Chapter 1 - Scene 3

            Aleister pulled his cloak close; the fall wind blowing from the north brought a sharp cold with it. He had worked up a sweat back in the library and it made the cold even more biting. The skies were still clear this time of year, but the high sun almost seemed to lack the strong warmth it had only a month ago.
            A few paces ahead of him was the south gate of Valis De. The walls surrounding the city were tremendous, made of gray stone quarried from the Gray Mountains to the west. He had always wondered how long it would take to construct such a massive fortification, and why it was needed for a lesser city like Valis De. Perhaps the capital city of Restale would need such walls, but why here? The gate itself was equally large, wide enough for ten men abreast to march through. This time of day the wrought iron portcullis was raised, and traffic crossed through at a slow pace.
            To the south of Valis De was a great deal of farm land, much of it owned by Melia Bromte, and even this far away he could smell the earthy scent of dung and grass. The soil was fertile here, and streams brought water down from the mountains which made irrigation a simple task. Aleister wrinkled his nose at the smells and walked towards the gate house.
            Just outside the door, two tall guardswomen in chainmail towered over a cowering dog. One of the guards, a woman with a badly healed, broken nose and short cropped, blonde hair, spit at the dog.
            “Eat my lunch, will you?” Her face was twisted up in anger, and a small scar drew her lip up in a bit of a snarl.
            “Excuse me,” Aleister began timidly, “I have come to retrieve a book you borrowed.”
            The broken nosed guard turned to him with no less harsh a glare, “Iosia, it must be yours.”
            The other guard, shorter than the first with a strawberry blonde braid, nodded curtly.
            “I didn’t know you could even read, Amte.” She walked into the guardhouse with a laugh.
            Amte frowned after her but said nothing. After several awkward moments, Iosia emerged from the guardhouse with a small, red leather bound book. Aleister took it from her gingerly and started to walk back towards the library.
            “Now, where were we? Oh yes, I was about to boot this dog into the hells for eating my lunch.”
            “Amte, I think you need to calm down.”
            “Shut up before I boot you too.”
            Aleister looked back over his shoulder at the dog. It was old, starved looking and was plainly sick, its ribs stuck out from underneath thin and matted fur. It shook in fear, and cowered up against the wall. Before he knew what he was doing, Aleister darted in between them and the dog. The surprise was enough for the dog to dart off between Amte’s legs and disappear into the city.
            “You sticking little librarian,” she growled, “it’s not enough that I lose my lunch to a dog, but a little Destarian librarian girl thinks she can stand up to me?”
            “Beg your pardon, milady,” Aleister tried to keep his gaze cast down, “I did not mean offense.”
            “But offend you did, so I’m going to teach you a lesson.” With a quick motion, Amte smashed her fist into Aleister’s face. His lip split harshly, gushing blood down his chin.
            He tried his best to stay firm; if the dog had enough time they wouldn’t be able to catch it.
            “Oh, you need more, do you?” Amte punched him in the stomach this time, knocking the wind out of him. He crumpled to the ground, and Amte continued by kicking him several times in the stomach.
            “Had enough, girl?”
            Tears streamed down Aleister’s face, it hurt a lot but he would not respond to these monsters.
            “Amte that’s enough.” Iosia tried to stop her, but was pushed aside.
            “I’ll say when it’s enough.” She kicked him again, harder this time.
            “Stop this instant!”
            The guards turned and Aleister weakly lifted his head. Nans Bromte was kneeling beside him and offered her hand. Her face was red with anger.
            “L-lady Bromte!” Both guards stood up straight and backed away.
            “What in Yetere’s name are you idiots doing? Aleis is a noble of House L’Conte! Do you think governor Erisa would take kindly to guards striking a noble like this?”
            Nans helped Aleister to his feet and waved the guards away with a sharp motion. He was surprised at the anger that flashed in her eyes. When she looked back to him, the anger had softened, but was still present.
            “What do you think you are doing, you idiot?”
            “I am sorry,” he said wiping some blood from his chin, “I had to get a book and they were trying to hurt a dog and…”
            “Oh fine, here,” she produced a small, lacy handkerchief from her bosom and handed it to him, “just be smart about it next time.”
            He watched her walk away in silence. The handkerchief smelled like lavender, and it made him blush. This was the first time he had been shown kindness by another noble in a long time.

Chapter 1- Scene 2

            Row after row of books stretched out in front of Aleister. He labored along with a tall stack of more books that obscured his vision. Sweat trickled down his face and hair stuck to his skin in tufts of brilliant red. It was always several magnitudes hotter in the Hall of Old Records than it was outside, but that never bothered Aleister. This musty building was his sanctuary. Here there were escapes to a great many places, stories of far off lands, of cultures and peoples long dead.
            He turned a corner, hooked his foot on something and went sprawling out onto the floor. A rain of books clattered down loudly in the heavy silence and echoed throughout the halls. He grunted and slowly pushed himself up. His head was spinning in circles. It took several moments before he became aware of the laughter that surrounded him.
            “You poor librarian, worked so hard you can’t even walk right!” Standing above him were three girls, all dressed in Phel’garian fashion. The one who spoke, Dulia Hass, stood with her fists on her hips and laughed. She was a portly person, with the loose hanging, white silk robes billowing about her person like the sail of a great ship. Her short hair, lightened to an almost blonde as many Destarians did to emulate the fair features of the Phel’garian, emphasized the fat under her chin in a most unflattering manner.
            To Dulia’s left was the tall, well-built Hesere Levar. She stood with a smile, but was as quiet as her black hair was straight. She was olive skinned and would’ve been an attractive girl if not for her strange attitude. She obsessed over defeating Ursta in a duel, but could never achieve it. The truth was that there were very few who wielded a sword that could best his longtime friend.
            Slightly behind the two of them was Nans Bromte. She smiled as well, but hers did not seem genuine. Her large, light green eyes were widened a bit as if in surprise. She had always treated him strangely, sometimes friendly and others with outright hostility. Generally speaking she was more hostile when others were around, especially Dulia.
            He ignored Dulia’s taunt and began to gather up the scattered books. It would be a shame for them to get damaged for such a reason. Many of these particular books were beyond old; one of the books was even an instructional tome on the ancient language of the magi, Ashannian. He had taught himself how to read Ashannian many years ago, when he had been confined to the L’Conte manor most days. From what he understood, there were few who knew about the ancient language, let alone could read it.
            “Obviously the librarian knows her place,” Dulia grinned widely, “so she doesn’t speak to her betters. Wouldn’t you agree, Nans?”
            “I think,” Nans paused for a moment, pulling on her tight braid of auburn, “that we should hurry off. We have more important things to do than pick on useless librarians.”
            “Oh ruin the fun why don’t you?” Dulia frowned and shot a glance back at Aleister. “Fine, I won’t bother wasting my time on her.”
            Before she left, she stepped on the back of his hand and ground her foot in. Her face was puffed up and red; it seemed to Aleister that she had wanted to do more than she had. As they left, Nans looked over her shoulder at him; her eyes were softened and watered a bit.
            With a heavy sigh, he finished gathering the books then took a moment to rub his hand. The library, or Hall of Old Records as the Phel’garian occupation called it, was largely empty this day. It did not surprise him much, there were few enough visitors even on the busiest of days. According to what he had read, it was surprising that the invading army had not burned the library down. When they conquered a territory, the Phel’garian army destroyed the individual culture and executed all the male nobility and religious leaders publically. Such was done with his father and would’ve been done to him had his mother not taken great care to hide him.
            He was glad this place had been left unscathed, even if his father had not been. He often spent more time here than he needed to, reading or just generally admiring the building itself. It was massive, at three floors high, and made of intricately hewn and placed, dwarven stonework. The bookshelves were made of oak from a distant forest, Yake Forest was almost two weeks ride away from the grasslands of Destaria, and masterfully wrought bronze. Tomes of various sorts lined the bookshelves in the thousands, ranging in size from hand held books to massive things that could not be held by two people. This library was rumored to be the second largest in the known world, only dwarfed by one that had been lost to the ages.
            As he drifted off into thought about the library and books, a feeling of forgetfulness nagged at the back of his mind. Almost an hour later, he realized why. There were a few books that had been borrowed by some of the guardswomen, and it was his duty to have them back tonight. The mistress would have his hide if they were still missing tomorrow. With a start, he scurried off out the door and towards the south gate of Valis De.

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The Story of Valis De

So for Wednesdays, I plan to do a combination of news, bits of history on the world, and other miscellaneous things. I will continue posting a scene every Monday and Friday. For now, let us begin with the story of Valis De, Aleister’s hometown.

The Story of Valis De

“Welcome, have a seat, Niste. Let me tell you the story of Valis De.” The old man leaned back in his chair and leveled a warm gaze at a small boy with sun blonde hair.

“I am a well-educated man; I was a scholar here before all this mess.” He waved his hand at the window with a frown. Outside, a contingent of Phel’garian Fist walked by.

“But Kol Memnas, do you not like the Fist? They are here to protect us!”

“They protect only their own interests, to them men are only useful as slaves or for breeding. No, young one, they are no good for you or I.”

“But,” Niste lowered his voice, his lip quivering as he spoke, “isn’t saying such things treason?”

“Just this lesson is considered so,” Memnas leaned forward with a smile, “but you still want to hear the story, do you not?”

Niste nodded vigorously.

“Of the early days, not much is known. The city was originally built upon a set of ancient ruins, some that predate the Purging.”

“What is that?”

“Forgive me, I forget that the Phel’garians do not teach their young of such things. It is something that is also shrouded in mystery. What we do know is that during that nightmarish time, humanity was nearly destroyed by the dragons. We became barbaric creatures, little more than animals, who roamed the land in tribal bands. But ruins of the old world had survived. The place where Valis De stands is one such place; the extensive catacombs that spread deep into the earth below are evidence of that.”

Niste’s eyes widened. “We are forbidden from going down into those places. The mistress of the Center tells us it is dangerous.” His little hands shook in his lap, and Memnas smiled and patted Niste on the head.

“For once, I agree with your mistress. The catacombs, as legend says, are filled with horrid creatures from beyond the grave. One of the gifts left to us in the Purging; many of the deep places in this world are filled with such horrors.”

“But back to the city itself. You see, in those days the roads were wild, filled with bandits and vicious animals. Travelers of any sort found it dangerous and taxing to travel any great distance, and the trade route between the city-state S’efta in the north and the capital Restale to the south became all but untraveled. In an effort to secure more trade, the king of Destaria of that day, named Vyletem after Vylen the first king of humans, promised the land here to a group of merchants if they could tame it. As a result, the original ruling power in Valis De was comprised of powerful merchants.”

“It’s almost like S’efta is,” Niste said, “with a council formed of the wealthiest merchants.”

“Yes,” Memnas nodded in agreement, “but it was not to last long. During the Overland Skirmishes, when the Great Bridge was built, northern tribal folk conquered the city. There followed a period of bloody oppression here, and many decades went by before the kingdom of Destaria was made whole again. But it was then that the ruling nobles, selected from the houses of the Council of Nine at the time, were installed. And that lasted for many centuries, until now. Of course, you know the recent structure.”

Niste nodded with a proud look on his face. “The Luminar and her powerful Fist conquered the south landers easily, and now preside over them with a governor who rules with even justice and strength.”

“Oh how I have much to teach you, little one. But I think my old bones cannot handle more this day, so we must continue at another time. Perhaps tomorrow.”

After some protest, Niste acquiesced and left Memnas and the Old Hall of Records behind. Perhaps the mistress at the Center had no use for this old library, but Niste wanted to learn. Lucky for him, he had met Memnas, and his learning had just barely begun.

Chapter 1 - Scene 1

Chapter 1

            Rays of pale sun pushed into the darkness of Aleister L’Conte’s room. The intruders rudely forced their way into his squinted, emerald eyes. Motes of dust sparkled lustrously like tiny flecks of gold, drifting down out of sight into the dim confines below. He took in a deep breath, drawing in the scent of morning scones. No doubt Ramus was terrorizing the kitchens, wielding his spoon like a cudgel and shouting commands. He was a gruff one, but his food was second to none. The smell was almost enough to encourage Aleister out of his bed, but the feelings that lingered in his mind from his dream kept him still.
            His dreams had become fierce recently. Creatures of unspeakable nature bit at his heels, and something terrible watched from afar. The mere thought brought shivers to his naked form. The covers that guarded him from the crisp cold of the fall morning did nothing for him against the feeling. It permeated even the stout, northern wool and crept around him insidiously.
            He sat up with a loud sigh and tossed the blankets aside; his hair billowed about him in straight tendrils of bright red. It was almost like blood, some had told him. He glanced to the side at his body length mirror. Against his pale white skin it almost did look as though a fountain of red blood spilled from his head and ran its way to his hips. His lips were a similarly bright red and a dash of freckles peppered his face. He looked every part a little girl, and nothing like the seventeen year old boy he really was.
            He slowly opened his wardrobe and peered inside. It was a beastly piece of furniture, made of oak and adorned with heavy brass work and deep carving, and some mornings it took all the strength his small limbs could muster to open. A spilling of cloth organs fell outward from the wardrobe; it was a mass of lace and fine cloth in a multitude of colors. With a sigh he picked through a dozen or so dresses, but nothing seemed to catch his fancy. All of what he owned was of Destarian fashion, and while most certainly all worthy of Destarian nobility, in Phel’garian occupied territory it was almost a badge of shame.
            A heavy knock on his door broke the silence of his morning.
            “Aleis, you lazy bones, get up!”
            “Wait just a moment!” His voice squeaked and cracked terribly as he shouted.
            He thrust an arm into the tangle and produced a dress at random. It was a rather lacy affair, with a high neck, a bell shaped bottom, and intricate floral embroidery on green cloth. It most certainly wasn’t his favorite, but it would have to do. He began to dress as quickly as he could.
            “I can come help you dress.” The muffled voice was half giggle, and the door creaked open slowly.
            “No!” Aleister leapt towards the door, tripping on the hem of his dress and fell hard. His body slammed the door shut. After several moments of composing himself and donning his dress, Aleister opened the door and looked out with his eyes cast downward.
            An incredibly tall girl stood just outside of his door. She smiled down at him, her blonde, shoulder length ringlets bouncing as she shook her head. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, and she stood with one hip raised slightly. Ursta Tant was easily head and shoulders taller than he, taller than many men in fact. Her full lips were parted in a wide grin that resonated with a twinkle in her sky blue eyes.
            “Aleis, asleep late as always.”
            “Good morning,” he cleared his throat and tried to sound more feminine, “Fist Tant.”
            “Oh please, I have not been granted that title yet. You know that. Anyway,” she looked him up and down with that same, mischievous grin, “look at you. All disheveled. The mistress of the library would be most displeased if you showed up looking like that.”
            “Yes,” Aleister turned back and peered into his mirror again, his dress was slightly crooked and his hair was a mess, “I am not good with mornings as you somehow have always been.”
            “You also whine more than I ever have,” she all but pushed him into a chair, picked up a brush and began to make quick strokes up and down the length of his hair, “but I suppose being such a fragile lady you cannot help it.”
            “Ursta…”
            “You must take better care of yourself, if you’re ever to become a lady that a man would want… or a woman.” He could feel that grin on her face as if it emitted warmth against his back.
            “I have my books.”
            “Books, books. It’s always about books with you. Have you no interest in boys?”
            “Not really,” he squeaked and blushed, “books will treat me better.”
            “Perhaps you are right,” she set the brush down, “now come, you must eat breakfast! If you’re ever to have a worthy chest like mine, you’ll need to eat better.”
            He tried to ignore her brandishing of said assets and darted out of his door.
            The long hallway was bathed in orange sunlight that washed down from the tall windows lining the walls. All of the halls in the L’Conte manor were filled with windows. The architects of the past had obviously planned out the structure with incredible attention paid to how light came in. Even the deepest of alcoves, some baring lavish statuary or vases, were kept bright until the late hours of the afternoon.
            “You always run away when things are getting interesting.” Ursta laughed as she caught up to him.
            “Doesn’t it seem odd that this manor is so wealthy in appearance?”
            “Aleis,” she said, frowning at his abrupt change of subject, “you know this isn’t a topic I like to talk about.”
            Truthfully, it wasn’t one he favored much either. The walls were lined with beautiful paintings and elaborate tapestries, but dust coated more surfaces than it should have. In fact, a great deal of the manor was falling into disrepair. They had little enough money and were low in status in recent years. Most of the servants who stayed did so out of loyalty to the L’Conte family, which were only Aleister and his mother now. His father had died in the first battles of the Phel’garian occupation and with his death much of the family wealth had been confiscated.
            “You’re right,” he pushed open the large door to the dining hall and breathed deeply of the aroma of scones and grilled yanoff, “let’s just eat.”
            He approached the large, highly polished table at the center of the dining hall. It was covered in a great variety of dishes that Ramus had spent a lot of care preparing. The man was quite a perfectionist, especially when it came to cooking. Aleister gingerly picked up one of the honeyed scones that sat on a silver platter and took a nibble before setting it on his own plate. It was light and flaky, with a perfect sweetness that was not too overpowering. A moment later he washed it down with a mulled wine that Ramus assured him was good for his stamina.
            “Ramus is a saint,” Ursta said around a mouthful of boiled egg, “his dishes would be fit for the gods.”
            “Ah, don’t you mean the goddess?”
            “You know I don’t believe in such things,” she shot him a glare, “I’m in the Fist because I have to be, not because I worship Yetere.”
            “Forgive me. I’m feeling a bit off this morning.”
            “I can see that. Hand me that scone and I will forgive you.”
            The door opened at the end of the dining hall and a middle aged woman surrounded by a group of servants swept in. His mother was a small lady, shorter than even he and every bit as small framed, yet she had a powerful presence. Her face was soft and had weathered the years well, but her gray eyes were sharp, intelligent and commanding. She waved the servants away with a quick motion and came towards them at the table.
            “Aleis, my daughter, good morning,” she said as she sat at the head of the table, “I see you still have a healthy appetite, Ursta.”
            “Sure do, Lady Alba.”
            “If only my daughter had the same. Perhaps she would fill out that dress better.”
            Aleister poked his fork at the yanoff fish he had put on his plate but had not yet eaten.
            “You know that will never happen, mother.” He said without looking up.
            “Aleis,” Alba put a heavy emphasis on that name, “you mustn’t have such an attitude.”
            He looked at her without raising his head. Her eyes were narrowed and the strain was visible on her face. She wasn’t often so open with her anger, but when she was it was best to pay attention.
            “I am sorry, mother. I spoke out of turn. Perhaps I will after all.”
            “Good, please see to it that you do not let it happen again. You understand your place.”
            He knew all too well. Ursta wasn’t aware of it, but there was much more to that exchange than she would've ever imagined. He was a liar; his whole existence was a farce. Other than his mother, only Ramus knew his secret. Most everyone was convinced that he was in fact a she. It was something he had been hiding since before he could remember.
            “Are you ready for the ball?” Alba said suddenly.
            The thought soured his stomach a little. He never cared for the pomp and circumstance of the balls the Phel’garian governor held. It was all little more than a lavish spectacle for her to show how much power and control she had over the people of Valis De.
            “I don’t know what to wear. I always seem so out of place with my Destarian dresses.”
            “Aleis L’Conte,” Alba’s jaw was set in that look she always got when she scolded him, like she was about to chew stone, “you will not mock our house or our history. I refuse to gallivant around wearing the shameful clothes that the Phel’garian nobles wear. Those audacious women have no morals.”
            Not to mention that if he wore them it was much more likely his secret would be discovered.
            “I don’t care much for those clothes myself,” Ursta said quietly, her face reddening a little, “I prefer you in the clothes you normally wear.”
            “Just the same, I have a new dress for you. I had it specially made for the ball.”
            “Thank you, mother,” he felt a wave of guilt, here he was being petty and his mother had likely made some sort of sacrifice to have this dress made for him, “I am sorry for my behavior this morning.”
            “You are forgiven. Now, off with you. I will not have you late for your duties.”

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Prologue

Prologue-

            “We be dead!”
            “Shut your mouth, Selamn.” Ysan leveled a sharp gaze at his middle aged friend. The dark skinned man was wide eyed, staring off into the thick dark with beads of sweat dotting his face.
            Ysan closed his eyes and tried to collect his thoughts. In spite of his terror, all he could think about was his wife and daughter. He could see tiny little Tseya, standing with a smile that was more gum than tooth and looking up at him with her arms opened wide. He could see Molina’s supple form sprawled out naked on the bed before him, ready to accept him into her loving embrace. He could feel that embrace; he could feel her gentle kiss on his neck. He could see his small hut beside the marshy edges of the Amak River. Tendrils of smoke wafted lazily out of the small vent in the simple, thatched roof, carrying the thick scent of Yanoff fish grilling slowly above a low fire. Selamn made a whimpering sound that snapped him back to the present.
            “We not be dead. No, today we live! We live for the things the gods do give us,” he took Selamn by the shoulders and gave him a good shake, “do there be nothing you live for?”
            “I have no family, like you be having,” Selamn’s eyes were cast downward and his voice trembled as he spoke, “but yes. There do be something. I don’t be giving up the bottle. Not even for those… things.”
            Ysan furrowed his thick brow and struggled to penetrate the darkness. Rain began to fall in a heavy deluge. The Rek Swamp was an intimidating place, even to those well accustomed to its dangers. Trees clustered together in haphazard clumps, their tangled roots often rising out of the mud like the gnarled knuckles of an old man. Moss hung from the limbs, thick and matted like hair dangling from ancient heads. This place was old and dangerous. In the dark and heavy spring rain even Ysan’s well adapted vision could not reach in far. It was like staring into a bowl of black root soup.
            Selamn swayed slightly and smelled overpoweringly like ale. There was a slight glaze to his eyes, widened as they were, revealing what Ysan had expected from the moment he had met with the man earlier. In all the years Ysan had known him there were few times that Selamn was sober. They had met when Ysan was still a youth, becoming fast friends after Ysan had saved Selamn from a drunken brawl with a group of travelers from Eton Mal.
            The thick morass was cut by a deep and unnatural roar. It sounded as if the very earth had opened up in an ear splitting groan, shaking the ground at their feet. Selamn cried out and leapt into a run.
            “Selamn you fool!” Ysan said in a rasping almost whisper.
            They had been hidden away in an ancient tree. The thick bark had long gone gray and the interior was covered in thick moss and mushrooms. From the outside, the entrance was nearly invisible. He had only known of it from his childhood; when he ran and hid from his mother, this was the best spot in miles to hide. There was no doubt in his mind that none could find them here, not even that.
            Ysan left behind the safety of his old hiding spot and dashed after Selamn. His young, muscular legs treaded the heavy swamp mud with ease, and he sped along closing the gap between them. He had to catch Selamn before his wailing gave them away. The middle aged drunkard was surprisingly fleet of foot, but Ysan was younger and faster.
            He was only a short distance behind Selamn when the swamp lit a bright, cold blue. A beam of light erupted from the dark depths in the distance, disturbing the rain and mists as if it had a physical presence, and punched into Selamn’s back. He let out a gurgling scream through a mouthful of blood. His impossibly wide eyes became a flood of crimson that coursed over his cheeks. He toppled into the dark swamp water with a loud splash and lie still. Ysan knelt beside his friend and frantically turned him over. Selamn’s eyes were a ruined mass of twisted flesh in his sockets.
            Ysan became rigid. His hands were covered in blood. He had seen death before, when his father had been mauled to death by a great swamp lizard, but he had been little and the memories were cold and distant. The remains of his friend now lie in front of him, blood pooling out in the water and a knot of entrails floating beside the body. He noisily emptied his stomach and continued to retch for several moments.
            Another roar blasted his ears from the dark.
            “I can’t be standing here,” Ysan said to himself and slapped his cheek hard, “Molina be waiting for me. I must escape.”
            With a pang of guilt stabbing at his middle, he fled and left Selamn floating in the murky water. Now was not the time for him to grieve, or he would end up like his friend. He could not allow that to happen. Who would feed Molina and Tseya if he died? Who would keep them safe from harm? He ran with a fervor he had never before known; it was his only recourse. He had to live.
            “Yes,” a disembodied voice boomed from behind, “keep running human! I delight in the hunt!”
            How was it possible for such things to exist? This was pure madness. Many times he and Selamn had ventured deep into the Rek Swamps, often fishing or hunting the swamp lizards. They had seen nothing unexplainable, despite the tales of unspeakable evil in the darkest bowels of the swamp. These stories were fairy tales, told by the old crones to children to keep them from getting lost in the more dangerous parts of the swamp. Yet, as they had ventured to a deep spot in search of Yanoff hatcheries, these things had emerged from the dark and attacked. In his haste to flee, Ysan had barely glimpsed his pursuers. Now, with the heavy rains that came in spring and summer here, he could see very little.
            “I can hear you, filth!” There came another roar. “The blemach can smell your stench. You are doomed.”
            The loud voice was laced with dark mirth. It was a cackling, mad laughter that intruded the creature’s words like a snake coiling its prey. Ysan had never heard anything so terrible in his life. Not even the low growl of an attacking swamp lizard could compare. At least he understood the lizards, knew where they would strike, how even to hold their jaws open if necessary.
            He willed his legs to carry him faster, to move him farther away from that haunting voice. After several eternal moments of silence, another beam of light flashed from the darkness. There came a sharp, searing pain and he collapsed into the mud. His vision blurred and his mind swirled as his lungs filled with choking, black water. He pulled himself out of the mud with a gasp, spitting out mud that tasted like spoiled eggs. He tried to stand, only to realize he could no longer do so. He looked down and saw that where once had been a healthy, muscular leg was now a seared hunk of tangled meat. The moment his eyes touched the horrific sight, tremendous pain swept over him. He continued to struggle forward, pulling himself along the ground with his arms and screaming at the gut wrenching pain.
            “Oh, you miserable fool.” The voice was much closer now.
            Ysan looked over his shoulder, and what he saw froze him in place. There above him stood a tall, paled skinned humanoid. He appeared human, but there were noticeable differences. He was almost a head taller than any human Ysan had ever met. His body was rippled with graceful, thin musculature. Long, pointy ears peaked out from underneath straight hair that had once been blonde but now was nearly brown from filth. Water streaked down his face from the heavy rain and dripped onto a crudely fashioned set of armor. It appeared to be made from a haphazardly sewn collection of hammered metal plates and swamp lizard skin.
            The creature stretched his arm forward with his hand opened in a grasping manner. An incredibly intricate series of symbols were carved into his very flesh and blood trickled from the fresh wounds. Ysan was momentarily distracted from the terror in front of him by something impossible in the distance. He could hardly make it out in the rain, but it was a hulking thing larger than any being Ysan had ever beheld. It stood, heaving slowly, all features blocked out by the heavy rain fall and suffocating black of night.
            “Yes, there is little quite as arousing as watching a human writhing in futility and pain.” His face split wide with a wicked grin that bared grime encrusted, but perfectly straight, teeth.
            “I not be dying today,” Ysan growled with as much power as he could muster while he crawled backwards, “Molina be my reason to live!”
            That same, horrid laughter split the air. The creature bent over forward, holding his middle as he laughed. After several moments, he regained his composure, but was still chuckling.
            “Oh, you silly humans. Your tenacity simply amazes me. But please, do continue. The struggle makes this experience ever more pleasurable.”
            He couldn’t die like this. He would not give up and he would not let Molina spend the rest of her days alone. He moved forward, thrashing his arms wildly in an attempt to move faster. Anything to get him away from this thing.
            “Rekma’thar,” someone shouted in the distance, “we are prepared!”
            “Good, I shall join you shortly.”
            A foot smashed hard into Ysan’s ribs, knocking the wind out of him. After gasping for several moments, he looked up and saw that the creature was grinning only inches from his face.
            “Sadly, I must end our playtime,” he whispered harshly. His breath was fetid and hot against Ysan’s face.
            “Worry not,” he laughed, the symbol on his palm was emitting a bright blue light now, “this has been a most entertaining experience.”
            “Molina, forgive me.” Ysan whispered.
            There was a bright flash and then quiet darkness.

Lament of the Purged (Opening)

O Dread Ones

E'er darkened skies

Man's doom they watch

With fiery red eyes

When they come

The crops shall wither

When they come

Your children will die

O Dread Ones

Power o'er death

Bleached white bones

Their fearsome breath

When they come

The crops shall wither

When they come

Your children will die

O Dread Ones

Gnashing teeth

Deadly fate

The magi meet

When they come

All things will die

When they come

Winged death from the sky

-Author Unknown

Circa 105 AP

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New Beginnings

I've decided I am going to blog my book. Why not? I will post all but the last few chapters as I write it. I'm thinking I'll break the posts down into scenes, so that they're in bite sized chunks rather than huge portions at once. So keep your eyes open, I'm going to set a Monday-Wednesday-Friday schedule for my posting, starting later on this evening.