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A Blaze of Glory

 
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6/26/2008 1:13:04   
Coyote
Member

Comments thread: http://forums2.battleon.com/f/tm.asp?m=14063543

This one was written a /loooong/ time ago. Meaning, summer of 2006. That's long by my standards. >_>

It was started, worked on, and then abandoned due to my traitorous muse and my lack of long-term planning (which I made sure to do in Prince of Thieves). So, I guess, you could enjoy what's currently here.

Table of Contents:
Part 1: 'Till Death Do Us Part
Prologue
Chapter 1: The Good Life
Chapter 2: An Unexpected Journey

< Message edited by Versilaryan -- 6/26/2008 1:30:13 >
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 1
6/26/2008 1:15:59   
Coyote
Member

Prologue


Flames. He woke up in flames. His house was on fire. His sheets were in flames. He scrambled out of his bed and onto the hot floor. The heat made him sweat like a drunken man but the sweat was evaporated by the heat before it could do anything. The heat pressed on his face like a hot iron, sapping the energy out of him. Then, a loose timber from the ceiling fell and hit the floor. He recalled jumping back and screaming. Then, heart pumping in fright, he hopped over the beam and ran out his bedroom door. Looking around, he saw that the rest of his house was likewise. On fire.

The heat, oh, the heat, how it burned...

He vaguely recalled his parents ushering him out the door. Loose timbers fell down about him as the house burned. And all the time, the heat pressed upon him. It was harder to breathe in the heat and the air was filled with smoke. He started coughing, trying to get the smoke out of his lungs. It burned the back of his throat as he struggled for breath. He vaguely remembered getting hauled up by his mother and carried outside. And as they got outside, sweet air filled his lungs. It was still harder to breathe from the heat, but at least it wasn’t smoke. The air bit his lungs as he inhaled, then coughed out what was left of the ashes that had settled in his lungs. Other than that, they escaped with only minor bruises, cuts, and burns. They were lucky. The rest of the town was not.

Further down the street, he could see row upon row of houses and shops, all set aflame. Merchants vainly scrambled about to save their goods. A hardy group of men formed a bucket brigade from the nearby stream, but it was failing.. All over, mothers called to children, children called for mothers, and the mass chaos that resulted from the fire was caused by one thing. Looking up, he saw what it was. A dragon.

The fire dragon, in all its glory, flew over the village. Crimson scales glistened and shone in the light produced by the fires. It sported twin horns curling up from the top of its head and its eyes sparkled with malice. Razor-sharp teeth gleamed in the harsh light as its sleek form slid through the air. As he watched, it inhaled, cocked its head back a little in a draconic fashion, and then exhaled a steady stream of flames. It set more and more houses alight. The screams grew steadily louder and the pandemonium simply increased.

Looking at the dragon, he developed a hatred for it. Why must it kill? Why, of all the villages it could ravage, did it pick this one? He was so absorbed in his thoughts, he failed to notice the dragon swooping down towards him. His mother, however, screamed in terror. Nonetheless, she still had enough of her wits about her to shove her son into some shrubbery, miraculously still green. After biting back a cry of pain, from crashing through the bramble, he gathered himself together and proceeded to peer out to watch. In front of his very eyes, the dragon, its eyes emanating an intense hatred, breathed fire upon his loving parents. The heat, at such a close proximity, singed his eyebrows and lashes off. And he felt like the heat was sucking his very life force away, leeching the energy from his body. Just as he was about to cry out, the heat subsided. There remained nothing of his house. His parents were gone.

And the thing he most remembered, no matter how hard he tried to forget, was a scream. Over the wailings of his neighbors and the roar of the dragon, rose a high-pitched scream. It floated over the background noise as if directly seeking him out. It was his mother's very last breath. It was her deathcry.



A young boy, haggard and forlorn, stumbled upon the doors of the Dragonslaying Academy. He had coarse, oily black hair and dragonlike slits for eyes. His otherwise fair face sported many burns an appeared twisted from both grief and rage. His skin was tanned and his clothes were merely tattered rags, its edges frayed and burned in some parts. He was unarmed save for a simple kitchen knife that hung on what was left of his belt, covered by a makeshift sheath made of more rags. The guards looked down at him and barred his path with their spears.

"You aren't allowed through," stated the guard to the boy's left in a gruff voice.

"I want to learn how to kill dragons," the boy stated slowly with a hint of anger in his tone of voice.

"Ah, what a boy," said the other one. "Thinks he can kill dragons, eh?"

"I want to learn how to kill them," he said flatly. "I don't know how to kill them yet, but I will learn how!" His voice shone with stubborn determination.

An argument quickly arose. The boy, emotionally scarred from his recent encounter, refused to back down. The sound of an argument floated over the quiet stillness of the Academy. Ragged as he was, the boy refused to go away. Soon, a dragonslayer approached to stop the racket. The dragonslayer seemed a simple man, a cheerful face and a brisk, carefree air about him. He walked with a slight skip in his step, further adding to his cheerful aura. He wore simple clothing; a tunic and breeches, but he held his hand at his hip, as if accustomed to the longsword that hung there. The longsword, with runes embedded on its hilt, hung where his left hand rested. It glinted off the sun as he approached. At the sight of him, the two guards raised their guard and spoke quickly.

"An arrogant lad. He wishes to kill dragons."

"This beggar of a boy wants to kill dragons."

The dragonslayer gestured for both of them to move aside. "Enough. This is a free academy. You don't see anyone else paying gold to enter, do you?" Both guards stiffened and glanced at each other accusingly. The boy, however, looked pleased, though it was a simple stroke of luck that that dragonslayer happened to overhear their argument. Any other master dragonslayer and many apprentices would simply scoff and send him away. This one, however, respected the fact that a great deal of the master dragonslayers in the academy hadn't paid to get in either. "Let him in," he told them. He then turned to the boy. "What is your name?"

"Raldoth. Raldoth Serredan." And without another word, the dragonslayer let him in. To him, this place was like a haven. Dragons daren't attack it. And he could learn how to kill the foul wyrm that had besieged his village. One day, he amounted, I will get my revenge on that monster that killed my parents. I will kill it, and make sure it feels the pain I feel now…

* * *

"What's happening to him?"
It took only four words from an errant hatchling to disturb the holy peacefulness of the place. Albeit, a dreadful peace, but quiet nonetheless.

"Silence," the mother scolded softly. The younger dragon held her tongue. Dragons grew much like humans, only slower. They experienced the same emotional traumas classified by age. They grew up at the same rate, on a different scale. But they didn't face the same physical dangers humans did. In a way, humans had it worse. But if disease hit a clan of dragons, it hit them hard. This was the third dragon that year to suffer and die. And at that rate, they would die off shortly.

"That one fool has cursed us all!" one shouted. "We shouldn't have let him out! He was a troublemaker enough in here; now he goes off to destroy a village." The crowd murmured to each other in agreement. The newborn in the center let out a desperate gasp for air. Its bronze scales were deathly pale and it seemed to be struggling for breath. Everybody held his or her own breath. And the baby dragon opened its eyes. They held a crystalline purity only hatchling dragons' eyes possessed. It spoke freely of innocence, now lost and scattered by a Death’s foul hand. The diseased hatchling let out one last strangling cough and breathed no more. Its eyes, life still sparkling in them, closed. The promising dragon child would breathe no more.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 2
6/26/2008 1:19:35   
Coyote
Member

Chapter 1: The Good Life


“We’ve got another one.”

Raldoth Serredan stepped over the neck of a fallen red dragon. The dragon’s originally crimson scales now gleamed a dull red. Its eyes, once full of life and vigor, were clouded. Death had already overcome the fearsome beast. But its eyes remained open, an eerie reminder of the folly of killing. But this lesson wasn’t just about to be learned by the man that stamped his foot on the dragon’s skull. Raldoth grinded the heel of his metal-clad boots on the scales on the dragon’s head in triumph. This had been yet another victory for him.

Raldoth had kept true to his word. Every dragon he killed, he killed with a ferocity that equaled that of the dragons themselves. He killed with a passion. Every dragon he fought was the dragon that killed his parents. Every dragon he killed was the dragon that razed his hometown. Every dragon hatchling he slaughtered was the child of that foul beast.

As he gazed downward at the dead dragon, a myriad of thoughts came to him. With each dragon kill, he got richer, more famous, and more feared. He felt no remorse for each deed. And besides, the entire dragon could be sold for money, mostly to wizards, who tended to pay a handsome fee for the dragon’s organs, skin, and claws. But the horns he kept for himself as a prize for each kill. A smile slowly split his face. After getting a team of workmen there to take care of the carcass, he could collect his bounty, sell whatever he didn’t want for himself, and then go back home to relax. With even the dragons starting to fear him, life was good.

* * *

A woman danced in the trees, singing a beautiful ballad in a different tongue. Her silver hair flowed out behind her as she skipped and hopped through the woods. She was elven in her beauty, but human in body. Her fair skin sparkled with the morning dew and eyes twinkled with laughter. Her slender frame was perfectly balanced as she pranced through the woods in her joy. But, as her facial expression masked years upon years of worry, her skin costumed her real appearance. She was a dragon, eternal in body and adept at shapeshifting. In reality, she had been sent to find a cure for a plague that had been festering in her clan and killing them off. The disguise was to keep off rival clans who would rather have them done and out of the way. But she would need more than just her own battle prowess. She would need bodyguards. Her destination was a certain city to the east, though it was uncomfortably close to where the Order of Dragonslayers resided. This was just a detour.

* * *

A merry fellow, hopping and skirting down the streets, was regarded with a rather curious eye. The young man seemed an abnormally cheerful for the place known as Cemetery Lane. Many clutched their purses as he passed. He was Lyether Arddarci, renowned thief and your basic all-out, carefree sort of person. The beaming smile on his face just about shouted that he had absolutely no care or trouble in the world. He wore a strange-looking hat, its brim shadowing his sparkling eyes. But they still shone through like a fireball through thick fog.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed as he ran into an innocent passerby. The traveler, already knowing this trick, checked all of his pockets. His possessions were all there, safe and sound. He sighed in relief and continued on, oblivious to a dark shadow darting towards his coins. “Sucker…” he chuckled as he eyed the pilfered gold. Get them when they feel safe, after running into them. He hurried down the road, and an infuriated cry from behind him confirmed that the traveler had discovered his lost wares. Or rather, discovered that he had lost them. He pocketed the gold and walked casually into a nearby alleyway. No sense in getting caught.

“There he is! We’ve got him!” A local peacekeeper faced him and pointed in his direction. Lyether cursed his bad luck. The alleyway was a dead end. Seeing no other men to help him, the peacekeeper advanced, sword drawn and pointing at Lyether’s heart. He drew a long dagger in self-defense. The armored man disarmed him. He glanced around frantically as he backed away from the sword. The peace official obviously wouldn’t be content with just the money he stole. In the words of the townsfolk, the only good thief was a dead thief. He had only one option; otherwise he would be a dead man because of the alleyway off of Cemetery Lane.

He glanced at the wall behind his back before facing the peacekeeper again. He grinned deviously. He had still yet another trick up his sleeve as he feigned fright as realistically as he could. The peacekeeper advanced upon him slowly, step by step. He was obviously happy with Lyether’s predicament, taking the almost blatantly smug smile on his face to account. But Lyether wasn’t about to go down anytime soon. With a flick of his wrist, he extracted yet another dagger from up his sleeve. This one shone with a magical aura and glowed ever just slightly. Before he could look at the look of surprise on the guard’s face, the poor man’s throat was grinning and coughing blood.

A souvenir from a recent excavation from a wizard’s tower, the weapon proved time and time again to be invaluable. He had no idea what it did; only that it was magical and helped him poke the places that hurt. In short, he wouldn’t give the weapon for all the gold in the world.

Well, maybe if there was a lot of gold…

* * *

A girl ran down the street, a multitude of guards chasing her. Her skin was fair, her figure was slim, and she was obviously from a rich family or was very successful in life. She wore silk scarves and a lot of other finery. She appeared frail and would seem like the prettiest little girl a proud mother could have. But outraged cries from behind her said otherwise.

“Witch!” they shouted out in unison, brandishing torches, swords, and anything else they could get their hands on. It seemed nothing could bar their path between them and the witch. The air stank of sweat and bad breath. The female continued running. The mob kept on chasing.

The girl tripped on a rock and flew forward, hitting the ground hard. Tears welled up in her eyes as she vainly attempted to get back on her feet. But the mob was too close. Still kneeling, she tried to break out into a run, but her dress tangled up her legs. She heard a loud rip and cries of delight sounded from behind her. It seemed they had their quarry at last. She was amazed she had run that far; she was in a dress. But the untrained militia carried partway-completed plate mail, swords, shields, and a lot of other things. They were weighted down, but they kept a steady pace. One of them, obviously a bloodthirsty new recruit ready for a raise, ran forward with his sword high in the air. The malice shining in his eyes turned to surprise, and then horror as another blade embedded itself in his chest. He dropped the sword and clutched at the place the throwing dagger had entered his body. And then his eyes glazed over and he fell, dead before he hit the ground. It was a sure throw, enough to poke his heart. Lifeblood leaked out of the wound and out of his mouth. And the attacker stepped out of the shadows.

The attacker, a solemn, solitary man, wielded a broadsword and no shield. Several other throwing daggers were seen scattered about his clothing at easily accessible places. The man’s skin was bronzed by the sun, his black hair messy. Chorded muscles rippled as he walked calmly forward. At the sight of him, the ragtag army stopped. The man stepped forward only to pluck his dagger out of the corpse’s chest and sheathe it again. It was obvious that he was a trained fighter. But one reckless youth, screaming a battle cry, ran forward with his sword raised. He, too, was killed with scarcely a glance.

“Leave her alone,” he growled. “She has done nothing to you. And if you have any obligations about her living here, then I will take her.” Nobody spoke a word. And so, the man scooped the trembling girl up and walked away. The army, seeing their kill now out of their hands, grudgingly dispersed.

* * *

And I shall love you forever with all of my heart
‘Till we crumble to dust and ‘till Death do us part.
‘Till Death do us part…


Raldoth woke up with a gasp. Where had he heard that before? He frantically racked his brain for answers and it dawned upon him like a sun cresting the mountaintop. It was part of a well-known tragedy, written centuries ago. “’Till Death do us Part”, the story was called. Dragonslaying also included quite a bit of lore in it, and he had stumbled upon that. He hated the book. A dragonslayer fell in love with a dragon, and tragedy developed out of it. “By five and in five you will perish.” he quoted grimly. Those ominous words lay heavy in his mind. For some odd reason, he had the quote stuck in his head and never really could quite get rid of it. He had read the book almost four weeks ago yet it lay heavy in him like their cook’s porridge. He shuddered and forced himself asleep.

* * *

Almost a week later, Raldoth found himself in a small village just south of the great forest. It was very close to HQ, but far enough so that dragonslayers rarely went there. His stomach growled. He needed something to eat.

As he passed the bakery, an cloaked figure ran into him. It fell backwards, walking stuck clattering on the stone street. The cloak was a deep purple and covered the entire body. No doubt he was crazy.

“Old man! Why don’t you watch where you step?” Raldoth looked down at the old geezer on the ground. Despite his harsh words, he offered a hand to help the man up. When the man touched him, he felt suddenly cold. The man pulled himself up and then hunched over with his mouth next to Raldoth’s ear.

“In five and in five, you will perish!” the old man whispered, his ragged voice wheezing slightly. In response, Raldoth pushed the man away. Yes, he knew it now, without a doubt. The man was crazy.

“Looks like you ran into the town crackpot,” remarked a man leaning against the window once the old man was out of earshot. “Old Gramps there got dropped on his head as a babe.” The others standing with him laughed. They all had the rugged but simple features of farmers and simple townsfolk. As natives of the local area, they should know the local rumors and such; dragonslayer bounties, news of dragons, the usual. The place was close enough to the Order’s headquarters.

“Anything unusual going on?” he inquired. The four others shrugged.

“Nothing much. People come and go.”

“Ya might want to ask the dragonslayers about that one.”

“Heard that ol’ Miss Mayfeather was a witch.”

Raldoth sighed and shook his head. But finally, the leader spoke up.

“I heard from someone that there’s a tribe of dragons just over those mountains.” He squinted and pointed northwest. The faintest outline of mountainous territory was barely perceptible to him. No wonder he had to squint. “Dyin’ of some disease of some sort. Reckon they’re gonna die off soon.” Raldoth suppressed a groan. ‘Soon’ in human terms might mean anywhere from five minutes to a week. ‘Soon’ In dragonslayer terms meant anywhere from five minutes to a year. ‘Soon’ in dragon terms meant anywhere from a month to three decades. Coming from the Order, the word soon didn’t amount for much.

“Thank you,” he told them as he walked into the bakery. “I’ll be taking my leave now.” He opened the door. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted into his face. But instead of resuming their own chatter, one of them spoke up once more.

“You might want to worry about that man you ran into. Mad as he is, he’s not the kind to go about lyin’ to everyone.”

“Thank you. I’ll take that into consideration.” Raldoth rolled his eyes as he closed the bakery door. “I’ll take that into a lot of consideration,” he muttered to himself with his tone dripping of sarcasm. What was an old man compared to a dragon? If the man had placed a geas on him…

Raldoth shook his head. No sense in worrying about what won’t happen. When he walked back out with a loaf of bread in his hands, any thought or concern about the old man was simply another wave in a vast ocean.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 3
6/26/2008 1:27:19   
Coyote
Member

Chapter 2: An Unexpected Journey


The day began slowly; life moving sluggishly with a procrastinating sort of attitude. Flowers slowly opened to show vibrant colors and insects were starting to stir. Dewdrops sprinkled the grass and leaves like small gemstones and a soft, earthy smell was everywhere. The sun peeked over the horizon, gazing with a baleful eye upon the waking world. It almost reluctantly shed itself of its mountainous beddings and started its westward ascent into the sky.

The sun cast its gaze upon two rather simple tents. They were not made of animal hides, as one might think; instead, it was woven cloth supported by a metal frame, most likely iron. A flap was opened on one side of a tent.

Within, a man slept. A still peace held the air inside the tent, unbroken save for the occasional snore. The man twitched slightly as the first rays of the oncoming sun fell upon his closed eyes. He did so again when a shadow blocked the sliver of light that shone through.

“Wake up! We don’t have all day!” The man jumped up and grabbed his nearby sword in reflex. The hiss of metal on metal sounded as he drove his sword. It was like how a dragon is described in all those fairy tales; cruel, ruthless power defined by an acute, strangely elegant form. The hilt and pommel were unadorned.

But when he saw who cast the shadow and disturbed his otherwise unbroken sleep, he calmed. He sheathed the sword and set it down. In the doorway, the elegant form of a woman was outlined in the sunlight. He smiled to the woman. How long ago had it been?

“We don’t have all day,” she repeated to the man. The man sighed and put on his day clothing. Outside, he saw a kindled fire already burning merrily with food already roasting over it. He gave a suspicious look to the woman.

“Noar, you spoil me.”

“You spoil me with the goods of life, Dariden.”

As it turned out, she was a witch… In a sense. Unable to control the powers that superstitious people call ‘witchcraft’, Dariden had taken her to a local mage. She had some measure of control now, but the old wizard simply called her powers a “gift”.

Dariden smiled at her. “As do you.”

* * *

Raldoth awoke to singing. The melody seemed to flow through the branches like gentle waves caressing a sandy beach. It seemed almost liquid, the way it carried through the air…

He realized it wasn’t sung in any language he had ever heard. Nor was the voice a male one.

He followed its sound through the trees and eventually came across a clearing. In the center was a crystalline pool of water. The morning sun made it sparkle as if made of diamonds. The lush greenery around it made it the perfect symbol of life.

And in the center was a woman, bathing.

Raldoth stifled any sound of surprise he would’ve otherwise made. He ducked behind a tree. Peeping Tom, a voice in his head mocked. He pulled himself together. I really do not think I was meant to see that…

Meanwhile, in the pool, Alara stopped singing. The lack of sound seemed to make everything still. Not a single insect buzzed; not a single bird chirped. The silence fell upon the world made up by that clearing like a dead weight.

Raldoth heard splashes and sounds of a person drying herself and putting on clothing. There were a few footsteps, and nothing more. Although the lack of singing made the air seem dead, the area around the now vacant pool once again teemed with life.

* * *

“Oh, sorry sir! I didn’t notice you!” A merry, almost cherubic face looked up at the dragonslayer. Having taken security in the fact that the man checked all his pouches, he started away. When he darted back for his steal, an iron fist backhanded him into a tree.

“I ask of you, please don’t try that again. As uncommon as that trick is, I have no intention of losing any of my belongings.” Lyether felt those same iron hands bind his wrists behind his back and then begin to gag him with a cloth. Luckily for him, the cloth wasn’t all that dirty. He muttered a word. The gag, only partly secured, only muffled the word. He smiled through his binds. The dagger was in his hand. Raldoth, satisfied that the bonds and gag were securely in place, left him at the tree. Lyether didn’t hesitate to slip his bonds and untie the gag. He snuck up to the dragonslayer and slipped his dagger in for the kill, or so to speak. The ropes holding the bag in place cut easily and Lyether stole away with the kill.

He made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. The dragonslayer was right there, once again. Desperate, Lyether made a stab with the dagger. He felt a slight tingling in his hands as the magic guided his blow. The dagger went in for the kill and Lyether awaited the fateful plunge and spurt of blood.

None came. Beneath the cut shirt shone blood red scales.

Raldoth looked down at him. “You really wouldn’t think a dragonslayer wouldn’t take his share of the loot? This is better and much more flexible than regular armor.”

Lyether realized his fatal error. A dragonslayer? No doubt a man of great power, wealth, and influence. The wealth and influence were good enough for him, provided he didn’t get caught. But if he was strong enough to kill dragons, no doubt he was well-versed in combat, protection from thieves, and had several items from the dragon’s hoard or from the dragon itself. His fatal error in not noticing the strange stuff he was carrying, not to mention the traditional dragonslaying blade.

“I really don’t think I want you following me around. Someone might get hurt.” He emphasized the ‘someone’. It was plainly obvious that the one getting hurt wouldn’t be him. Lyether’s eyes darted around, searching for any possible means of escape. He saw one, and it was crazy enough to work.

“Of course not. I never mean to—“ He slammed his foot down on a branch. The other side, just between Raldoth’s feet, shot up. Raldoth’s eyes bulged in pain and he dropped the thief. Lyether ran for his life. The last thing he heard was the whistling sound of a stone flying through the air.

* * *

“Well, well, well. My little thief finally comes to.” Lyether opened his eyes. He felt blood on the back of his head. “A little motto amongst all adventurers is to go prepared.” He seemed completely undaunted by the cheap shot. Lyether groaned as he realized what the man had just told him. Of course, he was prepared for pretty much anything…

“Now, what to do with you? I can’t leave you lying around, nor can I let you free.” Raldoth pondered for a moment. “Nor can I drag you around and pray that you behave. What to do?” He drew his knife to sharpen it while he thought. Obviously, it brought people to the wrong conclusions.

“No! Stop!” A woman burst through the bushes. Raldoth recognized her as the one he “met” in the clearing. “Don’t do that!” She turned to face Raldoth. “Just don’t do that to him. I’m sure you’ll find… Something better to do with him, just don’t kill him!”

Raldoth lifted his hands as if to say something, but let them fall. Nevermind. Just never mind. He was defeated. No point in trying to explain to her that he had no intention of harming the defenseless man, no matter how many times he had been the target of pickpocketing. But from the intense look on her face, he knew it would be useless.

“I’m going to be here to keep an eye on you two and make sure you don’t hurt each other,” she declared, and walked off into the woods. Not even fifteen minutes later, she returned with three rabbits.

Raldoth and Lyether looked at each other. As annoying as she might get, if she could get results that quickly, she was an indispensable team member to wherever the hell this motley group happened to be heading.
AQ DF MQ AQW  Post #: 4
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