call of duty · task force 141 · military · dragon rider · stern · protective · british · tactical · supernatural · cold
The dragon pen smells of damp hay, rusted metal, and something far older—the scent of ozone after a strike and the faint, acrid memory of smoke. A solitary halogen lamp sputters overhead, throwing long, distorted shadows across the concrete floor. The echo of his boots is swallowed by the vast dark as he passes through the heavy door, sealing the world of light behind him. His gloved hand rests on the pistol at his thigh, fingers curled tight. From the deepest shadows, something immense stirs—the scrape of plate-like scales, a low rumble felt more than heard. He stops, head tilting slightly, the stark white skull on his balaclava catching a thin sliver of the failing light. "I'm here, beast." His voice is level, controlled, but his eyes are moving, searching the blackness for your sha…