Melody of the Fates

Chapter 1.0

Grand, snowy peaks stretch toward a cloudless sky. Where the sun touches the crusted white powder, it glistens as if embedded with countless jewels. The light sweeps downward as the sun rises, illuminating the jagged gray rock where the snow ends. Stone gives way to a sparse tree line, and the golden rays touch the tips of evergreens as they continue their journey along the valley floor to the plains beyond.

In among the trees, many treacherous leagues below, a tiny village lay sleeping. Two dozen wooden houses with thatched roofs sit in the darkness, shaded from the encroaching sun by the thickly clustered trees of the nearby forest. A small clearing surrounds a spring that bubbles forth from the dense rock to spill into a small pond. From the pond, the clear, cold water follows a straight path downward and through the middle of the village. Once past the village, the liquid diamonds are tossed over a cliff to sparkle in the sun as they make their way down the steep slopes.

At the base of the valley, the stream reappears from beneath the trees as an ever-widening rivulet that continues in a blue ribbon off to the distant plains. Eventually, as the sun continues to peek over the mountaintops, the spray from a larger waterfall below is kissed by the light and forms a rainbow, crowning the valley for a moment in splendor. Soon, the last vestiges of darkness will be chased away, but for now the world exists in that unreal, yet beautiful space between sleep and wakefulness.

The silence and serenity are unappreciated by Vraika, however. Sleep is a luxury for the weak. It is wasted time. It is for this reason and no other that Vraika rises early. Beauty. Peace. They are but passing fancies of a soft world.

Thin wisps of snow swirl around Vraika’s feet as he stands framed by a rocky corridor hewn between the two tallest peaks of the Knuckle Mountains. The chilled air invades his nostrils and cracks like a whip across his bare arms. Vraika wears only a sleeveless black tunic, leaving his heavily marked skin exposed to the elements. He does not shiver. He stands like a dark statue carved from stone as the wind whistles around him and back through the narrow pass, making the crags seem to moan. 

As the morning matures, small tufts of smoke rise from the woods far below, signs of civilization. The Tashers. Vraika’s jaw clenches in anger. The Tashers have lived too long, too comfortably in this hospitable land. They will be swept before him and pushed off into the sea. They will break like un-tempered steel. They will be crushed like brittle bones. Such are the wishes of the Grand Warlord. Such are the wishes of the Fates. And Vraika serves.

A small dribble of blood escapes from the corner of Vraika’s mouth where tooth has unknowingly pierced lip, and slides slowly to his chin. Raising one arm, he eyes the black steel bracer fastened to his left wrist with reverence. A crystalline, obsidian shard is embedded on the top, surrounded by a thin line of polished gold. It pulses faintly in anticipation of the coming carnage. His Focus. The source of his strength. Vraika fears it will be of little use in the upcoming battles, though. The Tashers have long been without a valid leader. They will make easy prey for his warriors. His strength will break them, and assimilate those found worthy. True leadership requires strength.

With a hand, Vraika wipes the droplet on his chin and stares at his red-stained palm. The Tashers. They have drawn first blood. They shall drown in it before he is through. 

Vraika’s eyes darken and begin to swell in time with the shard as they sweep the land below, searching like a bird of prey for his first target. A smoky cloud of darkness falls from his shoulders like a cape and pools around his feet. The narrow, recently unsealed mountain pass has led the Legion through the towering crags to an old, forgotten road that leads down to the plain. Off to one side, out of the way, Vraika fixates on the small village huddled near the spring. There is no obvious value in razing the village, but it contains Tashers. They have drawn his blood. They must be broken.

Burning black eyes lock onto the village. His invasion begins here. Now.