Chptr 1

Dangerous Diplomacy

December 2018

“Ahh…tis a quiet, lovely evening. A clearer sky might be a good omen from the Gods eh Faithful?” With a rough calloused hand, the late-night traveler affectionately patted the neck of his mount.

Sitting in his saddle, reins in hand, the dwarf scanned the surroundings with a tight, cautious eye. It occurred to him then, that he had not ceased the continuous weaving of the rein in and out of his fingers for some time. With a grunt, he forced himself to still his hands. Even the horse was on edge head swaying off tempo from her trot, muscles tense, ears darting left and right. Refocusing his mind Roun tried to relax.

Mockingly, the forest seemed to rustle and hum with its usual nocturnal nonchalance. Trees swayed overhead in a cool evening breeze. Small woodland creatures skittered along the forest floor as they rummaged for food. Crickets chirped their songs of love while the stars twinkled and danced in glee. If Roun was honest with himself, in normal circumstances the forest life-song would have put him at ease. The past two moon phases, however, had defied all normality.

You're a Diplomat for Canthium, pull yourself together. He scolded himself.

Diplomats served the kingdoms of Aborlon by negotiating treaties and trade as well as transporting delicate and sometimes desperate messages across the continent. Roun had seen much war. Serving his current Lord, who paid handsomely, not only provided a source of income but also a distraction from the nightmares that haunted his nights. With such broad knowledge of languages, dialects and customs Roun was one of the most highly sought after diplomats south of The Straight.

An old, stocky breather dwarf, Roun wore a combination of riding gear that was both functional and relatively common among those of his profession. A molded, green, hard-leather breastplate protected his chest, an insignia of an ax resting in the center. It was further decorated with steel studs, gold stitchwork, and leather fittings. Around his neck was a platinum chain that carried the sigil of his liege. Over his shoulders hung a dark green cloak fastened with a fine jeweled, silver hawk clasp. From a thick, black, rawhide leather belt dangled a plaid patterned cloth representing his clan. Brown leggings covered his short, thick legs and half of his silver-buckled boots. He was rather admittedly richly dressed for a messenger.

Born two hundred and seventy-four legras ago he was considered middle age by his people. From a poor family that made its living breeding sheep, Roun had clawed his way out of an uncertain future of poverty with tenacious determination. He had experienced catastrophes of ferocious intensity, some natural and others unnatural, witnessed three attempted genocides, and fought in two wars. He had more than earned the right to dress as lavishly as he preferred. More importantly, he was more than capable of fending off any would-be scoundrels who might fancy themselves more entitled to his possessions than he. The last band of would-be thieves who had tried to lighten his purse now rested with their gods, for better or worse.

With a wealthy lord like Ruthwah Bingescript to serve, the seasoned dwarf was but a few platinum flats away from buying Old Sherim’s Vista and retiring. The kooky, ancient druid had been a bone in the pocket since Roun had agreed to handle the fiefdom's diplomacy. As far as lords went, Bingescript was a fair-handed liege and his name was known from the Sacred Heart of Kokotun to the fabled shores of Nidus. Either way, it was safer than cutting down goblins or chopping at any number of skakes.

The old grout had impressed upon Roun that the secure and speedy arrival of this particular message was vital. Although the import of the sealed scroll had been stressed the purpose it served remained secret, which was not a common situation with Roun. While the dwarf wasn’t really one to get involved with the machinations of the kingdoms, Ruthwah usually gave a vague idea as to the content of the messages. With this assignment that simply had not been the case. This was just one of several oddities that made this task bothersome.

Methodically the diplomat started to reexamine all of the facts at hand: Ruthwah, although a touch strange, was a man of both power and renown yet he carried eyes lined with concern when assigning this task. The lord had been uncharacteristically guarded as to the content of the message; while Lord Bingescript always paid well, never had he offered to pay such a bounty as Roun was to receive upon successful delivery of this scroll. Most of his assignments had to do with keeping other lords abreast of the rebel army rumored to be shirking the ‘Venom King’ of Stenocia. When prodded, however, Ruthwah had scoffed and replied agitatedly that there were "..greater concerns than a bunch of scuttle-butted bandits".

Then there were the recent occurrences of late. A herd of criten had stampeded his camp, while not greatly unusual in of itself it had only been the first of many unusual circumstances. Naught but a few days later a mortally wounded gnome, with more potions than his stature of wealth would suggest possible, had thrown himself at Roun with a rare disregard for his own personal welfare, as if mad.

Gnomes were, after all, one of the most elusive races in the lands. A moon phase later a wild gryphon had single-mindedly sought to feed upon Rouns bones. Gryphons ate carrion; occasionally they might feast upon dying men on the battlefield but not living, walking men. 

Slowly doubt began to ooze its way back into his mind. What was really going on? Were these all just a handful of coincidences that had played out for the amusement of the gods or was there something terribly amiss here? Ruthwah knew Roun was a capable and trustworthy diplomat, so why the secrecy? What could be more concerning to the lords of Aborlon than a rebel army that was causing many precarious alliances to titter on the brink of failure?

With effort, the old grizzled dwarf shook off his worrying again. It was senseless to let his mind wander this path of thought. The hard-earned lessons taught in combat had ingrained in him the necessity for a sound and stable mind. He knew that these matters only called for him to stay more alert. Nonetheless, he couldn’t completely dispel the premonition of doom that ebbed its way into his heart.

Suddenly his warhorse came to a halt; ears perked forward, body tense and alert. A familiar acrid smell overcame the dwarf causing his eyes to burn and water. The familiarity caused bells of foreboding to sound in his mind even without recalling the source of the memory. Roun scanned the vicinity. His battle prowess took over as he calmed his nerves. He focused on the surrounding environment. Alert, hand resting on his ax handle, he waited for something to happen. Moments passed by, nothing. The mare though, was still stiff as a dry bone.

Tentatively, without looking down, he tugged at the reins. Hesitantly the horse trusted in the dwarf’s direction and shuffled to the side a little. Roun wasn’t one bit relaxed. Something had just spooked his seasoned warhorse. A horse that had stood her ground in the face of a cyclops. Yet here she was troubled. Nonetheless, he simply could not detect the origin of the tension or the source of the horse’s rigidity. That smell though. Why couldn’t he place it? There was some horrible feeling teasing him from the dark recesses of his mind. 

Eventually, the smell receded, but his apprehension did not. What nightmare was it that dangled at the edge of his consciousness, dancing just on the cusp of his awareness? A putrid smell as if a carcass had gone sour slammed into his nostrils physically pushing him back in his saddle just as the ghost of a memory began to tear at his mind for attention. 'Asphantis'!!!

The mare began to fidget and toss her head, her tail clamped down to her flanks. She snorted. The horrid smell had returned more powerful than before and it was taking all his will-power to keep his eyes open. Tears streamed down his face. His senses were ablaze with foreboding. His horse was fighting the bit and squealing.

Roun struggled to stay in the saddle as the ornery mare began to buck and whinny. He could see nothing to explain the situation at hand. In a final terrified snort, the horse reared, Roun's boot slipping out of the stirrup as she bolted off the trail. The diplomat hit the ground with an awful crunch. Branches could be heard buckling and snapping as the mare fled through the woods in terror, leaving behind her a dazed and baffled dwarf to face the horror alone. 

Misfit or Misfortune

January 2019

Shar tried to rub the haziness from his eyes. The elven spirits still claimed his balance and memory. He sorely needed a drink to quench his dehydrated body and rinse the stale taste of mead from his mouth. And, he thought, Ale would do much to calm his angry stomach. Something stirred next to him causing dread to overcome the human man. He almost cursed out loud when a small delicate hand rested on his midsection.

“Whatchya thinking about?” asked the mysterious dame groggily.

‘Not this morning, not now, please by the gods, let me awake somewhere else, alone and unfettered.’ he thought painfully. By the look of the light outside it was no longer morning. Judging by the slant of light, it appeared to be noon.

‘You lumpish measle Shar, you have probably just lost your apprenticeship, and by anything holier than a deities fart is there a dwarven forge in my head?’ He tried to shake off the drunken confusion only to suffer the sharp rebuttal of a defiant hangover.

‘What time did I get back to my room? What the Hades happened last night? And who is this errant whore asking idle-headed questions?’

“How much do I owe you?” he asked belligerently. As painful as this was going to be, he knew it would also be the fastest route to a conclusion.

“Oh curse you..you..you filthy codpiece! I should have known better than to bed a filthy, drunken stockader. Ruining your life just isn’t enough is it?!” She retorted agonizingly loud.

Apparently, this one was going to be free, which meant she wasn’t a whore.  Unfortunately, he couldn’t recollect her name, the events of the previous night or the night of alcohol-induced sex. Sometimes he wondered how he managed to get himself into these situations.

She was definitely attractive, banging things around in her cute little fit of rage. Frantically she located her garments, wanting nothing more than to flee from this embarrassing scene. She was full-chested, had a firm round arse, long slender legs and an impressive set of hips. Her brown eyes burned with humiliation and anger beneath a bouncy lock of tight blonde curls. Shar was really regretting not being able to recall the events of last night.

“What in the hades are you staring at!?” she screamed, causing legions of pain to shoot through his skull.

Groaning as he rubbed his head, Shar responded sternly, “You little miss, and would it be too much to ask for you to keep your shrill little chirps to a faint peep? I have a headache like no man nor deity has ever experienced.”

“Oh, well I am so sorry.” She feigned concern. “Just let me get me things ma’ lord and I’ll be on me little ol’ way.” She went on sarcastically and considerably louder than before glaring at him. Daring him really, to say anything so that she could continue to balance the scales of discomfort. Shar didn't even so much as grunt.

Just then a small loch of hair fell from her forehead and dangled in front of her nose. It seemed to bounce forever. He watched it until it stilled then fell to her eyes. She was so adorable that he simply could not resist the smile that played its way to his mouth. 

Red-faced, she screamed. Frustrated the girl slumped into her slacks. She hastily grabbed her blouse and spun on him with ill intent. Her breasts pointed at him like the tips of arrows pointed at a hunter’s prey.

“Good day to you your royal grudgeon!" and with a swish of blonde curls, she was gone. 

'A woman like that', he thought, '...would likely be a handful to the fellow who took a liking to her.'

Late Arrival

"Dost thou truly think that I would believe a  moldwarp story such as this?!?" Shar's employer bellowed incredulously. Although Shar knew he wouldn't, he had to give it a try, didn't he? He didn't really need to lose another job, nonetheless, it was apparent that he had done just that. It had taken him nearly a cycle to land this job. Too many jobs slipped through his fingers like this.

"I am sorry Chato, I had a rough night last night. I didn't gain my wits 'til a few bird calls ago.", he replied helplessly.

"Forget it Shar! Nights at thy tavern, tossing bones with the ruffians of Vinnecia dost not pardon thee from consequence. A Mason needs a reliable apprentice, and thou is not that soul. Thou should hath been grateful I took thee on. Perhaps there was wisdom in the wind when people said trusting in you was a fool's folly." The Master Mason went on with finality, "Mastiff bless thee." The unimpressed dwarf shook his head as he stormed away.

'Ta hades with the job then.', the now unapprenticed warrior thought.

 'I didn't need that lout's hell hated venom anyways'. 

But deep down he knew he was in trouble. Harvest season was coming to a close and he didn't have nearly enough to survive the winter season. Without his own quarry or financing, there was just no way he was going to be able to work as a mason, even if he had learned enough to cut some of the basic stones. The only thing he knew how to do well was kill warriors.

There were no Knight's orders, to his knowledge, that would take on a stockader and the ranks of the Stenocian army would never admit a toss-away. The truth of the moment was that he had few options and none of them were attractive. Mines and monasteries were out of the question for him with their confining spaces which left adventuring, thieving or the mercenary life; poor choices he thought darkly.

'I need a drink'

Battle and Bone

February 2019


Roun didn't allow himself time to figure out what had just happened. He gathered his solid figure and composed himself in a defensive position as he cursed at this misfortune. Without conscience thought his war axe found its way to his hands as the veteran warrior strained for some sign of a threat.

He noticed the ringing in his ears before he became aware of the lack of sound throughout the forest. The melodic night song had completely stopped. He could still hear the leaves rustle occasionally as they were brushed by late-night breezes. Other than the whispers of the wind there was not a sound to be heard in the foreboding silence. It seemed as if the forest itself held its breath in some macabre anticipation.

The dwarf refused to move not wanting to be caught off guard. Sweat tickled his cheek. His heart pounded like a smithies hammer. His ears rang as he listened for the slightest sound that seemed out of place. Time seemed to stand still. The silence challenged his patience.

Roun could hear the blood rushing through his system as his heart thrummed its tempo of fear, yet the dwarf still remained unmoving. After an indeterminable amount of time, he shook off his fears and started to place his ax back in the leather thong on his back. Without warning, something tackled the dwarf from behind punching the air right from his chest. Roun struggled to free his weapon; bringing his arm under the assailant, he kicked out of the makeshift hold. With a quick tuck and roll, he was back on his feet, axe in hand and facing his adversary.

A few paces away crouched the last thing he would have imagined seeing: an asphantis!

This type of creature was well outside of its habitat. Which sparked a memory from out of the depths of his past. It was an old tale of a draconian horde that had threatened to overtake the Sencheso Pass.

As he recalled it: the dwarven sentries were vastly outnumbered. The pass was a critical flank for the fledgling alliance between the races of men. He remembered quite clearly the excitement in his father's voice at the telling of it.

Apparently, after a pitched battle, the enemy regrouped having suffered heavy loss. The defenders, unbeknownst to the draconian generals, were so weakened that the commander of the gate gave an inspirational speech about their names being written in the great halls. 

But the gods were favorable that night as a great commotion erupted from the enemy's lines. Scouts reported that the forward line had thinned out and many of their forces had been diverted to address some new threat. It was recorded in the commander's journal that the defending men "...were greatly enlivened to hear what they believed to be reinforcements assailing the enemy."

The commander of the gate seized the opportunity and attacked the engaged draconian troops. Whatever had attacked their rear flank disappeared when the dwarves broke the draconian's discipline.

Later a gnomish prisoner from the field had rambled as if maddened, repeating "rogsha mok", or mountain demons, crushing the vanity of their men. The 'demons' that he was referring to were known as the asphantis. A fact confirmed with their tracks by the hundreds of eviscerated draconian troops on the field.

None of this, however, explained why this beast was so far south and without a pack. Asphantis were recorded as ferocious beasts from the Underdark that hunted only in packs. Yet here it was alone attacking him. While it was a boon that there were not others, at least not revealed, he was still in mortal danger.

Something had been troubling him and this definitely fell into the unusual realm. It didn't add up, something extraordinary was abreast. His fear intensified as he realized that this asphantis had single-mindedly hunted him down. No, Roun had no doubts now somebody was trying to have him killed and he would put a silver flat on it being a beast tamer, though one of unbelievable skill.  

The creature stood on its hind legs so that his size could intimidate his enemy, but Roun was a seasoned Diplomat and was not going to freeze up for the hellspawn.  It stood about nineteen hands high, supported by long sinewy legs. Its forelegs ended in split hooves while its hind legs were rooted with taloned feet.

The chest, joints and other vital organs were well protected behind a yellowish external bone structure that made this beast so feared. Rare were the gaps in this feared monsters natural armor, like the stomach, which happened to be in plain view.

He lunged forward anxious to capitalize on the opening in his opponent's defenses. Swinging his battle-ax with enough force to cleave a goblin in half the fight would have ended there had his attack ever made its mark.

Unfortunately, the forelegs of the asphantis came crashing down on Roun's head. Stunned from the blow Roun fell on his back and struggled to remain conscious.

Stale Ale and Darkened Spirits

March 2019

The tavern was empty, or near to it. There were only a few travelers minding their meals and a handful of lonely chairs and tables. Those empty seats had all been cleaned and reorganized after the busy night of company. Uncluttered, bare floors attested to their being swept and a fresh fire in the hearth complimented the efforts of the proprietor. However, a mild and musky odor lingered as if whispering of an eventful night of spilled ales and spirits.


Light sneaking through the painted windows splayed patterns of lazy color and calming tones, making the ambiance both surreal and drowsy. At night the lights from inside shone magnificent scenes of camaraderie to passersby. The way of the wind was that The Thirsty Squire was a local favorite.

Setting a final touch to the picture was an overweight tavern-tender wiping the counter down with a grease-stained cloth. He wore a soiled leather apron, a burgundy colored blouse with gold trim work and thick leather bracers. Sporting a cropped, clean, black beard beneath bushy eyebrows and a shiny bald head the proprietor whistled jubilantly as he busied himself. He was either the same tavern tender in nearly every alehouse or they were predestined to have the same customary look that was painstakingly common with their profession.

Shar sat at the counter. Stooped over in the defeated posture that he was, it was hard to fully respect his height of thirteen hands. Unlike the citizens of Vinnecia, Shar did not wear the customary leggings and tunics. Instead, the forsaken man wore the hard leather garb of the gladiators. A loincloth clung to his groin. Leather wrapped around his waist and hung on his shoulders.

The breast of the armor covered his shoulders and upper chest but then continued down the length of his body in two hand width flaps, one in the front and one in back. Around his waist, Shar wore a leather armor war skirt made up of several smaller, studded flaps.

Each of this formidable man's wrists was encompassed in tempered steel bracers. They were crafted with obvious expertise, evident in the hinges and fine detailed work. His feet rested in large, hard-leather boots with tempered steel accents. Boots that were made with the same quality as the bracers. A blue piece of cloth peeked out from the left bracer.

Muscles bulged out of his far-from-modest garments. His chest was large and hairy, sprouting arms as thick as most men's legs. Scars lined nearly every sinew of his remarkable physique, harsh red welts that screamed their testimony of time in the stockades. The brown wavy unkept lochs of Shar's hair fell to the middle of his back. Women always took note of his presence, he knew it but never really cared much.

To look at his physical stature was to look upon raw power, while his posture hinted at a broken spirit. His eyes were lined with weariness and sorrow, but they were eyes that could still shine in joy and laughter. It did not take long for most to see that this was a man with a tragic past.

"Ther ya go Shar, I believe Drogum's Brandy is your fancy." The tavern-tender softly set a mug of warm dwarven liquor before him. 

Shar didn't bother to look up, he just tossed the coins on the counter and nodded. Obviously, he had been here before. It was hard to tell when a place was empty. Reaching for the wooden mug his attention was drawn to the scars. Those telltale scars. Reminders of his alienation from the rest of Aborlon.

If only the wounds were simply physical. If only the reactions they caused were the extent of their havoc, but the miseries that had left those marks never ceased to torture his soul. In a flash, his memories took him back to the Dungeons of Pludgewort, a slavers pit located in the kingdom of Ventross.

*          *          *

The Dungeons of Pludgewort were nothing short of a festering blight of human suffering and death. According to the whispers of the wind; the dungeons were where men were sent to lose their minds, their lives and their souls and no two in the same order. Shar knew first hand that there was no lie discoloring those rumors.

Thousands of men waited out their fate in the depths of that forsaken nightmare. Dim flickering lights burned only at the sentry stations, all else was impenetrable darkness. The air was choked with the pungent of prisoner waste and the rancid decay of death. At first, the odorous air had been unbearable, leaving Shar unable to catch his breath. In the end, his survival instincts won and disgusting gasps of vileness had filled his lungs with a weight hard to describe.

Moans and shrieks of agony sung endlessly throughout the damp maze of cells and torture chambers, as veteran prisoners lost their sense of reality to delusion and madness. Squeeks and rustling would randomly break the pattern of death with the sound of rats skittering their way through the labyrinth of filth and refuse. Screams resonated oddly and echoed forever, elevating the heart-clenching absurdity of it all as slaves and criminals alike were tortured. Moisture clung to the walls as the cold claws of certain death raked at the flesh and soul alike. Teetering on the brink himself, Shar had often rambled to himself, finding a faint comfort in the familiarity of his own voice.

Grasping at every passing moment for a sign of renewed life, some reason to have hope, he had prayed to the patron god of forgiveness Jesus, for another chance. He had pleaded for forgiveness, knowing he would never forgive himself. He prayed out of desperation more so than faith. After dozens of seasons had passed, desperation was all he had left.

And then one day it had come, his spark of light in a dark torturous existence. He had been selected to fight in the arena. He was to fight until he had earned his freedom or he was slain. Shar welcomed either. He was leaving the dungeons and the living hell that cons and slaves disappeared in, his prayers had been answered.

*          *          *

Unhappy debtors

April 2019

"Ya gonna make it there pal?" the tavern tender asked cautiously. Barely hearing the man's question, Shar shook off the memories and focused on the big-bellied man.

"What was that?" Shar questioned, still slightly disorientated. The bulky barkeep shook his head with a puzzled look splayed across his face. For over a sun's pace the muscle-bound warrior had sat there staring off into the nethers, his drink untouched. The proprietor had begun to think that the toss away had been enchanted or some means of sorcery had overcome him.

"Just wanted to make sure my only customer wasn't going to keel over. 'Least not before trying Drogum's finest." he responded fluidly while gesturing to the mug of warm liquor. Looking around Shar saw that the other customers had left sometime during his reminiscing. 

"No, I'm fine. The fates were not with me today. I'm down to my last steel flat and just lost my apprenticeship. It seems people either fear me, ignore me or they are completely disgusted by me. But ya know, I'm also a young, strong hand, and willing to work to the task. It's all blessings and luck." Shar chuckled, trying to release some of the tension he was feeling.

The tavern host, as if also trying to feel more at ease, rested his meaty forearms on the counter and settled in for a chat. "I don't know what to say about others rash feelings toward ya friend, but I hear there is a new demand for hard labor up in Busciples. Only a couple of moon phases from here. You should be able to make it there before the first snowfall. That could help with the coin problem. You look like you could easily handle hard work. "

The tavern tender went on as he rubbed his balding head, "I also hear by way of the wind that the Tre' Le' mines  always have room for another strong back."

Shar thought about that for a moment. It was true that the elven mines were always willing to hire another laborer. Yet he wasn't inclined to suffer any more confined spaces. In the other hand, if there was a possibility to obtain work in the Capital Kingdom he would be a fool to pass it up. It had been several legras since he had been to Busciples.

Then there was Destiny. His heart tweaked at the mere thought of her smile. Old feelings probably better left alone. What if he did run into her? What would he say? Would she even recognize him? It had been over fourteen legras.

Truth is she probably wanted nothing to do with him, a realization that stabbed him in the chest with pain no shield could block. Shar had spent half his life in the stockades and the arena. These painful questions and fearful doubts started to plague his mind. They hadn't left on good terms. In his heart she was the only one for him, she was the reason he had clung to life in those dreaded cells.

The gladiator wondered if he had enough coin to purchase the supplies that would hold him through the trip, remembering that he really was down to his last Decein.  It would be a long, tough trip without traveling supplies.

Realizing that he had already made up his mind to make the journey to Busciples, he threw a couple of ceinats on the counter, the copper coins clinking together as they made contact with each other. Having paid for his untouched drink he turned to leave.

With his hand on his staff-mace, poised to place it in its sheath, Shar froze, his smile slipping from his face, the light that began to shine in his eyes dimmed. His attention was caught by a large figure that stood menacingly in the entrance to the alehouse. The threat that stilled his body yet quickened his heartbeat, the man that occupied the exit was a troll called Tonka. The one and only person that Shar had tried to avoid, had avoided actually, until now.

The behemoth stood almost sixteen hands high, a massive size compared to Shar's height. Tonka's neck was like a tree trunk protruding from an enormous, barrel-sized chest. He also had wide, muscular shoulders that supported arms as thick as an elven torso. Thick, spotted, gray skin covered this colossal figure from flat head to sandaled feet.

However, Tonka's size was not all that uncommon for his race: for trolls are a titanic proportioned line of man. Though they were known to be three times stronger than most humans they were equally unagile and slow. None of which would have concerned Shar were it not for the rumors that had been blowing through inns and taverns throughout Vinnecia.

The way of the wind was that Tonka was raging about the toss away that had cheated him out of a gold flat. The truth was that Shar had won the Centein honestly in a game of bones, but who was going to tell Tonka that? No one was said to be better at bones than the troll, at least not in his presence. The fact that he had been beaten by Shar, publicly, seemed almost as impossible as the stockader getting his money from the self-proclaimed champion. No one could stop talking about the gladiator who had foolishly bested the troll and received his profits.

After sobering up and feeling an unwarranted loss of face, the leviathan concluded that he had been swindled by the no-good toss away. Thus brute force was to replace honest reasoning. The simpleton knew no other way to heal his hurt ego. So, for half a cycle he had searched for Shar, prepared to take his money back or make an example of him. The gladiator, on the other hand, had avoided him hoping time would ease Tonka's anger or at least change the eventual outcome of a confrontation. It had done neither.

"I have been looking for thief!" Taunted the troll as his over-sized fingers flexed open and closed. There was probably no compromising with him at this point, but he knew he had to try.

"So I've heard. We both know I won that game fair. I was more surprised than you when the bones fell in my favor. I don't want any trouble Tonka, if I had any coin left I'd more than willingly give you a chance to win your money back.", reasoned Shar.

He sincerely hoped that the situation could be diffused. Somehow he knew that it could not. The idiot had already committed himself by bragging to anyone within spitting distance what would be done to the 'cheater'. For him to walk away or resolve the matter amicably now would only cause him to further lose face. He would be considered a coward that was full of hot smoke.

The troll had already predestined the result of this confrontation; he couldn't turn back now even if he wanted to.

"Harpy shit! You rump-fed liar and you thief! Now Tonka show puny human what happens to thieves who steal from Tonka!" The colossal man charged forward scattering chairs and tables in his wake like leaves in the winds of harvest. 

Shar had known this was coming, he had known what would most likely happen the moment he had seen the overbearing silhouette. The tavern tender watched nervously from behind the counter, praying to the gods for protection over his meek possessions.

Surprisingly, Shar remained still, letting his survival instincts target in on his adversary. Mentally he detached himself from the situation and steadied his breathing, just as he had been taught. 'Let yourself go. Your inner self will take over' he remembered being assured. The gladiator knew he needed to be focused if he was to walk away from this engagement. He also knew that he was greatly under-sized, but he wasn't overmatched. Shat wasn't going to let some swag-bellied troll kill him after all that he been through.

The assailant closed in, arm drawn back. Tonka swung his massive fist only to find his target had already moved. The would-be victim had stepped to the side, backhanding the troll with his staff-mace at the same time. Fluidly, Shar carried his momentum along as he pivoted on his right foot, both hands now firmly grasping the weapon and brought it crashing into Tonka's skull. A muffled thump sounded as the solid, studded ball made contact just behind Tonka's ear. It was a blow that would have killed most men. Had killed some.

Tonka fell flat on his face, filling the alehouse with a resonating boom. A big booted foot shot out from the sprawled form and swept Shar from his feet. With a whoosh of deep-chested air, the gladiator slammed into the floor leaving the human in a jumbled mess of arms and legs. The tavern tender watched on in horror yet awed at the same time as the two battlers struggled to defeat one another.

With tremendous effort Tonka drew himself up on hands and knees, trying to shake off the dizziness. Shar wasted no time as he sprang to his feet and rushed the preoccupied troll. He had to take advantage of what little edge he had. Although his training at the arena had increased his stamina, the gladiator knew his efforts were not causing sufficient damage to the behemoth.

With a ferocious crunch, Shar brought his knee up into the face of the dazed troll, snapping his head back. The tavern tender flinched from the ensuing roar of anger that bellowed from Tonka's mouth. He backhanded his smaller opponent, sending him into an awkward somersault, then collapsed onto his side with a deep grunt that rattled the surrounding tables and chairs. Blood was pooling near Tonka's head as he rolled over onto his back.

Shar sprang to his feet again, ignoring the searing hot pain that shot up his neck and back. The tavern tender was so shocked that a weird face scrunched his eyebrows together. That look softened ever so softly when he noticed the gladiator began to wobble. A crowd was beginning to grow near the doorway, anxious to know what was going on.

On one knee, Tonka tried to shake away the spinning haziness, angrily trying to focus on his opponent. But Shar recovered first gaining his balance and wits once more he pushed his attack. With blood smeared across his face and freely dripping from a gash on his eyebrow, he charged the downed troll. Tonka swung a wild blow at the two forms that appeared in front of him, missing entirely. The gladiator pressed the attack, kicking the troll twice in the head with a toe-heel technique that he had favored for some time.

The floor shook as Tonka collapsed unconscious, blood bubbling from his nose. The audience gasped and murmured as they realized that Shar had actually won the fight. The gladiator stood, legs apart and his feet set, half expecting the troll to get back up, his chest heaving from the exertion. Blood made its way down his face and neck as it flowed from his nose and brow.

Cautiously the tavern tender stepped from behind the counter. "You should leave before he awakes. Tonka will likely be angered at this loss of face. Please, the gods have favored me with the safety of my possessions. Look, surely you can see that my things have escaped an ill fate."

Looking around Shar realized that he was indeed right. Other than a few displaced and overturned chairs and tables, everything seemed in good order. The crowd congratulated him as the exiled champion made his way out of the establishment. This would surely ride the local winds for a long time.

*        *        *

The Sacrifice of Honor

June 2019

Instantly the pain flooded into his consciousness, thrusting his self-awareness upon him with a burning insistence. 'Am I dead?', he wondered. 'Have I been placed into the hands of death and then denied my entrance to the gates of Shangri-La? Was my life a disappointment to Jesus, such a failure that eternity in the flames of Gehenna would be my retribution?' Sure, he had made some mistakes, but none he would have imagined would curse him to eternity in a lake of fire.

Hesitantly, his fear receded as his senses slowly came alive, the confusing fog dissipating ever so slightly. ‘No’, he thought, ‘…the pain is not great enough. My lungs seem to accept air without a suffocating burden. My body tingles with weariness. I am alive, but thanks to wh...’ His eyes shot open as Quince' suddenly remembered the face of the person he owed his life to and it filled him with a gut-wrenching dread. Those eyes bore into his memory, sending pangs of disgust into his stomach.

Cautiously he looked around. Although it was a clear night, he couldn't see very far, the flickering light paired with his dizziness made it difficult for him to focus on anything. The Elf’s body was covered with a fur that seemed vaguely familiar to him, though he couldn’t quite place it at the moment. 

Beside him lay his family sword resting comfortably in its sheath. It reassured him to see the relic so close at hand. To his right, the fire sputtered and spit as it ate away at the charred wood. His overcoat and shirt were folded neatly by his head, still bloodied and torn. Other than those few inanimate objects there wasn't anything else to be seen or heard.

Maybe it was just a hallucination, his fears taking form as he himself delivered the fatal strike to the final highwayman. Perhaps he had then patched himself up and started a fire before he fell into the throes of exhaustion.

‘Not possible.’, he thought flatly. A man gathering wood, building a fire and bandaging himself up while profusely bleeding just wasn't realistic. He had lost a lot of blood, that much he was sure of. Lifting the fur, the elf discovered that his wounds had been dressed with poultice and leaves.

"I did what I could for your wounds" hissed a raspy voice, startling Quince' causing a sharp reminder that he was indeed grievously wounded. His hand reached for his weapon instinctively, sending yet another burning ache shooting through his insides. He clutched at his wound as a moan of misery poured around his lips. He clenched his eyes closed, crushing his eyelids together as the red haze of agony overtook him.

"You must not move. At least not for a sun's passing. I hear that Elves heal fast, so you should be good to travel by tomorrow's noon." The hooded silhouette commented. As soon as Quince’s head cleared, the Elf squinted and focused on the source of his contempt. Again he attempted to grab his weapon, causing him to double over from the painful assault of lacerated flesh tearing anew. Blood began to seep out from behind the dressing. The reflective, yellow eyes observed all of this with very little perceptible reaction.

"What...do...you...want?" Quince' demanded between gasps for air and gritted teeth. He was fighting back the tide of black and colorful stars that threatened unconsciousness. His head began to swim, the ground swaying beneath him.

"I am not here to hurt you; indeed I seem to have shown up just in time to help. Those highwaymen have been robbing travelers in these lands for many seasons. I must say that I am impressed that you were able to dispose of these men. Five bandits to one warrior. I honor you. The leader used to be a general for the alliance and was highly skilled as a swordsman." Replied the Draconian. 

"That doesn't... answer my question. Now tell me, what does..." Quince' struggled to keep his composure before the disgusting beast, "a skake...want with an...elf?"

"Not just any Elf ma lord." Came the reply "I need you, the leader of the Elven Calvary, to… show me through the mountains to Retass Pass. Do this and your... binding, to me, will be done. I must get to the pass."

Quince' fought the revulsion that threatened to overtake his tone at the mere mention of his obligation to this vile skake. The Draconian had saved his life by seeing to his wounds. Now honor dictated that he was bound to his service. It was the way of all knights.

But how was it this wretched creature even knew of the code of honor that now bound the two together? Such practices we're surely foreign to their kind. Draconians were not an honorable race. They preyed upon one another as violently as they did others.

And passage to the Sencheso pass, which was what the Dwarves called it, would mean one of three paths, none of which were favorable. To be released from this binding Quince' would face the gates of hell. Immediately he began to work out how to end this new obligation that had been forced upon him by circumstance.

The first choice would be west through Thanoville, then north into Busciples. From there onto his homeland. Draconians were a hated race to his people and barely tolerated by humans. Driving straight through the heart of Stenocia was suicide with present company. 

The Kislon bridge was heavily guarded by three factions. Then there were the patrolmen in the Capital Kingdom, skilled at detection. Someone would be sure to notify the authorities of Heaven’s Hearth that a Draconian was headed their way. 

They could head northeast and follow the eastern shores of Glimmering Lake to Silvers River. Following that river into Donmolim and then tackle the Dragon Spine Mountains. They would then travel to Boralla and on to Forton. Continuing north would bring them to the Krodroc coast, which was only a few sun passes from the Draconian's desired destination.

However, that path was a maze of trails that Quince' did not know well. They could easily find themselves lost in very inhospitable terrain. Not to mention that route would have them traveling along the eastern border of Quiyarus. Elven patrolmen would likely stumble upon them and that would lead to questions he would be ashamed to answer.

Also, taking this way meant a long arduous journey through rugged mountains. It would have them traveling through blue goblin territories. They weren't particularly fond of outsiders. While Elves and the 'sky skinned goblins', as they were called, had no bad blood between them, a Draconian would likely cause quite the stir.

That just left traveling east into Yavadeth. From there they could travel the ‘Golden Road’ into the Mountain’s Mouth. Dwarven lands meant less persecution for them both. 

Unfortunately, two-thirds of their trip would be underground. Through the Halls of Jamal. A blood icing thought for an Elf. While the Breather Dwarves of Yavadeth were relatively friendly, the Mountain Dwarves of Donmolim were irksome, sour people. But that was not nearly as appalling as the idea of traveling in caverns for nearly two moon cycles.

Elves were descended from the Fairie peoples of Aborlon, borne from the woodlands and fields. They built cities in the fabled trees of Ziaster, or within the glades of Heaven’s Hearth. They hunted and farmed from the bounty of the land. No matter where they built their cities they were always surrounded by the hum of nature and under the curtain of their ancestors. Underground caverns were cold, dark and suffocating. Sounds echoed confusingly and without the light of their ancestors to guide them, Elves lost their bearings.

There wasn't an Elf alive that didn't abhor closed-in places. While traveling through the Halls of Jamal would mean nearly two cycles of caves and peril it was still the best choice out of a bag of bad ones. The Donmolim nation prided itself on its underground labyrinth which was teeming with the rarest and most deadly cavern dwelling wildlife of the twelve lands. Yet still it offered them the greatest chance of success.

"So you have chosen the halls ma lord?", asked the Draconian. Quince' gawked at the beast. Intently the beast stared back. He had not shared his decision, but still, the Draconian had known. That could only mean one thing: a Psyonic. This skake had read his thoughts.

With no shame, the elven warrior rolled over and vomited. The retching sent yet more searing pain from his wound to his the bindings of his sanity. Quince' cleared his mind as he waited for the darkness to recede, controlling his breath to speed the process.

The golden orbs of the draconian did not flinch nor did his gaze wander from the elf. That would have been the respectful thing to do, but Draconian people knew nothing of respect.

After Quince' had regained his composure, he wiped his mouth weakly and shot his eyes into the yellow discs with ferocious intensity. He wanted to make this point crystal clear. There could be no room for misunderstanding. By the gods, this was a nightmare of a situation.

Shaking with barely caged rage the wounded knight spat "If you ever defile my mind again, I will sever your Hades-spawned mullet from your shoulders, life debt or not. Do you understand me?"

"My... regrets ma lord. It is my... curse. I should not have done this. I swear it shall not happen again." The glowing eyes responded from beneath the cowl. But what was that he saw in those golden pools? Was it amusement?

Second Chances

July 2019

Leaves and limbs swam in circles as Roun started to slip into unconsciousness. His vision began to sparkle with thousands of colored sparks and darkness. The forest canopy becoming smaller and smaller as it was replaced with the black sparkling gates into oblivion. But something began to pull him back into the world of life. An insistent tug that grasped his awareness with a solid determination.

A warm and comforting sensation worked its way up from his left middle finger. As it encompassed his arm the song of the wind through the trees returned to his ears and the smell of earth to his nose. The reassuring embrace had now worked all through his body and with a snap, he was aware of himself again. He could feel something warm running down his forehead. And a dull ache resonated from its source.

Something moved into his line of sight, blocking out the web of stars and trees. Gods it smelled terrible. There was a low guttural rumble from its chest, as if it was struggling to roar but couldn’t quite put it to sound. It was dangerous and Roun was beginning to get the memories back that had led him to this moment. He had been waylaid by an asphantis. Now it was coming to deliver the death stroke.

Creatures from the Underdark, all seemed to have that taste for fear and dread. They stalled when they should have finished their deed. While it wasn’t usually a concern for the nightmares that had escaped the nine gates, this one was going to suffer for it. It was the life ring that had brought him back from the brink of death, he knew that now. But it was going to be something far more mundane that saved him.

With his big toe, the Diplomat activated the switch in his boot that released the boot tip blade from its hiding place between sole and tread. With a quiet grunt, the dwarf kicked into the monster’s midsection and forced it across the abdomen eviscerating his assailant. A disgusting smell washed over him at the same moment that the innards splashed all over his legs.

A terrifying, defiant rage overcame the creature as it jumped to the side, dragging its intestines along with it. Screams of anger bellowed from the beast as it stumbled into the woods. Seeking to escape the danger it tried to flee, not quite realizing that it was far too late. Growls and yelps mixed into a mad tirade of anger. A few paces out it collapsed into the undergrowth of the forest. Twigs and dried branches snapped as the teeth of the asphantis gnashed at the air furiously. Wildly the dying animal seemed to bite onto an unseen opponent as if it refused to be taken by death himself. Thrashing with its forelegs and screeching in its way, the creature died stubbornly.

Roun laid right where he was. Never moving. He did not care that his head was bleeding, nor did it concern him that his trousers were drenched in gore. The putrid stench of the creature’s insides did not cause him to stir and the jubilant realization that he was going to live did not motivate a sigh of relief. Not this dwarf. Instead, he laid there and thought about the Vista that would be his someday.

A moon pace later as he lay there, envisioning his dream, he could hear something approaching. He didn’t have a whole lot of fight left in him, so he favored silence as his defense. Unfortunately, the source of the noise continued in his direction. His hands searched the ground around him as silently as he could. No sooner had he found his ax and the bushes shook at the arrival of this new threat.

Nickering as if in apology and shame his horse, Wishful, trotted into the clearing. Relief swept over him at the sight of his mare. However, the relief quickly gave way to the exhaustion that he had been keeping at bay up to this point. Covered in the lifeblood of his adversary, battered and severely wounded Roun finally let unconsciousness overcome him. By the gods, he was going to earn that vista. Not even a creature from the Underdark could keep him from it.

Truth or Deception

This abomination was inside the Alliance’s borders! ‘How could such a thing be?’ the horrified Elf begged of the gods.

In the legra 192, a Draconian priest had risen to power among his kind with brutal force. He had been reputed to “know the minds of his adversaries” and thus he was able to murder, lie and manipulate his way into power. While this tactic was common enough among their kind, priests considered authority a defilement to their sanctity. Their responsibilities lie within the spiritual divinations of the gods, not the direction of lowly monsters.

Due to his mind-reading ability, this priest was always a step ahead of his foes. With the swiftness of a guillotine Sest Maladieus the only mind-reading Rasa to ever rule Glatar took control of their Hallowed Queen and dictated the otherwise natural selection process of their kind. For years this crippled the infrastructure of their race. However, Sest was a municipal genius and managed to build a network of roads, trade routes and ports that still find use today.

The Maladieus Dynasty conquered most of central Aborlon, becoming the largest governed territory in Aborlonian history. Hundreds of thousands of slaves from all over the continent were subject to the lash of this Draconian juggernaut. It was a dark time for the races of the continent, one of cruel subjugation and terrifying misery, dubbing it as the Ages of Blood. 

However, it is rumored that the Emperor’s antics among his own people led to his eventual demise. While he may have been able to read the minds of his subjects, he could not prevent the coo that came swift and merciless in the dead of night. From that day forward, both the ruling and the religious sects were quick to execute anyone born with the ability to read minds, or Psyonics as they are now known.

“I am an outsider, even to my own people. You are as well yes?” the Draconian asked.

“My name is Zypher Loosefang, and I know you have questions and more dislike for Draconian than kindness. You wear it on your face, I don’t need an ability to see that. Let me tell why I see you out.”

As soon as this Zypher had learned the basic survival skills taught to their youth he fled, knowing full well what was in store for anyone with his gift. By circumstance, he had met a Rector, one of the fifth class Rasa, who had taken him in. Apparently, this Rector had been secretly waiting for the reincarnation of the once-mighty Sest Maladieus Dragonback. Believing Zypher to be that incarnation, he sheltered him and hid him from the Rasa and Gorsh.

Taking his cue from Quince’s silence the ostracized Draconian went on, carefully wording his story as he strained to express himself in a language not his own.

This rebellious Rasa taught Zypher that his ability was not a curse but a gift. However, the thoughts of this Rector were malicious and self-serving. The storyteller could see what his benefactor was hiding, and it kept him cautious and ever alert. For the Rector sought only to harness Zypher to do his bidding. The young draconian was a means to this priest’s rise to power. In the end, the psyonic fled even the protection of the Rector.

Knowing what others thought was a nightmare of unending fear. Draconians are brutal, selfish people. Aside from the caste system, the social structure was determined by survival. Each and every draconian sought a way to undermine those above him and savagely ensured that those under them remained there.

Solidarity was nothing more than a loose mutual understanding of place within the whole. A place that they could change on the successful murder of their betters.

Respect was a mask worn by jealousy and hatred. Deceitful masquerades an everyday part of Glatarian existence. Blood lust was on the cusp of every encounter served like free drinks at a ball. Allegedly this way of life sickened Zypher and shamed him as to the nature of his own people. How small-minded and short-sighted they truly were.

Quince listened, suspicious at the emotion playing out before him. How could any skake behave with compassion while confessing their cold-blooded nature in the same breath? The repulsive features hinted at pain, or perhaps it was yearning. The elf knew little of their facial features making it impossible to know for sure what feeling was being portrayed. Moisture seemed to gather around its eyes but never fell.

Those slitted eyes did seem distant as if fixed upon some experience either long forgotten or some distant future. It was almost mesmerizing. Whether it was pain or not was unclear and unimportant to Quince. Zypher wanted to explain himself and so the elf waited expectantly, searching for the connection that this story had with him.


Then it came. There was another psyonic, one greater than he in ability and viciously more draconian than Zypher. His was a mountain of thoughts that screamed loudly in the everyday babbling of wandering consciousness. It would not just read the minds of those around it, but push its will upon others, like a plague infecting everything that it encountered.

Vengeance

August 2019

Draesaago mentally ignored the stares, those looks of unspoken challenge, looks he had dealt with his whole life. He wasn’t big like other Draconian Tinisru, or physically strong like the others; he hadn’t even passed the racksheul stage of maturity, which was the shedding of the tail. Thus, the nature of the buffoons was to demean him for being different, to leer and insult because the morons thought him easy prey. He was considered a runt, yet he was not without virtues of his own.

Thus, Draesaago walked with defiant pride, never even making eye contact with the dull-witted fools. He was always watching though, watching and listening. Like a viper poised to strike, patiently waiting for the right moment to sink his teeth into competitor and predator alike. Always mindful that anyone could make a play to end him at any moment. Like a static charge on the cusp of crackling, he remained tense and anxious to retaliate.

With an open show of confidence: head held high, shoulders rolled back and a strong, meaningful strut, many would-be assailants were kept at bay. But not all. This simple tactic had served him well and was rooted in intellect rather than might. However, he has noticed that when the aspect of might was great, that of intellect was consequently dim.

If only they knew how much he was truly capable of, they would not dare challenge him. Had they any idea how much power he possessed they would instead beg to serve him. These ignorant dolts would find out soon enough that there were more aspects to power than just physical prowess. For now, however, they could not know. Magic of all forms was forbidden for anyone, not of the Paternal Covenant. The Rasa saw to the enforcement of this decree personally, utilizing spies, sight spheres and proxy slaves.

The soft glowing orbs, or sight spheres, were dotted throughout Minya, the Glatarian capital. Those zealots guarded their secrets like paranoid cowards, fearful of losing their precious positions in the religious hierarchy that made the Covenant. Always searching the traders who came to the Holy Heartland for baubles and talismans that might increase their abilities and afford them greater elevation.

But the true threat of discovery Draesaago knew was in the pale proxy slaves that slithered in and out of the shadows. These slaves were nothing more than the husks of Draconians who had climbed the ranks a little too quickly to go unnoticed. Some had been prominent Gorsh who had earned the ire of any number of Rasa by not heeding their omniscient deity-prompted guidance, while some were no more than mighty Tinisiru who couldn’t respect their lower station. Whatever the case was, their minds were wiped nearly clean and their bodies became vessels upon which their Rasa handlers would subject their essence.

It was said that when a Rasa claimed a proxy slave a piece of their souls would be bonded to that victim, while the soul of the slave would be drained away leading to their scales turning pale white. But Draesaago knew better. To create a proxy slave you killed the spirit of the victim while keeping their body alive. The problem was that without an essence of life the body slowly withered away to nothing. The spirit provides the will to live, and the body depends on that spirit.

So, while the handlers could drive their proxy like a common mount and experience anything that the proxy experienced, down to the last sense, the connection taxed the spirits of the handlers immensely. For their spirit had to maintain two bodies rather than just their own while the connection was established. This, in turn, caused the handlers to age twice as fast while connected to a proxy. The last thing a member of the Rasa wanted was to live shorter lives and reduce their opportunities to advance in stature. Thus, they were used sparingly and generally by the younger Rasa.

When a proxy slave was being ‘driven’ by a master, there was usually a really good cause for it. The resources used during the incantations alone were worth a small fortune. Seeing an active proxy was a sure sign something was afoot. Given that the Rasa only concerned themselves with the ecclesiastic machinations of the spirit realm, their attentions were a noteworthy concern.

‘Soon,’ he thought, ‘soon they shall bow to me in terror and recognize their arrogant foolery. They will call me master, not runt, not weakling, but MASTER!’ Inside he laughed at what was to come, what he would do to his tormentors.

He walked past a forge spewing smoke and sparks like a sick dragon hacking in pain. Then past a barracks where the chants of professional soldiers sounded in unison to the stomping of their feet. His mind wandered as he barely took note of the ruckus that flooded out of a local alehouse. As he floated by, his long, thick, burgundy robe made it seem as if he was gliding above the cobblestone walkway rather than walking upon it. He nimbly avoided the gutters as he breezed by, like a whisper on the wind, two soldiers heading toward the alehouse.

Without so much as a moments hesitation, or stutter in his step, Draesaago side-stepped into a narrow alley. Weaving through an obstacle course of long-forgotten broken furniture and waste he headed for the enclosed end of the vacant alleyway.

Stopping just short of the wall at the furthest end of the alley, he purposefully looked over his shoulder to ensure that he was alone. Straining to catch anything out of place, he focused on his surroundings. Hearing little save for the clamor pouring from the alehouse and the now distant cadence of troops training, he relaxed. Still he waited a few more moments. 

Purposefully, Draesaago placed his left hand on the wall to the right of him. Bowing his head, he began to chant the words needed to complete the task of unlocking the entrance. With each verse concluded, a small purple light would pulse from beneath his hand accompanied by a soft thrum. With the incantation complete, he took one more look behind him before stepping through the wall.

For all intents and purposes, he was blanketed in complete darkness. Even the vision of a Draconian could afford no aid with the complete absence of light and warmth. Such blindness was known to send ordinary Draconians into a panic, but Draesaago was not ordinary. Raising his hands, he cast a spell to light the star-globes lined along the hallway. “Lou iss Shirak.”

They did very little to light the way, but they did offer enough to make travel possible. Their purpose wasn’t for the light, but instead served as a warning should any follow him into the passage.

Holding his hand aloft, Draesaago chanted “Mia Shirak” causing his hand to burst into a cold white flame. The eerie cold fingers of fire licked along his skin but did no damage nor caused him any discomfort. Using his flaming appendage as a torch he proceeded down the long corridor. The floor, tilting downward, swallowed him in his travel consuming both he and his light as the passage behind salivated darkness after his passing. Descending into the bowels of the ground for many sun passes, Draesaago remained silent as he meticulously combed through his plans to ensure there would be no future snags.

His thoughts focused on the rogue psyonist he had encountered unexpectedly. While Draesaago didn’t suspect him to be any concern, the dying prophecy of Maladieus was not to be shrugged off. Prophecy led to power if one was wise enough to heed them and interpret their secrets accurately.

This draconian, though, had been a weak example of their race. He was nothing like the mighty Draesaago. Only luck and chance had kept this inferior psyonist alive thus far.

But luck was also a powerful force, and not one to be taking too lightly. It was best to remove the insignificant gnat regardless. He had not accomplished all that he had by being careless. 

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