Azrael

It was for the flight’s dominance; he wanted to do this; he chose to do this; he knew there were consequences for such a bold decision. He could’ve died; he could’ve perished within battle. However, this. . .this was far worse. Was it worth it? Was it worth staying alive, just to keep this ethereal abomination of a lost spirit contained? At least this way, no one else would need to don the bearing guard of them, feeling it wear down on their mind and grasp for control.
It didn’t make sense though; what had happened to them? They had perished, yes, but it must’ve been in pain, agonizing pain ailing them to an impeccable extent. Wouldn’t the other corpses and inanimate do the same though? Why were they different? What had befallen them besides death?
It was burdening; they cried out nonstop once they entered, wailing about being hurt, about hungering for vengeance, about all the suffering that they’re forever cursed with, just like he was with them stuck in his head. They were eager to escape, to find who had the audacity to attack them to death, to sift through dragonkind with a burning fury that only their crimson spilling could satisfy. He would hear their yearns; he would deny their yearns.
A Mirror, soon to fall to a similar fate, had found out about his predicament by mistake. He, too, was there to combat for his home flight’s rightful dominance, crossing his path during. He was at a resting point, awaiting further instructions and times to continue when he met the distressed Tundra, already housing the restless twosome. An unfortunate confrontation he had on his way to the Plague grounds, he greeted the small drake with wary trepidation, his aura already strange and. . .broken, even before he had spoke. Words were passed between the duo, learning more and more about his situation and, in return, the layout of the approaching land the Mirror was heading into.

The Tundra had lost his weak grasp, forcefully switching control to the two entrapped in his mindscape. Anger filling his soft soul, he felt hostile towards the other drake, demanding for his blood to become visible. One after another, attacks were thrown, the expected outcome differing between the opponents; one wished the other’s demise; one wished the other’s restrainment at the least.
The Mirror won.
The Tundra apologised.
Profusely.
The Mirror comforted him, giving him possible advice to help restrict their control, if anything. He made mental note to remember the drake once they continued their separate paths, one thinking of the other immensely.


And them thinking of the Mirror immensely. They know not who he is, know not what he can do, but know much of his knowledge. They wish not to perish, for this is their final chance for the deserved revenge they thirst for, taking any means necessary to hold such a fate-forbidden prize. The Tundra is their last hope; that Mirror cannot stop their powerful attempts at freedom, at what they’ve rightfully earned.


Don’t listen to him, Azrael. He speaks lies; he speaks mere falses. You don’t know if he lies, if he passes words hollow of wisdom. His verbs speak nothing of the sort; he doesn’t know what you’re going through; he isn’t going through it himself. He can’t understand what it’s like; he has no means to talk such bold words for something he cannot simply understand.