[ The first attack was foolish, he realizes this in retrospect, but he has no real regrets about it. How could he be sure it wouldn't work, unless he tried?
The costs? Yes, what of them? These men were soldiers, they have devoted their lives, however shortlived, to the battle and the the honourable death that waits on the battlefield (because nothing else awaits there, surely). Yet, Sarica retreats with less than half a company of men and he starts researching instead, which ends him at the water temple, the priestesses there having heard stories of an ancient dragon that breathed before anyone that lives now was born. The memory of it is washed out, only to be found in bits and pieces on tablets of clay and stone slabs. An old priestess, looking as ancient as the dragon she doesn't recall, but remembers stories of, hints him at the sphere. The Sphere of Water, a magical stone holding all the power to drench and soften earth. Where it was? She didn't know. Where to look? The temples have archives as far as any battlefield, he spends weeks there, looking for clues. Fortunately, Sarica is a quick, efficient and skilled study.
He finds the scrolls, old. And he finds the cave in which the sphere had been hid for everyone's safety.
And so, he finds the sphere. And he knows he has won. The dragon will bow to him. Soon.
Once again, he takes soldiers with him to the dragon's hiding place, more men this time, priests and priestesses, and he takes the sphere. It is not a heavy thing, but beautiful and translucent, like water captured in glass. Sarica is fascinated by it, but less by its appearance and more by its magic. How does it work? Even the old priestess couldn't say, no references have been preserved, maybe for a reason, she said, looking at him. Sarica doesn't care, of course. It can rain down thunder from above, he shan't cease.
When the dragon comes out, it is in its true form and it is magnificent. Sarica has never seen a more beautiful sight, the sphere alone doesn't hold the glory of the dragon in the wild. The priestesses and priests begin chanting, the soldiers advance, and Sarica holds the sphere between his hands like a weapon, holding it out towards the beast like what could be mistaken for an offering.
The dragon wouldn't take his hand before, he assumes it neither can nor will now. ]
Bow to me!
[ He yells it over the sound of chanting, rain clouds gathering above, the first droplets already beginning to fall upon their heads. ]
I gave you the chance to do it willingly, dragon. You should have heeded my word.
[ And the beam erupts, the whole sphere shaking between his hands, it's vibrations like a second and third heartbeat. Sarica's eyes narrow, his expression hardening.
Or at least, Wrathion does not want to. The rain begins to splash against his black scales and Wrathion braces his claws into the stone of the outcrop he landed on, eyes lifting to the gathering clouds. ]
Sarica. You meddle with powers you don't understand.
[ His claws dig in harder, trying to resist, to brace himself from tumbling off the rocky outcrop. ]
Cease these games, Sarica!
[ Though he doesn't expect him to, not with his current track record being far more tipped towards violence than accepting defeat. Wrathion scrabbles as a wave of dizziness hits him, snarls his fury. The ground trembles, splits, and small earthen pillars begin to emerge. Anything to keep them back, anything to keep the soldiers from trying to reach him as the sphere begins to sap his strength. ]
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The costs? Yes, what of them? These men were soldiers, they have devoted their lives, however shortlived, to the battle and the the honourable death that waits on the battlefield (because nothing else awaits there, surely). Yet, Sarica retreats with less than half a company of men and he starts researching instead, which ends him at the water temple, the priestesses there having heard stories of an ancient dragon that breathed before anyone that lives now was born. The memory of it is washed out, only to be found in bits and pieces on tablets of clay and stone slabs. An old priestess, looking as ancient as the dragon she doesn't recall, but remembers stories of, hints him at the sphere. The Sphere of Water, a magical stone holding all the power to drench and soften earth. Where it was? She didn't know. Where to look? The temples have archives as far as any battlefield, he spends weeks there, looking for clues. Fortunately, Sarica is a quick, efficient and skilled study.
He finds the scrolls, old. And he finds the cave in which the sphere had been hid for everyone's safety.
And so, he finds the sphere. And he knows he has won. The dragon will bow to him. Soon.
Once again, he takes soldiers with him to the dragon's hiding place, more men this time, priests and priestesses, and he takes the sphere. It is not a heavy thing, but beautiful and translucent, like water captured in glass. Sarica is fascinated by it, but less by its appearance and more by its magic. How does it work? Even the old priestess couldn't say, no references have been preserved, maybe for a reason, she said, looking at him. Sarica doesn't care, of course. It can rain down thunder from above, he shan't cease.
When the dragon comes out, it is in its true form and it is magnificent. Sarica has never seen a more beautiful sight, the sphere alone doesn't hold the glory of the dragon in the wild. The priestesses and priests begin chanting, the soldiers advance, and Sarica holds the sphere between his hands like a weapon, holding it out towards the beast like what could be mistaken for an offering.
The dragon wouldn't take his hand before, he assumes it neither can nor will now. ]
Bow to me!
[ He yells it over the sound of chanting, rain clouds gathering above, the first droplets already beginning to fall upon their heads. ]
I gave you the chance to do it willingly, dragon. You should have heeded my word.
[ And the beam erupts, the whole sphere shaking between his hands, it's vibrations like a second and third heartbeat. Sarica's eyes narrow, his expression hardening.
He will have him. He will have him any way. ]
no subject
Or at least, Wrathion does not want to. The rain begins to splash against his black scales and Wrathion braces his claws into the stone of the outcrop he landed on, eyes lifting to the gathering clouds. ]
Sarica. You meddle with powers you don't understand.
[ His claws dig in harder, trying to resist, to brace himself from tumbling off the rocky outcrop. ]
Cease these games, Sarica!
[ Though he doesn't expect him to, not with his current track record being far more tipped towards violence than accepting defeat. Wrathion scrabbles as a wave of dizziness hits him, snarls his fury. The ground trembles, splits, and small earthen pillars begin to emerge. Anything to keep them back, anything to keep the soldiers from trying to reach him as the sphere begins to sap his strength. ]