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◄ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴜɴᴛᴀɪɴ - ᴀʀᴄᴀᴅɪᴀ ►
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There is scratching in the stones. Separate from that
tink, tink, tink, of miners and carts, of steel and ore. No, this was jagged. Inconsistent. Something wholly arrhythmic, stumbling without reason.
Such things are why he was here, why he resides in dank depths in near perfect darkness. For things reside down here that always seek to walk instead of crawl. Things that should not see the light of day, or taste the blood of his countrymen.There has been a scent in the stale air, a rumble of things moving. Enough the unsettle those who have no concept of what dwells, merely that something approaches. Therion had known of such movement, felt how the eddies changed and swirled with the breath of something foreign.
Yet he waits, within a cave of blackness and stone covered in gouges. To venture further would invite things to slip by, to hang further back is to risk others getting to close. This is perfect for one such as he, away from discourse, discussion, and risk. It is better like that. Let him focus, let them work, let things remain simple.
Something still draws ever closer, sound that once merely tricked ears with a touch of magic now makes things rumble in his chest out of sorts from his heart. So he stands, stretching out muscles that had not gone sore but still needed to be moved. A moment of preparation unneeded but for the sanctity of mind instead of body.
It is but another moment before that beast slithers forth from the far left tunnel, one that rarely gets traffic due do its thin nature. This creature is anything but, as round about as his waist but long enough to encircle the room should it uncoil. As it sits, it is bundled like a wire or a snake. Therion would call it a snake if not for the antlers made of arms or the collar of blind eyes.
A Montagrew, rare enough to not be mounted in some half-sane hunters hall and strong enough to kill any who did track it. Not the most mystical creature either, its strength comes from muscle alone. No poisons or strange attributes. Just physicality, and scales that act like stone. But it would be truly mystical if a blade could easily peirce its hide, nothing down here was that soft. Why else would they need a mage to act as a guard?
It makes the first move, he lets it. Springing forth like lightning with a mouth open to snap round his torso, it is a simple enough move to sidestep. Therion grabs its antler like one would a hand shake, firmly before moving it steadily up and down. This slams the Montagrew into the stone floor, stunning it for a split second enough another blow to land, then another, and a third. A flurry of them falling upon it like rocks in a landslide. Unfortunately it is stern enough to recover, tail flying round to wrap round Therion in a mimic of a very aggressive scarf. In turn does the man get it in something like a chokehold, making the whole thing quickly devolve into a wrestling match that rolls from one wall to the other.
He forces the grip to loosen and tighten, climbing higher and higher up its body as it it were a tree and his arms rope. In tune with the flexing of muscles does the ripples of magics flows through those arms, resonating with that beast. There are minute seconds of confusion that merely makes it struggle harder. Not hard enough, for within seconds he has his hands free from body and neck and wrapped round its head instead. In contrast to the several minute long scuffle, this next part is positively easy. A surge of magic, a spark of connection, a flaring of sensation far beyond what any human should experience plus a body wide burning that slowly focused into his arm, and it was over.
Its scales slackened and released him, letting them both roll over and catch a semblance of a breath. Least before a throat is cleared and a light is shown over his form. Flickering flame and a stern countenance, both hurt to look at closely with eyes slit and sensitive. An easy enough fix for the light, not for that face though.
“Message for the Royal mage.”
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