A Reclamation of Seity

[Celethor Tyran]

OoC: Please PM to join.

Timestamp: Ioannolia, Brightening 3 of the Fifth Cycle of Kalendryas
Winter of Era II of the Celestine Mandate
Era XIV Post Fractum, the Second Era of the Regency of Milo L'Evienne
Paradigm: Gala of Empress Michelle held in Alleria Prime

Still as a statue, Celethor knelt pensively and felt the cool, moist native grass which was so familiar, and yet foreign to him. For so long he had gone without the fresh Sherian breeze which he greedily inhaled as a suffocating man just offered breath. For so long, he had wandered the midlands of Enamoria, seeking earnestly for the home which he had hitherto cherished and since, nearly forgotten. But the memories of the bountiful Sherian peninsula aroused vividly in the dracon's mind, and he was comforted both body and mind by their amiableness.

He had been distracted by a foolish errand, first a quest for wealth, then a crusade for a false goddess. Now that the truth had been unveiled, and his mind cleared, he knew where he truly belonged. Plunging his fist into the hard earth, digging violently, Celethor attempted to somehow replenish whatever it was that the province had given him that made him so alive. Reminiscing on past experiences, Celethor found many instances of happiness: of merry-making and joking and friends... Well, at least one friend stood out in particular. Steve. So many cycles and months had passed since they had met... But the ring which read "DUO" was still with Celethor, and he hoped somebrightening he might again reunite with his friend.

For now, though, Celethor had more important things to attend to. For not only did the Sherian wilderness bear memories of Steve and other good friends, it also held the origin of Celethor's existence, the people who molded him and taught him as a child up to the point where he decided to run away. Celethor stood up, uncovering his head as the last sun began to set. Checking his greatsword to ascertain whether it was sufficiently tied to his body to eliminate unnecessary bumping, and finding it to be so, he breathed one final breath of relief and began the final step of his journey, which would no doubt require many breaths of intensity. Running along the slopes of the Sherian hills, focusing his internal compass on the Khardran Mountains, the dracon kept a clear mind... something all but alien to the distraught Celethor and recently adopted as a welcome friend.

Celethor's old home... Grenit... So many people who had all meant so much to the dracon early in his life, but forgotten at his father's death. He had been selfish at that point in time; he believed that all that meant anything to him was gone. But what about all those who had helped raise him? What about Selphi? The pain of this memory caused Celethor to grind his teeth and push himself even harder. All this time, he had been trying to find himself, to discover his identity. But what had he found? Others? Was that what constituted one's identity? Certainly that could not be all... Who could compensate for the presence of those who brought you up? Who could take the place of a dedicated father or a true lover? Could there be more than one? Could Celethor really forget all that happened in his childhood and abandon those who made him who he was?

The answer, of course: No... Leaping off a boulder and using his wings to keep his balance on the descent, Celethor eyed the mountains intently. Even his heavy breathing seemed to silence itself as the voices of those so vitally important to him, but left behind as though meaningless, called his name and inquired as to his absence. When Celethor had left, the orcs were still continuing their eternal pestering and pillaging of his village. Celethor had been so blinded by his own selfishness that he couldn't see the significance of his leaving. But then again, Celethor was different now. He had grown so much during the patterns away from his home... he was changed, in some ways for the better...

It would all be sorted out when he got there. For now, Celethor shook his head free of such deep thoughts and sucked a massive volume of air in, replenishing his lungs. His endurance had grown stronger. He was now fully recovered from the pseudo-death which that devil had inflicted upon him. He still bore scars from the hurt that Diana had caused him, but with his mind focused on his people, her betrayal seemed much shallower a cut. The dracon now had a mission which he had determined at the start of his trek from Medonia to the Mountains: he would find his tribe. Whatever it took, he would find them, and thus, find himself. Ironic, really...

The sun had almost fully set by now. Celethor's legs ached and his back was sore from the miles traversed that brightening. His pack, strapped crosswise against his greatsword, felt much heavier than it did when the suns had first awoken him. He felt inclined to run through the night, but his body refused. Picking a spot on the horizon to aim at, he vowed to make it there before retiring. Hence, Celethor picked up his pace to reach the spot quicker.

Upon reaching the spot, Celethor made camp and was soon ready to fall asleep under the Sherian sky. Taking one last glance at the mountains, where his devotion to his past would no doubt be tested, the dracon murmured two words to the dracon village that was out there, that he would find:

"Good night."

[Celethor Tyran]

As Celethor lay down to bed, he watched the starry night sky. How many infinitesimal spots dotted the heavens, how many of those had significance in any trans-telathial beacons of inspiration. Had they names? Celethor had always taken for granted the grandeur of the extra-telathial realm. So long he had trusted in their watchful divinity, their eternal understanding of his fate. Whatever became of him in the death that was sleep depended on their higher natures, their mighty perception of the macrocosmic world. Dwelling on this thought, Celethor's eyes, fatigued, drooped down once, twice, then after a pause, for the final, tear-gripping time. His body gave in to the subconscious, relinquishing its dominion on the Material to rest for a period, allowing the imagination and reality of Celethor's mind to act unbridled.

At times his sub heavens ruled decision by the con trans veal stab in a and cend scious re truth known sleep un. Eth the het beg hsi alation in thus rev. Somnio diliculo.

Climbing... higher. The air – richer, cleaner, freer, seer... prophet?

.... -/- SIGHT -- ....

Focusing, a mountain... his mountain? No. Grey. Purple, white, green... Brown. Shapes – a person. Who? Dracon. Wings spreading... Swim towards her. Her? Who? Eyes. One who sees. Sees what? A minute...

-*- ^^ TOUCH ^^ -*-

Hard... soft – shell! Scales. Tough, strong. A woman. Familiar? Who? Beautiful... and hard... one name now___

(hearing)

Innocent, quiet, -beautiful- and... sad... grieving, the pain, hurts, and...

Talk.

“Who are you?”
“I am that you see, that you see, and a seer.”
“What do you see?”
“I see you. And you, see that you see, can you not?”
“I do. Why?”
“And you, I... Why? Not a minute, please... I see, can you not?”
“I do. How?”
“Tell me, now. Do you?”
“I do, don't you know? How?”
“Here.”

The colors flying. Celethor flew to the top of the mountain, how? With her, and without you. And without I that you see. A seer? How can they see? She can, can you not? There she is. He sees. Embracing him, the dracon, in a wave of soft, pleasant warmth. He holds her tight, not letting go, for he is blind, are you not? She can see... watch her. And now, a fading... to darkness. I see that you see – nothing. No colors, no motion, not.

Awaking, Celethor saw the first sun rise above the horizon. Blinking reluctantly, still vividly remembering the dream, he gathered together his things and prepared to leave. Who was she? Only time could tell. Or a seer. The dracon knew not to toss away dreams like that. They often held secrets which might still be a mystery, they often... and...

Beautiful.

[Celethor Tyran]

Celethor's first step on his mountain home brought with it a wave of strength and support, allowing him to eagerly pursue with renewed fervor his goal. It was as if all the things which had betrayed him were washed away with the flood of excitement at coming home. His taloned toes gripped the solid, firm foundation of the mountain, grateful for the stability it offered. Of course, too much force, and a chunk of the rocks might break away to tumble down as far as gravity and inertia would allow. Regardless, Celethor felt more confident on this mountain than he had anywhere since his departure from it. The prodigal had returned, but what awaited him at the end?

Celethor, with only a slight measure of difficulty, found one of the roughly vague trails used by various persons on the mountain. Some were populated by Celethor's people and other tribes of barbarian humans; others were prowled by orcs. The dracon knew this wasn't one of his own people's trails, but there remained still the possibility that the founders of it could be unfriendly. With a bit of bouldering and some strenuous scaling of slopes, Celethor managed to reach a level spot about five hundred feet up where he could stop and view the landscape. He tried from here to recognize any landmarks he might remember... but...

Nothing.

Appalled by his own failure, Celethor looked again and again, straining his mind for any nuances that might trigger his memory. But nothing came. Ioannes... Well... The only way really to head was up. The dracon was not about to turn back now. After the journey and the trials he had surpassed to travel this far, he was set in finding his people. Rediscovering the trial and following it once again, Celethor tried to stay aware of his surroundings. He knew of course that orcs were brutal, witless, blood-thirsty creatures who would gladly kill any stranger that crossed their path. Hence, he kept an observant eye to watch for anything that might prove a signal of danger.

The suns crept higher in the sky and Celethor was glad of the shade that the trees provided, although soon he knew that comfort would be gone as they lost all their leaves. The sparseness of conifers made the tree-line barely visible during the colder parts of a pattern. The dracon spotted a stump here and there, but no sign of the trunk which previously was attached to it. Perhaps a sign of a tribe, or something else? Celethor was perplexed as to why all the other trees would be standing if this were a logging area.

Alerted, but still with no evidence of anyone present, Celethor pressed forward, his right hand twitching as it sometimes did when it was provoked to near action. With nowhere else to go and still no reason to fear this place, he decided to go on, but what the path held in store further on was still a mystery...

OoC: Begin peer-modding by Heath Valienhart

[Heath Valienhart]

The wind blew steady from the Dracon’s back. Nearly bare branches played sketchy melodies as they rubbed together in the slight wind, freeing the few dead leaves that still remained and allowing them to wander down to their final resting place in the hard dirt of the mountain. In fact, the song of the wind was the only thing to wander through the trees, that brightening. Everything else was quiet. An odd prospect in the usually bustling pre-winter state of things. Something was definitely off. The cut trees were a more obvious testament, but a keen ear would pick up on the subtle tones of the wildlife, or lack their of.

Another minute or so of travel down the path, and rather less keen eye might notice a thin billow of white smoke rising from the mountain directly ahead. It was still too far away to see through the trunks of the molting trees. Even if the smoke trail had not been seen, the wind changed direction for an instant, and the faint smell of filth and blood came with it. There was certainly something down the path, whether it be friend or foe. Sooner than later, the unmistakable grunt of an orc could be heard. At least one, as it appeared to be communicating with another.


--------------------


In a small clearing, on the edge of a slightly worn path, Kilge sat at a small fire on a rotten stump. Laying next to the smoldering fire was the fresh carcass of a bloodied grey goat. The dagger that had been used to fell the animal still stuck in it’s dead throat.

“Where da udder two? Dey shoulda been back now!” Kilge spat in their native language to another orc who sat on the opposite side of the fire. Both orcs had small war axes at their sides, and both were wrapped in clothes of animal fur. It was hard to tell if the furs were used as means to swat off the chill that ran through the air, or if the hide underneath was thicker and used for its protective qualities.

“You ‘tink I know?” The other orc spat back, “I been witchu da whole time!” The orc kicked at the dirt, and stirred the fire.

“Well,” Kilge started, “If dey don’t come back soon, we eats wit’ out ‘em and deys get none!”

[Celethor Tyran]

Celethor felt the wind at his back, and slightly extended his wings to ease his climb. The strange, quiet melodies of the trees further heightened his state of attention. Each leaf that felt drew a hard glare from Celethor as he lifted each foot with great tension, then placed it back down in front of the other assertively. The evident lack of life in his surroundings caused him to sink inside and felt quite isolated. Although he was mainly focused on his immediate surroundings, he followed the trunk of a tree upwards until he noticed a thin obelisk of smoke arise somewhere not too far in the distance. Sniffing gruffly once, twice, Celethor spat on the ground, a reluctant acceptance of the inevitable presence of orcs.

He had tasted this feculent refuse before, it being all too familiar. Images of the wicked beasts drooling and ripping and howling flashed in his mind. Memories of dracons slaughtering his brothers, slaughtering his father, burned in his mind. He took in his wings and began to walk forward with renewed vigor, determined to find the infidels who belonged to the infernal scent. Rage boiled inside of Celethor; his hand began to twitch almost uncontrollably. His quest to find his tribe was swallowed in his undying hatred of those spawn of Jorel who had taken away all that was dear to him...

Back bent forward and eyes glaring left, right anywhere for something to take out his anger on and execute a small portion of the eternal vengeance they deserved, Celethor's ears, also searching for some clue of the beasts, picked up the grunts of an orc. Then, another. Two, it seemed. They were faint, but audible enough to follow. Satisfied in his discovery, Celethor managed to calm himself down enough to attempt some degree of stealth in his movements. Discerning quickly that the smoke pillar and the noises were coming from the same spot, the dracon quickly moved inward.

As the trees soon blocked the view of the fire, Celethor soon had to rely on his nose, or rather, the trail. Realizing that little tracking was necessary, the dracon shook off some of the anxiety which had previously overcome him and appeased his boiling hatred with a finalized resolution to kill whatever orcs he found. None of them deserved life. None.

Very soon he encountered what looked like in the distance to be a clearing. A quick glance at the smoke visible through the gaps between trees confirmed that it was indeed the origin of grunt, fume, and infidelity. Creeping slowly closer on the ground, Celethor made out two figures, which, when compared with the differences in the voices, made sense. The grunts, being based in the Orkish native, were gibberish to the bloodthirsty dracon; hence, he could know nothing about any others. For now he searched for any opportunity to ambush the hopefully unsuspecting orcs.

Trying smoothly to glide behind trees and keep himself invisible, Celethor attempted to get behind the pair. If successful at a distance, he would then make his way slowly closer until the range was sufficient for a decent surprise attack. Celethor reckoned that twenty or twenty-five feet should give him sufficient room to catch them, yet allow for a gap where he could remain undetected. If all went according to plan, he went then unsheathe his greatsword, and begin a dash towards the closest target with the intent of executing a powerful diagonal slash at the neck and shoulder region. However, the dracon was alert and mindful of any suspicious signs that might cause his failure. He doubted it was a trap, since orcs were certainly not the brightest of creatures, but then again, it seemed almost too good to be true that a party of merely two would be found right along the trail, just waiting for Celethor to slice their putrescent flesh.

[Heath Valienhart]

The two orcs continued to squabble with each other, ignorant to their impending doom. While Celethor would not be able to get behind the both of them, since they were facing each other, he would have to settle for their flanks. Even so, the Dracon easily made his way into position without being detected. The orcs were providing all the distraction he needed.

Celethor readied his weapon, prepared, and attacked!

There was nothing like rushing out of a bush wielding a great sword with the intent of slaying evil creatures to get the blood pumping. Sure, the orcs would become aware of his advance eventually, but if he could get far enough before that happened then they would have no time to react. D-E-D, dead.

Unfortunately for the dracon, a small fallen branch snapped under the weight of his initial charge. The larger of the two orcs was apparently the only one who paid it any mind, for he was the one who turned in time to see Celethor emerge from the brush. Luckily for the Dracon, he already had his sights set on the other orc, who sat with a sneer on its face, its attention still on whatever the two had been grunting on about.

Kilge attempted to warn his comrade before the wretched thing was sliced in two. It turned, saw the Dracon, stumbled to its feet and for its weapon. It was too late, however. Celethor had gained considerable speed by then, and he was closing fast. With a mighty swing, the orc was cleaved through his chest and down out of his hip. It had attempted to jump back, but the swing was timed well. Orc blood sprayed out of the orc like a knick in soda can. This particular soda can was nearly empty, and fell to the ground motionless and in shock.

Staring on in disbelief, Kilge allowed the dracon ample time to recover from his charge. Stupid orc! Attack! He grunted and snatched up his Axe. He spoke, this time in common. Albeit, it was a bit broken.

“Kilge gut you like pig, stupid dracon.”

The orc lunged for Celethor, it’s axe held high while it screamed in rage.

[Celethor Tyran]

Celethor blessed Diana - something he was normally disinclined to do these days - as he made his way behind the orcs undetected. His excitement grew as he found that the orcs were paying little attention to their surroundings. Chuckling to himself, he felt very satisfied in taking their lives. How they and all of their race deserved a thousand deaths worse than this! Realizing that anytime now would be a good time to begin his slaughter, Celethor readied himself, drew a quick, unsuppressed breath, and sprang from the bush. Blood pumped through his veins, stronger and fuller with each passing second, he felt his muscles awakening again to the heat that battle provided. His greatsword felt glorious in his hands, the tool that was once dedicated to Diana now a vital part of himself... and the instrument of two orcs' death.

Celethor felt the branch snap underneath him, but the adrenaline surging through his arteries would not allow him to stop. Let them see him; let them taste of fear before he slashed them to pieces. Choosing his first target, Celethor raised his blade and, with a tremendous heave that took skill to balance, smiled a satisfied, draconian smile as the blade sliced through the orc like a butcher's knife through butter. Blood sprayed out, and Celethor brought around his blade, keeping some of the momentum yet attempting to get better footing on the ground within the clearing. While turning, the dracon shifted his attention quickly to the other orc, who seemed to be attacking.

Celethor almost laughed when the orc began talking. He would have laughed at the infidel's meager attempt at some degree of intelligence. Speaking Common! The dracon admitted it was a quite dirty language, but an orc thinking he could be bright enough to speak it to him? The whole concept made Celethor even more eager to shed it's tainted blood. And yet, while the orc spoke his words... Celethor began his next move. Maintaining the momentum still left in his blade, and manipulating it to bring it up to a Mid-Guard, Celethor strafed once, twice towards the orc who was now preparing to lunge for him.

Spotting that his axe was held high above his head, Celethor forced his greatsword up, pointing it at the orc's head. He let it fall freely to gain speed and brought his hands closer to his chest. The dracon began kneeling forward on his right knee and, using the inertia of the falling blade from thrusting it forward, shifted the edge to a horizontal position and lashed out, extending his arms to the right twenty-five and then wheeling around to cut the orc right below the pectoral area. He would hold desperately to the blade, letting it fall edge-up on the ground, then launch from his kneeling position shoulder-first at whatever was left of the orc, hopefully dodging or repelling his axe attack should it continue to come down.

Celethor's eyes glistened through the whole maneuver, hoping for more blood. His whole being was focused on the slaughter at hand. His blood cells forced their ways to his muscles, providing them with the fuel they needed to execute the killing strokes. His blade molded to his hands for the seconds that passed by. He felt a tangible connection between himself and his only companion for so long... Whatever connection was there, Celethor felt confident that it was strong enough to kill these two orcs, and strong enough to keep him alive until his found his people.

[Celethor Tyran]

OoC: End peer-modding due to inactivity. Begin self-mod with permission from GM Nachende.

IC: Celethor's primal instincts were appeased by the pleasant slicing sound as his greatsword gracefully sliced the orc in mid-air. So delicious. His tainted blood surged with ecstasy and his eyes became a shade darker out of spite. The dracon rammed orc with his shoulder with a thud, effectively putting him out of action. It wasn't until a few moments later that Celethor felt the small cut on his upper back where the axe had grazed him in the fall. However, the attacking orc was thoroughly incapacitated and Celethor, taking advantage of this pleasant situation, shoved his greatsword into the chest of the orc until it was certain that there was no life left in it.

Gathering his breath, Celethor looked again over the scene. Good. That was two less scum for the world to worry about. The Moraden wiped his wet blade along the grass to exorcise the orc blood from his weapon without actually touching the putrescence himself. He did not bother to gather any loot; he would not carry around orc belongings. Steadily, his body returned to its normal cycle, the adrenaline flushed from his veins and his breathing significantly slowed. Taking one last moment to spit on the bodies of the dead orcs, he contented himself by kicking what parts of the orcs he could on the fire, leaving them to the fagots. He did not care whether they totally burned or not, he would not touch them with his scales.

And so Celethor left. It took him a few minutes of walking along the trail to remember why he was there. But once he did, his actions were all quickly rationalized in his brain. Of course, there was nothing wrong with killing orcs. It was like squashing ants or tossing the spider out of the house. No one cared, except other ants or perhaps the person outside you threw the spider onto. So Celethor, with his greatsword now strapped back in its leather holster, continued hiking, gaining elevation, and watching the day grow shorter. Finally, it got dark enough for Celethor to decide to call it a brightening, and he found an area to set up camp, off the trail a way in case any orcs decided to roam around whilst he was asleep.

After grabbing a bite from his backpack, Celethor settled himself underneath a blanket. He had gotten used to this rough method of rest over the cycles spent traveling back to Sherian. After so much time, he had almost reached his destination. No orc would stand between him and the tribe he longed for so dearly. Drifting off to sleep, it was not long before Celethor had dreams of chopping orcs to bits and embracing that woman again. She was so excited he had returned... These few moments of happiness were short-lived, however, as Celethor jerked up from his sleep to see the faces of two orcs peering down at his face, smiling crookedly.

[Celethor Tyran]

A surge of rage flowing through him, Celethor lashed out at the orcs above him. His body, however, did not follow suit. Not given enough time to wake up, his eyesight blurred and blacked out for a second, his muscles giving in to the moment of weakness that precedes consciousness. Celethor soon regained his strength, but by that time it was too late, the orcs had already gotten a hold of him. One of them sat on his legs, the other held down his arms, peering down at his face. Growling, Celethor resisted as much as he could against his captors, struggling to break free so he could tear them both apart piece by piece.

Yet the orcs took no action. The one seemed content to hold down his legs, sitting there like a buffoon, while the one at his face kept peering at him for several seconds. Celethor's rage melted slightly, giving way to curiosity. It was as if the orc were examining the dracon for ticks or flies. His ugly face scanned scrutinizingly over him again and again, until he finally seemed satisfied with himself. Smiling once again, he grunted something over at the other orc. It sounded like Common, but Celethor was too enraged and disinterested to listen. Hearing the scum speak would not satisfy as much as ripping off their limbs and smashing their skulls.

Apparently the two had agreed on something, though, and they both withdrew lengths of rope from somewhere. They began to tie up the dracons hands and feet, strapping his arms to his chest in turn. This was made thoroughly difficult, however, by Celethor's resistance. He had no wish to die at the hands of these filthy spawn of Jorel, and an even deeper repugnance to being captured by them. Yet it seemed that was his fate, as the orcs lifted him between themselves and began to carry him... somewhere.

Through the trees, up the mountain. Celethor found a gag in his mouth after a couple minutes of growling and gnashing of teeth. The dark swam past him, rays of light eluding his comprehension, flashing into his retina with unmerciful vengeance. The crunching, rustling, they were moving so quickly... Up, up, up. His side bumped into a tree every now and then, and occasionally a grunt of pain from one of the slime would accompany the snap of a branch. Celethor had never seen such behavior from orcs. Normally, they were inclined to brutally maul anything they set their sight on. Why would they be taking him... anywhere?!

Finally, after reaching and crossing the point of non-tolerance a dozen times, the dracon dropped on a patch of dry, hard ground. He struggled, tossing around on the floor, unable to see anything because of the darkness. Until finally he heard from a vaguely familiar voice, speaking in his own dracon tongue, "So, you have returned, Tyran."

Attempting to position himself towards the voice, Celethor strained his memory to recall the personage. Who was this dracon? Obviously he was no softskin, otherwise he could not speak the tongue. Why was he working with orcs?! "We do not wish to keep you bound, but your unprovoked violence towards those other orcs proved that you would stand for none of their kind, even if it would benefit you otherwise. Therefore, you must remain in bonds until such time as you can trust me; trust us."

Suddenly a light appeared, illuminating the room they were in. Celethor saw that it was a small hut, built much in the fashion as the ones he used to live in. It was fashioned from a framework of firm, strong branches lashed together, and draped over by patched animal skins. Simple, yet functional, with the advantage of being easy to transport. And before the dracon, in the midst of the light, stood Grenit, alongside whom the two orcs from before were standing. The tall dracon practically dripping with age sent the two orcs away before kneeling down next to Celethor.

His face, so familiar, and yet now rusted by the obviously recent trials. He was the leader of the tribe, and therefore would suffer the effects of any tragedy very personally and intensely. For a moment, Celethor's heart raced as he realized that he had found the tribe. Yet the fact that he was still in bonds and the matter of the orcs still bothered him. "We are so glad that we found you before you had time to really get yourself into trouble. Those two orcs are Keldshaw and Grushnik. I'm sure you remember them."

Indeed, Celethor did remember them. They were his peers as a boy, and his friends in adolescence. Had they shapeshifted? Why would they do that? "Calm down, my son. All will be explained in time. Here, will you allow me to take these off?" Celethor paused a moment, then nodded as best he could, and felt extremely humiliated as the aged Grenit removed his bands. After they were off, Celethor stood up, looking Grenit in the face and searching for answers. He was silent for the first time since he had been woken, eager to hear from the voice he respected so much what was transpiring. However, Grenit seemed to have different plans.

"Patience, my son. Lay down in this cot and rest. With the rising of the sun, your mind will be enlightened." Celethor found it hard to heed these words of the old dracon, but acknowledged that he would not reveal anything unless his conditions met compliance. So Celethor laid down to rest again, this time safe in the hands of his tribe. He did not expect his welcome to be so abrupt and confusing, but there was no doubt that it was good to be home.

[Celethor Tyran]

Celethor felt odd. How could he not have known who they were? Their scent should have given them away... Or the Call, the Call would have alerted him to their presence. The two dracons disguised as orcs should have been easy to identify for him, a fellow dracon. And yet, in his rage, he had lost focus and not thought about the smells or the Call burning in his brain. After all, that was how he was sensing where his tribe might be; perhaps he had just reasoned that it had nothing to do with them. To be fully honest, Celethor had not utilized the methods to discover a dracon nearby in quite some time. Even when he had lived with dracons, he never fully noticed it. They were right in front of him, so why concentrate on developing that particular talent?

Partially satisfied with his justification, Celethor rolled on his other side, trying to stay off his wings as much as possible. The scar on his right wing was still fragile from when it had been punctured with a spear; his wing membrane had never healed to the same strength it had been before. This new situation thrown upon the dracon disturbed him. There were so many questions that needed answering, and he was to be tortured with a mandatory recess until brightening came. Grenit had always been like that... always wanting to teach his children.

Finally, the dracon opened his eyes and saw the first sun's filtered light through the skins walls of the hut he laid in. Getting up from the cot, he found himself alone, but this did not last long as Grenit opened the door suddenly and hurried into the room, motioning Celethor to sit. Finding no chair, Celethor lowered himself to the ground, remembering the nomadic nature of his tribe and their inclination to discard with bulky luxuries. He waited for Grenit to speak, assuming that he would explain all the questions in his mind. However, the old dracon's first words reminded him of Grenit's annoyingly didactic character.

"So, what do you wish to know from me?" Celethor found this question an especially difficult one to answer, taking several moments to sort through his confusion and organize his emotions into clear, precise words and phrases that would get him the answers he desired. Grenit did not hide his look of urgency, however, encouraging Celethor to get his questioning done quickly.

"Well, I suppose the first question I want answered is why Keldshaw and Grushnik are in orc familiars.Why have you abandoned our way of life?"

At this, Grenit laughed, chuckling off the urgency which had surrounded him before. Obviously he had expected this question, but not so early on. "Ah, you get right to the point of the matter, Tyran, just like your father." Celethor felt this a very high compliment, and bowed his head in respect and humility. "I see you do not even wish to know how your tribe fairs after all this time without you. You could have been a very capable leader. Your father would have taken my place after I had passed, and the rest of the tribe were willing to follow you too had you followed in his footsteps..."

The look on Celethor's face switched from curious to surprised. He had never known his father was so popular among the people, and favored of Grenit. Nor could he believe that he himself could have made such an impression on his friends and tribe. "But no matter, the answer to your first question will satisfy both needs. And since you must understand, it is better to start soon after you left almost five eras ago." Celethor counted, quickly realizing that it had been five eras. So much time had passed so quickly...

"We had a period of peace after you left. The orcs had been repelled for a while and were occupied with other matters it seemed, including the razing of Narim. For three eras we flourished, deciding to build up our community in the place we had been when your father was murdered. We began to grow strong and confident that we would be safe from any further orc raids, but we quickly learned that we were mistaken.

"They began small at first. A few bands of orcs here and there which we thwarted with relative ease. But then, it seemed, the orcs saw some threat in our growing community and sent greater numbers our way, until we began to lose lives on our side. At this, we could ignore it no longer; we were forced to resume our nomadic ways to escape the persistence of the orcs. And that was when he arrived and changed our minds." Grenit spoke it with such reverence, it made Celethor scoff. The old dracon gave him a chastising look, but did not acknowledge it vocally.

"His name is Sarkoroff Kessk. He taught us that we could influence the orcs and keep them away if a few of our number would sacrifice their time to keep the rest safe. Of course, many able-bodied ones were more than willing to consent to this, much more concerned with the lives of their family than themselves, and so he taught us the secret techniques that have been lost to this society for so long. He helped us remember the inner talents we have that can assist in the preserving of our people, and perhaps even serve a greater cause than that at some point...

"He taught us to shapeshift. Well, to shapeshift better. We took on orc familiars, reluctantly, trusting in his foresight and willing to sacrifice for the safety of our loved ones. In addition to this, he taught us to develop the Call, the talent which had previously lain dormant in our minds. When he felt we were ready, he let us in on the plan: to infiltrate the orc forces and use our influence to direct them from our living space. It seemed like a reasonable plan, as we could switch off in shifts during the era and speak Common among the orcs. And his plan worked, for a while.

"Up until this last month, actually, but at the start of last month, one of our men lost contact with his group, and a band of orcs razed our newly built society to the ground. All of our finer fighters were out with other orc bands and could not be there to defend us. What was left could not repel the attack... And what is more, Sarkoroff has disappeared. And he didn't leave alone..." Celethor's wide eyes stared intently at Grenit. This tale was a huge stone to swallow. He had a strong feeling that it was about to get a lot worse. He hoped that he was wrong in his anticipation of who Grenit was speaking of...

"He took Selissa, Celethor. We do not know where he went. We have been so occupied with keeping the orcs away that it has been difficult to find men to look for them." Celethor couldn't believe what he was hearing. Could it be that she was the one in his dream? Struggling to remember the vague, foggy emptiness of the vision, Celethor shook his head spasmodically. It just couldn't be true; not Selissa. Why did he have to take the only one who meant more to him than the tribe itself? She had been his life, lost to him through his own decisions and folly, but hoped to be reclaimed. Hoped to be resurrected in his return.

"A few of our men claim to have seen him in the mountains, although they are gone on their shift with the orcs now... While you wait for them..." Celethor look confused at Grenit. How could he know his intentions? The old dracon was so perceptive... "You shall learn what we have learned. It is the only way you will be able to find them, Celethor. With the Call at your disposal and with the mask of an orc, you will hopefully find them and be able to rescue her. Celethor?"

Celethor looked away, searching himself. Yes, he would have to do as Grenit said, it was true. He knew what he had to do. His comprehension was still a bit limited, but he now knew why he was here, and what he would need to do to regain that part of himself which had been lost, now stolen, and become the dracon he was destined to be.

[Nachende]

OOC: +1 exp greatsword. Great read!