OOC- u see that sight, u think it right


IC- the minotaurs bellow was so loud it hurt the sensitve ear drums of the vAl. The vAl was therefore intimidated because if there was a minotaur that could hurt his eardrums with a yell then he wondered what that minotaur could do with an ax.
"damn horny minotaurs" was all he could think of, as he charged his staff up with a bit of magic glowing.
the minotaur wasnt a normal sized minotaur either. It was one of those boss type minotaurs.
It had a look that said "i will keel u" and it had a big sharp glimmery axe in its right hand and it wore this evil looking black plate mail and then it spoke to the AtW who were all at least 4 feet shorter than him.
He snorted steam out his incredibliy large nostrils and flicked his dark tongue and twinkled his yellow glaring eye. "hello. manner please."

vAl was taken back a couple steps and even almost lost concentration. Here was a formidable opponent, clad in gruesomeness and intimidation factor and it looked like it was about 30 levels higher than any of HIS friends so... but nw heere the minotaur was saying "hello manner pls" in a polite form of speech that was long forgotten.

But he smelled bad so he must be evil even though he is polite.
"At least he thinks we are worthy opponents eh, drask?"
but drask was very evil looking too and didnt say anything and was wreathed in flames.

OOC- lol

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For Altair~

OOC- Drask was not about to let some high-speaking Minotaur with an axe intimidate him, even if the bastard could look him level in the eyes without jumping or standing on his tip-toes. He was standing in the most sacred place he knew, and this foul beast of demonic descent stood within the very same ground. This would not be tolerated. The flames that surrounded the angry dragon soared outwards, making him look a great deal taller and bigger than he actually was. His eyes seemed to travel outwards, such that they fit into the eye-sockets in his flaming silhouette. Drask loomed over the dark minotaur, his presence alerting the dark thing to the warrior's displeasure. Jaws of dark, angry flames opened wide, and a hurricane of sound flew therefrom. vAldiCi covered his ears again.

'Worthy opponents? Perhaps. We shall see. Make peace with your master, that he might have mercy on you, when you fail.'

'And you, dragon? Have you made your peace with your weak mistress? Will she comfort you to her busom for all eternity when you find yourself spent upon my blade? After all you've done, I think not.'

'We made our peace long ago. When I die--here or elsewhere--I will go my way with her blessing. That I will not go to her care is a concern to neither of us: we have served each other well. A rock and a defender, each working for the other's benefit. Dimindium, though, knows no forgiveness. He is probably watching somewhere nearby, waiting to destroy what of you rabble that survive this battle for the simple reason that you could not hold down this conquest in the face of the wrath of the rightful owners.'

'We are done speaking, fool. Draw your weapon and let there be combat.'

In the ways of old it was done: a champion of the light and a champion of the dark. That the champion of the light was not the brightest there was--Drask walked under many shadows of his past--and that the champion of the dark, with all his manners, could not be so evil as all that, was of no consequence: the champions were chosen, and all stood to look on as the battle commenced. The minotaur sweat green, acid dripping down his broad drenched forehead. Drask did not sweat: heat does not matter to a dragon. He was wreathed in flames, making him brighter and casting him further into shadow. Within the furnace, the great lizard's spirit cried out for final peace.

The minotaur had seen the dragon fight, but Draskireis had not seen the skill of his adversary. The axe wove back and forth deftly, slicing through the air and leaving it in ribbons. Glimpses into the void beyond the world trailed behind the weapon, inciting dread into those stalwart hearts who knew what it meant. Thornfire, too cut swathes through the still air of Altair's House, and the moisture in the air left it in clouds of steam. Void trailed through fire, missing Drask's face my mere inches as the first blow was thrown.

The dance of death was joined, and all eyes looked on in horror and fascination at the spectacle: for the first time since the inception of the Alliance of the WarAngels, blood would be spilt in malice upon the hallowed floor of the House of Altair.

Drask roared his pain and fury. There was nothing that could undo what was about to be done. There was no way to atone for the unfogivable sin he was about to commit: he brought death into the House. Either his own or his enemy's, but Death is Death. Drask also knew the destruction this fight would cause. He wondered idly as his staff flashed through the air, nearly of its own accord, whether there would be any priceless relics destroyed. He knew the answer.

Yes.

No matter what he did, how he acted, the dragon seemed to be a magnet of destrucion and loss to those around him. Suddenly, their pain welled up inside him, a collection of anguish stored away in the recesses of his consciousness. Drask was stunned for a moment, and the axe collided with his tailsword. The blade, though finely forged dragon steel, was no match for a blade sharper than the atomizer and blessed by the Dark Lord himself. It shattered into a million tiny fragments as the single nick caused by the first part of the impact unhinged all the carefully balanced internal stresses that gave the blade its tremendous strength. Shards of dragonsteel flew about the room, embedding themselves into whatever they encountered, be it minotaur armor, dragon flesh, marble columns or any other thing standing in the way. His last remaining link to his former life destroyed, the dragon lost control of the immense destructive force within him.

Drask could see the faces of those around him. They were everyone he had ever met, ever helped, ever hurt. They were the image of his mother, the spirit of his father, Skeinir-incarnate (until he died) in Banthusir, the avenging angel of Freia. They were Naetrin staring up with cold dead eyes, Ifraesht running in terror from the law falsely accusing him, Linfaer pronouncing her love to him as she decided to die so he could live. They were his clanmates, past and present. They were his friends, his foes. They were inconsequential.

Drask could not hear the noise of his incessant bellowing. He did not notice that the walls were shaking with the volume of sound produced. He lived, for once, in blessed silence. Peaceful silence. A silence borne of temporary insanity and nothing left to lose.

The minotaur would die. The Garden must be saved, even if Drask would lay down his own life to save it.

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'I had heard legends of berserks. I had thought tem animalistic brutes, powered by bloodlust, insensitive to the damage they wrought. Perhaps, instead, they were oversensitized, unable to defend their own minds from the emotions that rushed in to drive them, unable to heed the pain signals from their own bodies.'

IC-Having raced with Drask, vAl and the rest to the house of Altair, Lywen took her wolf cub, Lyta, and raced to a room away from The Minotaur and Drask. If Drask needed her, he'd call her or signal her, but Lywen was not going to stay around in mass destruction. She entered an elaborate room filled with minions, and was immedately attacked. Lywen was fighting off three minions...maybe four...she couldnt even COUNT them. "Someone to me!" she screamed. Lyta was being an amazing help, biting and scratching to hold the minions, and dodging them with great agilty. Downstairs, she heard crashing. Was Drask OK? What about everyone else? "Someone HELP me!" she yelled again. Suddenly, Lyta managed to get one of the Evil ones down. He was trashing about, but Lyta quickly stopped him, and made a feast of him, which she seemed to enjoy very much, as she hadnt eaten in a few days. "Fire! Fire!" she shrieked. two blue blasts shot from the edges of her sword. Thrown down, the now stiff Dark ones, tried to get up to keep fighting. Setting a shield around Lyta and her meal, Lywen lifted her hands and called "HAIL!" And it began to rain ice balls. Lywen watched for a few seconds. Then she went over and carved some flesh from Lyta's kill, and put it in her pack for later. "Come on, Lyta. Let's go!" said Lywen, pulling her wolf away from her meal. Lyta shot her owner a despairing glance. "I saved some!" Lywen returned. Reluctantly, the wolf followed her back down the stairs. The scene they saw amazed both of them.
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When I close my eyes I can see forever...