The Silver Revenge

Chapter 1: The Funeral

~Raize~

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

Again. Again. Again. Like a pattern. Over and over. No reason but for some obscurity it makes absolute sense. The satisfactory feeling when everything is perfectly set up with each other, and it comes together to make something wonderful. The swirls of pain, the reason of movement, the tranquillity. Nothing was wrong here. The world didn't fit into the pattern, didn't belong. So don't put it in there.

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

Other dragons think me strange. I come here everyday. Do the exact same routine. They don't... understand. A few say they think they do, but no one really... knows. Not even the mind dragons that claim to really see. They don't understand the pure, hating, rage that keeps me up at night. That gets me here day after day after day.

Not even she understands. She should. She should feel that rage, that hate, if not more then I do. But she doesn't. All she does is cry, mourn. What's the use of mourning? He's dead. They are both dead. Nothing you can do about it! At least, not to bring them back. But you can bring them retribution. You can bring them the peace that they rightfully deserve. Why doesn't she get that!

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

Back to the pattern. Back to the sense. The peace. I've always liked patterns. Well, who doesn't, but I mean really like patterns. Whenever I see something that makes perfect sense, it makes me feel wonderful. Like everything is just falling into place. Even now, with the pain lancing through my wings and claws and the heat in my lungs and breath, the pattern helps.

Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame

You know they're having a funeral for him? A funeral! A stupid human custom. Dragons don't have... funerals. Why celebrate the dead? They're dead. Gone. Much better to make sure they can rest in peace. To grab the vengeance against the creatures that put them there. She doesn't get that. She try's. I respect her for that. But she doesn't get it. You know she asked if I would attend the funeral. She begged, and when I refused, she cried. She's broken. Dragons don't cry. Dragons get over what has happened. Dragons focus on what they can do to better the situation. That's what I'm doing. A stupid funeral won't do it.

Aargh! Dodge. Strike. Block. Flame.

Dodge. Strike. Strike. Flame.

Flame! Burn! BURN!

* * *

Silver sat on the edge of a small perch that had been set up for her, allowing the best view over The Centre, one of the five main areas of Sky Mountain. It was more crowded then usual, on the ground anyway. Every dragon in the mountain was there, making solemn movements and being careful not to disturb one another. A fire dragoness that Silver knew as Gretta was looking after the youngling dragons, making sure they didn't try to get away, though it seemed even the younglings recognised the solemnity of the situation, for they were all silent.

The silver dragon looked tired, dull even. Her normally shining shell was now a glum shade of grey. Her wings hung limply at her sides and her eyes were absent of the usual spark of life that usually made her. Her tail was swaying limply, and she made no move to control it.

A month had passed. A month of grieving and sadness. It had taken a long time to finally set this all up. Everyone agreed that something should be done for the great dragon legend. A celebration of sorts. It wasn't often dragon's had funerals. They lived far longer then any human, so their deaths were few and far in between. Well at least at Sky Mountain.