I’m embarrassed, and I’m ashamed I’ve played a part in this devilish game making your common sense perish.
But I ain’t taking the full blame cause most of you chumps running around here ain’t never had strict parents.
But I ain’t taking the full blame cause most of you chumps running around here ain’t never had strict parents.
War is a tiresome thing, especially for a magician. As beautiful as having the power of the gods was, it also meant immesnse responsibility. A magician was limitless - and there seemed to be quite a handful in this war. Magic parried with magic - the possibilities were endless.
Eight kept a section of his mind on the war at hand. He had seen Straia’s attack against the Gates - the fire burning with fury and glee only war could fuel. He had seen the death of Witchita, her heart ending with one last gasp. And he had seen the rightful retaliation of Yael - her golden body stretching into the might of the dragon. Amongst this, he had followed Prague’s furious deeds of fixing the ever growing disasters- it seemed the magicians of the lighter side were stretching themselves quite thin. I do suppose that’s the downside of covering so many territories.
None to Eight’s surprise, Evrae was laxadaisial in her duties. The thing about the more chaotic evil of the magicians, was that they never were quite dutiful in their actions. Those like Eight and Evrae- well, they did as they pleased, to whatever their benefit. They did not have the golden hearts of righteousness, fervor, and loyalty like Prague and Yael.
While Eight went about his personal goals - raising the protective barrier of the Valley and fortifying the wolves, then on to raising Zuclo, and finally begining his attemps to lure the dearest little Rome away - well, the war still raged on beyond him. Hours had passed since the immaculation of the wild rumpus - and each hour he checked in upon the Chamber, he saw that Weaver was still a small clutch of a rag within the grasp of Yael. Ah, Evrae - forever on your own schedule (and Eight couldn’t fault you for that - with forever to live, why follow a clock?)
With a deep sigh, Eight launches off the soft sand of the Beach, leaving Zuclo to his own - midair, his wings begin to shrink, his body grows ever smaller, feathers branching from his wings onto his body, his dark tail thickening into a solid fan of feathers, his hooves arcing into sharp - his body transforming lithely from equine to that of an osprey. On swift wings, carried from the hot winds of the burning lands, he quickly reaches the Chamber.
There is no mistaking the carnage below. The begginings of battle are birthing below - with a quick glance to the ground he sees a cluster - one seemingly strongly outnumbered (theirs? ours?). But there is no time to help, regardless of who it may be. Weaver has been hanging in the deathly clutches of the golden dragon for far too long - already Eight sees the ragged skin of the princess, where the thick and callous skin and claw of the dragon held tight.
Evrae would come soon - he knew. While she was questionable on punctuality- she would show up. The best he could do now was to conserve his strength and magic and do what best he could for Weaver- the battle was just beginning.
Being in such a smaller state, his power was conserved - and he had the ability of agility and speed, versus that of a large dragon. His osprey sight was clear and deadly, and his target large and not quite so quick. Yael in her dragon form was admittedly set in red hot anger towards Straia- her rage and focus on the raven queen. And it was Eight’s time to strike. He plunged from high, with rapid speed - his taloned feet outstretched .His unique osprey feet - with two toes in front and two behind - allowed for an excellent and unrelenting grasp, and a barbed padding on the soles of his feet created for the best hold- even on slippery things such as eyeballs. And that was exactly what he was aiming for - the tender and soft eyeball of the great, golden dragon.
Eight was not aiming to kill - or even maim, really (although, he wouldn’t quite object) - he was looking to startle. With such a size and speed advantage, and with the golden lady being quiet distracted in her rage - there was hardly a chance to miss his target of those soft orbs of the dragon. His target was to gouge, grab, and tear at whatever he could - his main target, the eyes, but he would do for any of the tender areas of the face he may reach. As we all know, the face is one of the most sacred parts of the body - smell, sight, and hearing are all readily available for attack there - and the face in general is quite a soft spot of the body. Any gouging that Eight made to her face would most likely result in the startled reaction of releasing prey - the most common reaction of pain to tender places, a blanching, a release, a startled movement.
As birds of prey are known for - he attacks quickly and uses his advantage of size and dexterity to dart away from immediate grasp. All Eight was aiming for was for Weaver to be released- and a quick and deadly gouge to soft facial features should hopefully do just fine. Either way - the golden magician would likely be damaged in dragon form, and in equine form upon her transition. And when Weaver dropped - well, he would manage that from there.
Eight kept a section of his mind on the war at hand. He had seen Straia’s attack against the Gates - the fire burning with fury and glee only war could fuel. He had seen the death of Witchita, her heart ending with one last gasp. And he had seen the rightful retaliation of Yael - her golden body stretching into the might of the dragon. Amongst this, he had followed Prague’s furious deeds of fixing the ever growing disasters- it seemed the magicians of the lighter side were stretching themselves quite thin. I do suppose that’s the downside of covering so many territories.
None to Eight’s surprise, Evrae was laxadaisial in her duties. The thing about the more chaotic evil of the magicians, was that they never were quite dutiful in their actions. Those like Eight and Evrae- well, they did as they pleased, to whatever their benefit. They did not have the golden hearts of righteousness, fervor, and loyalty like Prague and Yael.
While Eight went about his personal goals - raising the protective barrier of the Valley and fortifying the wolves, then on to raising Zuclo, and finally begining his attemps to lure the dearest little Rome away - well, the war still raged on beyond him. Hours had passed since the immaculation of the wild rumpus - and each hour he checked in upon the Chamber, he saw that Weaver was still a small clutch of a rag within the grasp of Yael. Ah, Evrae - forever on your own schedule (and Eight couldn’t fault you for that - with forever to live, why follow a clock?)
With a deep sigh, Eight launches off the soft sand of the Beach, leaving Zuclo to his own - midair, his wings begin to shrink, his body grows ever smaller, feathers branching from his wings onto his body, his dark tail thickening into a solid fan of feathers, his hooves arcing into sharp - his body transforming lithely from equine to that of an osprey. On swift wings, carried from the hot winds of the burning lands, he quickly reaches the Chamber.
There is no mistaking the carnage below. The begginings of battle are birthing below - with a quick glance to the ground he sees a cluster - one seemingly strongly outnumbered (theirs? ours?). But there is no time to help, regardless of who it may be. Weaver has been hanging in the deathly clutches of the golden dragon for far too long - already Eight sees the ragged skin of the princess, where the thick and callous skin and claw of the dragon held tight.
Evrae would come soon - he knew. While she was questionable on punctuality- she would show up. The best he could do now was to conserve his strength and magic and do what best he could for Weaver- the battle was just beginning.
Being in such a smaller state, his power was conserved - and he had the ability of agility and speed, versus that of a large dragon. His osprey sight was clear and deadly, and his target large and not quite so quick. Yael in her dragon form was admittedly set in red hot anger towards Straia- her rage and focus on the raven queen. And it was Eight’s time to strike. He plunged from high, with rapid speed - his taloned feet outstretched .His unique osprey feet - with two toes in front and two behind - allowed for an excellent and unrelenting grasp, and a barbed padding on the soles of his feet created for the best hold- even on slippery things such as eyeballs. And that was exactly what he was aiming for - the tender and soft eyeball of the great, golden dragon.
Eight was not aiming to kill - or even maim, really (although, he wouldn’t quite object) - he was looking to startle. With such a size and speed advantage, and with the golden lady being quiet distracted in her rage - there was hardly a chance to miss his target of those soft orbs of the dragon. His target was to gouge, grab, and tear at whatever he could - his main target, the eyes, but he would do for any of the tender areas of the face he may reach. As we all know, the face is one of the most sacred parts of the body - smell, sight, and hearing are all readily available for attack there - and the face in general is quite a soft spot of the body. Any gouging that Eight made to her face would most likely result in the startled reaction of releasing prey - the most common reaction of pain to tender places, a blanching, a release, a startled movement.
As birds of prey are known for - he attacks quickly and uses his advantage of size and dexterity to dart away from immediate grasp. All Eight was aiming for was for Weaver to be released- and a quick and deadly gouge to soft facial features should hopefully do just fine. Either way - the golden magician would likely be damaged in dragon form, and in equine form upon her transition. And when Weaver dropped - well, he would manage that from there.