RP:Love Forbidden, Death Bidden
Synopsis: The last person to see Brynhild with her sanity in tact, is Brennia, where the two worked together briefly. However at the end of that meeting something happened and Brynhild has not been seen since. It appears that something finally triggered the feral mind working within. On instinct alone, she flies to where Dyraxdiin hoards all his most precious items. As old friends, she's known of this place for thousands of years. What happens here is an Arbiters duty. No matter how heart-wrenching it actually is.
Love Forbidden, Death Bidden
Brynhild soars through the skies like a knife through butter -- A veritable mass of muscle and crimson scales. Her toothy maw suddenly opens, roaring into the distance; a threat to any that might stand in her way. Those saurian eyes of hers are glazed over. They're beady. Practically lifeless. Filled with an incomparable rage. Fueled by her heritage and need for solitude. The feral had come and those who would dare step into her territory would find nothing but the fire and brimstone of her claws. The might of her maw and power of a true reds physique. With a powerful flap of her wings she descends, like a hawk dropping on a mouse, landing near some caves. Had she been mentally alert she would know this place, but aware of things, she is not. Once more she scurries, howling a warning into the deepest parts of the cave. Knock knock munchkins - I'm coming in.
These caves, like a never-ending labyrinth of twisting tunnels wide enough for a dragon to comfortably maneuver in, have served generation after generation of dragons. Presently, they're occupied by none other than Dyraxdiin, who uses the complex network of passages beneath the earth as a front-line deterrence; for what he stores here is equal to several kingdoms in gold, items, artifacts and other riches. He just made a deposit into the deepest chamber of the network, where his hoard is stored, when he can make out the faint sound of another dragon's call. Lo, but this roar is quite different. Dyraxdiin hurries himself out of the tunnels, opting for the shortest path to his knowledge. Once sunlight breaks upon his ashen-gray scales, the great wyrm stops dead in his tracks - looking like a beast of nightmare, lurking just within the confines of inky black shadows, where his form fades into nothingness beyond. "Brynhild..." His voice is soft, despite the roughness of the Saurian tongue, the anguish laced within evident. Aegean eyes roam over her form, already knowing the state she's in before he looks. The Feral... she's deep within the grips of it and Dyraxdiin's heart breaks for her... Is this why they've not seen each other in a span of months? How long has she been left in this tormented state of half-life, losing all of the honor and pride that makes reds so beautiful? He edges out of the mouth of the cave slowly, so if need be he can take to the skies unhindered.
If Brynhild could bother recalling who this mage is through the fog of her mind, perhaps this greeting would be different. But no, as Dyraxdiin has guessed, the feral has dug its claws deep into her mind - taking up roots into the dark recesses. This is no proud red that stands growling before him. This isn't the height of a once mighty creature bred for war and proud. Grymvettir stand before the gray as an enemy. A mindless shell of what she once was. His greeting is responded to with a swipe of her mighty scaled claws, seeking to end his life in a single awe-inspiring blow. Hit or miss, she rears up on her hind legs, drawing in a massive breath of air - rocks and sand shift with her triumphant inhale, which is a tell tale sign of warning. She lunges her spiked head forward, expelling every ounce of her breath in flames which can and will, scorch everything, even turning bits of sand into glass instantaneously.
Dyraxdiin is caught off-guard by the sudden attack, her claws assuredly tearing into scale, leaving a bloody trail in the wake of his head as it rolls to the side. This fight, only just begun, is far from over. As his head, and neck, is sent to the side, Dyraxdiin uses the momentum to swing his whole body around, sidestepping the gout of fiery breath that Brynhild exhales. While doing so, the great wyrm reflexively swings his tail around - a powerful limb utilized in combat as much as in navigating the skies, in an attempt to cease her breath attack by striking for her exposed throat in a clothes-lining fashion. He bears his fangs, maw opening wide in dire warning, whilst blood flows from open wounds upon his cheek and jaw. Grymvettir... please, no. Maldryxiin, Isharuviin and Ovicelas have already been lost, must he lose his sister-in-law as well? Damn the dragonkind, damn the saurian empire. Damn it all! Dyraxdiin roars in defiance, giving over to the monster harbored within all Saurians - a chip, or a crack in the dam that holds back the Feral. He flexes his six wings and retaliates with his own breath attack in kind, sending away scorched earth, ripping up rock and utterly destroying any foliage in its path. The veritable wall of sound shatters all in its wake, the decibels bearing down upon Brynhild in ultimate reckoning. The sonic breath attack is a weapon designed specifically for killing other dragons, a weapon of the Arbiters - for if hit, it will rattle scales, creating a harmonic pitch that punctures organs and perforates arteries. He intends to try to finish this quickly. It's how Maldryxiin, Isharuviin, Ovicelas... and even Dyraxdiin himself would want it, were the roles reversed.
What can a creature such as Grymvettir do against such a blast? Especially after having her throat smashed by the grays powerful tail strike? Instead she is sputtering, coughing and regaining her senses. But one of feral mind never thinks straight. She lunges into the attack, claws, tail and all. The red beast is without sanity. And when that blast of sonic force touches upon her scaly hide? Flesh rips, scales rip asunder, organs burst and those leathery wings tear. The force is so powerful that even an eardrum ruptures throwing her balance off. Her foolish charge veers off course where she collides with the ground, shattering remnants of glass, colliding with boulders and grinding them into dust with her massive frame. She wails once in response - crying out in pain, not fear. She breathes deeply, vitae pooling around her form ominously. A clawed paw presses against the loosened soil and struggles with every ounce of her strength. However, she is done and flops back down. Beaten. Exhausted. Dying. Ragged breaths escape her nostrils and a single word escapes her maw. “Maldryxiin….” Her eyes settle on Dyraxdiin with deaths clarity or visions, really, for he is not her husband.
He watches. Alike the young whelp, hardly a century old when the Dwarves launched their first attacks. He was held close in his mother's embrace as she fled with him and his family. The sky darkened and the earth had turned a deep crimson with the blood of their kin. What has been wrought here? Why all of the violence? He asked himself time, and time again. It was his duty, as Arbiter, to right the wrongs and protect the weak. He couldn't let his brood down. And after he would war with the Dwarves of the mountains, he would gaze down upon his blood-soaked hands and whisper these words to himself, cursing the gods that damned him to such an existence. Now, Dyraxdiin curses them a final time. The earth soaks up the blood while his kin, his own sister, lies bleeding at his feet. It should have been him in her place now. Can Maldryxiin ever forgive this sin? Is it what he would have wanted? Is it what any of them would have, truly wanted? Grymvettir, the herald of war and the pride of the Red Brood, now little more than a husk of the grand stature she once represented... And it is with these thoughts, boiling over in his mind, pushing him ever onwards towards insanity, that Dyraxdiin answers her call, "Grymvettir..." He walks closer, wary of his footing - his left eye gone dark. All that is left for him is to comfort her in her final moments.
Her name being called out by Dyraxdiin is hardly registered. Nor are his footsteps that bring his form nearer in these last moments. Abruptly her golden saurian eyes shift away from him, looking at something beside him that is not really there. “Ani'Ra, Irrosyx, Ovicelas, Isharuviin…” She breathes in once, shuddering through the pain. “Can you all forgive me?” Why is Brynhild, better known as Grymvettir, asking for forgiveness? When Maldryxiin died, Dyraxdiin was all she had left. Everything. They warred together, fought together, bled together for thousands of years and had a bond which surpassed anything she had before. Now that she stood before the family members of her past, she admits it out loud. “I loved Dyraxdiin…” And never told him. Without any further words, her life ceases. The great red is gone, leaving nothing behind but a destroyed carcass and a confession.
Dryaxdiin, the gray. Great wyrm and Arbiter is here. Or rather, his body stands before the once-great red. His mind is adrift, reeling through the storm of so many memories, unbidden yet unrelenting. They flood through his mind's eye like a rolling tide. He married Ovicelas out of duty and loved her faithfully until their fated departure. But Brynhild... they had gone on long after, the pair of them. Fighting for what they believed was right. Seeking to restore some semblance of balance. They journeyed together, struggled together, weathered loss. Together. For thousands of years, they suffered in silence together, laughed together, grew together and it made their bond all the stronger. Could she have really loved him? Dyraxdiin's tears intermix with the blood flowing from his face, which blends with Brynhild's own. Long after her last breath has passed, Dyraxdiin, the gray is here. Broken great wyrm, once-Arbiter. He stands silent vigil over her, her watchful protector - willing her, wishing her all the while, to get up. Please. I love you...