DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

"Some things cannot hold their breath."

The memory flitted behind Desert's eyes as he soared high in the atmosphere of Hydra's world, completely different to the cave systems outside. Had he really thought that this was all there was? His thick forked tongue ran along ridges on the roof of his mouth. Without death nipping at your ankles, the desert was eerily… Calm. Serene. Worms breached silently far, far below him as a clan of vultures squabbled loudly in the far distance.

He wasn't sure what brought him here. It took many rests to even get to the place, and yet in his dreary state he could barely grasp at the more recent memories he had built up and stored. Perhaps it was simple curiosity, wanderlust driving him to return. Maybe his flowers gave him hidden confidence as they restored memories to his flesh.

The weight of one of his smaller clusters nagged at his left ear. He'd kept his hoard - reduced, thankfully, as they were growing troublesome to carry - at the mouth of the desert, tucked in a den away from the outpouring heat and dryness of the light filled wasteland. It would make for a good home, perhaps. One would have to deal with the lesser of Hydra, yet it was dry and warm, out of the shade and there was fresh hunting to be had in the depths of the Crucible. The only worry was water, yet he could scrape up a trough, he supposed, enlisting the help of a more water-bound creature unlike himself.

There was also the sake of the caves. From what he had seen, they were weak. Its mice didn't poison their quills and death didn't tunnel below waiting for a stir of motion to wake them from their slumber. Hydra was dangerous, and if there were no trials for the time being he would much rather discourage his fellows from an untimely death than to let the lesser wander out to murder.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

Speaking of lessers, it seems one had grown bold. A vulture, young with a short wingspan, struggled to ascend to the dragon's level. An odd feeling washed over the champion. Here he was, hovering and moving inch by inch in a self sustained glide, casually watching a killer rise up to meet him. He even managed to yawn. Smacked lips sounded in the dragon's large ears as he tilted his head to greet the vulture.

Fine, let it rise to its doom. The flap of its wings met his senses long after he'd made up his mind, banking slowly to face the beast as it ascended. Closer. Just a little closer.

It slowed as it approached, but not enough. It may have not accounted for Desert's own ability, or perhaps it was driven mad by the murder of its Matriarch and hunger. It didn't matter to the superior flier, who, in almost an instant, surged forward and met the naked throat of the lesser with sharp teeth. It was smart, though- before its final breath, it managed to wrap its head about and bite into Desert's mane, beak digging in vain into the powerful muscles guiding his long neck. Its bite was too weak to do anything but nick scale and pierce the highest layer of skin.

Desert was surprised how tiring the hunting was. Though, he had been getting skinnier. He had to do something about that. A soft urge in the back of his mind reminded him that a thin warrior had no fat to stop the claw of an enemy, and no reserves of energy to recover from the blow. He chuckled at that. A warrior. Right. He was the product of an overgrown lizard and a dead tree.

Lazily, Desert circled in the sky, his eyes to the ground with the carcass in his jaws. He had to alight to eat, though he'd never had the time to consider a landing place beforr. The dunes were too dangerous, the swamps poisonous and the Crucible simply too far away. The salt flats would work if it weren't the scorpions hiding in its crevices and the heat reflecting into the sky. Perhaps he could land near the cave mouth. His right ear flicked with indifference. Blood was dripping down his chin as he hovered in debate.

He would shrug if he could, for he let his wings take control and guide him to his plate. His subconscious drove him to the edge of the dune and salt flats. Scorpions would be able to brave him out here, but none would encroach too far, and it was too shallow here for the worms. He'd already seen one burst up- he'd flapped out of the way- as the thinning blood from his kill disturbed the yellow surface of its dwelling. Let it get riled up and beach itself before a flood, for all he cared. It wouldn't be able to follow him much further.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

Desert drifted to the surface of the desert, winds blowing down from the salt flats and carrying its heat. Thankfully, it wouldn't be drawing the scent of fresh kill to brave scorpions. He'd have to deal with vultures perhaps, but Desert was uncertain if they would risk fighting a killer of their own. The hunter felt his tail thump against shifting ground before his weight followed behind, a soft clunk of scales clattering about him.

A few dropped off and drifted into the sand below.

Desert set down his prey and sniffed at the pockmarked hole it left behind. Purple tinged yellow flesh was visible, yet it wasn't raw. Perhaps it was the lack of frequent meals. A shrug, proper this time, rolled over Desert's shoulders as his wings drew close and folded tightly against his long body. He had more pressing matters at hand.

Despite hunger gnawing at his physical frame, he felt barely peckish when it came to peeling off the flesh of the bird. His sharp teeth cut the vulture at the belly before his dull snout dug into the hot pile that spilled, extracting the liver first and swallowing it down his gullet. He forgot how good it felt to hunt, to consume. Sighing, Desert lifted his gore-stained face to the sky, silently thanking his creators for the meal. He could take his time and savor the taste at his own pace, this time.

A satisfaction came when he remembered ferocious the vultures had been before. Here he was, curled about and eating one of their own for a change. More scales dropped from his skin as he nosed around for the empty intestines of the bird, gingerly extracting them and chewing them thoughtfully.

He had nearly no idea what he was thinking about. The only thought that dared cross his mind was exhaustion. Hunting had taken some energy out of him, and despite consuming it still pervaded in the aches of his joints and the cloud over his mind. He blinked long and hard, stifling another yawn before extracting the heart from the body.

His tongue rolled in the thick blood the vulture provided. It was a welcome taste, one that threatened to put fire in his veins despite the weariness that had taken over him lately.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

Desert whipped his head at the feeling of being watched. Was Vargas looming over him, hunting him for failing? Had he failed? Memories flooded over Desert of Vargas consuming, of hunting and destroying his fellow trial runners. No, nothing was there, and yet the feeling remained. Heart hammering, Desert rose on shaky legs, taking carefully planned steps forward to the dunes.

The ground below him shifted, changed in form. Something hard under the sands. He'd remembered from an odd sort of challenge he had been set up, perhaps- or was it another onset memory being restored to him? His furred tail swept along the top layer of sand, Desert backing up to investigate the change in path. A set of claws dug into the sand. They travelled as far as the could, yet didn't hit anything, not yet. He could feel the hot sands moving around it though, as if an unnatural pocket bubbled about some o eject deep below.

Desert shut his nostrils and looked away. He had dinner to finish. It went down quick after he paid attention to it, energy spurred on by the discovery of something new. He'd leave the rest of the carcass, hollow bones and marrow to the scorpions and vultures.

He was satisfied. And yet, something pulled him to the sands. He returned to where he stepped on before. The moment he placed his weight a certain way, a waterfall of debris poured into the bubble he'd found not moments before.

He had to move quick. Desert took up to digging, long shovel-like claws clearing sand like water. More washed in to replace what he splashed out, but a pile was forming thankfully behind him.

Desert panted at the exertion. It was much- nearly too much for him. His eyes ached to close, for him to drop on the spot, but he was pulling him along, a sense to hoard taking over his senses. His flowers behind his ears ached. One set in skin, the other tucked away safely, yet both found salty sweat coalescing about it and the mirrors scraping the flesh of his ears.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

He soon hit something. Metal, if he could make a guess, and the thought drove him to madness as he feverishly picked up speed again. He was close! Glinting steel shone beneath the sands, yet the sand kept threatening to cover it all back up. The dragon expected it to be after down here. The worms, maybe, in all their lack of sense, could have been kicking up air between the sand as they dove, drying out the soil far quicker than normal.

No matter. Soon, Desert had dug a sizable hole. Tiny trickles of sandfalls poured into the pit, but it wasn't at the rate that it would cover his quarry any time soon. He could barely see out of the pit if he extended his neck up as far as it would go.

Below, though, was the real treasure. A breastplate had revealed itself first. Soon to follow was a particular scene. Bones had been strewn about like a toddler throwing its toys about in a tantrum, and though brittle with age they weren't destroyed as one could expect. The arid and heated sands may have had a hand in preserving it. Desert wouldn't know, and he didn't much care to know.

At first glance one could tell why the hominid had died. It came in with sword in hand, hot and thick steel armor cloaking its four-armed body. The backpiece took some time to find, though small slots lead to more clues about it. It must have had insectoid wings to fit through the oddly shaped slats along its length.

What interested Desert, though, were the small bits. He had no use for large plates, especially with the leather rotten into nothing leaving him without a strand to hang things from. Iron kneecaps and arrowheads littered the sands. He'd discovered them as an ornery weapon dug into his paw, causing minor pain that he easily blocked out. This creature must have been an archer, and the two oval rings may have belonged to a quiver. Desert prodded his find. Intricate lines curved about the rings, and where it was the widest two triangles stood at point with another cut through them. They were a good shape and size to hold the arrows. He found they slipped over his wrists with ease, though the heat stung where it touched fleshy holes where scales should be. They would remain well, at least.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

Absentmindedly, Desert moved his nose to the skeletal remains of the failed creature. He knew by instinct its gem would be nowhere to be found. Failures were crushed and left to rot in the ever-changing landscape of Hydra.

The skull stood out for the champion. Two horns (he would assume, for the right was broken halfway) swept forward and up in a sloping curve, ending in blackened tips. Its snout was reptilian in build and reminiscent of dinosaurs. Holes poked through its snout and its right eye was broken in. Desert sat leaning on his hole as he turned the object over and over in his claws. The back of it was shattered. A scavenger may have been out for its brain, it if this creature was a greater it would have been in for a nasty surprise.

Memory washed over Desert as he painfully reminisced. One of the older trials. He was young. Too young. A trial of endurance, not of speed. Hiding in a crevice, trapped with the stench of blood and acid in the air. His scales burning from inky black substance over him. The corpse of an ally. A savior.

Desert rose his head, eyes closed as he let the memory was over him like rain. It surprised him how easily they came now, with two now in his repertoire that didn't involve Hydra. Flowers and fish, surprisingly.

He paused. Fish? No. There was a fish, he could remember the uncertainty about it. It must have been a fish. It was large, over him. Fish couldn't fly. He.. He must have been underwater.

No. He couldn't have been. His blue eyes looked back and forth to the sides of his pit now caving in faster. He needed to leave. He felt nearly like fetching up his meal, a sense of clarity washing over him. Why was he underwater? Furious wings battered at the sides of his hole as he rose into the air, new energy surging through him. The skull was clutched in his claws as wind stirred the sand to cover his place, silvery rings clashing on his scales and skull. He didn't have time to marvel at the fact that they didn't fall. He ascended quickly and made for the mouth of the cave, to his den to think and consult his flowers.

Some things cannot hold their breath, yet he would dissolve in water before he even had the chance to try.

Digging deep into Hydra's sands was never a wise idea.

Desert Rose should have known better.

As he kicked sand back, his mind elsewhere, the vibrations attracted... attention.

There was no sign of warning; the sands kept falling away as he dug rapt in his strange half-memories. But beneath, he was being hunted. The ground--the metal, the sand--erupted beneath in a spray, and it was as if that water had churned up around him. There was hardly time to react: one moment it was quiet, even peaceful (if Hydra could ever be called that), the next a mass of scales and spines had burst forth, pincer-like enormous jaws snapping for Desert Rose, attempting to crush him in their grip.

At the worst, it might grab him and drag him under in a heartbeat.

At best, it might only snag the metal, the skull, he dug at--or nothing, perhaps, at all.

Any roll over 5 will allow Desert Rose to escape. A critical fail will result in his being snagged by the Sandworm. Anything in between will result in the loss of the items he was attempting to recover.

@Desert Rose Thirty-Five

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
how quickly the hawk becomes a dove
when faced with the barrel of a gun

Perhaps it was the mindless draw of his flowers, or perhaps the softening of the caves outside.

Desert had forgotten of the dangers of Hydra, much as he'd forgotten much of his life. It was a surprise for sure, then, when the ground rumbled beneath him. His digging - it must have attracted it, and he had only been enticing it further by battering the sands with his wings.

He didn't have much time to contemplate. Whatever remained of the failure below him caved into a gaping maw of teeth. Desert didn't have any time to process before the final piece of the skeleton was latched onto by a force below.

A Sandworm had just missed him. It's upwards force gave him what he needed to lift, but he was only jerked back down with a yelp as it closed its jaws about the skull.

His heart beat. For once, he didn't feel exhaustion, and for once the feeling of bliss was overrun with the heart-pounding feel of adrenaline coursing anew through his veins. How did he forget? How could have ever forgotten? His heart danced in his throat as he pushed off, his grip slipping on the skull. Instincts screamed at him to let go of it, that it wasn't worth it.

His muscles preferred that than his desire to hoard. The prize was lost as quickly as it was gained. In a downstroke with straining muscles, Desert's claws slipped free from the skull and let it be crunched below.

His heart drowned out the roar of it lunging up to bite him again.

He was lucky - luckier than the other trial creatures, he'd found - to not be swallowed whole. Perhaps he was not so lucky to have part of his tail latched onto.

In a painful roar and searing white pain, Desert's coarse fur was ripped from his end and disappeared into the worm's gullet. Blood arched through the air as Desert pulsed upwards. He had to leave, now! Why did he ever return? He panicked hard, wings beating as fast as they could to deliver him up and home to the mouth of the cave. He could feel the blood of destroyed follicles welling up and dripping a pathway into the sand below.

He should have heeded his promise to never return. The cave mouth was in sight. He could make it unharmed. He could do this. He could live and never return.

exit? Desert Rose