It was actually ugly.
A fight between two titans with millennia behind their identity, truly was not majestic, or breathtaking like you would see in movies.
There was no grace here. No choreography or sweeping orchestral score to lend dignity to the slaughter.
It was the wet, sucking sound of claws ripping through gelatinous flesh and the splintering crack of a beak against scale, muffled by the density of the water.
The stench of ruptured organs spilling their contents into water already thick with corruption, a black, viscous soup of ancient blood, half-digested matter and the cloying sweetness of decay that had been marinating in the deep for eons.
It was tentacles, barbed and hooked, lashing blindly and tearing away chunks of dragonhide, exposing the glistening white of subcutaneous tissue beneath.
It was Oathran's fangs sinking into an eye the size of a carriage and that eye bursting, jelly and ichor and something that might have been a pupil collapsing in on itself.
