DRAGOMIRSSOGUR - [ II𝖨 ]

[M1919 2302]

[ Cʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ Oɴᴇ ] 

[ Chapter Two ]

 

 

[  x  ]

 

 

 

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"You must pardon me, Dragomir," Thalandir said. His voice bore no shame, only the weary honesty of a man who had long since made peace with what he was.

 "My swordsmanship is cloddish. I studied the technique of the Black Knight, and learned from…”  Thalandir paused as if he recalled a vivid memory—one of the countless millions that swam through the wizard's consciousness.

“… And my master, before he was taken. Both of them… their techniques were crude." The wizard’s lips twitched with either disgust or discomfort. 

From Dragomir's view, Thalandir stood like a statue raised in defiance of time—taut, carved muscle bound beneath robes whispered in arcane tongues. Veins like roots traced his arms, visible beneath silver skin aged not by years but by power. His sword, a hand-and-a-half relic, caught the faintest glint of stormlight. It hummed.

Dragomir stepped forward, and the air came alive.

The Norn’s armor was no mere steel—it was the death-hide of a wyvern, still mottled with the bruises of battles long since burned into memory. As he moved, the scales sang. A soft rustling like a wind in spring leaves. A sound as ancient as the bloodlines they both bore.

"Crude?" Dragomir repeated, his hammer swirling lazily at his side. The dark hammerhead cut circles through the air, an artist's brush waiting to strike canvas, and the flame erupted over the top. Golden threads pursue the white, winding around the shaft towards the leather-bound grip, adhering to the edges like sacred text inscribed in fire.

 "In what way?" His voice was even and measured. Beneath the surface, a simmering rage burned; a cancer within remained dormant. The embers of resentment were still smoldering. Thalandir kept pushing forward without pausing.

The wizard did not answer with words. His sword spoke instead.

He lunged with all the brutal grace of something between a storm and a beast. There was no flourish, no parry-first feint. The wizard's strike was a straight, savage line aimed at Dragomir's midsection—a strike that any knight would scoff at. Yet to Dragomir, whose blood carried the echo of Nornish thegns and death-drinking berserkers, it was not without beauty. 

"They swung without thought," Thalandir murmured as if he were narrating history, not combat. The weapon was the quill, which sought the ink flowing in Dragomir's veins.

Dragomir moved instinctively, the shield coming up in a twist and redirecting the blade. The blade's edge was caught in the rim with a shriek, but the wizard had overextended. 

The hammer came for the shoulder.

Any normal man would've buckled off the fear of high-density volatite crushing their limbs and breaking their muscles. But Thalandir did not. 

He moved like he knew the secrets of the world. A thunderous crack echoed in those heavenly halls when his left fist slammed into the hammerhead—knuckle met volatile force, heightened by something inexplicable. Something elemental.

 

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T H U ' U U M

 

The impact sang through Dragomir's body, running up his arm and into his shoulder like molten steel. A pained groan preceded the faltering of footing, boots scraping the stone, but he did not fall. The hammer thrums in the aftermath with tasteful violence, lights sparking up and flashing against Dragomir's frame while the weapon was still bathed in holy flame, as if sanctified not to cleanse—but to punish. It felt like the-

The wizard did not need to seize the opportunity. He was already advancing to attack Dragomir. One breath of surprise from the Norn gave Thalandir enough time to curl his arm and strike again. The cobwebs in the centuries between the time he had sworn never to pick up a blade were disintegrating into powder. 

They moved in tandem—strike to arm, counter to the hammer, this counter to follow the other one. The sword slipped free of the shield’s rim, screeching as it dragged the Nyxium away. The shield swung wide. Then Dragomir lunged, wrist catching the elder’s boot and causing the hammer to be sent flying away from the Norn’s gauntleted fingers that now only curled as hungry claws. Thalandir's robes hissed with rising steam, static blooming like pollen before a storm.

The impact of the hammer against one pillar rang like a bell, shattering stone columns nearby. Winds burst outward, peeling the clouds apart overhead.

"Do not lose yourself," Thalandir warned, and even if he had not meant it like a taunt, it was treated like any other. 

But Dragomir was already eager to feed the hate that swelled from within. He felt the muscles of his neck snap while adrenaline continued to pour into his veins. A vessel had burst in his eye, and even his throat. He hacked up some slobbery mess that was sent along the inside of the bent metal around his face.

The howl tore itself from his throat, animal and raw. A mighty blow from the shield cracked against the wizard's jaw; a weaker man's bones and teeth would've shattered. But Thalandir only smiled. He had been knocked off, practically falling over from this bash. Blood welled up from his lip, the cut as clean as a ritual.

And he struck back.

His fist hooked and caught the rim of Dragomir's shield and slid—knuckles slamming against scaled armor—pain, sharp and sudden. But Dragomir fed on pain. Let it fuel him. His core was rising with the stolen flame of divinity, the cancer unfurling itself within him. Imbalanced, unlike Thalandir. Mindless, where the wizard was not. 

Dragomir surged forward again. The axe lacked the righteous flame of Mikjáll, but was wrought of an impossibly sharp alloy: carbarum. Another strike could be had—another chance to end it.

But Thalandir's blade spun, not to cut, but to bludgeon. It caught Dragomir's helmet like a comet striking the mountainside. The left wing of the visor tore free. Blood streamed from the nasal guard as cartilage ripped against metal. The Norn staggered, fury and pride fighting to keep him upright while his senses screamed for retribution. He spat with rage and thrust the topspike against the wizard’s core.

 

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C L I N K

 

The carbarum dulled, and Thalandir’s lips writhed into a proud and leering curl. It was so sudden that Dragomir's anger even flickered like a torch in the wind, his gaze dropping perilously.

And then Thalandir slammed his sword down again into the shield, crashing against the metal. Downward. Purposeful. As if executing a divine rite.

Dragomir staggered—but did not fall. Not yet.

Not until Thalandir conjured the spear.

It shimmered in his hand—a weapon forged from light and the breath of the immaterial. He aimed it, not with haste, but with reverence. This was no duel now; this was judgment.

Dragomir leaped with his shield, the axe still in his hand. His blood ran hot in his mouth as he frothed like a Jötunn driven from its cave, envisioning how he might tear into Thalandir. The sting of past mistakes fueled his resolve; a burning resentment, a furious determination drove him to this new scheme. The shield caught the spear's tip—and for a fraction of a second, he thought he might win.

Then came the pain.

The spear shattered the shield rim. Its sharp head carved through armor and flesh, lodging deep into Dragomir’s gut. His heels skidded on the stone. The light in his eyes dimmed. And he was sent flying, muscles tearing from the force of the impact that slammed him into the ground. The impact drove the spearhead into the ground. The heavens rumbled—the clouds around the library swirled and swam against the forceful impact that was dealt to this ad-hoc arena within the library. 

Dragomir did not cry out. He could not stomach a breath.

"You have fought excellently," and there it was again—that serene, venerable thunder. It was not boisterous or indignant, just heavy with a truth you did not quarrel with. It was not like Dragomir, who lay there struggling to choke with lungs that declined to even so much as squirm when crisp air sailed into his rib cage from the rippling edges of his wound. A desperate, soundless scream drowned Dragomir, his throat raw and useless, as he clawed at the suffocating darkness.

Without sparing a second thought, Thalandir called the sword to him, reached for the spear embedded in Dragomir, and yanked it free.

A guttering sound came from Dragomir's mouth—half roar, half death. Blood gushed now, a curtain torn open.

Something ancient rose in the wizard’s throat; words and whispers swam out into blue, gold, and silver lights that swept into the bleeding man. The carved flesh and hanging entrails began to heal themselves, the clots in his throat strangling him for a few moments more.

Darkness coiled at the edges of Dragomir’s mind—shadows like claws, anger like armor. Fury and madness intertwined, a draconic scream echoed from within his helm. He saw the lights, the fire, the pain of it all, and then it was siphoned out. A sputtering clarity that blinded Dragomir’s whole senses. Wounds are healed, the scars greyed over into lines that would never fade.

"You humble me, Dragomir.” Had that been sincerity?

Relief was a scathing thrill for Dragomir as the old magic worked miracles against his damaged frame. He felt it all over, his legs and arms twitching and spasming like a newborn experiencing its first breath in the frigid air of the north.

Thalandir did not look surprised;

the Dragaar looked down, not with pity-

—but with admiration.

 

 

 

ᛐᚱᛅᚾᚴᛦ

 

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Spoiler

 

felt like this would be better as its own standalone story. tried to get a bit of a better flow with it and w.e

 

shoutout to @Werew0lffor a really swell asswhooping. stay humble btw.

 

 

 

[lemonke 6014]

DRAGON mir :3333333