The armor is heavy on my shoulders but I barely feel it. I welcome it, in fact. It's kept me alive so far. The pressure of building power pushes against me, burning through the metal and scorching my skin, bruising my damaged body, crushing my chest so tight I have to fight for breath. I force my lungs to inflate out of sheer spite, scream in defiance, voice already parched and cracking.
My magic pulses, as weary as I am but refusing to quit as the massive wings of my friend beneath me sweep us forward, his power unrelenting.
We must reach them before it's too late.
The glowing, white sword of light hangs over my head, shining a beacon in our fore, casting shadows over the sharp, violent spikes adorning his once smooth, scaled shoulders. He is a weapon from the tip of his snout to the sharp edged blade of his tail, all of his creation now made for war. As mine is.