Damascus knows her as the lost know the lost.
But the knowing does not evoke pity; it evokes a wendigo’s hunger, an opening in the dragon’s broken soul as wide as the night, as thorough as an abyss. At the snap of her wings he snaps his own; the wind they create buffets the pair of horses below, a storm of sand thrown into a flurry. Yes. Damascus knows her as the lost knows the lost; and the lost consume those like themselves.
But Vercingtorix steels the dragon with a glance. Not yet. The great beast’s lips ripple at his dripping teeth; but he settles, settles, settles, a thing tamed by its own brokenness.
“Of course he had a name,” says Torix. “It was Ezekiel.” He lies the same way most men tell the truth. He steps forward, closer; he measures her with his eyes.
There is a wildcat in her soul. He knows it, because he had seen exactly what its teeth can do.
“He was my friend.” Vercingtorix states. He looks for her quicksilver blood and, he begins to wonder, exactly what kind of magic it possesses.
He knows if he were to become a beast it would be a spotted leopard, sun-bright and dappled with obsidian rosettes. He knows if he were to become a beast—if what was inside of him manifested in what was outside of him—they would not be so different.
He steps closer.
"Speech." || @Warset
who knows what kind of havoc they might wreak?
