Dragonknight315
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Likeminds converge at the precipice of fate, killing intents unknowingly echoing one another as Roxelana lunges forward.
Slay him. Kill the Dragon Killer. Look at him, so vulnerable—
Sanguine flames flicker and fade as the last vestiges of the copper river disappear beneath Drakesthai’s form leaving the two of them alone— or so she thought. The Witch can cleanly see her prey through her draconic gaze. All it would take is one clean sweep through the exposed part of his armor and the curtain would fall. Yet fate denies her this moment. Just before Roxelana could bury her superheated staff into his flesh, something slams into her side. It’s enough to nearly topple her over. Mortal legs shuffle in a frenzied dance to regain balance, the Witch’s momentum turned completely against her. As she stumbles back the crimson vials, so often hung around her chest as to disappear from her senses, turn heavy like a millstone...
If she falls, the vials shatter.
And if the vials shatter, she falls.
The ground hisses with sparks as Roxelana slams the Attention Getter against the floor to prop herself up. Meanwhile her mortal hand reaches up to clutch her harness. Once the Witch finally gathers herself her minty orbs turn not to her earlier prey but to the one who stole Roxelana’s moment— the Dinosaur.
Instinct, intention, interruption— all excuses fall away, the Witch cursing the dinosaur in her heart. “Are you trying to protect me? Or are you just out for the glory of the kill? Well that’s too bad. He’s mine, not yours!”
The Stormbringer seems deaf to her split-tongued shouts, the lack of regard stinging Roxelana twice over. As the creature roars and channels her will through her claws, the Witch prepares herself for another assault. Her grip tightens around her staff, the metal now at full blaze. This time the Witch will not be denied— even if she has to carve a path through the Dinosaur.
Sorry Raven.
Before she can take another step forward however, a blur flashes from the corner of her eyes— one of his so-called ‘Censers.’ The metal strikes the prism like a deathknell. Like standing before a charging stampede or below a landslide, Roxelana knows her fate. It’s inevitable. Exhaustion and shock keep the Witch’s bones locked in place as the reemerging tide of copper kisses her knees and fills her boots. The liquid’s touch is morbidly cold for metal, the sensation defying all expectations. Her gaze remains fixed ahead. Moving with, or perhaps in spite of the current, the Weaponhunter surges towards her like an ambush predator except she can see it coming a mile away. Searing metal cuts into the river in an attempt to carve a path out but it’s no use. As Drakesthai launches himself from the floor, Roxelana tries to lean out of the way. Barely managing a few inches of space, the armblade fails to strike true...
Or does it?
One mortal blow traded for another, the steel sinks into not flesh but glass. Her magic ink, the blood, both are one in the same— Red crimson liquid spills from the fracture to coat Roxelana’s chest crimson as though it were blood. As she feels the stained glass shards and wasted ink cascade down her chest, Roxelana stifles a curse. She would have sacrificed a pound of flesh if it meant keeping the vials safe.
Carrying her momentum around, Roxelana tries to bring her staff up to ward off the Weaponhunter’s assault. Metal rings against metal, the superheated staff holding firm and biting back into the Dragon Killer’s armblades. Yet her flesh cannot bear the strain, her arm deflected out with ease.
Off balance once more, though this time at the mercy of the molten flow beneath her, Roxelana grits her teeth. Unable to save herself, a hand reaches out to catch the Witch— like a trap snapping shut to catch prey. The Weaponhunter extends his serrated blade before sweeping it down her arm, the edge brushing against cloth and scale alike as if using it like a guide. A gasp escapes her lips as the predator tightens his grip around her wrist, holding it and her staff in place with his steel. Now firmly where he wants her, the Witch holds her tears back as his other hand carves a blade into her side. As much as her severed flesh stings, the true damage comes next as Roxelana feels the instrument cut into hair... as if it could bleed. As its path ends, it leaves a mark into her wide-brimmed hat.
Another wound to the dragon’s pride, as if her red-soaked and ashed covered visage wasn’t enough.
“You’ll pay for that,” is what Roxelana might have said, the words suddenly culled in her throat as Drakesthai closes his grip around her neck. Her whole body trembles as the towering figure lifts her into the air, blue-and-gold eyes meeting hers.
“I’ll have your staff now.” So certain, so absolute— The light shudders in Roxelana’s gaze as she stares death itself in the face. One hand around her throat, the other holding her claw and staff in an adamant grip. Yet she is not without hope. Suddenly she feels it— a vial, the piece of solid glass hanging limply from her torn harness. The Dragonkiller’s strike must have only destroyed one of them. As the figure boasts before her, Roxelana keeps her gaze fixed, a fire burning everbright inside of her.
That’s it. Look at me. Keep. Staring. Her mortal hand quietly reaches out to touch the vial, its cool exterior granting her aching flesh a measure of relief. As Drakesthai continues, she focuses... and focuses...
“You’ve told me your name before, Lady Roxelana, and I’ll remember who once held it. Now tell me its name—so I know what to call it when it greets its new owner.”
The elf hesitates for a moment, her throat desperately moving to swallow a breath. When she finally answers, it is not the Witch who responds. It is the Dragon, smiling:
“The Attention Getter.”
The vial so close to bubbling over in her grasp, Roxelana does not look down as she brings the vial to her lips. Notes of alchemical herbs and red iron for pigment flood her mouth with a sour sensation. Yet at this moment the taste could not be any sweeter. She feels a trail trickle down her chin as she haphazardly empties the vial. Finally, the Dragonkiller takes notice of her— he should have been paying attention.
For someone with that title, he forgot something very important about Dragons. You are the living blaze. Your breath is fire, your words a scourge. Let him burn.
The Everbright flame unable to be contained, the Witch spews the ink from her lips as a stream of concentrated sanguinary heat. She can feel the ink biting into her nerves searing her own flesh, yet Roxelana continues to empty her lungs empty as a prideful roar. She slams Drakesthai point blank with her ignited breath. Taking the full blast would have been unquestionably fatal, yet Drakesthai’s nerves writhe in response. He turns her chin up, the blast bending towards the sky so that the stream isn’t head-on with him. Then he slams his weight down to plunge her into the molten river. Even as the copper pools around her face and builds up against her hat, Roxelana refuses to relent.
Burn. Burn. BURN!
With what precious few seconds she has, Roxelana gives everything over to the flame. Her breath, her life, everything. Fire breaks through the surface spewing bubbling copper up at Drakesthai like a geyser.
... If this be my death, then let me perish like a true dragon. Join me, Dragonkiller.
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