Fantasy basgiath war college: fly or die | closed

[SUGAR.]

"this is a dialogue."

The day had come. Conscription day. Ronin stood in line for the Riders quadrant, towering over the person in front of and behind her. The line she was in was exponentially shorter than those for infantry, healer, and scribe. She presumed that was typical. Who would want to face imminent death daily? She uncrossed her arms, trying to relax her posture. She had been waiting for this day from the moment her parents lives were consumed by dragon fire and that rebellion relic was carved into her very flesh. The thought of it had her subconsciously rubbing at her neck. The spot that black spirals swirled and hooked around her ear, the tip barely grazing her cheekbone. She had already received many looks from others. The ones of disgust she was used to, but the ones of sympathy were almost worse. Everyone in Navarre knew that when conscription day came around, the children of the rebellion always wound up in line to the riders quadrant. Not by choice. Ronin liked to think regardless of her status she would've joined the riders quadrant anyways. She felt herself clenching and unclenching her fists and willed herself to stop. Now was not the time for nerves. Nerves were pointless. She read somewhere that dragons could scent fear. She had a sinking feeling those very dragons were watching them all now. Her eyes lifted to the skies, scanning between the clouds for a glimpse of a shadow. Nothing.

"Next."

A cold voice summoned her. Ronin stepped up, watching the recruit in front of her enter the double doors into a large tower. She looked down her nose at the woman sitting at the table, taking names on parchment. The woman had sharp features and an overall unpleasant aura about her. She was dressed in rider black and had her hair slicked back into a tight military style bun. Ronin's face was a cold mask as the woman studied her, eyes lingering on her relic with disdain.

"Name."

The pen lifted, hovering over the paper. Lesser magic, will be useful to possess. Ronin noted, blue eyes hardening as the woman had the audacity to keep staring at her relic.

"Ronin Murdoch."

And with those two words, she sealed her fate.

Moments later Ronin passed through those double doors. She wore simple black pants and long sleeve blue top. Her black combat boots were laced tightly. On her belt was a small sack filled with a few personal items. She didn't bother with any other clothes as she knew the riders quadrant would provide her with them once she passed this preliminary test. Her only weapon was in a leather sheath on her back. A hefty battle axe, earned by her during her rigorous training provided by her foster family. Not to be confused with adopted family. Most loyalist families who took in the rebel kids didn't officially adopt them, none wanted that stain on their family tree and no rebel kid wanted to take another name. Ronin was no different. Though she considered herself lucky, her foster family showed her empathy and kindness, she did not want to take their name. She would never disgrace her parents like that.
Taking a breath, Ronin began her ascent of the spiraling stone staircase. There was no rail on either side and the steps were small, meaning one slip up and you would splat on the stone floor below. Ronin huffed, smirking. This was nothing compared to the cliffside's she would scale in Tyrrendor. The girl in front of her made it to the top by the time Ronin was over halfway up, stepping through an open archway into the blinding sunlight. The tower was dimly lit otherwise, with no windows and only a few torches lining the stairway that looped around the edges. The stones were smooth as Ronin ran her hand across them. She was almost to the top when a screech caught her attention. She whipped her head back to find a girl two people behind her falling. Another girl was smirking as she watched her go, calling something Ronin didn't quite catch. Crack. The girl fell two stories on her back, the sound of her skull splitting reverberating off the walls. Ronin inhaled sharply, noticing as her head lolled to the side a stark black rebellion relic. The girl who pushed or tripped her, Ronin didn't know, snickered and continued her climb as if nothing happened. That was a cruel reminder to what awaited her behind Basgiath's walls. As hard as she would try to earn her place, there would be many eager for a chance to end her life. Her face going back to the stone mask that's protected her all these years, Ronin turned and passed through the archway into the sun.

What awaited her was not what she expected. She assumed maybe a large open space for them to receive rank and introductions. Instead she was faced with a a thin stone bridge, barley over a foot in width, across a gaping ravine. Once again, no rail, cadets were exposed to the elements as they attempted to cross. She noted one person taking the crawling route while another wobbled at every small gust of wind. This must be why there are rumors of conscription day taking 15-20% of potential cadets from this quadrant. Ronin did not hesitate in crossing the turret, pausing only by two riders holding parchment. They were taking the names of everyone crossing. Ro had no intention of letting any sort of fear stop her now. You've lived on a mountain where snowstorms would knock trees over, this is nothing. She reminded herself, giving her name once more before stepping foot on the uneven, tiny ass bridge. She threw her arms out for balance, a tactic she used when crossing rivers on fallen logs during the spring season. One misstep then meant sure death by freezing torrential water. One misstep now meant death by falling over 200 feet. As long as that rebel hating girl stayed two people behind her, Ronin could cross this parapet with ease.

the rebel

ronin.

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♡coded by uxie♡

"this is a dialogue."

Lorcainia never thought she would decide to bond a rider. But her recent whims landed her in this position. She was attempting to climb the stairs up to a viewing platform, where all her fellow dragons were to watch cadets cross the parapet. They had been briefed the past few days on what that meant, and what other tasks these potential riders would have to achieve before even being presented to them. It seemed boring and presentation and threshing were weeks and weeks away. The thought of having to play human for that long made bile rise in her throat. She only just shifted into a human for the first time a few days ago. She was still getting used to their small and awkward shape as well as their lack of tail. Her balance was a travesty in its own right. She paused as she almost tripped on a stair. Again. She grabbed Nocturne's arm to balance herself. They were kind enough to silently walk alongside her, however painstakingly slow she was going. She gave them a nod of thanks before she continued on, finally making it to the top with no more slip ups.

"Damn this body. Though the hair is lovely its functionality is lacking."

She hissed, the words tasting foreign on her tongue. Given she had never felt the need to shift until recently, that meant she spoke exclusively via telepathy, like all her kind spoke. She was told she'd need to get used to speaking with her mouth, and using her words, as humans don't posses that ability. She couldn't wait to get a bonded rider so they could telepathically talk like she was used to.
She glanced sidelong at her friend and ally. Nocturne was one she decided to befriend a mere few months ago. The brute was feared by most of dragonkind and pegged as some monster. Lorcainia, once again on a whim, decided she wanted them in her corner. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer is what they all say. Though she was quick to find they weren't an enemy at all. The two's mutual respect for each other led to a blossoming companionship not even Lorcainia saw coming. She can't lie, she enjoys having scary dragon privileges.
The two pass through the archway and to the viewing area, in a tower overlooking the parapet. They were instructed to wear their rider issued uniforms in case any potential cadet spotted them. They would simply pass as second or third years watching conscription day. Finding them a spot off to the side and away from the other dragons looking to bond, Lorcainia huffed, bright eyes judging as they always did.

"Smaller than I thought."

She mused, sharing a glance with Nocturne. Her poor friend had their tongue ripped out a while back, and unfortunately that translated to their human form. So Nocturne was bound to speak telepathically, meaning talking to other humans would prove impossible until they bonded someone. Good thing Lorcainia would be there to translate if they so desired her to do so. She watched with wicked delight as one human was shoved off by another, sending them tumbling down to their doom.

"Oh look Noc, there that one goes! Quite brutal, wouldn't you say?"

She kept testing these words, but her voice was quiet still as she learned how to wield it. She tucked a long strand of fiery red hair behind her ear. Like she mentioned before, the hair was lovely but also quite a nuisance. She has a distaste for how it keeps getting in her face. Bracing her hands on the railing of the viewing platform, she leaned forward, watching a large blonde woman cross the parapet with ease. Boring. She thought to herself, eyes finding the next recruit to step up. This one piqued her interest. She nudged Nocturne, pointing. Their keen eyes were able to see through the distance with ease.

That one seems interesting, their attire is more fine than the others that I've seen so far.

She mused telepathically to Noc, not wanting anyone else to hear this specific conversation. The human was tall and broad, with deeply tanned skin and dark tousled hair. She was interested to see how he approached the parapet and if he would excite her or bore her as the blonde woman had.

orange scorpiontail

lorcainia.

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  nocturne arthur morgan. & mentions oz yokai.

  
  

  
  
  
  
  

  
  
  

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Meatball30]

"this is a dialogue."

How many miles had passed on the wagon train from the rugged eastern reaches of Tyrrendor to Basgiath? Ruadhán hadn't counted. It didn't matter. Regardless of just how far he'd gone from home, he was easily farther afield than he'd ever been.

Just thinking that to himself filled him with a boyish pride, even as he stood in line to present himself for the dragon riders' corps. No one sang songs of ironsmiths and farriers who worked hard and stayed home. It always seemed to be the unlikely lads swept off to far away places who ascended to greatness. They stood immortalized in the bronze titans that towered over the streets of Basgiath while average men were forgotten the second their graves closed.

That singular thought had consumed him as the familiar Tyrrish mountains faded on the horizon, and it had gnawed at him as they entered Morraine, and the minarets of Basgiath rose into view for the first time. Ruadhán couldn't help but smile like a fool for nearly the entire ride. This was his purpose, after all.

Though he wondered if he might not be executed as a deserter the first time he gave his name at the college. The second night their wagon train out of Tyrrendor had camped, they'd met up with a pair of other recruit caravans traveling back from Calldyr and Deaconshire. Ruadhán took the chance to mingle with recruits from the other provinces, and covertly jumped wagons from the group of Tyrrish youth he'd been picked up with to join the young men and women from Calldyr.

For most of the trip he'd been studying their mannerisms, their strange accents, the way they carried themselves. He didn't know if the rest of Navarre walked and talked as they did, but he knew this - the Tyrrish did not. Perhaps it was their relative isolation, or perhaps it was a rebellious desire to make themselves distinct from the rest of Navarre, but a Tyrrishman was often the odd man out of any group of Navarrese folk. He felt that especially strongly as he and his new companions rode closer to Basgiath.

He spent the rest of that journey widdling away at a bare hunk of wood with his knife. One side of the block had begun to take the shape of a dragon's wing.

A stinging slap across his cheek stirred him from his reminiscent stupor. A rider standing beside the roll table, clad in the distinct black leathers of the corps, glared at him. The dark leather of his gloves left a lingering pain on Ruadhán cheek.

"She asked for your name, cadet. Did you forget or are you deaf?"

Ruadhán began to open his mouth with a sneer, but bit his tongue. His family had warned him against giving in to his... rowdier impulses.

"Ruadhán Wylin. Ma'am." he answered dutifully, if hesitantly. The stone-faced woman at the table only nodded and penned his name on her growing list of recruits.

The voice that left his mouth was hardly his own. Some young man from Calldyr's, maybe, but that harsh Tyrrish stress was gone. He'd trained himself to remove it completely on the ride here, though his "new" accent was still rough around the edges.

It wouldn't do to be a Tyrrishman here, surrounded by dutiful Navarrese soldiers and those traitors bearing the black mark of their heritage. One would despise him for who he was, he was certain. The other would despise him for what he wasn't.

For now, he had to be something else, someone more respectable, for his own sake and survival. Gods willing, he'd prove not all of his kin were the same as the secessionists, or their children.

After taking his name, Ruadhán was not, thankfully, pulled aside for his earlier "desertion." He imagined many more recruits actually fled the wagon trains than simply jumped carts for another.

Just as he turned toward the impressive tower the prospective dragon riders were being funneled into, Ruadhán heard a scream and a dull thud against the stone. When he passed through the doors, he saw a young woman on the ground, arms and legs twisted unnaturally, the back of her head reduced to a crimson mess of hair and bone and brain matter.

He might have felt something for the girl, until he noticed the black mark spiraling up her face.

With any luck, maybe all of the traitors in this year's conscription would meet the same fate.

The spiral staircase that climbed up the stone tower was narrow, and dangerous as the girl on the floor proved. For other riders, maybe more so - but for him, the young boy who'd leapt from craggy rock to narrow outcropping for fun as a child, who'd come of age in the shadow of cliffs and mountain peaks three times as high? He almost felt at home as he started his ascent, smiling like an idiot as he pressed his rugged hands to the wall and kept his legs churning upwards.

He began to whistle between breaths as he glided up the steps, careful to keep his slender frame as close to the wall as possible while also maintaining impressive balance, even with the small sack tied tightly across his back and his shoddy iron blade bouncing on his left hip. The fear in some of the other recruits' eyes and cautious steps, somehow, relaxed him even more. If this was his competition to become a dragon rider, he was sure to excel.

Even with his smaller figure and skill in the climb, Ruadhán was admittedly winded by the time he summitted the staircase and stepped back into the sunlight.

When he was greeted by a treacherous, narrow bridge jutting out over another deadly fall, Ruadhán grinned from ear to ear. It was as if the Tyrrish themselves had built the damn place.

He gave his name once more to a pair of riders taking roll of the cadets who made it through the first hurdle before stepping confidently onto the uneven stone stretch before him. Thankfully, the heights below didn't frighten him quite so much as the recruits who were crawling their way to solid ground, and the whipping wind wasn't quite so strong as it was back in Tyrrendore's higher reaches.

He could feel adrenaline coursing through his body, and his hands shook from excitement, not fear.

"What is there to be so damned afraid of?" Ruadhán called aloud to no one in particular, once again in that stranger's voice, laughing like a child. The wind flowing through his thick brown hair made him feel like one again, if just for a moment.

"If we fall we make it to the afterlife, and if we don't we make it to the college! We can't lose!"

the rider

Ruadhán.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[comfortable]

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  how she's feeling...

  
  
  
  

  a little bloodthirsty
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  what she's wearing...

  
  
  
  

  casual

  
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  where she's at...

  
  
  
  

  viewing platform - across the parapet
  

  
  
  

  
  
  
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  mentions...

  
  
  
  

  ruadhán, ronin, lorcainia, nocturne
  

  
  
  

  
  
  

tirrane

the blue swordtail

"this is a dialogue."

Boredom had dug its evil little claws into Tirrane these past few months. Despite the introduction of new dragons seeking bonds with riders, the thrill was fleeting. Entering her second year, she had hoped to be spared from the routine briefings, yet someone always managed to track her down. The sun filtered through the leaves above, casting a dappled light upon her. Her back pressed against the tree bark as she yawned and stretched her hands above her head.

Tirrane smoothly shifted from lounging on the tree branch to a seated position, her legs swinging over the edge, while her hands instinctively found support on either side, ensuring a stable balance. Her sunbathing had been cut by the lovely coppery scent of blood that permeated the air. Death a familiar and welcomed companion was an unavoidable fate for the weakest among them. Tirrane harbored no inclination to join her fellow dragons in observing humans clumsily navigate their existence.

And yet, as she moved gracefully from branch to branch, and her feet made a resounding thud upon landing, a surge of excitement coursed through her veins. Just maybe someone would be worthy of her bond. As she ascended to the viewing platform, the scent of blood intensified, and upon reaching the pinnacle of the stones, Tirrane leisurely sauntered over to the assembled group. It had been proven time and time again that some humans were just as cruel as dragons. During her first year attending Basgiath she had witnessed cadets brutally kill each other. The parapet was just a taste of what was to come.

As her eyes subtly scanned over her fellow dragons, a small smile danced on her lips. For the orange and black dragon were predictable in their companionship, still, she placed herself at a small distance away from the two. The thought of rubbing elbows with an orange dragon made her skin prickle with revulsion and her reverence for the black dragon waned swiftly after their arrival.

Tirrane turned her attention to the humans across the stone bridge and sighed. The sight of an individual crawling across the parapet grated on her nerves, prompting a fleeting desire for someone to send them plummeting to their demise. Her eyes slipped over the boys with a deep complexion to land a blonde girl. Her frame took up a healthy amount of space; an easy target she thought to herself.

Her eyes fixated on the woman's cold, expressionless face, and a sense of curiosity narrowed her gaze. The absence of visible fear in the woman's features fueled Tirrane's wish for someone to crack her impassive mask. The sound of squawking caught her attention and her eyes found a human boy yelling at the wind about an afterlife. His laughter rang out aginst the ravine and she wished someone would push him to his death, he was annoying.

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[stargrrl.]

Andromeda could hear the wind whistling through the cobblestones as she joined the throng of riders in their steady ascent up the tower. With one hand on the wall she had the biting urge to methodically touch each of the knives strapped to her person, a nervous tick she was actively trying to kick and didn’t care to share with her fellow candidates, the last thing she needed to do was give away a tell three minutes after stepping foot in the place.

Her emotional state, sentenced to purgatory, was suspended somewhere between apathy and the type of nerves that had left her legs numb as she stalled at the walls of the quadrant. They were steady now as they carried her up step by step, a death march, the maudlin part of her brain asserted and she once again resisted an urge to physically shake the thought out of her head. Instead Andromeda let out a huff of hot breath and continued the climb.

With a few more steps the sound of an earth shattering screech rang through the interior of the tower, followed by a thud that somehow made the already silent riders even quieter. The slight stutter in the flow of people gave Andi the chance to glance down at the girl and oh……

The relic, incredibly similar in placement and size to her own, was etched into Andromeda’s eyelids when she looked away in the next second, blinking rapidly, her gaze then drawn to the girl giggling on the steps above her.

Remember. The thought was so strong that it was as if it had been whispered into her ear at that moment. Examining the girl's face, her eyes, nose, hair, the scar on her hand, the shoes she was wearing. If she made it across the parapet she’d remember. As the exit approached she deliberated the merits of pushing through once they reached the platform and simply shoving her off the edge.

There it was. The anger cutting through the apathy and the nerves, making her blood run hot and her shoulders straighten, she pressed her hand harder against the rough stone, her steps coming quicker and harder, almost sending the cadet in front of her down the drop after the marked girl. When they turned around in annoyance, fear sparking their gaze she simply lowered her dark brows and began to step harder, determination setting her jaw and curling her free hand into a fist.

Deep breaths Andromeda.

Her foster father now, clear as anything permeating her thoughts. It made her sick that she could conjure his voice and yet had begun to struggle in recalling that of her parents, sometimes convincing herself that the vision she had of their faces was wrong as well, and that her brother’s would follow them soon after. She bit her tongue until a familiar coppery taste bloomed in her mouth.

The light made her wince. Going from the dingy stairwell to the mid morning sun was enough to send her hand up to shield her eyes, vision adjusting the view, wind lifting her tied back hair from her shoulders slightly but conditions seeming optimal for what she knew was coming next.

The parapet was somehow even more treacherous than she had imagined. Practising on a beam in a yard covered in soft grass had been enough to dislocate Andromeda’s shoulder twice. The reality at least would be quick, her soul condemned to Malek in one fell swoop. She knew no one would come for her things, she would end up buried in an unmarked grave, her belongings pitched onto the fire with every other unknown.

“Name?”


“Andromeda Yarrow”


Whoever was writing’s brow twitched slightly, lingering on the shape of her exposed relic. She darkened her gaze in response and they looked back down with a huff of laughter, misspelling both her first and last name. Too many vowels.

She watched as her fellow candidates stepped out, some more confident than others. She had moved up in the queue, the boy Andromeda had almost sent to an early grave opting to let her pass in front. That made her mouth curve up at the corner slightly.

The boy who was now in front of her seemed elated to be there, crying out something Andromeda couldn’t quite catch, his tone alone made her roll her eyes, it reminded her of her foster brothers, barrelling head first into danger, seeming invincible, and carefree, this just steeled her even further as she stepped out onto the tiny stone bridge

Arms out, head up, don't look down.

Like a mantra repeating on the tip of her tongue. She could still remember Ain’s voice, she could.

It gave her some comfort as she took her first step, strides confident and measured, eyes straight, shoulders squared. The impulse to check her knives again made the tips of her fingers tingle.

Please Malek don’t let me reunite with Ain just yet, let me achieve this one thing, give me a fighting chance before I see my mother and father again.

the avenger.

andromeda.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Juju]

Gwen stood in line, fiddling with the odd brooch pinned to her chest. It was crafted from an old, broken trinket and given a new form with braids of mismatched tapestry thread, songbird feathers, dried flowers and a shiny shard of sea glass. Each one of her younger siblings had a hand in its creation, the little details each a little mark of remembrance. They gifted the charm to Gwendolyn just before she set off from the family manor, promising it would give her enough luck to pass the test. In return, Gwen promised to write them letters often and let them have a ride on her dragon when she became a rider.

So it was that Gwendolyn of Eastshire, first and probably last of her name, stood in line like a sheep to the slaughter. The wait was excruciating, but she passed the time by sneaking a curious glance towards the youths around her.

She noticed that the girl in front of her had something strange on their neck. Oh my? Could it be? Was that the infamous relic? She had never seen one in person before. Were they all so intricate? She knew that it marked the sons and daughters of traitors, and yet it held a strange, sad beauty to it. Her parents had instilled a deep hatred for all of the back-stabbing kin, yet Gwen could never let it set in fully. Yes their parents were traitors, but why did the kids have to suffer. Afterall, the parents suffered only a short time, but their children had to bear their burden for the rest of their lives.

Someone behind her gave her a shove, breaking her out of thought. “Pardon me! Whatever is the matter?”

She turned around to find a tall and rather intimidating lad. He jerked his head towards the registration desk. Behind it sat a woman with an impatient, sour look on her shrewish face.

Dear me, she looks like the friendly sort, Gwen thought, walking up towards her.

“Good day to you! Lovely weather today, isn’t it?”

The woman behind the table merely stared at Gwen with her sharp, unamused eyes. It was enough to curdle milk. Her gaze flicked to the strange brooch on Gwen’s breast and her brow made the tiniest of twitches.

“Name.”

“Ahem, right then,” Gwen self-consciously cleared her throat and straightened up her posture so she looked more confident than she felt, “Gwendolyn of Eastshire, at your service.”

The hawkish woman wrote down the name as Gwen waited in fidgety anticipation. Not too long after, she was corralled towards an ominous tower. It smelled disgusting inside, like copper and sticky meat, but Gwen couldn’t quite identify what was the tell-tale stench of a cracked skull. When her eyes adjusted she spotted the lifeless lump at the base of the stairs. Her stomach lurched and she quickly looked away, holding a hand over her mouth to stop her lunch from making an appearance. Had she slipped? Her grandmother had never mentioned deaths before the devil-bridge. Silently, she gave a small prayer to the unfortunate girl. In another circumstance, that could have been her.

Gwendolyn took a look up the spiral staircase, gathered up her determination and made her ascent. No matter how high the climb, it was better than lingering with the poor girl. A few youths passed her on the way up, some glancing in amusement or pity at the girl huffing and puffing at perhaps the simplest of trials. When she finally reached the top she was absolutely winded, her arms propped on her knees and her hair curled around her downturned face.

“Oh gods, have mercy…” she gulped between breaths.

When the wind returned to her lungs and she felt a little less like throwing up, Gwen stood and finally took in the scene before her. She must have looked like a corpse with how pale her skin was, cold and clammy even with the merry sun shining down. Wind brushed against her face and tugged at the long locks of her hair.

Gwen brushed the hair out of her eyes and stared gobsmacked at the thin, winding bridge before her. She had heard about it, read a detailed description of it, yet nothing compared to the real thing. “The parapet…”

A pair of riders were waiting for her name, which Gwen considered a bit odd considering she had already given hers at the registration desk. Then she remembered the horrific sight at the base of the tower and she felt her stomach drop. Just how common were early deaths? Not wanting to keep the rather intimidating riders waiting, Gwen breathlessly gave her name for the second time.

Procrastinating preparing herself for the trial, Gwen pulled a ribbon from her bag and began to tie up the locks of her hair into a long braid, which she tucked up into a low crown. She had read books on sailing, and the intricacies of wind resistance. Her hair would be no exception, not to mention a bother for her eyesight. Next she tucked the ends of her pantaloons into her riding boots, ensuring that they would be as close to her skin as possible. She tied the straps of her bag tightly against her back, feeling the reassuring weight of her books cradled safely within the leather. Ships had weights to help balance, didn’t they? Maybe it would help her?

When she was finally ready, Gwen took a few shaky steps towards the cliff. She caught herself peering over the edge, but quickly regretted it. Not for the first time, she had an overbearing sense of doubt in her own survivability. How pleased her uncle would be to find out she fell to her doom. She could almost picture her aunt and great aunt exchanging their bet money.

Someone ahead of her was laughing, a sound that caught her off guard. What was it they were saying about the afterlife? He did have a point, but Gwen had no intention of joining her grandmother just yet. She had a promise to fulfil before she could face that fierce woman again. Until then she had a long journey, and that started with a single step.

Before she really realised it, Gwen was standing with the sky on either side of her. She reached her hands out, imagining she was a dragon soaring through the air It was slow and steady, but surprisingly successful...at least until she felt herself lean a bit too far to one side.

With a yelp, Gwen wobbled and fell to her knees, grabbing onto the cold stone bridge. Blood roared in her ears and wind stung her eyes. That was close. Too close. Her whole body was shaking. Every ounce of her being demanded her to stay where she was, cowering, or better yet flee the way she came, but she couldn’t give in. Slowly, she stood back up and continued onwards, her face a ghastly image of fear and resolve.

the rider

Gwendolyn

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[yokai.]

Irathel's pace up the stone steps was steady and methodical, one foot after the other in a staccato rhythm, as she breathed in the dry July air. It had been a few weeks since she arrived at the humans’ war academy, and mostly kept to herself during her stay. She found she wasn’t all too familiar with the inner politics of the Empyrean to really trade wits with her fellow dragons, and she knew how off-putting her presence alone could be, thus she was resigned to spend her days collecting insects in mason jars to adorn her room with. It wasn't all that surprising, her alone-ness, as even during her childhood in the Vale, her family had been raised in isolation. Her father didn't care much for mingling, even unwilling to converse with other green dragons aside from the occasional mistress he would take a liking to.

She sighed, rolling her eyes at the sound of shouting in the far distance. Humans and their war games. Another thing she had yet to see the purpose of. Her time in Calldyr Province was characterized by a peaceful coming of age, separate from the aftermath of the rebellion; the very thought of killing for carnage’s sake seemed barbaric. Though, she thought with some bitterness, how the finality of the act was more of a mercy compared to the drawn-out sins she and her siblings were used to committing against each other.

Ira hoped that her lack of socializing thus far had generated an air of enigmatic intimidation rather than cowardice. She knew how to wield underestimation to her advantage, but very much preferred to be looked at with fear over being looked down upon. Although, this made for a double-edged sword, and as her eyes swept over the human forms of the other dragons walking ahead of her, all she could think of was how she was woefully unequipped with any knowledge of their weaknesses.

Inwardly, she kept a catalog of various snippets she overheard as she walked alongside her fellow wolves clad in sheep's clothing. “Damn this body,” a nearby woman with sunset-hued hair cursed, a statement half uttered to herself and half directed at the intimidating shadow beside her, silent in their brooding. Irathel supposed most of the dragons here were still getting used to their human forms, and smiled in that slow, calculating way of hers. Perhaps there was more of an advantage to be exploited here, the chance to catch a few of her peers off-guard in the shadowed corners of the academy was most tantalizing.

She filed this thought away for later as she crept closer to the edge of the viewing platform, finding a place by herself against the railing as she stared with dark eyes at the lumbering fools across from them. Streaks of blood were already beginning to coat the parapet, and bodies seemed to be dropping at an alarming rate. Irathel clicked her teeth at the tastelessness of it all, her heart sinking with an unknown feeling. It did that more often since her departure from the countryside. How were they supposed to form an accurate impression of the students if they were only to prove their worth within such limited parameters? She could hardly even see their faces from here, really, though she could catch bits of notable features, such as clothing or those dreaded black sigils of theirs. Ira was more interested in seeing how they carried themselves. One girl amidst all of the chaos stumbled to her knees, her face almost as pale as her hair. She seemed to stand apart from the rest of the hopeful recruits with her shaky stance and attire fit for a noble. Bluntly put, the girl didn’t seem to have worked a day in her life. Irathel averted her gaze, knowing all too well how these things ended for sheltered, in-over-their-head aristocrats.

Instead, she studied the other dragons’ reactions to the bloodshed, taking note of any changes of expression, however fleeting. One of the blue dragons stood alone, a little off to the side from where the previous pair were perched. There was a ruthless gleam in her eyes, quickly shifting to disdain as distant laughter rang through the air, raucous in its spiritedness. Spying an opportunity to gain more insight, Irathel drew nearer to the dark-skinned woman, noting the gilded details of her obsidian robes.

“She seems promising enough,” she spoke out loud, hand gesturing to a dark-haired recruit treading carefully yet assertively behind the laughing boy. “Though I do have my eye on the tall one.” Her eyes indeed trailed after another blonde woman making her way across the parapet, though she looked more formidable than the wobbly one from earlier, armed with an ease to her steps despite her sturdy size. Ira glanced to her side, gauging the other’s reaction as she asked with a thoughtful sigh, “Such a shame she’s marked, though, wouldn’t you say?”

the green clubtail

irathel.

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♡coded by uxie♡

Osian approached the parapet with a heavy heart disguised by the confident smile plastered on his face, trepidation building as he climbed each step. His name had spilled from his lips easily, revealing nothing, when he was greeted by the riders at the foot of the tower. “Sildrel? You must be Niamh’s son,” one of them had said, recognition sparking to life within her previously cold gaze. She’d leaned over to the rider beside her, jerking her head toward Osian’s direction. “Looks a bit prissy, but I’d bet good money on that one.”

Such a vote of confidence should have inspired more bravery, yet Osian could only feel discomfort at being so completely out of his element, his skin itching for the safety of manor walls. For once, he’d prioritized function over style when choosing his clothes, but the golden embroidery threaded throughout the battle-ready ensemble projected an undeniable air of wealth nonetheless. Strapped across his chest was a smooth leather pack, stuffed to the brim with silks and other deadweight trinkets he would never have the heart to part with. The sword on his back was likely the most necessary item he carried. A few other possessions of his, the ones less precious to him, had found a home nestled in some of the belongings of his fellow recruits. On the way to Basgiath, Osian had had the mind to persuade a few people into carrying some bottles of his family's aged liqueurs, a few of his favourite novels, and packets of fine spices (just in case the academy's provided meals were of less than adequate quality). In exchange, he had offered them protection, more out of a desire to secure his belongings from plummeting down the cliffside rather than anything like genuine concern for their well-being.

In the back of his mind, he latched onto these reminders of home, and the security their presence offered propelled him to soldier further past the yawning mouth of the turret. Open air greeted him, wildly tousling his hair, and he gritted his teeth at the sound of bones cracking. Malek had his eyes on them, now. The god of death had been there in the tower, when a rebel girl had fallen on the stone steps, her lifeless eyes greeting him as Osian wordlessly stepped over her still body. He hadn't felt anything, then, only contempt and a misplaced kind of pity. How unfortunate to die unmourned before the real action started, as just another body to be added to the count.

He kept moving.

His mind was quickly set in motion once his eyes took in the thin bridge of precariously paved stone sprawled out before him, anxiety set aside in favour of adrenaline borne purely out of a need to prove himself. Glory waited for him on the other side. How could he not answer its call? “Seems like a long way down to the bottom,” he called out to the boy trailing behind him, who was carrying his father's most favoured bottle of wine in a beaten-up satchel. With an easy smile thrown over his shoulder, he said, “See to it that you don't fall, will you?” The boy merely answered him with a frantic nod, previous bravado dimmed by the harsh reality of what they were facing. Good. Life or death situations often had a way of making people more malleable to certain moral adjustments, and Osian would be a fool not to take advantage of this.

He had the bare bones of a strategy in his head, and had acted on it during the carriage ride to the academy, forging tenuous alliances with the lucky few who'd been willing to listen to him. Push a few people off, he'd suggested. As a joke, of course. He'd said it with a smile, so if they took it to heart, then that was on them. Go for the ones most likely to be a threat. Or, if you prefer to take the easy route, focus on the weakest links. Make sure you're not one of them, otherwise why are you here? Divide and conquer. He'd always known staying up all night to read volume after volume on tactics of war would have its benefits, even if that time was nothing but a distant memory, now. Another luxury he was forced to leave behind.

Osian calmly stepped forward at a relaxed pace, as if he had all the time in the world. “Eyes up, people, keep moving,” he rallied, hands steering the shoulders of a quivering girl in front of him before she could run back to the safety of the turret, most likely to have fallen to her death before she could even reach it judging by the distressed shakiness of her stance. “Ah, ah, ah, where do you think you're going?” Before he passed her, he leaned down to whisper in her ear. Merely a suggestion, nothing more. A harmless seed that grew into something with teeth, an excuse for steely resolve to narrow the girl's eyes as they both honed in on a bumbling red-head a few paces behind them, a potential target from the looks of how her face hid almost nothing.

He would leave the girls to fight it out between themselves, and if only one of them made it out alive by the end of this, all the better. Osian maintained his leisurely pace onwards without batting an eye, hands clean of the bloodshed that was bound to follow. The sword stayed sheathed on his back, untouched.

the rider

osian.

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♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Dorodoros]

Dead.
Dead.
Dead.
Alive?

Many were the methods of keeping Grinn busy, but today's way was new; he'd been tallying the bodies as they paved their paths to the rider's quarter. 'Fate is a fickle thing,' as a voice he could recall with clarity once liked to say, and yet the contrarian in him found trying to pin it in place an indulgent pastime. Where better to do it than here at Basgiath, during that time of year all glory-hounds looked forward to?

Conscription Day. Oh joy.

With a disapproving grunt, he shouldered from the tree that'd been his anchor for the past half hour and peered up at the sky. It was waiting there same as it had been hours before, a curtain of color and clouds at the sill of the world, though it'd since changed from black and blue to a shade of golden hue. The sun had even come to replace the moon. He let its warmth bathe him for a few moments of relative calm. A bit of a secret, that he considered the clamor of humanity to be somewhat close to soothing.

Grinn was stalling. In fact, he'd been at it all morning, starting the moment he'd returned to the Vale from a place he'd not tell of beyond it. Some of that time was spent staring up at Basgiath's walls with mingled weariness and interest. Most of it, however, was spent observing the faces of the people who disappeared behind those walls. How many entered because they lacked the luxury of choice? How many believed the only outcome was to emerge as dragon riders, glorious champions of oh-so-great Navarre? How many of them, willing or no, would never come back out? Ideals were forever fleeting things with hardly any loyalty to their holders, after all. It's exactly why he made it a habit not to keep them.

Dead.
Living.
Dead.

Still... what hurt could come of him slipping quietly into one of the lines? People passed by as a steady stream of obligation or optimism, far too absorbed with their own worries or wonders to pay him much notice. All it would take was a step, then he could go from dragon to healer, or scribe, or maybe, in some amusing twist, turn everything on its head to become a rider. Imagine the look on the officers' faces when—

Oh, but you know your place.

No less invasive than a tack to toes, that thought, but then thoughts often were. He went from gazing at the sky to watching a scaly figure slither through a canopy of leaves above, one slit pupil fixed as though studying something to toy with. It reminded Grinn of how Father used to look upon him: cold, unfeeling and even more unpredictable. The man liked to say they shared in one thing only, in that they both heard a devil on one shoulder while the other remained ever silent. Strange, how it'd been well over a decade since he last heard Father's voice, and yet every unwelcome thought was in that old bastard's icy tone.

The snake in the tree turned its eye from him for the time being, trailing between branches to somewhere out of sight and taking the voice of that devil with it. A group of potential riders were heading toward the entrance as his own stride took him away. One of them seemed somehow bored, one clearly itched for any kind of action, and another wore an expression of grim determination.

"Coward," the grim one taunted while passing by.

"Wouldn't dare deny it," Grinn murmured back over his shoulder, a corner of his mouth quirking with mischief. "Meet you cheery lot again at Threshing Day?"

Problem was, only he was guaranteed to see it.

☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼☼​

There were very few things Grinn truly disliked within the world: rules, mosquitoes, nails dragged across paper, promises. Basgiath dress code had always seemed too rigid and he'd been sure their black-on-black style would be added to the list, but he found the borrowed uniform to be surprisingly comfortable. After fetching the clothes from their hiding place in a mountainside nook and using the privacy behind a particularly large rock to change, he trekked his way to the tower, mood much lightened. Nothing quite like being proved wrong, if he were to say so himself.

It didn't take long for him to arrive, ascending the stairs to the viewing platform beside another latecomer, peering about at a variety of faces gathered there. Only a few he recognized from previous years. It was always curious, the way in which dragons seemed to reject or adapt to the human form. Some stumbled and frolicked with limbs they weren't used to while others seemed to mourn the loss of ability they once had. Either way, most seemed to adjust quick enough that their attention was solely on each other or the humans crossing the parapet afar.

Especially amusing, how a few gazed with disdain at the people they deemed "inferior" while wearing their very skin—you'd think compassion or vulnerability in a human was equal to a dragon without tooth or fang, by the way they spoke of the more timid figures crossing that thin bridge. Where was the harm in a bit of balance of personality? Without nuance, the world would be an especially dull place.

Grinn stepped forward and found a spot to lean against the edge of the platform, forearms against stone and hands clasped together over open air. He was rather close to a pair of girls that'd been off to the side, one green and one blue (particularly near the blue, for better or worse), unsure of whether he'd intentionally invaded the space or been led by whim. Cleverness never did guarantee sensible behavior.

The chatter of dragons around him narrowed to a distant din as his interest found the parapet.

Dead, he thought of an unfortunate blonde, who stumbled and rose again perhaps twice as pale.
Killed, or a killer? he imagined of a dark-skinned young man, all coy pomp and pride.
50-50, for the puppet of a girl that boy just passed by.

It might have continued like that. 'Silence is a sanctuary,' that voice he once knew might have told him then, but the truth was that silence only ever let his mind wander. So he took up the tally anew, this time spoken soft and slightly solemn, beginning with a girl whose hair was like curling fire. There was a wry curve to his lip; smiles might be a rarity, but grinning came as easy as his own name.

"Definitely gods-damned dead."

orange daggertail

Grinn.

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[Goldie.]

"this is a dialogue."

------ TW :: blood, death, murder, shock
(intentionally not too graphic!! but a little) ------

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

The familiar sound of her own pounding heart reverberated in Orla's ears. It grew faster and harder, overtaking the sound of the chilling winds that surrounded her on these cold stone steps. Its intensity caused heat to spread from her chest to her ears, leaving a sickening pit in her stomach. While her blood dutifully coursed through her, it seemed to no longer do so for the girl lying at her feet.

It was a graphic scene. A girl no older than herself lie at her feet, covered in blood and dirt. Lifeless green eyes, glazed over and empty peered up from a face still raw with horror. It was clear people cared little for the poor girl, as her body was covered in dusty footprints and her clothing picked apart. Bits and pieces of her attire seemed missing, likely stolen by fellow possible riders. It was barbaric and cruel. Orla felt tears well in her eyes only to be swept away in the bitter mountain air. It was immoral to leave the girl here like this, to be abused and picked apart as if she weren’t alive mere minutes before.

After flicking a glance over her shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, Orla kneeled beside the fallen girl. She gently lifted the girl's cracked skull into her lap, cradling it between her chilled hands. It seemed impossible, that she had just been running up these very steps. How was it that she had died anyhow? Had she merely slipped, or were the details of her death far more gruesome? As she looked the girl over, her hands smoothing out her wet, black hair, it became apparent why she might be dead. A black mark climbed up her neck, signifying her parents' deeds, sentencing her to this fate.

“I am so sorry,” Orla said softly, barely audible to her own ears over the howling winds. Seconds felt like hours as Orla closed the girl's eyes and shrugged off her own shawl to drape over the girl's body. Dipping her head down, she connected her forehead to the girl's own cooling skin. “I commend your soul to Malek. Be at peace.” With that, Orla rolled the girl's body away from her and over the edge of the steep steps. Watching tearfully as she fell away.

Standing carefully, Orla felt her breath hitch in her throat. It’s not as if she knew the girl or her story, but for a moment that girl was her. A girl who wanted to be something. Someone who had left their home and family behind for a dream, willing to die to achieve that dream. It so easily could have been her lying dead on these steps. Only it wasn’t, and this girl had not dreamt of this life, instead it was forced upon her. A fate out of her control. It was impossible to ignore the damning thoughts that crept into her mind as she continued her ascent.

It will not be me, I will not die. By the Gods I will not die.

The top of the tower was close, incredibly close. Orla could feel the air returning to her lungs. Her pace had quickened in anticipation, drawing her nearer and nearer to what appeared to be a small group of people conversing directly in front of her. Fear gripped at her chest as two of them, a dark, curly-haired man and a golden-haired girl looked directly at her. Please, no. No, no, no. Fortunately, the man continued up the steps. Unfortunately, the girl did not. In fact, the girl began descending, coming toward Orla with a brandished sword and steely gaze.

Everything happened so quickly. Orla loosed the chain whip she had strapped to her hip. It had been a gift from her father the moment she’d shown interest in the Riders Quadrant. Blade struck metal as Orla blocked a swing headed straight for her midsection. In one swift motion, she wrapped her chain whip around the sword. The girl was tugged toward her, drawn close enough for her to see the dried tears and uncertain rage dancing in her eyes. “Please,” Orla coughed out through gritted teeth, holding them both steadily on the stairs, “we don’t have to-.”

The girl's enraged scream silenced Orla in an instant. The girl pulled and tugged, threatening Orlas balance. After some back and forth, Orla somehow found her chain wrapped tight around the girl's throat. Fingernails grabbed and clawed at Orlas arms and face. Both of them screamed into the open air, tears and spit freezing in the wind as Orla forced herself against the wall of the tower. Her back scraped against the rough stone, her eyes squeezing tightly closed.

Please stop. Just stop fighting. Stop. Please, please, please.

Orla hardly noticed the girl's screams dying off or her body going slack. Her grip loosened on the chain and her eyes fluttered open. Blood muddied up her vision as blonde hair unplastered itself from her face. Her torso cooled in an instant as the blonde girl's body slipped away, tumbling off the steps in what felt like slow motion. This couldn’t be real. Her eyes fluttered in disbelief at what just happened. “I-it happened so fast,” she mumbled to herself, staring into the distance- vision reddened by the blood that pooled in her lids. Breathing shakily, Orla shoved sluggishly off the stone wall. Her feet felt like dead weight as she climbed mindlessly up the stairs. Her chain whip trailed behind her as her arms hung by her sides. Up, up, up. All she could do was keep climbing—breathing, and climbing.

Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

“Hello? I asked for your NAME.”

The harsh voice of a woman, rough and scratchy, startled Orla back into reality. A sharp inhale revived her lungs, her emotions setting in as she felt her limbs begin to quiver. How was she to breathe when her heart felt so heavy? She wrapped her whip and approached the woman, barely uttering her name before being shooed onward. How is it possible for a heart to ache so much? What have I done? Her mind raced as her bloodied hands clutched at her chest. Looking back upward, Orla realized that her fight was not yet over. A bridge, thin and lengthy, stood between her and the rest of her life. A life Orla was determined to live. She shook out her limbs and tried to steel her gaze, wiping the blood and tears from her eyes just to leave stripes of blood smeared across her face. She was certain no God watched over her right now, so she dared not pray. But, she couldn't help by look up, as if hoping to see the hand of Zihnal reaching down to give her a lick of luck. By the Gods she'd need it.

I cannot have killed her for nothing.

the beliver

orla.

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[arthur morgan.]

another year, perhaps another year of disappointment. the black daggertail felt nothing for this threshing, as they already anticipated to be disappointed by the selection of potential riders— perhaps they were to picky, or perhaps everyone else weren’t good enough. the only reason they even decided to join this year was because of their dear friend lorcainia, considering this would be her first threshing they figured they might as well watch from afar. not as though they thought she couldn’t handle it on her own, it was simply for their own peace of mind— burning an unworthy rider was more enjoyable for them then they care to admit. as nocturne took delicate steps alongside lorc, their darken eyes taking a peak at the few riders that made their way to what would be the most difficult challenge. many faces, none of which worth remembering as very few would make it out alive… such a pity, to work for something for so long to be crushed by a fallen boulder or slipped to their death. it was both pitting and amusing, as they found humans to be pathetic and hysterical in nature— but they also found their own kind like that as well, so did they really like anyone?


“they all seem pathetic to me.” they said bluntly, their words wrapped in delicate silk and caramelized honey as they let their gaze fall upon their clementine. while their words were pose and deadly, not a single word left their perfectly round lips. hidden behind was a mangled up tongue and teeth to match, ripped from their body like a lump of matted hair— their voice and words stolen from them by an even deader dragon, left rotting in a moist cavern. it wasn’t often that you see nocturne near another person, especially one still breathing— they often were casted off, others scared to go near as they feared the curse that wrapped them like a widows shawl. but lorc was different, a woman with stride and resilience and above all— she thought not of what others say, breathing fire upon the twisted black vines and broken picket signs that spelled ‘beware.’


letting their eyes fall from lorc down to who she was referring too, nocturne simply shrugged their shoulders “probably some rich snob who thinks they’ll become the next best rider.” they said with a smug smirk, casting her a look filled with teasing energy. “perhaps they’ll be something more though, however i’ve seen none that peak my interest. though i’m hopefully for someone at least tolerable this year.” a chuckle arose from within their chest, taking a few steps forward to stand next to lorc. a year since the last threshing, nocturne had burned six riders and ate three— all of which were inferior to them, or acting far to arrogant… so they had to humble them.


“what do you wish to see in your potential rider lorc? you must find one that you deem worthy enough to sit upon your shoulders, someone who is both powerful yet humble— i’ve seen enough riders who feel as though a dragon is a subservient tool rather then an equal.” they say honestly, a soft sigh escaping past their nose as they clasped their hands together within the sleeves of their long coat. eyes soften as they looked away from the riders and back upon lorc, their tone was of concern yet friendly— while they had their own bitterness and resentment towards dragons and humans alike, nocturne always held a sliver of hope that others will cast upon friendship and kindness towards their only friend, wishing she to have a fruitful and meaningful existence that she deserved unlike the horrors they were forced to endure— a lady that took her chances and spent her time to befriend a beast like them deserved everything and then some.

black daggertail

nocturne.

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[opaline]

darcy

the rider

mood:

questioning previous choices

interactions:

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Strange, finally seeing Basgiath herself. Stories had been passed from both parents; her mother provided a bare-bones explanation of the Healer's Quadrant and how they taught everything Darcy already seemed to know, but her father gave more of an epic: a struggle to join the Rider's Quadrant, only then to be eroded down to mere human will over three years to exit Basgiath alive, changed, and strong. Her hand absent-mindedly checked over her belongings as the line moved, the reality of stories — memories — being the last of her possessions other than what was strapped to her settling in, the trepidation nestled tight and deep in her chest.

Though four lines were formed for the quadrants, the Rider's was noticeably shorter than any other, and the air was taut as the nerves seemed to permeate it. Darcy wasn't immune. What lay on the other side for them was either honour or death, and the odds suggested the latter. After providing her name upon reaching the front of the line, she had officially thrown her life into the gamble.

An all too familiar metallic smell drifted from the inside of the tower, and upon stepping inside her eyes adjusted to the darkness. One body covered in a scarf, as another came throttling down with a sickening thud, accompanied by a crunch of bones. Bloodied marks and indents marred the skin around her neck. While not unfamiliar with death and its many forms... the threatening reminder left a dry taste in her mouth. Darcy's hand settled carefully on her thigh, feeling the familiar grip of a dagger. There was no time to ponder their fates nor mourn further. The last moment for the two would be in a list of names and later, stone. The first of many lives, she suspected, to see wasted.

Or maybe she wouldn't, if it were to be herself next.

Any chance for doubt to seep in was quickly extinguished, and with that began the ascent up the spiralled stairs. She exchanged meaningless small talk with those ahead and behind of her in the turret, but then the brunette ahead gasped, tripping on the cobblestones and falling backwards. Darcy swiftly pressed her back against the wall her hand had been using as support, allowing the girl to stumble and not take them both down over the edge. Her heartbeat thrummed so painfully loud in her ears, she wouldn't have been surprised if others with their hand on the sides could feel it reverberating.

"It'll bruise, but you'll live."

Darcy assured as the girl picked herself up. They completed the climb in silence after that.

Stepping out into the blinding sunlight, Darcy was spared no moment to take measure. "Name?" The rider asked, their garb consisting of the signature black.

"Darcy Dallows-Liu."

"A Dallows being a rider?" another whistled mockingly, "No room for healers, here."

"Dallows-Liu."

Darcy corrected, and turned to the parapet. Her eyes were trained onto the tall brunette ahead of her that had already nearly fallen once, her steps shaky.

"Hey, you! Sea legs!"

she called out realising she'd never caught a name, the brunette chancing a glance over her shoulder,

"Arms out, for the balance you obviously need!"

Maybe a little back-handed, but true. Darcy emphasised her own outstretched arms, the girl ahead moving forward with a little more steadiness in her movement after replicating Darcy's stance. Darcy took her first steps onto the thin parapet, the wind howling past threatening to take her with it.

Gods. I will not fall. She wasn't just here for herself, at least she convinced herself of that half-truth. The voyage through Navarre had given an arguably excessive amount of time to sit with her thoughts but those justifications felt flimsy when suddenly and wholly thrust into the face of Malek. I can't fall. Also dying by falling off in front of countless people who have gotten over without an issue (presumably) was an added embarrassment to the otherwise possible tragic end she was not interested in.

And so Darcy continued to shuffle her feet one in front of the other.

 

[SUGAR.]

"this is a dialogue."

Ronin cringed at the booming call about the afterlife that was carried to her on the wind. People like that either made it far or died before threshing. She repressed the urge to roll her eyes at the notion of not losing. Everyone who stepped foot on this parapet lost in one way or another. She finished her last few steps, making it safely to the other side. Every part of her wanted to turn around, see how far she'd come and also mark the fool who laughed and yelled like a child. Instead she moved forward, walking much easier on solid ground.

"Name?"

A man with bright golden curls stopped her before she could get too far. She had barely noticed him leaning against a boulder next to the ravine's edge. He held a scroll and a pen fueled by lesser magic floated just above the parchment. A girl with dark hair and tan skin stood off to his side, watching the parapet. He was documenting who had made it across, similar to the way her name was documented at the last two posts. She rolled her shoulders back and stood to her full height. He had spoken to her with the least amount of malice she'd heard all day. It was then she noticed his rebel mark, peaking out above the hem of his leathers.

"Ronin Murdoch."

He nodded as the pen transcribed her name. He gave her a small smile, one she didn't return though the gesture was appreciated. After what she witnessed in the staircase, she couldn't bring herself to smile. Not yet. She nodded back, turning away. Ronin followed the recruit in front of her up a small winding path carved out of the mountainside.

Upon passing through a giant stone archway, she was greeted with a massive rotunda. It had no ceiling, instead opening to the sky above. Other cadets were already lined up in long rows. There was a clear divide between those looking to join and those who had been here for at least a year already. Adorned in the iconic black fighting leathers of Basgiath and stood at attention were squads of second and third years. Ronin was herded with the rest of those coming up from the Parapet to form a new line of first years. Then they were ordered to wait. Ronin stood still as a wall for what was about 20 more minutes. While she waited she took in the room, noting all the exits and what appeared to be char marks on some of the ancient stone. Her brow quirked at that but she couldn't study it more due to a loud cough echoing throughout the room.

"Ahem, if I could have your attention. I am General Silver, your Commanding General here at Basgiath."

A shrewd man, starting to gray with age gazed over the rows of cadets. He was still in good shape, from what Ronin could tell, and had a large scar running across his face. He was also missing an ear.

"You have chosen to enlist in the Riders Quadrant and we look forward to your service. I'm sure you've heard rumors about what it's like to work with dragons-"

A thunderous beat reached her ears causing Ronin to look to the skies. They were empty, perfectly clear and blue. The sound grew louder, almost drowning out the Commanding General of Basgiath.

"So we find it fitting to weed out those who think the rumors are just that. Rumors."

A grin crossed his features as he opened his arm. The sun was covered as the beat grew to a crescendo and multiple dragons landed along the edges of the roof, peering down at the humans beneath him. Ronin's breath hitched as steam from ones nose hit her. They were even bigger than she remembered. Her eyes widened but she did not move, did not falter. It was then that the running started. A girl next to her made a strangled sound and started to bolt. It took everything in Ronin not to flinch as an inferno from a nearby dragon turned the runaway to cinders. The heat hitting Ronin's skin was enough to make her eyes water slightly. This process continued for another minute or two as cadets chickened out and tried to run at the sight of the great beasts. Each getting burned on the spot. This was uncharted territory. Ronin knew if she did not move she would be fine. It was merely an intimidation tactic, one that ended the lives of the unworthy.

"Alright now that the theatrics are out of the way, and the weak links have been removed, let us proceed."

The harsh reality of the General's words sank in. These people just died. Nothing left of them but cinders. But that was how things were here, how they would be for her from now on. People would die around her and she'd have to live with it, because if she didn't she'd be the next corpse commended to Malek.

"I have your squad placements based on your entry exam scores and successful completion of the Parapet. When I call your name go join your new squad. Your section leader will show you where your dorms are and there you will find your uniforms and other necessities."

He unraveled a scroll handed to him by the golden locks rebel kid. Ronin waited patiently for her name.

"Alright now for Fourth Wing Claw Section. Ruadhán Wylin, Orla Hollyhock, Osian Sildrel and Andromeda Yarrow make your way to squad one please."

He paused, and as he watched the four riders make their way over to one of the last remaining squads, Ronin watched as well. She was virtually alone, as all the people near her had already been called...or incinerated.

"Wolfgang Killin, Gwendolyn...of Eastshire,"

General Silver seemed to scoff, clearly not a fan of the old ways of naming,

"Darcy Dallows-Liu, Ronin Murdoch, and Fia Alves. Report to Claw Section squad 3."

Ronin's heart thundered in her ears. Wolfgang? Wolf? Here? Her eyes darted around as she made her way to her section, looking for the male who had been her best friend. The memories came flooding back, of all their time playing before...the incident that caused her to be swept away. Finally she dropped into formation, her eyes finding his from two people down. Does he remember me? Does he disgrace me because of this mark? Her hand subconsciously reached up, covering her neck as she looked away from him and instead straight on. She would never bow her head in shame of the mark. She would always stand tall and proud, not letting it taint her. However she felt guilt for trying to hide it and immediately dropped her hand.

the rebel

ronin.

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"this is a dialogue."

coming soon

orange scorpiontail

lorcainia.

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[Meatball30]

"this is a dialogue."

Every step came as natural as breathing.

Arms outstretched, hair waving and grin still etched across his face, Ruadhán took his final few paces to the end of the parapet. Grim comedy it would be for him to stumble here, two dozen feet from the end of a finish line he'd pretended to cross hundreds of times as a boy, leaping from rock to craggy rock back home. The black thought made him chuckle again, shaking his head for a few more sure steps.

When his feet hit safe ground again, Ruadhán looked over his shoulder to register the others. Some were fearful, the blonde girl that fell to her knees and trembled visibly before returning to her feet chief among them.

Gods help us if she gets here. Would they really let someone like that join, even if they made it? How could someone who trembled over heights face down a dragon, let alone mount one and take flight?

Most of the others seemed serious. The steadfast determination writ across their faces was encouraging, though it marked them as a bit tighter than he'd like. Somehow, not one of his potential comrades seemed to share his enthusiasm. Wasn't this what they'd all dreamed of, like him?

The cowardice or dullness of his fellows didn't concern him, though. Ruadhán finally let the realization of the moment in, felt the pride swell in his chest. It was only one milestone of many, but he was that much closer to being a dragon rider. He sniffed to choke back a flurry of rising emotions.

Ruadhán threw his hair back over his shoulders and shook his head to help untangle the mess the parapet's whipping winds had caused before moving on. The cadet that awaited him was marked, the vile black pattern swirling up to meet his golden curls.

Ruadhán couldn't help but glare as the man asked his name. The look didn't seem to shake the traitor kin. Certainly it was something he'd grown used to.

"Ruadhán Wylin." The curt acknowledgement was all the aspiring rider offered before pushing past, biting his tongue.

The academy's stonework was beyond anything he'd ever seen. Intricately cut grey rock loomed overhead, elegantly curving into the magnificent arch adorned with reliefs of fierce dragons and columns of flame. He didn't recognize the dragons or the riders depicted, though he noted there remained ample room for additions. He gave himself a firm nod, acknowledging the thought, before striding through the threshold.

The open air courtyard impressed him just as much as the arch before, and Ruadhán couldn't help but gaze in awe at the assembled cadets clad in their iconic leathers. He tried to hide his amazement, but his wide eyes and curious gaze were beyond disguising. The blackened sections of some walls piqued his curiosity especially, wondering what beasts' flames left the marks, and how long ago.

Ruadhán fell in dutifully with the rest of his newly arrived cohort, scanning some of the faces in the downtime. A tall woman, muscular, yet another traitor's daughter. Another with a thick head of curly red hair and a face full of freckles. A man with curly black hair and plenty of arrogant confidence about him. It was easily the most diverse group of folks he'd come across.

He opened and closed his palm around the hilt of his crude blade, tightly gripping the worn leather hilt as he waited what seemed an eternity for further instructions. Soon enough, cadets stopped entering the rotunda. He turned to look once more, a slight glass clink sounding from inside the rough hewn sack slung across his back. He'd nearly forgotten - a few bottles of the local brew, and with so much to celebrate, he was certain to need them.

A sharp voice caught his attention, and he stiffened to an iron-taught attention as an older man, clearly their superior, introduced himself. As much as he despised the military's strict etiquette - something his uncle and father warned him he would hate, as well as they knew him - first impressions were important. He aimed to make a positive one.

Ruadhán met General Silver's unsettling eyes a few brief times during his introduction, keeping his gaze forward and steady, noting the commanding officer's missing ear and ghastly scar.

The mark of a rider, and a successful one, to live to bear it.

Even as the booming beats of leathery wings descended toward the cadets' ranks, Ruadhán stared ahead. The general had sauntered out of his field of view, his gaze now fixed on a black section of stone.


Even as the weighty beasts set down above them, Ruadhán studied the blackened wall, every muscle in his body tightening in iron discipline to not turn his head and see the monsters he'd grown up dreaming of flying.


As he examined the charred rock in front of him, a realization made his heart catch in his chest.


And even as columns of fire incinerated those cadets too frightened to stand face to face with violence incarnate, Ruadhán didn't flinch. Through the shrieks of the burning, the smells of charred flesh, the heat of dragonfire and the ashes settling on his shoulders, he dared not move a muscle. He clasped his hands together behind his back tightly, his fingers turning white, but he did not move.


The rank smell of molten skin pushed bile into his mouth. He forced it back down, grimacing.


If you can't face a dragon, how can you ride one?


What the general said was true. If a recruit ran now, they'd never be able to command a beast like a dragon. Every one of them understood the risks, and the fearful had paid the price.


Still, there was something unsettling in the commander's grin after the fact.

When squad assignments were called, and Ruadhán heard his name, he stepped forward and fell into his new unit. The freckle faced girl, the black-haired lad and another woman he hadn't yet noticed joined him. He smiled slightly at the red-headed one before turning his eyes front once again - she seemed the most familiar, and the most friendly of his new companions.

the rider

Ruadhán.

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