Terra

Swirling through the ether, Taima had no real sense of self or being anymore. She knew only peace, it enveloped her in a warm blanket of safety and contentment. Days, months, years... time had ceased to hold meaning to her anymore. There were others all around her, drifting blissfully and content as they awaited their time to be reborn. They were the souls of the dead, heroes and servants of the divine. Their sacrifices afforded them the highest honor, a place of seemingly eternal bliss until the world might have need of their strength and light once again. It was how it had always been, the souls of heroes being reborn to the world when its need was greatest.

The world was an intricate tapestry of pure artistry, beyond the scope of mortal imagination or comprehension. Each soul needed to be carefully nurtured and incubated before being reborn to the world. Each one required generations of planning to ensure they would grow into their destinies at the proper time. It took years for a child to grow to adult hood, years to learn life's lessons and to discover what makes a mortal's heart beat strong in the face of adversity.

The gods were artists and the world their canvas, but like all artists, not all of the their tapestries can become master pieces. Tampering with the weave of creation and the rebirth of souls wasn't an exact science. Free will reigned supreme in the realm of the mortals. Miscalculations were prevalent all across history. Carefully laid threads could become severed, heroes could fall before their time, others still could fall from grace and turn to darker paths. Such was the way of the world and such was the story of Taima.

A fallen hero from generations past, Taima was to be reborn to the Shedinn brotherhood in the lands of Caldonia. The elders of their order had already foreseen the rebirth of the legendary draconian. They would shelter and rear the child, see that it grew into all that would be needed. With the strings of destiny carefully lain, Taima was drawn from the ether of souls.

However as carefully lain plans so rarely do, things were not to go as intended. Where before only peace and serenity had existed, darkness was now introduced to the mixture. Like a wildfire burning through the threads of destiny, Taima's soul was enveloped in a shadow of chaos. There was no fear or questioning in her, for such thoughts were beyond the capacity of a soul; there was only a vague sense of awareness before that too was gone.

---

The loud cries of a woman filled the bed chamber as did the deafening thunderclap that split the sky outside. The pounding of rain upon the roof dulled the distant sounds of battle, but they were drawing closer with each hour. Biri had been in labor since before the siege had begun, and she seemed no closer to delivery for the effort. Two midwives tended to her, but there was a weight of unease in the air.
With a loud bang the door to the chamber burst open and a tall draconian stormed in. Rhomash was a dominating figure with the distinguished features of his highborn lines prevalent in the highly developed bony ridges along his brows and spinal ridge, as well as the scaly wings that he sported from his back. His scale mail armor, once polished to a glistening sheen was dulled by mud and spatters of darker fluids. Though he was getting along in his years, Rhomash was a blacksmith by trade and his work had kept his form muscled and toned for battle.
Thava, the elder of the midwives lay a reassuring hand on Biri's shoulder before she approached to speak to Rhomash.
“How is she?” Rhomash asked.
“She's weak, if we move her she could lose the baby.”
“If we don't, we will lose them both.”
Rhomash stepped past Thava to approach his wife. Standing by her bedside he took Biri's hand in his own, worry lining his eyes. They had made their home here in the Terran village of Darsia nearly five years ago, and though the villagers were initially wary of the draconians Rhomash had quickly won over the apprehensive locals. With his strong work ethic and talent for keeping the village free of bandits, he and Biri had made a place for themselves among the peaceful villagers.
“Biri, the village is lost, we must go,” Rhomash told her.
“But the baby?” Biri asked. Her voice shook with the fear of losing the child.
“There is no time, the strakken will overrun the village soon. We need to get to the caves. Sora and Thava will take you. I will stay behind to help man the barricades. Once the village is evacuated I will join you and the others.”
A powerful contraction drew a loud cry from Biri as she gripped Rhomash's hand in her own. “Promise me you will return,” she gasped.
“You have my word, now go quickly.”
With the midwives to help her to her feet, Biri was led from the room.

---

“Taima.”
“Taima? It is a good strong name,” Rhomash said approvingly. “Should fortune smile upon her, her great-great grandmother will watch over her - if she doesn't already. If not for this weather, we would never have lost the strakken.”
Born in the heat of a tempest storm, it seemed only fitting that the child would be named after its great-great grandmother. It is said that her namesake could wield the power of the storm, the symbol of Ahuma, patron father of the draconians.
Taking the child in his arms, Rhomash lifted her up to get a good look at her. Though newborn, the child had an inquisitive sense of awareness to her and she blinked back at Rhomash without fear.
“You have the blood of legends in you, Taima. If your name is of any bearing, great things lie ahead for you. Great things.” There was a strength and pride in Rhomash's words, but also the warmth of a father.
“Don't let your father's dreams of grandeur go to your head,” Biri warned lightly as Rhomash returned the infant to her arms. “Glory can wait. For now you are just Taima, my dear Taima.” Pressing the infant to her chest, Biri held the child tightly in her arms and silently thanked the spirits of her ancestors for the gift of her firstborn daughter.

In the dimming light of twilight, the circle of hooded figures began to chant.

The constant outpour of words, a black language long since dead to the world, were dark and forbidding, escalating high into the stars just peeking from their hiding place during the day. As they winked and twinkled, the chanting grew fervent, the circle widening to let a lone figure, donned completely in red, into their midst.

The figure was tall; towering over the smaller men who surrounded him, their pitches rising so that they were screaming out the ancient tongue, letting it flow from their throats until it was ragged and bruised, ripping into the air rather than merely floating along it. While they continued their curdling cries, the red cloaked man walked in a slow circle, his eyes, bright and feverish in the rapidly dartkening day, met each of the black robed men’s, gazes kissing for a moment. It was this process that the men both feared and anticipated with an unabashed hunger.

The Choosing.

Round and round the red cloak went, the tails flaring from behind him, whipping through the still air. Higher and higher the voices spun, until the dark fabrics of their cowls were thrown back with their heads and they were crying to the darkening night, the ancient language promising despair, promising blood, promising a night that would never recede, darkness that never lessened.

They promised the moon would black, the stars would die, the earth would grow still.

They promised death.

Finally, amidst the howling and roaring, amidst this strange and convicted war-cry, the red cloak raised both of his hands; a red book held aloft in one, a black dagger held in another. He had stopped mere feet from a young man; seventeen at most, his cropped red hair swept from his face, eyes meeting the taller figure’s in a quiet challenge.

“Are you ready for the choosing?” the red cloak whispered, a reedy rasp that cut through the night like a knife through hot butter.

The boy nodded eagerly, and the rest of the black hoods screamed their assent, stomping feet and whistling through cracked lips and torn throats.

Taking one of the boy’s hands, the red cloak moved him into the center of the circling, where one of the black cloaks grabbed his clothing and pulled at it, revealing freckled skin, pale and nearly glowing in the moonlight. With quick and practiced hands, the boy was positioned; his arms crossed over his still maturing chest, sprouts of copper hair showing in the center of his rib cage. His scrawny, too-long legs widened, revealing and exposing him to the world. And his stubbled chin tilted back, to glint off of the weakened moonlight, eyes wide, mouth open.

Before him stood the red, the blood-crimson book spread open, its pages worn and stained from many, many nights like this. “Is the boy, now a man, ready to bleed black to his Lord? Is the boy, now a man, ready to give his soul to his Lord? Is the boy, now a man, ready to suffer and bow to his Lord?”

Trembling, partly because of the chill, partly due to fear, the boy nodded his head, his fiery red locks bouncing slightly in the midst of the circle, with every eye upon him. “The boy, now a man, is.”

The voice was still going through the trials of puberty; cracking and rolling like an old, wooden mine cart. Still, he stood, defiant, brave, in the face of it all. The red nodded in satisfaction, opened the book, and began to read in his thin, raspy voice.

“For the shepherds of black did not lead the flock; they left it where it stood. For eighty days they left it, exposed to the winds and the rains, the storms and the fires. And on the eighty-first day, the shepherds returned to the flock, and they beheld their God, standing on his tower of steel. And they saw that he was the true master.”

When the last word finished, one of the men stepped forwards with a thick wooden club, which he swung, viciously, at the boy’s right leg. The sickening crunch of bone and wood sounded in the clearing, and the boy fell to a knee, a mere whimper escaping him as his kneecap caved in. A second sudden strike on his left leg had him falling to the ground with a keening cry. The same treatment was done to each of his elbows, until his limbs all hung useless, dangling from his torso, shards of white marring the pale, smooth, freckled skin.

The boy was sobbing openly; his entire world becoming a fiery inferno of pain, suffering, and delusions.

“Go now,” the red figure said.

“Wait,” croaked the boy. “I am not-“

The black dagger plunged into the hollow of the boy’s throat, opening up a torrent of blood that seemed all to eager to leave the form that once imprisoned it. As the flow of red reached his chest, however, it seemed to thicken, becoming black as the night around him.

As it became black, it spread across his body, hardening into a shell that looked to be made of tar. The boy tried to scream, but the ooze slammed into his mouth, choking him beneath it’s weight. As the boy fell backwards, truly screaming now, the ooze overcame him, eating at his flesh until there was nothing but a pile of soot-covered bones, in the shape of a teenager.

It had taken mere moments.

Silence reigned in the circle as the figure in red bent to gaze at the former boy’s rib cage, reading small inscriptions there. Nodding and muttering to himself, he turned from his faithful followers, beginning to walk back to his dwelling. Obediently, the people in black followed.

“The Lord is displeased,” he said, quietly. “The babe lives.”

The three companions’ journey ended at the end of a winding, dusty path, overgrown with vegetation and tramped down by a wide variety of animals. Ahead of the abrupt end in the last marks of civilization stood a cabin, rising above them on thick, old pillars that were slowly swallowed by vines and foliage that utilized them as aids in their growth.
The browns and greens of the structure were an oddity in the darker, velvety green and grey of the surrounding swamp, the only thing connecting the odd house with the path below a single, rickety looking staircase, the wood rotten and frayed in spots.
Anzo, having had been pleasant enough during the journey, suddenly grew still with reverence and quiet with the mood of the place, removing his hat slowly from his long, dark hair. A few strands clung to the material stubbornly as he pressed his hat flat to his chest, eyes roving the woodwork, analyzing and considering.
After a long pause, Dusk, who had been surly and unfriendly during the walk, spat out the side of his mouth. “This it, or no?”
A curt nod answered the younger man. “Didn’ lead us into th’swamp t’build character, Dusk,”
Taima drew up next to Anzo as she surveyed the building with a mixture of skepticism and intrigue as she rubbed at the back of her scaly neck.
"You really think that this person will talk to me instead of you?" she asked.
Anzo smiled, tilting his head sideways as he gave her his full attention. “I really do,” he intoned, placing his battered hat back atop his head. “Go on, now. We’ll wait here.”
Taima approached the steps with a hint of apprehension at their rotted state. Even the smallest of Draconians were tall of stature and heavy of girth, and Taima was no different.
Creeeak...
The boards groaned under her foot as she moved to climb the steps. Grunting she adjusted her longbow that hung from her shoulder so she could take hold of the weather worn railing. Truth be told it didn't much look like it would hold her weight either as she skirted the weak spots in the boards.
Fortune it would seem had the small deck in slightly more stable shape, though she didn't much trust it as the boards creaked and bowed beneath her weight when she crossed it to reach the door. Only the faint glow of light that peaked beneath the crack of the door and lit up the gaps in the shuttered window betrayed the fact that someone might actually reside in this shanty of a shack.
She glanced back to Anzo briefly before knocking on the door. In answer, the door was suddenly kicked outwards, and a spindly old man wielding a metal pan lurched out, swinging it towards Taima’s head.
Taima stepped back with a start as she threw an arm up. The pan struck her forearm with force enough to bruise the hide that lay beneath her scales just as the floorboards of the deck let out an alarming crack. Her eyes went wide as her leg plunged down through the wood, leaving her with her arm raised to ward against the old man's wild pan flailing while she struggled to dislodge her leg from hole in the deck.
The stick-thin old man nodded with satisfaction at the damage he caused, folded his wiry arms over his chest, and nodded again. His head was shaved completely bald, his face bare but for a scraggle of whiskers outlining the ridges of his mouth, which was currently fixed into a smug smile as he stared at Taima with nearly white eyes.
“Never liked ‘em with scales,” he muttered to himself, beginning to circle Taima, “though this one’s a little sleeker than most. Not quite ugly, but not quite unattractive. Hmm, reminds me of the good old days. Ah, but she’s with gunslingers! Don’t like the look of the darker one, and the other one’s all scarred up. Don’t like travelling with gunslingers, so she couldn’t be good. Unless we’re bad?”
He paused, once again in front of Taima, scratching at his bald dome. “Never could figure that out. You gonna stand there with your foot in my front porch, lady, or are you coming in?”
Taima stared up at the man in dismay, but it would seem for the moment anyways he didn't intend to continue assaulting her with his frying pan.
It took her a minute to dislodge herself from the hole and she dusted the rotted splinters of wood from herself as she regained her footing. At his invitation to enter she threw one more apprehensive glance back to Anzo before she headed inside.
"I'm a blacksmith by trade, but I'm not half bad with a hammer and nails if you need that hole fixed," she offered.
“Well, you did break it,” he responded, his voice muffled as he moved into a tiny kitchen, stacked high with nothing but ceramic bowls, “so it would be awfully rude to leave it there, wouldn’t it?”
He lifted the lid on a small box in the corner of the kitchenette, pulling out a soft bag of beans. Reaching a hand into the already open bag, the man snatched a few and tossed them into his mouth, offering the next handful to his guest.
“Wha-hoo wan’?” he mumbled, through red lentils.
"Uh.. no thanks," Taima replied with a raised hand at the offer. She glanced around for some lace in the shack to sit but didn't find anything apart from some dusty boxes and crates. "May I?" she asked with a gesture towards one of the sturdier looking crates.
The man’s gaze slid to the crate, then back towards his fistful of lentils.
“You can’t eat my storage,” he responded.
Taima rubbed at the back of her neck awkwardly. "Never mind," she replied. "I'm here because I was told you knew Balasar, my great grandfather."
With a sudden clatter, the beans spilled forth from the bag, rolling across the floor in a torrent of red clattering. The old man let the bag drop from lax fingers, his hands curling and uncurling, eyes narrowing.
“Dear girl,” he said, his voice suddenly full, clear, as he lifted himself to his full height and straightened his spine. In front of Taima’s very eyes, he seemed to grow from an ancient bag of bones to a human being, with vigilance and wariness filling his eyes.
“I haven’t heard that name in a long, long time.”
Silence reigned between the two for a moment, before the man gestured for Taima to take a seat on the crate.
“How much do you know of your grandfather?” he said, watching her closely, studying for resemblance.
Taima eased herself down onto one of the crates.
"Not a lot," Taima admitted. "He was killed when my grandfather was just a boy, so my father never knew him. It's just a few stories passed down really. My name's Taima."
Though Taima took more after her mother’s looks than her father’s, the name was one that the old man would know well. It was a name shared with Balasar's mother - a legend in her own right before her passing.
The man nodded, cocking his head as the sudden clarity bled out with alarming rapidity. Reaching forwards, he held his two gnarled hands on either side of Taima’s head, curious.
With a quick motion, he clapped them together, slapping her on both ears. He leapt back after he did so, peering at her, looking for emotions.
"Ow," Taima answered with a wave of her arm as she swatted the old man's hands away. "What the heck was that for?!" she asked as she rubbed at her ringing ears. "You know, never mind. I was hoping you could help me find something. It was a family relic of sorts until it was lost." She patted down her clothes a moment before she found what she was looking for. "Here, this," she explained as she produced a rumpled scrap of paper. She smoothed it out as best she could before offering it to the old man. It was the very same one that Anzo had shown to her back in Darsia.
He held the paper up to his nose, then promptly turned it over so that the blank side was the side he was scrutinizing. Sniffing, he nodded seriously.
“Eight pound stock, probably from… Darsia? Or further east. It smells of sulphur. You got this piece of paper from a gunslinger?”
"Yes, a man named Anzo Tinzdale," Taima answered. "He said you might know something about it."
“About paper? Not much more than anyone else,” he said, wadding it up and tossing it back at her, “but I used to know a great deal about parchment. Travelled with a man who used it a lot. You should go now.”
He waved at her, waiting for her to move along. With a sigh as she got up.
"Sorry for the trouble then," she told him as she headed out.
“Oh yes, you should be,” he nodded, and followed this with a holler. “Come back tomorrow! I’ll remember more about whatever it is we spoke about. And fix that hole!”