Sorin | Ashaethian Liuetenent | M: None

The clouds that had darkened the sky only hours before had long lifted and some of the ground had begun to dry. The sloppy mess of what once was a worn dirt path now slowed the progression of foot soldiers. The clinking of armor could be heard even from above, where various shades of green circled in the endless blue, wings beating the air to stay aloft. Other than the stomping below, there wasn’t much sound which made the voice from behind all the more noticeable. The boom of the man’s voice rang in the dark-haired elf’s ears as it barked orders before being replaced by the sound of wings drawing near. Taren, a fellow commander, pulled the small beast he rode to a hard stop, its wings struggling to keep them both in the air, “Sorin, what are you doing? You should be at the front of the pack, beside the general. You earned it, you know.”

“Right, my apologies. The new recruits seemed to be struggling so I had planned to just check-in. Thank you for reminding me, Taren.”

With a thankful goodbye nod, Sorin tugs his dragon around, nudging the scaled side onwards. Sorin’s mind raced, although no thought truly lingered long. It preoccupied him, at least. At some point, he had dropped the long strip of leather, similar to reins, that led to his dragon’s head. The bridle itself was elegantly crafted, the now-worn leather having just a hint of shine but still strong. The whole piece consisted of a ringed bit, the inside bar lined with small spikes, that connected to the two leather strips, one for what Sorin held and the other that looped behind the dragon’s horned crown to hold it in place. The saddle was light, flat and simple like that used on the racehorses of the royal family, but with some added bags for weapons and other various necessary survival equipment.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, he glances down at rows of men, so many marching to their deaths. Some glanced up, although birefly, at the sight of the colossal shadow that glided over them, and Sorin made a note to remember their faces. The others seemed to watch, in awe, at the figure above them. Commander, killer, the conquerer of wars. All were names familiar to him, and he had heard more in passing, but it had never bothered him until now. This was the turning point, this could make or break their efforts, and those he shadowed knew it as well. Even from above, Sorin could see the recognition in their eyes and how some lost that spark in their eyes as he passed, as they made their prayers to the All Mother for a safe return home, and to the Huntress for a valiant and quick death. His brows set in determination and he leans forward once more, urging his mount faster to the growing blot of blood-red sand. “Onwards Vedeir,” he calls out, “And let’s make this memorable.”

It took him a few minutes, but at some point, the booming roar of his mount alerted the others on the ridge of their arrival. The elders didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence, just continued to look over the ridge and maps before them. With a heavy thud, his mount lands in the grassy clearing behind them, bowing for Sorin to dismount. The elf pats the beast, muttering a thank you before striding over to the others. Helmet now in one hand, his other rises to his forehead in a solute. The gesture was normally used to signify respect to others, although every one of them, including Sorin himself, knew it was unnecessary. A taller elf with silvery hair that stretched in a braid almost to the ground, nods finally, “We have word that the enemy is close, if not already within a fighting distance. Ready your men, prepare to fight. Sorin’s ears twitched at his words, eyes scanning over the ground as he thinks. Only a moment later can the cry of Khapan be heard, although quiet. It was drowned by the sight before him: hundreds if not thousands marched on horseback over the final dune between Khapan and Asheatha. He salutes once more, hurrying back to his dragon. With a quick vault, the two are launched into the air with a forceful push of Vedeir's wings. His mount banks, nearly throwing Sorin from his back, but the elf rights himself, pulling Vedeir down to the men below with a cry of his own.

"Soldiers! The enemy is just over the dune, waiting for your blades. Let's make this a quick win shall we?"

Cheers erupt from below and swords are pointed in the air as the herd of soldiers surges forward. Sorin gestures to Taren and the other commanders before once more turning sharply, this time towards the enemy. Vedeir swoops down, not only scattering some of the enemies but also giving Sorin a clear way to the ground. He takes the chance, throwing himself from the back of his dragon with a scream, and hits the ground rolling, body moving instinctively to right himself and plunge into the fray. Occasionally his hand would stretch out, gusts of wind carrying his message and orders along the field. As the fight grew, so too did Sorin’s thirst for war. Left, right, duck, block… His actions play in his head before they happen. His eyes darken and his focus is entirely on the approaching army before him, one man against thousands. His grin turns cold, malicious almost, and he steps into the challenging stance of most Ashaethan fighters. Low to the ground, feet spread just enough for balance, sword angled in preparation for almost any move. Teeth bared, he faces down the hoard.

However, he is stopped short by the large black dragon hovering above him. The rider was covered in the same dark armor as their mount, the only color being a vibrant red insignia that Sorin couldn’t quite make out. As he watches the figure, a burst of fire from the other side has him spinning and running in the other direction. Sorin loved to fight but he wasn’t dumb. The elf sends a shrill whistle to Vedeir and grabs a hanging strip of leather as the emerald beast glides past. Sorin scurries onto his mount’s back with a huff, eyes finding the dark figure once more. Khapan warriors were intimidating, that he would admit, but the rider before him was something different and he didn’t recognize them from previous skirmishes. As Sorin pulls Vedeir to a stop, his mind is occupied with nothing but this new contender and the air of power that exuded from them was clear. As Vedeir roars out in pain and the pair fall from the sky, Sorin’s thoughts focus on one thing: The war is just beginning.

Sorin didn’t remember falling, just the feeling of being weightless for a moment. It was almost like flying for the first time, a solid pair of wings giving him support while the earth fought to drag him down. He was safe then, the protection of what has become his closest friend keeping him aloft. When he awoke, it was clear the ground hadn’t been kind to his landing and now his right hand was hanging at an odd angle. His ankle hurt as well, though not as bad. The image of the rider flashes in his mind as he draws a dagger, this time crawling towards his dragon. The cries of his fellow soldiers, both their victories and deaths, ring throughout the plain, and he mutters every prayer that comes to mind.

“Vedeir,” he calls out, voice hoarse with pain, “Vedeir, please. Let me know you're okay.” He brushes away his tears, using the saddle to pull himself into a sitting position, tucked safely underneath the now broken wing of his friend. When the dragon didn't respond, the tears fall faster. He panics, pushing on the scaled shoulder for a response. Sorin recognized this feeling, the pain it left. His heart had broken once before, and it stung similar to now. At some point, he had given up and resorted to placing a hand on Vedeir’s side, and the feeling of the gentle rise and fall of his mount's breathing distracted from the sound of footsteps approaching but gave him a sense of relief. A sigh escapes his lips, followed quickly by his labored breathing from the fighting before. His eyes rise to meet the dark rider from before and, for the first time, the elf feels true fear. Foreboding, dangerous, and wouldn’t hesitate to kill is what best described the figure before him, and the shadow of the large beast they descended on didn’t help either. Knowing he had already lost, the elf makes a last effort to protect himself but ultimately drops the dagger in the dirt and raises his hands in surrender. Vedeir lets out a growl, both in warning and pain, but Sorin shushes him with a gentle touch.

“I will surrender, but on the condition you help my friend.” His eyes were pleading, almost like a last resort, as he looks up at the rider. His face was streaked where the tears had washed away the blood and dirt on his skin, and his braid had been knocked loose. Sorin hoped his sad appearance would help some, but maybe the fact that neither could go much of anywhere would as well.

Once more, he pleads with the rider, his voice a whisper, “Please.”