Thæon’s heart pounds in his chest like the thundering hooves of the mountain herds, his mouth dry as he gasps for breath, eyes unmoving from the dragon before him; wings held wide and mighty, mouth, dripping with blood, drawn into a terrible snarl. Eyes void of recognition. But Thæon recognises him.
It’s Obí, there’s no question about it, regardless of his growth that sees him nearly as tall as the trees, body sloped and smooth in scarlet scales that glitter like rubies across his hide, paling into milky quartz under his belly and beneath his chin.
His feet and claws are still gorgeous midnight blue; the colour having crept further up the length of his feet and hind legs just as it’s crept down towards his nose from his horns—and by the gods, his horns: fashioned into a crown of power upon his head, having grown larger and thicker. They are no longer two simple horns angled back and up with bumps rising in a curving line that follow the shape of his top jaw, but now having grown so that his crown is jewelled with four magnificent spears, fluted and sharp; the bumps themselves having grown longer to resemble spikes while more have appeared in continuum to the line.
Nothing about him has stood untouched by time; his tail deeper crimson and bleeding blue; bejewelled with spikes and fins to help guide him in the air; his talons sharp and threatening; heavy muscle rippling beneath his body as he shifts himself to face Thæon head on; the blood trailing from his jaw, making him look fierce. Making Thæon’s chest clench and his stomach turn uncomfortably.