Throat bared to his teeth, Mahariel bites, wolflike, and hangs on for a moment, long enough to make it nearly a threat. He could hurt you, Zev, he could rip out your throat with his teeth, and leave you here to bleed out in the water. He could destroy you. But he won't. Isn't that love?
"Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" And Zevran, already rutting against him noticeably enough to send out ripples into the steam-hot water, has never lacked for the confidence required to do it. Mythal'enaste, he's already hard, and so ready; it's been so damned long, "Zev, I—"
The ripples return and the memory rises up in them like the maw of a dragon. Exactly like the maw of a dragon, the ugly, bone-shriven jaws of a blighted Archdemon snapping sideways against his shield with enough force to rattle every aching joint.
All around the tower the battle is joined, hewn by the dragon's claws and tail so that Mahariel has at least enough space to swing, except that those damned claws rise and fall, battering shield and sword as if they were no sharper than the slick black cobbles he's stumbling over, half-stunned. The dragon raises it's head and roars a goad to its troops, spouting violet flame, and then bends again and—
There! I have you, you great ugly bastard!
The dragon roars again, this time in pain, and Mahariel rises with it, dragged by his iron grip on the hilt of his sword, buried in its eye. Up and up, and down again, and there's no time to think or hesitate. He looks up, and see there a pale-haired elf, eyes wide, watching with daggers bared and blood on his armor.
Oh my love, He thinks, and then, If this doesn't work— I'm sorry.
Up the blade and down again, and for a moment there's nothing but silence. Then world rushes away in light and terror, the endless scream of the dragon's last breath attenuating in his ears until it is nothing but a high and terrible tone, the ringing of some distant bell that only rings and rings and never fades... And then nothing. Blackness.
Mahariel comes back to himself still in Zevran's lap, head bowed and forhead pressed against his shoulder, breathing hard. What the fuck?
"What the... fuck?" He says, intelligently, "That was the Bli— the Archdemon!"
you reach out to slap the label on and I high five you
"Well, there's only one way to find out, isn't there?" And Zevran, already rutting against him noticeably enough to send out ripples into the steam-hot water, has never lacked for the confidence required to do it. Mythal'enaste, he's already hard, and so ready; it's been so damned long, "Zev, I—"
The ripples return and the memory rises up in them like the maw of a dragon. Exactly like the maw of a dragon, the ugly, bone-shriven jaws of a blighted Archdemon snapping sideways against his shield with enough force to rattle every aching joint.
All around the tower the battle is joined, hewn by the dragon's claws and tail so that Mahariel has at least enough space to swing, except that those damned claws rise and fall, battering shield and sword as if they were no sharper than the slick black cobbles he's stumbling over, half-stunned. The dragon raises it's head and roars a goad to its troops, spouting violet flame, and then bends again and—
There! I have you, you great ugly bastard!
The dragon roars again, this time in pain, and Mahariel rises with it, dragged by his iron grip on the hilt of his sword, buried in its eye. Up and up, and down again, and there's no time to think or hesitate. He looks up, and see there a pale-haired elf, eyes wide, watching with daggers bared and blood on his armor.
Oh my love, He thinks, and then, If this doesn't work— I'm sorry.
Up the blade and down again, and for a moment there's nothing but silence. Then world rushes away in light and terror, the endless scream of the dragon's last breath attenuating in his ears until it is nothing but a high and terrible tone, the ringing of some distant bell that only rings and rings and never fades... And then nothing. Blackness.
Mahariel comes back to himself still in Zevran's lap, head bowed and forhead pressed against his shoulder, breathing hard. What the fuck?
"What the... fuck?" He says, intelligently, "That was the Bli— the Archdemon!"