WilsonTurner

Dragons of Valhalla (Role play)

The ocean passed swiftly beneath them...

...a glittering green-blue expanse that shone in the early sun's light, as important to the four Water dragons as walls were to a King- this is what kept them safe, and now they feel an eery fear settling into the pits of their stomachs, drawn by the knowledge that as land became clearer and clearer, the more likely armies will come to bring them down. Dragons rarely united, he knew, besides to mate. Indeed- only one of the four water dragons flying over the water was female, and not he nor the other two males even thought of mating with her- she was a self-proclaimed war-maiden, a concept stolen from human prisoners. It rankled Tenator, to the point where he might snap at her for using a *human* concept, but it kept the other two from vying for her attentions, and kept the group sound and stable. His thoughts wandered into trains like those as he flew- flew for an entire day already. The sun was rising to their right wing-tip, as it had when they first set off from their island refuge. The dragon who delivered the message was smaller and a bit faster- as the day had worn on, they were slowly left behind. It didn't bother Tenator- he was gliding most of the time, occasionally diving into the water and then resting on its surface, wings outstretched with air caught between wing and water, holding him afloat. His three allied dragons had all practically sworn themselves to him- they had each seen more of their kind slaughtered against armies, and he managed to destroy an entire one without a single hole punched through the wingmembrane by an arrow. When his thoughts snapped back to reality, it was to take in the sight of the coast rushing towards him. His wings angled; his tail twitched, and he rose into the air in a slight spiral, coming up parallel with the coast, flying higher. He couldn't resist; his maw opened and he let out a roar, shattering the morning's sky. He saw a village, far ahead and below, but left it alone- if he were to help rule this area, and eventually bring the entire continent to its knees once more, then it would be no use destroying a resource. One of his guards meant to do just that, but he swooped in front of him, warning him off with a telepathic vibe of warning and to persevere their peace for now. Then he lead the short way inland, to the land they were supposed to meet the one who called him, the one who called many. He lowered himself to the ground near a trade road, taking in the trade caravan that was traveling along it- and now thoroughly panicking- and blocking its forward path. Another of his own landed behind, and then the last two on either side. Suddenly, a crossbow bolt flew out of one of the carts, striking Tenator's crest between his eyes, and he shook his head back and forth, aggravated from the eye-watering pressuring that had suddenly appeared. Now, thoroughly pissed, he lowered himself to the ground, keeping the soft belly protected and safe, and gathered himself up. His maw opened once more, and instead of a roar or flame coming out, several of the terrified caravaners rushed him, crossbows in hand. Two bolts fired and were lodged between his teeth, painfully close to his gums, to the point of drawing his blood. The last would've gone straight down his throat and impaled an artery, had his tongue not come up by reflex, and been penetrated. Tenator shrieked, not even a roar, a higher-pitched cry of pain and anger and fury. The three before him fell the ground, dropping their crossbows to slam their hands to their ears, as Tenator darted forward and crushed them beneath tooth and claw. Another crossbow bolt flew out of the leading wagon, right as he bared his teeth, obviously trying to accomplish the same as the other three, and ricocheted off the side of his snout, missing worse than before. Tenator, fed up with them, gave the mental command; a moment later, the caravan lay burning, destroyed, all but two of the six wagons still intact. The three survivors huddled inside, crying, as the sounds of scraping and clawing grew louder and louder, until one of them- the youngest, felt an odd flash of... power, outside. Unknowingly, he had the magical talent, and he had just sensed the four dragons turning into one heavily armored warrior, the other three in rogue-like assassin/theif-looking garments. The now-noble warrior strode up to one side of the wagon, brushing aside the curtain, and peering into the three terrified faces. They were flooded with relief, mixed with confusion and fear- did the dragons leave? Were they coming back? This man looked like he could take them all himself, the little two thought, while their caretaker hoped for safety and to be away from the burning caravan. When she rushed forward to embrace him, already muttering her thanks, the warrior pulled out a knife, and jammed it through her ribs as she threw her arms around him. He gently pulled her out, as if still in embrace, and laid her out on the ground, just as the other two appeared, reaching for him. Ten minutes later, one warrior and three rogues walked down the road from the burning caravan, anything gold looted, melted down by their inherent fire abilities into rough bars, and each riding a horse, two from each of the two surviving caravans. It would be awhile before they reached their destination, and word will soon reach their destination that the caravan had not arrived- and that it had been found burned and the few survivors lain dead, between the two undamaged carts.