Regicidal Aspirations: The Quest to the Throne Begins

User:DazzlingEmerald User:Knightwalker591 The forthcoming era of profound prosperity; what truly lies within the title of the so-called Dragon King? Spanning the horizon, several warriors —each carrying a distinct interpretation of the legend— harboring the talents of dragons are soon to clash —be it by fate, or simply by treason. With such vigorous bloodshed, they will invoke but a new Dragon Festival, that much is for certain. However, what is yet to be seen is whether or not either one of these participants is capable of ascending to the throne.

Regicidal Aspirations
Within the blanket of a large grizzled biome, a single spirit of essence may be seen traversing the terrain; plunders of snow swarming his knees, he treads with caution, weary of his surroundings. Still yet, even despite the makeups of the flustered Winterland —of which is accompanied by the howling of a longing wind— he appears relaxed, almost unfazed by the constraints of the pressure. Adorned within an onyx smock positioned tightly against his pale flesh, the only portion that would seem advisable, at the very least, is the fur collar eloping his neck. This is because the blue-haired man, abhorred as Jiretto Ekuseru, is at ease, for he is within his home, within his element.

Coming upon a rectangular complex, he exhales a frosty breath, watching with lackadaisical pupils as it stains the air before him. As he enters through the front door, a flurry of wind, evidently upset with his departure, whimpers in detest. What he sees sprawled out in front of his eyes is to any ordinary person a garden tainted by the weather. With an open ceiling allowing the steady fall of snow pellets, many of the trees have been encased by several layers of the very same blessings, the waters somehow shown mercy in that they still function as a liquid. Were there to be any greens about the area, it has all been masked by ice, be it in the form of grass, leaves or even trees. Non-sequential constructs, such as rocks, boulders and the sorts, have retained some of their previous structure.

However, to Jiretto, whose heart and blood are both as frigid as can be, this is but one large festivity. What he sees before him is not some garden, nor is it to be the battlefield of his coming war; it is a time of celebration, for the suppliers of the Royale have presented him a grand feast! What one views as the aftermath of an avalanche, he sees as a ball of ice-cream. What one would foresee as an ordinary icicle, he sees instead as a popsicle. What they see as a frozen tundra, he sees as dessert.

With his opponent nowhere to be seen, even so, Jiretto works with haste, for he truly cannot control his inner motives. Like a shovel his mouth devours the snow by the dozen, revealing for a few seconds the slain brown grass before it is once more covered by the falling flakes. He proceeds from there onwards to the stream, filling his lungs with utter joy. In the wake of his celebration, he awaits the arrival of his opponent, feeling empowered by the effects of his own element.