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WHO: Khisanth, that extremely rude dragon who works for the government.
WHERE: The depths of a Louisiana swamp, a rural area, or out in any major city.
WHAT: A couple of starters for folks, an OTA for anyone who would like to meet a dragon! (Gently considering apping Khisanth some upcoming app round, so if anyone would like to kickstart potential CR in a weird way (8 )

[ I: a nice visit ]

There's a large swath of swampland in Louisiana that has been declared unsafe for human habitation. Anyone living within the rural area was forcibly relocated, and never really given a reason beyond it's unsafe, this is a mandatory evacuation. A few people stayed, they always do, but they haven't been heard from in a few years.

In fact, their skulls decorate the inside of a enormous and ancient hollow tree in the center of the cleared area. The government has made it very clear to Khisanth that she's not to attack anyone she hasn't been instructed to, or she risks breaking the terms of their very generous contract, but anyone in her territory was fair game. And good thing, too. Their skulls really bring this cozy tree-lair all together.

Anyone stumbling into this vast, private, unsafe wildlife preserve, as it's usually marked on maps, is going to be watched. Natives to this world get eaten immediately, no question there. But sometimes more interesting people show up, and Khisanth likes to handle those a little more carefully. When the whispers of lesser creatures, herons and songbirds and the like, make it to Khisanth's ears, sooner or later imPort visitors have an unseen audience. Or mostly unseen. Was that a flash of smooth black scales between those leaves? Something vast and nearly hidden rippling just under the still water? What kind of animal growls like that?

[ II: a contract hit ]

Or maybe this is business. Khisanth loves being assigned business. It's license to leave her territory without fear of reprisal, to hunt and kill and relish every moment of it. She mostly ignores that her handlers prefer her to cause as little collateral damage as possible, and it seems worth it to her that she's rarely ever called on as a result. It's all the more motivation to make her off-leash trips really count.

Maybe you're her target today, someone who has really pissed the government off. This makes you the hunted, chased by vast dark wings that descend unerringly on any hiding place you try to use. Buildings are torn apart without discrimination, cars knocked over and torn into on the off chance you're in one of them. Or maybe you're lucky enough to be a bystander, witness to the damage she causes as she rips through small town, suburb, or city in pursuit of today's target. Careful, though. Out to have a good time as she is, and in no rush to go back again, she's very easily distracted from her task. Will you be the excuse for a delay?

[ III: a truant ]

Sometimes Khisanth's visits to the outside world aren't all death and destruction. She's not been able to keep her precious shapeshifting powers fully hidden from her government keepers, but she's at least managed to misreport them. As far as she knows, no agents know that the big black raven that sometimes wings its way out of the swamp is anything other than just what it looks like.

This large, uncannily interested bird can be found in any city or town she decides to venture into. She perches on telephone poles, mailboxes, street signs, whatever will have her, and spends most of her time extremely interested in people. She follows them around, obligingly croaking bird sounds if noticed and interacted with. For the most part she's envisioning how their skull might look in a tree-lair display, but it's just wishful thinking. She knows better than to stir up trouble from this shape. ... And she even sort of likes the old woman in Philadelphia who tosses her peanuts and chopped up bits of chicken.

As ever, she keeps a bright eye out for imPorts on these days. They're just so very interesting to run into, always on the run or picking a fight or selling each other out. Never a dull moment when she manages to spot one of those guys.

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Twice in less than a month he'd found himself dragged into an unfamiliar world, and twice in less than a month they'd tried to shove him through "processing". This time he'd seen handcuffs and what he now recognised as guns, and swiftly decided he didn't care to learn more on the matter. In typical bard luck, a well timed rebel attack gave him just enough time to sprint for the nearest exit, lute in tow, and never look back, a rebel in the eyes of the Government but becoming little more than a wanderer.

And wander he did, travelling to learn what he could of the current climate, the local rumours, the tales whispered in gloomy bars. Although fascinating as the Governmental control may have been, his interest settled more on unsolved mysteries and strange conspiracies, one in particular capturing his attention...

Disappearances, and one crazed man's ramblings of a monster. Monsters were something he could understand, something he'd chased back home for the thrill of a story, although always with a witcher at side. This time he'd have to fly solo, no swords to speak of, but his own power in this world. No one had seen this 'monster', and those that had tried had never come back to tell the tale, but a tale untold was too great of a draw for a bard.

Step 1: Find the monster
Step 2: ??????????????
Step 3: Write the most epic ballad and profit!

And that's why he found himself wading knee deep through murky water with nothing but the lute on his back and a very fetching but very out of date outfit that had seen better days, wilfully ignoring all the spooks and scares by singing various shanties, marching songs, lewd limericks and random modern pop songs, all at the top of his voice. Because the silent approach isn't really a thing for him.

Oh, this one is very easily noticed. The birds like him, they like all things noisy, but the smaller mammals have all taken cover from his enthusiastic procession into the swamp. Khisanth hears news of him right away, and spends a short while observing him from the branches above as a small, chirpy sparrow.

He's an imPort, he's sure of it. But he doesn't seem armed. He doesn't even seem armored. How has he found his way so defenselessly into her swamp? It's her understanding that it's marked very clearly as off limits and dangerous -- disappointingly so, even, as it means she rarely gets to run into anyone.

She plants herself on his path ahead of him. He'll round a thicket of undergrowth to find her full length of nearly forty feet sprawled in a lazy recline on a small and mostly dry island risen from the swamp water. Her orange eyes are on him already, and her tail gives a lazy flick through the water. She hopes it's terror-inspiring, but you can never be sure with imPorts.

Her voice rumbles deep and irreverent, "Do you go everywhere so loudly?"

The surprise of encountering such a sizeable creature after rounding a patch of overgrown vegetation is enough to stop Jaskier dead in his tracks, wide eyed and heart in his throat as he spares a swift glance over his shoulder, his flight instincts swinging into full effect. But those huge eyes are already locked onto him, and as great at running for his life as he is, he's not sure even he could outrun this beastie.

The fact he'd not even noticed it before being almost on top of the dragon is a slight mystery, as well as how the hell he didn't hear anything before, but huh, maybe singing loudly isn't the best way to stealthily approach monsters after all. Maybe that's why Geralt was always telling him to shut the fuck up.

With escape not a likely option right now, Jaskier swallows down his hesitation and takes an assertive step forward, chest out and pointing a finger skywards, answering the question by being continually loud, "Beast, I have travelled great distances to seek thee!"

Wait. But why though...

"T-to, uh. Demand an audience!"

He smells like fear, and she does love that smell. But good on him, overcoming it to issue his demand. It's not much of a demand, as far as these things go, but it nonetheless piques her interest. At this point, most people are screaming and scrambling to dash away.

She'll even overlook that she doesn't appreciate anything being demanded of her (mostly on account of how bored she is). Her tail gives another lazy lash through the water, as her three-horned head cocks curiously.

"It looks like you have one, so I suppose I'll humor this." Her long neck extends, drawing her head closer to her new pal for a better inspection. "Who are you?"

Jaskier is almost entirely fear as he stands, a reaction that so often comes when his dumb ass swaggers into situations with no thought, and awareness slowly drifts in to remind him he has no exit or survival plan in place. That's sort of the issue, he never has a plan of any sort.

But this thing speaks, it converses, and that means he's in with a chance of getting some very interesting tales. Or at the very least some conversation.

"I am Julian Alfred Pankratz, best known as the renowned bard, Jaskier!" For a scared lad, he sure is plastering on the confidence, a true theatre performer with that projected voice and lifted chin, standing his ground even as that huge head moves in for a closer look.

"And what of you? Who are you, beast?"

A bard. She's never eaten bard before, the local ones — musicians — always have too many people around them. It's tricky to get one alone for long enough. She considers his answer with a thoughtful rumble (maybe he isn't too afraid to play something for her; music doesn't really make it into the swamp), and takes her sweet time getting around to addressing the question.

"Khisanth," she finally says, like it's taken her some time to work out if he's worthy of hearing her name. It's a better spin that that she was spending that time thinking about music. "But how renowned can you really be, if I haven't heard of you?"

Just kidding, there's so many things she hasn't heard of. It's hard to keep up with the news when you're either swampbound or getting around as a raven. But it's a good line, and she's sticking with it.

Most local musicians probably aren't dumb enough to venture miles into a swamp either, but a bored bard seeking inspiration is prone to making some pretty stupid life decisions.

"Y-- well! I..." A bit of ineffectual sputtering as he tries to act offended by her statement, but his shoulders soon slope with a huff as he realises she has a point. Can't really argue with that logic.

"Truth be told, I'm rather new here. But all I need are a couple of good ballads to get my name out there, a few truly epic adventures! A dragon might just be what I need. That's what you are, is it not? A black dragon."

"How astute of you," she purrs, and stretches. Her pearly white claws (she keeps them cleaned, thank you) curl in the soil of her little island, her wings flare out briefly. It's a blatant excuse to show off, to arch every curl of her long and muscular body, and all the hard-earned scars along it. Each one is a battle she'd won.

Only when she's finally done and settled back down again do her bright orange eyes return to the bard, and the expression that crosses her face could be called a smile. It involves an awful lot of very sharp teeth, in any case.

"Most bards sing about slaying dragons, don't they? Is that what you're here for?" She sounds like she's very much hoping for a yes.

That stretch of hers wrenches out a soft gasp from Jaskier, fear soon colliding with something else entirely; excitement and a whole lot of awe. Somehow that flash of her teeth, each one big enough to severe his head in a single chomp, doesn't scare him off but draws him slowly closer.

"I had considered defeating whatever monster I encountered, although I'm less confident of that outcome now," he decides honestly, a few wet steps taken towards her. Unarmed, defenceless but thoroughly enraptured.

"Was sort of expecting some shambling, mindless monstrosity to overcome. But you... you're magnificent. Far beyond anything I could have wished for. Far beyond anything any mere man could ever hope for."

Oh, this is nice. This is very nice, she doesn't see many compliments. Not a fault of hers, she knows she's worthy of them -- it speaks more of the nature of her relationships these days.

Graciously, and with a beckoning toss of her head: "Come here, out of the water. It does the human scent no favors."

The stench of wet human, just terrible. But his pretty words have at least earned him a little solid ground, and there's room on her small island for two.

Maybe he should be offended at her commenting negatively on his scent, but honestly, after the length he's spent slogging through swamp land, it's probably a fair shout. Can't argue there.

And so instead he courteously accepts the offer (demand?) with a small bow of his head, squelching forward until he can take a few cautious steps onto the mound that she'd settled herself on, kicking his legs out behind him in the process to try and rid himself of some of that excess water. Turns out leather riding boots, no matter how expensive they are, just aren't made for hours of submersion in water.

"Speaking of scents," he starts, nose scrunching as he spares the swamp a sweeping glance of disdain, "What's a creature as opulent as yourself doing in a hell hole like this?"

Should he be more concerned about being this close to a dragon? Probably. But where's concern for his safety ever got him?

She shifts to make just slightly more room, half unfurling a wing overhead of him. A bit of shade from the very warm Louisiana sun -- or just a more convenient place to keep the wing in closer quarters, it's up for interpretation. His question, though, earns a scoff.

"Do I come into your home and insult it?" she asks, voice with just an edge of a growl to it. Her swamp is beautiful. It's lush, vibrant, full of life (and a lot of delicious snacks), and remote. The water is cool in the summer, and it's rarely winter. What more could she want?

She will concede, however, that it's less than ideal for a human. Particularly one dressed in leather boots. She eyes them with disdain equal to that he'd just turned on her beloved swamp.

"Take those off." The boots, she means. Hard to tell whether she doesn't just mean all of it, though, with no attempt to narrow her indicating stare.

The sudden and welcome shade has his squint turn skyward, features softening as he sees just what is sparing him from the searing afternoon heat. She can excuse it on comfort all she wants, but he's taking it as a gesture of aid, which only relaxes him all the more. So much so that her removal request isn't even questioned. He takes it to mean the boots rather than everything on his back, which is probably for the best because a naked human in this environment isnt beneficial for anyone, except maybe a dragon who doesn't want clothing stuck in their teeth.

With some awkward balancing he manages to remove each boot in turn, tipping out the handful of water in each and tossing them aside without much concern. They're beautifully crafted, but they're also beyond rescuing at this point.

"Yes, well, it's just that this place has more bloodsuckers than an abandoned Touissant castle..." And on cue he swiftly smacks a hand to the back of his neck, withdrawing it slowly to inspect his palm for any squashed mosquito he may have caught in the act.

"Then again, I imagine very little could bite through that shining armour of yours," he considers with wonder, attention drawn back to her, a few small steps forward as he extends a hand towards one of her forearms. He wanna touch.

How do you compare two things, when you only have access to one? It's a question Ruka's asked herself many times before — one she's asked of others, though has rarely gotten good answers for. How to chart the stars of two different skies, the lay of cities and islands on different maps — the histories of two different worlds. The two histories of the same world. Where they diverged.

It's a horrible consideration, but it's an idea she can't get out of her head now, that if something had changed, if something hadn't changed, then the world where she grew up could have been this world instead of... fractured mantle, colliding into other planets with no life remaining. Sure, this place sucks, but a shitty world is still better than no world, isn't it? It's an idea she should leave alone, but Ruka has really never been good at letting go of anything.

Which is all well and good for her, but that's of no interest to a bird, is it? Not remotely. What is, perhaps, is the sight of one of those fresh imPorts slipping out the fourth-story window of one of the City's many libraries, a bundle of fabric tucked under one arm, the other trying to maneuver the window closed behind her without falling off the very narrow ledge. She wears dark sunglasses, a knit hat big enough to cover all of her hair and some of her face, gloves, and clothing enough for winter that next to nothing of her skin is visible.

And, to someone sensitive to these kinds of things — she reeks of magic. Not that it seems to be making this whole... escape... plan... any easier...

It was the magic that first caught her attention, even before the irresistible sight of someone sneaking. She can't sense it as keenly as creatures meant for such things, but she's not blind to it. The scent is on the air like a tantalizing mystery, begging inspection.

Khisanth is, of course, very happy to offer that inspection.

Ruka is barely out on the ledge before, with a flap of heavy black wings, the raven has landed next to her. She looks as if she's trying to manage whatever she's doing unseen, so of course Khisanth finds it important to immediately announce that someone has seen her, even if it's just a large bird. She croaks, and it sounds like an accusation.

Thankfully, empathy is enough to warn her that something approaches before it arrives, so the surprising volume of the raven's call doesn't startle her off the ledge prematurely.

It absolutely sounds like an accusation.

Ruka manages to get the window pulled shut — there's a satisfying clack of the latch falling back into place — and she gives the bird a Look. It might be hard to see through those dark lenses, depending on the keenness of the eyes of a raven that is usually a dragon, but the girl only has one eye in that skull of hers, and the look is tired.

"I'll put it back," she says, holding the bundle a little tighter against her ribs. "It's not even valuable, really."

Obviously the raven is another imPort, another Meta — then again, even if it wasn't, Ruka would speak the same way.

"Are you going to try to turn me in?"

The old woman in Philadelphia talks to her sometimes, between tosses of tasty scraps, but she doesn't talk to Khisanth like this. Like she actually expects the bird in front of her to respond. And she's pretty sure no one would expect a bird to go turning anyone in, which means they must be on more or less the same page regarding Khisanth's sapience.

That's good, she doesn't mind cutting out a few steps. Her head cocks and she regards Ruka with one keenly interested, beady little eye. She wouldn't turn her in, of course. She has no need for the reward, and can't allow her keepers to know she's been out and getting up to mischief. But there's no harm keeping that to herself.

"What are you worth?" Her words are shaped by the throat of the raven, low and croaking, but clear.

She takes a glance out — the buildings across the way, the street below them, and wonders how long she can idle here without something or someone else spotting her. Probably not long. She can't feel it yet, and can't feel the danger, but that can change in a second.

Ruka flexes her right hand, slowly calling power forth. Unseen beneath sleeve and the skin-hugging bracer, the mark of the dragon's claw burns along her arm.

"To them, I can't imagine it's much," she says, finally, after some thought. "I just got back here, and I don't know anything about the state of things in this world. My body's too weak to help them enforce anything, and my powers..."

Her right hand curls into a fist around something, red light seeping through the lines where her fingers touch, and without any further preparation she shifts forward off the ledge with all the casual indifference of sliding out of a school chair. She drops, but only for a moment — only until that right arm is pulled into a taut lock over her head, as though she were clinging to the lowest rung of a ladder. She doesn't fall.

"... They're only really useful to me."

With that, she moves upwards — being pulled rather than anything that could count as flight — and ends that short little journey the moment her feet can put her weight on the ledge of the roof proper.

It is not much of an escape, but it doesn't seem like she's trying to.

Fortunately, surprise doesn't register very well on an avian face. Ruka slides off the ledge, apparently into empty air and a deadly fall, and Khisanth does little more than flutter with a little half-hop. And then the human is rising, and Khisanth's attention is most thoroughly caught. She hops into the air as well, circling to stay more or less even with her up to the roof.

"Is that a spell?" More importantly, is it something that can be taught? Be learned? Slowly rising through the air isn't particularly useful when you have wings, but Khisanth has never been picky and always been hungry.

Well, she's glad that worked on the first try. Sure, the fall wouldn't have killed her, but it would have been a lot more noticeable than this off-brand Mary Poppins routine. Once she has her feet both on solid ground, she drops down as low as she can get, hiding behind the raised ledge of the rooftop. Her heart pounds a little too fast in her chest, but it worked, so... it's fine.

Now there's just the matter of the bird. Her hand remains closed around that strange red light; her arm still burns for magic, not yet released.

She purses her lips.

"... Not in the way you mean it, I don't think." The words are slow; she pushes the sunglasses to the top of her head to get a better look at the bird, but it reveals her own face, too. One living eye, a greenish amber not typical of humans of this world, and a black swatch of fabric covering the other. "I've been called a witch, but I'm not really the spellcaster-type."

She can hear the curiosity well enough, but she can feel that there's more to it than that. Something...

"... Are you? The type who can cast spells?"

That's disappointing, but not surprising. So few things are communicable in this world; the Porter guards her gifts jealously. But still, the girl is interesting either way. She's already decided she'll be sticking around to see this one out.

"I can do a lot of things." Don't get her wrong, she'd love to brag about all the spells she's mastered, but she's reluctantly learned that sometimes an aura of restrained mystique serves one better. Passing time in an assumed form in a city she's not supposed to be in is probably one of those times.

She flaps nearer, landing with a clutch of claws and a surprisingly solid weight on Ruka's shoulder. It's easier to peer down at her stolen bundle from there.

"What did you take?"

It's Day Five of Kang arriving in the City, and he's still learning what's changed and how to survive. He's smart enough, at least, to keep as much attention off of him as possible as he accompanies one of the resistance members who helped him out of the Porter facility on an errand. His clothes don't stand out in any way, he walks calmly and keeps a careful eye on his surroundings while also being careful to only give a quick glance to anything that's new or disturbing to him before moving on as if it's something he sees every day, and he and his companion keep their conversation to what would be heard by any Natives on the street.

He's not expecting to run into anyone that remembers his face or scent. It has been at least five years, after all.

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