Warchildren Scene 1

The old man huddled next to the roaring fire wrapped up in a threadbare cloak. He cradled a silvery bowl and cried. The tears ran down the old man's wrinkled cheek, paused at his stubbled chin and fell without haste into the bowl. He remained there for a long time nursing old hurts and pouring out his sorrow. The darkness hovered around him like an old friend, keeping him company through the long, cold night. The timbers in the tower groaned with the weight of his sorrow.

        A shadow stirred softly near the open window. The cold night air crept in through the window and spread throughout the stone chamber. The fire snapped and roared in its stone cage. Night air and hearth fire fought around the old man and his silvery bowl. The shadow glided along the curve of the tower wall bringing it closer to a simple wooden table standing in the center of the room. Thirteen coins, glinting golden in the firelight, lay on the table arranged in a peculiar pattern. The face of the coins showed a dragon rampant breathing fire. The coins lifted off the table slowly and moved through the night air toward the shadow along the wall. Each coin glittered and spun, slowly at first but picking up speed. The shadow became still at the edge of the firelight.

        “Is it done?” the old man croaked through his tears, his voice raspy with dust and sorrow.

        The hint of a mouth moved within the darkness. “Yes.”

        The old man's shoulders shook softly with his weeping. The coins spun and danced in the firelight and cold night air. The swarm of gold whirled in front of the shadow and penned it near the stone wall. 

        “Where is my payment?” the shadow hissed.

        “Within your reach. You have but to reach out your hand and take it.” The old man croaked in between wracking sobs and low moaning.

        The shadow reached out, pale gray hand sliding out from within the ink dark cloak. The hand grasped the closest coin and then recoiled with a hiss of pain. The shadow turned its hand over and dark blood oozed down the palm from a small cut across the lifeline. 

        “Take the coins or take the bands,” the withered old man croaked out, voice choked with tears.

        The shadow lunged for the old man. A blade, black and curved, appeared in its bloody gray hand. The coins flew through the air, twinkling gold and red in the firelight. The shadow froze a hair's breadth from the old man, unmoving but breathing heavily and heart racing with pain and fear. The coins slicing through the air and flesh. Blood sprinkled the worn stone floor.

        “Bands......give me.......the bands,” the  rasped across gray lips trembling with labored breathing.

        The old man stirred from his chair and rose on withered flesh and creaking bones. The coins flew into the fire and dove in the hot coals. The flames rose higher and the roaring of the fire grew louder. The old man shuffled across the room still cradling the silvery bowl full of tears. The coins moved beneath the coals like mice under a blanket. A softly glowing ball of gold rose from the raging flames. The molten gold crept towards the bloody shadow. The golden ball spun and divided into two discs which became two rings.

        The bloody gray hands of the shadow jerked forward and stretched out in front of the old man. The molten rings slid over the outstretched wrists and stayed there. The heat of the molten metal singed the gray skin and the shadow breathed faster. The bands ever so slowly constricted around the pale wrists, heat growing more intense. The shadow began to whimper and the old man stretched the silvery bowl underneath the shadows trembling smooth jaw. The flesh of the shadow's wrists began to blister and redden. The tears of the shadow began to fall silently from it eyes. The salty tears splashed softly in the silvery bowl and the cooling gold seized each bloody gray wrist.

The shadow howled and the old man wept. He remained like this for a time in front of the ever present fire. He was always cold these days. His body was weakening but his mind expanded ever farther from the frontiers of mortality.

        Or so he hoped.

        He slowly rubbed at his eyes and blinked away the tears an the brightness of the roaring fire. He grabbed a nearby blanket and stood on shaky legs. When he finally had his balance again he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders with the slowness of encroaching decrepitude. He searched the floor thoroughly and found his slippers lined with sheep's wool. Satisfied, he shuffled across the room toward a silver bowl on a stand.

        He picked up an ornate knife near the bowl and slid the blade across his wrinkled and well scarred palm. He squeezed the blood into another small golden bowl and put the bloody knife down next to it. He reached over with his unwounded hand and lifted a taper from the table and lit it from a red candle nearby. He then turned and shuffled over to the center of the round room were an intricate pattern had been crafted into the very stonework. The old man had rarely seen its equal and they were always in places of great magic.

        He threw the taper into the center of the pattern and a great flame erupted from the floor. The old man flinched back from the expected heat but it never came. The flames were cold and lifeless. A figure formed within the flames and a shadowy darkness coalesced within them. The form took shape slowly. Arms and legs extruded from the mass of shadow. A head sprouted from newly formed shoulders. Horns began to shuddered forth from the shadow's head and great beating wings were flung wide from the shadowy creature's back. Burning coals for eyes sprung to life and blazed with infernal energies.

        “What do you want old man?” The shadow thundered.

        “Eternal life,” The old man wheezed, “and vengeance.”

        “You must retrieve the key.” the shadow replied, thunder rolling from his tongue.

        “What key?” the old man dropped to his knees and pleaded.

        “You must kill a god.” The shadow said and began laughing till the thunderous bellowing shook the tower.

        “Which god? What must I do?” the old man pleaded once more on his knees.

        “The spire west of here in the center of the vale harbors such a god. It sleeps away the centuries at the heart of the spire. Find the key and slay it before it wakes. Do this and you will take his place among the gods.”

        “Mi'Lord, there is no way into the Spire, many have tried for centuries to gain entrance but there is no way inside.” the old man managed to croak, voice choked with fear.

        “There is a key,” The shadow hissed and his image was replaced with that of a sword. “This was hidden away long ago. It will open the Spire and it will slay the god within.”

The shadow spoke with dark passion and disappeared. The flames died quickly and the old man was left alone, deep in thought.