Set
What better an entrance than the middle of a war? Fire hot, chaos and dragons sort of war. Just … Wonderful. Set of course can take no credit for the discord that unfolds before him - he is sure that he has been absent without leave for quite some time now. Small matter. It does not keep him from leaping into the middle of it with a wild grin.
As tradition demands, Set always returns home. The Chamber is as much a part of him as bone and blood, the breath in his lungs. He had sent shadows ahead of him – little shadows, so inconspicuous, unnoticed by even the wariest of watchers for there are shadows everywhere. They’d whispered to him the rumblings of impending war, of the strife about to settle on the whole of Beqanna, a thick cloak of despair. They made his heart pound; his veins thrum with purpose. Though eager to enmesh himself immediately, he’d lingered, taking his time on the approach, regaling himself with the mundane details of Beqannan life, half-hoping he and Ana’s son would make an appearance, living for weeks in the far north of the Chamber in the caves of his father …
His gut tightens, skunk-tail wrung in anticipation of the flood of magic that comes before Yael’s attack. A wild, triumphant crow accompanies the surge of adrenaline that makes him go both hot and cold all over. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this, the thrill of battle. Shale shatters beneath his hooves as he drops off of the cliff’s edge. Shoulder blades shift to accommodate leathery wings, scales the color of midnight run down his spine before spreading out along his sides, flanks, limbs … With a grunt and a downward thrust of his wings, he rises, a sleek dragon five times smaller than the one that hovers above the now-burning Chamber, something small and bleeding clutched in her talons. He is an indiscreet black, his already-yellow eyes blending in amongst the scaly features of the dragon. His mind heavily fortified against a mental attack – you can certainly try – he banks lazily to the right underneath a cloak of atmosphere – effectively rendering him invisible; still, he circles the eye of the bedlam below, careful to stay just out of the dragon’s realm of attention. A tall mountain pine, as of yet safe from the flames, though they’re of little concern to him, is where he finally perches, eyes fixated on the scene ahead and below.
He feels Eight coming. It’s a tingling in his spine, the moment before he takes his next breath. Unreasonably irritated that the Valley magician passes close enough to feel him there, Set takes flight, circling in the opposite direction of Eight-turned-osprey. It would seem that the other is too distracted by the wildfire below to notice the faint tickle of Set’s magic as he arcs past him, intent evident in fierce eyes. He does not know Eight’s plan of attack but he will be damned if the little birdie received his share of the fighting. Snorting, Set twists away, winging quickly nearer the raging Yael. It takes him only a few moments to mold his illusion. Eight is climbing into the sky now and Set can only assume he is going to attack; the small form is difficult to pick out at the speed it is moving. Just as he knows that she can sense his presence should she desire to, he drops his cloak, revealing three other dragons flying flank behind him. Each a different color – deep, wine red, rich gold, sapphire blue – the four approach in attack formation. truggling to contain his joy, Set lets loose with violent roar, a jet of blue flame erupting from his throat. It may distract Yael. Maybe not. Whichever broken rag she holds close is of little concern to him – there is only the thrum of war.
As tradition demands, Set always returns home. The Chamber is as much a part of him as bone and blood, the breath in his lungs. He had sent shadows ahead of him – little shadows, so inconspicuous, unnoticed by even the wariest of watchers for there are shadows everywhere. They’d whispered to him the rumblings of impending war, of the strife about to settle on the whole of Beqanna, a thick cloak of despair. They made his heart pound; his veins thrum with purpose. Though eager to enmesh himself immediately, he’d lingered, taking his time on the approach, regaling himself with the mundane details of Beqannan life, half-hoping he and Ana’s son would make an appearance, living for weeks in the far north of the Chamber in the caves of his father …
His gut tightens, skunk-tail wrung in anticipation of the flood of magic that comes before Yael’s attack. A wild, triumphant crow accompanies the surge of adrenaline that makes him go both hot and cold all over. It’s been far too long since he’s felt this, the thrill of battle. Shale shatters beneath his hooves as he drops off of the cliff’s edge. Shoulder blades shift to accommodate leathery wings, scales the color of midnight run down his spine before spreading out along his sides, flanks, limbs … With a grunt and a downward thrust of his wings, he rises, a sleek dragon five times smaller than the one that hovers above the now-burning Chamber, something small and bleeding clutched in her talons. He is an indiscreet black, his already-yellow eyes blending in amongst the scaly features of the dragon. His mind heavily fortified against a mental attack – you can certainly try – he banks lazily to the right underneath a cloak of atmosphere – effectively rendering him invisible; still, he circles the eye of the bedlam below, careful to stay just out of the dragon’s realm of attention. A tall mountain pine, as of yet safe from the flames, though they’re of little concern to him, is where he finally perches, eyes fixated on the scene ahead and below.
He feels Eight coming. It’s a tingling in his spine, the moment before he takes his next breath. Unreasonably irritated that the Valley magician passes close enough to feel him there, Set takes flight, circling in the opposite direction of Eight-turned-osprey. It would seem that the other is too distracted by the wildfire below to notice the faint tickle of Set’s magic as he arcs past him, intent evident in fierce eyes. He does not know Eight’s plan of attack but he will be damned if the little birdie received his share of the fighting. Snorting, Set twists away, winging quickly nearer the raging Yael. It takes him only a few moments to mold his illusion. Eight is climbing into the sky now and Set can only assume he is going to attack; the small form is difficult to pick out at the speed it is moving. Just as he knows that she can sense his presence should she desire to, he drops his cloak, revealing three other dragons flying flank behind him. Each a different color – deep, wine red, rich gold, sapphire blue – the four approach in attack formation. truggling to contain his joy, Set lets loose with violent roar, a jet of blue flame erupting from his throat. It may distract Yael. Maybe not. Whichever broken rag she holds close is of little concern to him – there is only the thrum of war.