With wounds still fresh from the War of the Valley he had been crowned king of the Deserts. Vanquish had been young, wild and drunk off the draught of battle and power when he first ascended the throne. The dragon-king made many mistakes in his youth, some of which he wore like testimony on his silk-black skin and others that were much deeper, more resonant than simple forever-scars on skin. He had cared naught but for threading long tendrils of power and wetting his own dry, hot desires. Too full of immaturity and selfishness to care what consequences could ripple out from his mere touch – he had shattered more than a few dreams and slighted many souls.
The last time the black king had been at the Jungle’s door had been to see to one of those very atonements. Quark had been a trusted friend of the Nightwalker’s well before the birth of he and Nocturnal’s son, the pair had been close confidants and allies to each other even outside of the parameters of their respective thrones. But the conception of Tarnished and the subsequent death of the queen’s lover Nocturnal had caused a great rift between the two, one that had never truly been mended before his first death and Quark’s abdication and disappearance. And even though the two kingdoms remained staunch allies, through the reign of both Brunhild and Scorch – Vanquish had always found reason to stay away from the Jungle. But now he has been reborn and the dragon-king will no longer balk at the shadows of mistakes that were both made and buried long ago. A small shiver of regret shakes through his bones as the memory catches him in its anguished embrace – but it’s hold is broken away by the girl who calls to him from behind the palm fronds.
“Hello there, child,” the great winged titan says and his voice lulling and warm despite its deepness. She peers at him from behind the lush green of the foliage around her - the girl is dainty, even so for a filly of similar age. She is young and alone but he does not worry for her well-being, the Jungle protected those born of its earth in ways other kingdoms didn’t – couldn’t. With a rascal’s smile he conjures a miniature version of himself, the size of small hawk, made entirely of sand that takes to the air to fly and play about the girl’s head.
But then the wind shifts and carries Rhy’s name to him and the little winged king of sand crumbles away to mix with the Jungle’s dark dirt. She carried with her the reminder that his son had yet to come to him and had yet to fulfill any of the expectations left for him before his father’s first death. Kratos had always been the Nightwalker’s most favored son as a child; he had been bold and unabashed, confidence lived on his breath and a desire for dominance brewed in his belly even as a young colt. Kratos had been born blessed by the gods with the raw traits his king-father had prayed for and it had seemed he had squandered them away in his absence.
Rhy comes with no child at her heels and for a moment the king wonders if he had been wrong about what he had told her when he brought her from the Otherworld, that she and his son would be great. But this thought only lasts just that, a moment. When she speaks his name he knows that he had not been wrong, even if time intended to make the prophecy wait. “Thank you Rhy,” he says and her name is spoken of fondly from his tongue, his heavy head dipping ever slightly to her. He frowns for only a second when the scent hits him – she smells of death. The scent is not unpleasant nor is appealing, it is both indescribable and indiscernible to those who have not moved amongst the souls of the dead and smelled their rotting dreams. His eyes shut briefly as he recalls his agony when he was once counted amongst the dead - he is sure she can smell the same on him. When his eyes rise to meet hers once again the frown is gone and he is closing the distance with a few long-legged strides – he would speak of such things (and his son, oh how he wondered of his son) with her at another time, when they could be afforded privacy.
“Time has been kind to you,” he says with a dragon’s smile, shouldering his way past a few fronds to join the colored mare, “and yes, I have come to speak with Lagertha.” Truly, there wasn’t much to speak of – the king comes to inquire of their alliance and the Jungle’s intentions on the war that rumbled in the north. Vanquish had already chosen the Deserts path – he merely needed to know if the Jungle had chosen the same course.
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vanquish
dragon king of the deserts
