ORIGIN

Ember eyes narrowed, another ear-splitting roar shrieking out over the bay.

It had probably been an impressive, if brief, display for any observers: the roaring, the two dragons tangling briefly in the air, the flames and screeches. Her insistence that she "didn't need him" puzzled him, if only for a moment--but he was a creature easily-puzzled and this was enough for her to back away. Retreat was all he demanded, in any case: his posturing and the short scuffle was that of an animal and little more, an establishing of territory, of dominance, and as far as he was concerned by instinct, Haven's retreat meant that he had won.

That was reason enough for him to leave her be, but his retort--an insistence that she leave him alone--that this was his home--died in his throat.

His limbs were growing stiff, the wings faltering again--dangerously; and he turned and banked into a low glide for the nearest rocky outcrop. He didn't actually see where Haven went, bar that she was fleeing: he himself felt a rising fear. And, of course, on its tail--anger. What had she done to him-? The brief pinprick ache had turned into a spreading malaise, a stiffening of his muscles, a limpness that he did not like one bit. It was a lack of control.

For a moment, it seemed as though he might plummet: the flapping rapidly grew erratic, unsteady. The black dragon's form began to spiral downward--and then, Dread thinking fast in his panic or (more likely) reacting on instinct, magicka rose up to save him.

A twisting mass of air, a brief waterspout, shot skyward and billowed up his wings; a moment later he crashed and skidded across a nearby rocky outcrop, sprawled there. The paralysis continued to spread, and a low growl of anger escaped him; but he for now lay in the hollow on the island's top, body cradled by the rock.

Well, this was... unpleasant.

The bite wound was not bad; the thickness of his scales had helped with that. It was all plating down his throat, chest and belly, but the scrape burned and he could scent the trickle of blood. He suspected that this was magic. Someone had, once before, taken brief control of his body--forced him to the ground. Was this something similar-?

He had never been outright poisoned, and didn't recognize it--but he had been sickened, and for a brief and panicked moment, terrible memories were racing through his mind. Memories of a younger dragon--half-grown and frightened--who lay miserably sick, pained and helpless, crash-landed in Orion. Memories of plague eating away at him from the inside from the sick bat that he had eaten.

His tail flicked--a faint movement, and all he could manage; and he wondered how long this terrible thing would last. Fear bled away to frustration and anger in seconds. He struggled against the paralysis, but nothing came.

And where had the stranger gone-? She'd been yelling... something... he couldn't remember what, now. Hadn't really registered it, truth be told; but then she'd flown away. But where had she gone? Entirely fled? She probably hadn't died; he wasn't sure. She reminded him of that other dragon--the only other one he'd seen here--who'd come here yelling at him, but he couldn't really remember what that had been about, now.

Why did everyone want to live in Leo? (And yes, another This is MY cave rippled through his mind.)

Well, he had no way of moving; he did the next best thing, silently casting out his magic, pressed to the stone like a hiding prey animal in a way he hadn't done since he'd been a foot-long hatchling. He felt no shame in this. It was necessity. It was survival. But with flat silhouette (not that he had much choice in that) he cast out his magic, sensing for his opponent.

First he peered overhead, but he found only a few wheeling seabirds, there. She wasn't about to dive on him from above, then. Below, he saw only the few fish and so forth beneath the waves. He cast his magic further outward, focusing, still struggling and failing to move.

She was far off--down on the beach--if he was seeing the correct silhouette. Lying in the water, he thought, or near it.

She wasn't dead; there was still movement, there, the pulse of blood through body.

For a minute he debated what to do, then realized it was rather a moot point. Her magic, or whatever it was, had made the decision for him, so he lay there atop his rock, impotently furious but biding his frustrated time.

He struggled, muscles twitching, against the toxins still rampaging through his system. Minutes passed as, below, Haven was forcing her way up; and likewise, on the rock-top, Dread was pushing himself--willing himself--to move.

Toes spasmed beneath and behind him; his wings fluttered lightly as if touched by a breeze. But these were not deliberate, controlled motions. Though none of the venomous magics would last very long, Dread didn't know this; he didn't know how long it would last, and he fought against it, struggling.

He could feel no control over his own muscles. Even his heart felt flutteringly weak, now and then.

It would not last much longer, but he couldn't know that, and rage smoldered in his heart.

Wings rose, slowly. One, twitching, trembling, then the other. Down they came again, pressing to the stone, shaking as he slowly pushed down, taking his weight on his forelimbs. Long minutes had passed since the envenomation, but the magic, if gradually, was fading. The stiffness, the soreness, lingered.

It would have been almost comical, how his head abruptly popped up from over the rocky ridge, spines erected along his neck, ember eyes wide. Comical, if said eyes were not darting accusatorily, if smoke were not twinning up from flared nostrils.

Talons rose beneath him, kicked weakly at the rock, dust rising beneath him. His tail swished the dirt erratically, slowly.

He dragged himself to the edge, shaking himself out, shaking the weakness and the tremor from his limbs. He hated the feeling of lying helpless; he did not want to relive that, if he could help it. But where was the other dragon-? The stranger? The one with the screaming?

It took him a moment to spot the figure--it had dragged itself from where last he'd seen it. A low growl escaped him, and he hauled himself closer to the edge--one wing-claw hooking the lip of the cliff. Testingly, he pushed back--spread his wings, stretched them--and nearly toppled.

No; he needed a moment longer, a moment more for the poison to fade.

While he waited, he studied Haven, down on the shore in the far distance. It almost did not seem to be moving; was it moving? He couldn't tell. It took two tries to get his voice out, clearing his throat to do so.

"ARE YOU DEAD YET?" he bellowed at last, peering down with narrowed eyes, trying to see how the stranger was faring.

'Of course I am!! You think some fire can kill me?' He was impressed that she could even speak; he had blasted her face head-on with the full brunt of his flames.

He stretched his wings again, growling, flexing them, shaking his head from side to side. With every passing moment he felt stronger--more himself. When he rose up to test his ability to fly, however, he simply toppled backwards--back onto the rock outcrop, flat on his back, smashing his spines beneath him.

That hurt, and he hissed, staring up at the sky. This was not where he had wanted to be.

Still--he could shout back.

"THIS IS MY CAVE," he bellowed skyward, because apparently that hadn't been made clear enough the first three times.

Feet kicked at the air, the dragon like a beetle on its back, but he couldn't flip himself over. ...Yet. Surely it was just "yet." "YES, I THINK FIRE CAN KILL YOU. FIRE KILLS ANYTHING. I WILL BURN YOU UNTIL YOU DIE," he roared, but it sounded an oddly empty threat.

Not that he was not hostile--he certainly was--but it held nothing of a vengeful hatred in it. It was posturing, as his roars had been before, though admittedly it was hard to posture when flat on one's actual back.

Dread kicked at the air again, and huffed in irritation.