ORIGIN

The influx of ghosts hadn't gone unnoticed by the Dragon of this swamp. Nor had the rush of Gembound, their quiet voices distant and muffled by the marsh, the disturbance of their heartbeats and their hooves resonating dimly with him.

He turned, suspicion flaring high.

This was his marsh: his home, the backwater corner of Origin where no one ever came. Why this, why now? Why-

An earthshattering roar. A bellow of challenge and of chaos. The echo of a dragon.

Ferocity sparked up in him, that old lust for battle, the instinct of an old bull predator whose territory has just been infringed upon. It sounded enormous--it sounded like Raheerah, like Aquarian--it sounded like something Dragon wanted to annihilate.

Draconic wings swept out, a curling magic of blood and shadow hues, unfurling and lifting him into the thickly mist-choked air. Dark eyes bloomed crimson, horns twisting back in ethereal wisps from his head as he rose, vertically, from the swamp; black water streamed down beneath him.

He did not make himself known--not yet--but he flew toward the sound of the voice, sixteen feet of fat and muscle encased in dark scutes hurtling vertically toward through trees. The sight that greeted him when at last he swept into the broken clearing--of crackling, corrupted flame, of shattered land and burning water--warned him at once that this creature was enemy.

Dragon did not know if it would see him--but he knew that he would attack it, immense size or not.

Okay so this--may have been a mistake.

The monster ahead was far, far larger than he. It had torn the ground, yes; but now it was breathing--flame? No, that wasn't fire; that was some false purple shit that wanted to be fire but was neither cool enough or pure enough.

A twinge of fear was there--this thing might mean his death. At the same time, it was destroying his home and Dragon had fought far larger creatures. Aquarian, Raheerah. Sure, he'd gotten his ass kicked, but he'd loved every second of it: beneath the lethargic ambush predator was the heart of a dragon who loved to fight. Savage joy welled up in him, and he prepared himself for battle, never slowing in his flight.

Dragon swept--not graceful, not a horizontal dragon angling neatly in the air, but a vertical hover-alligator held aloft by false draconic wings--lower, jaws opening. Heat welled up in his gut, ember-sparks igniting, an orange-yellow glow roiling within him. It would put him almost in her reach--and then his wings would fade, so he had to make this first strike count.

Fire breath arced out, a torrent, not the direct hit he'd hoped for--he was far too close, the sight of murky flesh slipping past, moss-like tissue, hard red keratin-...

The fight was on.

The flame that swept out toward him in turn was corrupted--violet--and he had the choice of trying to dodge--or not. The alligator grunted, sending magicka back into those fading draconic wings--he was still descending, still shooting in for a fight, but he aimed to swerve enough to dodge the brunt of the strange blast. He didn't know what it could do, after all, and flying directly into it seemed... foolish.

The onyx-and-crimson ethereal wing-leather swept him to one side, but Draconua's aim and reactions were swift enough to counter: a bath of corruptive flame lurched over him, a cold burn that shuddered over his hide and seared away a good portion of the skin above. His eyes squeezed shut against it, and he hoped that he hadn't been blinded before the fight had even begun--at least, what thought he could manage against the sudden agony of burns.

...With it came something else, too. A rage, yes--anger at being hit--but it seemed... more intense than it should have been. Dragon struggled briefly to focus on this but that focus, in the face of adrenaline, battle and pain, quickly faded--and only the lust to do damage remained.

The slimy thing that shot up from the mud coiled around him, gripping, squeezing, and Dragon struggled and hissed at its restraint. The wings faded, leaving stumpy limbs (one hind leg lame, and even limper than the others) flailing, but dark eyes remained fixed upon Draconua.

He'd opened them. He could see. That was good.

But beyond that was a haze of rage, flashes of violence roaring through the back of his mind and Dragon didn't mind. He thought it was his own, aligned with his battle-lust, triumph, savagery. Then the creature was roaring, and Dragon wished that he could roar back, but his roars were only a slow--if rumbling--vibration. Still, he imbued himself with this as he met Draconua's challenge.

"THIS," he shot back, what little water still clung to him vibrating away at the bellow, "IS MY HOME!"

Magic snarled up through him in a chaotic swirl, the agony of it familiar--but not enough. It wasn't something he did often, and the pain left another, more pained bellow escaping him--bones like spikes, some a foot or more long, shooting through his thick hide and out of limbs, ribs, vertebrae, to form a spiny defense all around him. He hoped to puncture that damned tentacle--as much as possible, at least--and to keep that beast from chomping down without injuring her own face, as well.

Then another bellow escaped him, even as his stubby legs clawed (too short) for the tentacle that held him.

Tentacles retreated, returned, squeezed, and Dragon thrashed--heavy, ridged tail swinging his hefty weight to and fro with its momentum. He felt heat blossom up again--Draconua was close, in range, face snarling as she spoke to him.

"I," he bellowed, that gravelly vibration thrumming, and that heat ignited in his belly, roiling out, eclipsing black swamp from his sight with that glorious blinding glow--

--and a flamethrower torrent swept out with a roaring crackle for the monster's black-stained face--

-"AM DRAGON!" There was triumph in that roar, and were he not so proud and eager to battle, he might have added a demand: 'PUT ME DOWN!'