RP:Dragons of the Frozen North

Summary: There's a new dragon in town and she looks a lot like Hilde. Okay, so she's white, not silver, but still. The two warriors get to chatting about the cold, their kind, and friendship.

Middle Of Town

Hildegarde had slowly begun to hate visiting the Middle of Town. It had been reduced to rubble in the wake of the war: the great statue that once stood sentinel over the marketplace had been torn asunder, many stalls were left broken and battered and the faint stink of charred flesh still lingered in the air. Yet a faint stink was like having it wafted under her nose, such was the burden of dragonhood. Much had been done, however, to sweep the mess away and try to return it to some normality. Some stalls had returned and new ones had sprung up, but there were still piles of rubble here and there; still scorch marks against the ground and spatters of blood. Hildegarde stood at the centre of the market, fingers flexing around the shaft of the halberd as she thought quietly on how to further the repair work of the marketplace. Would it be repaired or redesigned? What should she do? Queenship was hard. Being a knight was easier! “Lisbeth,” the Silver calls, addressing her Captain of the Queensguard who stood nearby, “I haven’t seen Hureig or even Odhranos in some time… Do you think Odhranos has been taken?” The giant cannot answer with certainty, of course, which leaves Hildegarde to sigh quietly and stare once more at the marketplace in quiet contemplation.

Vrag did not drift. She did not wander, and she did not stroll. She walked with purpose and conviction, and today that purpose was discovery. It had been discovery since the day she’d first set out from the ice-locked lair at the very peaks of Xalious. The knife-edge slopes were steep and treacherous to the two-legged creatures of Below, but Vrag wasn’t bound by such restraints. Frozen winds howled around her as mighty wings strained against descent. Once grounded, the white dragon had assumed her human shape, if only for the sake of convenience. Couldn’t rightly walk into a town looming over every house in sight and expect anyone to spare her a word over a spear. So instead of a hulking beast of white hide and glacier eyes, a tall humanoid woman strode into town. All corded muscle and slate expression, Vrag didn’t do much to instill comfort in those around her. Then again, she was just starting out on her journey; to expand, to know, to learn. Her boots ground to a halt in the rubble and snow, nostrils flaring at the smell of quenched fire and caked blood. She licked her lips. Sighed. Smiled.

Hildegarde was snapped from her grim and dreary thoughts by the ‘swoosh’ of something in flight overhead. The Silver turned her head skyward to watch as the glinting body zoomed by and landed a short distance away, a place where Hildegarde kept a steady eye upon until the tall and able-bodied looking woman came forth. “Go to the fort, Lisbeth. Quell what fears they might have had. I’ll tend to our… visitor,” the woman bade her Captain, turning her body so as to face the oncoming dragon-turned-woman as Lisbeth turned in the opposite direction and made her way towards the fort. It was no secret that Hildegarde was a dragon; she did not hide it from anyone and any other dragon would likely note she was one from her scent alone. “Greetings, stranger,” she said to Vrag, her free hand lifted in way of a polite hail.

Vrag tilted her head to the side, curiosity lacing her features. Odd. A scent, familiar and inviting, tickled at her senses. Beneath the layers of grime, dust, and decay, something Known beckoned. It spoke, then, with the clear voice of a woman used to getting her own way. No— a woman used to being *obeyed*. It was a timbre Vrag was used to hearing, for it echoed in her ears every time she opened her mouth. “Greetings,” she replied, mimicking the hand gesture in all it curiosity. “Are you, mmm… like me?” Words felt strange when they rolled from such a short tongue; clumsy, even. Practice would teach her to do better, no doubt. She took a step forward, careful to keep her options open. This could well be a ruse – no telling how the people here regarded her ilk.

Hildegarde smiled at the question. It had been a long time since she had heard that specific question. Not many dragons were in contact with one another, so territorial they were. In fact, Hildegarde was certain the only other dragon she regularly spoke to was Tristram of Gualon! “I am, yes, but also different,” she replied courteously. “Your scales – from what I could see at least – look white. Mine are silver. We are very similar, but just slightly different.” Vrag being a White dragon meant she was more a dragon of ice and the cold than Hildegarde ever would be. Their different was slight: Hilde being a dragon of frost, Vrag being a dragon of ice but it made all the difference in the world of dragons! “Do you go by a human name?”

Vrag nodded, slow like a glacier. She absorbed the information with greed, but kept her expression as impassive as ever. That, at least, was as easy as it was to her dragon-skin. Human bodies had all kinds of strange little muscles in their face, Mother had told her once. Hard to imitate, supposedly. But to Mother, everything that wasn’t ruling desolate peaks and sleeping was hard. Vrag refused to live her life like that, not when there were whole worlds beyond the lip of the horizon. She would learn the two-legged expressions in time, like she did everything else. “I… do.” Licking her lips again, the dragon cast a surreptitious glance at her surroundings. Piles of rubble, stocky houses, fur-adorned warriors. A name. A word, in essence. “Kala,” she settled, meeting steel-grey eyes again. “Do you?”

Hildegarde waited for the name patiently, offering her fellow dragon a smile and nod of her head when the name was finally offered. “Kala,” she repeated, “that’s a lovely name. I am Hildegarde. Most know me as Hildegarde the Silver,” for she had no shame and did not conceal her nature from any man. After a moment’s pause, the knight gestured at her lips, “I know talking is hard at first. But… if you aim to be careful about who and what you are, this,” she mimicks the lip licking, “might give you away. Be careful, m’lady. Not all in these lands are friends to dragons.”

Vrag gave a terse nod. Hildegarde. A current of pride ran through that name and those broad shoulders. She took note, in quiet, as she always did. “I see,” she said after a spell, ice eyes dancing around the square. Fools were those who thought they could tether Vrag with bonds of alliance; more so those who sought to do her harm. But neither of these sentiments bled into her expression as she smiled. Smiles were easy, though perhaps a bit too full of teeth. “I am always careful.” And it was the truth. “But Frostmaw is… friendly?” Such a strange concept, friendship.

Hildegarde might have been considered more human than dragon for she almost seamlessly blended into society with her talk and walk! It wasn’t all perfect. Scaly bits of skin, dragon tendencies, minor giveaways. “Frostmaw is friendly to those who are known to it and mean no harm,” she answers. “By the eastern gate,” or what remained of it, “there is a warning posted that all unknown fliers shall be shot down by the men who walk the walls of my fort. But you’re quick, I’ll grant you that. And my men aren’t so sure on whether to shoot a dragon in the sky, for fear it’ll be me,” she admitted with a wry little grin. “So I suppose you’re a bit lucky that our kind are quite so alike!”

Vrag continued to smile. In fact, the grin seemed to spread, like a particularly nasty infection. “You mean our scales,” she nodded. Silver and white were tough to tell apart in snow-flecked weather of the north. Next time, her survival would rely on luck no more. She would make sure of that. “So dragons are common here?” For a warning to be posted so openly, they must be. And yet none ever ventured to their ice-capped kingdom. Why? The question burned on her tongue, but she swallowed it again. Doubts were a clever man’s weapon, and one must never arm an enemy. Or even a tentative… friend. “Why would they fear shooting you?” Surely it was fright that went beyond angering a mighty beast.

Hildegarde lifted her hand and wiggled it from side-to-side at Kala’s question about whether or not dragons were common. “There are white dragons to the west of here that breed and nest here. But Frostmaw is home to The Eyrie: a collective of flying creatures and those who love to ride the skies and love their freedom. So a flier who is not known to us can pose a risk, more to themselves than us, if that makes sense,” she tries her best to explain, but as any dragon might know, words are not always going to bend to her will! “But dragons like you and I – those who like the cold – they enjoy coming here to nest, mate, hunt and live. I do not mind the ferals to the west, but I am honour bound to protect them from those who would seek to rain fire upon them.” At the question of why the giants of Frostmaw should fear shooting her down, the Silver cannot help but smile though her cheeks take a slightly reddish tint. “I am their Queen,” she said, blurting the title out as if she were one not quite used to such titles, “and shooting me down would be quite the blunder.”

Vrag inadvertently took another step closer. Knowledge of all things attracted her, and this Silver woman was a fount of knowledge. So soon into this new world, and already she had found someone so well-versed in the local customs. Then Hildegarde spoke again, and it made sense. There were a hundred words for ‘ruler’ in the tongues. Queen was one of them. But a Queen of Frostmaw was no Queen of hers. Respect was earned and not given, even when titles of power were brought to bear in place of claws and spell-breath. “A blunder, indeed,” she said through her toothy grin. “But you don’t look like a Queen. You look like a… knight.” -But you also look like blood under the nails like bare steel in your hands like screams in your throat.-

Hildegarde nodded in acceptance of that description of her appearance, “And, indeed, I am a knight,” she told Kala. “My duty is to my people first and foremost. I will hold the shield and I will swing the sword in their defense, for that is our way.” No one could rule Frostmaw if they were not prepared to bleed for it. Only the strongest could rule the City of War. The Silver paused for a moment, eyeing Kala in quiet contemplation. She was stocky. Built like a fighter. Quite similar to herself, actually. “You look like a fighter,” she notes with a pleased smile. Fighting types were the sorts who were right at home in Frostmaw.

Vrag licked her lips again, then bit them a second later as she caught herself. Habit was the beginning and the end of every good man. Woman. -Dragon.- “It is a good way,” she said, and meant it. Blood was the only currency of weight, of worth. Everything else was pursuit of petty treasure fueled by greed and ignorance. Vrag knew better. “Because I am a fighter.” Never had a truer truth been spoken. “It is the frost of my blood and the white of my scales.” -The cut of my claw, the peal of my roar.- “Are you?” For knights were noble, and steadfast, and often warriors; but fighters fought with knees and elbows and teeth and nails. They fought with anything and everything where knights fought with honor and dignity.

Hildegarde smiled at Kala’s apt description of her warrior like self. “That is a good way of putting it,” she said, evidently pleased by this description. Yet when asked if she too was a warrior, the Silver made a little thoughtful ‘hm’ noise. Certainly, her scars implied she had gotten into the nitty-gritty of a fight. Sure enough she had done what she needed to do to survive: fighting with her body, fighting with her teeth when there was no weapon to hand. Her hand was weapon enough at times. “I’ll fight with honour whenever I can,” she answered, “but I am warrior enough.” A beat. “What say you? Am I warrior like to you?”

Vrag let her eyes roam again as Hildegarde pondered. Not to the surroundings this time – she had learned enough of the scorched ruins and thatched roofs – but rather to assess the Silver with this new perspective. Swords and other weapons besides had dallied with her flesh by the looks of it; gouges and scars marred her fair skin like jewelry. That she had received all these hateful gifts and persevered spoke enough in itself. And yet… “I don’t judge what I don’t know. And I don’t know you beyond your name and title.” Words came easier now, her tongue nimbler across her teeth. “Certainly I don’t know your blade,” Vrag said, gesturing towards the sharp head of the halberd. An interesting weapon, and one she hadn’t encountered before. It looked dangerous, not at least because it could keep a foe out of hand’s reach.

Hildegarde smiled at Kala’s assessment. “Oh, I like you,” she tells her, “I think we’d get along swimmingly,” obviously there’s something about what Vrag had said that Hildegarde likes and connects with. “They say that the best way to know a person is to battle them. That a fight is the truest way of knowing a person,” and she had fought many a person indeed. “You’re smart not to judge, m’lady. Many will try to fool you with a title or a smile,” she warned her. “Perhaps we’ll come to know each other well enough soon, eh?”

Vrag gave a slow tilt of the head. This sudden profession of -liking- was… confusing. A stoic knight had gone from debating the philosophy of war – which was the same as philosophy of life, really – to ruddy cheeks and wide smiles. The dragon almost wanted to ask, but felt instinct restrain her like a sharp gust of wind. “Perhaps,” she spoke her uncertain agreement. “Perhaps we will.” She nodded more to herself than to Hilde, then— “Wait. Does that mean you wish to fight me? Here? -Now?-” And even as the words left her lips, her body shifted in the dusting of snow. Nothing major, might’ve even been a redistribution of weight to the untrained eye. But this Warrior-queen was anything but untrained. War was written across her flesh like histories on parchment, except the ink ran red.

Hildegarde had already launched her body forward when Kala had said ‘perhaps we will’, body tucking into a neat and practiced roll as she propelled towards the opposing dragon, swinging her halberd from left to right in a strong and mighty ‘swish’ in the effort to sweep Kala off of her feet. Of course, Hildegarde had learned her lesson enough times to know it was time to get out once her attack had been launched. The polearm worked best when she had a little distance to use it. Diving to the side with a clatter of armour upon the ground; metal skittering against the rocks as she slips away from Kala’s immediate reach and surges up to her feet with her halberd held diagonally across her body at the ready. “Shall we get to know one another?”

Vrag might’ve thought “Oh s***” then, but dragons curse more gracefully. (‘Gracefully’ being growls and snapping of jaws and maybe some agitated clouds of smoke.) She was a breath too late, and the sturdy wood of the weapon caught against her ankle, upsetting her balance. Instead of falling flat on her face in the saddest display of combat skill to ever grace the face of Hollow, the dragon rolled over her left shoulder, springing to her feet outside the knight’s wide measure. Even the halberd couldn’t reach this far. Hopefully. “With pleasure,” Vrag murmured, her timbre the onset of an avalanche. As she spoke, the woman lowered her stance as she bent in the knees, unsheathing a dagger of rather poor make. Honestly, she was debating to forgo the weapon altogether and just use her fists, but there would always be time for that later. With a grin that betrayed the first spark of warmth in her icy eyes, Vrag slithered to the side and began to circle.

Hildegarde grinned at the now circling Vrag, sole eye having taken quick note of that shoddy dagger. A dagger, her breath and her strength. Their strength would likely be equal, given their height, build, profession and species. The Silver waited patiently for her fellow dragon to come forth. She had time, she had the reach after all. Kala would have to be the one to brave the distance between the two if she wanted to use that dagger. “You look too strong for a dagger,” the Silver commented as they continued to circle one another. “In fact, I’d say you’d suit a-” whatever she thinks Kala might suit, she doesn’t say. Her boot is busy kicking up the snow in the face of Kala which will likely not serve as a massive distraction, but it is distraction enough for her bulky body to spin with practiced footsteps towards Kala; halberd held tight against her body like a protection bar as Hildegarde intended to strike one hand out squarely against Kala’s chest to knock her off balance before the halberd quickly came out in a downward slap – the axehead flat so as not to severely harm or kill her opponent – to knock the dagger out of Kala’s hand. Regardless of success or failure, the Silver would just as gracefully pirouette back out of reach.

Vrag took measured strides, breathing deep, eyes wide. This was her element, her rush of power and excitement. Life stemmed from this only; knowledge of all things worth knowing always boiled down to two things. Violence and… well, -other- violence. Then there was a veil of snow between them, and they both moved. Thing was, Vrag was used to flying through blizzards in the High Xalious that made the local storms look like impudent youth. Some dusting on her muzzle – -face-, she reminded herself – was nothing new. And for that brief spell when white hung between them, the dragon didn’t stay in place; neither of them did. Low stance and lax muscles allowed her for a quicker retreat of many smaller steps, careful footwork and eyes on the prize. The Silver came slashing through the air in a halo of white, striking at empty air. Fool me once, and once only. Vrag didn’t wait for Hilde to move away; she sprung her trap in that moment when the knight’s momentum found no flesh to dissipate into. The Queen would be too fast and too committed to the attack to turn about in time to stop the right hook Vrag thought to deliver into her side; or so she thought.

Hildegarde took the hit and wheezed slightly as the fist met the metal of her armour with an almighty ‘clang’. Yet Hildegarde isn’t going to let the hit throw her off. Instead, she shifts her stance ever so slightly and flings her body at Kala’s: her heavy body and equally heavy armour surely likely to help throw her off balance, particularly with how Hildegarde has raised her halberd and jerked it outwards so the shaft of the weapon will compress upon Kala’s throat and likely crush her windpipe should she not defend that tender flesh. Should they crash to the ground together, the Silver would grin at Kala ever so briefly before jerking the halberd up to smack against Kala’s chin before promptly rolling off of the fellow dragon. “Shall we call peace? I’d rather not fight you to death when I can call you friend instead,” she said with a toothy smile. She enjoyed it.

Vrag caught her breath as the careening might of armor and muscle stumbled, then turned upon her. She’d have to invest into something metal and protective, preferably soon. Her knuckles stung something fierce. The Silver bore down with a weight she couldn’t hope to hold off, so she didn’t even try. She instead accepted the push and fell back, fluid as flying with the current. And it was a current of sorts, this give and take of blows, though it was far more exhilarating than flight could ever hope to be. With her knees tucked between their bodies as ground rushed to meet her curved back, Vrag kept some leverage – leverage, and space. The knight pressed the halberd forward, but the wiggle room left her enough time to wedge a forearm between the shaft and her throat. A nasty move, that. It brought a wicked grin to her face. Some called it dirty fighting; Vrag, she called it resourcefulness. “You say like there is no other option between enemy and friend,” she replied and slowly found her feet again. Her clothes were soaking wet with snow. So much for bespoke outfits.

Hildegarde laughed at that comment! “Oh, well, you’ll have to tell me about those in betweens. I prefer to have friends,” friends like the Coterie who spilled each other’s blood in the pursuit of their own betterment, those were the friends that Hildegarde knew well enough. “Kala. I thank you for the spirited fight, though short. But I would like to make a gift for you, if you would permit this,” she said it politely and courteously. “I will earn your friendship, your respect and your trust,” she vowed, “but let me make a gift to you.”

Vrag licked her lips, and this time, she didn’t care. This was a bout of dragons, not fragile two-leggers. Her tongue returned tasting of copper and salt. She hummed her contentment and dragged wet red strands from her eyes. “I’ve never had a friend,” Vrag said simply, tucking her dagger away once more. “But I have enemies. You are not of them.” There was a fire inside the Silver that burned like her own; it was in the strike of her hand and in the glint of her eye as she delivered that strike; it was in the sharp grin in the wake of battle, in the unafraid palm of her open hand. “What kind of gift?”

Hildegarde tried her best to not look baffled when Vrag claimed to have never had any friends before. “And… well. Are you open to having them?” she asked, obviously not wanting to impose her friendship upon Vrag (picture puppy befriending reluctant grumpy cat). When asked what kind of gift, the Silver dipped her hand to her sword belt and reached for the pouch of gold that hung there. “A gift of coin. It is not pity that urges me to give it to you. You held your own. But you’ll dominate the field if outfitted better. Consider this coin a… well. An opportunity for our next fight,” she said with a smile. “You need not accept it. But know I mean no offense by it,” Hildegarde did not want any offense to be taken, that was clear.

Vrag looked from the purse, then back to those grey eyes. She could still see the remnants of battle vigor swirling across the steel, color of rust, or perhaps blood. Could never tell. “I don’t know. What does one do with a friend? If it’s…” she gestured to the duel-trampled snow around them, “this, then I think I might be.” The mountains and their cold-hearted rulers didn’t exactly entertain many affable notions towards one another. Even families would sooner strew each other across craggy slopes than admit to any remotely loving emotion. “Thank you,” Vrag answered at length, a slight frown pulling at her brow. “I think I might wear something… heavy.” She nodded, clearly pleased if the grin splitting her face was anything to go by. “Mm, yes. -Heavy.-”

Hildegarde was pleased that Vrag accepted the gift of coin. “I have to go, I have duties to attend to,” such was the life of the warrior queen. “But I’ll explain friendship to you when we next meet, I promise,” she vowed, mentally making a note that Vrag and Josleen never meet. Otherwise neither of them will ever understand the concept of friendship and will be so baffled by one another, a head would undoubtedly explode. She almost shakes her head at the thought. “An honour to meet you!” she called over her shoulder as she departed, intent on handling her duties.

Vrag meant to say something more, but settled for a nod instead. As the Silver had said, there would be a next time. Growing up among glaciers had its downsides, but patience was not one of them. Vrag could wait. “A pleasure,” she echoed – or corrected, perhaps – either way, the Queen was already too far away to hear. Honor was the quality of men in early graves. Pleasure was the quality of indulgence well-served. This? Not a drop of blood in the snow. Well served, indeed.