‘Our kind are made to suffer, those individuals who’s minds possess the outer knowledge of the universe, are condemned to martyrdom. It is the prophecy of old, that neither man, nor woman can truly break their ties with fate. Such is the irony. Beautiful in its way, and something I have come to love.

Fate controls us all. It is that strength which gives us heroes in the darkest moments, and the spindles, which throw our ends to the wolves, a mix of sweetness, and bitter tastes.

No man, nor woman, not even someone as old as I or, witty as you, will manage to change these things. At least not until we choose to master not the pit of darkness, but the very fear of death that resides within us.’

Only though our own action can we change the world around us, for ill, or for good. Then my boy it is up to time to say if we were good men, or evil.

Laith was cold, startlingly so in the new fresh winter that had sprung so suddenly upon the city. It was a small hobble of a place, with several flat gray buildings of tall and medium height, each constructed with the stone that lay just in the valley beside the sea. The structures stood precariously, bound to thick boards that elevated the area above the swamp bellow. The popping noises of hot gases streaming upward from the earth made one nauseous at first, matching that of rotting fish and old cow dung. The cities sounds were mixing with the gull cries of the early morning, light and slightly blurring to Laith’s eyes.

The water-laden swamp was ancient, foul and only wanted for the precious burning oils it produced, as well as the fact that it sat as a border between two of the fighting countries of the age. The Empire of Azkatisha, and the Reigning Republic of Silaka, each constructed on ideals of warring dissimilarity. Demede had been built long before these two countries had formed, at time when mages, and their scarce abilities were not nearly out of reach for the poor.

At one time the whole city had merely floated, propelled by the magic and ancient secrets, which were now horded so greedily. The constant wars tended to keep the wealthy nobles well protected behind their soldiers, and thick castles. All other facets of life slowed to a still until it was won, or lost. The city tossed back and forth between the two thundering forces of the human armies.

The poor and middle class reduced to firing fodder between two giant moving forces of men, both righteous nations didn’t care as long as the oils kept flowing. It was a precarious way to build any city in this time of death, let alone someplace were the heat and chilling cold twisted the boards which supported it to untimely weakness, sometimes an unlucky individual lofted into the thick nasty muck bellow.

A fresh blanket of the white snow had tracked its way just down over the region, and on the thick rock that lay around, and beneath him. He took a deep breath his body shivered slightly, dark braids of brown hair falling over his eyes as he attempted to stand. He’d been crouched down; to try and hold some heat in the bitter winter chills, not to effective but the best he had.

It was midmorn already, so that would mean he might have missed the baker’s ‘freshly’ dumped goods. Damn it, he’d have to go steal something again, the last beating he’d received when he’d gotten caught still left a foul taste on the back of his tongue. Stealing left you in a bad hand with the gods, and that was never a wise course of action.

Laith had come to the city looking for work some weeks before, but that hadn’t turned out at all. The man who had offered him the job in his own village earlier that summer had turned out to not need him, they’d very quickly booted him out the door. Something about that in the winter he couldn’t manage another mouth to feed, well that was just dandy.

Irritated, as well as uncommonly tired the young lad curled his hands close to his body as he ventured out toward the morning bread stalls. The market was the largest he’d seen, thick with the smell of meats and cooked foods, apple spices dripped with carved bread stocks. He licked his lips in hunger, but didn’t dare move toward the foodstuffs.

The young lad himself was small around the waist, with a slightly worn taunt body that seemed to have just reached the stage of maturity. His height was that of normal stature, just under most of the soldiers own. Though Laith hadn’t yet become a man, and wouldn’t for some time, one could see a sort of retained intelligence that lay in his dark green eyes. His face was familiar, yet not; angular with a thin nose, settled slightly upturned in the lower center of his face, thicker plump lips pale against golden skin.

He stretched, to try and pop his arms and back, one easily spotted the pitiful clothes he wore. Only a dark black jacket, far to thin for this area, with sewn green patches on the shoulders, as well as a pair of ancient pants held up by a weather spotted brown leather belt.

“Soldiers blood is brittle bones…” he sang quietly, leaving his ‘home’ in the alleyway, and headed for the back streets of Demede. Most street-rats and prostitutes used these ancient traveling ways during the day as to keep themselves out of the guard’s sights. The particular lane he was on was one of the oldest, with wooden flooring that one had to be very careful, on to avoid a quick death of falling into the pit of dirt bellow.

Laith kept his movement’s quick, boot covered feet weighty over the ancient boards with memorized proficiency. He’d had to learn quick how to move, the only alternative was a quick demise. There was a crack, he stopped, and looked down, gulping down a bit of air.

The board beneath him broke, in a quick split of the center. “Ahh!” his voice was loud and echoed in the thin artificial hallway, as he tried in vain to curl into himself, as to prevent more damage from the fall.

There was a hand, someone heaving him back and onto the other boards, the sound of heavy breathing and grunting came along with it. He focused on the other who had saved him, from that very sickly, and rather dirty death. It was a man who was about his size and height, maybe a few inches taller. His face was a bit red from the effort of pulling the lad up, skin the color of a pale moon, vastly different from his own, or any of that which he’d seen.

Giving a wry smile, the slightly older mans face softened in away that was almost natural, yet his eyes could not hide the intelligence, which hid there. The lad thought his hair was strange, curled around his head in tight ringlets, its color was scarlet. Such a hair color would have been thought a curse, or blessing in his home, truly the gods looked at this man in some way.

Even stranger was the bow that hung low on his shoulder; seemingly to slender to be of any use in battle or for hunting, its color was silver metal. Upon it if Laith had noticed, or cared to notice, several long drawn symbols were placed. The lad would not know what they meant of course, he did not even know how to read.

“Bit of trouble there then? Lucky I was coming this way. Otherwise you, and the Bortogs swamp could have had an up close, and all too personal meeting.” The man stood dusting himself off with several quick movements of his wrists, and carefully stepped on the newer boards beneath their feet. His clothing was that of a bard, which might explain the curled hair and the frivolous purple coloring of his tunic, several beaded necklaces hung around his neck. Laith watched him with unmarred curiosity, “What is your name?” his voice seemed a bit docile at the moment, eyes fashioned on the others face. “Oh, Wirey. Wirey Tostool. ” The other replied, his voiced seemed to gain a rougher edge to it, Wirey gave a wide grin to the lad beside him, Laith returned it though he tilted his head down just slightly

Wirey froze, eyes staring to the seemingly empty space to their left, and then the sound of angry yelling was heard. “You go around, I’ll hit the left side! We’ll find that thief!” It was the commanding voice of one of the lead guards.

The young man watched the strange other and steadied himself, he felt thankful to the stranger giving him another smile, and then a nod. The sound of shouting from behind them grew louder, the young lad turning his head quickly and he spotted four market guards. Each was large and at least two heads taller than them both, heavy laden swords of iron held in their massive hands, the sharp implements pointed in their direction. The men did not look happy and rumbled forward, not familiar enough with this area to run in to quickly.

The man who had saved him moved in the other direction, and pushed the lad toward the guards, he hit them with a thump, and his arms were pulled painfully behind his back. Rage filled the boy quickly, blinding his eyes, and temporarily his mind; one of the men pulled his body to his chest, his thin arms wrapped behind his back, palms curled downward. He snapped his head back and it connected with the mans face, the a spurt of blood moving down the lads neck, he kicked fitfully, legs moving in all directions, luckily he managed to kick one of the other men in the chest.

The red haired male was back, pulling his bow and something shot forward. It was intense, a shattering crack of lightning consuming the area, and spinning more quickly than the blink of an eye. That very thing formed an arrow and flew forward, twisting in a circular motion as it went. It was so bright it burned into Laith’s eyes as the power hit his chest, pain as sharp as a burning poker thrumming through his body.

The boys eyes widened as something painful and wretched streamed past the guards and himself, the arrow had hit its mark. He felt nothing but cold, as if all the heat had poured from his body, He was soon surrounded in a thick nothingness; the pain had removed all sensation from his body.

Laith could feel the warmth of the sun, cool faded grass lay just to the side of his vision, the sound of rasping wind wrapped forcefully around his body, he could hear nothing else. Silent he didn’t move from the collection of grass, strangely unable to move his arms, or legs from their positions.

His eyes were open for some reason, and he could see a floating figure just above his head, though he knew that he couldn’t touch it. After all his hands were gone, simply having disappeared off somewhere before the grass had arrived, similarly his feet had vanished, leaving only the remains of his shoes burned to a cinder.

The figure above him was a gray shade in the form of a man, its eyes a disturbing yellow coloring, they were staring at him. It fashioned long thin tendrils, which shivered outward similar to the way a snake moves upon the ground, each having tiny fingers placed at the end, with black nails of pointed nature. Each was, slowly wrapping around the stubs of his leg, the young mans breath coming to a shutter as the monstrous creature touched him, it was as if his very soul had been turned to coal, and only the purest of the gods blessings would be able to remove the stain.

He felt afraid, more terrified than he ever had before in the entirety of his life, even the movements of this creature were wrong, its very existence an affront to the universe. The slithering poison of its desires permeated the beauty of the field, and that very contrast seemed to make both hideous.

The young man couldn’t make himself budge, nothing he attempted worked, it was as if his muscles had decomposed to nothingness and had slithered into the grass around him. His mind was screaming for someone to help him, his father, uncle, someone could remove this vile creature from his presence. But those wishes were for nothing, the monster would devour his mortal soul in this plain of eternal beauty, it was truly as the ancients said.

The creature was coming closer, tapping those disgusting limbs upon his body, just over his heart, flicking them out to cut painfully into his skin. He still could not close his eyes, and that was the cruelest fate of all. Then there was the sound of a snapping flame, and flames consumed the monster, as if Allor himself had shoot a flare arrow into the pit of its stomach. The fiend writhed away, its long fingers curling out as a horrible hiss escaped its non-existent lips opening, and then closing with the last snap of its death, fangs inside shining in Laith’s mind.