ORIGIN

Dread was not, in fact, the smartest of dragons, or even the smartest of Gembound. And he'd come here with tilted head, back to the snow and ice despite the perilous winds, seeking answers. He wanted to find Emuh's gave again, and yell at it.

A lot.

For taking his fire.

Instead, he found the entire northern section of Polaris blocked off, strange crystals holding the storm at bay. Of course, Dread didn't realize that that was what they were doing: he saw floating crystals, saw the storm ending there, and didn't put the two together. He did, however, immediately decide that he wanted one.

He landed with a rush of wind rustling his wing-leather, claws scratching down and upper body thumping forward, then wing-walked ahead to inspect them--preemptively warming himself with a rush of magicka.

Dread felt warmth rise around him; not much, but it was something, and he wing-walked further into the cold. There, ahead, was one of the crystals; and the dragon wandered closer to investigate it.

It was floating, glowing: a must have for his collection. And now, he did realize: the worst of the wind seemed to roar and swirl on the other side, only a few scattered snowflakes making it past. Did this thing ward off cold..?

Good! Dread hated the cold!

He leaned back, inhaling, and then spat a splatter of hot bile--magic bile, fire-making-goop-stuff--out across the crystal. It wasn't a lot, though, and he paused, grumbling at it.

The thought that he might just be able to pluck it from the air hadn't occurred to him--not yet.

Dread inhaled again, ember eyes searching the snowy region beyond. He'd have to warm himself again, after this--and check, too, with his magic, to be sure he was alone. Anything could be lurking out there, really: lumbering through the snow, ready to launch out at him... ice monsters, perhaps.

Dread--as mentioned--did not like the cold.

Another splatter of pyrogel struck the crystal, and this satisfied the dragon; he rocked back, staring at it, and then out into the snow. Once he'd satisfied himself that he was safe and warm, he'd back off and try to ignite it--and see if he could get himself a crystal.

Dread settled in, pulling his wings back close and tight around him. He was already walking backward, struggling to warm himself again. Magicka flickered, then flared, abruptly powerful--unexpectedly so, in fact--and the temperature around him bloomed.

He glanced around, as if surprised, and then let out a quiet (for Dread) screeching sort of roar, which had its closest equivalent in perhaps a cat's pleased, but startled, "Mrrp?"

Wings relaxed around him, ember eyes relaxing into a contented blink, as he turned his attention back forward. Fins rose some, no longer shiveringly flattened to his black-scaled neck, and he revelled in the newly draconic temperature immediately around him.

Eyes narrowed against the cold, and Dread did his best to concentrate. So was there anything out there, hidden amongst the swirling white--or not?

He'd entirely forgotten his own backfiring magic from Eridanus the day before; and now he had to face it again. Red flared, blinding, filling his sight, and an outraged roar escaped him this time: echoing against the wall of snow ahead. The dragon shook his head repeatedly, struggling to clear it--and then, like a cat with tape on its face, began rapidly scurrying backwards with a tucked head.

This, of course, did nothing to clear his sight.

He had to wait--tail twitching, periodic growls escaping him--for his vision to return, for the red to fade from his senses. And when it had, he immediately, stubbornly, tried again: as if in defiance against this failure.

It flickered up, as if weak against the after-images from before: distant shapes, faint, faltering and small. They might have been large closer to, but from here they seemed tiny, and Dread couldn't really tell what they were. What mattered, though, was that there was no ambush coming: no massive ice predator beyond the crystal wall.

Ember eyes narrowed into the snow as Dread studied the distant, red signatures. And as they faded, he had another idea: another way he could often see, though it required dark. This wasn't black--but it was stormy, windy; maybe it would help? He wasn't in any danger, he felt--but now he was a little curious.

This was not, as it turned out, a very good idea.

The snow seemed to become brighter... whiter... glaringly, flashingly, blindingly-

Dread slammed his eyes shut.

And kept them shut, a quiet sound of complaint coming from him. This had, actually, been a bad idea, and he was left crouched there, silent and blind, for several long minutes while the magic wore off.

Well, wasn't that embarrassing...

He left, then--angered, blind--waddling back toward Polaris' river. He was thirsty, and worse, his pride was hurt. Why had the stupid owl-thing stolen his stupid fire... Why couldn't he just be a dragon... What was the point of all of this?

Dread paused to kick a rock out of his way, sullenly, with one wing; his vision, at least, was returning. A flicker of magicka, and again it was a flare, and at this Dread had a realization (in the back of even his generally blunt brain): his magic was chaotic. Up and down. Strong as it could be, and then backfiring.

Using the distant (somewhat familiar from the days prior) signatures of the rat and bat colonies to navigate, he slowly made his way to the water's edge.

When at last his sight returned, he reoriented himself, wing-walking to the water's edge (and boy was he relieved that his sight had actually come back at all; he'd started to worry that it was just... gone, forever). Serpentine neck snaked down, and he began to sip, tilting back his snout with each gulp to drink, bird-like.

And as Polaris' water was icy cold, as usual, he called upon his magicka to provide a little warmth.

Overuse? Perhaps; he was resting now and then, had slept after leaving Polaris, and before returning--after hunting and feeding, no less. But he was determined to get his magic back. To push and shove at it, until his fire returned to him.

Blessed heat flickered up--no backfire, no failure, no bizarre flash of sweltering, boiling burning. Just heat, warmth, comfortable against the chill of the river's cold. Dread sat back, for a moment, eyes half-closed: content, just for awhile.

Wings flapped, and Dread turned, eyeing Polaris with renewed strength, renewed willpower. He could do this. He could feel his magic, bleeding back: faint, distant, trickling, but it was there.

The dragon tilted back his head, fins flipping up as he emitted an abrupt, ear-piercing roar: a challenge, a promise. He was still Dread. He was still a dragon. He-

-A banana fell from below his jaws, where he'd hoped for fire: fell, bounced at his feet, the peel splitting to reveal a mushed and rotten fruit.

Was this some kind of sick joke?!

Dread leapt back, nearly falling at the unnatural movement, scrambling and crabbing away while eyeing the banana with naked suspicion, even fear. WHO DID THAT?! he thought (somehow, loudly). The long black neck whipped this way and that as he glared into Polaris' shadows.

That hadn't been fire at all...