he had been someone before the fall
the legends forgot he was made of flesh and blood
It is a strange thing to watch a dragon and not feel a Biblical sort of fear, terror in the form of condemnation, punishment, enlightenment. He knows the tremendous beast would carry him if he were to only ask—in fact, through their Bond, he feels Damascus’ frustration he has not done so—but Vercingtorix feels a prideful twinge. To become powerless before a monster—It isn’t like that, Damascus reminds him, for what must be the hundredth time. A Bond does not mean to Torix what it means to the monster—and even that thought, so clipped and cruel registers in Damascus’ mind, and a feeling of anger wafts through their Bond like a scent. I am not a monster.
No. He is the compilation of every broken piece of Vercingtorix’s Soul, left to manifest itself in some hellish pit. The field Vercingtorix walks through in his travels is brittle, and yellow. In Oresziah, he knows, it would be time for harvest. Vercingtorix stares out at the rolling hills and Damascus flies above; he dips and turns and, with eyes like a falcon’s, seeks out prey. Occasionally he deviates from their path and comes back with bloodied jaws; a bison or elk having fallen hapless victim to the beast’s endless appetite. Yet, the sun is beginning to set and Vercingtorix decides it is better to stop rather than continue. They find a small creek that must brach, somewhere, off the Rapax. Vercingtorix starts a small fire and settles for the evening.
The smoke sails up into the sky.
It Damascus who says through their Bond, We are not alone. But Torix cannot see beyond the ring of light and so, he only waits. Damascus is settled beside him and, as far as he can discern, he has no reason to fear whatever lurks beyond the fire's light.
"Speech." || @Anyone!
made of: crooked grins, careful hands
eyes the colour of dawn
