Marneus wheezed out several shallow breathes, gripping his chest as the blood of an unfortunate sailor dripped off his armor. After getting his breathing under control, he stood up and leaned against the railing.
Scanning the area, he spotted his sword laying a few feet away. The knight stumbled over to it and picked it up, before pointing it at the dragon and straightening his back.
Ticky's eyes opened slowly, a dull throb pounding at his concentration. Where was he? He vaguely remembered being belowdecks, grumbling about the lack of wind and his lack of ability to do anything about it, lying in bed and enjoying a few moments of rest from the past few hours of fighting against the difficult forces of nature. Something about a 'fucking gone' from above, although he had paid it little heed. After all, he was no master of human lingo, much less that of a sailor.
Then something struck the ship, throwing him headfirst against a wall.
"Well color me pink and call me an Elf..." he muttered, pulling himself to his feet. He was unhurt, although disoriented. Call it gnomish intuition, but he felt that he was needed on deck. Scrambling through the heaving hallways, he climbed onto the deck and sincerely wished he had stayed in bed.
Overhead, a great roar ripped the air. The massive bronze beast flared intermittedly at its own tail, at something that Ticky sincerely hoped it would hit. Cursing to himself, Ticky calmed himself, focusing on what needed to be done most. He opened himself to his innate abilities, feeling the flow of the elements in the air... and flicked an eyebrow when a gun exploded behind him.
He turned, viewing the carnage, and decided it was of little importance, at least at this point. Returning his attention to the beast, Ticky heard a hoarse cry from a blood-drenched, tin-clad man. "Fire your guns, men! The beast is wounded!"
Ticky rolled his eyes at the man. Guns. Bullets. Swords. Humans were always looking for the filthy way to do things. With a deep breath, as the dragon turned on its next circuit, Ticky readied himself.
All about was chaos. Men were baying and praying and laying deathly still. Nexaddo was rushing towards the Orc, Axthorn. Marneus had been flung across the deck as if his armour were nothing but tin. This was not the whole.
Jonas threw this all aside. A mind can easily be lost once it considers the full horror that assails it. He gazed up at the threat, the dragon. He stared at the rigging it was tangled in, and the mast that pitched and yawed with the beast's thrashing. He looked down at his stump of an arm, then at his sword. It was crazy, but it could work.
Jonas sheathed his sword and rushed to the rigging. He took hold of it with his one lone arm and heaved himself upward. There was a moment of weightlessness, when his feet dangled in surprise; and then they had purchase. Jonas then set about the task.
The climb was perilous. It might have been slow and steady in calm seas, but with a dragon twisting and turning the rigging like an enraged puppet master, a two-armed man would have feared for his life.
Time was like treacle. He was falling with an eery slowness, back, down, and around, like the hour hand on a clock. Jonas watched with a scientific interest. He pondered what might happen next. In the end he was unexpectedly surprised.
CATCH His foot had twisted around a rope. Jonas yelped in pain as his foot absorbed his entire falling weight. It was probably sprained. He grabbed hold again and carefully righted himself. He was almost there.
The dragon was immense; it was a new, crazed sky. It was thrashing harder than before, if that were possible. Jonas thought he could reach out and touch its belly, if he had a second hand with which to do it.
The thought stabbed him in the gut. He had had enough trouble climbing this far - how could he fight and still stay aloft with only one arm? Jonas suddenly felt small and useless. Then he felt anger. How dare his ruined right arm fail him? How dare it spite him? No. It could burn in all the hells below for all he cared. Jonas knotted his feet into the rigging and leaned into the rope, then reached down with his left hand and drew his sword. He quickly grabbed hold again, lest a particularly vicious shudder send him falling below. His hand held both the rope and the sword together. This was crazy. But he would do it.
"I leave my soul to Allana Bel-Astra, goddess of fortune and faith."
Release - leap STAB -
__________________________________
Nexaddo reached Axthorn, looking at the wound with a worried expression. "Gris, I need you to stay with me and move this way," he said. "Keep, pressure around the wound." The orc was staggering, and even with the Doctor's guidance he was making very poor time towards the hatch and the safety of the mess hall, Nexaddo's impromptu infirmary.
Above their heads, the dragon surged upward, was caught by the rigging and snapped back down, just in time to catch Jonas' sword. The blade slid with shocking ease between the armored plates and Jonas, having expected more of an impact, almost lost his balance. He swayed, the ropes moving beneath his feet, and caught himself against his sword, which grated inside the dragon's flesh. Thick drops of blood sprayed his arm, faintly acidic, smelling harshly of sulfur and iron.
Last straw.
The dragon rose, bellowing, with huge flaps of its wings. The ropes entangling it snapped with a sound like hail on cobblestones--tak tak tak tak tak--and pulled Jonas' feet out from under him. There was nothing supporting the swordsman, nothing but the receding ends of broken lines, and he fell with a lurch. He caught himself for a moment, hanging from the dragon's underside by his sword, and then the blade slipped out of the beast as cleanly as it had gone in and he was plummeting down, with rigging and fragments of burning sail falling alongside him. A few heart-stopping seconds later and he managed to get his foot caught in an intact section of rigging, bringing him to a sudden, painful halt.
He managed to keep a hold of his sword, somehow, despite everything.
The dragon flew. The burning masts gave it a little bit of an updraft, which helped; the elf clinging to its tail and ruining its aerodynamics was decidedly unhelpful, but it could work around that for the moment.
On deck, the Doctor's tiger emerged. The beast was indignant at being used as a glorified pack-animal to carry the wounded, and the smell of blood was making it edgy, but there wasn't much Nexaddo could do about that except offer a soothing word or two. The gnome all but tripped Axthorn to get him onto the tiger's back, and they headed off towards safety. There were many who needed the Doctor's help, but he couldn't reach them through the chaos on deck, and even if he could he doubted Hunter could carry more than one at a time.
The dragon passed in front of the sun for a moment, blinding everyone, a creature painted entirely in black shadow edged with blazing gold. Men fired blindly at the uncertain shape, unaware of misses or hits, knowing only that it would be back at any moment with fire and claw.
Royka, standing near the Doctor, was still reeling from the explosion of his weapon. "Are you all right?" called Nexaddo. "I need you to help the wounded and direct them below. I'll be back when I'm done helping who I can." He needed someone to direct the flow of wounded--certainly he couldn't do it himself, seeing as he was needed to heal.
The Doctor and his cat vanished below deck just as the dragon dived, balls from the Cepolada's guns screaming around its body, Derlan clinging to its tail like an orange-skinned limpet. The beast roared, flame curling from the corners of its mouth, readying its fire to burn the ship to ash, and it was then that Ticky cast his spell. For a split second the sun burned colder and the air smelled of frost, and then the dragon was trying to rear back from the ship but not being able to stop its dive. Wings billowed huge against the sun, slowing the beast's descent, and were promptly holed by a volley from the swivel-guns, which of course did nothing to help matters.
The dragon hit amidships and slid off the side, scrabbling at the deck for purchase. The impact finally flung Derlan from his tenuous hold, sending him sailing through the air to the water below as above him the dragon tore a gaping hole in the side of the ship, trying to steady itself.
Revising the Past
Due to an unfortunate mix-up in timing, a later post was edited into this one and this post revised to take that into account. The first section of this post, before the dividing line, was written by Saskwach [http://www.escapistmagazine.com/profiles/view/Saskwach], who is sometimes known as Jonas Thrace.
As Nexxado led Axthorn away, Rokya set off to do as he was asked. He pointed one or two crewman towards the stairs and helped another hobble over. The entire time his hands burned with agony. Be grateful, could've been worse, he told himself repeatedly. He knew the pain was a good thing, it meant he would heal eventually, that he wouldn't be crippled for life.
As he handed the hobbled crewman to the others, the dragon hit. All of them fell over, for even an experienced captain would have trouble keeping his footing, let alone a group of injured men. This time, however, the dragon wasn't in complete control. Rokya watched as the wall down the hall was torn apart. As the dragon clung to the now leaning ship an idea came to Rokya. A horrible, stupid, desperate idea. It would hurt like all hell, and it probably wouldn't even work, but he couldn't not do anything.
Wishing he at least had bandages on his hands, the merchant drew his sword and ran down the hall towards the great beast. A possibly final prayer entered his mind, a reminder of home. Profit isn't measured in coins, but the joy those coins bring. And he thrust the sword upwards, attempting to slide it under the overlapping scales.
Marneus cringed as he caught himself, using his sword as a crutch to keep from falling over. Climbing back to his feet, he saw Rokya draw his sword. Marneus smiled grimly at his bravery, before turning to a group of sailors just now getting back up.
"Follow me, you dogs! To victory!"
The knight charged at the wounded dragon, joining Rokya in his charge. He didn't look back once, not even to see if the sailors were following. Sword raised high, the knight roared as he prepared to strike the massive beast in it's head. His mind was filled with prayers and litanies, but one thought overpowered them all.
The dragon scrabbled at the ship, looking completely undignified. Its claws grasped the wood, which tore like cardboard, leaving it with little to grab onto. Traction was minimal on the sea-slick planks. And then, just as it was getting its balance back, someone stabbed it. It felt Royka's sword as a pinprick in its chest, then as a sharp pain as the blade slid beneath the scales. It reared back and made an instinctive slash at what had dared to harm it. Then Marneus appeared, blood running down his armor in crimson rivulets, sword cutting the air with unstoppable force, followed by a mob of poorly-armed, terrified and desperate sailors. A swivel-gun boomed, hitting the beast and sending scales flying, and Marneus' sword swept up and around, hitting the dragon in the jaw. The blade didn't pierce the skin, but the blow rattled the bones in the great golden head.
The dragon roared in Marneus' face, only to jerk back as the knight leveled another swing at it. As it pulled back it felt the twisting pain of Royka's sword, the merchant frantically trying to deal as much damage as possible while he still could. And the dragon thought, you know, fuck this. These little things with their blades and their guns, they weren't showing the proper respect. The dragon was unused to being threatened, even partially. It was used to the more sedate form of humanity, ones with spears and clubs more than swords or bows.
Below, Royka drew back his sword for another blow. Above, Marneus raised his blade. The ballista crew aimed carefully with a cussor-tipped bolt, the sailors clutched their guns and their bows, and the dragon drew a steady, even breath.
Then the dragon breathed out, and the world filled with fire. Marneus was lucky enough to realize what was happening and turn his head to the side, to prevent the flames from going straight through the slits of his helmet: nevertheless, it was uncomfortably hot inside his armor as the dragon's fire passed through the air around him. The sailors behind him, not being armored, dived for any sort of safety they could see--the cover of the mast, the deck, or the ocean. Most of them made it. The fire reached the ballista crew, shielded by a frame of wet hides that stopped most of it in a burst of steam, but could not stop the fire that reached the bolt loaded into the weapon. The fuse of the cussor, which was meant to be lit by a flint moments before firing, burned all the way through within a fraction of a second, and then the whole weapon's platform exploded, the sound melding with the roar of the dragon until there was no coherency left in the world, only a dull thumping drone that went on and on and on...
When the smoke cleared, the dragon had fallen off the ship and was floating a few hundred feet away. It surged up from the water, shaking its head and making a valiant effort to rise above the waves, which it managed on the third try. On the Cepolada the ballistia platform was shattered, the cussors of its ammunition having detonated, blowing a good chunk of planking off the foredeck, and just about everything else was at least smoldering, if not outright on fire.
John was sleeping peacefully when an explosion rocked the ship, knocking him out of his bed and into the wall. After checking to make sure nothing was broken, He got up and quickly fell back down, his muscles weak from all those days of sleep. He tried again more slowly. His legs were sore but you couldn't get through what he had without toughening up. Groaning, he stood up and slowly made his way out of the room.
When he was outside his room, John was quickly hit by the smell of smoke everywhere. Speeding up, he eventually reaches topside where he is greeted by wreckage. Unfortunate sailors lay across the deck, dead or dieing, undoubtably killed by the explosion. Injured sailors lay across the ground, groaning. Still, many sailors survived, and were staring in aw at Marneus, who's armor glowed slightly from heat. Then he noticed the fucking giant golden dragon taking off from the water to his right.
Marneus coughed, smoke coming off his armor getting in his lungs. He turned slowly, trying not to agitate his now burnt skin, and faced the surviving sailors.
"Get any unoccupied guns ready, check the hold for spare guns. We will not fall to this beast."
They stared at him, slack jawed at the fact he had just survived a point blank burst of dragonfire.
"Well? Go!"
Snapping out of their trance, they rushed off to presumably follow his orders. Marneus looked around, trying to see if Rokya had survived. As he searched, he had one thing puzzling him.
Am I dying? So much blood... Rokya was strewn across the floor, the dragon's blood drenching him. He pulled himself slowly to his feet, leaning heavily on the wall. To his left was the hole that the beast had torn apart, and to his right, down the hall a ways, were the other injured crewmen staring in disbelief as they too regained their footing.
Slowly, his hearing returned, he hadn't even noticed it gone, and the after effects of the explosion seemed to wear off. He stumbled down the hall, picking up his dropped sword, and ushered the other crewmen to follow him into the mess hall, to the relative safety of Nexxado's care.
As he passed by the stairs leading to the deck he glimpsed heavily armored Marneus, his dull silver armor smoking eerily. As he caught his eye Rokya flashed him a thumbs up and continued with the others. Looks like he's okay. Wonder how his horse is doing?
With a slap against the wood, Rhee finally made it...though she was too tired to pull herself up. It was quite a feat to swim the distance in the time she did but her limbs didn't feel her own. One of the crew happen to find her floating outside the make-shift window and pulled her up with help of a few others.
"Are you all right, Where are you hurt?" He asked as they lowered her onto the floor."
"Yes..." she replied annoyed that she had to speak.
"Where?"
"YES!" He backed off after a hand turned into a fist, ""
Ticky climbed to his feet, vainly attempting to tidy up his clothing as the dragon struggled to rear its head once again. He watched for a moment, curious, as the dragon pulled above water. A destructive beast, certainly, but also very solid. "I will have to purchase a young one, should the opportunity arise..." He thought, turning to the ship.
Well, what was left of it. It was really more of a conflagration. Ticky sighed (and realized he had been doing that entirely too often) and set to work calming the flames that raged on the boat. It was not easy ignoring the wails of the dying, stench of the dead, or angry screams of the dragon, but Ticky felt that he'd manage. After all, he was the only one that seemed to care that their home-away-from-home was quickly turning into a firepit.
And so he set to work, dousing the flames (and any unfortunate sailors who happened to be coated in more fire than usual) with water drawn from the sea.
Derlan moaned, as he slowly opened his eyes he realized where he was and what was happening. The dragon, the ship, the falling, the bullet in his leg. Yes, there was a certain air of chaos around him and he should probably start heading toward the ship.
But he didn't. Instead, he opted to lay on his back and calmly float in the salty ocean water. He stared at the clouds and the blue sky above him, the weather was quite lovely, and the ocean was salty he thought to himself. Suddenly, he remembered that salt on a fresh wound was bad.
"Yes... ocean is bad for wounds." he muttered through gritted teeth as he continued to lay in the water, "Its really quite bad."
He shifted his body and was now treading water, realizing his chest hurt quite badly, he softly poked his rib and cried in pain. There was at least one broken rib, that much was clear but what else was broken? His whole body was rather sore, but he would assess his injuries once he got back to the ship.
The ship, oh boy was the ship ever in bad condition. Derlan's face turned from pain to worry as he looked at the ship, it was on fire and the dragon had really done a number on the hull, how would they get to the Unknown if the ship was in this condition?
He shook his head and began slowly swimming toward the ship, trying to ignore the pain, he thought of what a story it will be to tell people that he rode a dragon. Derlan the Dragon Rider, he liked the sound of that.
"All right," said Deslock, watching the dragon. "All right. It's still disoriented by the explosion. We've got a bit of a breather."
Grummond, standing nearby, said nothing, mostly because he was busy tying a bandage around his arm.
"We've got a moment," said Deslock, distractedly. "Ticky's got the fires, good, and the Doctor's seeing to the wounded--we're set there..."
There was a dull explosion on deck as the flames reached the powder supply for one of the swivel guns, followed quickly by an agonized scream. Grummond winced. They had covered the powder barrels with wet hides to try to prevent this very thing, but you couldn't count on anything to work a hundred percent of the time, especially in a battle like this one. Nexaddo was on the scene quickly, though, swearing under his breath in gnomish, reaching for wounded men with needle and thread. The Doctor's first reaction upon emerging from the lower deck had been an incredulous stare and a heartfelt "Shit;" then came the work. He was making his rounds as quickly as possible, seeking out men he could help and saying a quick prayer for those he couldn't. Captain Grummond watched as the gnome patched up a sailor who had been standing too near the swivel-gun's powder keg.
Deslock interrupted the captain's thoughts. "Don't we have a dragon gun in with the other supplies?" he asked. "I'm sure we do."
"How the hell should I know?" asked Grummond in reply. "You're the one who filled the damn hold. Keep track of your own stuff--right now, I'm busy worrying about mine."
"Right," said Deslock. "Sure. You do that. Meanwhile, I'm going to go get the weapon that was, you know, fucking built to shoot at dragons."
"For all the good it will do you," said Grummond, to Deslock's receding back.
The dragon was gaining height with each beat of its wings, moving straight into the air, no updraft or breeze, only sheer muscle force. Blood smeared the scales on its underbelly and was sprayed across its wing in fractal droplets, but it was still in one piece and, for the most part, hale. Ice rimmed its nostrils, remnants of Ticky's spell: it snorted a brief plume of flame, turning the ice to steam, and shook the remaining water off of its face. Its eyes centered on the ship once again and narrowed, lids closing from both sides until all that was left were two thin slits, behind which lurked a reptilian pupil. It took one, two more beats to gain a little more height, and then dived...
Deslock, on deck, almost walked straight into John Piercefield. He'd been warily watching a fat line of fire slowly advancing down the deck, and would have run into John if the man's silhouette hadn't blocked out the edge of the flames.
"...Who the hell are you?" was Deslock's first, unthinking reaction. An awkward second later, he said, "No, wait, you're Piercefield. Met us in Tyb. Knew your father. Good to see you above deck. Listen, I've--" and then the dragon struck and the deck tilted, almost throwing him from his feet. There was a ragged, greatly reduced volley from the swivel-guns, to little effect, and a spray of crossbow bolts and musketry, which did about as much as rain would have. The dragon clung to the side of the Cepolada, tearing away bulkheads and interior walls. There was a solid crack that reverberated through the ship and then the dragon was leaping up, having learned the dangers of staying motionless for too long. It passed low over the deck, inciting another flurry of wild shots and displaying to everyone on deck the indistinct, flailing figure held in its claws.
"Is that..." Deslock began. "Is it holding someone? It's got someone in its claws, the poor bastard..." To the captain: "Grummond! Looks like you've lost one!"
"That's not one of mine!" shouted Grummond in reply. "It's got ahold of one of yours!"
"...The hell you say," said Deslock, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. "All gods damn it!"
Rokya fell against the wall of his cabin as the dragon leaped off the deck. "Gods damn that overgrown iguana! Can't it just fuck off?!" His hands were freshly wrapped and the dragon blood had been scrapped off, lest the acidic properties add to his burns. His sword was back home at his hip as he climbed the stairs to the deck above.
The fires were dying out thanks to Ticky, but the damage done was near catastrophic. Even if they survived the dragon's attack, the Cepolada would be hard pressed to make it to the Unknown Continent. Nearly half the crew were injured, and there was only so much spare lumber in the hold. The dragon had someone in its clutches and it was unknown whether or not it would return as quickly as before.
As Rokya surveyed the wreckage he found that a coil of rope tied to the railing was quickly going taut. Rushing over as the ship rocked wasn't the best idea so by the time he got to the railing the rope was completely taut, but still tied tightly. "Lotta help there?" said a familiar voice from the waters below.
Smiling at the resilience of orange painted elf, Rokya hauled him up as quick as his bandaged hands could go. In a few minutes time Derlan was sitting against the railing, holding his leg wound tightly. "Good to see you didn't become shark bait. Let's get you to the mess hall, eh?" offered Rokya.
It is hard for something the size of a human being to react to something like a dragon. The mind cannot hold the enormity of what is occurring: the beast is built on too great a scale, the danger threatening at too huge a level. The raw, unfiltered thought of it almost induces vertigo. Here is something that can extinguish you utterly and not even notice. Here is something that can destroy cities in its rage. Here is something that has a spark of intelligence in its eyes, something that has a face with all the features that we recognize but in a strange and demonic form. Here is something disquietingly alien, clothed in something disconcertingly familiar. Here, before your very eyes, blotting out the sun, is the dragon. It is coming.
The golden dragon preceded its attack with a gout of flame. It was a weak flame: whatever alchemy or magic that produced it must have been slowing down, or perhaps it was simply meant to distract, not kill. The fire didn't do much, in any event. The gnome Ticky had been drawing water up from around the ship to douse the existing fires, and when the dragon's flame struck those animated droplets it was doused, emitting a burst of steam and a sound like a snake's hiss. Through this cloud of steam came the dragon, flying low, as usual greeted by a hail of grape from the remaining swivel-guns. Small metal balls filled the air, but did nothing to slow the beast. It slammed into the ship again, with less force than before. Most of those who had been shooting at it were now either dead, too busy putting out fires, or frantically trying to keep their powder away from said fires. The heart had gone out of the fight, as it were.
The dragon, sensing a potential victory, let loose with a bone-shaking roar. The crew of the Cepolada responded with a scattered volley. Something must have gotten through this time, as the beast reared back, in pain or in shock. Someone threw a flayer, which exploded within feet of the dragon's head. The crew was beginning to rally, but it would not be enough.
The dragon had no interest in destroying the Cepolada, however. It had what it had come for. It leaped into the air, rocking the ship for the last time, and began winging it for the horizon. There was a lot of air to cover, and nothing to hide behind, but also nothing with the range to hit the beast: the Expedition could do nothing but watch as the dragon slowly began to recede into the distance.
Deslock had his spyglass out.
"It's got more than one person," he said. "I think one of them is a dwarf. And...all gods damn it, I can't see anything!" He lowered the glass. "All right. People, get on fire duty, stat. And...we'll have to do a headcount at some point. See who we're missing."
He stared after the dragon, by now just a fat gold gleam in the sky. "A dragon. Really? Really, all ye unforgiving gods? Do you really hate me that much?"
Defeated, Derlan nodded, or rather tried to nod but really just sort of bobbed his head,
"Yes, I thinks that would be a good idea, not only is my leg in terribly pain but my rib." he poked his chest and howled in pain, "Appears to be broken as well."
Rokya lifted Derlan up and put his arm over his shoulder, Derlan limply hung from Rokya's shoulder placing most of his weight on the other man,
"Oh I need you to go to my room first so I can get something, just... don't tell anyone I just need to get something impotent. Hehehe I mean important. Impotent, HAH!" Derlan and Rokya made their way toward the lower decks, "Do you see how funny my mistake was? Because impotent means unable to bake mabies. Oops, there I go again!"
Derlan giggled as he slowly limped along the top deck.
Ticky coughed as the last flame was extinguished. An experience, if nothing else. A learning experience, if nothing else. "A lesson to stay the fuck away from dragons." He growled silently, trudging over to Deslock.
"Explorer." Ticky said curtly. "May I inquire what you plan on doing next? We're effectively shipwrecked, short on crew, and have at least one of our men being carted off as a delicious midday snack for a dragon." Ticky leaned in and added something in a harsh whisper, before pulling back and looking at Deslock expectantly.
"We're effectively shipwrecked, short on crew, and have at least one of our men being carted off as a delicious midday snack for a dragon."
" She moved towards an unrecognizable corpse taking his purse and sword before kicking it overboard.
She observed her newly acquired weapon as she spoke, the hilt would need to be remade and it was a little on the heavy side being a few inches longer than she was accustomed to.
Deslock frowned and muttered something in reply to Ticky. Louder, he said, "We've been hurt, yes. We've lost a mast, most of a good set of sails, and too many good men. And we lost a bit of confidence, I expect." He was speaking to everyone on deck now. "We're wounded, battered, broken, shipwrecked, bleeding and burned. We're all of this and more. You don't need me to tell you that." He glared around him, savagely biting off his words. "But. We. Aren't. Dead. Yet. Apparently you do need me to tell you that, the gods alone know why. So get back to work--stop staring at me and start moving, people!" This last was addressed to the sailors who had paused in their work to listen. "We need more sails out of storage, we need what we've got patched up, and we need to be moving! If we sit still, we'll never get the old girl repaired! Hammers and nails, people, hammers and nails!"
He stopped, and in a more normal tone added, "And if anyone here speaks Illarym, please tell me what Rhee just said. All I understood was something about slavers and pirates."
_______________________________
Doctor Nexaddo scrambled from one wounded to another. If they were screaming he checked to see if they could be saved, and if they weren't he checked for a pulse. He stitched and bandaged his way across the deck, making towards his base in the mess hall. The Doctor made a valiant attempt at medical dispassion, but on the inside he was full of morbid curiosity. He had never seen the effects of dragon-fire on a body before. It wasn't significantly different from regular flame, but it seemed to have more of a liquefying and penetrating effect, signifying a more condensed heat than normal fire. Curious. He would have to make a note of that somewhere.
He rushed to the mess hall and grimaced at the gaping hole in the wall. Alas, nothing he could do about it, and at least it let in a bit of fresh air.
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