Post by Loendal on Jan 11, 2014 5:20:22 GMT -5
<< I apologize for the length, and hope you, the reader have the patience 
>>
“Upon Dragons’ Wings” - The Biography of Loendal Draconis Kinistas
To truly begin my story I would of course have to start where it all began. This frail old body of mine lies awaiting my final calling, the spirit within aching for release after all this time. If asked the question ‘Where will you die?’ many years ago I would have sworn it would be under the blade of some sworn enemy, beneath the furling banner of my sovereign. Never would I have thought I would end up lying upon a bed in my own keep and home, slowly agonizing away at the hands of a foul rotting infection that pollutes my system. The constant shaking of my hands and the stubborn, body-wracking coughs make the script difficult to pen.
As I said, I must begin where it all begins, at my birth and childhood. It seems so long ago now, those 5 decades. And my memory is foggy at best. My father, Lowenthal, was a hard-working laborer of some merit in his field. When a wall was need of building, it was his name that would first come to the lips of those in need. One boast my father was always proud to make was his archways and portals. He took them very seriously, so much so as to the point of insanity at times. A local story tells of how he ordered an entire wall taken down so that the blemish in his archway could be repaired. Perhaps it is this mentality that gives me my hard stubborn streak. As I remember him, I see a man standing of modest height and stronger then average build. He owed his strength to the mortar and stone he worked with daily. In his twenty-third year he met my all-too-soon-to-be mother, Adrianne Dolens, the local magistrate’s eldest daughter. A strong beauty she was, her charcoal colored hair bounced around her neck and shoulders, the curls loosely forming a frame around eyes of the subtlest gray-green tones. Many a man tried to win the young lady’s attentions, but my father took the prize in the end. They always told me that their eyes met one summer’s eve when my father was working late on one of his many archways. He was captured into her eyes, so much so as he chiseled a large chunk out of the central piece in his archway, ruining the entire vision my father had been straining to create. She giggled, he cursed quietly, soon bubbling into a chuckle of his own. A man smitten by love tends to overlook tasks such as rebuilding an entire portal. With that simple glance the ‘courtship’ began, and with it, the troubles. He had built his home some distance from the central portions of Eristain, so his privacy was all to easy to come by. Built upon a small hill near the surrounding forest, his four room home was spacious and beautiful to look upon. Maybe that was the lure for my mother, the beauty of the place and the warming her heart felt in his presence. It was only perhaps three months before that lure was taken to a more physical level. I was born on the twenty-forth day in the ninth month of the year. A blustery fall day, a full four months shy of their matrimonial day. I bear no malice towards my mother and father for bearing a bastard son outside the bonds of marriage, but unfortunately the people of Eristain were not quite so forgiving. Father tried his best to keep it all a secret, but how can one hide a pregnant woman’s child? As soon as the people discovered their foible, father’s business waned away rapidly. No one wanted to pay for a child such as I, nor did they want to encourage others to follow my parents’ footsteps and tread upon that questionable domain. He was forced to leave Eristain with mother still recovering from the birth. I was perhaps a month or two old when we made the move. He traveled north to find another place to live with his beloved Adrianne. The first three villages he came upon turned him away shortly after his arrival. Local news travels quickly, especially a ‘scandal’ such as an illegitimate child; such nonsense. Eventually a large town became our new home. A place father could blend into the crowd, vanish into obscurity and begin his work anew. I was now a mere half-year old.
From this point on until my fifth birthday was the same; Father working diligently and silently amongst his peers. Never quite emerging into the open, yet never falling so far into obscurity that his name wasn’t known with the work he did. Mother stayed at home, tending to the usual chores of the housewife. I was entered into schooling and quickly grew to hate it. Education and I have never truly been tight companions; I held to the noble ‘learning by experience’ as opposed to studies. In truth I simply hated thinking that much on a daily basis. My mind was always elsewhere, daydreaming about how one day I would be as good as my father in what he does. How one day I would build a wall and archway so grand my father would stare agape at the mastery. More then once were my thoughts shattered by the solid crack of a switch across my knuckles, bringing me back to the doldrums of reading and numbers. I couldn’t wait for the end of the school day. After our classes were over, what few friends I had and I would wander around town, amazing at the people and the shops. Getting into trouble and doing my best to avoid anything truly criminal was a daily occurrence. I felt safe within the walls of Sundberry, I had faith in the town’s watchmen and guard posts. I admired them. Here they were, simple men no grander then my father, risking the dangers of thieves, muggers, rogue warriors and arrogant knights for a few silver each week. I made a nuisance of myself around them with my idol-worship. Most were kind enough to have patience, others yelled at me and all but shoved me down the street, anxious to get away from the small black-haired boy with the endless stream of questions and daydreams.
I would often return home just before dusk. I can still remember the smell of freshly cooked meat and vegetables wafting out from my windows and stirring up an appetite I didn’t realize I had been neglecting all day long. Sometimes I would get home even before my father did, and I would always lie in ambush for him in the house someplace. I would wait for that weary chuckle and a call of ‘Now where is that boy this time?’. I would spring from my hiding place and pounce upon his back in a bear-hug with my arms and legs around him tightly. He would laugh and carry me over to the kitchen table for our evening meal. I truly miss my father…
As the years went by I grew more and more frustrated with school and learning, yet more and more enthused by the guardsmen. My preoccupation with the guard slowly weaned me away from friends and such, and I grew into a loner by the age of 15. My ‘friends’ were the guardsmen and patrols, and I reveled in their military stories and tales. I took it all as the gods’ honest truth, blinded by my obsession. I never had time for the same things as my old friends had. I attended many a wedding by my 18th year, none of which was my own. I realized then that my calling was not to be a laborer as my father was. I couldn’t bear the thought of settling down into a family and daily job. I needed adventure, I needed danger, I needed to have stories of my own to relate someday. Little did I know how far that obsession with the armed forces would take me, how distant I would travel, how much danger I would face. In retrospect I should have stayed a quiet man behind my father.
Quite against my parents’ advice, I signed on with the local guards at the age of 18 and was sent to Roxen Academy for training. Gods above, if I had known then what I know now of that academy and the training that goes on behind the walls I would have sooner gone off to fell a tree upon myself. Lodging, slim meals and a minor salary were given in return for solid observation of the rules and a mind set upon the training received. However, strict compliance was the only rule. The master says jump, you ask how high and then double it. The Master says good job, you hate yourself for not doing better. The brainwashing that went on there is something I can never erase from my soul. It is a part of me now, it is what makes me who I am and what I became. Though its effects have softened a great deal in the past 30 years, its presence still lingers. I received thorough training in the use of sword, shield, spear, armor and anything else you can think of. I was taught to forge weapons of deadly quality, to create armors of solid build. I was brought into the solid faith and belief that my superiors were omnipotent, even to the point that if I was ordered to slay my own parents I was expected to do so without question or hesitation. I was molded into a soldier before I even knew what was happening. After my training period of 6 months was over, I returned to my parents’ home in full regalia. I bore my sword and shield with pride as I passed the archway into the front yard. There was no smell of freshly cooked food, no smoke curling up from the chimney, nothing I had expected was to be found. I quickly sheathed and shouldered my equipment and rushed inside to find my mothers sunken and hungry face looking towards me, her dress soaked with tears. My father lie upon the bed, barely breathing. They were both thin as a rail from hunger. My meager rations barely kept me alive and fed during my training, but I was a stuffed giant compared to them. Some weeks earlier, father was working when a wall collapsed above him. On instinct he caught the heaviest of the stones and strained his back beyond help. He had been out of work for some weeks and mother could not find work with her limited skills and knowledge. I remember my father reaching up to me from his deathbed. I clasped his skeletal hand tightly in my own and fell to a single knee next to my mother, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall from my eyes. I wanted to weep so badly, but my damnable training would not allow it. My mind screamed out in sadness and anger, but not a sound passed my tightly closed lips as he whispered a few silent words.
“I’m sorry Loendal… Bear me no malice for the situation I leave you and your mother in..I am very proud of you son. So very proud.”
He smiled weakly and squeezed my hand as tight as he could before he turned to my mother and rested his hand against her cheek. He again smiled and slowly closed his eyes, his hand dropping limply over the side of his bed. Mother wailed and buried her face in her dress. I stood up very slowly, fists clenched tightly. I cursed my time away, I cursed my being fed to their hunger, I cursed the wall that fell upon him. I cursed to the Gods above, letting loose the rage within me in silent, quivering anger. Mother pulled the cover slowly up over my father’s face, planting a small kiss upon his cheek one last time and again breaking down into sobs.
The next day we buried my father in the back yard, marking his grave with a frame of stonework bricks that he made our lives with. I even attempted to construct a small archway at his feet, a tribute to his masterful works. I took what money I had remaining from my graduation and gave it to my mother so that she might find food. The academy had trained me to live without food for spans of time, she had no such training. I stayed with my mother through the next month, the guard was kind enough to grant me that time. I used that scant month to teach mother some of the skills I thought she might need. I taught her how to find food should the market fall short, how to defend herself should I not be near and other such simplicities that I found myself taking for granted. I never truly realized how disabling ignorance of such things can be. I left a new dagger with her that I ordered her to keep on her person at all times for safety. I wasn’t about to lose my mother to some vagabond thief that managed to skip past me on watch.
I returned to the academy for my first assignment. My captain was insulted when I refused a simple week’s patrol in exchange for a caravan guard’s position. I wasn’t about to fall short in payment, not when my money was to bring my mother back to health and happiness at home. I wanted as much silver as they would pay me, regardless of the risk involved. I would take my anger out upon anyone foolish enough to accost MY caravan. With a snort of contempt, the Captain put me upon the Southern Route. I was to travel with and protect a Trade Route between Sundberry and Eristain. The captain knew of our past with that village and thought it would be an ample opportunity for me to learn humility in the eyes of my disgraced birth, the bastard that he was. The road spanning that length was frequently traveled, so the Captain thought that a light guard of 6 men on horseback would be enough to deter any form of intrusion. I knew 4 of the other 5 men, the 6th remained a mystery. I wasn’t even sure of his name, and in my bitterness with life at that time, I was in no great hurry to learn it. The only thing that stood out about the young man was his wild mane of hair and silvery eyes. I quickly took command of the others by sheer intimidation and we set off down that fateful southern route.
With me out in front I spread the others out in a diamond formation around the caravan, two to a side and a trailer behind the last of our two wagons. Thomas was the first to notice the movement out in the trees to our left, and he rode up to inform me as quietly as he could, slipping back into place and drawing his sword. The others quickly followed suit and I ordered the driver to pick up speed. Some time passed without problems and we began to relax again, slowing our gait somewhat. Overconfidence lulls the mind into a state of complacency that can prove fatal, as Thomas quickly found out. With a silent rush of wind, an arrow lodged itself into his neck, sending him flying from his horse and under the wheel of the wagon with a sickly crunch. It is a sound one never forgets, even to this day, I cannot forget that crunch, nor the warcrys that bellowed out from the trees shortly thereafter. Somewhere between eight and ten men came scrambling out of the woods, fully intent on taking our caravan. As was our training, we waded into the fray with little thought as the wagon quickly sped away, the silvery eyed man I did not know staying close at it’s side for safety. As the other 3 guards and myself engaged the foe I suddenly felt a stabbing, aching pain in my side. My first real wound; a slash in my side about 3 inches long. It burned with pain, driving me into a rage. I whirled around on my assailant and brought my horse’s bit solidly upside his head, knocking him to the ground. I rode over him, trampling him under my mount’s hooves as I whirled around on another man charging in on my left. I brought my blade down hard, cutting into his shoulder with a splash of red. I did not know where my companions were, I only cared that I slay those that were trying to harm me, lost in the fever of battle completely. I was later told that I was grinning through the entire ordeal, cutting with a loud cry of triumph with each successful strike. Is this something I am proud of? I do not know… It frightens me to think of what I was like then. Before I knew it, the battle was over and one of my fellow guards was dead, bringing our toll to two. Me and my last two comrades were all wounded badly, but a simple phrase left our lips at once; “The Wagon!”. Quickly we rushed down the road, cursing loudly as we came upon the crumpled form of the silvery-eyed man’s horse. Leaping over the carnage we chased on down the road, spotting our wagon speeding on southward in a flurry of dust. We caught up with it quickly and saw him clambering up into the back. I glanced back towards my following companions to be assured of their safety, when I looked back towards the wagon, the other guard was gone. Where he vanished to I haven’t an idea, but we brought the wagon quickly into the next village without further incident. When we had settled down, the adrenaline no longer rushing through us, the pain sunk in. We were battered, bruised and bleeding. Regardless, our caravan was safe…
Upon our return to The Academy, The Captain was furious. Losing three men out of six is inexcusable, even I realized that in my stupidity. But then it sunk in. Three? Only two of ours lie dead.. Who was the third dead? The Silvery-Eyed guardsman never came back apparently, so they assumed him dead. I cared very little, I just wanted my pay. The captain refused me more then half of my dues. Compensation for the lost men he called it. Compensation indeed; his compensation will take food from my mother’s mouth. I was outraged but quickly beaten back into my proper place by a hard backhand across the face from the captain. I brooded in silence for the remainder of that week, each patrol from there on going by without incident.
As the months went on, mother grew healthy again and was even able to learn some skills from the local guilds. Now a full-fledged seamstress, she was able to bring in her own money. She asked me time and time again to stop sending her money from my pay, but I refused. I had gotten used to the slim provisions of the military and the strict regiment of food-as-available as opposed to a regular daily meal. I began to take the longer missions, I would be away from home for months at a time. With such a schedule, the years slip away.
During this period is when my Lord and Master began to communicate with me. Though at that time I had no idea as to what was happening. At first it was troubled sleep. I simply couldn’t get well rested at night. I didn’t know what it was that kept me stirring all night, I only knew that I wasn’t sleeping as well as I should and I was growing more and more agitated because of it. This agitation gave me strength, strength to cut down the enemies of the king, be them man, animal or beast. My reputation as a warrior began to grow and I noticed the strong potential in tournaments. In my weeks away from the military I would seek out competitions for sport and glory. I began to amass a small collection of trophies and awards. My fame spread, but along with it my irritability grew stronger and more persistent. I was beginning to see things in my sleep, visions of great plumes of smoke, bright orange flame and a large shape lost within the smoke. These were the common threads between my dreams each night. I began to enjoy them, I felt the strength there, the odd sense of serenity in that confusion and turmoil, the peace of mind it brought me. Worried that some might think me mad from battle and numerous head wounds, I kept my visions a secret. As time wore on, I returned to Sundberry to claim a vacancy in the captain’s position. My Captain when I was in the academy was longing for retirement and I was eager to accept the position. With my fame and knowledge of the academy under my belt, they placed me into the role hastily and with little thought to my age. I was a mere boy of 25 when I attained the new rank.
My responsibility was no longer the glory hounding of fame and awards, of championships and titles, it was now the training of new recruits. It was now I who told the boys to jump and taught them the way to swing a sword without embarrassing themselves or their fellow guards. With a more relaxed schedule I began to concentrate more upon my secret visions. I wanted to know what they meant, why I was seeing them, who was making me see them. My faith in the gods was shattered by my father’s death, could they be taking revenge for that miscarriage of faith through these disturbing dreams? I had little knowledge of them at all, why would they seek me out for such things? When I slept, I focused myself upon my dreams. I went to sleep in deep meditation, the mind alert while the body rested. When I began to do that, things took a more understandable shape, a form I could recognize and relate to. A form that I had heard legends of, but never witnessed. A form known as Dragon…
>>“Upon Dragons’ Wings” - The Biography of Loendal Draconis Kinistas
To truly begin my story I would of course have to start where it all began. This frail old body of mine lies awaiting my final calling, the spirit within aching for release after all this time. If asked the question ‘Where will you die?’ many years ago I would have sworn it would be under the blade of some sworn enemy, beneath the furling banner of my sovereign. Never would I have thought I would end up lying upon a bed in my own keep and home, slowly agonizing away at the hands of a foul rotting infection that pollutes my system. The constant shaking of my hands and the stubborn, body-wracking coughs make the script difficult to pen.
As I said, I must begin where it all begins, at my birth and childhood. It seems so long ago now, those 5 decades. And my memory is foggy at best. My father, Lowenthal, was a hard-working laborer of some merit in his field. When a wall was need of building, it was his name that would first come to the lips of those in need. One boast my father was always proud to make was his archways and portals. He took them very seriously, so much so as to the point of insanity at times. A local story tells of how he ordered an entire wall taken down so that the blemish in his archway could be repaired. Perhaps it is this mentality that gives me my hard stubborn streak. As I remember him, I see a man standing of modest height and stronger then average build. He owed his strength to the mortar and stone he worked with daily. In his twenty-third year he met my all-too-soon-to-be mother, Adrianne Dolens, the local magistrate’s eldest daughter. A strong beauty she was, her charcoal colored hair bounced around her neck and shoulders, the curls loosely forming a frame around eyes of the subtlest gray-green tones. Many a man tried to win the young lady’s attentions, but my father took the prize in the end. They always told me that their eyes met one summer’s eve when my father was working late on one of his many archways. He was captured into her eyes, so much so as he chiseled a large chunk out of the central piece in his archway, ruining the entire vision my father had been straining to create. She giggled, he cursed quietly, soon bubbling into a chuckle of his own. A man smitten by love tends to overlook tasks such as rebuilding an entire portal. With that simple glance the ‘courtship’ began, and with it, the troubles. He had built his home some distance from the central portions of Eristain, so his privacy was all to easy to come by. Built upon a small hill near the surrounding forest, his four room home was spacious and beautiful to look upon. Maybe that was the lure for my mother, the beauty of the place and the warming her heart felt in his presence. It was only perhaps three months before that lure was taken to a more physical level. I was born on the twenty-forth day in the ninth month of the year. A blustery fall day, a full four months shy of their matrimonial day. I bear no malice towards my mother and father for bearing a bastard son outside the bonds of marriage, but unfortunately the people of Eristain were not quite so forgiving. Father tried his best to keep it all a secret, but how can one hide a pregnant woman’s child? As soon as the people discovered their foible, father’s business waned away rapidly. No one wanted to pay for a child such as I, nor did they want to encourage others to follow my parents’ footsteps and tread upon that questionable domain. He was forced to leave Eristain with mother still recovering from the birth. I was perhaps a month or two old when we made the move. He traveled north to find another place to live with his beloved Adrianne. The first three villages he came upon turned him away shortly after his arrival. Local news travels quickly, especially a ‘scandal’ such as an illegitimate child; such nonsense. Eventually a large town became our new home. A place father could blend into the crowd, vanish into obscurity and begin his work anew. I was now a mere half-year old.
From this point on until my fifth birthday was the same; Father working diligently and silently amongst his peers. Never quite emerging into the open, yet never falling so far into obscurity that his name wasn’t known with the work he did. Mother stayed at home, tending to the usual chores of the housewife. I was entered into schooling and quickly grew to hate it. Education and I have never truly been tight companions; I held to the noble ‘learning by experience’ as opposed to studies. In truth I simply hated thinking that much on a daily basis. My mind was always elsewhere, daydreaming about how one day I would be as good as my father in what he does. How one day I would build a wall and archway so grand my father would stare agape at the mastery. More then once were my thoughts shattered by the solid crack of a switch across my knuckles, bringing me back to the doldrums of reading and numbers. I couldn’t wait for the end of the school day. After our classes were over, what few friends I had and I would wander around town, amazing at the people and the shops. Getting into trouble and doing my best to avoid anything truly criminal was a daily occurrence. I felt safe within the walls of Sundberry, I had faith in the town’s watchmen and guard posts. I admired them. Here they were, simple men no grander then my father, risking the dangers of thieves, muggers, rogue warriors and arrogant knights for a few silver each week. I made a nuisance of myself around them with my idol-worship. Most were kind enough to have patience, others yelled at me and all but shoved me down the street, anxious to get away from the small black-haired boy with the endless stream of questions and daydreams.
I would often return home just before dusk. I can still remember the smell of freshly cooked meat and vegetables wafting out from my windows and stirring up an appetite I didn’t realize I had been neglecting all day long. Sometimes I would get home even before my father did, and I would always lie in ambush for him in the house someplace. I would wait for that weary chuckle and a call of ‘Now where is that boy this time?’. I would spring from my hiding place and pounce upon his back in a bear-hug with my arms and legs around him tightly. He would laugh and carry me over to the kitchen table for our evening meal. I truly miss my father…
As the years went by I grew more and more frustrated with school and learning, yet more and more enthused by the guardsmen. My preoccupation with the guard slowly weaned me away from friends and such, and I grew into a loner by the age of 15. My ‘friends’ were the guardsmen and patrols, and I reveled in their military stories and tales. I took it all as the gods’ honest truth, blinded by my obsession. I never had time for the same things as my old friends had. I attended many a wedding by my 18th year, none of which was my own. I realized then that my calling was not to be a laborer as my father was. I couldn’t bear the thought of settling down into a family and daily job. I needed adventure, I needed danger, I needed to have stories of my own to relate someday. Little did I know how far that obsession with the armed forces would take me, how distant I would travel, how much danger I would face. In retrospect I should have stayed a quiet man behind my father.
Quite against my parents’ advice, I signed on with the local guards at the age of 18 and was sent to Roxen Academy for training. Gods above, if I had known then what I know now of that academy and the training that goes on behind the walls I would have sooner gone off to fell a tree upon myself. Lodging, slim meals and a minor salary were given in return for solid observation of the rules and a mind set upon the training received. However, strict compliance was the only rule. The master says jump, you ask how high and then double it. The Master says good job, you hate yourself for not doing better. The brainwashing that went on there is something I can never erase from my soul. It is a part of me now, it is what makes me who I am and what I became. Though its effects have softened a great deal in the past 30 years, its presence still lingers. I received thorough training in the use of sword, shield, spear, armor and anything else you can think of. I was taught to forge weapons of deadly quality, to create armors of solid build. I was brought into the solid faith and belief that my superiors were omnipotent, even to the point that if I was ordered to slay my own parents I was expected to do so without question or hesitation. I was molded into a soldier before I even knew what was happening. After my training period of 6 months was over, I returned to my parents’ home in full regalia. I bore my sword and shield with pride as I passed the archway into the front yard. There was no smell of freshly cooked food, no smoke curling up from the chimney, nothing I had expected was to be found. I quickly sheathed and shouldered my equipment and rushed inside to find my mothers sunken and hungry face looking towards me, her dress soaked with tears. My father lie upon the bed, barely breathing. They were both thin as a rail from hunger. My meager rations barely kept me alive and fed during my training, but I was a stuffed giant compared to them. Some weeks earlier, father was working when a wall collapsed above him. On instinct he caught the heaviest of the stones and strained his back beyond help. He had been out of work for some weeks and mother could not find work with her limited skills and knowledge. I remember my father reaching up to me from his deathbed. I clasped his skeletal hand tightly in my own and fell to a single knee next to my mother, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall from my eyes. I wanted to weep so badly, but my damnable training would not allow it. My mind screamed out in sadness and anger, but not a sound passed my tightly closed lips as he whispered a few silent words.
“I’m sorry Loendal… Bear me no malice for the situation I leave you and your mother in..I am very proud of you son. So very proud.”
He smiled weakly and squeezed my hand as tight as he could before he turned to my mother and rested his hand against her cheek. He again smiled and slowly closed his eyes, his hand dropping limply over the side of his bed. Mother wailed and buried her face in her dress. I stood up very slowly, fists clenched tightly. I cursed my time away, I cursed my being fed to their hunger, I cursed the wall that fell upon him. I cursed to the Gods above, letting loose the rage within me in silent, quivering anger. Mother pulled the cover slowly up over my father’s face, planting a small kiss upon his cheek one last time and again breaking down into sobs.
The next day we buried my father in the back yard, marking his grave with a frame of stonework bricks that he made our lives with. I even attempted to construct a small archway at his feet, a tribute to his masterful works. I took what money I had remaining from my graduation and gave it to my mother so that she might find food. The academy had trained me to live without food for spans of time, she had no such training. I stayed with my mother through the next month, the guard was kind enough to grant me that time. I used that scant month to teach mother some of the skills I thought she might need. I taught her how to find food should the market fall short, how to defend herself should I not be near and other such simplicities that I found myself taking for granted. I never truly realized how disabling ignorance of such things can be. I left a new dagger with her that I ordered her to keep on her person at all times for safety. I wasn’t about to lose my mother to some vagabond thief that managed to skip past me on watch.
I returned to the academy for my first assignment. My captain was insulted when I refused a simple week’s patrol in exchange for a caravan guard’s position. I wasn’t about to fall short in payment, not when my money was to bring my mother back to health and happiness at home. I wanted as much silver as they would pay me, regardless of the risk involved. I would take my anger out upon anyone foolish enough to accost MY caravan. With a snort of contempt, the Captain put me upon the Southern Route. I was to travel with and protect a Trade Route between Sundberry and Eristain. The captain knew of our past with that village and thought it would be an ample opportunity for me to learn humility in the eyes of my disgraced birth, the bastard that he was. The road spanning that length was frequently traveled, so the Captain thought that a light guard of 6 men on horseback would be enough to deter any form of intrusion. I knew 4 of the other 5 men, the 6th remained a mystery. I wasn’t even sure of his name, and in my bitterness with life at that time, I was in no great hurry to learn it. The only thing that stood out about the young man was his wild mane of hair and silvery eyes. I quickly took command of the others by sheer intimidation and we set off down that fateful southern route.
With me out in front I spread the others out in a diamond formation around the caravan, two to a side and a trailer behind the last of our two wagons. Thomas was the first to notice the movement out in the trees to our left, and he rode up to inform me as quietly as he could, slipping back into place and drawing his sword. The others quickly followed suit and I ordered the driver to pick up speed. Some time passed without problems and we began to relax again, slowing our gait somewhat. Overconfidence lulls the mind into a state of complacency that can prove fatal, as Thomas quickly found out. With a silent rush of wind, an arrow lodged itself into his neck, sending him flying from his horse and under the wheel of the wagon with a sickly crunch. It is a sound one never forgets, even to this day, I cannot forget that crunch, nor the warcrys that bellowed out from the trees shortly thereafter. Somewhere between eight and ten men came scrambling out of the woods, fully intent on taking our caravan. As was our training, we waded into the fray with little thought as the wagon quickly sped away, the silvery eyed man I did not know staying close at it’s side for safety. As the other 3 guards and myself engaged the foe I suddenly felt a stabbing, aching pain in my side. My first real wound; a slash in my side about 3 inches long. It burned with pain, driving me into a rage. I whirled around on my assailant and brought my horse’s bit solidly upside his head, knocking him to the ground. I rode over him, trampling him under my mount’s hooves as I whirled around on another man charging in on my left. I brought my blade down hard, cutting into his shoulder with a splash of red. I did not know where my companions were, I only cared that I slay those that were trying to harm me, lost in the fever of battle completely. I was later told that I was grinning through the entire ordeal, cutting with a loud cry of triumph with each successful strike. Is this something I am proud of? I do not know… It frightens me to think of what I was like then. Before I knew it, the battle was over and one of my fellow guards was dead, bringing our toll to two. Me and my last two comrades were all wounded badly, but a simple phrase left our lips at once; “The Wagon!”. Quickly we rushed down the road, cursing loudly as we came upon the crumpled form of the silvery-eyed man’s horse. Leaping over the carnage we chased on down the road, spotting our wagon speeding on southward in a flurry of dust. We caught up with it quickly and saw him clambering up into the back. I glanced back towards my following companions to be assured of their safety, when I looked back towards the wagon, the other guard was gone. Where he vanished to I haven’t an idea, but we brought the wagon quickly into the next village without further incident. When we had settled down, the adrenaline no longer rushing through us, the pain sunk in. We were battered, bruised and bleeding. Regardless, our caravan was safe…
Upon our return to The Academy, The Captain was furious. Losing three men out of six is inexcusable, even I realized that in my stupidity. But then it sunk in. Three? Only two of ours lie dead.. Who was the third dead? The Silvery-Eyed guardsman never came back apparently, so they assumed him dead. I cared very little, I just wanted my pay. The captain refused me more then half of my dues. Compensation for the lost men he called it. Compensation indeed; his compensation will take food from my mother’s mouth. I was outraged but quickly beaten back into my proper place by a hard backhand across the face from the captain. I brooded in silence for the remainder of that week, each patrol from there on going by without incident.
As the months went on, mother grew healthy again and was even able to learn some skills from the local guilds. Now a full-fledged seamstress, she was able to bring in her own money. She asked me time and time again to stop sending her money from my pay, but I refused. I had gotten used to the slim provisions of the military and the strict regiment of food-as-available as opposed to a regular daily meal. I began to take the longer missions, I would be away from home for months at a time. With such a schedule, the years slip away.
During this period is when my Lord and Master began to communicate with me. Though at that time I had no idea as to what was happening. At first it was troubled sleep. I simply couldn’t get well rested at night. I didn’t know what it was that kept me stirring all night, I only knew that I wasn’t sleeping as well as I should and I was growing more and more agitated because of it. This agitation gave me strength, strength to cut down the enemies of the king, be them man, animal or beast. My reputation as a warrior began to grow and I noticed the strong potential in tournaments. In my weeks away from the military I would seek out competitions for sport and glory. I began to amass a small collection of trophies and awards. My fame spread, but along with it my irritability grew stronger and more persistent. I was beginning to see things in my sleep, visions of great plumes of smoke, bright orange flame and a large shape lost within the smoke. These were the common threads between my dreams each night. I began to enjoy them, I felt the strength there, the odd sense of serenity in that confusion and turmoil, the peace of mind it brought me. Worried that some might think me mad from battle and numerous head wounds, I kept my visions a secret. As time wore on, I returned to Sundberry to claim a vacancy in the captain’s position. My Captain when I was in the academy was longing for retirement and I was eager to accept the position. With my fame and knowledge of the academy under my belt, they placed me into the role hastily and with little thought to my age. I was a mere boy of 25 when I attained the new rank.
My responsibility was no longer the glory hounding of fame and awards, of championships and titles, it was now the training of new recruits. It was now I who told the boys to jump and taught them the way to swing a sword without embarrassing themselves or their fellow guards. With a more relaxed schedule I began to concentrate more upon my secret visions. I wanted to know what they meant, why I was seeing them, who was making me see them. My faith in the gods was shattered by my father’s death, could they be taking revenge for that miscarriage of faith through these disturbing dreams? I had little knowledge of them at all, why would they seek me out for such things? When I slept, I focused myself upon my dreams. I went to sleep in deep meditation, the mind alert while the body rested. When I began to do that, things took a more understandable shape, a form I could recognize and relate to. A form that I had heard legends of, but never witnessed. A form known as Dragon…