirely honest. Blood pumping. Adrenaline swelling. Flames burning brightly, flashing into and out of existence all around her.

It felt right. Rinn fell into a trance of flame as soon as it began, and hadn't quite escaped the serenity of the heat of battle.

(Rinn)

His world is turned topsy Turvey for the battle. Despite adapting a bit more to her blunt and rough style of fighting, he's unable to match the prowess at the end. Not quite there yet, half steps short; inches really, a few crawls of a babies pace away.

It leaves him unsatisfied in a weird way.

Was it the traces of burns on him, tender flesh that would heal, as Rinn had so easily pointed out. Or was it something more beneath what he saw and felt. Pride, it always came down to pride.

Between one dragon and a shadow.
Between another dragon and an inferno building.

Between a Rhoynish and perhaps everyone--no, nevermind, Basil was just insane and had moments that shined that fact through. That wasn't pride.

His body seems to burn as he stands up, patting himself down, hurting. Odd as it seems? It's a good hurt. A self loathing hurt that stews him, that requires him to brine over a period of however long, to overcome this.

He'd be coming back for Rinn.

"Nnngh, damn." Owyn knows he's bested.
Maybe he should have fought Yan--kidding.

"Next time I'll be the one ontop, got it? Don't let this go to that cute head of yours, this was a nice warm up."
(Owyn)

At the very least, he could be sure that Tiernay is safe.

Whereas Nox intends to retrieve Tiernay, truthfully, he could only be thankful that she's doing exactly that - this elevates yet another worry off his mind, and it would mean that he wouldn't need to focus on the shadowmancer as much anymore..

For he's in good hands by now.

What comes about, however, is the fact that Owyn has fallen against Rinn; it causes a frown to appear on his features, for while he's wounded.. he would most certainly fight again, should the need arise on that. If anything..

The Rhoynish isn't one to back away from a challenge like that, should it present itself once more.

"--Enough."

"Owyn and Tiernay are going to be leaving, and ya ain't stopping them. None of you."

Overprotective? Perhaps.. and maybe insane a bit, just like Owyn often thought of him to be- truthfully, even if it meant having to fight through just about everyone here..

He'd still do it.

"Go, Owyn n' Tiernay."
(Basil)

A glance turns to Basil, and she simply... nods? One should remember that Rinn is a pretty reasonable gal. And she sees a lot of people still wanting to fight and renew conflict, and an injured Drakanite very important to her that needs to be dragged home.

Thus.

"YEAH, ALRIGHT. THERIA. GOIN' HOME NOW. NOT A REQUEST. IF YOU DON'T FOLLOW ME, I WILL LITERALLY LOCK YOU OUT OF MY CITY."

Demands, they come barking from the hotblooded young woman, the Dragonlord attempt to flex that authority, and hope people would actually listen. She trots over shortly to square up that stare on everyone who was still scrumming on around over here, with some other issue...? Uh. She wasn't involved with anything prior to coming over here a touch late to scream. But her voice lowers. She approaches to whome she speaks.

"And, uh. Cerise, too, since we have official business, and stuff."
(Rinn)

There are things that matter more to Basil nowadays than getting a kick out of the thrill- than sinking himself in the constant fighting which he, truthfully, loved so much; for as much as he knew that this could be the endeavour in which he might pursue fighting time and time again..

For now, there are other concerns.

And where Rinn decides that she would no longer seek to pursue those around, those that Basil actually cared about, he found no reason to lunge upon them anymore - at the very least, not right now; instead, a glance is given towards Owyn, assessing his current state..

Until it shifts towards arrival of Osiris.

"--Trouble again."

"It's tha' bridge, Osiris. It never disappoints, or ya ain't know that yet?"

Regardless, as much as he's injured as well, it is something that he'd recover from eventually; he just needs a breather. For now, he says only one thing.

"Treat Owyn. He got hurt bad."

"I'd say treat Tiernay, but Nox got him."

A bit of rest. He deserved that much.
(Basil)