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A dozen leagues up the narrow canyon in the wild highlands, the river finally spreads out as the cliffs withdraw around a plain of scrub and grasses. On dragonback, things tend to move by far more rapidly than on foot. And Sir Agravaine's horse is put to shame by the wingbeats of the shadowy, proud beast who suffers his presence for the moment, though as the others fall into a ghostly diamond formation, it would seem Pretanikai has a mind of her own.
That mind, as it happens, is to veer off on a rather sickening arc and pull up rapidly, the hard backbeats of her wings making it easy to land on a narrow strip of land elevated high above the flatter ground in the distance. Whether or not the knight falls off her on his face is another matter.
*
Sir Agravaine clings hard to the cavorting dragon, and he is NOT blind to the fact that everyone else's dragons are behaving and his is NOT. "What are you /doing/? I need to go where the others go."
*
Meanwhile, Sir Gareth flaps about on the back of a far more feline-like dragon. Its wingspan outstrips any of the others in the sky, great, vast shadows grown in torrential designs against the sky. Hints of copper and ember flame surrounds the airborne creature, its hooved back legs treading against the sky. When the darker dragon descends, Cymryth curiously tips its head and swings off in a low, lazy bank that swirls around and around Agravaine's perch.
*
Sir Agravaine's dragon stares at him with those unreadable, glowing reptilian eyes. Worse than reptilian; at least a natural lizard would have a slitted pupil. "Allow this to be clear, sir knight. Whatever trials and tribulations ye endured to reach this far, they be perhaps nothing to the danger ahead. And dost thee endanger mine own, I shall abandon ye to thine own fate. Dost thee fight honourably, I shall carry ye beyond the gates of sunset if I must." Pretanikai's crest flutters. "Do we have an understanding, mortal?"
*
Sir Agravaine huffs. "I am here to fight, and if I do not have to fight you, I won't. Bring me to the danger and let me find my glory, be it life or death, at the hands of the true enemy."
*
Sir Gareth is both nervous and exhilarated at flying. The view is amazing, but there's the constant thought that he could fall anytime the dragon he rides desides to be rid of him. "Noble dragon," he says to his carrier, "may I ask your name?" As they begin their gloriously graceful descent, he shifts a bit, getting a more careful grip. "how amazing it would be, if everyone could fly where they were going," he muses.
*
White-water rafting meets living, scintillating flesh that cavorts for the sheer, undiluted pleasure of the force seething in its veins. Taliesin stopped shouting a while back, content instead to emit little grunts of repressed surprise when the dragon takes an unexpected dip. Its movements are svelt and curving in the air, following an invisible course to a distant place they would have never reached on foot.
Though let it be known that the Master Bardd had no idea he'd be riding a dragon to get there!
Albion, said dragon in question, takes a playful multi-S descent in lieu of Pretanikai's pause to land on the thin landing pad of land. No need for this dragon to land, it simply slithers in lazy circles around the prouder peacock dragon, its whiskers writhing in the cool air.
"I suppose we're getting near to our destination now?" This question is for anyone, including the riverine dragon he sits astride. He seems much more at ease now than when they first took off; no flopping about now, a proud, straight-backed seating, as if he'd been born to grace its spine.
*
The cinder-dark dragon banks the tighter and spirals down above the ridge where Pretanikai and Sir Agravaine have their conversation, the shadow hanging over their heads. It helps to have hooves to catch those tricky, rocky approaches, and it gallops along and then drops onto all fours, displacing stones of all kinds. Its tail lashes about lazily. "Me? Flame of the People, Cymryth." Yawning reveals the balefire glow of its mouth and many, many smooth contours faceted like stone inside its somewhat beaky maw. "Are we eating that one?" Hopeful the tone is not, but the rolling murmur of amusement is unmistakeable.
Pretanikai has no such sense of humour or qualms. It unfolds its segmented, many-jointed wings, the luminous green threads spiked along its quilled spine and tail glittering. "We are resolved. Do not give way to cowardice. The others move ahead." Indeed, Lady Tywyll isn't even visible! But is that a pittance of an issue considering the midnight wyrm swings its head south from whence they came.
*
Coming up from behind the group of dragons on the ground is the sound of a lone rider. Unlike all the others, this one rides on a mere mundane horse, and not a dragon. The rider wears the armor of a knight, her standard a pair of snakes entwined on an upraised sword. As she approaches, she glances at the others and nods once, "Good day to you sers." Her hair is black, with a hint of a greenish tint, cut short like a page might have it.
*
Sir Agravaine gets himself situated when the other dragons make their landings. Making sure his armor looks decent, that his junk is adjusted right in the codpiece after the ride, that his helm doesn't have any feather bits in it. He does look sadly at his broken blue feather though, and then looks up at the pretty dragon. "I do not /suppose/…" He points to the broken feather.
*
Two wyrms now crown a ridge above the canyon below, a height of roughly fifty feet and more in the air. Pretanikai, the one with a pavonine crest, is bending to allow a knight to remount. That's Sir Agravaine, a man of singularly lithe build and one hell of a broken feather on his crest. Further back is a terribly strange dragon, as dragons go, given its back legs are hooved and front claws closer to a raptor's hands. That creature is ridden by Sir Gareth, he of noble heart and proper diction. Then there's the bard of the Queen's Court being tumbled along as much as ridden by an exhilarated mass of whitewater, the dragon Albion literally the river Lady Daphne was following for the better part of the day until it up and vanished, leaving its wet bed behind.
*
Gareth braces himself as they come in for a landing, bouncing a bit at the galloping deceleration. "I'm grateful to you for your assistance, mighty Cymryth," he says, recognizing the gravity of the name. "And our comrade is not on the menu…for the moment," he quips witha hint of a toothy grin. At the sound of a rider approaching, he turns to look, curious. Of course, he -had- a horse. Until it ran off while they fought a shrubb—a tree monster. "A good day to you….?" he says, not recognizing her standard.
*
ROLL: Wanda +rolls 1d4 for a result of: 4
*
Maximus mounts back up on the dragon, glancing at the approaching short-haired woman. WHAT SACRILEDGE IS THAT?! Is nothing sacred?! But, then he thinks…well, maybe she can cook and polish his armor up and that'd be nice. He lifts a hand in salute after he is on his pretty princess dragon.
*
The new arrival nods slightly, "I was sent from the Queen's Court, shortly after your departure. I am Ser Daphne, late of Avignon, before I came to this island." She gives Maximus a look, "Have you tried to fight in close quarters with long hair, ser?" She sounds a bit cranky, but then again, she's been riding cross-country at haste, instead of flying the friendly skies.
*
The river dragon, Albion, writhes around in coils until mostly gathered in one spot. Semi-translucent scales give way to entirely opaque flows, and it lowers its whiskered head curiously to the knight and her mount. The destrier may be concerned, even trained for war as it is, but it certainly has no qualms. "Now, you're a fine one, even if you smell… wet stone, seashore, orangeries," it says to Delphyne, peering at her with cloudy eyes. It seems curious enough. Whiskers trail and quiver. "That will do. I like this one. Has the white one sent you? Not direct. You would smell like apples then. But I hope so." Albion rambles. Rather like its bard. Lovingly.
*
"Please don't eat the knight," the Pencerdd snaps from his perch, not exactly appreciating the continued wetness now soaking his leggings thoroughly. "We have a task to complete, let's get a move on! We're getting nearer to that tracing spell after all." He leans over to his shoulder, with the scarlet-cloth, and sneakily sniffs.
Does he smell like apples?
He has no idea. To his own nose, he smells like…river water.
*
Sparks fizzle around Gareth. His mount cranes its head down, and then nods, flapping for good measure. "Night soon comes, and night is only friend to I." The glimmer of its balefire eyes probably acknowledges why and the heat miasma around it builds as Cymryth the dragon flaps its great, shadowy wings. Feathers scorch at the sky as it rears onto its back feet, prepared to launch itself up. "Let's be gone. Put her with Sir Plume." And with that, it hops right up, madly flapping to get airborne.
Pretanikai leans over and blows on Sir Agravaine's helm. Such might be deeply disturbing, save it clouds him in a woodsy fragrance heavy on resins and the nameless heart of the forest. When done, his drooping feather glitters cyan and straightens. She waits until either the bard, Taliesin, or her rider figure out whom shall bear the Lady knight.
*
Sir Agravaine smiles as his feather is restored to whole and he pops his helm on his head, proudly. "My /dear lady/, come and ride with me on this noble dragon, and we will see you in a fight soon enough."
*
Gareth doesn't mention what the bard smells like. "For what it's worth, I see in the dark as well as a cat." Quite literally, of course. Gareth shifts about on his ride as Cymryth flaps and rears up. Sir Plume? Oh dear.
*
Ser Daphne nods towards Sir Agravaine, "Well, then it wouldn't be a waste of my time to be coming then." She smiles wryly, and dismounts, whispering a few words to her horse. The horse, once she retrieves her things, quickly bolts back towards the south as she takes the offered seat on the dragon, "I admit, this is not something I have done before… well, the dragon-riding, that is."
*
Tigra leaves, heading towards Harlem [out].
*
Tigra has left.
*
Three dragons take to flight — or in the fluvial one's case, launching itself at a rapidly swirl across the landscape. Flapping wings give Cymryth a lead that soon makes him far too hard to catch, but Pretanikai bears up under two riders easily. "North?" it asks both Sir Agravaine and Lady Daphne, entrusting in their ability to point the direct rightion. The jolt they'll face when the wyrm rushes down the long ridge and hurls itself into the air is considerable, but it has perhaps the steadiest of wingbeats. Albion surges along, somehow making a sinuous, crooked line speedy.
The grey skies and rolling plains soon spread out before them at speeds typically reserved for the wind, roaring ahead. The diamond formation occasionally exchanges who forms point, the imperceptible shades of two other riders — Lady Tywyll and Sir Gareth — swinging around. A line of shadow and thick smoke leaches on the horizon, hemmed in by fields and patchy chunks of forest. A sweep of coastline is visible past the mass of an army. Slightly nearer, fires can be seen, and beyond the rocky crag of a mountain crowned by a castle.
*
Boy, this dragon is really testing his inner ear. Riding a horse will be incomparably dull after this adventure. The night wind is brisk and Taliesin bears his teeth against a chill delving into his bones — at least, until the scarlet-cloth shepherd's hood extends a goodly amount of fabric and wraps it around what it can. Heat is trapped, the Pencerdd is silently grateful, and thus, they come upon the scene before them.
"Oh…seven hells," the Master Bardd murmurs, doing his best to narrow in on the beacon, now clawing at his psyche as if cornered and less than thrilled about it. "The splinters might be in the castle!" He risks releasing his death-grip on flossy spine-crest to point towards it. That's a rather silly thing, considering the curly-burly swurvy flight path of the dragon Albion and he gives up quickly with a self-pitying sigh that cuts off for a sudden drop.
*
Sir Agravaine shouts over the wind, "Let us hope that they are, for a castle means people-sized things to best, instead of giant dragons!" Then he laughs in a slightly unhinged manner.
*
Ser Daphne looks wryly at Sir Agravaine, "Well, a good battle would be welcome, as long as it is on solid ground!" She does, however, glance around in wonder during the flight, in awe of the sight of the land racing below.
*
The dragons swerve away from the massed ranks of an army littered below. They simply aren't bound to charge up, and why should that be?
Trebuchets. Ballistae. Possibly very large pointed crossbows manned by men in black armour, and things that are not men below. For among the ranks and rows, there are a disturbingly large number of highly regimented archers and riders. Cavalry that's not on horses, anyways, but things that rather resemble lizards and a good sense from a whiff of breath several of those things are undead.
*
That is…a lot of artillery. The Master Bardd swallows thickly, glad for the distance and constant sluicing movement of his dragon-mount to hide how he grows a bit paler around the mouth.
"How to do this…how do we do this…?" The whispered words are lost puffs of breath. Even from up here, the sight of the army makes the hair on the back of his neck rise — along with his gorge. The wind smells of things meant to have been beneath the ground for eons more.
The Pencerdd makes up his mind. His steel-blue eyes glitter even as he thins his lips and whispers again, "Ohhhhhhhh gods above." It's obvious to him, at least. One hand grasps at the neck of his shirt, as if around something beneath the fabric, and he shouts out, "I'll clear the way! Albion, any weapon with projectiles! Take them to splinters!!!" Taliesin then leans down along the dragon's spine to make himself less of a potential target. A subtle flash, perhaps caught by a sharp eye, signals a thin shielding spell cast about himself.
*
Maximus leans in on his own dragon and reaches back to make sure Delphy is still there with him. "Fly close to the Bard, we're going to use him as a shield to get through these lines, to the castle where the shards must be!" He tells his dragon, urgently, and then to Delphy, "Hold on and stay low!"
*
Daphne might have a great deal of concern about the barbed weapons full of an incandescent darkness pointed at them. Arrows fletched in cruel flames take to the skies on the clamour of a hundred wailing bowstrings, snapped cranks, and wailing mechanisms. Taut ropes released from bondage snap and ripple, and the larger war machines swivel and fling more than a bit of boiling oil or a flaming cow.
Eldritch flames go roaring like meteors into the sky. The wind rises out of nowhere with a wrathful sob and then a scream, pouring down the rough slopes of the mountains. Pennants given no device, only black flags, snap and rise, pushing forward the legions step by step. Above the buffeting cascade of falling projectiles, the chants of poisoned words form the bleak battle hymn for Britannia.