There was a wrath in Sol that could not be quelled. From raking her claws against boulders to sinking her teeth in the gaps of enemy armor, something drove her forward in a violence few understood. It would be a lie to say even she didn't understand it; she made no effort to. Her home in the Sunbeam Ruins receded from her as they realized her zeal for violence was not so much an asset in battle as it was a liability. It was hard to say she felt much when she left. Traveling meant conflict, meant her claws, fangs, and horns found use in their creation. Sol wandered in a way that would be aimless if she put thought to it, so she did not.
She was not a cruel creature, but to say that she left flowers in her wake would only be true if one considered how the fallen pushed those flowers upwards. Ousted from most every place she found herself in from the fear of her wanton wrath, Sol found herself in the Scarred Wasteland. Here she would find life that battled against itself, snarling spats over shreds of meat and towers of bones to perch upon in grim solitude. Is that what Sol desired? Hard to say. But it was what would accept her, that much she was certain about.
So when a lumbering gaoler stalked her from webs of rotting leather, she snarled and lunged. Great cathedrals of his gnarled horns deflected her attacks as he hunkered down, and this only fueled her wrath. The sneaky, cowardly way to fight - defend and whimper and strike when her back was turned, unforgivable.
"You'll fight," she snarled without charity, "You'll fight or I'll break your horns off!"
"No," the gaoler capitulated, twisting his crowned head away from her blows, "No, you misunderstand,"
"You have stalked me for half an hour, I misunderstand nothing."
"I mean you no harm," he tried showing the paws of his wings in surrender, "If we fight, you will win. I know this."
A searing bolt of rage blinded Sol. It wasn't about winning. It was about fighting. She was not so shallow as to fight for victory! She was no warlord! She simply was, as strong and fierce and imposing as the sun - she was Sol and she would fight! With a howl of rage she raked her claws, catching the backside of his wingpaw as he tried and failed to cower away. Blood spilled from the meager slice through his thick fur, and at once his body changed from cowering to one of bemusing acceptance.
"Oh, there." he said, his sudden shift of tone from capitulation to casual observation catching Sol offguard, "You have now won."
"Are you so sheltered in this -" she looked around, surely not, not here, "-Afraid of a scratch?!"
"Afraid?" he looked up at her from examining his bleeding wingpaw, "No. But in a matter of hours I will die."
This floored Sol once again. "What."
"I will," he cradled his wingpaw tenderly, "Please help me find spiderwebs. At my den there's clotweed I must get to. But it's an hour's walk, and I need spiderwebs to slow the bleeding."
Sol's muzzle curled in an emotion that wasn't snarling rage, confusion rattling her, "You'll strike me from behind. You want me turned around. You want to stalk me again, you want an easy meal!"
"No," he said patiently, the patience underlaid with a thin urgency that he couldn't seem to express above a whisper, "I will bleed out and die. My blood is thin, and flows far freer than any of us. Even the Wind Flight."
Sol paused, then, still clinging to her conviction of dragons she had known, snarled, "You're lying."
He unfortunately caught that waver and offered a smile that confused her once again, "I'm not. Please help."
Uneasily Sol crept, keeping her eyes on him as he led her to a mound of rotting flesh, the flies swarming, and the crafty spiders building nests all around the tiered feast of decay. Even as she reached for the webs she kept one eye on him, then in an ultimate test pulled her eyes away to claw the webs into a ball. Without warning she swung around, catching his gnarled horns and twisting him to the ground in a violent pin that pushed a startled oh out of his mouth that sounded…genuine. Baring her teeth, Sol huffed and puffed her fur up, threatening, lording over him that he would never trick her. He stilled, staring up at her with ruby red eyes that were not so much shocked as they were waiting. Sol glanced at the scratch on his wingpaw.
It still bled as freely as if she had just sliced it open. Maybe he was telling the truth - not just about his blood but more importantly that he was not going to attack her back. A Plague Dragon? Devoid of the violence for survival? But that was not - that wasn't - but also, wasn't she too violent to be a Light Dragon?
Slowly, carefully, Sol stepped back and off his horns. Slowly, carefully, she extended the pawful of webs. She watched him expertly apply them to his wound, slowly, carefully.
"They call me San Sangre," he provided, apropos of nothing, "But you can call me Sangre. Or San. It doesn't matter to me."
"I care for the sick and wounded around here, yet I'm quite sick myself. Isn't that funny?"
Sol was further quiet. After all, she considered the world a violent place, but she herself was violent. Was that a fair assessment to make, then?
"Come. You look like you haven't eaten in a while. If you follow me, I'll take you back to the Clan I tend to. They'll happily feed you."
"You -" Sol grit her teeth, "You could've said that. Earlier."
"Forgive me," San laughed nervously, "I tend to not enjoy confrontation, as you can imagine."
Sol watched the blood seep through the spiderwebs. Without much else in her mind to say, she slunk behind San Sangre as he led her back into a labyrinth of bone and flesh.
