the call
CHAPTER II
Let it never be said that the Ascended shy away from a fight.
One of the dragons parts its jaws to screech into the night - a battle cry swallowed by the rain - and the quartet are already on the move.
Wessex, our Wraith in the dark, strides forward like she's got all the time in the world, like it's a catwalk, her hips swaying, a smile hooking up one corner of her mouth. She stands before this crown of dragons, arms spread, chin lifted in defiance. Come, then, she tells them without ever saying a word.
It is a dragon of shadowed scales and black talons that takes up her challenge, only to instantly regret it. The dark makes Wessex faster than a whipcrack, but she takes the blow with grace - and oh, does the upgrade nestled in the back of her neck make it worthwhile.
The other beasts recoil as the black dragon shrieks into the air - unexpected pain splashed back from the strike of its own claws. Rearing up, its tail is coiled in anguish, its maw is open wide...
And a hand, flickering and holographic, wraps around its lower jaw to yank it back towards the ground. The sharp bend of its neck and spine reveal the Lone Ranger upon its back, three more translucent arms anchoring him in place via the reptile's wings and throat.
Electricity brings the scene into startling clarity, fanning out from a slender figure who stands in a posture of prayer. A solemn blend of both parents, Azrael does as they have always done. They focus. They repair. And Wessex will certainly feel that much as the sparks scatter across her skin. More than that much, in fact.
Soft fingertips press against the Wraith's shoulders, and a softer voice wishes her luck, before the Remedy engages an upgrade that shocks and floods the demigoddess's sensors, sharpening her reflexes and honing her already considerable strength.
Nothing happens in a vacuum, however.
While Black learns the hard way not to be the first into the fray, the other dragons are beginning to shift and stir. One - emerald green, sleek and menacing - takes to the air, aiming to swoop down and interrupt the carefully curated fight going on.
But before it gets close, a streak of light lances through the air, embedding itself in the creature's neck; an arrow tipped with pure starlight. The archer stands upon the Huntsman's nimbus, appearing to rise up from the clouds themselves, her arm drawn back, a crown glittering on her brow. The Nightingale, Queen of Torchline, has fired the first shot for the Old Gods, but she is by no means the last.
Green alters course, tilting towards Maeve, only for the earth to spear up and slash at its underbelly, dragging a keening screech from its bleeding throat. Unseen at first beneath the nimbus, Deimos emerges from the downpour, the Resurrected Sword needing no physical weapon. Why would he? He is the weapon.
The dragon is already twisting and flapping gracelessly towards the ground when Halo's Sentinel makes his play, proving that these are not the only reptiles to rule Caido. The basilisk whips across the rocky incline, eyes gleaming and focused on the downed beast - on its face, in particular. And even as the rest of its scaly body coils about Green and squeezes, the dragon stiffens and turns to rock in its grip.
One might say that the Taliesins are late to the party, given how they stroll in towards the back of the group. The Huntsman arrives with his eyes on the sky and a pale hawk nestled against his shoulder, watching for other dragons in flight. And when a shape drops in a shiver of purple scales, he's ready. The words that pass between the two men are unheard, but the hawk takes flight in a powerful beat of wings, spearing towards this latest foe.
Only when he's a breath away does the Lullaby alter his form; the group will not see quite what he does, given the shadows and the rain, but the purple dragon is smothered by teeth and tentacles. It goes down screaming.
To any observers thus far, it would appear to be a fairly easy time for the demigods and their respective teams, whether on behalf of the Old Gods or the New. And so, naturally, when it does go wrong, it really goes wrong.
The pale dragon is the smallest of the six, and it has been able to slither around in the storm unnoticed until now. It streaks downwards in a spectacular dive, near vertical as it passes by - and then through - one particular cloud that's in its way. A cloud that happens to be holding the archer.
Maeve's cry hits the air only half a second later, and for those who catch a glimpse of her fall, it might appear momentarily as though she, too, has grown a pair of wings. The spray of crimson from the talons that have sliced into her shoulders blooms high and wide into the air; it's almost beautiful, in the right light.
But her fall is not so majestic, and it's the Huntsman who breaks it in the end, catching the ailing Nightshade before she can crumple to the ground.
From there, chaos reigns.
The stink of iron and ozone fills the air as bodies shift and move through the rain, some human, others draconic, and others still taking no recognisable shape at all. The black dragon's corpse lays still and silent against a rocky outcrop, swiftly dispatched, but the small, pale creature soon swoops in to take its place.
Purple, too, has been crushed to nothing under the weight of tentacles and rage, and its prone form is illuminated harshly by the bright light of a healing blast from the Huntsman. Maeve is just about upright when Green is released from its petrification, and although the Sword and the Sentinel abruptly swarm it again, it isn't going down without a fight.
Twisting, its mighty jaws fasten - and fasten hard - around Deimos's right arm, shredding it in serrated teeth and nearly yanking it from its socket. It's true that this will allow him to hold it in place for the most part, but it will certainly sting in the morning.
Now, in all of this, there is one dragon that we have been neglecting. The most dangerous, in fact, renowned for bringing instant death to all those who gaze upon it. Grey is the only beast not to have taken to the skies. It watches, it surveys, it takes very careful consideration. And it decides on a victim.
But just as it shifts to make a move, every muscle in its body suddenly freezes. Its pupils dilate, and then shrink to mere pinpricks.
You didn't think we'd forget about Delphia, did you?
Mort's daughter has been present in the ether since the battle began, meandering through the realm of spirits whilst war rages all around, and now Grey is in her sights. The temperature around the dragon plummets, and sweet laughter echoes close by, even as the reptile twists to try and lay eyes on the invisible presence.
"You cannot kill what already walks with death," she tells it by way of apology, definitely not paraphrasing Game of Thrones. Grey feels a gentle press against its haunches, a slight nudge, almost... and its soul peels away from its body, swirling up to meet with Mort. Its scaly form slouches from the crag it has been perched upon, falling away, gone into the night. Delphia is swift and silent, and more deadly than Grey by far.
The Lone Ranger might just catch sight of its shadow slipping past as he straightens, having dispatched the pale dragon with static vibrating in his bones. The adrenaline is addictive, singing through his veins and blowing his pupils. Victory might just be in sight, if the remaining dragons continue to cause problems for the Old Gods. Indeed, a wide, fanged grin has stretched across his lips as he turns--
And stares into the wide, gaping maw of a scarlet-scaled dragon.
It all happens so quickly from there.
Fire erupts from the creature's throat, almost point blank before Nate. The world turns red, then white, so white--
And then it all goes dark again.
Before Nate - his sensors still pinging, mind still whirring - the Remedy stands shielded in diamond-like armour, her eyes shut tightly. And from around her, the Prince's charred form slumps to the ground, dragging a soft cry from her throat. He is gone, she already knows that much, and whilst she always knew her companion would sacrifice himself for her, it doesn't make it any less difficult to bear.
Red's jaws are already parting again, but this time Nate is ready. Holographic arms brace its maw wide open; he hasn't the strength to clamp it shut, however, and already the ominous glow from within its throat is growing. The Ranger glances around, calculated, calm, because Wessex has to be--
Has to--
She's--
Where the fuck is Wessex?
The world is chaos, and the Wraith is nowhere to be found. Seconds slow to what feel like years. Nate makes his decision.
"Go." The word is almost choked out, because already he knows the other demigods are rallying. And if they stay, if the medic and Azrael stay, they will not be strong enough to overcome them. If they stay even a moment longer, all of them will die here. It will all be for nothing.
The confusion on their faces precedes the still mustering flames within the dragon's gullet. "I said go," he repeats, urging them off the Summit, back to safety. Back home. "And tell him," he urges the Remedy. "Tell him I--"
The dragon roars.
And on that lonely mountain, Nate burns a hero, a saviour to his brothers and his sisters. And Isla and Azrael heed his final words, escaping into the dark.
From there it is but a matter of time before the remaining dragons succumb to the efforts of the demigods of old, and to the warriors who join them.
From the wreckage, six figures emerge, battered and bleeding but still somehow on their feet.
And they advance.
