First off... I was so pleased with your reviews, I decided to post the next Chapter more earlier than planned.
Now to answer a question, the dragon has markings like a diamondback rattlesnake. I meant to describe the markings, not the hardness. Thanks for pointing it out.

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Angelus Lacrimae, Chapter II
...In Te, Domine, Speravi...
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Where am I? Am I dead? It's so dark in here... the only light is on me. There's someone out there, I can feel it. Who's there...?

'Nobleman from the country protected by dragons...' A voice emanated from the endless darkness, interrupting the eerie silence that blanketed the shadow abyss. It echoed off walls that weren't there, drowning his ears in a deep resonating base.

'Who are you?' he called into the black, not expecting an answer, and perhaps dreading the idea of one.

'My name is Dornkirk, he who attempts to control fate by using the power of Atlantis,' was the disembodied reply. The voice was decidedly male. He had heard stories of this Dornkirk, though was unsure of the line between truth and fiction; a stranger that had appeared full of strange, new ideas. It was rumoured he was from the cursed Mystic Moon, and he had come to end the war that had consumed all of Gaia. Ludricrous, it was, this idea of ending the War. The people of Gaia had always been fighting, and would for generations to come. Dornkirk had many followers, however, and was said to be building a huge city in the reclusive land of Zaibach.
One word pulled at his mind.

'Power of Atlantis...?' That name had not been used for ages. The stories about his mysterious, wraith-like mother had talked of Atlantis; how she and her demon race of the winged Draconians had come from the accursed land. His father, Goau, would not stand for such damning tales of his beloved wife, and her people were never mentioned again. Varie was a strong and loving wife and mother, and her Draconian blood had not kept the King of Fanelia from marrying her against all recommendations from the Council. She did not leave her husband's side until his death. Thus, his eldest son was sent off to slay a dragon as part of the rite to become King.
Not that anyone wanted a half-bred demon as a King...

'The reason you survived is because of the power of Atlantis within you,' Dornkirk answered suddenly, breaking through the boy's reverie. 'Let's create a world free from war.' The voice, long since having lost its godlike aura, said thoughtfully, as if he were suggesting they go for a lovely stroll through the woods. The boy sat up, shielding his eyes from the strong light, and tried to find any trace of Dornkirk.

'Is this place...?' He suddenly felt a heavy weight on the right side of his body.

The fangs glistened in the sunlight, two rows of the long knives bared and heading straight to him. He began to raise his sword, but in an instant dozens of sharp teeth buried themselves deeply into his bicep and forearm, piercing cleanly through the armor and bones. The dragon clenched its jaws tightly, impaling the arm, and jerked its head to the side. With a sickening rip, the skin tore away from his torso; his shoulder cracking as loud as a dry branch as the arm dislocated, pulled straight from the socket. The momentum threw him far back, and he landed with a scream on the bleeding, shredded remnants of his arm. The dragon tossed its head, and the severed limb flew from its gaping mouth, blood swirling from it in crimson arcs. It landed by the sword that was now completely useless.

A white cloth had been covering him, and he emotionlessly pushed it off his shoulder, expecting to see a disfigured, bandaged stump.
What...??
A large, rounded piece of metal protruded from the flesh of his shoulder (or what was left of it), three corded straps embedded into his chest. His eyes widened in horror as they followed the metallic monstrosity down, watching as several darkly coloured cords flexed with his involuntary movement. Shakingly, he lifted up the thing that was attached to him, staring as the arm lifted to reveal a shining, grotesque imitation of a hand. Long, skeletal 'fingers' shook and twitched with his movements, each tipped with a fine sickle-shaped claw.
He stared at the arm with a muted, growing disbelief as all living colour left his face.

He screamed.

What have you done to me?? What is this?? This isn't an...I don't have an arm...what is this? I lost my arm... I lost it to the dragon! What is this thing? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?! This isn't me! This isn't a part of me! What have you done to me? Get it off... get it away from me... GET IT AWAY FROM ME!!
He pulled as hard as he could, moving his hand up the hauntingly skeletal 'arm' and pulling at it with a fierce obsession. The shoulder stretched against the skin, and pain erupted as he tried to pull the cords that were buried in his skin. Blood dripped from where the metal cut deep, and where the skin tore, but still he pulled.
I want to die... I want to die... get this thing away from me...
Out of the shadows, the figures of four cloaked men approached him carefully. They were expressionless, vast spectres wrapped in darkness with their eyes staring at him. Finding his voice, he began to shriek at them,

'WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME??' He wanted to run; to go hide in a dark corner away from their prying eyes and the light that hid nothing. They held a commanding power...he could not move except to watch as one of them pulled out a long syringe.

I screamed even as the drug filled my veins, attacking my brain until I collapsed onto the slab, still clutching at the thing that invaded by body. It was not me, it was not of me. I hoped, deep in my subconcious, in the silly, immature way of a fifteen-year-old, that I would wake up and it would all be a dream; that nothing had happened, and I was at home with my mother and my little brother. When I would wake up, I would discover the harsh cruelty of reality.
I would then decide I was no more alive than the metal in my body. That day, when the dragon tore off this arm, Folken Lacour de Fanel died.