05-16-2016, 10:52 PM
The harsh reverberations of battle accelerated until the igneous plains melted into a hellish amphitheater of carnage and hungrily dancing fires. Breathing deeply, Volvagia welcomed the flames into its lungs, swallows of sunlight piercing and severe as they slithered down its gullet.
Caverns within the belly of the Verse gulped, gasped, and spewed great mellifluous bursts of phosphorous and methane, igniting upon contact with the air. Chunks of earth the color of oil and tar were wrenched from the splintered ground, tossed about as if they were but measly pebbles in the wake of Volvagia’s rage.
Rockets and sparklers of blazing flame cast angry glares across the sky. Scores of futile attacks sliced at Volvagia from all sides, the occasional strident flash of light marking the hushed, sudden movements of the spellweavers. Like a moth drawn to a flame, the dragon’s jaws unhinged and its fiery skull curved towards them, vicious twists of gouged rock and volcanic sludge shifting with its immense bulk.
An abrupt implosion close to its right eye gave the fire drake cause to snap blindly in that direction, very nearly crunching down upon a disgruntled and battle-drained Zack Fair. Incandescent molten rock churned and bubbled beneath the spiky-haired warrior’s feet, causing him to almost lose his footing. Still, his legs bent and allowed for him to leap out of the way with a heaving effort as the dragon took another earth-shattering snap at him, settling into a crouch before vaulting once more into the fray.
In an eruption of flame gleaming like a thousand liquefied medallions fused with oozing absinthe, an artfully lethal spell whisked ‘round the dragon’s fire. A shallow and green curve of ferrous magicks tore boldly forth at Tom Riddle’s command, commingling painfully with the black scales of Volvagia’s hide and staining the great serpent’s skin a putrid sulfur-yellow. A cataclysmic lurch of its wingless body sent the conjurer of paper and binding tumbling, thin streaks of blood that seemed more like ink dripping down the side of his face.
Lighting still burned in Lichtenberg lines across the inside of the beast’s soft gullet, having plunged between its jaws courtesy of the intrepid thunder god. Similarly, white-hot magic had slashed through its inner mouth clear to its right eye socket from Gildarts’ fist, barreling jaggedly through the dragon’s jawbone and leaving a sluggishly salivating gash of metallic lifeblood behind. Black trickles of noxious, pestilential fluid gurgled still within Volvagia’s wide lungs, stuttering against the golden flame burning at its core.
Scintillating, burnished fangs spewed a plume of fire that melted stone like wax in return, building into a deadly dance of magical energies which flowed sinuously into one another— building, budding, growing, just before glacially splintering apart. Blood-stained and fraying towards an end, the contest of wills between beast and Prime continued.
Weariness spread like an inevitable wave, heavy and blanketing. To keep a watchful eye on the beast was uneasy; blood painted the stones, tattered clothing hung from battered frames, and centuries-old armor super-heated to hostile degrees. Those still with hair and skin found that the sweat-soaked deluge of battle had been replaced by a dry, prickly salve that pebbled their bodies with arid gooseflesh.
All the while, glittering crests of horned fire slithered and wove around them, the dragon remaining unwaveringly ruthless as its teeth clashed with weapons, sprays of colored light, and desperate fists.
The dragon hovered briefly, coiling and uncoiling its tail in displeasure, before cycloning in an all-consuming blast of fire and grit towards the pulverized earth. Pressure roiled down its spine in a carnal, fleshy pulse, flames rearing up about Volvagia’s dusky skeletal helm as it snapped its jaws and savagely sought to skewer and slash with its talons. Barely-harnessed wisps of drooling flame chased after the elusive Primes, pursuing vulnerable meat and bone.
They moved in a seamless pattern, an electric-rush-haze of adrenaline surging through clouded smoke and the sizzling, weightless fireflies of embers. A roar quaked down from the torrid skies above, the armor-clad and furious beast Leviathan stirring within its element: the swollen tide of fire, ash and utter decimation. Fairy strings of spells wove through the air, creating an exquisite cat’s cradle of vibrant color even as the horrid, wrenching scrape of talons snaked after them.
Occasionally, sometimes, constantly, the Primes would revolve in and out, celestial bodies drifting outside of the vile, inescapable gauntlet which starved their lungs of air, before slipping soundlessly within the tempest’s grasp again, tired down to the very marrow of their bones.
So it came to be that, as the weary, life-dripping forms of Zack and Gildarts recovered in silent camaraderie beside a smog-coughing crag for but a moment, there were only three still treading upon that fateful plain.
Everything smelled of scorched earth and metal. Tom Riddle, singularly out of place in his ragged and torn robes and not a single scrap of armor on him, raked his wand in a downward arc, twisting an angry, pained screech from the creature. His spell-casting energies were not so thoroughly sapped that he was not able to skirt around a wide swipe of Volvagia’s tail, but the resulting explosion of jagged rocks and white-hot flames turned his cloak grey with ash.
A harsh battle cry rent the smoke-clogged sky; a flaming blur of swaying golden hair and a long cloak hurled himself into the air, striking the serpent across the chin just as it reared above the exhausted Mr. Riddle. Stone-carved hammer revolving in his grip, Thor staggered with fatigue as a heavy puff of steam fanned over him, the dust swirling and the rippling red-gold scales of Volvagia shifting far too close for comfort.
Maw open and writhing, shifting lazily in lizard-like movements, the fire drake wailed, the yellow-gold yolks of its eyes rolling and weeping as it sank to the ground. Its burning mane sizzled and died, a simple campfire snuffed out by a light drizzle of hailing attacks, the curvature of its body flashing golden before plunging into the freshly disturbed veil of reddish-black dust.
Fletched with skittering flames and slavering disease, his ceramite-encrusted chassis crackling off in charred, infectious fragments but his steps thoroughly unyielding, Okor brought the Gigaton Hammer to the fore. The virulent hand that clutched the hammer’s handle was darker than a burnt wick, the digits shifting with a series of mind-numbing, putrefying cracks.
A noiselessly humming crater spilled singed rock and debris into itself. The three remaining warriors moved in for the kill, single-minded and collected, hurtling over the still-hot and pulsing crater in a blur of swirling, curling, furling embers, the volcanic deluge settling beneath their shifting feet at last. But the great beast’s movements had been far too quick, too erratic— tinged with pain, yes, but certainly not death throes.
The world filled with light. Volvagia’s roar, which seemed to emanate from everywhere at once— thousands, millions of tiny echoes singing in the air, drawn taut as wrist veins, conflagrating wildly from the near-nothingness and shadow-mired vastness residing within the gaping hole in the ground— swallowed them up, the golden tines and pikes of dread driving within the very depths of their shared reality.
Volvagia’s warmth, too, drawn up like a cobra about to strike, enveloped them in a curtain of rippling heat as gentle as a hearth-glow. Flowers of a whitish, fernlike appearance traveled along their forms, rupturing capillaries and etching fractals of red-hot sparks into their bodies, the heat swiftly diffusing until it became ill-suited to life. A burst of varicolored light spun outward— first green, then yellow, blue, lavender, red, and then green again— before disintegrating entirely, trickling droplets of shattered opalescence dwindling down to settle amongst the soot and dimly glowing cinders left behind.
An immutable quiet fell as the gates of Valhalla rang closed.
Victorious, basking in the devastation it had wrought, Volvagia turned its great head towards the obsidian-flecked vista. Fumes of the brightest red hissed out from its jaws and nostrils, the soft pallet inside intensely illumined as a single glowing eye razed over the mutilated steppe lands, pupilless and vulturine. Overlooking the two Primes left in the dust for the moment, the vast lizard listened raptly for the high-pitched cries and shrieks of its brood, flares of almost spiny appearance haloing its throat.
The reigning silence was distressing to the dragon. In truth, though the Primes challenging it might have once believed that they were dueling athwart some unfathomable pantheon of the gods, the beast was very much finite in its concerns and subsistence. And in that moment, Volvagia was no god. Gods could never have understood the terror, the bone-wrenching fear that gripped its heart in thorny brambles, smothering and cooling the incandescent rage that had burned ceaselessly for the past hour.
No, not a god; a parent. A guardian whose children had been slain by none other than the living stones who had chosen to uphold their silly, delicate little village on the front step of Volvagia’s mountain, knowing full well of what slumbered beneath the hill— or at least, this was what the wyrm suspected. This line of thought spawned questions, churning viciously within the serpent’s mind as it took to the air and flew at breakneck speed en route for Death Mountain.
Who possessed the hatchright to fire? The being which breathed it, lay swaddled within its warmth where only the most witless would dare venture, or the timid stones armed with sticks and bombs, guided by those on a mission of death? And who had decided, upon looking at the untamed, freely sweltering fires which spread and continued to spread all across the Verse, that turning Volvagia’s young into lifeless heaps of scales would be advantageous, when in all truth it had only made the situation worse many times over?
Worse, yes— Volvagia would see to it that the Gorons were devastated for their impudence, their village and people mere playthings at the mercy of its razor-tipped feet. It would encircle their world as the ancient serpent Apophis, lying in wait just below the skyline before devouring their sun and enveloping their lives in a long, perpetual dark.
Maddened by the blind fury rollicking throughout its skull, the drake glided brokenly about the tall mount, a deafening wail ripping free from its chest as it circled like a shark having scented blood on the waves.
Caverns within the belly of the Verse gulped, gasped, and spewed great mellifluous bursts of phosphorous and methane, igniting upon contact with the air. Chunks of earth the color of oil and tar were wrenched from the splintered ground, tossed about as if they were but measly pebbles in the wake of Volvagia’s rage.
Rockets and sparklers of blazing flame cast angry glares across the sky. Scores of futile attacks sliced at Volvagia from all sides, the occasional strident flash of light marking the hushed, sudden movements of the spellweavers. Like a moth drawn to a flame, the dragon’s jaws unhinged and its fiery skull curved towards them, vicious twists of gouged rock and volcanic sludge shifting with its immense bulk.
An abrupt implosion close to its right eye gave the fire drake cause to snap blindly in that direction, very nearly crunching down upon a disgruntled and battle-drained Zack Fair. Incandescent molten rock churned and bubbled beneath the spiky-haired warrior’s feet, causing him to almost lose his footing. Still, his legs bent and allowed for him to leap out of the way with a heaving effort as the dragon took another earth-shattering snap at him, settling into a crouch before vaulting once more into the fray.
In an eruption of flame gleaming like a thousand liquefied medallions fused with oozing absinthe, an artfully lethal spell whisked ‘round the dragon’s fire. A shallow and green curve of ferrous magicks tore boldly forth at Tom Riddle’s command, commingling painfully with the black scales of Volvagia’s hide and staining the great serpent’s skin a putrid sulfur-yellow. A cataclysmic lurch of its wingless body sent the conjurer of paper and binding tumbling, thin streaks of blood that seemed more like ink dripping down the side of his face.
Lighting still burned in Lichtenberg lines across the inside of the beast’s soft gullet, having plunged between its jaws courtesy of the intrepid thunder god. Similarly, white-hot magic had slashed through its inner mouth clear to its right eye socket from Gildarts’ fist, barreling jaggedly through the dragon’s jawbone and leaving a sluggishly salivating gash of metallic lifeblood behind. Black trickles of noxious, pestilential fluid gurgled still within Volvagia’s wide lungs, stuttering against the golden flame burning at its core.
Scintillating, burnished fangs spewed a plume of fire that melted stone like wax in return, building into a deadly dance of magical energies which flowed sinuously into one another— building, budding, growing, just before glacially splintering apart. Blood-stained and fraying towards an end, the contest of wills between beast and Prime continued.
Weariness spread like an inevitable wave, heavy and blanketing. To keep a watchful eye on the beast was uneasy; blood painted the stones, tattered clothing hung from battered frames, and centuries-old armor super-heated to hostile degrees. Those still with hair and skin found that the sweat-soaked deluge of battle had been replaced by a dry, prickly salve that pebbled their bodies with arid gooseflesh.
All the while, glittering crests of horned fire slithered and wove around them, the dragon remaining unwaveringly ruthless as its teeth clashed with weapons, sprays of colored light, and desperate fists.
The dragon hovered briefly, coiling and uncoiling its tail in displeasure, before cycloning in an all-consuming blast of fire and grit towards the pulverized earth. Pressure roiled down its spine in a carnal, fleshy pulse, flames rearing up about Volvagia’s dusky skeletal helm as it snapped its jaws and savagely sought to skewer and slash with its talons. Barely-harnessed wisps of drooling flame chased after the elusive Primes, pursuing vulnerable meat and bone.
They moved in a seamless pattern, an electric-rush-haze of adrenaline surging through clouded smoke and the sizzling, weightless fireflies of embers. A roar quaked down from the torrid skies above, the armor-clad and furious beast Leviathan stirring within its element: the swollen tide of fire, ash and utter decimation. Fairy strings of spells wove through the air, creating an exquisite cat’s cradle of vibrant color even as the horrid, wrenching scrape of talons snaked after them.
Occasionally, sometimes, constantly, the Primes would revolve in and out, celestial bodies drifting outside of the vile, inescapable gauntlet which starved their lungs of air, before slipping soundlessly within the tempest’s grasp again, tired down to the very marrow of their bones.
So it came to be that, as the weary, life-dripping forms of Zack and Gildarts recovered in silent camaraderie beside a smog-coughing crag for but a moment, there were only three still treading upon that fateful plain.
Everything smelled of scorched earth and metal. Tom Riddle, singularly out of place in his ragged and torn robes and not a single scrap of armor on him, raked his wand in a downward arc, twisting an angry, pained screech from the creature. His spell-casting energies were not so thoroughly sapped that he was not able to skirt around a wide swipe of Volvagia’s tail, but the resulting explosion of jagged rocks and white-hot flames turned his cloak grey with ash.
A harsh battle cry rent the smoke-clogged sky; a flaming blur of swaying golden hair and a long cloak hurled himself into the air, striking the serpent across the chin just as it reared above the exhausted Mr. Riddle. Stone-carved hammer revolving in his grip, Thor staggered with fatigue as a heavy puff of steam fanned over him, the dust swirling and the rippling red-gold scales of Volvagia shifting far too close for comfort.
Maw open and writhing, shifting lazily in lizard-like movements, the fire drake wailed, the yellow-gold yolks of its eyes rolling and weeping as it sank to the ground. Its burning mane sizzled and died, a simple campfire snuffed out by a light drizzle of hailing attacks, the curvature of its body flashing golden before plunging into the freshly disturbed veil of reddish-black dust.
Fletched with skittering flames and slavering disease, his ceramite-encrusted chassis crackling off in charred, infectious fragments but his steps thoroughly unyielding, Okor brought the Gigaton Hammer to the fore. The virulent hand that clutched the hammer’s handle was darker than a burnt wick, the digits shifting with a series of mind-numbing, putrefying cracks.
A noiselessly humming crater spilled singed rock and debris into itself. The three remaining warriors moved in for the kill, single-minded and collected, hurtling over the still-hot and pulsing crater in a blur of swirling, curling, furling embers, the volcanic deluge settling beneath their shifting feet at last. But the great beast’s movements had been far too quick, too erratic— tinged with pain, yes, but certainly not death throes.
The world filled with light. Volvagia’s roar, which seemed to emanate from everywhere at once— thousands, millions of tiny echoes singing in the air, drawn taut as wrist veins, conflagrating wildly from the near-nothingness and shadow-mired vastness residing within the gaping hole in the ground— swallowed them up, the golden tines and pikes of dread driving within the very depths of their shared reality.
Volvagia’s warmth, too, drawn up like a cobra about to strike, enveloped them in a curtain of rippling heat as gentle as a hearth-glow. Flowers of a whitish, fernlike appearance traveled along their forms, rupturing capillaries and etching fractals of red-hot sparks into their bodies, the heat swiftly diffusing until it became ill-suited to life. A burst of varicolored light spun outward— first green, then yellow, blue, lavender, red, and then green again— before disintegrating entirely, trickling droplets of shattered opalescence dwindling down to settle amongst the soot and dimly glowing cinders left behind.
An immutable quiet fell as the gates of Valhalla rang closed.
Victorious, basking in the devastation it had wrought, Volvagia turned its great head towards the obsidian-flecked vista. Fumes of the brightest red hissed out from its jaws and nostrils, the soft pallet inside intensely illumined as a single glowing eye razed over the mutilated steppe lands, pupilless and vulturine. Overlooking the two Primes left in the dust for the moment, the vast lizard listened raptly for the high-pitched cries and shrieks of its brood, flares of almost spiny appearance haloing its throat.
The reigning silence was distressing to the dragon. In truth, though the Primes challenging it might have once believed that they were dueling athwart some unfathomable pantheon of the gods, the beast was very much finite in its concerns and subsistence. And in that moment, Volvagia was no god. Gods could never have understood the terror, the bone-wrenching fear that gripped its heart in thorny brambles, smothering and cooling the incandescent rage that had burned ceaselessly for the past hour.
No, not a god; a parent. A guardian whose children had been slain by none other than the living stones who had chosen to uphold their silly, delicate little village on the front step of Volvagia’s mountain, knowing full well of what slumbered beneath the hill— or at least, this was what the wyrm suspected. This line of thought spawned questions, churning viciously within the serpent’s mind as it took to the air and flew at breakneck speed en route for Death Mountain.
Who possessed the hatchright to fire? The being which breathed it, lay swaddled within its warmth where only the most witless would dare venture, or the timid stones armed with sticks and bombs, guided by those on a mission of death? And who had decided, upon looking at the untamed, freely sweltering fires which spread and continued to spread all across the Verse, that turning Volvagia’s young into lifeless heaps of scales would be advantageous, when in all truth it had only made the situation worse many times over?
Worse, yes— Volvagia would see to it that the Gorons were devastated for their impudence, their village and people mere playthings at the mercy of its razor-tipped feet. It would encircle their world as the ancient serpent Apophis, lying in wait just below the skyline before devouring their sun and enveloping their lives in a long, perpetual dark.
Maddened by the blind fury rollicking throughout its skull, the drake glided brokenly about the tall mount, a deafening wail ripping free from its chest as it circled like a shark having scented blood on the waves.
Quote:This exceeds the word limit by a long shot, 1730 words.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, Thor and Okor have all been incinerated/killed. Each participant of this thread, dead or alive, may now make a totally optional final post at their leisure.