^ top-The Story of Mal Indra by Nocturnal [Nieves] November 21 - 11:37 AM EST

Even now, she looked beautiful, he thought. Her matted, sweat-soaked brown hair plastered to her, her face contorted in agony. He silently endured her pain, wincing each time she screamed, until finally the baby was delivered into the hands of the midwife. Morgan Galbreth looked down at his newborn child, who was screaming loudly while the midwife cleaned him up. He looked down in wonder, awestruck at the instant love he felt for the small boy. He smiled at the child, and the child stopped screaming with a happy gurgle. Morgan glanced at his wife, Jahnna, and smiled again. He was already proud of his little boy. Something seemed to be wrong with Jahnna, however. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, and she seemed to be locked in some sort of strange paralysis. Her entire body was absolutely motionless save her fingers, which were twitching strangely. Suddenly her back arched up in the air, and came down hard on the bed. The impact knocked her breathless, but she didn’t make a sound. Her fingers continued to twitch strangely. The rotund midwife put the baby gently into a cradle, and rushed to Jahnna’s side. Morgan rushed over and sat opposite her, a worried frown on his face. “What’s wrong?” “I haven’t the slightest idea,” replied the midwife, her voice distant as her mind concentrated on her training. “I have never seen this before.” Morgan frowned deeper and took one of his wife’s twitching hands in his. At the contact, Jahnna screamed and abruptly slapped him across the face with her free hand. He dropped her hand in shock and backed away. As soon as the contact broke, she resumed her frozen position, hands at her side, still twitching. “Jahnna! What are you doing! It’s me, Morgan, it’s alright.” He was almost yelling at her, but caught his voice rising and softened it. He regretted raising his voice against her, especially after the ordeal she had just been through. The midwife suddenly began to mumble, backing away fearfully. “Please … Jahnna … no, don’t do this!” She seemed too afraid to speak very coherently, and aside from the occasional word, Morgan could not discern any more from her babbling. “What is happening!” he demanded angrily of the midwife. He approached her, his eyes furious. “I paid you to see her through this! Now do it!” “It’s … Kyras,” she mumbled and ran from the room, snatching up the hem of her brown midwife’s robe as she ran clumsily from the house. Morgan gaped, and it took him a minute to recover. He flinched visibly when he turned back to his wife. Impossibly thin, black tendrils began to creep across Jahnna’s chest, emerging steadily from her navel, dyeing her skin black in their wake. They began to coalesce in a circle several inches wide, with the center being the point from which they had emerged. Gradually, another shape took form within the circle, and even through what he had already experienced, Morgan’s heart nearly stopped in terror when he saw what the shape was. It was the Mark of Kyras. The Mark of Kyras, a grim-looking black tree within a black circle, appeared on the mother of children who were born with Kyras’ gift, the gift of dark magic. The mothers of such children rarely survived several days after the birth. Several hours after the first appearance of the Mark, the entire skin of the mother began to turn black, and it took several days to cover the entire body, during which time there was only excruciating pain. It was said the feeling was like being burned alive, but the worst had yet to come. If the lives of these women were not taken before their skin had turned completely black, they were rent apart by the force of their own soul shattering. None knew exactly what happened to those whose souls suffered this demise, but safe to say, none desired to find out. The child’s fate was little better, as only few survived. After the Mark had appeared on the mother, but before it began to spread across the body, the child’s eyes turned entirely black in the same manner the Mark appeared. Most died at this point. Few lived to have the blackness recede, returning the eyes to normal. The Priests of Kyras claimed this was their God’s way of testing the child’s strength. If it was too weak to serve the dark God, it was killed. Morgan was interrupted from his grim reverie by the ear-splitting sound of an explosion. Wooden splinters flew through the air, landing all about his small home, as his door was blasted into nothingness. Three men in light blue robes entered, each robe adorned with the same symbol as the one that had appeared horribly across his dear wife’s chest. He recognized them as the Priests of Kyras. “We felt the calling of one born unto Kyras. Surrender your lives and your child immediately,” intoned the one who was evidently the leader. The voice left no room for argument. His black hair was cropped short, as was his neat beard. Morgan hardly paused before screaming a reply. “Never! I would kill my child and everyone in this house before I let an innocent serve your monstrous God!” Morgan let out a yelp of hatred and leapt at the three men, pulling his knife from his belt in one smooth motion. The death of these men would not be easy for them, he thought grimly. In mid dash he froze, tumbling to the ground in a strange paralysis. A cold, emotionless laugh came from above him. “A man of spirit, I see. Excellent, his child will serve Beloved Kyras well. Come, let us watch the taking.” He motioned to his two colleagues and walked towards the small wooden cradle, from which came a feeble crying. The baby suddenly screamed. “Excellent, my brothers, it has begun.” The all crowded intently over the cradle, hands pressed together in front of them reverently. Every nerve, every muscle in Morgan’s body pushed against the magical restraint, but he couldn’t so much as move an inch. He lacked even the ability to weep at his newborn son’s demise. Morgan’s only shred of relief was that he didn’t have to watch. The leader looked intently down at the crying child. The wispy black tendrils had emerged from the pupils and began to swirl around the child’s eyes. They then began to spread across his tiny pink face, causing the Priests to frown in worry. “Something is wrong, Master,” whispered one Priest worriedly. “This is not normal.” The leader could only numbly nod a reply, his gaze transfixed on the spreading black tendrils. Two snakelike curls of blackness touched the child’s lips, and suddenly the child screamed. It was an unearthly, terrifying scream that shook the house to its foundation. The Priests’ faces blanched, yet they didn’t flinch at the horrific noise that uttered from the baby’s lips. Just as smoothly and as abruptly as the black wisps came, they retreated back into the child’s pupils, and the baby began giggling happily. The leader breathed a sigh of relief. “My brothers, we have been blessed this day. A Priest of Beloved Kyras has been born!” He carefully avoided mentioning the fact that this was no ordinary Priest. The others seemed relieved by that. “We shall adjourn to the temple, where the proper ceremonies will be carried out.” The two other Priests nodded. One walked towards the motionless, naked form of the mother, glanced briefly at the Mark, and lifter her into the air with magic. The leader gently took the baby from the cradle, and the third Priest hefted Morgan into the air in the same manner that Jahnna had been moved from her bed. Morgan and his beloved wife floated through the air helplessly, following the two blue-robed Priests. Once outside, the leader turned. “Let this sacred spot of Beloved Kyras be cleansed.” The other two Priests repeated the same phrase. With a flick of his wrist, the leader ignited the small house on fire. A wave of heat from the initial blast struck Morgan in the face, yet he could still not move. The Priests turned, and without looking back, walked in the general direction of the Temple of their dark God. The city of Dalmor was busy this day, bustling about with people doing one thing or another. No matter how important their task was, however, none dared get in the way of this grim procession, and all backed to the sides of the streets fearfully. Not a single man even stole a second glance at his naked wife, fearing what fate that look would bring them. The Priests of Kyras were always given a wide berth, especially to the common folk, whose superstitions of magic advised them prudently to avoid it at all costs. A large stone structure loomed up ahead, and Morgan recognized it to be the Temple. He had never had cause to go near it, but it was large enough that it could be seen from most of the city. Two bright blue banners bearing the symbol of Kyras, the grim black tree in its protective circle, stood at either side of the massive metal doors. As the party approached, the doors swung inward seemingly of their own volition. The inside of the Temple, had it been any other place, would have been beautiful, but the dark sense of purpose that seeped from the walls instilled fear and foreboding, especially to one not of Kyras’ service. Morgan was terrified, and glanced at his wife, who seemed utterly oblivious to their surroundings. Tall stone columns rose to the ceiling to either side of the walkway they currently were upon, wrapped in light blue silk rope. The carpet that ran through the columns was the same shade of light blue, but was interwoven with lines of gold. Morgan admitted it was beautiful, yet he still loathed it with every fiber of his being. Small torches dotted the stone walls, and up ahead he could see a marble dais rising from cold stone floor. The carpet ended abruptly, and they passed over a strange marking on the floor, which was this time red rather than blue. It was rather large, and as such he could not make out exactly what the design was, but he guessed at a rather dark purpose for its existence. Looking ahead once more, his breath caught in his throat. On the top of the marble dais rested a small stone bench, and above it, a large stone altar. On the altar burned two fires, seemingly fueled from the rock itself. Running down the altar and onto the steps of the dais were ugly stains of black, from years of blood drying and clotting on the floor. Morgan wished he could summon enough strength to break the hold of his paralysis to run far, far away, yet he still could not. Run far away from this terrible place: the sacrificial Altar of Kyras. In front of the Altar stood an aged man, robed in the same manner as the Priests, yet this robe was the color of light gold. The trim on the sleeves and the hem was the same blue color as most everything else in the temple. The same black mark adorned the robe at his chest as every other Priest’s robe that Morgan had seen. He had long gray hair, which was combed neatly about his shoulders. Morgan had no idea who this man was, only that he seemed to be of some importance. “Holy Prelate, we have been blessed this day. Beloved Kyras has delivered unto us a Priest.” The leader of the three Priests that had so easily, almost whimsically destroyed his home, his family, his life, bowed in reverence at the feet of this man, extending the baby in his arms. The other two sank to their knees and pressed their foreheads to the marble dais at the old man’s feet. So that’s who this man was, Morgan thought, his hopes crumbling. The Temple Prelate. “Rise, young ones,” said the Prelate in a strong voice. Morgan guessed by his voice that his apparent age affected him little. “The Temple is blessed by one so recently marked by Beloved Kyras. I sense great hope for this young Brother. Let us adjourn so that we may discuss his taking by our Beloved Master.” The Priests followed him at a respectful distance, but Morgan and Jahnna did not. His hopes soared. His paralysis was broken! He leapt to his feet, his heart flaring anew with strength, only to be grabbed by strong hands from behind. They pushed him to the floor and shackled his hands. Morgan closed his eyes, casting the last of his hope to the wind. Opening them, he glanced at Jahnna, who was sprawled, still naked, in a fetal position on the floor, her gaze still staring ahead, looking, but not seeing. The second guard had to use little effort to shackle her, and she gave no resistance as they were forced away from the central hall. Morgan at first pushed with all his strength against the guard, but that only brought him a hard blow to the gut from the large man, and he followed, meekly and in pain, behind his new captors. The Prelate lead the three Priests into a room with little decoration, save a blue carpet on the floor. There was a polished wooden desk in the center, and behind it stood a man garbed in the same blue robes that every Priest worse, except there was a black trim in much the same way the Prelate’s robe was decorated. This was the Prelate’s second in command, a cold and brutal man that no Priest came within miles of crossing. “Ah, Velnias, how good to see you, my friend,” said the old Prelate happily. Velnias bowed respectfully. “Master,” he replied, showing no hint of emotion. Velnias looked the part of evil arch-henchman perfectly. He had an ugly scar running from his left eye down to his chin, his scalp was shaved, and his skin had an ugly, pallid cast to it. The Prelate sat at his desk, and glanced over several papers before he looked up at the three Priests that had brought them the child. “Tell me, Priest, what is your name?” he inquired of the leader. “I am Acanthis, Holy Prelate,” he bowed again when he said the old man’s title. The Prelate smiled. “You have done us a great service this day, Acanthis.” Acanthis bowed once again. “Tell me, how was it the taking came about?” Acanthis gave a nervous sideways glance to his companions, and gave a gentle cough. “It was not usual, Holy Prelate. The Mark spread past his eyes, to his face. When it reached his mouth, he roared in a most unnatural manner for a child to roar.” He quickly glanced at Velnias’ face to see if he had said anything in a manner that displeased him. Seeing the same cold, impassive glare as was always registered upon the man’s face, he sighed with relief and returned his eyes to the Prelate. The Prelate took a moment to consider this. A frown creased his previously impassive face. “Why would Beloved Kyras send one so early? I am not yet ready.” Acanthis groaned inwardly, at what he had said, at the Prelate’s discomfort. “Velnias, what do you make of this?” Without turning, the man in the black trimmed robe answered. “I am not well learned in these matters, Master. Please forgive my ignorance.” The Prelate waved it aside. “No one must know of this, the way the child was taken.” His eyes stared off into space. As if on cue, the three blue robed Priests sank to the floor on their knees, heads pressed on the floor. “Beloved Kyras guides your wishes, Holy Prelate. It shall be done as you have said,” they intoned the ritual phrase in unison. Startled out of his trance, the Prelate returned his eyes to the three groveling Priests. “What? Oh, yes, of course.” He paused a moment, considering something. “Velnias, you will be the new Priest’s master.” Velnias turned and bowed at the honor, a cruel smile adorning his fearsome visage. “See to it that these Priests are cared for. They have had a long day.” He then made a peculiar hooking motion in the air with one finger, hardly noticeable. Velnias nodded impassively. “At once, your Reverence.” He turned, took the baby from Acanthis’ hands, and led them from the room. Velnias smiled to himself. The Prelate had chosen wisely, he thought. It was nigh impossible to trust lowly Priests of the blue with such knowledge. He ran his hand over his scalp, an unconscious gesture, and noted it needed to be shaved again shortly. He glanced behind himself; the Priests were still following. They all bowed at his glance. “Fools,” he muttered to himself. He despised Priests of the blue. They were all so stupid, so fawning. He smiled again at the thought of the Prelate making that hooking motion. He loved it when the Prelate allowed him such delights. He would see to their deaths personally. Morgan’s face blanched as he entered the room, and he renewed his struggle against the guard holding him. Once again, a fist was brought to his stomach, and he doubled over, gasping for air. Throughout the room were the instruments of torture. Racks, iron maidens, and cruel looking knives set beside a stone slab stained in much the same way the altar was. Morgan could only mumble weakly at the guard. “Please, don’t…” “Silence, fool. You aren’t being tortured. Now get on your feet and lie on that slab.” The guard motioned towards the stained stone slab with a nod of his head. Jahnna was led to another, similar slab on the opposite side of the room. Morgan crossed the floor and meekly laid down on the stone. “Now,” said the guard ominously, “if you cooperate, this will be easy, quick, and painless. If you don’t,” he grabbed a serrated knife from his side, its blade glinting dangerously in the torchlight, “it will be difficult, long, and painful. You choose.” “E…easy,” Morgan mumbled, his voice hoarse from stress. In the span of only several hours, his life had gone from bliss to this nightmare, all because of a black mark that had appeared on his wife’s belly. He sighed to himself and resigned to not give the guard any difficulty. The guard walked to the corner of the room, took a ladle and a small bucket from a shelf, and began to spoon in a dark brown liquid from a pot at his side. Once satisfied, he returned to Morgan’s side. “This is bhren. I’m going to cover you in it. It won’t hurt. You’ll have to remove your clothes.” Morgan stiffened, but complied with the guard’s wishes. He stripped and returned to the slab. The guard began working in the dark brown fluid with his hands. The fluid made his skin warm, and gave him a tingling sensation. He flushed when the guard’s hands reached places where he thought no man would ever touch, but he raised no objections. The thought hit him like a lightning bolt. He looked over at his wife, who was having the same treatment applied to her naked body. His rage burned, and he leapt up and ran towards Jahnna. Caught by surprise, his guard had no time to react before he was out of his reach. The second guard heard him coming, however, and met his charge with a powerful blow to the stomach. He doubled over once again, and had no time to jerk his head away as he saw the guard’s knee come up towards his face. The impact knocked him on his back, and he struggled mightily to regain his feet. The guard that was attending to him walked over calmly and delivered a hard kick to Morgan’s side. “I said, easy, or painful. You chose painful.” Morgan winced, both at the pain in his side and at the guard’s words, as he was dragged back to his stone slab. The guard walked back to where he had retrieved the bhren, and brought a small vial of black fluid back with him. He emptied the vial into the bucket of bhren, and it hissed dangerously. He placed a finger in, and nodded to himself. He began re-applying the fluid. This time, the moment it contacted his skin, he screamed in pain. It felt like every nerve in his body had just been placed in a fire. He tried to jerk himself away from it, but he found himself, for third time this day, unable to get away. “Doesn’t…. doesn’t it hurt you?” It took every ounce of strength remaining in his body to get the words out. “Not at all. The black fluid I put in the bhren is the blood of a virgin rock wolf. It binds to the first one in touches, and causes indescribable anguish to anyone it touches after. They claim mates that way. They each mark each other with their blood, and no one else can ever mate with them. It actually feels very soothing to me.” He gave an infuriatingly calm smile to Morgan as he continued to work in the liquid fire. “You learn something new every day, they say,” he said in a mock philosophical tone. It seemed like hours, perhaps even days, before the guard was finished with him. His body ached from skin to skeleton, numbed from the pain, and even his bones hurt as though some unseen, phantom beast was gnawing upon them. He looked down at his nude form, which was now a much darker color than before. The bhren still hurt like nothing else, and he could barely walk several feet without stumbling, or falling face first to the floor. Each time, the guard patiently drew him back up. They were led back the way they came, but this time there was an audience in the central chamber. The throng jeered and hollered as they were led up the stairs. There was an ominous looking man in a black-trimmed blue robe standing at the top of the marble dais. “Brothers and sisters, our Beloved Kyras will rejoice today with the blood of the mother and the father of a newborn Priest.” The crowd cheered again. Morgan couldn’t imagine why a group of people would want to be in this horrible Temple, much less feel joy at seeing someone bleed. At the thought, his blood ran cold. He was the one doing the bleeding. Him and his beloved Jahnna. He tried to cry, but he was unable to. The bhren, the rock wolf blood, the sheer injustice of it all; whatever it was, he couldn’t muster the tears. His thoughts raced over the events of the day, each ghastly event paled in comparison to what happened after. A long sequence of interminable wrongs led up to this single, implacable, unstoppable event: his own death. Jahnna’s death. Jahnna was led up the marble stairs first. The crowd’s cheering increased in volume. She was laid down on her back on the cruel stone altar. The man in the black trimmed robe intoned a few words he didn’t understand, and finally thundered, “Revel in thy sacrifice, Beloved Kyras!” The throng jeered impossibly loud. As if his day couldn’t get any worse, he realized he’d now have to watch his wife die in torment. If he had gone first, it would have been some salvation, some bitter hope that, despite all the evidence, there was some dim light at the end of this cruel, cruel tunnel. He watched as the man on the marble dais raised a ceremonial knife and placed it on Jahnna’s bare chest. The man mouthed a few more words, and then the nightmare reached its height. Jahnna’s sides burst open, spraying hot red blood all over the marble, all over the altar, and all over the man. A swarm of tiny black dots poured from her grievous wounds, and spiraled up towards the ceiling. A few vagrant spots flew towards the crowd, and Morgan saw that they were locusts. As they poured from her sides, she began to desiccate before his eyes. Her skin shrank against her bones, yet her blood still poured forth. Finally, when the last of the locusts had emerged from her body, they spiraled down into the fires lying at opposite ends of the altar. When at last the swarm had disappeared, her lifeless body burst into flame, incinerating into nothingness. It was finally done. Morgan was beyond all feeling. He had not even the sense to comprehend what had been done to the woman he thought he would spend the rest of his life with. He numbly ascended the stairs, dimly aware of the force being applied to his back as he did so. He no longer heard the crowd, heard their bloodthirsty cries. He no longer heard their longing for his blood. He looked at the altar in front of him, now covered with the singed black blood of his beloved Jahnna. With the last ounce of consciousness in him, he reflected upon the irony of calling Jahnna his ‘beloved’, the same form of address the Priests used to address their craven God. His last shred of awareness was of the blue robed man with the black trim smiling down at him, telling Morgan how much he would enjoy torturing his bastard son. Chapter 2 Indra awoke to the light of day streaming in through his tiny window. His room in the Temple was little more than a stone box with a cot and a washbasin. Every morning he awoke, the barren rock walls mutely reminded him of his enforced confinement. The resemblance to a prison cell was more than coincidental; the Masters preferred to keep their subjects submissive. Indra winced as he rose from his bed. His body ached from the beating Velnias had given him the previous day for being insolent. He shook his head. He was no more insolent than the carpet on the floor; he merely knew how much Velnias enjoyed battering his body, and with it, his morale. Indra hadn’t eaten in two days, and his stomach gurgled hungrily as he walked over to the basin and splashed some water on his face. He took a comb and began to straighten his short black hair. He checked his chin for any sign that he might be developing a beard, but saw none. He sighed as he donned his white robe, scowling down at the black symbol he had grown to loathe. He wished he could have a different master. None of the other students that Indra had talked to in the mess hall ever received beatings like his; none ever went more than a day without food or water; they were allowed outside the Temple. He smiled at the luxuries a kind master could afford one, but shook his head and scolded himself for thinking rebellious thoughts. He knew, wincing at the memory, that thinking in these lines would eventually cause him to blurt it out loud, and the beating he had received when he first asked for a different master put him on the verge of death. He was then subsequently thrown into a lightless cell and forced to go without any food or water for a week. He tried to force the memory from his mind. Kneeling, Indra began chanting the morning homage to Kyras. “Beloved Kyras be my beacon, my light to stave off darkness, to guide me in my actions, my inspiration and my hope. Beloved Kyras forgive my shortcomings, and bless my talents so that I may serve him better. May he…” Indra’s voice cut off abruptly as the door to his room swung open, and Velnias entered. The large man’s scalp was shaved as usual. The utter lack of any hair on his head made his scar seem all the more prominent. The overall effect was frightening. “Master, I didn’t expect you so early.” Velnias shrugged. “Yes, well, I woke early. But you should know to never interrupt your homage by now, worm.” He slapped Indra smartly across the face. “Finish it.” Indra fought back tears, of rage and of pain, as he finished. How he hated this man. “Well done. I’m surprised you didn’t forget them.” “I would never forget something so important, Master Velnias.” Velnias slapped him again. “Insolence! You know how I despise insolence. You’re nothing but a maggot, who hasn’t even earned his blue! How dare you demean my words like that?” His face was red, his tone livid. “I’m sorry, Master Velnias. Please forgive me, I meant nothing disrespectful by it,” Indra sobbed. Velnias grunted. “What you intended makes no difference.” Velnias considered briefly. “Tomorrow is your seventeenth year celebration of your servitude to Beloved Kyras. Since training is forbidden on that holy day, we must train doubly hard today to make up for the lost time. Meet me at your circle in exactly one hour. I have some business with the Holy Prelate to attend to. You are permitted breakfast today.” He turned and strode from the room, the black trim on the hem of his robe lapping at his feet as he walked. Indra sighed. He knew what a doubly hard day of training meant; he would barely be able to stand by the evening, and would barely be able to move tomorrow. How wonderful, he thought. Battered and bruised on his birthday. He rose and left his room, firmly closing the door behind him. Walking through the stone halls towards the mess room, he kept his eyes locked on the floor. Velnias considered eye contact with any superior except his Master forbidden, and the others in the Temple knew this well. Every time accidental contact with a Priest of the Blue was made, Velnias surely found out, and Indra ended up receiving a few bruises. Walking through the halls with his eyes on the floor had given him a rather intimate relationship with the tiles and carpets at his feet. He recognized many cracks by sight, and the deep carpets were familiar to him. He shook his head pitifully, and turned at the entrance to the mess hall and entered the large room. The large hall was lit by a series of large braziers running down the center, on either side of which ran two long wooden tables. Many white robed students sat at the morning meal, consisting of eggs and a slice of ham. Indra smiled, his favorite. He noticed Dephel and Erinn sitting at one of the tables and walked towards them. Indra’s group of friends consisted of, for the most part, girls. Seventeen years of living under Velnias’ death grip had given him a distinct fear and loathing of males, both for their tendency towards cruelty and their brainless adoration of the opposite sex. Especially at his age, the boys seemed utterly devoid of thought when a pretty girl struck up a conversation, and Indra could only roll his eyes in disdain when one mumbled a half-witted reply to their greeting. Indra felt longing towards them as much as the next man, but managed to keep his intellect flowing in their presence. Erinn noticed his approach. Her long brown hair was drawn in a ponytail, which flowed over one shoulder. “Hello, Indra. Surprised to see you here.” Dephel looked up and waved, smiling. Indra grinned. “Master Velnias allowed me food this morning.” He barely kept his spiteful tone in check. “That’s a rarity. Come sit with us. The ham isn’t burnt for once,” Erinn replied. She paused and thought a moment. “Isn’t tomorrow your seventeenth year?” Indra sat beside her and nodded. “Which means an extra hard day of training today.” He sighed again at the thought. Dephel looked over. “Even a light day of training for you is a workout for anyone else. I’d hate to have Velnias as my teacher.” “Me too. Why don’t you ask the Prelate for a new one?” Erinn asked. Indra only laughed. “I’d probably be beat into unconsciousness. I’m the only one Velnias teaches, and there’s probably a reason for it. Anyway, I’ve only got another year left until I get my blue. I’ll be alright.” Dephel arched an eyebrow. “Another year under that man and you might end up dead.” As if to reassure herself of her words, she glanced at the large cut on Indra’s cheek, a product of one of Velnias’ bad moods. A servant setting a bowl of gruel and a glass of water in front of Indra interrupted their conversation. “Gruel, on Velnias’ orders.” The servant walked off, apparently leaving no room for discussion on the issue. Indra groaned loudly and buried his face in his hands. He wasn’t even given the privilege of having a spoon. Velnias enjoyed Indra’s embarrassment at having to drink it from the bowl while his peers watched and stuffed themselves with food Indra only ate in his dreams. “Here, Indra, take what’s left of mine. I’m finished with it anyway.” Erinn slid her tray across to Indra. “But you barely ate anything at all,” he protested. “I eat three meals a day. You’re lucky if you get one.” He gave her a grateful glance and began to wolf down his food. The taste was exquisite. He concluded it was at least partially the fact he hadn’t had much more than water for two days. Dephel noticed his ravenous eating. “I’m going to report this to the Prelate. This isn’t fair.” Indra almost choked on a piece of ham. “Please, in the name of Kyras, don’t do that. Nothing good will come of it, believe me. Please don’t.” Dephel held his eyes for a moment, and then nodded. Glancing at the sundial on the floor, she stood. “Erinn, we have to go. We’ve got a lot of reading to do.” She gave Indra’s shoulder a quick squeeze. “Right. Have…fun, today,” Erinn jibed. Indra rolled his eyes and hugged her, and then the two girls left. Indra finished his breakfast in silence, even drinking the gruel to quiet his hunger. He got up and left the hall. The training area of the temple was markedly different from the rest. Students of the white robes cropped up much more frequently, and it was even more devoid of decoration than the living quarters. He found his small training room and entered. The training rooms were, much like his quarters, a boring stone box. A large white ring was in the center, where most of the training took place, which was generally referred to as “the circle”. Around the edges were various other training devices, ranging from stuffed weapons dummies to a ropes hanging from the ceiling. Indra sat in the middle of the circle and waited for Velnias. Finally, after a good time, a man entered the room. Indra looked up, and flinched in surprise. It was not Velnias, as he had expected. The man wore the blue robes of the Priest, rather than the black-trimmed robe that Velnias wore. The man noticed Indra’s startled expression and began to explain. “Master Velnias will be busy all day, I will take over his duties in his absence. My name is Levi.” “I understand, Master Levi.” Levi looked surprised. “Master Levi?” He laughed. “Just call me Levi, my son.” “Yes…Levi.” Indra struggled mightily to refrain from using Master as a form of address to anyone in the blue. “So, my son, what do you want to work on today?” Indra was startled yet again. Velnias never asked him what he wanted. In fact, Velnias usually concentrated on things that he disliked the most. “I, uh, whatever you wish, Ma- Levi.” Levi considered a moment. “How about magic barriers?” Indra nodded his agreement. “Very well, my son. We’ll first work on you breaking through mine.” He walked to the center of the circle, and Indra took his place at the edge. Levi closed his eyes and rubbed his hands together briefly. After a moment, he spoke a quick incantation and gestured. Indra reached forward tentatively, encountering the barrier with his hand. It felt a little like soft rubber, pliable, but still strong. He pushed a little, and the barrier gave a little, but the power didn’t falter. He knew what to do. To push through a magic barrier, he had to push with magic himself. Magic to counter magic, as usual. He began to draw on that font of power that seemed to flow from somewhere inside his mind. Pulling on that, he surrounded his hand with magic, and pushed forward again. His hand slid right through the barrier, almost like he was sliding his hand into mud. He withdrew his hand and exhaled, his pulse rising with the effort. “Good, my son. Now I’ll strengthen it a bit.” Levi spoke several more words and gestured again. There was a slight shimmer in the air around him. Indra once again reached forth, pressing against the wall. This time it was more like stone, and didn’t give at all at his gentle prod. Once again, he drew on the well of his power, and pushed. The wall still didn’t give. He strengthened the field around his hand, but the wall didn’t budge an inch. “The trick here, young one, is to break it, rather than push through it. Try and crack it,” the blue-robed Levi explained. Indra nodded. He reached out again, and made contact with the magical barrier. He probed around and found the weakest spot, where the power was fluctuating slightly. Summoning his power once again, he formed a ball of force in front of him, and once it was what he considered to be enough, hurled it against the Levi’s wall. There was a detonation in the air, and Levi grunted with the effort of maintaining his wall. Indra probed the wall again, and found a large crack at the point where the force impacted. He could also feel the wall being knit back together slowly. He wrapped his hands in magic and began to pry the crack apart. The strain was overwhelming. “You have the right idea, my son, but the wrong method of operation. The field is in a sphere around me. You can’t pull it apart because you’re only forcing it upon itself somewhere else along the field. You had it right when you exploited the weakness in the wall. Try to envision it as glass, and break it apart.” Levi’s words were forced with the effort of his breathing. Wrapping his hands once again in magic, he wound up and delivered a great blow to one side of the crack with magic. Instead of viewing the wall as stone, he thought of it as a glass window. When his hand struck it, the entire field shattered. Indra noticed with some surprise the lack of effort it required. Levi fell back, astonished. “Indra…you…that was incredible! I’ve never felt a novice modify a field so adeptly.” Indra beamed. “You’ve learned something very important today. You don’t have to use magic just to work against something. You can use it to change it. For example, if you wanted to break down a door, you could burst it in much the same way you cracked my wall, but the effort would be strenuous. An easier way is to think of it as something very fragile, and then break it apart. Even though it may be made of wood, or metal, magic is entirely what you see in your mind. Another example. If you tried to bend metal with your hands, you’d have a hard time. But, if you envisioned it first as, say, a piece of paper, you’d be able to do it easily. “The lesson here is to make things easier by creating new weaknesses, rather than just exploiting ones that are already there.” “Thank you, Levi, I will benefit from your wisdom.” Levi smiled. “Alright, let’s take a break. Let’s take a walk in the garden.” Indra, not for the first time today, was caught off guard. Velnias entered his quarters. The large room was largely barren, and devoid of any decoration. The only furniture present was out of necessity. The desk at which he read and tended to the matters of his office, several bookshelves containing various articles from the mundane to the occult, and a small, adequate bed. A servant was busily dusting the room, and bowed as he entered. “Leave,” Velnias said shortly. The servant bowed again and left the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Walking over to his desk, he flopped into the cushioned wooden throne and sighed. Gazing off into nothingness, he let his thoughts drift. He knew the reason for his meeting with the Prelate this morning. He had tried and tried to push this date from his mind, yet the date had approached ominously for seventeen years. He knew how Indra had been born, how the mark had spread to the rest of his face, and what that meant. It meant that his last days were approaching, and fast. His sleep had suffered recently as a result, and he glanced longingly at his bed. Maybe he could escape, he thought. He had tried with the best of his ability to prevent it from happening, and had failed. Perhaps he could just run from it. Velnias laughed at himself, the cold, emotionless laugh that supplemented his persona of a block of ice. It was about as futile to hide from Kyras himself. He glanced longingly at his bed again, and wearily pushed himself from his chair. He paused at the door and ran his hand over his smooth-shaven scalp. He opened the door and left. Velnias’ quarters were not far from the Prelate’s own. The halls of the temple here were decorated lavishly with rich carpets, gold inlaid furniture, tapestries, and fine paintings. Velnias had never cared for such opulence, finding it to be a needless waste of money that could be better spent elsewhere. He had also disdained the choice of colors; whoever had chosen these particular works hadn’t done so with a great deal of care. The garish combinations left much to be desired, he felt. He reached a set of blue banners on either side of a double set of large platinum doors. The priceless doors were inlaid with sapphires in the shape of the Mark of Kyras, the tree in the circle. The blue silk banners had the same mark on them, woven in a soft black silk. Velnias grimaced at the paramount display of opulence in the temple, and pushed the doors open. The Prelate’s offices, which adjoined his private quarters, were spacious and as lavishly decorated as the halls outside. Priceless vases and paintings lined the walls. The floor was garnished with a deep, intricately woven carpet, and the furniture was made from expensive Ebonwood, a deeply red grain. The furniture was polished with great care, and was inlaid with various rare metals, from gold to platinum to a strange black metal that Velnias had never identified. Much like Velnias’ quarters, there were many bookshelves, but the Prelate’s shelves contained volumes pertaining more to obscure prophetic writings. The Prelate had always been a student of prophecy, and frequently visited the shrines containing the two core prophecies for days on end. The Prelate, adorned in his gold colored robes, sat at his large desk, poring over one of his many volumes. His long gray hair flowed about his shoulders, the only sign of his age save his weathered features. The Prelate had managed to maintain his physique despite his many years, and his mind had not began the descent into feebleness that so many others experienced in their old age. He was a wise man, Velnias knew that much. Velnias was considered by and large to be intelligent, but he had learned early on to not engage in battles of wits or wisdom with the Prelate, as he had a great deal of difficulty in keeping up. The Prelate glanced up at the sound of Velnias’ entry. “Ah, Velnias. We have much to discuss, my friend,” he said in his strong, unwavering voice. He motioned towards a chair at the front of his desk. Velnias, obliging his old friend, walked over and sat in the comfortable chair. “We are in private, Velnias, so we can skip the foolish formality nonsense. I trust you haven’t forgotten what happens tomorrow?” Velnias nodded. “I couldn’t forget, Kabrakan. I’m going to die tomorrow, it isn’t anything easy to forget.” Velnias used the Prelate’s name so infrequently that it felt strange on his tongue. “Not so, Velnias, not so. I found something in this book that may allow us to thwart what destiny has in store for us.” “What book?” “It’s supposedly prophecy. It was written by one of the first Prelates. You’ve probably heard of him before, his name was Jahannan.” Velnias scowled. “You plan to take the word of a man who thought he was possessed, and fell on his own sword thinking it would drive the spirit from him? I’m sorry to say it, Kabrakan, but I’m a little skeptical.” “True, but it’s been said that the more insane the prophet, the more accurate the writings. This is what it says. “’On the seventeenth year of the ascendancy of the one borne indecently into Kyras’ domain, the chains which bind him shall be broken in the light of the absent moon. This shall happen, and the link which shall break first will fall into darkness which even darkness may not save him from. This link cannot save itself in the light of the absent moon, only a twelve-strong spear may wrest the mark from the transcendent one.’” Kabrakan looked up, as though the passage was to have some importance. “That’s pure gibberish.” “They always are. Here, let me explain what I can gather from it. Obviously, the transcendent one, and the one who is borne indecently into Kyras’ domain, is Indra. But Indra is still subservient to us. Those are the ‘chains that bind’, I think, you and I. As I’m sure you know by now, you’re to die first in his ascendance, and I think you are the ‘first link’ of the chain. “Tonight the moon will be fully hidden, the night will be pitch black. That’s what I think it means by the ‘light of the absent moon.’ It says you cannot save yourself, and that only a twelve-strong spear can stop him. What that means, I have no idea.” Velnias considered this a moment. That his death might be prevented was an uplifting thought. “What does it mean by the ‘first link will fall into darkness’?” Prelate Kabrakan glanced at him with a solemn look in his eyes. “You mean you don’t know what will happen to you?” Velnias shifted in discomfort, and shook his head. The Prelate paused, his eyes searching Velnias’ face continuously. “The magic that Indra will use to destroy you will forfeit any chance at resurrection, physical or otherwise. You will be totally lost, not even Kyras can save you.” The man with the black-trimmed robe, for the first time in his life, felt terror. “We better find out what the ‘twelve-strong spear’ is, then.” Levi led the way through the temple to the doors that opened to the rear garden. As he approached, they suddenly swung in towards them. Indra looked up, startled by the sound of the door creaking on its hinges. His heart nearly stopped when he saw the black trimmed robe standing before him. Velnias stood in the doorway. “Well, Levi. What have we here?” Levi’s face turned absolutely white. “I was going to show Indra the garden before we resumed our training. I…thought he might like to see them, that’s all.” “I told you to train him all day.” The imposing note in his voice made Indra want to disappear. “I…well…” His voice ended in a strange gurgle. His hands clasped to his throat. Indra glanced up, and saw blood trickling from between his fingers. His skin began to part, the part running from his throat up through the center of his face. With a hideous snap, the bone split apart, and Levi fell forward, dead, his head split up the center in a gruesome ‘V’ shape. “I like him much better that way,” Velnias said in an offhand manner that left Indra rather disgusted. He thought it impossible to hate this man any more, yet every day, he proved himself wrong. In a world surrounded by people who were continually cruel to him, Levi’s kindness had been a welcome change. Even though he had only spent a little time with him, he mourned his passing silently. He knew, however, that displaying such a “weak” emotion wouldn’t have a pleasant result, so he kept it to himself and put on a mask of indifference. “You know best, Master,” Indra agreed in spite of himself. Velnias laughed, a cold laugh, devoid of any sort of mirth. “I’m not in the mood to train you today. You have the rest of the day off to do what you wish.” Without waiting for a response, he left. Indra looked after him with an unreadable expression on his face. Today had been a strange day. Chapter 3 A strange voice woke him from his sleep. “Wake up.” He shot up instantly, glancing around his room, but he saw no one. He created a bit of light in the palm of his hand, but he could see no one. He ventured a small “hello?” “No one is here. Yet.” The voice was very wispy, and seemed to come from all four corners of his room. “Who are you?” he asked warily. But there was no reply. There was suddenly a quiet knock at the door. “Indra,” came an urgent whisper from the door. It was obviously not Velnias. With a sigh of relief, he walked to the door and opened it. It was Erinn. “Indra, this might seem strange. There was a voice in my head that told me to come here.” She looked around nervously, as if afraid someone would come along and question why they were about in the middle of the night. “Right, right. Anything to get into my bedchambers, hmm?” He shot her a mischievous grin. She laughed winsomely. “Not in a million years, Indra.” He sighed. “But no, that isn’t strange. On any other day it would be, except a voice woke me up right before you got here. What in Kyras’ name is going on?” “I don’t know. Can I come in?” Indra nodded. She tiptoed in, and Indra closed the door silently behind her. Her disheveled appearance was mute testimony to her rude awakening. Her long brown hair was mussed, her white robe was wrinkled, and her green eyes bore her tiredness heavily. Still, Indra thought, she was still rather attractive. Noticing the distinct lack of furniture in his room, Erinn sat at the edge of his bed, and he soon joined her. “So what did it say?” he asked. “It wasn’t very clear. It said that it was urgent, and that I had to get to you immediately. It didn’t say to come here precisely, just to find you, but I figured you were probably here. It didn’t elaborate at all. I then felt an overwhelming compulsion to get to you. What did it tell you?” “Just to wake up, and that someone was coming.” He frowned, trying to discern if this was some test of Velnias’, or merely they had both lost their sanity. He would have disregarded it entirely, had Erinn not heard the same voice. Just then, the voice came again. “You are both here. This is good.” Indra and Erinn looked at each other to confirm if they had both heard it. “Something very important is to happen tonight, and you both are to experience it.” “Who are you?” Erinn asked, voicing Indra’s same question. “I cannot tell you that. You must only do as I say, and then everything will become clear. Do you understand?” Erinn and Indra glanced at each other again for reassurance before they both answered, “Yes.” “You must go to the gardens. You will receive more instructions there. No one will bother you on your way. Hurry.” Then the voice was gone. Indra fell under the strange compulsion that Erinn had described earlier, and glancing at her noticed she felt the same way. Without a second thought, they ran towards Indra’s door and left the room. Indra winced as the door creaked shut, almost thunderous in volume in the comparatively quiet hallway. Indra grabbed Erinn’s hand in his and began to run to the garden exit. As they rounded corner after corner, the empty hallways greeted them with flickering torchlight from the sconces on the wall. They turned into the hall where the doors led to the garden, and both ground to a halt. Ahead of them were two blue-robed Priests, walking towards them and talking in hushed tones. They didn’t seem to have noticed Erinn and Indra running, and they continued past the two of them standing frozen in apprehension without even a glance. “At least the voice isn’t lying,” said Erinn, more to reassure herself than anything. Indra nodded and they continued down the hallway and out into the garden. The night air had a permeating chill to it, and with the absence of the moon, it was completely and utterly black. Only the spotted veil of stars overhead served as a point of reference, spanning across the night sky like an endless blanket. Dimly silhouetted on the starry background were the tops of trees in the distance, and the temple wall behind them. “What do we do know?” Erinn whispered, not knowing if they were alone in the jet blackness. “I don’t know,” Indra whispered back. As if on cue, the voice came again. “If you wish to finish your task, say these words. ‘I go willingly and of my own accord.’” “Where are we going?” Indra asked, apprehension in his voice. “To Ebonwood. Everything will be explained, if you choose to go.” Indra shuddered. Ebonwood. He recognized the name from his studies, and it struck fear into his heart. Ebonwood was a haunted forest, prowled by demons, specters, the undead, and who knows what else. Very few would even go near the dread forest, much less into it, and not one person that has ventured into the dark canopy has lived to tell the tale. “Ebonwood? But surely, we will die. Must we go there?” Erinn asked. “No, you mustn’t. But you will not die if you do. You very well may if you don’t, however.” The wispy voice seemed omnipresent now. Whereas before, when it only seemed to seep from the walls, it now seemed the very essence of nature itself was speaking to them, and was immense yet quiet. Indra gritted himself, and spoke, “I go willingly and of my own accord.” He suddenly seemed very light, as if the weight of gravity no longer pulled on his body. He was vaguely aware of Erinn voicing her assent beside him. The world around him began to change strangely. The differences were subtle at first, but then they began to intrude more and more into his vision. The edges of things began to blur, and a vast green light slowly crept over the landscape. The strange, pale, source-less illumination allowed him to see the landscape around him, and it seemed to be falling away below him, as though, with his newfound weightlessness, he was soaring up above the sleeping city of Dalmor, up towards the green-tinged night sky. As he rose, the lines of his vision blurred even more, until the world beneath his awareness looked almost like a strange painting, blurred with green streaks of an artist’s brush. The streaks were formless, yet determined, as though the artist had painted with a vision that was never fully realized on the canvas. Indra opened his mouth to ask a question of the voice, but the sound of his voice was scattered in all directions, carried off by a breeze that he couldn’t quite feel. He was suddenly aware of a pinpoint of light at the horizon of his vision, and it approached him rapidly, just as he sank back down towards the earth once again. The blurry green brushstrokes began to coalesce into hills, valleys, and forests, and the weight of gravity pulled on Indra’s mind once again. With a jarring impact, he felt his feet touch the cold earth, and he sank to his knees. The strange feeling took some time to completely wear off, and his vision hadn’t fully returned to normal. Looking beside him, he saw Erinn hunched over in a similar position. With a start, he realized it was much brighter here, yet he knew it was still the dead of night. He wasn’t sure if there was any reason for the light, or if it was the aftereffects of the strange experience they had just shared. He tried to speak once again, and this time a sound came, but it was drowned in a gurgle in his throat, and he managed nothing more than a whisper. Clearing his throat, he tried again, and was this time rewarded with a wavering sound. “Erinn?” She looked over, and her hunched shoulders relaxed with relief. Coughing, it seemed she had the same trouble summoning her voice. “I’m…here, wherever we are.” She looked around, trying to get her bearings, but they both knew that they were in a place vastly unfamiliar to them. “Let’s just wait for the voice again, hmm?” Indra said, more to himself than to Erinn. She nodded in acknowledgement. Indra took in his surroundings. They were perched on the shore of a large body of water, and judging by the tang of salt in the air, he assumed it to be the ocean. The expanse of black stretched out to the horizon, and the strange reflections from the dimly lit night gave the water a strange luster almost like an obsidian mirror. The quiet whisper of the waves lapping on the beach was comforting. Turning his gaze the other direction, he saw a stretch of trees spanning to the end of his vision in both directions. Ebonwood. The trees had an unsettling blackness to them, and Indra wasn’t sure if that was only due to the dark night, or if the trees had a more sinister reason behind the bleak, sable atmosphere. He silently wondered if that was how the forest had earned its name. The branches of the tress seemed to reach towards the sky with gnarled fingers, like they were pleading the sun to rise and wash away the oppressive gloom. Indra could tell by the stark lack of a full canopy of leaves and the bunched, fibrous moss hanging from the branches that the daylight had never fully succeeded in that task. The forest had the unpleasant musky odor of stagnant water, further evidence to the inability of the sun to lift the darkness from the trees. He was overcome with the unpleasant realization that in all likelihood, he would have to venture into the waiting arms of those branches. Several minutes passed without a sound save the whisper of the waves crashing softly against the beach to Indra’s back. He eyed the forest warily, as if expecting something to rush out from the murky blackness. Nothing came, yet his nerves were buzzing with apprehension. With a timing Indra could only describe with some understatement as unfortunate, the voice came again. Indra nearly jumped out of his skin, and Erinn gave a barely stifled cry from beside him at the sound. “Safe journey, I trust.” Indra practically fell over backwards with the unexpected force of the voice. Before, it was only a dim whisper, as though the voice was being carried over the wind. Now it seemed to explode from the air around him, and in the quiet of the night it was as if someone were yelling loudly in his face. His hands flew to his ears protectively, fearing the voice would come again. “I’m sure you already understand that something of importance is about to happen. A meeting is to take place in that forest, and you are to be present. Now hurry.” As quickly as it came, the voice departed, leaving the ocean to its ceaseless whispering. After he got over the initial shock of the deafening voice, Indra began to realize that he had no instructions as to how to get to this meeting. Where was he supposed to go? He turned to implore Erinn with this difficulty, but she wasn’t there. With a start, he looked up frantically just in time to see Erinn slip into the trees about twenty paces from him. He jumped up and ran after her. “Erinn!” he screamed. She turned casually. “Yes, Indra? What’s the matter?” He gave her a puzzled look. “What’s the matter? You’re just running off into the forest! Ebonwood, no less!” She smiled, like a teacher would smile at a young student who didn’t quite grasp the situation. “I know where I’m going.” “What? How?” She gave him another patronizing look. “I just do. Follow me, Indra.” She turned to ward off any further argument and strode off into the dark woods. He threw his arms into the air in a hopeless gesture and took up her trail. The night hung even more heavily inside the forest. The ground inside the wall of trees was damp, evidence that light rarely, if ever, touched this place, and the moss underfoot gave a great deal with each step. Each miniature well he left with his footsteps filled in quickly with water. The edge of his vision was not more than a few feet in front of him, and the flowing white robe of Erinn ahead of him was his only point of reference in the darkness. The murky black air seemed to press down around his shoulders. He began to feel a strange weariness intrude upon him with each step, and the further he went into the forest, the more and more he felt like lying down to sleep. Yet, ahead of him, Erinn pressed on as if she were talking a casual stroll through the city streets. He struggled mightily to keep up with her, but the difficult ground and the strange tiredness kept him at least a few feet back. He moaned. “Erinn, slow down.” She paid him no heed, and kept her quick and measured pace ahead of him. Off to his left, he caught a flicker of a yellow light between the trees. The light looked the same way as a cat’s eye would look in a dark room, gathering every shred of illumination and reflecting it back eerily. The strange parallel gave him a cold shock of awakening, and he shuddered at the thought that that might actually be the case here. He held out his palm and used his magic to create a small ball of light in it, hoping it would ward off whatever it was that he saw. The light, however, was for the most part ineffectual, and the encompassing darkness almost swallowed the fringes of it into its depthless, eternally hungry maw. He gradually became aware of a green light glowing far off in the distance. Each step brought him nearer to it, and evidenced by Erinn’s beeline toward it, it was their destination. Indra’s mind wandered with sinking thoughts of what horrible death awaited them at their destination, and every new imagined demise was worse than the last. As they drew nearer, he saw it was a green fire, blazing up around an unusually large tree. They finally stepped into a clearing, the edge of which was about thirty paces from the tree and its encompassing, strange green fire. The gigantic, gnarled branches thrust up from the sky like a mass of writhing snakes. The hard flesh of the tree bulged outwards obscenely, like something unspeakably vile had been trying to seep out through its prison of wood for untold eons. The tree itself, illuminated slightly from the green fire around its base, was a color that was beyond black. It seemed to suck light away from the surroundings, and staring at the almost translucent-seeming bark was like staring into the Void itself. Without knowing exactly why, Indra approached the hideous tree. As he drew closer, the tree began to distort and deform, like whatever it was that had deformed the tree from the inside became all the more eager to be free with each step. The absolute silence around him made the setting even more unnerving; not even the usual forest sounds of crickets and frogs carried on the night air. Taking a deep breath, Indra stepped into the green flame tentatively, expecting to be burnt, but instead the flame actually chilled him to the bone. The impossibly black tree was undulating with alarming speed now, and it took Indra a few moments to work up the courage to touch the boiling flesh. Indra was thrown back with a jarring impact when his hand contacted the tree. In the recesses of his mind, he heard the ominous sound of a bell clanging, as though some cosmic event had just taken place. The tree began to emit rays of green light as the bark began to separate. A few at first, then gradually more, the rays gradually turned the tree into a beacon of green light until the tree itself was no longer visible. Then, suddenly, the rays cut off, leaving only the green flame and a figure standing where the tree once was. The figure was wearing a hooded cloak of the same black as the tree, the edges of the hood hiding his facial features. The figure was of a slight build, and not exceedingly tall, but the sense of presence the figure carried itself with was overwhelming. It was as if it radiated waves of pure force. And it seemed to be looking right at Indra. “Ah, so good to be free.” Indra instantly recognized the voice as the one that had spoken to him in his quarters back at the temple, outside in the garden, and at the edge of Ebonwood forest. Indra knew he was in the presence of a God. He immediately prostrated himself on the ground before the figure. “My Lord, I am yours to command.” The figure paused a moment before replying. “Please, my child, rise. It does not suit you to be kneeling in the dirt so.” Even if Indra had not been of a mind to comply, he doubted it would be possible to do anything but. He rose, slowly, but kept his eyes averted to the ground. “Indra, look into the face of your God.” He looked up slowly, looking over Kyras’ figure as his eyes rose. The God wore a black, diaphanous shroud, which hung limply from his form and brushed against the ground. The God’s figure was not, had anyone else possessed the same frame, imposing, but the mere presence that Kyras exuded would make the most courageous of men tremble. The thin robe did nothing to expand on the God’s unexceptional frame, but it seemed to lend him a slightly otherworldly quality, almost as if he were a vision brought to one by coalesced dust motes swirling in the wind. The sleeves of the robe were long enough to conceal Kyras’ hands from sight, and they, too, hung limply at his sides. The shroud was drawn up in a cowl around the God’s head. The God’s face was, as was to be expected, flawless. His features were delicately sculpted, as if the entire definition of beauty was derived from the features of the Great Spirit. Indra suddenly felt entirely wretched and revolting, that his imperfection was a horrific affront in view of such perfection. Lustrous black hair framed the immaculate face, and though inside the shroud, seemed to be of shoulder-length. Indra finally steeled himself and looked into Kyras’ eyes. Indra would long try to describe the experience of looking upon a God’s face to others, yet he never fully succeeded in accurately representing what he felt when his eyes met those of his God. When Indra’s gaze drowned in the dark abysses of Kyras’ eyes, his entire being seethed with rapture, the blood in his body flowed with a sense of purpose never before experienced. It was as if, for a brief second, Kyras imparted just an inkling of the omnipotence and immortality that a God was charged with. Indra’s spirit felt as if it had swelled outside his body, that it was part of the world around him, and he felt the enlightenment of that extraordinary awareness. “Indra, tell me how you feel of Velnias.” Indra pondered the question; what should he tell the God? The truth? That would probably upset him, Indra reasoned. Velnias was in a position of high authority at the temple; he probably held it for a reason. But, on the other hand, Indra had no doubts that Kyras would be able to tell if he was lying, and perhaps he should just speak his hateful truth about Velnias. “Velnias…is a hard master,” Indra stammered. Kyras watched him for a moment before responding. “I will not be upset to hear your true feelings.” Indra was right; Kyras could pick the thoughts right from his head. “I hate Velnias. I hate him boundlessly. Words can’t even express the loathing I feel for that man.” To be continued….. Wow. Hasta.

^ top-Argus The Golem [Eric] November 8 - 6:13 PM EST

This story was submitted to me a little over a week ago, and apparently I must've missed it in my e-mail box. Basically, it's a story that displays the various aspects to creating and owning a golem, which I think was written very nicely. Enjoy. Hail, My name is Tatton Parch, guild mule, and faithful follower of Dead Sun guild on Atlantic. I have long since mastered the art of tinkering and had heard tale of a new craftable creature. I said to myself, "Craftable creature? Why, that's preposterous!" After a week or so of growing tales of metallic creatures roaming the lands, I started to believe the myth and actually get a little excited about the findings. Since I myself do not get out of the guild shop much, I sent forth guildmember Nard Commonfoot to seek out some information for me. Unfortunately, Nard isnt the brightest of people, and came back with only a large, and rather heavy, clockwork assembly. After messing with the contraption for what seemed like days...I was at a standstill. I had found that by using some iron ingots, of which I do not know the quanity of, considering I carry around 200 at all times, 50 bronze ingots, and 5 gears....I still needed something else. Something to give this creature life....a heart of sorts. Nard looked at me puzzled, and reached into his pack....what appeared before me was a beautiful crystal glowing the bluest of blues, and for a moment, I almost lost myself in it. He said, "Would this help? I mean, I was going to keep it cause it's pretty." I sighed a little, and gave him a reassuring smile and replied, " That may be the answer, and thank you for offering it to me Nard." He reluctantly handed over the crystal and smiled back. He said he could always get more, as he rubbed the bruises on his face. I felt no remorse. I immediately started to work, and after almost 7 hours of constant tinkering, I created my first Iron creature....the creature people in the lands were calling, Golems. I had heard of their power, and saw from Nard's tattered armor (sigh, yet another job to do tomorrow) that they had given him quite a run for his gold. I set forth to test their power and try to discover more about them. After almost 20 minutes of meditation, I finally was able to gate the golem, of which I had named Argus, and myself to the cave south of my home town of Skara Brae. Since dabbling slightly in magery, enough to move ore easily from cave to home, I was able to cast higher level spells, but lacked the concentration to do them often. I set forth on my quest into the dungeon known as Destard. I had never been here, and did not know what lied inside, but I was destined to find out. Casting light on myself, I entered, and prayed. Argus followed orders well, but he seemed to only be doing my bidding, not actually listening, and I almost wanted to believe him real, not metal. Inside the cave, Argus jumped into battle without hesitation, and engaged a Drake....a medium sized dragon without magic abilities I read somewhere. I stood in awe as Argus bashed and mauled the Drake like it was pudding. Even though Argus was taking damage, I still could not get over his grace as he fought. I began to meditate for the gate home....... That's when I noticed, I had no mana...0 As if I had not been resting the whole time....Argus bashed, the drake bit back, and I started to lose health. I felt weak, and my first thought was to leave. I am an extremely well built man, all due to the skills of my trade, and I knew I could take it....all for the wisdom, I would take it. Then I reached almost 1/5 health...I was starting to worry....Argus was hurt and so was I, yet I was no where near the Drake. I swiftly called Argus to follow me, and ran outside the cave to collect my thoughts....not many were left. It seems to me, that when Argus was hit, my mana was draining, and if all my mana was gone, my health would suffer every blow Argus took. I was able to repair Argus with ingots and my tinker tools, but I myself had no mana to heal. The situation could have been bad, and I was lucky to leave alive. I wish I could say that Argus and I would be lifetime friends, but I walked him to Skara Brae, trying to get him to carry me didn't work, and asked the stablemaster to watch him for me. Knowing I would never see Argus again, I wiped my brow, and headed back to the workshop. I think I will stick to the shop from now on, dungeons are best left for people like Nard. Perhaps I could sell these creatures as protection for fellow miners, but I do not see the profit....and besides, I have to make Nard more armor...he is eager to get another "pretty" crystal. Fare thee well, and stay within your limits. If you go beyond your limits, you may just succeed. -Tatton Parch Thanks for submission, Tatton. :) Cya later.