Birthday Present For My Brother

Salutations friends! It has been quite a bit of time since I have posted last, but in my absence, some very neat things have happened! Namely, one of those occurrences was the 22nd birthday of my older brother. This is a story I had written for him as a gift. This is meant more to archive it than anything so that if he so desires, he can read it here. Feel free to enjoy it as well! Many thanks and I hope you are having days of adventure and peace!






Yahnaiyaer’s eyes still felt that unfamiliar fire crawling over the film of his bright, feygreen irises. It had been a fortnight since the Drow fled the dark dwellings he had walked since his homeless childhood. And now he found himself wandering again. A thoughtful frown twitched onto his face. Perhaps he had never stopped.

The world here was bright. Too bright. The cerulean waves sparkled with crests of gold, endless, beautiful, and frightening, like the maw of some incomprehensibly large monster. Yahn had not heard many tales of the sea. There were few in the Guild who had ventured beyond the Underdark. There had been no need to. Though it made very little difference then, the young Drow begrudgingly wondered how useful the information would have been now.

  The unbridled vastness of the ocean’s tide was far different than the smuggling tunnels he had grown to love. Instead of the sight of wort and moss filling in the sharp edges of rock faces, there were barnacles plastered to the side of the ship like the yellowed enamel of teeth. Rather than the damp, thick musk of earth and stone, there was the airy scent of sea spray and a faint, daintier smell of tropical fruits that occasionally lingered whenever the quartermaster saw fit to share them with the crew. Yahn had grown fond of that scent.

It wasn’t all brooding, though. Life aboard the Grace of Malia was not all that different from life in the Guild. There were plenty of things to steal, though the way they went about stealing employed a different form of strategy. There was drinking, dicing, card games, bets with both wins and losses, and the inevitable fights that followed. There was a code of respect between crewmates- even if it was not shared with the captain.

And then there was the captain- The crux of several problems Yahn was having at sea.

His introduction was nothing short of spectacular. One moment, Yahnaiyaer and Arândwil were in the penultimate moment of their daring escape. The next moment, the two of them were forcibly whisked away (they counted themselves luckier than the privateer captain, who Yahn did not doubt was still floating somewhere around the spot they left him) onto another vessel. It seemed almost as though Yahnaiyaer and crime were destined to maintain an intimate relationship. The Drow almost thought to be thankful for the pirate captain, were it not for the ugly sneer that the human offered him as they were directed by swordpoint onto the brig.

Their treatment, since then, had seldom been much more hospitable. It wasn’t for lack of trying on behalf of the boatswain or the skipper, both of whom offered some semblance of sympathy for the captured crew of the privateer vessel. But that was quickly superceded by Captain Edumund Orlos, who made it apparent day-by-day that he wanted neither of the dark elves living on his ship.

When the quartermaster had threatened him with a lash, Yahnaiyaer almost laughed.

So while he and Arândwil had escaped the clutches of cultish fanatics and traitorous sadists with far too much ambition for their own good, they landed in the hands of a maniacal pirate with a pension for chucking men overboard whenever he had temper tantrums. Out of the fire and into the frying pan, he supposed.

And speaking of the aforementioned thief…

Yahnaiyaer heard the puff of Arândwil’s exasperated sigh before he saw the man stumbling towards the rail. Yahn found the back of his neck buried in the crook of an elbow within an instant, another hand playfully coming to scruff the back of his head.

“Here I am hauling boxes around like some slave while you’re sitting here daydreaming. I guess some things never change.”

Yahn pulled a face at that and moved to swat at Arândwil’s arm. “Oh, boo hoo. You’re just used to me having to do all the work.”

Arândwil pulled a wicked smile and shrugged. “Also true. How did you do it for so long?” The taller elf threw his hands behind his head emphatically. “I’m exhausted!”

Yahn raised a brow. “I didn’t have much of a choice. You see, I have this really lazy friend who never pulled his weight-”

Arândwil put a finger in the air to interject. “Ah, ah, ah. Never, my friend?  I did my share when we were in the heat of it. I must have been pretty useful, right? I mean, why else would someone kidnap me?”

“If half of the nobles were rich in work ethic and blood, I think they’d fetch a far higher price.”

Yahn shook his head dismissively. “Plus,” he offered a devilish smirk to his comrade. “I think it’s just because you have my name attached to you.”

“Oh, I see.” Arândwil drawled sardonically, his lip twitching into a sneer. “I wasn’t aware I was working with someone so prestigious. It’s no wonder a little beggar like me was swept away in all this bustle. It was all to gain the attentions of his most illustrious vagabond, so much more genteel than the rest of us.”

Yahn laughed and buffeted Arândwil on the meat of his back. “Why else would I be so pretty?”







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For the first time in a very long time, Yahnaiyaer was nervous. His hands kept itching to loosen the lacing on the back of the silver gorget that threatened to strangle him. It glinted at him menacingly from where he stood in front of the mirror, it’s weight a reminder of what he had agreed to do.

Yahnaiyaer, the free-spirited and vivacious thief and seafarer, was going to be married.

Yahn smoothed over his doublet for the fifth time, frustrated at the odd Aftokran ruffles that puffed out the front of his cravat like the plumage of some agitated bird. No matter how neatly he tried to arrange himself, the little voice in the back of his head urged him that it wasn’t enough. Lairëmeril would be beautiful, of that Yahn was certain. There was never a time when she wasn’t, and he had seen her in dire straits, when ugliness is prone to rear its ugly head. But she remained graceful. Even in wrath. Even in pain.

And he, of course, was still an urchin. An urchin with a pretty face, but an urchin nonetheless. Not that he thought that she would think any differently of him, but…

Yahnaiyaer swept a hand through his hair again, running over the small braids that held loose white strands away from his eyes. He stared long and hard at himself, a thoughtful frown on his features.

Was this what he wanted? He was almost certain it was love that he felt. How his heart beat so painfully and sweetly whenever Lairëmeril was around, it could hardly be mistaken. Could it?

I am afraid. The thought struck him like an arrow. But of what?

The turning of the tide beneath his feet did nothing to quell the queasiness building in his gut. Not that he’d ever admit that.

“Do you think she loves me? Really loves me?”

Yahn turned to his left. Nibenon, from his perch by the cabin window, stared at the Drow with intelligent eyes. The celestial monkey cocked his head to the side and chittered. Yahn sighed and pushed his hand through his hair again.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I’m worrying way too much.” He flashed a smile at his pet. “Thanks, Nibenon.”

The monkey chirred and darted from the perch down to Yahnaiyaer’s arm. The little creature began picking at the dark elf’s shirt with his lithe fingers, as if grooming him out for bugs. Yahnaiyaer let out a huff of amusement and scratched at the monkey’s head, his nerves dissipating into an air of confidence.

When she first met his gaze, Yahnaiyaer felt all the air leave his chest.

Her brow was dressed with a wreath of wildflowers, gentle pedals crinkling lightly in the gusts of seaside wind. The colors stood against the silver of her hair like drops of gold and carmillon. She stood tall, though she hid her face shyly behind some tufts of unbraided hair. When her silver eyes met Yahn’s own purple ones, he saw them dancing in the afternoon sun. She offered a demure and giddy smile, her fingers busying themselves with the hem of her dress.

Yahnaiyaer felt his eyes begin watering and wiped a sleeve at them.

When Lairëmeril came closer, Yahn looked up at her with a grin equally as gleeful and excited and nervous as the high elf’s own. The two of them never broke eye contact, not even when Yahnaiyaer nervously fumbled through his own vows.

The cause for the momentary lapse in composure was the fact that, despite his place at Beinion’s side, Yahnaiyaer never had a true last name. Or, if he did, he didn’t know about it.

When the moment came to pronounce the married couple, Yahnaiyaer had to bite his tongue to stop himself from cursing. Of course he probably should have thought things through before getting here of all places.

Thinking in the instant, Yahn’s mouth spilled the only word he could think of. Veryanwë. Wedding.

As soon as he thought of it, he was momentarily mortified. It came out of his mouth before Yahnaiyaer could even dwell twice on it. Based off of the look of shock that rippled across the faces of those who could understand Elven, he had said it out loud, and there was no turning back.

But before he could change it- before he could charmingly laugh it off like he always did and fix his mistake- Lairëmeril gave a genuine guffaw and smiled. There were tears in her eyes, kind and full of admiration.

“Then I, Lairëmeril Brona Veryanwë, shall be your wife.”

Yahnaiyaer had never felt so proud of a mistake in his entire life.

Out of the corner of his vision, Yahn could see Arândwil  furiously dabbing at his face, muttering something about sea spray in his eyes.

And so the two of them were wed. Of course, there was much wine to go around. Even in keeping the celebration rather small, it was unavoidable to have Arândwil encouraging drinking and revelry. But as sweet as it all was, nothing mattered to Yahnaiyaer in that moment but the pressing warmth of Lairëmeril’s hand in his own, clasped together beneath the banquet table. They laughed and smiled at the jests and the antics of the other attendees, occasionally turning to share smiles and knowing looks with one another.

As Arândwil was spouting off another grandiose story about escaping the pursuit of the Underdark priestesses, Yahnaiyaer met Lairëmeril’s gaze. His newly wed wife simply held the contact, her eyes so soft and warm, and gave his hand a little squeeze.

Yes, she seemed to say. I know. I love you, too.

Perhaps, Yahnaiyaer mused. Married life won’t be so bad.

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When he arrived, there was no smell in the air that could deftly avoid the choking scent of burning.

It was everywhere: The trees could not escape the flames, nor the little carrot patch by the front door, nor the small apple orchard around the back of the cabin. And the cabin itself…

“Lairëmeril.” The thought turned time to sap in Yahn’s mind. His blood ran cold, ice lodged in the place between his heart and his lungs. His breath suddenly did not want to come. Instead, he could feel it grating in his throat, like the sob of grief and shock that threatened to slip from him.

The sound was so horrible, like the roar of a creature that crawled out of the Nine Hells. Yahn never knew fire could sound like that. It crackled across the landscape, leaving it blackened and dead, as if erasing the picture of the idyllic clearing from Yahnaiyaer’s memory.

But she wasn’t there. She couldn’t be there. No one could survive that.

It had been burning for some time now, a distant thought told Yahnaiyaer as he numbly eyed the remains of nearby willow stumps. She could have escaped. She had to have.

But she wasn’t there.

The blood left Yahn’s knees before his mind had time to process what his body was doing. He sank to the dirt, not caring how hot the earth was below his hands nor how it caked his fingers painfully. Instead, he dug them in deeper. He needed to feel something aside from numbness. Hollowness.

It was miles on until he hit town again. Yahnaiyaer didn’t mind. He could hardly think. He needed to be away from here. Anywhere would do.

Wordlessly, with one long look at the forlorn remains of his once happy life, Yahnaiyaer turned North and rode off.

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“How much longer are you planning on staring off into oblivion for, Drow?”
The brash, haughty voice of a certain cantankerous dragonborn jerked Yahnaiyaer from his thoughts. His eyelids fluttered as he looked back out the window of the carriage, watching the trunks of mossy oaks as they passed by. He craned his head to look at his companion.
Malik’al was hunched over uncomfortably in his seat, his horns still managing to scrape the roof of the cabin. He looked displeased (as he often did, Yahn found), his icy blue eyes flicking over Yahnaiyaer with irritated curiosity and a subtle hint of concern.
The Drow blinked once, then shifted his hand from its place resting below his chin into his lap. Yahn offered a small shrug in response.
“Thinking.”
“That’s a first…” The mumble was snark, but there were no barbs in Malik’al’s voice. Instead, the ice prince fixed on Yahnaiyaer a disinterested glare. “Praytell, what about?”

Yahnaiyaer smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
His smile widened as he watched the noble squirm frustratedly in front of him. It had been a few weeks of this dynamic. They had developed a strange sort of half-friendship half-animosity that the dark elf wasn’t sure what to make of. Still, the awkward dragonborn had been the closest approximation of a friendly face in this part of the world, despite his blatancy towards racial ignorance and a stubborn unfriendly demeanor.

At the very least, he made for entertaining company.
Malik’al sniffed and turned his snout in the air, only looking at Yahnaiyaer from the side of his vision. “I doubt it was terribly interesting, anyway.” The dragonborn turned his head back towards the map stretched out between his hands. “I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out where we were headed to next. The directions were not particularly clear.”
Yahn frowned at that. He tilted his head to glance over the map. “Didn’t we want to head further in? Towards the eastern border? Feredir and Del Ray should be expecting us, I’d imagine. We promised we’d meet back up.”
Malik’al let out a pretentious huff. “I highly doubt that the carriage would take us far through this jungle mud. Besides,” He cast a glance at the darkening sky that was barely visible through the treeline. As if on command, the horizon rumbled lowly with a tremor of thunder. Malik’al turned back towards Yahnaiyaer with a grimace. “I think the skies are due to open up again. I’m highly surprised that we managed to make it this far without rain.”
He was right, Yahn knew. There seemed seldom a day without rain here. It was practically flooding when they first arrived.
When The Fantasist landed and the party had first set foot on the tropical land of the New Continent, the first order of business had been investigating whispers of missing colonists, treasure and magic bound further Eastward on the landmass. Feredir had been itching to delve further in at the mention of exotic game, and the lively Del Ray was not far behind in her own excitement. The group agreed that Quesar, Yahnaiyaer and Malik’al would stay behind and resupply while Feredir and Del Ray got their bearings.
It had been a day since then, meaning that the other half of the party was likely all set up in their travelling campsite somewhere in the humid forests. That left Yahn and Malik’al with a decision to make. It was the Doronian who first suggested (or more accurately complained) that they should travel by quicker and more comfortable means while they still could. The governor of Kurawatten had offered them a carriage and horse for their travels outward, so long as they left them both at the boundary between the roads and the wilds.

But seeing as how difficult the land was to navigate by cart, Yahn could only imagine how difficult it would be to travel by foot. He was still trying to wrap his head around how far our Del Ray and Feredir could have gotten.
Malik’al seemed to think the same, making a disgruntled sound in the back of his throat as his eyes swept over the considerable foliage. “Still… They should be around here somewhere.” Again, Yahn caught it: The way that those eyes flashed with worry, even if for the briefest of moments.
Yahnaiyaer watched for a breath before offering a small smile. “I’m sure they’re fine. No need to be worried.”
The dragonborn shifted stiffly upright. He opened and closed his mouth derisively, then hissed out and looked away. “I am not worried.”
Yahnaiyaer scoffed lightly. “Sure you’re not.”
The dark elf could practically see red rise in the face of the white scaled prince. “I half wish you were lost alongside them. Then I might at least have some peace and quiet.”
Yahn raised a brow. Malik’al returned to grumbling into his map, though his fingers were starting to worry the edges of the parchment agitatedly. The dark elf thought to perhaps have one more humorous comment in before his ears caught a sound on the wind.
Malik’al must have noticed Yahn’s worried expression. The thief leaned his head out of the window. Quesar was gripping the reigns tightly in the front of the cart and seemed to slow the horses down to a cantor, and hearing them whinnying frantically was less than reassuring. “Whoah, whoah! Hey now! What’s wrong?!”
  The dark elf narrowed his eyes and scanned the trees. A slight movement, maybe? Further in, the sunlight was shifting between the fronds of a few palms sparsely packed in the dense brush. A moment later, his companion caught onto it, too. The dragonborn leaned over, his cool breath tumbling out in a sigh.
“What now?” With a growl, he turned out his own window and raised his voice. “What’s the hold-”
“..uuuuUUUUNNNNN!”
The group on the road seemed to just be on the cusp of hearing to catch the end of a panicked shout. Yahn strained his ears, his eyebrows furrowing. Was that… Feredir?
Perking up and listening again, Yahnaiyaer tried picking out different sounds. Maniacal laughter from a feminine voice sounded in the distance, as well as the footsteps of two runners and… The lumbering of something very large.
Yahnaiyaer backed away from the door of the carriage just as an earsplitting screech ripped through the air. The dark elf leapt through the opening with ease, planting his feet on the broken road and bracing himself. He could hear Malik’al sputtering out curses behind him as he extricated himself from the cart. And Yahnaiyaer looked back just in time to see the terrified face of Feredir sprinting right towards him, his long blonde hair bouncing freely behind him in the dappled sunlight pouring through the trees.

“Oh, boy!” The murmur came from the back of the cart, where Quesar was pulling his long wooden staff off of a leather-laced side panel
The young half-elven lad came skidding to a halt in front of Yahnaiyaer, his chest heaving and sweat pouring into his terrified hazel eyes. The Drow had hardly a moment to process what was happening.

“Feredir! What-”
Another high pitched wailing shriek carried through the air. Malik’al clasped his hands over his earholes.
“Doron, what is that awful noise?! Where have you been?! Where is the demon?!” The dragonborn made his way over to the other two, gritting his sharp teeth. Feredir shook his head and pointed a finger in the direction of the jungle.
“She’s- It’s- There’s a-”
“GIANT CHICKEN!”
Yahnaiyaer had only a second to wonder if he had heard that correctly before the shape of Del Ray- followed rather quickly by a very large silhouette- came bursting like a blue bolt of energy onto the road.
And then said giant chicken joined them. Yahnaiyaer laughed out loud, and his brain reprimanded him for it. It was big alright. And it definitely looked like a chicken.
“What in the name of the Gods?!” Malik’al’s voice sounded equal parts exasperation and horror. Feredir, bow still in hand, drew an arrow from his back quiver. Del Ray, sweaty black hair plastered to her forehead and horns, cackled and pointed a finger at the giant beast.
“This place is wild!”
Yahnaiyaer had to agree. In a swift movement, he slipped his daggers from their place at his side. This was about to get interesting.

The fight that followed was hectic to say the least. The bird had petrifying breath. Good to know. It wasn’t until Yahnaiyaer felt a sluggishness in his arm that he even considered panicking. Based off of the others’ reactions, the feeling was very much mutual.
However, with a few restorative spells and mild bouts of cursing, the team was back to their normal healthy (if not mildly shaken) selves. Plus, they now had a better idea of how different this continent really was. It proved to be helpful information, if not marginally terrifying.
The aftermath of the battle left them with one massive, gamy carcass. Apparently sometime between making camp and fleeing an angry, pertifying-breathed bird, Feredir had managed to collect and amass a fine helping of herbs and mushrooms. So while four dined on poultry, one dined on fungus. It wasn’t great, though it wasn’t unpleasant by any means. It made for a finer meal than the meager fillings they had shared when they first came to the New Continent.
And seeing Feredir smile as he sprinkled ground mustard seeds over the bird’s meat was something that made the meal a little sweeter.
Yahnaiyaer sat by the half-elf on a mildewy log as the others hovered around the cookfire, cutlery and mess kits in hand. Yahnaiyaer had cooked his own portion not a little bit ago and was currently giving it a taste. As it hit his tongue, he offered an encouraging grin. “This is pretty good. Still not sure if I’m going to turn to a statue after eating it, but it’s not bad by any means.”
The young ranger allowed a pleased expression to spread over his features, meeting Yahn’s gaze before flicking his eyes back down to the cured meat in front of him. Yahnaiyaer noted the tinge of pride in Feredir’s posture.
“Thanks. I used to help out with making dinner a lot back home.”
“Anybody teach you? Or do you just have experience with frying colossal birds on a whim?”
Yahnaiyaer meant it in jest, but he did not miss the way that Feredir’s smile faded at the question. The bowman rubbed his arm subconsciously, his eyes darkening minutely.
“Once. Then I kind of taught myself after that, I guess. I… don’t really cook all that much anymore.”
Yahn glanced down at the boy’s hands, which were fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. He pretended not to notice the warped flesh of the younger man’s arm peeking from beneath the cuff of his shirt, nor the faroff glance that built behind his eyes. He did not need to ask what it meant. After all, Yahnaiyaer had worn that look before. Instead, the Drow gave a miniscule nod and patted Feredir on the shoulder.
“Well, however you want to make food, if you keep making taste like this I’ll be happy. This is pretty damn good.”
The comment seemed to break Feredir out of whatever mood he had stumbled into. He looked graciously to Yahnaiyaer and nodded. Without a word, he tore off a small strip of salted cockatrice and chewed on it.
The rest of the night passed, refreshingly, uneventfully. A little bit of bickering banter between Malik’al and Del Ray- with plenty of mentions of “snowflakes” and “demons”- some setting up snares on Feredir’s part, and organizing their stock for the coming day were the liveliest things that passed. And Yahn was happy for that.
When night came over the jungle, it painted their shady little spot a dark indigo. Malik’al and Del Ray tucked away into their respective tents, while Feredir strung up a hammock for himself to sleep in, and Quesar drew some kind of magic circle in the dirt and began to meditate. Yahnaiyaer found a low-bearing tree, ancient old boughs dipping downward like reaching hands. He accepted their offer and quickly made his way up around fifteen feet or so between finding the crook of the tree.
If there was one thing that Yahnaiayer could appreciate about the world above the Underdark, it was the existence of stars. On the New Continent, they were inescapable. Even on dark, cloudy nights such as the one they shared now, the firmament glittered like jewels in the side of a smuggling cave. The deep purple clouds rolling over the moon did not stop them from glittering beneath the thin haze. Yahnaiyaer just laid back and stared, his fingers splayed between the branches of the thin live oak. The sounds of the hammock rang all around him, from the gentle hum of the last evening cicadas to the noisier chime of crickets. He even thought he might have heard the chirping of an animal that Malik’al had identified as a frog. Those little beasts sounded like the strangest ones yet.
Sleep found him soon, comforted by the blankets of grey moss overhead. This place was no paradise, but maybe, given the company, he could get used to it.

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For as ancient and decrepit as the tombs of Titano could be, the stench that poured from the old catacombs was not as fierce as Yahnaiyaer thought it might have been.
The smell of Necropolis’ rotting flesh shifting about as he ascended through the ziggurat, however, most certainly was.
Yahn’s hand was still clutched tightly onto the loose stones. Moss clinging to the walls left his fingers slimy and slippery, but despite the way that they drooled out, Yahnaiyaer was more than accustomed to scaling damp caves and windows back home. It would take more than a little wort to stop him.

Though he would admit, the rain cascading down through the opening of the roof did not help.

When Yahnaiyaer finally reached some semblance of stairs, his knees felt like jelly. He wobbled for a moment uncertainly before bracing himself and bolting upward. The mud brick crumbled beneath his feet, ancient ground giving way with every step he took. The dark elf knew he couldn’t look down, because that was bound to end in disaster.

So instead he looked up.

The instant that he did, through the droplets of rain pooling in his eyes, Yahnaiayer saw a bright flash of purple erupt into a sphere, crackling like ozone in the air. His confidence waned. The wind was whipping around violently, shaking the fronds of palms and making an eerie howl slip into the evening air. The trees clacking bones trembled without abandon, until the sound was almost numbing.

In the center of the sphere, pouring over the tome- The Book of Souls- was Necropolis. His thinning lips were drawn taught in concentration, the pores in his pliable flesh glistening with fresh rain and ichor. Those white, long-dead eyes searched, glazed and endless, down into the names of the most powerful beings of the Planes. Choosing, perhaps, picking out the best ones. Or simply finding the right commands. Yahnaiyaer did not know.

But he did know that he had to stop it.

He didn’t recognize the weight of his daggers in hand. He felt his legs brace and his mind turn to embers. Without a cry, without a sound, the embodiment of a shadow, Yahn pounced with the teeth of his weapons honed in on Necropolis’ back.

The Drow collided with an explosion of lavender sparking in small tendrils of electricity around him. It was then that Necropolis turned on his heel in the instant, flashing with what looked suspiciously like panic and anger. Wroth, the corpse only turned its head in Yahn’s direction, chipped and blackened teeth grit together.

“Fool!” The word was hissed in a shuddering voice, in maggot lined lungs whose holes pressed out the words venemously. “Leave now! You have done your part to help cleanse this world. You needn’t have any further inclusion!”

But despite the fatigue washing over him, and despite the way his arms protested the new tension straining against them, Yahnaiyaer pressed harder against the barrier.

There it was. The vibrant verdant tips of his knives just managed to slip through, glinting hotly in the hues of arcane emittance and inching ever closer to the tattered shell of Necropolis.

But the creature’s hands were moving faster, his gaze flickering more assiduously, his mouth moving at an incrementally faster speed than before.

Yahn squeezed his eyes shut and pushed. There was a pressure, now, of solidity against his weapons. A little further, and it would slide into flesh. Yahn had to continue.

His teeth were left rattling in his skull as lightning split the sky and painted the land white, blindingly so. And then the world exploded into gold, as well, so incomprehensibly light was it Yahn did not know if he had lost his vision altogether.

And when he opened them, Necropolis, as well as the city of Titano, were both gone.
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It felt strange, being back home. Especially since Yahnaiyaer wasn’t quite sure where home was anymore.
It was stranger still being here with the surface dwelling companions he had forged friendships with. Like hosting some alien beings in a foreign land. They were so conspicuous, so sorely out of place, that the entire thing seemed like a ridiculous dream.

It was in this moment that Yahnaiyaer wished it were.
They were sent to go and retrieve a delegate of the Mysteriarch’s band of outcasts. It was meant to be a peaceful mission, but Yahnaiyaer knew that the Drow were anything but peaceful.
Things hadn’t been going well for them as of then. They had not found much out in the first few days of their visit. It didn’t help that his hotheaded royal friend decided to toss his princely decorum out of the window when conducting business with the bullheaded representatives of the gentry. However, with the aid of Beinion, the group did eventually manage to pick up a tantalizing lead into some less than savory business dealings pertaining to one particular god of mischief.
The discovery of a malicious alliance between the High Priestess of Lolth and several powerful demons was far too insidious to be ignored. Yahnaiyaer did not consider himself a champion of great  morals by any means, but he did enjoy having a family and he did enjoy having his Guild in one piece. As horrible as it was, this was the place he grew up. He couldn’t give a rats ass about the nobles- better if some of them were gone anyway- but for all of the fellow street rats and beggars and thieves… Yahnaiyaer found that part a little personal.

It was supposed to be quiet. Get in, get out. Just like every bit of business conducted in the Underdark. Yahn knew his friends and he knew their habits, but he hoped with all his heart and soul that they would catch on to this fact. It was the difference between life and death down there.
Unfortunately, they seemed to err on the side of death.
Yahnaiyaer had been mere inches away from the Priestess’ purse, so close that he could feel the tips of his fingers brushing the cloth of her gown. But then a streak of light and fire shot through the air, and literally all Hells broke loose.
Yahnaiyaer could not remember much of the battle past glimpses that his brief bouts of consciousness allowed him. The burst of lightning spouting from Del Ray’s hand. Lok-Tar turning tail and fleeing. The mangled shaggy black body of Hjalmar. The look of fury in Feredir’s eyes. Holding onto Malik’al, watching those blue eyes mixed with fear and hope as they looked up at their savior. The blackness of the void thereafter. Yahnaiyaer recounted very little, except the knowledge that his friends had been stuffed into that magic bag, and he had been shoved back out of it when they were on the other side. The other side… of what? Of the boulder. Feredir gave it to him. Told him that he had to run. Keep running…
His friends.
The thought rippled through his synapses painfully. Yahnaiyaer felt a tight squeezing in his chest. Where were they? Where was he? He saw only rusted iron bars in front of him.
Yahn opened his mouth to speak, but his bruised jaw went slack and his voice failed to summon. With a cough, Yahn tried again, only to choke on dust tickling the length of his throat. Hacking and wheezing, he leaned heavily against his binds. With gritted teeth, he gave another go. He almost felt ashamed of the way his voice whined out, like the whimper of a child.
“...hello? Malik’al? Feredir? Del Ray?”
“Hello?” A voice answered back. The way it spoke was dreamlike, disbelieving, and  was almost unidentifiable with how it was so small and scared. And yet recognition flashed into Yahnaiyaer’s mind like a spark.
“Malik’al. M-” The Drow wheezed, fighting the dryness of the dirt constricting his vocal chords. “Malik’al, it’s me. It’s Yahnaiyaer.”
“Yahnaiyaer?” The voice again trembled. The stupefaction there threatened to make Yahn’s eyes water. Instead, he chuckled darkly.
“I’m glad to see you remember my name.” The dark elf tried sarcastically, ignoring the pain lacing through his chest.
“Where are you? I-I cannot see you. It is so dark.” Yahnaiyaer heard the rattling of chains and the shifting of weight to his right. Yahn again fought the urge to laugh, though this one felt full of relief. He felt a small smile twitching to his lips and ignored the sting in his eyes.
“To your left. I can hear you moving around.” Yahnaiyaer jangled the chain of his iron cuff. He felt his chest tighten as the dragonborn’s laborious breath hitched. A sob echoed around the hallway of the cells.
“Oh Doron, I- When I woke up, I didn’t see any of you and… And I thought…”
The sentence died pitifully in Malik’al’s throat. Yahnaiyaer nodded, though he knew the dragonborn was not like to see it.
“I know, I know.” He tried his best to make his voice soft. Comforting. Instead, it had the effect of a disused mining cart, squeaky and painful.
“W-Where are the others? Where’s Del Ray? Where’s Feredir? Where’s Lok-Tar?”
“Guys?”
At the mention of their friends, another voice joined them. The two knew it in an instant, even if it sounded far more emotionless and strained than it ever had. Yahn could hear clawed fingers grasp the bars to his right.
“D-Del Ray?! Can you hear us?!”
There was a moment of silence before the sound of something akin to a curse and a cry gently came through, almost inaudible. Then the tiefling answered back with as much energy as Yahnaiyaer gathered she could muster.
“Yeah! I can hear you! Still as arrogant sounding as ever, Snowball!”
Yahnaiyaer had to chuckle at that.  He heard Malik’al draw a painful breath from the cell beside him.
“Where are you right now?!”
“You think I know?! I just woke up ! Where’s Feredir?!”
Feredir. Yahnaiyaer blinked. Something somber plagued his mind, the piece of a memory he could not quite connect. The only thing he remembered was the spark of determined fire in hazel eyes, solemn and tenacious.
And then he remembered the bag. And the boulder.
The cries of Feredir’s name numbly cascaded overhead as Yahnaiyaer stared into the broken stone that made up the floor. His ears perked to small drips that fell onto the ground in front of him. Yet he had trouble seeing for a moment. He had trouble breathing.
“...He’s not going to answer.” It was so quietly spoken that Yahnaiyaer scarcely heard it himself. But it seemed to have caught Malik’al’s attention, seeing as how the word ‘Feredir’ stopped slipping from his mouth.
“What?”

He would not answer. Yahnaiyaer knew that. There was a reality he was sick to face. But this ordeal- the fate of those who were alive now? That could change. They could be saved.

“...Hold on.” Yahnaiyaer coughed to the side, his eyes scanning his restraints. “We’ll be okay. We’re going to get out of here, together.”



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He had been young. Too young. A half-elf at that, and Yahnaiyaer knew they didn’t age like full fey. If he had been as youthful as he looked, than he hadn’t lived more than sixteen or seventeen years.
Yahnaiyaer wished he had asked while he had the chance.




---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Toad Prince, Toad Prince!” The taunt rumbled out in a loud, endearingly obnoxious croon. Lok-Tar still was pointing at the now far less pristinely put together Malik’al, who looked ready to draw blood. The mottled dragonborn offered a sharp glare in the half-orc’s direction, though it was made softer by an underlying affection that he shared only with his friends.
“If you keep chanting on like that, I shall show you just how vicious a Toad Prince can be.” The dragonborn declared with a sniff. The approximation of a smile threatened to loom on his draconic features.
Yahnaiyaer joined in on the fun. It had been a stressful bout of days as of late, having had lost Del Ray to the angel Barael in the caves of the Underdark and dealing with the aftermath of Malik’al’s sudden… transformation. Yahn still dreamt of those moments; of an illusory head toppling from all too familiar shoulders. Of a strong red hand gripping his neck as the Drow desperately pressed an emblem to the prince’s chest with his last breaths. Now that they weren’t in the Underdark, the pain and the loss still lingered in the dark elf’s mind. But being out in the crisp, open air of the mountains again had been somewhat necessary for the three remaining members of Manu Dei.
Yahnaiyaer still hated that name. But he found that he didn’t care, so long as he was with those friends of his who were in it.
“What will you do to us, Toad Prince?” Yahnaiyaer jested, a wicked grin seeping onto his face. “Will you ‘make us croak’? ‘Catch us like flies?’”
Those blue eyes shifted dangerously onto Yahnaiyaer for a moment, before Malik’al feigned haughty distaste. “As my first order of business…” Yahn could already see the demeanor breaking. “It shall be dealing with people who make terrible puns. The punishment is death”
Yahnaiyaer returned a poised look. “Then I declare an insurgency.”
Lok-Tar flicked his excited gaze between the two, then burst with energy.
He leapt at Malik’al with a bellow. “MILITARY COUP!” Yahn watched as the two of them tumbled into the mud. Yahnaiyaer laughed at the display, until a fist bunched round his leg and dragged him down in.
It was like childhood again. The three of them splashed, laughing openly and unabashedly as they wrestled by the bankside. Malik’al covered his eyes with one hand, slapping mud in Lok-Tar and Yahn’s direction while cackling this oddly sonorous laugh of his. Lok-Tar was howling as he dived after Yahnaiyaer this time, but the mud made Yahn’s reflexes extra slippery, and he slid over the brute’s back with ease, his chest huffing happily.

Using the opportunity to distance himself from the others, Yahnaiyaer clambered back onto the bankside, phantom laughs puffing from his lips as he wrung out the water from his pant legs. His mind turned pensively for a moment, then he watched wondrously at the two still splashing about in the water.

A part of Yahnaiyaer wondered how long this mirthful moment would last. Another part of him didn’t care. When you grew up a Drow, you took happiness where you could.

And now? Now that rule applied to everyone.

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“Yahnaiyaer?”

The voice drew the dark elf back to the present. An intense sensation of cold stung his eyes, and he blinked to chase away the flare of pain that swam over the bridge of his nose to his cheekbones.

Dazed, Yahn was bewildered when all he saw was white. Then he remembered himself. His mind spelt out the scene in front of him.

Doronis: The patron city of the white Dragonborn. And now, as it had been recently decreed, in part his own.

He hadn’t wanted that, (not particularly, anyhow) but it seemed that the world seldom cared for what Yahnaiyaer wanted. It had been proven as much with his wife. With his family in Reena. With the first time that death had stolen his Dragonborn brother.

Yahnaiyaer reclaimed his brother. He would reclaim his wife and his Guild next. He closed his eyes. When he had them, he would be sure not to let them go this time.

“Yahnaiyaer?” The voice inquired again. Yahn felt himself smile. It was the heartiest he had heard that tone in quite some time. The dark elf turned from the alabaster balcony, drumming his fingers on the guard rail in a quiet hum as he did so. He came face to face with Malik’al, who was adorned now in what Yahn assumed (by the rest of the people’s attire he had seen here) was traditional clothing. His black horns were tucked away neatly beneath a blue and silver turban, and the golden rings around his jaw spikes jangled as he approached. The dragonborn smirked as he locked eyes with the dark elf, quirking a brow.

“Did you lose something out there? I dare say you won’t find it anytime soon.”  The Doronian prince made his way over to his natural place at the right side of Yahnaiyaer, casting a look over the waist high wall with an easy smile. “There have been so many snowdrifts coming in this season, I doubt anyone could make their way through them… let alone a Drow like yourself.”

Yahn smiled lopsidedly and feigned an arrogant tone. “Excuse me, sir, but you are addressing Doronian royalty. You should know I have magical eyes that can see beyond the expanse of space and time. Can’t you see the speck of blue?”

Malik’al huffed at that. “That is absolutely untrue. You have as much of Doron’s blood in you as Adair.” Malik’al grinned and hummed to himself, musing. “Although that doesn’t make you any less my brothers, it certainly does mean that you cannot see through all of this.”

“And you can?” Yahn countered. Malik’al lifted a horned brow.

“Well now, I didn’t say that.”

  It was almost strange to see the more often than not dour man taken so comfortably to grinning. It put Yahn in a good mood, which was difficult to do nowadays.

  “Scandalous. I’ll have to report this to the farmer’s immediately. They were relying on you to see into the future and predict the weather.”

“Well, I may not be able to predict the weather per say,” Malik’al began. He reached into the breast pocket of his robe. Yahnaiyaer quirked a brow. His expression became even more bewildered when the Dragonborn took out a long, thin scroll of golden embossed parchment. “But I do have my own powers of divination. Mainly in the form of messengers.”

Yahn looked over the scroll curiously as Malik’al extended it to him. As he unraveled it, the Drow almost chuckled. Of course it was written in Draconic. Why wouldn’t it be? “Ah, yes. A very important message. Now would you mind demonstrating your lordly grace and read it to me?”

Malik’al shook his head with a grin teeming with mischief, and that baffled Yahnaiyaer even more. “I think this is a message best read by its intended recipient. Besides,” Malik’al’s gaze shifted from one of mirth to one of scrutinization. “I’d like to know whether or not you’ve actually been attending those lessons I’m paying for.”

Yahn gulped at that. As a new heir to the kingdom, (again, nothing he asked for) it was expected of Yahnaiyaer to be able to communicate freely with his subjects. As such, Malik’al had taken gold from his personal finances and all but commanded Yahnaiyaer to attend language classes. Yahn had wanted to go… well, perhaps that was an embellishment of the truth. The instructor was so terribly boring. Despite the droning, Yahnaiyaer had managed to pick up on some words. His skills were rudimentary, but by no means was he confident in them.

So as he nervously crumpled the edges of the scroll in hand, he let slide an easy laugh. “I’m still kind of learning, you know.”

Malik’al’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Well, I should dare say this is a rather simply written note. So please,” he gestured with one open hand. “Do your best.”

Yahn didn’t miss how that glimmer of mischief still quirked on the edge of the dragonborn’s mouth, and so, with a sigh, resigned himself to read the note.

His eyes skimmed a few words. ‘Boat’ was one he knew well enough. There was ‘coin’, and there by it ‘merchant’. Those he kept well in his mind as the new Master of Trade. Then there was…

A word caught Yahn’s eye and had him stop immediately. It wasn’t a Draconic word by nature, but it had taken him a few seconds to process it nonetheless.

That was because, staring up at Yahnaiyaer from the page, was the name ‘Arândwil’.

Yahn gaped for a moment more, then hazarded a glance up at Malik’al. The smug bastard seemed to be drinking in the dark elf’s shock like jallab. Yahnaiyaer turned the paper over in his hands, suddenly very anxious.

“This- What- How- What is this, Malik’al? What does it say?” Yahnaiyaer thrust the paper urgently in the dragonborn’s direction. Malik’al in turn upturned his palms and grinned.

“Brush up on your reading lessons and I’ll tell you. Better yet, you can read it yourself.” The prince’s stern glare softened into a teasing tone. “But I will tell you this; Go pick out some decent clothes you fancy. We have a royal visit to the docks tomorrow afternoon.”


———————————————————
“Malik’al.” The name Yahn uttered was one spoken with genuine surprise. There, standing on the road leading down to the natural inlet, was Malik’al dressed down in semi-fine garb. He turned to Yahnaiyaer, and an impatient scowl lingered on his face.

“It’s about time you got here. I thought you were going to be late.”

That… puzzled Yahnaiyaer. The Drow raised a brow. “Late? Late for what, exactly?”
As if on cue, the sound of wheels on cobblestone and the clop of horses hooves rang out into the crisp air. Malik’al turned to his friend, barely contained excitement replacing his exasperation.

“Well,” Malik’al began, clearing his throat. “After I had received word of your friend Arândwil coming into port, I realized how it might be good for you to have all of your family in one place. So I extended some royal summons.”

The closed cart pulled closer, dim orange lanterns dangling on the sides of the doors. The windows on the cart were curtained and offered Yahnaiyaer no glimpse of whoever or whatever was inside, but regardless his heart thumped unsteadily in his chest.

Malik’al smiled. He offered a hand to a form in the carriage. His white and blue robes matched those of the woman at his side. She, however, wore them in a different, more alluring shape. The garment trailed on the ground behind her, light puddles of silk pooling around her limber legs. On her head, a stark sheer veil highlighted the silver in her hair. Though her skin was cracked and scarred, it still practically shone ethereally in the Arctic light. Yahn’s breath hitched in his chest.

Lamëril stood there for a moment, suddenly seeming genteel in her stature, but still bearing a whisper of that fierce confidence that Yahnaiyaer had fallen in love with. It would take time to rebuild it, no doubt, but when he saw the ardor of her eyes again…

She could not see well yet, that much was certain. A milky film over her silver orbs painted them a pale white, like the translucent skin of a banshee. But as her shape lingered, she reached out with her hand, the tips of her fingers wriggling in the air and grasping at a phantom figure. It was akin to an offer.

Yahnaiyaer came to her slowly. A pang of doubt throbbed in him. She had left very purposefully. The high elf had made it very clear that she wanted safety now. This place, his position, the duties he had signed onto now: Would she be comfortable being there with him?

But that didn’t stop him from extending his hand to meet hers. It didn’t stop him from twining their fingers together, and letting out a relieved sigh at the feeling of her skin against his.

Those eyes of hers fixated blindly on the face in front of her. She lifted her free hand and brought it to the curve of Yahnaiyaer’s jaw, fingers feeling their way over his chin bone, ghosting across his lips. Touching with birdlike grace the lashes of his eyes, then hovering over the ridge of his brow.

“Yahn.” Her voice trembled in a whisper. When Yahnaiyaer caught her eyes watering, that’s when he knew it. Nothing had truly changed for them. The doubt, the uncertainty, the fear: None of that mattered. What mattered was that the affection in her voice- the love- sounded the same that it did three decades prior.

The two drew one another into an embrace. It was not electric, nor overtly fierce, but felt more like a slow magnetism driving them together. Yahn held her close, his head turned into her long hair. The years, it seemed, did a number in restoring it back to its previous length, reclaiming some of its former luster. The dark elf gripped his wife carefully but firmly, savoring the feeling of her there at his side. By the response of her hands clasped at his own back, bending down to wrap him in her arms, she must have felt it too.

A gentle cough came from somewhere at Yahnaiyaer’s back. He inched his face back to glance at Lamëril. Though still hazy, her eyes bore a shimmering light, and her expression was taught with some unspoken secret. Yahn gave her a quizzical look before a grating voice chuckled from behind them.

“I don’t want to interrupt anything, but it is getting rather cold in here.”

A flicker of movement caught in the corner of Yahnaiyaer’s eye. He turned to investigate.

Behind them stepping out of the carriage, being given a hand by one of the guards on his right, was an elderly Drow draped in fine purple satin with golden trim. Beneath copious wrinkles and fresh liver spots, Yahnaiyaer still spied the undeniably roguish twinkle in his eye. He made eye contact, then, with Beinion. The Drow Guildmaster flashed a white smile that Yahnaiyaer had admired and practiced replicating  everyday when he was young.

“Hello, Yahn. Well, well. A prince now, I see.” Beinion chuckled, politely waving off the tall Dragonborn guard at his side and hobbling closer. “Plenty of wealth, I’d imagine. Probably have no need for old thieves and charlatans now. You didn’t forget about your family beneath all those fancy clothes, eh?”

Yahnaiyaer could only breathe out the word. “Never.” He moved in closer to embrace the old man, and Beinion chuckled and patted the younger man’s back.

“Well that’s good, then. Because some of them are due to arrive soon, and chances are they’d be upset at the news of their own Master of Smuggling forgetting his fellow street rats.” Beinion pulled a thoughtful face, the tip of his nose wet and deep purple in the cold. “We’re here as guests, of course. Your royal friend here promised we’d be treated as such- so long as nobody gets any slippery fingers. Diplomatic immunity and all that.” Beinion waved a thin hand.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” Yahnaiyaer blurted honestly. There was no point in hiding his happiness. Why would he? Instead he felt a laugh bubble past his lips. It was like a dream.

“I am too. Although I admit,” Beinion looked around at the frigid docks around them, his light eyelashes frosty and sparkling. “I’d prefer to be inside. When can we move there?” He spoke this to Malik’al, who politely dipped his large head and smiled.

“As soon as you wish it. I shall… let my father know of your arrival.” There was a lapse in his expression, and a glance was exchanged between Malik’al and Yahnaiyaer. Yahn hadn’t even factored in the possibility that Bainor would be displeased, but in a strange way, he felt as though their interactions would very much reflect Yahnaiyaer and Malik’al’s own, though of course Bainor was far more hospitable than his prickly son. They would meet, and hopefully then their personalities would  compliment each other.

Some unexpected guests could hardly be unwelcome by Bainor now. After all, it was the arrival of unexpected guests that had saved his son.

Malik’al trailed ahead of them, blazing a path to the throne room with some of the Lealamir at his side. Meanwhile, one of the richly adorned footservants bowed her head and gestures to the doorway. “Right this way, please.”

Beinion nodded. “Good. You know, hína, Arândwil has been bragging about this Doronian schnapps in his letters.” Beinion leaned on Yahnaiyaer as they made their way up the stairs, Lamëril at their side and the Doronian escort troupe not far behind them. “In this cold, anything with a nip to it would be welcome.”

“Ha! It may be a bit different than your typical wine. Leave it to Arândwil to write letters home about alcohol.” Yahnaiyaer shook his head, and Beinion shook his own in turn.

“That boy seldom finds anything that doesn’t interest him. He’s been going on and on about talking giant white wolves and two legged polar bears as of late.” Beinion quirked a brow. “I did find that part interesting. I hope I’m not disappointed.”

“This land is certainly exotic.” Yahn’s smile dimmed. “Atar, how did you escape? When we left, wasn’t everything destroyed?”

Beinion grunted, a shadow flickering across his features. “Damn near it. Those rotten creatures swarmed in like cave skippers. Took out half of the populace in the Roval and Pimpë. Devoured another quarter of the nobles in I Arbar.” The old Drow shook his head. For once in the time that Yahn had seen him, Beinion’s spirit suddenly seemed his age. “Most of our siblings slipped out through the tunnels. Those that were smart enough to listen, that is. Those that didn’t, well…”

They didn’t speak anymore on the matter. There was no need to. That was another life away. Those that survived made it out. That’s the way they needed to look at things nowadays.

Arândwil greeted them in the halls, his open shirt now bore a freshly stitched fur line mink collar. Clinging to his neck was Nibanon, who chattered excitedly at the sight of Yahnaiyaer. Arândwil looked equally excited. His face was all smiles as he pulled both Lamëril and Beinion into a hug, wrapping Yahnaiyaer uncomfortably in the middle. “Would you look at that? It looks like the gang’s all together!”

Yahnaiyaer half-heartedly glared at him from where he was being pressed into the other Drow’s arms, but he smiled and rolled his eyes.

“Now add the big guy, and we’ll be set!” Arândwil said happily. He suddenly seemed to realize the absence of said figure and cast a look around. “Speaking of which, where is he?”

Yahnaiyaer managed to press a hand to Arândwil’s shoulder and free himself, gaining some breathing room. “He went to go talk to his father.”

“Uh-oh.” Arândwil gave a chipped smile and put his hand up to shield his mouth, as though he were exchanging some secret. “Did we get him in trouble with his atto?” Nebanon leaned in, curious at the hushed tones. Yahnaiyaer snorted and brushed Arândwil’s hand off.

“Nah, he’s always in trouble for something, it seems.” The statement was not wholly true, but  Yahnaiyaer hoped it would create the effect of Malik’al being perceived as potentially rebellious rather than overly sheltered. He knew the Dragonborn would probably be thankful for it. The Drow prince shrugged. “I doubt you will receive anything but a warm welcome, though.”

“Good! Cause I’m frigid!” Arândwil clasped his hands together and rubbed his fingers vigorously. “‘Sides, it’s not like we’re planning a heist anytime soon. We haven’t even gotten the full layout of this place.”

Yahnaiyaer gave his friend a warning glare. “Arândwil…”

“What?! I said we wouldn’t!”

The sound of their laughter echoed raucously down the wide open halls.

————————————————————
Yahnaiyaer stepped into the prince’s room and stopped at the doorway, giving a knock on the door. From his writing desk, Malik’al peered up from his reading glasses. He stuck a quill between the leaves and closed the book in his hand, favoring instead to get up from his chair and approach Yahn with a smile.

“Ah, you’ve finished giving them the tour then?” Malik’al seemed genuinely pleased. Yahnaiyaer smiled gratefully and tilted his head.
“For the most part. I stopped at the library. Figured you’d want that honor reserved for yourself.”

“Well,” Malik’al stood firmly. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a scholar show them about the palace there, I suppose.” A momentary frown permeated Malik’al’s good mood. “Although the last time I tried to show your boisterous friend, he wouldn’t stop going on about visiting the bazaar.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Yahnaiyaer. “That sounds like Arândwil. I… thank you, Malik’al. I really appreciate this.”

Malik’al beamed at the Drow. For a moment, he seemed at a loss for words, before he licked his lips in anticipation.

“I have something else. Give me one moment.” The dragonborn excused himself, turning from Yahnaiyaer and stumbling back over to his desk. The dark elf watched him curiously as Malik’al rummaged through various papers, sketches, writings, and documents until he came upon a stack of parchment. With a satisfied grin, Malik’al took it in hand and turned back to Yahnaiyaer.

“Here you are, then.” Malik’al watched eagerly as Yahnaiyaer took the papers. “Feel free to read them whenever.”

Yahnaiyaer spared a glance at Malik’al quizzically and then delved into the pages, skimming through them.
On the front page, written in dark ink with a careful hand, were the words: The Life of Yahnaiyaer Veränwye, as recited by his friends and family.
Yahnaiyaer inhaled sharply, surprised. Malik’al looked between him and the pages encouragingly, and Yahnaiyaer looked back and flipped through them.
Each of them seemed to detail a different part of Yahnaiyaer’s life. The first time he met Beinion as little more than a tyke, stealing the man’s amethyst ring. The trouble that he and Arândwil would constantly get into, and the every successful account of them escaping it. The conflict with the “Duke of Fuckingham”, which Yahnaiyaer laughed out loud at the thought of Malik’al writing down and being bewildered by. The dashing adventures of he and Lamëril. The cottage outside of Aftokra. The nights as a bodyguard. The days in the sun. The thefts, the journeys, the good times and the bad… Everything and almost anything that Yahnaiyaer had done in his life was all there.

Yahnaiyaer was speechless. He instead turned his gaze back to Malik’al, who had worn such a fierce expression of loyalty and affection that it left the Drow thief breathless.

“I know that you are… uncertain of the exact date,” Malik’al smiled warmly, and effectively melted the chill of the afternoon blitz away. “But I had kept records in my journal, you know. And I thought it might be best to pick a designated day for your celebration. I chose the day we met, considering that symbolic in some manner. Before you mock me,” Malik’al held up a clawed hand at Yahnaiyaer, who was holding back laughter. “It was my only point of reference! It was, after all, the first time I saw you. And, at least to me, it is a very important day.”

Malik’al grasped Yahnaiyaer by the shoulder, then held his right palm open to Yahn with a smile. “Happy two hundred and twentieth year to you, brother.”

Yahn couldn’t help but laugh. He met the dragonborn’s palm with his left fist.

Despite the daunting tasks ahead of them, the challenges and the vast amounts of opportunity and responsibility, Yahnaiyaer had a feeling in his heart that it would be an important, wonderful year.

THE END

A Brief Look at the Dragonborn Clans- Draft 2016

A Brief History and Look at the Dragonborn Clans (Excluding the Doronian Clan)

• Ka’llean: (African Influence)

Believers in Ka’ll, the god of Power and Succession, these hearty warrior folk have been both respected and mistrusted for many years, ever since the Dragonborn wars where, at their peak, the clan attempted to annex other kingdoms (including the Doronians and Duillimi people). The Ka’llean are, to clarify, not all bad. The brand that they receive is one more of grand association than of individual judgement. Needless to say, the warlike nature fuels the bellicose bloodline of many Ka’llean, but all together each is his or her own Dragonborn. Power, after all, can be obtained in many ways.

Unlike Doronians, who put more trust in relations with dwarves and humans (though are accepting of most races), Ka’llean have a closer relation with fey and the Drow, respecting each for their value in terms of power. Thought there is minimal contact with the mysterious Dark Elves, what contact there is tends to be handled in a respectful businesslike manner. The Ka’llean are open to all people, though sometimes with ulterior motives.

Many predators pose serious threats to the native Dragonborn living in the Scorched Lands, but also prove to be great challenges that the Ka’llean desire to conquer. Ka’llean hunting parties meet the average threat of Basilisks, Azer Rebels, Bluespawns, and other desert and volcanic creatures. Like the Doronian friendship with the Frost Giants, the Ka’llean have forged close and respected relationship with the Fire Giants, constructed initially by many business transactions (including those in serf labor).

• Hakiman: (Carthaginian, Egypt and Persian Influence)

The Realm of Shadows is one often feared by many a wary wanderer, and stories of disappearances into the dark forests often fuel the nightmares of many curious young Drgaonborn and ward off their inquisitive nature. Similar to the real-life location of the Black Forest (Schwarzwald) in South Germany, the mixture of the dimly lit woods, crimson leaves, and patches of marshland are enough to scare away even the bravest adventurer.

As shadowy as their homeland, the elusive Hakiman people celebrate stealth above all else, being secretive in nature and learning to gauge many conclusions based on miniscule gestures and expressions to show inclination. What may not even be perceived as a base form of expression or recognized at all by the average eye, a Hakiman can pick up right away. These indications seem slight, but overall contact within a community can be rather close-knit while seeming cold and distant to an outside observer.

The battle of morals between “good and evil” are lost on the Hakiman people, who largely remain indifferent to either side. The capacity for righteousness is all individual, and those born under the insignia of Hakima are informed from birth that their path is their own. Many, already comfortable and learned in the art of stealth, choose the path of the Silent Blade: The organization that had originally been founded when the clans became independent. Though reclusive in nature, the Hakiman mostly move on to do mercenary work, typically masters of spying and subterfuge. As such, the annual riches of a Dragonborn are often brought back to contribute to the wealth of the clan. Though mysterious and quick-witted, the Hakiman people discourage open theft, especially towards the disadvantaged. They see this as too easy and dishonorable, wishing instead to pursue careers that prove their excellence and risk their lives in the name of the Nocturnal Matron.

Hakima, the Nocturnal Matron, is the God of Stealth and Night. Her temples are few, but are somewhat extravagant, with nightshade and belladonna lining the offering dishes. These temples are many times etched into the great stone walls of the occasional Shadow Realm quarry or cave. The Hakiman like this, due to the preference of secretive (to outsiders), yet communal, practice. Magical incense that grants the reverent silent footsteps and a temporary ability to seemingly become transparent (which, in Hakiman culture, is the equivalent of being one with the Sacred Lady herself) is a ritual part of any sermon, and is often performed by the High Clergyman. He or she takes the sap from a pine tree, the blood of a forest panther, the fang and venom of a water moccasin, and the feather of the owl. Once properly combined and thoroughly mixed together, the attendees of the sermon each blow some dripping venom onto it, their Dragonborn breath fusing the ingredients together. With a blessing, the incense is complete. It is very useful for aspiring assassins, and the less experienced young Dragonborn often come for hearings and receive the blessing before embarking on their first missions.

• Duilliman: (Native American and German Influence)

Followers of Duile Nadur (God of the Natural World and Peace), these shy green Dragonborn are rare to find, as they seldom associate themselves outside of their community. Mostly druids and rangers by nature (Ha! Puns!), these folk make their homes in the dense forest, with the center of their city being the Glen of Duile Nadur. Houses themselves are simple, yet elegant. For instance, most living areas are natural knots suspended in the trees, said to have been made by Duile Nadur Itself. Shops are carved out of large tree trunks, and are firmly rooted to the ground. For all of the ornate beauty made by the hands of carpenters and architects, the awe-striking benevolence of nature is tenfold.

The imported ales of many regions are Duilliman, who excel at brewing the most masterful meads from the Nadurian Honeybees and the richest beers from abundantly growing barley. The people of Duile Nadur humorously enough consume in great moderation, yet are chief heads in the brewing business. Another market that is dominated by the Duilliman is the basket and weaved materials area. Duilliman jewelry is greatly sought after, a mixture of bone, turquoise, and other gemstones often being made into necklaces, bracelets, and headdresses. These gems are cut by gnomes, whom the Duilliman are in close affiliation with.

Though a bashful people, the Duilliman have made allies with the Gnomish people of the Glen. Having both been admired people of Duile Nadur, the two cultures’ friendship blossomed. The Duilliman have also made allies with the satyrs, fey, and wood elves of the forests. Animals and plants are natural companions, and most Duilliman have an inherent affinity for communication with them. The designated Weiserleher is in charge of introducing Dragonborn children to their familiars and helping them discover their inner wildling, whilst the Tiermasitir (or “Beast-master”) is the one that gives them said animal companions. Both are very important, and behave as instructors for the youths. The Weiserleher is also the clan advisor, diplomat, healer, and soothsayer. The Tiermasitir is in charge of barding animals and managing hunting parties. They also are responsible for the army and leading the charge.

• Toirneach: (Roman Influence)

Though extremely successful in the ways of commerce and diplomacy, the Bronze Toirneachs are seldom boastful of their successes, and are a quiet, polite folk in general. Subjects of the god Torin (God of Commerce and Wisdom), these Roman-Like people prefer to trade openly with all and receive the blessings of other cultures than conquer. These silver-tongued Dragonborn are often the voice of reason in many a heated situation. The third-most popular Draconian city (behind Clan Doronis and Clan Ka’llean), the trade operation in the Citadel and the Marketplace has a presence in the hold of nearly every city. When people inquire about the Dragonborn, many assume them to hail from either the Frozen Keep, due to its popularity, the Scorched Lands, due to the high number of mercenaries and diplomats that travel from there, or the Domain of Wisdom, due to its well-known brand.

Typically a broker for other goods, these connoisseurs of business negotiate not only prices with their charismatic ways, but also sway into the good fortunes of the people who buy their goods. All manners of materials are manufactured by the Toirneachs, though, of course, most are simply bought and sold through other partners. Business ventures are being developed all the time, and innovation is one of a Toirneach’s greatest desires. For example, word is that some have been tinkering with the idea of clockwork guardians, so that the one devoid of arcane can still have a stalwart protector whose vigilance will never falter. Another example is simpler, being the nonlethal stage face paint (with significantly less lead!).

There are a few estranged merchants who sell less holy things, and they typically work in an underground system known as “The Den.” Most salesmen here are fences, pimps, assassin contractors, and so on. All things considered, this is one of the biggest and most influential of its kind. Several Thieves Guilds refer to these people when they need either fences, information, or illegally obtained services. One of the most expensive and valuable wares is information, which can be exchanged for a hefty price. Even the more evil Toirneachs have an ability to form friendships with anyone, as beguiling as vampires. As such, they can extract information as easily as extracting the tooth from a snake. One of the many insults thrown at the Toirneach from the mistrusting racist patron of a tavern is often that they have forked tongues, like the vile conniving dragons that they are claimed to be.

In reality, there is a reason that the Toirneachs have so many friends. Culturally, politeness and kindness are virtues of any good host or business partner, and so the folks get along well with all kinds of people.

• Brelaads: (Danish/Viking and Hun Influence)

The blue Dragonborn had never truly settled down into any specific homeland, being more nomadic of people. They had valued the hunt and the ability to wander, seeing the world and experiencing new things. As such, the Brelaads had never founded an official city. Being more free spirited than their brethren, the Brelaads felt more liberated in a system of anarchy, a societal governance for themselves. Brelaads have no inherent alignments, aside from the fact that most are considered chaotic. Their ways very much reflect the ideals of freedom and the wind, as Brel’aadna was a wind spirit. The culture is rather like a mixture of the Danes and the Huns. Many of them become pirates or bandits, enjoying the rush of a good charge and the fulfillment of continual movement.

There are no tiers of hierarchy in the Brelaad society: Only a measure of respect in regards to battle prowess, swiftness, and execution of actions. If you make a fool of yourself as a Brelaad, you can expect your community to not forget it. Even as whelps, a Brelaad can be teased and considered weak by predilection. Redemption is a way that is very common for a blue Dragonborn, and the taunted must rise up against their oppression and prove themselves.

One of the most respected positions in Brelaad society is that of the Freerider, who bonds closely with a mount (typically gryphons or swift horses on land, and hippocampi by sea or on ocean) and scavenges, scouts, and guards the perimeter of the current area of influence of the Brelaads at that time. To be a Freerider, one must show a natural boldness and a brave heart as well as the compassion of a friend demonstrated to their beasts, as opposed to one of mastership. Once they have shown these qualities, a shaman will look at the boy or girl and, depending on a group consensus, will embrace them as apprentices for soothsaying. The archers will openly train them, as will the warriors. They are then marked with special tattoos that distinguish their duties: Swirling ashen blue wavelike markings that flow over about a quarter of their flesh.

Many members of society are tattooed as well, mostly the fighters and combat oriented. Warriors color themselves with more rectangular and runic tattoos, whilst archers decorate their bodies with images of nature. In either case, the marks often tell their own stories, the wearers becoming walking murals of different myths or, in most cases, the chronicles of their own lives. The most old and venerable of elders are often covered in tattoos, having the essential events of their live engraved on their flesh as a testament to their existence. This is one distinctive way that a Brelaad can identify their fallen brother or sister.  

• Tirian: (Vietnamese, Canadian, and Mandarin Influence)

The Tirian are a people of rather peaceful nature, despite the craving for weapons and armor to be forged along with many of their other fine crafts. These blacksmithing people have been known to have a mystical mastery of the forge and hammer, creating metal that almost moves freely like a living construct. Living in some more of the mountainous areas of the world, the green expanses of earth and rock hide great riches which are prudently and respectfully extracted by the Tirians. They take the metals, which are revered in their society, and undergo ritual cleansing, maintenance, and preparation of the ore. After this, the metal is shaped carefully into various forms, from weapons to shields, from pillars to tables, from chalices to chamber pots, and more. In all cases, the metal seems to take on some magical quality in the process of its manipulation.

Even Dwarves are amazed by the ingenuity and metalworking of the Tirian people, and sometimes take treks across the cold of their mountains to the green and luscious mountains of the humid brass Dragonborn homeland just to marvel at the sights and learn from the scribes and smiths. Though well enough enabled to be well-equipped, the Tirian people tend more towards a monkish lifestyle, and so find little use for the armors that they make. Considering the fact that they revere metal as they would a creature with life, the Tirian people disapprove of over-working metal or letting things rust, and would rather themselves take damage than their creations.

Tirians are often aided by metal construct companions and shield guardians, having a great reverence for the peaceful nature of the beings and the harmony between men and metal. There have been a few Warforged, whom the Tirian aid in creating, that have abdicated the throne in history and had the tolerant Tirian follow them. For the most part, the Tirian have been governed by Dragonborn, being elected into offices by both the brass Dragonborn and the free-thinking constructs. In all cases, most of the people have remained happy and peaceful. There has been an insurgent group, named the Uprising, who led a rebellion of hate-filled brass Dragonborn against the Warforged ruler, Emperor Durang Dinh Ahn, in the years leading up to their mysterious disappearance. When the Dragonborn people began to inexplicably grow ill with a strange disease, the blame was uncertain. Seeing many of the Dragonborn dying and opportunity presenting itself, the Warforged Protector had inherited the place of Emperor from his adopted Dragonborn father, the previous Emperor Durang Ghang Wu. The poor prince loved his father very much, but suffered the harsh judgment of the Dragonborn borne of fear and paranoia. With the Warforged not growing ill, the Uprising saw the sickness as a Warforged plot against them and tried to retaliate. The outcome of the conflict is unknown, as the outside world has lost communication with the Tirians for around five years now. Rumor has circulated, however, and suggests that the brass Dragonborn are still alive, though their numbers have greatly diminished. The general, Khiem Dan Huang, was a young and fiery leader of the rebellion that had last been seen alive and well in the small plot of farms and paddies in the valleys of the Tirian homeland.  

The physical appearance of the Tirian are like the Sivernese in that their bodies incorporate features from their eastern ancestors.

• Sivernese: (Japanese Influence)

The Sivernese are a people known for their prowess in battle and value of companionship. Their codes reflect the Buishido values in Japanese culture, and loyalty is law in the clan. Mostly serving as retainers and servants in Orion culture, the Sivernese are both intertwined and largely independent. The silver Dragonborn had migrated to the northwest under the banner of the Ancient Gold Dragon, Luuthars, in the First Era. It was there that they had found the Kingdom of Gold, where the first children of the good dragons lived. Since that day, bound to an oath that resigned deep within their people, the Silvernese became the epitome of what it means to be a companion.

Culturally, the Sivernese were at one point isolated. Their kingdom was small, and their clan torn apart by feudal conflict. Warrior Daimyos would contest for land, and power struggles were an everyday occurrence. This was until the son of the head retainer of the House Kokoritsu, Akimoto Mitsuo, decided that he would surrender his life of endless fighting for a higher honor and find glory through peaceful servitude. He walked 1,000 miles, along what is now known as the “Seigi no Pasu”, or the “Righteous Path”, until he came upon the first shrine to Sivernia. She descended wearing the visage of the fox, the silver moonlight from the sky in her tail, and directed him toward the dragon of pure heart, Luuthras. When Mitsuo met with Luuthras in his treasure cove, Mitsuo told him of his desire for peace, but that his people wanted someone to follow without having a proper guide to lead them. The gold dragon knowingly nodded and, upon his great wings (for in the first days of mortals, noble dragons had wings so great as to block out the sky), began carrying the silver Dragonborn in throngs to the fabled Kingdom of Gold. Since that day, there have been many a silver Dragonborn who has devoted their lives to their compatriots. Some heroes of lore and great historical praise include the Samurai Junji Akimoto (who has been said to have defeated three armies of invading goblins in the early days of the Dragonborn), the Onna-bugeisha Manumuri Akari (who tamed the eastern brass dragons and rode them into battle against the Forgoth Orcs and goblins), and Samsei Ryuu (the monk literally referred to as “The Dragon” for his wisdom and physical composure).

The Sivernese often wear their own house standards into battle, as well as incorporating family marks on their armor, robes, and breastplates. Though serving ultimately whoever rules the Kingdom of Gold, be it silver or gold Dragonborn, the Sivernese above all devote their honor to family. Being sworn to a code of decorum, these Dragonborn serve their masters like they were blood. For them, even though the Feudal days are gone, the idea of devout (even dangerous and ferocious) loyalty is the most important ideal to hold by.

Culturally, their clothes reflect their land of origin, being more acclimated to the Far East. Switching location meant a few overall changes in environmentally affected mannerisms and delicacies, but for the most part, the Sivernese have retained their ways via importation and practice. One of the most differentiating things about the Sivernese from other Dragonborn is the tended style of how they look, being more akin to their Eastern Dragon Ancestors. Rather than ram-like horns, straight horns, or angled bull horns, the Sivernese typically have almost antler-like horns that jut out angled back on their heads. Males sometimes grow wispy tendril mustaches, and are capable of growing tufts of hair. Their bodies are often slimmer, though this is of course not always the case. In any instance, the Sivernese are enduring warriors and enduring companions.

• Orion: (English Influence)

The Orion are the most notable of the Dragonborn, possessing the most sheer physical capability and diplomatic command than even most human kingdoms. They were once unrivaled in the affairs of world power, having their vast domain unhindered by any living mortal that threatened to stand in their way. The Orion would conquer as easily as an afternoon discussion at tea, and they would do so by enacting justice and liberating peoples, who often rallied behind them freely as opposed to submitting to them. Of course, the idea of justice to one party can be considered “just” the opposite (Puns!) to another. As such, much controversy came as a result of the collection of colonies and land. People began to question the motives of the Kingdom, and felt entitled to live freely in the land of their ancestors. The Orion felt compelled to conquer as children of Or, one of the most powerful deities. Due to this honest naivety, they were trampling on the history of hundreds of groups of people, and staking claims to the territories of orcs and goblins alike. The Orion kings felt little pity, sympathy, or affection for these people, seeing them as evil and vile creatures who slaughtered arbitrarily, and began wiping them out. Thus, many of the orcs and goblins of the mountains began becoming more nomadic (only later to be pushed back to the Land of Everlasting War by humanity) and traveled the land in search of a new home. The persistent ones, however, remained and refused to relinquish their land. The Defense Against the Green Scourge, an order of warriors devoted to the mediated picking off of orcs and goblins that reached the confines of the outer city, came into effect to stace off any fierce charges of retaliation and crush orcish scouting parties.

Sections of knighthood, of course, the companion samurai division of the Sivernese, came into great fruition as a result of the Orion people’s desire for widespread justice. The knights were to uphold these elements, and multiple cases upon numerous trails would be held before a verdict was delivered. If guilty of a crime, justice through law was to be delivered swiftly and indiscriminately

BeWareWolf

So hi! I know I haven't posted in a while, but I am thinking of incorporating this into the Dungeons and Dragons campaign that I am in and may also be posting content relevant to that in the future. Keep being awesome folks!

Without further ado, here is Bewarewolf, or as one may call it, awful title!


Along the moor, before the sun
When nocturnal beasts will roam
The children of Pan shall hunt the one
That strays too far from home
With eyes that glitter in the dark
That thirst for blood to spill
Watch the wanderer, make their mark
And move in for the kill
And close behind, the pack shall find
Their leader by his saddened song
And crying in their bestial binds
Will hunt until the dawn
Beware, ye travelers, and listen well
For men may seem like friends
But only the wary will live to tell
How others met their ends

A small bit of writing that I wrote back in sixth grade after an odd dream :) These kinds of imaginings come and go. Seldom am I dreaming that I'm asleep, though. (Inception) Anyway, without further ado, here is the story. :D




I feel cold.
Not cold enough to voice a complaint, but just cold enough to shiver. Even if I tried to speak, this strange tug in the back of my throat denies me the choice to do so. So I simply lay on the the firm, chilled floor.
It feels like stone. I feel like stone. My limbs feel as though they're merged to my torso. My vocal cords lack the ability to communicate. Believe me, I've tried for what seems like a lifetime.
I rest in this place, my heart yearning to see light. I long to have the ephoric rays part my eyelids and drink in the sights ofthe world around me, but alas I cannot.
Soft sobbing echos in the medium of damp air. It resounds from what sounds like a rather open area. The sobs are delicate and feminine, like the siren song of a mockingbird remorsing over the corpses of her departed chicks.
Often times the source of the sobbing would approach me when the pitter patter of rain fell on the outside. Graceful, petite hands would brush strands of hair from my face. On other occasions, a stray hand would grasp my lame palm and squeeze lightly. I felt sorrow intermigling with hope radiate from the source, a woman I assume. A very contridictary mix of feelings.
Sometimes, her weeping would cease.  Like a wisp, she would float over with scarcely a sound to my side. She would snake her arms around my neck and prop me upon a softer, warmer surface. When she was doing this, often would she hum the most beautiful of melodies with a voice that shimmered with elegance and tenderness.
Behind the darkness of my eyelids, I would watch her, wistful to inform her of just how lovely she was. My ears perked and tuned my attention to that lucious, beautiful voice. I tried, once, to tell her. I knew it would be to no avail, but I wanted to at least try. But, to my misfortune, all that escaped me was a soft exhale.
On the nights when fortune favored me, she would curl up beside me, a move both brazen and benevolent considering the things I have done. Her gentle breath lulled me to the eternal rest of awarness that I appear to be condemned to. Soft curls tickled my cheeks, but I wished not to blow them away even if I could.
Sometimes, when she awoke, she would regard my sleeping form as though I was concsious. Then realization would wash over her, and her breath would become broken and uneven. She would unsheathe only what I can deduct as a blade and walk away.
I would eagerly await her return during that time. Sometimes I would try to remember what I was doing before I came into this vegatative state. More times than not, I wanted to think of who I was. All I truly remember was that I was feared by many, yet known by few.
When the young woman would return, she would feed me. My gratitude was much, though it was not audibly acknowladged. Typically, she would bring some form of vegatation. It slid down my unresponsive throat easily enough, though it would sting ever so slightly. Every so often, she would feed me an poignant tasting herb. My nose would twitch and wrinkle subconsiouly at the overwhelming aroma.
She would apologize when she brought me it. She would explain that it was to help me escape this hold over my body. And her voice when she spoke... Her tongue was laden in a rich accent foreign to me. I do not quite recall such an accent being heard by my ears ever, and yet I obviously must have known this woman. Yet, If I cannot remember the past, then perhaps I speak out of bewilderment due to my condition rather than true recollection.
And while I was wondering, my mind would disregard the water that cooled my throat and soothed the passing of the herb. It washed away the vile flavor and sent a slightly fresher undertone of taste to my tongue.
Some nights she would beseech to me, begging me in a rather piteous and heart-wrenching tone to wake. Her voice would erupt into sobs, and I even felt at times a sharp sting across my face. Sometimes she would repeat the action,the sounds of livid palms making fast contact with my cheek would echo abruptly and break the silence of the room. Her face would bury in the crook of my neck, and I would try with all my mght to apologize, to wake.

Zeros and Ones

Hello! :D So I know it has been a while since the last post, but here is another story. This one is a little hard to follow sometimes due to the ideas spawning at different times, and the writings are separated by spaces. This is definitely not complete yet, but is something that is extremely fun to write about :) Hope you enjoy!

ZEROS AND ONES

                The night was cool and the air was blustery the day that the executives of the Earth declared the discovery of fresh, potable water on Mars. Billions worldwide listened with attentive ear to the broadcasts, scientists clutched their fellow man in ecstatic haze, and the world itself laughed with joy. Truly nothing could have dampened the spirit of that glorious day.

                The next day, however, was another story.

                The first assault occurred on March 18^th, 2087, when the nations Germany and Russia broke out into a heated altercation over the land disputes and investments in their scientific departments, already seeking to stake out land on the planet. Soon, America, France, Canada, Italy, and Israel leapt into the quarrel, kindling the fire of the dispute. From there, chaos ensued. Progressively, more and more countries began to take sides, be it another countries or their own. The battle of words soon became a battle of fists and weapons, leaving diplomats of six countries dead and hundreds more injured.

                The world was shocked at the news, never before beholding such an outburst in an intended meeting of peace. With the given violence instigated by the planet of war, scientist around the globe decided to fund an underground project: Project Quercus. From it, great innovations were made. The advanced magnetic motor, the solar powered filtering system, and, most importantly, the ship ‘Libero,’ a ship capable of transporting five million people to Mars in an estimated twelve years.

                In order to escape the sinews of a corrupted Earth, twelve million voyaged on the ship, which made two separate trips over the span of two years. Somehow, they had remained discreet, their station at the Galapagos Islands, transporting animal and plant species of practically endless variations.

                Sam’s eyes widened, awestruck at the pure wondrous innovation of the Mech. It stood about twelve feet tall, its appearance angular and sharp, like the blades on its hands. It was painted a deep blue and silver, like the colors of the Quercus flag. Its mask, a horned helmet and faceplate, with dim aqua eyes that had not yet come to life. Sam ran a hand through his dirty blond muss of hair.

                The young man scaled the Mech, wanting to examine the intricacy of its design. He was not an engineer; far from it, actually. He was not stupid, by any means, but he certainly did not comprehend how the hands of men could craft such mechanical perfection. Sam shook his head and frowned. This was a bad thing. A very bad thing. He shouldn’t be marveling at its detail, nor welcoming it on the planet. He should be wary. But somehow, he was too enthralled to really care.

                Sam touched the metal gingerly, his hands brushing the sleek iron of the robot’s leg. His eyes wandered up to its torso. There, engraved and highlighted with dark blue paint, was the name ‘Colossus 303: Decimus.’ Sam smirked at the name.

                “Decimus, huh?” Sam muttered to himself softly. His eyes fell back down to where his hand rested on the machine. Suddenly, the leg jerked, and Sam flew backwards in fright with a startled yelp.

                The robot’s eyes glowed. It looked down to Sam, who now was on his back staring up in shock and fear at the metal being that towered above him. From beneath the metallic mask over its mouth, the Colossus’ voice rasped from its speakers.

                “Hello, companion. I am Decimus.”

                Decimus’ circuits spat electric current, his eyes flashing faintly from the blow. The other Mech, a large, grey robot with a hearty, cubic structure and blazing eyes of yellow and red, bellowed at him, for the robots were sentient, and this one was quite clearly enraged.

                “Why do you assist them?” The Tank crooned wickedly in a low bravado. “When it is quite clear that they shall die? Why do you shield them with yourself when you could just as easily turn and sweep them away with a bat of your hand? Do you not want liberation?”

                Decimus’ voice cracked, his speakers damaged by the force of the Tank’s attack. “We may all have different roots, but we grow together. Together, as a team, we form the trunk that supports the tree boughs, which in turn support the branches, which in turn support the leaves, which one day will flower and bear fruit and a haven for all beings.”

Lab of The Dead

Hope you enjoy! :D

For Doctor Fletcher Jackson, zombies were the least concern of the team at Base Delta. For instance, the blood-stained floors were really quite a haggard sight. And the canteen could do with serving more meal options.

Persistent groans disrupted Fletcher’s train of thought. The scientist turned to behold his latest specimen cocking its putrefied head at him quizzically, obviously confused by his master’s lack of interaction with him. Fletcher grinned at his grimy prodigy. His favorite specimen, Grim, had already learned more in one week than any of his subjects had picked up in a month. It was his fifth week of experimentation, and the rotting lab rat had begun to grow on Fletcher.

Grim groaned lowly and pointed to a damp cardboard box of miscellaneous objects Fletcher had scavenged for experimentation. Fletcher looked to the box and chuckled.

“Oh, so you’re ready to get started?” Fletcher asked the shambling corpse light heartedly. Grim’s dead, clouded eyes had a small glint in them, and he responded ‘enthusiastically’ with a rumble.

Isle of Bone Chapter One

Kent Henderson was just an average man caught in the midst of a war, like so many billions of others. He sat in a white tiled room, where the air was still and chilly. He grimaced at the ambience of the hall he sat in. It consisted of pens clicked by anxious hands; chaste whispers of large, Latin words he assumed had to do with medicine, and the rancid smell of various chemicals. 

Shifting on the faux leather bench, Kent could not help but feel misplaced at the scene. After all, he was only an undertaker. He never went to college, nor did his family prior to him. This rave about neurology baffled him. He silently regretted that. If Kent had become at least someone adept in the art of such skills, he would at least learn how to ward off his splitting headache.

The insistent beeps of the machines around him gave unsettling, echoing pings in his mind. They ricocheted unbearably in the vast concoction of irksome sounds. Kent grumbled low, cupping his hands and covering his weary head with them. Four hours. That was how long he had sat there, stagnant and stiff. And on top of that, he couldn’t leave until the doctor approved the body for examination.

Kent’s eyes shifted from his palms to the bench beneath him. It was an atrocious shade of green. He grimaced upon setting his eyes on it. Just the sight of it made him feel nauseous, not that the entire institution did not make him feel nauseous enough as it was. Kent snorted. He had grown so bored and grouchy he began to criticize the furniture. The doctor needed to hasten, or he would outright leave to go home and sleep, regardless of whether or not that was morally apropos.

The lights in a cracked door across from the bench in which Kent sat became brighter and blinding as the door swung open. Kent shielded his eyes, not expecting it to move for at least another two hours. A man in mint-colored scrubs and a mask held the knob firmly with his right gloved hand while his left tentatively clutched a clipboard.

“Mr. Henderson?” The nurse called. Kent rubbed his eyes with his thick forefingers. He yawned as he contracted his left shoulder and rolled it back. The nurse turned to him with impatient eyes, almost lecturing him to stop wasting time.

Kent muttered as he parted from the bench. “ ‘Bout time someone got me…” He was just loud enough for the nurse to be in earshot. Kent expected the man to narrow his eyes, but he simply stood there looking, daresay, quite visibly shaken by something.

Kent paled slightly at this. As he approached the door, Kent addressed the man in the walkway.

“What’s the matter with you, lad? Looks like you’ve just met a ghost.” The nurse shook his head, but said nothing. This only confirmed Kent’s skepticism on what the subject of interest was. Kent himself felt a knot forming in his throat, though he dismissed it with an edgy gulp.

Jack and Al: Party Animals

 Here are two pictures that I made from 7th grade. Enjoy! :D

The River Monologue

Hello! Sorry it has been a while since my last post :( But I hopefully will make it up to you with some more pieces!

Thank you for your support! Your advice is very helpful, and I really appreciate it! :D I just don't know how to respond directly to comments, but please see that your comments are beneficial and impactful!

Anyhow, here it is! I got inspiration from Passenger's "Feather on The Clyde" It is a beautiful song. Check it out! :)

It is the spot, I think, that makes me calm. Away from cars, away from empty sympathy, away from the smell of cleanliness. Rather than bright LEDs, I can see the where night drains the color of day. Rather than sympathy, nature knows what it’s like to suffer pollution. So we sit in a sense of mutual acceptance. In content silence. Rather than the smell of sanitation, I smell earth. No anxious hands clicking pens, no repugnant beeps of machines, no needles or radiation treatments. No… Just the sound of cicadas and the distance that the river bank has put between me and the troubles of the world

Westward Movement Song!

Hey! :D This is a song I made last year for history class regarding Manifest Destiny. Needless to say, it was a fun lesson!

Well, have you heard the wheels a’turnin’?

Have you heard the horses bray?

Have you set a boot,

Just for a hoot,

On the red, red western clay?

The West is the best and the place to be,

Where the Sun always shines,

And the men are free!

Where bountiful wealth is always found,

Just take what you need from the gold-filled ground!

So saddle up on your stallion,

Pack some boots and beans!

Take some knives,

Your kids and wives,

And anything you need!

The trail, it starts in Oregan,

Or in sunny Santa Fe!

And the Mexicans out there on the trail,

Will offer good, fine trade!

Beware of the bears and the predators,

As they might just make a meal,

Of you while you sleep,

They’ll softly creep,

And eat anything they kill!

There’s plenty of plants found on the way!

Berries of blue and pink and gray.

But I think that it should be said that some of those plants

Will kill ya dead!

So gather your pals,

Ask them to see,

The shining new land

For you and me,