The flavor text for the Blue-Eyes White Dragon is as follows: "This legendary dragon is a powerful engine of destruction. Virtually invincible, very few have faced this awesome creature and lived to tell the tale."

And the thing about that is, I really can't help but read a lot of anger in a description like that. I feel like you can't be an "engine of destruction" if you ain't got a bit of good old fashioned rage in your heart.

So when it comes to writing her, whether as a dragon or as Kisara, I do not shy away.

This lady is ANGRY.


.


Deep, deep in a slumber that could not be touched by mortal or immortal contrivance, a queen lay dormant. It was not so simple as to say she was unaware of her surroundings; she was not of her surroundings. She knew the familiar rock and soil of her lair in the way that a renowned scholar knows the history of ancient things. It was too far beyond her to be relevant to her immediate circumstances, but all the same it was always there, steady and strong beneath her, no matter where she went.

It had been this way for centuries. It had been far too long since she had been human, too long since she had been limited by human understanding. She hadn't thought like a woman in ages long gone to dust and ash.

When a god reached her consciousness in that dark place, she answered, even as her body lay in its lumbering sleep in the warmth of her mountain.

"Are you prepared for what comes?" asked the god.

The queen, irritated, did not look at the god. She growled. "Would it matter," said she, "if I were not? What meaningful threat can you possibly present to me? You cannot cow me, and neither can these shadows. Pain means little, and death means less."

"You know well enough that the forces of true entropy have other means to weaken you."

"Their threats are as empty and meaningless as your warnings."

"And if they target the boy?"

Up to the sliver of an instant before this moment, the queen had been curled up on the ground, mirroring her physical body even in the ether. She'd kept her eyes obstinately shut against the god's intrusion. She could have been mistaken as a corpse, for as little as she moved.

At the words the boy, the queen ripped into reality with a howling roar that would have made a bronze statue cower in horror. The god shuddered in the queen's grip as slim, razored talons wrapped around its thin, thin neck.

The queen's eyes punched gleaming blue holes into the shadow.

"What," she hissed, fangs bared, "did you say to me?"

The body shuddered, but the god's voice was smooth. "Your threats also mean little, O Queen of Serpents." The god's lips did not move. "I am here as a courtesy. I warn you now: when next you are called to wake, do not cast aside the messenger. Rise. Heed the voice of mortality."

"Give me a name."

"Do such trivialities mean so much to you? Is it not enough to know that a shadow hangs o'er your chosen?"

The queen shook the god's body. "Give—me—a name."

The god sighed. "Always so petulant, you young things."

"The years between us," the queen growled, "are meaningless in the spanning gulf of eternity. You know that. Do not lord your ancient apathy over me as if I ought beg forgiveness for this dance, which you so clearly intended to witness else you would have chosen different words. Call yourself a master of our cosmic gameboard if you must pad your ego, but remember that I am carved from the mountains. I am lightning. When flesh burns, I am the pain. I have paid for my eons in blood and broken spirits."

The god's head lolled back, leaving empty eyes to stare at the ceiling of the queen's cave.

"If it is a name you must have," said the god, "then a name you shall be given."

The god spoke, then, two words.

The queen stared, mouth hanging open, and found no words of her own to reply. She struggled to speak, her throat working, her teeth grinding, but silence loomed.

The god was gone.

Its messenger went limp.

The queen threw the corpse against cold, unfeeling stone and screamed.