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Daily 26th March
Skandar spiralled down on Scoundrel, the ground rushing up towards him. The wind howled in his ears and its cold hand slapped his face. At the last moment, Scoundrel arched his back and pawed the air, narrowly missing the soil by an inch. He then went on to smoothly land on some velvety grass.
Skandar then hurried towards a clump of blackened trees. Beyond them was a sea of grey. The grass was grey. The sky was grey. The soil was grey. It was as though all the colour had been sucked from the world. But for Skandar, this was the best place to be. A malicious smile curled on his lips.
Come on, Scoundrel.
Their bond pulsed and Skandar felt anger this time, hot and searing. Scoundrel reared up and shrieked, pointed his raven-black horn towards the churning clouds. His wings beat ferociously, as he tried to lift his rider up, but Skandar summoned a pile of earth to come toppling down on his wings.
A masked rider appeared, her hands pearly white and clenched.
“So you came then.”
Her voice was cold and harsh.
“Yes.”
Skandar’s face hardened.
“Time to go destroy that dreadful place.”
She shuddered as she recalled what had happened back there.
Skandar turned around quickly and began loping towards the forest of treehouses. Scoundrel roared in appreciation. But then the masked rider was following them.
What’s Skandar doing?
He’s never like this?
What’s wrong with him?
I thought he was supposed to save us from the Weaver, not help her!
Skandar raised his hands and sent a column of fire at one of the treehouses, his face careless and almost looked bored. The ferocious flames licked the metal framework and shouts echoed through the air. More lightning forked from the ominous skies, splitting the treehouses into halves, burning them. Rocks were hurled and smashed into them and cavernous holes opened up.
He turned away and back up through the charred bushes. Scoundrel kicked the air with his scuffed hooves and bolted back to the Eyrie, his mane flying out behind him.
Skandar uttered one word, a word poisonous to any Islander or Mainlander at the time.
“Victory.”
Skandar spiralled down on Scoundrel, the ground rushing up towards him. The wind howled in his ears and its cold hand slapped his face. At the last moment, Scoundrel arched his back and pawed the air, narrowly missing the soil by an inch. He then went on to smoothly land on some velvety grass.
Skandar then hurried towards a clump of blackened trees. Beyond them was a sea of grey. The grass was grey. The sky was grey. The soil was grey. It was as though all the colour had been sucked from the world. But for Skandar, this was the best place to be. A malicious smile curled on his lips.
Come on, Scoundrel.
Their bond pulsed and Skandar felt anger this time, hot and searing. Scoundrel reared up and shrieked, pointed his raven-black horn towards the churning clouds. His wings beat ferociously, as he tried to lift his rider up, but Skandar summoned a pile of earth to come toppling down on his wings.
A masked rider appeared, her hands pearly white and clenched.
“So you came then.”
Her voice was cold and harsh.
“Yes.”
Skandar’s face hardened.
“Time to go destroy that dreadful place.”
She shuddered as she recalled what had happened back there.
Skandar turned around quickly and began loping towards the forest of treehouses. Scoundrel roared in appreciation. But then the masked rider was following them.
What’s Skandar doing?
He’s never like this?
What’s wrong with him?
I thought he was supposed to save us from the Weaver, not help her!
Skandar raised his hands and sent a column of fire at one of the treehouses, his face careless and almost looked bored. The ferocious flames licked the metal framework and shouts echoed through the air. More lightning forked from the ominous skies, splitting the treehouses into halves, burning them. Rocks were hurled and smashed into them and cavernous holes opened up.
He turned away and back up through the charred bushes. Scoundrel kicked the air with his scuffed hooves and bolted back to the Eyrie, his mane flying out behind him.
Skandar uttered one word, a word poisonous to any Islander or Mainlander at the time.
“Victory.”