Hello! Legend's Legacy here! The only thing I have to say before we start the lunacy, is that Turned Based Tragedy is in on this deal. The idea is hers, most of the words are hers and the madness that is yet to be is hers. The only reason I'm doing it is because I have the attention span necessary to finish it . . . I also have to say, I'm sorry if it's not very funny yet, it'll get better... And better written! (I hope.) So the story starts NOW!

Lord of the Sand Box

Martian had every thing ready. The candles, the blood, the bones and most important, the artifact. He was still comparatively young, but it was never too early to gain eternal youth. He looked almost lovingly at the essential ingredients needed to cast the spell, all arranged in a neat little shrine around the artifact. That cursed artifact was the damn hardest thing to find out of all the ingredients. It was nothing special, no gems or gold decorated its handle, but for a small crest it was undecorated. Uneventful though it was, it was the most difficult thing to obtain. 'The artifact of a long dead, long forgotten ancestor . . . ' is what the spell scroll called for.

The ancestor he chose to rob fit the requirements exactly. She had been left out of the extensive family tree created by the seer on the account of being disowned. Only by scouring old public announcements, letters and diaries did he find even a hint of her existence. She was his very-great grandmother, according to one journal entry of his very-great aunt. His very-great grandmother was, as far as he could gather, a prostitute who had been (naturally) disowned by her embarrassed family. In her entry, she expressed great surprise and anger of her despicable sister showing up on her door step and leaving a baby! She spoke no more of her sister, the next he heard of her was in a brief, somewhat awkward letter. The letter was addressed to her mother and father; it stated that a woman (who was being contained at a hospital due to her hallucinations caused by a fever) was demanding her child back whom she left with her sister and that she claimed them her parents. It went on to explain that there really was no hope for her survival, and that if they wanted her buried in their family grave, they would have to claim the body before it was buried.

Finding her decrepit grave was difficult enough, but then he had to correctly identify the bones and belongings of hers. She had been buried in a mass grave, her body having not been claimed by the family. There were countless bodies and he seemed to have checked (the process of identifying the bodies was one that took hours when rushed) each one in there. The entire affair was exhausting, but in the end, after what could have easily been a fort night, he brought back an item that proved to belong to the ancient prostitute.

At long last (and he was sure he would need the spell before he finished gathering all the correct ingredients) youth would be his. He refused to tolerate another wrinkle, back pain, or grey hair! He shook with anticipation as he arranged the items. Taking a breath, he steadied his hand, and started the ritual. Lighting the candles one by one, he sprinkled in the blood and continued the archaic chant. He could feel the majic growing stronger with every word, a feeling that intensified greatly as he lit the bone like a torch and placed it in the middle of the altar, where it continued to burn. Then, in the final step in the spell, he let out the final cries of the chant and, threw in the dagger. Dousing the fire with the remaining blood, he lowered his hands holding his breath. Nothing happened. He exhaled. Nothing happened. He looked down at his hands, away from the altar. Then, as he was gazing dejectedly and his stained hands, the knife began to glow. Brighter and brighter it became, causing him to look up from his fingernails. Expecting that the spell had begun to work he got to his feet happily, awaiting the eternity that would fill his bones. Then, the knife fell from the altar. It hadn't worked after all. Martian dropped back to his knees in disappointment. What had gone wrong?

MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMW

Kain was exhausted. He had just finished creating the last of his lieutenants. He rested now, surrounded by all of them, waiting patiently for his command. He was so tired, Malchiah must have been more trouble then he realized. It was too hard to even keep his eyes open. He was feeling so extremely fatigued. A few minutes of sleep couldn't hurt. Kain shut his eyes, and he was out.

Kain awoke to the sound of quiet bickering. "Well someone should wake him up . . . "

"I still say make Dumah do it."

"No, like we said, Dumah will only get himself killed! Raziel, you are the only logical choice. . ."

"Why me?"

"Does Kain . . . do this often?"

"Because, Raziel, you're already the favorite, and no Malchiah, it's never happened to us before."

Kain opened his eyes and saw his six vampire sons standing in a circle around him. They seemed oddly . . . huge . . . They gave each other significant looks and then glared at the handsome one. He shrugged his shoulders and looked down at him.

"Kain . . . " He started delicately, in fear of incurring his wrath. "I think you're three years old..."