FAREN: A Dragon's Tale and related concepts are copyright © Maher Al-Samkari, Benjamin
Wallace and MODUS Productions.  All images here (unless otherwise specified) are copyright

© Maher Al-Samkari, and may not be removed without permission .


 

"Sometimes, when I sit here, and the visions come,
I see myself. . . I see myself, but not as myself.
I am someone else.  I stand upon the ridge, look at the
world below, and I want, for I know that I do not belong.
I look then, to mount high above me; The peaks
of my home, the lands of my birth . . .
And I feel cold, for I know in my heart that there, too,

I do not belong."
                                            Anonymous

FAREN:  A Dragon’s Tale

Episode 3

---------------------------------------------------------------------
CAPTION

   In an incongruent haze, a moment of lucidity

Boy:   . .. ungh . . .

Captain:  I thought you said he was unconscious . . .

Aeriana:  It's delirium.  I had nothing to do with it.

Captain:  Do not forget, you're the one who put the knife in his chest, girl.

Aeriana:  I already told you, it was a mistake.  I've used every trick I know
                and I saved his life, as I  promised.

Captain:  Hmph.  Tricks.  You will stay at his side until he recovers.

     (The captain pauses, glancing down at the boy . . .)

Captain:  When I return, you are going to explain yourself.
                Then we decide what to do with you.  Is that understood?

Aeriana: . . .

Captain: I'll take that as a yes.

     (Without further confrontation, man exits the tent followed by his young subordinate.
As the flap closes, Aeriana can hear him give the soldier orders to stand guard, and to
allow no one else to exit or enter . . .

    Her attention is drawn from this, however, by the sounds of her patient . . .  )

Boy: uuuuuugh . . .

Aeriana: . . .

     (Curious, the girl sits closer, listening to the delirious mumblings of the feverish child  . .
whose odd murmers take an unexpected turn, in the form of something that is, at least
to Aeriana Goodtree, baffling. . .)

Boy:  <Is there anybody . . .anybody out there . . . >

Aeriana:  . . . the hell. . . ?

---------------------------------------------------------------------
FAREN:  A Dragon’s Tale

Episode 3: "Flight to Elsewhere"
 

---------------------------------------------------------------------

 CAPTION:

 Eighty years Ago . . .

     (There is only darkness in this place . . . a shade of the void, and the gentle, rhythmic howl
of weak updrafts, like the beating of a dying heart against the sheer rock of Echelon's southern peaks)

Faren:  Answer me!

 (Silence)

Faren:  Isn't there anyone there . .

    (It is only the howling of a faraway wind which responds to the desperate pleas  that emerge from the
black hole known simply as "the grotto of the calm."

    It is a place reserved only for those unfortunate draegaani who dare tread lightly the boundaries of
Echelon's law-- A lonely cave set amongst the sparse cliffs of the southern spires, obscured from the
light of both the sun and that of the holy moon Camer.  A strange sort of ethereal penumbra
encompases this place, plunging any member of the tribe unlucky enough to occupy its lofty heights
 into a gray world where the passage of time is  seemingly suspended.  The winds do not blow
strongly here, rendering the calm's updrafts incapable of carrying any but the strongest dragon's
wings to the ledges beyond, and threatening any unfit who dare attempt rise above its towering drop
a ghastly fate on sharp rocks nearly a lem below.

    A perilous, winding path carved into the eastern side of the cliff-face serves as the only other
means of access to the higher reaches-- running at almost half the circumference of the peak before
taking a sharp rise upward, it presents only slightly better prospects to those who would brave it.
For the moment even this exit, however, is useless, for the entrance to the cave itself is blocked:
Closed off from the rest of the world by a barrier nearly as thick as the walls of the cavern within, and
sealed by means fathomnable only to the highest scholars of the mountain, the calm presents to its
occupants no means of escape.

    At the moment, that occupant is little more than a child. . .  )

Faren:  Vasha! . . . VASHA . . .Anyone!!

     (The walls are smooth, and slick with the moisture that saturates the dank cave air. Mute sounds of
scratching can be heard as desperate hands claw innefectually at the stone prison, seeking  purchase
where there is simply none to be found. )

    After a moment, as the futility of this cause takes its hold and the noise subsides, it is soon
followed by that of woeful lament -- )

Faren: . . . Shakre . . . I tried to be careful . . .

    (Suddenly, the sounds of movement beyond the titanic stone blocking the entrance to the cave are
carried to the prisoner held within-- the scraping of rock against rock, and an almost deafening basal
rumble, and a powerful influx of cool air as the barrier is inexplicably pulled from the grotto opening.

    The dragon, at first desperate for any possible means of escape, now edges back--cowering in the
shadows at the sight of two figures which stand between his continued imprisonment,
and freedom . . .)

Faren:  Who's there!?

Circe: One called Faren--you must come with us.

Faren:  (quietly) Custodians . . . The dracoura

    (It is this that the young dragon recounts to himself as his eyes adjust to the miniscule shafts
of light afforded by the dark sky above; they are peculiar beings posessed of certain features akin to
the draegaani themselves, yet much smaller.  Though they walk on two legs, their lithe forms not far
removed from those of the suchinai, they have powerful wings capable of carrying them to heights
high above the mountain surface.  Tales tell that, in the past, they were the very first inhabitants of
Echelon, long before the dragons' age.  Subjugated, they are now hold the peculiar position of
honored servants of the council, despite being both miniscule in number, and deaf to the chords . . .

    With a voice like a rasp of claws against rough stone, the first of the two beckons to the prisoner
who now, ironically, huddles warily in his prison. The dracoura's curved shape, much like that of the
dead ilif girl whose image is still burned into the child's memory,  is that of a female.
This is  in stark contrast to that of her companion, a male of more than 15 stone who stands
motionless, watching at the ready.  )

Faren:  Why would they send rookery slaves to set me free?

    (Snarling, the male speaks, bemused at the boy's assumption--)

Gorus: Because you are not being set free.  You will come with us--

Faren:  Y . .yes .  .

     (With these words, the small, Alizarin creature emerges from the darkness . . . as it steps into the
light, the shape of a young, red dragon, its tritopic head hanging low in caution,
is at last revealed . . . )

Faren:  What is going to happen to me . . .?

Gorus:  Do not speak.  Your fate lies with the council.  Do not resist.

Faren: (thinking) single-minded things, they've nothing to tell me . . .

 (A star-filled night sky greets Faren through the cracks and holes in the stone ceiling as the young
dragon is led up the path.  The light which filters in illuminates a plethora of hypnotizing lineforms
which cover the walls, mysterious inscriptions documenting the history of the grotto, its occupants,
and those who came before. These stars offer him no solace, however.  Nor do the winds, which
gradually grow in strength as this odd threesome make their way to the top of the calm's hilt.  The
vespers catch the edges of the dragon's wings and seep through their folds as the two Dracoura
leading him on move in total silence, the echoing of their footsteps is the only other sound to be
heard within the mountain hollow . . . Coming to a halt, the on called Gorus spreads his his wings,
turning to his prisoner . . .)

Gorus:  Come with us.  Take flight.

Faren: . . .

---------------------------------------------------------------------

    (The child begins to toss about . . . his unconscious ramblings becoming more and more agitated . . .
Despite her suspicion for this being, Aeriana cannot help but feel a twitch of worry. . .)

Aeriana:  . . . Hey, can you hear me?

Boy:  Ugh . . nngh . . .

Aeriana: (whispering). . . snap out of this! If you die, we both die . . .

    (Her words go unheeded, and the child continues his struggles--his breathing becoming shallow.
It is not long before the ilif places her hand upon the boy's shoulders, despite herself . . .)

Boy:  <ugh . . .Voth>

---------------------------------------------------------------------

  CAPTION:

 Eighty years Ago . . .

 ( The winds of the tallpeaks are like the breaks of a stormy sea, tossing the young dragon and his
"escorts" about invisible waves which whip haphazardly at their wings. It is as if the drafts
themselves seem intent on dissuading the trio from their course in midflight; as if,  somehow, the
vespers are aware of what lies ahead.

    Though this idea does little to ease the dread eating at his insides,  it no small sense of relief Faren
feels when the three finally reach their destination: atop one of the higher peaks of the valley, before
the entrance to a grand cave . . .

    The setting of the great mount is , in turn, a surreal one.  The torrential winds that bound the air
encircling the peak itself do not blast the ledge upon which the three travellers now tread-- like the
eye of a hurricane, there is only utter stillness, a ghostly calm almost ludicrous in its placement at the
center of a raging storm.  Catching his breath, the young dragon looks on warily as clouds silently
churn only a few bounds away, obscuring the abyss which lies just beyond in the frigid night air.

    Satisfied with the completion of their task, the two dracoura regard one another for a moment in a
language incomprehensible to their charge who, despite the graveness of his situation,  watches their
brief exchange discreetly over his shoulder.  No doubt aware of the child's intrusion, the custodians
still ignore him--and curiously, as this short discourse comes to a close, Circe places her hands atop
the shoulders of her companion, meeting his eyes with her own.  She lingers for a moment, before
slowly pulling away, she and her mate taking their places at opposite sides of the great rift in the
cliff-face . . .

    It is within this cave, surrounded by the bleak trappings of a silent storm that, Faren quickly
concludes, his fate is to be decided.

    As if to galvanize this thought, the male raises his eyes to the captive, addressing him in the more
familiar tongue of the Draegani . . . )

Gorus:  Enter. They await beyond.  You will be judged.

    (The dragon gazes upward, apprehensive, at the rock with forms the cave entrance. The
mountainside here, too,  is covered with  linear writings much like those found on the path leading
both to and from the grotto of the calm--hieroglyphic arcs and curves which seem to wind about the
edifice like the winds themselves, coursing the curves of the rockface as they twist and turn into the
lightless heavens beyond, inscribed by the ages, yet faded by millenia past.

Faren: . . .

 (Steeling himself, the young dragon nods in compliance, stepping, alone, into the darkness of the
cave . . . )

---------------------------------------------------------------------

     (An intense, yet all too familiar dim surrounds the creature as he slowly makes his way into the
depths of the cavern. With the near total absence of any light to guide him, the dragon proceeds only
by what his remaining senses afford him--Beneath his feet, the floor is as smooth as the surface of a
frozen lake, its touch not unlike that of hammered metal.  The same can be said of the walls, whose
unmarred faces seem to undulate only slightly with subtle rises and falls as they wind down the path.

    The air, meanwhile,  has a taste to it like copper ore--no doubt a result of the cavern's composition.
The smell, too, is metallic. . . almost sanguine in nature

    The cave, in short, instills within the child the impression of something not-quite natural . . . as if,
somehow, this grotto has grown disconnected from the rest of the echelon; as if, in a sense, it is the
result of an artificial rift within the mountain's womb.)

Voice:  Cease.

     (The dragon freezes in place as a voice- -low and powerful--rumbles forth from beyond the
darkness, resounding off the chamber walls . . . )

Faren: Who's there !?

      (Jarred by both the abruptness and intensity of the noise, Faren seems to cringe beneath its brunt,
raising his wings slightly to shield him from whatever frights might suddenly emerge from the gloom .
. .

    It is then, as the prisoner's eyes fall to his feet, that he becomes aware of something beginning to
well up beneath them. . .

    His first impression is that of fire;  a radiant glow, a wash of heat, and a blinding luminance.  But,
unlike the draegaani's oft-reknowned companion flame, this is focused, pronounced.

    As his eyes adjust, they behold the light take form--intercrossing lines and patterns which meet,
intersect, and diverge, stretching endlessly beyond their intersections . . .

    It is a pattern he has already seen many times before, inscribed upon on the stone walls throughout
his passage. . .)

Voice:  Do not be afraid.

    (Mustering an iota of courage, the child raises his eyes slightly, posing a question to the
darkness . . .)

Faren:  Where is my father?

    (The answer comes from elsewhere in the cavern--)

Oryn: (flatly) Be silent.

Faren: . . .

     (The rustle of movement.  From the darkness which lies beyond the lineform, eight massive shapes
emerge.  They lumber forth like spectres, taking their places at the eight corners of the room's center.
Disapproving growls can be heard as eight pairs of eyes, illuminated by the diffuse light of the
council chamber floor, set upon the figure whose actions have drawn their attention this day.
Stepping back a bit, Faren struggles to meet those eyes, resisting the urge to further shield himself
from their derisive glares . . .)

     (Then, the same voice which was the first to be heard speaks again: the owner of it the largest of
the shadows which surrounds the child--much closer to its source, now, he finds that it is hollow,
and slightly haggard since it is no longer amplified and intensified by the walls of the cavern. . . )

Voice:  I am Voth, young one.  . . I speak the will of the council.

Faren:  What is going to happen to me ?

Voice:  Your Fate is to be decided here, among us, by decree of the council leader . . your father.
            Accept the consequences of our ruling without thought or question to the contrary.
            Though you are young, the charges you face are grave.  We have tried to be lenient.
            Do you understand?

Faren: . . .

    (Unsure of his response, the young dragon glances warily at his father, whose familiar sillhoutte
towers above the others . . .the silence that follows is staggering, filled only by the distant roar of the
wind in some faraway chamber . . .)

Oryn: Answer him. Do you understand?

    (The voice is cold and deliberate.  Convinced, now, that he is totally alone, Faren returns his
attention to the figure of Voth, responding quietly . . .)

Faren: I do.

Voth:  Are all present?

     (A round of voices responds, uttering in dry tones not dissimilar to Voth's.  Strangely, the child
becomes keenly aware that it is only Oryn's which seems to be filled with any vigor.

    This instills the prisoner with very little in the way of confidance, however . . .)

Oryn:  Yes.  All are accounted for.  Let us begin . . .

Voth:  Faren, I presume you know why you are here . .?

Faren:  . . .

    (The young dragon remains silent, glaring coldly at the elder.  Sighing pensively, Voth seems to
accede to his decision not to reply, and begins . . .)

Voth:  Very well.  You have, first, violated one of the most sacred doctrines of our people--
            That which proclaims it unlawful for any of our tribe to leave, without the permission of this
            council, the embrace of Echelon.  You have also tapped the oracle, Shakre, without said
            permission . . .

    (The elder pauses, attempting to gauge a reaction from the child-dragon who yet still stands before
them with a posture that is, in many ways, almost defiant. Faren's eyes are like ice, belying no hint of
emotion at the host of crimes he has just been accused of.

    Satisfied, Voth nods, droning on . . .)

Voth: you have also chosen to associate freely with the Suchinai . . . the savages
          which inhabit the lowlands . . . those of ignoble blood who have not been deemed worthy
            of our attention.

Faren:  So I have.

Voth:  Society cannot exist if you treat our laws with such indignity . . .

Faren: . . . I was not being indignant . .

Oryn:  Child, you will be silent. . . ! Do not speak out of turn again!

Faren: . . .

    (From behind--another voice, filled with repugnance, utters loudly . . )

Voice: (quietly) such impudence . . . even before his own father and peers . . .

Voth:  Yet . . . this is not the first time, is it boy?  You have spoken ill of our laws before . . .

Faren: . . . I don't know what you are talking about.

Voth: Well ?

  (Faren's face falls to the floor, his reluctance to speak suddenly overpowering  . . .)

Oryn: Answer him.

    (Glaring up at the shapes which hover over him expectantly, the child's eyes grow narrow . . .)

Faren: When will I be given my chance to speak for myself?

Voth:  This is not that manner of trial.  You are to speak when addressed.  Answer the question.

Faren:  Fine.  I have not spoken ill of our laws . . .

Voth:  But you have.  Do not add deception to your crimes.

    (Faren seems to seeth as he brings his attention directly upon Voth . . .)

Faren: . . . I do not . . . I only question.  I want to know.  I only want to understand why
        I must be bound to this place . . . against my will, even against my nature . . .

Voth:  You feel, as one so young, that you are beyond law--are you beyond what experience
            has taught us?  Do not question what has been set in place to protect you. That is
            foolishness.

Faren:  And yet you are punishing me for trying to understand WHY.

Voth:  And thus, you granted yourself this permission . . . only after tapping the oracle.

Faren: . . .

Voth:  You and I know, this is the real reason for your presence here.
             Do you have any idea, child, the ramifications of your act?

Faren: . . .

Voth:  Shakre  is ancient beyond words.  Her every breath expends energy
            .Energy She can no longer draw from Camer, no longer draw from the sun and the sky.
            Her every moment of consciousness seeps away what finite strength she has left.
            She is our only link to the past, to what remains of the great song.  She is our only hope
            for transcending the grim fortune we now face.  Shakre is the most precious asset of our clan.

    (At this last statement, Voth's voice seems to waiver, for an instant-- )

Voth:  And now, she is awake, and thus, not much longer for this plane.

Faren: . . .

Voth:  In short, your actions--your carelessness--may have condemned those of us that remain.
            We, who are the very last.

Faren:  I . . .

Voth:  How can you presume, boy, to know?  You know nothing.  And herein lies the problem.
            I am an old soul, Faren.  I have presided over many rulings of this council, in your father's
            place.  I do so now at his behest, even.  And yet, your particular situation . . .vexes me.
            Though you are guilty,  you are little more than a child. . . Something which has presented
            a frustrating state of affairs for all us, to say nothing of your father. Faren . . .do you
            understand the terrible position you have placed us in?

Faren: . . . no .  .I . . .

Voth: Listen carefully, young one, for my words are grave.  All peaks  know of your  disobedience.
            Word travels fastest the winds of fear.  Order must be maintained, at all costs, or our
            clan shall not survive.

Voice: you have become an impediment to our cause, child.

    (Gazing upward, as the last walls of defiance finally crumble, Faren addresses the court.
In his voice, the mein of contempt has been replaced by one of easily discernable fear . . .)

Faren: . . . What are you going to do . . .?

Voth:  You will be punished, Faren.  It will be swift, and your pain will be great.
            Know, however, that you will not be killed--

Voice: Be grateful that is not the way of our kind. . .

    (Voth sighs, his tone almost regretful as he pushes on . . .)

Voth:  But you have forced our hands.  You, and any like you, must know that such
            disobedience will not be tolerated: neither now, nor in the future.

Voice: We have thus made our ruling.

Oryn:  What is your ruling?

Voth: . . .

     (All voices fall silent, as the eyes in the darkness gaze upon the now humbled form before them .  .  .
It is this moment of decision, which burns deeply into the child's heart. . .)

Voth:  The boy will be hobbled, and cast into the calm. The ruling will be carried out at once,
          so that the damage  caused may be rectified with utmost expedience . . .

     (At once, all eyes turn to the largest form, that of Oryn.  The great beast's own eyes seem to fall,
his voice filled with reluctance . . )

Oryn: So it shall be.

Faren:  What!?

     (The shout comes a mere instant before the claws emerge from the darkness, their owner unseen.
Even before he is aware of the sound--a deft rustle that whistles through the coppery air of the
chamber like an assassin's daggars--the talons sink into the tender flesh of the young dragon's
wingridge, snapping bone wetly in two . . . A blinding light, brighter than any in the hall, obscures the
prisoner's vision.  It is one that accompanies a roar greater than any wind coursing through the vast
spaces between Echelon's peaks.

    In an instant, the suffocating air of tension of the council chamber is shattered--and a child’s
agonized shriek resounds through the cavern walls, reverberating through the crags and hollows of
the chamber, and clawing up the dark tunnel leading to the world outside.  As the ragged  pieces fall
away, tearing flesh from muscle and membrane, the scream bursts forth from the cave entrance,
echoing in the ridges and valleys of the northern crests before climbing into the storm-rent  heavens
above, resonating like some discordant supplication . . .)

 (The pain rings loudly in his ears as the dragon-child falls, collapsing beneath the force of the blow
as the fragile young wings are ripped to pieces)

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Faren:  (screaming)

    (The boy writhes now as if posessed.  Aeriana Goodtree looks on, stunned, as the child's body is
wracked by spasm, before being thrown to the floor in an incoherent heap . . .)

   Aeriana:  <By the graces!>

    (the ilif rises to her feet, mortified, as the child doubles over;  the throes which now inundate his
form forcing his eyes to open wide. Aeriana, however, is not yet at his side before he heaves again,
gasps, then screams--vomiting blood.

    It is a sound which makes her own vigor run cold--a cry born of total helplessness and anguish,
one that dies away quickly in a gurgling, red cascade which mingles with the mud and the soil of
the tent floor, covering his dressings and painting half his face a sickening shade of scarlet.

    Steeling herself completely, the girl grabs the boy, who even now claws at the dirt, lurching away
in the frenzied haze that has gripped what remains of his sanity.  Finding within herself some iota of
sense, the ilif pulls the child bodily onto the bed, bracing him with what might she has left . . .)

Aeriana:  It's just a dream!  It's just a dream!!

---------------------------------------------------------------------
 

  (And then, Almost as quickly and mercilessly as it began, the attack ceases.

    One by one, the shapes and forms of the eight begin to waver, then diminish, leaving a rush of
displaced air as the only indication of their having been present . . .

     Somewhere, beyond the pulsing waves of shock which seem to grow exponentially with his every
haggard breath, the child can hear the voice of the council speaker once more.  The It is distant and
muffled, buried beneath a sea of vertigo brought on by the immense pain coursing through his
spine. . . )

Voth:  Our punishment is harsh.  But time will heal your wings, Faren . . .
        When they do heal, you will be free to leave the grotto.

Faren: (sobbing) . .

Voth:  It has pained me to do this, as it has pained you.  Please, spare yourself a more dire fate.
            The dracoura will take you back to the calm . . . Do not resist.  A new trial now begins.

     (it is with this, that the form of Voth, too, vanishes . . leaving only the father, and the son . . )

Oryn: . . .

Faren: . . .

     (Not a word passes between them, however, and soon, Oryn follows the rest . . . within his aged
eyes, a mark of shame . . .)

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Faren: (panting)

Aeriana: (thinking) I have to do something . . .

     (As she makes this proclemation, Aeriana Goodtree breaths a cautious sigh.  She rises from the
now still form on the cot below, her tunic again stained with the child's blood. )

Aeriana: something .  .  .
---------------------------------------------------------------------

      (A decade has passed since the night of Faren's hobbling.

    Upon the cliffs of Echelon, an almost stagnant silence reigns, as it has for over a thousand years.
To the occupants of the great mount, however, the passage of time holds little in the way of meaning,
for so long lived are they.

     Over the grassy embankments and valleys of which dot the landscape, an occasional shape can be
seen-- a serpentine form,  twisting gracefully in the thermal updrafts rising between the peaks, wings
outstretched to catch the air as it soars across the divides . . .

    In one the darker crags of the  mountainside, on a ledge betwixt two sheer edifices which nullify the
wind's advance , a dreary, worn creature watches the display longingly . . .

    His face once a child's face--once filled with the look of wonderment and even the spark of
contempt--shows now only a supreme sense of loathing, of having aged well before its time; while
above, others fly overhead unburdened by physical limit, the wings on his own back are scarred and
broken, left useless for still years to come . . .

    Around him, the grotto of the calm suits its name well, so deathly quite is its embrace. The air of the
recess is that of a doldrum; a silent, dead, and almost maddening stillness broken only occasionally
by an errant draft or rogue wind.

    Though the the rare promise of warm sunbaked rocks of the cliff beckons, Faren stays within the
confines of the cave.  The dragon watches patiently the flights of the others high overhead, all the
while remaining behind the crevasce's lip. . .

    Suddenly, one of the shapes makes an abrupt turn in midflight--its wings spread to their full birth,
catching the quickly dwindling winds before making the perilous descent to the grotto ledge . . . Faren
strains his gaze against the sunlight, which radiates through the membranes of the dragon's pinions
as the speed of its drop increases.

    Cringing at what he knows is about to occur, the prisoner averts his eyes, flinching a moment later
as, with a powerful thud, the visiter lands hard.

    In the cloud of dust that ensues, the interloper staggers about a bit, coughing on the airborn debris
kicked up in the wake of his landing.  Raising his head from its hiding place, Faren at once recognizes
the a lanky creature, a clumsy looking beast with scales that shimmer jade in the afternoon light as it
stumbles around in the lingering momentum of his fall.  Yet, as this realization comes to light, Faren
sighs with an obvious malaise . .  )

Faren:  Your landings haven't improved since you first started visiting me, Barlow.

    (Smiling with visible chagrin, the beast cocks his head to the side, acknowledging the
observation . . .)

Barlow:  I can never catch the last updraft . . . You can't fault me for trying, though . . .

Faren: . . .

    (Faren rolls his eyes tediously, trudging back into the cave without so much as a word . . .
Barlow, taken slightly aback by this, frowns slightly . . .)

Barlow:  Solemn as always, eh?

Faren: I should feel otherwise?

Barlow:  Is that any way to talk to a friend?

    (At this, Faren comes to a halt, his guilt piqued.  Peering over his shoulder, he finally greets the
visitor's eyes with his own . . .)

Faren:  sorry . . . I thought Vasha would be with you . .

Barlow: Well, don’t sound too thrilled. . . . Heavens know the kind of excitement your provided here.

Faren:  . . .

Barlow: She'll be along shortly. . . Though I don't think she'll be happy when I tell her you've
                been watching the skies again.

Faren:  You're not going to tell her, so there's nothing to worry about.

    (Somewhat taken by his friend's abruptness, Barlow hesitates, then sighs in obvious concession.
Satisfied, his erstwhile companion returns his attention to the cave, trudging off into the recess that
has been his home for the past several years.   Barlow watches, dissapointed, as he slinks back into
shade provided within, his tail vanishing into the shadows . . .)

Barlow:  Come on!  Your wings will be healed in no time!  And we'll be as we were before . .

    (The ensuing response to this is rendered somewhat hollow by both the walls of the cave, and by
the grim nature of the dragon who utters it . . .)

Faren: (quietly)  I sincerely doubt that.

Barlow:  What do you mean?

Faren:  If I ever leave this place, I'll be no less a prisoner. You know that.

    (At once, Barlow howls in frustration, rolling his eyes with a snort . . .)

Barlow:  Oh please don't start that crap again . . .That kind of thinking got you into this mess . . .

Faren:  Hmph . . .

     (grunting, the dragon turns-- . . . .)

Faren:  It's just a bigger prison.

Barlow: . . . Don't tell me you've become concerned with all the garbage
             the sage beat into our little heads again . . . it’s all about as sensible
            as reciting her bad poetry to a rock.

    (As if to prove his point, the dragon picks up a small boulder in his foreclaw, addressing it
dramatically. . .)

Barlow:  "For so great is my need to be free, I will liken  myself to a tree . . "

    (When Faren does not answer, however, he drops the stone to the ground, remarking in a caustic
tone . . )

Barlow:  Not one for comedy either, I see . . .!

Faren:  Do something funny if you want to get a laugh.

    (Barlow thumps his chest, calling into the darkness bitterly)

Barlow:  I'll be off then, since you're obviously in a wonderful mood.

Faren:  If you see Vasha, tell her I want to speak to her.

Barlow: . . . Don't think I won't

     (It is with this that the verdant creature's wings extend once more.  Bounding across the chasm
between the twin cliffs, Barlow flaps furiously, catching the slender updrafts wafting from the
bottomless rift that is the calm's heart.  At last, as he rises into the stronger winds of the currents and
eddys above, he spreads his pinions to their full birth, catching sight of the grotto growing faint in
the distance below . . . )

Barlow:  (to himself)  I hope she can cheer you up better than I can . . .
---------------------------------------------------------------------

Aeriana:  Bah!!

 (A handful of herbs falls to the floor, only to be ground angrily  into the dirt by a frustrated heel a
second later.Aeriana Goodtree takes a step back, running an anxious hand through her matted
locks as she looks down at the child . . .)

Aeriana:  Nothing works . . . Dammit, Goodtree, you've really gotten yourself into it.!

Aeriana: (thinking) and why must the victim always be a child . . .?

Aeriana: (shaking her head)  No, NO . . . there has to be something . . .

Faren: (groaning) . . .

Aeriana: . . .

     (The girl sits at his bedside once more, her frustration smoldering at the very edges of her
control.  With a tempered desperation, she falls to her knees, uttering, strained, into the child's
ear . . .)

Aeriana:  please don't die on me . . !!

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Vasha:  Faren?

     (Her voice is not unlike the gentle whisper of the wind, or so the solitary creature thinks to himself
as he listens from within the cold embrace of the prison grotto.  It is a welcome sound, much like those
of the few errant drafts which, on occasion, have passed through the calm's stillness on his more
sleepless nights in the prison peak.)

Vasha:  Faren!?  Are you awake?

    (for a moment,a fleeting, playful ire--reminiscent of much less grim memories faded--causes the
dragon to remain silent, listening to the girl call cautiously to the blackness which encompasses his
small corner of the world.  It is with an almost gleeful anticipation he waits, allowing the tension to
build to a certain air before, finally, he speaks . . .)

Faren:  (quietly) here . .

    (His whisper has the body of a rasp--a dark quality which suits well the shadows that obscure the
interior of the cavern in which he now resides.)

Vasha:  Where are you?  step out into the light!

    (His visitor peers into the dim, one side of her pearl scales taking on a brilliant sheen as they refract
the  the light spilling into the cave from the world outside.

    With an obvious moroseness, though, Faren utters quietly . . .)

Faren:  Why don't you join me in the darkness .  .  .

    (Her response more than a bit reserved, Vasha succeeds little in hiding the unease with which she
treads into the hollow . . .)

Vasha:  . . . Don't say such things.  Please,

Faren: . . .

     (A moment passes.  Soon, reluctant footfalls scrape against the worn gave floor as Faren emerges
into the the midway point between the shade and the light, his sister's eyes straining in the darkness
as she at last catches sight of him . . . )

Vasha:  You mustn't hide like this . . . It's not healthy.

Faren:  "I Missed you too . . . "

Vasha:  Barlow said you needed some cheering up . . .

Faren: Did he.

    (The utterance is more matter-of-fact, than a question.  It bemeans a hidden intention within the
prisoner, a premeditated purpose which Vasha feels she has yet to fully grasp . . .)

Faren:  What else did he say?

Vasha:  That you were moping . . . and babbling something about not being whole . . .

Faren:  Fair enough . .

Vasha: . . .and you were watching the skies again.

Faren: . . . Barlow has a big mouth.

Vasha:  It is necessary, I think, when you lack the faculties to speak for yourself.

    (scowling, Faren turns his eyes to the floor . . .)

Faren: You never understood my position.

Vasha:  That is not what I came here to discuss.

Faren:  My "moroseness," then?  Have you come to absolve me of my drepression?

Vasha:  I overheard our father speaking to our mother of his ruling . . .as you know, when your
            wings are whole, you will be free to leave this place.  If you are careful, that may be sooner
            than you think.  Too much longing will make things worse, but creeping about in the dark
            won't help either.

 (Solemnly, Faren turns back to the darkness . . .shaking his head . . .)

Faren:  (venemously)  . . .How many times must I tell you, there isn't a real midground to be
                                        found in this place.  Day and night I spend here questioning myself  a
                                        thousand times over.  I HATE this place. The less I see of it, the better.
                                        So I stay in the dark.

Vasha:  That's not like you.

Faren:  What about you?  So now you scurry about the shadows, listening in upon their
            conversations?  I'm impressed.  Whatever happened to the role of the model child?
            Your notions of fair play?

Vasha:   Paern can be our father's pride, for all I care.  As for my lurking . . .at least I learned
                to be a great deal more discreet . . . I do what I have to, when time calls for it.

    (Faren chortles, rolling his eyes slightly . . .)

Faren:  Relativism? From you,  I never would have guessed . . .

 (exasperated, the female dragon stands firm before her brother . . .)

Vasha:  I don't want you to forget I'm waiting for you out there.
            I watch over you.  If you would only  see th. . .

    (Suddenly, the dragoness pauses,  peering at her clutchbrother . . .)

Vasha:  W . . Why are you looking at me like that?

    (Beneath her scales, Vasha feels her skin crawl as she becomes aware of the peculiar stare her
sibling has fixed upon her. Without breaking the gaze, the male dragon raises his head slightly,
offering an explanation . . .)

Faren:  You are the only thing that isn't moving . . .

    (The girl pauses, not quite comprehending . . .)

Vasha: . . what are you getting at?

       (Oddly, the young male seems to take a strange sort of satisfaction from the unease growing in
Vasha's mannerisms . . . )

Faren:  When I lay here . . . between the stones, sometimes, if I am still long enough . . .
            the shapes begin to move. Has that ever happened to you?

Vasha: . . .

    (the girl is silent, her eyes fixed . . )

Faren:  It is like they are dancing.  It terrified me at first--alone in here, there
            seemed no way to make it stop.  Closing my eyes was useless,
            then I would be unaware of their approach.

    (He snorts, shaking his head . . .)

Faren:  I began to doubt my own sanity. But now . .  it has become a nuisance.
            Sometimes, it's even entertaining.  A product of the darkness and the quiet.
            What does this little revelation tell you?

     ( Unnerved, Vasha breaks his strange little spell, shaking her head . . .)

Vasha:  You are not well, brother.

Faren:   I suppose not . . . but, as you were saying, never let it be said that you did
            not look out for me.

    (with this, the prisoner glances down, catching sight of the welts which are yet visible between the
worn scales on his side and forarms.  The lacerations are wide, but not deep--Created by a firm grip
seemingly more concerned with detaining him, rather than injuring him. . .)

Vasha:  Have you stopped hearing the wind . . . ?

Faren:  No.  It is the quietest of whispers.  But it brings pain with it . . . look.

    (with this, Faren raises one of the maimed pinions from his back, where new skin clings delicately to
the twisted ridges; the very movement brings with it a small shudder of agony that is visible to Vasha
even in the darkened inner confine of the grotto itself . . .)

Faren:  You wonder why I spend so much time in here ?  They will tear, if exposed to more
            than the slightest breeze.  It has happened many times before, when I became careless.
            The winds I long so much to feel, that you and Barlow take so much for granted, must be
            reduced to an afterthought, before I may draw strength from them.  It is how they keep me in
            my place . . . Quite clever of them.

Vasha: I am . . . trying, Faren.  I am trying to be here for you as much as I can.  It's not easy. . .

Faren:  you always have been.  Only recently, I think, have I understood why . . .

Vasha:  What do you mean?

Faren:  I have begun to wonder if your concern for me stems from the fact that--perhaps in part--
            you feel obligated to do so . . ?

Vasha: . . . I have not idea what you're talking about . . .

    (Shutting his eyes, Faren swings himself about, walking back toward the crevasce, and the
protection promised within . . .)

Faren:  After all . . . it was you whom I approached to teach me to blend in with
            the suchinai . . . only you would be daring enough to seek to learn how, simply
            for the sake of knowing.

Vasha:  Shut up. . .

Faren:  Oh, but I am right?

Vasha:  Why are you acting like this?! Are you trying to upset me?

    (The prisoner stops in his tracks . . .)

Faren:  Don't get offended.  I only wanted to affirm it because
             I want the notion removed from your mind entirely.

Vasha:  You have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.

Faren:  Let me finish . . .

Vasha:  There's no point, what's done is done.

Faren:  (incensed) Listen to me!

    (The creature's voice is a snarl, his body whipping about as he turns to face the girl from afar.
Vasha, taken by surprise at the sudden shout, stares silently . . .)

Faren:  To blame yourself for my fate is to remove my accountability for my own actions.
            It makes my loss all the more irrelevant, in my eyes and in the eyes of the elders . . .
            That . . . That is a far worse punishment than hobbling.  It festers, it humiliates me . . .
            I sit here, in the nights, thinking about you mulling over me and it makes me sick . . .

    (She is speechless, locked in a wild-eyed gaze she has seen before, under far different
circumstances . . .)

Vasha: I . .

Faren:  Don't propound to be my keeper, DON'T blame yourself for my inadequacies,
            DON'T compound my punishment by invalidating my losses!

Vasha: . . .

Faren: If anything, my time here has allowed me the opportunity to ponder a
            great many things . . As I am sure you have.

Vasha: . . .

Faren:  You . . you are my clutchsister.  Without you, I doubt I would have made it beyond the first
            passing here.  There are things, I remember.  Things I tried to do, things you prevented me
            from doing . . .

Vasha: . . .

Faren:  And I am grateful.

Vasha:   . . .

Faren:  This is why I want to be certain you don't blame yourself for my current state.

Vasha: . . . that . . .

Faren:  . . . ?

    (Vasha's eyes grow narrow, there focus falling on nothing at all . . .)

Vasha:  That was a well practiced tirade, brother.

Faren: . . .

    (The youth snarls, trudging back into the recess  . . . unfettered, the dragoness
continues, treading lightly after him . . .)

Vasha:  IF you must know, Faren, I do blame myself --but only for giving you the
            means by which to perpetrate your little masquerade.  What you have done
            with the knowledge is your own doing.  No, I do not blame myself for your imprisonment--
            that credit for that falls squarely upon your shoulders, and yours alone.

    (He is quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the dim . . .)

Faren:  (darkly) Well . . .I wanted to be sure there were no loose ends . . .

Vasha:  Why? For so very long as I have known you, you've never showed
              any concern for the ramifications of your actions . . . All this time,
            you have behaved as if you were alone among the many.  You have
            always been so vague, so reclusive, you've only Barlow and I.
            Afford us some measure of credence!

Faren:   My conscience was always there.

    (She snorts--)

Vasha:  . .  and you were never a very good liar.

Faren:  Hmph.  And you prove yet again that you just don’t understand . . .

     (Vasha glares at her brother, eyes growing narrow as the first hints of realization begin
creeping in . . .)

Vasha:   . . . you are going to try and escape again . . .  .

Faren: . . . quietly now . . .!

    (The look of accusation in the girl's gaze is matched only by the covert sense of urgency written
across his. Indeed, it takes all self control within the girl to keep from screaming in the boy's face.)

Vasha:  Do you have any idea what they will do to you if you are caught!?
            They aren’t going to stop at hobbling, that’s for certain!!

Faren:  . . . Who knows?

Vasha:  How can you be so reckless?

 (slowly, Faren meets her stare. . .)

Faren: . . . spend some time here.

Vasha: . . .

Faren:  Promise you won't tell them . .

Vasha:  Why not!?  At least it'll keep you here, keep you from making another foolish mistake!

    (Vasha cringes, realizing the irrational nature of the statement itself.  Perhaps it is concern, or
perhaps it is pride.  In either case, she bites down on the words as soon as they leave her lips . . .)

Faren:  (quietly)  Will it . . .?  Would you have them lock me away for the rest of my life?
                            How long do you think I might last? You, of all people . . .

Vasha: . . .

Faren: (slowly)  If I stay here, I die, anyway.

Vasha: . . .

Faren:  I know you won't tell anyone, clutchsister. . .

Vasha:  I won't have to, you'll be found out again, eventually.  You're an idiot. . . just a stupid fool . . .

Faren:  Thank you, Vasha . . .

 (they are the first heartfelt words Faren truly speaks in the entire exchange, though the white dragon
turns her head away, holding back her displeasure . . . In a sharp whisper, her response comes . . .)

Vasha: . . . just don't ask for my help this time, You fucking idiot.

Faren:  I won't.  Don't worry . . .

 (It is with these words that the prisoner lowers his head, signifying an understanding of trust. . .
Vasha shuts her eyes, resigning herself to her word, as he does so . . .)
---------------------------------------------------------------------

Aeriana:  <I now resign myself to this task . . . blessed breath of the goddess, please. .
                    bring life where I see the silence death>

Faren: . . . Ggnh . . .

---------------------------------------------------------------------

  (Years have passed.  The course of a generation for some, yet another  mere heartbeat for the ancient
dragons of Echelon . . .

    For the young, an endless wait, punctuated by meticulous planning, careful forethought, and
ebbing patience.

    To his companion, the dragon Barlow, however . . .illustrated by the almost hysterical sense of
disbelief in his tone . . .)

Barlow:  (in disbelief) you're crazy.  You've gone completely out of your mind.

Faren:  That notwithstanding, Barlow, I still need your help.

  (a cold, almost undetectable midday breeze brushes the dragons' sides as they stand atop the ledge
overlooking the abyss of the calm. unlike the countless days past that the prisoner has stepped into
the sunlight in the many years since his imprisonment, however, this day carries with it a marked
difference . . .

    With a lengthy gasp of air, Faren rises to his haunches--facing his longtime friend with an utterly
sober look . . .)

Barlow:  I won't.  I'm not going to help you kill yourself. . .

Faren:  Then what good are you?

    (Craning his neck back, the dragon extends his wings.  Almost fully healed, They bear nearly no
mark on their surface, save for scars on the edges where bloodied gashes and broken bones once
were . . .)

Faren: They aren't strong enough to carry me beyond the doldrum . . .
            but they WILL support me through the higher winds . . .

    (Barlow frowns . . )

Barlow:  Why don't you wait!?  I still don't understand why you can't wait--

    (Mumbling through grit teeth, Faren glares the other dragon warily . . .)

Faren:  Because the longer I spend away from the heavy air, the less of a grip I will have on my
            faculties!

    (He casts his eyes to the cliffs high above, scanning the ridges for any sign of movement . . .)

Faren:  Besides . . . I doubt the council will consider it a lesson learned . . .

Barlow:  What are you talking about?

Faren:  They have been watching me.  Not a week goes by, that I don't see one of their
            dracoura come to make sure I'm still  "in my place . . . "

Barlow:  Great, so you're impatient AND you're paranoid.  I must be crazy not to trust you . . .

Faren:  Stop mocking me.  You think I imagined them?

Barlow: (muttering) here we go . . .

    (Undiscouraged, Faren snorts.)

Faren: . . even if I did, it's even more cause for me to get out of here . . .

Barlow:  This isn't going to work . . .

Faren:  So now, you've become an expert on the subject?  How was that last landing, Barlow??

Barlow: . . .

Faren:  She is waiting for me.  She will know what I must do next.

Barlow:  They'll kill you for this.

Faren:  You think that wasn't their original plan? Not by any direct means, obviously.
            This . . . This was the best they could do. Even they are bound by their own laws.
            Such wonderful irony. Hells to them.

Barlow:  . . .

Faren:  I need your help, Barlow.  Please.

Barlow:  I do what you ask, and I'm going to live to regret it.  Hell's teeth, I already am!

Faren: . . .

    (Rising to his feet, the verdant dragon spreads his wings wide . . . )

Faren:  I'll be on the very edge.  When you have the speed . . .

Barlow:  (interrupting)  We should get Vasha first. . .

Faren:  (firmly) No.

Barlow: . . .

Faren:  When you have the speed, do it.

Barlow:  And when your weight drags us down?

Faren:  It won't . . . don't you remember climbing the spines in the northpeaks?  It'll be no different.

    (Incensed, Barlow holds his frustration back no longer . . .)

Barlow:  (loudly) This is TEN TIMES the distance, Faren!  And there was WIND in the northpeaks!

Faren:  Two things we can compensate for if we do it right.

Barlow:  And if we don't!?

Faren:  Then I die a quicker death.  Consider it merciful, all the same.

Barlow: . . .

Faren:  Time is wasting.  Will you do it, or won't you!?

Barlow: . . . You never used to talk about death like this. . .Like it was just 'something to do.'

Faren: . ..

Barlow: . . .

    (Without a word, Barlow turns away from his companion.  His pinions again lowered, he trudges
slowly to the edge of the overhang, resting on his haunches as he reaches the very lip.

    For a long while, he simply sits there.  Once more, an uncanny silence descends upon the place,
interrupted infrequently only by the sounds of the pair's breathing.  Behind him, Barlow soon begins
to hear the scraping of claws against the bedrock, as Faren begins to pace impatiently to and fro.
Time passes.  Eventually, this, too, ceases.

    The deahly quiet of the grotto of the calm, which inundates the air between them, is finally and
abruptly broken by the dragon Barlow only after moments of deep contemplation . . .)

Barlow:  I realize that, no matter what I decide, you will try to escape.

     (Faren does not answer the accusation, watching from a distance as the green serpent
goes on . . .)

Barlow:  Either way, your life will be at risk.  In considering everything . .

    (He shifts slightly as he stands, all the while, not turning to face his companion . . .
It is when he unfurls his wings, however, that Faren's blood begins to run cold . . .)

Barlow:  . . . I'd rather not be a part of it.  If you kill yourself, I don't want to be involved.

    (The prisoner is at his feet, even as Barlow leaps off the ledge.  Screaming at the top of his lungs,
Faren hurls his rage at the creature as it struggles in the miniscule updrafts, rising slowly above the
cliffs which line the chasm . . .)

Faren:  (shouting) You COWARD!  I should have known better than to trust in you!
                            You're no better than the bastards that put me here!!
                            You don't even have the spine to face me when you say no!?

    (The verdant dragon does not respond--hastening his climb without acknowledging Faren's
words . . .something which only enrages him further . . .)

Faren: (Shouting) I hope your wings rot, you ingrateful slime! NEVER COME BACK HERE!
                            I'VE WASTED ENOUGH TIME ON YOU! DO YOU HEAR ME!?

  (Barlow is but a spec in a sea of blue as these words leave the dragon's lips--their venom leaving a
particularly bitter taste in Faren's mouth.

    Unable to hold back any longer, whatever remains of Faren's resolve quickly fades.  Sparks fly as
claws drive themselves into the dirt and the granite which comprise the cliff, sending chunks of rock
into the still air.  His vision a cloud of red, the dragon's rage soon overtakes him--Twisting his head
wildly, he screams into the abyss.

    It is a long, drawn-out shriek, filled with animosity for the world beyond which moves unfettered
through the skies above. . . it is a noise which rebounds off the opposite wall of the chasm,
resounding down into the shadows which obscure its depths below . . .)

---------------------------------------------------------------------

    (Aerianna winces, attempting to maintain her concentration as the feverish child howls yet again in
his fatal delerium . .. )

Aeriana:  <Work . . .  please, please work . . .>

Faren: . . .

---------------------------------------------------------------------

     (A new darkness, unlike that which creeps in the shadows of the caves and grottos of the
mountainside, encroaches upon the still form of the imprisoned dragon as he lies, still as death, in the
quiet embrace of the calm . . .)

     (Beyond this place,  he trudges solemnly a world of dreams, provoked by despair . . . )

Shakre:  It has been a while, young one . .

Faren:  I missed you, Shakre . . . I was afraid I would never see you again. . .

Shakre:  The thoughts of the young are always so fleeting . . . though I find your concern
                refreshing, child, you must not be so hasty. I was always here, and shall ever be.

     (Through the clouded gaze of a wandering mind's eye, little can be seen in the gigantic cavern
which serves as home for the titanic being known as Shakre.  Unmoving, unchanged, and seemingly
further bonded with the rocky carapace which serves as her home, the ancient behemoth sits as an
impossible vision . . . )

Faren:  How can I be here?  Was I not . . .

     (Shakre's eyes seem to narrow a bit, then clear--)

Shakre:  You have not left the stillness. . . You lie in its grip, even now.

Faren: . . . I . .I'm still there . . .

     (Shakre looks at it for a moment, then, strangely, seems to smile . . .)

Faren: Then this is a dream.

Shakre:   Sleep is the canvass for the desires of the heart.  Have I come to you in a vision,
            or have you come to me in one of mine? In truth, perhaps we have met at a midground . . . So
            powerful is your dispair, your seventh apex lies open--this has allowed this connection . . .

Faren:  You speak in riddles. . .

Shakre:  As do you.  Mine are not so cleverly masked, however.
                But, take heed your own words, dragaani.  They are also those of your father, Oryn.

    (The child-dragon, it seems, is easily unnerved by the comparison . . .)

Faren:  You've spoken to my father?

Shakre:  On occasion.  More appropriately, he spoke to me.

Faren:  . . . None of this can be real . . .

Shakre: . . .?

    (The image of Shakre seems to shimmer for a moment, distorting as the darkness cedes over the
boundries of the vision . . .)

Shakre: Such declarations are for the weak of spirit.
                It was not this self pity that I sensed within you when you awoke me from my slumber.

Faren:  How long ago was that?  I don't even remember.

Shakre:  It was the space of a heartbeat. A blink of an eye that has seen so much more.

Faren: And yet, I have cursed our tribe to death, because of it.

    (The titanic being seems to sigh--signifying a particular morsel of lament which surfaces
at the mere consideration of the boy's statement . .. )

Shakre:  The tribe has engineered its own destruction.  In imposing upon itself the council,
            the clan lives now by doctrine and decree, not by the natural laws which govern our state
            of being; not by the great song, or the eons of our history, but by edicts and laws.  Time is
            growing short. . .

Faren: . . .

Shakre:  The tribe will die, perhaps. I will die.  For all its "efforts," the council, too, will die.
                It is as inevitable as life.

Faren: . . .

Shakre:  Where does that leave one such as you, I wonder?

    (The statement is curious, almost playful in its tone.  The child looks up at the immense creature
laying before him, unsure of the answer . . .)

Faren:  I . . . suppose I am doomed to die with them.

Shakre:  Why?

Faren:  I cannot leave.

Shakre:  rubbish.

Faren:  eh?

Shakre:  I am older than the tribe itself. I am, as to you, as ancient as the mountain upon
            which you now lie.  You have not seen destruction the likes of which I have witnessed.
            The Forsaking.  The Great Flight.  The Vortex of Ruination.
            Neither you, nor any other on this peak can truly understand.

Faren:  . . .

Shakre:  You have not left because you have simply chosen not to.

Faren: . . ?

    (With this, The dragon Shakre’s rocky form seems to recede into the darkness,
the last words to be heard uttered almost breathlessly from the shadows . . .)

Shakre:  you will be free when you grant yourself that freedom.
                To blame one so small for mistakes of an epoch . .this is cowardess.
                To blindly accept such blame, greater cowardess.

Faren:  Then how do I escape?

Shakre:  So many direct questions, to which you know all the answers.
            All too often my 'sage advice' is relegated to telling the worrisome
            what they themselves have already contemplated in their most
            vulnerable moments.  Search, young one. But first, you must find
            the strength to leave this prison you have fashioned for yourself . . .

Faren:  For myself!?

Shakre: . . . The strength to awaken. . .
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CAPTION:

  The Present . . .
 

Faren: Unnnngh . . .

     (Delirious stirring accompanies wearied groaning as, at last, the boy awakens from his bout with
death. . . )

Faren: . . .(gasping) . . .

     (The child’s panting begins to die away, slowly, as the perilous beating of his heart gradually
slows. Soon, as his eyelids part, he stirs, though he finds his frail young body still too weak to
move . . .)

Faren: . . .

     (It is then, that he finds he can hear the sounds of music . . . an elegant melody, soothing and
woeful, that touches upon the strings of his heart with each key. It is the gentle serenade
of a windflute, accompanied by the careful teasing of a set of chords. . .

Aeriana: ...

     (In the long moment which follows, the boy can make out through slowly unblurring vision
the ilif girl, seated on a footstool next to him . . . In the darkness of the tent, her youthful body
is illuminated by moonlight she sways gently to the music, her eyes closed in total
concentration as she plays a strange looking, oblong clay windlute at her lips . . .

Faren: You . . .

     (Aeriana's fingers dance upon the strings atop the earthen flute with incredible delicacy--their
harmony unnaturally haunting and beautiful as it combines with the melody of the wind-blown notes
ushered forth by careful breath . . . Indeed, time itself seems to cease its movement at the interim,
standing placidly still as all focus is drawn into the song . . .)

     (For several seconds, Aeriana sits there--gradually meeting the boy's transfixed gaze with her
own, a mutual sense of incredulity passing between them . . .until, finally, the melody
reaches an abrupt crescendo, then slowly dies away . . .)

Aeriana:  Boy. . .

     (It is then, however, that the girl’s eyes grow dim, the ona slipping from her fingers as she falls
from her chair, landing hard on the dirt floor in an unconscious heap as the instrument does the same,
shattering into a thousand pieces. . . )

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  To Be continued . . .