The Teryr is not the only creature to venture South, nor the only one to trespass in Solterran skies. Though the Bard's wingspan is not nearly as impressive as the shrieking beasts', he can't help the amused smirk that crosses his black face.
Think you're so tough, big fella? Well guess who's been after you all day. Thanks for the ride, you fat dolt!
He has been trailing in the bird's wake for the last few hours, taking advantage of the updraft produced by its wings to drift effortlessly above the sea of sand. Besides, the overpowering heat of the desert is more tolerable for one blessed by flight. It certainly has nothing to do with the fact that flight is much faster than running, or that the country he is fleeing from lacks an airborne guard.
Decades from now another bard will sing of the remarkably talented, incredibly handsome Rordan that outsmarted the King of Deltro by hijacking a Teryr! Truly a ballad such as that will delight crowds -- nay, whole realms! -- of his admirers, despite some omissions from the truth.
Of course, no one will want to hear about why I've enslaved the Teryr, only how I did it. No one needs to know it was for an escape attempt… Deltronians are known to be easily offended, but that King of theirs must be fashioned from mouse whiskers to have such thin skin! He snorts with indignation as images of the surly tyrant resurface, banishing them to subconscious abyss they crept out of. His thoughts return to his prospective ballad instead. ”Best to look to the future and forget the past,” as Father liked to say. Especially about me.
When he closes his eyes he can see them: the gaggle of pretty girls writhing and twisting, wildly throwing their heads back as if to catch the lyrics and swallow them whole. Their movements are erratic, stirring the air around them like luxuriant twisters and forming clouds of dust. The Bard licks his succulent lips, tasting the grit they have left there while squeezing past their glistening bodies; as much as he’d like to stay to watch, he is more interested in experiencing the rest of the celebrations in honor of his great conquest. The area around the stage is packed, and equines of all varieties clamor around it to hear the epic melody. Hooves strike the cobblestone streets in time to the tune, turning it into more of a chant when the crowd adds their own voices to the song. It’s a cheery carol with a steady rhythm -- so even those without talent can follow along -- but the tempo slows steadily as the chorus nears the end until only the minstrel’s voice remains:
“TO ARMS, SOLTERRA”
With his egotistical illusion shattered, golden eyes snap open to locate the one who interrupted him. Panic seizes him almost immediately: while he has been daydreaming, his chauffeur has taken it upon himself to make a pitstop, forcing Rordan into a dive as the Teryr takes its rising currents with it.
Whoever has interrupted his thoughts has also given him enough time to halt his descent. With a gunt of effort, the Bard angles his wings against the approaching wind. His annoyance is swept away by the current, and he casts his gaze downwards, in search of the man once more. From this new vantage point below the clouds he can make out half a dozen figures, not including the hulking form of the winged beast.
It must have been one of them who sounded the alarm. Though the sun is behind him, the winged man squints. It’s difficult to tell from such a distance, but it appears as if they are rallying to fight the screeching beast rather than flee from it. The Bard watches them as they charge the Teryr, trying to decide what kind of man he’d like to be: a craven with a misleading melody, or a warrior with an early grave.
Damn it all. Should I live, it’ll be a grander song for it!
Relenting to the greedy pull of gravity, he pulls his wings tight against his gold-dappled sides in a backwards somersault. The chains wrapped loosely around him wink at the sun while he falls. Laughter bubbles up past his lips like a fountain. He aims his slender front legs at the beast’s back -- hoping that those fighting below are a decent distraction -- and adds his own cry to the roar of the wind.
{HP is 10 + 10 + 5 = 25 | Attack is 10!
Rordan dives at the Teryr from the sky, aiming to slam his hooves into its back}
