04-23-2016, 05:11 PM
A sizzling fireball whizzed high into the sky, a hiss of gaseous fumes and sparks chasing after it. Its maker, Volvagia, thrashed violently about as a wave of dazzlingly variegated crash magic ripped with concussive force across the bridge of its snout, leaving a shallow, singed mark in its wake.
From somewhere over its shoulder, a piercingly loud whine agitated the massive wyrm as its tail struck the ground, sending a bone-rattling quake throughout Death Mountain. The beast’s eyes rolled in their sockets as it savagely tried to ascertain where the irritating sound was coming from, what felt like tiny hooks and barbs burrowing into its side as magical bursts of energy rent its flesh.
Screeching bursts of bright white struck Volvagia lengthways across its writhing body, exploding outwards in a conflagration of green energy that slashed agonizingly into the serpent’s side. Pain like the curved beaks and talons of giant eagles bore into its flank, the soot-laden consequences of its wild, erratic movements swelling beneath the dragon’s slithering girth in coagulating black clouds.
A wail was wrenched from Volvagia’s throat, the beast’s crooked claws grasping at empty air as it blindly struck in the direction from whence the painful strike had flown. The other prime perched upon the noble crown of its head was unceremoniously pitched into the dust, a wildly spiraling black-and-orange maelstrom burning like wrath incarnate in the Strongest Prime’s periphery view.
The dragon’s exoskeleton glittered like droplets of dark arterial blood as it reared up above the spiky-haired hero, the flames of its underbelly and throat flaring out like a lion’s mane, a wildfire snarling beneath its thick hide. Circling plumes of red, black and gold twisted into a ring about its impressive horns, a sheer imitation of the tail-devouring snake ouroboros. Dawn, recreation and the eternal return.
There was a still moment, flakes of dark ash drifting on the wind. Zack Fair stood upright, watching as something distinctly feral, destructive and completely, hideously, irreversibly furious burned within eyes that were as deep and all-consuming as his sword was big. Something loud and terrible, a deep, droning null that could only be death, swallowed him whole as the dragon’s steaming jaws slipped open, the rippling mass of sinuous fire and skeletal blackness plunging fast towards him.
He took in a shallow breath of acrid air, squeezed his eyes shut and waited— a hero, he would die a hero— only to be jolted roughly aside by what felt like a rampaging bull. A gross, armored, plague-ridden bull, horn and all.
Eyes wide as saucers, the company watched as the hammer-wielder, Paleblood, was caught up within the confines of Volvagia’s jaws, an abrupt and mortal sound marking his seeming disappearance from this worldly plane.
The cluster of primes remaining staggered, bodily and psychologically in shock. Fire ran along the cliffs in the distance, wreathing the immense dragon in a halo of gold and charting the shards of brackish liquid trailing from its maw. All that remained of the plaguefather’s Chosen.
Gildarts recovered first. A desperate tinge colored his words as he tore across the smoke-stifled battlefield, Thor soon joining him in the charge, as if there was any hope of saving the disease-encrusted warrior now. “No!”
Its eyes burning steadily like twin suns at a summer’s zenith, a contented thrum steamed from Volvagia’s nostrils as it eagerly considered the mage’s fast approach. There was a hellfire mixture in the air, destruction its fulcrum, seeping from the jaws of victorious death. A metronome of pounding footsteps and rasping breaths seethed towards those waiting jaws, unwavering and resolved.
Unexpectedly, the dragon’s skull jerked, a gurgle rising up in its throat as it heaved slightly upward into the air. Tortured winds screamed in protest, erratic pulses of fire and steam coalescing visibly where the creature’s massive horned helm connected with its neck. Volvagia gagged and spluttered around the hard, heavy point stabbing into its gullet, its jaws stretching unnaturally and reddish, jellied fumes spilling out from its eye sockets as it attempted to judder whatever was lodged in its throat free.
The regiment of warriors drew to a halt roughly a yard away, the wyrm’s glinting talons hanging high above their heads as they looked on in morbid fascination. With one great cough of fire and odious vapors, a blazing, malformed sphere of white-hot intensity ripped past the dragon’s saw-like teeth, trailing a comet’s share of fire and glinting metal.
Okor landed heavily, a plume of disturbed powder gusting up around him and igniting into crimson sparks as he knelt upon the ground. The hammer spiraled whimsically down soon after, the plague marine’s hand shifting just in time to catch it before the gravity-bending head struck the earth and reduced the surrounding area to rubble.
A wheezing chuckle trickled past his lips as he heaved himself upwards, warped and circuitous flames travelling along his limbs. His eye, a single, dark blot swimming in a yolky mixture of yellow and veiny orange, swiveled towards his compatriots. Gelatinous, pale-colored pus seeped out from the hairline fractures in his armor, the droplets hissing as they made contact with the ashen plain and the marine’s body jackknifed back into rhythm.
Dust, gasses, and shards of mineral crystal tore ugly red lesions across the earth as the dragon’s fire stuttered and became unexpectedly pallid, whitish flames withering down like the flickering wick of a candle. Nurgle’s gift crawled throughout its insides; intolerable, indescribable, invasively suffocating its inner fire, affecting the drake so that it choked and rattled like a sickly hag.
In a fit of rage, the beast arced into the sky and executed a circuitous loop, diving nose-first into the widening lake of lava which had leaked out from the mountain’s wounds. Another pool had taken shape parallel to it, overlooked by the primes during the shuddering fire of fight. Together, they formed a deep, simmering pit of fiery death below a tapering bridge of earthen crust upon which the weary warriors stood.
The drake had created an arena of sorts. Mr. Riddle curled his lip in a scornful manner, his wand humming with renewed potency. He had injured the creature once, however insignificant the wound was in actuality, and he would happily do it again.
As a collective entity, the primes gathered their wits and readied their weapons, spells and other enchanted trickery. Both pools of lava bubbled, the dual surfaces of a massive volcanic cauldron; the fire-drake could surface at any time, but from which vat of lava would it arise?
From somewhere over its shoulder, a piercingly loud whine agitated the massive wyrm as its tail struck the ground, sending a bone-rattling quake throughout Death Mountain. The beast’s eyes rolled in their sockets as it savagely tried to ascertain where the irritating sound was coming from, what felt like tiny hooks and barbs burrowing into its side as magical bursts of energy rent its flesh.
Screeching bursts of bright white struck Volvagia lengthways across its writhing body, exploding outwards in a conflagration of green energy that slashed agonizingly into the serpent’s side. Pain like the curved beaks and talons of giant eagles bore into its flank, the soot-laden consequences of its wild, erratic movements swelling beneath the dragon’s slithering girth in coagulating black clouds.
A wail was wrenched from Volvagia’s throat, the beast’s crooked claws grasping at empty air as it blindly struck in the direction from whence the painful strike had flown. The other prime perched upon the noble crown of its head was unceremoniously pitched into the dust, a wildly spiraling black-and-orange maelstrom burning like wrath incarnate in the Strongest Prime’s periphery view.
The dragon’s exoskeleton glittered like droplets of dark arterial blood as it reared up above the spiky-haired hero, the flames of its underbelly and throat flaring out like a lion’s mane, a wildfire snarling beneath its thick hide. Circling plumes of red, black and gold twisted into a ring about its impressive horns, a sheer imitation of the tail-devouring snake ouroboros. Dawn, recreation and the eternal return.
There was a still moment, flakes of dark ash drifting on the wind. Zack Fair stood upright, watching as something distinctly feral, destructive and completely, hideously, irreversibly furious burned within eyes that were as deep and all-consuming as his sword was big. Something loud and terrible, a deep, droning null that could only be death, swallowed him whole as the dragon’s steaming jaws slipped open, the rippling mass of sinuous fire and skeletal blackness plunging fast towards him.
He took in a shallow breath of acrid air, squeezed his eyes shut and waited— a hero, he would die a hero— only to be jolted roughly aside by what felt like a rampaging bull. A gross, armored, plague-ridden bull, horn and all.
Eyes wide as saucers, the company watched as the hammer-wielder, Paleblood, was caught up within the confines of Volvagia’s jaws, an abrupt and mortal sound marking his seeming disappearance from this worldly plane.
The cluster of primes remaining staggered, bodily and psychologically in shock. Fire ran along the cliffs in the distance, wreathing the immense dragon in a halo of gold and charting the shards of brackish liquid trailing from its maw. All that remained of the plaguefather’s Chosen.
Gildarts recovered first. A desperate tinge colored his words as he tore across the smoke-stifled battlefield, Thor soon joining him in the charge, as if there was any hope of saving the disease-encrusted warrior now. “No!”
Its eyes burning steadily like twin suns at a summer’s zenith, a contented thrum steamed from Volvagia’s nostrils as it eagerly considered the mage’s fast approach. There was a hellfire mixture in the air, destruction its fulcrum, seeping from the jaws of victorious death. A metronome of pounding footsteps and rasping breaths seethed towards those waiting jaws, unwavering and resolved.
Unexpectedly, the dragon’s skull jerked, a gurgle rising up in its throat as it heaved slightly upward into the air. Tortured winds screamed in protest, erratic pulses of fire and steam coalescing visibly where the creature’s massive horned helm connected with its neck. Volvagia gagged and spluttered around the hard, heavy point stabbing into its gullet, its jaws stretching unnaturally and reddish, jellied fumes spilling out from its eye sockets as it attempted to judder whatever was lodged in its throat free.
The regiment of warriors drew to a halt roughly a yard away, the wyrm’s glinting talons hanging high above their heads as they looked on in morbid fascination. With one great cough of fire and odious vapors, a blazing, malformed sphere of white-hot intensity ripped past the dragon’s saw-like teeth, trailing a comet’s share of fire and glinting metal.
Okor landed heavily, a plume of disturbed powder gusting up around him and igniting into crimson sparks as he knelt upon the ground. The hammer spiraled whimsically down soon after, the plague marine’s hand shifting just in time to catch it before the gravity-bending head struck the earth and reduced the surrounding area to rubble.
A wheezing chuckle trickled past his lips as he heaved himself upwards, warped and circuitous flames travelling along his limbs. His eye, a single, dark blot swimming in a yolky mixture of yellow and veiny orange, swiveled towards his compatriots. Gelatinous, pale-colored pus seeped out from the hairline fractures in his armor, the droplets hissing as they made contact with the ashen plain and the marine’s body jackknifed back into rhythm.
Dust, gasses, and shards of mineral crystal tore ugly red lesions across the earth as the dragon’s fire stuttered and became unexpectedly pallid, whitish flames withering down like the flickering wick of a candle. Nurgle’s gift crawled throughout its insides; intolerable, indescribable, invasively suffocating its inner fire, affecting the drake so that it choked and rattled like a sickly hag.
In a fit of rage, the beast arced into the sky and executed a circuitous loop, diving nose-first into the widening lake of lava which had leaked out from the mountain’s wounds. Another pool had taken shape parallel to it, overlooked by the primes during the shuddering fire of fight. Together, they formed a deep, simmering pit of fiery death below a tapering bridge of earthen crust upon which the weary warriors stood.
The drake had created an arena of sorts. Mr. Riddle curled his lip in a scornful manner, his wand humming with renewed potency. He had injured the creature once, however insignificant the wound was in actuality, and he would happily do it again.
As a collective entity, the primes gathered their wits and readied their weapons, spells and other enchanted trickery. Both pools of lava bubbled, the dual surfaces of a massive volcanic cauldron; the fire-drake could surface at any time, but from which vat of lava would it arise?
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