'Leave.' Her voice, imperious and hard. You've never heard her like this. You have never her like this, flanked by two dragons, with an expression that ill-suits her.
'I cannot-' You said resolutely. '-I must stop you.'
'...out of the bonds we shared, I will give you a chance. Leave.'
'No.'
'Then perish.' A barbed flagstaff is swung and all you remember is-
You gasp for air as you wake under a night full of stars. And then you wince in pain as
everything hurts. Your form, gauze wrapped and immobilized, is tended by a wizened old man- you see the firm shape of muscle under his clothes- and a young lady- a nun.
"Easy there young man." The stern voice of the coot focuses you. "You were lucky we got there when we did. What were you thinking, fighting an incarnated spirit like that? Pah-"
Ah, you remember now. You were losing. And then these two kind people came and helped you. Somehow, they fought against
her in an even enough footing. Enough to disengage. And she did not give chase.
...she really did give you a chance.
"Thank you." You say frankly. "You did not need to and ye-"
"Idiot." The nun speaks. "You held yourself against the bloody vengeful incarnate of the Maid of Orleans who, to be fair,
held back- and didn't die. It would be
stupid if we did no-"
"Irina." A word, and silence. "No tirades."
"Fine, Father." She exhales. "Point
is-" The intonation made the old man glare. "You are talented enough. And we need your help."
"Madamoiselle... Irina?" She nods. "Irina- How then might I help you like this?"
The priest smiled. "Several ways. We know who you are.
Ira Dei." You stiffen. "Monsieur
de Vignolles, we have need of your service."
"Of saving France?"
His eyes harden at that. "No. France will burn and there's nothing that
we can do of it. Man is not meant to face dragons. Our quarry is a different. And from there, there
might be a chance to save it."
"And who-" Your teeth clench as your choler rise for the first time in the night, heating up your form- to the seeming approval of the two mysterious clerical figures. "-
Who might it be?"
The priest and Irina looks at one another, before nodding.
Irina is the one who speaks first. "A monster. Of a different kind. Older than the threat that faces this land. More insidious even.
"She calls herself Prelati. And we of the Burial Classroom are on a
hunt."
France — Hundred Years' Draconic Menace begins...