Rogue

Charrod lost consciousness briefly. His scaled, hardened skin brushed off the glass, his stretched bat wings pushed any ropes aside. The material scarred dragon descendants, but it didn’t matter as long as it meant freeing himself from a fall.
Charrod had an ancestor who died like that. A dragon, dying from falling from too high. No one else wanted that legacy.
He managed to unfurl his wings and caught the wind, causing him to curve with the gusts just before impacting an abandoned vehicle. The current carried him through the front glass of a grocery store, his head smacking a cash register on the way.
It rang 3.49.
Charrod groaned heavily, and spit a chunk of bitten tongue.
It’d been a long time since he’d been on the ropes. But, he hadn’t even begun to try.
He allowed the dragon infection to fully take hold. Scales became pointed, eyes drew to plated slits, hair dissipated with the steam–the bestial side remained.
Controlled and ready.
Charrod downed to all fours, dug heels and fingers in deep for a proper grip.
Into the air again, Charrod went on the offensive again.

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