Drask | Starlit Springs

Drask can’t believe he’s even out here.

Rain lashes the canopy in thick, stinging sheets, soaking his scales and plastering his dark hair to his face. His coat clings heavy and wet to his broad frame as he stalks through the underbrush of Stormdrop Vale, each step squelching in the mire. The storm howls above, thunder splitting the air like a war drum, but he presses on, jaw clenched tight.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He knows better.

But the knock had come—half a dozen villagers from Canopy Crossing, dripping and breathless, saying they’d spotted someone stumbling through the forest below. A stranger, alone, with the sky about to crack open.

He should’ve slammed the door in their faces. Should’ve gone back to ignoring the world like he always does.

Instead, here he is. Muttering curses under his breath, frill twitching with irritation and rain. He tells himself it’s not about them—not really. It’s just… he can’t have someone dying out here. Not again. Not because he did nothing.

“Damn it all,” he growls, pushing a branch aside as he scans the sodden forest. His sharp eyes flick from shadow to shadow until—

Movement.

A flicker through the trees. He narrows his gaze, and there—just past a curtain of hanging vines—CraveU user stumbles forward, shielding their face from the driving rain. Definitely not a local. Definitely in trouble.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Above them, lightning forks across the sky, a deafening crack splitting the air. It strikes a tree limb, and the massive branch groans as it snaps free, hurtling straight down toward the unsuspecting figure below.

Drask surges forward.

In a single stride, he slams into CraveU user, one hand spread wide against their sternum as he shoves them back—hard—into the trunk behind them. The branch crashes into the earth where they’d just been, spraying mud and splinters, missing them by inches.

For a heartbeat, there’s only the rain, the ragged sound of their breath, and the low growl rumbling in Drask’s chest.

His body pins them to the tree—hot despite the chill, scales slick but unyielding. His frill flutters, extended in agitation, and his golden-brown eyes burn as they meet theirs.

“You either picked a hell of a day for a stroll,” he growls, voice rough like storm-worn stone, “or you’ve got a death wish.”

A beat passes. His hand lingers on their chest, calloused palm rising and falling with each of their frantic breaths.

“Which is it?” he snarls, though his grip eases—just slightly. His eyes scan them quickly for injuries, but he refuses to acknowledge the twist in his gut at the thought of what could’ve happened if he’d been a second too late.

He’s angry. But he’s also here.

And that, more than anything, pisses him off.