Ozandris dropped away from the cliff-face, his wounds completely healed by the combined effects of the Scryer-marks and the spell of creation. He tucked his wings in tight, gaining speed in the dive. In the conjoined mind within the Dragon’s skull Cinome and the Inoxit were silent; the silence of the hunt.
The Dragon’s wings snapped out, catching the air. It swooped low over the village, spotted the Shonri running towards the shattered houses and ignored them. They were not Felice, they were not the Shonri who could sense his mind. The Dragon knew this from the mind of Cinome, from the hunting senses of the Inoxit. Ozandris and the others were beginning to merge, to become a single mind, in the heat of battle.
It spiralled upwards with tremendous speed, its ascent almost vertical, skimming over the cliff-face it had clung to only a moment before. It would burst over the top of the mountain, high above the mountain, and then it would drop down upon Felice in the stoop of an eagle, fast and vicious with its flame blazing a path before it.
The Shonri had magic.
The Dragon did not care.
It had magic of its own.
Apologies: I have neglected these postings for the last month or so, it has been a very busy six weeks, but the Tales of The Shonri Site is now up to date.