i'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell
War waited for no one.
He had known for some time that Straia’s patience was wearing thin. In truth, so was his. The idle chatter did nothing more than grate at his already frayed nerves; he was a man of action, not talk. Wars weren’t won by diplomats, they were won by bloodshed and busted bones, and that was where he came in.
The dragons scream split the quiet air, rousing him from his silent musings and raising every hair the length of his spine. It was a fearsome noise and he knew without a shadow of a doubt that war had finally started. Why else would a dragon be here? However, before he could do much more than pin his ears in displeasure, the world around him was ablaze. The trees and the dead underbrush went up without hesitation, crackling with a fierceness to match the dragons displeasure. He was not one to be afraid but he could not fight fire. Instead he ran, leaping and dodging even as deadly limbs fell from the trees. More than once fire met his flesh but he did not slow, not even when the stench of burning skin curled into his nostrils. There were screams all around but there was one in particular that drew his attention; Weaver, the princess and Straia’s daughter, writhing in the clutches of the great golden dragon. Warship roared inwardly, his eyes flashing violently. Unfortunately, there was nothing he could do. He did not have wings, and even if he did, what chance did he stand against a dragon? He was brave to a fault but a fool he was not. So instead he skirted the edges of the firestorm, doing his best to lay eyes on all those still here. They were huddled together and most looked scared but uninjured, for the most part. There was no time to do a thorough check though, and instead he took off again.
Away from the center of the kingdom the flames were thinner but still dangerous. The black warrior was as careful as war allowed, and occasionally felt the bite of it against his fetlocks. With a snort he skidded to a halt, dark eyes sweeping over the border. Something moved and he strained to see through the murk; the wolf shifter, Lupei. But he was not alone; a silver lioness was pelting after him, her dark lips peeled back to reveal a row of very deadly teeth. She leapt forward, her claws searching for the other stallion. With a roar of fury to match the felines Warship charged forward, skidding to a halt and throwing himself into a rear. Snarling he aimed his hooves at the cats spine, heedless of his own mortality. Eight still had his heart, so no matter what the lioness could not kill him, not completely anyways. When his hooves had found the earth once more he snaked his head forward, mouth agape. He was aiming for the cats scruff, and if he hit home, he could fling the cat off of the other stallion.
War was his birthright, after all.
warship
