An edit and an update: I changed the time to resemble 'five hours' more accurately (Thank you Swissigar for bringing my attention to that). Also, and unfortunately, I will not be able to access my computer to write and update until mid-February. Sorry, but you'll just have to forget about me until such time as I can use the computer for any extended period of time.
Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I'm back! This time with a decent length chapter to boot... but enough small talk, on with the story!
Oh, before I forget, and in case you ignored the second half of the prologue:
1) Feel free to troll, but you'll be sorely disappointed by my lack of emotion.
2) Thank you to those who don't like the story, and contributed your reasons why in order to better my writing.
3) You like/love it? Great! Don't forget to tell me what I should improve on, though.
4) I don't own the LoS universe or any related items. What I do own are my personal changes, characters, and storyboard.
5) If you like it, use some sort of method which allows quick access to new information on updates, as they are subject to my fluctuating schedule.
Chapter 1: Intruders
Ten years of peace. We fought hundreds- no, thousands- of enemies, each wave more skilled and better equipped than the last. We lost many friends and allies; dragons, cheetahs, and many others closely tied to us fell under the enemy's blades. One was especially heartbreaking... may the Ancestors give him everlasting peace.
They died in vain, for scarcely half a decade later Volteer joined the uncountable spirits of those long forgotten... and some not so forgotten. Cyril also passed that same winter. Only Terrador, Cynder, and I remained, and the ever-present population issue became the top priority. But no matter how many times we mated, Cynder never produced a single egg. Distress reigned throughout the land. It soon grew to the point where there were riots on the cities, hunters failed to catch their prey, and farmers salted the competitions' crop land to gain an edge in the failing economy.
Just over two hundred years ago, Terrador officially announced that dragonkind had, and I quote, "Most certainly lost its firm stance in this world. We are no longer the dominant species; we are but a shadow of your proud, just leaders. I trust that you will find alternate methods of leadership once Spyro, Cynder, and I have all passed on." Three days afterward, he breathed his last. Cynder and I were the only known remaining dragons.
Leading a broken, confused, and soon-to-be leaderless empire is not a task anyone should have thrust upon themselves. It requires experience in many areas... most of which, I had never even heard of before that day. Politics, economics, statistics; all very nice to know, but nowhere near as interesting as war. I had become too restless, and being a king was not my ideal place. I prayed to the Ancestors day and night to free me from the nightmare nicknamed monarchism.
Little did I know the consequences of my seemingly harmless pleas would be so... extravagantly disastrous.
Today is the second centennial anniversary of their mystical arrival. I remember it all too well... a simple magical outburst gone wrong. That's right, this entire section of history was caused by the smallest breath of fire.
The day was bright, warm, and calm; you never would have expected something to go wrong. Cynder and I had fought that day (the stress of leadership was already getting to us), and I suggested some peace of mind. She agreed and moved to follow me, but I explained that I meant both of us to be utterly alone- much to her disappointment might I add, but she agreed nonetheless and veered west. I went north, to a lake I had discovered long ago on our travels.
I can't tell you exactly how long I sat there, doing nothing but staring into the depths of the reflected sky, but I can tell you that the sun was setting by the time I looked up. I don't exactly recall why- perhaps it was the stress- but I unleashed a torrent of flames skyward in a sudden burst of aggression and frustration. The flames died in a matter of seconds, but as I continued to watch, the energy released with them formed into a bright pinpoint of power. That was certainly odd, but before I could move to examine the occurrence, the very air began to vibrate with an intensity I had only seen one other place: the overflow of a convexity blast. Naturally, I assumed that was what it was... and then realized that it was pointing directly at me.
Now, if you have even the most basic instincts, you would realize the danger and flee. Well... I didn't. Flee, that is.
A mistake on my part as it turns out.
I never realized just how much a shock wave-induced concussion can hurt.
As my vision faded, I saw five strange creatures step seemingly out of thin air... they were... tall... with... two... legs...
"Master Michael! Master Michael... are you okay?"
"Ugh... GAAAAAAAAAAH!"
"I will take that as a 'no' then. Allow me to help you up." A black-scaled arm extended toward a pitifully pale, flabby-skinned human teenager of sixteen. He took a minute to focus his blurred vision on it, then grasped the forearm and allowed the reptilian figure to haul him off the floor. He gazed into the somber, blood-red eyes of the seven-foot figure, who was by this time smiling sadly down at him.
"Phew, thanks Roquin," Michael said while brushing himself down.
"Of course sir, that's what I'm here for after all." Michael looked up again.
"Yes, I suppose it is... oh, ah, my arm," he muttered. The limb he spoke of, his left arm, was beginning to leak blood, staining his already-dirty white t-shirt. Roquin sniffed it cautiously, snorted, and began to lead Michael towards the kitchen. Once there, the dragon brought forth a first-aid kit. He started by gently rubbing the gash with a wet cloth until the dirt and other debris had been cleared out. Next, he prepared a bandage by rubbing one side with Neosporin. Finally, he turned back to Michael and said, "I will not deny it: this is going to hurt. A lot." Michael nodded, and Roquin proceeded to pour rubbing alcohol directly onto the cut.
It certainly did hurt, and Michael almost couldn't hold back a shout. After a few seconds however, the pain subsided and the bandage was wrapped securely over the exposed flesh. Both breathed a sigh of relief together, Roquin because he hated the bitter, metallic smell of blood and Michael because he hated pain.
"Having fun?"
The pair started and looked around. They found the source of the voice to be a rather tall man, who was standing in the doorway to the kitchen.
"Dad! How... how long were you standing there?" Michael managed to stutter out.
"Not very long... why? Is there something I should know?" the man responded while raising one eyebrow.
"What? No..."
"I see... What were you doing here anyway? The staircase has been nearly blown to splinters."
"I am very sorry to interrupt you Mister Dorfae, but I must take the blame for that." The man, or John Dorfae as he was named, devoted his attention to the dragon. "I was asked by your son to demonstrate my elemental ability, regardless of the nature of Fear, in order to experience some excitement. Knowing my power to be relatively weak, I foolishly made the assumption that it would do little harm to allow myself the full use of said element. Unfortunately, it seems that I have grown slightly stronger over the years, and the result was quite explosive."
John remained stoic even after Roquin had finished his explanation. Slowly, he raised his hand to his chin and stroked it. Another minute passed in silence. Then another. Finally, John spoke, "Michael, if you can make it upstairs, please go to your room. I will deal with you later." The teen nodded and moved to leave, but at the last moment turned and asked, "What's going to happen to Roquin, dad?" John sighed.
"He needs to be punished, just as you will be. Now go." Michael reluctantly turned and climbed the desecrated stairway. At the top, he glanced down just in time to watch the door close on the two adults. He scuttled down the hall to his room, and concentrated to see if he could hear anything from downstairs. When he couldn't, he shrugged, shut the door, and collapsed onto his bed. He turned to look at the time and discovered that it was ten minutes past two in the afternoon, Sunday, March ninth, 2234. As he continued to stare at the clock, he drifted into unconsciousness. The dark was peaceful, and the young Dorfae was content for a time.
Five hours later
Michael bolted upright as a sharp crack split the air. He glanced at the clock again; it read 7:03 PM. Another piercing slap rang through his ears, and this time he realized with dread what it was. Moving to the window, he gazed down into a large field covered with row upon row of various crops. There was tobacco, corn, wheat, potatoes, even marijuana in places. As he turned to look right another crack rang out, and his suspicions were confirmed: Roquin was tied to the whipping post. John stood nearby, watching as Whip-Master Gregory (or 'Gutless Greg' as the slaves called him) dealt sever blows to Roquin's back- ten in total. When they were done, Michael opened the window just enough to eavesdrop on what Gregory was saying.
"What is your place, dragon? Tell me."
"I- I am a servant, sir."
"Yes, but what is the place you reptilian scum hold, hmm?"
"Slaves, sir."
"Don't forget that, or we'll be seeing each other again. And I'm sure you don't want that." The man chuckled sinisterly before cracking his whip and walking off. "Good night, Mister Dorfae. Sleep well," he said in a pleasant manner. Michael couldn't help but wonder how he could stand the torture he served out to the dragons. Once he was gone, John untied Roquin from the post and allowed the dragon to wrap an arm around his shoulders. Half-dragging the gasping figure, he glided smoothly to the front door of the house, where Mrs. Dorfae waited to assist her husband.
Michael, curious as to how bad of a condition his caretaker was in, nearly fell from the second floor when he blindly rushed onto the nonexistent stairway. Instead, he climbed over the rail and dropped neatly onto the plush carpet of the entrance hall. His arm jarred and he croaked, which gave away his position, and his parents filed through the living room doorway.
"Michael," his mother stated simply.
"Hey mom, what happened? I saw Roquin out there. Was that his punishment for earlier?" The adults glanced at each other.
"...Yes," his father took over, "and we have also decided that you will accompany Roquin in the rebuild of the staircase. Once that is finished, you will be joining us in the fields from now on." Michael's jaw dropped, and he glanced between the two.
"Uh, uh, uh... okay," he breathed. Then he chuckled, "I guess some physical exercise would do me good. After all, video games can only get you so far in life."
His parents seemed rather surprised by his willingness. "Um, okay! Well, dinner is ready Michael. Why don't we head into the kitchen." His mother left, but John called his son back.
"Michael, I want you to listen to me very carefully son. Okay?" He nodded. "Good. Now, I want you to remember three things. Write them down, memorize them, I don't care, but never forget.
"The first is a single line: Within the heart of the flame, the compass shall lead you awry.
"The second is a moral principle: Dragons are not beneath us. They are our equals.
"The third is a promise, and this MUST be exactly word-for-word: Remember the pioneers. Repeat it back, please."
"Within the heart of the flame, the compass shall lead you awry. Dragons are our equals. Remember the pioneers. Got it." Michael's father nodded solemnly. Then both of them turned and entered the kitchen. A final statement rang out before the door closed on the vibrant chatter of three humans and seven dragons, "Meatloaf surprise! My favorite..."
Blegh... I don't feel all that well.
It's probably because Midterm finals are this week... and what's funny is that the finals had to be re-arranged due to the lack of school today, which in turn was caused by snowfall! Today was great!
Oh, and I'm going out to sunny California here in the USA to visit family for Christmas. I'm hoping for about five hundred US dollars, so I can buy a decent computer (I'm using my mom's 10-year-old tablet PC, which has survived numerous physical hits, at least four separate OS viruses, a hard drive overload, and uncountable processor overloads- not to mention the force-shutdowns when it freezes up).
… Hey look, I made it to five pages!
Merry Christmas to those of you who celebrate it! Happy Hanukkah to those of you who celebrate it! And to those of you who don't celebrate anything... man, you don't know what you're missing!
