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cinnamonrusts · 3 years

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i’ll see you in the village -- 2

parts: 1

This village is nothing that you thought it was going to be. You interact with some locals and Chris does some homework to find where you are when he cannot contact you. (chris redfield x f!reader) (a/n: it’s a long one, bois. thank you for all the love)

✧.* ✧.*

As the terrifying sounds echoed through the dilapidated village grew closer to where you stood, your blood ran cold and you reached for your gun but stopped; because, you knew that if you opened fire you might blow your cover. However, whatever created these noises did not sound like a friendly neighborhood pet. Person? Dog? Creature? Whatever it was, it sounded dangerous.

“Come out!” you yell as your head whipped side to side, desperate to get a glance at what it was that was playing this game with you. “Come out!” you scream again, but are only answered with a sharp arrow which hurdled through the air and embedded itself in the wooden fence beside your head. You curse loudly, your life almost ended, and you probably wouldn’t have realized it if it did.

Before you popped off any rounds in retaliation, a strong arm pulled you back from behind. Their rough, dirty palm was pressed firmly against your mouth and they shushed you quietly. The person pulled you into a darkened home and quickly closed the front door that was opened just enough for the two of you to slink through. Your mouth opened to speak once you felt relatively safe from whatever horror lurked in the shadows of the night. “Quiet, girl,” your savior spoke. With the faint moonlight that shined through the boarded up window, you could make out the face of an elderly man and to his right was presumably his wife - who was armed with a double-barreled shotgun and the nose of it pointed at a small hole in the door.

They didn’t explain anything besides telling you that being quiet is the correct thing to do. The same blood-curdling screeches grew closer and thuds on the roof caused you to jump. “Do you have a gun?” he asks and you nod as you place your hand on your hip where it was concealed under your clothing. Sounds of snapping wood from above draw the attention of the wife and she proceeded to pump shells in the general direction of the intruders. One of her shots hit whatever it was and it scurried away. Screams of pain were the last of its noise before the thuds stopped and sounds of it tearing through the front yard verified it was gone.

✧.*

A brief amount of time passed before the two locals spoke. “You’re an outsider,” the woman said as she leaned her firearm on the wall beside the door. “Yes, that is true, but I’m nothing but a traveler from a town far East of here,” you lifted your long skirt to curtsey for the couple, “I’ve come here to spread my fortune telling for all to enjoy.” The man scoffed and shook his head before he took a drink from a dirty mug. “Mother Miranda does not cater well to outsiders,” he burped, “--Especially those with talks of necromancy and fortune telling.” Mother Miranda? Score.

“I promise I have no ill well to you, the locals, or this Mother Miranda that you speak of.” The man scoffed once more but his wife shushed him, “You’re welcome here, dear.” she placed a hand on your shoulder and grinned a gummy smile. “Thank you,” you say and the three of you exchange backstory to your lives, until you try to push for some information about Miranda. “Who is this Mother Miranda?” you ask finally and hope that the tape recorder that is hidden in your waistband had begun to record once you bumped it with your wrist. A glimmer of light sparked in her dark eyes and she walked over to the main wall across the way. She pushed herself onto her toes and reached for a dusty painting of a woman that hung crooked above her head.

“This -- this is our wonderful, Mother Miranda.” she placed it in your palms and you brushed away a thick layer of dust with your thumb. The painting was faded but you could still make out what this woman looked like, and it was identical to the photo that the BSAA showed. Another spot marked off on the mission bingo sheet. “She keeps us safe and has for longer than we have been around.” she continued to praise the blonde. “She does? What about whatever is out there!? Does she keep you safe from that?” Your insult hit a nerve because the man stood from his seat, “How dare you insult our Mother in our home! You will feel her wrath!” he continued to yell, despite hiding away from the thing just outside the door. He proceeded to kick you out of their home and closed the door behind you, then locked it so you couldn’t get back in.

You knocked several times and attempted to apologize, but the same shotgun used to save your life was now pointed at your forehead. When you could feel the sensation of the firearm aimed for you, your hands raised instinctually in the air and you backed away slowly, your eyes never moved from the barrels. Never again would you see this couple.

✧.*

Once again, you found yourself alone in the dark village. Maybe the large castle that loomed over would be a good place to investigate next? You wandered toward the center of the crossroads and your thoughts drifted from subject to subject before being interrupted by the sound of a horse’s gallop. Another villager?! Hopefully they’d be nicer than the last pair. You turned to wait for the horse to approach but were horrified at the site that soon was before you. On the animal’s back was no man or woman, but a grey skinned creature who wielded a burning stake with a charred human remain pierced through the middle. It looked like one of the drawings you found in the old fairytale book your mother read to you when you were a small.

There was no time to scream but just enough to pull your pistol off your hip and shoot into its face. Unlike any human but just like the BOWs you’ve dealt with previously, it took the bullets like a sponge. Instead of wasting any more ammo, you decided on your best bet, and that was to run - run fast. The terrain was unknown but you did your best to go in any direction that was not the same way as your assailant.

The creature slashed the burning spike around in the air as it tried to hit you with it but you managed to duck and dive each time he did it. Soon, you saw a hope of escape, a line of trees. You continued down your path and once you reached the wooded area, you threw yourself down the only option you could see -- a steep hill and then tumbled down. The horse cried in fear and bucked upward, it wouldn’t allow the hostile creature to chase you any longer.

Your hands covered your head as you bounced off the hard, icy ground. Each hit, bump, and scrape burned through your body but you hoped that at the bottom you’d be safe. When you reached the bottom, you rolled out onto a dirt path and narrowly missed being trampled by a horse drawn carriage. The stallion that carried the wooden neighed loudly as it’s hooves dug into the ground. Your vision was blurred from your trip down the hill and you could barely make out a rather obese face of a man who peeked his head out from behind the curtain of his carriage.

“My word, I nearly flattened you into a pancake!” he cried as he pulled the fabric back completely. Your breaths were heavy and short as you remained silent, eyes fixated on the Caucasian friendly face. The man encouraged you to enter his wagon and you hesitated to accept but did once you pushed yourself up from the ground. “Unlike those bewitching women who lurk in that castle... I don’t bite!” he giggled. The gentleman introduced himself as “The Duke” and gave you a short tale about his travels in this village. Duke explained that it wasn’t always this way and it was once full of rich life and light, but it’s all different now... “What about you, my lady? What is it that brought our paths to cross one another?” he asked before he blew out a puff of cigar smoke. You coughed several times and waved your arm in the air in an attempt to waft the smoke from the small room. “Well...” you started and then proceeded to tell the imaginary tale that you told the couple previously.

✧.* ✧.* ✧.*

“Dammit!” Chris yelled and slammed the dashboard of the vehicle he was passenger in with his fist. The truck that was to transport Ethan and his deceased wife had been taken off the road and the infant, Rose, was most likely gone or dead. He began to bark orders at his squad in frustration before he came to his senses and took a deep breath. Miranda must’ve been behind all of this... and took Rose. “There,” he pointed at a rugged map of the local area that was taped onto the truck’s wall and turned to Umber Eyes, “Miranda’s village is there, and I bet so is Rose.”

A female interrupted from the back of the caravan, “Alpha, that information you requested came in.” she brought over a laptop and set it in Chris’s palms. The bright screen in the dark caused Chris to squint as he read through the document. Your BSAA photo was the largest thing on the page and beneath it was the detailed report of your newest mission, the one that brought you to Europe. He gritted his teeth - thoughts of the BSAA sending you on what could be a death mission crossed his mind. Chris reached into the breast pocket of his black overcoat and pulled out his phone, then held down the 1 key to speed dial your cell. It rang several times before informing that there was no voicemail set up. He huffed before he tried several more times. Each call ended the same way and Chris felt anxious.

“Lobo, ping on [Y/N]’s phone and find her location!” he ordered, his voice cracked just the slightest as his anxiety peaked. Lobo nodded, gave his superior a thumbs up and typed away on his laptop. Chris not only was concerned for Ethan and baby Rose, but now your whereabouts plagued his mind. He was confident in your capabilities but he knew how dangerous Miranda and her subordinates could be.

Chris sat in silence with his thoughts as the vehicle turned around and headed in the direction of Miranda’s village. He reached into the same pocket as earlier and pulled out a wrinkled photograph of the two of you. It was from your first mission that the two of you ever went on together. It wasn’t too long ago, maybe three or four years but it felt like a lifetime now. His calloused thumb ran over your smiling face and he hoped that you were okay...

The moment of silence ended, “Alpha, her phone pinged in the same location as Miranda’s village.” Lobo informed as he turned the screen to Chris. A brief moment of relief washed over him but if your phone was there, then where were you? And why weren’t you answering?

Little known to you or Chris -- the cellphone laid in the middle of the dirt road, left behind as you road off in the carriage with the Duke. The screen lit up brightly in the dark air and the generic tune jingled in the stillness of the night. It continued to do this several times as Chris continued to call and worked on pinpointing the pings. On the final ring, a feminine hand reached down from above and picked the phone up. The screen flashed, “CHRIS” over and over. The call was ended by the person, they took the phone firmly in their palm and crushed it with their strength.

Now, there was no way for Chris to communicate with you and someone was now on your tail...

#resident evil #resident evil x reader #chris redfield x reader #reader x chris redfield #chris redfield/reader #chris redfield #resident evil 8 #resident evil village

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videogamelover99 · 4 years

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Reason

A/N: I physically cannot write something that’s not angst. Anyway, with Episode 15 of TAZ Graduation (by far the best episode, in my opinion), I couldn’t help but need to write this. Warnings for: sexual coercion, abuse of power, classism. AO3 link here.

Summary:

"When you transformed Silvia Nite, the fear in her eyes made you feel powerful. Don't you want that again?"

"...I kinda do."

Chaos takes their time to convince Fitzroy that their power is worth it.

When Fitzroy was eight, his father finally took him with his caravan. It was hired out to a Madam Adaman Fern, a human whose new estate was waiting to be moved into. Fitz had watched the items get loaded in by his father’s crew, one by one: solid red wood furniture, silverware of the purest metal, a grandfather clock, and pounds and pounds of jewelry, carried in malachite boxes, full of amber, jade, gold and precious stones that he’d never thought existed. He’d excitedly watched from his father’s place at the head of the wagon, his father smiling as he calmed the horses down, stroking their necks. It was a long trip, passing fields and rivers and mountains, each more beautiful and grander than the last. Fitzroy, in his short life, had seen nothing father than his nowhere town and the local farmer’s market his mother liked to go to. He tried to consume all of it, to not miss a glimpse of anything they passed on their way. That night, the crew had a hard time wrestling him to sleep.

When he woke up, earlier than he ever had out of his excitement, the first thing his eyes were drawn to was the large, three story mansion. It loomed above the horizon, its marble columns reflecting the light of the dawn in a way that made them shine with early morning luminescence. The caravan pulled up in front of the large iron gate, and the crew got out, ready to unload. Beyond the gate, he could see a cobble-stone driveway, circular and in the center of it – a marble fountain, shaped like many outstretched hands, holding up the sky. In front of the carriage stood a woman, helped down by a man in a black and white frock. They slowly approached the caravan, stopping a few paces away from Fitzroy’s father as he got down to greet them. They had not a speck of dirt or road dust on their silken garments. Jerry, when right in front of them, with his grass stains and horsehair covering his overalls, looked a bit like a homeless vagabond. He nodded politely at the two as they watched the luggage get unloaded.

“Careful with that,” the woman said softly, eyeing the people handling the grandfather clock, “it’s been in my family for generations.”

Then she spared a glance at Fitzroy, and the boy smiled wide, like he always did to grownups he didn’t quite know yet. His mother loved that smile, said none of their neighbors could ever resist it.

The woman did not smile back. Instead, she gave him a look, one that made him want to climb into one of the wagons and never crawl out again. A look of pure, unashamed resentment. They she turned away quickly, as if Fitzroy was not worth any more of her time, her jewelry clinking gently as she did so.

Fitzroy remembered that look well. He’d remembered it, because it was the same look that the students at Clyde Nite’s Night Knight School sent him as he passed down the hall, weighed down with expensive, barely affordable books, and ill-fitting clothing his dad had given him. It was a look he chose to remember, when his body was too tired to stand, when his mind was unfocused, when his muscles ached from the overexertion of his training, when his hands shook when holding the sword. He remembered it, and pushed on, past the pain, past the sickness, past the shaky adrenaline.

You could say that at some point, his tenacity had become singlehandedly fueled by spite.

At first, he thought Silvia Nite was better. She’d called out his potential early on, when he’d felled several on the training field, his shirt clinging to the sweat on his back, his face and hands covered in dirt. She’d smiled, and he smiled back, proud that finally, finally someone was noticing his potential.

He had run into her in the hall once, embarrassed and out of breath from being late to class. She’d offered him a helping hand as he tripped over his own feet, mumbling an apology. “Your class can wait,” she said, leading him by the arm, “walk with me.”

He nodded frantically, at loss for words. She led him through the hall of the castle, and into the courtyard. They walked side by side, and Fitzroy had to fight the impulse to lower his head. She breathed power the same way he breathed oxygen. He’d admired the way she held herself, above any trifles or misunderstandings.

“I hear you’re making quite the progress,” she said, stopping just under an old apple tree.

“Y-yeah…I-I mean-” he choked on his words, nervously wondering if he’d already fucked this up.

She smiled at him. “Breathe.”

And, on command, he did. “That’s me! Always, always punching the clock, working those books…” he wanted to jump off the nearest cliff.

“Good,” she turned away from him, plucking one of the flowers from the tree, watching as a few stray petals flew to the ground, “you know, a lot of the other staff members didn’t believe me.”

“Believe you…?”

“About your potential.” She stroked the petals with the tip of her finger. “You’re a talented young man, Fitzroy,” she turned to him, and grinned. “I’m glad you were able to prove them wrong.”

“Oh…I-uh…thanks, I guess? T-thank you.”

She shook her head. “Don’t thank me. You’ve got no one but yourself to praise.” He nodded dumbly. His chested swelled with pride. She’d noticed. Silvia Nite had noticed him. His hard work, his monkey, his time, his pain - everything was finally worth something. “It was very good talking to you, Fitzroy Maplecourt. It’s time for you to head back to class,” and she walked away, the flower still in her hands.

He might’ve felt a little giddy when, after one of her lectures, she’d approached him again. He’d noticed the looks of the other students, some sneers, some of unidentifiable pity. He shrugged them off, thinking them envy. It wasn’t hard, given how much better he was than everyone else at mostly everything. Magic excluded. A Knight didn’t need magic to be successful. A Knight did, however, sometimes needed a helping hand. Which was what Silvia offered to him, placing her long, perfectly trimmed fingernails on his shoulder. She was much taller than him, her elven features similar to his own, and yet so much more pronounced, regal. “I believe there are some people in the oversight guild I can introduce you to. You’d want to build up contacts once you graduate.”

He’d nodded, already having thought of that for months now. Because even though his kingdom, Goodcastle – was already lined up for his taking, something told him broadening his scope was a wise decision.

She let go, stepping back toward her desk. “Meet me at my office tomorrow afternoon. There, we can continue this discussion.”

He should have suspected something, then. But he was too much of a fucking idiot, wasn’t he? And the opportunity seemed so close. Silvia Nite had tossed in the bait, and he’d fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.

But when the time came, and he poked his head into her office, even he could tell that something was wrong. The window blinds were down, and as Silvia walked up to greet him, shaking his hand, and reached over his shoulder to lock the door behind him. A part of him knew, when she told him to sit down, not letting go, smiling, her praise oozing out of her lips like molasses. Suddenly agitated, he shifted in his seat, all to aware of her gaze wandering all over him. They sat down, Silvia behind a redwood desk, him sitting across from her, hands writhing on his lap.

“I can help you, of course,” she’d said, her tone matter of fact, “graduate faster. Find important people to introduce you to. It would be an opportunity you wouldn’t want to miss.” Then she sat back in her leather chair, adorned with the carved faces of eternally hungry wooden lions, and said: “I am a busy woman, though. It would take quite a lot of my schedule to do that for you, do you understand?”

He’d nodded. And flinched, when her hand covered his, and the whole time, his mind was screaming that it was wrong, wrong, wrong. He felt trapped. Under her gaze, in the shadows of the closed blinds, by the lock in the door behind him.

Then her other hand moved to grasp the back of his neck. “So you’ll have to do something for me as well, Fitzroy.” Then she tugged on his collar, and he sprang back, his legs finally working correctly. He was breathing shallow, panicky, because he knew that look. For so long she’d masked it under the pretense of kindness, with nice words and smiles, but at its core, it was all the same. The look of someone who thought that Fitzroy was nothing more than the mud under their shoes. He’d been such an idiot not to see it sooner.

The older woman moved back in surprise, her hand still hovering in the air. Then her gaze narrowed.

“Y-you…” he tried to find his voice, but it was shaking to much for him to form any words. He suddenly wanted to laugh. “You think…you can just…I will never-” He’d never felt so angry in his life.

Her eyebrows rose up, perfect arches she’d no doubt spent hours of her precious time on. She eyed him up and down, standing from her chair, and he bristled, his hands turning to fists. No matter how skilled in combat he’d become, he would still be no match for her. She held his gaze.

Then she sat down, waving a hand. “Alright. You may go, then.”

He practically flung himself at the door, turning the lock with his shaking fingers. “And Fitzroy?” she called, just as he was about to leave, with a tone that sent a chill down his spine, “not everyone is as accommodating as I am.”

After that day, the calls of kissass and teacher’s pet turned to something much more vicious. He made himself suck it up and carried on. Only a few months before graduation. He could make it. After all, one thing was made clear to him. There would be no one who would ever respect him, not until he left this school behind.

The anger didn’t go away. It festered, with every jeer, every rude gesture, every pitying gaze the other teacher had sent his way, and had boiled over when he had to face her once again, in her magic class, trying to light this goddamn candle that would not light the piece of shit-

Her gaze dug into him, ignoring all the other students, the resentful look so clear, so unmistakably present, and if he could just light this goddamned candle so he could leave-

And then the whole room exploded. And moments later, when Silvia Nite was turned back to normal, her gaze wide-eyed and terrified, Fitzroy felt like he couldn’t get enough of the fear in her eyes.

Chaos paused the memory, turning it over in their hand. “You were angry. Good.” They smiled at him, hovering over his shoulder as he looked alongside them. Their shifting head of hair wrapped around his shoulders like a cloud, undulating and free. “You had every right to be.” Their voice was like a whisper of the wind. “She wanted to possess you, control you. Her position gave her the illusion that she could own you. And she was wrong.” They waved their hand, and the memory faded from view, melting around them like sugar. “This is why I chose you.”

They came to him every night, his nonsensical half-dreams replaced by their strange, every-shifting world. Sometimes it was a room in a castle. Sometimes they were out in the woods. And sometimes, the two of them would just sit there, on the foot of his bed, his own body sleeping fitfully behind them. Chaos looked delighted whenever they came. They were possessive, but not in the way people were. They lacked that look in their eyes. They knew they owned him, but not from any illusion of power, not because they thought they were better than him. They owned him, simply because they could.

They turned to him them, smiling, but not amused. Reveling in their truth. “With my power, there will never be such humiliation. Isn’t that reason enough?”

#taz graduation #taz g #sir fitzroy maplecourt #chaos #taz grad spoilers #fanfiction

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chille-tid-universe · 5 years

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Classic Search and Rescue

I found myself contemplating our encounter with the young ruffians as we made our way back to the River Shining Tavern. My thoughts were uneasy; the children had willingly broken the law, had likely endangered others before they came upon us, but they were victims of a system that left them no other choice. My ever-sturdy sense of right could not cut through the fog of uncertainty. I knew it was right to spare them, to allow them the opportunity to make something of themselves; after all, hadn’t my weaponmaster given me that same gift when he agreed to train me? As much as I had faith that the children could put their energies toward doing good, however, the staggering odds that faced them threw the surrounding city in a harsher light, each crumbling wall revealing where a poor family might have taken shelter, each haughty nobleman that passed flaunting more wealth than those children could ever hope to see in their lifetimes. I wracked my brains to try and remember my own childhood, to uncover some forgotten memory of similarly destitute individuals around the castle of Tarth, but I was unable to recall. Surely, there must have been; poverty is the shadow of civilization. Yet everything from my childhood home seemed brighter, more solid than these ramshackle alleyways of Daggerford.

I was still deep in reverie when the party returned to the River Shining Tavern. As we stepped into the familiar murmur of a midday crowd, the barkeep looked up from the mug she was polishing and waved for us, calling Melpomene’s name. “That lousy dwarven singer canceled on us. Would you be a love and play us a tune?” she asked. The aasimar shrugged at us and asked if we’d be alright the rest of the day without her.

Wun Way smiled ruefully and said, “Yes, we should be fine, though I’m loathe to miss another of your performances.” Melpomene grinned in return and winked over her shoulder as she sauntered over to the stage. As we ascended the steps to our room, I distinctly heard Wun Way sigh.

Back in our room, it appeared that Nissa was fully recovered from whatever had ailed her earlier in the day (though she seemed out of breath, and I could have swore her purse seemed to bulge more than it had the day before). After a quick retelling by Wun Way of the day’s events, we gathered our party member and headed back into the city.

It was a quick trek through the city to the clearing where Ondabarl’s tower stood. There was a large space with stables and stablehands tending horses, with two buildings capping either end. To our right, there was a modest temple that Wun Way recognized as belonging to Lathander, the Morninglord. Across the grassy yard stood the wizard’s tower.

We waited a minute after we knocked on the large doors, and were greeted by a frail woman with a broom. We introduced ourselves and explained we had been invited by Ondabarl, at which point she nodded and asked that we wait while she fetched him. Within minutes the old man swept down the stairs, and upon noticing us, chanted under his breath before smiling and welcoming us inside.

The room inside was cluttered but clean, and as we passed the door frame we sensed dimming glyphs in the wood. Instruments and tomes of various shapes and sizes were strewn across tables in seemingly random fashion, but the greater whole spoke to some deeper pattern, and I felt sure that Ondabarl could locate any item in the scattered piles within seconds.

Ondabarl ushered us up the stairs he had appeared from, beckoning us up into a welcoming room that was dominated by a larger-than-life portrait of someone who looked exactly like the wizard, but which was clearly an aged piece. As he waved us through the door on the other side of the room, I caught a glimpse of a handsome sheath at his belt, and the gilded hilt of a dagger.

My thoughts on the glinting dagger were pushed from my mind, however, as we entered into a wonder - a solarium whose dimensions surely did not match those of the surrounding tower. Sunlight glinted impossibly through glass ceilings, though there had been no such structure from the outside, and I was reminded of the quarters of my father’s court wizard, which I had always felt were a little too spacious for their location in the castle. This, however, was something else entirely, and I gaped with clear awe at the variety of thriving plants filling the wide space. In the midst of the verdant greenery, a luxurious fountain spewed crystal clear water, with nearby fronds waving gently as if to catch the stray droplets as they fell.

As I looked wide-eyed around, I caught the glances of Wun Way and Poc, both clearly as enchanted as I, and of Nissa, who seemed to be casting furtive glances at the intricate garden tools dispersed around the solarium. As she noticed me, she gave a wide, innocent grin. I pursed my lips and shook my head lightly, and was met with an easy shrug.

With a wry smile, as if he had gotten the exact reaction from us as he intended, Ondabarl lead us along the winding path through the plants to a wooden door. Through it, we entered a spacious study. As we entered, he asked us to be seated. I glanced at the single armchair in the room and the wizard waved a hand. An ottoman materialized behind each of us.

Ondabarl walked to his armchair as we sat, then waved at the sweeper, declaring, “Thank you, Eunice, that will be all.” I glanced back to see the woman standing in the doorway with the broom, an inscrutable expression on her face. At Ondabarl’s dismissal, she bowed her head and turned, shutting the door behind her.

We sat in silence for a moment, before I cleared my throat and Wun Way asked, “Was there something you wished to discuss?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Ondabarl exclaimed, sitting up in his chair. “I would very much like to ask for your help with a certain… matter…” The wizard’s gaze seemed drawn to a spot above the door, and we waited another few moments, at which point Nissa began audibly drumming her fingers along the arm of her chair. “Ah, yes, I’d like to enlist your help in discovering the fate of my late-apprentice, Haesten.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Poc asked.

“Oh, must be more than a year by now,” Ondabarl muttered, frowning as he spoke. “Headed out quite suddenly, and in possession of something quite personal.” He glanced between us and motioned conspiratorially to his sheath. With the flick of a hand, a shining dagger rose from the sheath, and floated above his desk. “He absconded with my dagger.” He reached out and passed his hand through the image. “Quite a good dagger, too, a relic from my… heh… journeys. Delphin Yellowknife, that’s what they used to call me, and they heard tell all down the coasts of - well, you wouldn’t quite know where it was.” With a sigh, Ondabarl motioned and the holographic knife blinked out of existence, reappearing in his empty sheath. “I fear something has happened to Haesten. If you should discover what has befallen him, be sure to recover my knife, and his spellbook, if you are able.”

“Have you tried, you know, scrying for him?” Nissa asked, diverting her attention from the baubles on the tables around her.

“Yes, of course I’ve tried that,” the wizard grumbled, “but it’s no use. Each time I’ve tried, there’s been this odd… mist… to the south that clouds my sight.”

“Are there any other people who might have known where Haesten might go? Friends, family?” I asked, trying to imagine what kind of dangers a rogue wizard could cause.

“No, Haesten was always a loner, never really seemed to fit in among the others. But… there is one other former apprentice who might have some idea. Vitalius, he might be able to point you in the right direction. I suspect you should find him in the Lady Luck Tavern, over in the Caravan Quarter.”

As I nodded, remembering a map from the River Shining Tavern, Wun Way leaned forward. “We would be happy to help you, of course, Ondabarl. And it sounds like this dagger and Haesten’s spellbook are quite highly valued by you.” She let her voice trail off in a question, and after a few blinks Ondabarl cleared his throat.

“Well, yes, of course I would be willing to pay you handsomely for completion of this task. I have gold, jewels, information…”

I sat forward in my chair. “Have you dealt with curses before?” Encouraged by the wizard’s raised eyebrow, I explained to him how we had discovered the set of cursed platemail in the lair of Explictica Defilus. As I finished my explanation, Ondabarl sat back and mused quietly for a moment before telling us that, during the wars long ago, dwarves used to give cursed items as gifts to their enemies, in order to more easily defeat them.

At Ondabarl’s suggestion, I removed the armor and he inspected it more closely, finding a small stamp on the inside that marked it as the work of the Iron-Eater Clan. Ondabarl recalled that there was a smith in town of the Iron-Eaters, and that he might know how the armor might have initially been cursed. The wizard warned us that we would need to replicate the curse’s initial method in order to remove the negative effects of the curse. He hinted he might have a scroll of destroy curse that could come in handy, and offered that he would consider it part of our reward upon our return, though we most likely would lack the skill to use it for quite some time.

As we left the tower, Ondabarl gave us a physical description of Haesten, from his rusty red mustache and long hair to the scar beneath his right eye and the way he dressed. We thanked him for his time and headed to the Lady Luck Tavern in search of Vitalius.

As we stepped into the Caravan Quarter, I was struck by how loud it was. There were fewer people during the fall season searching for caravans, and thus fewer caravans to offer their services, but the remaining inhabitants seemed to be making up for their disappearance. We quickly were pointed in the direction of the Lady Luck Tavern, a comfortable inn, but not quite as nice as the River Shining Tavern.

The common room was half full, with layabouts and early arrivals for the evening meal, but the defining feature of the room was a thick stone pillar, reaching from the middle of the floor to the ceiling, upon which were enumerable scribbles; signatures or declarations of existence, probably, some quiet statement against the unending forgetfulness of Time. Along one wall was a shrine to Tymora, the goddess of luck, patroness of the inn; coppers were scattered over the wide stone table upon which the goddess’s bust was kept (most likely not actually gilded, though the image was compelling).

The conversation lulled a moment as we entered, but picked back up again almost immediately; in the Caravan Quarter, you must tend to see all kinds, I suppose. We walked up to the bar and asked for a drink, and some information. The barkeep was familiar with Vitalius, and confirmed that he frequented the tavern every few days or so, but did not socialize much. He had been here the night before, though, so he was unlikely to be in attendance this night. The barkeep did tell us that Vitalius kept a hermitage on the banks of the Delimbiyr, though, hidden in the forest to the east.

After biting her lip a bit, the barkeep asked if we were also on a quest for Ondabarl. When I confirmed we were, she warned us that there had been a number of groups the old wizard had sent after his apprentice over the last year, and that none had been heard from again. To this, Wun Way finished her drink and stated airily, “Well, we’re not like most groups.” The barkeep agreed easily, though her response had been too quick, her approving glance too practiced. I suspect each of the other groups had been similarly appraised. We thanked the barkeep and took our leave. As the door swung shut behind us, I could hear a toast within: “To those who died before us.”

We made it back to the River Shining Tavern not long after, and were greeted by the luscious voice of Melpomene. Wun Way eagerly joined the crowd, calling for food as she settled in to enjoy the performance. Poc followed after her, calling for his own meal, as well, in a voice that barely rose above the surrounding noise. I looked for Nissa, but she had slipped away between the crush of bodies. I spared her a moment’s worry, but I reasoned that I could not prevent every bad idea she had; the world would survive Nissa. I sighed once and headed for the bar. There, I inquired after this Iron-Eater smith, and was pleased to hear that there was a dwarven smith named Dervin who was of Iron-Eater ancestry, and who owned a smithy in the River Quarter. I thanked her for the information and finished my dinner, only half listening to Melpomene’s songs. The next few days will be a challenge; I can feel it.

I made my way to our room early to jot down my thoughts, to try to make sense of the coming dangers. This wizard Haesten must have stolen quite the powerful weapon to force Ondabarl to send so many groups after him; it was clearly more significant than the court wizard let on. Time will tell, however, how this all ends up.

We left the tavern early in the morning, with Melpomene assuring us that she would follow after us if she was able, taking the vacated streets out of Daggerford by the Eastern Gate and crossing the bridge over the River Shining.

As we left the reach of the city, the whole party was struck with the uneasy feeling of being watched. Minutes later, Nissa casually motioned upwards, and we each saw a grouping of odd birds in the sky, several hundred feet up. The svirfneblin tilted her head in a question, and I jerked my head down in the affirmative. Over the next few minutes, Nissa slowly pulled out her crossbow and threaded a bolt into it. Suddenly, she aimed it skyward and fired. The bolt went wide, and the birds seemed to shrink as they rose higher, out of range, and headed north off the road. We shared concerned glances, but carried on.

As we headed into the forest that neighbored the city of Daggerford, Wun Way and Poc suddenly stopped. As I asked them if they had heard something, they shook their heads. “It was some powerful magic,” Poc said, turning back the way we had come. “That way, and getting closer.” Wun Way agreed, and suggested we prepare ourselves. I nodded and turned to Nissa, who had already begun trekking off the path to hide behind a nearby bush. I motioned the other two off the road to the other side, then slung my shield from my back and hefted my battleaxe.

We were not kept waiting for long. In less than a minute, a slight tremor began, which soon differentiated into distinct footsteps from nearby. Shortly afterward, there was a hellish roar, and an ugly fiend leapt from the trail behind us. As it noticed us, it bared pointy teeth and bellowed a challenge, waving its long pitchfork and spreading its leathery wings. I bellowed back and darted forward.

The fiend fought ferociously, its reach amplified by the wicked pitchfork, and its tail leaving a stinging wound as it rasped across my arm. It leapt across the road, flapping its wings, placing itself before Wun Way and Poc as Nissa fired at it. It poked with the sharp pitchfork at Wun Way, but I kept it busy with my battleaxe, distracting it and causing the attacks to go wide. With a screech, the fiend jumped skyward, flapping its wings desperately as its blood spattered the ground below. I grabbed a handaxe and hefted it, tossing with deadly aim as the fiend rose. The axe met its target, and with a great wooshing sound, the fiend immolated, and ashes rained down on us as the handaxe thudded into the earth between us.

After a moment collecting ourselves, we continued down the beaten path, and soon arrived at a daub and wattle hut. Assuming this must be the hermitage, I held out my arm, stopping the group. I called out that we had come in peace and were seeking Vitalius, and within a few minutes the front door creaked open, and a wizened form peered out into the sun. I introduced the group, and asked if we could pose a few questions regarding Haesten. The old man nearly turned us away, but relented as Wun Way pleaded with him. As we made to step closer, the old man shouted out that he would speak only with Wun Way. We conferred for a moment before allowing Wun Way to proceed. “We’ll be right out here if you need us. Just call,” I promised, nodding after her as she stepped into the hut.

The door slammed shut behind her on its own accord, and a brilliant light burst forth from the frame and windows, and I called out as my vision returned to me. “I’m alright!” Wun Way responded, and so we waited.

Several minutes later, there was another flash of white light, and the door creaked open once more. Wun Way strode back to us, and with her we turned back to Daggerford. Behind us, Vitalius pet a large raven on his shoulder.

As we walked, Wun Way explained what had happened. Vitalius, it turned out, was not a man at all, but a glamorous woman, seemingly younger than her many years, named Trista. She had alluded that she had not been Ondabarl’s apprentice, exactly, but had indeed conspired with Haesten to steal the old wizard’s dagger. She had assumed it was merely a practical joke, but afterwards the apprentice had scampered off with it, down to Dragonspear Castle to the south, where her raven familiar Thaddeus had followed him. When she heard Ondabarl was asking for the spellbook, as well as the dagger, she expressed an interest in it, as well, and Wun Way had been forced to gently offer that perhaps they could discuss prices once they returned.

We made our way back to Ondabarl to share the information Wun Way had gleaned, and inform him of the fiend that had accosted us. As we mentioned the horned beast, he stopped us, and asked to confirm that we had stopped a group of fiends only a few nights before at the Happy Cow Inn. Not only had we done so, we had faced a pair of beaded devils only a few days out from Daggerford, and we said as much. At this Ondabarl became concerned, and wondered aloud at what hellish happenings must be seething beneath the surface of this area.

The old man revealed that, around the time of Morwen’s rise to power, there had been a commotion about Dragonspear Castle, and it was rumored that a portal to the Nine Hells had been opened there. Perhaps this portal explains the amount of devils we’ve come up against recently?

After speaking with Ondabarl, there was still time left in the day, so we decided to track down the Iron-Eater dwarf in the River Quarter. We found his smithy easily; Dervin’s Brightblade was large and well frequented, and we were met with the sight (and smells) of several large forges all ablaze in the expansive yard in front of the shop. We flagged down the shopkeeper and were informed that Dervin was upstairs.

Within, there were exquisite pieces hung up along the walls, with a smaller spread of gems behind reinforced glass. Up the stairs and behind a handsome wooden door, a stout dwarf was measuring currency on a set of antique scales. As we were announced, the dwarf introduced himself jovially as Dervin, and inquired as to our business in his shop. It was with great interest that he inspected my armor after we had explained our purpose, and he positively leapt with joy as he was shown the stamp of his ancestors within the platemail. He unfortunately was not aware of the exact rituals that had been used in the wars of old, but told us of an elder from his clan that might know of the history behind such items, an old dwarf high up in the Spine to the north.

As we thanked him for the information, he made it clear that he would be quite interested in my armor, and made several offers that were, if not generous, definitely driven by more emotion than business sense. As I kindly thanked him for the offers, but stated the armor had been instrumental in keeping our party safe, he offered to pay for the platemail and replace it with some mail from his shop, and when I rebuffed that suggestion he said he might be able to track down another set of magical plate. I smiled gently at him and informed that, if he could find a replacement for the wondrous qualities of the armor, I would consider.

We headed back to the Tavern after that, and now I write up in our room again. I cannot deny that this armor has special meaning to the dwarf, and that he has some claim to it by birthright. However, I know the plate would sit enshrined in his shop if I parted with it, and it has been undeniably useful so far on our adventures, and will be even more so if we can ever get this blasted curse removed. For now, let Dervin search for an equal to this armor. I feel he will be hard-pressed to succeed.

The last two days have been largely uneventful. We set out from Daggerford without Melpomene, who continued to be called upon for her beautiful singing.

As we headed south from Daggerford, there were a few groups and individuals we passed along the road, but as we got further and further from the city, we encountered fewer and fewer people. Today, we haven’t run into anyone. Well, anyone except for those two…

A little past noon, we saw a crude wooden barricade across the road in the distance. As we approached, we made out a ramshackle hut to one side of the road, and two figures lounging against a poorly constructed gate. The two wore dark clothes and waved for us to stop as we approached.

“Toll to cross, fifteen gold a head,” the taller one grunted, and the smaller one piped up, “Yeah, fifteen gold!”

I looked to the others with a raised eyebrow. “For whom do you collect tolls?” I asked, lacing my voice with skepticism.

The shorter man darted his eyes to his partner, starting to visibly perspire, as the taller man smiled ingratiatingly and exclaimed, “Why, for Daggerford, of course!”

Wun Way stepped forward. “We are on official business for the Wizard of Daggerford.” I winced slightly. A half-lie, but I supposed it could do little harm.

The smaller man began wringing his hands. “Sorry, miss, toll’s the same for all who pass this way. Fifteen gold,” he squeaked, glancing at his partner.

“Got any badges? Something official?” Nissa asked, fingering the crossbow at her side.

The taller fellow’s smile faltered a second before he nodded fervently. “Yes, yes, course, got some badges in the hut, course we do.” He eyed his accomplice and walked into the hut. There were a few terse moments before the unmistakable click of a crossbow being loaded filled the stagnant air, and then Nissa drew her crossbow and fired before I could see what had happened.

Her first bolt imbedded itself in the window frame, but her second found its mark. There was a strangled cry from the wooden hut, and then a slump as a body hit the floor.

Nissa then turned her crossbows to the remaining brigand, and I made to interpose myself between the two. Nissa, however, merely began talking, berating the remaining bandit for how poorly this operation had been run. Between his friend’s untimely demise and the harsh words from this diminutive rogue, the man broke into tears, exclaiming, “Rory! You killed Rory!”

“Yeah, well Rory was a piece of shit, and he didn’t know how to run a simple highway bandit setup. You were both embarrassments.” My eyes narrowed at the pointedness of Nissa’s criticism.

“Listen,” I interrupted, cutting off the sobbing of the bandit, “we’ll be coming back this way in a couple of days. I want to see this barricade removed. Understand?” The bandit could only nod feebly.

As we passed through the gate, Nissa muttered under her breath, “Pathetic.”

As we settled down for the night, Wun Way brought out her granite “egg” again, but no matter what I said, it was like talking to a stone. Wun Way eventually tucked the oval back into her sling, disappointment clear in her eyes.

This has been a strange day. I sit atop the battlements of Dragonspear Castle, bodies of orcs and devils scattered below, and I cannot feel the rush of victory as I normally do. It’s as if the mist that covers this area blocks out more than the sun; in my heart, I cannot feel the righteousness that usually guides me. Let me begin at the beginning.

We started out the day walking south. Within an hour, a wall of mist rose from the distance, with the dark outline of a castle obscured beyond. There was a moment of discussion as we decided whether to continue or wait to plan. We ended up marching forward, the sounds of our footsteps muffled by the thick mist as we made our way.

Before too long, I could feel the oppressive weight of the surrounding moisture, pressing down as if to halt my passage. I kept wondering what kind of person could choose to remain in such an area, and the further we walked, the more I was certain something must be wrong with Haesten. He must be influenced by this portal to the Nine Hells, some unholy fiend corrupting the natural order with an individual with unidentified power. As we walked on, I set myself for what must be done. Even if we found Haesten among the living, he must be too far gone. We would need to destroy him. The survival of the surrounding area would demand it.

As I glanced around, it was clear that Wun Way was similarly affected by the strange mist, though Poc and Nissa continued on unencumbered, heads held high (as high as they could) peering through the thick atmosphere. As we continued walking, I found my hand on my battleaxe, sensing a grim anticipation in the eerily silent air.

All at once, the dark shape of a castle wall loomed over us, and we each glanced around, painfully aware of our surprise. As I called for us to be ready for anything, arrows rained down from the parapets.

The ensuing battle past in a blur, with bearded devils and orcs pouring out from the castle to challenge us, and orcs wielding longbows firing down upon us from the tops of the castle walls. As the devils struck at us, the strange birds from a few days ago swooped down from the misty skies, throwing wicked spines from their tails at us as they passed. Nissa took down several, but one managed to get away, flying north, back the way we had come. The remaining enemies on the ground were slaughtered, and I ran to the castle gate to find a way up to the archers.

As I passed through the gate, there was a crimson flash, and a glyph ignited, sending a wall of fire erupting from the ground. Smoldering, I pressed through, and as I shook my head to clear my vision, I saw a ladder up the wall. As I climbed, I heard the death-howls of the orcs on the walls, and emerged on the castle wall to see two still firing at the party below. I ran and struck down one, but as I raised my axe toward the final orc, a crossbow bolt soared through the air, and the form crumpled at my feet.

Now, I await the party to join me, and struggle to push down this despair that has only grown as the mists closed in. The goodness and righteousness that helped lay low the Snake God, has pushed me beyond my limits in defense of my friends, seems out of reach, and I can only feel disgust at the foul beings that have infiltrated this place. I can almost feel their taint, seeping like a wound deep in the castle, an affront to the laws of this land. Their wanton chaos will not be tolerated, and once this Haesten is dealt with, I will find the source of this lawlessness, and put an end to it, as well.

#dnd stories

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jpstadtlander · 5 years

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The Ter'roc: Evolution - A Book About Our Alien Humanity

My loyal fans will know how long I've been "taunting" them with my sci-fi masterpiece "The Ter'roc" (a novel based on the short story in Ruins of the Mind). Well, it's finally becoming a reality. I'm in final editing now and we hopefully will be able to set a release date in the upcoming months though that release date will realistically be early 2020. Those who are just now hearing the name Ter'roc or have heard it before and have no idea what it's about... here's your chance to find out. The Ter'roc is not just another book I'm writing. It's the book. I have created an entire universe (think Star Wars, Star Trek, that kind of thing) with multiple unique species and cultures that go back billions of years. What really sets this universe apart from all others is the concept that humans were created by this species (Ter'roc) two hundred thousand years ago. It details elements in our history and how our religions, morals, intellect and technical advances came into play through their guidance. It also shows how (in this book) we have never been alone in the universe and we are a mere extension of the Ter'roc. I've decided that I am going to have to create a website - sort of a glossary that talks about the history, culture, and details about the Ter'roc. But it won't come out until the book is released. For me, it's been a deeply fascinating and intellectually stimulating story to weave. So, I've decided to take a moment and give you a peek inside the book, even if it is at least a year before you get to see the real thing. Here's a brief timeline that I have drawn up of this new universe: FYI: Gaia is the Ter'roc name for Earth.

The Preview

Wales, UK, 8304 B.C.E. Eògan had been working for the past four days on the foundation for his new hut that would soon house his young family. He was pounding on a stone so that it fit just right in the wall. His father, Faolan, was helping him carry stones from the nearby field to the building site and had gone off to retrieve some more. Eògan looked up to where he expected his father to be returning, carrying a few more stones in his make-shift sling. He was surprised to see another man coming toward him that he didn’t recognize. Wiping his hands on the grass, he stood up and walked over to meet the stranger. "Greetings," said Eògan. “Good day. I am Oushahn. I am looking for work.” the man replied, his accent was thick, strange. Eògan looked around the site, then looked at Oushahn. “Well, I could use some help working on this foundation. Can’t offer much at the moment, except a warm fire and some food.” “A warm fire and some food would be wonderful.” The two men and Eògan’s father worked for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Come nightfall the three men were huddled around a fire outside the perimeter of the new fieldstone foundation. Faolan looked at the foundation behind him. “Men, we did good work today.” And he nodded toward them. “Helping is important,” said Oushahn. “It binds us together, enabling us to become better people and understand one another. It also helps with tasks we might not be able to do alone.” “I agree,” replied Eògan who looked up from the fire at his newfound help. The man’s eyes were glowing an iridescent blue. Eògan turned around to see if there was a light behind him that might be reflecting off Oushahn’s Oushahn’s eyes, but there was not. “Oushahn, your eyes . . . are glowing.” “Yes, that tends to happen at night.” He replied, calmly. Eògan looked at his father confused and cocked an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked. Instead of answering Eògan’s question, Oushahn said, “Do you believe we are alone here?” Then pointing to the stars, he asked, “Do you suppose there might be something out there, other than just us?” Eògan looked at his father and then at Oushahn, asking straight-forwardly, “I believe that the stars are the gods watching us. If there were others, would you know anything about it?” “I can teach you a great many things if you want to learn,” Oushahn replied, poking at the fire, again evading Eògan’s question. A moment of silence passed over the three, the fire crackling in front of them and thick smoke wafting in Oushahn’s direction. Finally, Eògan said, “I would like to learn whatever you can teach.” “As would I,” said Faolan. The two men listened to Oushahn tell of the mind’s ability to control objects, explaining how an ancient people had been around since the dawn of time that his people called “The Bereshit” and how the human existence, the mortal body, was just an illusion. Oushahn taught them of the importance of the stars to tell the days of the seasons and how the power of the sun could be harnessed to do great things. The United Kingdom, 2856 B.C.E. The caravan proceeded slowly over the rolling hills of the large British isle across the countryside that would one day be called the Preseli Hills. There were six horses leading the caravan. The two trailing horses of the six pulled a large wooden cart with solid wood wheels that Iodocus sat upon with his co-bogadh Seisyll. They were both in a hypnotic state, focusing on the massive stone that floated behind the cart. Each took turns in about thirty-minute shifts, concentrating on the levitation of the forty-foot slab. Light as a feather, bright as a star. Iodocus thought in a half-trance, seeing not a massive stone floating behind them, but rather a loose feather that he kept moving in his mind from side to side to catch the wind just right and keep it afloat as it followed the caravan. There were five other similar caravans following suit across the hills toward the site of the ancient circle. Iodocus was one of seventy from three different tribes who had been taught the old ways passed down through ancient times through the knowledge of the fathers. The Bogadhs had been taught that the power of the mind could move objects much larger than anything a normal man could move. It took years of training and mental discipline to master bogadh and as such those who could use it were highly revered. The teams were part of a collective group that followed the path laid out by their families who believed that long ago they were given instructions to build a bogadh structure that would one day send a message to the heavens. Detailed drawings on stone tablets had been kept for hundreds of years in the families that laid out how stones were to be cut, what materials they must be made from and how they must be aligned with the stars. Although Iodocus and his brethren did not completely understand the full breadth of their project, it was an honor to serve on it and help to build it to its completion. Only the high priests of each village knew the full plan that would one day laid out in the circle of what would one day be Wiltshire, England and how it would connect with the already old structure in Sí an Bhrú in the future land of Ireland. Sí an Bhrú had been built almost five hundred years before. There was very little left of the timber circle that had been created many generations ago in the circle that Idocus was to place the new stones in. They did not know back then that the wooden circle would both rot and fail to truly focus the bogadh energy. So for two generations, Iodocus’s tribe had searched with that of the two neighboring people to find stones that would truly work for the structure, and only in these western shores had they been able to find them. It was decided that the teams would cut out the massive stones using groups comprising hundreds of workers with seventy people in the caravans to transport the stones to the circle where they would once again be cut, to make many more stones and maneuvered into place. Egypt, 2603 B.C.E. The intense Egyptian sun beat down upon the parched sand. A lone buzzard circled in the distance, no doubt finding a rare meal in this unforgiving, scorched land. Abarax sat on the veranda in the sliver of shade provided from the Egyptian sun. He was looking at a drawing he had been working on for the pharaoh. His son sat beside him playing a game that his mother had taught him with a stone ball and a cup. The boy continued to push the ball across the decorative mat covering the floor and the ball made a ‘pop’ sound as it entered the cup, eliciting a laugh from the child. Again and again, the ball popped into the cup, prompting more laughter. Finally, his father looked at him, annoyed. “Imhotep, please. I’m trying to work. I must have this drawing done by tomorrow’s meeting.” “Why are you always drawing?” asked Imhotep. “Come. Sit up here on my lap and let me show you.” The boy walked over and sat on his father’s leg. He looked at the drawing up, then down. “Do you know what it is?” asked his father. “No.” “See this? This is a structure that has four triangles of walls coming to a point. It’s called a pyramid. This is important in the evolution of our people because it helps us focus. I am attempting to show the Pharaoh how the rays of the sun can be used to harness energy. Though the pharaoh’s visions are a bit skewed, he believes that a pyramid will help it guide his eternal soul to Ra.” “What is Ra?” “Ra is the word our people have given to what they believe is the God of the Sun. In truth, Ra is the ishkan, a plane of existence beyond this one where we live with one another after we die.” Abarax continued, “Do you see the sharp angles? If built from the right materials, they can help to focus our energy to achieve more than it would be capable of normally. There is a pattern here, but it is something that I will most likely not be able to complete in my lifetime. See these other pyramids? If perfectly aligned to these stars, they will help to enhance the ability of the ishkan that are buried far below and perhaps one day protect us.” Imhotep studied the drawing and pointed to a small building. “What is that?” “That is where we are now—the palace.” “Then those buildings, um . . . pyramids must be huge!” the child looked out over the plains of sand. He tried to imagine enormous pyramids standing in the distance but found it hard to visualize. “How could we build something that big,” he asked his father. “Ah, that is where a special gift comes in that few people know about. Do you know that the energy I spoke to you about—if we use our minds in a very special way, utilizing special tools, we can actually move stones, stones much larger than anything you can imagine, simply by pushing them with your mind. It’s called telekinesis. Our minds are capable of much more than most people think. However, my little Imhotep, this is a secret known only to a few, and, you must help me keep that secret. Can you do that?” “Yes, father. I promise.” China, Current Henan Province 2698 B.C. Tian was dressed in his summer robe and sat upon a log outside his home. He had finally finished working on the garden he had tended for the last four hours. Having enough time to relax, he pulled out his flute and began working on a song he had been writing for the last five months. Tian was a simple farmer who found peace in his garden and his flute, something that didn’t require him to worry about his crops or his daily stress. Times were tough in his village and beyond. Fighting to protect one’s land was a way of life. He had been playing his flute for twenty minutes when he saw a bright light flash, so bright that he had dropped his flute and shielded his eyes with his hand. Completely silent, the light faded away and he saw a man dressed in yellow robes walking toward him. Tian stood up and stumbled back, tripping over his top step and falling onto his porch. He pushed himself farther backward with his hands, trying to pull away from the strange man who appeared about two hundred feet away. Tian finally stood up to look at the man as he glided over to him, stopping about five feet from his front steps. The man looked normal enough, but his robe made of yellow and silver silk garnished with small black dragons was magnificent and intimidating. “Who are you?” Tian asked in fear. “I am Huang-Di. I have come to unite your people,” the man said. Read the full article

#aliens #historicalfiction #history #human #humanity #newworld #planets #sci-fi #science #space

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wikitopx · 4 years

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On the banks of the Charente, as it meanders towards the Atlantic, the city of Saintes was once the Roman capital of Aquitaine.

Ancient Mediolanum Santonum’s ruins, like the amphitheater, arches, baths and countless fragments of sculpture and stonework, are all weathered but soul-stirring. Move forward in time and Saintes swayed through the historic province of Saintonge and was equipped with Romanesque Abbaye aux Dames and the Saint-Europe Pilgrimage Church. These monuments are made even more solemn and atmospheric by the Medieval and Renaissance music lines at the Festival de Saintes every July. There is also the easy fun of Charente and its riverside parks, or the delicious taste of Cognac distilled nearby. Discover the best things to do in Saintes.

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1. Amphitheatre Gallo-Romain

The finest of what’s left of ancient Mediolanum Santonum, Saintes’ Roman amphitheater dates to the Rule of Emperor Claudius in 40AD. In its time it could have seated up to 15,000 spectators, who would have crammed in to watch gladiator fights and battles with wild beasts.

The lowest sitting floor is still intact, like some arches, and you can easily create the texture of stone terraces and working paths on the surrounding hillsides.

2. Abbaye aux Dames

Founded by Earl Anjou in the 11th century and with many traces of its original architecture, Abbey aux Dames is a Benedictine Monastery for women from noble families. Eleanor of Aquitaine donated to the monastery, while Agnes of Burgundy retired here after Earl Anjou's death.

The abbey church is the oldest part, with Roman architecture in the 11th and 12th centuries, with an iconic pine cone bell tower.

3. Arch of Germanicus

Older than the amphitheater, this splendid archway is from the reign of Tiberius, around the Year 18.

Though superficially, it was actually a triumphal arch built to commemorate a battle, but instead was sponsored by a wealthy local citizen in honor of Emperor Tiberius, whose son was Drusus and his grandson and his adopted son Germanicus. This information has been deduced from the very faint inscriptions in the stone.

4. Saintes Cathedral

You can learn a lot about Saintes just by thinking about its church for a while. What will strike you immediately is the squatting appearance of its bell tower. This was covered with a bronze dome instead of a tower because the original was damaged during the French Religious War in the 16th century.

In the wake of the conflict there weren’t enough funds to restore the spire, so ever since the tower has stood at 58 meters instead of 96.

5. Musée Archéologique

When Saintes began excavating Roman sites in the 19th century, it unearthed incredible rock storage. These were eventually transferred into the city's old butchery city, on the right bank of Charente, a few steps from the Arch of Germanicus.

By order of the curator of the Saintes museum, the newly redesigned site looks like a Roman house with arches and arches. In the sculptures of all descriptions; funeral, decoration, and religion, along with reliefs, column fragments, and mosaic extract.

But the pinnacle was the headless statue sculpted from Carrara marble and believed to depict Drusus Caesar, the son of Germanicus.

6. Basilique Saint-Eutrope

An important stop on the St James pilgrimage road, this 11th-century church consists of a lower and upper church.

The lower church is the one that needs to be on your agenda: It’s a Romanesque wonder that houses the cenotaph of Saint Eutrope, at the center of a choir with the most expertly carved capitals.

This is located below the main church above so the church's normal activities can continue above while pilgrims can enter and pray at the tomb of Saint Eutrope, before continuing. Taking a minute to adjust your lighting and subterranean space will reveal its secrets.

7. Jardin Public

Down from the Arch of Germanicus on the right bank of Charente, Jardin Public is three hectares of land and gardens, woven with a network of roads. For children, there’s a playground and a little menagerie with goats and ducks.

And perhaps the nicest spot for a wander in the alley next to the Charente where you can see the river traffic, boats moored on the wooden pontoons and can look across to the cathedral. There is also a lovely old orange in the park that has been converted into a de-salted salon.

8. Logis du Gouverneur Belvedere

This land is located on a road above the old town currently being renovated, but it is still worth looking forward to looking around. First, you have the Logis de Godarneur, a handsome 17th-century castle, the last relic of the 17th-century citadel of Saintes.

But maybe even better is the scenery that you can walk through the city from the cliff path. What will show you about the landscape is the sea of terracotta roof tiles, reminding you that you are going to the south of France in Saintes.

9. Charente Cruises

In the 16th century, King Francis I declared Charente the most beautiful river in the kingdom, and in Saintes, there were many opportunities to find out if he was right.

For those who want to sit back and watch the blue shores washed down by ships like Bernard Palissy II and La Gabare, have moored at the jetty in Saintes and provided yachts on this wide and winding river throughout. day.

There is a commentary on the stone villages and the countryside that you will come across, and information packages are provided for non-French speaking people. You could also hire a boat of your own for a couple of days and most of the local companies have a craft that doesn’t require a boat license.

10. Haras National

Enveloped in ten hectares of cedar and airplane park in the east of the city are the stately neoclassical buildings of Saintes Saint National Stud (Haras). The organization was founded by Louis XIV and a branch that has been based in Saintes since the mid-19th century.

Its job is to select, preserve and improve the breed, from horse racing to donkey Poitou, which is famous for its shaggy fur.

There is a museum in the hall, with a horse-drawn carriage and knowledge of the traditional occupations of the caravan (hooves specialist), the groom, and the saddle maker.

More ideals for you: Top 10 things to do in Saint Nazaire

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

Daenerys

When he had taken his pleasure, Khal Drogo rose from their sleeping mats to tower above her. His skin shone dark as bronze in the ruddy light from the brazier, the faint lines of old scars visible on his broad chest. Ink-black hair, loose and unbound, cascaded over his shoulders and down his back, well past his waist. His manhood glistened wetly. The khal's mouth twisted in a frown beneath the droop of his long mustachio. "The stallion who mounts the world has no need of iron chairs." Dany propped herself on an elbow to look up at him, so tall and magnificent. She loved his hair especially. It had never been cut; he had never known defeat. "It was prophesied that the stallion will ride to the ends of the earth," she said. "The earth ends at the black salt sea," Drogo answered at once. He wet a cloth in a basin of warm water to wipe the sweat and oil from his skin. "No horse can cross the poison water." "In the Free Cities, there are ships by the thousand," Dany told him, as she had told him before. "Wooden horses with a hundred legs, that fly across the sea on wings full of wind." Khal Drogo did not want to hear it. "We will speak no more of wooden horses and iron chairs." He dropped the cloth and began to dress. "This day I will go to the grass and hunt, woman wife," he announced as he shrugged into a painted vest and buckled on a wide belt with heavy medallions of silver, gold, and bronze. "Yes, my sun-and-stars," Dany said. Drogo would take his bloodriders and ride in search of hrakkar, the great white lion of the plains. If they returned triumphant, her lord husband's joy would be fierce, and he might be willing to hear her out. Savage beasts he did not fear, nor any man who had ever drawn breath, but the sea was a different matter. To the Dothraki, water that a horse could not drink was something foul; the heaving grey-green plains of the ocean filled them with superstitious loathing. Drogo was a bolder man than the other horselords in half a hundred ways, she had found . . . but not in this. If only she could get him onto a ship . . . After the khal and his bloodriders had ridden off with their bows, Dany summoned her handmaids. Her body felt so fat and ungainly now that she welcomed the help of their strong arms and deft hands, whereas before she had often been uncomfortable with the way they fussed and fluttered about her. They scrubbed her clean and dressed her in sandsilk, loose and flowing. As Doreah combed out her hair, she sent Jhiqui to find Ser Jorah Mormont. The knight came at once. He wore horsehair leggings and painted vest, like a rider. Coarse black hair covered his thick chest and muscular arms. "My princess. How may I serve you?" "You must talk to my lord husband," Dany said. "Drogo says the stallion who mounts the world will have all the lands of the earth to rule, and no need to cross the poison water. He talks of leading his khalasar east after Rhaego is born, to plunder the lands around the Jade Sea." The knight looked thoughtful. "The khal has never seen the Seven Kingdoms," he said. "They are nothing to him. If he thinks of them at all, no doubt he thinks of islands, a few small cities clinging to rocks in the manner of Lorath or Lys, surrounded by stormy seas. The riches of the east must seem a more tempting prospect." "But he must ride west," Dany said, despairing. "Please, help me make him understand." She had never seen the Seven Kingdoms either, no more than Drogo, yet she felt as though she knew them from all the tales her brother had told her. Viserys had promised her a thousand times that he would take her back one day, but he was dead now and his promises had died with him. "The Dothraki do things in their own time, for their own reasons," the knight answered. "Have patience, Princess. Do not make your brother's mistake. We will go home, I promise you." Home? The word made her feel sad. Ser Jorah had his Bear Island, but what was home to her? A few tales, names recited as solemnly as the words of a prayer, the fading memory of a red door . . . was Vaes Dothrak to be her home forever? When she looked at the crones of the dosh khaleen, was she looking at her future? Ser Jorah must have seen the sadness on her face. "A great caravan arrived during the night, Khaleesi. Four hundred horses, from Pentos by way of Norvos and Qohor, under the command of Merchant Captain Byan Votyris. Illyrio may have sent a letter. Would you care to visit the Western Market?" Dany stirred. "Yes," she said. "I would like that." The markets came alive when a caravan had come in. You could never tell what treasures the traders might bring this time, and it would be good to hear men speaking Valyrian again, as they did in the Free Cities. "Irri, have them prepare a litter." "I shall tell your khas," Ser Jorah said, withdrawing. If Khal Drogo had been with her, Dany would have ridden her silver. Among the Dothraki, mothers stayed on horseback almost up to the moment of birth, and she did not want to seem weak in her husband's eyes. But with the khal off hunting, it was pleasant to lie back on soft cushions and be carried across Vaes Dothrak, with red silk curtains to shield her from the sun. Ser Jorah saddled up and rode beside her, with the four young men of her khas and her handmaids. The day was warm and cloudless, the sky a deep blue. When the wind blew, she could smell the rich scents of grass and earth. As her litter passed beneath the stolen monuments, she went from sunlight to shadow and back again. Dany swayed along, studying the faces of dead heroes and forgotten kings. She wondered if the gods of burned cities could still answer prayers. If I were not the blood of the dragon, she thought wistfully, this could be my home. She was khaleesi, she had a strong man and a swift horse, handmaids to serve her, warriors to keep her safe, an honored place in the dosh khaleen awaiting her when she grew old . . . and in her womb grew a son who would one day bestride the world. That should be enough for any woman . . . but not for the dragon. With Viserys gone, Daenerys was the last, the very last. She was the seed of kings and conquerors, and so too the child inside her. She must not forget. The Western Market was a great square of beaten earth surrounded by warrens of mud-baked brick, animal pens, whitewashed drinking halls. Hummocks rose from the ground like the backs of great subterranean beasts breaking the surface, yawning black mouths leading down to cool and cavernous storerooms below. The interior of the square was a maze of stalls and crookback aisles, shaded by awnings of woven grass. A hundred merchants and traders were unloading their goods and setting up in stalls when they arrived, yet even so the great market seemed hushed and deserted compared to the teeming bazaars that Dany remembered from Pentos and the other Free Cities. The caravans made their way to Vaes Dothrak from east and west not so much to sell to the Dothraki as to trade with each other, Ser Jorah had explained. The riders let them come and go unmolested, so long as they observed the peace of the sacred city, did not profane the Mother of Mountains or the Womb of the World, and honored the crones of the dosh khaleen with the traditional gifts of salt, silver, and seed. The Dothraki did not truly comprehend this business of buying and selling. Dany liked the strangeness of the Eastern Market too, with all its queer sights and sounds and smells. She often spent her mornings there, nibbling tree eggs, locust pie, and green noodles, listening to the high ululating voices of the spellsingers, gaping at manticores in silver cages and immense grey elephants and the striped black-and-white horses of the Jogos Nhai. She enjoyed watching all the people too: dark solemn Asshai'i and tall pale Qartheen, the bright-eyed men of Yi Ti in monkey-tail hats, warrior maids from Bayasabhad, Shamyriana, and Kayakayanaya with iron rings in their nipples and rubies in their cheeks, even the dour and frightening Shadow Men, who covered their arms and legs and chests with tattoos and hid their faces behind masks. The Eastern Market was a place of wonder and magic for Dany. But the Western Market smelled of home. As Irri and Jhiqui helped her from her litter, she sniffed, and recognized the sharp odors of garlic and pepper, scents that reminded Dany of days long gone in the alleys of Tyrosh and Myr and brought a fond smile to her face. Under that she smelled the heady sweet perfumes of Lys. She saw slaves carrying bolts of intricate Myrish lace and fine wools in a dozen rich colors. Caravan guards wandered among the aisles in copper helmets and knee-length tunics of quilted yellow cotton, empty scabbards swinging from their woven leather belts. Behind one stall an armorer displayed steel breastplates worked with gold and silver in ornate patterns, and helms hammered in the shapes of fanciful beasts. Next to him was a pretty young woman selling Lannisport goldwork, rings and brooches and torcs and exquisitely wrought medallions suitable for belting. A huge eunuch guarded her stall, mute and hairless, dressed in sweat-stained velvets and scowling at anyone who came close. Across the aisle, a fat cloth trader from Yi Ti was haggling with a Pentoshi over the price of some green dye, the monkey tail on his hat swaying back and forth as he shook his head. "When I was a little girl, I loved to play in the bazaar," Dany told Ser Jorah as they wandered down the shady aisle between the stalls. "It was so alive there, all the people shouting and laughing, so many wonderful things to look at . . . though we seldom had enough coin to buy anything . . . well, except for a sausage now and again, or honeyfingers . . . do they have honeyfingers in the Seven Kingdoms, the kind they bake in Tyrosh?" "Cakes, are they? I could not say, Princess." The knight bowed. "If you would pardon me for a time, I will seek out the captain and see if he has letters for us." "Very well. I'll help you find him." "There is no need for you to trouble yourself." Ser Jorah glanced away impatiently. "Enjoy the market. I will rejoin you when my business is concluded." Curious, Dany thought as she watched him stride off through the throngs. She didn't see why she should not go with him. Perhaps Ser Jorah meant to find a woman after he met with the merchant captain. Whores frequently traveled with the caravans, she knew, and some men were queerly shy about their couplings. She gave a shrug. "Come," she told the others. Her handmaids trailed along as Dany resumed her stroll through the market. "Oh, look," she exclaimed to Doreah, "those are the kind of sausages I meant." She pointed to a stall where a wizened little woman was grilling meat and onions on a hot firestone. "They make them with lots of garlic and hot peppers." Delighted with her discovery, Dany insisted the others join her for a sausage. Her handmaids wolfed theirs down giggling and grinning, though the men of her khas sniffed at the grilled meat suspiciously. "They taste different than I remember," Dany said after her first few bites. "In Pentos, I make them with pork," the old woman said, "but all my pigs died on the Dothraki sea. These are made of horsemeat, Khaleesi, but I spice them the same." "Oh." Dany felt disappointed, but Quaro liked his sausage so well he decided to have another one, and Rakharo had to outdo him and eat three more, belching loudly. Dany giggled. "You have not laughed since your brother the Khal Rhaggat was crowned by Drogo," said Irri. "It is good to see, Khaleesi." Dany smiled shyly. It was sweet to laugh. She felt half a girl again. They wandered for half the morning. She saw a beautiful feathered cloak from the Summer Isles, and took it for a gift. In return, she gave the merchant a silver medallion from her belt. That was how it was done among the Dothraki. A birdseller taught a green-and-red parrot to say her name, and Dany laughed again, yet still refused to take him. What would she do with a green-and-red parrot in a khalasar? She did take a dozen flasks of scented oils, the perfumes of her childhood; she had only to close her eyes and sniff them and she could see the big house with the red door once more. When Doreah looked longingly at a fertility charm at a magician's booth, Dany took that too and gave it to the handmaid, thinking that now she should find something for Irri and Jhiqui as well. Turning a corner, they came upon a wine merchant offering thimble-sized cups of his wares to the passersby. "Sweet reds," he cried in fluent Dothraki, "I have sweet reds, from Lys and Volantis and the Arbor. Whites from Lys, Tyroshi pear brandy, firewine, pepperwine, the pale green nectars of Myr. Smokeberry browns and Andalish sours, I have them, I have them." He was a small man, slender and handsome, his flaxen hair curled and perfumed after the fashion of Lys. When Dany paused before his stall, he bowed low. "A taste for the khaleesi? I have a sweet red from Dorne, my lady, it sings of plums and cherries and rich dark oak. A cask, a cup, a swallow? One taste, and you will name your child after me." Dany smiled. "My son has his name, but I will try your summerwine," she said in Valyrian, Valyrian as they spoke it in the Free Cities. The words felt strange on her tongue, after so long. "Just a taste, if you would be so kind." The merchant must have taken her for Dothraki, with her clothes and her oiled hair and sun-browned skin. When she spoke, he gaped at her in astonishment. "My lady, you are . . . Tyroshi? Can it be so?" "My speech may be Tyroshi, and my garb Dothraki, but I am of Westeros, of the Sunset Kingdoms," Dany told him. Doreah stepped up beside her. "You have the honor to address Daenerys of the House Targaryen, Daenerys Stormborn, khaleesi of the riding men and princess of the Seven Kingdoms." The wine merchant dropped to his knees. "Princess," he said, bowing his head. "Rise," Dany commanded him. "I would still like to taste that summerwine you spoke of." The man bounded to his feet. "That? Dornish swill. It is not worthy of a princess. I have a dry red from the Arbor, crisp and delectable. Please, let me give you a cask." Khal Drogo's visits to the Free Cities had given him a taste for good wine, and Dany knew that such a noble vintage would please him. "You honor me, ser," she murmured sweetly. "The honor is mine." The merchant rummaged about in the back of his stall and produced a small oaken cask. Burned into the wood was a cluster of grapes. "The Redwyne sigil," he said, pointing, "for the Arbor. There is no finer drink." "Khal Drogo and I will share it together. Aggo, take this back to my litter, if you'd be so kind." The wineseller beamed as the Dothraki hefted the cask. She did not realize that Ser Jorah had returned until she heard the knight say, "No." His voice was strange, brusque. "Aggo, put down that cask." Aggo looked at Dany. She gave a hesitant nod. "Ser Jorah, is something wrong?" "I have a thirst. Open it, wineseller." The merchant frowned. "The wine is for the khaleesi, not for the likes of you, ser." Ser Jorah moved closer to the stall. "If you don't open it, I'll crack it open with your head." He carried no weapons here in the sacred city, save his hands—yet his hands were enough, big, hard, dangerous, his knuckles covered with coarse dark hairs. The wineseller hesitated a moment, then took up his hammer and knocked the plug from the cask. "Pour," Ser Jorah commanded. The four young warriors of Dany's khas arrayed themselves behind him, frowning, watching with their dark, almond-shaped eyes. "It would be a crime to drink this rich a wine without letting it breathe." The wineseller had not put his hammer down. Jhogo reached for the whip coiled at his belt, but Dany stopped him with a light touch on the arm. "Do as Ser Jorah says," she said. People were stopping to watch. The man gave her a quick, sullen glance. "As the princess commands." He had to set aside his hammer to lift the cask. He filled two thimble-sized tasting cups, pouring so deftly he did not spill a drop. Ser Jorah lifted a cup and sniffed at the wine, frowning. "Sweet, isn't it?" the wineseller said, smiling. "Can you smell the fruit, ser? The perfume of the Arbor. Taste it, my lord, and tell me it isn't the finest, richest wine that's ever touched your tongue." Ser Jorah offered him the cup. "You taste it first." "Me?" The man laughed. "I am not worthy of this vintage, my lord. And it's a poor wine merchant who drinks up his own wares." His smile was amiable, yet she could see the sheen of sweat on his brow. "You will drink," Dany said, cold as ice. "Empty the cup, or I will tell them to hold you down while Ser Jorah pours the whole cask down your throat." The wineseller shrugged, reached for the cup . . . and grabbed the cask instead, flinging it at her with both hands. Ser Jorah bulled into her, knocking her out of the way. The cask bounced off his shoulder and smashed open on the ground. Dany stumbled and lost her feet. "No," she screamed, thrusting her hands out to break her fall . . . and Doreah caught her by the arm and wrenched her backward, so she landed on her legs and not her belly. The trader vaulted over the stall, darting between Aggo and Rakharo. Quaro reached for an arakh that was not there as the blond man slammed him aside. He raced down the aisle. Dany heard the snap of Jhogo's whip, saw the leather lick out and coil around the wineseller's leg. The man sprawled face first in the dirt. A dozen caravan guards had come running. With them was the master himself, Merchant Captain Byan Votyris, a diminutive Norvoshi with skin like old leather and a bristling blue mustachio that swept up to his ears. He seemed to know what had happened without a word being spoken. "Take this one away to await the pleasure of the khal," he commanded, gesturing at the man on the ground. Two guards hauled the wineseller to his feet. "His goods I gift to you as well, Princess," the merchant captain went on. "Small token of regret, that one of mine would do this thing." Doreah and Jhiqui helped Dany back to her feet. The poisoned wine was leaking from the broken cask into the dirt. "How did you know?" she asked Ser Jorah, trembling. "How?" "I did not know, Khaleesi, not until the man refused to drink, but once I read Magister Illyrio's letter, I feared." His dark eyes swept over the faces of the strangers in the market. "Come. Best not to talk of it here." Dany was near tears as they carried her back. The taste in her mouth was one she had known before: fear. For years she had lived in terror of Viserys, afraid of waking the dragon. This was even worse. It was not just for herself that she feared now, but for her baby. He must have sensed her fright, for he moved restlessly inside her. Dany stroked the swell of her belly gently, wishing she could reach him, touch him, soothe him. "You are the blood of the dragon, little one," she whispered as her litter swayed along, curtains drawn tight. "You are the blood of the dragon, and the dragon does not fear." Under the hollow hummock of earth that was her home in Vaes Dothrak, Dany ordered them to leave her—all but Ser Jorah. "Tell me," she commanded as she lowered herself onto her cushions. "Was it the Usurper?" "Yes." The knight drew out a folded parchment. "A letter to Viserys, from Magister Illyrio. Robert Baratheon offers lands and lordships for your death, or your brother's." "My brother?" Her sob was half a laugh. "He does not know yet, does he? The Usurper owes Drogo a lordship." This time her laugh was half a sob. She hugged herself protectively. "And me, you said. Only me?" "You and the child," Ser Jorah said, grim. "No. He cannot have my son." She would not weep, she decided. She would not shiver with fear. The Usurper has woken the dragon now, she told herself . . . and her eyes went to the dragon's eggs resting in their nest of dark velvet. The shifting lamplight limned their stony scales, and shimmering motes of jade and scarlet and gold swam in the air around them, like courtiers around a king. Was it madness that seized her then, born of fear? Or some strange wisdom buried in her blood? Dany could not have said. She heard her own voice saying, "Ser Jorah, light the brazier." "Khaleesi?" The knight looked at her strangely. "It is so hot. Are you certain?" She had never been so certain. "Yes. I . . . I have a chill. Light the brazier." He bowed. "As you command." When the coals were afire, Dany sent Ser Jorah from her. She had to be alone to do what she must do. This is madness, she told herself as she lifted the black-and-scarlet egg from the velvet. It will only crack and burn, and it's so beautiful, Ser Jorah will call me a fool if I ruin it, and yet, and yet . . . Cradling the egg with both hands, she carried it to the fire and pushed it down amongst the burning coals. The black scales seemed to glow as they drank the heat. Flames licked against the stone with small red tongues. Dany placed the other two eggs beside the black one in the fire. As she stepped back from the brazier, the breath trembled in her throat. She watched until the coals had turned to ashes. Drifting sparks floated up and out of the smokehole. Heat shimmered in waves around the dragon's eggs. And that was all. Your brother Rhaegar was the last dragon, Ser Jorah had said. Dany gazed at her eggs sadly. What had she expected? A thousand thousand years ago they had been alive, but now they were only pretty rocks. They could not make a dragon. A dragon was air and fire. Living flesh, not dead stone. The brazier was cold again by the time Khal Drogo returned. Cohollo was leading a packhorse behind him, with the carcass of a great white lion slung across its back. Above, the stars were coming out. The khal laughed as he swung down off his stallion and showed her the scars on his leg where the hrakkar had raked him through his leggings. "I shall make you a cloak of its skin, moon of my life," he swore. When Dany told him what had happened at the market, all laughter stopped, and Khal Drogo grew very quiet. "This poisoner was the first," Ser Jorah Mormont warned him, "but he will not be the last. Men will risk much for a lordship." Drogo was silent for a time. Finally he said, "This seller of poisons ran from the moon of my life. Better he should run after her. So he will. Jhogo, Jorah the Andal, to each of you I say, choose any horse you wish from my herds, and it is yours. Any horse save my red and the silver that was my bride gift to the moon of my life. I make this gift to you for what you did. "And to Rhaego son of Drogo, the stallion who will mount the world, to him I also pledge a gift. To him I will give this iron chair his mother's father sat in. I will give him Seven Kingdoms. I, Drogo, khal, will do this thing." His voice rose, and he lifted his fist to the sky. "I will take my khalasar west to where the world ends, and ride the wooden horses across the black salt water as no khal has done before. I will kill the men in the iron suits and tear down their stone houses. I will rape their women, take their children as slaves, and bring their broken gods back to Vaes Dothrak to bow down beneath the Mother of Mountains. This I vow, I, Drogo son of Bharbo. This I swear before the Mother of Mountains, as the stars look down in witness." His khalasar left Vaes Dothrak two days later, striking south and west across the plains. Khal Drogo led them on his great red stallion, with Daenerys beside him on her silver. The wineseller hurried behind them, naked, on foot, chained at throat and wrists. His chains were fastened to the halter of Dany's silver. As she rode, he ran after her, barefoot and stumbling. No harm would come to him . . . so long as he kept up.

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