The Bloodline Chronicals ((OoC))

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

Greetings, fellow townies. This is a place where I have decided to start posting the story I am writing about my character. I have a couple of chapters done, and will add more as I get them. I am open to CONSTRUCTIVE criticizm (including spelling) :D, and more than willing to hear opinions about how plot should go. I have a good idea in mind, but I am a writing block feind. I get a good idea, then it seems to go away. :(

So, with no further ado, I give you my brainchild, The Bloodline Chronicals.

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

The Bloodline Chronicals,
Book 1: Bloodlines
Chapter 1

Draco for my ancestral name, meaning in the oldest of tongues, Dragon. From the bastard son of the old prince, born from a dragon who longed to be human, and the queen who couldn’t resist the dragon’s charms. Luna, the sire name given to me for being born under the harvest moon, that oft gives light on the night of witches’ day. Forever peaceful for those in need of sanctuary, forever a dark omen to those whose power lies in the darker realm. Mortia, the name that forever remains a mystery to me, meaning death in many tongues, so that no one could mistake its meaning. What did my father have in mind for me when he named me death? What was going through my mothers mind when she named me killer? Perhaps it is fitting that the weapon of my ancestors, passed down from eldest son to eldest son of the Draco line. Those who would forever protect the true line of the Bamhau. The weapon of my father, and his father before him, and so on since being given by the great dragon that impregnated my ancient queen. My fathers scythe. Upon which the blessing of Bahamute have been placed. My fathers scythe. Forever a bane unto those who would seek to harm the royal family of Bamhau. That is who I am. Mortia de Luna Draco, last of the Draco line. Death by the moonlight dragon, death, wielding a scythe. Forever my life, forever my pain, forever my linage, and forever my curse. Last of the Draco line. My name is Mortia De Luna Draco, and this is my story.

In all the world, there is only one story. It is called history. There are not many, as writers and authors would have you believe. There is only one story. One beginning, and one end. There are many adventures, many tales of sadness and many tales of love, but all these combine into one long story. To start at the beginning would be a waste of time, as the telling of a portion usually dictates the beginning as it goes. To start at the end would be pointless, because that is the entire reason for the story, to find out the ending. And as with all stories of all worlds, the magic is not in the beginning, nor the ending, but in the journey.
So this story does not start with the beginning, but it does start with a beginning. When this world was formed, the planes and oceans created from the nothing that was there, up from the ground sprung all forms of life. Of all these new lives, one of them was the ancestor to the giant oak. It was a single, solitary tree, that lived, grew, and eventualy died. Before its death, though, it spread its seed, and gave birth to other wooden giants. As with all things in nature, they also grew, and died. Yet, before dying, they changed in some small way. Each of these giant trees had something so infintesimal inside of them switch; and so they adapted. So on it went, for milions upon millions of years, each tree giving birth to others, and after a time, began to cover mountains. Entire forests of Oak and Cedar began to come up from the ground, sweeping aside the lesser plants, growing their roots deep. It is at the base of one of these wooden titans that our portion of the story begins, a portion that never would have happened with out the birth of that first tree. As the trees grow, and change, so to must love.
Looking at her, I felt lighter than air. Every detail of her perfect features were already etched into my memory like a carving in stone. She has not yet seen me, but I am already completely in love with her. They say that this is the magic of the wood elves, that they can captivate you with a look. That their powers of bewitching are beyond even their control. I don’t believe this. I am under no spell; I know the feel of magic. This creature before me is what I have been dreaming about, what I have wanted to see.
I shouldn’t be here. I know better than to go into the forest. Namely these. There are things here that defy reality. Things that change people, or make them never return. There are stories about the mist, and what it does. Some say that it is the root of the elfin magic’s. Some say it is the veil between the worlds, and that the elves are the protectors of it. Some even think that it is pure magic in itself, that the powers come from the mists, not the moons.
But I had to come. What choice did I have? The dreams were getting stronger, making me wake in a cold sweat, shaking from my head down to my feet. I had to come and see what they meant; to see if I could get them to stop.
My father rejected the idea, of course. He always does. I am the second born, not the eldest, the responsibilities of the Draco line will pass to him. I just bear the name. Responsibilities. Ha. There hasn’t been a king to protect for almost a hundred years. My grandfather was an infant when the last king was taken.
“You must tend the people” he said, “You must give you attention to them, not your own flights of fancy.” He can say that, he’s not the one having the dreams. To hell with the people. My brothers do enough to take care of them, and pretend that there is still a kingdom. One city. That is all that is left of the great Bahamu Empire. One city reduced to little more than a large town. It’s pathetic the way that all of my people cling to the idea that the kings will return. Foolish. Theirs is the real flights of fancy, my dreams are more real then all of their hopes combined.
No, my ‘flights of fancy’ have more importance than continuing to give the people false hope. There is nothing to be gained by a lie, even if the intentions are good. No, I will continue to seek a better reason for life. A better hope than waiting on some lost king to return and bring my family back to a life of indentured servitude. I will see what this strange elf girl brings. I will see where this takes me.
The forest around her is dense, and dark. Filled with a tranquil sort of half light, that makes everything seem surreal. The smell of living wood fills my nostrils, and I catch a faint whiff of rose blossoms. She is tending to a giant oak that has a violent gash down the middle of it, possibly hit by lightning. I fear to interrupt her, what she is doing seems almost sacred. I can feel the power of what she is doing down to my very core, and I dare not interrupt. Suddenly, a soft gentile song escapes her lips. I don’t know the words, as I do not speak any of the elfin languages, but they seem to have a genuine concern in them, her voice almost seems to cry.
Her song is like none I have ever heard before, save in my dreams. The perfection of her song, mixed with the silence of the forest: surreal. The magic’s that I use come from deep inside of me, this magic seems to come from the forest itself. Amplified and multiplied, until the raw force of nature comes through.
With out warning, her voice grows in intensity. It does not get louder, but it somehow grows. The tree that she is singing to seems to be alive, seems to respond to her beautiful song. What magic! What exquisite beauty! This is what I have come here to see; this is what the dreams were calling me to.
The split on the tree begins to close; the life ending wound on this ancient wooden titan is being healed by the simple, untrained voice of a young woman. I stand unable to move, or even blink for fear that I might miss something. Her long golden hair stands out, as if blown by a strong wind, her woodsman garments seem blown by the same wind, yet I feel no breeze.
Her golden voice goes stronger yet in intensity, bordering on the supernatural. She seems in perfect ecstasy, her face matching the intensity and beauty of her voice; eyes closed, head thrown back as the passionate song escapes her lips. I now feel like I shouldn’t be here. This place is a sanctuary that I don’t belong in. I want to leave, but I know that I can’t, for fear that she will spot me.
My father’s voice comes into my head. His condescending voice saying, “If you go to find the elves, find them you will, but not as you think. They are dangerous beyond anything you have known. There powers are not the same as ours. They are not kind to humans. Stay here, where it’s safe. Tend to our people, and forget all about them.”
What does he know? This is exactly what I wanted to see. This is exactly what my dreams promised me. Dear Bahamutte she is incredible. Against my better judgment, I decide to get a closer look. I move closer, almost on all fours, trying to be as quiet as a wood sprite. A single twig snaps under my feet, her head turns towards me.
Suddenly, she stops her singing. She seems surprised, for an instant, and then collapses to the ground in a heap. Forfeiting everything I was thinking, all that I was fearing, I rush to her side, to make sure that this beautiful elf is all right. I kneel my large body by her small and frail form. My hands seem unusually large. All the grace that I thought I contained is gone in that instant kneeling next to her. I reach down to lift her head, and the skin of her cheek seems soft as silk, no, softer. I put my ear next to her mouth. She is breathing. Thank the Gods. I stop and look at her for a moment, and take in all her beauty. She is exquisite.
Slowly, like the beating of a butterfly’s wings, her eyes flutter open. The frail elf held cradled in my arms opens her eyes, and looks deep into my own, unafraid. The intensity of her gaze is almost more that I can bare, more than my heart can take, but I can’t look away. Her eyes are exactly like the ones in my dream. Perfect eyes, filled with life and intelligence, and the deepest of emerald green. Eyes beyond that of normal human beauty, her eyes to me seem to glow.
As she looks at me with those crystal clear eyes, eyes that were never meant to be set in a mortals face, she begins to speak. Her voice has that same angelic quality as her song. It fills my heart with a sort of enchantment. One that only poetry can express. A strange sort of expression seems to pass across her face, one thin eyebrow rising questioningly.
Oh, sweet child, if only I could speak your tongue. If only this symphony of voice could be understood by my unworthy ears. I have to say something. Anything.
“Hello”
Stupid. Come up with something clever. Something witty. Anything but shy and occward. Show some confidence. Show some backbone. But no. All I can say is that one word. But it seems that it would be enough for her. She smiles at me, our eyes still locked together. Her smile puts everything else about her to shame.
She speaks again, her voice ringing in my ears like a choir. More music, though I know it to be language, but as beyond me as touching a star. She pulls herself half way up, now sitting before me. A questioning look passes across her face, mixed with slight amusement: she seems to be waiting for me.
After a moment, she stands completely, and I realize that I have stood also, not knowing how. The sight of her from up close strikes me as odd. For my people, I am tall, standing just over 25 stones, and she is small, and delicate, not more than 15. I feel acquard just being this close to her, like I am out of proportion, a gangly giant that has come to a place of true beauty.
Her soft features scan the surrounding woods, looking for something that only her eyes can see. The point of her ears sticking slightly out from her silken hair. She is wearing the plain garb of the woods people, brown, sturdy pants, a green tunic tucked in, and a thick leather belt circling her waist. But in contrast to the outfit used for rough times, her feet are bare. It somehow seems right that she wears no shoes. It seems natural.
Despite her plain clothes, her look is anything but plain. The belt at her waist accents the curve of her hips, and the fullness of her bosom. The tunic is partway open in the front, hinting at other things. Her entire appearance seems to accentuate femininity and grace, with a measure of natural sexuality that leaves me stunned.
She takes a step away, and I feel like I’ve lost a piece of me. She is moving in the way that I came from. The way home. I don’t know how she knows where to go. She turns to me, a smile playing on her lips as she dances away. She turns to me, and beckons me to follow, the half smile still on her lips.
Suddenly, the smile fails. A look of wonderment fills her perfect features, and she walks back over to me. She places on hand unashamedly on my bare chest, right above my heart. She closes her eyes for a moment, and I feel a strange form of magic coursing through me. Her hand pulls back in shock, her eyes wide with amazement. She says one word. “Dragima” She steps away, almost looking afraid, but the expression passes almost before I notice it. The playful smile returns, and she says more words in that amazing tongue, the only one I hear is her saying “Dragima” again, and pointing at me, then towards the way home.
I begin to follow her, feeling decidedly clumsy as I walk through the trees that she seems to dance through. My longer stride quickly catches up to her, I work up some courage and speak again.
“I’m Mortia De Luna Draco.” I feel a momentary pang of shame at my name, I hope she doesn’t notice.
“Mortia” she says, the accent of he voice almost making it unintelligible. “Neit Mortia, Dragima.” She says, smiling at me again, her eyes shinning mischievously. She points at me, “Dragima,” her delicate hand points to herself, “Sariah” She says, and then continues to dance through the forest, showing me the way home.

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

The Bloodline Chronicals,
Book 1: Bloodlines
Chapter 2

There are in the world two forms of darkness. One that hides the light, one that reveals it. Which is the true evil? Which is the true darkness? Do we deem those in the darkness lost? Or are they fulfilling their purpose as the rest of us? Don’t measure a person by the darkness in their soul, measure a person by the things they achieve. The darkest of men can do great things, and the purest of them, unspeakable evil.

Chapter 2

Deep in the mountains, far from the elves forest, and the cities of the Bahamu, in the depths of a massive keep, hidden amongst rock and earth, two creatures meet. Darkness is their covenant, darkness where they meet. Light shines from a pool in the earth, one robe clad creature hunched over, shadows of cowl hiding all but his eyes in the reflected light. In the pool two figures walk through a forest, an elf and a human, both seeming stretched and unreal in the magic waters of the pool. The pool shimmers once, and the image vanishes, the light from the pool reduced to a faint glow. The eyes under the cowl seem dark and sad, the lines at the corners of the creatures eyes tight, and anxious.
The creature stands, and turns around, its massive form almost filling the room, its black robes pulled in close to itself. Another creature comes from the shadows, also dressed in black, the tight leather making no sound as he creeps closer, his half cape seeming to blend into the darkness around him. Strapped to each of his legs, a brace of knives, the handles at a height where the arms hang. Two swords strapped to his back, under the cape. His red eyes seem to glow in the half light, the white scars on his black skin making his outline hard to define. Tips of pointed ink black ears poke through jet black hair that reaches down past his shoulders. “Is that him?” The dark elf says, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet strong as iron.
“Yes” Says the other, his voice deep, and has the feel of one used to command, the wear of age ringing through out the cavern. “yes. That is him.” the figure shifts, and pulls back the cowl of his robes, revealing a weathered, leathery face, the corners of the mouth hard and tight, nose, narrow, and eyes that seem to pierce the soul. “ You have your orders, you know what your to do?” The large man asks.
“yes. I understand.” Says the other.
“Make sure there are no mistakes. He is too important. Make sure you do everything I instructed. No one must know I am involved.” The sound of pent up impatience breaks through the tightly controlled voice.
“Have I ever failed you?” The elf asks, his face a mask of what he is feeling.
“No” the other says, “no you haven’t, but you’ve never done anything as important as this.”
There is a moment where the two stare at each other, measuring the others intent, the mistrust between allies thick. The drow speaks first “and if he doesn’t cooperate?”
“Make him” Says the man, the power of an order ringing through.
“ As you wish” He says, turning back to the shadows, blending into them instantly.
“And Drin,” The man calls to the shadows. “don’t kill any more than you have to.”
Drin smiles in the shadows, unseen by the other, he nods his head in assent, and leaves.

**********

Far to the south, in a great shining palace, a similar meeting is taking place. Light comes from scones in the walls, leaving the massive marble room well lit, driving shadows away. Mirrors an ever wall of the eight sided room reflect the light, making the large room seem even larger. In the middle stand two figures, one tall, with broad shoulders, clad in white robes, his hand extended over a glass orb on a pedestal, the same image of two figures walking through a forest. His head hangs as if from a great weight, a burden that he doesn’t wish to bear. A heavy sigh escapes his lips, as he looks up to the man across from him.
The other in the room is clad in black, silken shirt tucked into a wide leather belt, the canvas breaches tucked into wide brim heavy boots. The wrists of the shirt are cinched tight, leaving the hands free, while the blouse makes it impossible to tell the size of the man. A leather brace covers his left arm, from shoulder to wrist. On his right hip hangs a large sword. He looks at the man across from him, sees the look, and says “Master, I don’t know if I’m ready for this. There are others that could do better.”
The older man smiles a sad smile to the other, “Yes, there are, but I have chosen you, Mekia. Don’t be afraid. You will succeed in this. You have been well trained.”
The younger one shifts his feet awkwardly, seeming at unrest. “Lord, I don’t want to fail you. You have been good to me. Please, send another. I am not ready.”
“My child, you are as ready as you can be. Your devotion to not fail is what shall see you succeed. Go, and go in that knowledge.”
“Yes master.” Mekia says, not knowing how to continue.
The other, seeing his discomfort, says “You may speak you mind, my boy, ask what you will.”
Mekia takes a breath, and lets it out, a slight hiss as it passes his lips. “Master, If this man is as important as you say, if he is everything that the prophecies say, why send me to…”
The other interrupts him “I’ve sent you, because your youth is what will make him trust you. You aren’t battle hardened like the others, you will win his trust, and you must stay by his side, and keep him safe until I send word to bring him here. The rest will make sense in time. I’m asking you to trust me,” He smiles, a warm, grandfatherly smile. “I’m not ordering you, I’m asking you. Trust me in this.”
The other seems somewhat relived. “yes, my lord. I will do as you say.” He bows, placing one hand in a fist over his heart in salute. He stands, clicks his heals, and turns to leave. He stops half way to the door, and turns back to his master. “Master,” he says, reverence in his voice. “Thank you for this opportunity.”
The older man simply smiles in response, and Mekia walks through the door.
The old man smile seems to fade, and he looks to the heavens, “Gods, protect him. Let him succeed. He is so much more a part of this than he knows, keep him safe, and return him to me, prize in hand.” He looks back down to his crystal ball, another image already swirling there.

**********

“Dragima” Sariah says, pointing towards the setting sun. “Maju subjie parmeit,” her arms wrap around herself, and she pretends to shake “feaim paret mun diama” She points over to a piece of ground, flat, with a ring of rocks ready for a fire.
Mortia smiles, “Its getting late, and you want to start a fire, so we don’t freeze?” He begins walking over to the fire pit. “I can do that.”
Sariah, seeing he understands, goes with him. She looks around, searching for dead wood to light a fire with, Mortia making a straight line to the camp site.
She rushes up to him, and grabs his arm to turn him around to face him. “Dragima, dean ahmugiea paret feaim?” She motions towards the trees a good distance away, and makes a motion of rubbing her hands together, as if in front of a fire. Mortia just smiles at her, nods, and keeps walking towards the fire pit, now just a few steps away. Sariah looks at him strangely, and walks back towards the forest to get some wood for the fire. Mortia is moving a large rock closer to the center of the clearing, seeming to want to sit next to the fire.
Sariah, wondering why he isn’t helping, Strange day. She thinks Who is this man-dragon? Why did I feel a dragons heart in a mans chest? Could he be the one? She sees a rather large branch, and picks it up to see if its dry enough to burn. Finding it to be, she cradles it in one arm. She looks back towards Dragima, and sees that he’s still just sitting there.
Perhaps its his way, to let the women do the work. Don’t judge, you don’t know who they are. She finds another stout branch, and adds it to the other. It doesn’t seem to be as dry, so she sings a quick song, the moisture dripping down her arm while she keeps searching for wood.

*********

Mortia sits on his rock that he just moved, looking over his shoulder at the young elf girl who is leading him home. What is she doing? Why is she grabbing wood? He thinks to himself, as he prepares his spell form. What is going on? Why do I feel this way? She is just an elf, its their nature to entice people, make them feel things. But this doesn’t feel like magic, and my dreams…No, I will just have to wait and see where this goes. These feelings have to just be her enchantment. That’s all. Nothing more…

*********

Sariah comes back to the clearing, a bundle of wood in her arms. She walks up to the side of the clearing, and drops the wood in a pile, sighing possible louder than she had to. She looks over at Dragima, about to ask him what he has done, when she notices the fire. There is no wood under it, just fire. She looks at Mortia. Astonishment in her eyes. “Dragima?” she says “Dragima neit mal funtaiale, feaim?”
Mortia looks up in surprise when she drops the wood, having not heard her come up. He sees her look at the fire, and hears the astonishment in her voice. Must not have ever seen fire before. He thinks. He stands, and reaches into his pack, pulling out some dried fruits and salted meat. He offers it to her, and she takes the fruit, shaking her head to the meat. He motions for her to sit on the rock next to him, but she takes the ground, looking wary of the fire.
She feels her stomach turn at the smell of meat, but does her best to hide it. She takes the fruit to be polite, then sits on the earth to regain some of her strength, absorbing a measure of its power. Fire with out wood, how is this possible? She asks herself. There is much about this man I must learn, but I cant stay away for long. The council will know…She watches Dragima as he reaches into his pack again, and begins to unroll something. It seems like a pea pod, one the size of a man. He kicks some rocks aside, and places it on the flat ground. He comes back over, sitting on the ground next to her, not saying a word.
They face east, watching the sun set. He leans back on his hands, breathing in the night air, smelling some of her in the air, a faint, natural smell, like good earth, moist, and rich. The sun lets a last beam of light from behind the mountains, peeking through the clouds, then disappears, a slight wind picking up at the same moment. Far off in the distance, a shrill bird calls, trying to find its mate.
The wind picks up, and the echo of thunder fills the night air. The two look at each other in surprise, neither expecting a storm. Suddenly, the skies open, and a light rain begins to fall. They both laugh, then laugh some more, at the sound of each other laughing.
Sariah stands, her arms spread wide, spinning in the life giving rain. The fire quenches out, as the rain comes harder. “Adalnta Dragima,” she says, reaching her hand down to him. “firma dante lau para meit ne chauine.” He takes her hand, and rises, not sure of what to do.
She takes his other hand, and begins to dance. He doesn’t know what to do for a moment, then follows what she is doing, dances in the rain. She leaves the clearing, and begins to run through the tall grasses, seeming to dance at the same time. He follows her, not letting go of her hand. They go together, spinning, laughing, dancing through the torrent of rain. They run together through the grass until they run out of breath. They go back to the campsite, leaning on each other, laughing, for there is nothing else they can say. The rains lighten to a mist falling, the fog of the rain making it seem they are the only two on the planet. The stop next to the quenched fire, looking into each others eyes, sharing in the magical moment.
Not knowing what else to do, Sariah reaches up on her tip toes, and, in the elfin form of friendship, kisses Mortia lightly on the cheek. She goes back down, smiling at him, looking at him from under her eye brows. She is in wonder at how his bare chest looks in the rain and the half light. His muscles large, and firm, so unlike the frail builds of her people.
Mortia is surprised by the kiss, not sure what it means. He knows that her smile is intoxicating him. Her look, the way her wet clothes are clinging to her small frame, is making him dizzy. Not knowing what else to do, he lets go of her hands, and bends down to the fire. He says a few words under his breath, and the rain seems to hit something above the fire pit. He makes some marks in the now clear ground, and speaks some more words, and the fire starts up again, protected now from the rain. He grabs his pleated skirts, and begins to squeeze the water from them, getting ready for sleep.
Sariah comes up to him, taking the skirts from him. He looks at her awkwardly, not knowing what she is doing. She begin to sing a soft song, lightly, as she looks up into his eyes. The water seems to pull out of its own accord, dripping from the cloth. Mortia smiles at the trick. He waves his hand over his head, and the same invisible barrier forms over his head, keeping the misty rain from his now dry clothes. He goes over to his bed roll, and makes the same motion to it, like squeezing water out. She smiles, understanding, and sings the same song to it, the water making its way out again.
Mortia watches her, as she goes over to the sticks she had brought for the fire, and grabs three of them. She takes care, making sure two of them are about the same length. She walks over to the fire, and places the two on the ground. She begins to sing again, and roots form on the long dead branches, holding them to the ground. She grabs the third one, and places it on top of the other two, and sings again. This time, where the two branches meet the third begin to nit together, holding fast. She lets go, and smiles at Mortia.
Mortia, seeing what she is going to do, smiles back. He goes over to the sticks, and places another barrier of air over them, while removing the one from the fire below, using his last one. He turns to go and get his pack, to hang it from the branches, to dry out, him thinking her magic spent. When he turns back around, she is standing there, stark naked, hanging her clothes from the branch. He stares for a moment, not sure what this means. He stands in awe, seeing how perfect her body looks, as she stands wet, in the rain. The glistening of the water outlining the curve of her breasts, the lines in her stomach, the frail muscles tight under the skin of her arms and legs. He feels ashamed for looking, but finds he cant stop.
She smiles at him, as if it were perfectly normal to be standing naked in the rain. She takes the time to smooth her clothes, making sure they wont dry with wrinkles in them. Mortia, feeling decidedly embarrassed, goes over to his bed roll, quickly crawling inside, turning so he doesn’t see her.
After a moment, he feels a tugging on the side of the roll. She is kneeling beside him, looking at him. She motions to the rain, then to the shield protecting the bed roll from the rain, then, with both her hands, motions for him to scoot over. He hesitates, not sure what she is intending, but decides it would be rude to deny her a dry place to sleep. He scoots to the far side of the bed roll, making room for her, while turning his back, to give her some privacy.
She crawls in, and pulls on his shoulder, forcing him to turn over. He rolls to his back, and instantly, her arm is across his chest, lying on her side, holding herself close to him. She places her head on his chest, her green eyes locked on his. He can feel how cold her body is, her breasts like ice against his bare chest. She just wants to get warm, that’s all. Just to get warm. Nothing else. He feels her pull tighter, her leg going over his, seeming to try to pull the warmth from his body.
“Madju Dragima. Madju” She says, closing her eyes, In moments she is asleep, warm beside him, protected from the rain by his magic. He lay awake for a time, thinking of her, of how she feels against him, of what this all means. come with me, back to Bermithea. I can protect you from more than rain…” He banishes the thought as soon as it enters his head. She would never come with. She’s just showing him the way home. His last thoughts before the world of dreams takes him, are of her, and what it would be like spending a life time as her protector.
In the morning, when he wakes, she is gone.

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

The Bloodline Chronicals,
Book 1, Bloodlines,
Chapter 3

Fathers. Theirs is the expectation of all men. Fathers are the ones that sons constantly aspire to. Whether it is to become them, or to deny them, a father sets the standard for all young men’s lives. It is the rock of their morality, the measure that they must compare themselves to. Have I done well? Would my father be proud? These are the questions that haunt all men until their death beds. What would my father think of me now?

**********
Chapter 3

Ropes creak. The smell of dust and sweat fills the air. The laborious grunts of men fill the desert air. People laughing, people swearing. Heavy boots planted in the ground kick up more dust. A heavy pallet of clay bricks lifts. A wooden wall rises. Ropes scratch on bare, gnarled hands leaving them raw. Suddenly, a rope snaps, a pallet falls towards the earth. A large hand grasps out, forearm muscles budging, ripples of mass swell under dark brown skin, the pallet stops. A loud yell, the pallet lifts higher, hand over hand, muscles doing what they were meant for. A cheer goes up. The pallet moves over to a landing on earthen scaffolding. The giant hand releases, a smaller hand slaps an enormous back in thanks.
Magnus De Firma Draco smiles, and looks at the smaller man, wiping the sweat from his short cropped salt and pepper hair, “keep a better grip next time, Joahn.” He says, his voice almost laughing, as he grabs the others arm, “Gain more strength, you’ll do fine.” He stands up straight, standing head and shoulders above the rest of his tall people, looking at the work to be done.
“Kyel,” He shouts towards one of the people on the scaffoldings, “have Demunt bring more rope, this stuff wont bloody work anymore.” He passes through the crowds of people, going over to the wine barrels. He pours a large amount into a cup taking a large draught, quenching his growing thirst. Despite his massive frame, he moves light on his feet, his actions quick and smooth. He moves with the stride of one used to hard labor and the confidence of one used to being in charge. His dark brown hair is turning grey at the sides, giving him a wizened, distinguished look. His quick smile and his sharp blue eyes create a contrasting image. Eyes that seem to read everything you’ve ever done wrong, and a smile that comes easy as a breath. He sits on a small wooden bench, it groans under his massive weight, but it holds.
He looks at the labor going on, all his people working towards improving their lives, the massive clay houses multiplying day by day, finally getting close to having enough for all the families. It is not an easy work, but it is getting done under the guidance and knowledge of the Draco family. He couldn’t be prouder of his youngest and oldest sons.
Yet he can’t help but wonder where his second born son is. He sees his oldest, and his youngest, working hard to raise a pallet of bricks up to the workers, the two of them doing the work of ten normal men; the Draco linage showing clearly in their massive strength. They are laughing, their lean builds not yet taking on the wide frame of the older Draco’s, their shirtless, golden tanned skin straining to keep their muscles at bay. Magnus can not help but chuckle as he looks at the dark brown skin on the back of his hand. So much their mother’s children he thinks to himself. He looks around again, a sad sigh escaping his lips, knowing that he will not find Mortia anywhere. He’s been gone for two weeks, and the Gods only know when he will return.
What is it with him? Why wont he stay and tend the people” He thinks to himself of what his second born told him.
A cup hit’s a table “father, I’m going. There’s nothing you can do to stop me. My mind is made up. Why can’t you just support me in this?” Mortia shouts.
“Damn it son.” Magnus shouts back, his short temper getting the better of him. “We have responsibilities here. These people look to us for inspiration, for hope. They need you here to…
Mortia interrupts him “Their hopes are misplaced!” He yells “there is no king coming back. There is no reason to stay in this wasteland. It is a fool’s errand, and you encourage them to stay!”
Magnus looks hurt for a moment, but his temper soon catches up, “What is it you are following? A dream? A so called vision? You call me a fool, no, a leader of fools, yet you go off chasing after some dream woman? And what exactly is it you expect to find with the elves? By Bahamutte, I do not even know if I will ever see you again. This is not some simple road your walking down!” He leans in close to his son, a sausage size finger poking him in the chest, his voice barely a whisper. “This could see the death of you”
Mortia takes a step closer to his father, taking a calming breath. “Yes, I know that I might not return from this, but I have faith that I will. You keep your faith in a lost king. I will follow my own path.” He calms some more “even if it means…” He doesn’t complete the thought. He hefts his great pack onto his shoulders, cinching the bindings tight. “If all goes well, I will return in two weeks. We will finish this then.” Mortia leaves, the heavy wooden door slamming shut in his wake.
“Son…” Magnus says, one massive hand rubbing his forehead with index finger and thumb, “travel well. Travel in our love.” He whispers to his sons back. “Bahamutte, please watch over my son. Please” He looks after he son for a moment, thinking of the past. After a moment longer, he turns and goes to look after his other boys.
Yes, that definitely could have gone better. But why did the boy have to be so damn pig headed? Why cant he just listen to reason? Why does he have to be so much like me?
“Dad!” a voice calls, dragging him out of his regrets. He looks around at all the faces, trying to find the one that called him. His youngest.
“Dad, look at this.”
Jeintia has a rope in hand, a rather large pallet of clay blocks on the other end, a knot in the rope above the pallet. There is a man tapping his foot, getting ready to keep time. The man shouts “go!” And Jeintia pulls hard on the rope. Hand over hand, lifting the pallet higher and higher. After a few moments, the knot hit’s the closest pulley.
The man shouts “24 taps, 381 stones” And everyone watching begins to laugh.
One man looks over at Magnus and says “Hey, you had better watch out, that’s close to your record!” And begins to laugh.
Magnus looks at the man, giving him his best scowl. The man laughs, looks. And is suddenly quite, feeling decidedly awkward. Magnus stands, looking at all the people cheering his boy, not working towards their goal. He looks over towards his youngest son. “Hey!” he shouts, all heads turning towards him, laughter and work stopping for a moment, his boy holding a pallet thirty stones off the ground. “So, these games are how we build our peoples houses“
One man in the rear decides to answer “But Magnus, you said…”
He can not finish. Magnus shouts over the crowd “I wasn’t talking to you!” Everyone goes quiet again. His temper is legendary. “I was talking to him.” His finger points towards his son, who is still smiling, until he sees that his father is calling him out.
“Yes, I’m talking to you boy. Is this how we finish our work? Is this what I taught you to do? Play games?” He walks closer to his son, standing over him, glaring down.
Jeintia does not miss anything. He knows what is going on. He looks his father in the eye, the man who can quiet an entire city by raising his hand, and says. “Well, yes”
Magnus leans over his son, his eyes hard enough to crack stone “It is?”
“Yes”
“Well then. Let us see if this old man is a match for his son!” There is a collective sigh of relief, followed by a wave of laughter from the crowd “Give me that rope boy, let me show you how a man does it. I may have done better than anyone else, but I have yet to do my best!”
The laughter continues, and some men grab a seat to watch a battle of strength between the Draco’s. “Kyel! Have the men add about 50 stones to that thing! Lets make this fun!”
He grabs the rope from his son, “Let me show you how to work.” and a man begins to tap his foot.

**********

Down a dusty road on the side of town, a traveler approaches the city. His steps sure, a heavy pack strapped to his back. A thick sheen of sweat on his brow tells of his dislike of the desert, the sun beating on him with out mercy. He walks on though, anxious to start his master’s work. Mekia passed the first distant farm houses a few days ago, where there was still ground to sow, and the farmers that he stayed with pointed this road out as the best one to go down. Feeling they would know best, he listened. He wonders what the bad roads would have looked like.
Why they choose to live in the godforsaken place he can not understand, but it is their way, not his. He must not judge them before meeting them. The sword strapped to his side seems to drag him down, and his silken shirt is opened to the waist, letting the air cool him in its small way. He feels the heat of his thumb-thick silver necklace burning his skin, but he can not take it off, so he ignores it. He stops for a moment, looking at the desert city before him.
Its clay structures reach into the sky, farther than he would have thought clay could support. He closes his eyes for a moment, and feels a small amount of magic being used. He finds it strange that people this primitive would have magic at their disposal. He always thought of that as a thing of nobility.
He lets out a calming breath, and begins to walk again to the city. He sees one of the locals, and alters his path slightly to merge with the strangers. “Good day to you sir.” He says, giving his court bow, one hand on his sword pommel, the other across his waist. “My name is Mekia Kendor,” he says, trying the foreign tongue, “and I am in search of shelter for the night. Could you possibly point me in the direction of an inn?” He finds the tongue of these people strange, and harsh. He hopes he is saying the right words.
The man looks at Mekia, his eyes looking him up and down pausing for a moment on the sword. He gives a slight bow of his head back. The man is much larger than Mekia was expecting. His bare chest and pleated skirts in combination with his size making him look almost more than human. “I am Juman De Ratchk Libria, and I am afraid, good sir, that we do not have many visitors here, and therefore have no place for them to stay.” He pauses for a moment, his tanned skin seeming to reflect some of the light from the sun. “You will need to seek out Magnus. He is in charge here. He will help you. Let me show you the way.”
“Kind sir, I would be in your debt.” Says Mekia, bowing again.
He follows the man back into the city staying a respectful step behind him. He looks around as he enters the first dwellings of the city, noticing that the clay structures are more unique than he thought. There are steps carved into the sides of many, making him think that they would share the house, one on the top floor, one on the bottom. Each window is empty, no glass to be seen. The door ways, he notices, have a strange language carved over and around where the lintels would normal be.
Mekia speeds up and stands next to his tall escort. “What are these markings on the doorways? I don’t recognize the language.”
Juman looks down towards Mekia, that same studding look as before. After a moment of thought he says “It is our prayer language. No other may know it. It is a record of the families that have shared the dwelling. From when the building was made.” He continues on, not caring to explain any more.
All the people they pass stare at Mekia. No shame in their glares, no hint of worry. More of a genuine curiosity. Everyone seems to focus on his sword. Its then that he realizes something. He is shorter than everyone he sees. All the men and women have a least a full hand on him in height, most have more. It seems his escort, who he thought of as tall, is of a normal height for the females.
All the men walk around bare chested, the same white pleated skirts, split up the middle both front and back. The women wear strange forms of shirts, the same white fabric coming over one shoulder crossing the chest, and joining the skirt on the opposite side, leaving their stomachs and backs exposed. He finds it incredible to see so much skin out here where the sun is so brutal. He is covered head to toe with cloth and he is sweating profusely. He could not imagine wearing less and having the sun shinning so harshly on his bare skin.
They begin to pass larger structures, and reach what Mekia would guess to be about the center of the city, slightly to the east of the hub. Around a corner he hears a shout, then laughter. He can not help but wonder what is making such a commotion. Perhaps some form of battle.
His escort turns, and motions for him to wait for a moment. He walks over to a man holding some form of tablet and looking at a building being built, and taps him on the shoulder. The man turns, looking angry at being disturbed. Juman points over towards Mekia, and the other calms. Juman seems to ask a question and the man points around the corner then turns back to his work.
Juman comes back over to Mekia, motioning for him to follow again. He follows a step behind, thinking what he will do if things go sour.
They are walking towards the source of the noise, the laugher seeming to come from all sides. As they turn the corner, Mekia sees what is going on.
Amidst what appears to be a massive construction undertaking, there is a crowd gathered. An intricate system of pulleys and ropes hangs over the half constructed buildings. Near one of the tall structures: possible almost done if the others near by are examples, the crowd is gathered. There seems to be some sort of contest going on, as two large pallets of clay brick are being lifted to the tune of people shouting.
Juman makes his way through the crowd, tapping people politely on the shoulder to ask them to move. Mekia follows in his wake, noticing all eyes once again on him. As they approach the center of the crowd, Mekia stops, staring at the contestants.
The men are large, much larger then he would have thought, but the older of the two is the one that catches Mekia’s eye. He is easily the largest human he has ever seen.
The man stands at least twenty hands high, probably more. His shoulders seem to be just as wide as he is tall. He wears the same as all the other men, save he has a golden belt around his waist, hung at an angle. A signature of rank, Mekia assumes. He is sweating, and pulling on one of the ropes, his muscles straining to break out of his skin. Looking at him, Mekia is sure that the mans arms are as large as his waist. When he sees him, one word passes through his mind. Nobility. He believes that this man, above all the others has royal blood.
He realizes that Juman is talking to him.
“… ropes with knots in them. The man tapping his foot looks at a shadow on the ground, and counts the grains of sand it passes. One tap for each… are you paying attention?”
“Oh, yes,” Mekia says “please continue”
“Each grain the shadow passes counts as one tap. There are two competitions, one for straight speed, and one for weight. They count each brick as one stone. Some even use an empty pallet just for speed, but the real competitions are for strength. Anyone can get fast, but few can get strong.”
Mekia notices something, and says to his escort, “What are the ropes tied around their waists for?”
“Ah, that’s because these two are lifting more then they weigh. If they were not tied down, they would be climbing the rope. You see, these two are father and son. Jeintia and Magnus.” Juman seems to be getting into the competition “They are the sons of Draco, the strongest blood in the land. You see, Magnus has never been beaten, but his son is getting closer and closer. Jeintia currently holds the record for speed, but the strength is where the honor truly lies.”
A knot in the rope that Magnus is pulling hits one of the pulleys, and a man shouts “18 taps, 450 stones! A new record!” A cheer goes up, and five others grab the rope from the large man. A moment later, the other rope hits. “19 taps, 450 stones. For Jeintia! “Another cheer, Magnus throws his head back and laughs.
“My boy, you might catch me yet!” More men take the rope from Jeintia, as workers up top begin unloading the pallets. Magnus pats his son on the back, and Jeintia gives his father a large boyish grin, beaming with pride.
“I will catch you yet, father” He says.
Magnus leans over, and whispers something into his son’s ear. His son roars laughter, resting his hands on his knees.
Mekia walks over to introduce himself to this giant of a man. As he enters the circle, all laughter stops. Magnus turns from his boy to see what has happened, and his face goes deadly serious when he sees Mekia. The force of that look causes Mekia to stop in his tracks, and he can hear his heart in his ears. Magnus looks Mekia up and down as all the others did, but his eyes do not pause on the sword, but on the thumb thick silver necklace. He knows what I am…
Magnus’s grimace fades back into a smile, and he walks over to Mekia, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Mekia feels his blood run cold, he doesn’t know if he can stop a man this size.
Magnus whispers, still smiling, “Tell me your name, Messenger” The last word is said like a curse.
“Mekia Kendor” He answers in a tone only Magnus can hear, all eyes watching the strange exchange.
“And your house?” He says again, his voice like iron in the forge.
“Sir, I have no house.” He whispers “I was adopted and trained by his majesty.”
Magnus pauses for a moment, weighing this discovery. After a moment, “and your assignment?”
Mekia wonders how this man knows so much about a land so far away. “Ambassador” is his simple reply; the lie he was told to tell.
Magnus pulls back, standing straight in front of Mekia, towering over him like one of the buildings. He looks at him a moment longer, the smile on his face never touching his eyes. Mekia feels small under that gaze, as if Magnus knew the lie before it left his lips. After an intense moment, he turns to his people.
“It would seem that our small friend here has come to play a game!” he shouts. He turns to Mekia, smelted iron still in his eyes, “Grab the rope. Let us see how their training Messengers these days.”
Mekia knows he has no choice but to follow along.

**********

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

The Bloodline Chronicals,
Book 1, Bloodlines,
Chapter 4

A mans past is as important as his future. Perhaps more so. From the past, we gain knowledge, the future only brings doubt. From the past, we gain wisdom, the future brings only speculation. Therefore, the past is what makes us who we are; the past dictates out future, drives the choices that form our lives. Yet, the future is what we need. The past is fixed and cannot be changed. All our hopes, all our doubts and fears rest on what will be, not what has been. So why do some men focus more on what has been than what will be? Why do some men let regrets outweigh hope?

**********

Mortia is walking down a long, dusty trail, a day away from home. His long strides moving him fast. He is hoping to get home by dark. The sun is out in full force, beating down ruthlessly on his tanned skin. Heat comes up in lines from the ground in front of him, water seeming to be perched on every horizon.
He knows better than to follow that. Its only an illusion of the earth. The small plants and trees are dwarfed by the massive rocks on either side of the road, looking like some long dead giant piled them up. The brown earth cracked in many places for lack of water. Despite the harsh condition of his home, he does not sweat, and he does not falter. The heat of the desert is what he has always known.
He walks quickly, trying to forget. His pack is strapped tight, his boots on firm on the dry clay of the road. No rain here, no water to remove from his clothing. No bodies to share warmth with.
He thinks of her naked skin pressed against his own, her small breasts laying against his chest. Her firm, toned body laying against him. The smell of her hair, her wet skin. He wishes he could find her, just see her again.
He does not need to. He already has every part of her perfect features locked into his mind. Even if he never sees her again, he will always remember her.
Why did she leave? The question that Mortia keeps asking himself. was she real? Was that just another dream? He is walking back towards his people, walking on the trail he never would have found if not for her. He just doesn’t understand.
He had tried to look for her, tried to follow where she went, but he couldn’t bring himself to go back into the woods. He silently prays that she is all right. No. it was no dream. That was too real.
He breaths in deep, sighing through his nose, not letting the hot wind dry his mouth. He looks around, thinking how empty of life his home is. Thinking of why his people are determined to stay here. Foolish. There are a thousand places that would be better than here.
Something inside of him jumps, and he quickly starts to look around. His senses picking up something that his conscious mind didn’t register. What is going on? His sharp eyes scan the surrounding area, looking over bushes and the strange trees that mark his home land. He stops walking, and closes his eyes.
His head tilts back and he listens around him. He breaths in again. what just made me nervous? Why can I not pinpoint it? He lets his thoughts fade away; trying to call the last few moments back into his mind. He was thinking of her, thinking of her smell. He breathed in through his nose, remembering her smell….
Sweat.
There is a faint smell of sweat on the air, and not his own. He opens his eyes, looking around again smelling. If somebody is close enough where he can smell their sweat, he should be able to see them. Why cant he? He reaches down inside of himself, to where the magic sits, and reaches out. A hair thick strand of magic, not doing anything, but probing for something he can not see. He feels the ground, the air, the bushes and the trees. There… on the other side of that tree, he feels a heart beat. Tight, controlled. He focuses on the object, on what ever is hiding there. He wishes he had a weapon.
He reaches down and grabs a large rock from the side of the road, his heart beating in his ears. He takes slow steps towards the tree, he is trying to creep, but each step sounds like a boulder bouncing down a cliff. He probes the strange figure harder with his magic, trying to penetrate something, to give him some clue as to what is there. He feels something of the mind. The only way he can think of it is as an arrow pointing towards a target. Discipline, focus.
Suddenly, the thing is gone. He doesn’t understand how that is possible. How could something just disappear? He stops moving, sending tendrils of magic out in all directions, trying to find something, anything. He finds what he believes to be a couple of birds, a lizard, but nothing the size of what was there earlier. No, wait. There. Behind him, moving fast. There is no sound…
He goes to turn, bringing a fire spell up to use, but his turn is stopped by a hand on his shoulder, and the point of something sharp in his back. He has a lock on with his magic again, the heart beat still slow, focused. No change at all.
“You should have kept walking boy” Says a voice behind him, almost a whisper, but like gravel grating on metal. “You shouldn’t have shown me you have magic.”
Mortia feels the point of what ever is in his back press harder, breaking the skin. “What do you want?” Mortia says, “Who are you?” He is struggling to keep tight control of his magic. To not make a mistake.
“No. Sorry” The calm voice of the other says “The game works the other way. I ask questions, you answer. Unless, you do not what to answer questions. In that case…” The blade presses even harder. “Understand?”
Mortia feels his heart beat harder, faster. He doesn’t like this one bit. “What do you want to know?”
“Simple. Where is Bermithea?”
“You’re on the road to it. Just south about a days walk”
“Good. Correct answer. You get the chance to answer another”
Mortia wonders if the voice already knew where Bermithea was, if that question was a test.
“Are you from there?” Says the voice, in the same calm tone.
“Yes. I’m…”
“No more than what I ask please” The voice says, the point moving slightly.
Mortia bites his tongue, not saying any more. His magic fighting to break free.
“How well do you know the area, and the people?”
“Very well, for both” He says, not wanting to say more as he is sure that the point will be soon going deeper.
“Last question and you had better get this one right. What is your name?”
“Mor…”
“Wrong. What ever you where going to say. You name is now slave. Your life now belongs to me”
Mortia feels the blade come off his back, he quickly turns, beginning to unleash the spell he began, his magic taking control, but not fast enough. He feels something heavy hit him on the back of the head, once, then twice. Faster than anyone should be able to be. The world begins to go dark as his magic unleashes itself. It goes straight up into the air, exploding harmlessly far off the ground. As he sees the world tilt sideways, he sees a dark figure standing over him, black skin, white scars, and red eyes.
“My name is Drin Tashmire. We will talk of what you’re to do when you wake.”
Mortia’s last thought before darkness took him were of her. He smiles.

*********

Mortia is five years old. He is sitting on a bench near the road out of town next to his father. He is looking up at him, wondering if he will ever be that strong. The sit outside near the entrance to the city, watching a stranger approach. Magnus seems like hot iron, his jaw set, his eyes hard.
Mortia is nervous, his dad seems calm. The stranger is walking fast, a sword bouncing on his hip, a dagger on the other one. He is dressed in all black, a silver necklace shining in the desert sun. It seems strange to him to wear black and have a necklace that shiny.
The stranger is close now, within a stones throw. Magnus looks down to Mortia, telling him to stay put. Mortia does not want to, but he listens. His father walks over to meet the man half way, his hand held out telling the man to stop. The man stops, a smile on his lips. Mortia thinks the smile is strange, looks evil. Words pass back and forth, Magnus says something, pointing a finger at the man. The smile disappears. The man says something back, his hand finding his sword, his other hand pointing towards Mortia.
Mortia flinches as he hears his dad shout “Like bloody hell you will!” A flash of silver, the stranger’s sword clearing its scabbard.
“Dad!” the young Mortia shouts, running. Time seems to slow down, Mortia is too small, and he can’t run fast enough. The sword cuts sideways towards Magnus, it hits nothing but air. Magnus ducks under the blade, a wickedly curved knife appearing in his own hand. The blade strikes home, but bounces off the black leather, leaving a deep scratch in its unmarred surface. The strike is powerful enough to knock the man off his feet, but the sword swings out again, catching Magnus across the chest. The blade slides free with a string of blood behind it. Magnus yells, and grabs the mans armor, ripping it free of its straps, and throwing the man across the road.
Mortia is half way there. He’s not going to be there in time to help. He feels something inside him switch, something deep down open up.
Magnus chases after the stranger, who is on his feet again. He pulls the last bit of his chest plate off, and charges the larger man, sword to the side. At the last second, Magnus drops to a knee, grabbing the sword arm and plunging the dagger deep into the others stomach, throwing him through the air again. The snap of the mans arm is loud, and makes Mortia feel sick. The sword pings as it slides across the dirt road. Magnus stands, and sees Mortia coming. He walks towards his son, his chest bleeding, breathing heavily.
Magnus takes his boy into his arms, hugging him close. “Nobody is going to take my boy. Don’t worry; nobody is going to take you.” Mortia is crying, shamed at letting his dad see, but afraid and can not do anything else.
Over his father’s giant shoulder, Mortia sees the stranger stand up. The man pulls the dagger from his stomach, looking over towards Magnus, murder in his eyes. Mortia is unable to speak, unable to move. His terror is complete. He tries to warn his father, but can’t get past the tears or the lump in his throat. The man is close, his dad does not know the man is coming.
I need to protect my father.
Suddenly, Mortia gets angry. He feels a rage deep inside of him, something he didn’t know what there. You are trying to hurt my Father. He holds out a hand, not knowing what he is doing, but feeling that his rage needs some release. He finds his voice. He screams, louder than he ever has before. His voice to his own ears doesn’t even sound human. It sounds like a roar. His dad begins to turn, covering one ear.
From his outstretched hand, bright yellow and red tentacles form, twisting and turning their way towards the stranger who is within striking distance. His eyes widen, fear at what Mortia is doing. I made a man afraid. He thinks, feeling a sadistic satisfaction.
The twin snakes of rage hit the man, launching him into the air, his scream almost matching Mortia’s. Mortia feels something inside change, something that will never be undone. He used too much. He feels sleepy. He begins to close his eyes, the last thing he sees is the silver necklace hitting the ground.

**********

Mortia is now thirteen. He is out back practicing his staff forms, getting ready for the competition in a few weeks. He is already the strongest, but not yet the fastest. To win, he needs to be faster, and he has to win. Pride will not let him do any less.
He smells the food that his mother is preparing, making his mouth water. No, don’t think of food. Focus. Win. He hears her laugh as his fathers muffled voice comes through the wall. Focus. Concentrate. He hears his younger brother cry from his crib, a soft baby’s cry. Focus. Hear nothing.
His older brother, Langurie walks past, going off to somewhere, Mortia does not hear him. Maintain. Go faster. Give it you all.
Step. Focus. Block. Think. Duck. Concentrate. Swipe. Get better. Dive. Be perfect. The world around him seems to sharpen as he focuses deeper and deeper. The staff in his hands a blur. In his minds eye, there is a blade forming on the end of the stick, the wicked curve of a sickle. It seems to be made of fire. His movements compensate for the blade; he wonders where he learned that.
He feels something familiar, something from the past deep inside. The man. His power. The place is trying to unlock again, his control is slipping. He tries to pull it back in, He moves faster, stronger, his mind no longer in control of his body. He is doing things he was never taught, things he understands. He sees shadows all around trying to defeat him. Nothing can touch him.
His focus is absolute. He knows what the shadows are going to do before they do it. He feels their actions, feels their life. His focus comes out of himself, into the strange creatures of someone else’s memory. He feels like a living weapon, it’s terrifying. His focus is so complete; he doesn’t even hear his own scream.
The shadows become orange and crimson, shadows become flame, and flame becomes colored smoke. It whirls around him, holding him in a cocoon. He feels his feet lift off the ground, the light of the smoke covering everything.
Far off, what seems like a different world, he hears a door slam. His father and mother come running out, the lights of the shadows making them look like wraiths. He tries to call for help, but is not in control of himself.
He feels something of the smokes intent, he feels fear. They are alive. Is his single thought, as they begin to pass through him. Then comes the pain.
It shoots through him like fire, consuming every part of his body. He hears his own voice as if through a great tunnel, his scream sounds like a roar. His limbs go tight, arms outstretched, head back, and eyes trying to stay open. He sees his parents, panic in their eyes. His mother tries to go to him, he father holds her back, saying something unheard. Oh, the pain.
He feels the forbidden place inside him, the smoke penetrating and joining with it. He feels it open even farther and begins to cry uncontrollably. Why is this happening? What is happening? I don’t want this. I don’t what to feel that place.
He feels like something is about to force a change upon him; like he is going to become a difrent creation from what he is. Its going to happen soon, please stop, I don’t want to change… when he gets hit hard in the stomach and falls to the ground.
The shadows are gone; the smoke vanished from inside him. His mother lying on top of him, breathing heavily. He rolls her over, and stands up, trying to catch his breath. He looks around, not sure where he is, or what has happened. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees one of the moons. The red one. He sees the smoke that surrounded him seem to pull back into the sky, absorbing into the moon.
Over his shoulder, he hears his father voice. He turns, and sees him holding his mother in his massive arms, crying. How strange. My father doesn’t cry. What is he crying for? Mortia moves to the side, trying to see his mothers face. When he does, his blood runs cold. Her eyes are the color of the mystic smoke that invaded him. Her mouth hangs open, no breath leaving her lips.
Mortia doesn’t understand. What just happened? He father looks up at him, a look that Mortia has never seen in his fathers eyes. A look that says, “You did this” He picks his wife up, cradling her frail body in his arms. He begins to walk towards town, never saying a word to his son.
Mortia watches him go, feeling empty inside. He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t think he wants to. From behind him, a hand grabs his shoulder, turning him. It feels like a sledge hammer has landed on his face and he hit’s the ground. He looks up to see his older brother standing over him, his eyes accusing.
“What have you done, Mortia?” He shouts, “What did you do to mother?”
Mortia looks at his brother, not understanding the question. He still feels the smoke inside him, feels it going into all of him. “Lan?” Is all Mortia can say, his brothers name.
Langurie kicks him in the ribs, hard. “Tell me what you did to mother! Tell me what happened?” he kicks Mortia again, harder than before.
“Lan… Langurie, we are brothers, stop kicking me. I don’t know” Mortia says, trying to see through the pain.
Langurie leans down over Mortia’s face, getting close. “You are no brother of mine.”
Mortia is afraid that his brother is going to kill him, but instead Langurie goes inside and grabs the youngest Draco, trying to stop his crying.
Mortia, confused and injured only hears what his brother said. “You killed Mother” the words echo through his head. You killed mother. Mortia stands, and begins running. Mother forgive me. He has to get away from where he is. He doesn’t know what he is going, but he has to run away. He runs and runs and runs.



*************

Mortia wakes, and he is not running. He is not thirteen again. He is not watching his mother breath her last breaths. He is tied to a rock and his wrists hurt. It is night time.
As he comes to, he begins to take in his surroundings. He is sitting against a large rock, his feet folded under him and his wrists stretched tight on either side of the rock what feels like a rope strapping them together. He tries to stand, but cant get the leverage needed with his legs tied so. He wait, and looks around. He sees a fire directly in front of him, his captor for the moment not to be seen.
He looks at the fire, feeling its heat. He feels also the part of him where his magic sits. He lets it out tight, controlled, and calls the fire to him. It happens slowly, just seeming to reach higher, pop faster. But after a moment, it reaches up and a small tendril begins to snake its way over to Mortia.
It dances through the air like a gymnasts ribbon, going up, down, left, each movement bringing it closer to him. He tightens his control forcing the fire to near his wrists, where he can feel the rope. He can feel the heat of it where it passes by his head, feel his connection with a thing almost living.
Free me. He thinks to the fire. The fire touches the rock, living still off of Mortia’s will alone. He makes it snake down to the bindings on his hands, burning them through. His arms now free, he grabs the ropes on his ankles and rips them off with one mighty pull. As he stands, he feels the darker side of his magic try to win over, but he forces it down. He tightens his control over his magic, focusing his mind. He prepares a nasty spell, should he need it.
He looks around for his captor, but cant see him anywhere, only inside the ring of fire light. He is angry, and finding his power difficult to contain. He closes his eyes, reaching out again with his power to see what he can find. No heart beats, no smell of sweat. Nothing. He sees his pack sitting not to far off. He goes over to grab it, trying to move with out sound.
Not a cricket is heard, no birds flying over head. The night seems dead. He lifts his pack, strapping both straps tight. He looks around one last time, wondering what is going on, then begins to jog out of the firelight, wanting to put as much distance behind him as possible. He feels his skin break out in a cold sweat.

*********

From the shadows, a pair of red eyes watch him leave. Drin Tashmire smiles to himself, at the game he is playing. He shivers a little inside, feeling the power that man was capable of, the part that came out while he slept. He could be trouble, if he wasn’t so afraid of himself.
Drin moves on cat feet over to the fire. He throws some dirt on it, dousing it; he prefers the dark. He cinches one of the straps holding his weapons, making sure there is no rattle, and begins to jog after the large man.
This is going to be a lot of fun.

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

And this is as far as I have gotten it. :(

I am wanting to introduce Mortia's older brother, but am unsure how to go about it.

Any advice anyone has would be more than welcome. I am kinda wanting people to bounce ideas off of, so that I can try to get this thing in a good momentum. Any ideas, post them here, I would love to hear them!

[Vhaidara]

I haven't read it all, but this is great! Maybe bring him back into the Town? Most of the old Townies have left, and we need someone that can teach Draken respect. Please? Maybe if you come back, everyone else will. I got here just before Soph, deadly, and Kyrian left. I feal so cheated.

[Mortia De Luna Draco]

hehehe... Ive been thinking of making a comeback, but I find time to be in the way. hmmm.... perhaps making the time would be an idea?

[Vhaidara]

You really should. I'm trying to tone my characters down/ keep the seriously uber ones out of other peoples plots, but with Draken and his ECL 70 something characters it's pretty hard.