He snorted, steam pooling from his reptillian nostrils. Concern him?
“Never said it did.” Hraakir retorted. If he wanted to fight, he would. He didn’t ask for permission, though if Reed had made his real feelings clear, that he wanted the glory of defeating his enemies alone, then Hraakir would have understood the sentiment completely and left him alone, to die heroically.
Yet the great dragon god thirsted for blood, even with its maw clamped around its own tail it still slathered for the occasional morsel delivered to it by its devout followers. That was how Hraakir saw fate, and the inevitability of coming conflict. His yellow eyes narrowed down to slits, not even blinking, barely aware that he was joined by one of the furred ones or that a short one spoke pitiful words of peace. When the bloodthirst settled over him like this, his perceptions narrowed down to that of a fiery pinprick, and woe betide the centre of his horrid draconic focus. He was snarling now, but the sound did not reach his own ears. The snarl deepened, emenating from somewhere in his chest as fire gurgled deep within him, the heat coming off his scaley hide so palpable that the snow melted at his feet and water vapor smoked off his damp furs.
The Sons charged, and Hraakir let loose a bellowing roar unlike anything any human vocal cord could produce. It was a throwback to his draconic ancestry, a sound that frightened manling children in their beds at night and raised the hairs on the nape of their hairy necks. A sound that reminded them they were fleshy, soft little creatures in a world of real predators that need not clothe themselves in steel or carry their claws in fragile little paws. They could fight their instincts all they wished, they would know they were prey before he fell upon them.
He ran forward towards the stupid humans who forgot their most important little tools. They had not brought their shields, and would die for it. All of them were outranged by his vicious halberd, their armour was weak, it would take no particular skill to teach them to fear the spear. Ancient weapon of the first peoples, first and best, Onion Head’s bulk was such that upon realising all too late that the Dragonoid was charging straight at him, he left himself no room to stop and approach more cautiously. He swung an axe, desperately trying to offset the point of the halberd, but parrying the sharp point at the end of a halberd was no mean feat at the best of times, and these were not the best of times. Hraakir’s bellow had been on the cusp of tailing off, until his heavy thrust shot eight inches of steel into the manling’s breast and through his right lung. Once more he roared as he drove the dying man before him and into his fellow, a fat man(?!) carrying a club. Blood pooled onto the snow and the screaming started, delighting his ears, feeding a hunger in the dragonoid that could not be satiated with burned meat alone.