strong language

Blight dodged the first ball of flame that shot past, his eyes widening in realization. What the hell is this?! This was--new, not something he'd seen from the black dragon and-

OH SHIT- A searing agony as he tried to dodge, as one crashed down into his left wing just behind the shoulder joint, and terror flickered along his spine--instinctive--as he heard the solid thud of Dread's wings gaining on him. Logically, he knew it was a spar--logically, if Dread wanted to really harm him, he would have. But it didn't change the fact that a larger, fire-breathing dragon was gaining on him. His wing, his ribs and flank, hurt where he'd been impacted, and his flight was staggered, slowed, as he tried to catch himself from falling into Leo's sea.

Oh SHIT oh FUCK!

He half-turned, ghostlight eyes widened, struggling to get sight of Dread for even an instant--long enough to drive his own magic into his "enemy."

An invisible flare of it reached for the black dragon, and--satisfied that it would (probably) hit--Blight turned and banked into a frightened dive.

Round: 3/5
Attempt: Intensify sickness rapidly
Defense:
Injuries: Just hit by a fireball/meteor

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.

Round: 3/5
Attempt: Burny mc burnface
Defense:
Injuries: Getting REAL sick REAL fast

The heat this time hurt, and he howled a roar of pain as he scrambled his hind legs as if to try and pull away midair. He felt searing, charring heat flash over his tail, his hind legs, and he flailed midair--which only hurt his injured wing all the worse. For a moment he looked like a broken puppet, thrashing his way down toward the water on jerking strings.

He tried to turn again, lashing his magic out blindly--which backfired, horrifically. He turned too fast for the hurt wing, and tumbled midair--and was suddenly upside-down and falling, his magicka pulling back in to strike himself.

Blight flailed, trying to bring himself back upright, but he was falling--fast... and suddenly, he wasn't feeling so good, either.

...Well, burns aside.

Round: 4/5
Attempt: Obliterate Dread's immune system
Defense:
Injuries: Really burnt up tbh

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.

Round: 4/5
Attempt: Mindscream blindly out
Defense:
Injuries: REALLY sick now

Blight turned with desperation, struggling to strike out with his magic, to heal himself enough that his wing would work. The imagery that shot through him an instant later made it impossible to focus: visions of Dread--now suddenly his true enemy--imbued with unnatural terror. Wings and teeth, eyes and flame, and Blight struggled to escape.

It cleared a moment later--and he saw the water accelerating toward his face, impossibly fast. He could dive, he could swim--he was an expert in the water, well-used to catching fish--but an impact at this speed would be dangerous, and he knew it. Magicka flared, purging off enough of the damage, granting him that thin edge of vitality he needed to spread injured wings and catch the air, streaking into a soar low above the water just before the fall would have taken him.

...Okay, that's enough, he thought, wide-eyed. He hoped Dread felt better, because he felt like shit.

"ENOUGH! YOU WIN! STOP!" he cried, coiling over on himself briefly (but not very far--lesson learned, there) to eye Dread with apprehension.

Round: 5/5
Attempt: Recover enough from the damage to save his flight
Defense:
Injuries: Burnt up!

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.

Round: 5/5
Attempt: Recover enough from the damage to save his flight, also. Don't crash and (lol) burn
Defense:
Injuries: Incredibly diseased

That had been... unpleasant. The burns fucking hurt, and parts of his legs and tail were sheened ugly and might even scar. He hoped not; he didn't think Dread had intended to really hurt him. The firestorm, at least, had worn off, so that there weren't cascades of damn meteors slamming around him as he-

Blight landed lightly on the far shore, then turned, looking around. He'd expected to see Dread coming in behind him, but the other dragon was nowhere to be seen.

"...Dread?" he called out, and shook himself a little, before pushing his own magic into his body.

He felt his body strengthening, the illness fading, as it should be; and then he set about looking for his Dad-Dad. Apprehension began to dawn: had Dread fallen into the seas-? Blight didn't think that the black dragon was as suited for it; could he even swim..?

Worried, he made his way to the edges and stared in, eyes searching the breakers worriedly. "DREAD?" he called again, louder this time.

Character: Blight Age: +14 (14th Cycle) Magic Level: +5 (Transcendent Pupil) ROUND 1 Attempt: +13 Penalties: - ROUND 2 Attempt: +20 Penalties: - ROUND 3 Attempt: +13 Penalties: - ROUND 4 Attempt: +2 Penalties: - ROUND 5 Attempt: +13 Penalties: - Total: 80

Character: Dread Age: +39 (39th Cycle) Magic Level: +7 (Transcendent Master) ROUND 1 Attempt: +11 Penalties: - ROUND 2 Attempt: +10 Penalties: - ROUND 3 Attempt: +18 Penalties: - ROUND 4 Attempt: +15 Penalties: - ROUND 5 Attempt: +11 Penalties: - Total: 111

WINNER: Dread

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...

He barely heard Dread's call over the crash of surf. Pained as he was--wing still sore, and legs a little burnt--he took flight, tattered skin beating at the refreshingly cool air. This was familiar, at least: this soaring and banking over the sea, using the winds to his advantage.

He came in to land not far from where Dread had crashed in, and it didn't take him long to find the deep gouges scored into wet sand--and from there, to follow them a little inland. Dread was crawling out to meet him, wing-walking and looking miserable.

"...Shit, Dad-Dad, I'm sorry, I didn't realize it would hit so hard. Let me help," he said, worried as hell. He'd never seen Dread look so beaten up, before, and abruptly his own burns seemed like nothing.

He's got more restraint than you do, he realized; he thought of Dread as half-feral, sometimes, but look what had happened now?

His magicka took root, and he carefully purged his own disease from the bigger dragon. He took it slowly, guiding it through Dread's body, ensuring that every last little germ was removed.

"...There," he said, at last. "You should start to feel a little better, soon?"

It was said hopefully, warily. What if he was wrong-?