#vc:task.

beyond the imposing portal lies something akin to a barren wasteland of navy and gold. the ground is a kind of pitch black to incite the fear of falling into the void, and between its cracks stream rivers of molten lava, that which is thick like the nectar of the gods. should one breathe in the ashen fog, they would find their lungs consumed by fire, an effective warning for those that do not belong. one could deem such a place uninhabitable, but a dragon made of scorching fire finds only belonging in its capacity to destroy.

look closer, and you will find traces of life. why, imprinted in xenolith are the colossal footprints of fire dragons, as told by the silhouette of thick digits ending in sharpened claws. within the earth’s fissures sprout flowers resembling roses and sunflowers, its petals charred and its veins flowing with magma. and perhaps, if you survive long enough, you will hear the deafening roar of a dragon. over there! high above! amidst the blackened cloud swirling atop the volcanic peak, a dragon’s shadow will be your last sight before death takes you.

and here he strides, a man of great stature crushing cinder under his feet. to walk upon this holy ground with mortal feet is a symbol of humility, for such is the climate of the in-between, that it would mean to destroy you if you do not first destroy. and is this not why yongtae finds home in its desolation? for there is nothing quite as exhilarating as the capacity to simply be, to roam the land and breathe fire without a care for that which threatens to be ravaged in the process. such is the nature of men like them, to default to devastate.

in the heart of the wasteland lies a castle whose visage is akin to those belonging to the middle ages, with a moat of lava and stone walls encompassing the dragon’s keep. the castle is tall and vast enough that it should accommodate a dragon roaming its halls, though that is not to say that the castle has not suffered damage to its impressive architecture. and as is clichéd of all dragons, gold litters the fort from its high ceiling to its nondescript corridors.

it is within such a corridor that yongtae marches hastily through, lest he keeps the red deity waiting. it opens to a magnificent throne room of intricately carved columns and glinting treasure troves, and it is here that the young dragon folds himself into a reverent bow, knees kissing the beaten earth. on the throne sits the great fire dragon, whose prominent blaze inevitably destroys without an equilibrating force.

“father,” the young dragon calls in reverence, and in his words, a sort of relief finds rest, “i am home.”