I am very proud of this story. Finally getting it started, and publishing this first chapter is such a huge accomplishment. I promise that, while I may not update frequently, I will never actually disappear or give up this story. What you are about to read is the first product of almost two years of work. I hope you enjoy it, and don't hesitate to let me know what you think. Thank you.

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Storm Children

Part One

Chapter One

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Perhaps you are among the ranks of the fortunate few who, after having witnessed the most formidable and destructive of oceanic storms, survived to tell the tale. You would know the awesome beauty held by the same great being of destruction. Familiar would you be with the hue of the storm torn sea, a foreboding grey-green, which channels a consciousness of silent power, rage, and, strangely, hope. Such was the color of her eyes.

She sat on a majestic bolder overlooking an ocean with a temper contradictory to the one in her deep, haunting orbs. The sand-less beach was remotely handsome, but sincerely attractive. Cold, jagged boulders and rocks protruded from the shallows, colliding with a dense forest possessing foliage of every shade of green. Such a place would have been found to be despicable and unworthy of the efforts needed to reach it by any other human. But then she was not just any other human, or in fact, even truly human. To her, this place was one of great importance, not just for the most practical reason of peace and solitude, but it was the very place in which she entered the world that one particularly significant and dreadful night.

Her name, Cerakaai, simply meaning raging storm, was of origin from the most secret language of old, that of the nearly extinct Kirtkains. For purposes she did not normally disclose, however, she introduced herself to the average Orakian as Kaaia.

Despite the rest of her golden hair being tied sloppily at the back of her neck with a tattered piece of unidentifiably fabric, one lock fell into her face, and gracefully fluttered as she softly inhaled and exhaled the pungent ocean air. As the bloody sun revealed its blinding face, her rippled muscles, exposed and naked, flexed as she maintained her position on the rock while slowly rising to her feet. Without a thought, she haphazardly dropped from the bolder (she did not jump or fall but rather lazily dropped,) landing in a crouched position with a small splash. Rising, she pivoted once, pausing to again look out at the distant sun, and then proceeded to dash with the swiftness of a feline into the trees.

With knowing feet, she gracefully swept through the forest, clearing every obstacle with the ease of a practiced dancer. This pattern continued for a length of time no shorter than ten minutes without change, whether it had been the slowing of burning muscles or the quickening of pace sparked by the rush of adrenaline, nor the faltering of struggling breath. But soon, as the rocks that tailed from the beach faded from beneath her feet and turned to sand, and that fine powder turned to fleshy earth, she slowed and halted as suddenly and fluidly as she had started. Now deep within the forest, Cerakaai breathed in the raw scent of ever-moist air that hung about her. She stood in a small clearing, not much larger that a few paces across.

A crude shelter, constructed from native trunks and broad, waxy leaves perched between endlessly crisscrossing branches in the far end of the space. Gliding to its hole entrance, the girl soundlessly slipped in and out of sight. Looking about the shelter through the light penetrating the cracks in the walls, she scanned the room’s contents, confirming all was still in place. Her food rations and the delicately woven hammock were indeed there, along with her few, yet prided possessions. Her weapons, all rare and of extraordinary make, held value in her heart not only because of their valuable nature.

Her three knives, all made in the dark caves of the Durkocken underworld, were identical pieces, crafted from the partnership of both gold, silver, and diamond forces. The resulting appearance was a glowing ivory color, which gave the weapons the appearance of a tooth. The blades were infused with dark magik, rendering the knives invincible, featuring non-dulling and unbreakable attributes. The hilts of these treasures were of pure gold, molded into the likeness of the screeching dragon that symbolized the Durkocken people. Cerakaai always found it humorous that the Durkockens would represent themselves with the dragon, since being a burly, slow, and altogether lacking the swift and agile abilities required to conquer a dragon, Durkockens exhibiting power over the creature would be quire impossible. Nevertheless, Durkockens were indeed a powerful race, feared by those who were unfortunate enough to be hated by them. Which, it happened to be, was most of the world. Cerakaai had by some string of events and lady luck, befriended the people, and was given her prized weapons as gifts.

Dangling on the far wall of the hut was an intricately carved bow, and an equally appealing quiver stocked full of the deadliest arrows in existence. They were even more deadly once they had been knocked into her bow, as Cerakaai never missed a mark. Her blood simply denied failure when it came to archery. This weapon too was a gift from the leader of the fair-folk, the Eleanders. A dying race and cousins of the once powerful nation of Kirtkains, the sharp ears and canines of the Eleanders were recognizable world wide and commanded great respect. No one offended or crossed an Eleander without serious consequences. Despite their aggressive reputation, Eleanders were a gentle and pure folk who, in the many wars of Orakia had played the role of peace warriors, if not fighting for whatever causes the Kirtkains were. The Eleanders were the only race who collectively recognized Cerakaai’s extreme importance in the world. They had long ago sworn to protect her under any circumstances, and fight to the death on her battlefields. Their greatest skill, archery, had been taught to her at a young ripe age, and she had soon become as talented at the art as the greatest of Eleanderian warriors. After living with the fair-folk for five years, her final parting gift was the bow and quiver upon which her eyes now rested. A dear friend had long ago bestowed an enchantment upon the quiver, that its supply may never be extinguished. She was most thankful for this since, try as she might, constructing arrows was one of the many gifts she could never call her own.

Her last weapon, and her deadliest, was propped in the darkest corner of the shelter, sheathed and hidden from the world. Any unknowing individual would have at one glance passed it off as an innocent saber. But this sword, this blade, was anything but innocent. Older than Orakia itself, this weapon had been forged and wielded by the very being whom had brought evil to the world in the wee hours of its infancy. Rinsabia, as this demon creature had been christened, had eventually been conquered and reduced to nothing more than a spirit. However, being undying, that spirit still haunted Orakia, biding his time until he could once again rise to power even greater than he held in the earliest age of the world. Throughout the centuries, Rinsabia had gained loyal servants who rose to power for periods of time. Servants of the dark lord who carried out his commands from the darkness of the halls of Surkorai, the original dwelling place of the evil one. For years, the blade of Rinsabia had lain displayed in the caverns of the Kirtkains. No one, not even the great warrior who defeated Rinsabia, Haronsmon, had been able to grasp the hilt without suffering an unbearable burning pain that caused the flesh to turn to black stone; at least, no one except Cerakaai. Even her greatest mentors were baffled at the girl’s ability to wield such a powerful weapon. Nevertheless, Evreshin, as the weapon was called, never failed her. She and the weapon seemed to be one as she danced in combat, slaying her enemies with surprising ease.

Cerakaai quickly gathered her belongings, packing all her rations and bedding into a small bundle which she slung over her shoulder. Next she affixed a thin, hooded cloak, another gift from the Eleanders, over her garments. Next, she smoothed out her black, short, single strap tunic and slip on her feet dragon skin boots. She turned to her weapons and began placing them on her body in their appropriate positions: her knives hidden in her right boot, strapped to her left thigh, and hidden in her tunic’s bosom, the bow and quiver slung across her back, and finally Evreshin hanging loyal at her side.

Not bothering to take another glace around the shelter, she climbed through the hole and disappeared from the clearing into the twilight of the forest.