From God of War to sellsword and mercenary- oh how the mighty had indeed fallen. Of course, when it involved beautiful women and handsome men, Thaeron did not mind so much. But he always found there to be something demeaning (by comparison to his previous station) about following someone around just to get his fill of fighting. He hated taking orders, hated being told how to do his job, but as long as he could afford whiskey and find the odd someone with whom to spend his night, Thaeron could bare it. This however- following a trial of blood across the burning desert- ignited that long dead spark of heroism that had once enchanted his wife. The horned steed was no fool of course- he had seen the way Lucinda eyed his weapon but any chance for a fight and Thaeron was there.

It is not long before the blood spatters become thicker, more frequent and less sun-dried. Though one could not be sure of time in a desert where the horizon remained unchanging, the sun undimming. It was calm, in the way an endless sea of sun-baked dust could be. That was until the scream of a dragon pierced the air and two large forms appeared among the wavering fronds of heat on the horizon. An excited smile plays across Thaeron’s lips, dark and lethal and promising blood. He takes off after the ebony femme, a delighted skip in the powerful thrusts of his strong legs.

A scene emerges before them- two dragons entangled in combat, one looking a little worse for wear. Without hesitation, the winged mare leaps forward (though not before keening over as though in pain). Impressed by her courage, Thaeron watches as she leaps for the larger dragon. He dances on the side lines. Watching, waiting for his moment to strike.

“Ah but you were doing so well on your own.” His voice is a roar above the cries of the dragons, his eyes alight with the adrenalin and bloodlust of battle. Thaeron’s breath escapes his nostrils in forced snorts, his lips pulled back in a grim smile as he displays the pointed canines. Between the grasp of formless fingers he slides Bloodbane from his shoulder allowing it to hover threateningly in the air. But rather than wield the mighty hammer, Thaeron prepares to charge for the dragon as it swoops toward Lucinda. War drums sounded in his heart, the pump of blood through his veins pounding in his ears. The Fallen could have quite easily dispatched the dragon with his hammer- smash its skull with the blunt end or hack at its neck with the lethal blade. But where was the fun in that? Surprisingly quick for a creature his size, the stallion charges at the dragon with his horn point straight for its exposed side. Leaping into the air, so that he would collide with the dragon and not with Lucinda, he launches himself at the scaled creature. A growl leaves Thaeron’s parted lips. And then the sound of muscle hitting muscle and then bodies hitting the ground fills the air. The dragon bellows as Thaeron’s horn pierces his side and the pair tumble over and over into the sand, their bodies tangled. The thud that accompanies their fall is jarring and the wind is knocked from the steed’s lungs. Now Bloodbane strikes at the dragon as it too recovers, an extra limb to aid the stag while he untangles himself from the mass of scales and wings. He kicks out with his hooves, avoiding the snap of the reptile’s toothy maw as it continues to scream in anger.

And then pain lances through his left foreleg. An angered roar leaves his lips, loud and terrible as he tries to yank his leg from where the dragon gripped it in his mouth. Bloodbane slices and pummels at the beast, searching for a gap in the scaled armour. And then that angry roar turns into a mangled scream of pain and fury. Adrenalin spikes. Time slows. The dragon pulls free, throwing its head back with a triumphant roar. Blood droplets arch through the air. A gruesome star trail across the crystal blue. It hisses and fizzles in the heat, congealing in the sand. A steadily growing pool of red forms between the serpent and the stallion.

Agony, white hot and overbearing, dances up Thaeron’s leg and shoulder. Only adrenalin and centuries of training belay the instinct to scream. The instinct to collapse into the inviting bed of blood-stained sand beneath him. Bloodbane finds its mark and the dragon sinks to the ground with a dying hiss. And then silence reigns, pierced only by the jangle of metal chains on dark scales.