maskormenacelogs

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WHO: Drogon, and various other unfortunate souls.
WHERE: Nonah, in two different locations.
WHEN: November 6.
WHAT: A confused, hungry, angry dragon crashes the ordinary lives of innocent citizens. Check out the OOC post for more information.
WARNINGS: Violence, destruction, and some NPC death.

The first time Drogon touches his claws on solid ground, it's an almost casual affair. Some had already seen the massive shadow of the dragon outlined against a clear blue sky, had already cried out, but the party doesn't start until, with wings stretched at full sail to catch himself, Drogon drops from the sky and lands in the middle of an open plaza. The shrill screams of humans don't immediately snag his attention as he folds his wings and pushes himself towards the large open fountain in the centre of the plaza, snapping at the streaming arcs of water with jagged teeth and a questing tongue before ducking in to take a deep drink.

Beneath him, a trail of fresh blood spatters on the brickwork. There are holes, nearly invisible, neatly punctured into his scaly hide on one side.

When he raises his head, the fountain water is stained pink, and he turns to assess the possibilities of his surroundings. With a leap, he almost takes off, three steady flaps knocking people off their feet under the sudden gusts of wind, before he suddenly crashes down on top of a hotdog stand. Bright sun umbrellas crumple, the open grill crushed between powerful lizardy jaws, and the innocent vendor himself staggering away, already bleeding.

Eventually, Drogon takes to the sky, a little angrier than before.

The second encounter begins with a crash. Wavering in the sky, Drogon's landing seems almost unintentional when he touches down in a street, a silver Prius slamming into his side. With a trumpeting roar, he swings his head around, opening his mouth, bristling and shivering, and a mighty torrent of flame funnels out of his mouth, straight into the offending vehicle. Glass explodes, and whoever was inside meets a very quick end. Climbing on top of the flaming vehicle, impervious to the heat, Drogon roars his discontent towards where other cars have screeched to a halt.

Blood, raw and black and scarlet, glitters on his wings. He growls, snaps, hisses, his thick tail thrashing, catching a man trying to beat a hasty exit on his bicycle hard enough to fling him into a set of postboxes. Disinterested in immediately flying away, Drogon possesses the skinny city street as his own, blood-tinged saliva coming down in ropes from his mouth.

As the howl of sirens begins to lift, there's a secondary problem in the form of a (thankfully closed) computer repairs store that caught flame with its open windows, glass melting. The apartments directly above it soon open windows, figures crawling out onto the fire escapes, cowering at the sight of the winged beast down below.

[ ooc ; please state in your subject header if you are involved in the first or the second scene, and for maximum interactivity, i encourage people who are interacting with drogon directly to group together to streamline my npcing! a few groups per scenario is fine. use the ooc post to coordinate as you like, and comment here if you have any questions. ]

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Mako was actually going to grab a hotdog from that stand in that sort of casual lunchtime half-hungry way one does. Usually, she doesn't expect much out of a Nonah lunch. Certainly not a dragon landing for a drink or to smash a grill. Her wings had immediately popped out to keep her upright in the wind of his arrival. After the grill incident, Mako sees the injured man off, before standing there to assess the situation.

There is blood, which means either the dragon has hurt something or something has hurt him. Mako assumes it's a him.

"This is not the best place for a dragon," she says quietly, moving forward a little to see if she can find the source of the blood.

Edited 2016-11-06 01:27 (UTC)

Of those with a deliberate intent to be in the wrong place and the wrong time, Daenerys counts herself among them. The rise of smoke from the burning building, the scrape and scream of ruined metal and the panicked scattering of people. Panic, thick in the air.

Her own sense of fear feels alive within her, oscillating wildly between the innocents that swarm the street and for Drogon himself.

She arrived with, Lexa, who has been a front row witness to Daenerys' composure-- not unravelling, but transforming. Poise and elegance exchanged for a bloody minded determination that is more motivated to protect Drogon than almost anything else. For the people he may hurt, and for the hurt that will come to him, in this world of more advanced weapons than swords and slow, heavy siege machines.

Once Drogon is visible, a sudden burst of speed propels her out of step with Lexa -- she runs without particular dignity, pushing past the many people who wish to go in the other direction.

By the time he found the place of the first attack, the dragon was already gone. A trail of destruction had been left behind him, eliminating Damen's hope that Daenerys might have found him before damage could be done. People had been injured. A hot dog stand had been destroyed. And worst of all, the creature had escaped, likely all the angrier for the resistance he'd encountered.

Fear and adrenaline rush through Damen all at once. He had seen Drogon before, up close and personal, and if not for Daenerys, he would have died that day. He remembers how it felt. There's a sickness churning in his gut as he thinks of all the people in this city, the young and old, the women, the office workers, all of them, and he imagines that creature among them. Who will protect them all? He has no illusions about his own abilities to defeat such a creature, but he cannot stand back and not try. He has only just moved to this city. He can't see its people slaughtered.

He arrives at the second scene just as the dragon throws a man into a postbox. Damen is at his side, crouching to check whether he's alive - and then his head lifts, to see the creature land. He rises, his broadsword in his hands. The sting of battle is upon him, and already he feels stronger. He feels ready. His cry rings through the air, while he surges towards the dragon.

"Drogon!"

That was its name. He has to make it listen. He has to have its attention on him, and not on these innocents.

"You remember me? Well, I will meet you!"

He runs straight on, seeking to distract, and to hold its attention. He'll do this for as long as he's able. Surely others will help? Even if they don't, he will do what he can.

[ ooc: This is open for anyone to jump in! Damen will fall into Berserker mode for this and if anyone would like to plot out a thread please hit me up there! ]

Briefly distracted by one of the fleeing bystanders stumbling into her (she rights the young woman and then tells her to go while they handle this), Lexa remains a few steps behind as they run.

"Daenerys!"

It's not quite an order to stop. More a warning of the danger she's running into and maybe a bit of a question at the same time, only shouted because of the volume of the chaos here. Lexa's fingers itch to hold a sword in them, but this... creature is precious to Daenerys, so she'll give her a moment to take the lead here. Not much more than that though, if she doesn't get something from her soon. There are too many lives on the line.

The wreckage that Drogon is making of the hotdog stand seems mostly motivated to chase that smell of sizzling meat, with growing frustration when what he mostly gets is mouthfuls of metal. He worries it, doggishly, and flings a chunk of cart aside with a toss of his head, where it slams into the pavement just left of Mako, scraping and sparking.

Aggravated, Drogon steers off, not yet spying the winged creature moving in on him, and Mako can get a glimpse of the handful of bullet wounds that make fleshy little circles in otherwise dense, craggy dragonhide.

Which is when he steers his big head around to hiss his warning at a gaggle of tourists -- their screams are frightened, but not terrified, phones used to call the authorities as much as being used to take some footage. When they don't scatter, he opens his maw wide. The smell of rotting meat and sulfur is enough to turn sensitive stomachs, and the strange little glands in the corners of his maw quiver with anticipation of fire.

Definitely hurt, then. Mako makes a face as watches the tourists get in the way and moves in, her wings's armor slotting into place. Roasted tourist shouldn't be on the lunch menu. She puts herself and her massive wings in the way a sweep of them propelling the gaggle back as gently as she can.

"Please put your phones away and head to a safer location," Mako said, hoping the authority in her voice was enough to get them to move. "This is not for show." As for the smell, it's...pretty bad, but she'll just ignore it as she turns her attention fully to the dragon.

"Hey," she murmurs, flicking a wing to see if she can't draw him away a little. "Come on over here. You look like you've had a rough day so far. You know what would be fun? Just you and me. No people. Sound like a good deal?"

There are some things to be said for being late to the party. Primarily, it's being able to pick out where said party is by following the trail of destruction and the fleeing tide of people. Adrenaline already pumping, Sam turns a corner to see a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation. One armored with scales, fighting a group of what he can only assume are heroic imPorts, because anyone else would already be fucking dead, he's sure of it. Drogon is massive, impressive to a degree Sam never thought he'd see in a living creature. His gaze locks on the mythical beast, heart pounding, overcome with terror and awe.

A dragon.

"Holy shit," Sam breathes, and then he's scrambling to get his shirt off, kicking off his boots and looking around with desperate calculation. He can't tell if he has enough space; he's never attempted a form this large before. Honestly, he has no real damn way of knowing if he's about to cause more trouble than not, but he can't shake the feeling that this could help. What better to distract a few tons of muscle and death than a real good look in the mirror, huh?

...If the shift works, that is. Things are about to get real naked and awkward if it doesn't.

Sam's blue eyes lock on the enraged monster, bare-chested and breathing hard, hands hooked in the hips of his jeans. Concentrating. He doesn't notice when his eyes change color and shape; the rest of him is already following.

((Sam is turning into Drogon to help draw him away from the city! It's going to take Sam a minute to get his bearings in his new form, so if anyone wants to help him Not Die while he does that or mistake him for a second threat, have at it!))

"Holy shit."

It's like an echo. Except, one far more impressed and excited than the other man's. Mostly because the Iron Bull has arrived and is fucking delighted to be faced with a massive creature like this one. He's actually starting to laugh a little -- here it is. Here it fucking is. A dragon. A real, actual dragon. In his own backyard. His blood is racing, an eagerness in his face that's been missing for months now.

He'd picked up an axe on his way out the door -- like the one he'd "borrowed" (permanently) from the Fire Department during the last monster attack. A sledgehammer strapped to his back, just in case.

This guy is stripping. But Bull barely spares him an appreciative glance before turning his attention back to the dragon. Damn, and people say he has it bad for dragons...

"Same here, pal, but now's not really the time, eh?"

Regardless, he shifts his weight to stand in front of the man, just in case. Idly swinging the axe in his hand.

"Come to Iron Bull, you handsome bastard..."

The wings help -- at least as far as the tourists go. In Nonah, imPorts hold some respect, and the massive coiling of dragon muscle under dragon hide is likewise enough to convince them to disperse, leaving Mako Mori alone and in possession of Drogon's attention. Agitated, she doesn't have to work hard to keep it as he swings his head around, following its momentum with a curl of its spine and swing of his tail, to assess her with golden eyes.

There's an intelligence to them, like the sort found in canines. Maybe even more than that. Still, this is no guarantee of understanding what she's saying, particularly as he lumbers towards her on his thick hind legs and wings folding into forelimbs.

His lunge doesn't take him into the air, a buffeting of his own wings carrying him forward as he opens his mouth with the intent of closing it on her.

The man is stunned, likely concussed, with scarlet coating half his face like some sort of shining half-mask, but other citizens descend in Damen's wake to help drag him back. (Others heft their phones in time to capture image of the large man, sword drawn, charging down a dragon.)

And oh, Drogon does remember him.

Swinging his head around from where he was terrorising a car (the people inside scrambling to get out of it, stupid with fear), he tastes the air with his nostrils to catch the scent of this one familiar human, one that Daenerys had put her body in front of her, but this memory is a vague thing, as fragile as cobwebs, not enough time spent for him to make that necessary association of who to attack, who to avoid. With the rolling aggression of a predator, Drogon descends from his perch on top of the wrecked, flaming car, his claws scraping asphalt.

Tail snaking like that of an angry cat, he brings his head low and hisses, teeth on display. The fire that comes is a solid horizontal pillar, slashing across the road, headed for Damen feet first to interrupt that charge. Or burn him to a cinder.

If this is a party, it's at that awkward hour well passed when everyone ought to have left but are still going strong anyway. The car he had set ablaze is still blazing, crumpled and deformed from Drogon's impressive weight. A storefront is belching clouds of smoke, putting a sickly haze on the entire scene, but at least, by now, the fires are almost out.

Between the efforts of braver imPorts than the average citizen, casualties are kept to a minimum with exception to whatever poor bastard was driving the car that crashed into the ill-tempered fire breather.

And now, evidently, it's Iron Bull's turn. Drogon's ready assessment of the shirtless shapeshifter is interrupted by the time a massive mountainous bull-man is strutting into his vision. At least stage, Drogon's fight is one of defensive recoil, but being a creature formed of fire and blood, he has a lot of rage to let run its course. He shrieks a trumpeting challenge, his spines and scales flaring as if there were any point in trying to make himself look even bigger.

He hasn't been having a great day. His injuries are disguised well enough in his thick, dark hide, but not completely. Still, he isn't acting injured by the time he spiders his way towards Iron Bull.

"That's a little rude," Mako says under her breath, gathering herself to launch upward in an attempt to avoid those jaws. Being lunch wasn't on the agenda at all. At least the citizens decided to get out of the way. The last thing this place needs is even more dead people. At the last moment, she pushes off with a powerful sweep of her wings.

Airborne, she makes a pass, the sun glinting off her wings as she calls down.

"Missed me. I'm up here." She flashed her wings as she dropped down a little. "Come on, dragon, let's go flying!" Getting the dragon in the air and focused on chasing her was better for the people below.

Kavinsky is never in Nonah, except when he is. If anyone asked, he'd say, 'hillbilly drugs,' but people don't tend to ask. At seventeen-years-old and marked as an ImPort besides, he looks like trouble of the most generic sort. You might stop and ask him for directions to a nightclub, but less the how d'y'do, what brings you into town? He's too grown up. Too cool.

Except right now, amid screams and dragons, and a berserker holding a motherfucking sword!!, Kavinsky is more like a kid in a candy store.

"Its name is Drogon," he yells at the woman beside him. They're both holding their cellphones out, taking video of the massive reptile and the warrior confronting him. There are like fifty cellphone videos going on at the moment, actually. But Kavinsky is pretty sure his is going to be the best one, because he's the closest, and unlike the woman next to him for example, he isn't slowly edging backward in increasing fear for his life. "He said Drogon. Who is he? Who the fuck is angry Fabio?"

She says she doesn't know. Also, that she is getting out of here.

Kavinsky grunts, and twists his spiky head around to look at Damen. Then Drogo. Damen again. A moment's contemplation, then he starts walking closer, bringing his phone in in case the dragon tries to eat it.

If there's anything to throw Sam further off his stride, it's the appearance of a mountain parading as a man. Or... a bull-man. Or whatever the hell Iron Bull is, and who Sam's staring at like a little kid meeting Santa Claus in person for the first time, wide-eyed and gaping. Holy shit, even the massive axe the guy's carrying looks like a toy in his hand. Someone's been eating his goddamn spinach, that's for damn sure.

Any response Sam could have hoped to offer to the insinuation - Jesus Christ, he's not enough of a masochist to be into giant fire-breathing lizards - gets cut off by a Drogon on the move. For a creature that size, the dragon's goddamn quick, and there's no telling how long this Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox love child will be able to hold Drogon off. If he's going to do this, he has to do this now.

He considers giving Bull some warning, but the possibility of distracting the guy from the incoming locomotive of fangs and death ultimately keep his mouth shut. Here's hoping he doesn't regret that.

Or what he does next, which is leaving his jeans and his humanity behind, skin wavering and hardening into pleated scales, claws and teeth like daggers sharpening out of their former, blunter counterparts. And growing. Sam's shifts are generally seamless, a two-second affair, but the sheer expansion of size stretches those seconds as Sam's shape ripples like heat waves off sun-scorched asphalt, become something absolutely monstrous. The edge of a newly-formed wing busts through a glass window, the lash of his tail sending a parked motorcycle flying across the street. There are a dozen new sensations to process and balance to reclaim, a cacophony of instincts trying to rip the reigns from Sam's still-sentient mind. Immediate flying is out of the question - the newly-shifted dragon looks unsure about remembering how to walk.

Oh, if Bull could hear that assessment. He would adore it. And probably encourage it. Because that would be the best thing he ever heard. Now, though, the time is for fighting. For beating down a goddamn dragon while this other guy... does whatever weird crap he's doing.

The approaching dragon gets a wide, gleaming smile out of him. The familiar feelings of his own adrenaline and the vague inklings of his own anger. Nothing like it had been. Not yet.

But it's enough to bellow back a challenge. Something nonsensical in Qunlat. Something no one else here will probably understand. It's not as overwhelming as the dragon's cry, but oh man. It feels damn good to do it. To shout at it, threaten it. And stand his ground in front of a scurrying, massive beast fit to rend whole armies apart. He's aware of the chaos behind him. One glance shows a mess of limbs and wriggling flesh and -- "Holy shit," Bull announces to the stranger. "That's gross."

On one side, a mage changing shape. On the other, a pissed-off dragon.

Oh hot damn this is going to be a good fight.

With another yell of challenge, the Iron Bull swings the axe around and down like the wrath of one of Solas' fucking Elven Gods on the dragon's oncoming nose.

Drogon gets closer, closer, his big maw open to display the jangle of his gory teeth while a rattlign hiss undulates in his long, thick throat-- and then he is booped on the nose.

Booped on the nose by an axe.

The blow is hard enough, sharp enough, that the tenor of Drogon's snarling goes up in pitch and his massive head snakes aside. Blood that is near black doesn't spatter or erupt, but oozes out between protective scales that do their duty in turning aside as much of the strike as they can. Nostrils flare, enraged, and that red-gold eye glitters in evaluation. The next attempt at a bite is cut short by the next swing of an axe, but this time he avoids it, spine curling in retraction before he rears up.

Which is around when he notices that his mirror image is growing, has grown, to life just behind the man with an axe. The noise Drogon makes is likewise shrill, immediately standing up on hind legs and stretching out his wings, a few holes in webbing membrane visible, making himself larger.

Daenerys is here too. She's moving at a run, Drogon's name full in her throat, until it steals away stunned when she claps eyes on the creature growing into her dragon's shape just opposite him, not to mention the sight of Iron Bull standing his ground between the two. She halts, skidding only slightly on broken glass on the street.

In turn, Drogon isn't unaware of her presence, her scent vaguely on the wind beneath all the acrid smoke, the burning metal, and the smell of his own blood, cloying in his nostrils. But Iron Bull and Sam both present distractions, particularly in the form of the former standing in the way of his asserting himself over the latter. His wings scoop up the air, leaping, so as best to bring his giant clawed feet down on Iron Bull so as best to pin him down and tear him to shreds.

So it goes.

Fire blasts from the dragon's maw. The seconds that follow seem to stretch wide into hours, days, weeks. There is a key moment when Damen is certain that he is going to die, that everything he has done until now will be wiped away in an instant. He had not even told Laurent where he was going; he had just charged in, unthinking, fearful for the people that might get caught in the dragon's path.

Now Damen is in the dragon's path.

Instinct and adrenaline overrule fear. Despite the fire, despite the horrific sight of the dragon, Damen does what he has always done. He has been trained to meet entire approaching armies head on, and this is no different. He charges. He lets out a bellow of rage, and he rushes forward with one thought in his mind: if he's going to be burned to a crisp, he's going to put his sword in that beast's heart first.

His power activates before he knows it. It's automatic, a response to his anger, to his fear, to his adrenaline. There's a surge of speed and power in his limbs, and all of a sudden, the part of him that's rational and fearful is blocked off. His rage is magnified, and his sword is lightweight in his hand. The fire hits him, and he barely feels its sting. It washes over his skin like water, warming him without burning him. Only his clothing catches, and he's in no state of mind to care about that.

Somewhere behind him, people are still watching. Some of them are filming, although Damen doesn't know it. Somewhere, beneath the rising autonomy of his fury, he hopes the crowd has enough sense to take the chance he's giving them, and leave. But he's also not really thinking about that. His focus is on Drogon, and also Drogon. He doesn't even notice Kavinsky edging closer.

Instead he keeps running, and with another bellow, he leaps, the sword aimed for Drogon's scales.

Of course, it won't pierce them. It's a sword, and those scales are like armour. But he doesn't know that yet, and if he did, his mind would not be ripe to process it. He strikes the flank, and his sword skitters and sparks as metal rebounds off dragonscale. Damen lands in a crouch, still brandishing the weapon, and then he's rushing to attack Drogon's feet.

It's rare that Daenerys has felt true terror for the things her dragons do. She's had the relative luxury of winning their trust and their loyalty, presiding over them with directives, making them her will turned flesh and fire. She has, since then, felt grief when they've strayed beyond her control for the things they have done, and forever she'll remember the little black body that was brought to her throne. She has felt fear for the dragons themselves, and she remembers spears standing out of Drogon's hide like fish spines.

But not this. A surge of nausea roils in her gut as she sees that torrent of flame engulf the man who looks like her sun and stars, although it isn't even this strange association that occurs to her so much as witnessing someone who had been kind to her die so horribly.

And he doesn't die. Flame trailing off his clothing, he stands, still, and swings his sword.

Daenerys moves, then, pushing through a crowd that is fanning outwards, while Drogon hisses his indignance when his quarry lives through the worst of his fire. Damen's sword scrapes a superficial stripe over scaly hide, and then pursues more vulnerable spots, as where bone stands stark against flesh and muscle. Perhaps, if Drogon were better fed, and not still growing so awkwardly into his full sized potential, these would not make such tempting targets. He shrieks, wings spanning wide.

Where Damen's sword next bites, dark blood oozes quick enough to smear on steel, and Drogon crabs aside with surprisingly remarkable agility for a flying lizard the size of a truck, tail thrashing. He dives in to snap at the man, mouth wide, bite fierce.

Elsewhere, Kavinsky's arm is caught in an ungentle but small grip.

"Come away," Daenerys hisses.

Edited 2016-11-20 13:20 (UTC)

Kavinsky has a pretty good shot of the barbarian for a moment there. His broad back and flying hair, sword flashing in the sun. How the dragon, dozens of times his size, seems to move just as quickly. In the background of his video recording, there is definitely going to be immortalized a number of overexcited childish hooting sounds from the videographer in question.

Most of all when the flames descend, roiling, oily orange-and-black through the air. Streaming around Damen's frame, then lifting to find him unscathed. "HOLY FUCK HOLY FUCK," says the narrator, and other helpful commentary such as this.

Also preserved for posterity: fantasy era chiding sounds from small, prematurely greying woman dragging him around by the elbow. Kavinsky swings the cellphone around when he's grabbed. Unlike other disreputable young boys his age, he doesn't tend to flip the fuck out at unexpected grabs and touches. Instead, he falls into line pretty quick. The only resistance he offers is a, "Hey," and then twisting around to point his camera briefly back in the direction of man versus dragon. "Hey, babe, I'm trying to--" and then the frame swivels back on Daenerys again.

He's not a professional, it's not his fault if his eventual audience pukes up all over the pavement. Her braids go briefly out of focus and then sharpen again. The camera then darts down to her arm, the ImPort mark there. Kavinsky blinks, cranes his head around his phone, finally. "Heyyy. You gonna fight it too?"

Sam notices Daenarys before Drogon does. Iron Bull and his axe grant him time enough to settle into the large strangeness of his new form, recognizing the length of wings and tail as being his own. He snakes his head to the side, nostrils flaring as she runs into view. There's a memory in that scent. Given time, he might be able to place it.

But it's time they don't have.

Sam's not sure whether Iron Bull will be able to hold his own against an enraged dragon or not, but he knows the city can't afford the flames. He lifts his huge head to look at the buildings around them, wondering if he can climb any without completely destroying them. It took the shifter practice to learn flying as a bird; he thinks he'll be able to manage it in this form, but starting with more height wouldn't hurt. Much. He hopes.

The newly-minted dragon crawls sideways, shaking itself and stretching out various corded muscles. Two reptilian eyes focus on the fight unfolding, and he barks out two warbled, challenging screams of sound as Drogon gets air beneath him. Distraction; challenge. Unconsciously, the spines on his back ripple and lift in display, claws scrabbling against asphalt and concrete, hooking over the cheap metal of an already-dented car for added height. Its frame creaks and buckles under the pressure.

C'mon, Sam thinks desperately. C'mon, you big scaly hound. Don't you let some bastard come into your house and call you out like this.

He lashes his tail, bellowing another roar from between a maw choked with teeth. He's still aware of Daenarys nearby, her slight shape just barely in his peripheral and far too close to the action. Iron Bull is an armed and clearly unafraid giant, and he understands to some degree why the big man's stepped in to lend his tree-trunk arms to the cause. But as for Daenarys, Sam can't help but wonder why she's this close to begin with; he can't help but wonder what she thinks she'll be able to do against several tons of furious, bleeding death.

Bull responds to that boop on the nose by... laughing. Full and loud and utterly unconcerned in the face of a giant, enraged dragon. Throwing his head back and bellowing laughter and disbelief to the sky.

"Holy shit! Right on the nose! Right on the nose, asshole!"

There's some woman running around. Normally, that wouldn't be a problem, but, after a glance, she's unarmored. This isn't Cassandra swooping down in righteous fury, or Sera unleashing a volley of deadly missiles from her bow, or even Vivienne filling the air with crackling energy to blacken flesh on the bone. This is some stranger. Maybe she's in shock -- some kind of casualty.

So of course, the Iron Bull ducks back to grab her out of the way. He's got to. It'd kill him not to.

In more ways than one, since the damned dragon is rearing up to smash down on him like a berserk warhorse. He all but rolls out of the way. Fast as he can, keeping his grip on the axe the whole while. He can feel the powers building again -- the furious rage that kept him on his feet against the last monster attack, lending more strength and durability to a body that shouldn't have as much as he had in the moment.

He ends up getting to his feet in front of the woman, intending to shove her back with his weight alone. Not turning to face her just yet.

"Get out of here!" he's bellowing at her, not bothering to check his tone, just making sure he can be heard over the din of combat, the screaming, thundering dragon(s). Plural now, holy fuck. "Unless you're a mage, get out of here!"

Daenerys has her wits about her not to make a grab for that axe, now blackened with her dragon's blood, but that's about the extent of it. She isn't a physical person, and while she can unleash destruction with a clap of her hands or a strategic utterance, to lift her hand isn't in her nature. Still, her hands knot up into fists on either side of her as the large, horned man's words reverberate through her when he rises like a mountain between her and where she's doing. Dainty in her floaty clothes and unbound hair, she nevertheless squares her shoulders.

"I am no mage," she says, her voice small in all the chaos, but from her, surprisingly loud. "But I am the Mother of Dragons, and you strike at my--"

The second dragon, the imposter, gives his roar, and it's enough to make her flinch, and then sidestep the Iron Bull's bulk to peer at the chaos. Her hand, as dainty and sharp as a bird claw, briefly touches his scarred elbow. "We need him out of the city, not dead," she says, channelling ire into something useful. Hopefully. There is doubt in the assessing look she casts up at this beast of a man, but she can only try. There is equal amounts of plea as there is command in her stare upwards. "Keep him from doing further harm, steer his attention away. And ware his fire. We'll drive him into the sky."

Because her plan is Sam's plan, only she doesn't intend to lose Drogon again.

Several tonnes of furious, bleeding death does not intend on ceding territory, not the street nor the sky, to some other male dragon whose presence both confuses and enrages him. One last snap after where Iron Bull rolled his way to safety is all he gives before Drogon's attention swings left towards this other problem. Teeth on display, head low, he opens his mouth to unfurl a stream of flame, more insult than injury -- Sam will find himself impervious. With a cat-like sway of his tail, Drogon moves for him.

Mako has Drogon's full attention -- for better or ill. For a long moment, Drogon remains where he is, nostils flaring and wings at partial extension, his stomach low on the ground. Then, with a heave, he rears up onto his hind legs, and with a mighty leap and an even mightier flap, he lifts into the air with what is an impossible amount of agility. Nothing as big as he is should be able to ascend so simply on such wings, and yet, here he is.

The sweep of his tail grazes the concrete one last time before all of him is in the air,

In case Mako missed that memo, Drogon greets her with with a sudden torrent of flame, forceful enough to bloom exactly where he aims, which is inevitably, for her.

Dragons. Beasts of mythical legend. Beasts of mythical legend currently attempting to turn her into a ball of metal and death. This wasn't quite the way she'd expected her day to go. The only thing she could do was meet that fire with a hard flap of her wings just at the last moment and rotate so her wings took most of the heat. The armour felt as if it were burning through her for a moment as she took off, heading higher into the cooler sky.

The only good thing about this was the fact that he wasn't directing that flame onto the people or buildings below. Mako darted close to make sure she kept his interest only to pour on speed, then dropped back again. Eventually, the dragon had to tire or perhaps the both of them would. The heat was still there as she headed even higher for some relief, her wings spread in a glide to preserve some energy.

This was just fine.

Completely fine. If she banked hard, here, and cut the dragon off with a forcible hit to the shoulder, she might be able to herd him away from the already damaged part of Nonah. The risks? Getting grabbed and flung by either his jaws or talons. She was immediately reminded of Otachi and nearly faltered. She was doing this to keep more lives from being lost.

Including the dragon's.

She banked and headed for the dragon's shoulder.

Everything will be fine.

Shifts come with instincts; it's easy to lose yourself. Sometimes that's the benefit - it's easier to trust the bird's impulses for flying than it is to try and control each beat of wings, and there's nothing quite like letting your problems melt away to enjoy the boundless, stupid joy of being a dog. The trouble lurking in that surrender is the possibility those instincts could pull harder than Sam's ready for, and quicker than he can reign them back. He remembers the first time he'd killed as an owl - he'd had a vole choked halfway down his gullet before he returned to himself.

A dragon is somewhat bigger than an owl, and the instincts are louder.

For a dangerous moment, Sam forgets who he is; Iron Bull and Daenerys may as well be bugs chirping in a field. Never mind that he's the one who challenged Drogon in the first place - when the call is answered, the pupil's of Sam's eyes contract and sharpen. He puffs his chest and feels the furnace in his gut flare to life. Twin wings spread as wide as the space will allow, muscle contracting to beat at the air. Great gusts of wind whip past shopfronts, molding the spurt of dragonfire into a wall of heat which obscures his vision. To show he won't be scared off - not from his territory, and not from the car acting as his perch - Sam leans forward and digs his claws into protesting metal. He snaps at the air and thumps his tail, crushing the trunk beneath it and setting off what is probably the third car alarm blaring down this highly unfortunate stretch of street. Not that they're any match for the cacophony of two dragons prepared to clash.

If it's further harm Daenerys means to prevent - to anyone - then she and Iron Bull will need to act quickly.

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