ORIGIN

Dread inhaled, unaware of the magic now permeating his body. He sent out another blast of flame, a roaring, flickering, crackling torrent that would hopefully engulf the smaller dragon. Not enough to incinerate him truly--though Dread was certainly capable of such. It was a spar. He was careful with it--not so much aiming for vitals, less sustained flame and more a short, fierce blast. But it was still fire; it was still powerful.

"DO YOU GIVE IN?" he roared afterward, but Blight was banking; he hastened to fold his wings too, the smaller dragon's agility showing itself.

And he was feeling, now--and suddenly--the effects of Blight's plague. A horrid soreness was swiftly creeping through his muscles, bringing with it a weaknes and a feverish heat--ahh, the irony there. And yet he felt cold--cold and hot--and...

Dread shook himself, flinching and slowly. He knew this sickness. He feared it, he'd felt it, not one like it but the same damn thing-! Another roar escaped him, shorter, defiant but anguished--if this one ran the same course as the one that had hit him many cycles ago, he was in for a world of pain and suffering.

Blight was... falling, and Dread knew that this was it; a make-or-break for his victory. For a flash he wondered if the plague dragon would be okay.

But there was a problem with this thought. Blight's disease was taking hold powerfully. Confusion was kicking in, fever roaring through his brain. And worse still, his muscles were cramping--including those he used for flight. Dread was... confused, and for a moment he felt he was somewhere else, entirely.

Darkness; it was cool, cold but hot, shivering, miserable, aching. A great serpent was curling toward him, promising healing, if only he would worship her. He had been barely more than a child, and she was strange, ominous, dark. He didn't like it. He didn't like the sickness, he-

-was falling, too, Leo flashing past. His muscles were spasming outside his control--and then they were his again, and he was struggling to catch himself against the updrafts from beneath, shaking and sore. The fever, the delirium, had him near-feral and desperate.

Plague and fire were not, it seemed, very good magics for sparring with.

Blindly he lashed out, his shattering scream of a roar imbued with magic, with imagery of his own jaws tearing through flesh, his own eyes glowing in the dark, his wings beating implacable and deadly. It was a reflex meant to shake off--to scare off--an enemy, and it reached blindly for Blight without restraint.

His muscles were spasming wildly, his head too hot to think. He blinked firelit eyes at the distant jungle, and it seemed to him a meaningless blur of color. What was he doing here--who was he, even? The sickness gripped him, and he cried out--a brief, sharp roar--and fought to get his magic rolling through his system, much as Blight had done, to clear his head.

He couldn't land--there was no question of making it back to the sea stack. He could barely turn, or look around, and he'd forgotten where he was. But with the surge of magicka his head cleared just enough that he managed to glide down, impacting the sand and beach and skidding heavily into the grass and trees just beyond.

Blight was calling after him--something about giving in, about Dread winning--but Dread very much had his doubts. He felt as though he were dying.

Dread dragged himself into the brush and trees, agonized.

His sight was blurred, and every muscle ached horribly. Foul, diseased saliva dripped down from between sharp teeth. His nostrils flared, breathing labored.

This sucked.

His magicka barely pulsed through him, just keeping him awake, aware; just barely keeping the disease at bay. "BLIGHT," he tried, but his attempt at a roar was barely a loud croak, harsh and painful. He hated this; he hated every second of it.

He made a mental note never to ask Blight to spar again. He could have really aimed to hurt, but he didn't; it seemed that disease, once unleashed, had no such controls.

A hiss escaped him and he turned, lumbering back toward the surf. If he could just get back to his den... down in his cave, perhaps...