My Writings

Character Sketches

#1
Rogan was a tall man but not so overly tall that he looked awkward or out of place with a lean sinewy frame and broad square shoulders that filled out his shirt nicely. He was dressed casually but with well thought out attention to what he had put on—a light blue or cornflower as it’s called, Armani short sleeve linen shirt, un-tucked, a pair of white Asher shorts and a close fitting coral necklace that accentuated his light olive skin. Only the bottom three buttons on his shirt had been fastened to just above his navel exposing his torso nicely—a specimen of perfection—lean and cut with muscular definition.
         He had a young face, indistinct but handsome and almost cruel in his calculating gaze and even a bit sensuous. His eyes were a light hazel with flecks of green and sometimes blue. Today they were more blue than green but mostly gray. His hair, a dusty sun-bleached brown, was full and thick and parted casually on the left. It was a little long and a little shaggy but well tempered, suiting him well.
         There was something about him that looked unassuming, unthreatening. No one would ever suspect the deadly power in his well-disciplined hands. Under the tutelage of the great eastern masters of China and Japan he was molded into a living breathing weapon, a prodigy, an unrivaled intellect. The combination of his physical skills and superior intelligence made him most dangerous and most definately a threatening opponent but here on the boardwalk, he was just Rogan—average, typical Rogan.

#2
Lillet grinned broadly—flatly with thin pale lips upturned slightly at the corners—cat like. She held in her hands, lightly and preciously, her H&K PSG-1 German sniper rifle fitted with a Hensoldt 6x42 sight. The most accurate rifle on the market and now, in her hands, it had become the most deadly weapon in the world. She wrapped her slender finger around the trigger and feeling the cold, comforting metal and the high impact plastic of the stock fit snuggly against her right shoulder. She felt a sense of euphoria, it was almost—orgasmic. She struggled to maintain her breathing, to maintain her composure and yet the smile had escaped.
         She sat on a small wooden stool, her long auburn hair fell in waves about her shoulders, parted in the center with the look of a seventies disco star. It was a look that fit her well with her pale rosy-cheeked complexion, patches of freckles and her large green eyes. She looked innocent enough. ‘Innocent until proven guilty,’ she always said which in fact was an admission of utter and undeniable guilt. The statement was usually followed by the same cattish grin.
         She was taller than the average woman but only by a few inches, not enough to take exceptional note of but she was in a lot better shape. Every morning before the sun rose she would returned from her brisk ten mile run and would fix herself a vegetarian’s breakfast—the sort of thing that turned Rogan’s stomach inside out. Omelets with two strips of bacon where more his thing. He was actually quite the cook, you’d never know it by looking at him but he certainly knew his way around a kitchen and his breakfast was always gourmet but she had to work harder than him, not to say he didn’t work hard and spend his time in training to stay in optimal shape, because he did and he trained harder than anyone she knew. Even with all the miles she ran and the hours spent in the gym, she was not an overly small woman but instead she looked fit and trim, not anerexic but healthy with strong square shoulders and a muscular back but well proportioned as a woman should be with shapely curves and a full, nicely formed bussom. Something that Rogan had never failed to point out.

#3
Angus Fitch was a full blooded Native American, Inuna-Ina or more commonly known as Arapaho, with long black hair pulled back in a long pony tale that reached down to his mid back. His face was strong and angular with a hard firm jaw lines and hard dark eyes behind a pair of wire framed spectacles.
         He sat poised behind a computer terminal, his fingers typing franticly with blinding swiftness as lines of data script filled the screen. His large body with his broad hulkish shoulders hunched over, miniturizing the terminal in front of him and when he stood he cleared six and a half feet tall. He wore a pale blue Ralph Lauren button up polo shirt with rolled up sleeves, un-tucked over a pair of olive green cargo pants. They fit him well and comfortably—purchased from an on-line big and tall shop. It was hard for him to shop off the rack, it always had been.
         Rogan had never seen a man with a more natural combative skills but that wasn’t why he had been recruited. His arms were large and powerful and his grip increadible but Angus preferred to wage war in the data stream—to fight his enemy in cyberspace. It was what he was good at. With a degree from MIT and six months in fedral prison for successfully hacking into Langly, Rogan couldn’t resist extending him the offer to join their little family—an elite group they were, Rogan, Lillet and now Angus Fitch and the rest of the academy.

#4 (Troj al'dane - a Fantasy Character)
An assisin with flexible loyalties is following fresh tracks along a narrow forest path. She was dressed from head to foot in a dark forest green with dark leather boots and leather gloves with the finger tips missing and a hood covering her long orange hair and a cloth scarf over her nose and mouth. Nothing personal about her was ever seen. On her back was strapped a long bow and a quiver of finely crafted arrows and from her hip dangled a cross-bow.
         She was a highly sought after assasin because of her unique ability of tracking. She didn’t need physical evidance to track. It was magic of sorts, being able to see the ghostly visage of her prey. All she needed was a single thread, or a hair belonging to her mark and she could follow them to the ends of the earth. The item has to be owned, not borrowed, by her target. It was magic and it was particular with clear cut rules. She also learned how to add slight enchantments to her arrows and bolts, never being able to make them fly further or straighter but making them burn or electrify on impact. It was a gift that she had had since birth. The gift for killing without thought or remorse came later.

#5 (Shynx - an Atlantian)
She gasped silently as he turned to look down at her. He had light chocolate skin, fair crystalline blue eyes and straight black hair tied back in a long pony tail. His face was narrow and young (realisticly he was probably two or three years older then she) with a strong angular jaw. He was lean and cut with muscular deffinition, barefoot and only wearing a pair of dark, baggy over-sized trousers that were held up by a crude piece of rope tied about his waist.
He smiled at her a crooked off-center smile.

#6 (a Vampire)
Cassius stood like a pillar cast in shadow. His long red overcoat wavered openly in the breeze, suilohetted by the fulness of the moon at his back. His sharp, angular face was solumn and fixed on the city below with only his deep emerald eyes betraying movement. A slow smile turned upward, catishly, malevolently into a grin. His eyes narrowed, zooming in like a raptor on the hunt untill he saw it. There. “I have you now,” he whispered letting his words be swept away on the breeze.
         He was dressed as he always was with his dark red overcoat—a double breasted wool coat and wool was important in his condition, never seeming to get warm. His trousers were dark and his heavy duty boots were polished black, reaching up to mid-shin with his pants tucked inside. He undid his buttons slowly and opened his coat reavealing two hip houlsters and his white “wife-beater” tank-top with his cut and muscular physique clearly defined. He pulled free the two .50 calaber Desert Eagles. His gloved hands tightened over the grip and his finger brushed the cool metal of the trigger. And with that, he stepped from the ledge and dropped 20 stories down with little more than a whisper—landing softly on the hard damp pavement of the alley.

This and That

#1
His name was Logan Finn. It was a name that he had given himself after a lifetime of being identified by a string of erronious numbers. The numbers that had been branded into his brain by countless years of repetition, from the day he was born until only a few days ago, was his only I.D. He existed nowhere beyond those numbers.
         Logan was donned in a black, close-fitting full body suite with a slim black utility belt and a pack strapped to his back, also black. In the absence of light he was all but invisible with the whites of his eyes being the only exception. He had a ski-mask style hood pulled over his head with shoe polish masking the exsposed skin. He crouched on the rooftop with his back to the raised edge encompasing the building's perimiter. Noone below knew he was there and it was doubtful that anyone could have detected his skyward decent.
         He was slowly screwing in the silencer to his Sig-229 9mm when a sound down below caught his attention. The sound of an approaching vehicle. Logan verified the time on his wrist watch and smiled a small clothed mouth smile benieth his mask; right on time he thought to himself.
         A single light bulb illuminated the alley below where a man in army fatigues stood with a semi-automatic M14 slung over his shoulder. The man looked overly casual and far too comfortable for the job he was given. Lights from the approaching delivery truck flooded the alley. Its deasel engin rumbled and sputtered as it came to a stop within the narrow alley and two men hopped down to meet the man carrying the M14.
         Engulfed in shadow Logan piered over the edge.
         Logan cleared his mind and thought of his directive and mentally slowed his breathing as if it was no more than a stroll down the street. He had been trained well and his elite abilities were deeply engrained into his basic motor skills. The gun in his hand felt as if it was a mere extention of his arm with his finger resting gently over the trigger.
         The three men embraced as was their custom as if they had been life-long friends, or rather, comrads. They were russians or atleast they spoke it well enough to have spent considerable time their. Logan was fluent in russian, as he was in a dozen other languages and so he listened but they said little that interested him.
         He saw the slight shimmer of metal in the truck driver's hand. A knife? Their was more than one game in play, he thought as he watched the man step in close to embrace the man with the M14. It was a very smooth and calculated strike. The men embraced and in that instant a flash of cold hard steel, glinting breifly in the light of a single bulb, disapeared into the man and was withdrawn just as quickly. There was no scream, not even a sound. The knife, Logan speculated, was driven up under the man's ribs and into his lung. A textbook move and very effective. The man dropped to his knees and toppled onto his side, dead.
         Very well done Logan thought admiring the man's handywork but it was his turn to intervene.
         Logan sprinted along in a crouch against the roof's edge and in a single move lept with the aid of his arm as a pivot, he landed on the roof of the delivery truck. He sprung into action, spinning to face the stunned men. The one still holding the blood stained blade fell first with a single bullet to the head. A second shot dropped the other man just as suddenly. Three men lay dead in a crumpled heap with little more than a whisper to alarm their deaths.
         Logan lept from the truck's roof and landed like a black, gun-weilding spider-man with his keen senses alert to any approaching sounds. There were none. With his Sig gripped firmly in his right hand he stood. His tall sinewy figure was now enphisised by his tight fitting outfit and the dim yellow light from over head.
         He looked at the two men passivly and knelt by the third man with the fatal knife wound. It was just as he had suspected; the knife entered below the ribs and penetrated the man's lung. There was no time, though, to spend admiring another man's skill. He felt quickly for keys or a security pass, anything to gain access to the warehouse door, above which the single light bulb was fixed. And there it was, around his kneck was draped a single key on a cheep nylon string. There was nothing else to be found so he yanked the key free with a quick tug.
         He slipped the key into a pouch on his belt and made his way silently to the back of the truck. The back of the truck slid open with ease and he looked into its dark interior. It was empty. Damn! Where was the cargo, he thought confussed by what his directive had been. It was clear. A simple snatch-and-grab, kill those who pose a threat and leave. He needed the warehouse key so he could enter and remove any evidance that a truck had even arrived. But the truck was empty. That was bound to piss a few people off, thinking of his superiors who could not have made it more clear that his success was imperative.
         Logan's mind began to race and the pieces of a puzzle began to click into position which only raised more questions. What were the men from the truck up to? Why had they killed the guard and how were they so well trained? There must be something here at the warehouse that was of value.
         Pulling the key from his pouch he opened the door. It was dark inside with a distant green glow on the far side illuminating giant silhouettes that loomed out of the darkness.
         It felt like a lifetime ago, since he had recieved his papers for active duty as a Black Ops Specialist, or in other words, a government trained assasin. He worked alone and he and his existance were so highly classified that his own country would deny his existance, let alone his envolvement in any covert activities upon his death or capture. It was a fact he knew well but he had no intentions of getting himself killed. Logan was test tube bred and engineered to be the ultimate example of perfection and from the day he was 'born,' he was being groomed for such a life. His mind was trained as well as his muscles and physique and as his true intelligance became evident, it was clear that he rivaled the great minds of Einstine, Emanuel Swedenborg and Ed Whitten; all of which had been reviered for their mental prowes and then there was Logan Finn. Logan was such a success that he became the new mold for future agents. In a day and age when cloning is taboo and the very mention of it will bring ethical and moral debates to a heated climax, Logan's DNA is spawning an army modeled in his likeness.
         Logan pulled down a pair of night vision goggles that were barely larger than a pair of sun glasses and imerged his world into a vast field of green. He crouched with his back to the wall and listened. Florescent lights buzzed and hummed as power energizing large engins droned quietly in some dark corner of the facility and a rat was scurrying along the wall nearby. All of it seemed rutine.
         He led with his gun as he walked causiously like a viper on the hunt, prefering the element of suprise. What was it he was looking for, he didn't know but he would once he saw it. That he knew for sure. The two men from the truck had obviously been sent to retrieve it. The delivery, that was little more than a diversion. Clever, not very original but clever. If it wasn't for Logan they probably would have succeded.

#2
It was their long white beards that scared the boy. It wasn't their small round spectacles or their large beady eyes but their beards. Wizards had beards like that he thought. Were they wizards? It didn't matter now—it was too late. He had already asked them for their help.
         His name was Crux and he was thirteen years old. His emerald green eyes glanced pass his brown shaggy hair and up at the three men. His breath was ragged with fear.
         He stood holding in his two outstretched hands a stone. It glowed, lighting up the boy's face in a pale ghostly shade of blue. He had hoped they would take it from him, examine it, study it, do something with it but they didn't.
         They just looked at him. One of the men walked in a slow pensive circle around the boy while the others stood back and looked at him. All three were stroking their beards.
         What were they looking for? It was the stone—the stone was the problem. Why were they staring at him like this, what did they see?
         "Interesting," said the one man who had been circling, "Have you ever seen anything like it?"
         Crux spun around to face the man, "Like what, you haven't even looked at the stone." He was surprised how easily the words had escaped.
         "Hold your tongue young man. Remember to whom you speak." The man's brow creased deeply and his out stretched finger aimed at Crux's forehead. One eyebrow raised and he peered deep into the boy’s eyes.
         "Brother Malcus," said a slow reserved voice. "I don't think he knows who we are."
         "What!" Crux stumbled back as Brother Malcus' voice echoed inside the small room. He glared at his two companions and back at the boy, "Then why did he come here?"
         "The stone."
         The man with the slow soft voice spoke again, "What stone?" They all looked at him with marked suspicion. There was no sense in hiding it. The boy had come to them for some reason, something he was hiding.

#3
The arrow protuded from his chest. It was long and black, expertly crafted, with delacate black fletching made of raven’s feathurs. A pool of crimson blood welled up and stained the man’s light green tunic, spreading out from were the arrow had pierced his heart. Death was fast. His eyes were rolled back in his head and his mouth gaped in shock as a light stream of blood trickled along his cheek.
         A second arrow split the air with deadly silence——striking hard.
         A second man in as many arrows was now dead on the forest floor with two identicle arrows protruding from their hearts but more precisely the arrows had pierced the head of the lions stitched in gold upon their tunics. A minor detail but a detail that would not go un-noticed.
         The archer slowely lowered her bow as a satisfied grin formed across her face. Her delacate features reflecting the pale hue of moonlight and her deep auburn hair wavered as a breeze fell across her face but she hadn’t noticed. Her large green eyes were still tied to her two motionless targets.
         She hopped down from were she had been perched in the tree and landed with a soft crunch into the dried leaves under foot. Sitting in a crouch for a moment she listened. The forest was quiet with the gentle smell of pine and decaying wood and of freshly flowing water as a small stream babled nearby and a squirl lept from branch to branch overhead but there was something forign as well. There was no sound or movement but a smell. Something here didn’t belong.
         She pulled her hood up over her head and her face fell into shadow. Slinging her bow onto her back she pulled out a long curved blade that had been strapped to her hip and held it firmly in her gloved hand.
         A whisper flowed over the air, Don’t deny me! You can not deny me! It lingered in her ears like a ghostly saying——no more than a hushed voice. She felt its icy tones grip her and sieze her and it was now entering her mind and possessing her thoughts. Her eyes became glossed over and vacant. She collapsed back against the tree and slumped down to the ground. Her curved blade fell from her hand.
         Slow labored breaths escaped her parted lips. She was paralized. Fear was frozon on her face.

#4
The scream resonated inside his ear -- faiding it out of his mind, it was replaiced by the rappid drumming of his own heart. The world around him twirled and spun, and he saw nothing and heard nothing beyond his own existance. Bracing himself back against a tree, he rammed a ball into the barrel packing it down with the paper wade of black powder. He glanced up at the creature lurched over his commanding officer, a man once impressive in stature was now barely recognisable.
         He raised the gun to his shoulder. Steady... steady, he though fighting the nervous spasm's in his arms. Aim you fool, Aim...
         The beast looked up at the kid, dressed in his bergandy uniform and tall black hat holding a long barrel musket in his grip. The young soldier's face was stern, squinting in deep panic fighting the sights for alignment before pausing as contact was made -- eye to eye. Those large yellow eyes, blood smeared grin, it all made the hair on the soldier's neck stand on end.
         He lowered the gun down, butt to the earth, dropping another load into the long barrel, ramming it tight; he raised it again. He pulled it tight to his shoulder with his cheek to the stock. The vision of the body now hidden behind the creature was still flashing vividly in his mind. It was like nothing he had ever seen, mangled and torn. The creature, with the mans blood fresh on his dark grey fur, turned to stare at the young soldier, taking one diliberate step toward him, then another with claws visibly extended.
         The boys breathing raced and his heart punded double time -- Load your weapon, load it NOW! He's almost hear -- LOAD IT!
         He lowered the gun again and through another load in the barrel and rammed it in, again fighting for alignment against his arms. A low gutteral sound came from the beast as he stepped closer, eyes locked on the boy, unimpeded by the wepon pointed at his skull. The young soldier tightened his grip. There was no retreat. Visions of the Acadomy flooded his mind, prepairing him for battle, prepairing him to stand his ground agains armies armed as well as they were. Guns and bullets and cannons, he knew how to handle himself but now fear had enslaved him. He watched the scene unfold before him as if time had slown down; the angular shoulder blades of the beast rise and fall as its massive feet approached, its thin dark coat prickly with adgitation, the sound in its throught, the deep and intense eyes glaring at him. It walked like a large cat but searched his
mind like a man, grinning like a man, an enemy to all humanity.
         It bore his blood red teeth and let out a deep thunderous cry, shakeing the trees and the ground underfoot.
         The gun with a loud crash flew apart as he squeezed the trigger. His head kicked back and he dropped to the ground, smoldering shards of shattered iron were imbedded in his face and his hand was torn wide open. The pouder burned against his skin. With a few quick steps the beast was straddling the boy, groggy on the ground. He was still unawair of what had taken place, but it all soon came back in a rush of mind numbing pain.
         The creature placed one paw about his neck, gripping him roughly like a hand holding him in place; the sharp tips of the claws evident against his skin. Then in a surprising realisation the creature spoke in a low horse voice, "I am Lafaar."
         Fighting the pain sworming through his body the boy managed a soft
reply, "Just kill -- me and get it (cough) over with." He rolled his eyes back as tears welled up uncontrollably.
         "I will not, but you will listen or your death will be slow," his eyes never strayed from the boys. "I'm Lafaar the Cursed and this is my home, try and hunt me again and the same will happen." The beast released his grip of the boys neck and bounded into the dense folliage along the roadway and was gone.

#5
The car sat idle in the street outside the door as the sun peeked its wakeful light over the roof tops. Frost had settled in over night on the bare tree limbs and over the small plots of grass lining the neighborhood street. A single car passed by and was soon gone and out of sight. It was a quiet street. Most who lived here were older, about to retire or already have with endeavors to travil and experience life from thier new found perspective. Kyle on the otherhand couldn't help but feel like the odd man out. He was barely twenty-four and fresh out of college, newly married in a neighborhood where most had been married thirty or fourty years. At the time it felt nearly impossible to dream about such a thing. That was seven years ago and this little piece of the world had grown to become his home, a place he too wished to live and retire.
         He looked at the single house key in his hand and placed it on the kitchen counter, delaying a second before letting go, thinking quietly to himself about what it was he was leaving behind. Seven years seemed like a lifetime and he had just placed the last symble of his life down on that counter and was about to turn his back and walk away. Well the car was waiting, he thought, with the last of the boxes stacked in the back seat and the keys in the ignition; it was time. Time to say goodbye. Reluctantly he closed the door behind himself as he stepped out onto the wooden porch into the morning chill. A slow rising puff of steam rose from his lips and disipated with a gentle sigh. It was another life, he thought consoling himself as he made his way down the walkway to the car, vowing in his mind not to look back that one last time. It was time to start new -- no regrets.
         It wasn't long before he was on the road and passing the city limits sign for the open highway. His mother was kind enough to offer him a place to stay untill he could find a place of his own again. It was only temporary, he hoped. The kids were already there and she, he was sure, was spoiling them as she always did. "Nanna's perogative," she would always say. It brought a brief smile to his face. Clara, was six years old, an early suprise but a welcomed suprise and then there was Ashly who was only two years old. He was a smart one, intent on the world around him, exploring more and more with each day. Clara on the other hand had a flare for the dramatic, a real story teller. Many of the different "occurances" filled his mind along with all the embarasing stories that were no longer private domain. He couldn't help but laugh. It was something tangible, he thought, at least he had that.
         Changing lanes, he sped off onto an adjoining road heading south. It was only a few hours drive and the day had turned out to be pleasent with the sun fully risen above the horizon in the cloudless sky.

#6

Preface
* * *
Prince of Dragons

Fort Bryer, the northernmost outposts of Belladain, was little more than smoldering rubble surrounded by a sea of bodies; lifeless and cold. There faces contorted in agony as their last breath fled from their dying lips and the smell of their blood and of their burnt flesh was thick upon the air that moved about the hillside.
It had been a long day.
         Now the sun was slipping down behind the distant treetops and behind the rolling hills of their homeland. The sky was lit in a deep crimson red and orange like the sun had set the horizon ablaze with its intense heat and all that crossed its path would perish in a fiery death.
         There in the waning light of evening stood a young woman with long braided raven colored hair. The scene before her was like nothing that she had ever seen nor wished to see again. The woman’s name was Lillith, the only daughter of the Duke; Duke Riven of Bane. He was a wealthy and powerful man who held the King in his pocket (or so he jested) but now she walked alone amid the carnage. Her feet dragging and her body week and aching in ways she never thought possible with the strain of battle still raging in her mind. Her once off-white tunic was now spattered and soaked with the color of dried blood, as was the long sword she so firmly gripped in her trembling hand, glistening a ghastly shade of pink.
         Visions of her father surfaced in her mind as she held back the tears burning at her eyes. She stood by helplessly as he was so violently disemboweled with his sword still sheathed and with dismal surprise written upon his face as he fell to the courtyard floor. Now, even now that the killing had ended she could not grieve.
         A few other figures sulked about as silhouettes in the drifting smoke; many searching as she was for life while others were quieting the cries of the enemy. The enemy, she pondered the words that formed so easily in her mind, the enemy. It sounded so cold and shallow. Lillith had no enemies when she rose from her bed on this morning but now the vile creatures, the abominations, which bled so frequently at the end of her blade were—undeniably—the enemy.
         As she stepped among the dead a quiet muffled groan caught her attention. A young man lay in a pool of his own blood. The man, a brave warrior she was sure, had his hands grasping at a hole savagely torn in his stomach. On any other day the mere sight of such a man would have sickened her but that innocence had been lost for good and now all she felt was sorrow. His eyes turned toward her. “Please,” He said choking on his own blood in a weak gurgling attempt to speak, “Help please.”
         Lillith said nothing knowing that his death was fast approaching. Would the aid of her dagger ease his pain but the thought repulsed her nearly as soon as it crossed her mind and yet there was honor in mercy, she told herself. She dropped to one knee beside the man and looked deep into his eyes. There was fear and yet she could see bravery and strength as he faced certain death.
         “I’ll help you,” she said just above a whisper. She drew the short dagger concealed in her boot and knelt, straddling his chest. His face softened as an unspoken understanding passed between them.
         She leaned down and kissed the man gently on the forehead and she ran her hand over his eyes, “Please close them, it’ll be easier that way.” Her voice cracked and quivered as she thought about what she was about to do.
         Lillith drew the knife up close to him beneath his ear. As the cold edge of the knife brushed his cheek she could feel his body tensing under her. It’ll be quick, she thought. Her own breathing reverberated in her ears and her heart pounded as she pressed the tip of the blade under his well-defined jaw line. In a fast and deep slice she drew a line across his throat and the man’s body fell limp. The warm blood of his throat gushed over her knife hand and onto her already crimson tunic.
         Who had she become? Her mind spoke to her with disdain and repulsion dripping in its savage tone, ‘a cold and heartless killer, murderer… murderer… murderer’ it shouted over and over again as she tore herself quickly from the man’s lifeless body.
         Her head swirled as she felt a deep knot forming in her gut and the burning bile choking at her throat as she doubled over and spilled what little there was in her stomach out onto the ground. Her knees weakened as she stumbled foreword, barely clearing bodies with her feet as she fell against a partially standing portion of the main wall. Again wrenching the contents of her guts out in a violent heave upon the ground. The cold rock felt soothing as she let her weight fall upon its support and she crumpled to the ground like a wet towel.
         As she lay there with her head in her hands Lillith thought of her mother. Did she also receive the fate that her father had; the fate of so many that lay on the battlefield had? She shuddered at the visions that was still so fresh in her mind, the vision of her father and the vision of so many lifeless young men. And yet she still clung to a measure of hope. There were those that had made it to safety in the darkness of the lower dungeon corridors, she told herself. Was her mother, the Duchess of Bane, one of those that fled to safety? She could only pray for such fortune.
         Lillith felt a large brutish hand touch her back. It was a touch lacking malice and hatred but instinct demanded that she clenched her hand to the bloody hilt of her long sword and spin with deadly force. Fortunately the man was quick on his feet, especially for his size, stepping back out of sword’s reach.
         “‘Tis ok, ‘tis ok m’lady,” the man said with a thick accent and a comforting smile. It was Degal. Lillith sighed a trembling sigh of relief and collapsed again back against the wall, lowering her blade.
         She cursed under her breath at her own foolishness, “Degal, I’m…” she began to say as he raised his hand, silencing her.
         “No need m’dear, no harm done.”
         Degal was a friend, a trusted confidante of her fathers, of her late fathers she corrected herself, and a brave warrior that wore more blood on his clothing than she herself wore. He stood nearly two heads taller than her and his massive arms and massive hands wielded a giant broadsword, which for the moment was strapped to his broad, muscular back.
         He took her into his powerful arms, his arms of understanding and held her there in security as Lillith finally let her tears flow unhindered. She finally felt a measure of safety as he embraced her and covered her over with his large protective body.
         “‘Tis Ok,” he smiled reassuringly at her. “Your father ’twas a good man, he’d be proud of you. I’m proud of you, that was a brave thing you did.” Degal paused for a moment and looked into the dismal field of bodies and rubble and destruction before speaking again. “Ya worry for your mother I know.”
         Lillith nodded stiffly.
         The two of them sat in silence with her head resting against his broad, blood stained chest for a long while, both trapped in their own thoughts.
Lillith broke the silence, her gaze was distant and her eyes were somewhat glassy, “What were those things Degal?”
         He looked at her thoughtfully, his face pensive and serious, more serious than Lillith had ever seen before and his voice was dry and hard when he finally spoke. ”Dark creatures m’lady, Dark indeed.” He looked back out across the landscape before continuing, “I’d only seen the likes of ‘em once before. It been near twenty years I figure. Half man, half beast with fire blazen from their mouths and terrifying fanged teeth. Spitten images of these bastards. I’d pray’d to never see ‘em again. That was a bad day too.” His words trailed off as he remembered so many years ago.
         She listened in silence and looked at the blood that now dried upon her long sword. She still held it firmly in her grip, afraid of letting it go. Its blade was stained crimson red and the hand guard was nicked and chipped from the day’s use.
Degal looked over at her, noticing her gaze upon the weapon in her hand, “Tribus would be proud.” His voice was thoughtful and distant.
         “I lacked form and my posture was terrible,” she replied just as distant.
         “War’s not ’bout posture and form m’lady ’tis ‘bout stay’n alive and you is still alive. Well done.” He smiled at her.
         Lillith returned a fragile attempt at a smile but still found it nearly impossible.
She let her mind wander aimlessly wishing to have been back home among her schoolbooks and tutors. She smirked for the first time all day as she though of how old Mr. Tribus would have rebuked her sloppy swordsmanship, and how Kroeger, on the other hand, would have condemned the violence that she so easily embraced. It was life or death, she reassured herself, life or death.
         Lillith caught sight of a young man sprinting through the field of bodies. The man was a few years her senior but yet he only looked to be in his early twenties. His sword was sheathed as he made his way towards them. It was Degal he was after. As he approached she noticed a long deep gash across his cheek. The blood had long since dried and the pain she was sure was only a faint memory. He was well built and stocky with sweat glistening from his quivering muscles. She also noticed that he wore the colors of the Royal Guard; a deep blue with silver accents and a stitched insignia of a crown and two crossed swords over his left breast. He was an impressive man she admired.
         He bowed cordially in her direction, “My Lady.” Before address Degal, “Wil Shyre reporting sir, we have spotted something on horseback, there,” he pointed to a distant hill where a faint figure could be seen. “It appears to be one of them, another abomination.” He stopped to catch his breath. “Should we pursue.”
         Degal stood up slowly but said nothing. He had seen the rider on the hill before, some twenty years ago.
         “Who is it,” Lillith asked. She could see the remembrance in his eyes.
Degal ignored Lillith’s question and spoke to the young man instead, his voice like ice, “Its no use, you’ll never catch the likes of ‘im, you won’t. We made chase for three days and lost more men than I could count. He didn’t need an army, it was just ‘im self it was. Keep your distance lad.”
         Relief flashed across the young man’s face as he stared out over his remaining men still on the battlefield that were welcoming the chance to rest.
         “Who is he,” Lillith asked again.
         “They call ‘im the Prince of Dragons they do, a sorcerer is what I call ‘im. A vile man, a dark hearted monster he is.”
         “He’s their leader,” Wil added quietly, remembering the tales he had heard.
Degal’s head snapped to attention as an excited voice called out from the field below, “Look there, a rider!” There at the edge of the carnage rode a tawny colored horse with a young zealous soldier, sword drawn and ready.
         “Foolish boy,” was all Degal could say.
         They all stood by, watching helplessly.

His name was Prius Verisihth, a gifted swordsman and a talented rider and a loyal soldier. As he rode at full gallop with his blood enraged eyes fixed upon the horseman he felt exhilarated. This day had taken all that he had known, all that he loved and no such creature would remain alive. He wielded his massive broad sword with swift agility.
         The horseman stood his ground without even a quiver.
         This creature was different; he was more human than not. He was broad across the shoulders and wore elegant, decorative armor but no helmet. He had a long angular face and long thick black hair that ran the length of his back. His eyes glowed slightly, a pale shade of red as he smiled at the charging swordsman and he bared his monstrous teeth.
         “What is your game?” Prius muttered under his breath as he prepared to sever the man’s pretty head from his body. “You will fear me.” His anger blazed and his hand tensed on the hilt of his sword.
         The horseman, the one they call the Prince of Dragons raised his hand towards the heavens and drew lightning into his palm and there in the flash of light formed a flaming blade.
Prius drew within striking distance. Rage burning in his eyes. The Prince again raised his conjured weapon and struck down with lethal force. The flaming blade of the Prince sliced across the man’s neck with inhuman force, severing the head clean from the body and sending it into the air. Prius slumped from the horse’s back and rolled headless along the dry hillside before coming to rest; a lifeless corps.

Laughter; menacing, cruel laughter echoed across the battlefield and with a turn of his monstrous war horse the Prince of Dragons disappeared from sight.

Lillith paled at the sight of such efficient killing and the power conjured from the sky made the hairs on the back of her neck raise. Let the rider’s death be a warning she thought. Her two companions looked on, stone-faced, but she knew the same fear was mulling through their minds as well.
         “Fool,” Degal said again, this time with a hint of sympathy. He was a good fighter; there was no doubt about that but a stupid one too.
         The sun soon fell from sight and all that had taken place was soon shrouded from their eyes by the growing darkness. Lillith still hoped for news of her mother’s safety but as the time passed she knew the reality of thing. May it have been quick, she thought as a lone tear formed in the corner of her eye.
         It was soon confirmed that the Lady of Bane was indeed a casualty. Lillith’s time for grieving had already passed and now all she felt was alone. She knelt beside her and cupped her mother’s head in her hand and said a soft farewell.
Degal and the Royal Guardsman known as Wil Shyre stood over her, looking at the fallen royalty with genuine remorse. “Two true and kind leaders have been lost here today,” Degal spoke with a surprising tenderness, “Farewell dear friends.”

#7
THE SMALL FISHING vessel bobbed gently in the Mediterranean waters off the coast of Crete, a small Grecian island about 40km from the mainland of Greece. At the wheel was a young dark skinned Sicilian boy by the name of Romeo Codichini. He was lounging casually with a pair of dark sun glasses and a dull pair of faded swimming trunks. His skin glistened in the Mediterranean sun with the cool salt water still dripping from his tanned little body.
         The vessel was anchored as he kept an eye on the rolling water below. His friend and partner, Angus Willow, was down below the surface in the dark murky waters of the Mediterranean. It had been nearly fifteen minutes now since he had dropped into the water. An occasional bubble reached the surface but for the most part he had disappeared with out even the diluted rays from his dive light.
         Angus was by now an expert diver even though he was barely fourteen years old. His skills and agility in the water rivaled those nearly double his age. He was good and he knew it.
         He maneuvered through the water like a dolphin smoothly gliding with ease focusing his light on the rocky terrain below. His long slender body barely moved as if by some unseen force, he propelled himself foreword. A few colorful fish darted from his path, quickly vanishing into the inky void that surrounded him.
         According to the data, his target was only a few meters ahead. He checked his dive watch and calculated his position and air time. He was ahead of schedule.
         As his light crawled along the sea floor he caught the first sight of wreckage. This was the graveyard he had heard so much about, laying so peacefully like giant skeletons on the sea floor; giant ships, mighty ships with wooden hulls and fallen masts. The more he swam, the more ships he saw.
         The floor of the Mediterranean dropped off into a small ravine where, as Angus tried to estimate, nearly a hundred ships laid from a hundred different eras. It was amazing to see first hand he thought as he swam alongside the ribs of fallen Persian War Ship.
         “I’ve reached the Grave Yard,” he said through the radio to Romeo who waited patiently above.
         “Bueno,” Romeo’s voice crackled into his ear, “Is there any signs of foul play?”
         Angus chuckled, “What do you mean? I’ve seen at least a half-dozen ships torn apart by canon fire, others that had probably been torched during battle. Foul Play?”
         “You know what I mean.”
         “No signs yet partner,” He said as he paused to check his instruments again “And I still have plenty of air.”
         “Bueno, bueno…”
         Angus wound through the wreckage descending deeper into the ravine being guided only by his own dive light and the compass on his wrist.
As he approached the deepest depth of the Mediterranean floor he caught sight of a massive vessel laying as if it had been gently placed in its spot with great care. From a distance there looked to be virtually no damage. It was turned slightly on its side and growth had accumulated on it hull.
         With a few swift kicks Angus glided through the water toward the vessel port side. It was longer than most ships in the grave yard and a good deal taller as well. Its hull was made of reinforced steel plating with a several dozen cannon bays—an upper and a lower set. He presumed the starboard side was similar in design.
         Angus turned and swam along the length of the upper deck with his light guiding the way. He again checked his remaining air. Time was still on his side.
“Romeo?” he paused but the radio just crackled in his ear. Must be too deep he figured so he gently glided foreword with the occasion kick from his flippers.
         The ship looked remarkably peaceful for being on the sea floor, he thought as he visually examined the upper deck. He wanted to take a more in depth look at the lower decks but knew better—not without a dive partner. He smiled to himself, he knew it was against code but he’d have to talk Romeo into suiting up and returning for a closer look.
         He kicked gently and dropped descended down the side of the giant vessel.
It was then that a burst of air bubbles shot over his head like a screaming torpedo. He felt the rush pass over the his neck. That was too close he thought as he spun around for an explanation. Three dive lights jogged through the water about thirty or forty meters away with a trail of residual bubbles still drifting his direction.
         The original harpoon was still shooting off into the darkness and at the same time he was aware they were most likely preparing to correct their mistake. The lights were approaching quickly as dark murky silhouettes began to take form.
If it was foul play Angus was looking for, it found him.
         Angus twisted and dove down along the steel hull and quickly slid his slender lanky body through an open cannon bay into the guts of the sunken ship. An eerie green reflected against his powerful dive light.
         The inside was virtually empty with wooden ribbing and a few remaining canons pull away from the windows. A dozen or so cannon balls were scattered about the deck floor but as for any signs of life, past or present, there was none.
He kicked swiftly towards what looked like an opening to an upper deck as a second harpoon smacked against the side steel plating. It sounded dangerously close to the cannon bay window.
         “Romeo… Romeo are you there?” He tried to control his voice and his raspy breathing. Radio contact was dead. Had they already gotten to him, was he dead already? The thoughts flooded his mind at jet propelled speeds.
         With a quick maneuver he darted through the opening to the upper deck and just as suddenly he was struck with blinding pain. A crimson cloud formed quickly from his right shoulder as he was knocked back. He opened his eyes as he grasped for anything, the pain was sending shivers through his body. It was then that Angus caught sight of two blinding dive lights and two dark figures coming towards him. He could feel the hard metal shaft of the harpoon protruding from his body.
         “Trap, it’s a trap...” the labored words crackled from the radio aboard the small fishing vessel that bobbed, abandoned, upon the Mediterranean. Romeo was gone with the exception of his small widdling knife that lay in a pile of scattered wood chips.
         As the words left his lips all seamed to grow cold and consciousness faded from his eyes.