Mandible

Voodoo grimaces; the word cuts through her like a knife. The skydancer babbles unintelligibly, motioning towards the next hatchling upon the sacrificial altar with hurried, sweeping gestures. If that one was denounced, surely the other three are sa-





She pauses. Her claw trembles, hanging mid-air-- hovering over the remainder of her clutch. With a snarl, she snaps upright, staring ruefully towards Tusken and his so-called 'eyes'; those wretched, twisted spiral twins. Her expression seethes with hatred as she speaks. "My-... My mate," the skydancer spits, practically gagging upon the word. "Y'gadda talk some sense into th-"




Ghiradhamus interrupts Voodoo without remorse, without hesitation. The three-eyed spiral stares at the young dragons; his judgement is merciless. His coils run up and down the length of Tusken's neck- a ridgeback who's seemingly impassive to the fate of his own, beloved clutch.




Tusken smiles, almost apologetically, towards Voodoo. The emptiness of his words is masked by his lyrical, charismatic manner of speech. "I'm afraid I have no choice, my sweet. They are to be exalted." He stoops low, his tall, crooked body blanketing Voodoo and her children in shadow. "There's no greater honour."

Voodoo's crimson eyes dart left and right before finally settling upon the four hatchlings. They're too young to understand the ramifications of Ghiradhamus' judgement. She's seen the sacrifices first-hand-- but she'd never have thought such cruelty would reach her own family. There's a lingering, pensive silence.

Then, she darts forwards, flaring her feathers, her wings, screeching incoherently as she rushes her hatchlings. The vicious points of her claws and beak glint within the light of the setting sun. They're caught off-guard; they scarper, fleeing for their lives. Some run, some fly.