wyvern

-

For Xander, the history of the North was one he knew enough about. He’d visited it of course, when warring Viking kingdoms were prevalent, and the community in what was now Iceland grew strong. Even his name, Hephaestion, had its origins rooted deep into the cult of Hephaestus. But it was always said that perhaps the Greeks had gone further north than many thought, that its culture and runeology were embedded far North. His only answer to Dreki’s question was maybe a bit too telling. Or perhaps a little too obvious that he was already confused to whether or not he was right. And he was always right. “Ragnarök? But how? Wouldn’t that be the end of your gods’ world?”

-

“The end of theirs, and the beginning of a new one.” Dreki said simply, he liked this one. Though he’d not yet met a one of his wyvern shifters that he didn’t like. Though he’d told the other his tale, leaving out only the fate of his children, and now he was curious as to what Xander’s feelings were either way. “You’ve lived long enough to see them fall out of fashion, their power waned long ago. Wouldn’t you agree that it’s time for a change?”

-

“Apparently we both have plenty of time,” Xander pointed out, though his curiosity would always win out. If there was any bit of information he didn’t know, he just had to learn it. He’d read thousands and thousands of books, but this was something unwritten. “I think I deserve to know this – considering,” he motioned to himself as an explanation, “I shift into something that is supposed to be long dead.”

-

“I have more than you now, settle in.” Dreki said simply as he gestured towards the other seat, his story started near the beginning. When mankind was still young, when the Egyptians were first learning to move their stones across the desert, before the founding of Babylon, and a time when the wars of giants made mountains, valleys, and seas. He started as he said, at the beginning, when he was but a man who needed to become more powerful than he was, born with an inherent magic that was still new to the world. When Borr Burison had only recently fathered Odin, future King of Asgard. He spoke of the people he gathered together, his wife, and his three children. Then came the time which signified the beginning of the end, when he traveled South and met a young Goddess, Artemis. She along with the daughter of a Titan gave him the power to make more of his kind, and so he did. “This is where your power comes from, this period when I was finding warriors suitable of carrying my gift, the Aesir feared this - feared you. So I was killed, and sent to Niflheim where the name Nidhogg replaced what I was known as before. They stripped me of my mind, made me jailor over a shore of corpses until one day I met Hel.” Dreki explained that the daughter of Loki was only a child when she came into the realm that would soon be her queendom, and that through her magic he remembered his old life. His humanity. “It was she who sent me here, with the knowledge on how to awaken my line. So, now that you’ve heard my tale, you might guess what I have planned here, no?”

.

The ritual had come with no small amount of pain— to achieve a rune on one’s heart required the sort of searing pain that he was sure felt not dissimilar to a branding, the lines were nothing short of perfect and he had felt the way that the magic had infused with his spirit, weaving together a promise that had been gifted to him from a God. He would live forever, and Saint moved gleefully from his place in the basement of his home into the town, eager to show off what he had done. Dreki would make for a rapt audience, after all, he was one of the few that had been privy to his plans and intentions, a twisted wire smile curved on his features as he found his way down the stairs, hardly minding the people who scrubbed at the floor as he made his way to the wyvern who sat among it like a king. “He gave it to me,” he responded, not bothering to hide his glee. “The first of my kind, his original creation.” He found a seat next to the rift, stretching out similarly. Dissatisfaction was one of his crowning traits, and Saint let out a breath. “Immortality feels just the same as anything else, I need something else to aspire towards.”

-

Naturally the spirit genasi was not satisfied here, nothing would ever satisfy him. Dreki knew this about Saint, it was one of the things that drew him towards the other, why the wyvern remained in his orbit even now. It would have been easy to just write off whatever was between them as a simple tryst, a momentary exchange that went on for too long. But Saint was hungry, and Dreki saw so much of his own desire within the other. Still, he was interested to here what was next for the man who’d achieved the immortality he desired, it was not enough to have a goal, it was what came after that goal was achieved that truly defined a person. “And?” Dreki asked, curious. “What comes next for Death’s original creation?”

The naked man is very flattering, and yet Beau’s gaze, his cool demeanor, is unwavering. “It’s a matter of business.” Which isn’t a lie, there’s more to this than just Henry, he’d literally just witnessed it and had to zip someone to the Underworld. “I’ve got all the time in the world if you wouldn’t mind sitting down somewhere. With pants.” Not to say the man wasn’t-

Focus.

He shifts his weight from foot to foot, nearly reaches for one of the cigarettes in his pocket, but he doesn’t. Not yet, he doesn’t know if this guy is even going to take even light interrogation well, not after seeing him eat someone.

-

“I’m fine as I am, if you’re offended then maybe you should consider some eye coverings.” He laughed as he brought a hand over his eyes, and then lifted it. “A blindfold perhaps.” Dreki’s arms moved to rest on his hips, he’d torn out of his clothes and wasn’t going to cover himself for anyone else’s benefit. Still, if the reaper wished to have words then Dreki supposed he could listen. Not everyone was born so confident, so bold, so flawless. So Dreki moved his hands from his hips to his waist. “Better?”

The bar was closed during the day, in the bowels of Hel’s Deep Dreki sat on the bleachers and watched as grunts scrubbed at the bloodstained concrete floor. It would be a simple task for him to dispose of it himself, but he’d come to enjoy having others do things for him. Power was power, and Nidhogg had it in spades. The approach of the genasi was not one that he would have missed, the man’s power was dark - corrupted by Death - it came as no surprise that Saint had survived his ritual. “You’ve changed.” Dreki remarked as he studied the genasi as he approached, his soul was marked. Etched differently, twisted and bent. Undoubtedly the process had been painful, but anything worth obtaining carried a risk of sacrifice. “He gave it to you then?” Dreki remarked simply, his considerable arms folded across his chest as his feet still rested on the seat ahead of him. “The secret to effective immortality?” 

closed starter for @drekixarngeirsson​

“You think I should give it a go in there?” He had his arms folded over his chest as he looked at the fight currently taking place within Hel’s Deep. The upstairs was fine and dandy until it just got boring to drink in a shitty bar. The downstairs was where Ignacio would find it entertaining. “I think it’d be pretty fun.”

-

“There’s a man running around here, he’s about your height. You should fight him.” What was his name again? Thesicles? Testakles? Petheus? Something about that nymph that fucked a cow. Vampires, shifters, werewolves, furies - none of the fighters in that ring would be much of a challenge to Tezcatlipoca. “I’d pay you both if you did.”

The big man is very fond of being a big man, Theseus has noted, and he does manage a forced laugh out of politeness. Because aside from the height jabs, he thinks he likes this Dreki. He’s knowledgeable, he’s strong, he seems to appreciate a good brawl. Not to mention he’s a wyvern shifter, but he surely can still count such a thing as being a dragon. Looking from the commotion in the pit to the large man at his side. “I’d like to know more about them if you have the time. Surely they can manage while we get a proper drink?” There’s a little bit of uproar from the ring that catches his attention and he feels himself perhaps itching just a little to give it a go himself. “I’ve not yet met a lot of shifters.” 

-

“Shifters are older than you.” Dreki’s disenfranchised siblings were in their infancy in ancient Greece, but Fenrir had just about reached his prime. “If you want a history lesson then buy a book and put that head of yours to use.” The wyvern shifter offered before he took a long drag from his drink, “Or ask one yourself, I’m not their keeper, neither am I your teacher.” Dreki had no interest in answering some short man’s queries, it was far too much work for the big man to bend his ear all the way down to the so-called hero’s level. 

“O-fucking-kay Drogon, I get the people of King’s Landing deserved it, but fuck.” Beau has seen a lot. He is someone who even before death, was a bit fascinated by it. Gore, B movies, true crime, all that jazz, he was into it. He’d stumbled upon many a murder scene in his few decades of his job, he was sort of desensitized to the whole thing. And yet that was a fucking dragon in front of him and he does hesitate before stepping further into the clearing, into the gore, and into the presence of a now, very impressive brick house of a man. It’s brief, the collection of souls, he actually holds up a finger to said brick house before whisking away.

“I’ve been looking for you, actually.” When he returns, he is all business, arms crossed over his chest loosely. “Or whoever is responsible for this whole shifter gene thing reactivating.”

-

“Deaths been looking for me?” Dreki mused as he thought vaguely of Hel. “All these years and nothing has changed.” He canted his head to the side and took in the reaper who’d deduced a great deal of what the original wyvern himself was responsible for. Dreki couldn’t help but wonder what a spirit of death would be doing investigating his line, or what business it was of this stranger’s. For the moment the wyvern’s interest was piqued. His mood still foul, Dreki folded his arms across his significant chest and canted his brow in the direction of the other. “To what end, spirit?” The question comes out with bite, a barb that stretched across scarlet-stained lips. 

-

Xander could read the foreign magic from the other, but he was more than surprised when the other could tell his age – especially due to his mortality. “Who are you calling old?” He managed a half smile, but all things considering, Xander felt older than he had in years. Being mortal did that to a person, apparently. “Something like that. You wanna tell me what you did all this for? Also – my name is Xander.”

-

“It’s an involved story, a long one too.” Dreki offered, he appreciated this one’s cheeky candor. It was possible that he’d misjudged him initially, though he admired the man’s independence just the same. “I could start at the beginning, if you have time.” The wyvern’s smile broadened, he imagined this man had a few stories of his own. “Old man.” 

.

Free of the gods. Saint gleamed at the idea; what he knew of Ragnarok was of destruction, but there was so much fervour in Dreki’s voice that he wished to believe in it too: his was not a mythology that encompassed that of the Norse beliefs, what he knew he only had picked up from his studies, read about in black and white. But here he was, with his hot skin and calloused touch, a story come to life. Saint’s hand rest upon his shoulder, and he idly drew his thumb along the muscles there, leaning back against the counter. “I’d like to see it,” he said, and hunger bled into his words, like the slow drip of venom. “The death of a god.” Did they bleed, as mortals did? He imagined rivulets of ichor, pooling from wounds inflicted by the wyvern himself— and Saint pressed a lazy kiss to the side of the other man’s temple, so that his words fell by the shell of his ear. “And let us be the strong ones, for I refuse to be trod upon and I reject that I would not survive even the end days.”

-

“Have you ever seen one bleed?” Dreki questioned, his hands dragged along the jean-covered skin of Saint’s thigh and gripped the genasi hard and firm. “Their blood is ichor that stains the earth,” hungry lips nipped at exposed skin as the wyvern hungered to return the man to his bed but opted instead to push him flat against the counter to bend across his frame. Dreki’s hand firmly planted across Saint’s chest, “and from it spring flowers that no God can uproot - a reminder of their shame.” His gaze was challenging and scoring as he bore down into sage-hues. Where such treasures could still be found if they still existed at all were beyond him, witches of old hunted them, plundered the world for regents of significance. With the absence of the Gods, so too did the things they left behind turn scarce. “Perhaps someday I will show you.”

“Quite a lot of people did. A very long line of shifters follows after me.” She looked this man in the eyes. There was something about him awfully familiar. Perhaps it was the fact that he seemed just like her. But there was a difference between the two of them. Yet, she felt drawn to him as she did her siblings. It seemed the feeling was mutual given the next words to leave his mouth. “Is that so? I wouldn’t mind knowing what that connection may be. To you, at least.”

-

Nemea and Fenrir had both heard of him. Stories they’d said, of an original that had come before them - the dragon who’d been put down by a God. This woman was either playing at coy or she had not yet put together the connection she felt with him with the stories that permeated his origin. “We were to be family, once.” Dreki commented, “Long ago.” Now the stories of the four originals were painted across Greece and he was a shadow that no one even knew had existed. 

@drekixarngeirsson​

Xander could recognize the man before he saw him. It was similar to how he’d felt around Hektor, though no darkness seemed to permeate the air between them. Either way, he hesitated for a second, trying to understand what he was supposed to say in this situation. He hadn’t exactly gone searching for his maker, but he was presented with the opportunity to do so, now. “I was wondering when I’d finally meet you.”

-

“And now met me you have.” Dreki commented, his tone mirthful and dark. Blue eyes scanned the young wyvern - he could see the dragon’s maturity already, he’d managed to shift on his own which was more than the others could claim. Vasilis, Ari, each required a push. Not this one though, he’d done it all himself. He reminded Dreki of his eldest. “Go on then, let’s get a good look at you.” He clapped him on the shoulder and screwed the man’s gaze towards as he looked into his eyes, “You’re an old one-” explained the independence.

.

Saint’s attention shifted over Dreki’s shoulder, watching as the orange glow of early morning was shrouded by darkness— he wondered briefly if this was more of the rift’s magic, if the wyvern commanded the weather as well. As raindrops as thick as coins began to pelt the window, washing away the dust and the grime that clung to it, he felt a rush— darkness shrouded light and it was in the absence of light that he felt the most powerful. Ragnarok. The promise of the end go the world, and it fell between them with Dreki’s gravelled syllables, before it clung to the back of his throat, carried by the other’s tongue. So this was what was being planned, and he reached for the other’s jaw, holding him without gentility, roughly drawing the pad of his thumb over his skin. “And when this world is gone, what will remain?” He had always craved power, but he was no fool— once achieved it was nothing without those to lord it over. Saint was tall, and he curved down to study eyes the colour of glass, “No gods above or below us, does that make us all equal?” Surely that was not the rift’s plan, and so he waited, eager to hear more.

-

“A new one. A better one. Free of the Gods.” They were weak now, Ragnarok was not the end of the world but the beginning of a new one. “The Aesir are weak, faded memories of a time that no longer exists. Those who still reveal them are fools clinging to a past that had no love for mortals to start with.” Saint’s interest was obvious and while Dreki’s ego was boosted by this he’d reveal only as much as he desired, there were a number of things that needed to be set in motion first. “One thing at a time, first, a God must die. Odin’s son, no less.” Baldur was supposed to be one of the prettier ones, not that Dreki had ever met the boy god. The wyvern was far older and was cast below when Odin’s father still sat upon the throne of the gods. “A world where the weak are under foot, and only the strong survive.”  Dreki offered, so much of humanity was soft, he’d see this purged from the world entirely. 

.

He spoke of ancient times and gods— while Saint’s words were often blasphemous, Dreki himself had known Hel, she had given him agency and brought him to back to a world that he had been only just born in. A flicker of envy ribboned through him: he had been born mortal, and he was still mortal: despite his efforts to climb steps to eternity, the genasi had been born something ordinary and something uninteresting. Perhaps the gods would find favour in his hunger, in the way that he throttled life from everything offered to him, taking the gifts and then some. Hel’s bargain was one that required blood and Saint was not shy when it came to spilling it, there were times in dreams when he felt like Lady Macbeth, with rivulets down his forearms and a blade— ever present in his hands, gleamed there. Dreki tasted of copper, of death, and his grinned like something serrated. “I have power over spirits,” he returned as darkness pooled around them, “When the bargain is struck and my patrons are satisfied, I will welcome anything that death can touch.” Still, curiosity made him look up, the tip of his nose brushing against the other’s. “What are you planning?”

-

The genasi’s power was already impressive, limited only to by what his physical body could withstand. With the added agency of immortality there was nothing that the man would not be able to accomplish. It would be satisfying to watch, and given Valkyrie’s recent proclivity against violence then Saint could only prove useful in the end. A thick rain rolled over the city as dark clouds seemed to manifest from nowhere, no will of any magic he held, but perhaps something prolific that foreshadowed what was to come. The room darkened as the city was bathed in a curtain of a late Summer Greek shower. “Ragnarok.” Dreki said, punctuating a loud and suddenly violent clap of thunder. The wyvern claimed a taste of the other’s mouth, his tongue slipped through teeth before he bit affectionately upon Saint’s lower lip. The Gods themselves knew that their days were numbered now. “The end of the Gods, and this world as you know it.” Feral hands hoisted the genasi onto the counter. “Whatever bargains you have to make with them are best to be done quickly.” 

Old habits died hard and Dreki had woken up in a foul mood that morning. Bones crashed between the sword-like fangs of the black wyvern, blood spilled from scaled lips as the creatures who’d crossed his path were swallowed whole. Bits of viscera clung to his teeth before he felt the presence of the spirit of death who’d come to collect the souls that Dreki had just claimed for his own. A ruthful and draconian grin spread across the wyvern’s lips before he shifted and stood as a man with blood that stained his cheeks and dripped from his mouth. He spit scarlet as he canted his head in the direction of the invisible spirit. “You can come out you know, I don’t bite.” He looked around, “Well, I do but you’re of no interest to me.”

“I felt you return.” Dreki commented as he looked upon the woman who’d been brought back from the dead, not at all like himself. They were both dragons, of sorts. Though she’d been permitted to live while it was the decision of the Norse that Dreki would be put to death. He’d longed to meet this one, in particular. She inherited the family that Dreki had been denied, the original four with him left forgotten in the depths of Niflheim. A jailer and tormentor of souls. “We are connected, you and I.”