Overflowing Closet

Oh boy. I just needed a place to cram some of the stuff I've written that's been lying around. I stuffed it here. It's messy. It's disorganized. It's unfinished. But here it is. Feel free to sift through it, but don't leave it any grubbier than you found it.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Did you know? Jimmy loves walnut. It's his favorite wood. If he could, he would Have a walnut block To hold his knives, And a board to cut Things, made of the same.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

"Write a short scene in which the main character is dressed inappropriately for the action."

     Maynard Prestor banged on the door, louder this time.

     “Al! Wake up, you sod!” He hammered on until a doleful moan issued from beyond, and the lock rattled.

     The door opened and Maynard pushed past the tall and lanky man, who closed the door after him. He plopped down on Al’s old sofa and glanced about quickly, slapping his palms impatiently on his thighs. Al crossed the room, and sat himself across from Maynard on his weathered recliner. Maynard finally looked over to him and squawked.

     “Good Lord, Alistair, put on some clothes!”

     Alistair looked indignant. “Oh grow up, Maynard. I’m covered enough.”

     “For God’s sake, it’s three in the afternoon and you’ve only bothered to throw a sheet over yourself!”

     “Yes, well, it was good enough for the Romans at all times of day.”

     “The Romans at least bothered to ensure their hair didn’t make them look like a bloody parakeet.”

     Al glanced at the mirror on the wall, shrugged, and said “the Romans didn’t drink tea, which gives me the cultural high ground. Fancy a cuppa?”

     “Yes, yes, go, and put on some real clothes while you’re at it.”

     “That will remain negotiable.” He leapt up and swept out of the small sitting room and into the kitchen.

     Maynard sighed melodramatically and slid his hand down his face. “The things I put up with,” he muttered.

     “What?” Alistair yelled from the kitchen.

     “Nothing!” Maynard shouted back. After a moment he said, “cream and sugar, please!”

     He sat and hummed a tune, and tapped his feet, and fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. He wasn’t a man who could keep still, though his restlessness didn’t explicitly mean he was entirely productive. A clamor of bangs and clangs issued from the kitchen as Alistair fetched the kettle, tea pot, tray, plates, spoons, and all the other necessary tea-time accoutrements.

     Unable to sit for another second, Maynard sprang to his feet and paced the small room, picking up and handling the various knick-knacks that adorned Alistair’s walls and shelves.

     “Al?” he yelled. Al’s head appeared in the kitchen doorway, his hair performing a respectable Don King impression. “What’s this?” He held the little treasure aloft. It was a small jade and gold statuette in the shape of a curling dragon.

     “Oh that, well, I sort of came upon it, rather recently in fact. Funny you should ask. I picked it up on an archaelogy trip in the Far East.”

     “Archaeology? Since when you fancy archaeology?”

     “What’re you implying?”

     “That you, Alistair, are a no good lout who can hardly get himself out of before the sun sets, let alone mount an archaelogical dig in the Far East.”

     “Ah, but I’m a no good lout with several fine degrees!” Alistair retorted, puffing out his chest with all the underdressed dignity that befit his station. “Say what you will, the door on my office at University still says ‘Professor Alistair Eldridge Craft.”

     Maynard scoffed. “It also says ‘ENGLISH DEPT.’ in bold black letters beneath.”

     “Yes, but the Archaeology offices are just down the hall...”

     A violent slamming at the door interrupted their back and forth. Alistair yelped and dropped his make shift toga, which gave Maynard such a fright that he nearly dropped the Little Dragon, juggling it haphazardly until he caught it more firmly.

     “Christ Alistair, clothes!”

     He yanked up his sheet and stared at the door in horror. “Shite Prestor, it’s them!” His face was as white as his sheet.

     “Open up, Craft!” Whoever was on the other side of the door had a voice so deep that Maynard and Alistair almost felt it more than they heard it.

     “It’s who?” squeeked Maynard.

     “Keep your voice down, you bloody idiot,” Alistair hissed. “It’s the owners of the Little Dragon.”

     Maynard’s eyes widened. “You said you found it in the Far East you slippery bastard!”

     “Yes, well, it’s a sort of black market called the Far East... And I didn’t find it so much as nick it.”

     The door, along with the whole small flat, shook as what could only be a bull slammed against the door.

     “Ohh God. Oh God ohGod-ohGodohGod.”

     “Focus, Prestor. Out the window, go, go, go.” He pushed him along, unlatched the window, and heaved his rump up and out. After Maynard had fallen through he hopped up backward and sat on the cold window sill, facing the door. It broke open, and a towering man with no neck and an exceedingly expensive suit blasted through. They locked eyes, and Alistair dropped backward out the open window.

     He landed in a heap upon Maynard, and they quickly disentangled and rose.

     “Who was...”

     “Nevermind you fool, run!”

     The pair fled quickly from the duplex down the street, Maynard at a full run, and Alistair at a bouncing barefoot trot. Alistair was a good deal taller than Maynard and so kept pace, despite his sheet which flowed behind him like a cape, flapping against his stark pale buttocks.

     No-Neck appeared in the window, produced a ridiculously oversized handgun in his meaty fist, and let fire. The report resounded loudly, bouncing off the walls of nearby buildings, no doubt drawing the attention of every cat, dog, and nosy old neighbor for a mile round.

     No bullet found its mark, and No-Neck vanished. They ran on, Maynard whimpering, Alistair mumbling encouragingly between hurried breaths. They rounded a corner and ran the next two miles all the way to the University. Incidentally, a local reporter was sitting on a cafe veranda, enjoying an afternoon espresso when the pair flew past, and she snapped a shot of what appeared to be a nude super hero pursuing a small man who held a diminutive glittering prize in hand.

     It ran in the Unversity paper, but Alistair never saw it, as the base of the stack of unread papers outside his office door dated back to 1991. In any case, Professor Craft and Mr. Prestor had far bigger problems to deal with. Professor Craft, especially.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Ten minute writing exercise.

"I don't think so," he said as he kicked a pebble down the deserted sidewalk.

"Are you sure? I haven't seen him in weeks, except in passing." The girl was plainly shaken; pale and breathing quickly.

"He's a busy guy. Twenty-one credits, his mom is living with him after a major surgery; he has priorities. What's got you so upset?"

"Well... He keeps missing my calls. He says he forgets his phone at home, but his mom worries about him, and I can't imagine her tolerating that sort of negligence."

"His work schedule is pretty hectic."

"You sound just like him," she replied. "Always something to distract him. He didn't used to be this way. Something's changed."

"He has a lot to worry about. I think you're being too suspicious." 

"I don't know. He's been so distant, even when I can hold his attention. Do you think there might be... something else?"

"Something?" he asked.

"Someone." She stopped walking, and he turned to look back at her, but he only frowned.

"I don't think so," he said again. He started walking, kicking at another pebble.

"But what if..." She paused as his phone starting ringing. The ringtone was Queen's 'Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy.' This time he stopped first.

"Do you need to answer that?" she asked.

"It isn't important," he said before she finished.

"You didn't even check it."

They stood, listening as the song played, until it stopped suddenly. Seconds later the phone beeped. A car slid lazily by.

"Who was it?" She asked.

"Nobody."

"Somebody." Suspicion crept into her voice. "Was it him?"

"What're you talking about?"

"Was it him?" she said, more forcefully.

"I don't think..." before he could finish her hand darted into the pocket of his hoodie, and she danced out of his reach before he could snatch her wrist.

She looked down, and right back up into his eyes. He only stared back.

She pushed a button and put the phone to her ear.

"Hey lover! I told you not to ignore my calls! I need to see you." Tears crept from her eyes, and she dropped the phone and ran.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Mythos

History regarding the Font of Fate has always been bloody. Even its creation began with a terrible war. Millennia ago there existed a great over-god called Alastor. He was the universe, its sentient manifestation, and his will was the law of reality itself. He created many children, gods themselves, and with their creation worlds sprang into existence, direct representations of the gods in reality. (I had meant that the gods were tied to physical manifestations. For example, the goddess Aborius both existed as a deific immortal being and will, as well as physically existing on Tarosaním as the seas themselves.) One such world was Tarosaním. The gods that ruled there coexisted for thousands of years, birthing powerful spirits that affected the world and those within it. The pantheon of the world was originally headed by: Zarith- represented by lightning and conflict Tanakul- represented by fire and destruction Gorduk- represented by the earth and creation Aborius- represented by the seas and peace Kalandrios- represented by the sky and beautiful things Of course, many other gods existed, but they played subservient roles to the more ancient and powerful gods listed above. While the gods themselves remained as constants within the world, it was their spirit children that affected great change. There originally existed two great races of sentients: the Alasi, tall and attractive creatures, and the Torím, a smaller, but more powerful race of brutish origins. They lived in all places of the world, but living in proximity to some of the most powerful spirits altered them and their society.

  (The Alasi were creatures of light and music. They radiated various colors, usually in accordance with tribe or temperament. They communicated through musical sounds and subtle light-shifts and, being primordial sentients, had no written language. They were humanoid in shape, and wore no clothes. They were of flesh and blood, certainly, but their souls made up a greater part of them than their descendents, so radiated through their skin. Though the Alasi were spiritual, of a heavenly order, the Torím were more of the earth. They seemed, at first glance, to have skin of stone, or clay, or sand, or even ice. But flesh they were, even if they were more akin to the material world than other creatures. They came in many colors and sizes, and like kept with like, for the most part.) From Kalandrios offspring, one community of woodland Alasi was transformed into the tall and beautiful elves. Blessed by their goddess, they would know everlasting youth and beauty. From Gorduk's children, the Torím of the mountains became the stout dwarves, as strong and resolute as the earth itself. Zarith's spirit-children eventually molded the Alasi of the east into the Nom'seri people, a tenacious race known for their warrior culture. Tanakul's ilk bred the subterranean Torím into Orcs, and other various goblinoids. The spirits of Aborius' descent eventually influenced the Alasi of the west into Men. As the mortal races grew prosperous, conflict began to arise amongst the gods. Tanakul and Gorduk argued often of their life being more superior to that of the other, and soon too, the orcs and the dwarves began fighting over the mountains in which both made their home. Zarith too, began inciting conflict with Aborius. He mocked her and her chosen people for their simple ways, though Aborius paid him no heed. To prove his point, Zarith directed the Nom'seri to raid the human villages, stealing their food and creations. Aborius, furious despite herself, gifted the humans with magic and weapons to retaliate, giving in to the war Zarith had hoped to create. All this blood shed, an ugly business, disgusted Kalandrios, and her people of Beauty retreated to their lonely, lovely forests to seclusion. But they would not escape tragedy. One of the greatest of the elves' royalty thought herself so beautiful she outshone even Kalandrios. Many elves, deeply offended by this heresy, scarred the Elf-Queen's visage with fire and blades. Her followers immediately responded with violence of their own, and a terrible civil war ensued. Kalandrios, appalled by the ugliness of the war, left Tarosaním. Only her spirit children maintained beauty in the world and without the presence of their goddess, a large portion of the elven population lost their immortality and fell to time. The Dwarven peoples, being very cunning, managed to discover an extremely powerful magic technique, powered by the earth itself, that allowed them to bind the orcs' terrible god, Tanakul, far beneath the earth. Although chained and imprisoned, his power would resurface as volcanic activity throughout history. With the powers of the earth and fire at their disposal, the dwarves mastered runic magic and smithing. Without either of these benefits, the orcs, goblins, and monstrous giants were driven from the Northern Mountains to the rocky regions in the far south. Their culture and society would never recover, and they lived as tribal savages from then on. The dwarves, however, prospered. The war between the humans and Nom'seri raged on, becoming so heated that the gods themselves descended to the Earth. During the war, some gods were terribly wounded by one another, fleeing to the heavens. The battle was a stale-mate until the cunning of Zarith tipped the scales: He created an item of terrible power, a crown in which he bestowed a part of himself. Whilst wearing it he could bend the wills of men to his own, and thusly he led an army to the shores of the Sea of Farrokh unhindered. Zarith found Lady Aborius in her hidden sanctum, and they fought, the powers of the sea and storm pitted against one another. In the end Zarith vanquished Aborius with a blade of Thunder. Impaled upon the heavenly blade, Aborius became that of her element, holy waters. But the waters still held the power of the Lady, and coalesced into a magical Font. In a supreme act of vanity, Zarith directed Aborius' high priest, Aren'thol Flamerunner, to drink from the waters that were once his goddess. But partaking of the waters also cleansed the mind of the High Priest, and he directed the holy power of the waters to drive Zarith and his followers. The Nom'seri were driven from the place. Zarith was mortally wounded, and his corporeal form dispersed. His crown was left behind and Aren'thol claimed it, uniting many of the humans under his rule and becoming the first King of Erisûd. The capital of his nation was built around the Font of Fate, and Aren'thol established the Order of the Azure Hand to protect the Font, and wield its power against the Nom'seri. Perhaps a century later a mortal hero, Thayatos, discovered corruption amongst the members of the Azure Hand. He slew their leaders, discovered the Font of Fate, and ascended to godhood using its power, creating a new order to protect the Font, as well as the city and kingdom: The Order of the Silver Chalice. Now a part of the Pantheon, but different than the natural gods, Thayatos immdiately gathered enemies and allies. One such ally was Ise. (Pronounced ee-say) Ise hoped to use Thayatos against the other gods, as Thayatos didn't have to follow all the same laws of godhood as the children of Alastor. Eventually these aims came to light to Thayatos, who promptly challenged Ise to combat, and banished him from the Immortal World, sending him to the mortal realm as a disembodied spirit of evil. Over the next thousand years he would slowly gain power and influence, ultimately being summoned into the body of Luzran Tarik, but vanquished by Tsabryn Ul-Rayak shortly after. Time was recorded since the first banishment Ise by the Thayatosians, and the age ended at 1164 TR (Thayatos' Reign). Time was then recorded as years of light: The date by the end of my book is The 12th Year of Light.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

The Grand Timeline

The Age of Darkness

1- Alastor births the gods, and thusly, the world of Tarosaním. On the continent of Tseruanni many forms of life are created. 250- Kalandrios births her first spirit-child, Coraleth. The other gods follow suit and create their own children. 4,031- The Alasi establish many simple settlements in central Tseruanni. The Torím establish their  own holdings in the mountains of the north. The First Age of Mortals- Circa 7,000 AoD 1- Coraleth molds several communities of Alasi into the Elves. Kalandrios blesses these creations with immortality and eternal beauty. This intervention of the Spirits and Gods in the world begin the First Age of Mortals. 173- Muradin, son of Gorduk, molds many clans of Torím into the Dwarves. 214- Okar, son of Tanakul, creates orcs, goblins, and other monstrous humanoids from the untouched Torím. 452- Zhengyi, son of Zarith, forges the Nom'seri of the Alasi that had settled the east. The Nom'seri begin fighting with nearby Alasi. 489- The War Under the Mountains erupts between the dwarves and the goblinoids. 537- The Alasi that settled on the Western shores of the Sea of Farrokh discover the daughter of Aborius, Ilsaré, and they are gifted for their discovery, becoming humans. (Also called 'Sûderi'.) 641- The Nom'seri begin raiding human villages. As a result, Aborius and her daughter, Ilsaré, gift the humans with knowledge of magic, as well as weaponry. The first of the Human-Nom'Seri Wars begins. 700- The elves, disgusted by all the blood, retreat west to their shadowy forests of seclusion. The ruins of their old homeland still stand today in Western Erisûd. Common day Liethel and Xerathor stand on the sites of ancient Elven cities. 967- The Dwarves manage to conjure Tanakul and bind him beneath the Earth. Using his power, as well as Muradin's, the war against the goblinoids is quickly won, and their bestial ilk are banished to the rocky lands of the South (called Okar Nu'goth in Orcish.) 1102- The Elf-Queen, Fey'larin, proclaims she is the most beautiful being in existence. Religious fanatics, preaching the beauty of Kalandrios, rÍsë against the queen and scar her face with blades and fire. The Elven Civil War forces Kalandrios to flee Tarosaním. Her spirit-children maintain beauty in the world from then on. 1236- The Human-Nom'seri Wars become so heated that the gods themselves descend upon the earth. Aborius and Zarith draw their respective allies and subordinates into the war as well. The Gods War begins. The Second Age of Mortals (The Gods War)- Began 1236 First Age 1- Zarith and Aborius take control of their mortal armies. c. 150- Several gods have fled the world because of grievous injuries sustained at the hands of their brethren. c. 320- Most gods have left the world once more, save Aborius, Zarith, and their closest Lieutenants. The blasted lands are ravaged by the war and become inhospitable. c. 600- Zarith vanishes from the battlefield, creating the Crown of Thunder. 712- The Crown of Thunder is completed. The war, which had been going well for the humans in Zarith's absence, suddenly turns against the children of Ilsaré. Using the Crown's power, Zarith turns aside all the human forces and makes his way to the Hidden Sanctum of the Lady of Mysteries, Aborius. 713- Lady Aborius is slain by Lord Zarith. Aborius' essence becomes a mystical pool of scintillating energies. 715- Aborius' high priest, Aren'thol Flamerunner, is captured by the Nom'seri insurgents. Lord Zarith forces him to drink the waters that were once his goddess. Flamerunner becomes an Aasimar, and directs the Font's energies at Zarith and his followers. Zarith, in a semi-weakened state from forging the Crown of Thunder, is vanquished at the hands of Aren'thol. His corporeal form disperses, and his spirit flees, kept alive by the portion of divinity sealed in the crown. Aren'thol claims the crown and unites the humans into the nation of Erisûd. (Air-ih-syood) 717- The capital, Tharon, is built around the Font of Fate, and the King, Aren'thol, founds the Order of the Azure Hand, a group of Arcanists who protected the city, as well as the secret of the existence of the Font of Fate. Aren'thol destroys or forces out the last remnants of the Nom'seri invaders. 913- Thayatos, a high ranking member of the Azure Hand, discovers corruption within the Order. He uncovers the secrets of the Font and uses its power to destroy the corrupt Order. From its pieces he creates the Order of the Silver Chalice, a heirarchal Knight Organization. 914- Thayatos uncovers a powerful secret within the Font of Fate and ascends to godhood. The Third Age of Mortals (The Age of Thayatos' Reign)- Began 914 Gods War 1- The Church of Thayatos is established within the Order of the Chalice. 67- Thayatos is officially recognized as a member of Tarosaním's pantheon by the Royalty of Tharon, as well as the Holy Men in Moiricave, City of Scrolls. 71- Thayatos allies with Ísë, and for a time Ísë's followers are housed by the Order of the Chalice. 103- Ísë attempts to deceive Thayatos into killing another god. Thayatos discovers this, and banishes Ísë from the Immortal Realms to the mortal world as a dÍsëmbodied spirit of evil. A purge begins in Tharon in which the Knights of the Order hunt down the followers of Ísë. 687- Kale, Arch-Lich of Nom'ser, is lured by the whispering promÍsës of Ísë to find the Font of Fate and attain true immortality beyond lichdom. Kale attempts to invade Tharon via the Sea of Farrokh with an Undead Horde, but is defeated by the Armada of the Red Spear , Tharon's naval military branch. Kale is personally slain by the mysterious Sorcerer named Elric, son of Caine. Elric vanishes shortly after without a trace. 1147- A man who claims to be the ancient Elric of old surfaces shortly in Erisûd before traveling west to the elves. 1154- Duke Bhak'ti Hel'viett, Duke of Xerathor, cousin of the Sun King, Leon Flamerunner himself, is executed for a plot to seize the Crown for himself. The Duke's family and servants are exiled from Tharon and Xerathor, and the Hel'viett estate in Tharon falls into disrepair and ruin. Xerathor is now ruled by a council, elected democratically. Bhak'ti's advisor, Luzran Tarik, is released from custody. He was once apprentice to the mighty Stalygos, High-Archmage of Tier Aly-Gauth, whom vouched for his honesty in the claim of ignorance to the Duke's plot. 1159- Stalygos vanishes mysteriously and Luzran Tarik becomes the new High-Mage. 1160- The Consortium is created. Luzran Tarik resigns as High-Mage and represents the Mage's Guild in the Consortium. Crudak Darkeyes, a Shadow Council mage, takes up the mantle of High-Mage. 1163- Tsabryn Ul-Rayak, an Order Knight, is corrupted by a demon that serves Ísë. He is exiled shortly after. 1164- Eladrin, leading member of the Order, is murdered. Prince Niccolo kills his father, the King. Niccolo proclaims that the Consortium shall be the prime governing body of Erisûd, and he is assassinated by Luzran Tarik soon after. War is declared on the Order, whom Tarik blames openly for the murders of all three political leaders, despite his actually organizing all three. 1165- The Order is brought to the brink of destruction. Tsabryn redeems himself and helps to save the Order from oblivion. Luzran Tarik attacks the Order and discovers the Font of Fate. He corrupts the well, and summons Ísë's spirit into himself. Tsabryn confronts Ísë (Luzran) and with the grace of his god, vanquishes Ísë once more. The Age of Light- Began 1165 TR 1- Tsabryn is made Regent-Lord of Erisûd. The identity of the rightful King is revealed. Tsabryn sets the affairs of the kingdom in order. Tsabryn is visited by Elric, acting as ambassador for the elves, and pledges to aid the kingdom, especially of a threat looming in the future; A man called Rinaldo. 12- King Kyar'lun Hel'viett is crowned. Regent-Lord Tsabryn becomes his chief advisor.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Scribble inspired by Duff.

     The youth looked expectantly at the old man, waiting for an answer. The old man breathed deeply, let out a resigned sigh, and spoke.

     “Rûthaur, the Furious Abomination of the South-East; he was the one that meant to destroy us this night. He is a relentless monster, and should our vigilance slip, as it nearly did, he will be upon us, and no measure of strength or valor will thwart him then.”

     “But... who is he? You’ve given me his name, but I’m no closer to understanding why he wishes us dead.” The man lowered his hooded head, ground his teeth, and continued his explanation to his younger companion.

     “Rûthaur wasn’t always what he is. Indeed, the most horrible things in this world were once the most beautiful. It is their fall, and their perversion to blackness that makes them so terrible. The Abomination is no different. He was once Síluradan, a member of my Order. Called the Silver Fire, he led us to victory against the Black Dragonbrood, after the betrayal of the Half-Elf Prince. In fact, he was the apprentice of Aryn the Red, which is where he had learned the draconic lore that made him so valuable in the wake of Lucien’s War.”

     “What happened to him, Turbatus?” the young man asked.

     “He died. Síluradan, Silver Flame of the Wizards of Mædava, was slain by the servants of one of the great Ogre-Lords left from Lucien’s occupation. They assaulted his tower in the remains of the capital of Erinor, and when Síluradan called for aid his cries went unanswered. As he fought the creatures that assailed his home he was possessed of a deep sense of betrayal towards those who once claimed to be his brothers; indeed, those who owed him their lives. And when his energies were exhausted, and as he was overwhelmed he was overcome with rage. A black fire ignited in his heart, and mingled with his powers.” The old man grimaced, and his knuckles went white has he clasped his oaken staff, recalling the tale.

     “And in that moment, when he fell, that darkness was loosed as a death curse. Its intent, as far as the lore-masters know, was to exact revenge upon the traitorous Order of Mædava. The means of that revenge was the broken body of Síluradan itself. It reanimated him into the disgusting creature of rage that he is today: Rûthaur.”

     “Gods...” the boy muttered.

     “The rage that fuels Rûthaur today is misplaced, as hate often is. He believes that I, Turbatus the Blue, led the other wizards away from the capital, intentionally dragging them far from any hope of aiding him. In truth, I was doing what I believed would protect Síluradan, and the rest of the Order as well. The dread shapeshifter, Gorbragol, the Sudden Horror, had finally been found. Seeing this as the only opportunity to utterly destroy that black enemy of our people, I gathered as many wizards as were available, and made for the creature’s lair; my greatest folly.”

     “And the Ogre-Lord took the opportunity of your absence to assault one of the wizards that had been left behind...” the youth surmised.

     “Precisely so. It’s my belief that the Ogre betrayed the location of the shapeshifter to obtain the chance to sack a wizard-tower, as well as be rid of a rival lord of the city-ruins; though I don’t think the old beast could have foreseen or even hoped for the creation of another enemy of the Mædavians...” the old voice trailed off.

     The wizard’s young charge furrowed his eyebrows, and said slowly, “But Rûthaur’s right isn’t he? If you hadn’t led the wizards away, he wouldn’t have been killed.” Disgust crawled into the heart of the young man, contempt for this old codger that had brought a terrible monster into being. “If you hadn’t been such a fool I’d still have a home!” He leapt up from the table they sat at in an abandoned home so quickly that his chair toppled, and turned to head down the stairs and out the front door when Turbatus leapt up as well.

     He cast off his brown cloak, revealing his deep sea-blue robes, which drew in what light was in the musty room, swallowing the brightness like the depths of the oceans themselves. The wizard smote his staff upon the floor but once, and spoke, his words carrying a pressure mightier than the unknown fathoms of the Farrokh Sea.

     “You will not consign my wisdom as foolishness, nor hallow vicious thoughts of hate, nor throw your life away for the misgivings of a twisted and evil monster.” The boy was held rapt where he was, and Turbatus’ words shook him from his emotions. Upset from the loss of his home, he sought someone to blame, the Blue Wizard being the closest target.

       Had he carried out his fit of despair and sorrow and blame, he would have found himself without the protection of Turbatus, and easy prey for the Furious Abomination. He relaxed his body, and then felt the constraints of the old man’s will fall from him. The room brightened as Turbatus wrapped himself in his fallen cloak.

     “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to put myself in that sort of danger...”

     Turbatus grumbled and sat once again in his chair. “You’ve been through a lot tonight; that, paired with the Black Breath of the creature, rattled you and led your mind down a slippery slope of despair. Rage breeds despair. Think no more of it. We’ll stay the night, and slip from the city come morning. From there, we’ll take the Ost-Road toward Moiricave, and from there to Tharon. Get some rest until then.”

[brokenjunkdrawer]

     Why must mere trinkets possess me? It is only gold; shiny adornment. And yet at Its loss I am consumed. Where could It have gone? Why has It deserted me? Was I not a worthy master? Has the Thing found me to be unfit of It, or worse: undeserving?       With It, I had gained mastery of myself and by extension, mastery over my realm. I was noble magnate and awful lord; and despair gripped those who lost my favor--who let themselves slip from my good graces. But It slipped from me, and my grip over myself as faltered in turn. My work will be undone. What has been built shall fall, and I will tumble with it. Destruction! Ruination! Fire! I have to run! Fools! Can you not see the wreckage? The undoing?       Of course not. The Shadow is not cast over them, but me. And I am now subject to It. Captive and thrall. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

He stands naked. Unclothed, not Exposed. Though looked upon, he goes Unseen. So 'undisguised', a mockery of his want. The clasp of his hidden Cloak held fast By terror or distrust. 

What a beautiful Cloak it is! Can you tear your eyes from it? Look away and beyond?  It is no gossamer veil, no light shade. But heavy, and Contains as much as Conceals, that fleshy drapery. What would spill forth, were he Uncloaked? Would you be bathed in brilliant light, Gold and warm? Else be chased to your blankets, by cold embittered winds? Triumphant horns, clarion calls of Glory? Or the whispers of chilly secrets, dark and heavy in your chest. He wants to cast it aside, to free that Covering. But for you he does not.   Press against that Robe; love what is Touched and be saved from invisible Beasts and Saints. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Mithrandir

The rain patters about us, and he turns his grey head up. His eyes closed, he listens for it. His hat falls from his head, and still he listens. "It flees the great fire," he says. "The rain goes west; and we shall leave it to that jaunt, to find its fear." The Grey Pilgrim fetches his hat and shuffles into the storm. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

How does one judge a king? When dirt stains his face, yet gold adorns his brow? A noble step, then cruel stumble: Man, beast, lord, hunger Untarnished chest plate 'neath tattered cloak: Iron fist in velvet glove. Strike, kiss, hate, love

The servants bow and farmers till His armies march, and burn, and kill . I've asked the wizard, holy sage Heard his wisdom, rage, and praise.

He gives no gift, and spares no rod Benevolent father or spiteful god? Be he courageous, man or hound The grass cares not on his burial mound. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

The ink of failed creation stains my fingers: reminder of what might have lived in shuffling pages; had their blood not leaked from my broken pen. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Luke Setanu; The Egyptian

    This wasn't going to end well. When does it ever? Sure, on a small scale optimism has its perks. You may find a small amount of money in an old pair of jeans, or every light on the road might turn green for you. Little stuff.      It's when things are important that everything feels the compulsive need to go to Hell in a hand-basket. In fact, the cosmic order seemed intent on taking me on a little basket-ride, too. Who does it think I am? Todo?      The agenda for the day had been simple. "An idiot sorcerer summoned a demon. It killed him, and it's loose. Go get it, big guy!" I did what any guy in my situation would do: I picked up my Holy Sword and set out to kick some demonic ass. I suppose there aren't many guys in my situation. I'm a Knight of the Cross. Capital "C". Yeah, the Cross. The one used in the Crucifixion. I have a sword with one of the nails that pierced the hands and feet of the Son worked into its hilt. It's a mighty piece of work, where evil-vanquishing is concerned.      That day's calling brought me to some old warehouses in Portland. It was a few days before Halloween, so I figured going with Esperacchius belted at my side with my great white cloak that bore a red emblazoned cross wouldn't attract too much attention. I might be heading to a party! I'm cool enough to get invited to parties, right? (Humor me.) I left my Ford Explorer a few blocks away from the warehouses. No point in announcing my arrival by parking right out front. (I know, I know; the sword and the cloak didn't scream subtle, but at least the demon wouldn't be waiting for me because of my loud-ass car.)      The sun was setting as I neared the warehouse entrance. I knew exactly which warehouse to enter. The surety I felt was like knowing which side of your body is facing the sun and which isn't with your eyes closed. One warehouse just felt like it was giving off cold--or drawing in heat.      I put my ear to the old door and listened. Silence. You may not know this, but demons aren't particularly quiet, or at least not after slaying an impotent mortal summoner and summarily feasting on his corpse. They roar in trumph, cackle with monstrous glee, get bored, and start destroying stuff.      Which meant it sensed me coming. Oh, well. So much for subtle. I drew my saber, launched a kick that tore the old door from its hinges, and strode in confidently, flowing cape proudly declaring my bad-assery. There was a reason to that confidence. The sword is sort of a super focus for one's faith. That confidence I was feeling was multiplied a thousand-fold, and when I entered the warehouse a golden light radiated from Esperacchius. If it touched that filthy hell-slime, it would likely set his skin to blistering. Awesome, I know.      I glanced around. Sealed crates, discarded clothing from naughty teenagers or perhaps a vagrant. No demon.

I never managed to get around to writing the rest of this. It was just a back-story for my Knight of the Cross I made for when we were going to play the Dresden Files Role Playing Game. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

A few lines I wrote

About the story-line that comes before and after the little Drahamesh short story I wrote.

"The jaded Prince of Erinor whose black temptation rose. He took the blade Tinilmalas, sent Godric to his throes. So Lucian turned on ebon drakes and laid the Drakon low- A blight against the dragonflight that the reds' Power may grow." 

Basically, Lucian learns that Turbatus left the sword Tinilmalas with the dragon, Drahamesh, so he travels to the cave, claims the sword, and uses it to kill the dragon. He wanted the sword because of its dragon-slaying properties, and later uses it in his war against the Black Dragons. 

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Illusionary Therapy

 I looked up at the rotting wooden sign that hung haphazardly from rusted chains. It proclaimed that the small shop below it, which was in no better shape than the sign itself, belonged to one "T.X. Sodicurt," who was an "Illusionary Therapist."      I had tried everything before this. Shrinks, psychologists, psychiatrists, doctors, medicine-therapists of all sorts. Religious figures, counselors, friends, family. Now I was going to try hypnotism.      I went to the door, all windows and paneling, but the years of grime, paired with the frost of the frigid December air, made it impossible to make out the shop's interior. I grabbed the ancient latch and opened the door. Stereotypically, it creaked open, accompanied by the tinkling of a bell. Classy. The room beyond was a dim, sad excuse for a reception area. A desk blocked access to the door opposite the one I had come through. A single chair accompanied a filthy coffee table, covered not with old magazines, but instead with deserted coffee cups and discarded paper plates.      I approached the desk, searching in vain for a bell to ring or sheet to sign in on.      "Hello?" I asked, rather weakly.      A hacking cough answered me from the back room, and the door opened to admit an unshaven, scruffy-looking man. He continued to cough into his closed fist, and wiped his head on his long leather duster afterward. He extended the same hand and looked at me expectantly, though not meeting my eyes. He might've been looking at my nose, or forehead. I reluctantly offered my hand and name. "I called earlier," I continued. "Is this a bad time?"      "No, not at all," he said. "Allow me to introduce myself," he went on, releasing my hand from a gentle shake. "I am Mr. T.X. Sodicurt, Practitioner of the Art; Illusory Therapist, in other words. Please, come into my office."      He gestured to the door he had come through, and I stepped past him. As I went by I caught a bit of his scent, and despite his poor appearance, he didn't smell unpleasant. Rather, he smelled of reassuring nature: of rain, and trees, and flowers on the wind.      His office was not impressive, though it lacked the garbage and squalor of the waiting room. It was brighter than the other room, lit with long fluorescent lights, and was sparsely furnished with a couch and a pair of squishy-looking armchairs. Beside them were small end tables which held interesting-looking archaic baubles (perhaps abstract art of some sort). At the far end of the room sat the therapist's desk, and behind that, a single bookshelf. His desk was covered with papers, open books, and a few nibbled snacks.      I stood a few feet in the door a few moments until I heard the door click closed behind me. A second later Sodicurt made his way past me and sat in the squishy chair on the left, which faced the other furniture. He smiled a tired man's smile, something forced and for my benefit, and nodded his head toward the other chair.      I sat. He looked at me, patiently, never meeting my eyes. "Well?" he asked. "Remind yourself why you're here."      "Well," I began. "I'm depressed; haunted, really. My sadness devours me, day after day. I try to hide from my pain, try to use reason and logic to discard these feelings, but it doesn't work. I've sought help of all sorts. I have no other options, sir."      "You have sought material answers for an issue with your soul," Sodicurt concluded.      "That's not true! I even turned to the priesthood…"      "They know nothing. Worse than being ignorant of the existence of illusion, they create and strengthen such veils. They could only worsen your problem."      "What are you talking about; illusions and such? I thought you were a hypnotist or something."      Sodicurt laughed, and then fell into another hacking cough. "A hypnotist? Those that seduce your mind into holding layers of the veil in higher priority than others?"      I was puzzled at this point. I slouched in my chair and rested my chin on my fist. "What are you then?" I asked. "What is it you do?"      "I do what others cannot do. What others refuse to do. I peel back the illusions; lift the curtain; cut through the veil. I show people things as they truly are." He said all of this calmly, as if he were stating simple truths. It is for that reason that I found myself believing him.      "And so you intend to show me things that are real?" I asked?      "Not merely things. You can perceive things, after all. The problem is that you see a distorted view of reality. A representation: dull and muddled. I will show you that which you already know exists, but with such profound clarity that you will better understand things as they are."      "What things?"      "Your soul," he said. "And your pain." He said this with an underlying sorrow, as if he pitied me, knowing how very sharp and acute my pain and sadness were.      "Look into my eyes," he requested softly.      I did. What happened next I can never perfectly describe. We connected, his will taking hold of my mind. I felt him reach out to me, and all at once everything before me was torn away. What I saw was glorious and terrible all at once. It humbled me, and dwarfed my existence and mortal perceptions. Gone were the walls with their cheesy wallpaper. In the place of the small office I was surrounded by a miraculous glade, encircled by trees, ancient and wise. From them flowed feelings; the only accurate analogy I can create is that those trees radiated reassurance, peace, and kindness in the way that a fire gives off heat.       The therapist, who had been a dirty, tired, aging and pained man, was now a being enshrouded in the gray and heavy robes of painful truths and harsh wisdoms. From within his body shone the golden light of goodness, and care. He was righteousness and humility; self-sacrifice and love, given shape and form. Here was a being that shone with the white brilliance of the just.      The beauty and power of the place shattered my resolve. I wept for a time, and when I regained my control, I looked upon the therapist again. He stood in the same place, patiently watching with the sympathy a parent might have for their distressed child.      "Where are we?" I asked shortly.      "Exactly where we were before. We're in my office, a place of healing," Sodicurt answered, his voice resonating within my being.      "What are you, really?" I asked, in awe of him and his glade.      "I am a servant of the natural universe, and a guardian of truth. I am a vessel for the sight, and self-sacrifice is my sacred duty," he explained.      I took in his statement (I had resigned to refer to him as a wizard from now on, for that was what he seemed to most resemble) before looking around me with greater attention. There were paths that led from our glade. One such path was marked with a certain gloom. While Sodicurt's realm seemed to shine with a light of its own, this path was devouring the golden warmth of the area. It looked cold; hungry, in the most sinister and painful way.      "What am I to do?" My voice lacked the power of conviction that carried the voice of the therapist, the wizard. The stark difference only sharpened my mental image of a lost child and a benevolent stranger.      "I have liberated not only your sight, but your mind. You are free of your body, and free wander from this place. Search for your answers."      I couldn't do it. I couldn't find my courage. I turned once more to the path, my path. It terrified me. I felt horror, a sense of mortal peril, and I was paralyzed by that fear.      I felt the wizard approach me, his golden radiance warming my back. He put a hand on my shoulder, and the weight of his wisdom fell upon me. I accepted strength from his wisdom, and stepped on the path. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that the wizard, my guardian and guide, had gone. I was alone.      I began walking a path I had been down before. The first time I had been along it I was blindfolded, guided by one who hid the pain from me. Now I could walk it with true sight, freed from mortal mis-perceptions. I could feel the pain of the trail now. The wind blew through the trees, and the leaves rustled, whispering to me.      "I love you" they whispered. "I shall be with you, always."      At first I believed the wind, eager as I was to have a companion, any presence to suppress my fear. But I was different from before, not as foolish as I was the first time I had been here. A part of me demanded that I distrust these empty words. I addressed the wind.      "You lie," I told the wind softly. "You care not at all. You caress me for your own sake, not mine."      The wind rose and howled in my ears, threw the folds of my clothing about, tugged at my hair.      "You miserable wretch!" shrilled the wind. "You're pathetic! You're nothing! Greedy, selfish, disgusting, hateful," the wind went on, throwing every insult it could summon.      I ignored the wind, condemned it as insubstantial, unable to trouble me. The wind died away, and I was left with my thoughts and the light crunching of dry twigs and leaves beneath my feet.      I breathed deeply as I walked, trying to keep calm. The voice the wind had used was a haunting one. It had belonged to someone I had held dear to me, years ago. The pain dredged up memories and feelings associated with my lost love, and they threatened to overwhelm me. I concentrated on my path, and my purpose, and carried on. There was time enough for remorse later.      As I walked I noted that the plants were becoming more insidious. Brambles, thorny and sharp, were intruding upon the path with more and more frequency. At times they were in such abundance that I could not avoid them. I squeezed through one such group, and the thorns pierced my clothing and cut my skin. The pain was far sharper than was reasonably possible, but the place I walked in was a place beyond normal reason. The cuts blazed, as though the thorns were envenomed. They drew out my anger, and I struggled to free myself.      In a furious rage I tore free. I looked back at the shambles in which I had left the thorny plants. Dripping from their broken limbs were considerable amounts of blood, so much that it could not have all been my own.      I walked further now, slowed by my wounds, acutely aware of the grief they caused me. Wounds of betrayal, deception, regret; deep and terrible.      The way ahead was misty. A thick fog was creeping in, obscuring the path. As I strode into it my pain vanished. I became numbed to all feeling, all thought. For a moment, I nearly forgot myself. I remembered, though. I would not allow myself to succumb to numbness, or consign myself to emptiness and the void. That would be worse even than suffering.      A moment later I was through. I stepped into a large circular area. The area was enclosed not with trees or any physical barrier, but with the same dark fog from which I had emerged. The area was not empty. At its center floated a sphere of the deepest, most intense blue. Its surface was not still. It was a roiling thing, dark and violent, parts occasionally flashing brighter, as if a storm were caught inside and trying desperately to break out.  It was perhaps a hundred feet across, and try as I might I was unable to see through or into it.      I walked slowly around the monstrous thing, searching for a way into it, a way to discover its secrets. Finding no way to plumb its violent depths, I approached it slowly. Despite its violent nature, it gave off no wind, only a pressure. The closer I got to it the more the pressure increased until, a foot away, my skull felt fit to burst.      In a thoughtless effort to release this tension, I reached out with my hand and touched the storm. All the pressure was released into me in an instant, like lightning. Pain filled my being, and I blacked out. I awoke an unknown time later to my own sobs.      I knew then what the sphere was. Deep, dark, violent and turbulent, my depression had become a dark tempest, mercilessly tearing apart my spirit.       "What's wrong my dearest friend?" someone asked.      I wasn't sure that I had heard right. I forced my arms beneath me and got up from the ground. I looked at him, the newcomer.      He was beautiful. He looked at me with dark eyes, his slightly freckled face set in a sort of puzzled, concerned expression. He shook his medium length black hair from his eyes, and continued gazing upon me.      I was at a loss for words. Faced with this specter, this being I had long thought lost to me, I froze. He took a step toward me.      "What's wrong?" he repeated. "You look so sad. Come, let me hold you."      He stepped closer still. He raised his hand toward me as he neared, as one might approach a stray dog, unsure if it will attack.      "Everything will be fine. I can make all your pain go away. I can hold you. I can kiss you. I can love you."      His words wrapped around my mind. I could envision his promises; see myself in his beautiful hands, giving in to joy. My eyes began to close, so enamored was I with his guarantee. Just before he reached me, just before my eyes closed tight I saw a flicker of change. His expression faltered, became something sinister. It was the look of one who had bested a rival, or successfully captured prey.      I shook myself from his alluring words and cried out.      "No! You liar!" I snarled. He recoiled, a look of fury distorting his beautiful visage. "You wish me no healing. You would do harm to satiate your own need to elevate yourself above others; to hold power."      He looked at me. Then he smiled. It was a cruel smile that marks a madman, a monster, who's caught, but feels no regret.      "You speak nonsense," he purred, a sly tone in his voice.      "And you speak with a forked tongue. You will not coerce me."      Fury gripped him once more, and his face literally warped because of it. He became a monstrous thing, with sharp teeth and black, lifeless eyes.      "You are mine!" it hissed, its voice inhuman.      It lunged at me, clawing at my arm. It fell short, gashing my forearm instead of taking hold of it.      For an instant I was elsewhere, in my bed years ago, with my love, embracing him.      And I was back, facing the monstrosity. Pain, emotional and not physical, assaulted me. I was in a place where emotion was far more real than a physical blow, however. The thing charged me again. I leaped away, but it managed once more to drag its fetid claws across my flesh.      The landscape vanished, replaced by a room that was not my own. I was in my dear love's bed. He knelt beside me, caring for me as I recovered from surgery.      That too, vanished, leaving more pain behind.      "Come back," hissed the thing. "You cannot escape me. I am everything."      I felt hopelessness, the most consigned sorrow possible. I believed the beast. I fell to the ground and allowed myself to be dragged toward the swirling darkness. I envisioned what would become of me as a slave to sadness. It was an unbearable thought, and it incited my defiance.      "You are nothing," I told the fiend. "A memory of love and a false one at that."      The thing snarled and its flesh burned away, revealing muscle and cartilage.      "You never had love in your heart, and cared not at all for anyone save yourself. You are empty. You are nothing."      As I invoked the truth the creature's muscles, organs and bones sloughed away and joined the dark foggy nether twisting above us. All that was left behind was a translucent image of a youth, frustrated, cornered and depressed.      "Be gone," I muttered as I approached the ghost of the boy. "Disperse, and plague my mind no longer.      He winked out of existence, and the stormy torrents of my sadness ebbed away, the orb becoming a white globe of serenity. It shone with a comforting aura, and within it I saw a figure. It was a boy, the same age as the specter boy; though a different person I was sure. He had curly brown hair, eyes of the same color, and a yellowish complexion. He was wrapped in barbed chains and cutting manacles, but these things released him as I watched.      Released from his agony, he rested; regaining his strength and allowing time to begin healing his wounds. I left that place, walking through the fog to find myself on a deserted street on a cold winter afternoon. I passed a grimy shop, noting its disgustingly moldy windows and a rotting sign on rusted chains.      "Excuse me," a gruff voice interjected, scattering my thoughts. An unshaven scruffy man in a leather duster passed me to enter the shop. He stopped before he stepped inside to look over his shoulder. He looked older than I remembered.      "Thank you," I said.      "Wisdom and peace," he replied, his steady voice lending strength to the phrase, making it sound almost like a blessing.      Sodicurt smiled, though he looked exhausted, and went into his office, a tinkling of bells welcoming him back to his temple of truth and old coffee cups.

[brokenjunkdrawer]

Interview with Drahamesh

 The man with the blue cloak drew his hood farther down over his face. Holding his body against the wind, the man in the sapphire robes, which were soaked dark by the snow he trudged through, continued up the mountain path, determined to find the quarry that had drawn him so far from home.      Though he could not see it through the blizzard, the sun must have been going down, for the deepening blue of twilight was setting over him. He continued anyway, ascending ever higher into the cold Daileet Mountains. A sudden change in the direction of the wind tore the hood from the man's face, revealing a lengthy brown beard, which held streaks of gray, and eyes to match: dark brown, with odd, characteristic flecks of gray.      He cursed the wind, gritted his teeth and, with his open hand, forced his hood back up and over his graying hair. His other hand held a long staff, serving as a walking stick. These travails would not waylay him, though. His perseverance soon rewarded him, and as he clung against the mountainside, walking a narrow path dangerously close to a deathly cliff, a cave mouth came into view. The cave was dark, but he knew it was occupied. A sort of warmth, not physical-as warmth from a fire would be-but warmness he felt within his mind and soul. The resonating heat that belied magic.      He stopped before the mountain's gaping maw, as if listening for something, though he could not possibly hear a thing over the howling of the wind. He felt the vibrations of magic exuding the cave, confirming his belief that this was the home of the exact being he sought. He entered, then, and the wind's screaming fell away, a whisper at his back.      Ignoring the wet and cold of his blue robes, the man strode, confidently, his boots and staff clicking and thumping, a rhythm that announced his arrival. Darkness surrounded him like another set of robes. In response he thumped the ground with his staff twice more than his pace demanded, so that his eyes shone silver, piercing the shadows. Deeper still he went into the earth, the tunnel angling downward. The air grew warmer as he went, eventually becoming stuffy, so much so that the man almost missed the blizzard outside.      The vision granted by the earth to the man only revealed black and white, but as he rounded a turn color crept back into his sight: the orange glow of a fire. The tunnel opened into a grand chamber, and the man stopped at its entrance to look upon its equally grand inhabitant. Colossal, scaled, and red, the dragon lay in the center of the room, surrounded by treasures; coins, statues, weapons, armor, books-all were to be found in the reptilian being's lair.      The light of the wall-mounted torches shone off the glittering creature's hide as he rolled around to face the bearded man. The dragon settled itself, still lying on its side as a house-cat might, and lazily opened its yellow eyes, also reminiscent of a cat and its vertical pupils.      "Only a fool would enter a dragon's lair uninvited," it grumbled.      "Only fools and the fearsome," the man agreed, his voice far smoother than that of the mountainous dragon.      "And we'll see which you are, thief." He opened his toothy maw wide, as if to yawn, but the great breath that erupted was fire and not air. The stream of flame reached for the man, who calmly raised his left hand, a silver ring inlaid with a glittering gem resting upon it. The conflagration billowed upward and away from the man, as if diverted by a solid stone wall. The immolation died away and the dragon, his breath spent, eyed the clearly unharmed man with a puzzled, serpentine look.      "You will notice, Drahamesh, that I am not actually in your lair." The dragon looked down and found that the human was right. He was just outside of the cavern, standing in the tunnel corridor.      "As such," the man continued, "I am protected by the Accords between the Red Drakon and the Wizards. As a representative of my order, you are obligated not to harm me, and hear what I have to say." The man smiled as he said this, showing his white teeth, and watched for the dragon's reaction.      A low growl resonated within the dragon's throat, but it settled and he said, "Very well, Wizard. But first I will have your name and reason for your visit."      "And if I tell, you will grant me an audience under full protection?" He stared directly into the eyes of the dragon as he asked. When entering a deal with a wizard, one cannot lie while they look into his eyes.      "It is as you say." As the dragon spoke, a magical tension-a sort of pressure on the front of the mind-rose and then broke. Their pact was magically sealed.      "Very well. I am Turbatus the Blue, as you may have surmised. I am here to learn what you know about the half-elf prince everyone is so riled up about: Lucian Saldur."      "Typical of a wizard to desire knowledge instead of treasure," Drahamesh mused. "Never had your heads straight, you wizards." The wizard stood at attention, eyeing the dragon until it finally muttered, "Enter," though the murmur of a great dragon easily carried throughout the chamber.      The wizard did as instructed, walking slowly and leisurely into the cavern, until he found his way to a magnificent golden throne, shining with inlaid rubies.      "Well then," the dragon rumbled, his voice felt through the ground against the wizard's feet. "Shall we begin? Certainly you know the price of information from one of my kind?"      "Indeed I do," Turbatus said. "Tale and treasure. You tell me what I want to know, and I gift you with a valuable item and a story." The wizard crossed his legs and assumed a comfortable position, allowing a fold of his cloak to fall aside, revealing the illustrious hilt of a sword, sheathed and belted at his side.      The dragon Drahamesh licked his lips with a forked black tongue at the sight of it. "Ask your questions, wizard."      Turbatus allowed himself another smile. "A few months ago, Prince Lucian Saldur gathered a war-party and descended into the Sullen Marshes to slaughter trolls and make a military reputation for himself. His war-party was successful, by the accounts of a few messengers sent back to the capital." He paused, sitting up straight and leaning forward, his tone growing darker. "But then something went wrong. It's said a witch approached his camp in the night. She offered the prince a coin in exchange for hospitality. You know of this, correct?"      Drahamesh nodded his gargantuan head and replied, "Yes, I know of it." He almost grinned in his draconic way, and his mirth was obvious when he said, "But the woman was no witch." The wizard raised an eyebrow, quite intrigued. "She was a dragon." The red leviathan revealed his knife like teeth at the now-frowning Turbatus. "The dragon was Embiosta, daughter of the Black Drakon. The blacks are an insidious lot, often infiltrating human lands and politics. It would surprise me not at all if she orchestrated his little troll campaign from the start."      Turbatus gripped his staff tighter and stroked his beard, brooding in a way only wizards can. "A dragon princess confronting a human prince in disguise. The records only say that he accepted the coin, and offered her food and a place to sleep; nothing of any conversation after that, at least not between those two." He thought for a short while longer before he asked, "Is the coin significant?"      "Considerably," Drahamesh confirmed. "As you should know, the first Split of Dragonkind occurred when the Grand Treasure of the Dragon-God was stolen. The five traitors that stole from the divine liege, as well as their followers, were transformed by the coins they stole, and became the first members of the Red, Blue, Green, and Black dragonbroods. The lords of each brood, the Drakons, gathered all of these coins from their subjects over the years, and stowed them away." A hint of pride tinted the red's voice as he recounted the history of his race.      "So Embiosta gave the prince one of the coins," the blue wizard deduced.      "Precisely," Drahamesh replied. "And in accepting such a token from draconic nobility, he entered into an unspoken pact with her. I have no doubt that the coin empowered the half-elf, allowing him to slay his fair share of trolls in battle."      "But all power comes at a price…" Turbatus thought aloud.      "You wizards understand this better than most," the dragon rumbled. "Lucian began carrying the coin in his hand at all times. The men would hear him whispering to it at night, like a dear friend."      "How do you know all this?" Turbatus asked suddenly.      "Not all of my treasures are as mundane as they look," the dragon said simply, though his eyes flicked briefly toward a large mirror sitting beside a beautiful statue of the elven sun-god.      "Very well," Turbatus said. "Continue the tale."      The dragon stretched out his enormous leathery wings and refolded them before beginning. "The men became uneasy as their prince became more obsessed with hunting down the trolls. After spending weeks in that marsh they yearned for warm beds and fresh meals. Confronting Prince Lucian, the men declared they were going home. In a fit of fury at their betrayal, Lucian stormed off alone into the marshes. His men hesitated, unable to allow the crown prince to die alone in that forsaken place, and after a few hours began a search for him."      "But they never found him," Turbatus surmised, grimly.      "Oh, no. They didn't. On the contrary, he found them." Once again, glee crept into the dragon's voice as he recounted the dark tale. "Two weeks later, in the dead of night, one of the camp sentries spotted a figure approaching. It was Lucian, though he was different. His skin, once a peachy color denoting his health and elven heritage, had become a mottled gray, like that of a corpse, and his brown hair had turned to black. The sentry approached his prince, but Lucian raised his left, ungauntleted hand, palm forward. Embedded in it was the cursed coin."      Turbatus' eyes widened in shock, but he quickly regained his composure.      "My research indicated that the soldiers failed to find the prince, and fell prey to the trolls they hunted…"      The dragon chuckled, a deep throaty growl.      "I'm getting to that. The sentry that approached Prince Lucian fell, screaming as his flesh melted. The coin had turned his blood to acid." Turbatus' mouth fell open, unable to find words in the face of such a perversion of magic. The dragon seemed not to notice or care, and went on. "Lucian slew the second sentry with his sword, and then rallied for a charge. A small army of trolls issued forth from the marsh and killed the troops, most of which were unprepared."      Turbatus closed his mouth and eyes, took a deep breath, and opened both again to say, "So the black dragons corrupted the prince and gave him an army of trolls. Intriguing, but I don't understand why, or how exactly." The blue wizard was growing uneasy. The state of things was getting worse and worse.      "The coin brought out all of the prince's darkest emotions, the ones the black dragons revere: greed, hatred, jealousy, and above all, a lust for power and the need to dominate all others. He would now do anything to win the crown of his homeland. More than that, he wanted ultimate control of the nation. Incited by the betrayal of his soldiers, he would make it so that all obeyed him loyally. How better to control the will of free men than with a force of murderous monsters?"      Turbatus was beginning to understand. "So Embiosta granted Lucian dark powers so that he would destroy the armies of Erinor," he reasoned.      "That and more," the dragon agreed. "The black dragons were driven to the brink of extinction by the founder of the Saldur dynasty. In exchange for their lives, the blacks agreed never to attack House Saldur or their subjects."      Turbatus interjected, as the implications dawned on him. "But Lucian has agreed to serve as their vassal. Should he succeed in killing his father, King Godric, the only living Saldur would be Lucian. He's pledged himself to them, though, so they'd be allowed to kill him, and the country of Erinor would be without the protection of the bloodline of Saldur."      "He's a pawn," Drahamesh thundered, amused by the worry evident on the wizard's face. "They want him to kill the king because they're not allowed to."      "This is their grand revenge for being subjugated by the first Saldur king," Turbatus surmised. "Where is he now?"      "In the south, rallying the ogres and the orcs. Should they join him, he will have enough power to gain the support of the giants. After that, he will no doubt bring his army to bear against the capital. Should he succeed, your kingdom will fall. Best of all, you wizards will fall with it." The dragon partook of another thunderous chuckle at the wizard's expense.      "Nobody knows about this dark army Lucian is gathering. They must be warned; forces gathered, allies called upon!" Turbatus all but leapt from the throne he rested upon, striding quickly toward the exit.      "Not so fast, human!" the dragon bellowed, rising from his bed of treasure. "That sword is mine, as is its history."      Turbatus the Blue halted, cringing. He knew that the dragon was right, and despite the urgency of warning humanity of the coming war, he was obligated to pay Drahamesh, lest he wanted to start a war between red dragons and wizards, in addition to the war between Lucian and Godric.      "This sword," he said as he drew it from his hip, the blade gleaming, its inscription glowing with a soft white radiance. "…is called Tinilmalas. It was forged by Kenorn the Dwarf-Smith, and wielded by Sererion, the Elf-King of Anar." As Turbatus spoke the dragon watched the sword, transfixed. Like a cat watching a mouse, his eyes followed the sword as the wizard paced back and forth.      "The Elf-King gifted it to his son and heir, Aryn, who later joined the Wizards of Maedava-my order-becoming Aryn the Red. He led our armies against your draconic brethren in the Insigne Wars. The blade slew then-Drakon Anshammon, ending the war." Drahamesh clenched his jaw, massive muscles tightening in his reptilian face. He breathed deeply through his nose, as if smelling the history and the magic that clung to the sword.      "Upon his death, Aryn left it in the care of Koinus the White, my mentor, who then left it to me when he began his sojourn to the Far East. This blade was made for killing dragons, and your merely touching it would likely blight an entire limb." The wizard stabbed the sword into the solid stone floor, where the blade's runes flared ever brighter.      "Tricksy wizards and their insidious loopholes!" Drahamesh roared. "You'll pay for this indignation! This audience is at an end!" Turbatus felt his magical protection fall away as the dragon signaled the ending of the meeting. He turned and ran from the great beast, who sent another gout of flame to chase the wizard.      He would have been cooked, had Tinilmalas not stood between him and the dragon. Its magical powers, which opposed dragons, stopped the fires from catching the wizard, who managed to run from the cavern. The dragon gave no chase, and as Turbatus looked over his shoulder he saw that Drahamesh had already given up on killing the wizard, and was now admiring the sword. Despite his words and his attack, the dragon looked like he truly respected the weapon that stood before him, and would likely brag to his rivals about its acquisition.      The blue wizard left the cave as well, and began the journey back down the mountains in the cold rain and snow, his eyes glowing silver in the night. The wind threw his gray and brown beard this way and that, but the wizard's mind was far too occupied to bother pulling up his hood.