Tell me, human, why do you fight?
Nimrieyle Elyen, sitting cross-legged before a massive, winged, fire-breathing lizard the likes of which belonged terrorizing towns, keeping princesses locked away, and sitting on massive hordes of golden treasure, could only snort in response, overtaken by the ludicrous nature of the entire situation.
Have I said something humorous? The dragon questioned, its great head shifting up and blowing a puff of steam towards his would-be rider. Even without the warm clouds of water, Nim could feel the raw energy the beast let out, a palpable aura of heat and discomfort. It was not the pleasant warmth of a summer's day, no, his was the fury of the forge, bellows breathing out heat so potent it made the air ripple with its force. If she squinted hard enough, she imagined she could see the distortion around the grey-orange dragon's body.
There is no levity to be found in the taking of another life, he harrumphed, followed by a sound not too unlike two boulders scraping by one another from deep within the dragon's throat. I ask again, human, why do you fight...?
---
The Wench and Tankard inn stood boisterous and lively. The fishermen and cattle drivers had finally returned to port in Halturn post, bringing with them the raucous persona of hardened sailors and seafarers. Across the table from her sat her crew, fourteen in all. They, like the crowd around them, sang merrily along with the old war boat chants and raised their mugs, beating rhythmically on the table with gloved fists or booted feet. Nim herself attempted to haphazardly take swigs from her mug while participating in the festivities, much to the amusement of her crew-
---
It is common courtesy to pay attention when someone speaks to you, her 'life companion' berated.
Nimrieyle mentally shook herself and nodded.
"I would say," she began, voice cracking from lack of use. She coughed into her sleeve as gracefully as she could manage and continued. "I fight because it is all I have known."
So you treat this matter with such nonchalance because others have laid you upon this path?
"If this Oracle was to be believe, my path was never mine to walk in the first place," Nim retorted. "I was destined to come to this moment whether I willed it or no."
Ah, the dragon countered. Though our meeting may have been destined, several paths may yield the same destination. Is it not so that a ship sailing for Encilis could go north or south, through the open sea or within sight of land?
"I suppose you could say so."
Then you fight for another reason, why?
The woman paused and considered the question for a moment, steepling her fingers in pensive reflection. Had she fought to earn the respect of her grandfather and rebel against her father? Had she taken up the sword in pursuit of glory and gold? Or did some part of her, nestled in some dark corner of her soul, find pleasure in not only fighting, but killing and winning? Images of battle flashed before her. Her at the helm of My Lady's Bitch, fighting tooth and nail with pirates, relishing in the glory of sweet victory. Brawls in the underhive of Encilis' outskirts, the satisfying crunches of splitting bone and sting of split knuckles. Was that what this dragon, this symbol of resistance, hope, and perseverance, wanted to hear? That Nimrieyle Elyen, destined hero and member of an elite order, fought and killed because she enjoyed it?
"Because I'm good at it," she finally stated, tone dripping with pride.
So because someone possesses a natural talent for something, they must pursue it?
Nim fought the urge to gnash her teeth in frustration and cast her masque of passive indifference aside. Still, instinctively her eyes narrowed to slits as she gazed up at the dragon before her.
"Would that not make sense?" She pondered aloud, drawing each syllable out as to keep her tone passable as considerate.
To some perhaps, though what makes killing a noble and worthy pursuit if you can take such enjoyment from your skill?
"I was told this was an army," Nim said. "Let's not beat around the bush: armies are tools to kill, as I'm sure you're well aware, dragon. I-"
"Ours is not to question why, ours is to do or die", he interjected. Then what is the worth in it if you are following another's orders? What is the glory in dying on the sword of a superior officer's orders? To what do you owe him or his cause? Ah, but I digress. This is about you, not this army.
"I feel as though no answer I give will ever be enough to satisfy you," her tone was bordering agitation now, and she knew the dragon could sense it.
Honesty with yourself, and by extent, with me. If you ever wish to bond and become a Tamer, then you must be comfortable sharing whatever may make you who you are.
"Then why not bond and get the fucking thing over with?" Nim demanded, pretenses of social graces gone.
Because some things you need to hear yourself say, the dragon's head had lifted from the ground entirely now as he fixated one large, amber-hued eye down at the small woman before him. His nostrils trailed steam once again as he considered the human. Lest you lose your way.
"I lost my way a long time ago," Nim grunted.
Do you truly believe that?
"I fight because I win, because I'm damn good at it, because I enjoy the thrill of life and death!" She exclaimed, rising to her feet, jabbing a finger at the dragon. He responded by snarling, flashing his teeth.
"Fuck your tradition!" She continued, not backing down. "You want me to stand for something? Here I am. Who're you to judge why I do what I do? I could hide, claim it was for my survival, but if I wanted to hide behind my skirts like some damn coward I would've run my father's business and grown fat and lazy. No, I fight and kill because it's what I do. I kill, and no one can tell me what to do with myself, least of all some fire-breathing lizard."
The dragon's eyes widened and it swiftly rose to its feet, mouth opening to bare all of its teeth as it glowered at Nim. Gingerly, with the same air of restrained fury Nim herself had displayed earlier, it rose a talon to her chest and rapped it against her softly.
That is the last time you will call me a lizard, human.
Nim could feel sweat pour down her face, though whether from fear or the dragon's unnaturally high body temperature she could not tell. The dragon's claw reclined and it laid back across the ground with a soft thud as it situated itself back into a comfortable position, the dirt around its clawed feet ripping up with the force of his movements. Re-situated, the dragon's breathing returned to normal and it fixed its gaze back to Nim, the restrained fury replaced with calm equanimity once again.
Though I cannot personally condone your reasoning, nor do I find it very tasteful, it is not my place to see to your morals. The only question remaining is do you believe you are willing to die for the very same reasons you fight?
"What good is a warrior without a sword in her hand?"
What good is a dead warrior?
Nimrieyle stammered and the dragon chuckled low in its throat, standing again. Heading swaying on its neck, the dragon lowered itself to its knees awkwardly, head leaning down towards the ground, its might crest facing towards Nim in some mimicry of a human's manner of bowing. A tugging sensation pulled at Nim's arm, and without second thought, the woman's arm moved towards the dragon's crest, fingers outstretched as if grasping for something. Her fingers brushed the bony, almost stone-like, tips of the dragon's crest and a burning sensation bloomed from the point of contact. At first believing that it was the dragon's immense heat that burned her, she attempted to withdraw the contact, but she couldn't move. Paralyzed, Nim stood frozen in horror as the burning traveled up her arm and began to bloom outward from her torso.
As the burning traveled throughout her frame, wracking her nerves and sending sweat pouring down her face and arms from the strain, Nimrieyle began to see images flashing through the foreground of her mind. She felt wings sprout and spread open from her back, though she could not see them. Fire rang from her fanged maw, only no flames came forth from her tightly-shut mouth. Scales sprouted over her body, layered and hard to the touch, though when her eyes shot down she saw only skin shot through white in terror. The euphoria of taking flight raced through her heart, easing the burning sensation for but a moment, but her feet remained planted firmly on the ground.
Then came the memories. Memories that weren't hers. Memories of flight instructions, of the workings of Mana. Lessons in etiquette and restraint. Of a man named Merrik, who she already felt as close as family. She tasted blood, and for a split second she thought she had bitten her tongue, only to find that images of prey flashing before her. When the burning faded, it left a disheveled, quivering woman in its stead. With as much dignity as she could muster, Nim fell to her knees and vomited, a shaking hand clutching at her stomach as she retched. When she recovered, she stood and wiped her mouth, bile still coating her tongue. In the back of her mind she could feel a presence,one not of her own consciousness. Alien in nature.
I.. Is that you? She pondered. Aegnor?
The name came as naturally to her as breathing.
Aye, he rumbled.
A pause followed.
Do you fight for this Geoffrey as well? He asked, breaking the silence. Your grief would-
"I don't fight for people who died," she replied coldly. "It's an easy way to join them."