The Cappy Chronicle

This will only be 2 paragraphs each entry for each chapter now..as I have less time then usual, I figure the 2 people who read this book won’t mind..and may come back more if the chapters are in bites..I will continue this chapter 2 paragraphs at a time until the chapter is completed..enjoy!)

His hands slid gently across her pale skin longing making him shiver. Her skin always did this to him. The shimmer softness of it, the smooth pale beauty reflected in her flawless china skin. She look down upon him and smiled, her soft black hair splayed across his bare chest. He felt himself harden and knew that no other woman would ever make him long just this way. His passion made him want to rush, but he held the fire at bay, this was a woman to cherish and damn the fates he would give her pleasure before taking his own. He leaned forward drawing one rosy tipped breast into his mouth and delighted at the moan that tumbled from her lips. Gazing upward he felt a joy leap to life in his heart, no one else could bring him this, no one else in all the worlds he had seen, no one but his Moira. Her leg shifted and he felt rather than saw her curl her legs around his waist, she murmured gently as she withdrew her breast and shifted ever so slightly to the side, allowing her body to cradle his side, lying with her head in her hand, her body now along his side as she gazed at him with so much love in her eyes, he had to tell her, he must! She needed to know how much he loved her. He opened his mouth to speak but felt the words dry up, the world tilted and suddenly he felt her being pulled from him. Panic filled him, what was happening? He fought to reach out for her; he had to pull her back. His breath burst from his chest as he leaped forward and found…nothing.

Flinging himself back onto his pallet Pater cursed the fates that would bring him this memory. It always ended this way, the nightmare, sweet bliss that felt like the darkest pain when he awoke, knowing the truths he knew. Realizing the folly of his love and the hot searing grief of his betrayal he didn’t fight the shame. It was enough to dream of her at all. He gave himself that much pleasure in the nightmare at least, a wry twist of derision colored his thoughts for a second and was gone as a man stumbled into his tent. “Sir” he gasped red-faced and startled by his own presumption to enter the tent of the silver fox  “I” ah “Sir” he mumbled “He’s here, you said to wake you when he.ah got here” He shifted his feet. The boy was clearly not comfortable with his task and appeared ready to flee at any moment, Pater gave him his leave and asked him to send in their esteemed guest once he was fed and situated. Pater knew this would take longer than he wanted but the sinister bastard would have his luxury when entering the camp, would want to appear regal and important, pompous ass Pater added silently. Grabbing a fur and some loin clothes he dressed himself quickly and with the appearance of having done so many a time before. He was in no great hurry to greet the dark ones servant any faster than was demanded.

Pater walked swiftly down the dark corridor, his steps made no sound on the brick stone, this was no accident of fate, he had been trained, and trained well to move without sound and kill, without the victim ever knowing he was there, until the blow fell. Pater was no mere man; he was the second in command and the only one besides Katar himself who had ever actually seen the dark lord. The dark lord was the highest of the dark magic realm and to look upon him was the end of many a man. The dark lord did not like to be seen.
When using dark magic it was to be expected that the magic would take its price. Slowly over time a master of the dark would pay that price, in flesh and bone. Their bodies slowly twisted and mutilated by the very evil that they handled as it seeped along the edges of their mortal body and into their very soul. A true dark lord was at his end, a hideous thing to behold indeed.

There was, of course, a way around the price of the magic, they could and did use innocents to pay the price for them, the problem was the keepers of the light were always interfering with any attempt to take an innocent. It always lead to more trouble then it was worth most times. It never paid to have the light keeper paying to much attention to what was going on in certain areas of the realm. There were plans to be carried out and deeds to be done. Pater allowed himself the luxury of a moments thought, he recalled her face and as always the pain of it was more then he could bear, so much so he pushed it back and away from him once more. Focusing instead of the two guards at the entrance to the lords chamber.

 Stepping to the side Pater swiftly drew his cloak about him and hugged the wall. With smooth efficient steps he made closer to the door. The guards so close he could feel their warm breath on his neck as he passed. Just as he was almost through he felt a hand grip his upper arm. “Going somewhere dark prince?” Pater gave a grim smile, then folded it and made it a fierce frown, “I almost made it through, you need more practice, young one!” Turning Pater allowed himself to be seen, lifting the invisibility spell and gazing at this best pupil. The boy would never know that he was Pater’s favorite for it showed in no way in his manner or in his address. To do so would be to place a target on the boys back. One did not get to second in command by making friends, many a dark lord would cackle with glee to find such an easy way to cause Pater pain, killing the boy, named Faxxim would be as easy as a spell in this realm. Pater never betrayed his pupil in deed or word.

 Faxxim looked at him grimly, “Knew it was you, wanted to show you I knew…placed a knife in your pocket to prove I would have killed you, didn’t think you’d want me to actually do so.” Pater felt along the seam of his coat, “Not that one” Faxxim smiled slightly in pride, “the inner one” Pater felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise, feeling into his inner pocket he found that indeed the knife had been placed in the pocket closest to his heart, Startled by the light touch it would have taken Pater realized the boy had carried on his training even after obtaining the most coveted role of guardian to the dark lord. This was very good indeed. He had chosen well. Pater did not allow a smile to show, yet felt a small piercing pride nonetheless. “Well done, but next time, allow me not to make it even that far. I may be second in command, but even I can be spelled.” Only after a long piercing look to ensure the lesson had been learned, did he allow himself to turn and enter the dark lords chamber. His last thought that of preparing to see the very devil himself.

The room stank, that was always the first thing anyone noticed. The putrid smell of ingredients used for foul and sinful deeds. The dark shadows were not in fact all shadows, Pater could feel the demons and wraiths waiting there, for instructions and tasks. He held himself stiffly away from the edges of the doorway, but still felt the tips of their evil fingers as they tested him in hopes of finding a hold so they could yank him into the other world. Lucky for me my soul is so dark he mussed, they would try much harder had they anything truly worthy of their time to snatch.  Listening to the voices raised in anger he assessed the rooms contents. The dark one was quite angry. The creatures he had sent to destroy the woman must have failed. Pater smiled grimly, he had tried to warn them that the woman had forces watching over her, unlike most of his people Pater knew a woman’s true potential, they were not as weak and powerless as one would think. Pater had known many women, all of them with their own ways of getting what they wanted, sometimes subtle, sometimes downright predatory, but never weak or powerless.

He glanced at the misshapen face of the darkest one. His hair was black as pitch and the only thing about him that still appeared at all human. The misshapen mass of black had in fact once been a man of somewhat fine features,. now horribly changed by his lust for power and the use of magic to get that power.  His hands rested on the goblet of blood that sustained him. Pater shuddered, the blood of a Unicorn was rare and highly prized, but also quite addictive and deadly in the end for miss one dose of the stuff and immediate death was your only warning that you had need of more. Pater knew the dark one had a man on hand who’s only job was to hunt down unicorn blood. If the man ever failed his death would come swiftly and with much pain, even if the dark one died first, for the spell that bound the man to the dark one was binding. if the dark one died so did his servant.

“What news have you Pater” the refined and cultured voice of the dark one never ceased to startle people, he was an educated men, an aristocrat in fact, the only part one still saw of that life was in the creatures voice. Pater moved into the room. Dominated by a large throne and a bed that the dark one rested on for short periods. The heavy drapes and elaborate red and black tones making the room stuffy and oppressive, just the way his darkness preferred it to be. “I have seen him on the plains of Mida, he has made camp.” “Is he vulnerable enough for an attack?” interrupted Katar with a growl, it was no secret he hated Orien, his lack of a hand being an all too vivid symbol of the light master’s victory over him during the battle of Calessis, a bloody and intense war that had happened while Orien was just a young man. Katar had assumed the boy would be untrained and easy to assassinate. He had learned he was wrong when the man-child had not only held his position but divested Katar of his sword hand. A lesson in patience and spycraft, Pater thought, he still has not learned. With a sigh Pater turned and faced the man. Red hair and beard coated in blood and gore was all that one ever saw of Katar’s face. It was so completely covered with hair that one wondered if the man even had a face under it all. His body was not as twisted as the dark ones yet had the clear mark of death and evil upon it. His stature being short and stumpy, with a solidness that gave the appearance of a twisted old tree. Patar answered calmly and with little regard for his questioner. “I have reason to believe that any weakness displayed would be that of a trap or illusion. They would welcome anyone stupid enough to fall for it” Katar thrust himself forward and moved to grasp his sword, his current sword hand was not as strong as the one he lost, but still quite useful in surprise attacks. He was stilled in movement by the dark ones hand on his sleeve.

“No, fool” The dark one tilted his head to one side as if hearing something, which most likely he was considering he had more charms and spells cast about him then any one man could ever hope to defeat in getting at him. “He is correct, I am aware of many such devices being used throughout Mida.” They seek to draw us out and divert out attention from…. her” The evil one’s eyes gleamed. The woman was not only full of immense power, she was innocent in heart and mind, a innocence which for a man that needed power, was a temptation in and of itself. “She is growing in her power” The dark one shifted his mass to one side and reached into the recesses of his cloak. He pulled an object from the folds and handed it to Katar. “This will help us gain access to her dreams, use it to draw her to us.” Katar’s eyes lit with a fire of greedy joy, a joy so frightening Pater struggled not to turn his eyes away, to do so would be to betray himself. The secret power inside him wavering for a moment. Without it he would be doomed. They must never know about her. It would be all too easy a weapon to bring him under complete control. Pater clenched his hands until the feeling was controlled, all the time forcing his gaze to remain calm and unaffected by the object before him.

His mind raced as he contemplated the meaning behind this new turn of events. There was only one way the dark one could have gotten it. Only one way the object Katar now held with dark glee could have been obtained. Only one way it would have been released to anyone. Anger and despair clutched at Patar’s heart until he controlled it by once again drawing on his hidden power. My dark deeds are coming to destroy me at last he thought. This thought far from bringing him renewed fear, instead brought him silent acceptance. His agony would soon be over, and then he would finally lay down the burden of his shame, and die the death he deserved.

If only forgiveness was so easy to obtain he thought, I might see her lovely face once more in  the moment of death. The voice in his heart sneered at him as it always did, whispering of his cowardice and betrayal. Looking up into the face of the dark one he tensed. The dark one had a considering look in his eye. “Have you something to speak of Pater?” The dark one asked “You seem without words at the moment” Pater held the mans gaze. “Merely considering the advantages of having this object in our aid” he rasped. “Have you any instructions before I head again into the field?” The dark one smiled slightly but let whatever thought he had been pondering slide away, “No, return to your watch and await new orders.”

Pater turned to leave but was stopped by the dark ones parting words “Katar will be joining you for a time, be ready to receive him in 3 days time” Without turning Patar nodded his acceptance of the orders. then made his way to the door. This was not good news. Ignoring him completely the guards continued their silent watch, it was only people going into the chamber that concerned them. Those coming out generally were the lucky ones, unless they were being carried, even then they were of little concern to anyone. Pater let his thoughts gather as he walked the pathway, he had much to do and only 3 days to plan. First priority being the gathering of knowledge, finding out when and how the Kingdom of Killion had fallen. For fallen it had, the jewel from the scepter of Salizon being the silent witness to it’s demise.

 The light morning mist trickled gently down the windowpane, making soft calming noises as it hit the glass and slid down like a child on a big slide. It was the day after the painting had frightened her and Asha once again found herself contemplating the man on the canvas. Who was he? Why did he seem so very familiar to her, why did she care so much about a detail so very unimportant in the whole scheme of things?

She stood looking through the window, she might as well have been standing in front of a door for all the attention she seemed to be giving the view. She was so deeply in thought that she failed to register the sound of the door opening. Soft little footsteps made their way to her side. When a small hand came up and tugged at her skirt, she visibly started. In looking downward she was amused to find a pair of wee eyes, earnestly appraising and assessing her. “Cookie?” queried the child.

The child in question was a tiny little girl of approximate age 2; her little frame was in fact more tiny then it should have been. Her name was Teeka and she was the cook’s child. The cook was always trying to get her to eat and had recently come upon an old fashioned recipe that seemed to be a hit. Teeka was now constantly asking for a cookie. The cookie, was in fact a potato product deep fried and served hot. No one was sure just why she called it a cookie, but her delighted mother said she could call it anything she liked so long as she ate a lot of it.

Teeka was such a sweet tempered child that she was watched and fussed over by practically every member of Asha’s staff. Her black hair and vivid blues eyes, always held a spark of amusement and quiet joy. She was Asha’s favorite subject when she did her art, showing up in many of the scenes that portrayed a child. Many a person found themselves losing their heart to her wee grins and cheerful mannerisms.

“You want a cookie, Teeks?” Asha found herself using her pet name for Teeka, mostly because it sounded like cheeks, and Teeka’s were the plumpest thing about her. “Cookie” repeated Teeka in agreement “Wan a Cookie!” Asha knelt before Teeka and gave her an affectionate hug. She had always longed for a child of her own. It had just never seemed to happen for her. Men found her…somewhat standoffish; she didn’t know why she always reverted to that when meeting a man, but it seemed to happen everytime she got nervous. She smiled back at Teeka and held out her hand as she stood. “Let’s go find us 2 cookies, one for you and one for me” Asha grasped her little friends wee hand in hers and started off into the hall leading to her kitchen.

The house had been built to resemble an extremely more comfortable, but otherwise authentic looking castle from an old Irish manuscript Asha has found many years ago. The walls were the hardest thing to come by, considering the cost of any kind of land in her world. Where trees were plentiful, space and land were not. With the protection of so many parks and woodland areas it was extremely difficult to find raw earth material that wasn’t highly priced. Many had succumbed to the allure of less home maintenance and exciting city living and moved to the more popular high-sky homes. All stacked neatly upward and resembled, to Asha’s mind, the lego buildings kids use to make in the 20th century.

Making their way to the kitchen, Asha hummed a merry tune and gazed with happiness on the various pieces of her work she had hung along the corridor. They were all originals, despite the fact that she had been told they should be copies to discourage stealing. Her stern and pinched faced accountant had been adamant that she do so, she had been just as adamant in defense of her staff with whom she had forged long and lasting bonds with over the years.

Asha expected a lot from people, but she also expected a lot from herself. Anyone who couldn’t hack it had long since faded into the cosmos protesting Asha’s “rigid need to be in control of all the details”. Those who stayed, had come to see her inner soul and slowly, over time, knew her to be more than what she appeared. The loyalty of her staff was the rock of support Asha leaned on every day and she returned their loyalty with good pay, comfortable living quarters, and firm, though slightly distracted, friendship. The accountant had quickly been dismissed and replaced.

Teeka gave a cry of happiness when she spotted her mother, a plump and cheery faced woman with shiny black hair that trailed down her back in a plait. Her hands were in constant motion as she stirred, flipped and arranged items on the huge black topped stove. The stove was a complete fraud of course. There was no way to burn anything on a mega-wink 2000, but Corina insisted on it appearing like a proper cooking area of an old medieval kitchen. She seemed to enjoy the romantic idea of working in an old castle. Asha was glad to provide her with something that made her cook so very happy.

Letting go of her hand Teeka rushed to her mother and flung her tiny arms around a convenient leg. Her mother, obviously accustomed to many such shows of affection, barely even paused in her graceful dance in front of the cookstove. Asha always privately thought Corina looked like a plump dancing biscuit as she moved about the room. It gave her great joy to see her there each morning. Asha wondered what she would do without so many wonderful people in her life. “Probably get old and crotchety all alone”, the voice in her head whispered.

The voice in her head always seemed to say the things she would never say out loud. It was always alarming and amusing at the same time, the things her mind came up with. Sometimes she wondered who she really was, with thoughts so wild and slightly cheeky all the time. Sniffing the air, Asha made her way further into the room and leaned against the counter. “You’ve made some cinnas haven’t you?” She grinned. Corina always seemed to know when she was distracted, sad and in need of a sweet treat. Corina nudged her with her arm “You have been staring out that window so long you could easily paint it with your eyes closed.”

“I know Corina, I just…” Asha sighed “I have a lot on my mind.” She wondered if she should mention her thoughts to Corina; perhaps she would be able to help. Corina leaned her forearms against the counter. “What is it girl? You know you can tell me anything.” Asha opened her mouth to speak, then suddenly the voice in her head came to violent life; before she had even heard the words in her head her hands were somehow obeying; a knife off the nearby table seemed to leap into hands and without saying a word she pivoted and flung it. It landed 2 feet from Corina’s leg, the leg her daughter now held like a vise, her face frozen in stark fear as she stared at the now dead black snake that had been poised seconds before to strike her down.

Asha swept aside her thoughts with a wave of her hand. She had much to do and her habit of daydreaming was her biggest enemy. “Time to get this work done,” she muttered. Standing before her hoopla she assessed her progress. Back in the early times women had sewn using a thin metal pin-like object to make works of art and beauty. They had struggled with time and lack of funds to make objects every bit as creative and special as an artist’s painting. The amount of time it took to complete a work of such beauty was often hard for others to comprehend.

The fabric artists of the 21st century had gotten little recognition for their skills in sewing, due in part to the fact that selling such items generally cost more than people would be moved to pay when they could get something machine made much more cheaply. Unless they happened to find that rare individual that could appreciate good workmanship, the market for such art was completely small. Those who did the art did it for the love of the process of sewing and it showed in the pieces that had survived the passage of time, having been lovingly protected and framed to withstand sun damage and wet environments . Yes, the women who sewed in the 21st century had done it for love, and never made more for their pieces then they spent on the materials to make them.

That all had changed when the hoopla was invented. It blended the best of the machine age with the timeless beauty of handmade elegance. A standard hoopla was a thing of immense beauty. Crafted from recycled wood it was cross beamed and supported at the bottom and top with strong Willkee wood (a hybrid tree that grew in just 2 short weeks to full adult size, and was stronger than any wood known.) The Willkee tree had been the savior of trees everywhere since they no longer needed any other kind for most consumer needs. It came in a vast amount of colors and grains and was extremely durable and could be grown to be pliable or rigid depending on the parent trees used in its genetic coding makeup. Now, there were parks and tree sanctuaries all over the green world featuring trees that once were considered rare and endangered as well as the kind that was just fun to lie under. People had embraced the idea of trees and plants and now even cities were covered in parks and sanctuaries. There seemed to be one on just about every block these days.

Asha carefully selected the style of stitch she wanted and programmed it into the hoopla. That done she tossed her copper locks as she mentally contemplated the work she wanted to create and plotted the appropriate stitching lines on the hoopla. Her nimble fingers would hand create the first work, in the ancient way of the medium, while the hoopla replicated the stitches onto the other hooplas as Asha did her work on the original. Asha liked this part best, because she could imagine herself sitting alongside the women of yesterday as they shared stories as they sewed. Depending on how many hooplas an artist had she could create a work of art in as many duplicates as she wanted. Asha stuck to 5. To allow the pieces to have their own unique style she had programmed her hoopla program to make random mistakes common to the ones found in real works of the past.

In her world the first work an artist did was considered the ultimate prize. It was so highly prized because even with duplicates, the original could never be copied. The magic inherent in the piece was like a fingerprint and no one yet had found a way to copy it, though some had tried. The use of a Cappola bird was generally the end of any attempt at trickery,  as this type of bird was a natural lie detector. The lives of many men had been changed by a sharp minded wife and the purchase of a bird for their homes.

Standing back a while later, Asha was astounded to find that she had once again finished a complete piece without recalling it. This happened quite often lately. It was unsettling; she would be looking at the piece one moment and the next moment, almost a blink in time, and she would look and see that much time had passed while she was contemplating other thoughts. It was always surprising to see how the work reflected what she had been thinking about. If she thought about love, bold strings of pinks and purples would flow through her hands and transform slowly into a scene of a man and woman dancing together, or making eyes at one another on a helio-pad as the aircraft prepared to disembark for places unknown. If she was sad the scene of a sad eyed woman gazing out her window would appear. The emotional pull of her works had made her one of the most recognized and sought after artists of her realm, but Asha did it for the love of the work, not for money. She loved the security of having funds to draw upon, but the real draw for her was a connection to the past. Tenuous at best, but it was all she had. She had no family to draw loving memories from.

Giving a great sigh Asha contemplated her current work. It was well-fashioned and the specialty stitches were straight and true. The subject matter was… she stepped back to assess this and stopped mid-step. There was something unsettling about the subject’s face that she could not understand. It was a man. His appearance was that of a warrior in full battle fury. He was not an angry man; the face had a distinct feeling of purpose and integrity about it; it appeared the way a reluctant hero’s face might be in a battle he didn’t wish to fight but was forced to for a cause that was just. Her face was drawn to it. She drank it in with hitched breaths. The silver orb in her bellybutton seemed to give off a sudden throbbing heat. He was familiar to her somehow. It was as if someone had struck her with a bolt - her heart was so engaged in the appearance of this man. Who was he? Had she met him on the street somewhere? Had she used the image of a friend she once knew? Who was he? Why did she feel the urge to run from the room and deny his existence? Why was she affected this way by something she herself had made?

“This is crazy”, she thought, “I am just tired”; laughing shakily she backed away from her creation, hand clutching her navel as the orb intensified its heat. The man’s eyes seemed to follow her, almost as if he was amused by her fear. A twinkle in his eye seemed to dare her, his mouth a study in humor. “Wait”, thought Asha, “wasn’t he fighting”? How could he appear amused in a fight with - she looked more closely at her artwork - a great dark shadow filled the rest of the space. The creature’s cold and angry presence filling Asha with horror. “I created that?”, she thought in terror. Turning she allowed her fear to claim its full power over her and ran, as fast and as far as she could from what she was seeing. As she fled, she could have sworn she heard a slight chuckle from the canvas.

The inky black shadows converged like a dreadful river, surrounding the only valiant light in the room, a small table lamp. With a twist of the hand, even that small tenuous grasp was denied. The darkness now hiding their faces from sight, they advanced further into the space. There were three of them, one only slightly taller than the others, but enough to sway power of placement in his favor. They looked to him and gave way to his presence, like fearful children, they followed him to the bed carefully placing space between the taller man and themselves. The Darkness seemed to swallow them as if it was a living breathing part of the essence of those three dark shadows.

On the bed quite unaware of the unfolding drama lay a woman. Despite the lack of light she seemed to glow softly from the inside. She was not sleeping peacefully; she was in fact tossing and turning, like a nightmare had awakened her, only to find herself unable to wake fully, trapped in the corridors of a dream turned dark. Her copper hair flooded the entire surface of the pillowcase and whipped about like a living flame each time she tossed her head.

The shadows murmured quietly. “The thing must be done delicately” a grating voice spoke, softly, but sharply enough to cut through the others’ speech. The smallest man stepped back to speak quietly with the other man standing there. “She is struggling against the compulsion; I have never seen one so strong in the gift.” The smallest man, forgetting his proper place for the moment, spoke about the variables and possibilities of such a birth occurring after so long without the powers. How could this be? What did it mean? So caught up in his passion for the topic at hand was he, that he missed the tallest man’s look of impatience. “It is almost more strength then one woman can safely carry. How is it she is sane with this much gift within her? She should have been more alert to our presence than this with the amount of gift within her. Perhaps she is…”

The tallest man reached forward and shoved him roughly before he could continue with his speculating. “You can jabber about her powers later, right now you have a job to do”, the tall man growled and his face took on an aspect similar to that of an angry animal with big teeth. “Take her gift. Time draws short, and I lose my patience. Do it NOW”. With an angry thrust the man shoved the smallest closer to the bed, and then peered at the woman in angry contemplation. “Why a mere woman should get such a gift when there are men in this world who can better use its power, is more then I can bear to witness.”

His face was turned from them, but they did not need to see his face to know that a tight, angry, twisted hatred was carved upon it. No one knew where his hatred sprang from, but they did know that no woman ever fared well at his hands. Dead whores and prostitutes were always showing up after he left a place. This, even more than his slightly larger height, scared them into blind obedience. None dared oppose him. He was quite vicious in fighting and all had seen his pleasure in the kill, such a man was not one to confront and long live.

The small man bent over the woman and began to chant, the tempo of his words rising and falling, the most silent of the three now began to accompany the small man with a low tenor, his voice staying flat and monotone, the rest of him matched his voice. He was not remarkable in any way that would allow anyone to remember him. It was a carefully crafted disguise that aided him well in his service to the dark lord. The tallest man bent over the bed as if searching for something. “Where is it, he grated no longer trying to be quiet, where is it?” Frantically he dug into the covers and searched. ‘Ah!” he croaked, “there”. His face cracked into a dreadful smile.

The “it” he referred to appeared to be a tiny sliver of silver light, it was extremely tiny and appeared to come directly from the bellybutton of the sleeping woman. “Now to drain it” The tall man sneered “This wench will never know what she had, and when she is burned out of her gift, she won’t care anyway. She will be the same as all the rest of them, a husk-less, drab nothing that wastes a man’s time and essence with her constant complaining and weeping. No, such a gift is meant to be used to further a man! I am merely correcting what nature so erroneously gifted”.

“What if she doesn’t agree with that assessment?” a hard, scornful voice asked ever so softly. It took but a moment for them to realize that the voice was not one of their own and they turned to ready themselves with swords, but it was enough to give the new stranger the advantage, and use it he did. Without a sound he whipped around and pulled a lethal looking sword from its sheath. The tallest man sneered, “Iron is not a match for our power you fool, now death becomes your master.” He started forward, pulling a vial from his pocket. “You would have done better to have left the dark one to his purpose.” He tilted his head towards the bed, indicating the woman. “She is only a mere woman, what care you for her fate?” He sneered with unbridled madness, “now you join her in it.” With this he tossed the vial to the floor. It did nothing. The man stared in horror, unable to comprehend that his magic simply ceased to appear as he had expected. The dark stranger smiled, only this was a smile of dark, purposeful glee.

“You underestimate me.” He paused for a single moment and allowed himself to gaze at the woman. “You underestimate her as well. No one ever does that more than once.” With a twist of his mouth he spoke the last words the man would ever hear. “This is no mere sword, fool, this is the sword of Calessis.” With this said he ceased to speak, actions now delivered the message. The shocked and frightened faces of the men made barely an impression as he steeled his will to his needful purpose; nothing and no one would be allowed to harm her. This he had vowed; nothing else mattered. The only sounds in the room now were the dying mens’ screams of pain, followed by a most daunting silence. As the light of dawn entered the room the only evidence of the dark event that had occurred was the sight of a man soaked in another’s blood placing a hand, surprisingly soft, upon the cheek of the still sleeping woman before moving off and out the nearby window. The woman on the bed suddenly ceased her tossing and let out a sigh of release. Turning in her sleep she finally drifted into restful dreams. She would wake in the morning unaware of any of the things that had occurred in her own bedroom. If any had been foolish enough to tell her, she most definitely would not have believed them. Things like this just didn’t happen to girls like her.