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Race: Draconian
Bloodline Powers: Advanced Strength, Rending, Firebreath+, Dragonfear-
Greater Mysteries: Fire (Noble) 7, Wind (Noble) 5, Sound (Advanced) 3
Lesser Mysteries: Heat 4, Oxygen 4, Embers 4, Pressure 4, Current/Flow 4
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The wind screamed through the mountain pass as the snow around him shook in time to rapid, heavy footfalls. Samazzar couldn’t see what was coming. The air was beyond unsettled. A magical gale erupted from the crack in the mountain, blowing ash and snow clear and exposing the thin soil of the plains underneath.
Up above, even though the wind wasn’t nearly as bad, the huntresses were forced to cling onto nearby rocks or each other to avoid being blown up into the air. One or two didn’t manage to grab hold of a handhold in time and were sent tumbling end over end away from the pass.
The orc chief charged him, and for the first time in a while, Samazzar felt naked. Another gust rushed out of the mountain. It was still under the control of the magic user that created it, meaning that Samazzar could only really read the wind around him if he wrested control of the mystery from the being manipulating it.
Samazzar snapped his wings open, catching hold of the rushing air and letting it send him flying backward. An ax whistled through the screaming air some two paces in front of him, but the orc was unphased by his dodge, barreling onward without slowing in the slightest.
Flames erupted from Samazzar’s mouth, darting toward the chief before being blown backward by the unending torrent of wind. Samazzar cut the magic flowing into the fire, letting it gutter out just before it was flung back into his face. He jumped to the side, nicks cuts and bruises spiking with pain from the quick movement, only for the orc’s ax to graze him once again.
Scales, thick enough to stop the claws of a wolf, shattered, sending a spray of blood out onto the blowing snow. Samazzar’s hand darted out, grabbing hold of the orc’s gauntlet and digging in with his claws.
Without any metal on the chief’s right wrist, his claws dug easily into the tough flesh. Blood blood spurted out onto Samazzar’s hand, an unequal trade for the new hole the orc had opened up just above his knee.
The orc yanked his weapon backward, dragging Samazzar a step closer only to slam his gauntleted left hand into Samazzar’s chest.
He released the monster, staggering backward as he gasped for breath, his lungs unable to draw air after the blow. An ax zipped toward him, but another blast of fire into the orc’s face bought Samazzar enough time to stumble out of the way.
Blood leaked from his wounds, turning the snow pink. Samazzar dug his feet into the soil, bringing his hands up as he eyed the orc. His opponent grinned back at him, seemingly unaware of the light burns on his face and hands as well as the blood dripping from wounds.
Then, the wind stopped. Finally able to touch the mysteries again, Samazzar reached out to see the damage caused by the magical assault. The huntresses were out of position, rescuing those that had been blown away and tending to the wounds caused by their battles. Dussok and Takkla were at the goblin battle line, helping goblins that had tipped off into the snow as well. The only warrior that seemed to have weather the attack unscathed was Bronn and his skirmishers, all of whom had managed to hid behind the bulk of the dead ogre.
Samazzar cast his senses down the mountain pass, tracing the wind over rock and ice until- His eyes widened.
“You madman,” he whispered. “What have you done?”
The orc let loose a wild laugh, spinning his ax in his hand like the injury was nothing.
“So you can speak!” He replied triumphantly. “I take it you used your magic and found Bubba. Now I hope you understand how far out of your claws this battle is.”
“A cyclone drake?” Samazzar asked incredulously. “Also, did you seriously name a primeval beast like that Bubba?”
“What of it?” the orc snapped back defensively. “I needed something to call him, and it’s not like it matters. You might have killed almost all of my tribe, but I’m about to return the favor. You can’t nitpick my choices if you’re dead in the snow.”
The drake burst into the open, barely able to fit its broad scaled shoulders inside the mountain path. Its scales were light blue, glittering like ice under the sun, a beautiful sight that almost made up for the horror of seeing a thirty to forty pace long heavily armored lizard barreling toward Samazzar.
It opened its mouth. The drake’s chest and throat expanded like a balloon before it vomited a ball of rapidly spinning wind toward Samazzar.
His senses touched on the attack, and a sense of familiarity washed over Samazzar. It was a sphere of densely layered high and low pressure fronts swirling together in a complex pattern that hid an unmistakable amount of force.
There wasn’t much point in contesting directly with the monster’s will. Samazzar might win the first dozen or so clashes, but cyclone drakes were creatures with a strong draconic bloodline, and like all bloodlines the sources of their magic ran much deeper than a simple practitioner. It was impossible for a bloodline ability to improve without strengthening the bloodline itself, but the power to perform an ability over and over again without much strain was formidable in its own right.
Instead, Samazzar jumped up into the air, flapping his wings to gain height before the ball of wind energy hit the snow below him, detonating and forming a pressure front that punched him in the gut about as hard as the orc had while sending him rocketing into the sky.
He rotated in the air, watching the throat and chest of the drake swell up like a bullfrog as the orc clambered up onto its back. The huge draconic beast seemed not to mind his presence, but for Samazzar it was one more layer of difficulty he didn’t need. His go to move against a large beast was to latch onto it in some spot that it couldn’t reach, trying to cripple it before it managed to throw him off.
The orc would be able to stop that, driving Samazzar off with his ax before the draconian could do any damage to his mount. Of course that was only a concern if he managed to get close enough to the drake to land on it.
Bubba exhaled. Rather than a ball of tightly compressed wind, it launched what could only be called a miniature tornado.
A flap of the wings pulled Samazzar to the side, and then all of his focus was on the wind in his surroundings. He managed to avoid the core of the cyclone, but even a dozen paces away the rapidly rotating air was enough to buffett and throw him around, even with the entirety of his will concentrated on steadying the wind around him.
The drake cocked its head to the side, gazing up at Samazzar in confusion. Evidently that attack had been meant to rip him from the sky, and without the aid of the mysteries it would have.
It inhaled again, throat bulging dangerously, and Samazzar hastily exhaled a bolt of fire that he launched at the creature’s eyes. The monster flinched, sending the second cyclone some fifty paces to Samazzar’s right as it shook its head and blinked rapidly.
This time, Samazzar was far enough away that he didn’t need to use magic to steady his flight. Instead, he abandoned himself to the air current, letting it spin him in a lazy circle above the battlefield as he gathered his energy.
Deep inside himself he felt a stirring in the mystery of the wind. Finally, after months of study he was ready for a baptism. If only that had happened a week or so earlier, the battle with the cyclone drake would have been easy. He simply could have overwhelmed the creature’s raw but instinctive mastery of wind and landed blows on it until it dropped.
Unfortunately, as much as he’d like to burst through his limits in the middle of battle and defeat the drake, that wasn’t the way of the world. A baptism was arduous and painful. It would take him at least fifteen minutes, and likely more than an hour or two to break through, and once he was done the odds that he would be in peak shape were miniscule.
Instead, he readied himself for his next attack, pinning his wings to his side and dropping from the sky toward the drake. The orc jumped up from where he was seated on the creature’s back, scurrying into position so that he could respond to Samazzar’s dive with his ax, but as soon as he was on his feet and moving, Samazzar struck.
The constant tempest that seemed to surround the wind beast coalesced into a point the size of a log and struck the orc’s chest with enough force to dent his armor, picking him up off his feet and sending him flying a solid dozen paces through the air.
Samazzar slammed into drake’s back near its hind legs, claws first. Its scales were stronger than any armor that he had ever encountered, but that still meant that they only lasted for most of a second before Samazzar managed to saw his way through them.
He latched one claw into the hole he’d made and reached the other into the belt of his shorts, pulling free cloth wrapped stinger of one of the green wyverns he’d downed. Samazzar bit the covering, ripping it off with his teeth to reveal the smooth black surface of the deadly implement.
On the ground, the orc chief had already jumped to his feet and was running back toward the drake. Samazzar’s attack hadn’t done any real damage to his opponent, rather the purpose had always been to buy him this opportunity.
He stabbed downward with the stinger, past the hole he’d sliced in the drake’s scales and into the bloody flesh beyond. It sank about a third of a pace deep in the monster before Samazzar’s strength failed him. Quickly, he pulled his hand upward, grabbing the dead wyvern’s venom sacs and squeezing them with all of his strength.
Ordinarily, that would be a task handled by the wyvern’s muscles. Delicate things that were carefully controlled to make sure that the flying reptile only injected enough venom into its prey to cripple it, saving the precious substance for another potential opponent.
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Samazzar had feared that the orcs would have a trump card, and prepared a defense of his own. Both Takkla and him were armed with the grisly wyvern remains just in case they encountered a foe too strong for them to finish off with normal means. Honestly, he probably would have used it on the chief during their fight, but there had never really been a chance. The orc had only taken off a single gauntlet during the entire fight, and even then Samazzar didn’t know if the stinger would manage to puncture the creature’s tough flesh.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the orc leapt straight from the ground up onto the drake’s back. Samazzar blew a gout of fire into the orc’s face, barely slowing the monster, but blinding it for the half second he needed to jump off of the monster.
Samazzar opened his wings to fly away and let the poison do its work only for a blast of wind to pluck him from the sky. His back hit the snow, knocking the air from his lungs.
A clawed foot struck his chest, pinning him to the ground. Samazzar could barely pull in breath through its weight as the large blue muzzle of the drake swam into his vision. The huge reptile pressed downward, and Samazzar’s consciousness flickered. It was like he blinked, and when he opened his eyes the fire coating his body was gone.
The drake cocked its head to the side quizzically, as if confused by Samazzar and his actions. It pushed its face forward until its nose was barely a hand’s span from the draconian’s face before taking a deep sniff.
The wind around Samazzar seemed to sing, the monster’s bloodline synergizing with the air around him from a simple deep breath. Then the drake whined, a sound of equal parts confusion and pain.
“Quit playing with your food, Bubba.” The orc’s voice was distant, like he was talking from a league away. “He has a lot of friends, and it will take the better part of a day to track them all down. Longer if you give them a chance to escape. Just chomp down on the boy and be done with it.”
Bubba opened his mouth, revealing rows of needle sharp teeth, each the size of his hand. Samazzar tried to focus on the mystery fire. He didn’t have enough air in his lungs to exhale, but maybe he could push through the pain and summon-
A meaty ‘thwack’ caused the drake to flinch. Barely a second later, the beast trembled again as another blow struck it.
The monster wheeled around, lifting the paw from Samazzar’s chest and swinging it like a club. He rolled to the side, launching a blast of fire from his aching lungs that expanded into a blanket of flames that he draped over the drake’s head.
Samazzar didn’t even bother blowing oxygen on the fire to fuel it. The drake would just use its breath weapon to take control of the flames in a second anyway. Rather, he fed almost all of his concentration into the magic, hovering a sphere of flames about a pace from the drake’s forehead while constantly using the mystery to grow and expand the fire toward the monster’s face.
It was maybe half as efficient as the version that used oxygen and wind to speed the process. The fire didn’t burn as hot and it moved much slower, meaning that it cooled noticeably before it hit the drake, but under the circumstances, it was the best option available to Samazzar.
The magic blinded the beast, giving Samazzar a chance to climb to his feet while it lashed out a second time in the same general direction as its first attack. With a strangled grunt, Bronn was thrown to the soil, massive claw marks that gushed blood ripped out of the scales of his chest.
Samazzar’s vision went blank, and he threw himself at the monster’s flank, the claws on his hands and feet tearing through the drake’s scales as his blood sang with rage. Above him, Samazzar vaguely felt the silhouette of the orc shouting something at him as it moved to defend its mount only for a stream of biting dust and bone chips to blast into him, forcing the chief back a step.
The orc brought his right hand up to protect his face, but damage wasn’t Samazzar’s main goal for the attack. During the fight he’d revised his estimate of the monster. There was no way it was only on its first elixir. It was moving too smoothly and was too resistant to damage to have consumed anything less than two, making it a dangerous elite in any culture.
Beneath his claws, the drake shifted, and Samazzar kicked himself free before the creature could flop itself on its side, trying to crush the pest that was causing it so much pain. The action dislodged the orc chief, and Samazzar seized the opportunity to hit the tumbling creature with an updraft that sent him flying up into the air.
He didn’t have high hopes for the damage caused by the fall, but it would keep the dangerous opponent occupied long enough for him to cripple the drake.
Samazzar darted toward the downed monster, wedging himself between its head and shoulder. He dug his claws into its neck, ripping his way through the scales even as the beast slammed its head to the side, pinning him in place.
That was okay. He wasn’t trying to run.
Warm blood flowed over his hands as Samazzar slashed and hacked, cutting his way deeper through the drake’s corded muscle until he reached his target. The rubbery texture and blazing heat of an artery was under his hand for only a second before his claws slashed through it.
The blood burned. Hotter than the fire Samazzar channeled. Almost as hot as the furnace where he had almost burned himself to death. It wasn’t just the blood’s temperature that seared his hands. Samazzar could feel creature’s bloodline straining against his scales. His own blood sang for it, demanded that he consume it and turn its power into his own.
A heavy weight slammed into Samazzar from behind as the Drake’s shoulder slammed into him. The creature thrashed wildly, trying to get back to its feet, but the powerful wyvern poison was finely taking effect.
Its movements were slow and sluggish, letting Samazzar time a hasty escape before he was crushed under the monster’s bulk. He made it a dozen or so steps before the drake’s tale slammed into the snow, shaking the ground and knocking Samazzar to his hands and knees.
His head snapped up as he spotted the orc chief running toward him, ax held in a two handed grip. Wind howled and scoured the snowscape around them as the dying drake vented its bloodline magic, trying to find a way to undo the fatal wounds it had already suffered.
Samazzar pushed off the ground, readying himself in a low crouch. Without any real control over the wind, it was tough to read the orc’s rhythm and timing with just his eyes, but-
Takkla dove in from the sky and slammed into the orc’s back with a loud clank, sending the monster sprawling face down into the snow at his feet. Almost without thinking, Samazzar pounced on the fighter, kicking his ax free and slamming his weight down on the creature’s left arm.
The orc struggled, trying to pull himself up onto his hands and knees, but Samazzar rolled a bit to the side, grunting in pain as he put all of his weight down on the man’s shoulder. His body hurt. Cuts criss crossed his scales, and it felt like everything under those visible wounds was a bruise. Still, Samazzar held firm, digging his claws through the orc’s armor and into its flesh beneath.
He was weaker than his opponent and more tired. There was no question about that. Despite Samazzar putting every erg of his strength into keeping the orc down, over the course of five seconds, the monster had managed to get his right arm under his torso and partially prop himself up.
Samazzar still had a firm grip on the chief’s left arm for now, but he could feel the orc bracing himself to try and seize it back.
The orc pulled. Slivers of silver metal curled under his claws as he shredded the monster’s gauntlet, leaving long cuts in his forearm, but ultimately his opponent over powered him.
His opponent managed to take one step away, stumbling toward where his ax glitterd in the snow, before Samazzar wrenched control of the wind around them, blowing a double handful of snow directly into the orc’s eyes. The chief reached up with his naked right hand, trying to shield his vision.
“Now!” Takkla screamed. Her voice was inaudible over the wind, but that hardly mattered as the mystery of sound registered her words before the howling gale swallowed them up.
Samazzar lunged at the orc from behind, grabbing the creature’s right elbow and pushing upward. His opponent squinted down at him through the fury and snow, confusion on his face for a fraction of a second before it was replaced by pain and horror. Then, the monster blurred into motion.
A metal clad knee hit Samazzar in the chin, snapping his head back and spilling him into the snow. Above him, two orcs stood in the middle of the tempest blurring together and then apart again. Both of them reached reached over with their left hand, pulling identical wyvern stingers out of the bare flesh of their right hand.
They dropped the spent weapon into the snow.
A moment passed and Samazzar felt his vision steadying, the blurry static that plagued the corners of his eyesight began to fade. The orc blinked down at him. It opened his mouth to say something, but instead of words, it stumbled forward, falling to his knees just in front of Samazzar.
Takkla landed about ten paces away, between Samazzar and the dying drake. She had her bow ready, but it wouldn’t be able to penetrate the orcish warrior’s armor, let alone his tough, alchemically twisted flesh.
With trembling hands, the orc took off his left gauntlet, throwing it into the snow. He looked down at both of his arms, singed from Samazzar’s fire and scarred by his claws. The orc’s lips trembled between his tusks.
“So close. I almost-” The orc’s mumbling cut off midsentence and he slumped to the snow, eyes vacant.
Samazzar exhaled and winced. Now that the adrenaline in his body was beginning to fade, the aches and bruises he had accumulated in the battle were all assaulting him at once. A crunch of a foot in snow alerted him to Takkla as his sibling extended a hand to him.
He took it, hissing in pain as she helped pull him to his feet. At some point the wind had calmed, a sure sign that the cyclone drake was no longer among the living. Samazzar used the mystery to survey the battlefield.
Dussok and Barsa were done mopping up their orcs and had begun trudging toward Samazzar. Over by the cliffs on either side of the mountain pass, the huntresses were beginning to climb down the rock faces as well. He could even make out Tarxis, clambering down next to Tazzaera.
They had won. It should have been a weight off of Samazzar’s shoulders, but instead the wind drew his gaze toward Bronn. He walked toward him, the only sound his feet padding through the powdery snow.
Takkla followed, a couple steps behind Samazzar. When they finally came upon Bronn,, Samazzar felt his breath leaving leaving his throat in an involuntary hiss.
The big saurian was laying on his back in the snow, lacerated chest rising and falling shallowly as blood pooled around him. His left arm was mangled, the scales ripped off to reveal a mess of torn muscle and shattered bone underneath.
Samazzar broke into a jog, dropping to a knee next to Bronn and taking the saurian’s good hand into his own. For once, he wished he could just turn the mysteries off on a moments notice. Sound brought him the hiss and gurgle of liquid in Bronn’s lungs. Wind tracked with perfect clarity the air wheezing in and out the holes torn into his organs by his shattered ribs. Heat let him track Bronn’s extremities as they slowly grew cooler from bloodloss.
“Samazzar.” Bronn’s voice rattled in his throat.
He couldn’t even look the saurian in the eyes. Instead he couldn’t tear his attention away from Bronn’s mouth. His lips and teeth were a deep crimson, stained by his own blood.
“Did you see Samazzar?” Bronn paused to cough weakly. “That big lizard thing was about to eat you, and Takkla was too far away to stop it, but I stopped it. Hit it good and hard with my ax. Hard to do with one arm.”
Samazzar opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. Part of him wanted to yell at Bronn. He had been seriously injured in his fight with the ogre. If the saurian were a little smarter, he wouldn’t have rushed into battle right away after his last fight. A little caution might have kept him alive.
A little caution might have killed Samazzar. The cyclone drake had him dead to rights.
Bronn coughed again. Samazzar could almost feel the saurian’s hand growing colder in his own.
“Say Samazzar,” Bronn rasped. “Do you think Dussok saw me when I saved you? I bet I looked really brave.”
Samazzar looked out over the plains. Dussok was on his way over, but he was about a half league away.
He patted the top of Bronn’s hand and nodded.
“Good,” Bronn said happily. The tension left his body and he sank into the snow, a content smile on his bloody face as he stared sightlessly up into the clear blue sky.
Samazzar closed his eyes. Takkla’s hand touched his shoulder, resting there gently as he took a deep shuddering breath. He let the moment stretch on.
Finally, Samazzar opened his eys, moving Bronn’s good arm to his chest before reaching up and to close the dead saurian’s eyelids.
He stood up and squared his shoulders before turning to look at the cyclone drake’s corpse. When he spoke, it felt like his voice belonged to someone else. Someone a lot older and more tired.
“As much as I would like to take a moment to grieve, heart’s blood only survives so long after the death of a beast with a bloodline. Takkla, if you could gather Dussok and tell Tazzaera to bring my alchemical equipment, I’m afraid that today’s grisly business isn’t quite over.”