He hadn’t expected for his summoning ritual to actually work. The way he’d struggled amidst own memory, wading through newfound suffering which sought to spit a thick fog over everything but, frustration contorting his features and thinning his patience. A prickle of hope, when he recalled one memory, one event, where he were to witness Prince Xeleth and Princess Xedalli showcasing their own summonings.
Sparks of gilded fire sprouted from his gestures.
It took an entire night for him to perfect the ritual, the morning peeking beyond the horizon and gloating at the bags hung heavy beneath his eyes. He didn’t know quite what to expect, but when a dragon seemingly materialised—it destroyed much of his humble, dour room. Thrashing and bellowing, as she was wont to do in such a predicament. Her long, snake-like body poured from the flank of the brothel and spilled out into the streets, many narrowly avoiding their demise, others … not so lucky. The crunch of bone, the splatter of blood, all smothered out by the tremendous thud of a thick tail slapping into cobblestone. The draconic being—a solar dragon—snapped her head towards him, her eyes like molten gold, like staring into the sun in the height of summer, as though trying to pierce his skull with her own thoughts.
Their connection was instantaneous. Xahillid knew what to do.
Their escape was messy. Brick and rubble left strewn, a building half collapsed, more than a dozen injured or outright crushed, guards firing arrow after arrow at the dragon as she soared above the fortified walls of Baldur’s Gate.
A long, slithering mass wound the sky; her own vast playground. Streaked with gold that nigh blinded, haloed by the sun, an underbelly of silver and sides flanked with iridescent purpure—she was a sight to behold, that was for sure.
They’d been soaring through the skies for what felt simultaneously like days and mere seconds. Xahillid’s hand smoothed down her neck, and immediately, she knew. She began to descend.
Finding a large expanse of open land proved to take a dozen minutes, scouring where she ought not risk be splintered or awkward in her landing. Finally, somewhere suitable surfaced, and she dipped downcast, slinking until she alighted—a hearty huff of dirt and rock thrust outward from the heart of her underbelly as wings reminiscent of the night sky fluttered to a cease.
Xahillid gingerly, shakily disembarked.
