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When Rodan hatched alone and fierce, rising up from the seething mantle of Inverxe like an eruption, a shrieking cataclysm announced his birth.
He would never see another like him, could not know if the circumstances of his birth were unremarkable, typical of his kind. He could assume, though, and make up stories with which to amuse himself—stories spoken in his crackling, smoke-laden tongue that only the bones of the world would understand, the world that bore and warmed him in the absence of his egg-layer.
Inverxe was his mother, his life-giver, the kindler of his inner flame: he would know no other.
A tempest of dust and blistering heat ravaged the sprawling subterranean chamber his nest resided within, sparks dancing like frenzied fireflies in the thick, suffocating air. The caldera rumbled ominously, spewing a monstrous column of ash and acrid smoke towards the cavernous ceiling. Beneath its gaping maw, deep craters akin to hollowed eye sockets split the scorched landscape, resembling festering, bleeding wounds on its fiery surface.
The walls of the large stone dwellings peppered around his cradle's fringes crumbled beneath the weight of the volcano’s shifting rock, the geometric stonework—decorated with boldly sculpted lines and shapes that were as mathematically faultless as they were beautiful—fragmenting into chunks of senseless debris, the patterns rendered meaningless, null. Bronze-colored pipe work, the pride of the Dwemer, melted into white-hot rivers of molten gold, spilling like sinuous veins of fire across the fragmented city, the layered passageways and tunnels resembling a honeycomb of glowing amber as the flowing magma gorged upon everything in its path.
Above this sea of flame broke the glorious crimson silhouette of wings, and at the heart of the gutted volcanic ruin that once was, some time ago, the subjugated and much-abused city of Neo-Nippur, there was a great burning.
As Rodan pulled himself free from the sweltering, bubbling lava, screeching his fury at simply being alive, hardened plates of dark igneous armor shifted and flexed along his body as he moved, his clawed feet digging into the crumbled stone ruins for stability, reducing whatever remained to rubble. His massive wings beat down with all the might of a hurricane, churning the smoky air and scattering embers in swirling eddies. Between the scaly immensity of his wingspan rose the jagged shape of a ridged back, glowing red-hot like the liquefied rock below, marred with scores of smouldering, angry fissures that trailed all the way down to his spade-shaped tail.
His neck arched nimbly to inspect the fine cracks in his armor, showcasing a sharp-ridged skull with two curved, horn-like spurs. Lava dripped profusely from his body and talon-tipped wings, sizzling as it struck the ground.
With a displeased clack, Rodan's hooked beak snapped shut, the jagged, tooth-like spikes within grinding against each other like the harsh scraping of stone on stone. His head swiveled to the side, drawn in by the foreign objects dotting his volcanic nest. Piercing yellow eyes darted from structure to structure, trying to make sense of them.
A low-pitched, curious rumble emanated from his throat, accompanied by a series of clicking sounds as he tried to communicate with these new additions to his home.
It was a shame that buildings could not speak, especially when they were engulfed by several layers of molten lava. If they could, perhaps they would have told him that the civilization below had been brought to ruin long ago.
He would never see another like him, could not know if the circumstances of his birth were unremarkable, typical of his kind. He could assume, though, and make up stories with which to amuse himself—stories spoken in his crackling, smoke-laden tongue that only the bones of the world would understand, the world that bore and warmed him in the absence of his egg-layer.
Inverxe was his mother, his life-giver, the kindler of his inner flame: he would know no other.
A tempest of dust and blistering heat ravaged the sprawling subterranean chamber his nest resided within, sparks dancing like frenzied fireflies in the thick, suffocating air. The caldera rumbled ominously, spewing a monstrous column of ash and acrid smoke towards the cavernous ceiling. Beneath its gaping maw, deep craters akin to hollowed eye sockets split the scorched landscape, resembling festering, bleeding wounds on its fiery surface.
The walls of the large stone dwellings peppered around his cradle's fringes crumbled beneath the weight of the volcano’s shifting rock, the geometric stonework—decorated with boldly sculpted lines and shapes that were as mathematically faultless as they were beautiful—fragmenting into chunks of senseless debris, the patterns rendered meaningless, null. Bronze-colored pipe work, the pride of the Dwemer, melted into white-hot rivers of molten gold, spilling like sinuous veins of fire across the fragmented city, the layered passageways and tunnels resembling a honeycomb of glowing amber as the flowing magma gorged upon everything in its path.
Above this sea of flame broke the glorious crimson silhouette of wings, and at the heart of the gutted volcanic ruin that once was, some time ago, the subjugated and much-abused city of Neo-Nippur, there was a great burning.
As Rodan pulled himself free from the sweltering, bubbling lava, screeching his fury at simply being alive, hardened plates of dark igneous armor shifted and flexed along his body as he moved, his clawed feet digging into the crumbled stone ruins for stability, reducing whatever remained to rubble. His massive wings beat down with all the might of a hurricane, churning the smoky air and scattering embers in swirling eddies. Between the scaly immensity of his wingspan rose the jagged shape of a ridged back, glowing red-hot like the liquefied rock below, marred with scores of smouldering, angry fissures that trailed all the way down to his spade-shaped tail.
His neck arched nimbly to inspect the fine cracks in his armor, showcasing a sharp-ridged skull with two curved, horn-like spurs. Lava dripped profusely from his body and talon-tipped wings, sizzling as it struck the ground.
With a displeased clack, Rodan's hooked beak snapped shut, the jagged, tooth-like spikes within grinding against each other like the harsh scraping of stone on stone. His head swiveled to the side, drawn in by the foreign objects dotting his volcanic nest. Piercing yellow eyes darted from structure to structure, trying to make sense of them.
A low-pitched, curious rumble emanated from his throat, accompanied by a series of clicking sounds as he tried to communicate with these new additions to his home.
It was a shame that buildings could not speak, especially when they were engulfed by several layers of molten lava. If they could, perhaps they would have told him that the civilization below had been brought to ruin long ago.