ORIGIN

He rested, but as it turned out he didn't need to. Some water drank, partway back, icy cold from Polaris' river and a nap, curled by the shore, and he'd awoken fresh as ever. Fresh, but... weak.

And that left him irritated. Somehow, the cold of the unusual snowstorm at the northern edge combined, in his mind, with Emuh's stupid little cave that hadn't done anything but drain him, and he decided to... stay awhile.

Dread took wing not long after he woke, blinking away sleep and sucking in one huge draconic yawn's worth of cold air before thumping his way swiftly toward the snowstorm.

He studied it, hovering here and there, and peered off at the entrance to Emuh's cave; and then he took a breath.

A glob of flickering, chemical mucus spat down a moment later, splattering over the rock inside the snowstorm, out of sight. This satisfied him, though. He had a plan; it was just a matter of enacting it.

One down. He beat his wings, moving a little to the left; maybe twenty, thirty feet away. It would be close enough-... It should be close enough, at least.

It was hard to tell, being unable to see the last gob, anyway.

A breath, and oh he wanted to spray fire but-... not yet. Soon, but not yet. The stuff splattered all over the inside of his mouth, this time--and yes, he normally got a little in there but now he froze.

This-... this was bad. He'd sort of missed and now his face was full of it and if even a spark hit him his head would blow apart. Dread quickly turned, winging back to the river, abandoning his progress thus far in favor of landing heavily on the shoreline, stuffing his head beneath the biting cold and waving it all about. For a long moment he remained there, bubbles pluming from his nostrils, coming up for air only when he had to; then he'd cough, sputter, and do it all again.

It took awhile to ensure the flammable goop was fully gone from his jaws, and even then, he hesitated to return to his self-appointed task.

He made his way with lazy beats, water dripping from an irritated face, back toward the more wintry northern part of the cave. His body flitted straight and brightly-lit, like the arrow of a sundial, past the Spire and back to the edges of the storm.

A moment later he was landing, pacing up and down and trying (and failing) to find where he'd left off.

He'd have to start again, then; damn.

With a growl of irritation and a shake of his spines (and a blithe, probably lucky disregard for his prior danger), Dread turned and again inhaled.

A new glob of pyrogel, spat into the snowstorm, began his new start at... whatever his plan might be.

Dread lifted up, flapping a bit to one side.

Now, his plan wasn't spectacularly thought through. He was taking another breath already, pushing in as far as he could against the snow and wind--but he wasn't exactly... considering the potential consequences of his actions. No; he was eyeing the storm critically, calculating his next, well, fire-spit.

Nothing came of this one, and he shook himself, spines and fins rattling, and lowered himself again to the ground. Squinting against the bitter, biting wind, he tried to picture what would happen when at last he set this all off.

There's be... a lot of fire, if he spaced these right.

Would it blow up the storm? Could it blow up a storm?

There was only one way to find out.

A cry of frustration escaped him.

If he'd had the awareness, the presence of mind, he'd have realized how empty he felt--how drained his magic was. Yet... the more he used it, the stronger it seemed to get. And he only really noticed that part.

He landed, this time, so as better to focus on his fire.

A deep inhale...

...and another glob of fiery bile shot out into the snowy wastes beyond.

"GOOD," he told it--or maybe told himself, or the caves at large (who knew)--with a satisfied tone. Finned spines rippled, and he turned to waddle a little farther along, wingwalking with a wince against the cold.

A grounded dragon was never a good thing; he'd make this as fast as he could.

He paced along a little farther, until he judged that at least debris from the last was likely to ignite this one. He inhaled again, concentrating deeply.

Nothing came of this one, and the dragon emitted a whining, keening sound of annoyance.

Dread's plan was to spread the goop everywhere: and, when it was widespread enough, to... well, to set it all on fire.

Then it would explode. And maybe it would kill the snow. Dread's logic was... questionable; but his loyalty to flame itself might have been admirable to some. The 'some' mostly beginning with 'pyro,' and ending in 'maniac.'

He waited, for a moment--and shivered. The snowy, bitter air was still curling around him, wicking away all warmth, and-

"I HATE PISCES."

...? And-... This was only tangentially related. Following the dragon's thought process backward, one might find that he had spent time in Pisces, visiting his friend Asimona. She was an ice dragon, and her little corner of Pisces--already an icy cold cave--was particularly frigid.

He'd hated that.

This reminded him of that. So, yes, hence his outburst, as nonsensical (or lost) as it may have seemed to others.

He concentrated for a moment, and a shimmer of warmth briefly rose up around him. It wasn't much, but it was better than snow, at least, and would let him focus back on his task.

The dragon shook himself, and prepared himself for another attempt. A little warmer... a little more prepared.

A hacking cough (and he realized he'd need to go back for water, soon; this was making him a bit thirsty) and he'd spat out another gob of the almost resin-like material. It tasted awful--it always did--and he watched as it sailed away into the snow. Listened, too, as it hit the rock somewhere beyond the snow's edge with an ugly thwack.

Wings spread, then, and he lifted off: sweeping this way and that, trying to get an idea of how much he'd already spat out, and where he had to go from here.

He was trying to decide, too, whether to try and blow up all of the storm, or only some of it.

Physics, apparently, aside.

Claws scraped gently on stone as he lowered himself back down at last. The cold already bit at him, and he resolved to warm himself up after hawking up another glob of the bile. Careful, he turned himself to face the storm, arching back his neck.

A thin splatter of the stuff sprayed out, and Dread realized that he really did need water--and sooner, rathr than later.

With a grumble of discontentment, he turned, waddling and then breaking into an awkward, galloping sprint; wings spread mid-bound and he took flight, flapping and then soaring back to the river's edge. For a moment he repeated his past performance: drinking, perhaps not spectacularly exciting to watch but for once he felt deeply relieved at gulping back great mouthfuls of his arch-enemy element.

Dread drank deeply, and he was feeling the cold, now. Unpleasant, disconcerting. Magic flared again, and heat blossomed in his fiery gullet, spreading around him; again, it was only a few degrees, but it was enough against the cold.

He took flight again, taking wing from the river, once more, the few moments' flight to the mysterious snowstorm passing by quickly.

For a moment he circled back and forth, dipping in and out of its edges--but not daring to stray too far within. It was too cold, for one thing; for another, it was too damn hard to see. He might get lost in there: hit a wall and break his neck, or fly too far and never find his way back again.

He took a few moments to figure out where he'd been, and where he'd already spat out pyrogel; and then he landed, just outside of the reach of the bitter snow.