Deep in a massive shadowy cave, the smoky black egg was preparing to hatch. The father, Rork crouched down and blew flames on it to hasten its incubation. His vast scorched wings tucked behind him, his neck stretched forward toward it. He focused his entire energy on hatching the egg.
To the left side of Rork sat a smaller female curled up in her nest of straw and rocks. The mother, she was a misty-black dragon. Her wings were thin delicate membranes she kept folded into her. She pressed the frilled crests to the side of her smooth face and neck as she edged nearer. She watched over him with an anxious eye.
A new large line appeared on the shell. Rork looked up and detected the crack. He called out with telepathy.
The march was a three-month journey, a winter season. Early on the surroundings had been snow-covered. Now patches of flowers peaked from the ground. The capital was to the north-west of Lenagard, the land of the elves. A trail of destruction lay behind them. They had avoided the cities, but the forests were soaked in blood rain mixed with melted winter snow. The icy wet drips fell off the trees and clawed down Arajuan’s back. He shuddered from the cold. The unit was close now; a stench of dragons wafted on the wind. Arajuan was one of the few who could distinguish dragon blood, that made him invaluable to the emperor.
A man with icy blue eyes and short salt and peppered hair gazed from a dark, tall, and jagged throne. He held a cherry wood scepter with carved woody thorns and a large garnet stone. The gem itself pulsed with cloudy swirls as if alive. He wore a deep navy robe with a dragon clasp at the neck and silver thread lining the sleeves. His aged face twisted into a bitter grimace as he tapped the armrest of his throne with impatience.
The room was a dismal, bare space; on the wall to the right hung a painting of a dark oily Asian Lung and its partner, a young man with dark brown-black hair and similar piercing eyes. Displayed in a corner was a mannequin dressed in an elaborate inlaid silver breastplate with a blue jeweled dragon design and an attached black roman style war kilt. On the mannequin’s head was a helmet with ornate blue and silver feathers.
A long, burgundy carpet led to the throne from the large oak wood entry doors. On either side stood two sturdy dirty-blonde haired identical elf-orc guards, their armour jagged in a way that appeared covered with needles and thorns. Their noses were semi-flat, and their lower canines jutted over their top lips. When the doors opened, the grey-haired man turned his attention to the one who entered.
In the annals of history many great wars were fought and forgotten. Kingdoms would rise, and they would fall but our world was not the birthplace of war. The Divines, the first race through which all races were born, were a peaceful science driven race. They set out to travel worlds and found Gaia. They lived amongst the mortals and Gaia became a magical place where the inhabitants honored the Divines and Dragons. In return, we blessed them and guided them. Both worlds lived in harmony with the pulse of the universe.
Hello, I am Damien, the head blogger of our family blog The Shade of Writing. We are a home-school family of writers that love to travel. We write on various topics such as education, philosophy, poetry and history. We also have a Twitter, an Instagram and a YouTube.
I write poetry and share drafts of my novel when I am not in classes at the local university. My kids post their writing assignments from their books and papers on topics that interest them. My spouse travels for his job and most of our travel and food reviews are from him. We all are open to questions so ask away.
As the shadowy mist faded away, a foreboding man with charred brittle skin appeared. In the cracks, there glowed what appeared to be red-hot lava. His eyes were like embers as he glared at them. Ayana regained her bearings, Tarnink behind her, sword drawn. A small troop of twisted men circled them.
Ayana found herself faced with this monstrosity. His eyes glowed so hot that his stare burned into her. He was blind, yet Ayana felt he could sense her that he was looking at her.
The scar he had on his left eye glowed the brightest red and cut deeper than the other red cracks of his flesh. Strapped to his right side he carried a sword, and in his right hand a long spear. His long feathery black hair blended in with the darkness of the forest. He wore a battered Spartan styled armor without a helmet or a shield. His tattered maroon cape draped his shoulders. His body alone seemed like a stone as if the charred skin was protection enough.
Ayana awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. She glanced around her palace bedroom. It was a large spacious room with an elegant queen-sized bed. Bright red curtains draped the expansive windows. It had a large cherry wood chest of drawers with an ornate mirror across from her bed. The morning sun spilled in to the room and painted her face in a soft light.
Ayana tossed her elafi skinned blanket as she stood up and slipped out of her red silk nightgown. She dressed in a new rohit-elafi, leather armor and found her leather moccasins. She admired in the mirror how perfect the skin from her prey fit. Ayana pulled on her new red trimmed traveling cloak. She pulled the hood down letting her beautiful light curls flow over her shoulders. The cloak was airy and well made; it covered her delicate frame with a delightful simplicity.