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leciadan-blog · 9 years ago

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Utdidercie - Chapter 1: Beginning

Khraaft was born with great, nay, spectacular potential. Being born of the greatest fighter amongst the Dragon Planets, and the one of the greatest phychs? That is a dangerous combination in draconic society. And indeed, he seemed to fully match expectations. His body was large, powerful and swift, and his mind sharp, focused and unrelenting. And like all dragons, he lost an effect from his parents, but was born with a trait his parents were not: harbouring electrical currents. All throughout his body, a greater presence of static can be felt, rather than detected, than that of a normal dragon, particularly focused on sable hairs of peculiar form which adorn his back.

His scales are of a devious midnight blue, with exceptions to the ‘detail’ scales. These scales, as their name would imply, add detail and depth to the otherwise plainly blue model, and are coloured brown as desert sands. These scales consist of plates covering Khraaft’s chest, and also almost wispish trails over his body, some condensing to be more than aptly visible. The most prominent of these other details are the ones on his arms, ending in a ring just before his elbows, giving a look not dissimilar to rolled-up sleeves. The sable fur which houses great currents of electricity begin somewhere within Khraaft’s pointed-back ears, and continue down his back as twin waterfalls, connecting near the base of his spine into the river on his long, wide, thin tail. The thing almost doubles Khraaft’s height, and could effortlessly crush a man to death like a giant snake, only in a fraction of the time the snake would take.

The twin streams of fur are split by outstandingly tough scales of a deep, dark goldenrod, which twist into surprisingly cruel points and edges. These spines also help to spontaneously produce static electricity, along with added protection. His powerful legs end in digitigrade reptilian feet, capable of easy sprinting. His arms, which boast impressive muscle, end in normal hands, with fingers and a fully opposable thumb. Both his fingers and toes end in off-midnight claws as hard as diamond. The same is true for his horns, which twist out atop his head, just in front of his ears, to end a foot in front of his face. His eyes are a delicacy to behold. His right eye is a magnificent deep crimson; his left is a simply beauteous violet. They each sparkle, with rambunctiousness and efficiency respectively. A snout protrudes from Khraaft’s face, with nostrils flanking the thing near the tip, stopping just in line of his horns. His lower jaw comes out to join its upper brother, falling just barely shorter and coloured purely in Khraaft’s detailing scales. Finally, Khraaft’s visage is rounded out, or perhaps the contrary, by tiny spines along the edge of his lower jaw, increasing in size near the joint, very similarly to a bearded dragon in terran history.

All of this potential. All of this expectancy. All of this prophecy. Wasted! He is shunned, cast out and exiled by his people. He was abandoned by his parents after just half a year; he was just the equivalent to a human toddler. And why? Why is Khraaft to be tormented by such a fate? A simple defect, a mutation, something far beyond the young drake’s control. His genetics dictate that he is mortal to the blade. He remains biologically immortal, as is every ‘pure’ dragon, but can be killed with much greater ease than the truly “immortal” dragons. This has prompted unfair treatment to the burgeoning drake, and pushed him to isolation; forced to watch the others play and, in time, court from afar. Khraaft did manage to find a comfortable enough pile of rocks in which to dwell and to sit upon, and think. But extended isolation causes... negative repercussions. For entertainment, Khraaft resorted to studying, whenever he could, with or without permission; lacking any capacity to care about theft. Thus, Khraaft became vastly knowledgeable of a great many things, almost too many, but nothing could mitigate the endless grudge he and his own kind hold above each other.

Twelve slow, painstaking years of terrible isolation passed. Age is now of no significance to the powerful drake; ceasing any physical maturing after the second year. Regardless of his segregation and since-involuntary solitude, Khraaft suffered no form of atrophy; being possibly the single best hunter on his world kept him fed, and the constant guards from the pointless palace of that pompous ‘royal’ family kept him versed in combat… albeit, barely worthy for even practice. He did, however, suffer from inexperience of his mental prowess, and lacking any proper training to control it, Khraaft’s nights are tormented restlessly with visions and glimpses of what Timeline has for him.

Regarding the family of what might be royals, in the last three years, thoughts regarding this family have been lurking in the lower regions of Khraaft’s mind. While most other dragons are arrogant at the worst of times, a number of scripts dictate that the royal family are actively pompous and greedy at the best of times! There are also several questions Khraaft has. Is there any tangible merit to the family’s existence? Are they there as leaders? Dragons have no need for leaders, each being fully independent at their own wish. Are they as figures of motivation for a race of people who grant themselves motivation? Why do they require a mansion? They’re not humans!

One day in which Khraaft brought particular attention to these thoughts was interrupted, when he spied a transport vessel land itself at a leisurely pace not too far away from his nest. It still landed quite some distance away, and obscured by the hill that stood between Khraaft and it, but he refuses to lower his guard; having seen vessels containing dragons intent on fighting him land much farther away. Khraaft’s suspicions prove correct, when a pair of figures fly towards his location, at a notably lower altitude than most would fly, which the dejected anomaly found very strange. Eyeing the two carefully, and prematurely charging up current, Khraaft restrains himself when they land about a dozen metres or so away, and approach. This fact was most bizarre to the heavily weathered drake; such an act is used when approaching another in want of conversation, not conflict. Though Khraaft did notice that one of them appeared to be shaken by the flight, with the other consoling them as they walk

The two interlopers are both female, though the shorter of the two seems to have features pertaining to a more masculine demeanour. The taller of the two Khraaft estimates to be just over six feet in height, almost a foot shorter than Khraaft himself. The wyverness possesses scales of a furious, fiery pink, save for the golden scales of her underbelly and the tips of her wings. A similar, but not quite as profound, gold colours the leather of her wings. From above her brow sprouts a pair of horns. The things are such an orange that her head appears to be aflame, and curve back over her head, curling around slightly as they reach their peaks. The base of her spine harbours a tail almost as long as she is tall, gently spiked at the last third of its length. She walks with an air of grace, yet slight impropriety upon her digitigrade, reptilian feet.

The second encroacher is comically short. Even with the tall, antelope-like antlers, she is notably shorter than the other. Despite this, they are a fully fledged dragon in accordance to human beliefs; arms, legs, wings, he has six in total. And her whole body is near black as the pits of Khraaft’s deserted heart. Khraaft second guesses his previous assumption to be a tomboyish female, but is not quite sure if they are fully male either. Their chest does not give away any tells, and it is impossible to tell if it is a genital slit or vagina at their crotch. Whichever gender they are, they appear to be fumbling just a little as they walk, not even nearly matching the grace of their companion. A fact not best helped by them seeming to recover from their flight.

The pair advance towards Khraaft at the same, level pace. The whole thing reeked suspicious, making Khraaft uncomfortable. He thumps his flat tail on the rock below himself in irritation, both at the invaders and at himself for not knowing an appropriate course of action. Khraaft could feel himself tensing and easing up at entirely random intervals as the pair continues to violate the area he has called his own. As they begin to climb up the small heap of rocks Khraaft calls his home, the slightly more pompous-walking one helping her not-so-elegant friend, they seemingly ignore his rather bestial attempts of warding; bearing fangs, growling lowly, and spiking static. The wyverness ignores the voiceless threats; the shorter dragon seems affected more than a little.

All of the built up tension seems to vanish with no satisfaction as the pink intruder takes her seat on a rock about equal to Khraaft’s. The onyx dwarf takes their own on a rock adjacent to their companion’s. There is a long, arduous moment of silence. Khraaft’s brow is thoroughly furrowed in irritation, confusion, and a hint of culpable curiosity as he flicks his eyes between the two humanoids before him, ardently scrutinizing for any sign of aggressive movement. As her rather twitchy companion obviously attempts to hide just how intimidated they are, the pink wyverness takes a breath to begin to speak, which has an inadvertent effect of snatching Khraaft’s stare.

‘I would’ve thought that after all that he’s done to you, you would’ve been more... territorial, I suppose is the word’, she says. Her voice is an overly odd combination of royalty and something more cockney, almost like a terran princess at odds between her upbringing and how she really wishes to live.

Khraaft diligently scans through every single word, syllable and pronunciation the possibly-royal wyverness said, searching for any hint of insult or provocation. He finds none. Khraaft did, however, figure out that ‘he’ is likely the tyrannical Rhas’Dreg, who claims position as the self-proclaimed “king” of dragonkind, and also that the wyverness is likely in some form of affiliation with him. Perhaps he has tired of having to fight every dragon that intrudes his property, or his curiosity as to the wannadon’t princess’ motives has gotten the better of him, but Khraaft decides to formulate a response. While he does try his best, his response is delayed somewhat; most of his attention is still on examining the two before him, refusing to let his guard down for even a fraction of a second.

After thought and revision, Khraaft voices his response. ‘Rhas’Dreg has been telling you tall tales about me then, has he? Perverting what really happened to suit what he wants to be true.’ He speaks in a low tone, with a spark of brusque in his voice.

‘Well, you’re certainly smarter than he said you were, so I guess he wouldn’t be above belittling you for bigger, more important things.’ responds the furiously pink wyvern. While Khraaft feels satisfaction at the fact that he could so easily predict the dragon ruler, he still feels nothing less than irked that the pair still has not explained their blatant intrusion.

Noticing that Khraaft is still annoyed, the shorter, more reserved intruder decides to voice up. ‘-I think that it would probably be for the best if we explain ourselves before we earn his ire, Lauhil.’ they say, something that Khraaft can only agree with. Their voice is barely raspy, and also shaky. Yet still nothing notable enough to say whether they’re male or female. Khraaft can’t help but sigh internally, but refuses to actually do the action.

‘Yeah, that’d probably be for the best’, the, apparently named, Lauhil agrees, before continuing. ‘As you heard, I am Lauhil, daughter of that twat who calls himself “king of the dragons”’, she stops for a moment to scowl in distaste, ‘and my companion is Onyx, my favoured “servant”, though I prefer to see him as a friend.’ The word ‘servant’ is accompanied by obvious, and very improper, air quotes.

Khraaft was intently studying at the pair: now he coldly scrutinises them. The mention that they are both in some form of direct affiliation with that Rhas’Dreg has caused an internal reaction of hate for them within Khraaft, even if they are apparently reluctant of that fact. He does his absolute best to hide the instinctual, guttural growl in his throat, and his tail flicks to and fro in indignation; as his eyes narrow and his brow wrinkles. The deciding factor for not tearing the pair to shreds at this very moment was the fact that if he did, he’d have the ever so slight annoyance of the pest-worthy “royal” “guards” would then become marginally less menial.

Noticing Khraaft’s now-angrier expression and spiked current, Onyx all but jumps off of, his, rock in fright, instead managing to move himself behind the thing. Lauhil, meanwhile, takes a slightly more defensive position than she was previously sitting, moving her legs to touch a rock beneath her, clearly ready to make a break for the air, but still keeping her cool. In comparison to Onyx, at least.

‘Please, we didn’t mean any offence by what we said.’, Lauhil states, ‘We have no intent to attack you as his guards did.’

‘Well then why are you here?!’ Khraaft yells, hardly able to keep hisses and snarls out of his voice.

Lauhil sighs slightly before saying her response, straightening herself as though to tell a long tale. ‘Approximately two years ago, father’, again she stops to furrow her brow in distaste, ‘decided that I was of appropriate age to find a mate.’ She shrugs slightly, lips curling in no particular direction, ‘I thought that was alright. I didn’t much agree with much he said, but for once he said something agreeable.’

She shakes her head, before going on; ‘But when I started to research into suitable mates, however, Dreg decided that I shouldn’t be allowed to decide the mate myself. No, he decided that he would decide my mate.’ She sighs again, this time one that might as well say ‘I’m sick of this shit’, and puts on a fitting, exasperated smile. ‘Because fuck logic, right?’ Khraaft just stares at the wyverness intently, wanting to pick up every detail, rather than misinterpret the story. Regardless, he keeps up his guard and his static on a gentle crackle.

‘At the very least, he had the courtesy of showing them to me for my approval.’, Lauhil continues, ‘It was clear from the start that he was selecting suitors that he liked, since the first dozen or so he selected were either complete asses, made humans look physically desirable, or were against some of the key traditions of dragonkind.’ Her eyes roll in their sockets before she continues; ‘When they began to border on actually being acceptable, I still wanted to make sure that they’d be, well, suitable. If I’m gonna have a mate, I’d at least want to make sure the twat’s actually worth more than a day.’

‘So, I’d walk up to them, and I’d punch them back out the door they were brought in through.’

!! She’d walk up to the suitor, then fight them! Alarm bells trigger all throughout Khraaft’s head. His eyes flare and his fangs bear. She’s no different to the guards whom work for her tyrannical, manipulative family! Khraaft takes the initiative on this encounter, intent on getting the first hit in before she can. Leaping up from his prepared position in an almost perfectly practiced action, he raises both fists above and behind his head; intent on smashing the brat’s head then and there.

Lauhil’s expression turns to one of sheer horror, as she sees Khraaft so suddenly make such an outrageously aggressive action. The hyper-dense rock all but disintegrates into shrapnel and dust under the mighty, powerful and enraged crash, but no gore nor guts accompany the setting ruin. Growling greatly, Khraaft looks up to the air, where Lauhil is stabilising herself, and Onyx flies up to join her, basically scampering his way into the air in fear.

‘I knew that something was wrong with all this!’, Khraaft bellows accusingly, ‘I fucking knew that you weren’t just interested in conversation. And you yourself admitted you want to attack me!’ Electric currents are streaming out of Khraaft’s sable hairs in anger, and his psychic presence has made the very air around the drake unbearably thick; a lesser being would suffocate in seconds in such air. His voice echoes terrifyingly across the nigh-endless plains the two parties find themselves in, and through the psioniverse over what would be hundreds of miles on the physical universe, and even passes as a whisper into the hellscape.

Lauhil and Onyx do their best to recover from being all but deafened by the enraged drake’s reality-shaking shouts. Lauhil almost falls out of the air trying to cover her poor ears. When the pair finally shake themselves out of the daze, the powerful, example-setting, isolated “defect” they had been looking at replaced with an even more will-shattering creature; something that made the previous Khraaft seem like something of a sissy.

Massive, but not even slightly comical, muscles pulse and tense mightily beneath the offendingly restrictive scales of his body. Behind him, his tail crushes down upon the rocks, occasionally thrashing in sheer rage, making the rocks buckle and crack under the pressure. Great arcs of crackling power connect almost all of Khraaft’s body to either other parts or nearby, non-conductive rocks, especially focussed on the sable hairs down his spine. Speaking of those hairs, they thrash and shake wildly in their own way in a howling, harrowing gale that is not there. And his face is the physical manifestation of hate and anger. His teeth are beared ferociously. His nose is flared furiously. His eyes are shimmering reflections of utter hate, one calculative, and the other viscous.

Not even the dust of the rock dares to get caught on his scales.

Realising that any attempt to state excuses would do nothing short of worsen the situation, Lauhil tries diplomacy again; knowing that physical, or mental, confrontation with Khraaft will result in nothing but her inconceivably swift death. ‘I apologise! I apologise! I did not mean that as any sort of threat.’, she says, utterly terrified by the fact that saying one wrong thing will kill her and Onyx, ‘I would never dare to confront someone so absolute in smashing skulls as you. If it were up to me, I would never have had to consider saying anything that could insinuate that!’

Khraaft listens to what his assailant has to say, giving her one last chance to redeem herself, in exchange for not immediately attacking him. Grateful to a degree of this fact, Lauhil continues; ‘If it were up to me I would have just come straight to you and presented a gift of courtship. I knew that you were less immortal than me or Onyx, but you are much more than a worthy candidate! Especially compared to anything my father considered “worthy”.’

Khraaft cannot help but let out a single laugh, echoing through the plains once more. He then goes on to say, in what is a whisper only in comparison to how he was talking prior; ‘As if I would accept to court with he who is most desperate for my head.’ As he says this, his visage instinctually twists into a very slight and not-so-slight cold, smile. Seeing what it actually looks like for someone to be actively scared of him, without already being pre-occupied with smashing their head to bits, fills Khraaft with a strange satisfaction.

Revising through the events of the encounter, Khraaft realises that perhaps Lauhil truly did not intend a threat against him. She certainly looks intelligent enough to only pick a fight she can win; which is more than can be said about her “guards”. While this does not excuse her blatant intrusion of Khraaft’s territory, he still feels that he should let her off easy, this time if nothing else. He reverts his expression to be more neutral, still irritated, but approaching more expressionless; and his demeanour loosens up a little. The two dragons before him are obviously relieved of these changes of attitude.

Perhaps it was to be expected, but Khraaft spies a ‘regal’ space vessel soaring through the space a way, way above the planet. ‘You two should leave. Now.’, he says to Lauhil and Onyx, his brow furrowing again, ‘Perhaps you’ll even dodge them.’ He gestures up to the shuttle miles and miles above and behind them. They both look up at the shuttle. Instead of just making a break for their own, however, they just stay there for a moment. ‘Before I change my mind!’’ Khraaft continues. And with that, the two instantly start back to their own shuttle with haste.

Khraaft chuckles slightly to himself at just how frightened they must be of him. But still, he got himself so worked up for a scrap, but did not get the satisfaction he so deserved. Looking up again, he reminds himself of that shuttle no doubt full of what call themselves guards. That will definitely do for a stress toy for Khraaft. Smashing a couple more skulls of bigots most definitely has its appeal. They will still be no more than menial in the challenge they present, but at least it’s something.

Sure enough, the shuttle lands where Lauhil and Onyx left theirs. Either they rushed off the instant they got in the thing or they were planning an attack against Khraaft the entire time, because after the shuttle lands, five figures fly away from it and towards Khraaft. The pumped-up drake stares them down as they land mere metres away from him. Before their gold-gilded leader can say what he obviously wanted to say, Khraaft makes his comment.

‘He must be handing out liquid deathwish to each of you. Why else would you all so willingly come for me?’ he says, cracking his neck this way and that. The comparatively diminutive dragons visibly flinch at his blatant threat. Before they can recover in any way, Khraaft pounces right for them, eager to create a bloodbath as the poor lambs find the slaughter going to them.

Khraaft sets himself down once more, claws, tail, and fur stained with the blood of dragons, small chunks of muscle being licked from the gaps between his sharp fangs. Five utterly lifeless and battered corpses lie down at the base of the rocks Khraaft calls home, but no sign of matching heads, just scraps and shrapnel of skull and grey matter. It is just as Khraaft seats himself down does he notice that the... wonderfully white sun keeping this planet, and several others, in reliable orbit is setting, approximately thirty degrees to the left of where he is facing.

Khraaft sighs to himself, telling himself not to complain about a lack of time to consider the day; he reminds himself he’s fortunate he’s here today, and luckier he managed the same twelve years ago. He approaches the corpses at the base of the rock pile, picks one up by what would have been the scruff of its neck, and throws it mightily across the sky away from his proclaimed nest. One by one, he does the same for the remaining corpses. Khraaft finds humour both in the fact that they arguably flew better as corpses than when they were living, and also the fact one hits a hill, smashing into a collection of viscera, blood and bone. He rolls around in the short grass at the base of his pile of rocks, cleaning away the blood on his body. Now that any risk of lasting stench has been removed, and Khraaft feels he is clean enough, he proceeds to enter the insides of his nest.

The entrance to the proper quarters of the nest is cleverly hidden under a rock, a formidable one at that, at the base of the formation. At a glance, actually, even at investigations rather scrutinal, moving the rock would topple a good portion of the formation Khraaft always keeps in such perfect order. The truth of the matter happens to be that it only holds up, at most, a line of rocks, and can be easily manoeuvred if just three rocks and stones it supports are turned.

The inside of the nest itself is about one metre in diameter, and has only slightly been touched by weather; remaining rather dry, and has suffered minute effects of erosion. The grotto goes down underneath the above-ground nest until it reaches a small room, about two metres wide all around and a metre and a half in height; the highest point about one metre below the surface of the dirt. Khraaft used this room to sleep within. When he learnt basics about diffusion, however, he learned it would be better if he dug a little more. Beyond the initial room leads to another ‘hallway’ curving downward, eventually turning the opposing direction, and back up again. After turning sharply to the right, a second room, almost identical to the first one excavated.

Khraaft fries the ground of the second room in electricity, and then proceeds to curl up a little in the resulting, relatively pliant, earth. He rests his head upon his crossed hands, curling his tail around so that it rests just between his head and body as he closes his eyes. The hairs on the top of his tail seem to reach out to delicately caress the side of his face. The relative softness is, as always, a welcome feeling to Khraaft, who has felt nothing but roughness and pain from everything else in his pitiful life. Holding this sensation as closely as possible, Khraaft descends himself to slumber for the night.

Try as he might to grasp upon the delicacy of the softness upon his cheek, Khraaft’s dreams are still tormented utterly by uncontrollable, spasmodic glances at what could potentially be, with no order, coherency, or bearing. A desert all but floods his mind, anything but featureless in its expanse. Then, a rather... young and jubilant-looking demoness grinning at him excitedly, and a little more mischievously than she has any right to be. Another, clearly elder, daemon is looking back at her, leering slightly, but also seemingly reluctantly, with a well-weathered, yet still ornate, crown clutched in his right hand. Khraaft then sees Onyx, the favoured servant he met, being chased by an undisclosed guard of the royals, eventually being executed. A truly revolting image of Khraaft and Rhas’Dreg shaking hands comes to focus.

Finally, there is a vision of Khraaft being impaled through the chest by a truly giant sword. The thing is about three quarters the length of Khraaft’s tail at its longest, and a little thinner at its widest, but just as deep. It seems to be made of stone, heavy stone at that. The sword is almost carelessly, brutally, forged, vaguely resembling the shape of a fire. The handle looks professionally crafted, comparatively; it has a thick area to grip, and the guard is a little wider than the blade is thick, and a little longer than the blade is wide. With how apparently poor the artistry that went into its making, the sword is utterly flat along the sides of the blade, with the sharp, yet blunted edge outlining the blade’s shape being attached by equally smooth faces. Several, sharp runes embed themselves into the otherwise flat sides of the blade, originating from daemonic, meaning generic terms relating to violence.

Khraaft awakes. His eyes darting around, still thinking he’s looking at Timeline, but the only visions he sees are those of the dirt walls around him. Gentle wisps of purple and pink nothings steam around him lightly. Khraaft dispels the excess results of his untrained mental ability, and they rush into his head. That being done, Khraaft uncurls himself and makes his way out of his dug-out establishment. The boulder covering the hole, once again, finds itself blocking the way of the dragon. Though Khraaft has never found the true reason for this, he thinks it could have something to do with his restless mind doing its best to protect itself, to feel more secure.

Khraaft shunts the large rock out of the way without any difficulty, and then resets it back into place. With the entrance to his place of slumber blocked off and hidden, Khraaft stretches himself out, eking out several pops across his joints. He then makes his way up the rocks of his nest. Seating himself on one of the higher up rocks, Khraaft finds himself finally with time to look over the events of the previous days. Or, at least he would, if what he saw in his frivolous dreams didn’t take his attention by storm.

Every time the vision of Khraaft and Rhas’Dreg shaking hands comes to memory, Khraaft simply needs to hold himself from vomiting in disgust. The very thought is offending. Mercifully, that thought does not come to the fore often: mercilessly, the vision of being impaled does come to the fore. And every time it does, Khraaft feels searing, piercing, harrowing pain through the middle of his chest, as though the blade is truly there. For the first time in almost a dozen years, Khraaft winces. He instinctively pats his chest and looks down, but no wound nor opening to be seen. Curse all those years Khraaft could have been tutored on controlling his wild mind.

Sighing breathily, Khraaft goes to assess the other visions, his grip on the rock below him almost cracking it. Before he can do so however, he spots two shuttles speeding through the stratosphere, one in hot pursuit of the other. Curious. Khraaft watches the shuttles as one lands behind the hill in front of him. Just as the other makes its equally hasty landing, a figure takes off into the air, flying as fast as their wings physically can. Instantly, the clumsy and fumbling movements tell that the overly short Onyx is trying to speed over to Khraaft. His ministrations are for naught, however, as another, somewhat more ‘elegant’, less clumsy would be more accurate, figure takes off, and catches up to Onyx.

Recognising that this is likely the vision of Onyx’s execution, Khraaft watches the two spiral to the ground, Onyx ending up on the ground. Khraaft decides to stand up, leaning down in preparation to leap at the two, electricity beginning to arc between his fur and spines. He does not feel any direct want to help Onyx necessarily; it is more of a case that Khraaft wants to prove fate wrong. The other dragon is kneeling atop Onyx, keeping the smaller dragon on his belly, and his body straight upright. Perfect.

With a crackle of lightning, Khraaft’s legs power him forward. The leap is elephantine, truly, nothing a human has ever seen could compare, but lands a little short. The force of Khraaft’s impact with the ground causes the very ground to shake, but the drake continues into a second bound. The tremor stops the second dragon from his blow to Onyx’s head, and he looks up. All too late as well. Khraaft grabs the poor dragon’s plated chest into his palm. The two tumble a good distance, until Khraaft opts to stop it without warning. He plants his two feet on the ground in a wide stance as he tosses the smaller dragon an even greater distance along, as though they were a baseball, only more useless.

Contempt that the, disappointingly, easily dealt-with dragon has been taught just where he is, Khraaft turns around to Onyx. Khraaft turns the diminutively sized dragon over onto his back with his foot. Onyx’s face is distraught, shocked, and quite woozy from his flight, and his breathing is a little faster than what would normally be considered ‘calm’. Khraaft pokes Onyx’s stomach with his foot, crosses his arms, and asks ‘Either you’re stupid or needed my help desperately, which one is it?’ He is paying no heed to the dragon now behind him; any dragon who wears armour has no scales, any dragon who does not have scales is practically useless.

‘Rha- Rhas’Dreg wasn’t hap- happy with Lauhil suddenly disappearing, and you suddenly shouting across the psioniverse at the same time.’ Onyx stumbles out. His speech is ragged, clearly not used to having to speak after such a traumatic event, after flying. Khraaft pokes again, his question as to which one it is still not answered. Taking the hint, Onyx continues; ‘She-‘s been locked into a room by Rhas’Dreg, and he’s accused you of attempted kidnapping, and –’

Khraaft looks up, hearing something sprinting toward him, and also the unsubtle noise of bouncing metal. Rolling his eyes slightly, he unfolds his arms and turns around. A certain dragon lacking scales, who was trying cutely to backstab Khraaft, finds his advance stopped all of a sudden by a large fist encompassing his neck. ‘What’d you know?’ Khraaft says, looking at the dragon’s snoutless face, unimpressed. The dragon can only choke slightly and futilely grip at Khraaft’s wrist in an attempt to loosen the grip around his throat.

Letting out a slight sigh, Khraaft lifts the failure of a dragon up, their feet now dangling and their wings twitching as they try without success to escape. Khraaft’s eyes narrow as he focuses his psychic ability on the unsuspecting whelp in his grip. His left eye begins to exude a purple steam as his right gleams brightly. The prodding at their mind causes the failure to tense in a mixture of shock and fear. Judging by his madly oscillating pupils, he is doing his best to prepare for the mental intrusion to come. Khraaft smirks slightly at this adorable attempt.

For nothing could prepare them for this. Khraaft’s extended mind fully encloses the dragon’s feeble thoughts, penetrating all the way to their core. His mouth opens as though he were screaming in agony, but only a pathetic squeak makes its way out of Khraaft’s grip. The reaction is only natural for what they are experiencing. The only word that truly describes the events the poor sap is experiencing is rape. Their mind and thoughts are being raped and abused as Khraaft pummels through and reads whatever he wishes. Untrained Khraaft is, ineffective he most definitely is not.

With any mental defences Khraaft could ever possibly have to worry about obliterated, he goes through every memory he dames important. This dragon’s name apparently is ‘Diyetis’. Apart from lacking scales, his life is painfully average, ending up in the position of Rhas’Dreg’s “royal” guard only because of his family having favour with the “king of dragons”. Khraaft skips over most of everything else in Diyetis’ life, only interested in what Onyx was talking about. He finds exactly what he wanted. A memory from hours ago, of Rhas’Dreg commanding his guard to keep Lauhil in a room, followed by another of the coward commanding that... wait.

So. Rhas’Dreg now wants Khraaft to embark upon the Ya’Qre; the most dangerous expedition for any regular dragon. That pilgrimage across Qre, World of Sand, is infamous for causing dragons whom embark upon it to get lost, fall victim to demon kidnappers, or simply starve themselves out of energy, which then leads to kidnapping. The journey is also incredibly long, spanning from any point on the surface, around the full circumference of the planet to that same point, taking what translates to a terran year. Khraaft sighs as he retracts from the mentally abused dragon.

Diyetis stopped trying to scream a little over a dozen seconds into the brutish assault. His eyes watering rivers of pained tears, and his mouth lamely hangs slightly open. His hands have dropped from Khraaft’s wrists and his wings droop lifelessly. His legs and tail pitifully limp beneath him. Khraaft drops the mentally sapped sap. Diyetis flumps over to one side; simply unable to do anything but. He is obviously trying to curl up, knees by his chin, but lacks the mental coherency to move his limbs, and would be far too exhausted to regardless. Khraaft was already planning to kill the whelp after his usefulness was burned out, but now it’s a mercy killing anyway. Khraaft places his foot onto the side of the dragon’s helmet, raises it, and crushes his head in a satisfying sound of riving metal and squelching brain. Blood all but fires out of the gaps of the helmet.

Cleaning his foot on the rather short grass next to the now-corpse, Khraaft scowls as he contemplates what to do, and also what exactly Onyx thought he could do about this. That point genuinely vexes the drake; just what could Khraaft possibly do to help Onyx’s current predicament? Does the small dragon expect Khraaft to ask some unknown and powerful contact? Walk in through Rhas’Dreg’s front gates and kill him? Because it should be rather obvious that Khraaft has no allies whatsoever, and one cannot just slay Rhas’Dreg without consequence.

Khraaft turns to the black-scaled midget, who has managed to push himself to his feet, though still stumbling a little from the sheer shock he’s just experienced. ‘So, then’, Khraaft states coldly, ‘You think that after causing such a mess, that I am to be expected to fix it up?’ Khraaft’s glare is truly only describable as piercing for Onyx. Khraaft can only be angered at Lauhil and Onyx; first they threaten him on his own turf, and now they have him in a situation where he can either have great likelihood to die, or have his habitat invaded by those loyal to the tyrant. While those loyalists can hardly do jack shit by themselves, enough jack shit can potentially cause a threat.

‘It’s not exactly our fault that-‘, Onyx starts. Those words are all Khraaft needed to get ticked off once again. His teeth grit, hair sparks, and eyes slit almost painfully.

‘What do you mean by it ISN’T your fault!?’, Khraaft shouts in anger, ‘It was your fault that you snuck out of that palace. It was your fault that you came to speak with me. It was your fault that you provoked my shout! By every means imaginable, YOU are responsible for what is going wrong with yourselves and myself!’

This yell was not quite so dimension-breaking as the one he managed yesterday, but Onyx still found himself scared to his spot by it, flinching. Taking a deep breath and calming the wind kicked up by his mind, Khraaft restrains himself from disciplining Onyx’s selfish incompetence. He cracks his neck in a vain attempt to calm himself down. Sighing and attempting to keep it from turning into an irritated groan, Khraaft walks to his pile of rocks, shouldering Onyx out of the way. Well, more accurately, elbows him out of the way.

‘What are you doing exactly?’ Onyx asks, getting out of the way of the towering drake, expression genuinely confused.

Khraaft makes his way up the rock pile. He responds halfway up the pile; ‘I’m going to wait for that tyrant’s guards to steal me away to that journey. There’s no point in trying to resist that advance; if I do, then I’ll be assaulted by his guards non-stop. And while the advances he’s made are barely menial, going under that “stress” constantly will inevitably wear me apart.’ He has set himself upon his usual perch by this point.

Onyx looks down slightly, his brow almost furrowed, as if considering Khraaft’s words. His eyes move this way and that, trying to find something to say. Slouching in defeat, Onyx sighs. There is a pause for a moment as he thinks what to say next. Khraaft feels no such qualms, simply sitting upon his rock, awaiting what was sure to come.

Eventually, Onyx opens his mouth to suggest. Khraaft looks down at the dragon, mentally conveying a simple message ‘no’. He did not even bother to read the dwarf’s mind as to what they were to ask, he knew that they were going to offer company. Closing his mouth, Onyx looks a little sheepishly. Again, he seems conflicted as to what to do. Until, that is, Khraaft waves a hand in dismissal. At this point, Onyx takes the hint Khraaft is making, takes to the air, and flies back to his vessel.

Khraaft is left alone. A few moments to consider the recent happenings of his life. The rude intrusion of Lauhil and Onyx. Their blatant threat to him on his home turf. And now, Rhas’Dreg basically sentencing Khraaft to a death sentence. This turn of events have been nothing but fucking lovely to Khraaft. The white sun has barely passed one third of the way through the sky. Perhaps the amount of time that has passed is not relevant, but perhaps also the fact that Khraaft’s life has been ruined beyond the norm in less than a day and a half is in contribution to his anger.

Khraaft looks over the landscape about his home. He knows not where this sudden sentimentality originated, but he knows that now is likely the last he’ll see of this place. The place was almost perfect for him; wide and open, allowing him to see around him unhindered, and the planet was not populated too much that he would have to consider deep underground or otherwise seclude himself. It was always rather warm, and he need never bask for warmth, but the breeze kept him from overheating. And the river flowing behind him perfectly one leap away, and the small game all around. Truly, this place was only ever a good settlement for him. Well, except the pests that were the invaders.

Khraaft sighs to himself. Perhaps a lesser dragon would cry a sentimental tear, but Khraaft has long since been unable to cry for such a reason, or perhaps any. Rather, he gently swings his tail round, bringing it fur-side up next to him. He gently strokes the fur gently, basking in its sheer softness. The feeling of the silky strands caressing his much-too-brusque fingers helps calm his nerves. Content that perhaps this is enough, Khraaft reluctantly pulls his hand away from the delicate feeling of the fur. The fur is likewise unwanting to let go; seeming to reach out for the departing hand. Smiling slightly at this, he slowly slumps his tail behind him again.

The drake’s slight smile does not last long, however, as he sees another vessel plummeting through the atmosphere; larger than the others Khraaft has seen. Unlike the other vessels, however, this one dares to land a few metres in front of Khraaft. He huffs out of his nose at this; normally the pilots are smart enough to at least put the hill between Khraaft and them. Regardless, the doors open up, and the reason for their apparent cockiness shows himself. Khraaft’s own father stood at the opening. The red-scaled brute is larger than Khraaft, and has a bulkier build.

Instantly, Khraaft feels sensations of hate, and if the tell in Xah’s eyes are to be believed, the crimson creature feels likewise. Khraaft rises to his feet, descending down the pile of rocks as Xah walks down the access plank extended before him. ‘Alright you litt-‘ Xah starts at Khraaft, before he gets cut off.

‘Don’t waste your breath insulting me, I’ve heard it all.’, Khraaft states, ‘Let’s just get the bullshit “ceremony” out of the way.’

Xah is taken slightly aback by Khraaft’s interruption, but recomposes himself. Khraaft leers up at the slightly taller drake as he walks by, making his annoyance at the boor clear to see. The larger creature dares to put his hand on Khraaft’s shoulder, forcefully guiding the drake to where he needs to go. Having none of that, Khraaft spikes his electrical charge and throws his shoulders slightly. The brute releases his grip on Khraaft’s shoulder with a satisfying noise of startled pain.

Judging by the noises behind him, Khraaft guesses that the barbarian was about to pounce at him for that. It probably would if it weren’t for the call of the guards ahead. ‘Xah. Please, remain composed. You would not want Rhas’Dreg to accuse you of disrupting such a public event?’ As this is being said, Khraaft finds another guard approach him, gingerly. ‘T- This way, pl- please.’ he stammers out, the absolute fear and terror at the sight of Khraaft clear on his face and in his voice.

As Khraaft turns to follow the smaller specimen walking leftward, he turns his head around to look at Xah behind him. The utter brute seems confused for a second, then growls under his breath as he realises the guards are right. Khraaft smirks as he extends his fist towards the drake, and points his middle finger up. Enjoying the reaction he gets, Khraaft follows the little creature into a holding bay. Two benches have been placed, a decent distance from each wall, presumably to accommodate any dragon with a tail.

The escort takes a seat on the bench nearer to the door, on the farthest edge they seemingly can and remain comfortable. Khraaft takes his seat on the opposite bench, just a little closer to the door than the middle of the thing, and rests his elbows on his spread knees. Xah stumbles through the door, assessing the room best he can with his lower-than-average mind. Khraaft just looks up at the red drake, tilting his head ever so slightly. The brute lets out a less-than-approving grunt as he takes a seat opposing Khraaft, the vessel taking off as he does so.

The journey to Rhas’Dreg’s entire bloody planet is rather short. Khraaft guessed that it would be so, seeing as how quickly reactive deployments were issued. That didn’t stop Khraaft from doing his best to unsettle Xah as much as possible during the journey. The entire time, Khraaft stared maliciously into the eyes of the brute opposite him. He did nothing else, simply glaring into its soul, or what passes for. Nonetheless, it is obvious that Xah is being unnerved by the simple action. The feebleminded brute clearly was imagining that his son was actually polluting his thoughts with something, since his once-intent gaze wavers elsewhere. Khraaft grins at this amusement until touchdown.

The “ceremony” for Khraaft’s departure to Qre would not occur for another ten minutes or so, though the vessel that will presumably be taking Khraaft to the journey has been placed on the plateau. Khraaft takes a designated place hidden behind the rock upon which Rhas’Dreg would be speaking from. Leaning his back on the rock, staring at the pair of guards designated to watch him, Khraaft awaits for this horseshit to actually commence. Xah glances over at Khraaft as he leaves the vessel, then walks off out of sight. Left to himself and the two guards, Khraaft sighs. This definitely is not anything he would ever have wanted, but it is still happening.

After some time, a crowd has gathered on the opposite side of the rock Khraaft is leaning on, and Rhas’Dreg’s personal cruiser has landed to the side of the pedestal-like rock. There is a resounding cheer that only makes Khraaft’s eyes roll, even as the guards watching him is increased to seven. The cheering stops as Rhas’Dreg begins an overly long speech on how his oppression, or “systematic aid”, and tyranny, or “perfect example”, are only to the aid of dragonkind. He blabbers similar bullshit and slander for a bad five minutes.

Eventually, mercifully, the propaganda spouter stops spouting propaganda, and calls that Khraaft come to the stage. Turning, from the all but petrified guards, Khraaft climbs effortlessly up onto the pedestal. Unsurprisingly, he is greeted with boos and jeers. Khraaft ignores the brainwashed fools and casually leans out of the trajectory of a decently sized rock. Rhas’Dreg calms the crowd and takes off another speech about how Khraaft is scum (despite doing nothing) and how he has apparently chosen to embark the Ya’Qre to apparently win the hand of Lauhil in wedlock.

Khraaft musters up every inch of his being not to spit in disgust at this. He spits on the rock anyway, simply unable to help himself. Rhas’Dreg chooses to ignore this, even though a supernatural fear of bodily fluids runs in his family. The air around the tyrant becomes nervous regardless of what he does, however, and his wings shake just slightly. His body is thin, rather unworthy of ruling by any means, and covered in gold and platinum scales, arranged neatly into patterns. Though, Khraaft spies just under each of them is a naturally red scale. This idiot has had scales made out of those metals melted down and forged into the shape of scales!

After finishing his speech, Rhas’Dreg turns to Khraaft, a simply dumb smile on his face. He extends his arm to Khraaft, offering to shake hands in mock-acquaintance. Khraaft is about to accept the gesture, albeit, very reluctantly, when he remembers. The previous night, he had that disgusting vision of what is likely this moment. Now having two reasons not to accept the gesture, Khraaft raises his arms to cross them over his chest, rather than raising one to shake Rhas’Dreg’s hand.

This action draws shock and boos once more from the crowd. Rhas’Dreg, also taken a little aback, recovers, silencing the crowd once again. He recovers annoyingly from Khraaft’s blatant defiance, starting yet another speech. Khraaft is all but tired and enervated of this imbecile. Just when will he just shut the fuck up? Again, Khraaft waits, very impatiently, for Rhas’Dreg’s mouth to start gibbering. This speech is thankfully the shortest of them all, only stating about how the kind and forgiving he is, and how he will forgive Khraaft for this offence.

Trying not to roll his eyes, Khraaft awaits to be gestured to his escape. And thankfully, that is the next thing Rhas’Dreg does. Khraaft turns to enter the small vessel. One of Rhas’Dreg’s guards enters before Khraaft, presumably the pilot, turning on the engines just before Khraaft even enters the thing. The vessel is only two rooms; the one for the pilot, and the somewhat larger one for the passenger. The room Khraaft shall be keeping himself in has a small bench, clearly designed for just the one dragon, and a small sack just underneath it.

As Khraaft approaches the bench, the door closes, sealing itself to be air-tight, and the access ramp noisily retracts. He reaches for the sack as the vessel starts to go airborne. The thing contains food and water. For about one day. Huffing at this unabashed prejudice, Khraaft seats himself on the bench. Great, now Khraaft’s life is ruined, thanks to two stupid dragonesses.

Nothing but the thoughts of how bad things are to come lingers within his mind.

#dragons #sci-fi #writting #murder #space travel #fantasy #Khraaft

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