Crumbled Ideals - World of Atonement

Departure

Freed from his trance, Delta pushed off the ground and jumped to his feet. In his hand remained the last remaining food that Drac had brought him. "Dunno," he replied as he took a bite. "Both Drac and Crow seem pretty interesting. I wonder how long I can stalk either of 'em before getting stabbed or shot to death."

*

A feeling of dread and unease filled the untidy study as the mid afternoon sun barely seeped through the amber curtains. Bookshelves were thrown out of place, leaving scattered books and dirty creases across the dark green carpet. Condensation from a half filled glass of scotch pooled into littered documents on a heavy wooden desk. Cold ash watched the coffee table sandwiched between two red sofas as a man with an unkempt appearance paced back and forth.

His greying black and gold hair remained untouched for days, and blond stubble grew on his face and neck. Sweat stains grew on his wrinkly white shirt beneath an amber vest, and his black trousers had grown loose over the past few days. Anxious and sleep deprived, his black eyes had heavy bags under them. This man was Stephen Deaver, the current head of the Deaver family. He was only 45, but his worries caused him to appear much older. His seclusion started when his oldest daughter, Helen Deaver, was kidnapped over a week ago. For the past few days without any word on her, he had secluded himself in his study while neglecting his duties as the head. It had reached the point where he refused any food or sleep until he heard news of his daughter.

A sudden knock at the door broke the silence. "What!" Stephen snapped as he slammed his palms against the desk. His voice was hoarse and rigid as he snapped at the servant. "I have no interest in anything you say unless it's about Helen." He chugged down the remainder of the scotch as the door creaked open to reveal a young serf with dark hair and narrow eyes.

"I'm afraid that this is just as dire, sir," the servant responded nervously. He cowered behind the sturdy door as Stephen flung the glass across the room, nearly impaling him with shattered glass. Peaking his head through the gap again, the servant continued to speak. "Someone referring to himself as the Drache has asked to speak with you."

Stephen shuddered as he recognized the title immediately. Drache, the name given to the urban legend originating from Etamin of the Bellatrix country. Starting out with petty criminals, the fearsome creature soon eradicated corruption amongst nobles with fangs that always returned to it. Bloodstained fields and fresh corpses were all that remained after it had finished its duty. Witness testimonies are vague, but they all describe it as a pitch black devil or the final dragon that killed mercilessly with white breath. Though its existence has been forgotten in the public ear, nobleman cowered at the thought of it. Unaware of why the urban legend was paying him a visit, he gulped as he replied "Allow him in."

"Understood."

Stephen felt as though he would go insane as the door shut. He chuckled at the cruel fate that had cursed him. Robbed of his most valuable treasure and soon to lose his life, he burst out laughing. Choking on the tears that came with his laughter, he felt that it was the only way to escape the twisted reality. His episode of hysteria was interrupted when a demonic shadow swallowed up the afternoon light. Terrified before the creature spreading its four wings, Stephen tripped over a collapsed bookshelf. Frantically trying to escape backwards, his back crashed into the coffee table. He shut his eyes as he waited for his impending doom. The shadow swallowed any remnants of light before dispersing immediately. Sunlight permeated the study once more, shining against a silver gun pointed at the back if Stephen's head. "Drache," Stephen mouthed in fear.

The revolver clicked, followed by a cold voice. "Take a seat," he demanded.

Stephen complied silently, unaware of what monster awaited him as he sat. His expectations were betrayed greatly by the young man laying down opposite him. The horrific beast that he had imagined was in reality a human barely older than his own daughter. His jet black hair lacked pigmentation in a patch on the left side of his head, and an old blue scarf covered his mouth. Despite having an aura of death and sadness surrounding him, Stephen felt oddly comfortable around Drac. He slumped his shoulders as he asked "What business does the Drache have with me?" Stephen immediately regretted his relaxed tone as his guest sat up straight.