Cold winds howled as they swept across the peaks of the Sunspire Mountains. An apron of snow covered each and every one, transforming what would have been a series of jagged rock and harsh points into small islands of haven; welcoming enough for a dragon to perch upon as its rider looked out to a sea of clouds all around, keeping vigil of the skies above.

Many times before had the pair beheld such scenery. Though both were far from the places of their birth, the dragon rider Jinan Khai would not complain were he to see it many more times for the rest of his days. Bereft of lands, titles and all other things a man of Norsinia might value, these serene summits were as much a home to him as the grassy steppes of Feros ever were.

With eyes as grey as storm clouds, Jinan looked to the east where the sun began its ascent, casting a golden glow upon the clouds. Such splendour... It was difficult to imagine that war might rise from there anyday now. Do the riders of Kovos not look upon the same sight? Jinan wondered as he shook his head. Would the Empire truly take even that away after it had already taken so much?

The dragon stirred and Jinan reached down to pat the neck of his ever faithful companion, Duan. With scales as black as night and fins of brilliant gold, he was as fine a beast as any other. The finest in Jinan's eyes.

"I am sorry," he said as the dragon turned to face him, scarlet eyes narrowed in contentment. "I didn't mean to think such sad thoughts. I'll not burden you with my worries any longer."

Casting one last look towards the rising sun, Jinan adjusted the cloak around his shoulders and gathered up the reins attached to Duan's riding harness as he said, "Come, let's get ready for patrol."

As if on cue, several dragons and their riders burst forth from the clouds as they rose above the mountain peaks. With an unhurried pace, Jinan made some final checks on various straps and fittings before taking wing to join his squadron.

---

Solitude wasn’t ideal for everybody, certainly not for dragon riders that supposedly endured in groups as opposed to alone. Nimethel was an exception in that and everything else. Perched at the base of a cave mouth where her feet had dug into the only bit of sand and grounded stone it could find, cross-legged in a prayer almost. One hand gripping the spotted grey fur on her ankles, the other propped to hold her chin while elbow and knee dug into each other rather uncomfortably. She was sleeping, or napping as cat-like things always did. Unhurried, unbothered.

Nyrrimae snored in equal measure, half-buried under surface rock as she had dug herself a hole to preserve whatever warmth her body had still held. Tail curled, thick head tucked between stubby claws. The membrane along her spine fluttered, attuned to her rider’s occasional purrs that echoed softly through the cave entrance. The beastkin’s whiskers responded in turn to the dragon’s sporadic nasal huffs. Nose scrunching at the sensation just enough to register in her relaxed state. Almost like they were synced, just one sleeping louder than the other.

Her ears twitched. Swerving to catch the faint rustling of trees, whispering winds where wingspans fought against the currents just below the clouds. Her squad was preparing for patrol. “Nroisy.” She snarled, a low rumble in her throat. One yellow eye blinked open to spot the sight of her fellow riders taking to the grey skies and cool air. Nimethel sighed, a vibration between a comfortable spin and a tired grumble as her body uncoiled; a lazy stretch that had her stand on toes and lift her paws toward the rocky ceiling. Joints popped comfortably before her body hunched forward when padded soles touched the floor.

“Niri. Ssit.” An even tone that had the hallmarks of her signature rumble hidden underneath. The beastkin approached, silent but for the gentle breathing she evoked when Nyrrimae wasn’t fully aware of her surroundings. Another step, a hand reaching, wrapping around the dragon’s muzzle to brush a furry palm along a scaled jawline. “Nirrri.” She whispered, yellow eyes catching the reflexive jolt in the pale creature’s muscles along her shoulder and stubby legs.

… Milky eyes opened at attention.

A sniff, heavy and uncertain. Then a tail curled around Nimethel protectively, Nyrrimae’s head tilted to catch the beastkin’s body heat before her bulky frame lumbered out of the crudely dug hole, three-toed foreclaws catching on flatter surface. A beat. Nyrrimae’s head turned fully now, and Nimethel felt the rough warmth of her companion’s tongue lapping at her leather armour. The beastkin smiled, or rather her lips curled, a rare permission from herself. “hey,” She whispered, forehead touching the dragon’s nose. “It’s time.”

Nyrrimae finished her crawl, feet dragging along stone to step outside the cave. Barely the size of a fully grown hippo when the dragon stood. She blinked. Not registering the light, but reacting anyway where nerves pricked as if it could see. Nimethel worked methodically, securing straps and the saddle with a light pull to check if it dug into the softer belly. Her cloak tied around her waist, hood tucked comfortably inward, to keep it from flapping wildly. Bow hooked and strapped around her torso. She nodded agreeably and leapt onto her dragon’s back, body springing and then wrapping just behind thick shoulders.

The dragon huffed, starting into its own clumsy jump to climb onto an uneven mountain surface. Her body curling and slithering upward to a ledge, claws leaving thick indents into stone where they gripped. Nyrrimae perched up on the ledge, hunched forward when she reached the edge then, like dead weight, let her body fall. Not diving, not lurching into the air, simply falling. The wings spread after friction gave way, soft membrane between bone rippling when they clapped once and she finally rose toward the clouds with Nimethel clutching the reins, body flattened to keep her own balance. Silver, braided hair rippling in the wind.

The slow ascent had her assigned squadron come into view. Nyrrimae lurched forward, each clap of wings audible under the strong winds. The dragon never stopped moving, rather dynamically allowed her body to move with a current if it needed to, wings spread to make the most of the natural lift while maintaining proximity to the other dragons. A shrill chirp reverberated from the dragon’s throat, pitched too high to register, but felt as the air rippled outward to map the other presences near.

Nimethel straightened finally, a curt nod at her captain before her attention was back to Niri.

Eira Luneth — a name she learned like a lullaby, though she had never needed one. Her true identity lived in the Norsinian winds that carved her spirit sharp and cold, and in the Avalese light that shimmered quietly beneath her skin.

She was born of two worlds, yet belonged entirely to neither. Instead, she moved between them like a winter star drifting across dusk — a rare convergence of frost and moonfire, of mortal breath and elven grace.

To speak her lineage was to speak of contrasts: the iron-blooded resilience of her Norsinian father,the ancient, melodic magic of her Avalese mother. Together, they shaped a being who was not divided, but doubled — a girl who carried two realms in the chambers of one heart.

And so Eira walked the world not as someone seeking a title, but as someone becoming one.

Eira Luneth — a name whispered into her childhood like a warning, though she had never needed one. Her truest self was carved instead by the Norsinian winds that bit like teeth, and by the cold, silver pulse of Avalese blood humming beneath her skin.

She was a child of two realms, yet claimed by neither. In the human world, she was too quiet, too watchful — a shadow with frost in her veins. Among the elves, she was too mortal, too breakable — a flicker of warmth in a land that revered the eternal.

So she learned to walk the borders instead, a creature forged in the tension between dusk and deep winter. A rarity, yes - but rarities are often lonely things.

Her father’s Norsinian lineage gave her a spine of iron and a heart that beat like a war drum. Her mother’s Avalese grace wrapped her in moonlit silence, a beauty that felt more like a curse than a gift.

She did not simply exist between two worlds - she haunted them, a living threshold, a girl shaped by cold and contradiction.

The cold woke her before the light did.

The cold did not simply wake her — it claimed her.

Eira Luneth rose from her bed of furs as the Norsinian wind clawed at the canvas of her shelter, its howl a familiar summons. She pushed aside the furs and stepped into the breath of dawn, where the Norsinian wind screamed across the tundra like a living thing.The air was a blade, slicing through cloth and skin, but she welcomed it. Frost gathered on her lashes, her hair lifting in the gale as if the storm itself reached for her.

Outside, the world was a cathedral of ice and silence. Snow dunes rose like pale leviathans. The sky was a bruised gray, heavy with unfallen storms.

And in the midst of that frozen expanse waited Crytharion. Frost clung to her lashes, breath curling from her lips in pale ghosts as she stepped into the blistering dawn. The world outside was a wasteland of white and steel-blue shadow — a land that bit, bruised, and blessed in equal measure.

And waiting for her, as he always did, was Crytharion.

He stood half-shrouded in drifting snow, a medium-sized dragon by the standards of the great wyrms, yet still towering above her with quiet, unshakable presence. His aquamarine scales shimmered like frozen glass catching the first fractured rays of morning. Smooth, sleek, and cold to the touch, they reflected the stormlight in ripples of blue fire.

Two crescent-shaped horns curved back from his skull, elegant rather than fearsome. His teeth — sharp as a shark’s and gleaming with frost — flashed only when he yawned or nuzzled her hand, never in threat. For all his lethality, he carried himself with the gentleness of a loyal hound, padding toward her with a soft rumble that vibrated through the snow.

His wings unfurled in a slow, sweeping arc — 32 feet of pale aquamarine membrane traced with veins of silver. Not monstrous, not overwhelming, but powerful enough that each beat stirred a flurry of snowflakes into spiraling dances. Wherever he moved, the air crystallized; wherever he breathed, frost blossomed like flowers.

He lowered his head to her chest, warm breath turning the air to glittering shards. She pressed her forehead to his snout, feeling the ancient calm within him — a wisdom older than the storms that shaped this land.

Crytharion was loyal.
Crytharion was gentle.
Crytharion was devastating.

A creature who could summon blizzards with a roar, or weave illusions from drifting ice. Yet with her, he was soft as snowfall, steadfast as winter stone.

Together, they walked into the white horizon — rider and dragon, girl and myth — their silhouettes swallowed by the storm they called home.

---

A masked figure walked out onto the ledge, close to where the squadron was supposed to meet. He was nearly half an hour early, but he figured that it was better than being late, especially with first impressions as a leader. The wind cut across the mountains, howling softly as he looked out to the sea of trees below, then up at the clouds above. The first rays of dawn had started to paint the clouds in golden hues, and began to illuminate the clouds beneath.

A large creature slowly strode up alongside him, claws clicking against the stones of the mountainside, the rays of sunlight illuminating scales of dark bronze as it approached the masked man. Slowly, near-silently, it moved it’s head alongside the young man, and with a relative gentleness for it’s hulking form, brushed against the young man’s cloak.

The sensation was enough to draw his eyes away from the sight before them, causing him to turn his head enough to see the dragon’s own expression, and what he figured to be concern. Slowly, he raised a hand, and placed it atop the mighty creature’s head, and gently scratched it’s scales to comfort the great beast.

“I am fine, Tir. Merely thinking.”

On some level, it felt strange that he’d be leading a squadron. Five years ago, Caleb imagined himself somewhere behind the fight itself, pouring over maps and talking grand strategy with his family, letting others lead the charge where bravery and might were more prudent than supply chains and overarching goals.

Still… he was an Evermoore, and Evermoores always did lead back home, with no need or objective too small to escape their concern. Ready or not, it was his responsibility now to lead these people. The best he could do was put on a stern face, to which end the mask certainly helped.

The dragon interrupted his thoughts again with a slight shake, not much movement, but enough to attract Caleb’s notice as deliberate. He looked across the form of the noble creature, the dragon Tir’verkalin. The young prince had learned in these past couple of years how his dragon seemed to know his feelings better than the prince himself did. It was all still so new to him. However he realized if he was to have any chance at the justice his family deserved, this was step one. Caleb straightened himself out, thankful the mask and cloak made reading him a far greater challenge. It could cover the slack if even a slight amount of his nervousness at meeting the hardened warriors he’d be leading to battle leaked out.

And yet, there was one thing that he could feel in the back of his mind, as if being reminded by someone he knew. This was his first stint of proper leadership, and it meant the warriors under his command were wholly his responsibility. And, if he failed, it was solely his fault. Such was the weight of leadership. But still, this was his task. And it was his path to avenging what he lost. He would’ve rather cast himself off this same cliff than refuse it.

Off in the distance, he saw forms he recognized. Distant, and wouldn’t be here for at least another fifteen minutes, but the silhouette of a dragon was a bit hard to miss once one knew what they were looking for. He spared himself a brief smirk beneath his mask, before he turned back towards Tir’verkalin.

“Right. Time waits for no man. Nor dragon, for that matter. Let us go.”

He spoke with a slight comforting warmth to his voice as he walked alongside Tir’verkalin towards the saddle across the dragon’s back. The dragon lowered itself to aid his ascent up it’s back, as he mounted the noble beast with slow and deliberate movements that would almost seem lazy to an outside observer.

The dragon then stood up from where it laid, and started to back up, each step covering several yards as it prepared itself. The dragon eventually coiled itself like a cat ready to pounce, before launching itself forward. The dragon’s running start towards the ledge was a series of thunderous steps, claws biting into stone to help the dragon pull itself along just a little faster, before it flung itself and it’s rider from the cliff. The initial leap cleared twenty feet directly off the ledge before the dragon fully opened it’s wings, and the pair took to the skies.

The force of the wind ripped Caleb’s hood back for a moment, revealing his bright red hair, and the burn scar on the left side of his head that ran from his eye to his ear. Once the pair had hit a more consistent speed, Caleb pulled his hood back up, as the pair climbed in elevation towards their meeting site; a plateau atop this same mountain. It was there he’d meet them, and it was there his first real steps on this journey would begin.

A dwarf sat cross-legged atop a snowy peak, clad in a heavy cloak that billowed behind him from gusts and gales. Cold air. Harsh winds. Home. Or as close to it as he could get. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. Mana gathered to Drugram, coalescing into his body as he centered himself, meditating.

While he was an outlier among the local riders in that he didn't dedicate his whole life to the cause, only a shortsighted fool would have turned down the call once it was known that those grasping bastards to the east were preparing to invade. So he'd left his clanhold with the full blessing of his people, leaving the most promising of his apprentices to advise and defend in his place during his absence.

Sparks of lightning danced around Drugram's seated form as he continued to gather and focus his mana for the day ahead, taking more time than usual in charging his reserves. It had been some years since he'd engaged in any serious combat, and the prospect of such was looking more and more likely with every day that passed since the Alliance formed. Tactics and application of magic flew through his head, with Drugram trying to recall his battles and practical lessons. Anti-mana, anti-prana, and anti-dragon tactics went through his mind, all reviewed and looked over to see if they could be improved. At some point, the ground rumbled as a silver-scaled dragon touched down on the peak with a huff, giving his rider a brief look before settling into a resting position next to the dwarf.

Half an hour passed. Drugram opened his eyes, the last few sparks around him dissipating as he exerted full control over his mana. The wizard rose to his feet, reaching for a staff that he'd laid to his side with one hand as he leaned over to pet Granigol on the snout with his other hand.

"Ready then, old goat?" He huffed, reaching into a satchel on his belt to pull out a stick of jerky that he offered up. The dragon snatched it eagerly, devouring the morsel in a single bite as his rider mounted up atop his back. "Right, you know the drill. Behave yourself around the other dragons. They're not rivals for your damn territory or any sort of competition. Don't be a cunt, and we'll not need to have this lecture again."

It was a familiar refrain, said without heat, and Granigol simply snorted briefly before taking off with a mighty flap of his wings.

"...Kovosian dragons're free game, of course. More brutal you are, more chance they might lose their nerve. Anything to get this damn fool war over with faster."

The wind was practically whipping. The trees here were sparse and bowing like a soldier to their king. Everything here bowed to the storms, even the stone, it seemed.
The birds that would sing now, to tell each other that a new day had awoken and the sun was going to rise soon had gone unusually quiet and the whistling of the wind, echoing from the rugged cliffs, was interrupted only by light footsteps and the rustling of feathers.
“I just can’t seem to figure out what your problem is.”
With a sigh Vihor Thorn sank down on the next best rock he found and turned his head to the white feathered dragon following him. She really looked rather upset, at least as much as a dragon could do that. She lowered her head and nudged him on the shoulder.
“What is it, my friend? It can’t possibly be too cold for you.” He pushed her snout away gently. “I know you might not be aware but this here is supposed to be your home. Better than the undercroft we met, isn’t it, Stratim?” With a deep rumble Stratim agreed and laid down, curling around the rock. Her feathers flared up and Vihor wanted to laugh at her. A winddragon that doesn’t like strong wind was a joke that certainly would have paid a lot if he had stayed with the circus.
“I really hope you don’t get lazy now. We still have a long way ahead of us.” He reminded her but she had already turned her head away and let out a provocatively loud snore. Maybe they did need a break. After all the duo had been walking for almost four hours now and the sun was rising. There was no particular reason why Vihor preferred to travel at night. Maybe it was just being used to it. The last two years of his life he had spent being a thief and those typically don’t move in broad daylight, especially when they have a dragon the size of two to three horses with them. Or when their appearance catches as many eyes as Vihor’s did.

The wind slowed down when the rim of the sun started rising over the landscape of clouds. Vihor took off his coat, even though the cool air made the hairs on his arms immediately stand up. After this cold night he had to stretch, not his arms or legs but the pair of folded wings, attached on his hips and neatly folded on his back. They had been aching for some time now and really moving them again and picking at the jammed feathers until they stopped stinging helped a lot. Now this was one of the reasons Vihor liked hiding in the shadows better. When he was still in the circus it would bring him in money. He wasn’t like most beatkins, equally animal and human. Those wings, too short to fly, were not the only thing poking out, there were also the elven ears, the white hair, the yellow eyes… One time a child had described him as a badly done puzzle that just wouldn’t fit right.
It hadn’t been particularly wrong. Even back in his tribe fitting in was difficult. While the other chicklets learned to fly, Vihor would stay on the on the ground. Even the wings of the others had never been big enough to fly but their connection to the element of wind had been inherited. It was strong, swept them off the ground and let them sail over the seas of clouds. And Vihor watched. His own connection to air had been one exceptionally difficult to figure out. It was there, all around him, but more like an itch than the comforting presence his tribe’s highmage had described it as. Oh Munja. He missed her and her wise words. If he had stayed she would’ve helped him surely to figure it out. ‘We are always with you’, that was the meaning of the feather tattooed on his ankle, but right now it really did not feel like it.
He shook his head to snap out of it. Just a year here and he would be a free man with a free dragon, and then he could go wherever he wanted, find Kutsa or her grave, find where he really belonged, because it surely was not this place.

Just one year. And until then he would try his best to survive. With a sigh Vihor crossed his legs, spread his wings and closed his eyes.

Meditating was supposed to help building connection to mana, especially the grounding elements, but Vihor had to ashamedly confess that he was too impatient. The higher mages in his tribe would do this for days on end but he barely managed until the sun had emerged fully. Stratim protested loudly when he got up again and pulled her up on her horn. She growled, even snapped at him, but reluctantly followed him when he continued the rough path. Not long until they should meet the rest of their squad.

@Byte@Zman@Scrawl Banditta

"Riders halt! Jinan shouted as he flew ahead of his squad members and came to a stop before them, his dragon hovering in place with strong and steady wingbeats. With an ascertaining gaze, he studied the faces of each rider and their mount, committing them to memory whilst recalling what he knew about them.

Nimethel, felid beastkin, armed with mana and enchanted bow, skilled in stealth and cunning, rides a bonepale wyrm. Perhaps best used as a scout on the ground, but there was more. Ferosian. Criminal... perhaps best not to let this one out of sight after all.

Then there was Caelis, elf, crimson haired, studied in the arts of healing and swordsmanship both. A noble-born scion of Avalan. Rides a Moonveil forest dragon, scarred and ancient. Their combined experience would serve the Alliance well, has served already. It was a wonder why they were not leading a squad of their own.

And finally Eira, half-elf, Norsinian, blonde of hair, trained in ice magic and rider of a frost dragon. Also a mage. Also a noble.

All of a sudden, Jinan felt as though someone had played a practical joke putting him in charge of an entire squad of mages and such a motley crew at that. One from each of the three nations of the west, the Ferosian's a criminal and the other two nobles. It was like the beginnings of a bad jest. Was this some form of hazing for newly appointed squad leaders?

Shaking his head free of such thoughts, Jinan held up a hand in greeting and said, "My name is Jinan. This is Duan. We will take point as we cover the mountains to the north while another group covers the south. If we meet any riders of Kovos, do not act unless acted upon. Is that understood?"

Mist swirled past Eiravelle's wings as the Moonveil dragon smoothly settled into formation, producing little more than the soft hum of her flight. Her golden eyes briefly examined each rider in turn:

The felid beastkin and the pale wyrm.

The frost dragon adorned in winter hues.

Duan leading from the front, calm and composed.

Caelis listened as Jinan spoke, one gloved hand resting lightly against the harness straps while cold air tugged loose strands of crimson hair free from beneath their hood.

“Do not act unless acted upon.”

Sensible.

Not eager.

Good.

“Understood.”

Beside them, Eiravelle let out a low exhale, pale vapor dissipating into the mountain winds. Her gaze remained fixed ahead for a few moments longer before drifting toward Nyrrimae's strange pale form, studying without hostility, merely with quiet interest.

Then toward Crytharion.

A frost dragon.

That earned a slow blink.

Caelis noticed the shift immediately.

“Behave.”

Eiravelle ignored them with practiced dignity.

Far below, the forests of Avalan rolled beneath the cloudline while the northern mountains stretched endlessly ahead.

Patrol had begun.

Eira kept to the air like a held breath.

The winds around her were gentle here—too gentle. Sunspire’s boundary shimmered below like a golden veil, a warmth she did not trust, a warmth that felt wrong against the frost‑etched runes beneath her skin. Crytharion hovered, wings beating in slow, controlled strokes, his great body coiled with restrained vigilance. He obeyed her command to stop, but every scale along his spine glimmered with tension.

She dared not cross the invisible line. Not when she could feel the storm inside her shift uneasily, as though the very sunlight below was a foreign tongue it could not speak.

She kept to--

She kept to the air like a trespasser before a sacred tomb, suspended between retreat and ruin.

Below, Sunspire stretched in impossible radiance. Ivory towers pierced the clouds like spears forged from dawn itself, their gilded surfaces bleeding molten light across the heavens. Rivers of gold ran through the city’s veins, and banners of white silk drifted from parapets untouched by decay. It was beautiful in the cruelest way possible—untouched, unmarred, alive.

Eira hated it instantly.

The storm within her recoiled harder the longer she stared. Frost crept unconsciously across her fingertips, thin crystals crawling over the leather wrappings around her hands before dissolving again beneath the oppressive warmth. Even the air tasted wrong here. Too clean. Too bright. It carried none of the iron scent of snowstorms, none of the comforting bitterness of pine and distant ash she had known all her life.

Beneath her, Crytharion released a low rumble deep within his throat.

Not aggression.

Warning.

Eira’s eyes narrowed.

Far beneath them, the boundary shimmered again.

Not a wall.

A pulse.

Golden threads spread across the sky for the briefest moment, forming vast geometric sigils hidden within the sunlight itself. Ancient wardcraft. Old enough that even the wind seemed to fear touching it. The magic brushed against her senses like burning needles, and for one terrible heartbeat she felt something notice her.

Not someone.

Something.

The warmth sharpened.

Crytharion’s wings faltered once before steadying, his claws flexing against empty air. A growl rippled from him now, deeper than thunder trapped beneath mountains. The dragon’s icy hued eyes fixed upon the city below with naked distrust.

Eira slowly tightened her grip on the scales behind his neck.

“Easy, boy.” she murmured, though her own voice sounded distant beneath the pounding of her heart.

The feeling did not leave.

It lingered against her skin, probing carefully, as though Sunspire itself stood at the threshold watching the frostborn stranger who dared hover at its gates.

She remained perfectly still.

One movement.
One step forward.
One breath too close--

--and she knew the city would awaken.

"As you wish, Sir, command understood." she said, replying to her rider leader. The one known as Jinan. "Ready to follow the task at hand."

---

The young nobleman watched as the silhouettes approached the plateau where the great beast beneath him was resting it’s wings. He was quite visible at the moment, but that was by design. He kept the anticipation and nerves hidden beneath his mask as he watched their dragons approach on the skyline,

On one hand, those who had assigned his squadron had given him a competent, reliable hand to ensure nothing went too wrong. The wizened dwarf was one Caleb was glad to have in his squadron, given his experience as a potent mage, not to mention as a dragon rider. The only concern was if the dwarf decided a decision he made was in some way faulty, then the more experienced and from what he’d heard, quite stubborn dwarf could undermine his authority. But despite that, Caleb was more keen to have him than not.

On the other hand, he had a beastkin who rode atop a great dragon with a thick coat of white feathers. At least, he’d heard the man was Beastkin. But his appearance seemed little different than any other half-elf he’d met, if a little smaller than he was expecting. Regardless, the spotless white feathers of his majestic dragon gave the younger man away as the third of their squadron. He made a note that he’d have to keep an eye on that one; he’d been briefed that the man, not too much younger than himself, was something of a career criminal. Still, another mage who harnesses the winds was never something to pass on, especially when most of one’s fights could be expected to be taken in the air.

He glanced around briefly, trying to locate their third. So far, he’d had no luck in doing so. Perhaps they were late, or perhaps he was simply not noticing them as they came in. He hadn’t heard much about the third rider under his command, only that they had been assigned to him. Hopefully, they would arrive sooner rather than later, but he had no way to be certain.

Still, despite the potential difficulties ahead involving his own squadron, the mission before them was an easy one. Just a routine patrol, and they even had help to the north if that became necessary. The kind of mission that would be standard for any new team, and especially any new leader.

Just a simple patrol.

What could go wrong?

“Squadron.” He addressed those under his command with a well-practiced authoritative tone, While more prepared to use the tone giving speeches than orders, he could still project over the whipping of the winds. “I am Caleb Evermoore. I have been assigned as your squadron leader. I will do everything in my power to watch your backs. I ask only that you follow my orders, and watch mine in turn.” He said, introducing himself to his squadron. He had no frame of reference as to whether or not such an introduction was expected of junior officers or not, so he erred on the side of caution. Better to be seen as too formal as opposed to rude, in his opinion.

With his introduction out of the way, the young prince barely changed his tone, pausing briefly for breath, and to ensure everyone’s relative attention, before pivoting into a last-minute briefing of their mission. “We will be undergoing a standard patrol of the southern section of the Sunspire Mountains, while another squadron fulfills a similar task to our North. If we encounter any hostile riders, we will likely let them be unless engaged first, however we will play the situation by ear. Should the other squadron require aid, we are to move in order to better support them.”

“This will be your only chance for questions.” Caleb offered, not dropping the authoritative tone, but letting his form relax slightly on Tir’verkalin’s back.

Once he’d answered any questions presented, his next order was simple; “Take flight, and form up behind me.”

With that, Tir’verkalin turned around in a slow, deliberate, almost lazy manner. The magnificent creature of brass stretched itself like an oversized cat, before taking off towards the ledge at a dead sprint, throwing itself and Caleb from the ledge as it opened it’s wings, and took to the skies, starting a wide circle around the plateau so the others had the time and space to fall into formation.

A silver dragon landed upon the plateau where they'd all been set to meet, and Drugram hopped off Granigol with naught but a brief grunt of exertion. As the others arrived, Drugram gave each of them an inquisitive stare before returning to his ruminations, waiting patiently until they had all gathered. Would that those in command had bothered to a more detailed dossier on the fellow leading them than that he'd survived a Kovosian attack on his home nation. Still, between that and being actually trained to command, Drugram wouldn't begrudge this Caleb boy his position.

Ancestors knew that he didn't want such a burden of leadership upon himself, after all. There had been conversations when all of this mustering had begun. Surely, some said, a century-old man had some idea of how to lead. He'd shut that line of thought down as soon as he'd heard it. Magic was his one great specialty. Not leadership, not warfare, not tactics. It didn't matter how many scraps he'd gone through when he was young. That was hardly any substitute for formal education in battlefield tactics and strategy.

There came a point when he realized he ought to introduce himself rather than think. Drugram stepped forward, beating a fist against his chest once.

"Aye, ser." He nodded, taking care to look more respectful than curt. Nevertheless, some of Caleb's words had him thinking.

"Engage only when engaged upon? Lord Evermoore, was it? This a missive from High Command?" He left Caleb that one out, just in case. Nevertheless, the idea of not striking first sat poorly with Drugram. This was already an invasion. Any pretense to first strike or cassus belli was pointless. He had very little intention of usurping the human's command, considering how much Drugram didn't want that responsbility for himself. But it was a pertinent question, nonetheless.

Drugram sideeyed the other two riders in their squadron after, trying to recall if he'd ever heard of or read up upon them. One more mage, at least. As well as a complete unknown. His inquisitive stare lasted a moment more, before Caleb mounting up had his own self clambering back onto Granigol.

"Understood. We'll take off as you do."