toku matsudaira, geezermancer (giri) wrote in emillion,
TOKU/LEA/BRAM vs Ice Dragon #1 | 3/4
The pain of his own wounds was intense, but pain was an old friend. Focus could be found beyond. He was no healer, but he could call to mind healing presences, encounters from a long time ago. Bram was moving away from them, but Toku focused on willing the spell to envelop his friend as well. He began to chant, picturing a white wind surging forth from him and into his friends, knitting their wounds and breathing warmth into their limbs.
As he felt the blood begin to dry on his back, and winter blew in through the slashes in his clothes, Toku moved to face the dragon. The beast was not their only enemy here; this understanding was carved into his bones, an echo of his childhood in the snowy mountains of Sako Island. The cold was insidious, and far deadlier than any monsters it could shelter. The clock was ticking.
He called forth flames to burn their foes; the palms of his hands grew warmer as the magic gathered in them with every rise and fall of the chant. His voice would not die drowned in the wind’s fury. He too had claws, and now the chance to unleash them; Firaga engulfed the dragon in a spiral of hellfire; only the beast’s agonising scream was allowed to escape that prison. In the few seconds the spell lasted, pristine white scales burned to charcoal. The snow around the dragon’s body melted in the magic’s wake, corralling the beast inside a ring of dying fire. Just like that, the storm seemed to peel back: the terrain unfolded beneath them as the snowcover melted, dry ground rolling out to reveal charred earth.
The dragon’s angry roar sounded like rending metal. It moved like a cat chasing a mouse, smooth and sinuous and fluid, its talons continually reaching out to rake at its enemies. The sure-footed dancer skittered out of the way in time, but the dragoon did not; Bram felt his leather armour opening, parting like paper beneath the creature’s claws, his hot blood spilling out onto the pristine snow, red on white.
Reflect kept the cold at bay, but not the creature itself. They scattered and Bram found himself at the forefront of the fight, ducking and weaving. The irony was that dragoons were evolved to fight with dragons, and also to fight dragons: Bram’s long weapon allowed him range, raking and jabbing at the dragon while keeping away from its talons. He harried it while Azalea shot from afar, the deep boom of the cannon counting the seconds before she stopped to reload.
The dragon swung its head again to face the three. It took a deep breath.
And exhaled.
And with it came the storm, a freezing blast of snow and ice in a breath. Bram’s instincts kicked in. He leapt again, not upwards—it would be able to follow an upwards jump—but underneath the dragon’s head, beneath its jaw and out of range of the attack.
So too did the dancer evade the line of frost, a grand jeté to mirror the dragoon’s leap. Recalibrating the cannon’s dials, her hands moved hastily to take advantage of the yawning mouth. With a victorious exhale, Azalea raised the weapon once more. A sonic boom rent the air as Air Anchor burst forth, pressure waves made visible by the falling snow and lashing against the walls of the dragon’s mouth. The dragon shuddered at the force of the assault, head snapping back as it delivered a pained screech. The movement left its neck beautifully exposed—a long snakelike curve arching above Bram’s head, perfect for the halberd to jab upwards and find a precious opening between the interlocking scales.