Horror from the Deep

And so the war wages ever so gently, in its wake emerging a more refined pair of salamanders, through dust and smoke; though not yet quite accomplished enough to refer to themselves as dragons, they are but furnished further, having established themselves as apart of a separate breed.

The journey to the peak continues.

The Cradle
The whistle of the wind, the steady trickle of falling water; these are but two of Mother Nature's sons beckoning in distress as the sun escapes into the horizon, pardoning all from its warmth and safety. Still yet, as it ponders a moment, the pride lands are still but tainted by her glory; however, much of the universe has now been cast beneath a shadow, especially that which lies beneath a mighty ravine.

From over the top of one side, a sole magician stands tall, composed, but never rattled, his queer, aquatic hair-coloring being by far his most distinguishing factor. Like a child afraid to leave his mother's side, the dark fabric of his upper garment clings to his flesh, nestled beneath a close-knit scarf lying in roost along his chin. His trousers are kept liberate, doing as they please with regards to their clear of fit; the one known as Jiretto stands tall, composed, but never rattled.

He looks about the world with perplexed vision, for he is keen of sight, of mind. The battle before had left him dissatisfied; now hanging below the dying sun, he sought a true competitor —if a person such as himself would even be allowed such a luxury. His hands, anxious for warfare, pry into unison across his chest, and with his eyes closed —his mind open— he awaits the arrival of his opponent.