"(Blessed
are) the (ignoble ones)!
though their
minds be incapable of (articulating the chords),
their language
is that of the wind.
Spoken breaths
and intonations,
like the
(cries of an infant) in the darkness
through
which he cannot see . . . "
A'kithas'elem Golorad
FAREN: A Dragon’s Tale
Episode 1
--Prologue--
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Music: "Visions
of Lein" By Evan Arnett
Based on the theme "Clutch" by Maher Al-Samkari
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
A Bastion in the Darkness
Girl’s Voice:
Far Away . . . Beyond the realm of life and light and living that mortals
perceive as the "world".
In an endless, myriad chaos, a beacon can be seen . .
it towers over a barren waste a million lem across, bathed in the glow
of a single shaft of light emanating not from the heavens above, but
from some mysterious splendor within . . .
It is a mountain--encompassed by eternal night,
a solitary messenger alone in the Void . . .
What stars break the curtain of blackness above cast none of their
luminance onto the landscape below, for there is only the mountain--
massive and sheer, imposing, horrifying, yet beautiful.
An eastward wind blows in this place, a cold breeze which
transcends the supreme emptiness that fills the hollow valleys between
the
ethereal peaks.
It is a mystic place,
it is a sacred place,
perhaps, it is a cursed place . . .
the name some have given it is "Bastion . . ."
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
16th century since Lur
Before the Beginning, in a Place Near the End of a Life
(The desert is dark, and cold. Numbingly cold . . . not something
one
would expect
from the sunscorched planes of the Azarrian wastes, but a
chilling reality nonetheless . . .)
Boy: (gasping) . . .
(in the dull blue of a frigid desert's night, a boy walks a stumbling gait,emburdened
by a lifeless female
form cradled desperately
in his arms. Harsh winds bite at the exposed flesh of his neck as he
pushes through
ankle-high shifting sands,grunting forcefully at the hopelessness which
seems to gnaw
at his resolve like
so many rat’s teeth, and the exhaustion which ebbs at his joints not unlike
an acid
tide . .
.)
(The moments seem to slip away with the fleeting nature of the windswept
sands, much like the
diminishing
shafts of life that recede from the girl's body with her every strained
breath. The galeforces
that relentlessly
blast at the pair’s tattered clothes are heedless of their plight as they
persist to drive the
boy forcefully
to his knees, impelling him to drop his precious charge to the ground below.
For a moment, the child claws with confusion at the dirt beneath his fingernails,
struggling to regain
his senses
as strange patterns of light and darkness parade across his vision.
The temporary vertigo
caused by
his fall is quickly dispersed, however, as he catches sight of the deathly
still figure lying in
the sand
barely an arm's length away . . . with a cry of desperation, he crawls
to her, casting a strained
and helpless
gaze down to her delicate, ashen features. Pain seems to radiate
from his eyes as he
searches
for signs of life; her ghostly, glasslike skin illuminated by the waning
moonlight cast upon
them both
from the holy orb that watches pitilessly from on high. . .)
Boy: Not yet . . . you can’t . . .not yet!! We're not there yet!!
Woman: . . .
(Struggling for a strength that has long since eluded him, the boy strains
to lift the girl from the
shifting
sands--his body fighting an already forfieted battle with exhaustion.
Coughing on the choking
airborn
dust that burns the eyes and sears the lungs, the child realizes too late
the futility of his efforts,
collapsing
against her motionless form and placing his forehead against hers;
With a stammered
prayer,
he clutches her cold face in his hands, gazing into her eyelids as tears
gather from
behind his
. . .)
Boy: (moaning) Get up . . Not yet . . . GET UP. . .
Woman: . . .
(There is nothing that can be done, however, as bit by bit, pieces of
the girl's soul are broken free,
to be carried
off by the howling winds . . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
13th century since Lur
An Earlier Time
Boy’s voice: (laughing)
Girl’s Voice: Vay!! VAY!!! Stop Running!
(A lush, green, everwood forest, bathed in the warm light of a summer day . . .
Two sets of footsteps can be heard, bounding quickly through grassy undergrowth
beneath the
shade of
an expansive forest canopy . . .)
Boy: (laughing) Why don’t you put some more effort into it??
(also to be heard, accompanying the footsteps, is the sound of voices . . .)
Girl: (incensed, panting) Why don’t you-just-slow down?? It’ll be easier for the both of us!
(Through a clearing between the ancient leafy domes, for nary a second,
the figure of a young boy
blurs by--weaving
deftly like a spring fawn over roots and rocks with incredible swiftness,
garbed in a
long red
tunic and pants, with a bow and quiver tied securely to his back . . .)
Boy: Easy for you, maybe! I thought you were swift on your feet !!
Girl: (angry) My feet will be swift when they kick your ass! Now STOP!
(An instant later, a second figure--this one, of a young girl --blunders
past.
No less
swift is she, although her form follows at a slight distance . . .)
Girl: VAY!
(reluctantly, the young man comes to a gradual stop . . . turning on his heel to face his pursuer . . )
Boy: What ever happened to trying to beat me?You used to have such a fight in you . . .
(As he says this, an out of breath looking young woman--seemingly, not
much past girlhood--steps
into view.
Gasping for air, she brushes a tangled mess of short, dark hair from in
front of her azure eyes,
glaring
at the boy warily . . .)
Girl: (panting) That .. was last week . . . I’ve . . . grown up since then.
(Vay returns the girl's look with a slight smirk, easing a long, hewn bow
from its place on his back.
Setting
it firmly on the ground, he leans on it, putting his face within inches
of hers . . .)
Boy: Maybe you're just getting fat . . . studying all day does little for your figure, I suppose . . .
Girl: . . .
(At first, the girl's only response is a languid glare . . .)
Girl: NNggh!!!
(. . .before, with a growl, she reaches for him--pulling on one of the
long, slender, ilifin ears
protruding
from his head . . .)
Boy: OwwOOWWWW!!!
Girl:
(shouting) Are you Deaf? WHEN I TELL YOU TO SLOW DOWN,
YOU SLOW THE HELLS DOWN!!
Boy: Let GO!! Owwww-HEY!! Let OFF!
Girl: Hmmph!!
(Grunting in satisfaction, she releases him with a final twist--stepping
foreword from the underbrush,
into the
clearing with her companion who, understandably, now clutches his ear .
. .)
Boy: Sorry . .ow . .did you have to--
Girl:
(interrupting) We’re almost a lem from the village. That's far enough
away.
They WON’T hear you. Play it.
Boy: Give me a minute to rest . . .!
(Rolling her eyes impatiently, the girl does an about-face--tossing her hair to the side . . .)
Girl: You wouldn’t need one if you didn’t RUN so fast . . .
Boy: . . .
(Cursing quietly to himself, the young ilif takes in the surroundings a
bit, attempting to distract
himself
from the painful throbbing in his ear . The sun sits high in the
dome of the sky, surrounded by a
blustery
white expanse that is bordered by the very tops of the trees that line
a break in the canopy far
above.
Somewhere in the clearing, mosquitoes buzz about in small, chaotic clouds
over the puddles of
water that
still remain long after the hiatus of the morning rains hours earlier .
. .
A moment later, the female ilif crosses her arms, turning at the sounds
of her now fully
recovered
companion . . .)
Girl: (smiling) so? Let me hear it now.
(Shaking his head, the ilifin boy chuckles to himself, grinning . . .)
Boy: You can never wait for good things to come to you, sister.
Girl: (pouting). . . so?
Boy: Did you bring the ona?
Girl: yes.
(looking to her side, the girl produces from her pouch a small, oblong
looking instrument--
a clay pipe
of sorts, its back lined with 8 holes and offset by a quartet bridged strings
on its top,
set in place
along a slender piece of ivory colored wood . . .
The fine cords gleam like gossamer in the sunlight, as the ona is passed
from the girl’s hands to her
sibling’s
. . .The boy takes it expertly in his slim fingers, gripping it with a
complex looking, yet
apparently
well-practiced hold . . )
Girl: Play.
Boy: Be patient! The song has to come to me first.
Girl: Oh NOT this again?
Boy: Look, will you shut up? You have to wait for it . . .
Girl: . . ?
Boy: Oh, just be patient.
Girl: did you really write it? for me?
Boy: I didn’t lie to you. Of course. . . oh . . .
(At that moment, the boy’s eyes suddenly seem to narrow a bit, a placid
look passing over his
youthful
features . The girl grows silent as her brother then smiles knowingly,
placing the instrument to
his lips
. . .)
Boy: Sit. Listen.
(With but a second’s pause, his sister kneels in the soft grass, supporting
herself on one arm and
looking
up at her brother once more before shutting her eyes . . .
Then, with one last, quick breath, he closes his own, and begins to play . . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
A Sacred Place
In the lands to the east, beyond the expanse of the great river Enoch,
set at the very center of an arid, desolate Azar waste, at one of the very edges of the known world,
there lies a mountain . . .
Nearly a hundred lem across at its base, it reaches into the sky like a
rocky spear--its immense size
defying
reason, its top obscured from the ground by a halo of clouds which sit
above its lofty peaks like
the ornamented
crown of the world . . .
As one’s eyes travel beyond this cloud layer to the uppermost portion of
the earthy tower, they will find
a collection
of hundreds upon hundreds of spires--stabbing upward in a sea of spikes
that surround a
single,
thick pillar in the very center . . .
At the top of this pillar--indeed, near the very apex of the mountain’s
height--the gargantuan shaft
splits into
two smaller ones, the westernmost slightly taller than its brother
. . . .
A star-filled blanket of night now surrounds this behemoth as the light
from a lonely crecent of the
holy moon,
Camer, is cast down upon it--creating a wild play of shadows which dance
on the cliffs,
crags, valleys
and banks.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
14th century since Lur
Another Presence
(Farther away now . . . in a different time, in a different realm . . .)
Female Voice: Has word of this not upset you, Oryn?
(The voice is deep, imposing, yet unmistakeably feminine. Posessed
of a timbre unattainable by
human vocal
cords, it fits well the disposition of its owner: a beast which is
gigantic in size, steeped in
power and
age, and comfortably hidden by the shadows of the cave in which it now
lies . . .
Before her, a similar form--even more massive than her own--lies equally
as still. Its eyes, aglow with
a fiery
amber that produces an eerie cast on the walls of the stone chamber, watch
patiently as the
female speaks
with words that are slow, deliberate, and substantial . . .)
Female Voice: With every passing of Camer, the clutches grow smaller . . .
Oryn: . . .
Female Voice:
The higher one’s nests stagnate. The eggs wither and die beneath
their mother’s watchful eyes. Our young lose the willingness to live in
a world
they do not care for, and the memories of what remains of the great
song dwindle with each new
hatchling . . . have you not heard all of this before?
Oryn: . . .
Female Voice: We have reached our very last years upon this plane . . .
(The response comes in a base rumble, a voice as old as the hollow winds
which even now wind
through
the ancient turns and tunnels of the cavern itself. )
Oryn: I know of what you speak. I was aware long before the knowledge was bestowed upon you.
(The male's utterance is distinctly deeper in its carriage than that
of his companion. Indeed, his voice
so low,that
the very cave walls resonate lightly with its tone, knocking free small
pebbles and motes of
dust from
their surface. . . )
Female Voice: What do you and the elders plan, Husband?
Oryn: What words I have with the council of 8 planes are of my concern alone . . .
(At this, the female cocks her head to the side--her eyes growing narrow
at the sound of the male's
rebuke .
. .)
Female Voice: And myself? Am I to be equated with those lower than you? Your own mate?
Oryn: I am aware of our Doctrines. Do not tempt me.
(The female snorts, shaking her head slowly . . . )
Female Voice:
Of course. A trifle, I suppose? If nothing is done, we will
die . . .
we, who are among the very last . . .
(She seems to stifle an indignant laugh, bemused at the irony of it all . . .)
Female Voice: Is there any honor left in that?
(Suddenly, the eyes widen as Oryn raises his massive head, thrusting his cowl forward . . .)
Oryn: Echelon will live on. We have transcended the follies ancient ones, we live to surpass our own . . .
Female Voice: Echelon? But--
Oryn: (interrupting) I am weary of this. You will leave me, at once.
Female Voice:
Perhaps this rock we cling to will persist-but we will not,
unless you intend to enrich its soil with our corpses-
Oryn: SILENCE!!
(The shout is enough to send small boulders tumbling from the cavern ceiling.
Humbled
by the bellow, the smaller form lowers her eyes, curving her slender neck
away from
her companion . . .)
Female Voice: . . .
Oryn: I will decide what is best for our clan . .
Female Voice: . . . O . . .Of Course, my lord. . . .
Oryn: Now . . . leave me. I will not ask again.
Female Voice: . . .
(Without another word, the female averts her eyes, stepping away, slowly, from the aged leader . . .
the look on her face, however, is beyond humility or acceptance . . .
rather, it is one of sheer contempt . . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
Apex of the 15th century since Lur
A World Aflame
Woman: (shrieking)
Soldier: GET THE WOUNDED UNDER COVER!! We’ll have to move them separately!
(The sounds of panic and terror stricken humanity fills the air as dirtied,
scorched soldiers and
civilians
fill an emergency encampment on the edge of a remote and lonely forest
. . . A thick soot
hangs low
in the sky while, far in the distance, the night is set alight with the
flames of a faraway
inferno:
beneath its grasp, a proud city is slowly burned in a seething wall of
fire that stretches from
horizon
to horizon, lighting the sky for miles . . .)
Soldier A: Captain!! The fourth regiment is reporting heavy casualties!!
Captain: Order the men to fall back! Defend the remaining survivors at all costs!!!
(as the cries of uncountable pain and suffering pierce the night, A young
girl--
an ilif,
seemingly not far into womanhood--is brought in among the terror stricken
survivors
of the blaze . . .
The girl shouts desperately to the men in armor as she is born by the horrified
crowd,
raising
her arm above the stifling sea of humanity surrounding her . . .)
Girl: (shouting) I’m A--AARGH!
(The woman stumbles, steadying herself in the already thickening furor of the mob . . .)
Girl: (shouting) Listen to me! I can heal your wounded--- I'm a shaper!
(Perhaps it is a work of chance, or the will of some mysterious chord of
fate; no matter the cause,
however,
fortune seems to play in the girl's favor as at last, one of the men-at-arms
takes notice of her
efforts
through the chaos that surrounds them both . . . )
Captain: You’re a healer?
(The woman seems to throw up her hands at the ludicrousness of the situation . . .)
Girl: Yes!
(Without further question, the regiment captain takes the girl by the arm--pulling
her to the outskirts
of the mob.
As she is born through the tangle of arms and limbs, the girl catches glimpse
of the man’s
own bearded
face. Relatively young looking for someone of such high rank, his
features are marred by
cuts and
bruises, his nose blackened from the ash whisping through the air surrounding
the burning
city.
These scars, however, do not belie as much pain as his eyes which, as they
wildly search the
crowd ahead
of him seem to have been the unfortunate witness to far greater horrors
in the hours
past
. . .
The ilif is given a much better glimpse as they at last clear the mob,
and he turns, looking the girl
over solemnly
before indicating the area behind . . )
Captain: (paning) There are injured over here--the worst.
Girl: Take me to them . . .
(With a nod, the armor clad guardsman pulls her with him--making his way
through the encampment
to one of
the larger tents where, as alluded to the girl's aural senses by the cries
which arise from the
entrance,
the worst wounded have been placed . . .
Once inside, the ilif’s eyes flare for an instant . . . .
As she wades through them all, the girls lips tremble in silent prayer.
So wretched is the state of
suffering
and death around her that stench of seared flesh is as prominent as that
of the canvas which
comprises
the structure itself; a sweet, bitter smell that turns the young healer's
stomach on her trek
among the
dead and dying . . .
She freezes, however, as she stops at the end of one of the makeshift benches--one
of many which
have been
hastily erected to hold the worst of the wounded--where a young boy dressed
in rags, with
fiery green
eyes and red hair, sits, bewildered by the chaos surrounding him . . .
Almost at once, the young woman’s face contorts to one of insurmountable
rage. Without warning,
she grabs
the child by his collar: thrusting him hard against one of the heavy
wooden posts supporting
the tent’s
ceiling, the force enough to cause a small ripple to shudder through the
canvas around the top
of pole
. . . )
Girl: (shouting) Charge of hell's will! I should have known!!
(Stunned, the soldier shouts at the girl in disbelief . . .)
Captain: What are you doing!?!?
(the girl does not take her eyes from the child she holds as she shouts back . . )
Girl: Why did you let him in here?!?
Captain: What on Lein? Have you Gone MAD, woman?
Girl: You little bastard. Glenden wasn't enough, was it?? It all makes perfect sense now . .!
(Without warning, the girl slams the surprised boy against the post again,
drawing a short, curved
dagger from
her belt . . .)
Girl:
Don’t you understand?? Don’t you know what he is?? It’s HIS fault
all this happened!!
HE’S THE CAUSE! LOOK!
Captain: STOP!
(before the man can react, however, the ilif lunges--embedding the blade
above the boy’s chest with
an audible
shattering of bone, and the sickening crunch of muscle . . .
For an instant, the world seems to fall into a silent lull, as all three
participants in the spectacle fully
realize
what has just occurred . . . The boy, silent, stares at the dagger protruding
from his chest in
horrified
surprise, as does the veteran captain of the city guard, who has fallen
motionless in mid-
stride .
.
Most surprised of all, however, seems the girl herself . . .
Indeed, she stares at the slowly reddening cloth around the ilifin knife
with a greater disbelief . . . not
for what
she has done,
But, seemingly, for the simple fact that the blade has actually entered . . . )
Boy: Aer .. I . ana . ..
(The whispered word rises from the boy's throat with a rasp akin to that
of dry leaves as he looks into
the eyes
of his executioner, a trickle of blood welling up at the very corner of
his lips. The ilifin girl can
feel her
skin grow cold as she watches his own eyes glaze over-- and he falls, clutching
weakly to her
robes as
he slips to the ground to the cacaphony of screams rises in unison from
the terror stricken
occupants
of the tent surrounding them all. . . )
---------------------------------------------------------------------
FAREN:
A Dragon’s Tale
Episode 1: "Forgotten Movements"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION
Eighty years ago . . .
Dawn of the 15th century since Lur
Yashas, the season of the Southern Harvest
Glenden, Signet of Eludrian Frontier
(A turbid fog inundates the air over a dry, windswept landscape with a
moist haze as a new day’s sun
rises from
behind bow-shaped hills in the east . . . A blanket of warmth washes over
the Eludrian plains,
filtering through
grasses and trees in the countryside and tumbling over the dales and valleys
that give
this land its
form. It is in the wake of this rebirth of heat and light, that the city
of Glenden begins to
awaken.
Beyond the humble fortifications that comprise the retaining walls surrounding
the burg, there lies a
sprawling collection
of houses and cottages on the bare outskirts of city center. It is
only as one
approaches
nearer the inner edges of the metropolitan expanse that dirt paths which
connect the modest
structures
conglomerate and widen to become cobblestone roads, and smaller, singular
structures are
replaced by
two and three-story dwellings of wood and hewn stone.
The weathered roofs of these modest dwellings, slick with rain and dew
from the slowly receding
night, creak
as the glow from the morning star causes the moisture that has collected
on their surface to
evaporate.
This vapor, in turn, rises in twisting columns that collect above the tops
of the buildings in an
opaque, incorporeal
cloud that dissipates quickly into the quickly warming air. It is
directly below these
lofty city
roofs that Glenden's avenues slowly fill with people preparing to begin
their day’s work: every
last one doing
so under the watchful eye Mount Echelon, whose titanic base can be seen
thrusting
upward from
the Azarian desert in the east like an earthy spire; many lem distant and
obscured by the
yet still-clinging
mists. . .
Within a matter of an hour or so, accompanied by the calls of the crows
that sit perched atop the
highest steeples
in the burg, the sounds of life begin to fill the streets of the ancient
city: those once
solitary figures
soon joined by a living, bustling crowd of workers and market-goers . .
.)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(In the heart of the daily market . . . among the rows of merchants, fruit
sellers and smithies,
a small, odd
looking figure wades through the crowd . . .
(He walks at a much slower pace than the rest--barefoot and dressed only
in a single, ragged piece
of cloth wrapped
haphazardly about his shoulders and draped over his waist. It is
a boy is of early age;
no older, seemingly,
than late adolescence . . .
He moves about the crowd with an immeasurable sense of curiosity and care,
an almost naïve
wonder dancing
excitedly on the edges of his features . . .)
Vendor: (Shouting) Enta’i shoots! Fresh grown, low priced!
Vendor B: Fine Iskandrian silks! Most luxurious in all the land!
(As the calls from the market fill the air, the boy looks quickly about.
Brushing unkempt red bangs
from atop emerald-colored
eyes, he steps out of the path of milling peasants oblivious to his miniscule
presence, making
his way through the mass of citizenry toward the source of the voices .
. .
As he reaches the nearest cart to hold his interest--a clay pottery merchant
who has organized his
wares on a
straw mat in a small semicircle about himself --the boy looks curiously
at the odd looking
collection
of squat shapes spread out on the ground before him. It is with a particular
sort of
facetiousness
that the child notes how closely they resemble the squat form of their
owner: an older
man sitting
among the piles of basins, pots, and crocks that picks idely at the bits
of dry clay and mud
stuck beneath
his fingernails whilst muttering to himself of the humidity. Another
moment passes
before the
shopkeeper even takes notice of the boy, uttering a word of greeting and
smiling toothlessly
at him.
The child steps back cautiously at first as, with a wave of his hand, the
man indicates a collection of
earthen bowls
stacked high on one side . . .)
Image
by Maher Al-Samkari
Boy: . . ?
Merchant: (gruffly) Cheapest pottery in the city. 1 guilden for 1 crock, 3 for 4.
Boy: . . .
(looking at the shopkeep curiously for a moment, the child hesitantly takes
one of the empty stone
bowls in hand--turning
it about in his fingers, running them over the texture of its bumpy, hand-hewn
surface, before
taking it and placing it over his head.
Bewildered, the shopkeeper looks on as the child raps on the peculiar hat
with his fist, a smile of
satisfaction
spreading across his face. . .)
Merchant: . . . ?
Boy: . . . What is a "crock" ?
(almost at once, the vendor begins to laugh uproariously--snatching the
item from atop the child’s
head and pushing
him away from the cart . . .)
Merchant: (laughing) I’m not in the market for a fool, boy! Peddle your stupidity in the bazaar!
(The man has one final chortle before returning to his wares. Somewhat
surprised, the boy looks on
him for a bit,
then shrugs, turning toward the crowd once again and walking back
into the heart of busy
populace .
. .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Elsewhere . . . at a rzan vendor’s cart on the other side of the city
. . .a transaction of a
different sort
is unfolding . .)
Aerianna: What? Twenty three guilden? For ONE bag? You’ve got to be joking!
(A young girl--seemingly, no more than 19 years of age--stands defiantly
before the immense, hairy
bulk of the
local spice dealer . . .
She, too, is set apart from the group, by the silvery blue locks that flow
down the back of her head,
by the deep
blue in her spirited eyes . . .
and by the long, slender ears whose tips peek out from beneath her hair on either side of her head . . .)
Aerianna: That’s
almost a week’s pay! Last week you were charging half that--and
even that
was too much!
Vendor: Take it or leave it, that is my price.
Aerianna: "Your price" Stinks. . . And I don’t see you charging anyone else that much!
Vendor: Are you a fool? Or have those substantial ears of yours gone bad?
(The girl takes a step back, her almond-shaped eyes forming narrow slits . . .)
Aerianna: (quietly) You’re going to overcharge me because I’m an ilif . . ?
(her voice is quiet, almost flat, as she speaks . . . with an audible grunt, the man nods in reply . . .)
(Then, however . . .)
Aerianna: (sternly) I never thought you so low that you would resort to extortion, Javro.
Javro: . .
hmph. You will pay what I charge you--the war has not been easy on
my crop lately,
you understand . . . The drought has been of no help, either!
(the man snorts, indicating his merchandise with a wave of his hand. . .)
Javro: The gods have not been kind . . . So why must I be
Aerianna:
(interrupting) Shut up. It’s because of greedy pigs like you that
I have to spend
ALL my money just trying to stay fed.
(With this, the girl flings the overpriced bag of spice at the man, who
catches it,
roughly, in
the face . . .)
Javro: You don't like my price? Leave my cart then, girl! Make way for paying customers--
( the ilif does not so much as flinch as the shopkeeper bellows this,
pointing a
large finger toward the street . . .)
Aerianna:
(loudly) Did you tell your Paying customers that their Merchant is as corrupt
as he is ugly??
Or do you actually entreat them with exactly how much extra salt you have
added to
each bag? I'm sure they will be quite curious to know, since you charge
by the
weight, Shlomo!
Javro: (shouting) How dare you! You know nothing of spices--
(As if giving him an indication to the contrary, Aerianna thumbs her nose at the man--)
Aerianna: Yeah, well, my "substantial ears" aren't the only things that are sensitive!
( . . .as onlookers gawk, curious, the girl pulls the edges of her cloak
around her,
turning away, in a huff, from the string of curses coming from the
irate rizan dealer . . .)
Aerianna: This is pathetic . . .
(only a moment later, when the cart and merchant are finally out of sight,
however, the
girl’s tough demeanor seems to fade away, replaced by one of intense frustration.
With a wild
wave of her hands, Aerianna kicks at the dirt, uttering to herself disdainfully
. . .)
Aerianna:
No more rzan this week . . . Absolutely wonderful . . .Really great how
you
Handled that situation, Aerianna. . .
(Shaking her head, she slouches a bit as she walks. Though somehow
emburdened by the
realization
of the week's coming hardship, the girl still seems to move nimbly through
the bustle of
the midmorning
crowds, swiftly -- and almost subconsciously-- avoiding collisions with
oncoming
market-goers.
As her stride takes her beyond the circular commons that make up
the city center, the girl considers
what the week's
cuisine will now hold for her, in light of her confrontation . . .
and she cannot help but make a face .. . .)
Aerianna: (to herself) Salted meats . . . no more tea . . . how can it get any worse?
(Aerianna lowers her gaze, coming to a stop in the middle of the bustling crowd . . .)
Man’s voice: Aerianna? Aerianna Goodtree!? I should have recognized that hot temper when I saw it!
(only to stop in her tracks at the sound of a familiar voice calling her
name from not
ten paces behind
. .)
Aerianna: H . . Hugh?
(The girl's eyes go wide with recognition as she turns, coming face to
face with a much taller, much
older looking
young man. . .)
Hugh: Of all the people to bump into at the market . . .
( Forgetting, for a moment, the ordeal with Shlomo, the ilif takes a step
back--taking a long moment
to regard the
stout moose of a man that stands before her, his frame at least fifteen
stone and towering
easily above
hers. )
Aerianna: Goddess! Hugh! It's been forever!
Hugh: How are you doing?
Aerianna: look at you! Wh--you--What are you doing in Glenden!? Is that really you!?
(With a bearded smile, the man nods. . .)
Hugh:
It's Hugh Darvin, now. The Atavi have made me one of their own.
Glenden has the largest summer market this year. Joachem Kurric sent
the lot of us down here to purchase his . . um . . . supplies. . .
Aerianna:
You're still working for that old fart? Oh, I don’t care! Nara be praised
it’s good to see you!!!
The last I spoke to you . . . you were little more than half my height
. . . Goddess . . you
kids grow up like weeds!
Hugh: And you haven’t changed a bit . . .
( Exhaling forcefully, the girl taps her chest, shaking her head . . .)
Aerianna:
I'll have you know, you half scared the life out of me!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Elsewhere . . . at the opposite end of the market . . .)
Boy: So. . . Do you . . . eat these things?
Vendor: Ha! If you wish to experience the wonders of the dead, yes.
Boy: I don't understand what you mean?
(The child cocks his head to one side as the vendor shakes hers, pulling
a dried, shriveled and
knotted tuber
from his hands . . .)
Vendor: Didn’t your mother teach you that blackroot on your tongue is death itself?
Boy: No . . . ?
Vendor:
It is used for killing pests and such! They are attracted by its
sweet and strong
scent . . . insects, rats, when they eat, they die.
Boy: So--this is for killing pests?
Vendor: Have
you no wits about you, boy? What did I just say? They eat your
food,
bring disease, soil your home and even bite you in your sleep . .
(The boy seems to contemplate this for a moment, brushing the tangle of
hair
out of his
face yet again . . suddenly though, he frowns, nodding)
Boy: So then . . . I am a pest?
Vendor: What?
Boy: the
man in his cart over there called me a pest . . . I ate some his food,
and he told me
I should run off and eat yours--
(The woman’s eyes flare for a second, before she shakes her head, motioning
the boy away
from her place
of business . . .)
Vendor:
Get away from my cart, you stupid brat! If business wasn't so bad
perhaps
I wouldn't think twice about making you taste--
Boy: But--
Vendor: Be off!
(The boy complies, backing away from the hanging tubers with raised hands.
What the beguiled woman does not see, however, as the child walks gingerly
from her stand,
is the wry
grin that has alighted his face. . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(On the opposite end of the Marketplace, Aerianna and Hughwalk together
. . though the ilif regards
the young man
with an obvious fondness , it is not, seemingly, one of adult companionship
. . .)
Aerianna:
You haven't been keeping in touch, Hugh. . . you promised you would learn
how to
write, remember? And leave messages with the couriers when they come to
this city . .
Hugh:
I was a slow learner . . . and bribing the Eludrian messengers
costs much more
than it used to . . .The capital is a bearable place only when the land
is fat, you see.
Men are far less giving when they are starving. . .
Aerianna: Is that why you're still with Kurric's men? Because you still don't like dealing with rules?
Hugh: That's part of it . .
Aerianna:
(grinning) you were never a bright kid. . .But you were a sweet one . .
. and a horny one.
You could be very pleasant, when you weren't stealing looks at maidens
way
out of your league . . .
(As the girl’s thoughts tread in the darkened forests of her past, for
an instant, a single
image surfaces
from the whirl of memories spinning about her mind . . .
A vision of a young boy in tattered clothes, weeping and alone,
standing in freezing rain on a stranger’s doorstep . )
Aerianna: Still, you were a good boy . . . also a very quiet one . . .
Hugh: So . . .dare I ask how have things been going for you, these days?
(The ilif slowly shifts her gaze to the street, attempting to mask the
look
of obvious
disdain in her eyes . . .)
Aerianna: They are going as well as can be expected, I guess . . .
(Stopping in his tracks, the man frowns . .)
Hugh: Miss Aerianna. . . .
(The girl comes to a halt a few steps later, shutting her eyes)
Aerianna: Did your feet stop working . . . ?
Hugh:
If it’s gotten that bad for you, why not leave? They . . . they could
use a healer with your
skills in the north . . .
Aerianna: And where in the north would you suppose I go ? Hugh, please don't pity me.
Hugh: Um . . .
(As she says these words, The ilif turns, wearing a look of frustration
on her face
for the second
time that day. . .)
Aerianna:
Don’t you understand? Do you have any idea what you’re saying? You
of all people
should know that there is nothing left for me there."The return of the
prodigal".
That's what they'll say.
(Hugh cringes, having obviously struck a chord . . .
. . .and, as she sees him begin to squirm, Aerianna's look softens somewhat . . .)
Aerianna: I’m sorry . . . Glenden is my home. Like it or not, these are my neighbors . . .
Hugh: How are they your neighbors if they treat you like an outsider?
Aerianna: . . . Hugh. . . if I am used to it, what does it matter?
(The young man shakes his head, looking to the girl once more . . .)
Hugh: How many of you are there left here, anyway?
(The ilif does not move as she answers . . . her voice flattens a bit as
she
recitesa list
which, mentally, she has gone over many times in far more trying circumstances
. . . )
Aerianna: Eight.
(matter-of-factly) Two old men at the shrine; a woman and her child--I
don’t
know their names; two younger boys working for a wood-carver; and a man
named Riff working
odd jobs for the dirt farmers. . . and myself . . . See? I'm not alone
. . .
Hugh: Eight. In a city of how many? A hundred thirty thousand?
(Shrugging, the girl gives a weak smile--)
Aerianna: (mumbling) never learned to count, I see . . .
Hugh:
You once told me that you are never truly unhappy, so long as you live
for yourself, and the ones who care for you . . .
Aerianna: . . .
Hugh:
. . .tell me then: Where are the ones who care for you? How
many of the
people you help actually seek to return your kindness?
Aerianna:
. . . since when did you become so sappy?
I thought the Atavi were made of sterner stuff. . .
Hugh: . . . You told me these things!
Aerianna:
I’m surprised you actually listened at all! So busy chasing after every
girl you saw . . .
Humans have such a hard time listening, expecially with those tiny ears
of yours . .
Hugh: Well . . . I remember quite a bit of what you taught me . . .
Aerianna: Mostly just words to comfort a frightened orphan . . .
(Her companion frowns, shaking his head)
Hugh: Words that meant a lot to him.
Aerianna: (laughing weakly) Yeah . . .
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Meanwhile, a little further up the street . . .)
orcan: (shrieking)
Handler: SHUT UP, you smelly old fuck!!
(In the less populated district of the city, a group of 3 men tend to a
wagon of
exceptionally
large proportions. . . indeed, it is so wide, it is pulled by a
team of 3 horses
. . .)
orcan: (Shrieking)
Handler B: (shouting)
Watch the strain on that axel! If I have to repair the wagon again,
it's coming out of all your asses!
(Inside, locked down by chains cuffed to its hands and feet, a beast nearly
10 feet in height
bellows angrily
as it is pushed slowly through the streets in a cage mounted on a horsedrawn
workman's
cart, sans
horses. . . . The creature’s grayish skin is mottled by dozens of bruises
and cuts, the bony,
sharp features
of face distorted, puckered, and swollen from multiple blows.
As the orcan continues to screech, it struggles about its cage, shaking
the entire wagon on its axles.
It is not surprising
that the road seems to clear a fair distance around the carriage on its
journey to the
town centre,
what curious onlookers there are taking a special care to spectate a safe
distance from the
beast's wails
. . .
Spitting, the lead man signals to his comrades to resecure the ropes binding
their charge to the
wagonbed.
For a moment, the men and gather at the cart’s end, thankful for a moment's
respite even as
it is continually
rocked back and forth by the cargo it carries . . . )
Handler C: How much further??
Handler A: Dyo's is 7 buildings down from here . . .
Handler C: Yeah, well, he better pay good for this much effort. . . .
Handler B: And what does he do with these things?
Handler A: Something about linaments . .ointments and bone tea . . .
Handler B:
(snorting) "Linaments"? What kind of bullshit is that old fart up
to?
No one buys that kind of crap!
Handler C:
I Don’t know, and I don’t care. As long as he pays good
Guildens for them, I’ll do the job . . .
(As the creature hollers yet again, the third and largest of the men takes
a large stick from beside the
cage, poking
it sharply through the slats of the walls containing their meal ticket
. . .As the beast recoils
with a howl,
the man turns up his nose in disgust . . . )
Image by Maher
Al-Samkari
Handler C: (grunting) No matter how awful they smell!
Handler B: And if he doesn’t pay?
Handler A: (straining) Then he goes in here with ugly, and I’ll sell what's left to the highest bidder!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Elsewhere . . .)
Aerianna: You promise . . . this time . . .you’ll take care?
Hugh: Indeed I will. Aerianna . . .
Aerianna: . . It seems you've made a good man of yourself, Hugh. I'm glad. It's a rare thing these days.
Hugh: If you’re ever in the northeast look me up. Let me return the favor, for once.
Aerianna: You’re forgetting what I've always told you. . . .
(The young man laughs to himself, nodding complacently)
Hugh: I had to try . . .
Aerianna: Go, if your men are waiting for you . . .
Hugh: You’re sure you’ll be okay?
Aerianna: (firmly) Go with your Atavi. . . and keep in touch.
(As Hugh merges with the crowds, he waves, calling after her . . .)
Hugh:
Leave if they don’t treat you well, Aerianna! They don’t deserve your
skills as
a healer if they don’t respect you as a person . . .
Aerianna: . . .
( The ilif returns the gesture with a slight chagrin, muttering quietly
through grit teeth as the man at
last disappears
into the throngs of the marketgoers yet again . . .)
Aerianna: Draw
even more attention to me. . . Poor little dummy. Twenty years old
and you still
don’t understand the ways of the world. . .
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Across the street, as the farewells are bespoken between the two, the
odd looking, red headed
little boy
has seemingly turned his attentions to pestering the silk merchant . .
.)
Vendor: No, boy, I told you! Men do not wear these--such finery is meant for the women only!
Boy: why? Is it cursed?
Vendor: What? Of course not! It is merely forbidden by our decorum for men to dawn Nabikis silk.
Boy: Ah, then why can’t your men wear them?
(The vendor snorts, exasperated at the strange child's persitance . . .)
Vendor: I’ve no time for this! If you have no money, then leave my store.
Boy: Hmmph . . . If I had money to spend, I doubt I would use it on your cursed cloth . . .
(It takes little more than a now familiar looking, dismissive wave of the
man’s hands to send the child
on his way
. .. the boy, rather than deal with the next merchant, instead decides
to step into the
street--across
which the cart of a meadseller seems to have caught his eye . . .)
(His progress is interrupted, however, by the sounds of screams . . . and
the mad screeching of
panicked horses
. . .)
Boy: . . .?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Aerianna: Hell's teeth!--
(Sound of shrieks)
Aerianna: . .!!!
(the words of prayer falling from Aerianna Goodtree’s lips become silent,
suddenly, as the reason for
the screaming
quickly becomes horribly apparent . ..
From down the street, a massive inhuman beast--nearly 10 feet in height
and covered with
muscle--makes
its way relentlessly through crowds of hysteric market-goers. . . its hands
run with the
blood of those
unlucky enough to be in its path as it trapses through the hoard; indeed,
enough so that
the gore runs
down its wrists, dripping wet off the iron cuffs of its broken shackles
as it swings
treetrunk-like
limbs angrily, leaving a gruesome path of death in its wake. . .
Image by Maher
Al-Samkari
As the orcan lumbers up the road, groups of people scatter to either side,
desperate to avoid the
maddened beast
as it rampages through the eastern quarter with the random ferocity of
a wild animal. It
is but a matter
of seconds before the entire road is practically empty . . .
Save, however, for one small boy . . .)
Image by Maher
Al-Samkari
Aerianna: Hey!! Get the hell out of the street!!
(Aerianna shouts, desperate, to the child--a redheaded youngster, who seems
more fascinated with
the creature
than frightened . . .)
Aerianna: (shouting) GET OUT OF THE WAY!!!
(Casting her own sense of self-preservation aside, Aerianna drops her bag
to the ground, running into
the street
in an almost blind desperation.
Her efforts come far too late, however . . .)
orcan: (howling)
(The boy remains oblivious to the danger he is in, even as the orcan swings--
the blow to
the child’s small body is strong enough to shatter stone; knocking the
wind from his
miniscule form as it sends him tumbling into the air, limbs aflail like
those of a rag-doll . . .)
(He has not the time to make so much as a sound as he is born mercilessly
from his feet--The
coherency of
the moment lost to him along with his senses in the sudden spiral of vertigo
that engulfs
him with the
swing's deadly impact. . .)
Aerianna: !
(Aerianna, too, finds herself rendered breathless, though not for the same
reason. The ilif comes to a
grinding halt,
recoiling as she shields herself from the broken young body that slams
into the earth in a
twisted heap
before her, kicking up small clouds of dust and dirt as it rolls to a stop
. . .
Image by Meiharu
Arashi
As she shuts away the sight, the sounds of swinging steel accompanied by
shrill animal howls fill the air,
the latter
dying away in garbled shrieks as quickly as they rise.
Aerianna
squeezes her eyes shut,
pressing her
fingers into the lids as if to drive out the sight of the limp body crumpled
lifelessly not a few
feet away.
Somewhere, beneath pounding of her heartbeat and the rush of the adrenaline
searing through
her veins,
the girl's more rational senses takes note of the arrival of the local
guard, whose swift swords
make quick
work of the beast, overwhelming it in sheer number as they hack it mercilessly
to
pieces . .
.)
(A moment passes, the roadway rendered deathly quiet as the reality of
the situation dawns upon all
present . .
. Indeed, it is a long time before the first cries of lamentation can be
heard from further up the
street, as
those in the beast’s wake snap free from their collective shock and turn
their attentions to the
wounded and
the dead . . .one by one, voices ring out in the silence, breaking its
numbing spell with the
horrid reality
of a tragedy that has beset the Glenden marketplace without admonition,
mercy, or
prejudice .
. .
. . . As her fingers slip slowly from her eyes, it is through asymmetric
blotches and indistinct stars
which obscure
her vision that the street once again comes into focus. The ilif
at last turns, her gaze
falling first
upon the bloody, gutted corpse of the creature: its limbs lay splayed
out all manner of
directions
as it lies in a heap in the middle of the street, surrounded by nearly
a dozen armored
swordsmen joined
by one or two armed civilians, their faces stained crimson by the
creature's vital
fluids;
rust colored blood which, even now, wells in a slowly expanding pool
beneath the guardsmens'
feet . . .
)
(As her gaze fall to the second corpse lying in the street, however, the
look on the young ilif's face
twists, first,
to one of revulsion--and Aerianna Goodtree finds herself doubly regretting
having opened her
eyes at all.
. .)
Boy: (groaning)
Aerianna: . . by the Goddess . . he's still breathing . . . ??
(At first, the girl shudders at the thought of a horribly mangled creature
still clinging to what shreds
remain of his
life: the prospect of having to end such suffering by her own hand
sending a particularly
cold shiver
traveling quickly down her spine . . .
. . .this notion is quickly dispelled, however, by a sight that causes even the ilif to step back;
for the child is very much alive and, even moreso,
he speaks to her as he struggles to stand . . )
---------------------------------------------------------------------
FAREN:
A Dragon’s Tale
Episode 1: "Forgotten Movements"
---------------------------------------------------------------------
-(Flashback)-
Female voice: FAREN!! FAAREEEN!! Where are you!?
(The scene is a mist enshrouded, verdant hillside abutted on all sides
by columulous clouds . . .
around its
towering peaks and sheer embankments, an almost endles expanse of
white stretches
for almost
as far as the eye can see . . . )
Female Voice: This isn’t fair, you little jerk! How am I supposed to find you in the middle of the day!??
(As a warm wind billows over the lush cliffs, gurgling streams, and flowing
terraces,
the sound of a girl’s voice calling in desperation (and a hint of aggravation)
can be heard
reverberating through the steep crags and valleys which line the
very
edge of
the mountain . . . at first, a lonely echo is the only response to the
irate calls . . .)
Female Voice: I can’t believe you would be this mean to me!! Faren, I swear, I’m going to-
Male Voice: Going to What?
(high above the green terrace, on a rocky embankment jutting out from the
inner crook
cliffside,
a lithe, almost reptilian form can be seen. The shape is obscured
by the light of the morning
sun as it
stands lazily from its perch, glaring down at the source of the disturbance
with a particularly
caustic
leer. . .)
Female Voice: Were you up there the whole time???
Faren: You didn't finish your sentence. You're going to "what" ?
Female Voice: . . .
Faren:
Either I’m good at hiding, or your eyes have gotten older before
the rest of you, Vasha . . . you're no good at this game!
Vasha: They have not, you Pest!!
(as she says this, the owner of the searching calls steps out from behind
the cool
shadows directly beneath the rocky purchase. . .
As the sunlight strikes her pale hide, the dragon returns the sneer, glaring
up at the creature
now stretched
out lazily on the stones high above . . .)
Vasha: What are you waiting for?
Faren: . . ?
Vasha: Come DOWN here, you imbecile!
(at the word "Imbecile", the male dragon shifts, turning his eyes away.)
Faren:
Carcea says that it is improper for hatchmates to use big
words with each other . . . it inflates ego .
(the serpentine's words bely an almost palpable boredom, precipitated by
the well-practiced
drone of
the words he speaks even as his attention sways from the irascible young
girl below to
the lazy
clouds that surround above. . )
Vasha: Will you SHUT UP about that old crone!??
Faren: You’re the one doing all the talking.
Vasha:
I’ve been looking for you for two days!! You didn't even bother calling
me
when the game is over!!
Faren: Who said the game was over? Have I surrendered to you yet? You're just slow.
Vasha: (frustrated ) I FOUND you
(As she says this, Vasha's wings swell with emphasis, stretching to their full berth at the word 'found'.
Faren rolls his eyes, however, betraying a condescending sigh at the girl's display . . .)
Faren: No--I
LET you find me. This game gets very boring when you make
winning so easy . . . but
the game is never over. You should know better than that!
Vasha: Hmmph! You were never good at hiding OR lying!
Faren: Fine then. If we agree you found me . .
Vasha: . . .?
(The girl turns a cynic eyebrow up at the other dragon as he
rises to
all fours, glowering down directly at her. . .)
Faren: Then---We have to fight!!!
Vasha: . . . fine!
(There is no more warning as the young girl raises her horned prow with
a
shout--and
the very air seems to crackle, as strange lines of light coalesce about
the protuberances that
adorn her
crown, dancing this way and that about their
length before, with a thunderous climax, they leap
free: unleashing
a rippling shaft of brilliance that completelyobliterates the ledge upon
which Faren
stands .
. .
in the instant before it hits, however, the young dragon leaps from his
purchase--his wings
catching
the shifting winds for a moment, allowing him to glide safely to the ground
below . . .
As he faces his sister, she growls--the triad on her head glowing with
a
particular
brilliance as the notes of a second enchantment fall from her lips;
this time,
however,
they are a quiet utterance . . . though their effect is not nearly
as so.)
Faren: (yelping) OoooaAAARGH!
(The young male is not prepared as the ground beneath him begins to rumble,
then tear--
ejecting
a pillar of stone into the sky, with him atop it . . . regaining his senses,
the dragon leaps from
the rock
at the apex of its ascent--bulleting toward Vasha with incredible speed
. . .)
Faren: (snarling)
Vasha: . .!!!
(As the two collide, the force of impact knocks the girl from her feet--she
and her
brother are sent tumbling to the ground in a heap, rolling for several
seconds
in a chaotic
tangle of claws and feet . . . )
(The last sound to be heard as the dust from their fall clears,
however, is not that of
continued
combat . .
it is that of youngsters laughing . . . and the completion of their game . . .
As the playful air dies away, and silence again descends upon the two,
they separate--
regaining
their footing as the dust from their 'battle' begins to clear.
Finally, the male rises to his feet, stretching his wings before regarding
his clutchsister with
somber eyes
. . .)
Faren: Vasha . . . will you be returning to your studies, now?
Vasha: For a while, yes. Why?
(the red dragon nods, glancing over his shoulder before meeting her eyes again)
Faren: I have a favor . . . Something I need to ask of you.
Vasha: . . . A favor?
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Boy: (coughing) o . . . . ow . . .
Aerianna: How . . . How on Lein can you be alive?!?
Boy: What . . .what . . ?
(In the dusty streets of eastern Glenden, Aerianna Goodtree finds herself
staring down
at a boy that,
for all intents and purposes, should be very dead . . .)
Aerianna: But . . I saw the strike . . .!!
(Still filled with disbelief, the ilif falls to her knees-clutching the
child about his
shoulders,
looking him over . . .)
Aerianna: . . .
Boy: Unnh . . .Who are you . ..?
(She does not answer, however, as she begins to feel his arms--squeezing
the muscles
gently with a practiced care. . .)
Boy: What . . .Are .. .you doing?
Aerianna: don't talk!
(with this, she turns the confused boy around--tracing the curve of his
back
with her fingers,
shutting her eyes as she feels his spine . . .
when she finishes, she looks again, taking note that the boy’s rags have been torn to shreds . . .
Yet his skin remains intact …)
Boy: Let me be!
Aerianna: Calm down, child . . . calm down . . Nara's grace must be upon you, to have not been killed!
Boy: killed??
(Turning the boy around once more, she looks him in the eyes . . .
they are a
deep emerald, and, strangely enough, piercing, in their gaze . . .)
Aerianna: . . . What is your name?
(The child looks at her cautiously, then shakes his head . . .)
Boy: . I . .
Aerianna: Come now. Surely, you have a name!
Boy: They call me ‘boy’.
(despite the situation, Aerianna almost laughs . . .the child, meanwhile,
can only return a look of
incredulousness
and little else . . .)
Aerianna:
That blow did something to you! Listen to me, that is not your name
. . . that is just what they
call you. Unless you fancy yourself a street jester . . .
Boy: (irate) why does everyone keep saying that!?
Aerianna: . . . ?
(sensing something odd afoot, the ilif looks about herself . . . where,
around the
two, a crowd of curious onlookers has begun to gather . . . )
Aerianna: (thinking) Crap . . .
(Stammering, the girl stands, taking the child by the hand . . . )
Aerianna: Clumsy--servant! We still have shopping to do, I don't have time for your stupidity!!
Boy: My name isn’t serv-- What- are you-!!? Hey!
(The child can say no more as the ilif pulls him through the crowd at a
hurried pace,
ignoring his confused protests . . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Moments later)
Boy: Why did you call me that? What are--hey now, stop!
(It is only after looking back to ensure she has not been followed that
Aerianna slows the pace of her
strides. Even
then, the girl is obvious in her attempt to remain inconspicuous, pulling
the child to the very
edge of the
road before ducking into an alleyway nestled between shops . . .)
Aerianna:
It was getting too crowded back there. These people are likely to
hurt you more than that
orcan, if they suspect you of something fishy! Humans have a strange
sort of superstition . . .
like children. Spend enough time with them, you learn to predict
it.
Boy: Why would you help me then? Won't they suspect you?
Aerianna:
(snorting) They suspect me of everything already, so it doesn't matter.
at least have the sense to get out of
the way when a wild ogre charges me.
Boy: . . .
Aerianna: Where are you from, anyway? You don’t look like an easterner, your eyes are too slender . . .
(Iincensed, the child pulls his arm out of the girl's grip, taking several steps back . ..)
Boy: Who are you? And why do you ask so many questions? I am just another 'street urchin' . . .
(Recognizing the callousness of that particular statement as being a constant
of the marketplace,
Aerianna mumbles
in retort . . .)
Aerianna: Hmph. Did Javro the rzan dealer teach you that?
Boy: As a matter of fact--
Aerianna: (interrupting) Be polite! I probably saved you hide from another beating!
Boy: (mumbling) so what. . .
(the ilif stops in her tracks, looking at the child)
Aerianna: What did you say?
Boy: (closing his eyes) I didn’t say anything.
(Aerianna bends over, indicating the slender ears peeking from behind the
hood which lies
draped over
the sides of her head)
Aerianna: (smirking) These aren’t just for show, you know.
(embarrassed, the child looks to her for a second, then lowers his gaze . . .)
Boy: You . . . You're different from the rest of them?
Aerianna: Well, we know your brain still works partially, at least. Why don’t you come with me?
Boy: to where?
Aerianna:
My home. We’ll give you something to eat, I can take a closer look
at you,
and do something about those clothes . .
Boy: Why would you help me. Can you not see I have no money?
Aerianna:
No, you don't exactly seem gainfully employed to me . . .but you could
say
I have a soft spot for the wierd ones.
Boy: . . . And what are wrong with my clothes?
(The woman begins to chuckle at the ludicrousness of the statement--
until, by chance,
she catches glance of the curious look in the boy's eyes.
Aerianna: Goddess, you’re serious . .
Boy: . . .?
Aerianna:
That blow must have really messed with your head. . . .
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Meanwhile, in a place far from Glendenium lands...
Yystennan, the largest city of Iskander and the political seat of the realm.
Viewed at a distance from the foothills of the Elkads, Yystennan resembles
nothing so much as an
ornate white
flower perched at the terminus of a green stem, ‘the Arm of Rohnor’, a
peninsula projecting
out into the
Sea of Isthak and partially enclosing the Bay of Eskigal. On
closer approach, the ‘flower’
resolves itself
into the tall white walls and numerous gleaming towers that have earned
Yystennan its
other name,
in the bardic tongue, ‘Majestic’. Indeed, perhaps nowhere else but
in the Old Cities of the
North are artistry
and functionality blended to such a degree as in the strong fortifications
of the
Iskandrian
capitol. Beyond the walls, the broad avenues of Yystennan divide
the city proper into twelve
districts,
with all districts and avenues converging upon the Royal Compound of Yystennan.
The
compound comprises
two walls beyond those enclosing the city proper, with barracks,
stables, and drill
grounds for
the Royal Army located in the fields beyond the first wall, and the Elder
Palace itself and
attendant buildings
beyond the second.
There is a great deal of excitement this day in the Autumn Wing of the
Palace, where a richly garbed
throng of courtiers
and nobles mills about gently in the broad corridor, attendant upon events
now taking
place in an
adjacent salon. One by one, heads turn towards the salon’s large,
red-enameled doors, as
the rising
din of angry voices from within draws the attention of all in the hall.
Suddenly, with a hollow boom, the doors are thrown back, jarring violently
on their hinges, and a tall ,
broad form
is silhouetted against the threshold. His eyes flash over the startled
multitude before him
with undisguised
contempt as he gathers his floor-length crimson robes into one large fist
and strides
quickly and
powerfully through the crowd.
From behind him, within the salon, comes a cry . . .)
Voice: Sire! Wait!
(. . .Followed by the appearance of a small man at the threshold of the
room. This figure, seeming
greatly encumbered
by his heavy state robes, nevertheless hurries after the fleeing king with
such
energy that
he manages to catch up to him before he reaches the exit of the hall. The
irate king comes
to a sudden
halt as the ambassador, much out of breath, bars his further progress.
. .)
King Harcon:
Oranion, what are you doing? We told you, we are leaving.
What is this ridiculous display?
Ambassador Oranion: Sire, forgive me for my impertinence...
King Harcon:
Not another word! We understand clearly the intentions of the
Iskandrians in this matter...the dogs! Eludria will not be debased
by our remaining at the table of negotiations when it is clear that that
vulture of a regent, Talgriff, wants no cessation of those hostilities
that
have long caused our lands so much sorrow!
Ambassador Oranion: Sire, that is not so, I feel sure of it! Talgriff is a reasonable man...
King Harcon:
Reparations!? He speaks of reparations that must be made, when our
countries bleed still from the wounds they have inflicted upon one another!
Oranion, your obsequiousness is surpassed only by boundless ineptitude.
. .
(Suddenly,
at the far end of the hall, Harcon catches sight of the Iskandrian diplomatic
party...Lord
Talgriff, the
Iskandrian regent, is among them, with his charge, the young emperor-apparent,
Kardec.
The sight of
them, watching from the entrance of the negotiating room, seems to inflame
the king all the
more)
King Harcon
(shouting): Talgriff! Do you hear us? You’ll not have
the port of Olkeme from us!
It was Eludrian in our grandfather’s time, and we shall not part with it
while we still breathe. The mothers of Iskander will weep for your
folly,
to take their husbands and sons from them in continuance of bloody war,
‘Lord of Carrion’!
(As the
king spits the last of his statement, the murmur of indignant protest fills
the room.
Around the
hall, Iskandrians bristle at the insult to their regent, seemingly causing
Oranion's desperation to grow to
a fever pitch
. . .)
Ambassador Oranion:
I implore your highness, do not do this thing! Do not endanger the
peace
that we have so recently won! Let them have the port, and call it
fair price
to pay for an end of conflict! Think of your people...
King Harkon:
And is this an end of conflict for them? No, perhaps we shall buy
our peace again
and again, and each time at the cost of another portion of the Empire!
We shall not see Eludria diminished! The Sons of the Raven will stretch
out their arms once again and crush Iskander, if we so command, rather
than face this humiliation!
Ambassador Oranion:
Will they, sire, will they really? When those arms are so weak from
famine
as to scarcely move at all? Talgriff offers to finalize the Treaty
of Urbek,
and with it, as a gesture of good will, he makes us gift of twelve-hundred
jelak of grain to ease the suffering of the peasants! He must have
Olkeme
to pacify the Council of Eight, though, sire! They will not have
forgotten Konlef!
(The words of the ambassador find purchase...King Harkon winces at the
name of the
infamous battle...at
once his greatest victory and deepest shame. Kundushite mercenaries
had been
hired by Harkon
to bolster the Eludrian ranks, and Eldreth-baan, the Iskandrian Emperor
and father of
Kardec, had
fallen among those ranks. Any of the Eludrians would have known from
long tradition that
the Iskandrian
Emperor was of the old royal line of Eludria, and therefore not to be touched,
but the
mercenary Kundushites
had slain the young emperor and stripped his body before any knew what
had
happened.
King Harkon had not known, until later, what had so demoralized the enemy
at the very
height of battle
that he was able to rally his forces and carry the day...had not known
that he had
unwittingly
caused to be shed the sacred blood of the Eludrian kings. It was
tragedy that he had never
forgiven himself
for, though it had occurred almost seven years ago.
Villified, King Harkon looks at his ambassador through narrowed eyes.)
King Harkon: You know how we hate the mention of that day, Oranion!
Ambassador Oranion:
(dejectedly) Of course, sire...My life is forfeit, by royal
decree,
for my indiscretion. But I plead with you...understand
that there are many in Iskander that have denounced
these negotiations...that vilify Talgriff for his efforts to
reconcile Iskander to Eludria under any terms!
He has risked much to invite us here, and risks much more
with the terms he offers!
King Harkon: But...a whole city for grain and peace?!
Ambassador Oranion:
(humbly) What Iskander offers is what Eludria is most
in need of, sire. Olkeme is a small port, too near the range of the
Atavi pirates, anyway. It is many, many lem from Ristania, sire.
Compared to what we stand to gain . . . a niusance. A trifle.
Sire . .
Let them have it.
King Harkon: That almost sounds like a command, Oranion...
(though almost toneless, these words seem to strike a particular horror into the ambassador's diminuitive frame . . .)
Ambassador Oranion: Sire, I would not presume...!
King Harkon:
Enough! Perhaps our father would have killed you for what you have
done
here today, but we shall not...you speak with reason. We will not sacrifice
the
peace we have gained, and we shall prosper together, Eludria and Iskander,
and bury the dead of the Old War once and for all.
Ambassador Oranion: Yes, sire! We shall go to Iskandrians at once...
King Harkon:
You will go, Oranion. We are yet too much like our father to return to
that room after what has been said. Go, our ambassador, and arrange
all
things according to your sense. We give you full license to act in
this matter.
Return to us when all things are complete, so that we may leave this place.
We are sick of being displayed.
Ambassador Oranion: All shall be as you say, my king.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Boy: What is your name?
Aerianna: Aerianna. Aerianna Goodtree.
Boy: Good-tree?
(The ilifin girl laughs at the boy’s seemingly endless naiveté.)
Aerianna: Yes. It is the kind of name the we ilifi give to one another.
Boy: Why? Are you good with plants?
(Aerianna turns up her nose . . .)
Aerianna: Of course not, dummy. It's my family name.
Boy: Then your father was a farmer?
Aerianna: No.
Boy: Then perhaps your grandfather was good with plants?
Aerianna:
I know where this is going--it is JUST a name.
It holds no special meaning, save for the girl who wears it.
(The child reluctantly shrugs his shoulders, pawing the ground with his foot . . .)
(Casting her eyes back to the road ahead, the ilif sighs with a comfortable
familiarity for the
surroundings--open
streets, far
from the claustrophobic bustle of the market square, are a
welcome sign
to Aerianna despite the multitude of odd questions the boy has begun to
assail her with. )
Aerianna: Well . . .we’re almost there . . . Tell me. . . should I even bother asking about your parents?
(The boy’s face suddenly rises with a start, almost as if he has been shocked . . . blinking several times, he finally mumbles--)
Boy: Parents? I . . . I have no parents . . .
Aerianna: (flatly).
. . I suppose your mother died when you were very young,
and your uncaring father abandoned you to the whims of the streets . .
.
we can pick that story by default if you wish, I've heard them all . .
.
Boy: (confused) Huh?
Aerianna: Never mind. No name, and no parents . . .Right . . .
Boy: . . .
(Aerianna shakes her head, resolving to humor the child for at least a little while longer . . .)
Aerianna: Well, I will have to call you something. "Boy" will do for now.
Boy: But that is only one name--
(The child halts in mid sentence, though, as the ilif suddenly stops--raising
her eyes to the somewhat
dilapidated
building sitting at the end
of the path before them . . .
It is a humble sort of house, set aside from the main road and nestled
a comfortable distance away
from its nearest
neighbors. A cursory glance is all one needs to fully grasp its neglected
state: wood panels
in dire need
of repair, a straw roof in need of patching, and windowglass in need
of replacing. Indeed,
even the footpath
appears to cry out for attention; its surface worn and cracked and
overgrown with briars . . .
high above,
as if to complete this vision of disrepair, the torn canvass sails of the
inert windmill mounted
atop the cottage's
roof flap languidly in the breeze, the dozen or so empty birdnests
which lie in the
crooks and
along the spine of the structure intimating its many years of disuse with
their own somber irony. . . )
Boy: Wh . .what’s this place?
(Aerianna chuckles lightly as she makes her way toward the steps of the
building, taking care not to
catch the edges
of her dress on the weeds that have sprouted up between the cobblestones
. . . It is
only with slight
chagrin that she looks back at the boy, who seems hesitant to follow her
into the cabin.)
Aerianna: What do you think? It is my home. . .
Boy: You live . . . here?
(The girl's eyes narrow into slits as she regards the uncertain child cooly . . .)
Aerina:
Say what you like, "urchin" . . . it's far warmer than the street.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
(Meanwhile . . . in a place far removed from Glenden, Eludria, and the
rest of the human race. . .
in a cave situated
in the highest regions of mount Echelon, bathed in the obscurity of an
unnatural
shadow, a behemoth
lies, still as the dead night, and equally as silent . . .
Its immense size and bulk dwarfing even the enormity of its surroundings,
the creature shows no
movement, no
sign of life save for the low, basal rumble that is its breathing:
a tremulous echo easily
mistaken for
hollow drafts and cave winds which moan through the shafts and crags of
the timeless
stone chamber.
It is the colossal form of an ancient dragon--her body massive beyond words,
blanketed in the stone
and dust of
several millenia. Like a sculpture of animated marble, it is
indistinct as where the cave rock
surrounding
it ends, and the flesh and scales of the beast itself begin.
Image by Maher
Al-Samkari
Before it, half encased by the darkness which permeates the grotto, sits
a much smaller, yet
strangely,
almost equally imposing figure . . . )
It is that of a full grown male dragon-- Its blue hide has taken on the
hue of a pale gray in the dwindling
light from
the cave opening . . . the
play of shadows upon its face only seems to enhance, however, the
deep furrows
above the creature’s brow . . . and the enraged scowl that has twisted
its features . . .)
Oryn: I will not ask again, ancient one. What did you tell him. . .
Shakre: . .
. And I shall not answer you, once again. I suppose then that this
conversation is,
at last, at an end?
Oryn: Not until I have my answers, old one.!
Shakre: . . .
Oryn: What manner of altruistic nonsense did you fill his head with?
Shakre:
The words that have passed between myself and your child, Oryn,
I hold in careful regard . . .as carefully as those which pass in confidance
between you and I.
You, who values the sanctity of words. Were, that you were to force
me to
break the trust he has placed within me, who is to say what, or who, may
come about. . .
Oryn:
There is no sanctity in what you speak, for I know of what is shared.
You speak to him of the forbidden -- pollute his frail mind with ludicrous
ideals
and extinct prospects which violate the code by which we now live.
Do you argue this,
ancient one?
Shakre: . . . You believe his mind frail, for embracing the ideal?
Oryn:
You yet still refuse to answer. Very well. Tell me nothing, then.
speak in riddles and
circles until you waste away, that seems to be all that you are good for.
Return to your torpor, your time has not come yet.
Shakre: . .
. Lord Oryn, be not hasteful with your words. When the eastern zephyr
and the
western airs meet in the tallpeaks, the
winds created are the winds of chaos, into which no one
may safely enter. Regard this situation with that of your son in
a similar manner thus, away from
the air of extremes.
( His mien now a mask of bound rage, the dragon turns away from the one
called Shakre,
growling under
his breath . . . )
Oryn:
I will find the truth myself. . . Our fragile clan state shall not be weakened
by
the foolish actions of my own blood . .
(With a hastened gait, Oryn makes its way to the cave openingwhere
a painfully bright light awaits
to greet the
dragon king. This light exists indicative of the threshold between
the shadows held within,
andthe illuminated
world which exists outside . . . A small cloud of dust rises to see off
the leader of
the eight as
he leaps from the perch, tearing
through the thin air beyond the cave's lip, catching the
updrafts with
proud wings and beginning a fast descent. )
Shakre:
Compassion, leige. Compassion for innocence. Compassion for
the brash of youth.
Lest you prove that our people are truly living their last days upon this
plane.
---------------------------------------------------------------------
To Be
continued . . .