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tenspontaneite · 5 years ago

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Boundless (Chapter 1/?)

A powerful arcanum needs a powerful outlet. Where none exists, magic will create one, or kill you trying.

Callum’s human body isn’t enough to withstand the boundless power of the Sky Primal. But magic always finds a way.

(Or: Callum gains the Sky Arcanum, and swiftly thereafter begins to grow wings.)

(Chapter length: ~8k. Ao3 Link)

Preword: For the record, I’ve been planning this story since s2, and wrote this chapter and most of the next in the week following the 10th October. I have edited this chapter by a very small amount to make it align more fully with s3 canon, mainly for descriptions of early season scenery. If s3 made you hungry for wingfic, you’ve come to the right place!

Story warnings: I’m a lot more into wing and feather biology than a lot of wingfic authors are, and also I believe in making my characters pay for their goodies. As such, this story starts off much more ‘body horror’ than ‘glorious magic materialisation of wings’. As the story progresses, it’ll go into significant detail about wing-related anatomy and biology.

Chapter warnings: Blood, pain, body horror. Edging into gore territory for some of it, though it’s relatively short-lived. Also, milder warnings for suffocation and emetophobia.

—

The first time Callum cast aspiro by virtue of his own arcanum, it was living triumph. A culmination of all the thought and fear and inadequacy that had chased him through the week, and the realisation of what his deathly dream had taught him. The magic of the Sky was around him and within him and everywhere, and as he cast his spell it settled like a spark into his heart. He felt it every breath thereafter, every second, with every gust on the cliffside and glimpse of the blue-above shivering through him like another kind of life.

It settled into his blood like the air did, it coursed through his bones and flesh and sinew – the Sky was a part of him and he was a part of the Sky, the understanding of it sinking deeper and deeper with every minute that passed. By the time he’d said farewell to his brother, the arcanum was as viscerally-rooted in him as his own skeleton, a precious and irrevocable part of him; a channel that opened him up to the vast and boundless magic of the Sky.

He and Rayla and Zym walked to the Breach, and if he noticed the ache in his back, he thought nothing of it. After all, hadn’t he spent hours today convalescent upon hard stone? It was only to be expected.

—

The second time Callum cast aspiro from his own breath and magic, it was amidst heat and urgency and the dread of a rising sun. The magic surged in him as he spoke and wrote and breathed, the feeling of it effervescent and electric at once, crackling in his blood and bubbling through every inch of him. It ached. It burned, too, but wasn’t that just the heat of the Breach? He worried more about directing the wind-gust from his lips, and watching Zym’s wings catch the air like twin sails, and seeing how great a shadow a young dragon could cast.

And when they were safely across, and Callum and Rayla threw their arms around each other from the pure relief of it, her arms around his shoulders were startlingly painful. Like pressure against a livid bruise. But the adrenaline of their success was enough to forestall the flinch, and she noticed nothing.

But when they drew apart, Zym cheerful and victorious between them, the ache at his shoulders didn’t leave. As though Rayla’s touch had wakened it, or perhaps awakened him to it, and it became insistent enough that he paid it notice he hadn’t earlier.

“You alright?” Rayla asked, as she showed him along the canyon-paths into Xadia, as he twisted his hands behind his back to pat cautiously at his shoulders.

They hurt, to the touch. Sharp and raw, like the worst bruises he’d ever had. Like blistering skin. “…My back is kinda sore.” He admitted, with a light frown. “Maybe I bruised it, or something.”

She blinked at him with a glimmer of concern. “…Well, hopefully that’s just from sleeping funny on a cave floor.” She offered. “Or maybe you hit yourself during your dramatic collapse earlier.”

He eyed her, fingers lingering on the fabric over his shoulders. “Dramatic collapse?” he repeated, uncomprehending.

Rayla averted her eyes. “When you…unchained the dragon.” She elaborated, and didn’t say when you used dark magic, and he knew at her expression that she hadn’t quite forgiven him for that.

“…Maybe.” He agreed, uncomfortable, and thought of the way the power of it had swept through him, heady and dark and burning. How empty he’d felt afterwards; hollowed-out and aching, like an empty husk.

Sky magic didn’t feel like that. His second aspiro had ached too, but not like the hollowness of the dark. Not like everything beneath his skin had been scooped out. More like…the magic had put too much back in. As if there was too large a force for too small a space, and his skin couldn’t quite hold it. He wondered, for a fretful moment, if the power of the Sky was too vast for him. If even the barest spark of it that was his arcanum was stifled in his too-human flesh.

Rayla watched him, unusually sombre, for a few more seconds. Then she reached out to pull his hand from his shoulder, and tugged him onwards by the fingers. “Come on, stop messing with it.” She said, deliberately light-hearted. “If you’ve hit your back you won’t do it any favours by picking at it.”

“I’m not exactly picking at it.” He complained at her, but allowed himself to be pulled unresisting further into the Xadian borderlands, where the canyon-tunnels widened out into the bright glow of red rock beneath the sun, where that same sun gleamed upon something gold and glittering and huge-

“Welcome to Xadia!” Rayla said, and when she saw him staring, turned to follow his gaze. Like him, she saw the immense shining form of the Archdragon, stopped short, stared with perhaps more horror and less awe than he did. “Oh no,” She breathed, utterly dismayed. “It’s him. It’s Sol Regem.”

And then they were entirely too busy figuring out how to bypass a dragon to worry about his back.

(The third aspiro, wielded against Sol Regem, might well have burned, and might well have seared; but there was no room around their desperate attempts to escape for him to notice it. If he was aware of the pain, it was in a very distant way, far-removed from the far more immediate issue of their survival. They passed into Xadia, and neither commented on the spell that had saved them.)

—

Later, when they were together and more-or-less unharmed past the gauntlet of a former-King, there was a little more space to breathe. A little more space to feel the Sky brimming up against his skin, to feel the breath almost too-deep in his lungs, like there was too much of it, like the air was filling him up like a balloon and he’d burst any second-

He only noticed that he’d fallen when Rayla caught him, his scarf still a vibrant streak of red about her neck. “Callum!” She said, alarmed, as she insinuated herself under one of his arms to hold him up. She put her arm around his shoulders to complete the support – and at the slightest pressure against his back, he cried out in pain. She released him as though burned, and then barely managed to catch him before he crumpled fully to the ground. “Callum,” She repeated, when all he did was breathe in quick shallow bursts, rather than answer. “What’s wrong? Is it your back?”

He was too-full of air, too-full of magic. He’d burst. He couldn’t breathe, but he had to. Near to hyperventilating, he sucked in more and more and more of the Sky with every second, and felt it brimming in his flesh, swelling his lungs, and it hurt. “No,” He managed, after another several conspicuous gasps. “I mean – yes – but not-“ He had to break off for another half minute, torn to pieces between the feeling that he couldn’t breathe and the utterly paradoxical sensation of his lungs filled past their capacity. The primal panic of breathlessness was a far more immediate thing than the searing pain on his back, though, and so much harder to resist. “Can’t breathe.” He said to her, when he found enough space between suffocating and bursting to speak.

He barely had the presence of mind to see the worry written all over her as she ran her eyes over him as if to inspect him for signs of damage. “Haven’t you suffocated enough for one day?” She asked him, with some asperity, as if it could disguise the fear in her eyes. “I hope you’re not planning on making a habit of this.” Gently, she pressed fingers against a point on his wrist, perhaps to feel the hummingbird-pace of his heart.

Callum tried to laugh, and the requisite loss of breath left him spluttering for long painful moments. “Sorry,” he said, once he had found some equilibrium again, and then descended once more into gasping, sucking in air as if there was none left in the Sky. But there was. There was so much breath, too much, too much to hold-

“Dumb prince.” She muttered to him, worried but achingly fond. She supported him upright, so that he was sitting up, and held him there, a hand on each of his shoulders, carefully away from his back. “Callum. Look at me.” She said, with such sudden command that his frantic breath stilled for a second, just to look at her. He stared at her as she stared back at him, and clung to the eye contact like a lifeline in the tide of breathless panic. “…Good.” She nodded, a little, and he abruptly realised that he wasn’t gasping so desperately now. The breathlessness was a constant pressure, though, and as he noticed it he started wheezing again – Rayla shook him, and the surprise of it stilled him again. “Just breathe.” She told him, in a way that was by now terribly familiar.

Hadn’t he heard it, drowning in the dream-state? Hadn’t he heard her? Hadn’t he heard the words from her lips, before he heard them from his mother’s? “…Trying,” he managed, still caught in the eye contact like a ship to its anchor.

“I know.” She said. “Just…try to breathe more slowly. Deeper, I guess.”

He tried. It was hard when the gasps kept bursting into his attempts at deep, steadying breaths. Harder when the pressure of breathlessness increased, even as the pressure of too-much-air decreased. The former was harder to bear than the latter – suffocation was death, but pain was only pain.

…But, by the sharp and tearing ache in his chest, he was reminded that some pains did lead to death. His lungs felt too-full. Like they really would burst.

He breathed through the panic, and did not suffocate, and did not rupture.

When his breathing was into more of a normal rhythm, and he seemed calmer, Rayla relaxed a little and lowered her hands from their urgent place on his shoulders. He managed to keep himself upright, and appreciated it more than he could say when she took and squeezed one of his hands. “Is it the dark magic again?” She asked him, after a moment, and he had breath enough to speak.

He closed his eyes, just briefly, and felt the Sky brimming beneath his skin. “No.” he said, shaking his head, vehement. “It’s not – it’s the Sky magic.” In the new sense of calm, Zym finally found space to insinuate himself between them, settling his front paws into Callum’s lap and looking up at him with wide worried eyes. He lowered his other hand to the dragonling’s mane, and felt a little calmer at the contact.

He could feel the Sky beneath his fingers. It was in Zym, too, but…settled, in a way it wasn’t with him. It belonged.

“The Sky magic?” Rayla repeated, after a second, clearly startled. “But – why? It’s Primal magic – it’s…natural.”

Water was natural, too. But it could still drown you.

He shook his head, almost more to clear the thought than as a response to her. “It’s too much.” He said, and then shuddered at expressing it. “It’s like – I’m filling up with Sky magic, and – and there’s no way out for it, and I’m just…” He raised the hand from Zym’s mane to wave frustratedly in the air. His voice trembled worse than his fingers. “It feels like I’m going to explode. I – I don’t think humans are made for Primal magic, Rayla.” His heart sped again, this time in a different fear, and she stared back at him with a furrowed brow. “I – I think I’ve really messed up.”

Having spoken the words onto the air, they felt too real. What if he’d messed with something he shouldn’t? What if – what if the dark magic was only the first thing he shouldn’t have touched, what if humans just weren’t meant to use Primal magic, what if he’d bitten off more than he could chew and – what if it killed him?

This moment he lingered in, caught between breathlessness and bursting…he couldn’t keep it up, surely. Either he’d suffocate or he’d explode, and it was all his fault. His fault for grasping at something he was never meant to hold.

“Try casting a spell.” She said, after a moment, and the words were such a shock against his thoughts that they practically gave him whiplash.

“What?” He demanded, breathing picking up again, even as he tried to calm it down. “I say I’m full of too much magic, and your solution is more magic?”

She stared back at him, unrepentant. “Spells use magic, right?” She pointed out. “Maybe casting a spell or two will let off the pressure.”

Callum blinked. “That’s….” He frowned. “That’s actually a pretty good idea.”

Rayla rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t sound so surprised.” She huffed. “Just cast your spell, alright?”

He considered her, and then considered the spell he hadn’t tried casting since the Primal Stone broke. The most powerful spell he knew. He nodded, slowly, and exhaled like it could relieve the pressure in him, and shuffled away. His fingers parted from hers, and still sitting, he raised them to draw in the air, the opposite direction from her. “Fulminis,” He said, with the breath he had, and the magic…changed.

It had been building in him, swelling in him, as aimless and merciless as water straining at a dam. There had been too much of it to sit in his blood, too much to fit in his lungs, and it had hurt. Too much breath, too much air, with nowhere to go.

The spell awakened it. That aimless, ruthless pressure went hot and bright and fast, like the sear of a lightning-flash against unprepared eyes, and the unleashed magic screamed through him with terrible purpose. It shrieked from his fingers, incandescent and sparking, and cracked through the Sky to shatter the quiet like glass. And then – in that moment-

His hands flinched back from the dissipating rune as if from fire, and flew to his shoulders. He gasped with pain, and hunched forwards the better to reach it, to feel something roiling beneath his skin, the lingering magic burning there like it had burned out of his fingers. Like it had unleashed itself upon some other conduit than a spell.

“Callum?” Rayla spoke, worried, when all he did was pat frantically at the searing pain on his back. “…Did it work?”

Was he imagining it? Was it just that his back was sore and swollen and the skin felt huge with the pain of it? Was it just his imagination?

“Callum.” She pressed, a second later, impatient enough that his head jerked over to look at her.

“Huh?” he thought. “I mean – yeah, kinda? But-“ The pressure that had built in him had released, in a way. He could feel it building again already, but – not all of that magic had gone into the spell. For a second – for a second, it had felt like – and now his back felt – but surely he was just imagining things.

…Well, there was one way to find out.

“…Could you, um, feel here for a second?” He requested, awkwardly, fingers still hovering over the pain on his back. “But – carefully.”

Her eyes flickered between his hands and his eyes, wary, but she leaned forwards, reaching out. He moved his hand to let hers pat gingerly at the spot over his shoulder-blade, and-

Any hope he’d had of it just being his imagination was soundly dashed the second her hand shot away again, eyes flying wide-open with shock. “What is that?” She demanded, in a strangled voice, nearly squashing Zym’s tail with how quickly she retreated.

He deflated. “I don’t know.” He admitted, a new fear beating in his chest. “It’s…I think it’s why my back is hurting.”

“There’s something on your back.” She told him, stridently, as if he hadn’t just figured that out for himself. “Is it – some sort of, I don’t know – did you break your shoulder, or something?”

For a second he entertained the brief and bloody image of a spur of broken bone jutting through his skin, and shuddered. “I think I’d have noticed that, Rayla.”

Her eyes moved from him to do a cautious sweep of their surroundings, and she exhaled. “We’ll need to take a look at it.” She said. “But…maybe we should try to find a good place to camp, first. If you’re injured…”

He grimaced. They had very little in the way of supplies, which had been okay up till now, but none of them had got hurt up to now either. “Yeah.”

“Can you walk?” She asked, quick and practical, and he considered himself.

He felt…okay. His back hurt badly enough now that it seared through him in bursts of pain that…pulsed, almost, like he could feel his heartbeat in the swelling over his shoulder-blades. But the pressure of too-much-magic and too-much-air was, for the most part, gone. He felt quite sure it’d be coming back, but….

“Yeah.” He answered, eventually, and rose to his feet.

She rose with him, and gave him a quick look-over before nodding. “Alright.” She said. “Let’s go.”

—

It took a while to find somewhere suitable to stop. The dry, dusty canyons of the borderlands began to give way to red rock studded with greenery, little waterfalls coursing down the vast cliffsides. In the distance, he could see the edges of a vast forest, but by mutual decision they made no attempt to reach it that day.

Instead, they settled for a sheltered little hollow in the rock, close enough to a river that he could hear the water burbling someway off towards the forest. By that time, though, the pain of the something on Callum’s back had magnified considerably, and he was gasping and wincing every time he moved. Every step felt like it jolted the searing, swollen agony that was building there, enough to send shocks of pain through much of his body. The fabric of his clothing over the skin felt too-rough, abrasive, and the whole area burned.

When at last Rayla ordered him to sit down and get his shirt off, he was almost too relieved at the prospect of – of removing the abrasion, finding out what was on his back – to be embarrassed.

Almost.

With Rayla’s help, he peeled off his jacket, gingerly enough to not pull unduly at the now very pronounced distension of his upper back. Then his shirt went too – and with only the thin undershirt in the way, it was evidently concerning enough to look at that Rayla cursed quietly. And then, feeling increasingly chilly and increasingly exposed, Callum divested himself of his undershirt, and understood the severity of whatever was going on by how utterly silent Rayla went.

“…What does it look like?” He asked her, once the fear of not-knowing had surpassed the fear of knowing, and the silence had stretched too long. “Rayla?” He prompted, anxiously, when she didn’t reply.

Very gently, she reached out and touched her fingers to the inflamed skin on his upper back. He flinched and jumped a little at the touch, her fingers almost startlingly cold on the burn of it. “….There’s something sort of…pushing up underneath your skin.” She said, after a moment, with the barest tremble in her voice. “In two places. Here,” Her fingers drifted, touching skin that wasn’t quite so painful, and then over to something that seared. “And here. Kind of….a little to the up and middle of your shoulder-blades, stretching down to here, on both sides.” Her fingers moved again, carefully gentle, and trailed a line down to maybe the middle of his torso. “It…looks pretty symmetrical.”

When she stopped talking, the silence resumed. He wasn’t at all sure what to say, and had to fight off the fear that gripped at his throat and made him feel increasingly breathless, increasingly – oh, but no, that was the…Sky-magic-thing, wasn’t it? He shivered, feeling the magic building in him closer and closer to that strange crisis point he’d reached earlier, not quite yet enough to hurt yet, but enough to make him want to gulp in air like he was drowning. And that was a thought, wasn’t it. “My back got worse when I used fulminis.” He admitted, a little hoarsely. “It was – almost like I could feel something moving. On my back.” He shuddered, all over, at the revulsion of the sense-memory.

She hesitated. “I’m…going to try pressing on it a little, alright? See if I can get any clues about what it is.”

He gritted his teeth, and nodded, bracing himself. “…Okay.” He said, grimly. “Do it.”

He exhaled roughly through his nose, stifling a cry, as she palpated one of the unnatural masses under his skin. It was unbelievably painful. It was beyond anything he’d ever felt. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on what she was saying, when she began to speak. “It’s…solid.” She informed him, voice a little choked. “Not just…bloody swelling or soft tissue or anything. I’m pretty sure there’s bone in there.” She prodded a little harder at one point, near the top end of a shoulder blade, where the distension was worst. “And there’s something at the top here, on both sides. Something sort of…a little pointy, poking at your skin.” She paused. “On the left, actually, there’s two little pointy spots.”

He shuddered, half with horror and half with pain. “What is it?” He asked at last, desperate, even though he knew she hadn’t any more idea than he did.

“…I don’t know.” She confessed, quiet, and drew her fingers away. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

He’d known that would be the answer. But it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

—

She located the nearby river, and brought him to its edge to make him drink. Then, carefully, she slathered cool-wet river silt against the hot agony of his back. It helped, a little, but not enough.

It was at least warm enough in the Xadian borderlands that it wasn’t too cold to go shirtless for such a long time, but when he’d tried to put a shirt back on, the pressure against the growing things under his skin was too much to bear. And they were growing. Rayla said she could practically see it, hour to hour, stretching his skin out until red-raw lines were drawn upwards to the peaks of the swelling. It felt like his skin was tearing every time he so much as moved a muscle, and she admitted that she wouldn’t be surprised if it really did start tearing soon.

Callum had thought, after that spell earlier, that the horror of his back was related in some way to the Sky Magic. It made him dread the way that the energy built up in his blood, the way his lungs started feeling too-full again, too full to breathe. He lingered on the edge of the suffocation, gasping frantically again, until Rayla clutched at his hand and said “Just cast another spell, Callum. It helped last time.”

“Last time,” He huffed, light-headed and fearful, “it made my back worse. Don’t want-“ He paused to gasp in six more frantic breaths. “Don’t want to get worse again.”

She shifted, uncertainly. “It…might not be because of that.” She said, though she didn’t sound especially convinced by even her own words. “It could be something else.”

He snorted amidst the feeling of his lungs straining, straining almost as much as the distended skin of his back. Tearing and stretching and- “Like what?”

“…Dark magic?” She suggested, though only half-heartedly. “That’s actually unnatural.”

“I think I’d have-“ He gulped air. “I’d have noticed if – Lord Viren – or Claudia – turned into – hunchbacks, Rayla.“

She watched him gasp, increasingly anxious, and finally snapped “Callum, you can’t breathe. Even if it does make your back worse – you have to cast something!”

He didn’t answer, and remained steadfast in his avoidance for about another minute of gasping for breath around straining lungs before he got light-headed and faint enough to agree with her. Torn two-ways by fear, he raised a finger and drew aspiro. He barely had enough breath to whisper it, but it was enough. The terrible over-pressure of breath and magic gusted out of him, potentiated into the purpose of the spell, rushing through his body and – and out three channels. One, his mouth, breathing the spell, and the other two-

The pain leapt and tore and burned.

Something gave way.

He wasn’t aware of much more than screaming, the seconds after he cast the spell, but when he regained some measure of awareness….the pressure of the magic was quiescent again, and…the pressure in his back had lessened, just a little, too. There was something warm dripping down his spine.

“…Okay, you’re right, it’s definitely the Sky magic doing it.” Rayla said, voice tight, and he realised that she’d been squeezing one of his hands the whole time.

“…My back,” he started, a little numbly, and tried to use his other hand to reach behind, to feel… “I’m – am I bleeding?”

She hesitated, nodded, and then dropped his hand to go have a better look. “The poking-bits have…” She swallowed, looking a little green, and turned aside for a few seconds to suppress a gag. “Well, they’ve gone through your skin, now. They’re…pointy. Whatever’s under your skin is bigger, too.”

He closed his eyes, and drew his fingers away from his back bloodied at the tips. “…right.”

Rayla had to take several more deep calming breaths before she could investigate further. “At least we’re next to a river.” She said, determinedly, and ushered him to the water again. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

True to her words, she cleaned the blood from his back, of which there was quite a lot, draining from the blood-swollen tissues around the distension. With some of the pressure relieved, it…actually hurt a fair bit less, but it was still awful. And then, with the bleeding stopping, and his back clean, Rayla made her assessment of what had poked through his skin.

“There’s four. I think?” She said, poking at each of them in turn. “Small. Black and sharp. They look like claws.” She hesitated, and poked at the swelling behind the claw-things. “I think they’re on…I don’t know, fingers? Two on each side. And something underneath.” She frowned, and prodded something a little more purposefully. He felt something under his skin move aside from the pressure, and he shuddered. “…Definitely something underneath these.” She concluded.

He was silent for a while, processing that. “So, what.” He said, finally. “Am I growing a couple of weird clawed extra arms, or something?”

“Arms,” She muttered, almost scornful, and leaned away to shuffle around to his side again. “Honestly, Callum, if it wasn’t for the claws – and for them being all the way up on your shoulders-“ She stopped.

He eyed her, curiosity piqued, despite the ongoing pain. “What?”

Rayla frowned. “Sky elves.” She said, without preamble. “Skywing elves. Some of them have wings, you know.”

He stilled, and it felt like his heart stilled too.

“…But they have their wings lower down – sort of mid-back, underneath their shoulders and arms. And they don’t have claws on them.” She exhaled. “And they’re born with them, anyway, so – it’s not like-“ She waved her hands towards his back, very expressively.

Callum stared at her, his gut uncertain whether it was twisting or fluttering. “…I wasn’t born with an arcanum.” He reminded her. “But I got one anyway.”

She sighed, looking as uncertain as he’d ever seen her. “I get your point.” She said. “And I suppose it would make more sense for you to be growing wings because of Sky magic than – than some weird clawed arms. But it’s – it’s not normal, Callum. I don’t know what’s happening to you.” She sounded almost hopeless, at that. Afraid.

Unthinkingly, he clutched at her hand again. Squeezed it to reassure her, for once. “…well, whatever it is, we’ll probably find out soon.” He said, uncertain how he quite felt about that. “It’s been, what, half a day since I got my arcanum? It’s going fast.”

She glanced at him, side-long. “Magic speeds it up.” She noted, and he went still again at the implication.

“…You want to make it go even faster?” He said, aghast.

She shrugged. “Not want, but…it’s probably an option.” Her eyes slid over his shoulders again. “Where those claws came through…it’s healing quickly. Magic-fast, even. If you keep waiting until you need to cast a spell again…you’ll probably just keep tearing your back open.”

He shifted uncertainly. “I don’t know, Rayla. Maybe it’d be faster to just…cast a load of spells and get it over with – whatever it is, but…” He shuddered, at the mere thought of it. How much would it hurt, to have his skin roil and tear and peel away as the things on his back grew and grew and tore their way out of his skin all at once?

Rayla watched him, anxious but sympathetic, and squeezed his hand back. “…Let’s go to sleep, then.” She said, finally, glancing up at the growing gloom of the evening. “See how it looks in the morning.”

He exhaled, and nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

—

He slept on his front, with his shirts and jacket draped over him like blankets. Zym curled up beside him, pressed to his side, and wormed his way underneath Callum’s arm until he deigned to hold it around the little dragonling. He wondered if Zym was missing Ez. He wondered what Ez would think of the somethings growing beneath his skin. He wondered a lot of things, thoughts whirling and spinning around themselves, until he finally managed to slip asleep.

It didn’t last. He might have expected pain to wake him, but instead, it was the magic. He woke breathless and gasping, some hours into the night, chest tight and lungs swollen as the magic built in him to the point of pain again. He stumbled upright, dislodging Zym and waking Rayla, who sat straight up and rubbed her eyes, blinking blearily at him.

“Callum?” She asked, groggily, eyes settling onto his shoulders. “Y’alright?”

“Breath,” he explained, his whole upper back straining as he moved, and he turned aside to draw the zig-zagging shape of fulminis.

Just as before, the aimless magic in his body shifted and awakened and moved. Unlike before, barely any of it left his fingers. The lightning-bolt that emerged was thin and sparking and did not travel very far at all, spilling only the barest smell of ozone into the air, and instead – instead, all of that electric energy surged into his back as though to a lightning-rod, and it writhed.

He cried out with pain, Zym squeaking in fright and Rayla shuffling over to grip his hand, and familiar hot-wet spilled down his back again. Something had torn, again, more than yesterday, much more-

Callum reached back, to feel, to find out what had come through – and nearly vomited at the feeling of finding something small and limp and blood-wet and firm hanging out of the skin there. It was warm. Warm like a limb. Warm like a living thing – but wet and tacky and too-soft, like the thin weeping skin under a blister. On the end of the horrible hanging thing was something small and sharp. The claw.

So…the ‘fingers’, that the claws were apparently on. One on that side, and….he checked…two had torn free on the right hand side. The second on the left was still under his skin. And…wait.

Was that a third? He checked the other side, found something much like it in the distended shape of his skin, and felt his breath stutter with horror.

“That’s horrible.” Rayla told him, looking pale and a little green, as his fingers trailed blood over his upper back. There was so much pain now that it felt almost like he’d passed through it, to some numb other-side where nothing felt right and his thoughts were strange and scrambled.

“Mmhm.” He agreed, a little vacantly, moving one of the clawed-things between his fingers. It felt like a finger, slim and bony, even if the skin was all wrong and it was covered in blood and had torn its way out of his flesh-

“We need to clean you up again.” Rayla said, decisively, and moved to herd him over to the water again. He could hardly see anything around them, given the time of night, but the moon was past half-full and cast just about enough light to see by.

“…Wait.” He said, after a moment, and her fingers stilled on his arm. He breathed, not-quite-awake and not-quite-coherent, uncertain if he just hadn’t woken up properly, or if the pain had just…disconnected him from a proper feeling of consciousness. “You were right. I should just…get this over with. It’s not going to stop. So…I should just…” He squeezed his eyes shut.

Cautiously, she took his hand, and pulled him to his feet. “Are you sure?”

“No.” he admitted. “But I don’t want to keep waking up and – having to cast a spell and tear myself open again. Once these….whatever, once they’re out, it should be better. Right?”

“…Well, in theory, you won’t have anything trying to break out of your skin anymore.” She said, dubious, and a little wary. “So, I guess?”

He sighed. “This is going to suck.”

“It’ll also be pretty bloody, I think.” She nodded, looking as though she were trying not to think about it too hard. “So let’s get you to the water for this anyway.”

Once they were there, and Rayla had washed some of the blood off to see the new developments with his back, she reported on the state of things and confirmed his uneasy sense-impression of what he’d felt through his skin.

“It’s grown in the night.” She said, of the distension as a whole. “One of the clawed…fingers…is still under your skin. And…” She shivered, close enough to his side that it made the fabric of her sleeve brush against his shoulder. “And, I think there’s…three. Fingers, I mean, on each one. The third ones are still…inside your back.” Her eyes squeezed briefly shut, as if to forcefully expel the image from her mind as well as her eyes.

“…Thought I felt something like that.” He said, quiet and pale, mind too numb with shock and pain to offer much more than delirious dread. He had felt something that felt disturbingly like another digit, underneath the right-hand two that had torn out.

Rayla looked side-long at him, hesitating. “…Honestly, Callum? It might hurt less if – if we cut it, instead of letting your skin rip open.” Zym, who seemed to understand them quite well, quailed at the words, crooning and shrinking back.

He blinked, startled, not having thought of that. “With one of your swords, you mean?” He asked, and reached to the side to pat Zym on the head. After a second, he drew the little dragon into his lap. He wasn’t a human kid, maybe, but this was still kind of more gore than he was comfortable with Zym seeing. If he was in his lap…he at least wouldn’t see it.

At his words, though she seemed distinctly sickened at the notion, Rayla nodded.

It was probably a bad sign that he found the idea a relief. The clean cut of a blade seemed so much more merciful than skin strained to tearing. “Good idea.” He said, and wondered at how swiftly his life had gone weird, to make such a thing a sensible and merciful option.

Still, she hesitated, hand on the hilt of one of the weapons hung at the small of her back. “…Now?” She asked, unhappily. “Or when you cast the spell?”

He considered it. “….during the spell.” He decided, reluctantly. “That way we can get it all done at once.” Nausea rose in his throat, and he carefully swallowed it away.

Rayla shuddered. “…Alright.” She said, visibly steeling herself, and he heard the shnk of her blade assembling as she moved behind him. A couple of weeks ago, he’d have done nearly anything to keep her blades away from him, and now he was inviting them. The world was mad. “Go ahead.” She said, and lowered the tip of the blade against his skin, cold and sharp, just below the protruding left digit. He braced himself, and raised a hand.

Fulminis was somewhat easier to deal with, since he didn’t need to do any gusty exhaling for it, so he drew its rune crackling in the air. This time, when he spoke it, there was no well of expanding magic pooling and stretching him out from within – instead, it coursed in from the Sky, that inner-spark of the arcanum opening and welcoming it in. A little of it went to its proper place, coursing along his arm, but only a thin crackle and a few sparks emerged. The rest…

It surged to his back, and at once, the flesh beneath his skin swelled and grew and roiled, pressing and stretching and expanding into a searing, tearing pain. And then-

The sword was sharp. Incredibly so. There was barely any resistance at all as it parted his skin and the thin layers of flesh below it – it was so sharp and clean a cut that for a second, it almost didn’t hurt. He gritted his teeth and hissed and gasped, but even then – even then, there was such a relief to it. He could feel the horrible straining pressure easing even as the magic of the spell coursed in and in and in, even as the somethings under his skin grew, and grew, and finally-

Where Rayla had made the cut on the left, something spilled loose. Something heavy and fleshy and soft, limp and bloody, dropped out of the open wound and thumped wetly against his back. He heard Rayla gag, and felt nausea surge in his own throat at the mere feeling of it, but – she stayed her course, and moved her blade over to the right to repeat the cut.

The energy of the spell ebbed, even as the cut widened and the incredible relief repeated for the other thing, the wet meaty limb spilling down along his back in a trail of blood and gore. He clenched his fingers in Zym’s mane, stomach roiling. Voice hoarse, he asked “Is it all out?”

She gagged again, but answered anyway. “Think so.” She said, shakily, and moved to the side to wash her hands and blade in the water. “Feel for yourself.”

He wasn’t really sure he wanted to. Even the sensation of the things, wet and warm down his back, was viscerally disgusting, and his throat already felt fluttery with nausea. Still, though, he couldn’t quite restrain the morbid curiosity, and moved one hand from Zym’s back to feel around at his own.

His hand landed on something warm and wet and sticky. The skin was…thin, too thin, like something malformed and underdeveloped, and it was growing out of his body but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel his touch on it, it might as well have been – have been something else, something not-him, something alien, something parasitic, growing out of him-

He lurched forward and vomited, managing to avoid Zym entirely. The dragonling scurried out of his lap in a hurry, yipping with alarm, and stared at the puddle of sick with wide-eyed consternation. Then he looked over Callum’s shoulder, and shrank back.

“It wasn’t much nicer to watch it, believe me.” Rayla told him, dryly, as she came over to gently bring him over by the water, steering him with careful fingers at his arms. “Come on. Let’s clean you up. Wash your mouth out.”

He was entirely too shaken to make any sort of comeback, and just nodded, leaning forwards to slip his hands into the water and wash the blood off and then cup some water from further up-river to his mouth. He washed out and spat it to the side, even as Rayla gently set to work cleaning the blood off his back and the things with water and a few wet river-leaves. He still had open wounds, of course, and she muttered a little worriedly about getting river-water in them, but…in the end, it wasn’t as though they had anything to boil water in.

Finally, his back was apparently clean enough, and she patted him on his clammy-wet shoulder. “That’ll do it for tonight.” She said, tiredly. “Wish I could bandage you, but…”

“No bandages?” He guessed, and she nodded.

“No bandages.” She agreed. “You are healing already, though. It’s already scabbing around the…” Her voice went odd. “…limbs.” She decided, eventually.

“…So that’s definitely what they are?” He ventured, brow furrowed. He reached over his shoulder and found, indeed, that the cuts she’d made and the tears around the protrusion of the things were already near-firm with hard coagulation, even though she’d just been at him with water. It was astonishingly painless, compared to how it had been not fifteen minutes ago.

“Can’t you feel them?” She asked, after a moment. Tentatively, she reached out, and he could guess that she picked up one of the limbs by the lessening of the sensation of weight, pulling at his shoulders.

He shook his head, unsettled. “I can’t feel them at all.”

Rayla grimaced, and then, not looking terribly pleased about it, gently manoeuvred the thing down and around to his side, so that he could actually see it. He twisted to stare at it, morbidly fascinated, the nausea lessened now that he’d already vomited.

“That’s gross,” he noted, almost fascinated now, and made a face as he reached out to touch it. It was warm, and that was even more disgusting, somehow.

She let it fall into his hand, and he inspected it. There was a joint at the end, like a wrist joint, with something that wasn’t really a hand hanging there limply. There were, at any rate, three digits, all of which clawed. The first digit was half the length of the second, which itself was half the length of the third. All of them had as many joints as a normal finger would, but the proportions were all wrong – stretched-out and heinously alien, not even close to human. With a raw, shocked sort of apathy, he took the shortest in his fingers and bent it, pressing the sharp point of the claw against his thumb.

“…Is there an elbow joint?” He asked, though he was already checking. In short order he felt along the limb and found it, and hummed pensively at the discovery. Oddly, the discovery of the joints made him feel a little better about it. The limbs were disgusting, and he couldn’t feel them, and he hadn’t asked for them, and it wasn’t even slightly normal to grow two extra limbs on his back – but, at the very least, they had an almost soothing structural similarity to his arms. An elbow and a wrist and a hand each. It was a paltry thing to be comforted by, but it was something.

“You really can’t feel them?” Rayla checked, again, fingers reaching tentatively out to poke at the limb in his hand. He could guess what she felt, when she touched it, by how it felt on his own hands: warm and somehow tacky, even with all the blood washed away. The skin didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like normal skin – it was….thin. Delicate, in an alarming way that made him feel he could rip it with the slightest pressure. Like he would rip it, if he weren’t very very careful. “They look…sore.”

“It’s just my back that hurts, around them.” Callum said, making a face at the two alien fingers on one of his new limbs. His new, limp, utterly insensate limbs. “I can’t feel any of this. It’s like-“ he swallowed against the taste of acid, against the shape of the thoughts that had horrified him earlier. “It’s like it’s – not even me. Just…something growing out of me.”

Rayla shuddered at that too – and for a long moment, he was suddenly, overwhelmingly grateful that she was here with him. Here to help him, here to empathise with the visceral horror of what was happening to him, just…here.

“Maybe that’ll change.” She said, softly, and he wasn’t actually sure whether he agreed or not.

If he never felt anything from them – if they stayed these disgusting, insensate things hanging from his body…that would almost be easier to deal with. At least then he could…look into getting them cut off, or something. But if he could feel them – if they really did become a part of him, these things that were on his back but shouldn’t be – that was somehow a whole lot scarier. What would that even mean? “…I don’t even know what they are.” He said, a little plaintively. “I don’t even know why they’re growing. No one else grows weird gross extra limbs from their backs like this.”

“No one else gets a sparkly new arcanum years and years after they’re born, either.” She pointed out, and he huffed, reminded of what she’d said before.

“So, what? Are they arms? Useless featherless wings? Something else?” He questioned, looking down at the disturbing tiny hand-joint thing she was still gingerly holding. Three-fingered, it looked nothing like a proper human hand – not even an elf hand – and the proportions were all wrong.

“If it’s an arm, it’s not like any I’ve ever seen.” She answered, after a moment, peering along the wrinkly too-thin skin, as if she were looking for something. “As for wings…I don’t know. I’ve never seen a Skywing without feathers, but…I’ve never seen the wings of a baby, either. Pretty sure they’re not born with feathers, so…”

“Too early to tell?” he suggested, and she shrugged helplessly at him. He sighed, and inspected the limb as best he could by moonlight. “Well, I guess it does look kind of…baby-skin-ish.” He concluded. “Like newborn baby-skin, I mean – all red-looking and wrinkly and gross.”

“…Well, they’re developing fast.” She said, dubious, and withdrew her fingers from the senseless skin. “Maybe they’ll look less gross and sore-looking and wrinkly by morning.”

Callum wondered, for a brief and distant moment, as if he should maybe be a little bit put-off by her using those descriptors, even though she was mostly just quoting him. After all, these new…things…were ostensibly part of his body, so shouldn’t he feel defensive about their appearance?

But he didn’t. All he felt was a sincere echo of her own sentiments and her own disgust as he looked at the limp thing in his hand. It didn’t feel like a part of him. It didn’t feel like a part of him at all.

His gut twisted, and he shivered. “Maybe.” He said, a little tightly, and dropped the limb. It dropped back down, sagging against his back with the other one. A small, insistent part of him was screaming to get them off, in an instinctive revulsion he couldn’t quite manage to displace. He swallowed against the nausea again, and tried to put the thoughts aside.

Rayla looked at him, for a long moment that he spent mostly trying to wrestle his gut into some semblance of good behaviour. He’d really like it if his stomach would stop roiling at every reminder of the things that had burst out of his upper back. “…If you think you can, it’d be a good idea to try to get to sleep.” She offered, eventually. “It’s still the middle of the night – and we have a long way to go.”

He frowned….but nodded, reluctantly. “I don’t know if I can.” He admitted, and thought the reasoning needed little explanation. “But I’ll try, I guess.”

As if encouraged by the words, Zym took that opportunity to butt his head under Callum’s hand, crooning a little when the motion automatically earned him some scritches around the horns. The little dragonling looked up at him in a way that suggested he was entirely ready for some nap-time, preferably with a large warm cuddle-buddy.

Zym hadn’t been this touch-hungry before, he didn’t think. Not when Ezran was here. Still…

Callum smiled, gentle affection replacing the churning in his gut, and reached out to hoist Zym into his arms as he stood. The new limbs swayed and slapped a little against his back as he moved, but he tried not to think about that.

“If nothing else, Zym definitely needs sleep.” He said, and tucked the dark blue dragon-wings neatly under his arms. Zym craned his neck backwards, trying to look at him, and then broke into a sharp-toothed yawn. In the contagious way of yawns, he was returning it a second later, abruptly more tired by all the pain and stress than he’d realised.

“Looks like Zym isn’t the only one.” Rayla observed, lips twitching, and then ushered him gently over to where they’d been sleeping.

Laying down took some arrangement, this time. He had to avoid laying on the new limbs, and somehow manoeuvre them into a comfortable position despite not being able to feel or move them. They were a strange, warm, foreign weight against his back. Eventually, Rayla took pity on him and tucked them inwards on his back, draping his jacket over him.

As a finishing touch, she picked up Zym, picked up his arm, and then planted the dragonling beneath it. Said dragonling chirped happily, and shoved his snout into Callum’s armpit. “Sleep.” She ordered him, or perhaps ordered them both, and slipped with a smile on her lips to lay just a little way beside him.

As unsettling as everything had been…it had been exhausting, too. He’d thought he’d stay up a long time, thinking about it all, but instead…

Instead, he closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost instantly.

—

End chapter.

Notes: This chapter is the bloodiest by far. There might be small bloody moments in the future, but from now on it’s just steadily decreasing amounts of body horror and drastically increasing amounts of inconvenience, indignity, and fluff. There’s also potential for a more complex magically-rooted plotline eventually, but it depends on what I plot out. Could just end up being a relatively straight s3 fic with wing-related divergence points, could be very very different. We’ll see.

I really do mean it when I say I’m going to go very in-depth with the wing biology stuff. This will, in places, be slightly gross. Callum may be done with most of his pain but I have so many other ways to make him suffer.

World notes: Magic works a bit differently in this AU, which is why Callum is growing wings. Callum’s wings are also very different to an elf’s, and to the mage-wings as seen in canon. Still, there will be a whole lot of wingfic stuff and wing-fluff, which I imagine many of us are very hungry for after s3.

Hope everyone enjoyed s3 as much as I did!

Feedback and kudos etc very much appreciated. Chapter 2 is mostly done, just need to adjust it for s3.

#the dragon prince s3 #tdp callum #tdp rayla #rayllum #wingfic #tdp fic #boundless

56 notes · View notes

mirkwoodshewolf · 5 years ago

Text

Mother dragon (12); Winchesters brothers x reader

*Author’s note*

Okay guys to make up the chapter of the BoRhap boys barely making an apperance besides Ben’s character, here is a makeup chapter and this time it’s longer chapter than the last one was so I hope that you guys enjoy it.

Warnings: Torture, drugs, blood, violence, death, the usual SPN warnings.

Taglist:

@psychosupernatural

@plethora-of-things

@ixchel-9275

@waddles03

@platawnic

@deanscroissant

@onebigfangirlworld

@izzyisavengersupernaturaltrash

______________________________________________________

*3rd Person POV*

Warren landed about a mile and a half away downwind of Percy’s mansion. He lowered his head and the brothers and Cas slide off of him.

“Thank you Warren.” Said Castiel.

‘His mansion is just a walk that way. But be warned, his acid spitters patrol the entire territory of his mansion. But if you do run into his dragons make sure to cover your scent.’

“Thanks for the warning. What will you do?”

‘Something I promised I wouldn’t do but have to. Otherwise I know he’ll kill me.’ It was then Warren took off flying back towards the den.

“And so what he’s just gonna leave us here?” Dean asked in a snappy tone.

“He’s gonna get help Dean. Dragons can easily detect other dragons based off of smell, had he stayed it would’ve been like a beacon in the dark. It’s best he left when he did.”

“Okay so we just walk from here on out?”

“For the next mile yeah. But we need to watch out. Percy’s dragons patrol this part of the territory. We need to move quickly, quietly and hopefully undetected.” The brother’s nodded and they proceeded to walk the mile and a half to the mansion.

*My POV*

When I woke up, the first thing I felt was just this splitting headache and my vision was incredibly blurry. No matter how many times I blinked or tried to shake my head of it, my vision kept going in and out.

“Seems our little hunter is awake.” Damn it Percy. Now I remember what happened, son of a bitch drugged me with something in that damn needle of his. “Now what do you say we start over my dear? Like tell me your real name? And what exactly you were doing at the dragon’s nest?”

“I—don’t know about no dragon nest.” I groaned as I kept hearing this high pitched ringing in my ear.

“Oh don’t lie to me girl!” he hissed. Then I saw a tv click on and for a split second I saw me holding my dagger and the video paused on my face. “Along with injecting their own venom so that I can control them, my dragons’ come with a video surveillance collar. No one has been able to kill those acid spitters, not even other dragons. So what makes you so special to kill probably the most dangerous of dragon species?”

I just looked up at him and told him.

“A good set of balls.” It was then I felt a hard slap across my face before feeling another needle injection in my neck. I groaned and hissed as my vision got more blurry.

“I’m surprised you managed to wake up from just a slight dose of acid spitter venom, let’s see what a full dose does to you?” At this point I began seeing hallucinations and flashbacks of my parent’s dying and the vampires that killed them surrounding me as they taunted me.

“It’s all your fault.”

“You’re the reason your parents died.”

“You should’ve protected them.”

“You’re weak.”

“Not only will we kill your friends but also that precious son of yours.”

“No….no you….shut up. Shut up shut up shut up! SHUT UP!!!”

*3rd Person POV*

Sam, Dean and Castiel were just about to reach the mansion when Cas saw the familiar shape of an acid spitter climbing down one of the trees.

“Get down.” He quietly hissed. The three of them soon hid behind underneath some large uprooted roots of one of the trees and they saw as the acid spitter came down on the ground.

It softly growled as it turned its head from side to side almost as if it sensed them somehow. Then it reared it’s head back and let out that god awful raptor-like cry which made the three hunter cringe as it then roared out. Soon enough another acid spitter came flying in and the two of them chirped and growled at each other, communicating to each other.

“Now how the hell are we supposed to get by them?” asked Dean. It was then Sam saw a good patch of dirt.

Taking out the holy water from his pocket he dumped the whole container into the mud and swished his hands around it till the soil got wet and muddy.

“Here, cover yourselves up with mud.” Sam whispered as he dipped his hand into the mud and began to smear it over his face.

“Sammy this is no time to play boy scout.”

“No Dean he’s right. Warren said if we want to get past those dragons’, we need to have our scent covered.”

“And (y/n) always said that covering yourself in mud blocks your sweat and scent. That’s how she’s survived everything she had to go through.”

“Okay, okay fine. Fine.” Dean then took out his holy water flask and dumped it near a patch of dirt closest to him. Once it was muddy, both he and Cas covered their faces, necks, arms, and hands in mud trying to block off their scent.

They even patted around their clothes and then once they were done, Cas peeked over to see the dragons still there. One quickly turned towards them but Cas ducked back before it could spot him.

“Alright, keep low and follow me.” Cas then crawled towards the nearby shrub trail and soon the three of them crawled slowly and quietly past the dragons, who at that point were walking on the other side of the shrubs sensing that something was close.

Hearing the haunting hisses and the low purrs, it sent shivers even up Castiel’s spine. Sure he had dealt with a dragon or two whenever he was forced to come down to Earth during the Medieval ages, but never has he dealt with dragons like these. He didn’t even think he’d even have the power to kill dragons like these.

As soon as one of the yowled out, the boys stopped and kept low among the shrub, fearing that if they moved another inch, it would hear them. On the other side of the shrubs, the dragon in front walked before tapping one of it’s front leg onto the ground, almost as if sensing something was close but it couldn’t picture out where.

It looked over the shrub but didn’t see anything as it continued to growl and snarl before it was called out by its partner. Once they knew it was safe, Cas led the brothers onward again, while at the same time on the other side, the two acid spitters walked the opposite way.

Once they reached the end of the shrubs, Cas peeked out and he was surprised to see the dragons were now gone. He didn’t even hear their wings flap away much like he could hear Deacon’s or the rest of his nests.

“They still out there?” asked Sam. Cas shook his head but his face held nothing but confusion.

“I don’t know either these dragons are very smart or very dumb.” Said Dean.

“We’ll have to be cautious. I think we’re about a half mile from the mansion now. Come on.” Soon they took off running as swiftly and quietly as they could until they finally reached the over hill passage and they looked down to see the mansion dead ahead.

“So—this is Percy’s mansion?” asked Dean.

“Looks like it, I’m surprised there’s not a heavy artillery of guards around. I mean yeah he’s got some dragons but surely he doesn’t just rely on them. Especially when he hunts and kills dragons.” Said Sam.

“Dragons, humans I don’t care what this son of a bitch has got. All I know is that he’s got (y/n) and we need to get her out of there. Who knows what she’s going through in there.”

“We’ll get her out Dean. By any means necessary.” Said Cas.

*My POV*

God I was—I don’t know whether to count myself as high or delusional but all I did know was that I was out of it. From the vampires that killed my family, seeing the ghosts of my parents telling me their disappointment, as well as seeing the spirits of everyone that had died because of me from my time with the Winchester.

But if I had to say the worst thing that I was seeing from my hallucinations was it felt like I was now in a tight glass coffin and standing over me was my son Deacon in his dragon form. However there was no kind, sweet eyes.

I was looking into the eyes of a real dragon as he sniffed around the glass coffin and stared down at me with sharp, soulless golden eyes.

His head hovered right over my coffin and almost like the scene with the T-Rex from the first Jurassic Park film, he broke the top part of the glass coffin and roared down at me trying to actually eat and devour me whole.

I screamed bloody murder as he tried repeatedly over and over to try and get to me. When that didn’t work, he resorted to tipping the table I was strapped to over. I felt the hard jostle and I shrieked and squirmed trying to free myself but it was futile. Then the second time I was immediately flipped over and landed flat on my face. I whimpered and sobbed hysterically as I begged for Deacy to snap out of it and see that it was me, his mummy.

But all he did was try to come at me again. His canines bared out as he growled and hissed.

*3rd Person POV*

While sitting on the other side of the window, Percy observed (y/n) tossing and turning as well as screaming in absolute terror.

“Her heartrate and brain activity is off the charts. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before from being injected with the acid spitter’s venom. At this point I’m not even sure if she’ll die or not.” Said Doctor Zemo.

“There’s something off about her. Not to mention she keeps mentioning the Alpha’s name. Keep observing her, I’ll be back.” Percy said as he walked away. Doctor Zemo kept a watchful eye over her, recording her data onto his record books for further research.

Meanwhile Sam, Dean and Castiel finally managed to make it past the acid spitters and a line of Percy’s dragon hunters and trappers all lined along the corridor.

“We’re not gonna ask again bud. Now tell us where our sister is?” sneered Dean. He had one of the male dragon trappers pinned against the wall after Cas had broken both of his arms so that he was now unable to reach for a gun or even radio for help.

“Go…..to….hell!” the blonde trapper hissed.

“Been there pal, dozens of times and frankly they ain’t got nothing on us right now. So tell us where she is or we’ll have our angel friend fry your brain to a puddle.” Sam snapped. Castiel stepped forward and placed his hand on the trapper’s head and as his eyes glowed blue ready to evaporate the trapper’s brain and burn his eyes out, the trapper succumbed and said.

“THE LAB! THE LAB! PERCY TOOK HER DOWN TO THE LOWER LAB LEVELS FOR TESTING! He wanted to find out just how she was able to kill one of his dragons and why she wore that suit of dragon skin.”

“Thank you. For your cooperation.” Dean smirked smugly as he patted the trapper’s cheek. Then at the flick of a switch, Dean stabbed the hunter in the chest. As his body collapsed Dean shook his head and he muttered. “Like I’ve always told you. Give me a monster to deal with anytime. People—hell no. They’re experimenting her like some kind of lab rat.”

“Well at least we know where she’s at. Now let’s go before Percy sends in more of his lackies to stop us.” Soon the three hunters ran down towards the lower levels of the mansion until they reached an elevator.

“Huh? Is there anything this guy doesn’t have?” asked Dean as they all got into the elevator and Sam pressed the button for the basement levels. They waited and waited until finally the elevator dinged and they soon ended up staring down an endless metal corridor.

“So do we—just run ahead or…..” started Sam.

“I think I might know where she is.” Said Cas as he once again took the lead and the brothers followed him.

Doctor Zemo who was currently in (y/n)’s room jotted down some final notes before packing up his things. As soon as he left the room, he looked to his right and saw the Winchester’s and Castiel standing there.

Frightened, he quickly took off running and Dean cried out.

“Hey stop!” But before Dean could run ahead to grab the doctor, Cas stopped him and he said.

“She’s in there.” Sam was the first to head in and there he was horrified to see (y/n) strapped onto a metal table. Her eyes were bloodshot and red ringed.

“Men of letters……Winchesters and angel of the lord Castiel…..”

“(Y/n), (y/n)? Oh my god what has he done to you? Cas!” Cas came over and he didn’t like the looks of this.

“She’s been drugged.”

“With what? LSD? Morphine? Seleucidan?” asked Dean.

“Acid spitter venom. See the rash markings on her neck?” Cas gently turned her head aside and there the boys saw a palm-sized black rash marking on her neck.

“Is she gonna die?”

“That’s the thing. She should’ve died after just one injection. At this point she must’ve been drugged 3-4 times.”

“Can you save her?” asked Sam desperately.

“I can try, but this is something even out of an angel’s league.” Cas then touched both of (y/n)’s temples and began to heal her. Both her temples glowed as well as Cas’ hands. The brothers watched nervously and anxiously as the angel healed their sister. It must’ve been—who knows how long before finally (y/n)’s soulless eyes started to gain some life back.

*My POV*

I saw nothing but darkness after my hallucinations. No idea what I must’ve said, probably babbled about some things or maybe confessed everything who knows.

But I then saw a bright light. Am I—Am I finally dead? Am I going to heaven? But why? I thought I was damned for hell just for being a hunter?

When my vision finally came back into focus, I saw the three familiar figures of Sam, Dean and Cas.

“Sam? Dean? Cas?” I croaked out. My voice was scratchy as hell from lack of water and from my constant screaming earlier.

“Hang in there (n/n) we’re gonna get you out of here. Sammy help me get these damn straps off of her.” I then felt the tug and pull of the triple leather straps Percy had on my wrists and ankles. I looked up to Cas and he stroked down my head.

“Warren?” I croaked out.

“He came and told us. And he brought us here to get you out of here. He’s safe.” I closed my eyes and once I felt my limbs were finally free.

“C’mon kid stand up. Can you walk at all?” asked Dean as both he and Cas helped me sit up.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay, let’s test it. One, two three, up.” Both Dean and Cas picked me up and set my feet onto the floor but almost immediately I felt myself leaning forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa easy, easy, easy. Okay she can’t walk. Not without us. Here get her on my back.” Sam knelt down and Dean placed her on his little brother’s back. Sam held (y/n) under her knees and hand her arms wrapped around his neck. “Alright let’s get the hell out of here.”

“I can teleport us back to the den once we get out to the woods.” Said Cas.

“Alright come let’s go.” Said Dean as he was the first to race out of the torture room, then Cas and finally Sam and I.

Just as we made it outside and before we could even reach the woods, we were stopped by one of Percy’s acid spitters. Soon two more came from the corners and surrounded us before finally a fourth one came right behind us, trapping us in a deadly circle.

It was then a spotlight suddenly shined on all four of us and a voice came out through some speakers.

“The Winchester brothers, and the angel Castiel. I must say I have heard a lot about you three.” Percy soon came up along the balcony of his room as he stared us down. I also saw how all of his trappers and hunters also surrounded us with their military weapons ready to fire at us.

“I take it you’re Percy.” Dean proclaimed.

“Seems my name’s famous even across the seas.”

“More like infamous.” Sam stated.

“Oh now Sam darling, no need to be so crude.”

“You kidnapped our sister. I got no reason why I shouldn’t Captain hook!” Dean exclaimed.

“Well I could give you four a warning, let you go but then again Americans usually are resilient little things. And resilience, means trouble.” He held his normal hand up and a snap rang out loud and clear.

The dragons surrounded us, hissing and baring their fangs. Sam set me down and stood in front of me, while Dean and Cas got on either side of me, forming a protective wall around me. The dragon in front of us huffed and slowly crawled closer and closer before getting ready to fire at us.

Just before it could spit out it’s acid, suddenly a dragon tackled it onto its side and went for a bite straight into the head. The dragon squirmed underneath the larger dragon but it wasn’t until I saw the familiar horns and pattern-like skin that I knew who exactly was attacking the acid spitter.

It was Stephen. He tore the spitter’s head off before tossing it aside and he turned towards us, his pupils recited to a sharp point.

‘Go! Run!’ I heard his voice in my head and I’m sure the guys also heard it too. Suddenly he was tackled by two of the acid spitters. The three of them rolled along the ground till finally Stephen revealed his four wings and began flying in the air sending the other two after them.

But it was then suddenly shooting out from the trees like a snake striking its prey, Apophis in his dragon form grabbed one of the spitters and quickly wrapped it up so tightly that it couldn’t even move. Squeezing the life out of it till it drew it’s last breath.

As the next spitter got onto Apophis’ back and just before it could send it’s stinger into his skin, suddenly a fire ball shot out right onto the spitter’s side sending it off of Apophis’ back. I then heard the sound of two different wing flaps and soon coming down were Warren and Deacon.

Deacon shot a fire ring around the four of us protecting us from any oncoming threat as Warren went in and landed in front of us and firing right at Percy’s warehouse burning it down to the ground. Forcing the hunters and trappers to scatter everywhere. They tried to grab any weapon they could get their hands on, but with his whip-like tail Deacon tossed them either far into the woods or right into the burning warehouse.

The two remaining acid spitters leapt for Deacon but Warren managed to grab them both with his mouth. Getting a good grip onto them adjusting them into his mouth before finally delivering that last powerful bite to make them gurgle until finally lying limp.

Warren then discarded them towards the warehouse, and due to the force he threw them at, it created two large holes which only allowed the fire to explode out like a firework booming in the sky.

My son looked to his Beta in gratitude before Warren turned towards Percy. I could sense that Warren was wanting more bloodshed, especially from the hunter that had been hunting them for years. But Deacy stopped him and growled and huffed at him.

I watched as my son phased from his dragon form into his human state but kept his wings out as he flew towards Percy. Warren, Apophis and Stephen followed suit and soon the four of them all flew over Percy’s head.

*3rd Person POV*

Percy now was forced to look at the Big Four of the dragon’s nest he had been hunting down. He had encountered all four of these dragons in the past, but this was a first when all four of them were together like this. Truly seething with rage and a protective aurora.

The burning flames from his warehouse just enhanced the fire in their eyes, especially the Alpha’s whom he refused to break eye contact with.

“My Big Four. I am—honored that you four would come to see me so willingly.” None of them responded, only kept their glares set on the dragon trapper.

“One warning; If you ever come near the Winchester brothers, the angel or the woman again. There will be more to come that not even you can stop.” Stephen sneered lowly.

“I—am surprised my dragons. You do realize the Winchester brothers have killed a dragon before with the one thing that can kill your kind. The angel has killed thousands in his lifetime probably, and that girl—she’s probably just like me with her dragon suit of armor. Why would you care so much for dragon killers like them?”

“Because that girl is my mother!” Deacon snarled. It was then Percy began to realize something. He may be a hunter and come from a dragon hunting lineage, but he wasn’t stupid to the dragon laws.

And he knew the consequences of harming or even hunting the mother of the Alpha from the story of his great-great-great grandfather who made that fatal error.

“Mother.” He whispered as he turned towards the ring of fire to look right at (Y/n). “Forgive me Mighty Deacon.” He fell to his knees extending his arms out almost as if offering himself to the Alpha. “I—I had no knowledge of her being your mother. Had I known I would’ve never done what I did. Have mercy I beg of you.”

Deacon just stared him down before flying down towards him but keeping a distance from him. His tail came out and it quickly wrapped itself around Percy’s neck choking him.

He gasped for air and tried to escape the Alpha’s tail but Deacon just continued to glare soullessly down at the hunter who had killed many of his people.

“Stay. Away from my mother. Don’t track her down, or her family. And never let me hear you trying to find her again.” Percy nodded and groaned out.

“Yes Alpha, I swear it…..I’ll never touch her again.” With a thrust of his tail, Deacon tossed him down towards his room and that’s when Apophis said.

“Call off your army, any dragons you got left, and let us pass.”

“Less you want to see your precious mansion burn too.” Threatened Warren as he allowed his hand to burn up. It was then Percy spoke into the microphone.

“Stand down. Let them pass.”

“But sir—” cried one of the hunters only to be interrupted by Percy.

“LET THEM PASS!!” He then looked up at the Big Four once more and they flew back towards the ring of fire.

*My POV*

He was letting us go. Why? Why would he let us go so easily. I saw the boys flying back towards us changing back into their dragon forms.

Stephen grabbed Sam and Dean with the hooks of his two lowers wings allowing them to mount his back, Apophis wrapped his tail around Cas and hoisted him up onto his.

But now with them gone, I had no more support as I found myself collapsing to the ground. Until both Deacy and Warren were now flying over me.

Lowering their heads down towards me; Warren first gently nudged me like I was a newborn baby trying to get me to stand up. Deacy lay his head right in front of me as Warren kept gently nudging me to stand. Finally I at least managed to crawl and grab a hold around my son’s neck.

I pulled myself up and mounted on top of his head and he slowly took off from that position trying not to move his head around so much since he knew I was still fuzzy from the drugs.

Soon I felt nothing but the wind on my face and I saw Warren flying close behind Deacon as he looked down at me and nodded to me.

We were going home.

*3rd Person POV*

As Percy walked out to join the remaining trappers Doctor Zemo said.

“Why did you let them go like that?”

“I had too. Besides our Mother dragon will prove more useful out there than she will here.” It was then Percy pulled out a small device and turned it on to reveal a red dot on the move.

Smirking victoriously.

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ckret2 · 6 years ago

Text

Like Lover and Owner and Worshiper

anonymous asked: If you are still taking requests about Ghidorah... Can you make one where the monster is having admirer /human/ and he didn't killed her, because she is the only one who like him... Felt like I need something sweet like this :) thank you in advance :)))

So apparently read mores don’t work in asks anymore so this gets its own post! *jazz hands*

I kinda feel like u mighta wanted to ask for a reader insert but didn’t wanna say so lol; so in case u did I left the main character unnamed, so it could be anyone. (In my head it’s AU Vivienne Graham who’s really really into Ghidorah, because from now on all Sally Hawkins characters have a thing for monsters. BUT you can substitute in anyone.)

It’s slightly bittersweet—some relatively surface-level talk of going through Seasonal Affective Disorder because Antarctica, some Ghidorah being like really super absurdly lonely, some kinda obsessive levels of affection—but it’s mostly sweet.

This is gonna get proofed llllater because im tired but wanna get it out. There’s a high chance that some pronouns got messed up because nobody has names and the pronouns switch between viewpoint characters. feel free to lemme know if you spot any of those. (or any other typos. always open to typos.) but don’t feel obligated to since this ain’t proofed. EDIT: Hey this is proofed now!

###

Few people last very long at Monarch if their first instinct upon seeing a monster taller than the London Eye with claws and fangs longer than their own body isn't to whisper, "Magnificent."

"Isn't he?" Serizawa asked, beaming. "Or aren't they, perhaps I should say."

"You said there are three heads. I can only see two. Where's...?"

Serizawa pointed at each of the obvious golden blurs in turn, and then at a murky patch of ice with a spotlight trained on it. She saw nothing through it. "The ice is still too thick for us to see all three," he said. "But the scans have revealed the whole body. He has two tails, as well."

"Absolutely magnificent."

Aboveground, the only thing currently protecting the crevasse they'd dug to reach this frozen titan was a chainlink fence and two very cold guards. There were a few temporary trailers set up nearby, bright orange and flying black-and-white Monarch flags; winter was coming soon, and they'd either have to work fast to establish a base that would hold them through the winter when most other seasonal bases has shut down, or withdraw to an established base for the winter and monitor the site from a distance. Japanese Showa Station was within sight of the crevasse when the weather was clear—had been the ones to discover the titan underneath, in fact—and someone, certainly, was already working out how to arrange for Monarch to move a few operatives into their facility while navigating their strict policy of secrecy concerning titans.

But all of that coordinating wasn’t in the here and now. Here and now, there was only a golden titan, glittering faintly through the ice from the spotlights put on him, and she stared at the blur that was one of his heads in wonder. How long was it going to be until they'd carved and chipped away the ice, and she could see his scales and wings and all three serpentine necks and heads in all of their glory?

She couldn't wait.

She leaned as far as she could over the railing of the rickety scaffolding that had lowered her and Serizawa to look at the monster, and she brushed the tips of her gloved fingers against the ice.

###

They were used to being cold.

They spent most of their life cold, frozen in the heart of an asteroid they pulled around themselves like a cocoon, soaring from world to world, unconsciously aware of how gravity tugged on their body and how the shell around them changed temperature when exposed to sunlight, but not even dreaming.

It took so long to travel from world to world, longer to travel from star to star. Staring at the same pinprick of light for years without any noticeable progress toward it was enough to drive them mad, enough to make them feel like they were going blind from staring so long at the same point, enough to make their heads ring with the silence and the inability to hear their own roars, enough to make them bite and tear at their own necks just to feel something, even if they had to rip off one of their own heads in order to feel. And then they might lose sight of their star and be lost.

It was easier to sleep away the centuries.

They slept now, in the cold, still and immobile. Their unconscious mind was certain that they were sheltered in an asteroid, floating between the stars. Only a few things could wake them from a sleep like this.

One was the feeling of an impact, jolting them awake as they made planetfall. One was extreme heat, warning that they were drifting too close to a star and needed to crack free and fly to a safer distance before falling in. One was other minds, alien minds thinking and dreaming outside of their shelter.

They felt minds now.

Once upon a time, when they were new, they could tell what others were feeling. They had long lost all but a whisper of that sense. They didn't know if it was because they now moved only among alien minds too strange to comprehend, or if it was because isolation and mutation had atrophied the ability.

But when they slept between worlds, when their eyes and ears and noses and tongues were numb and their touch was muffled by the steady pressure of their frigid cocoon, they could again sense what the minds around them were feeling.

The minds they felt now weren't enough to stir them to full wakefulness. (They should have been; but they were not, as their sleeping minds assumed, in an asteroid cocoon, but something different and worse.) But the minds were enough to shake them from deep hibernation into a dazed doze, dully monitoring the small emotions floating around them.

They were the usual feelings of industrious aliens—focused and interested, occasionally fluctuating with the pleasures and sorrows and frustrations that came from the daily private dramas all thinking things had. When the aliens focused on them in their cocoon—they could always sense when someone was focused on them—they were interested, nervous, awed, wary.

Except one mind.

One mind was consistently rapturous.

Dazed and half-dreaming, the other minds were like distant starry pinpricks in infinite black space, maddeningly far away—but this one's rapture was like an approaching sun, rushing up to meet them, filling their tired body with warmth, bright and welcoming and heralding the end of a long journey.

When had their presence been welcomed with such joy? Such unrestrained bubbling glee and dizzy euphoria? They couldn't remember if they had ever been so welcome—not on any world. Paralyzing terror, helpless anger, sickening dread, those they were all used to, those they all enjoyed. Those feelings were a sort of rapture, to be sure—the sort of rapture inspired by a devil. Never had they been on the receiving end of a rapture that was like—like what, exactly? Admiration? Love? The feeling of gazing upon something divine.

It was so warm. So warm, in the cold.

###

Everyone at Monarch, of course, agreed that Monster Zero was spectacular. But she began to realize that most people meant that differently from her. Sure, everyone thought he looked cool. What wasn't to like about a three-headed golden dragon? But no one else was as... as enthralled with him as she was.

He worried them.

The first she realized how widely her opinions differed from her colleagues' was when she discussed how they were going to safely remove him from the ice, and everyone at the table looked at her in surprise. They had all taken it as a given that they'd leave him where he was—incased in ice that was shaved down enough to let them get a good look at him, but not removed, and given extra refrigeration so that their surrounding equipment and lights wouldn't cause the ice to melt further. She'd looked back at them in just as much surprise—surprise at herself for not thinking that obvious. Because of course they would leave him frozen. That was Monarch policy. Hibernating titans were left to hibernate: contained in whatever tomb they'd been found in.

That was what they had to do. They had no idea what his personality was like; they couldn't wake him. They shouldn't wake him.

Even so, the knowledge that she wouldn't get to see him fly was devastating.

Everyone else found the possibility of his flying to be somewhat alarming.

Her colleagues saw his fangs, his spined tails, his clawed feet, and saw only the damage they could do. When they mentioned how much taller he was than Godzilla, it wasn't with a sense of knee-weakening amazement at the sheer grand scale of him, but with the implication that on some level they were calculating proportionately how many more neighborhoods he'd crushed if he ever decided to go strolling in San Fransisco. When she fantasized about what he would look like flying, his wings stretched wide, his scales glinting in the sunlight, her colleagues imagined only the terrible storm his flight would summon.

Everyone had their favorite titan. Even though everyone was wary of the titans' strength and dedicated to ensuring that they never posed a threat to humanity, most of them—certainly all the scientists, the multitudes of biologists and zoologists and environmentalists—had been drawn to this line of work out of love and fascination. They all, to a greater or lesser extent, collectively adored these dangerous giants. And they all adored one or two more than the others.

Of course, they teased each other good-naturedly about their favorites. Serizawa, who refused to keep a plaque on his door listing his official position in Monarch, once showed up for his shift to find his office had a shiny new plaque reading "Godzilla Public Relations Department". Years ago, Ilene Chen had received a giant caterpillar doll for her birthday, which was later seen in possession of her sister—holding it up to the glass window in front of Mothra's egg as though she was showing it off, beaming—and later still in the possession of Dr. Russell's young daughter, who would sometimes carry it like a baby and sometimes use it in battle against her dinosaur toys.

As the most excited scientist in Antarctica, she quickly gained the nickname Fangirl Zero. Sometimes, when people inquired about her work, they'd ask how her "husbands" were doing. It was always good natured, always laughingly, and with the understanding that everyone had That One Titan and was open to ribbing for it.

Even at that, though, she was pleased that when people thought of her, they thought of Monster Zero.

###

They could track its mind. Wherever it went, wandering back and forth, they felt it. They knew where it slept, because they could sense its dreams. They knew the spot where it spent most of the day.

They knew when it thought about them. Its mind shined upon them like a flashlight, calling to them.

It was sometimes so near to them that, if they weren't in their asteroid, they could bend down and lick it. And it would stay there, near to them, for so long at a time.

When had they ever been so worshiped? Never—not in a way that was inspired by tremulous devotion rather than trembling dread. When had they ever been so adored? Never—not since they had become they, rather than one and one and one all separate, cooed over as a trio of precious clumsy newborns. When had they ever been so loved? Never, never, never.

They were graced with every point on the spectrum of unconditional glorification—the upward-gazing glorification of a worshiper to its god, the downward-gazing glorification of an owner to its beloved pet, the equal-level glorification of lover to lover. How could one mind hold so much glory inside it without exploding? The mere spillover nearly melted the cold from their limbs.

Their worshiper grew unwell from time to time. Its emotions grew tired and dull and unhappy and quiet, like a heavy weight was pushing its mood down from above. Even when it was thinking of them, its rapture didn't reach the euphoric heights it used to. Sometimes, when it was close to them, they could feel it trying to force itself to feel euphoria in their presence. It rarely worked.

Every once in a while, it would leave. If they focused hard, they could tell where it went, feel its mind curving away in a long arc as it crossed the surface of the planet. When it settled somewhere almost halfway around the world, they were seized with an unconscious grief. The only consolation was that they could tell it still thought about them. Its worship was a star twinkling far away.

It left because something had been pushing down on its mind. They wished that they could sing for it. As their ability to hear emotions had atrophied, they had instead gained the ability to speak emotions. It took them a long time to figure out the exact notes to sing in order to change a new alien's mind, to enthrall and control it, to make it feel what they wanted it to feel. But unless they reduced a world to ash faster than they could puzzle out the native minds, they always did figure it out. They didn't want to control this mind, though. They didn't need to. They only wanted to turn the coffin lid pressing down on its emotions into a vaulted ceiling again. Maybe it wouldn't have had to leave, if they could have sang for it.

But after a while, it came back to them, happier again.

And so they didn't fear the next time it left.

###

During her lunch breaks and when she was off-duty, she would frequently bundle up and sit in a folding chair near his ice, gazing up at him, studying his faces, wings, scales. She'd sometimes bring books and read to him—if anyone gave her a quizzical look, she'd laugh and say she couldn't help but think he must be lonely in the ice. Oftentimes they were myths about dragons, hydras, and serpents, often sent to her by Dr. Chen as she tried to find more historical sightings of Monster Zero. She'd read him a story and then ask him whether it was true, false, or about a different titan entirely. She'd tell him about paintings they found that seemed to depict him fighting against Godzilla, and ask whether that was him or just another titan that looked like him, and what his relationship with Godzilla had been like. Of course he didn't answer. That was fine. She felt like, somehow, he knew she was there.

Nothing made her happier than working in the same facility as Monster Zero.

It made her almost as happy as Antarctica made her unhappy.

Sunlight was indirect and at times of the year sparse. Even in the summer, the temperature barely ever rose to zero. And except for a few quick, frigid walks she sometimes made herself take for her own mental health, she got very little of what sunlight was available. Almost all of her time was spent in Outpost 32, deep in ice. Even when she slept in her heated room under her many blankets, she could still feel the distant chill pressing in on her bubble of warmth, looking for a way to make her cold.

Most Monarch staff had their permanent assignments somewhere farther north, cycling through Antarctica for a shift of one or two months roughly every couple of years. Nobody wanted to be in the frozen, barren, dark tundra; nobody wanted to share a tomb with the devil with three heads. She was the only one who requested the position, insisted that she be permanently stationed in Antarctica. Because of that, she quickly became the most important person at the outpost: the expert not only on Monster Zero, but also in getting the satellite Internet to work again, in repairing the constantly malfunctioning coffee machine, in finding where the spare bulbs were kept, in coping with the soul-sucking isolation and inhospitable climate at the bottom of the world. She was officially put in charge of the outpost before the construction was finished. Time and again, her colleagues told her that she was invaluable.

But they also told her that they were worried. She understood. She didn't want to—for a while, she resisted it—but she did. Antarctica sucked the light from her mind as easily as the warmth from her bones. She grew tired, sullen, listless, irritable. The base was full of sun lamps, and she was shipped one antidepressant after another to try, but none of them fully mitigated the effects of being trapped underground and surrounded by ice. She couldn't stay there permanently. So for three months of the year, from July through September, when Antarctica was its darkest and coldest, she transferred to a post in the northern hemisphere.

And so, she became a reverse Persephone: every winter, she left behind hell and its king, to return eagerly in the spring.

###

They woke as their asteroid shuddered, cracked, and crashed apart.

Waking was a sluggish process. It took them a long time to remember where they were and what had happened: they hadn't been in space, drifting between planets. They had been trapped underground. They had been thrashed and defeated and discarded. They had been left broken in the frigid slurry of their melted battlefield, too weak to move and sinking. The water had come up around them and froze.

They hadn't finished with this planet.

They would now.

It was good that there were so many little creatures scurrying around under their feet. The creatures made excellent target practice to resharpen their senses, and the guns pinging pellets off their scales helped to wake them up. They hadn't recalled that any creatures on this world had guns. How long had they slept?

Not long enough for the little king to die out. Unfortunate. Excellent.

They were awake now—awake and alive and freezing and furious and ecstatic.

But through the swirling wind and ice shards and shrapnel, through the screaming and shooting and dying vermin, through the darkness and the flashing yellow and blue light, through the electric life crackling up their throats—they felt a point of light piercing their minds like it was the only light in the universe.

The little king had fallen—dropped into the pit he had frozen them in—they wouldn't have to worry about him for a moment. They broke off their search, twisting around, scanning in separate directions for the light.

There, far below, a dark speck on the white ice: one of the vermin fleeing for their lives. There was their worshiper. They had spent so much time unconsciously following its mind around that, even awake, with their empathic sense muffled, they could still dully register its emotions. They had never felt it fear them before. But even so, they could still feel its awe piercing through the fear, in breathless fluttering bursts. Were they everything it had ever hoped for?

They bent down, all together, wings spread wide for balance, studying the vermin up close from three angles. It stopped running and turned to face them, even when the other vermin looked back at it and started shouting.

Within its gaze, they glowed. Yes, they were everything it had dreamed of and more.

It raised a hand, reaching for the middle of them, and they jerked back. No, that wouldn't do. Electricity crackled across the surface of their scales; at times, they had amused themselves by finding vermin hardly larger than their worshiper and brushing lightly against them to watch them sizzle and fry. They did not want their lone worshiper to end that way.

They would give it a different gift. They had wanted to sing for it for a long time.

They reared back, stood straight, and let out a single, high, trilling trichord. It wasn't as loud as they could��sing—but they didn't need the whole planet to hear them.

It clapped its hands over the sides of its head, as did most of the other vermin; but they could feel as its mind lifted, floating, filled with light. And may whatever had weighed it down never do so again.

They could hear the little king stirring. If they fought here, their worshiper might be crushed. They gave it one last look—they might never see it again, and a million worlds from now they would want to remember what it had looked like—and then they turned and took off. They flew over the pit the little king was still trying to claw out of, whipped his face with the spines of one tail to knock him off balance, and soared past him as he fell again, daring him to pursue them—away from the vermin on the ice.

They could still feel their worshiper's love.

###

She could never have imagined how much more beautiful Monster Zero would be as a living creature, moving and tensing and flexing, glowing in the dull light, crackling with lightning. All the simulations and theorizations Monarch made about how he would behave, all their CGI models predicting how he would move, all the scans and samples they used to guess at his biology and abilities, and still he was so much more than they ever came close to predicting.

He was as awesome and terrible as she’d always hoped and feared.

And he had stopped to bend down and look at her. Only her. Did he know her? Had he heard her in his sleep? She could barely hear her colleagues telling her to run as she reached a hand for him.

With the sound of his roar, her ears rang and her bones vibrated, and she felt static in her lungs. A moment ago she'd thought Monster Zero was going to be the death of her—and if she had to choose how she'd die, she would choose no other way, even if she would prefer it wait a few more decades—but at his roar she knew it was not possible that he would hurt her. Euphoria poured into her mind like sunlight, like ambrosia overfilling a cup, and her soul sang with lightning. For a moment, she couldn't see, she couldn't feel, she couldn't breathe. She didn't need to breathe. Everything was dust and glitter and enlightenment.

The echoes of his roar faded, and she felt herself settle back on the Earth; but something had opened up in her. She felt lighter than she'd been in years.

Her knees gave out, and she sank gracelessly to the ice, watching the way its necks and tails rippled each time it beat its wings.

Someone said, "Wow. Wow. Did the rest of you feel that?" Someone else said, "Did we know he could do that? That's new, right? We didn't know about that."

Her heart pounding like it was trying to break free of her ribs, she watched him until he disappeared over the horizon.

###

Comments/reblogs are welcome! Check the “source” link below for my masterlist of Ghidorah-centric and Rodorah fics, as well as my AO3 and Ko-fi links.

#ghidorah #king ghidorah #godzilla #spoilers #kotm #fanfic #my writing #anonymous #ask

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thanksfornothinguselessreptile · 6 years ago

Text

A Shifting World Chapter 7: The Mystery of the Enraged Thunderdrum

First Chapter

<–Previous

Work Summary: Things have been going great since Hiccup and Toothless have defeated the Red Death. He has his father’s approval, a group of friends his own age, and is leading the integration of dragons and the Vikings of Berk. When neighboring tribes call together a meeting to discuss rumors of Vikings riding dragons, however, Stoick decides to keep their alliance with dragons under wraps. Hiccup must decide whether he should listen to his father or seek to teach the other Vikings of the archipelago the truths about dragons.

AO3

Rating: T

Characters: Hiccup, Toothless, Astrid, Stoick, Fishlegs, Ruffnut, Tuffnut, Snotlout

Pairings: Minor Hiccup x Astrid

Chapter Summary: A delay on the way to the Thing causes more than one problem to raise its head.

Chapter Warnings: Death Mention, Murder Mention

Stoick pinched his nose. “So the twins are following us.”

“Yep.” Hiccup nodded and resisted the urge to mirror Stoick’s gesture.

Stoick sighed and shook his head. “And there’s no chance of convincing them to go back home, is there?” He didn’t sound like he was holding out any hope for a “yes.”

Hiccup shrugged. “If you have any ideas, I’m all ears.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me because…” Stoick narrowed his gaze at him. While Hiccup still felt nervous of admitting the truth, that glare put to rest any thoughts of not admitting the truth

“Because I knew you were against Toothless coming with us, but I also didn’t want you to send him away when he could help us find out why that Thunderdrum is attacking ships.” He shrugged and tried to continue meeting Stoick’s eyes.

With a hand to his forehead, Stoick cast his gaze across the ship to the Thunderdrum. Ever since he’d been captured, he’d thrashed and tried to free himself from the net. Fortunately, it’d held out so far. But Hiccup knew that even if the material could withstand days of preventing that dragon from breaking free, this couldn’t be a permanent solution.

“Look,” Stoick said, his words heavy. “I want a peaceful solution to these sorts of things as much as you do. Every conflict resolved without death or injury is a victory in my book. But there was no guarantee that we would’ve found that Thunderdrum, and no guarantee that you and Toothless could reason with him. ”

“But if there is a chance of finding a peaceful solution to this, shouldn’t we at least try?” Hiccup tried to keep his voice from rising. He couldn’t just… just sit there and do nothing while dragons and humans were fighting. Not anymore.

Stoick pinched the bridge of the nose, looking for all the world like a man who’d just been charged with wrangling Fenrir with his bare hands.

After a moment, Stoick spoke up. “Under ordinary circumstances, son, I would say you’d be right. But this situation is more complicated than that.”

Hiccup frowned. Sure, he understood the need to prevent any wars from breaking out, and he knew that could get more complicated than just saying to the other tribes, “Hey, let’s not start a war.” But it also wasn’t complicated that extending the peace with dragons to the other tribes was the right thing to do.

Before he could ask, Stoick gestured out to the sea over the bow and continued. “When we’re at the Thing, we are more than just leaders of Berk. We become our people’s representatives. You, me, your friends, everyone here has the duty of representing the people back home, and representing them well.” Stoick’s face seemed to harden as he scanned the skies. “Which is why your friends following after us might not bode well, especially if they’re not on their best behavior.” He dragged a hand over his eyes and down his beard, visibly trying to relax. “The other tribes are already tense from trying to keep the peace and deal with the possibility of Vikings allying themselves with their oldest enemies. If they catch us sheltering even a single dragon and jump to conclusions, how do you think that’ll reflect on Berk?”

“But what if they’re interested in how we live with dragons without killing them?” Hiccup wondered why Stoick wouldn’t take the chance. It was risky, but wasn’t it worth it?

Stoick shook his head. “Think about it, Hiccup. If the other tribes believed that us working with the dragons was an act of war, they would come for all of us, not just you and Toothless. Including those unable to fight. Would you be willing to pay the price that might come from a failure to change their minds?”

A cough from over Hiccup’s shoulder nearly made him stumble overboard from shock. “Chief,” Spitelout said, pointedly ignoring Hiccup’s start. “We’ve spotted a Terrible Terror approaching the stern.”

Stoick sighed and met Spitelout’s gaze. “One of ours, I hope?”

Spitelout nodded. “Aye, according to the Ingerman boy.”

With a nod of acknowledgement and dismissal, Stoick glanced back at Hiccup. “Think on that, son.”

Hiccup swallowed as Stoick left, the deck creaking under his boots.

It won’t come to war, he told himself. Surely the other tribes would see reason in a world where no one had to die. And Berk was only behind the Peaceables with how well they got along with the other tribes. Well, Hooligans and Bog Burglars were a little on the overly competitive side, but surely even they respected that Stoick, his father, and his father’s father had all done their best to get along with their neighbors for years?

Someone jostled Hiccup’s shoulder, and once again Hiccup nearly fell over.

“Sorry.” Toothless’s brow was set into a concerned expression. “Are you okay?”

Hiccup gave him a smile and hoped he didn’t look too upset. “Yeah, bud, I’m fine. Didn’t mean to worry you there.”

Toothless didn’t look too convinced.

“Come on.” Hiccup tilted his head toward the stern. “Let’s go see what message that Terror has.”

He turned and walked away before Toothless could react.

Stoick walked between the rowers’ seats, newly removed from the hold, and as close to the stern as he could without getting too near the Thunderdrum. Minutes later, a yellow Terror flew over the stern, a sealskin bundle in their jaws. They immediately hovered in front of Stoick and squawked something in Dragonese Hiccup couldn’t yet understand.

Stoick held out his arm level to the deck. The Terror paused and inspected the arm, started to hover closer, then pulled back. In response, Stoick extended his arm further from his body. That seemed to do the trick as the messenger finally lit down on his bracer. Still, they kept their wings partially unfurled and raised as if ready to take off at a moment’s notice.

Stoick held out a palm and let the dragon drop the sealskin into his hand. “Thank you,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm, and then handed the package to Mulch.

Mulch unwrapped the hide to reveal a small rolled up stack of papers. “It appears to be a message from Gobber.” With that, he offered the papers to Stoick.

Stoick paused to let the Terrible Terror leap onto the rigging, then opened the papers. “Let’s see.” His eyes glanced across the page. “He says that Ruffnut and Tuffnut Thorston and their dragon have left Berk, as well as Toothless.”

The rest of the ship, who’d been half-watching Stoick regardless of whatever they’d been doing, grumbled as one. Equally in unison, they busied themselves with their work with far more vigor than was believable when Stoick glared over at them.

“What else?” Hiccup asked, hoping that he’d been exempt from that dismissal.

Stoick straightened the papers. “Nothing much, really. All ships expected back have returned, so far, and Darby’s made blueprints from some renovations to the dragon shelters.”

Hiccup tilted his head. “Dragon shelters?” He hadn’t recalled Stoick mentioning anything about changing them, and they were rather new for any changes.

“Yep.” Stoick brushed his hand along his beard, his eyes still fixed on the letter. “Since the other tribes are tense regarding the rumors of dragon riders, the Berk Council and I figured we had to practice extra caution in case of curious or suspicious visitors. Therefore, I commissioned Darby to draw up plans of modifications to allow us to disguise the shelters as storehouses and other more conventional buildings in case those visitors got too nosy. And from the sounds of it, they more than came through.” He glanced at the rest of the letter, and then nodded as if it met his standards. “I’ll have to let Gobber know his suspicions of where the Thorston twins and Toothless went were correct, and that we’re sending Toothless back after he’s done translating for us.” He looked at Hiccup. “Think you can handle that?”

Hiccup nodded. “Gotcha, Dad.” He tried to sound serious and responsible, not excited.

Stoick dipped his head in acknowledgement and headed back to the bow of the ship.

Hiccup glanced over at Toothless. He’d been sitting on his hind legs, chatting to the Terrible Terror who’d perched in the rigging, but as Stoick passed he said his farewell and turned to Hiccup.

“You ready to translate, bud?” he asked.

“Yes.” Hiccup could see the same excitement in Toothless’s eyes that he knew was in his.

Hiccup drew a steadying breath. “Okay, then. Let’s begin.”

As they approached the stern of the ship, the Thunderdrum began to thrash more than he already was. His yellow eyes were fixed onto Toothless’s green, narrowed as if expressing defiance toward certain death.

Hiccup felt his excitement get pushed aside by the seriousness of the situation. He got the feeling that he’d be more of a challenge to bring around to being neutral, at least, to Vikings than any other dragon he’d faced.

“Okay, bud, let’s try this.” Hiccup took a deep breath as he tried to calm his heart before speaking. “Why are you attacking our ship? Berk is at peace with dragons now.”

As Toothless translated the words, the Thunderdrum narrowed his gaze. His narrowed pupils glanced from Toothless to Hiccup before addressing the other dragon. Hiccup couldn’t understand much of what he was saying.

After the Thunderdrum finished speaking, Toothless turned to Hiccup with a grim expression. When he spoke, he spoke as if he was choosing each word carefully.

“He does not…” Toothless broke out into a thoughtful warble, partially closing his eyes. “He does not speak --- fire –- the ship.”

Hiccup, for a moment, was confused. Why would Toothless mention fire if there’d been none on the ship? But then, he remembered that he didn’t know the Dragonese word for attack. “Fire” likely would’ve been the closest alternative Toothless could think of on the spot.

“So he refuses to say why he attacked the ship?” He wasn’t quite confident that he’d understood right, so to hear Toothless warble out a yes and nod made him relax slightly. Despite that, though, he was still left with a big question. If the dragon refused to answer that, then how could he and Toothless figure out what was wrong and fix it?

He forced himself not to linger on the question and asked his next one. “Then will he say if he’s alone?” If Fishlegs was certain that Thunderdrums traveled in groups, then it was true. Which made Hiccup wonder why this Thunderdrum attacked, alone, especially if he was an adolescent.

Toothless turned and asked the dragon the question. The Thunderdrum’s body tensed, the spines running along their back rising as much as the net allowed them to. They snarled out a word Hiccup didn’t need Toothless to translate.

“Yes.”

Toothless turned toward Hiccup, his ears upright in preparation for another question.

Well, Hiccup sure didn’t believe that last answer, but what could he do about it? It wasn’t like asking again would get anything truthful out of them.

“Okay, if that’s how it’s going to be, I have just one more question.” Hiccup found that he’d placed his hands together and had used them to gesture at the dragon. He hoped that pleading looked different in dragons than Vikings. “Is anyone else behind this attack?”

Toothless’s ear flicked in surprise, but he turned and translated the sentence. Hiccup watched the Thunderdrum carefully as he narrowed his eyes. He almost seemed offended to be asked that question.

“No.” This time, Hiccup was sure it was the truth; they didn’t seem the slightest bit tense about answering the question.

Hiccup was surprised by his shoulders relaxing; he hadn’t even noticed they were tense. “Right. Thank you for your answers. I’ll, uh, go talk to my dad and see if we can get this sorted out.” Stoick wasn’t going to be very happy about the lack of results, but at the very least they’d confirmed that there wasn’t another Red Death pulling the strings. That, at least, was a mercy.

He waited for Toothless to translate that message, and witnessed the Thunderdrum snort and shake his head. With that, he turned around to meet with his dad.

“Well? What did he say?” Fishlegs’s voice made Hiccup stumble with surprise as he turned toward it.

Sure enough, he was approaching, along with Astrid and Snotlout. While Astrid looked more collected than Fishlegs was, he could tell from her wide, questioning eyes that she was still curious. Snotlout was staring at him with narrowed eyes and arms crossed over his chest, but he didn’t seem to be there unwillingly.

Hiccup gestured for everyone to follow him toward the middle of the ship, far enough away where he could speak without the Thunderdrum listening in.

“So what juicy gossip did you get from that dragon?” Snotlout crossed his arms and sneered at Hiccup, clearly not expecting much.

Hiccup made sure he spoke in a quiet voice, just loud enough for his friends to hear. “He refuses to say why he attacked us–”

Snotlout snorted and rolled his eyes. “Typical.”

“But?” Astrid prompted, giving Snotlout a glare from the corner of her eye.

“But he isn’t attacking on anyone else’s orders.” He breathed out a sigh, and saw the others relax a little bit as well. “But when he said he was alone, I’m pretty sure he was lying.” He glanced over at Toothless. “What do you think, bud?”

Toothless nodded. “Yes.”

“Why do you think they haven’t attacked us yet?” Astrid’s gaze was now scanning the horizon as if searching for more Thunderdrums.

Fishlegs hummed. “I don’t know. Thunderdrums do live in groups, but for an adolescent to travel alone, let alone attack a ship…” He shrugged. “It’s pretty much unheard of. The adults should’ve come looking for him a lot sooner.”

“Oh great. We could be under attack by that dragon’s parents at any moment–” Snotlout threw an arm out in the Thunderdrum’s direction “–and we’re just sitting ducks.”

“And if they see the Thunderdrum our prisoner, they’ll attack us.” Astrid tilted her head, bangs shifting to cover her right eye. “And once word about us keeping a young dragon prisoner spreads, it might risk our friendship with them.”

Hiccup felt as if his stomach had turned to stone at the thought of this. “Which is why we should work on making sure we release that dragon as soon as possible, without him sinking us.”

“How do we do that?” Fishlegs raised his hand not even high enough to clear his shoulder, as if unsure he wanted it to be seen. “If he’d told us why he was attacking, sure we could work something out, but he hasn’t.”

Hiccup shrugged, trying to make the gesture look more loose and relaxed than he felt. “Then we’ll just have to figure it out ourselves.” He sighed and gestured toward the bow of the ship. “But first, I have to go tell Dad.”

No one looked particularly happy, but no one protested as he and Toothless went to tell Stoick what little they learned.

Stoick pinched the bridge of his nose as Hiccup finished telling Stoick the facts, looking for all the world like a barrel of ice blocks couldn’t solve this headache.

“This is a fine mess that Thunderdrum has landed us in.” He massaged his temple, but it didn’t seem to calm him down any. “It’s bad enough we’ve got this becalming on our hands, but now we have to worry about hiding a dragon who doesn’t want to be there from the other tribes.” Stoick waved an arm at the sky, as if inviting the gods to come down and give their opinion on the matter.

“Is it possible we can move the Thunderdrum down to the storage area?” Hiccup asked. Not that he wanted the Thunderdrum down there, alone in the dark, but at the very least passing dragons wouldn’t be able to see him and get the wrong idea.

Stoick sighed and shook his head. “If you could get him to cooperate, maybe. But that hatch is too small to get a struggling Thunderdrum into.” He waved a hand in its general direction to make his point.

Hiccup considered. If he could scratch the Thunderdrum underneath his chin, maybe. But while the net held his jaws too tightly for him to use his roar attack, that didn’t mean the jaws couldn’t open up enough to bite a hand off. Anyways, it turned out that some dragons were immune to that trick. Fishlegs had learned that Gronckles were among these the hard way, making Hiccup very glad he’d brought dragon nip in his sleeve for the last competition before the Final Test and not relied on the chin scratch.

“But what do we do?” They couldn’t just let the Thunderdrum go without risking them destroying the ship, but neither could they just keep the dragon prisoner forever.

Stoick rubbed his forehead again, moving his helmet with the edges of his fingers. “I don’t know, son.” The lack of fight in Stoick’s tone scared Hiccup. He was so used to his father knowing everything that it didn’t really occur to him he’d ever witness a moment where he wasn’t confident of what to do and how to do it. “But rest assured, that dragon won’t come to harm.”

Hiccup nodded. He’d known that Stoick would never raise a weapon against a dragon that was harmless, either by choice or by circumstance, and so long as that Thunderdrum was trapped in the net and not able to fight, he’d stay his hand, and do his best to stay those of his tribe.

But if the other tribes found out before Hiccup could convince them that dragons weren’t the enemy, could he do anything?

“So I sent the message to Gobber.” Stoick’s voice sounded casual, with an undercurrent of I've made my mind up that convinced Hiccup that whatever he was about to say was as inevitable as Ragnarok. “I told him that Toothless was with us, and that after he had a full night’s rest and a couple meals, we’d be sending him back to Berk.”

“Yes, Dad.” He wouldn’t argue this point. While he might not have agreed with Stoick’s idea to hide the fact the dragons were friendly, he did agree that Berk was the safest place for Toothless.

The question was if Toothless would listen.

Sure enough, he glanced at the dragon standing next to him in time to see him huff and narrow his eyes.

“You heard me, dragon.” Stoick’s tone wasn’t as teasing as usual. “I am grateful that you came to warn us, and that you helped us with him.” Stoick nodded across the deck at the Thunderdrum. “However, I doubt the other tribes will listen to any words of mine if they saw the offspring of lightning and death himself at the table.”

Hiccup didn’t understand what Toothless said after, but it definitely wasn’t a “Yes, sir.”

Stoick sighed and looked between him and Hiccup. “You two will be the death of me.”

Hiccup left Stoick to his thoughts and moved toward the center of the ship to enter his. The deck creaked behind him; Toothless must’ve followed him.

Okay, so find out why the Thunderdrum is attacking, and you find a way to fix it and get him to leave without attacking us, Hiccup thought, staring out over the ocean. So, whatever’s wrong likely has to do with his lie. But if he’s not really alone, where is his family and why haven’t they rescued him?

Hiccup voiced this aloud to Toothless, who tilted his head and shifted his gaze slightly down. The plates beneath his head began to vibrate as he hummed, seemingly in thought.

“The dragons can’t help.” It sounded like Toothless was frustrated at not being able to say more. “The dragons aren’t at the ship.”

Hiccup considered this. He agreed with Toothless that they likely weren’t nearby. “But if they’re not here, then where are they? And why did the Thunderdrum attack us when he didn’t have help?”

Toothless twitched an ear. “The dragon helps the other dragons.”

It took a moment for Hiccup to piece together what Toothless had meant, but when he did he felt his brain kicking itself for not thinking of this possibility sooner. “You know, Toothless, you’re absolutely right.”

Toothless nodded, enthusiastic once more. “Yes.”

Now all that he needed was a plan and an opening to carry it off.

And then he heard Spitelout’s voice above the rest of the crowd. “Alright, then. Who’s up for tonight’s night watch?”

The crowd muttered amongst themselves.

Spitelout scoffed. “Well, don’t all jump up at once.”

“I’ll take first shift.” Mulch raised his hand into the air.

Spitelout nodded, his eyes still scanning the crowd. “Right. Who’s up for second?”

“I will.” That was definitely Astrid’s voice.

Well, Hiccup realized, he had his opening. As long as he could come up with a plan and have it ready to go by then, he could put it into action and have everything fixed by that night. Then his dad would have less to worry about, and Hiccup could continue preparing himself to introduce other tribes to the concept of peace with dragons.

In comparison, this was going to be easy.

So I’m not entirely sure about how well this chapter turned out. What do you think?

#useless reptile writes #a shifting world #finding another way series #hiccup #toothless #stoick #stoick the vast #thornado #fishlegs #astrid #snotlout #caps cw #death mention cw #murder mention cw

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justaramblingromantic · 7 years ago

Text

Afterburn

Characters/Pairing: Kobayashi Rindou and Tsukasa Eishi/EiRin

Type: Fantasy/Medieval!AU, Dragon Heart!verse, Freestyle

Word Count: 2684

A/N: Been raining a lot over here lately, so I guess even those of us living in the tropics are starting to experience a bit of ‘winter!’ It got me in the mood to write grumpy!Rindou but I was also craving something fluffy/achy, so this ended up a mix of everything. Quick shoutout to @otakinu because we were gabbing EiRin (as always) and this was partially inspired as a result (hehe).

Afterburn - \ ˈaf-tər-ˌbərn \

noun 1. a hot, spicy, or burning sensation that remains in the mouth after consumption of a food or beverage 2. a period of lingering anger, fear, bitterness, etc., that follows a painful or traumatic event 3. the consumption of calories by the body in the period following exercise

“…You’re…sick?”

He sounded bewildered by the very notion.

Do dragons even get sick?

Huddled in a ball of misery in bed, she peeled open one eye and gave him a slit pupiled, gimlet stare. She looked nothing like the big scary reptilian legend from yore at the moment; appeared sorrier looking than terrifying, actually, buried under several layers of blankets with only her ruffled head sticking out.

She hadn’t wanted him to see her like this, but he had refused to leave her be until she unlatched her door and let him in, and hence he was subjected to the rare sight of her wretched self. Currently stuck in the form that was half dragon and half human, she was aware of how hideous she looked at the moment; her brilliant crimson hair limp, lank and messy like some unkempt bird nest was sitting on top of her head, the small slivers of typically glistening quicksilver, metallic sunset scales arrayed across her cheeks now dull and faded.

She looked unwell.

“M’not sick,” she mumbled with insistence, curling under the covers and just wishing that he would go away and leave her be. She sniffled, her nose ticklish and promptly contradicting her denial. Rindou quickly reached up with claw tipped fingers to pinch her nose shut, trying to quell that terrible urge to sneeze.

It would not be a good idea to sneeze now, in this form of hers.

Eishi was concerned. She was definitely not ‘not-sick.’ She had been subdued and moody the last few days, and he had wondered if he had done anything inadvertently to upset her even more than he already had. There were still plenty about dragons that he was unlearned about, and not knowing what to do made him feel very useless. She had always come to his rescue so blithely and instinctively every time he was in trouble; not being to reciprocate even in this seemingly small manner made him feel exceedingly unworthy and inept.

“Is there anything you need? Can I do something to make you feel better?” he offered, reaching out cautiously to touch her hair. His tentative action was not out of repulsion or fear, but born from a delicacy and worry of possibly further upsetting her – she wasn’t being very communicative or cooperative at the moment. He pressed on gamely all the same, especially when it became clear that she wasn’t going to bite his hand off.

“M’fine,” she insisted again, her eye closing. She curled tighter into herself, too used to riding out this aggravating phase on her own like she had always done to expect otherwise. “I don’t need anythin’. Go ‘way.”

He was silent for a while; it stung a bit, how she bluntly rejected his attempt to help, how she still tended to shut him out sometimes, but Eishi tried not to be disheartened, and he could be stubborn too, whenever he needed to. He was still very determined to court this cantankerous dragoness, after all.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he responded. Sure enough, he pulled her covers back, and the edge of her mattress dipped as he climbed into bed beside her. It was awkward – he felt self-conscious, for he was not used to intruding on a maiden’s modesty like so. But they had shared a bed before, months ago when they first met. He still remembered her warmth, her softness as she went to him and nestled willingly in his arms…

She had ignored his protests of propriety back then, so he would arguably do the same now. And she might not be as receptive to him as she once had in the past, but he was also aware that if she truly did not want him near, she would not hesitate to let him know that he was unwelcome.

There was no making a dragoness submit to anything that she did not want, after all.

Rindou’s eyes opened, sharpened, and she looked at him silently, not expecting his boldness. But she also did not claw at him or physically evict him from her bed, so he quickly laid down beside her, turned to his side and faced her.

“What are you doing?” she demanded in a muffled, nasally tone. She seemed genuinely confused by his action.

“I’m staying until you feel better,” he replied. He would not deny that this was an opportunity to be close to her – she had been as prickly as cacti ever since they reunited under tenuous circumstances and he would be a fool to miss this chance. His arms ached to hold her again; maybe she would relent and let him entice her back into his embrace...

Wooing a dragoness was no easy task, especially when she had already been stung and spooked once by him. He was very careful now when making his moves, but if he was too conservative and gentle, she tended to slip past him easily and quickly edge away, distancing herself warily. He was learning to be more…forceful, more assertive in cornering this aloof, elusive female.

“Why?” she asked. “I must be repulsive and terrifying to you, so what are you trying to prove?”

He looked at her. Horns, scales, claws. Wings, tail, fangs.

In her current form, she still retained most of her human shape and features…only with some….reptilian accessories that most would do a double take at…but which only served to accentuate her exotic appearance. An unforgettable reminder that she was something breathtakingly, beautifully wild. He was baffled by her question. Compared to some of the more monstrous, monolithic forms of Tootsuki’s other dragonic allies, she actually looked normal enough…?

“…I don’t think that you’re repulsive, or terrifying.”

She glowered at him, already testy from her condition. “So you still desire me, even after knowing that I have a form like this?”

Lavender eyes slowly darkened.

“Yes.”

Her gaze sharpened, and her disbelieving glare grew basilisk like.

“Lies,” she hissed, elongated incisors briefly glinting, and then, she was about done with him, ready to turn her back when he lifted his arms towards her and spread them apart, his expression still deceptively placid, even when in reality he was nervous; he did not want to end up alienating her even more than he already had.

“Try me,” he insisted, and there was a deliberately, faintly challenging tone in his voice, and she looked at him incredulously. What was his angle?

“You seem to be more terrified of me right now,” he observed softly, and this time he was careful not to push her too hard. The ring of truth in his comment would be enough.

She stiffened, slit gold eyes flashing.

“I’m not scared of you!”

He did not need to say ‘prove it.’ It was all in the look in his eyes, the way his arms still remained so steady and open, waiting for her.

She was like a wary animal, hovering over the instinct to fight or flight, and he knew what he wanted her to choose. He did not want her to retreat from him any more…

After a long silence, her eyes narrowed, and her chin went up in a subtly bullish manner. She took the bait. She moved in, bristling righteously for she had a point to make, an axe to grind, to prove that he was just full of it. Surely, surely, his true feelings of disgust and distaste would reveal themselves once she forced him to confront them face on.

But instead of tensing in alarm when the half human, half dragon maiden moved into his arms, Eishi relaxed, the tension leaking out of him, replaced by relief. And quiet, unfurling happiness. She hadn’t rejected him.

Her head was tilted back slightly, watching him with that challenging, slightly heckling stare. She had expected that he would flinch and recoil, seeing her unhuman features close up like this. But he did not.

He did…not??

…What?

His arms curled quickly around her, as if he did not want to wait for her to change her mind and slip away from him again; she stiffened a bit, visibly bewildered when he pulled her close, all but pressing her against his chest. She did not know what to make of his obviously affectionate reaction, stilling in a nonplussed manner as he pressed his face into her hair, inhaling her scent and greedily taking in her proximity.

“You still feel as soft as that time up in the mountains,” he mumbled after a long, long gratified pause. “You still smell like wild strawberries…”

“You still own my heart.”

For him, this was it. She was it. Simple as that.

Rindou was stiffening again.

Oh no, she wasn’t going to be tricked by him again a second time. For someone who was usually so stoic and reserved, he sure was good at flooring her with his words. Her hands came up between them, and she looked like she was intent on shoving him away. She had made a wrong move. He was wilier than she had assumed, trying to soften her like this.

“I don’t wanna hear that from you anymore-”

But he held her tighter and refused to let her go. She squeaked a bit when he squeezed her in his arms.

“Calm down,” he told her, and she bristled a bit at his unusually assertive demeanor. “Even if you don’t like me very much now, at least let me make you feel better,” he continued, trying his best to speak calmly over the sharpness of her aggravation. Her thorns hurt him, but he would press them all against his flesh if it meant that she would let him stay beside her. “Pretend I’m somebody else. Use me as you wish, but please let me help you.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she blustered grumpily, still feeling both riled up and off balanced by him…but what else was new?

He wisely held his tongue because it seemed that no matter what he said or did lately always seemed to irk her, so in this case, discretion was the better part of valor. It appeared to work, for she wasn’t tearing herself out of his arms anymore, and after a long simmering hesitation, appeared to be gingerly, cautiously settling down like a restless, edgy feline. Her grudging concession gave him some hope, mainly because however much she seemed to not like him at the moment, even she could not entirely deny this tangible connection that existed between them both, that tugged on them and pulled them together regardless of their complicated situation. Or maybe she just did not want to be alone now, and he was the closest approximation of company that she was willing to put up with.

Whichever it was, he would take it.

Eishi instinctively, quietly, nosed her hair, content that she was so close by. She turned her head and gave him a beleaguered stare.

“Don’t think I won’t bite you if you try anything funny.”

He was faintly taken aback by her belligerent distrust.

“I don’t intend to,” he told her honestly.

She gave him the evil eye for a few beats longer, but Eishi was too happy that she was staying put in his arms to care. He was blatantly taking advantage of her momentary weakness, but at this point, he was also willing to try anything if it gave him a sporting chance of getting back into her good books.

At last, she huffed and looked away, the vibrating tension and suspicion slowly bleeding away. She was studiously ignoring his stare then, but she pressed close and curled into him. Her hands fisted into the front of his tunic. She was so prickly, he could not help but think, though somehow, her reticence only made him more determined to win her affections back.

It was quiet for a while, at least until Rindou’s nose twitched again with forewarning that came too late. Her watery eyes widened, and she quickly lifted her head from his chest and turned away-

“A-chooo!!”

The small torrent of orangey, fiery flames that briefly blazed out of her open mouth less than a mere foot away startled him, not that he could be blamed. Thankfully, she drew away in time and managed to direct the fire’s trajectory overhead, and the resulting heatwave served to warm up the cold room, followed by a vaguely sweet scent of pure Sulphur slowly dissipating in the air. He went utterly still, inwardly flabbergasted.

“…Was that fire??”

She gave him a baleful stare for asking the obvious and huffed. A ring of smoke floated out from between her parted fangs. He tried not to stare.

Ah. Dragoness, he reminded himself, trying to take it all in stride. She was dragon, and dragon breathed fires. Dragonfires. It shouldn’t be entirely shocking to him, since this was what he had signed up for…

Rindou was rubbing her nose and sniffling blearily again. There was no denying it now, that something was indeed not quite right with her. In the first place, her sneezing fire did not seem deliberate on her part…

“You’re sick.”

“M’not!” she denied again, still testy as ever. “M’molting.”

He lifted his head to stare at her, completely befuddled.

“What?”

She growled in frustration, a throaty sound that erupted from her chest and intrigued him. “I’m molting,” she repeated more clearly this time, frowning. “I’m shedding, my scales are falling out to make way for new growth.”

…Oh.

No wonder she seemed irritated and visibly uncomfortable…and also physically rumpled at the moment. He was nonplussed for a bit, not sure how to respond.

“Does this…molting happens often?”

She was already resigned to the understanding that he wasn’t planning to leave her alone. Maybe if she answered his questions as fast as she could, he’d finally be quiet and let her sleep.

“Every year,” she replied. “And I get tired and my skin feels too tight and it hurts too much when I’m in my human form so I have to change to this.” There was a small unconscious whine that accompanied the end of her sentence, and one that he paid attention to.

“Will it be better if you turn full dragon…?”

She shook her head, snuffling into his shoulder. To his credit, he did not flinch away from the danger, even with the knowledge that she was very volatile right now, in all meanings of the word.

“No difference. I’d just be sheddin’ a lotta scales everywhere and makin’ a mess everywhere and feelin’ grumpy and gigantic…”

She was downright miserable, and it did not help matters whatsoever that she always had a lot of trouble retaining and regulating her body heat during this all too bothersome, aggravating period.

He was at a loss for a while, not sure how to make her feel better. At last, he started to pet her hair, at first awkwardly, feeling rather redundant and very self-conscious the entire way, but she did not turn on him suddenly and snap in protest, and seemed to be taking his wordless response of sympathy well enough… There obviously wasn’t anything that he could do to alleviate her discomfort at this point, beyond serving as a distraction. His movements slowed, took on a slow, calming rhythm, gently carding through the tousled red strands of her wild tresses, carefully working out the tangles with his adroit fingers, and he repeated the soothing motions until her fidgeting grew lesser, and she snuggled into his side, slowly relaxing, her eyes closing. Her slender but spiked, prehensile tail curled loosely around his ankle, and her leathery wings, folded neatly against her back, twitched with lazy contentment.

“I still don’t like you a lot right now,” she mumbled, drifting off, just so that he was clear where they both stood with each other. Or in this case, where they both laid. “I’m just using ya ‘coz you’re convenient and warm, is all.”

He paused in the midst of stroking her hair.

“That’s alright. I’ll still like you regardless of what you do, so use me all you want.”

A/N II: Fun fact - Reptiles molt at regular intervals, so I don’t see why dragons would be any different. The process of molting/shedding is not enjoyable at all and I’d imagine the whole thing would feel like a very BAD sunburn. Whenever my vine snakes molt, they get so hissy and cranky and just want to be left alone to do their business in peace, so I don’t know whether Eishi is being brave or just plain reckless for bearding his lady dragon in her grumpy den, lol.

#Food Wars: Shokugeki no Souma #Shokugeki no Soma #Tsukasa Eishi #Kobayashi Rindou #eirin #EiRin: Dragon Heart AU #freestyle #my fics

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imaginethebeautifulworld · 7 years ago

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nordes, axIs, allIes + prussaI, canananda, sapIn, roma- as craetures??s?

This will require a lot of research~ Let’s crack open some old tomes, light a candle, and conspire, shall we?

Allies:

America- Mimic.

A creature able to change its shape to disguise its body as an inanimate object or another being. The concept was first introduced in Dungeons and Dragons in the 1970s, and it appealed to me for Al as America has a habit- the country as well as the character, of borrowing bits and pieces of other nations, and almost presenting as them on many an occasion. Similar to the doppelganger, but I don’t foresee Al trying to actually consume his targets, merely... Mimic them.

Canada- Ol’ Yellow Top.

Old Yellow Top is an alleged cryptid from Ontario, Canada. Allegedly, there have been sightings of this guy since 1906. Some have claimed that it could be a Sasquatch, apart from the distinctly golden mane on its head and the lightness of fur. I immediately thought of Mattie in this case- Just trying to live in the woods, mind his own business, get mistaken as a local cryptid. All in a day’s work, really.

China- Bai Zé.

An alleged mystical beast of Chinese legend. According to lore, the Bai Zé was encountered by the Yellow Emperor during a patrol. The Bai Ze gifted the Emperor with information on all 11,520 types of supernatural creatures in the world, and how to overcome their hauntings and attacks. The emperor had this information written down in a book called the Bái Zé Tú. Just thinking back to how many stories Yao's passed down to his younger siblings and the advice he has for the other nations- I felt this fit him very well.

England- Feyling.

A child born of both Fey and Human blood. Much like a Half-Fey, they have excellent charisma, and with practice and patience, eventually can successfully cast spells and incantations to overwhelm others, become seemingly invisible, and slip away from the law. These creatures are born with the ethereal beauty of the Fair Folk, but unfortunately, it also makes them a little aloof. And of course, I thought of England. It would make sense as to why he can see the Fey, and his strong connections to earth-based magicke.

France- Enfant de Melusine.

The legend of Melusine is reminiscent of a fairy bride. Melusine, vaguely similar to mermaids, had the lower half of a serpent, and the upper half of a human woman, though by some accounts, this metamorphisis only occurred once per week, some accounts by once per month. She was taken as a bride by a king, and gave birth to two sons. The legend gets further distorted- some claim that she was unable to stand the holy words of a Sunday sermon, others claim that her husband discovered her true nature- But the endgame was the same. She completed her transformation into a dragon, and fled. It is rumored that all French royals were descendents of her two sons, and that one can hear her crying for her children outside the castles to date. I feel France is definitely one of those lost, wandering children. It's in his tenancity, his resilience, and beneath his majestic beauty is a ferocity that nothing has been able to break.

Russia- Domovik.

Similar to the Brownie in Scottish folklore, the domovik is believed to protect the home from tragedy and disaster, including theives, disease, natural disasters, and evil spirits. Although he never attacks people, it has also earned the spite that falls to the common poltergeist. Rumour has it that he lives near the hearth, or perhaps behind the stove, so long as he is warm. I felt this fit Ivan; he is so desperate to help others, and he has a kind of quiet protectiveness.

Axis:

Germany- Kobold.

Kobolds are industrious small humanoid creatures, noted for their skill at building traps and preparing ambushes. As for what Ludvig may be trying to trap is anyone's guess, but combining his ingenuity with his skills in engineering and strategy, it fits him. They are also resilient as a concept, as throughout even modern history, German mythologists like Jakob Grimm (yes, from the Brothers Grimm) made many arguments that the story of the kobold dates all the way back to Rome, perhaps even before. The Church continued to tolerate the creature, and it was one of the small pieces of Germanic culture that hasn't been diluted throughout the ages. And that, to me, seems very much like something Ludvig would appreciate.

Japan- Kitsune.

Stories depict them as intelligent beings and as possessing magical abilities that increase with their age and wisdom. Some folktales speak of kitsune shape-shifting to trick others — as foxes in folklore often do — other stories portray them as guardians, friends, and lovers. Kiku downplays it frequently, but he is a devious little bastard, and it makes him all that better for keeping an eye out for his friends. And with all that age and wisdom he's obtained, I feel he's met all of the qualifications of the Kitsune.

Prussia- Vampyre.

Rather than provide a whole description of the lore on vampyres and all that wonderful blood-sucking stuff, I'm going to cut it short and give a few ideas why Gil would make a good vampyre. An isolationist longing for the simplicty of his earlier lives, relying on the energies of others to keep him young. Prussia needs to have exposure to that youthful energy, to new ideas, and soak it all up. Otherwise, he'll fade away into nothing but dust.

Romano- Werewolf.

I kind of dabbled on this before in one of my asks on Lovino headcanons, and it's a running theory I've been exploring for a while. In the supposed story of the founding of Rome, brothers Romulus and Remus were raised by wolves. Now, I had the thought of if they hadn't just been raised by wolves, but were, in fact, wolves traversing as human. And from there a long internal journey began of if Rome and eventually Romano were also part of that lineage. So anyway- Lovino is very territorial, devoted to his family, and has a deeper connection to the ancient roots than most people would think of him.

Spain- Ventolin.

NOT to be mistaken for albuterol! Ventolins are actually small wind sprites with majestic green wings. Legends depict that they will fly inland from the sea, bringing with them gentle rains and mists. They also help babies fall asleep with quiet, soft whispers, and bring with them the last goodbyes of those who died far from their homes. Spain in particular comes to mind, with his more peaceful nature, especially when it comes to children. Also, the thought of that man gently knocking on the front door with the last whispers of a loved one- It's a very soothing image to me. But mostly the sweet whisperings to quell the nightmares of a baby really stood out to me. It's Tonio; of course he's going to help out the little ones.

Veneziano- Merman.

If there's one thing I picked up while I was lost in the maze of a city that is Venice, it's that the city itself half belongs to the creatures below the waters, not just those of us above it. With deep canals filled with algaes and seaweed and centuries of mystery, it's all too easy to imagine that beautiful bastard's caramel eyes as he slowly swims nearer to the surface, charming young lads and lassies away from the dusty walkways, down the crumbling steps, and into the depths. He's got the charm, the mystery, the alluring smile and bright eyes that could make you want to sign your life away. Plus I mean- At this point, the poor boy probably actually is at least part fish.

Nordics:

Denmark- Draugr.

The Draugr are undead beings, but the rest of the lore gets very debateable. Some say that they guard their treasures in burial mounds. Others claim they haunt the oceans, and if seen are a harbringer of doom for any soul upon the waves. And yet another legend I encountered told of undead Viking armies, raised by necromancy, consuming all flesh in their wake, devouring every- Basically zombies, people. I feel like Mati would be a prime example of a ghost (or zombie) who is still around to fufill their purpose. His devotion to protect his family of Northern rapscallions has kind of become his only real dream now, and I believe it is so strong an emotion that it could essentially keep his spirit tied to the earth, with essentially the same skills he had before. Just- A lot more dead jokes. You thought the dad jokes were bad? Oh buddy-

Finland- Nisse.

Small creatures from Scandinavian folklore, Nisse live in houses and barns, secretly guarding the farmstead. If treated well, they protect the family and animals from evil, and sometimes even help with chores and farm work. In ancient times, it was believed the nisse were the first farmers. It wasn't until later in my research that I discovered that the Nisse are most commonly associated with the winter solstice, and can be seen in a lot of holiday decor; they look like little elves with white beards and either green or red clothing resembling the 17th century. Tino with his nurturing spirit, I feel, is perfect as a representative of these little guys.

Iceland- Fossegrimen.

The fossegrimen is a fiddle-playing water spirit who never wants to leave his waterfall. In lore, many travellers would stop and ask him for help in learning how to better their skill at the fiddle, and he would often gladly be of help. The cost was often just a nice meal with a good portion of meat. If travellers didn't meet the expectations, the fossegrimen would only teach their student how to tune the fiddle, but not how to play it. I thought of Emil immediately for the determined isolationism, the love of good music, and the easy going attitude of still offering help, even if the exchange wasn't quite what he expected.

Norway- Mage.

As much as I would love to explore a potential troll!Norway route, the reality that he is probably a well-rehearsed and extremely gifted magicke-user just refuses to leave me alone. Mages, unlike wizards, are not as timid about their abilities. He is absolutely out there wandering ruins and exploring foreign cities. He may be traveling alone, but he is learning plenty. I feel like at some point, Lukas probably also looked into necromancy, but that's a theory to explore when I'm a little less sleepy.

Sweden- Landvættir.

The Landvættir are land guardians, most specifically centered around farms or wild grounds. When approaching Vikings neared land, they allegedly removed the carved dragon heads from the bows of their ships, to avoid the risk of provoking the Landvættir and bringing bad luck. There wasn't very much lore on them that I could find, but from the little I did, I feel Berwald is exactly the kind of stoic guardian one must pass by quietly to safely explore a new world.

These were a lot of fun, Anon! I may do more research later into some of these concepts (may even try to find some pictures~), but for now it is late, and I thank you for the Halloween ask!

Merry Samhain!

Blessed be.

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cloppyreads · 8 years ago

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So Power Rangers 2017 sucked... which should surprise no one.

The sad part is, it’s not even laughably bad, like the Schumaker Batman movies, or even Dragon Ball Evolution. It’s the kind of bad where it works in some parts, and kind of tricks you into thinking it might be decent, but then rushes through everything that you were hoping for and leaves you disappointed.

Okay so the first few minutes of the movie are actually really cool, where they show Zordon as a Power Ranger himself banishing Rita who was also a Power Ranger before he dies. And you know what, that actually makes sense. I like that these two beings who were TEN THOUSAND YEARS old in the show actually wielded that power in their previous lives, that’s good expansion to the lore.

Cut to the five teenagers, who all have no personality past their one-dimensional quirks. We’ve got Jason, the jock who’s destroyed his future as a football star, Billy, who’s a genius with autism (because having a mental disorder is a personality is a character, right?), Kimberly, who is... a girl... Zack, who’s just weird for the sake of being weird, and Trini, who is... also a girl... and weird... and maybe a lesbian? Look, I’m not saying that the original teenagers of Mighty Morphin had great personalities, but for the most part, the TV show knew we weren’t here for the teenage drama, we were here to watch fights with putty’s, guys in rubber monster suits, and mech fights. This 2 hour movie has basically 1 and 1/2 hours dedicated to showing these teenagers interact with their cardboard personalities until the last 20 minutes before the credits (which we’ll get to in a bit).

When we actually see Alpha and Zordon, believe it or not, they’re actually pretty intriguing. Alpha kind of has a bit of that spastic personality with a bit of annoyance to it, but it actually feels a bit... human. Like the things he’s saying are thing you could imagine a real person saying (you know, if they were an intergalactic robot who’d been trapped in a spaceship for millions of years). His voice actually sounds like a person instead of squeaky ear rape, and he just seems so excited about everything that’s happening around him. Zordon is the exact opposite. He’s impatient, demanding and just unimpressed with what’s going on. When the five teenagers show up, he doesn’t think they’re cut out for; he says something along the lines of “How could the coins be entrusted to these... these children?”. And to me, that makes sense; I’d think that a million year old being would definitely doubt that a bunch of teenagers were capable of mastering these cosmic powers and defeating a creature of pure evil that they just don’t understand. In fact it goes a step further than that. Zordon has so little trust in these kids that it’s revealed he’s only teaching them to morph so he can use the energy to revive himself and defeat Rita on his own. It actually gives Zordon a little bit of depth that he has no faith in these guys at all. Of course it comes full circle when one of them dies, and they say some “blah blah friendship” stuff, and Zordon gets his chance to come back, but uses it to bring the dead ranger to life. Yes, it’s cliche as all hell, but I think it’s a cliche that works well in this instance.

Speaking of Rita... Rita is awful. When she first shows up, she just acts creepy and weird in a way that’s awkward to watch. She looks less like an evil empress and more like a henchwoman for an empress. The way she chews up golden necklaces just feels like she should be muttering “Yessssss... YESSSSSS... More gold for MASTER! MORE GOLD!” Later in the movie she starts being more articulent (it’s like the scriptwriter got bored with having her be creepy and needed her to talk like a human for plot convenience, or something), but even then it’s not very intriguing. She says some creepy evil stuff, threatens to kill someone if she doesn’t get her way, yadda yadda yadda. Oh, and her big monster she’s trying to resurrect is Goldar. Yup. Big dumb winged henchman of the show is no longer her henchman, it’s her ULTIMATE WEAPON. And when he’s completed, he doesn’t even look like goldar, except that he’s... gold... and has wings.

Speaking of Rita, the movie decided to pull a bait and switch on me by making me think we’d actually get to see Rita fight. All the rangers surround her in an abandoned warehouse, and the camera swoops around them in that way that gets you hype. Then they start swinging at her, and she knocks them away with her staff, and I actually felt myself getting a little excited, until -- oh, let’s just skip to the part where they’re tied up and defeated, that fight scene lasted five seconds, nobody wants to see fighting! We need more silly teenage drama, that’s what everyone wants!

Alright, so after an hour and a half of this bullshit, they finally learn how to morph, and their suits look pretty neat. Not as good as the show, but I’m willing to be lenient, they look decent for a :modern take”. So after all that crap, maybe this will be like Godzilla 2014 and we’ll get some satisfying action at the end?

Ha ha... no. When they fight the “putty’s” the whole fight feels rushed, like it’s on fast-forward. They show Jason throw a kick and a punch, then switch to Zack throwing a guy over his shoulder, then Kimberly’s doing a spin kick. Then it all ends with Zack summoning his zord and bulldozing all the minions away. I think the whole “fight scene” was over with in less than a minute.

Zords... look awful. I mean, the CG was good, to the point that they looked pretty real, but the designs were just very messy. The first time they appeared, they actually blended in with the rocks to the point I didn’t recognize they were there at all. When they finally started moving, I actually had to squint my eyes to recognize “wait, that metal mess is a triceratops, I see it now”. They all pretty much fly around and fail to beat Goldar, and it looks like they’re gonna get burned alive in fire, until “something something TEAMWORK” and then a metal hand reaches out of the fire, and the megazord was combined under all that fire to the point we couldn’t watch it combine, seriously, no combining sequence? Fuck you. Also, the megazord just looks like a giant robot power ranger, seriously, just take one of the power rangers and make it into a 20 story robot, and that’s the megazord. Double fuck you.

The fight with Goldar is disappointingly short. There’s one minute spent with them going “wait, shit how do we work this thing?” and then as soon as they figure it out, they kill him. And then they bitch-slap Rita into outer space, and that’s it. That’s the end.

There’s also a slew of “how do you do fellow kids?” meme-bait references and trendy songs and slang throughout the movie. I was pretty mad when they played Hand Clap during the training sequence, and they played some Kanye West song during another action scene ( I forget when exactly, maybe the Zord scene? I don’t know, but it took what little hype there was out of it). The part that killed me was after Rita was defeated, and all of the townsfolk were looking at the megazord in awe, the rangers made it do a hip-thrust dance. I just cringed so hard seeing that. Oh, and the actors for Tommy and Kimberly were there among the townsfolk, because OH MY GOSH GUYS EASTER EGGS YOU NERDS LOVE YOUR IN-JOKES WITH THE WINK-WINK AND THE NUDGE-NUDGE XD

I knew this was gonna be bad. I’m not trying to be pompous and say “I told you so” or anything, I’m saying in the sense that I knew it was gonna be bad, and was still disappointed. It wasn’t so bad it was funny (like Terminator Genisys, which I was rolling laughing at). This was just aggravating. I’m sure a year from now I’ll look back at it and laugh with friends over it, but right now, it just feels obnoxious.

Bottom line, do not pay for a ticket for this movie. They’ve got six sequels lined up, so get the word out about how bad this movie is and make sure they don’t even get to finish filming the second one. I mean if it does happen, whatever, I’m not gonna lose sleep over it, but I feel like it’d be nice if this cringe-fest just got nipped in the bud.

#power rangers #saban's power rangers #review #rant?

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redscullyrevival · 8 years ago

Text

Ship of Destiny: Liveship Traders Rundown

@sonnetscrewdriver this has been a wild ride! TW: Spoilers abound and discussion of rape follows.

Setting/Plot/Narrative

For being my least favorite installment I do feel that this created world and it’s social/magical systems arrives at it’s most cohesive fruition in this last book, which makes sense, and I am thankful for that.

I also found the idea that a large bulk of what was expressed and used to motivate and further the story is tossed away, or altered, by the end of the book - in the sense that Tintaglia and the reintroduction of dragons into the world along with the recognition of the Pirate Isles reorders power, society, and economy - to be a unique and interesting choice.

Its a bit of a tricky move but it didn’t feel like “a waste” to me to have learned so thoroughly the world only for it to be rearranged at the end. It all worked towards the total theme of the series of inevitable change and response, in accepting life and taking responsibility for only what we can control.

Or, at least, that’s the big takeaway I got!

Althea Vestrit

Fuck

Okay

We’ll... we’ll have to come back to Althea in a second.

Captain Kennit

HHHHMMMMMMMSLDKFNL:KSLDK

This fucker.

Like a lot of characters with well done tragic backstories I was rooting for Kennit. I didn’t hate him but I didn’t really like him either, you know? As I said last time he exudes the “cool motive, still murder” type of deal - Kennit is a character who the majority of the series straddles the line of never being someone who gains reader sympathy while still being recognized by the reader as a deeply damaged person not entirely of his own making.

So I rooted for him.

Through out the entire series Kennit gets away with a lot of stuff and I understand from a narrative perspective that him raping Althea was a choice to have him cross a line. As the reader we know he raped Althea whereas everyone around, aside from Althea and Etta, isn’t sure he is capable of it.

Which turned into some intense fucking writing.

Because it isn’t ‘Kennit raped Althea so now he is the bad man everyone hates and a common enemy’, no. He remains captain. He remains a hero, the pirate king, the freer of slaves. A “good man”. We know Kennit isn’t a good man, but then again we’ve known that all along. We really have. All the signs were there. What was done to Kennit was all that was left of Kennit. Paragon tried to take that pain and suffering from him, but Kennit gave the hurt he received and that’s one reality of trauma and failure to cope. Because Kennit was never coping.

Ultimately I pitied Kennit while also accepting his actions as being abhorrent - getting angry and baring frothing teeth wasn’t my reaction. That isn’t how I react to this type of thing in narratives a lot of the time, especially with one that is trying it’s darnedest to be honest and respectable when it comes to this particular reflection of real life.

In the chapter the rape happened, the second my eyes read it, I came to hate Kennit. And that was the right response. That’s why it was written the way it was, I believe, so as to finally push the reader into having a real solid opinion about Kennit beyond his fake persona and his personal grab for power and fame elevating others; to remove benefit of the doubt completely and say “This is not a good person” no matter what his puzzled together sob story is and no matter what he has done in the name of social and political progress. Kennit is a shitbag human.

This series stresses, to an almost anxiety inducing degree, that people and life and situations are complex ever shifting, evolving, and decaying breathing entities. The only character who was truly stagnant and unmovable was Kennit, who hid under the guise of modernization and revolution. He had to be made irredeemable and dead.

This is a tight narrative that doesn’t abide such a person, doesn’t let such a person survive - that’s why so much emphasis was placed on the idea of Kennit’s luck. Something had to keep him around until he finally made a change, a choice, that would actually alter him.

To that end, I “like” the character as a device but not as an idea of a person or as a character-character.

What’s just as cutting is that Winthrow, Vivacia, Jek, (and probably society/history) doubt Althea. It’s gut wrenchingly frustrating. And it taints those characters just as much as it paints Kennit; and entirely because we know the total truth how they don’t.

Althea Vestrit

Phew, okay, lets try this again.

This was some hard shit.

Althea’s rape wasn’t the “worst” rape scene I’ve ever read and it probably won’t be the last, but what made the scene so difficult wasn’t any fucked up occupation with focusing on the physical but by focusing on the emotional and psychological confusion, terror, and exhaustion of the moment which worked to heighten the violation. I was thankful it wasn’t a long scene or I’d have to have skimmed it, and making it short was a smart choice because it gives strength to the idea that any form of unwanted physicality, no matter how briefly depicted (or in actuality), has massive repercussions. Basically it was a small mercy that we didn’t have to linger and wallow in the misery of the act to get across the wrongness of it and that’s all do to the writing.

I feel a bit bad for focusing on Althea’s rape so heavily when talking about her and when talking about Kennit because it’s kind of like “Wow, well, there is more to her than this” - but I also think that’s a thought better reserved for a real person more than a character.

I said my reaction to this kind of thing in stories a lot of the time isn’t real true anger, and I stand by that, but come on! Obviously I get a little angry at the same time! I invest in characters and I get mad at what is done to them in-story just as much as I get mad they had something done to them because that was a choice made for the story, ya know?

Like, sometimes the emotion is “UGH this character wouldn’t do that, why is this happening?” anger and other times it’s “UGH what is this character doing stop being a dummy (because I understand them as being capable of doing this dumb thing)” anger. And sometimes it’s both lol. I’m a mysterious woman!

Anyways, my point is that poor Althea gets a bit overshadowed by her rape but that isn’t to say I think her aftermath was handled poorly - on the contrary I was pleased with her outrage and paranoia and cunning and muddled swamp of complex reactions and fears and triumphs.

What I can’t decide is whether my still not totally endearing myself to Althea even after all she came through is the biggest fault of the series or it’s most crowned achievement if I’m completely honest.

Kyle Haven

Bye bitch.

Winthrow Vestrit

This fucking kid.

I’m almost devastated that Winthrow was so enamored with Kennit but like I get it? uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuughghghghgh

I love Winthrow and Etta, they have a kind of relationship I enjoy, and I guess I’m happy they’re on the mend post-Kennit?

From Winthrow’s faulted, stunted, half-truth perspective of Kennit doubt over the man’s ability to rape makes some sense - but as the reader I felt I couldn’t allow Winthrow the grace of understanding his hesitation to believe his aunt.

So, Winthrow was tainted by Kennit and now writing this I’m a little shocked to find I’m a little bitter about it! LOL

My sweet precious priest boy where did you go?!

sigh

Its one of those things were I respect the choice and it makes total sense and thus speaks true of the character for Winthrow to doubt Althea and only realize it possible after talking to Etta - but as a reader and fan I wish Winthrow disowned Kennit immediately so I could continue to like him as I had all along.

sigh

I thought it hilarious Winthrow was scandalized by his sister and Reyn’s relationship though, lol, like step back and get some perspective you prude.

Keffria Vestrit

STILL THE FAVORITE!

I’m biased at this point though.

Locking down the home front by doing all she could, especially by letting go of things she didn’t want to - that’s some badass guts and fucking growth right there.

FUCK YEAH

Her struggle with how to rearrange her bedroom in tandem with her understanding of Kyle and her place in the world was brilliance.

Ronica Vestrit

My favorite spy.

I really wanted her to take Serilla under her wing and phew thankfully that kind of happened at the end - I was so worried about my girl Serilla, I’m glad her fate is tied with Ronica’s.

Malta

Oh boy oh boy what a treat!

Malta is my hero lol

She is a lot more like her mother than she thinks - her ability to navigate social standings, to become smaller or larger as needed, and to read others and bargain comes from mama not Kyle. I hope, I really hope, she knows that.

My little survivor.

Seriously though, Malta evolved so much faster than anyone else and proved to be much more adapt at it then anyone else. The political/social manipulation she grows to be an expert in was some of my favorite world building/scenes in the entire series.

I love her so much.

Reyn Khuprus

I love him too.

I’m so glad the Rain Wilder’s drop their veils and open up, I can’t wait to read more and see how that goes for them!

Reyn’s desperate search for Malta was some fun pining but the best bits was how the trip worked to better illustrate the workings of dragons and give some insight into the Elderlings and what’s in store for the future before we ever get to the bardering table.

Just a sweet, sweet dragon boy.

Vivacia

Good for her, I guess.

Pretty apathetic to be honest lol

I don’t know why Vivacia slipped away from me, especially since she is now in a good place, her own real entity! What’s wrong with me as a reader?!

Paragon

I’m so relieved but so upset omg

Etta

Oh baby girl I’m so so so sorry.

Etta is a really fascinating character and I really hope to see, or at least hear of her, again. She isn’t done, she has the least resolve and most open ended goodbye out of everyone and I want more of her and for her than that.

I really grew to appreciate Etta and if I was going to make a friend out of this cast of characters she and Keffria are my first picks; and I’d love if ever they got a chance to meet. They’d help each other so much.

I wonder if their parallels are intentional as the two most influential women in Winthrow’s life? Hmm. Probably not. Both are much more interesting as they are on their own without pitting them against Winthrow; especially Etta.

Satrap Cosgo

This fuck nugget gets no props for growing.

Kiki redeemed herself by like a thousand and I felt for her in the end but Cosgo can suck an egg.

Although there is a part of me that enjoyed his detached and surly attitude towards everything.

#liveship traders #multiplayer notepad #fandom talks #realm of the elderlings #year of book

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llamastories96-blog · 7 years ago

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Fly-By

Prompt: the dragon who rescued the princess from the knight.

Characters: Reader x Kim Jongdae

Genre: Angst, Slight Fluff

__________________________

Dark black scales glimmered in the starlight as the terrifying dragon soared through the sky. He hummed a sad, old tune that his elders passed down before the dreaded war.

Chen was a hatchling when his elders began to show him the evil creatures that lurked everywhere around their mountain. High up, Chen never thought that they would be in danger.

Until the dreaded creatures stumbled upon them.

Initially, it was only one. But that was all it took, for once they spared the creatures life, their safety was compromised. The vile creatures came upon their mountain with such numbers, that even though Chen and his elders were ten times their size, the creatures felt no fear.

It was the same day, that they were attacked. When Chen barely escaped with his life. When he vowed to never let another of those creatures stumble upon him and survive.

At least, until he met you.

He knew he was in trouble when he heard a beautiful voice sing back the melody he often hummed as he soared in the sky. Especially when he heard the lyrics that he only thought the elders knew.

"Flying over meadows, friends with the moon and stars, we shall never feel alone, even if we flew too far, for all we need is this simple melody, to remind us of our homes, and feel the love our elders have for us, Godspeed to the dragons, who prowl the night, searching for evil to extinguish."

The singing made Chen fly in circles until he found a perch where he could be hidden as he watched the woman in the tower sing his song.

He felt his talons, wings, and scales retract. His horns fell into his skull painlessly, and his size shrunk down significantly. He sprouted a tuft of hair on his head, and a slight covering on his arms and legs. His ears and nose shrank, until he passed as one of these vile creatures.

Until he passed as human.

Night after night he sat perched watching you sing, you never left the window. You sang the entire song and all it's verses.

On occasion, he'd hear a man's voice yell for you. Abruptly cutting off your singing, and making you rush to wherever the voice came from. Sometimes returning with bruises, sometimes with blood on your face, or sometimes not at all.

For whatever reason, Chen felt compassion.

He had never heard a human sing this song. Unless it was in mockery or disdain. However, you sounded so sincere and forlorn, it drew him to you.

Almost every time he got too curious about you, he would force his transformation back and leave without a glance backwards.

Humans had wiped out all of his elders. He would not allow himself to become infatuated by one.

But the longer he spent sitting in a high tree, watching you sing, he felt more compelled to save you. A human. A vile creature who could have very well been apart of the destruction of his clan.

One day, as he sat in the tree, he watched you just like any other day. You sang the song, looking into the sky. When you heard yelling, louder than it had been previously. Your heart beat stuttered as you heard your father coming up the stairs to your chamber.

You quickly blew out your lantern before he reached your room and dove under the blankets and fur on your bed.

He burst through your door and yelled out, "Can you do nothing right?!"

You sat up in bed. "Father, what ever do you mean?" You watched him with wide, fearful eyes as he made his way over to your bed.

"Your betrothal to Sir Wayne." He gripped your throat and dragged you over to your window, pushing your upper half over the window sill. "If you muck it up, I have no problem throwing you out this window myself."

He nudged you a little further, making his point crystal clear.

You nodded your head and he released you, stalking out of the room.

You leant against the window sill for a few moments, considering whether you should save him the trouble or not.

You decided to go back to bed, and hope death finds you in your sleep.

Chen watched with careful eyes. He vowed to himself he'd be there, in case the older man kept his promise.

Nights passed, and you sat at your window less and less. Chen waited for 8 nights before gaining the courage to land on your window sill. His wings and long body barely fit inside. He noticed your room was empty, no signs of a creature living in there, except a slight warmth coming from the lantern at your bedside.

Chen could hear yelling from down in the lower levels of the tower you lived in, and he decided to leave and sink his claws into the stones several meters below your window.

He heard yelling and then no sounds but heavy footsteps up stone.

Soon the door to your living area opened and he heard the older man say, "Now it's time to keep my promise to you, girl."

Several moments later, your form was pushed out the window.

Chen had no time to think, only react. He pushed off from the building, just in time for you to land on his back. He looked back at your, to see you clutching his neck, eyes fearfully looking back.

He turned back around and flew until he reached his perch in the mountains. He stopped once inside and laid on the ground, looking back at you to signal you to get off him.

You fell off, and scooched back until your back hit the wall.

Chen turned back around as he began to change his shape.

You gasped as you watched his scales and wings disappear, and morph into a naked human.

You shied your eyes away from his naked form, as he began walking towards you. You hear stones jostle each othet along the cave floor, and you ooened your eyes to see him kneeling a few feet in front of you.

"What's your name?" He asked.

#exo scenario #chen #jongdae #kim jongdae

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arataandthegarden · 8 years ago

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Feathers and Blood- an OC Hunger Games AU

Oh boy here we go. Just an AU we wrote with our characters. NOT CANON!!!

Trigger warnings: violence, gore, swearing, death, torture, slight rape mentions, suicide, my horrific writing skills, etc.

This story can also be read on Dragon’s Wattpad: ILackAesthetic

Yeah whatever it sucks but here it is. Also, the middle of the story is missing because I’m too lazy to actually finish that part. I’ll explain stuff when I get there and feel free to ask questions:

Dragon looked at the young pup with her fearful amber eyes. He seemed like he was only… twelve years old? She didn’t want to kill him, but she had to. Every wolf for himself.

After all, this was the Hunger Games.

Screaming “I’m sorry!” while running at the pup and ramming into him, she pinned him down. With chaos turning all around as other tributes fought for their lives, she bit down hard on his throat and jerked her head to the side. Sickening, hot blood sprayed her face and seeped into the dirt. One small and dying paw attempted to slash at her with a knife. It failed miserably. She spat out the furry lump of flesh in her mouth and pried the blade from the fellow canines paws. She held the knife in her mouth and sprinted for the treeline, snatching up a black backpack as she went. She put it on with shaking paws..

As she ran she glanced back to see the avian wolf from District 1 fly the other direction with humongous purple wings. Dragon squinted and watched her soar away. The avian held no weapon. That made every inch of her pale blue fur stand on end. That wolf must’ve been skillful to go unarmed.

Wait wasn’t the avian a career?

Was she abandoning her pack?

Dragon nearly ran face first into a tree, snapping her back into reality. She bolted around the tree and continued her journey into the forest. She had no time to observe her surroundings; she had to get as far away from the Cornucopia as possible. Besides, she was fairly certain the entirety of the arena was woodland anyway. That was good, especially since she was a woodland wolf who came from District 7: the lumber district.

She was born around trees. She has lived around trees. Now she will die around trees.

Trees, trees, trees.

She missed her family and her few friends. It was unlikely that she would see them again, however. The odds weren’t exactly in her favor, and they never were. Back home she trained as a papermill worker, not as the typical District 7 lumberjack. She had never touched an axe in her life. All that she was talented in wielding were knives and swords. Already she was a disappointment to her district. She wondered what her family thought of her now

She slowed to a walk, feeling a little tired of running. Maybe the human boy who came with her was a little less of a mistake. His name was Johnny and sure, he wasn't much (he was a skinny fourteen year old) but at least he could use an axe and at least he wasn't “breaking tradition.”

A cannon blast made Dragon jump. She forced herself to calm down a little to count the shots. They were usually delayed after the bloodbath at the beginning of the Games. Two… three… four…

!!!

Only four?!

Thats gotta be a record for the least amount of tributes killed during the bloodbath. It worried Dragon further. There were still twenty other tributes alive, leaving plenty of competition for her to face. Dragon wondered how big the career pack must actually be as well. She irrationally imagined herself being hunted down by some super pack made up of everyone else left it the arena. She pushed that thought aside.

The red blood staining her muzzle, neck, and her paws began to get crusty as it dried into her fur. She could still taste its awful metallic flavor in her mouth. So naturally, she decided to take a break from walking to find a safe pace to wash it off. If there was no water in her backpack, she would have to make do just licking herself clean.

Dragon quickly found a giant cedar tree. She backed up several steps from it. Then with incredible speed, she ran straight up the trunk. Her heart skipped an entire beat when she nearly slipped (Her nails were trimmed before entering the arena. Apparently that made her more attractive, but how the fuck was she supposed to do anything with short nails?) but she was able to regain grip just enough to pull her body to a branch. She was thankful she could climb. It was one of the few skills she actually learned while living in District 7. She took a deep breath to force herself to relax and slid her backpack carefully off her back. She opened it as she plopped down on the tree limb.

Inside the bag was a roll of crackers (she wasn’t hungry yet), a bottle of water (half full), another knife, some rope, and a small black blanket. Such a lucky bag; all of the objects could be useful. She just hoped that it wouldn’t rain. There was no jacket in the pack. Wolves and canines never entered the arena with clothing since they survived well enough without it. However, humans who died easily of exposure required clothing.

She compared the knife to the one she took from the boy she murdered. The one she killed for was long and wicked sharp while the other was shorter, but seemed to have more utility purposes judging by the fact that it was serrated near the handle. She left the serrated one inside her bag and put the sharp one in the bag’s side pocket. If she needed it, she could grab it quickly.

As for the water, she didn’t want to waste it on cleaning herself. Water was precious in the arena and the bottle was only half full. So Dragon licked a paw and started to wipe at her face. She probably looked like a common housecat, grooming herself up in the trees. After hours of gently scratching and pawing at her face, she saw the blood coming out on her paw less and less. Eventually, she was satisfied enough to move on to her paws.

Just as she felt somewhat presentable, her ears pricked as she heard the Capitol anthem drifting over the treetops. She looked up to the sky, seeing the Capitol seal projected amongst the stars. It was already night time?! She had been so focused on cleaning herself that she had lost track of the time! She stood up to a sitting position and prepared to count the dead.

The first image in the sky was the pup Dragon killed. He was from District 6. She looked down at the ground, ashamed with herself. Back home, they would be replaying her kill in every bloody detail for all to see. Probably from multiple camera angles as well. And maybe in slow motion. She looked back to the air to see that a human from District 11 was dead and both of District 12 tributes were gone. Yep. Only four dead.

Dragon plopped back down on the branch, suddenly feeling exhausted and fatigued. Her stomach was turning anxiously. She needed to sleep, so she closed her eyes. However, a particularly frightening thought popped into her head: What about that winged wolf? Whoever she was, she could obviously fly. If the avian encountered her in the trees while she was sleeping, Dragon would be dead for sure. Of course, any flying creature in the games couldn’t fly very high. An invisible “net’ most likely covered the arena just over the tops of the trees. In previous games they existed for the sole purpose of keeping flying tributes from flying too high. When a tribute passes the limit, a nasty electric shock is administered through the tracking devices implanted in all of the tributes’ arms or forelegs. It wasn’t enough to kill the tribute, but it certainly was enough to deter anyone. Even a creature as mighty as a dragon.

Of course, dragons and other magical creatures were never put into the Hunger Games. Magical species lived in the Capitol and forced the non-magical to work for them in districts. That's how it’s always been and that’s how it’ll always be.

The woodland wolf put on her backpack and clambered back down to the ground. Hopefully, the avian will be more unlikely to find her on the forest floor. She found a fragrant flower bush (it was easy to find in the dark) and squeezed under its branches. In its leafy shelter, she drifted into a fitful and nightmare-filled sleep.

---

Dragon awoke to the sounds of rustling dangerously close. She lifted herself to a crouch as slowly and as quietly as possible, shaming herself silently when bright sunlight burned her eyes. It was nearly midday! How dare she oversleep! If whatever out there caught her, she easily would have been killed. Trapped beneath the thorns of the flower bush, escape would be impossible for the canine. She carefully scanned her surroundings through the bush’s entrance and nearly yelped at what she saw.

An arctic fox with silver blue fur stood on his hind legs, an oversized rain jacket clearly made for a wolf tied around his neck like a cape. He seemed to be dinning upon the raspberries of a nearby bush, glancing behind himself periodically. Dragon glared and sunk down a little further. She had completely missed the berries! First oversleeping, and now this! Hell, she was about as dead as a pork chop on a platter.

Mmm… Pork chops...

Holy shit she was hungry.

Berries aren’t all that different from pork chops, right?

No. Dragon froze. That fox she had seen during training. Wasn’t his name Lynx, from District 5? He was insanely quick on his feet and could very easily latch his tiny teeth around her throat, doing her in just fine. Armed, he might as well have been a miniscule juggernaut. She shouldn’t attack, but the idea of fresh berries sounded far better than those stale crackers in her pack.

How ‘bout raspberries on crackers? Fuck yeah.

Dragon prepared to pounce. If she surprised him, she would surely win. Picking up her knife, she inched forward on her belly towards Lynx. All she had to do was reach her paw around quickly and slit his throat, no problem. He just had to eat those berries for a little longer…

Leaves fluttered slightly overhead and Dragon ducked quickly back into her hiding place. Lynx turned his narrow face upward, ears swiveling wildly. Suddenly, he seemed terrified. In fact, he was scared stiff.

A blur of fur and feathers crashed in from the treetops like a great purple whirlwind. The avian! The winged wolf had the fox down in seconds with one silver paw obviously crushed between great blue jaws. She shook her head back and forth, shredding Lynx’s leg. The fox, screaming, was then thrown into the side of a tree. Dragon winced, hearing bones within Lynx’s ribcage snap (She also swore she heard the avian giggle quietly).

“No!” Lynx hopelessly pleaded with the avian and made an awful attempt to crawl away. “Let’s team up, Paint! No! STO-!!!” He cut himself off. To Dragon’s horror, he made eye contact with her through the bush. She shrank back further as he cried, “HELP ME PLEASE!!!”

But Paint (That seemed to be her name.) was upon him once again with powerful wings unfurling and this time she had his neck in her mouth. When Dragon saw her let go at last, terrible gurgling sounds escaped the fox’s torn windpipe, blood splattered into a slowing growing pool. A cannon finally fired and the avian seemed to relax. With wings closed neatly, Paint untied Lynx’s rain jacket and felt every pocket. Paint huffed loudly and tossed the jacket away, obviously finding nothing worth taking. Next, the avian regarded the fox’s body with clearly conflicted emotion until, to Dragon’s surprise, she picked up the body in her forearms and flew up and out of sight.

Dragon nearly left her hiding spot after waiting a few more moments just in case, but felt a warm and sticky liquid drizzle down her back. Blood was dripping from the treetops. She turned her head upwards hesitantly and nearly vomited at what she saw.

Paint, perched in the limbs of a towering cedar tree, had nearly her entire head buried within Lynx’s chest cavity, eating out the heart or lungs of the tiny canine. The dead fox was draped limply across a branch with still wide-open eyes staring blankly down at Dragon. As Dragon observed the avian, she began to shake in terror. Paint was insane! There was no other explanation to the devouring of Lynx, but the explanation raised further questions. Why would the Gamemakers allow Paint to consume the dead body of a tribute? Usually, the Gamemakers killed those exhibiting those with cannibalistic qualities. Why hadn’t a hovercraft came to retrieve the body yet? That was a pretty standard procedure in the Hunger Games.

When Paint moved on to the stomach area of Lynx with a tremendous ripping of flesh (The poor fox was going to have to be cremated, if what was left of his body was to be retrieved!), a horrifying idea floated into Dragon’s head like a ghost. The Gamemakers clearly had something big planned.

And it had everything to do with the avian.

Suddenly, a cannon shot broke the air. Paint visibly jumped, as did Dragon. Another death! The avian stood up on the branch, balanced precariously for a moment, and spread her wings gracefully in preparation for flight. The winged wolf leapt from the limb and soared out of sight. This time, Dragon was certain Paint had left for good.

Dragon slunk out from under the bush and quickly made sure she had everything packed within her backpack. Then she put her knife in her mouth, brushed off her sapphire fur (It didn’t occur to her how unfortunately brightly colored her pelt was!), and proceeded towards the raspberry bush. A puddle of blood tainted the dirt nearby, making Dragon cringe a little. Lynx was terribly unlucky to die in that fashion.

“The odds weren’t in his favor, huh?” Dragon muttered with the knife still in her jaws, snorting once. Quickly, she covered her muzzle with her paws, dropping her blade. Guilt for laughing, even sarcastically, washed over her. The wolf turned up to Lynx’s hanging body. “Sorry, buddy. Didn’t mean to offend you. If I did, that is.” Blood merely dripped silently onto the leaves below.

She shrugged and returned to the raspberry bush. Bright red berries hung from bright green sprigs of leaves and prickly thorns. As fast as possible and while avoiding being pricked, Dragon ate quite a few straight off the bush. Their fresh, sweet flavor filled her mouth and satisfied her greatly.

When Dragon stepped back from the raspberry bush, she let out a terrified yelp when she trod upon something other than the forest floor. Her heart rate quickly returned to normal when she realized that what was under her paw was only the rain jacket. She picked it up and examined it. Blood stained the sleeves formerly tied around Lynx’s now gaping hole of a neck. Other than that, it appeared to be wearable. Dragon put on the jacket. It fit, but the sleeves were a tad bit too long; she rolled them to accommodate. The blue-gray material of the jacket hid her vibrant blue fur. She picked up her knife and trotted away, leaving the body of Lynx for a hovercraft to pick up.

As she was walking, she quickly realized how urgently she needed to find a source of water. There was nothing around the Cornucopia, but there had to be a creek or river somewhere. The Gamemakers wouldn’t let the tributes die off by something as tame as dehydration!

… Would they?

Dragon shook off the thought and continued through the flower forest. She finally could get a good look at it, now that she wasn’t running for her life. All around great blooms of mostly pastel colored blossoms sprung from grand bushes, vines winding up towering trees, and even from the trees themselves. Each released its own unique and extraordinarily fragrant perfume into the air. Some, as Dragon was beginning to grow wary of, shifted ever-so-slightly when she wasn’t looking. The tributes had to be especially careful of those, as well as any unidentifiable flower or fruit. Each could be poisoned or perhaps even bite.

Honestly, no one in their right mind was going to be tricked by a Gamemaker’s flower.

“In their right mind?” Dragon muttered. “If that's the case, Paint should probably drop dead from sniffing a flower. Any day now…” But she knew better than that. The avian may be insane, but she certainly wasn’t just a stupid brute from District 1. The way she had targeted his throat and ambushed him… and without a weapon too! Hell, she had a training score of eleven! Paint was clearly skilled and therefore couldn’t be much of an idiot.

Dragon wandered for about another few hours, pausing only to eat some more raspberries of another bush and to take a couple cautious sips from her water bottle. Since she couldn’t find any water, all that she allowed herself to drink was a drop at a time. As for the berries, they looked to be plentiful in this part of the forest, so why not indulge herself? She decided to save her crackers for another day.

Why haven’t the Gamemakers driven her to some more action, that was something Dragon didn’t know. Apparently, there was an event far more interesting happening elsewhere in the arena. A cannon fired, making Dragon smile. Such as a death, perchance? What did that leave… Seventeen? Quite a few, really. The Gamemakers better speed things up a little, or else the Capitol and maybe even King Scalro will lose interest. She shuddered, hoping that they won’t.

[Note (PLEASE READ): HEY HEY HEY IT’S ME THE WRITER BRINGING YOU A NOTE!!! The middle portion of this story is missing!!!! Wow!!!! So here is what happens between where we left off and the next part: Another tribute dies (his name was Mech). Dragon watches as careers (Bastion, Margret Marble, Kai, and Skylie) kill Johnny (also from District 7). Dragon runs and teams up with a wolf named Prism and a wolf named Capala. Prism dies and Capala is stabbed with a spear by careers. Dragon is still alive yay.

Next portion of the story is probably very triggering to people since it ramps up in intensity a lot. The story is kinda cringy, too. You have been warned.]

A loud, slowly approaching rumble awoke Dragon. The tree she had been sleeping in shuddered slightly, and she knew exactly what was happening. An earthquake obviously manufactured by the Gamemakers was literally going to “shake things up a bit.” Half falling, half climbing, she clambered down from the branches and onto the forest floor. Immediately, the quake was upon her.

The ground beneath her paws gave a massive roar as the earth rolled. Dragon fell on her face after briefly being thrown into the air. Her teeth clacked together, making her skull flood with a sudden pain and causing her eyes to tear up and see black dots swim through her vision. She yelped, and scrambled to regain her balance on the shaking arena. The world was a cacophony of cracking trees with roots abruptly clawing at the blue sky and wide, opening crevices speedily snaking their way towards her. The cries of animals, such as the deer now fleeing past the wolf, also filled the air. A cannon fired.

Dragon jumped up and bolted away from fissures, screaming. A cedar collapsed in her path. She was forced to backpedal and sprint in the other direction. Behind the wolf, entire trees and flower bushes were being swallowed up by the earth. Another cannon went off.

She soared over a gaping rupture, nearly falling to her death down below. Her pounding heart skipped a beat as she was caught hanging above the quivering chasm and had to claw herself up to “solid” ground. On the other side, huge spikes of rock shot through the dirt, a few impaling a couple of very unfortunate animals like giant bloody spears. Dragon prepared to leap into this minefield, but the arena suddenly silenced, the last booming sound being that of a cannon. Three. Three dead. She vividly imagined the last to die impaled upon the stone spears like some gory war trophy.

Just like Capala...

She crawled beneath the roots of a fallen oak to regroup. Her head and jaws throbbed from when she had fallen. She hoped that she didn’t have a concussion. Back in District 7, a kid couldn’t come to work for weeks due to a head injury. The doctor told him to rest, but if Dragon truly did have a concussion, there would be no resting in the arena. To add further insult to injury, several minor scrapes and bruises covered her body. The rain jacket was torn in several places. Apparently, she ran into quite a few brambles fleeing from the quake.

“Wh-where even am I?” Dragon questioned herself as she peered carefully around the roots of her hiding place. Her eyes widened. All around her, giant chasms yawned to the sky as plants and flowers lay entirely uprooted, rubble and dust coating everything. The beauty of the arena had transformed into ruins. The Cornucopia stood tall above the destruction, the one thing left completely untouched by the earthquake. Holy fuck it was so close. The Gamemakers had drawn her here, and perhaps many others, back to the starting point. Genius, really. She assumed that the resources still within the Cornucopia were safe. With the “natural” berries and fruits destroyed, it was the only source of food in the arena for tributes who couldn’t hunt.

Dragon’s ears pricked, hearing voices from inside the Cornucopia. The career pack! Cowards! They probably ducked in there as soon as the quake began, as they never strayed far from easily obtainable sustenance. She shrank back when she saw Bastion emerge, his thick fur and build quickly recognizable. She watched as he sniffed the air and beckon for his companions, who all came out at once. Everyone seemed to be with him, but Dragon noticed that Marble was missing.

“Boy oh boy! That was one hell of a shaker, ay Sea Bass?” Syra said, giggling and nudging the wolf, who simply huffed. He obviously didn’t enjoy the nickname given to him by, presumably, the District 4 leviathan. A sea bass was a type of fish caught by the seafood district, right? Dragon didn’t remember.

“Well… We’ve lost Marble on the stone spikes, so our team has shrank,” said Marge, matter-of-factly. The pack must’ve been outside the Cornucopia when the earthquake happened. “That isn’t exactly something to celebrate. We’re weak now.” She had one hand on her sheathed sword. The human girl had something big planned, Dragon could tell.

Kai groaned. “Ugh, so what! That means we’ve knocked out another district! How many are out now…” He counted on his fingers. “Four? Marble being dead is a great thing! Far less to deal with!” Margret glared, but made no moves against him.

“SHUT UP!!!” Bastion yelled. The pack stared at him with wide eyes, Kai nearly dropping his trident. Dragon fought the urge to laugh out loud. The careers were genuinely terrified of him. “Who cares if Marble’s dead or not! Paint’s still out there, and we currently have no cover from avian attacks. Look around you! ALL THE TREES ARE GONE!!!” He took a deep breath and looked down at his paws. “So please just… chill, okay? Paint is our biggest concern.”

Kai and Syra mumbled in agreement but Margret continued to be unconvinced. “Really? REALLY?!” she shouted, hand now fully clasped around the hilt of her sword. Bastion flinched. “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about! We haven’t even encountered Paint once! Fuck, I doubt she’s even as good as you say she is, Bastion. I think you’re LYING.” A slight squeak rose in Dragon’s throat when she saw Marge draw her weapon and jab it aggressively at Bastion, who jumped back to avoid it’s tip. The District 4 tributes simply watched.

“Wha-!” He shook his head, and picked up his spear. “I don’t understand!”

“YES, YOU DO UNDERSTAND!!! You’ve been using us since the start!” she wailed. “I think you’re trying to FUCKING PROTECT HER!!!” Margret swung her blade, but it was deflected by the raising of Bastion’s spear.

“STOP IT!!! I’M THE LEADER HERE, GODDAMMIT!!!” He rose onto his hind paws to jab the spear, but it was parried sideways by the girl. She lunged viciously, and the sword planted itself in Bastion’s ribcage. He slumped immediately, blade having pierced his heart and a cannon fired. Margret pulled out her sword and turned to the District 4 tributes, who both gawked at her. Dragon saw that her expression was one of sheer boredom, as if killing Bastion was just a waste of time and energy. It shocked the wolf to the core, far more than the murder itself. No, not murder. This was the Hunger Games.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

The career pack, now only a trio packed up their things and ran off together. Dragon got up (with an aching complaint from her head), and slinked after them, ducking behind the trunks of trees to avoid being spotted. Maybe they knew of some type of shelter? Careers tended to travel with far more confidence, since they were deadly tributes to target with their large numbers and rarely rivaled skill in battle. Unfortunately, these careers obviously didn’t know where they were going. Arguing frequently, the journey to an unknown destination was slow and irritating. The District 4 tributes continuously glanced up at the sky. Apparently, Bastion’s words on Paint stuck with them. Thankfully, the avian was nowhere to be seen. She had probably taken to the skies when the earthquake occurred, flying off to a far side of the arena

At last, in the middle of the night and long after the fallen tributes were displayed in the night sky (Marble, a human girl from District 6, and a human boy from District 8 died.), the careers made a discovery. Dragon could tell simply by the loud and obnoxious whoops and shouts. She crept a little closer, careful to remain hidden behind a surprisingly undamaged raspberry bush. As she listened to the celebration of the careers, she popped quite a few berries into her mouth. Since she had been so invested in stalking, she completely forgot to eat! So damn forgetful…

The careers were standing at the edge of an enormous, twenty meters wide chasm, peering down into the depths. On the walls of the chasm were giant cracks and fissures, seeming to run farther underground and beneath their feet. They were tunnels, built by the Gamemakers to add an entirely new layer to the Hunger Games. Literally.

Margret soon found the entrance to a particularly large wall opening. A huge cedar lay diagonal, spanning the chasm in a natural bridge. Well, probably not too natural. The Gamemakers most likely added it for the specific purpose of being a path to the possible tunnels further beneath the earth.

“Come on,” Margret said. She shoved Kai towards the bridge with both hands. The boy stumbled forward and onto the log, wobbling precariously over the edge. Dragon held her breath and hoped that he would fall, but Kai quickly regained his balance.

He took two careful steps forward before glaring at the other two tributes. “What are you waiting for? Let's get going.” He continued slowly down the log and out of Dragon’s view. The sapphire wolf watched as the career girls looked at each other for a moment then followed Kai, Syra walking in front of Margret.

Dragon waited precisely thirty seconds (she counted in her head) before sauntering over to the ravine and peering over the edge. The crevasse was so deep, it made her injured head spin and her stomach turn; she wasn’t even afraid of heights! The careers were nowhere to be seen. They were probably in the tunnels.

She steeled herself with a slow, deep breath and placed one paw after the other onto the log. It wasn’t too hard to balance, but the thought of falling to her death made her legs shake a little. A gust of wind pushed her and threatened to throw her over the edge. However, she clung on well enough and managed to make it all the way to the entrance of the tunnels. She turned around to look at the bridge she had crossed. It would be hard for her to go back, especially because she was so afraid of falling!

Dragon sniffed the air of the dark tunnels and swiveled her ears, trying to figure out the location of the careers. They seemed to have retreated far into the caves. It was safe for her to continue.

She entered the tunnels. The air around her was cold and dry, but strangely pleasant on her fur. There was no light in the caverns, but her eyes adjusted well enough. Wolves could see pretty well in darkness.

There were separate caves everywhere! They branched off of the main tunnels and formed their own small rooms. Dragon quickly found a nice one and decided to enter. She could rest here.

Dragon sighed, taking off her rain jacket and spreading it carefully on the cold stone floor. She promptly lied down upon it, unzipping her backpack. She grabbed out the roll of crackers. She peeled back the plastic wrapping a bit and stuffed one into her mouth, chewing slowly. She was exhausted by hours of endless walking, but she must eat. She swallowed and gave an upset glance at the cracker package. She was going to run out of food if she didn’t forage or hunt soon, but if she ate only one cracker a day… No, that would be unwise and only leave her weak when she is attacked by a fellow tribute. She unwrapped the package further and was about to eat one more cracker, but froze when she heard pawsteps thunder down the tunnel.

A tribute was approaching fast!

Dragon felt panic rise in her chest. Maybe they would just pass by if she’s quiet enough… She fell silent… The pawsteps drew closer and were accompanied by the runner’s gasping breaths… Any moment now and they would pass…

A huge ultramarine canine crashed into her cave! They threw a small, brown, and furry lump into a corner. Then their purple gaze caught Dragon’s from behind a pair of brown goggles, and the woodland wolf gave a small yelp of terror. It was the avian, Paint! She unfurled her wings and pounced upon Dragon, pinning her to the floor. Dragon only then realized that her knife was lying on the ground three yards away.

Holy fuck I’m going to die, Mom and Dad please turn away, don’t watch, SHIT she’s gonna tear open my throat, then my stomach when I’m dead as fuck and chew on my intestines and liver and heart and lungs, then she’ll pluck out my eyes to make a motherfucking necklace, then wear my fur like a goddamn cape I’m dead I’m so fuckin-

She opened her mouth to scream for no other reason than to scream (Who was gonna help her, anyway?), but Paint’s paw hit her hard across the face. Dragon’s voice came as a weak little whimper instead. Her nose started bleeding and her injured head filled with an aching discomfort, but that was nothing compared to the darkness sure to follow. Her eyes stung. The avian drew her face in closer. Dragon squeezed her amber eyes shut and braced for her death.

I’m dead!

“Don’t scream,” Paint whispered, glancing once over her shoulder. Dragon had never heard her voice before and it sounded far different from what she expected. She didn’t know what she was expecting. “Don’t scream or you’ll get us both killed.” She sounded fearful. Dragon opened her eyes and hesitantly looked up at her attacker, noticing at once that the avian was covered in deep scratches and ragged bite wounds presumably from a pack of tiny carnivorous animals. One of her ears were torn. She must’ve been fleeing something before encountering Dragon. Whatever it was, it had hurt her badly.

“Wha-”

Paint hit her again, this time a lot lighter than before. Maybe she had noticed Dragon’s pain? “Shut the fuck up! They can’t see!” Dragon was extremely confused but nodded vigorously anyway, simply thankful that she hadn’t been slaughtered ruthlessly. The avian glared at her before turning her entire face towards the room’s opening, Dragon doing the same. Both canines held their breath and the cave became as noiseless as a dark and starless night. A weasel-like critter of a decent size, slunk into the entryway. The creature had an unusual pattern of yellow fur on dark brown. Accompanied by three others just like itself, it sniffed the air with tiny twitches of its little nose. Dragon nearly cried out when she noticed its face. It lacked eyes, and its mouth was stained scarlet. Her heart pounded.

Gamemaker mutts.

The canines and the weasels were at a standstill for only minutes, but the minutes felt like hours. At last, the beasts disappeared, itsy-bitsy paws padding down the tunnel. When the pair could no longer hear the weasels, Paint stepped back and allowed Dragon to stand. The woodland wolf did just that and looked briefly at her knife, which was unfortunately behind the avian. She stared back at Paint, who gazed back with a stern expression, purple eyes never faltering. Dragon sighed and looked away at a wall. Awkward. “Are… Are you going to… To kill me?” she uttered weakly. Paint continued to stare, waiting. Dragon cleared her throat and wiped her bleeding nose with a back of her paw. A little red smudge stained her fur. “Uh, I mean, I’d rather that you… didn’t kill me, you know?” Paint tilted her head, making Dragon realize that the avian was thinking deeply. “But! But if you are, please make it quick. Just cut my neck, okay? Is that good?”

Paint turned to the side and picked up Dragon’s blade. The woodland wolf flinched. “I’m not gonna kill you,” the avian said, expression remaining the same. “But I want this knife in return.”

“Y-yeah, okay you keep it.” She decided not to mention that there was a second knife in her backpack, just in case. Dragon frowned, abruptly remembering the death of Lynx. Paint hadn’t even needed weapon to completely annihilate the fox early on in the Games. Why did she want a weapon if she was powerful without one? She narrowed her eyes. “Wait… Why do you need my knife if you easily slaughtered the shit out of the fox from District 5?”

Paint’s face shifted into a genuinely confused expression. “What? I don’t remember killing anyone? Did I?” The avian plopped down to the floor. The canine looked unaware of the coolness of the stone surface.

“Um… Yes?” Dragon was equally bewildered. She settled down as well, she herself shivering slightly at the icy surface chilling her stomach. Did the avian really not remember? It seemed to be so. Paint really did have some sort of mental issue, most likely an amnesia problem by the looks of it. It sorta saddened her. To forget you’ve even killed anyone… She decided to not mention the cannibalism. “Yeah, you did. I sa-saw you kill him. I was hiding in a bush.”

“Oh,” Paint muttered. Then, she frowned at Dragon. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m not crying.” She wiped her eyes, suddenly realizing that she was. “Yikes…”

“Look, Dragon? That’s your name right?” The sapphire wolf nodded and cleaned her nose again. Paint sighed. “I’m not killing you yet, okay? Fucking hell, just stop it. Trust me, alright? Not yet.” Yet. The word bounced in Dragon’s brain until Paint continued with, “I think you’re kinda nice. That’s a good trait to have in the Hunger Games, in my opinion. You probably get all sorts of sponsors… Wanna team up? For tonight?” She stood up and stuck out a dark blue paw, making solid eye contact. Dragon hesitated, but took it. If it was sponsors the avian wanted, she would be awfully disappointed by how Dragon had failed to receive any gifts from outside the arena. They shook paws.

Paint smiled warmly at her before turning to a corner and picking up the furry mass she had thrown away when she barged in. She displayed it to Dragon proudly. A dead weasel mutt! She held it by it’s tail so it dangled limply in the air with its gaping mouth revealing sharp and bloodstained teeth. It’s spine, crushed and broken, looked to be the cause of its passing.

“Whoa! Did you kill that?”

“‘Whole group of these fuckers attacked me when I was entering the tunnels,” Paint explained. She sat down across from Dragon, putting the creature between them “That’s why I was running and that’s why I’m hurt.” She stared at the animal and shook her head, solemnly picking up her knife. “I guess the Gamemakers want me dead. That’s alright.” She gutted the weasel, pulling out sticky entrails and setting them aside. Strange, considering that Paint had no problem devouring Lynx’s innards. “I wonder if it’s edible.”

“Eh… I wouldn’t eat it… It could be poisoned or whatever.”

“I doubt the dumbasses down in the Capitol expected us to eat their mutts, so why the hell would it be poisoned?” The avian did her best to separate the carcase in half and gave one side to Dragon, who took it cautiously, casting a mildly suspicious look at Paint. The winged wolf scoffed. “Oh, don’t give me that look! I didn’t poison it either! Look,” she said, taking a bite out of her piece. No blood remained inside the flesh, since it had bled out completely quite a while ago. As she chewed, she cringed quite a bit. “See? It’s fine. The meat tastes gross, but it's fine.”

Dragon unenthusiastically ate a bit of weasel. Paint was right about the meat tasting weird. It was tough and chewy despite being raw. The flavor had a musty, festering aftertaste that made Dragon want to vomit it back up right away. She stomached it, thankfully, but wasn’t quite sure if she desired any more. “This is absolutely disgusting,” she grumbled, pushing the carcass away. Paint watched her stand up, then curl up on top of her still spread rain jacket with her back facing the avian. “I’m done. Uh... goodnight then.” She shut her eyes.

“Wait! Don’t sleep yet!” Paint exclaimed, completely forgetting her piece of weasel. “We should talk more! I haven’t talked to anybody since entering this damn arena.” She picked up her knife and settled down on her side with her back to Dragon, letting her big feathery wings brush her fur slightly. Dragon shuddered at their touch and imagined Paint clutching the blade’s handle like a teddy bear. It both amused and frightened her slightly. There was a tense, suspenseful silence for several moments before Paint at last continued with the question, “Have you killed anyone yet?”

Dragon hesitated before saying no. She then scooted closer to the avian, pausing to see if Paint would do anything. She didn’t. “Uhm… Paint... Do you like… Flying?” Paint snorted.

“Yeah dude! Who wouldn’t? Also, are you stupid? I’m an avian!”

The pair talked like this for hours until they drifted off to sleep.

---

Dragon’s back suddenly felt cold so she awoke, realizing at once that Paint had gotten up. Despite feeling lethargic, Dragon’s mind immediately jumped to conclusions and slipped quickly into a whirling panic when she realized how little they had actually slept. Why would the avian get up so soon?

Shit she was planning to let me fall asleep then slit my throat when I was out, how could I be so stupid as to trust her? what if she sees that I’m awake? hell, she could fucking rape me no problem since I’m still so tired and I probably have a mother fucking concussion, then kill me, what is she doing? what’s taking her so long, anyway? KILL ME ALREADY.

Dragon flinched when a paw, thankfully not a knife, tapped at her back twice. She looked up and saw the avian staring down on her, her odd purple eyes locking with her’s. “Oh!” Paint chirped. “You’re awake!”

She yawned. “Yep.”

Paint helped her up. “I think teaming up with you was a good thing. I got a sponsor!” The avian held a small black metal canister. On one end, the number one painted in dark blue signified who the gift was for. A small red light flashed slowly, accompanied by a slight beeping sound. “Should I open it?” Dragon nodded then eagerly watched her unscrew the container and take out a small jar and a slip of grey paper. Paint read the paper, but quickly stuffed it back into the larger canister. The avian opened the smaller container and on the inside was a semiclear, thick substance. “Oh cool. Some kind of ointment.”

Dragon frowned, suspicious. “What was on that note?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Tell me what the paper said.”

“No.”

“Tell me!”

“No.”

“TELL ME!!!”

Paint, who seemed a little startled by Dragon’s yelling, finally gave in by saying, “Alright, but you’re not gonna like it.” She took out the slip and handed it to Dragon. Words were on it, typed in a neat, bold font. She read it quickly.

This is for bite wounds. After applying to your injuries, kill her. -K

The woodland wolf glared at Paint. “I thought we were allies.”

“I told you. You weren’t gonna like it.”

Dragon sighed and let her scowl drift away. The avian was inevitably going to slaughter her anyway, and “ally” was a meaningless word in the Hunger Games. No use in getting upset. “Okay. You were right. I didn’t like it.” She decided to change the subject. “But hey! Looks like you got some medicine or whatever! That’s good!” Dragon yawned, feeling the combination of her injured head and exhaustion take her over again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“Goodnight.”

The woodland wolf plopped back down, and shut her eyes but still she kept her ears listening. She heard Paint unscrew the ointment, and made out an audible wince as the avian was applying it. Eventually, the pull of sleep caught Dragon.

---

Dragon awoke relieved to be alive but she was a little startled by the avian.

Paint had one of her magnificent wings covering the much smaller woodland wolf like a blanket. She also had one paw around Dragon. The avian’s brown goggles sat near the other paw. The heat between them was frankly quite sickening and that hot sensation was probably the reason for Dragon awakening so… early? Was it early? Time was hard to tell underground. Yet another challenge in this year’s Hunger Games.

She carefully removed Paint’s giant, heavy paw from her side with some difficulty before squirming her way out from beneath her even weightier wing. A few feathers fell off the wing as she stood. She picked one up and inspected it. It had a lovely dull purple color and was a little ragged at the edges. Was her ally molting? Did avians molt like regular birds? There weren’t any avians living in District 7, at least any that she knew of. Perhaps they did, but was it significant?

Not at all, idiot… She’ll still kill you if you stay with her, molting or not.

Holy shit.

I’ve got to get out of here.

Stepping lightly, Dragon made her way quickly to her backpack and peered inside. Everything remained. She glanced longingly at her rain jacket, which was unfortunately trapped beneath the still sleeping avian. She knew there was no point in trying to take the jacket with her (it shouldn’t rain underground), but it hurt her a little to leave it behind. She despised wasting anything, especially now. Paint still had her knife (it sat beside her sleeping head), but Dragon decided to let her keep it. The weapon was a symbol of their temporary truce, mildly ironic as that was. It just seemed wrong to take the blade.

She swung on her backpack and took a deep breath. Time to go. The safety of solitude lurked just outside this cavern and in the tunnels outside. She reached the exit, but looked back one last time.

Something silver caught her eye.

The ointment! It was next to Paint’s head.

Dragon turned around and padded carefully over. The ointment could be useful later on. It would be so easy to steal since the avian seemed to be sleeping, but could she do it? Her heart thudded. If she woke up, the woodland wolf would without a doubt be slaughtered mercilessly for attempted theft. Well, she was going to die anyway…

She stretched out a paw and grabbed the jar.

Paint’s eyes shot open and the winged wolf launched herself at Dragon. Dragon cried out when sharp teeth sank into her shoulder, tearing deep into her flesh. Her head hit the ground harshly. Spots danced in her vision. She blinked them away, momentarily stunned, then kicked, shouted, and flailed. The jaws only tightened their grip. Tears welled up in her amber eyes. “I’M SORRY!!!” she cried. “I’M SORRY!!! LET ME GO!!!”

Don’t watch!

Paint finally released but hit Dragon hard across the face with a paw. Dragon yelped and shrank down further. The avian’s fur bristled savagely. “BITCH SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!” hissed Paint. She struck her again. “I was gonna let you go but noooo, you juST HAD TO FUCKIN STEAL SHIT, DIDN’T YOU!!!” Paint’s fur bristled and fluffed up, making her look even more menacing.

“YOU WERE AWAKE?!”

“YEAH!!! I WAS!!!” Paint’s eye twitched once and she took a deep breath. “You’re lucky I missed your neck.” She got off Dragon, who was shaking. Her heart rate continued to race as blood oozed from her bite wound. Paint rolled her eyes at her and put on her goggles (it took her some time to find them) and said, “You can stand up now.”

Dragon rubbed the bite. It hurt. Dull pain stung her head. “N-nope. I’m good here.”

“Pfft! Okay.” Paint paced around. She had obviously cooled down (despite the fact that her hackles were still raised), but Dragon felt uneasy. Paint’s entire personality had shifted once, then shifted back, so quickly! She shut her eyes, listening to the cadenced pacing and allowing herself to calm down only slightly. Her original hypothesis, Paint was insane, still remained plausible. If her ally were to snap again, she most definitely won’t “miss.” She had to escape her. Her life depended on it.

“Hey! I asked you something!” Paint said, pulling Dragon’s attention back. She stared at Dragon expectantly.

“Uh…”

“I asked what we should do today?”

“Preferably not me haha...”

Paint looked at her questioningly before she snorted and rolled her eyes. “God… Look, I only slept like that with you so I would know when you got up.” Quickly, she added, “I really don’t like you, or whatever. Seriously.”

“Good.” Dragon felt herself relax.

“But really, what should we do?” Paint continued pacing and this time Dragon was paying attention. “The careers are still out there.” Paint paused and looked to Dragon. “How many are left? Four?”

“No. Three. Margret from District 3 killed Bastion.”

“She did WHAT?!”

“Sorry! I saw it myself! She stabbed him with a sword. He died quickly.” Dragon paused, thinking. “That sword sure was nice.”

Paint was silent; her eyes hidden behind her emo hair. She plopped down in front of Dragon, the avian lowering her head down onto her paws. A solemn silence fell in the cave. Dragon didn’t know why but she suddenly felt awful for Paint.

“Hey… We got this! Now the careers have to die, either because of us or because of the-” Dragon gasped, startling Paint. The most brilliant idea popped into her head. It was so good, it could kill two birds with one stone! “THE MUTTS!!! I have a plan!”

---

The pair wasted no time in leaving their camp, packing up all their things into Dragon’s backpack, including the rain jacket. Paint claimed that she still didn't trust the woodland wolf, but she still allowed her to carry the ointment in the backpack. “What?” Paint had said just minutes before. “You are the only one with a bag!” However, Paint kept her knife and did force Dragon to walk in front of her just to make sure the woodland didn’t try “anything stupid”.

Their plan (formulated entirely by Dragon) had two phases. The first phase was to find the weasel mutts and attract them somehow, preferably with noise. Once the pair had the mutts after them, they would set in motion phase two, which meant that they would let loose the mutts onto the careers, which they would find before phase one. Hopefully, the mutts will kill off the remaining careers, therefore improving the odds of all remaining tributes greatly.

A third phase was known only Dragon. During the chaos that would undoubtedly ensue during the ambush, she planned on fleeing the scene without Paint. She had to escape the avian soon, since she didn’t want to stick around when Paint snapped. The avian was the second bird Dragon planned on killing with that one stone, figuratively speaking.

Walking silently through the tunnels, hardly any conversation sparked between them. That fact remained until Paint asked, “How are we even supposed to find the careers? I don’t know how to track!”

Dragon, continuing to limp (her shoulder still hurt) ahead of Paint, responded, “I know how to track, well enough at least. You see, I have a great sense of smell.” She stopped and turned to Paint. The avian carried her blade in her mouth. “Can we take a break we’ve been walking forever.”

Paint stopped and glared at her. “No.”

“Fine.” Dragon turned and continued walking. “Sure all dragonican wolves can smell pretty good, but for some reason I’m great at it. It’s pretty handy when it comes to hunting back in District 7. All I need is a spoor to start out with.” She sniffed the air. The careers were nearby.

“So… You’ve been tracking the careers the whole time? Neat.”

Dragon ignored her and turned another corner. A small cavern created a dead end at this tunnel. The opening to this cavern gave a great view of of its contents: the entire sleeping career pack.

“Wow,” Paint whispered from behind the woodland. “You really are good.” She stepped in front of Dragon and gestured for her to turn back. Dragon obeyed her and immediately began her search for the weasels. The mutts left musty-smelling trails everywhere and they all seemed to travel in groups.

After just minutes, Dragon spotted the first weasel. It slunk about in the tunnel, lifting its head occasionally as if to attempt to see with its lack of eyes. The woodland wolf lowered herself to a crouch before she gestured for Paint to get down as well. The pair waited anxiously as two other weasels appeared, then another two. The five creatures squeaked to each other as if talking, before continuing down the hall away from the wolves lurking nearby. Paint, who had switched her knife from her mouth to her paw, glanced over at Dragon, but Dragon mouthed “wait” to her silently. They were going to need more mutts for this plan to work.

The pair of wolves prowled after the blind weasels, which were soon joined by four more. It was as if the Gamemakers were providing the allies with mutts. Perhaps the Gamemakers wanted the careers dead as well.

Dragon pushed the thought aside. All the Gamemakers wanted was drama.

She crouched lower, preparing to run. “Go.”

“HEY HEY HEY HEY!!!!” Paint screamed at the mutts. The weasels whipped around, surprised. “REMEMBER ME?! COME AND GET US YOU LITTLE SHITS!!!”

“YEAH GET US!!!”

The pair turned back down the tunnel and sprinted. The mutts screeched and barreled after them in a pack of terror. The group that they had following them doubled as several more joined in from branching tunnels and holes in the ground. One leapt high into the air and onto Dragon’s back, sinking its tiny teeth into the injured part of her shoulder. She yelped, but was able to shake the mutt off. She ran a little faster.

Just as exhaustion was about to catch up to the wolves, they rounded the final corner and burst into the career pack’s cavern. They ran into the back of the cave.

All three of the remaining careers woke up sleepily, but were instantly up and panicking when they saw the wave of weasels streaming in. Kai had no time to raise his trident before the mutts were upon him. The weasels attacked savage and ruthless, devouring the flesh off of his body, ending his life. A cannon fired.

Paint leapt for Syra as the cannon went off, wings unfurled and teeth bared. But Syra was quick. She rolled away, however, she rolled straight into the mass of squirming mutts. Despite this, was able to successfully shoot an arrow deep into the base of the avian wing before her cannon went off. Paint screamed and fell to the ground, clutching the shaft of the embedded arrow and dropping her knife. The weasels turned their bloody heads towards the winged wolf before leaping at her. Paint fought them off weakly and stumbled outside the cavern, the majority of the mutts racing after.

The remaining weasels turned to the final two tributes in the room (Marge had been crouched in the corner) and attacked. Four ran around Dragon, biting wherever they could. Meanwhile, Marge struggled with five others. She cut through two with a sweep of her sword and impaled another before charging at Dragon, sword low and aimed at the wolf’s neck. Dragon dodged to the side and backed up. She spotted the blade Paint dropped just as Margret lunged again.

Dragon leapt away, smacked a weasel from the air as it flew a little too close, and snached the knife off the floor. She stood on her hind legs and chucked the blade as hard as she could at the human girl. It zipped through the air and hit with an audible thunk.

The knife was in her throat.

Blood spurted around the knife as Margret sank to the ground slowly. She fell forward and onto her face as the cannon boomed. The remaining weasels immediately rushed over and began consuming her flesh.

Dragon turned and lurched silently out of the cave and out into the tunnels. As she was fighting, she didn’t realize how many times she had actually been bitten. Smears of her own blood were all over her fur and a fairly large chunk was missing from her lower back. She was exhausted too.

She soon found a small empty cave and passed out inside.

---

Dragon woke up an hour or two later, perhaps even longer than that (Once again, time was difficult to tell in the darkness of the tunnels). She used whatever was left of Paint’s ointment since it was still in her backpack, and her bite wounds healed well enough (including the bite from Paint). Nothing much happened in the following two days (she knew it was two days because every night she heard the Capitol’s anthem echoing through the tunnels). Only three times during these two days did she hear the cannons fire. She didn’t know who died since she didn’t go outside when the anthem was playing, but she was just glad there were less tributes to deal with.

She finished off her roll of crackers. They were very dry.

---

Pawsteps echoing down the tunnel, Dragon continued her wandering through the caves. She realized that the majority of the games consisted of her simply walking. She wondered how the Capitol never got bored of the Hunger Games, but then she reasoned with herself that she wasn’t the only one in the games, so other things constantly had to be happening in the arena. Things such as violence and murder.

But nothing happened today. There were only four more tributes left, if her math was correct. She didn't know exactly who was left and it concerned her. She really hoped Paint was dead, but deep down she knew that was highly unlikely.

Dragon rounded another corner, slowing down her pace. She tilted her head. Something smelled… off about this passage. The had a heavy metallic odor with a slightly salty undertone. Like blood and sweat. Something about the sweat part seemed familiar. She quietly continued on, but froze when she spotted something that made her heart race.

A purple feather.

“Fu-”

The avian suddenly appeared out of the darkness, barrelling straight into Dragon. Dragon’s scream was cut off as her head was slammed back into a wall, body slumping on impact.

She immediately lost consciousness.

---

Icy water splashed Dragon’s face, waking her almost immediately. Instinct told her to stand and wipe the liquid from her eyes but as she was about to do just that, she felt something restraining her. Her forepaws were tied behind a pole with some sort of smooth nylon rope. This same binding was wrapped once across her neck and three times around her chest. Her head ached. She was sitting in an upright position with her hind legs free to kick, which was alright, but her lower back hurt like hell. On top of it all, the humid air smelled unbearably of blood, rotting corpses, and agony.

She blinked the water from her eyes with difficulty and yelped at who she finally saw.

Paint was standing directly in front of her with an almost predatory and excited grin on her face. Almost her entire torso was wrapped in bandages, probably because one wing was completely absent from the avian’s body. Dark, nearly-dried blood seeped through the gauze around where the wing was once attached. The wing must’ve been amputated by Paint herself.

“P-Pain’t wh…. What’s going on?” said Dragon, pulling again a little more desperately at the ropes. She could hear the fear in her own voice. “Why am I tied up?” The avian simply continued to stare at Dragon. Dragon cautiously craned her neck to glance around the room (which turned out to be a cave of some sort), feeling Paint’s eyes follow her every move. The cave was illuminated by a small electric lantern. Behind the winged wolf, a another wolf was bound and gagged to pole similar to Dragon’s. She was small, orange-furred, struggling, and… Steaming? Dragon’s thoughts didn’t linger there for long and as she returned her gaze back to Paint, she asked shakily, “What are you going to do to me?”

The avian broke her silence and laughed, making Dragon flinch. The laughter wasn’t a particularly happy sound. “I’m gonna have a little fun of course! But, there’s another guest I have to take care of first,” Paint said, stepping away from Dragon and giving her a full view of the other tribute. The avian approached the orange wolf and sat down beside her while still facing Dragon. “This is False, from District 8. She’s a hybrid with a little bit of volcanic wolf in there somewhere. Therefore she’s a firebender and could easily just make a little flame and burn her way out of the ropes.” Paint turned away from Dragon to stretch out a paw to touch False’s face, but False pulled away with an audible growl. The avian snorted and gave up her attempt. “I had to douse her in water because she can’t do shit if her fur is wet. So she just sits here steaming and steaming, still trying to warm up.” She paused before turning back towards Dragon. “Her fur’s fireproof you know?”

“So…”

“I’m gonna keep her fur after I kill her slowly.”

Dragon’s mind fell into a panic. She didn’t want to watch whatever torture going to occur. She tugged on her bonds and kicked with her hind legs. Paint only watched, amused. “Let me go! LET ME GO!!!” cried Dragon. “PLEASE I WAS YOUR ALLY!!!”

“What do you mean, ally?” said Paint, voice full of ridicule. Dragon stopped struggling, confused. “Why would I be allies with… AHAHAHAHA!!! You were allies with HER!!! OHHHHH… Okay I see!” Paint laughed some more. “Of course I wouldn’t remember!”

“Who are you?”

The cave seemed to freeze in time at Dragon’s question. Even False seemed to quit squirming. Breaking the silence, Paint chuckled and gestured to herself. “I’m Paint, of course. I think you were talking to the other Paint.” She paused and added, “I’m the better one.”

Dragon ignored the last comment and instead focused on the previous. Her heart rate picked up a little more. The avian was insane with some sort of split personality disorder. She had heard of one wolf who lived in District 7 who had something similar. Some days he was himself, some days he was an eight-year-old pup, other days he was a forty-five-year-old human woman. Apparently the disorder was common in intelligent canids, but they were rarely violent. However, Paint seemed to be an unfortunate exception. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I know that,” Paint responded. “Well, let's begin shall we?” The avian walked calmly to one of several knives lined up on the floor and picked one up. It was small, but looked crueler and sharper than the rest. The blade caught the light in a somewhat beautiful white flash as Paint returned to False. The smaller wolf flailed about, steam rising off her body at a much higher rate that before.

With the sudden speed of a striking snake, Paint plunged the knife deep into False’s stomach and in that same motion, she swept the blade up towards the bottom of False’s ribcage. Greyish red intestines and other internal organs immediately oozed out of the gash along with bright, fresh blood. False kicked viciously, horrible sounds similar to those made by a dying sheep rising from her throat.

Dragon screamed, witnessing it all very clearly. “STOP!!! STOP PLEASE!!!!

The avian ignored her and drove the paw not holding a knife into the cut. She seized up a tangle of guts and tugged, effectively pulling out most of False’s insides. Scarlet liquid splattered the ground. Paint growled, seeing that some of the intestines were still stuck inside, and promptly forced her head into the cavity. Dragon soon realized that the winged wolf was eating, no, devouring False’s organs from both the still living body and the floor.

The sapphire wolf felt herself urinate in fear. Every inch of sweaty fur on her body was bristling. “STOP IT, YOU BITCH!!! STOP IT!!! SHE DOESN’T DESERVE IT!!!” She continued to screech, tears streaming from her face, until Paint seemed to have had enough with her shouting.

The avian’s ears swiveled in her direction, huge head soon following. Paint’s teeth were stained red, blood dripping from her chin. She was still smiling, and the grin was gruesome. She approached Dragon with a bit of intestine in one paw. The other paw shot out, grabbed Dragon’s muzzle, and forced her jaws open.

Don’t watch!

Paint shoved the guts into Dragon’s mouth and then held her jaws closed with a firm grip. The taste of blood soaked her tongue, the liquid dripping down her throat. It was warm and sticky. As she tried to kick and pull away, the avian giggled before leaning in and snarling, “Shut the fuck up you little bitch.” Paint let go and returned back to her other victim, whose struggling was weakening. Dragon spat out the intestines, felt vomit rise in her throat, and threw up whatever was in her stomach (It wasn’t much). The vomit stuck to the fur on her chest and drizzled onto one of her hind legs. She moaned and vomited a little more before lifting her head.

The winged wolf had picked up a smaller knife, leaving the old one on the ground. This new blade was embedded in the edge of False’s left eye socket. Paint was moving the weapon slowly around the eyeball, causing blood to drip down that orange face like red tears. The smaller wolf was wriggling, steaming and kicking weakly, but Paint didn’t seem to feel the blows in her side. With a small flick of the knife, False’s green eye popped out of her skull and dangled limp on the few attached nerves. Dragon simply continued to weep.

Suddenly, False’s steam stopped and the fire started. Red flames rose up from her binding in a flash, incinerating the rope around the smaller wolf in an instant. Dragon gasped as False screamed with whatever remaining energy she had left and pounced upon the avian, wrapping her fiery paws around Paint’s throat. Paint yelped, feeling the paws scald her neck.

But just as Dragon thought they had won for sure, the ultramarine wolf threw False to the dirt with little effort. “I HAD TO WASTE WATER TO RESTRAIN YOU AND WHAT DO YOU DO?! YOU BURN IT ALLLLLL AWAY, GODDAMMIT!!!” Paint angled the blade and began cutting through False’s skin, peeling it back from the pinkish red muscle. False’s remaining eye, full of pain, stared deep into Dragon’s own. The little wolf’s breathing was shallow, and it was obvious she was going to die soon. But somehow, a single tear fell from her eye as her jaw moved, almost like she was trying to call for help.

However, a cannon fired at last and False’s gaze went blank.

Dragon slumped, tears continuing to run down her face. She sobbed weakly as Paint continued skinning False’s dead body. Her chest hurt about as much as her head seemed to. The woodland wolf closed her eyes, trying to calm herself (it was unsuccessful) before asking for the second time, “Wh-what are you going to do to me?”

Paint stopped working on obtaining the fur and turned towards her former ally. The avian’s entire front half was covered in blood. Even her wing had a few splatters. The monstrous grin was replaced with a sly smile. “Do you really wanna know?”

“... Y-yes.”

The avian approached her slowly, stopping and sitting down directly in front of her. The knife was still in her paw. “I’m gonna use you to hunt for the last tribute besides ourselves, who is Apple from District 11. I know who the other tribute is because I watch the death recaps every night. Well anyway, I saw you hesitate when you entered my territory. You’re a tracker of some sort.” She paused, thinking. “You’re like a… Like a hunting dog. I want to treat you like a hunting dog.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“I’m first gonna do some small adjustments to you. I’m first chopping off most of your tail. Then I’m going to sew your ears down with a sewing kit I got from a tribute so they look floppy,” Paint said. Dragon noticed the avian was moving in even closer to her body. “Finally,” Paint muttered, now standing over Dragon. She traced her paw softly down the woodland wolf’s stomach. Dragon flinched and tried to pull away, extremely uncomfortable. Paint giggled a little. “... I’m gonna spay you like the bitch you are.”

“Uhhhmm… Y-yeah you can’t pull that off.” Dragon was shaking. She was still crying, but she tried her best to sound strong when she said, “Get off me, please. I am literally covered in vomit and pee.”

Paint stood her ground, paying no mind to that last comment. “I can totally spay you. It can’t be that hard. In fact, I’m doing it tomorrow.” The winged wolf drew her face in closer to Dragon’s. The pale blue wolf could smell and feel Paint’s warm breath in her fur when she whispered, “In the meantime…”

Their noses touched.

Dragon shouted, completely disgusted and violated. She opened her mouth and bit down hard on Paint’s muzzle. The avian yelped and slashed her knife across Dragon’s chest, leaving a long horizontal gash and splattering a bit of blood on the floor. Dragon let go immediately and watched as Paint stumbled backward, clutching her injured snout. It was bleeding a bit, but not by much. The winged wolf looked up at Dragon, grin back on her face.

“You know what, pal?” Paint growled, picking up machete off the ground and dropping the other knife. “I think we should start a little early on your hound dog transformation.”

“No. No please,” Dragon begged. She flailed in the ropes, feeling them cut into her forepaws. Paint walked towards her. “NO!!! NO!!! YOU ST-STAY AWAY!!! FUCK!!! NO, PLEASE!!!”

The avian snatched up Dragon’s tail, pulling it out to the side. She raised the weapon in the other paw.

“STOP!!!”

Paint swung the blade down and the sapphire tail was severed in a single chop. Agony erupted in Dragon’s behind and traveled up her spine. Lightheadedness overtook her brain.

Dragon quickly passed out.

---

When Dragon first heard the buzzing, she thought it was just her head.

She awoke immediately and scanned her surroundings. A shadowy lump Dragon assumed was Paint slept peacefully in a corner. The smell of Dragon’s own piss, blood, and vomit choked the air, instantly making her want to pass out again. She would’ve killed for some fresh air. She quickly located the true source of the buzzing: A small, black colored drone.

It seemed to notice Dragon was awake, so it lowered itself near to the ground about a yard out from where she was bound. It hesitated there, hovering, until it carefully and quietly dropped a black container onto the floor with robotic grace. It delivered a sponsor! So that’s how sponsors were delivered in the tunnels! The drone made a single beep before zooming away with a tremendous buzz of propellers. Dragon cringed at this, as the noise both hurt her head and could’ve been loud enough to wake Paint. But the avian didn’t stir.

“Thank you!” Dragon whispered to the air. “Thank you for saving me.” For a brief moment she felt tears well in her eyes but she forced them back down. There was no time for crying.

Now how will she reach the sponsor? She took a deep breath and tested the ropes holding her paws. Nope. Still tight. The only way she could reach the container was by stretching out and pulling it towards her with her hind legs and paws.

She extended a leg and immediately felt a jolt of pain shoot through the bloody stump of her nonexistent tail to the top of her spine. She cried out and pulled back. She glanced back over to Paint. She was still sleeping. Dragon turned back to the container again. She didn’t even come close to reaching it. She tried again, experiencing that same stab of agony, but this time she brushed the container with one paw and managed to bring it closer. She rested for a moment before stretching out one last time. She grabbed the container between her paws and slid it towards herself, wincing when she sat up straight to analyze the container. At last, she flipped it up to her chest (It took her about two attempts). Dragon twisted the top off awkwardly with her mouth. She must’ve looked ridiculous (Go ahead, let the Capitol laugh) but she opened her sponsor successfully.

A small and shiny razor blade sat at the bottom of the container.

Dragon wasted no time and snatched it up, holding it carefully in her mouth and between her teeth. She then craned her neck out and began slicing through the rope. The sound of splitting fibers filled her with hope.

The rope fell with a thunk to the floor.

Dragon stood, shakily and in pain of course, but she still stood. Without a glance back she bolted…

… Straight into a wall.

Dragon yelped and fell backwards onto her injured behind, clattering several metal objects she couldn’t identify in the dark. She froze on the floor, staring fearfully at Paint. The avian stirred, lifted her head sleepily, then turned her face towards Dragon. The woodland wolf’s heart thudded. Paint’s eyes immediately narrowed behind her brown goggles (Did she wear them to sleep this time??) and a grin slowly widened on her face. “I give you three seconds to run. Go.”

Dragon took no chances and sprinted out the entryway. She had to escape the tunnels and get outside. Her stump of a tail caused her to stumble once, but she righted herself immediately. The world behind her blurred away as she rounded corner after corner. She desperately sniffed the air for any odors of the outside, but she found nothing. Just blindly fleeing a deadly force.

She descended into panic when she heard Paint pursuing her clumsily. The avian was closing in on her target, but her pawsteps sounded uneven and awkward. Running without one of two wings must really throw off your balance. Dragon flinched when she heard Paint crash into a wall as they rounded a corner.

Light suddenly grew brighter in the tunnels and!! There it was! The log bridge! Dragon had found the exit! She was fre-

Paint slammed into Dragon with the force of a freight train and the pair fell to the ground together. The avian rolled on top of her, hitting Dragon’s head on the ground. Pain filled her skull and a dazed sensation threatened to pull her into unconsciousness. Paint’s paws were immediately at Dragon’s throat, choking her. The woodland wolf clawed at the paws around her neck, struggling. A flurry of falling feathers surrounded the pair as Paint’s remaining wing flapped madly and with little purpose.

“Where were you going? WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU GOING???” Paint screeched, continuing to suffocate the squirming Dragon. The avian’s maniac grin remained constant. “You have nowhere to go, no chance of survival. You and I both know that, now don’t we?”

Dragon felt all of her energy seep away and she dropped one of her paws from her attempt at clawing away Paint. But as she did, she touched something smooth and cool.

Her razor blade!

Dragon wasted no time grabbing the the blade. She quickly sliced wildly at Paint’s paws and when Paint let go with a yelp, Dragon swung the razor in a wide arc at the avian’s neck.

It struck.

The avian screamed and stumbled backwards Dragon saw immediately that the narrow scratch across Paint’s neck wasn’t at all life threatening. Paint was still alive. Damnit.

Dragon leapt for the log bridge but a paw struck her from the air and the woodland wolf fell down…

Down…

Down into the ravine.

She landed with a sickening crunch on the ground as her ribs and a leg snapped on impact. Agony ripped at her side and she screamed at the sky. Tears streamed down her face. Above her, Paint balanced precariously on the log, seeming ready to fall down herself, but the avian managed to back up into the tunnels. A few feathers drifted lazily down as she peered over the edge, eyes squinting behind her goggles.

Paint laughed and spat at Dragon, who did nothing to avoid the saliva. “BITCH!!! Look at what you’ve done!” A wave of giggling took over mid sentence as Paint rubbed at the cut on her throat. Her paws were bleeding quite a bit. “I’m hurt and now you’re gonna die down there you little shit!” Dragon felt lightheaded; the pain was too much and she was going to pass out soon. Paint flicked her own blood at the woodland wolf down below before muttering, “I hope you still have that razor. Or else it’ll be a slooowww death for you.”

Dragon drifted from consciousness as Paint turned and disappeared.

---

The sunlight barely breached the ravine but during midday, the sun scorched the broken land all the way to the floor of the crevasse. Dragon awoke around this time.

Flies buzzed about and landed upon her body, rubbing their greasy little insect legs together as if scheming her demise. She made no attempts to swat them away. Her body hurt too much and she was running out of hope. She was starving as well, but there was nothing to eat except a half dead berry bush that had obviously fallen in during the quake. However, the berries looked suspicious as well and Dragon had almost no strength left to drag herself to sustenance.

Numbing, horrible agony stabbed her swollen left foreleg and her crushed side. She knew that climbing out of the ravine was not an option, despite the fact that Dragon was actually on a ledge that hung over the actual bottom of the ravine. If she had fallen any farther, she would’ve been dead.

She wished she was dead.

Dragon’s razor sat passively in her right paw. It had cut her paw pads badly during her fall but in comparison to her other injuries, that meant nothing. She stared at it, remembering what Paint said before she left. Suicide did seem like the only option. Even if she did manage to claw her way out, Paint would most likely resume tearing her apart perhaps even slower than as she did with False. She was hopeless. She might as well just slit her own throat or bleed herself out somehow.

Suicide was the only option, but she wasn’t going to kill herself like that.

The berry bush caught her eye again. She lifted her injured head to look at it closer. The berries were reddish orange in color, with a blue seed visible through its transparent skin. It was obviously manufactured by the Capitol, so it was obviously poisonous. Dragon sniffed the air. The bush smelled… Spicy. Peppery, in a way.

Yep. Definitely deadly.

If she could just reach them… No she had to consider what was to happen after she died. If she ended her life, there would only be two tributes left in the games: Paint and Apple. Was her name Apple? Apple was another wolf, right? She couldn’t remember since that other tribute, clearly an unseen variable, had never been spotted by Dragon at all during the duration of the games. Whoever Apple was, she was an excellent hider. But would she have the strength to defeat Paint? She really hoped so. She definitely didn’t want the avian to win. The Capitol couldn’t let Paint win anyway; Paint was insane! Perhaps the Gamemakers saw all of this coming and planned for it all along. Maybe they had protected Apple for so long, just for Apple to be a “protagonist” versus Paint’s “antagonistic” ways. A story fit for the entertainment of the Capitol.

If she committed suicide, would her family be disappointed? Would her district be disappointed? Oh well, that wouldn’t be a problem if she was dead.

Who was she kidding. She didn’t have a choice.

She had to die.

She took a weak, shaky, and painful breath. First, she attempted standing on three limbs, holding her broken leg in the air. But this immediately proved to be unsuccessful. She cried out in agony as her entire ribcage seemed to fill with pain. Dragon quickly settled on simply dragging herself (Drag on, Dragon) towards the berries, using her functioning legs to push herself forward. Every slight bump she hit made her wince, but at last she made it to the poisoned berry bush.

She forced herself to raise her head to the level of a small clump of of berries. Without another moment’s hesitation, she opened her mouth and ate them straight off the plant. They popped between her teeth, releasing bizarre, peppery juices onto her tongue. The flavor wasn’t too strong, therefore making the taste in no way unpleasant.

Just as she was about to eat a few more, a burning sensation struck her throat. It started out as pleasantly warm, but soon escalated into a painful scalding. She screamed clawed at the neck. It felt as if she was breathing fire.

Haha. Get it? Because she’s Dragon?

Hilarious.

Soon, her entire body burned, causing her to flail about in agony. She imagined the Gamemakers’ cameras aimed towards her, documenting her final struggle. But this brief imagining was cut off by a sudden, sharp pain in her chest. Her heart stopped.

The cannon fired.

Her still-twitching body was picked up by a hovercraft.

---

At about a few moments before Dragon died, Paint was relaxing peacefully in back her cave while bundled up in a fairly warm and fuzzy blanket. Killing took a lot of energy, so it was crucial for her to take a break in between slaughtering tributes.

She had a small notebook in front of her (She had brought it with her into the arena along with a few pencils), in which she drew a few sketches of Bastion under the light of an electric lantern with difficulty. Both of her paws were covered in what was left of the same roll of bandages used to wrap up her side after she amputated her wing. The avian was careful to wrap each finger (are they called fingers??) individually, so she could still have mobility in her paws when needed. However, that didn’t stop her paws from hurting. And fuck, they hurt pretty bad.

If only she had kept a hold of Dragon. Paint could’ve done so much to that bitch. She could’ve used that fancy box of matches one of her previous victims had (One benefit of murder was that one could get all sorts of free stuff after, and Paint loved free stuff.) and burned the woodland wolf to death in a bonfire. It probably would’ve smelled excellent, like cooking a pig. Or perhaps she could’ve done the burning bit a little slower, skinning Dragon alive at first (wouldn’t want to burn all of that beautiful fur) and then roasting some good wolf flesh.

A pleasant little shiver went down Paint’s spine, making her remaining wing ruffle a bit.

She would’ve loved killing Dragon.

She quickly forced those violent thoughts out of her head and continued drawing another Bastion. However, just as she was about to finish this one, a cannon fired and caused her to jump. When she flinched, her paw slipped and a long, dark pencil line was slashed across her paper. She grumbled to herself angrily and prepared to erase the mark, but then she stopped.

That cannon had to have meant Dragon was dead.

Paint closed the notebook and stood up, grinning. “It’s about time,” she muttered, raising one paw to rub the scratch in her neck. The injury wasn’t much in comparison to the cuts in her paws, but it stung every time she moved her head. Did the cannon mean Apple and Paint were the last ones in the arena? Who even was Apple? A wolf? Before the Hunger Games and during training, the avian had made an effort to memorize the names and districts of every tribute in both states of mind: Paint #1 and #2. However, since she had been so entirely focused on memorization, she couldn’t remember half of the faces that went with the names! Perhaps Paint #1 remembered, but Paint #2 didn’t exactly feel like leaving quite yet.

She turned off the lantern, leaving the room in darkness. She blinked her eyes behind her goggles to adjust her eyes to the light then left the cave with all of her stuff in it, ready to hunt for Apple. It was unlikely this late in the games for her stuff to be stolen. Besides, the stench of the cave caused by the four rotting bodies piled up in the corner (For some reason, body retrieval was nonexistent underground) alone was enough to keep anyone away.

Limping slowly through the tunnels, Paint thought about the other remaining tribute. Whoever Apple was, the avian had no worries about defeating her. Every tribute Paint had encountered she killed without too much trouble. Sure, occasionally they fought back and hurt her somewhat, but that was natural.

No one wanted to die in agony.

---

After hours of hunting for Apple with no success, Paint made her way towards the exit of the tunnels. She estimated that it was nearly night time, and the anthem would be playing soon. The avian wanted to watch the death recap and see proof of Dragon’s death. She wanted to see the district number of her deceased enemy. She wanted to see Dragon’s picture projected in the sky. Only then would Paint be satisfied.

The avian soon found the exit, illuminated by silvery moonlight. She stepped slowly towards the cliff and plopping down near the edge. Paint wouldn’t dare to attempt crossing the cedar log bridge. Without her other wing, she simply was too unbalanced and would likely fall down into the ravine. So instead, she settled on craning her head out over the ledge to stare at the stars.

The sky remained blank and starry until the anthem began to blare proudly in the arena. The Capitol’s seal appeared in all its projected blue glory, before fading into an image of Dragon, labeled boldly with “District 7.” This image stuck around for quite some time before the music gave one final flourish and faded out along with the image. The sounds of the night reentered the arena and Paint stood up, turned, and walked back into the darkness of the caverns with a grin.

That was that. Dragon was dead.

As she marched through the tunnels, Paint felt tempted to continue her search for Apple, but she knew that it was best to return to her cave. She was horribly exhausted and needed to sleep. Gotta rest up before she won the games. Tomorrow was going to be a great day for sure.

Turning one final corner, she finally reached the last tunnel that led right up to her cave. However, she froze. A massive reddish pink colored and female wolf (somewhat taller than Bastion was) stood several meters in front of Paint, effectively blocking her way back into her cave. Her giant head was lowered and her hackles were raised, making her body seem even larger. Her enormous paws held no weapon, but they seemed perfectly capable of crushing the avian without one.

The wolf was Apple and she looked pissed.

“You,” the District 11 tribute growled, taking an angry step towards Paint. The avian stood her ground, but she was shaking slightly. Apple barked and Paint flinched with a small yelp. “You’re crazy! I saw their bodies,YOU PSYCHO!!!” Apple took another step forward and this time Paint moved back a little. “You hurt them bad. Entire pieces of them were MISSING!!!”

The avian chuckled nervously and tried her best to put on a friendly grin. The end result wasn’t great; it was too awkward and desperate. “You don’t want to kill me r-right? C-Come on now? Who’s the real enemy here? You hate the Capitol, correct? I hate them too!” Paint nodded her head towards the end of the tunnel before saying, “Just let me walk pas-”

“NO!!!” interrupted Apple. The giant wolf advanced towards Paint at a brisk pace. “You deserve to DIE!!! I have killed NO ONE yet and you have SLAUGHTERED others like… like…”

Paint grinned genuinely this time. “Like pigs?”

Apple roared and launched herself at the avian. Paint lept to the side as the enemy wolf’s weight crashed down on the ground just next to her. When Apple rose back up, the avian bared her teeth and pounced at her throat. However, a red paw struck her in the side of her head, knocking her to the dirt like how a cat would strike a toy. Paint went flat on the ground, found herself at a perfect height to tear into Apple’s soft belly, and attacked with her jaws wide open.

Her teeth sank into warm flesh but that flesh belonged to her enemy’s foreleg, not her stomach. Hot blood seeped into her mouth, tongue tasting its metallic flavor. Apple screamed and used her free paw to smack Paint’s head and muzzle. The winged wolf’s tight grip loosened slightly, allowing Apple to loop her free foreleg under the avian’s chest and lift Paint off the ground. Then Apple threw Paint down the tunnel.

The avian’s remaining wing fluttered lamely as she tumbled through the air and onto the floor with a crash. She landed on her wingless side, horrible agony erupting in the amputated region, making her cry out and her eyes water. Paint snarled savagely and lurched to her paws with extreme difficulty before leaping on top of Apple’s back. The avian bit her in the back of the neck and shook her head vigorously, tearing through Apple’s skin.

Apple screeched, rolling over on her back and crushing Paint beneath her. A bone in Paint’s remaining wing snapped like a twig, making her scream in agony. She struggled and managed to push Apple off just enough for her to wriggle free. The avian leapt for the empty tunnel, but powerful jaws latched onto her wing. The winged wolf cried out as they tugged her from the air, slamming her to the ground and rolling her on her back.

Apple situated herself as if she was about to give Paint some form of CPR, huge red chest and forelegs raised a foot or two above Paint’s ribcage. Then, with the force and power of a hungry bear opening a metal trashcan, Apple brought all of her weight down on the avian using her forepaws. With a hollow but crunchy WHUMP!!!, Paint’s chest was crushed. The avian screeched, not yet dead, and attempted to wriggle away. But the paws came down again, again, and again.

WHUMP!!!

BAM!!!

-- The final cannon fired.

The last tribute standing stepped away (Breathing quite hard) and surveyed the dead body of Paint. Broken rib bones poked out from underneath the bandages wrapped around the avian’s smashed chest, breaking her skin. Blood, still warm, saturated the gauze. The same scarlet liquid oozed from her mouth, resembling chunky red vomit. Paint probably did vomit as she was dying.

Apple carefully walked around the wolf, avoiding the horrible blank gaze of the avian’s dead eyes. She made her way towards the exit of the tunnels.

Apple was the victor.

THE END

March 31, 2017

Posted by Dragon :) Feel free to ask questions!

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