ORIGIN

He woke slowly, groggily. And it was some time that he lay there--atop the little island that he'd claimed for his own, with its cave through its middle, and its greenery shifting gently atop. Mosses and ferns, a few wind-stunted trees; the large bowl-like indentation at the island's top was barely large enough to fit the dragon. It was, perhaps, better called an outcrop than an island.

Dread did not mind.

In fact, he was--for the first time in his life--truly content. He'd grown in Fornax, and enjoyed the heat and dampness there, the broad expanse of air and water to soar and fish at his leisure. But he'd had few places to hide, there, and he'd been small--he'd been a hatchling, little more than prey. And when he'd outgrown his crack in Fornax's wall, and found himself without solid ground to reliably rest upon (for Fornax tended to submerge its island in merciless storms), the young dragon had moved on. He'd made his home, then, in Monoceros: another cave of vast space, a place to fly, to den and nest. It had been warm--which he'd liked; and dry, which he'd been ambivalent about. But he'd always missed the hiss of waters at the place of his hatching, and Monoceros was, all else aside, monotonous. It felt stifled, a desert, all rock and gorge and while that was fine for some, it was too lifeless for the dragon. Hunting had been a chore.

Here-! Here was the perfect place for him. The waves lapped below, surging and crashing as they struck the base of the rock. Yet wind rustled the foliage, caressing cool air over his 'sun'-heated black scales. He often lay for hours, wings tucked beside him, drowsing in half-awake contentment. This summit, and the cave below, held his treasures--what he'd brought with him, and what he'd gathered here.

From Monoceros he had brought many of the shiny gemstones he'd collected over the cycles--from Lessers, from Tunnel J, from trading, from anywhere else that he could find. Chipped, pitted pieces of gold--and gold-colored--metal scrap and ancient jewelry lay here and there, including the enchanted, heavy golden collar he'd gotten in confused trade. A few blue crystals lay in the pile, emitting a pleasing chime, a soft music that played pleasant backdrop to the cries of the wheeling seabirds, the distant crashing of water and the rush of wind.

Dread's tail shifted up, then down, like a cat's languidly flicking mid-sunbath; he turned, settling more on his side, so the with one eye he could peer up at the distant cave roof with its blinding orb-light. He exhaled a heaving sigh, pleased.

Here, food was plentiful--a great deal of fish, the occasional cave deer snatched from a rocky ledge, a hare now and then. He left the birds alone, seeing them almost as compatriots in the air, and flew through them with a sense of amiable power: they parted before him. They could not harm him. A few had learned to follow him, to fly alongside his hunt, to scavenge whatever scraps he left behind. Sometimes--rarely--when he was feeling particularly generous, he shared--he tossed them a scrap or two, and went back to his feeding. Leo was, too, good for treasures. He'd picked up old, ruined bits of stone with old scratched writing on them, and a couple pieces of useless old armor that nonetheless padded out his new hoard.

In short, he was happy: he felt fulfilled, with everything he could want and a utopian surrounding where he was an unbothered, peaceful king.

The black dragon pushed himself up after hours of lazing in the warm light, and stretched: he reared back, neck arching, jaws parting in a massive yawn. The finned spines along his neck and back raised, rattled, lowered; and his forelimbs stretched, out and back, and flapped twice with a leathery whumph. He rocked back forward, landing on his wings, and looked around.

After a moment, Dread crept forward, wing-waddling to the edge of his outcrop--dappled by the shifting shadows of the leaves above--and looked down and around at the massive bay. It sparked with orb-light, the light dancing over deep blue, today (the water, he'd found, seemed to change color as if with moods; sometimes gray and stormy, other times brightly-lit aqua). Again, spade-tipped tail swept around behind him, and after a few moments, he leapt from the pinnacle's edge.

Wings snapped out, and caught him, and he took a deep breath and began his soar: lifted by the warm winds, a few flaps keeping him in a glide. He circled his island widely, peering down at the waters, and looking idly, contentedly, out at the edges of the bay.

The water was warm--hot, in places--and the foliage on the shoreline was thick. He debated what to do, today, and decided simply to explore; he could hunt, if he spotted prey worth taking, or he could search (and he did enjoy this) for a new treasure to add to his collection.

Black wings pumping, he made for the distant shoreline--and there, dipping in and out of the clinging mist still lingering above the trees, he began to search for anything of interest.

Dread's head snapped around, raised at once into high alert by the sound of approaching wingbeats. Anything other than a dragon he might have greeted with at least wary interest. But another dragon-looking thing? At least, it had wings, it looked serpentine; if it had looked truly draconic he might have been more aggressive. As it was his spines raised as he turned to hover, eyes narrowing as he looked over this stranger.

His instinct of "this is my place" was about to be tamped down; he was going to try and be civil, at least. But despite the stranger's civil words, this one was asking him to stop flying--in his own cave! His own home! Other dragons, here?

He did not know that Haven was blind, so had no idea that she could not see the spines erect along his neck, his ember eyes springing wide.

He did not attack; this thing wasn't directly threatening him as yet. But he opened his jaws to emit the most screeching, deafening roar he could manage. There was an attempt to imbue this with magic, to fill it with mind-rending terror, but nothing came; it was just a sound, albeit a loud one.

"THIS IS MY CAVE," he bellowed, turning to fully face the stranger.

It was a shame, in a sense--Haven herself did not seem hostile. But whoever the mate was, well, Dread could care less! EVERYONE ELSE SHOULD LEAVE, was the way he saw it.

For a moment, as the smaller stranger seemed to nearly fall from the air, Dread felt a pang of pity. He was about to ask her what was wrong with her when she redoubled her demands.

She was telling him to leave. 'Back off,' he heard, and 'this is your only warning.' Any thoughts of sympathy fled, and his jaws snapped open for another roar. It rang over the water, his body rising higher, wings flapping heavily to keep him airborne.

"THIS IS MY CAVE!" he roared, a second time, reiterating his claim.

A second roar--well, a third--belted from him, a primal scream of animalistic rage, a declaration of territory and of power. And around him magicka welled up, and from the air, a cascade of fireballs began to rain down toward the sea and islands.

Centered in this flaming conflagration, he hovered, and he'd have been a very dramatic vision of fiery reflections coursing over black scales--if Haven could actually see. As it was, he was probably just a very loud, very angry voice.

He did not make any specific demands--he could have shouted at the stranger to go, or made threats, but he wanted acknowledgment of the claim he'd staked. Leo was--in his mind--his, and he held dominion here. If this other dragon accepted this, then perhaps they could coexist; but if not, he would defend his claim with fang and fire.

It was probably very bad luck that two territorial dragons, strangers both, had chosen the same cave.

Instead of taking his threats, she came at him--which was almost impressive, her fire, her spark. But Dread was ready for a battle, and he had the benefit of sight: had the benefit of seeing her begin to fly toward him, to bridge the gap of air still between them.

He reared back and flapped his wings more powerfully, attempting an infusion of magicka to send her tumbling back--at least to not reach him, to keep her at bay. He had no desire to enter close quarters, and maybe this would give him time to get some range.

His magicka came, and powerfully, and did the exact opposite of what he'd intended; for a moment his own wings became entangled. Though his hide was thick, and scales even thicker, he felt the brief impact of teeth in his fumbling tangle.

He did not wait for her to talk. The moment her teeth were clear he inhaled--orange sparks glowing up along his gullet, his nostrils--and exhaled.

A roaring flamethrower torrent streamed for her face. He care nothing for this stranger's words, now that it had threatened and postured. He would show himself dominant: this was his cave. The attack was as damaging as he could make it. He was not holding back, and any speech Haven tried to give was lost to him in the crackling roar of his flames.

Let her face be melted away; let her life be taken in a plume of orange fire.

This was his cave.

He could feel the venom beginning to trickle through him, the stiffness it was starting to bring; he shook his head as if to clear it, the first faltering wingbeat staggering him in the air.