Rigid and stubborn to move, if not taunting, were his legs, bringing him to the ground. His fingers grabbed dirt and broken leaves. Sweat stung his eyes and soured the corners of his mouth. His abdomen throbbed as he pulled himself forward, air searing its way through his lungs. He snarled and cursed in his native tongue. With a strenuous lunge upwards, he stumbled into a tree, clenching his eyes as he hammered against the thoughts of fire and soot, trying to muffle that horrid growl that sent all gentle creatures fleeing and his innards knotted. He glanced back in the direction whence he fled, the trees obstructing his view of the distant towering beast, and hurried to retrieve his staff.
Doubt claimed him when the ebony wood met his palm. Oh, what shame my kin would lay upon me, he lamented, to know their blood would not honour their name when and where the opportunity arose, to not demonstrate the prowess of their teachings. Their teachings, he repeated to himself. He began to whisper an incantation, calling forth a rich red around his hands. He looked upwards and advanced two steps, and the arcane energies dissipated on the third.
No, he thought. The ethos of the Urwalhmé called for resolve in face of unavoidable conflict, not senselessly throwing oneself into it, not the vain soaking of soil. They chose to stand before such a monstrosity with nought but their flesh, pathetic weaponry, and misplaced pride. If there were songs to be had, the bards would have to make them over the smoldering of cooked flesh and charred bones. He turned his back and stepped forward, head downcast and strides short and slow, and then a sudden amalgam of sensations assailed him.
He held his eyes shut and cursed aloud. The bark on the trees around him cracked as the air pulsated. Flames danced in the darkness. The whipping winds and rustling leaves became indistinguishable from screams, and his heart held the fury of a thousand horses. Just let them die, he repeated to himself, forcing his feet forward. Just let them die. Over and over, he mouthed it, each repetitive syllable stirring something old and deep, something he wished to forget, but fate, or whatever the superstitious called it, thought otherwise. As he was about to complete the final word, the ground began to tremble. Without second thought, he sprinted back towards the tavern, maneuvering over logs and weaving around trees. Only the path forward was clear.
He stopped more than a couple of full strides before entering the clearing. He unfastened the small woodcutting axe from his waist and started hacking a hole into the dirt. After quickly burying his bag, he took note of his surroundings, identifying the nearby trees by the orientation of their branches. He then glanced at the raging dragon with its cruel eyes and ferocious teeth, and at the hapless mortals in its path. His mind matched the pace and cunning of his eyes, and within a few blinks a tactic was devised.
He removed his robe and reached into the pocket on his sash, pulling out a small wooden vial. He wrapped his quivering hand around the hilt of his dagger and wasted no time drawing it across his palm. After uncorking the vial, he poured the dark coloured potion onto his wound, and the pain was nigh instant.
The cramps in his stomach felt like the swelling and bursting of bubbles in a cauldron. It was as if the potion solidified into a thin serpent and burrowed through his veins. His breathing became erratic, his vision blurred, and blood dripped from his nose. He looked at his hands and saw a slight radiance. Each onerous respiration was accompanied by a clearing sight and subsiding of pain, save for the icy feeling in his frame, and more importantly, a greater ease with magic. If one were to see him, they would see red fluorescence in the veins underneath his sepia hue and an aurulent glow in place of his light brown eyesretconned that bit of detail. The potion was brewed to fortify magical ability, and was to be ingested. He knew not the consequences of mixing it with his blood nor the length of its effects, but he did know conventional teachings would not fell a dragon.
He grabbed the axe and staff and ran towards the treeline. He aimed the axe at the dragon's right hind leg, a short distance ahead of where it would be, and infused his right arm with arcane energy. If he was fortunate enough to strike the beast, the impetus of the axe would split open its flesh and deprive it of a leg.
With a grunt, he hurled the axe and hoped for a sliver of success.
