This, it seems, is a story of Shyriath's travels...
Chapter One: Innocence of a Child
Chapter Two: History of a People
Chapter Three: Chaining of a Prisoner
Chapter Five: Capture of a Flock
Chapter Six: Death of a Family
Chapter Seven: Dreams of a Cat
Chapter Eight: Trial of a Meeting
Chapter Nine: Love of Two Hearts
Interlude: Rantings of the Mad
To be continued...
By Shyriath
A sound interrupted the still quiet of the woods. There would be no mistaking it for a natural sound, even by the inexperienced; it would be a familiar noise to most civilized beings, had any been passing beneath the thick canopy, which there wasn't. No one came this way, or so it was said; strange beings lived in these woods, where the roof of leaves was so thick as to plunge the forest floor into darkness, even at noon. And so, no one was present as a witness to the noise of these "strange beasts".
One of the young dragons, covered from the neck down in dark gray robes, barked his shrill laugh through the trees again, scaring the local wildlife. He called out, "Come on, Kyprath! You know I'll find you eventually." There was no answer, but the dragon knew his brother was here, watching him even now. Closing his eyes, the robed dragon slowly turned his head from left to right, using his mind-sight to detect Kyprath. He could've just used their link, of course, but that would be cheating.
He continued to search, but could find nothing... unless... wait! Yes, there he was, camouflaging himself under a pile of leaves. And doing a good job, too; he'd slowed down his own heart and breathing rates so much, even the mind-sight almost hadn't found him. The robed dragon exulted silently, then slowly faded into invisibility, creeping up on Kyprath as stealthily as he could. Approaching within a few feet of the pile with no sign of response from his brother, he pounced straight ahead...
...And right into the grip of his brother, who suddenly burst out of the pile of leaves faster than the robed dragon had thought possible. Hissing and growling, the brothers wrestled and knocked each other around on the dirty forest floor, mock-clawing and mock-biting each other. After a time, the robed dragon, now breathing very hard and obviously exhausted, cried hoarsely, "Enough, Kyprath... I can't breathe..."
Kyprath looked at his brother quizzically. "We weren't fighting all that hard, Shyriath." His glum tone changed to one of worry. "You know, it seems to me that you've been rather weak lately. Are you ill?"
Shyriath got up onto his two clawed feet and shook his head. He began walking alongside his brother toward the edge of the dark forest. "No, I'm not sick... Navrinath said it's because I'm Davir Sria, like him and Father. He says that both of them became weaker early on." The young dragons walked out of the deep shadows and into the light, where they became visible. Both dragons were primarily green, a shiny, almost metallic green, and were also both about six hundred years old, the equivalent of late teenhood. The younger Kyprath was a handsome, cheerful dragon with piercing golden eyes. His face showed a bright personality and a sense of well being. He appeared to be in rather good health, his young body wiry and strong.
The other one, Shyriath, was slightly shorter than his brother, and also much thinner, though older than Kyprath by a few seconds. Both his left limbs were somewhat atrophied and weak, though he seemed to have no trouble moving about. But perhaps the most prominent features of the robed dragon were his eyes, eerie, glowing, seemingly crystalline blue eyes that sparkled with interest in the world around him, and a series of large, blotchy, black, burnlike marks on the left side of his face and body, looking like some kind of diseased growth. But despite his decrepit form, his expression betrayed no less of an enthusiasm than his brother's did.
"You mean you're going to keep getting worse?" queried Kyprath. "Even Navrinath doesn't have it as bad as you do now. How much farther is this supposed to go?"
Shyriath looked at his brother as he replied. "Not much, I hope. It's slowing down even now; within the next few months, I'll have reached my worst, and then at least I'll know I've been through my worst."
Kyprath said nothing more, but despite his attempt to hide it, he was obviously still worried about his brother, and Shyriath knew it. He sent a reassuring message through their mindlink. ~Father and Navrinath survived this, and so can I. Don't worry about it. It'll pass once I'm done growing, and once my magic takes full hold, I'll be able to protect myself from trouble.~ His telepathic voice became softer. ~You can't spend your whole life fretting over me, Kypra. I'll be fine; we all will. You'll see.~
Kyprath nodded somberly, though still uncertain, and the two brothers unfurled their wings and took to the air, flying toward their home. Little did they know that several pairs of glowing red eyes, peeking out from the underbrush of the forest, witnessed their leave-taking...
For nearly fifty thousand years, the Davir Sria had existed, as had their counterparts, the Davir Kaea. Few outside observers were able to define either of them, precisely, although there were not really many doing any observing to begin with.
Even then, most of the observers weren't interested in explaining the two Chosen races, only watching them for signs of suspicious activities. No sane being would be unsuspecting of treachery by the Chosen, or so the elders of the dragon clans said. Beings with that much power couldn't be trusted, especially the Davir Sria. Unlike the Davir Kaea, who were at least honest about their destructive tendencies, the Davir Sria were smooth-tongued serpents, preaching unity and peace, claiming nothing but good intentions when they were clearly power-hungry (if somewhat weak) creatures. This, at least, was the general opinion of most local dragons. The truth, however, was rather more complex.
The Chosen had come into existence some fifty millennia before, though no one is precisely sure why. A genetic mutation, said some; a supernatural event, said the majority of the Chosen themselves, who supported the legend which claimed that the Chosen had been created to preserve Nature's Balance. Whatever their origin, the two races had become a powerful force on the warm world of Avishraa. Though small, weak, and deformed compared to the their more normal brethren, they were possessed of amazing magical power over Order and Chaos. Governing themselves by strict codes of morals and behavior, the Davir Sria and Davir Kaea strove to ensure that Order and Chaos were balanced on their world.
Near the end of those fifty thousand years, however, a strange revolution took place within the ranks of the Davir Kaea. An extremist group, the Hzataalar Kaea, began to advocate the idea that the existence of Order was a crime against the Universe, as Chaos had existed first; thus, the Balance should be destroyed, and all Order and its manifestations should be removed from existence. To achieve this end, they embraced the power of Chaos so fully that it consumed their minds and drove them insane.
Denounced by their brethren, they fled into hiding, using their newfound power to travel to another dimension, where the ruler of an empire of evil sheltered them. From this new base they spread rumors and lies about the Chosen among the populace of Avishraa, fomenting prejudice and forcing both Srian and Kaean alike to withdraw into their respective citadels and remain cut off from each other... and the populace was all too happy to think that the austere, mysterious Chosen had bad intentions.
As the Hzataalar Kaea watched and waited, trying to convert the Davir Kaea to their cause, they also began to experiment with their powers. Eventually, they managed to cure themselves of the physical weaknesses that plagued them. They began to think of themselves as being superior to the genetic stock of the Chosen, and offered this superiority to the Davir Kaea, converting enough of their number to make the rest vulnerable to attack. Soon enough, the Davir Kaea were no more, and the unholy creatures had turned their sights to the Davir Sria.
Despising the servants of Order as actively blocking their purpose (and secretly hating them being the last remnants of their "inferior" genetic past) the Hzataalar Kaea, who soon realized they could never convert the morally upright, order-loving dragons, instead turned to the murder of innocents to draw the Davir Sria out of hiding and kill them one by one. And so, eventually, the Davir Sria civilization too was destroyed. But some escaped, and bred, and the Hzataalar Kaea knew it. The evil creatures had searched and searched for the last few.
And now, they had found them...
Shemrath looked on placidly from the cave mouth as the brothers alighted nearby. She feels the effects of Shyriath's recent exertions through their mindlink, and admonishes, "You know you're not supposed to be straining yourself, Shyria. Davir Sria are not noted for their endurance, and I imagine it won't take much to cause permanent damage..."
"Yes, mother, I know. I'm sorry." Shyriath's tone was impatient, but still subdued. He added, "Are Father and Navrinath home?"
She nodded. "Yes, they are back. They're in the den, if you want to see them." Shyriath ran off to the cave chamber used as the den, pausing only to embrace his mother briefly. As he passed out of sight, Kyprath commented telepathically, ~It was mostly my fault, mother. I shouldn't have...~
~It's all right,~ she sent back. ~He wasn't hurt badly. But be careful; you MUST remember that he, and your father, and Navrinath are far more fragile than we are. Davir Sria are rare...~ She curled herself around three eggs that were nestled against her underbelly. ~And there may soon be more to watch out for.~
Meanwhile, as Shyriath approached the den, he heard Navrinath's voice. "The theory is logically sound, and the matrix of the crystal would provide a proper receptacle. But I don't think it's a good idea."
As Shyriath walked in, he saw Haazrath saying, "But think of it, Navrina! A single Davir Sria can produce only so much Order-energy. If the crystal can drain it all away, then the distorting effect of the energy will be locked in the crystal, allowing the Davir Sria to go to a more normal state! No Davir Sria would ever..." He turned toward his son Shyriath. Were it not for the slight difference in dark markings and facial lines, and the telltale signs of age, one might almost have mistook the father for the son; his expression shifted to a draconic smile mirroring Shyriath's. "Well, well. Finally back?"
Shyriath dipped his head in a quick gesture of familial respect, and replies, "Yes, tel-ssi," referring to him by the term for "my father" in the Ancient Tongue. "We were out holding a game of hide-and-hunt."
He paused, then added, in a subdued voice, "Father, I only tired out in a few seconds. Will I ever get stronger again?"
It was Navrinath who replied. Like the other two, he was weak and had black patches upon his scales, but was blue instead of green, and the weariness of age was most visible with him. "You will eventually become stronger. Your body is storing up energy for your second manifestation. When it comes, your magic will release itself in one mighty burst, and you will gain in magical skill from then onward; your strength too will return in time."
Shyriath looked somewhat skeptical, but accepted his teacher's judgement; Navrinath, it seemed to him, was always right. He said to them, "Father, Navrina, I am going to go out hunting for supper."
The statement drew obvious concern from the older dragons. Haazrath warned, "You are still weak, my son. It would not be a good idea. You should let one of us do it."
Shyriath gave them a look full of youthful impetuousness. "I'm strong enough," he remarked boastfully. "I'll bring back the largest buck you ever saw!" With that, he dashed out of the den, past his mother and brother and out the cave mouth. The decrepit dragon unfurled his wings, and took flight, moving as quickly as possible so that his family wouldn't try and drag him back. "Too weak?" he thought. "I can still be helpful, and I'll prove it. I'll show them I..."
Then pain exploded through his consciousness. There was a flash of light, then all went dark.
He heard speech in the darkness. "Ret'jek'seh neh'u i'Davir Sria? Jek'seh alaki teyr'seh, ku saaseram'seh." A female voice. Young, though not very; probably slightly older than Shyriath himself. It was filled with surprise, and perhaps a slight trace of pity. The groggy Shyriath struggled to sort out the words of the Ancient Tongue in his mind. She had said, "THIS is a Davir Sria? It is so small, and weak."
He heard a voice reply, also in the Ancient Tongue, "Its kind are all weak. I told you they were animals; now you see for yourself." The voice, a male one this time, was cold, almost indifferent... and yet a tiny bit hateful. He continues, "Your brother should be here for this, Zanareth... he would love to see our triumph finally carried out."
The female voice returned, "He can't come, Father. He's back home, renegotiating with the Lady..."
The male voice snarled, "Do not refer to her as the Lady! She is not our master. Once we have the other Davir Sria, we will finally be able to turn our energies toward ridding ourselves of her." The voice took on a disgusted tone. "We are Hzataalar Kaea. We will not be ruled; WE are the rulers. All you should desire for now is the Return to Chaos, and the destruction of THESE filthy creatures." Shyriath felt something strike him hard in the side, causing him to cry out. "You see?" continued the voice. "It even screams like an animal."
Shyriath opens one of his eyes. Two bronze dragons were standing over him. The large male, apparently the one who had just spoken, was looking down on him with a horrible grin on his face. The female, keeping off to the side, seemed to be trying to keep her face neutral, but was clearly agitated. Both had glowing red eyes. "Hzataalar Kaea?" whispered Shyriath, feeling a slow terror creep up his spine; he struggled to get up, only to find his wrists and ankles bound. These were among the beings that had slaughtered every last Davir Sria, adult or child, except for a very few which had quickly dwindled to only Haazrath and Navrinath. He tried to put some spirit into himself, snarling, "What do you want with me?" "Your death, O Animal That Speaks, your death. A very slow, tortuous, painful one at that." The male's grin seem even to make his daughter sick; her scales turned a distinctly grayish color and she turned away, taking deep breaths. The male, seeming not to notice, said, "You may refer to me, when I allow you to do so at all, as Mortoth. This is my daughter Zanareth." Shyriath is about to speak again when Mortoth adds, "And don't tell me your name. As far as I am concerned, you don't have one. Who names a nonsentient being? "You are no more than an animal here." Mortoth's face looms closer. "Remember that. You are not a true sentient. You cannot feel true emotion, only instinctual responses. You may think you feel, but you don't." As he went through his monologue, the Hzataalar Kaea ensured that Shyriath did not speak by starting a new sentence every time he had attempted to say something. "And it is our duty, as sentient beings, to put you in your proper place." Shyriath had no idea which idea astonished him more; the identity of the creatures that had captured him, or this Mortoth's ridiculous statements. He screeched, "Then get on with it, if you're going to kill me! Break my bones; scatter my organs all over the place! What's wrong, you afraid?" Mortoth was, apparently, not impressed. He merely kicked Shyriath again and replied mildly, "Oh, don't worry, we'll get to you soon enough. But we have to get all of you, you know, to make sure one of you doesn't escape and breed…" His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden appearance of a spherical ball of energy in the air. Mortoth grinned, uttered a short spell, and the globe abruptly altered shape and color, taking on the image of a bronze dragon, only slightly shorter than Mortoth and with a nasty grin even scarier than the larger male's. The semi-transparent image turned and bowed slightly to Mortoth. "Father," he acknowledged. He turned then to Zanareth and bowed ridiculously low to her. "O Great, Mighty and Spoiled Little Sister; how nice to see you!" Ignoring her sputtering protest, the grinning image turned once more to Mortoth. "And how, may I ask, are things going? Slaughtered any vermin yet?" Mortoth laughed heartily. "Ah, my son… you always enjoyed that, didn't you? No, we haven't yet, but we do have one." He gestured at Shyriath, prompting the image to turn his head in the Davir Sria's direction. The image walked forward to get a better look. Bending its head downward, the image's red eye took on an insane gleam. "Marvelous," remarked the hologram, "Another one to kill. I never thought I'd get the chance again." It remarks to Shyriath, "Know my name, creature; I am Zadireth." He laughs sharply. "I only wish I could really be there to take a bite from that weak flesh of yours." Sighing in regret, Zadireth returned his gaze to his father. "I believe, Father, that the so-called 'Lady' will not be very amenable to our requests. She is demanding a good bit more this time. Perhaps it is well that this whole Davir Sria business will be wrapped up soon, so that we may all return to Avishraa and get on with OUR business." He looked behind him, presumably at something near his location, and quickly said, "She is coming. I'll check back again soon." With that, the image disappeared. Mortoth nodded, and said to Zanareth, "Gather the others, daughter. Now we will go to find the other Davir Sria and destroy them once and for all." Shyriath cried out, "No! You mustn't! No…" but was silenced by yet a third kick to the side. Mortoth grumbled, "Don't whine. All you do is make me grouchy and less likely to be merciful." A sudden grin lit up his face. "But, since you are so concerned, why don't we take you along with us? That way, you can watch what we do to them and tell us what we're doing wrong. We won't listen, but you can complain anyway." His grin suddenly seemed to turn into a grisly mask of evil, and he gestured at someone behind Shyriath. Before Shyriath was even able to look around, he felt a force slam into his head from behind, and all went dark once more; the last thing he sees is Mortoth's horrid visage, sharp teeth gleaming, the red eyes smoldering pits of madness… Chapter Five: Capture of a Flock Shemrath was getting worried. Almost frantic, in fact, although she didn't show it outwardly. She stroked the surface of one of her three eggs, trying to reassure herself that Shyriath was all right. After all, what could happen on a simple hunting trip? She stared out of the mouth of the cave at the forest landscape, which was becoming harder to see in the diminishing daylight. She squinted as hard as she could, but saw no sign of her son. Sighing, she gathered the eggs up and placed them in a bundle of cloth lying nearby. Slowly rising to her feet, she began to carry the bundle inside; it wasn't good for them to be exposed to cold night air. She was about twenty feet inside when she heard a faint tap, like the sound of a claw on stone. Shemrath put the bundle down carefully and cautiously went back towards the entrance. It was probably Shyriath, but there were still a number of dragons who had thought that merely leaving the clan hadn't been enough, that Shyriath deserved to die simply because he had hatched weak and deformed, the wretches. Slowly poking her head outside, she reached out with her mind, searching for her son's mental imprint. She felt him nearby, and she smiled. It must have been him after all. But then again, there seemed to be something odd about the imprint, as if he were... asleep? She heard another tap behind her, and quickly whirled around, only to see a black-cloaked visage shimmer into existence. More of them, all with glowing red eyes burning beneath their hoods, appeared only seconds later, and, all at once, leapt at the shocked mother dragon, who only barely managed to get out a scream before a sharp blow sent her plunging into darkness... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "Navrinath, I'm telling you this will work! The experiments prove I'm right!" Haazrath pleaded. The older dragon returned, "It comes at too high a price, Haazrath. To want to make Davir Sria normal dragons is all well and good, but not if you have to take their magic away to do it. That is what makes us what we are!" "So you say, but…" A sudden scream, coming from above, split the air. Both dragons looked at each other, then left their work and ran out of the den. They nearly ran into Kyprath, who had also heard the scream and was dashing from his chamber. "Come, hurry!" yelled Haazrath. Shemrath was the only one not present; she HAD to be the source of the scream. If anyone had hurt her... But his thoughts were suddenly cut short as several cloaked figures appeared directly in front of them. Navrinath and Haazrath, both Davir Sria, both knew who and what these creatures were. Almost instantly, Haazrath yelled, "DOWN, KYPRA!" Haazrath and Navrinath began chanting simultaneously, causing bluish spheres of energy to appear between them and the cloaked beings. The invaders, apparently expecting this, chanted also, and began shooting shafts of crimson energy from their hands that dissolved the globes without difficulty. The beams also slammed into the Davir Sria, knocking them flat. Kyprath, observing these events with shock, could only turn and run… only to be hit also, the magical energy sizzling through his system, bringing unconsciousness down on him with sudden swiftness... Chapter Six: Death of a Family Shyriath awakened outside his family's cave, still bound; unfortunately, it was to the sight of Mortoth's hateful glare again. He wondered if he'd EVER manage to get away from this pompous, racist eater-of-bad-fish.... Apparently, Shyriath had not been hiding his thoughts well enough. Mortoth chose that moment to grin wider and jerk his head slightly to the right; almost immediately after, Shyriath felt something snap in his chest. He howled in pain, then managed to silence himself. Mortoth merely barked in laughter, then gestured toward a group of figures huddling nearby; they were not easily discernible in the low light. Seeing that Shyriath could not make out who they were, he gestured at a black-cloaked dragon nearby. The cloaked one nodded (Shyriath knew he nodded by the glowing red eyes bobbing up and down in the dark), and raised his clawed hand over his head, creating a glowing ball of light in midair. The scene now much clearer, Shyriath could now see the huddled figures. They, apparently, could also see him just as well. "Shyria!" cried Shemrath, bound tightly to Haazrath, Navrinath, and Kyprath with chains. "Thank Avikael you're al- agh!" A cloaked dragon standing guard over the captives slaps her, having raised his hand at the first mention of Avikael. Shyriath tried to spring free, but could not break his own bindings. "Mother!" he called, as if the mere act would bring her within reach. Mortoth chuckled to himself. "Isn't that nice? All the family together again." His face became serious. He looked to one of his attendants. "We'll begin now." The attendant bowed and went off to pick up a large, heavy sledgehammer-like object. Meanwhile, Mortoth raised his voice to make an announcement to the various gathered cloaked dragons, of which there were about a hundred or so in all. "My friends... my conquerors. Hear me!" The crowd, already quiet, falls into utter silence. "For centuries we have schemed and plotted, seeking to destroy something. And not just any something, but a symbol. A symbol of laxity, of waste, of stagnant unchanging. Of ORDER." The Hzataalar Kaea hissed collectively. "This symbol is the Davir Sria, our mortal enemies, the embodiment of all we rightly despise." A louder hiss. "And, until now, we have had to be content with hiding in another dimension, forced to accept Dragonpaws' rule, waiting for the day when we could return and claim our world for Chaos. "That day has arrived! For here, assembled in our midst, is the last surviving Davir Sria bloodline! Today, we shall terminate the last refuge of their filthy blood! We shall cleanse our world of their poisonous thought! There will be no more narrow escapes for them; this time, their destruction shall be FINAL!" A cheer rose up from the Hzataalar Kaea. "And now, we begin. One by one, we shall kill them all, so that no vestige of their memory remains." All the prisoners cried out as one in protest, but were not even noticed among the cheering. The acolyte who had retrieved the sledgehammer earlier then handed it to Mortoth. The lord of the Hzataalar Kaea bellowed, "Bring forth the eggs!" Responding quickly and silently to their lord's command, several of the cloaked figures brought forth a cushion with Shemrath's eggs still nestled upon it. He carefully picked up each one and laid it on a flat stone nearby, ignoring the pleas he heard from Shemrath. "No, please... not my babies... what are you doing, stop..." He seemed to not even notice. He looked around, as if to make sure that there were no more eggs to be had. And then, slowly, torturingly, he raised the hammer above his head... Shyriath would never forget the moment. He had tried to stop the crazed dragon, tried to assault Mortoth's twisted mind. He had done his best to cause the dragon lord's muscles to seize up, only to fail to fight his iron will. He had tried to cause his sympathy to stop him from committing his horrible deed, only to discover that Mortoth had nothing but contempt in his heart for the "tainted" contents for the eggs. And so, Shyriath could only watch as the hammer swung slowly down, down, down... There was a loud crack, the sound of something splitting and caving in on itself, and then a wail of dismay from the anguished Shemrath. Shyriath could only barely see the others through his own tears, but he felt their sorrow and anger vibrating through him. He could only shut his eyes against the horrible sight of the smashed egg, and could not help but hear as two more cracks sounded several seconds later as Mortoth destroyed the other two eggs. Shemrath's wail pierced the night, mourning the loss of lives that had never had a chance to take place. Only Navrinath, of all the prisoners, had no tears in his eyes, for he had witnessed this and worse before; but his emotions could clearly be seen on his aged face. Mortoth examined the messy head of the hammer. "It only goes to show you, Davir Sria... when the good and righteous preying of the strong upon the weak takes place, nothing is spared. Mates die right next to each other, elders and adolescents slain alike... and the young shall suffer." Kyprath suddenly snarled in anger. "You worthless, parasitic, dung-eating scavenger! May your eggs spawn worms and your blood rot in its veins!" This had been made up of most of the worst insults one could give to a dragon of this world, but Mortoth, as always, merely sneered. The Hzataalar Kaea turned away from the angry youth, not even favoring him with a glance. Then, however, Kyprath suddenly twisted around, and leaped free of the chains. He jumped onto Mortoth's back, biting into the bronze's shoulder. Mortoth, obviously surprised, reached back with one hand, trying to grab at Kyprath, but not managing to reach him. "Get him off me, fools!" He yelled to the stunned Hzataalar Kaea. Several of the cloaked dragons sped into action, jumping at Kyprath and knocking the green off their lord's back. Mortoth, bleeding badly from wounds on his back and shoulder, hissed nastily. "You... you miserable…" He grabs the large hammer. "Hold him," he commands his subordinates. "But keep yourselves out of the way." He hefts the hammer, aims a hateful look at Kyprath, then quickly brings the hammer around and swings it at the youth's head... It felt as if something had slammed into Shyriath's mind. Blood roared in his ears, red clouded his vision. He felt as though part of his brain had been ripped away, taking his memories, his personality, his very life with it. He felt sick, so horribly sick. He wanted to die, he was so miserable. Shyriath knew, without even looking, that Kyprath was dead, the deeply entrenched mindlink they'd shared gone, and bits and pieces of Shyriath himself with it. And he knew also that all the others felt exactly as he did. Time seemed to speed up in Shyriath's perception. He felt two more wrenches as Navrinath and Shemrath died, though he could no longer see or hear anything but his pain. And yet, though he thought his torture had reached its limits, with each wrench his pain only increased. And then, there was one final jerk as Haazrath was torn away, though Shyriath thought he could hears two words come from him before the mindlink was uprooted... "...the jewel..." And then he was alone. Emotionally, mentally, he was alone, without the support that all of his kind wanted and needed to remain alive. The realization suddenly brought anger to him. Suddenly, power seemed to flow through him, power that he had never felt before. He remembered what he had been told about his second manifestation, realized what he was capable of, then as never before, and uttered a single cry, with his mind as well as his voice, even as he sensed his captors coming to kill him, as they'd done to the rest... "IT IS YOU WHO SHALL DIE THIS DAY!" He felt the power rush out of him, felt an immense heat blast away at his seemingly distant physical body... and then silence... Chapter Seven: Dreams of a Cat T'chiss Rrreaowrakht approached the edge of the cliff slowly, carefully, as the glaring sun of the world of Hariss sank dismally beneath the horizon, transforming the desert sky to a beautiful mosaic of red, orange, and gold. T'chiss peered over the edge, into The Desolation, that had been here for nearly three generations, ever since the arrival of the Dark One. The Desolation itself was a vast crater, nearly two miles wide, whose floor was smooth as glass and just as reflective. The legends had said that the Dark One had actually made it upon its arrival; young T'chiss never doubted it. Some thought that none but the gods themselves could make such a thing; but he knew that even mere mortals had such power, for he was one of such beings. The Hssta made his way around the lip of the crater, toward the area where the slope was most manageable. Like all Hsstarra, he was built very much like a cat, except with barbs running along his spine, an upright stance, and (though less visible to the eye) a venom gland in his mouth that would paralyze most prey animals without a problem. He carried a number of weapons, including a long knife and bow-and-arrows. Yet, even with these formidable defenses, he feared the Dark One. No sane Hssta did not. Not because the he was particularly aggressive, for he was not; indeed, the Dark One preferred to hide from potential conversationalists, rather than fight them. Nor was he evil, for the term "Dark One" referred more to the blackness on his soul than anything else. But one thing he had above all else that made him so feared... He had POWER. This was not the sort of power that the chieftains had over their clans; this was the power to affect nature through the force of mind. Few Hsstarra ever developed this ability; those who did usually ended up being more trouble than they were worth. T'chiss himself had some ability, although it was relatively small. And it was only this which lent him the bravery to seek the Dark One, for without that power he might not survive the encounter to come. No one ever knew what terrible energy the Dark One might accidentally unleash in a moment of emotional turmoil. T'chiss had now entered the crater. The last of the waning light caught his light tan body briefly, and then vanished, signaling with sudden quickness the coming of nightfall. Reaching back with a clawed hand, he removed a book and a quill pen from the hrrkaa-skin pouch he wore on his back. Opening the empty book, holding the pen at the ready, he closed his eyes, reached out with his latent abilities, and waited for the Dream. Ever since the Dark One had arrived, adventurous Hsstarra had attempted to seek him out, coming late in the day and planning to leave early to the morning to avoid traveling the blistering noonday sun; they spent the night there skulking around in search of the strange being. Some had come to speak to him; some had come to observe him. Some had even attempted to kill him. Few, however, had ever returned, for it was at night that the Dark One's power expressed itself, as it slept. The unimaginable energies locked within it had no restraint while it was sleeping, and had often trapped those too close to the Dark One into a trance state, where they experienced its dreams firsthand. And only a few had survived, for the trance had often lasted long enough to leave the victim starved and dead. The survivors were usually left useless to society after that; though they never remembered what it was they saw in the Dream, it was definitely something so horrifying that it destroyed their personalities. T'chiss knew this was dangerous. He had made all the preparation he could; he had eaten shortly before going down into the Desolation, and had attempted to train himself to retain some control over himself during the dreams; now, he could only hope that it was enough. For he was going to attempt what no other had done before... he would write down what he saw as it occurred, so that the knowledge would be retained forever. And he would soon have his chance, for at that precise moment the Dream began.... The young Shyriath is still traumatized, even after all this time. Ten years have passed since his family died. He can still remember what it had been like when he woke up; it had felt as if he were suddenly blind. No, rather that he could still see, but that all the light had been taken away by some vast darkness weighing heavily on his mind. His inner warmth had been gone, leaving behind an empty shell fueled by his own grief. Even the deaths of the Hzataalar Kaea had not fulfilled him. He had been shocked (and slightly satisfied) to see that all the evil creatures present had been flash-fried by the burst of energy he'd released, including Mortoth... although his daughter, Zanareth, seemed to have left before the incident. But none of that, of course, could bring his family back, and he had soon realized that. His scales slowly turned from pure green to a pale whitish-green, and fell off entirely too often; the damage caused by the sudden removal of his family's bonds had cracked his mind, leaving his emotions free to affect his health. Then Avikael had entered his life. Shyriath had heard much about the Spirit of Order from Navrinath, but had never actually met her before. She managed to convince him to begin studying the Davir Sria culture. He had complied, mainly because he felt it was his duty to take up the tradition that Navrinath and Haazrath had followed. Despite this, however, the young green remembered well Navrinath's warnings. "Remember this well, young one, when you meet her, for you will eventually. Avikael is a being that has existed since before our history began, when dragons still dwelled in the waters of Ancienthome. Being the embodiment of Order, she absolutely loves things to be organized and planned; but her love goes deeper than this, for it is Order on which she feeds. Her strength grows or diminishes in proportion to the orderliness in the Universe. "And this is why we exist, despite all the old legends about her creating us out of love. She made us because we would be a source of power to her. Not only that, but unlike most other makers of Order, we could be controlled. Remember, Avikael is an expert at manipulation. She has a talent to convince others to do what she wants, and does it without shame, for she believes it is for the greater good. And you would do well to keep that in mind; she is mortally afraid that our kind will die out, for it will be ages before she can remake another species in the way she did to us. And it means she will ensure we survive, even if it means using us in ways we don't want." Shyriath had remembered, all throughout his years of study. Nearly ten years he had spent in the great Citadel of Life, now empty of Davir Sria. He had absorbed and memorized everything he could, and, at Avikael's encouragement, had used magic to store more knowledge as well, condensed in his mind until he had the memory space to deal with it. And then Zadireth had come, that same horrible dragon he'd seen in the hologram so long ago, speaking to Mortoth. He had ambushed Shyriath outside the Citadel, for it seemed that the evil bronze couldn't enter the place. That fact had been the only thing to save Shyriath; he had managed to get inside the gate and shut it before Zadireth had been able to hurt him too badly. That was when he'd known it was time to leave. He had packed a bunch of things, including his father's strange jewel, in some pouches, and then dug up an artifact he'd found on a foray through the Citadel. It was a book, apparently written just before the Davir Sria had been slaughtered, and it had the ability to transport a being to another world; the magic words written in the book, which described the world one was going to, were what formed the link. Shyriath, having painstakingly learned the art of making such books, knew that he could make a book linking back to Avishraa if he ever wanted to return, but he doubted he ever would. And with that, he had charged the book with magical energy, to ensure it worked properly (the tale of how the explorer Amnoth had never returned from a dimensional trip was an ancient horror story) and left to the world of Hariss. And, as he went through that portal in space, pain exploded in his mind... T'chiss awoke in his native village some days later. His friends explained to him that he had nearly died as the others had. And, on the whole, T'chiss wished he HAD died. He felt miserable, and didn't know why. But, remembering the book, he searched his pack, found it, and began to read. He read about the extermination of the Davir Sria, he read about Zadireth. He read about how the cruelty of the Hzataalar Kaea had damaged the mind of the Dark One so much, and how Avikael's thirst for energy had lead her to create and manipulate beings who should've been free to choose their own destiny. He now knows what it was that had caused the others to go mad after experiencing the Dream. It had not been the images themselves that were horrifying, but the knowledge that such hatred and twisted thoughts, unknown on this world, really did exist, and that they could and would destroy all that they touched. How would this knowledge affect his people? Would they begin to hate one another as well? Would the clans, now merely friendly rivals for water and food, begin to try to exterminate one another? Closing the book, he emerged from the hut where he had been recuperating and slowly walked to the community firepit. He stared into the dancing flames for a time, not moving, and then he threw the book in. Glancing at the night sky that seemed now to hold so much horror for him, he turned and walked away as the book burned. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Shyriath stared into the same night sky. He had been fully aware that T'chiss had experienced his dream, and he now he wonders what to do. "If I stay, I will only make it worse for these beings," he says aloud. Spending so many years by himself, he often finds it comforting to speak to himself. "Perhaps... it is time to move on." Removing a large brown book from one of his many pouches, he opens it to a new page. For years, he had been writing in the book, formulating a spell that would automatically allow him to travel to any world he'd been on, and that would also allow him to travel to relatively nearby worlds he'd never been to. Only recently, he had completed the spell... and it was time to put it to the test. Putting his hand on the page of the book, both he and it vanish. However, he is unaware that his leavetaking had been witnessed. And he did not see the pair of glowing red eyes owned by the watcher...