A Blasphemous People

The Library falls around her, the bruises from the roof's debris striking her back healing themselves as quickly as they appear. A strange glee fills her as her rage melts the building's stone.

As soon as the night air touches her scales, Osthryn knows her time to act is short. The calls and panic of guards rushing to the ballistae on the walls lock into her awareness. Poor things. They weren't expecting her, and they are slow.

Within two beats of her wings Osthryn closes in on the watchtowers of the main gate, flames springing up beneath her as the Dragon unleashes her wrath on the city walls. Some guards still try to reach the ballistae before she destroys them, falling victim to the steady and rapid advance of her retribution. Molten silver from the bolts mingle with the flow of the walls as they sink lower, misshapen in her wake.

--- *** ----

The heat is incredible. Tomas is grateful that there are no residential buildings so close to the walls as he pushes his way past a distracted Keep guard and out into the city's streets. A city built to keep attackers out is effective at keeping victims inside, especially if the walls meant to shield them are now turned to half-molten stone by the fire that envelops them. Tomas lifts his eyes to the sky as he runs, hoping to make Silovar out. A gruff hand grabs him by the elbow.

"Dragon's long disappeared, no time to gawk after it." Tomas turns to the man that has grabbed his attention, the reflections cast from his golden armour creating an almost ethereal dance of light on his ebony skin.

"You are a servant of a court mage, yes?" the commander of the guard asks. Tomas nods slowly. "Do you wield magic?" Tomas nods again. The commander tightens his grip on Tomas's arm, his hazel eyes studying Tomas intently.

"Is it clean?"

Tomas pauses, gauging what the commander could mean.

"Speak up, before the Dragon's wrath kills us all. Is your magic clean?" The commander asks again, a set of Dragonscale beads clicking against the armour as they sway from the commander's belt.

Tomas's eyes widen in understanding as he sees them, "Yes, my magic is clean. Only by the suns."

The commander sighs with relief, letting his grip on Tomas' arm go. "Please, go to the southern wall. The fires are worst there. Help contain them, we cannot douse it with water. Quickly! So that we have some hope of surviving our king's heresy!"

Tomas sets off at a run. Two days have passed since that awful heresy, two days have passed since he last saw his master. Silovar was shot down, but no one could find the body. He knew that Silovar would come back, somehow.

The heat rolls off the walls as he nears the Southern Gate, nearly like a wall in itself. The flames dance before him morbidly. The last time he was faced with such fire, it was Silovar who saved him, not Silovar who caused it. Was it in Silovar to punish them in this way? To risk killing so many?

Tomas' heart twists as he joins the ranks of amateur and court mages alike, doing their best to contain the spread of this otherworldly fire. This cannot be the work of the master that he knew.

He looks up when he hears the beating of wings, the mages next to him doing the same. He is silent among the voices that plead forgiveness for the heresy of their king.

Master Silovar's scales are not bronze.

--- *** ---

Martina jumps out of bed, putting on her shoes and slipping into a dress as fast as she can. Oswald, who was awake with worry and grief the nights following the king's heresy, was the one to come wake her. Not that Martina was able to sleep soundly herself, however.

Osthryn's empty room and the looming shadow of blasphemous mages that thought throwing away the sacredness of life was worth the power it gave them made for an uneasy existence.

"How much has burned? Have the fires spread?" Martina asks as she wraps a dragonscale-embroidered shawl tightly around her shoulders. Oswald takes his wife's hand, leaning on his staff as he leads her out through the kitchen.

"The Library is gone. Melted, like a spent candle."

Martina's heart sinks. She cannot find the words.

They emerge hand-in-hand in the chaos of Mountainkeep, citizens rushing with buckets of water with which they douse the small fires that catch from the Dragonsfire's heat. Priestesses herd children into the safety of the Temple, hoping that the Dragon's wrath will not stretch there.

"No Necromancers show their faces tonight. The cowards," Martina grumbles darkly, bristling. Oswald squeezes her hand, "What they wrought is of no consequence now, if we cannot find some way to stop this."

Martina looks at her husband, "We are but mortals, Oswald. Silovar was kind to us from his own choosing. Osthryn trusted us in spite of her past. But they are Dragons. The messengers of the gods. What can we do to stop this?"

Oswald looks up as Osthryn flies over them, making a beeline to the Keep.

"Our best. Whatever it may be."

--- *** ---

Osthryn sweeps low over the city, her awareness keenly seeking the darkness of the Necromancers. The flames that consumed the Library have faded, the stone itself now like smoldering embers. Though the fire of the Library is gone, the stone left behind still radiates with otherworldly heat as she flies over it.

Then she sees him. Among the necromancers spilling into the Keep's courtyard, the black filth of their stolen magic wafting like rotting filth to Osthryn's senses, is Frederick.

Osthryn lands in the courtyard, her feet touching the ground as the smoke clears to reveal her bloodied kirtle.

She stands silent, unmoving. Her hair hanging in tresses to her shoulders, her eyes glowing with fierce green light.

"Oh, dearie me. To think that Oswald's efficient apprentice was truly the Sunderland Dragon all along." Frederick croons, his arms spread wide, a grin growing on his face. His hand reaches to his belt to retrieve a silver dagger.

Osthryn cocks her head, then looks from Frederick to the burning walls. She steps forward, slowly, a sardonic smile growing on her lips. The others step back as she advances, but Frederick takes no notice, his eyes fixed on her greedily, his dagger pointed at her. She comes to a stop, the dagger less than a hands-breadth from her chest. Osthryn keeps her eyes on Frederick, but the silver dagger never leaves her awareness. She cannot let this bravado slip.

"The Sunderland Dragon, you say?" Osthryn asks.

"Oh yes, the Sunderland Dragon. A bit of a long journey to hunt for, but it would have been our next stop since Silovar slipped so neatly from between our fingers. And, oh so conveniently, she stands here."

Frederick looks to the burning walls with a rueful expression, "It was expensive, you know, getting all those silver bolts forged. And keeping those ballistae hidden..." Frederick trails off, his eyes refocusing on Osthryn.

"How did you know Silovar is the Silver Dragon of Mountainkeep?" Osthryn asks, her voice deceptively even.

Frederick laughs, "Oh, he is not very careful. And the fae are fickle creatures, prone to holding grudges. Some especially despise thieves like him." Frederick thrusts the dagger forward, but it stops. He falls silent, his lips turning blue.

Osthryn adjusts her grip around his wrist, and the dagger clatters to the floor, "And thieves like you?" Osthryn purrs, her eyes falling on each necromancer in turn as they reach for their own weapons. "What do fae like me think of thieves like you?"

She bares her teeth in a hiss, her hatred pouring into Frederick, flooding every nerve ending. Frederick gasps for breath, fruitlessly searching for a spell. Osthryn senses it, and turns it over on itself before it can realise. She keeps a hold of his wrist as his footing falters, lifting her burning eyes to the others that stand frozen with fear.

"What do the gods think, of thieves like you?" She spits, her gaze lingering on Levitia's face, still painted with garish silver scales.

Osthryn looks back down at Frederick as he chokes, grasping for the stolen magic that she easily bats aside.

"You are wrong, you know. I am not the Sunderland Dragon," Osthryn says as she grasps Frederick by the collar with her other hand, lifting him in front of her face. She puts her hand on his chest, carefully mapping the outlines of his beating heart.

"I am the Devil of Bettramon."

Osthryn squeezes the heart to a stop, and lets the body fall from her hands.

A flash of silver appears in the corner of her eye. Osthryn ducks away, but realises that she would have ducked too late, if not for the threads that suddenly pull loose from Levitia's collar and wrap tightly around her throat. Levitia falls her to her knees, frantically clutching at her neck as the threads relentlessly cut into her.

Osthryn looks behind her to see Martina, her eyes filled with righteous anger as she weaves the end of Levitia's life. Oswald stands with his staff readied in both hands. The guard commander, gripping his Dragonscale beads, stands beside him. Several priestesses line the courtyard behind her, and she recognizes Aldrin and Theofinn among some of the guards that join them with the backdrop of distant flames.

A priestess steps out in front of them, her face covered in painted bronze scales. She points her finger at Osthryn, and her familiar, clarion voice calls out over the courtyard.

"Oh, messenger of Heaven, we plead thee! Witness and carry to the gods our elimination of this Heresy!"

The priestess is scarcely finished before Osthryn instinctively leaps into the air, hovering above the clamour of spells and weapons as the city of Mountainkeep reclaims its Keep.