A Confident Captain...

Broken rays of light struggle to fight through wafting clouds of smoke, as a soft roll of thunder seems to echo from every side of a massive battlefield. Tense exclamations are quickly muted as nearly a hundred soldiers crouch close to the earth and frantically peer around to try to make sense of the blurred images contorting in the smoke. Thousands of acres of burnt grasslands spread out all around the soldiers and the smoke seems intent on blotting out the very sun in the sky. Hasty signals are passed from soldier to soldier as they can’t see more than 3 feet ahead of them. A brown garbed sergeant desperately tries to form a defensive formation against the foe he knows must surround them by now.

Barely over a hundred feet away, steely gray eyes remain locked on the urgent motions of the sergeant and his company. Unfazed by the smoke and acrid burning smell, Captain Maulkin studies his target with serious contemplation. So still is the Captain that even the great destrier beneath him refuses to move, allowing the carrion flies buzzing in clouds to land on its body without complaint. After a few minutes of study, the Captain moves his large gauntleted hand in a small circle and from his right comes a soft trill, nearly birdlike in its quality. As that call elongates and drifts upon the wind something stirs across the field, suddenly forming itself into a crashing and twisting shadow army racing through the smoke. Hoarse calls and yells ring upon the air and all of the brown clad soldiers tense into a sudden formation and attempt to form a shield wall. The thunder of hooves echo prominently in the ears of all around, the dense clouds of smoke making it sound as if it was coming from right on top of any person that could hear it.

With elegant grace the Captain swings down from his mount to close his eyes and lean his head back to the sky. Soot drifts down from above to smear his beard gray, but still he waits and listens to the chaos erupting around him. Ahead of him the unaware soldiers react to the crashing sound of a Calvary charge nearly upon them; some break and run to disappear into the haze, others are more disciplined and follow the sergeant’s bellows to form tight ranks and present weapons front, others seem immobilized by fear which directly counters those blood thirsty few who can’t bear the wait for combat and scream their challenges into the smoky blanket. At what seems the very last moment on this earth, the charging hooves carve a beat directly into the veins of every soldier present and then suddenly the sound is gone. A hesitant pause silences nearly every noise from the company of men, as they gape in surprise at the sudden reprieve. One heartbeat lingers, then two, and with that the Captain snaps his arms up into a commanding gesture.

The puzzled soldiers have just begun to relax, most standing and staring around in bewilderment as they try to discover what happened and if they were actually under attack or just hearing echoes from much further away. The sergeant is just about to bark an order to present an orderly front and stay alert when he happens to see just a glint of light flashing off the helmet of one of his men. Turning to face behind him, he is shocked to his core at the sight presented before him. Striding confidently towards him comes a ghostly apparition, heavy boots crunching down into still smoldering grass and empty arms stretched outwards towards the sky. Smoke drifts up from the scorched earth and gently embraces the ornate green armor in a fitting caress as the world around the sergeant explodes into fury and death.

No emotion mars the pristine visage of the Captain as he glides forward towards his dying enemies. Thick wooden shafts whistle down from the sky to embed themselves in relaxing soldiers, one man manages to lift his shield in time to catch an arrow right in front of his face but the very next moment he is skewered from behind as a fellow soldier reacts poorly to a shaft buried in his throat. With two more strides, the Captain has nearly reached the enemy forces and he once against closes his eyes to savor the moment as his troops continue to rain destruction down in front of him.

Frantically shouting orders, the horrified sergeant tries to protect his men. It seems to be working for a brief instant, as order is returned and shields begin stopping the onslaught of arrows. Turning to face the warrior striding confidently into his midst, the sergeant begins to think they might have a chance. With a terrible rending sound, a massive boulder erases hope as it collides into the tightly packed formation and smashes armor, bones, blood, and tissue into a solid meaty paste.  Another boulder thuds in with a sickly crunching sound, and then the sky is filled with them. Dazed and bloodied, the soldiers try to find shelter or escape reality but there is no relenting from the arrows carving lines of pain and death complimented by the totality of a thudding boulder.

Sinking to his knees, the sergeant is aghast at the loss of his entire company so quickly. Just a year ago, nobody would have thought of challenging the Dalison House. Respected for being the first Royal House, their reputation had slipped a bit but enough people still feared them that they went basically unchallenged. Now they were dying, and too fast to count. Who did this to them, to him? Almost as if taunting the sergeant, the barrage of boulders and the hail of arrows peters out to leave a field empty except for smoke and blood. Twisting slowly from his kneeling position to gaze around him, tears freely fall as the sergeant realizes that not a single man was left alive. Despair rips all reasoning or action from his grasp and he dumbly watches thick metal boots stride through the remains of his men until they stop right in front of him. “No more will you disgrace this world, you have proven yourself weak and unworthy of life” comes a gravelly pronouncement out of the haze and then light ripples along a blade and the sergeant cares no more.

A few moments pass, with just the Captain standing near the headless body and gazing upon the ruined remains of the Dalison soldiers. Then other figures begin to materialize from the smoky surroundings and approach the silent captain. The first to arrive reaches out a gloved hand to give the Captain a small cloth which he uses to clean his blade silently. “Captain, we still have reports of three other bands of soldiers still nearby. Two from House Rodhale and it looks like one from House Obelyn.” Looking at the speaker, one of his closest aides, the Captain responds “Are we sure they are two different Houses? House Rodhale and Obelyn both wear blue that can be confused in this environment and lack of visibility.” Nodding his assurance, the aide continues “Aye, Captain. The scout actually heard one of the troop ask where Lady Obelyn was supposed to meet them. He was promptly cussed out by a fellow in the troop, but that makes the scout confident they are actually from House Obelyn.”

Pondering his next move, Captain Maulkin signals into the smoke and a few flashes of light wink back at him. Turning to the rest of his aides as they gather around him, he takes a look at the map attached to the back of one of his men. “Okay, the Dalisons are pretty much broken. They still fight and think they hold this ground, but we have holes and entry points everywhere. We know this ground much better than they do, which makes me think they didn’t plan this massive fire which gave us such great opportunity.” A snort interrupts him briefly, causing a pursing of his lips to which his men suddenly straighten and become deadly serious and intent upon his words. “We don’t have much to fear from the Rodhale troops, while the House has a reputation for being all about combat they are really just glory hounds and better suited to the tournaments. In a real fight, they are clueless babes. Plus most of their best men are still in Corvale toadying up to the useless King.”

As various heads nod in agreement with this assessment, the Captain gives his orders “We must teach the Obelyn House that they are no longer the second most important House in the Kingdom. They already have plans upon the throne, and think they will take advantage of this chaos to position themselves and take what they already believe is theirs. I can see their thought, since they have so carefully positioned themselves over the past two decades. But our Lords have different plans, and this is our first time to show them a glimpse of the new order.” Looking around at his aides, the Captain waits until each of his dusty and tired men make eye contact. “We must do this subtly and completely. We are not yet ready to show our true plans or goals. Most of the Houses think we just want this country side, and do not realize the strength of our ambition. With our brethren in House Seymore, we will show them the errors of their ways but not just yet.” A pause here, for effect. “We will wipe this Obelyn company off our God’s earth, and then plant the bodies of the Dalisons at the scene so that when the Duchess finally does arrive to meet her troops she will have to take action against someone other than ourselves.”

As his men break apart to start giving orders and signals to the massed troops hiding in strategic places across the ruined battlefield, the Captain gives himself a small brief moment of emotion. A twisted smile pulls at his downturned lips for the briefest moments as he contemplates the future. “This is OUR Kingdom, they just don’t know it yet.”

The Deadly Dance

A clang of steel, a guttural snarl, and the dance has begun yet again

Spurs spark against rock as nimble ankles twist and spin

Fangs flash through the air, two foes each preparing for battle akin

Sword and shield clash with tooth and claw, creating a furious din

One battles for honor and glory, to show his people his heart

The other is in this fight for survival, losing would mean death

A graceful twirl and elegant strike show a stunning art

While a desperate strike and slick retreat reveal a lost breath

A classic tale unfolds, armored Paladin against scaled Dragon

The question becomes then, who will write this story

History is written by the victors, often over a full flagon

The loser might protest, but his body looks a little hoary

With a majestic flap of wings, the dragon concedes this fight

While the Paladin slumps against the rock, relief upon his brow

A trumpeting note sounds forth, a farewell as the beast takes flight

Softly sighing, the Paladin stares into sky and whispers a gentle “Ciao”

An Ominous Warning

Thunder rumbles from a distant point, but no rain clouds show in the sky. Blinking against the blinding glare of the sun, a young guard shakes his head ponderously in confusion before realizing that something else was making that noise. Turning to peer up the road, he takes a few moments to confirm that he is hearing hoof beats approaching at a very furious pace. Bewildered, he mutters to himself “The Squire and the Baronet’s people are all at the Baronet’s manor... Who else rides a horse around here?” and then decides it would behoove himself to actually do the duty that got him assigned to this gate.

Stepping out in front of the gate, he swings the heavy wooden planks closed and signals to his companion to actually climb up and man the watchtower in case it is an enemy making all of that racket. Shifting a bit to settle his clothes, the young man squares his shoulders and attempts to appear fierce as the first glimpse of the approaching animal and rider appears around the curving path. Dirt erupts in a rolling wake of splatters as the heavy horse careens dangerously along the narrow path and heads directly towards the nervous guard.

Summoning every last bit of courage he can find in his skinny frame, the young man licks his lips and calls out a challenge. Stammering, he attempts again while trying to figure out if he should draw his sword or just run. Luckily he is not alone and the guard now atop the watch tower fires a warning arrow into the dirt alongside the rider’s trajectory. Taking a timid step back, the gate guard feels a great sense of relief as the rider rears back on the reins and the horse begins to slow. In what seems like an eternity in the widened eyes of the guard, the horse slowly pulls up and slows the galloping approach to end with a snort close enough to lick the sweat off the man’s brow.

With a quick flourish, the rider drops from the horse and sneers at the presence of the guard. “Messenger Dispatch, you fool” he exclaims as he spits on the ground in disgust. “Have you lost your wits?” The guard stiffens at the insult and imperiously demands to know “Messenger from whom?” as sternly as he can manage. For all of his bravado, he receives a scornful look and a vicious retort “Are you daft? It doesn’t matter from whom, I come here just to warn this town of major events. And if you want to be the reason that your town is not ready for the King, then so be it.” And with that, the messenger turns and acts as if he is about to mount his horse and depart.

“Wait, wait, wait.” The guard hastily exclaims as he realizes just how important this visitor could be. “Uh, you have any papers to show who you are?” he asks and sheepishly explains “We have a lot of anxious people in the town since we keep being attacked, they want to make sure we aren’t be tricked”. A massive sigh erupts of the erstwhile messenger as he pulls back his cloak to reveal the markings of a Hythe City courier. “Listen,” he grumbles “I don’t have time for all of this nonsense. I don’t really care about your little Podunk town nor all of its nervous citizens and scared farmers. I am just coming to let everyone on the way to Stoneden know that the King is coming.”

Stopping to take a breath, he first demands some water for his horse and then continues as the guard scurries to obey. “Apparently the King is tired of this talk about bandits and about all of the different Houses fighting and bickering, so he is sending out a major complement of the King’s army to march through the land and put down any problems that arise.” Taking the proffered bucket, the weary man holds it in front of his horse and speaks loudly to be heard over the sound of the guzzling equine.  “Hythe was taken by surprise, and it’s not good because there was a lot of fighting going on. I was just sent to get here as quickly as possible and let everyone know so that they can get their affairs in order before someone questions things too closely and bad things happen. I have heard rumors that the Army is just putting on a show and laying down the law without really caring who is at fault or what the real story is.” 

Handing back the bucket, he grips the pommel of his saddle and swings effortlessly into place. “I must go, but warn your leaders to get ready. I feel some big changes are coming this way, at least for those involved in politics.” Turning his horse to head back down the path, the messenger offers a wry smile to the nonplussed guard “Though I fear not much will change for the common man, life just is not fair that way”.

Silence descends over the clearing where the path and gate intersect, both guards stand slack jawed and watch as the messenger rides off around the bend. A few moments pass without any movement before the gate guard suddenly gulps loudly and turns to stare at his fellow in the watchtower. Confused eyes meet and betray mutual worried expressions, then the gate guard suddenly yelps and races into the town looking for the nobles to pass along this most important message.

A Setting Sun

As the sun slowly fades below the horizon, the air is filled with the terrible sounds of death. A black shroud slowly descends to cloak the blood soaked meadow where thousands of bodies lie in a chaotic tangle. Moans and groans are the only sounds audible from these bodies, though the myriad birds feasting upon still warm flesh assault the ears with a cacophony of raucous calls.

Staring blankly at the carnage from the edge of a once peaceful meadow, a haggard survivor struggles to keep his composure as his mind fails to process such horrible devastation. Slowly turning a slim profile to view the warriors resting behind him, he utters soft orders. “Teratha, let’s get the wounded moving and give Last Peace to those who can’t survive the trip.” Turning from the black haired priestess, he then addresses a wounded soldier resolutely standing at his side. “Lyet, we have to get back and tell the Emperor. He needs to know that all is lost and we must sound a retreat”. The soldier’s eyes widen at hearing that; he is not surprised by the fact as it a truth that they have all come to recognize, but he is more surprised at hearing his superior actually admit it out loud.

As the small band of wound soldiers slowly gathers themselves and prepares for an arduous trek, the leader turns one last look at the ghastly battlefield. “To think, the entire might of the Arkhold people will soon be spread amongst the carrion birds. May history never know the truth of this defeat.” With that he reaches down to pick up his equipment, a battered shield and a well-used battle-axe. A moment of reflection is spent gazing at these few pieces of metal that have so defined his entire adult life. No longer is his visage keenly reflected on the polished edges of the shield, nor does his axe bear the shimmering marks of the marvelous Adante metalworking. Instead they appear worn and torn, almost as if some ancient tribe had buried and lost these artifacts several centuries in the past. Realizing that his life now would be very different than it has been in the past, he actually drops the shield in the dirt and almost drops his axe before Lyet reaches over to stop him. “Hold, my lord Baratel,” mutters the young brunette, “We still have need of your strength in arms should we meet more barbarians on our trip to the Emperor.”

Baratel hearkens to the words of his junior officer, though he nearly demands to know what point there is in fighting the barbarians. Grudgingly, the small group forges onward through the branches of the forest and sets their sights to a distant point in the east. Hours blend into days and then weeks as they journey south, each day appearing to rise only to give them less reason to carry on. The air hangs heavy with smoke, laden with the horrifying stench of burnt flesh. Countless villages appear on the edge of the path they travel, but all are ransacked and destroyed; little remains of the vast Empire which once gracefully spread across the plains and mountains. Instead they face only reminders of their great failure, evidence that the time of the Arkhold Empire has come to a close. 

Gripping his battle-axe with bitter fierceness, Baratel mentally swears to protect the last remnant of his people until they can recover from this travesty and once again fill this world with true civilization. Gentle golden rays of sunlight caress his face for a last brief moment before the sun sets, almost as if abandoning the Arkholdian people entirely. As gloom settles, it matches the feeling in the heart of all civilization, and the question is left hanging against the flickering glower of the moon. “What will become of the Arkhold Empire and its people? Will history ever know that they existed?”

The Birth of a Berserker. Part 1

This is the first portion of a story that I started to right for Achaea.com, before my world was upended and I began to swirl in circles. It tells the story of the beginning of a Clan of Dwarves that were created by the Achaean God, Phaestus.

Feel free to comment or share!

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The air whistles in protest as the large metal head of the axe parts it aside and continues forward until smashing into the tree trunk with a shower of splintered bark. A simple grunt and the blade is yanked back out of the tree and the process begins again. The tree puts up a valiant fight, striving to stay upright but ultimately falling to the blows of the axe and joining its brethren strewn upon the ground. A quick shuffle of feet, another grunt, and the downed tree is shoved into position and the axe begins to separate the tree into individual logs. The forest backdrop has faded into silence, no sounds exist except for intermittent grunts and some growled expletives when a blow does not fall precisely as intended.

So intently is the work proceeding, that the heavy footfalls of the dwarf foreman are completely unnoticed until his gruff voice breaks into my consciousness. "Ho, Gladur, we only need a certain number of logs this month." The foreman stops at the edge of the clearing that I have created and surveys the scene of destruction spreading out from my axe. "Why are you punishing the trees this time?" He asks while a look of puzzlement comes across his features. "You know that the SoulForger only condones using what is required, no need to kill trees if we will not use them before they spoil."

His comments only add to the exertion in my strikes, heavily muscled arms straining in an attempt to cut right through the tree in a single blow. "Grrghph" is my only response, straining its way through gritted teeth. Even though the foreman is two centuries older than me, he seems to be completely confused and at a loss of what to do. "Gladur, please stop" he mutters, "We don't need the wood, we have everything we need." A final growl escapes me as I smash through the tree trunk and reach the end of the logs. Turning quickly to face the foreman, I give him a look that can only be considered a glower. "What would ye have me do, Biven?" My question is sarcastic as I quickly give him possibilities. "Should I carve a statue? With these massive hands that can't fit around a chisel without breaking them? Perhaps I can paint, or carve gemstones?" The color fades from his face as he considers the results when I last attempted the delicate arts that the Clan enjoys. "How about I go mining again? I am sure Brumbletock would enjoy another cave-in". I did not mean to continue, but suddenly the words just keep coming and I can't stop "What if I tried my hand at pottery, or I could try to put together another mural. I am sure we can keep building walls for me to break apart. Want me to go back around the animals and try to milk a goat or cow? Last time I tried, they quit producing for over two cycles."

My words suddenly choke off and I just stand there, staring at Biven from across the clearing while my chest heaves and my eyes bore into him. Even though we are over a hundred paces away, I still look down at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to muster a response. Rage fills me at the delay and I snarl "What is my purpose, Biven. Why am I here?" He looks to the side, swallowing rapidly as I cross the clearing in just a few strides and stand glaring down at him and demanding answers "I am too tall to properly fit in the mines, and even when we widened out the tunnels every time I struck a blow, the mines nearly collapsed. My arms and legs are too big for me to do anything but the largest of tasks. My hands will crush every delicate thing that is ever placed in them." At this, my heart beats even harder as I remember something else. "And you know what else, Biven, I can't even have love!"

At this exclamation he quickly jerks his head up to glance at me, his expression once again marred with confusion. "What do you mean?" he stammers out. My anger slowly pours out of me as I turn away from him to stare out into the distance. “I can’t have love. Who would have someone as rough as I am, as large as I am? The Chieftain is the largest dwarf of the Clan, and he only makes it to my chest. How can I romance someone with these large arms and thick legs. I cannot swoon them with dance, nor with song. I cannot cup their cheek or give them a soft caress. These arms and hands are rough and powerful, knowing only destruction and not love.” My thoughts turn to Jemma and our last conversation. How she laughed and looked me in the eyes, but then I went to hug her and she winced and the fun faded.

Bitterness creeps into my voice as I turn back to face Biven. “The trees are the only task that I can handle without hurting others. You and I both know that this is the only thing that I can do for the Clan.” I can see the agreement in his eyes and the way that he avoids mentioning anything else that I might possibly do. This frustrates me, as Biven is considered one of the wisest of the Clans and yet he has no idea what to do with me. “Tell me, Biven, tell me why the God would do this. He claims to love all of us, to treasure us. He claims that we are His children and that He watches over us. Then tell me why He made me. Tell me why I am so different. Why can’t I be a normal dwarf and have a normal life? Tell me!” This last statement becomes a scream thrown towards the heavens, and then I am running. Running away from the village, from the pain, from my troubles. Running from my life.

My flight is both furious and frantic, tearing down the mountain and crashing through the trees and brush. My large shoulders smash into minor obstacles and send them flying, as my powerful feet grinds everything beneath my tread. Animals scatter before me in a cacophony of alarming cries, and yet I do not care. Emotions rage through me, and the very fact that I am feeling emotions upsets me even further. Growing up in the village, one of the constant ways that I was marked as different is the fact that I have such strong emotions. Most of the Clan are very mellow and unemotional. They feel joy and pride, they must if they are to be the master artisans that our clan produces. However, their emotions are rooted and calm which is completely unlike mine. The sight of the beauty of the smallest fluttering butterfly can make my heart melt, and the slightest insult will cause my muscles to bulge and prepare for a fight. I have tried so hard, but the emotions just flood over me despite all that I do. This pushes me further into my scrambled flight, but my legs suddenly begin to falter and I hit a tree root and flip completely end over end. Landing hard upon the ground, I twist to get my bearings but my large body becomes my enemy and suddenly I am rolling down the mountain in a series of bumps and jolts. Smashing into and through limbs and underbrush and tearing roots apart with my flailing arms, nothing halts my fall until I smash headlong into a large rock formation at the base of the mountain. I can barely summon a true dwarven grumble before the spinning stars clouding my vision mercifully fade into blackness.

Only after a very great amount of time has passed do I finally stir again, yet the throbbing in my head seems at an all time high. Moaning, I struggle to push myself to a sitting position and nearly pass out again as the world seems to spin around me. Muttering and complaining to myself, I slowly force myself upwards along the trunk of a nearby tree until I once again standing straight. Realizing that I have reached an unfamiliar part of the mountain, I slowly start to explore and search for familiar landmarks. My hands reach down to brush the sheath attached to my hip and relief floods me as I feel my axe still firmly attached.

The ground here is different, even my stinted dwarven senses can tell that much. Much harder and starched than what I am used to, and the vegetation is stripped to indicate a scarcity of food in this region. Wary now, I am moving slowly through the trees when I hear a faint sound upon the wind. As I am completely lost, I decide that finding any sign of life is better than mindlessly roaming around and so I turn and head that direction. My pace quickens as I hear the sound of screaming and then make out the clash of weapons. Breaking through the brush, I happen upon a family of dwarves under attack by creatures that I recognize as goblins. I have never seen one before, but old Grimlo tells stories around the campfire some nights and the gruesomely twisted bodies before can only match his description of goblins.

Stunned, I come to a halt and gape in horror at the violence spreading out before me. A cry for help comes from one of the dwarves, and I slowly piece together the scene to see that this must be a dwarven family of farmers. I can tell because of the ages of the dwarves, the familial resemblances and the fact that they are using farm tools to defend themselves against real weapons. Another cry for help grasps my attention and I stumble forward, trying to get my weapon from my sheath. A pair of goblins turns towards my entrance and instantly snap alert. "Issha byg un" snarls one of the goblins to the other and two more goblins turn to face me as well.

Having never been in a fight, I hesitate too long and they surround me while pointing weapons directly at my throat. Immobilized, I stand there in shock and one of the goblins quickly darts in and grabs my axe from my trembling hands. "Idiot!" screams one of the dwarves in a strained feminine voice that quickly twists into a pained scream. My eyes dart over to the dwarves and I realize that while I distracted the goblins, I had also distracted the dwarven man and he was now on the ground bleeding to death. A dwarven lass screams in fury and lashes out at the goblins but then is quickly swarmed as two of the goblins guarding me hurry to join the fight. I can only stare in horror as the dwarves are bound and drug over to the fire pit. While my mind is frozen in shock, the goblins have knocked me to my knees and tied my arms tight to the side of my body. Uncomprehendingly, I stutter something about being a peaceful explorer, but the goblins just laugh in mocking tones and one reaches out and slices some skin off my arm. As I recoil from the pain, he gleefully chews on my skin while prancing around my bleeding body. His gruesome face and bulging eyes are highlighted by the flickering flames, and he seems to have quickly recovered from his initial fear at seeing a dwarf as tall as himself. Before more of my flesh can become a snack, a sharp guttural order rings out from the goblin that I suspect is the leader and the goblins move in and drag one of the young dwarven lads over to the fire and then quickly slit his throat.

My world seems to explode in horror as the two dwarves left, both female, scream out in mixtures of sorrow and horror. The goblins move to the oldest female dwarf, but they seem intent on another form of brutality than slaughter. As the dwarf realizes this, she screams and wiggles free from the hands of the goblin pawing at her. Seeing that all escape is cut off, she flinches back from the slobbering jaws of the goblins around her and then throws herself unto the fire pit. Taken back, the goblins do not react in time and the screams of the last remaining dwarf are drowned out by the sizzling pop and acrid smell that floods the small meadow as the flames engulf the willing victim. A momentary pause enters the scene as all of us struggle to adjust to the rapidly changing situation. By now the goblins have deemed me to be a complete non threat and all of them are circling the last remaining dwarf and arguing over who gets first dibs. No longer screaming, the dwarven lass raises her head and pure grey eyes meet mine as a tear slow tracks down her soiled face. A slow whisper escapes her lips and time stands still as I strain to hear it. "Save me."

A teaser!

Just posting some general updates, as work on the story about the Dragons continues.

My friend Joanna continues to read and give suggestions like an editor. I love it so, even though she tears my writing apart. Haha.

I have asked my friend Yoelin to help me draw some artwork for the story, if any other artists want in on the action, let me know. Full credit will be given where due!

Now, I normally like to keep everything EXTREMELY close to the vest, the better to surprise people. However, as I start such a very lengthy process, I have realized that there is so much to flesh out that perhaps sharing the world as I begin to imagine it will actually help- plus keep it interesting and not so silent and full of cobwebs on the blog while I work on the story itself.

Interested? Read on!

The story that I am going to write is intended to be the first of a two story collection. Involving a book. Yes, I said a book. Quite a novel task, I am well aware.

So the first story will be the perspective and thoughts from the Dragon world.

I know that there will be a number of characters, both major and minor, but only a few have implanted themselves in my mind.

First and foremost, is the Dragon Lord. King of the Realm. His name is Beardion the Majestic. He is a very large and regal dragon, his coloring a mottled mixture of green and slate grey. He has ruled the Kingdom for many many years, and everyone is comfortable with his rule. He will be the major part of the story- as he is the one who is reading the oh so mysterious book.

Stay tuned for more little reveals, and keep the comments flowing. Anyone who takes the time to read this blog will have the chance to have input in the shaping of this world and novel, my way of saying thank you for reading!