Diary of the Dead - Chapter 2 - Serenade of Haunting Voices

[Witchblade]

Dileas shook his head as the tavern door closed behind him. Droplets of water flew in all directions, splattering the walls, the door and pooling on the already wet floor. His clothes and body were soaked through from the torrential downpour currently happening outside. The rainy reason had just started and already she was unleashing havoc on Dheathain. Clearly, he’d have to talk to Meave next time he planned a visit, so he could avoid the bath. Still, the cooling rain was a nice break from the oppressive heat and humidity of the growing season.

Glancing around the brightly lit interior, with it’s tall glass windows facing out into the dreary day, Dileas noticed few other Draconians within. Perhaps that had something to do with the rain, or more likely the fact that it was barely midday. Not everyone shared his enthusiasm for a good drink no matter the time. A shame really. He’d always found a good brew soothed a fight, or started one, depending on your mood. As his eyes scanned the room, he noticed a large peat fire crackling away in the stone hearth. The flames dancing along the blackened bricks and making the whole place smell of the sweet pungent smoke. Better then the faint scents he could catch underneath, the smells every tavern around the world had; stale ale, blood, sweat, pipe smoke and desperation. Not always the most pleasant of things.

Running his long fingers through his wet hair, the Draconian picked his way across the room and to the bar. His booted feet making a soft slap on the stone floor, worn smooth by the footsteps of so many before. The water dripping off him gradually lessened, until by the time he got to the counter, he was completely dry. His black pants held not a single crease and the grey vest with it’s intricate red designs looked pristine compared to the moment before. His hair even resumed it’s usual place. So instead of looking like a drowned wyrven, he merely appeared to be an unkempt one.

Placing a clawed hand with rich, black scales on the scarred and pitted counter, Dileas motioned the barkeep over. An older Draconian, the man had gone round in the middle and his reddish brown hair had turned grey at the temples. He had few scales on his body from the looks of it. Some peeked out from the short sleeves of his cotton tunic, circling the backs of his arms. Their colour a darker, ruddy brown compared to his hair. Neither of his hands ended in claws and no wings adorned his back. Though Dileas could still sense the dragon blood in him it was weaker and thus he retained a more human appearance. He imagined many a Draconian had underestimated the owner due to that. His bent nose and the white scars along his knuckles, the faint one splitting through his eyebrow, attested to much fighting.

He clearly lived a good life.

“What can I--” His speech came to a stuttering halt as he looked into Dileas’s piercing eyes, as bright as any ice and so different than the Draconian’s solid black. Patiently, he waited as the barkeep composed himself as best he could. “A drink then?” He finally managed, his voice hoarse and slightly strained.

The God of the Dead smiled at him. “I find I’m rather fond of your honey mead, so the tallest glass of that!” He said boisterously.

The barkeep smiled, his eyes lighting up with pride. “Coming right up!”

He turned and walked to the far end of the bar, where he disappeared behind a large and sturdy looking wooden door. Dileas frowned, he knew the man kept the mead on the other end, so just where was he going?

A few moments later the barkeep emerged from the dark recesses of the room. Dileas glanced inside as his bulk left the doorway and saw stacks of barrels large and small. Carried in one hand, the Draconian brought with him one of the smaller barrels; a dark and stained colour, the wood smelling faintly of sugar and fermented alcohol.

“This is from my special stock. It’s the best honey mead money can buy, and reserved for honoured guests.” The man’s voice came alive with excitement as he spoke, his eyes roaming over the worn wood with reverence.

Dileas couldn’t help himself, his mouth began to water in anticipation.

He patiently (or more like quietly impatiently) waited as the barkeep tapped the keg and watched the sweet flowing, golden liquid fill a glass, that promptly appeared in front of him. Picking it up, he breathed in the rich smell of the brew. Honeysuckle, alcohol and barley assaulted him in the most pleasant way. Taking a long drought, he found his taste buds coming alive. The flavours were so complex. He could taste the underlying base of the mead, it’s deep, rich flavour. But as that faded he tasted dragon fruit, honeysuckle and something he couldn’t quite put a name to. All in all, it was the best thing he’d ever drank!

“Exquisite!” He signed with contentment. “Cosain and Alistair would be fools not to invite you Talamh Iomlan to serve mead in their hall.” The highest compliment any brewer could receive. The man seemed greatly taken aback, but recovered with a large grin.

“Thank you, thank you very much, Morair Dileas.”

Inclining his head to the man and taking one of the many empty stools in the bar, the God of the Dead sat down to enjoy his drink and a little quiet.

Too bad it didn’t stay that way for long.

[Witchblade]

Witchblade emerged from the dark interior of the trade ship. Above deck, a storm had rolled into the port town of Talmhaide blanketing it in a thick fog as heavy, fat raindrops fell from the lead sky above. They splattered against the top of her head, soaking through her black hair. She tilted her disfigured face up to the clouds and breathed deeply of the salty air. The cool water caressed her pale skin. It ran down the contours of her brow, tracing the scar over her eye and following it down to her cheek before flowing to the corners of her mouth, sown shut with black thread. Parting her lips ever so slightly she touched her tongue to the raindrop, tasting Dheathain for the first time.

Lowering her face from the torrential onslaught, Witch turned her attention towards a city so veiled in mist she could barely see it.

Within the soupy mix she spotted men and women working vigorously to unload the cargo inside the vessel. Crates and sacks and barrels of varying sizes and shapes easily being hefted onto their shoulders and carried to different sections of the port, all under the watchful eye of the captain. An old and sea weathered man. His hair had begun to turn the colour of the ocean caps. She knew very little about him other than his men held great respect for him and he ran his ship with an iron fist. He had taken her money for passage and otherwise left her alone.

Beyond the scurrying people she could barely make out the first line in which she assumed to be a vast array of buildings before they were swallowed into the grey nothing. Tall stone structures, they rose from the cobbled streets and headed for the sky, some of them at least three stories. Windows graced few of the buildings and judging by the men quickly go through the large, wooden doors, she suspected they were mainly for storing goods.

Running her fingers through her now soaked hair, she pushed back the strands from her face and strode forward. Most of the humans on board stopped to let her passed. Their faces turned towards the wooden boards of the deck, slick and shiny from the rain. Few looked up at her face and those that did quickly turned away. Somewhere along the journey they had figured out her identity. It worked to her advantage in the end, they stayed far away from her and avoided her whenever she came out on deck. She supposed that’s what happened when you burned a couple villages to the ground just for the fun of it. Not that she complained. Humans irritated her and killing one of the crew members would probably get her thrown off the plank and into the ocean.

She needed the ship, as much as she hated admitting it. She didn’t know the location of Dheathain and doubted she’d be able to fly there.

At the bottom of the ramp she took her first step onto Dheathain soil and stopped dead in her tracks. From somewhere deep inside her being a single, deep thrum echoed out and into the land of Dheathain. She felt it. Like the beat of a drum that forced her heart to stop for the briefest of seconds. And she felt it flow through the area like a ripple in the pond.

Uncertain, her crimson eyes scanned the surrounding people. Yet they continued to go about their business as if nothing had happened. How could they have not felt that? Whatever that was.

Off in the distance, a distance she could not hope to measure, an echoing beat reached her ears moment before she felt a returning ripple touch her feet. Power lay in that ripple and it coursed up her legs and through her body. Goose pimples broke out on her skin and a shiver lanced up her spine. Even after the power dissipated she could feel the lingering effects and the call it left on her, pulling her forward.

She could only imagine the call came from her.

Frowning, Witchblade forced herself to move away from the ship and merge into the crowds of people milling around the docks. As she walked away from the bustling port, the humans were replaced by a strange people she had only ever heard of, but never met. Draconians. Their bodies sported claws and scales, wings and eyes as black as the blackest of nights. Their hair came in colours she didn’t think hair could and they clothed themselves in simple tire that sported majestic scrollwork. And weapons. Almost all of them had some type of weapon, though most seemed to favour the Claymore. They regarded her with animosity and distrust and power and strength leeched off them in waves.

Immediately, she found herself liking them.

The other half of the population not so much. The beautiful creatures known as Fae scampered around the wet streets in a hurry, trying not to get too drenched as they moved from one building to their next. Their slim and fragile looking bodies were covered in cloth that she imagined shimmered and made them look oh so pretty in the sunlight. But in the grey of the current sky they just looked like weak humans to her. True, she felt magic in many of them and magic could oft times beat brute force, but she imagined one well placed punch from her fist would easily crush one of their skulls.

Moments after she left the port behind, a light buzzing sound began in her ears. A sound like a hundred flies swarming around her ears and skull. She shook her head, trying to clear it. Persistent, the sound stayed and with each step only grew louder and more intense. It filled her ears and her head to bursting. It felt like the noise vibrated within her body, suffocating her; piercing her and stabbing into her very soul. Nothing else could reach her. The noise of the rain became lost. The grating and harsh language of those few citizens around no longer reached her. Nothing but that sound, now a high pitched keening, driving red hot knives into her skull.

Her toe caught the edge of a cobblestone sticking up slightly from the path. She stumbled. Her equilibrium broken. Her body on the verge of shattering. Her crimson eyes saw the ground coming but she did nothing to stop it, to stop herself. Her knees cracked against the stones. Jolts of pain rushed up her legs and her spine, but they were drowned in the sea of agony pulsing through her. Wrapping her hands around her head, Witchblade dug her fingers into her skin, her palms over her ears, anything, she’d do anything to block out that keening. Even though she knew it came from within herself.

Blood welled and leaked out of her ears, dripping down the side of her face. Her vision blurred to a sea of blue and she blinked it away, the navy droplets landing on the grey stones and washed away in the torrent of rushing rainwater. Out her nose it flowed. She tasted it on her lips, hot and salty and good. A taste of her own blood.

The sound rose to a crescendo she though would break her and somewhere in her mind a crack formed. Her mental defences shattered in one great triumphant scream. Every muscle in her body stretched taunt and then released into a sudden and blissful silence.

Falling onto her hands, Witch breathed deeply, drawing air into her lungs which screamed for it. She stared down at the stones, at the water as the sounds of the world began to filter back to her, attentively. As if afraid to approach her. The rain started first. She heard it impact a metal sign, the light ‘ting, ting, ting’ a blissfull reprieve from a moment before. The sound of her own harsh breathing filled her ears next, followed by voices. She would have stayed there longer. Letting the rain wash her away. But a cart rumbled by pulled by a strange creature that looked like a cross between a lizard and a dragon. The wheels narrowly missed her, the large claws of the beast slapping down on the ground a mere few inches from her hands.

The driver growled something unintelligible to her. She looked up into the face of a Draconian, his black eyes and black scales, his tan skin and his sneering and twisted mouth as he shouted at her. Then he cart went rumbling by.

On wobbly legs, Witch pulled herself to her feet. The muscles trembled and barely held her weight. She took one step and nearly fell. The second came easier. By the third she felt strong enough to hold her own weight, but not the powerful woman she considered herself to be. As she walked, a new sound entered her. Voices. They talked to her, to no one and to each other. They made no sense. Each one spoke over top of the other, words so jumbled she didn’t even think it Common and most definitely not Tradespeak. It grated on her abused mind and pushed on her. Her mental shield destroyed, she felt it searching through each catacomb and tomb, each library of knowledge she contained.

She felt it and shoved at it and in return it laughed at her.

Gritting her teeth, she mustered what little mental strength she had left and attacked the bitch raping her thoughts. Mental fingers grabbed hold of a mental throat and squeezed as hard as she could. Still it resisted and wouldn’t die. Only moved a little slower.

With claws and teeth she dug at it, ripped and shredded into the mental presence inside her skull. She weakened it enough to shove it into a very dark corner of her mind, a place she never ventured into. There she built a wall of bricks, of chains and bars and fire and ice. She threw everything she had at it and more she didn’t know she possessed. It fought every step of the way, but in her mind Witch was King.

She would prevail.

In the end, she barely managed to hold it at bay and the serenade of haunting voices became an every present whisper, gnawing away at her.

Ignoring it as best she could, Witch pushed herself forward and disappeared into the mist.

[Witchblade]

Starting into his second glass, Dileas felt a familiar presence outside. He barely had time to frown before the front door opened and closed with a soft thud. Hard sandals slapped the worn floor of the tavern, louder and louder until they stopped right behind him. His body stiffened as two hands touched his back. Long, thin fingers traced the muscles along his shoulder blades, up his shoulders and then down and across his chest.

“I knew I’d find you here.” She purred softly in his ear.

Her breath tickled his neck and though he couldn’t help the way his body responded, he ignored it and her. Even as she pressed her body against him, her breasts flattening against his back, he made no move to embrace her or even hint that he enjoyed it. Which honestly, despite the annoying reaction of a certain member of his body, he really didn’t.

His penis be damned. If it wanted any, it would have to look elsewhere.

“Already into your cups, I see.”

“Aye,” he growled, baring too white teeth and long canines, “and wishing to be left alone to enjoy them.” He didn’t bother shrugging her off. Dileas had learned that lesson the hard way before. Branna is and always will be a master of public displays of drama.

Glancing around the room, he noticed the barkeep and few other patrons trying to look very busy and not like they were hanging on every word said. After all, it wasn’t everyday you got two Gods in one place. Even though Branna was merely a demi god, he supposed it still counted.

Dileas felt the pressure of her body leave his and the tightly coiled muscles in his back and shoulders relaxed fractionally. She placed her athletic frame in the empty seat next to him. The curves of her body not to hidden by tightly fitting black cotton pants and a vest she actually wore nothing underneath. The V held together by only two little leather strings and allowing a generous portion of her breasts and stomach to peek through. Idly, he wondered if they fall out with a stiff breeze. Intricate patterns of flying and dancing dragons wrapped around the hem of her shirt, joining at the junction of the V causing him to forced himself to look into her face. Something he knew she did on purpose.

The strong features of her face, considered by many to be appealing, did nothing for him. Square jaw, high cheek bones and large black eyes that on anyone else but her may have done something for him. Even as she pouted a full, bottom lip in his direction, he showed no reaction.

“Come on now, Dileas, no one wants to drink alone.”

He did. Well, not really. Company would be appreciated, just not hers. He’d rather share a drink with Eammon and listen to him blather on about the good ol’ days before he ever drank with this one again. The days before they were Gods.

When he didn’t answer, Branna sighed melodramatically, the tightly coiled wings on her back rising and falling with the great effort she made of breathing. Her full lips parted and he knew exactly what came next. Only he never heard a word of it.

A ripple of pure, uncensored power washed over him. He felt it flow across the surface of the ground, trembling up his legs as it touched he booted feet and then out farther into the reaches of Dheathain. He frowned, his head instinctively turning towards the source, somewhere in the port. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it. A presence he’d though never to grace this plane of existence ever again.

Standing, a responding torrent of power ripped back at him and headed directly back towards the port, stopping only when it impacted with her.

“It’s impossible…” The words tumbled out of his mouth.

The Draconian whore next to him grew impatient with his lack of interest it seemed. “What’s impossible? Dileas, you know how mu--”

“Did you feel that just now?” He asked, cutting her off.

He turned his attention back to her but the confused look on Branna's face said it all. No one else in the room felt it. Why would they?

“Leave me.”

“But Dileas, I--”

“I said LEAVE ME!” His words echoed in the now silent room, dripping eldritch power with them. His eyes ablaze with an icy fire, daring her to speak again. Teeth bared in challenge, his clawed hand raised and ready to rend a hunk of flesh from her body. Every creature inside cringed away from him, her most of all. She folded in on herself, drawing her sea green wings around her body as if that would protect her from his wrath.

Without another word spoken, she vanished from the tavern, leaving only the clean smell of the ocean behind.

He turned towards the barkeep and the man hesitated, barely concealed fear in his wide eyes. Dilease calmed himself, even as his heart beat a steady and quick pace within his chest. This man did nothing to deserve his wrath and everything to deserve his kindness. Reaching for his coin purse to pay, he found the old Draconian recovering himself enough to shake his head in refusal.

“Your coin is no good here, Moirair Dileas.”

Dileas inclined his head as he reached out and grasped the man on the forearm, giving him the respect he deserved. “Thank you for your hospitality.”

Flesh to flesh, Dileas peered into the man’s soul and saw all the threads and journeys his life could take. All the glorious adventures and trials that lay before him and all the mistakes hat would make him a better man. He saw good times with friends and family, grandchildren and great grandchildren. A new love and a blossoming business.

The God of the Dead also saw one choice that would end his life’s journey all too soon.

“I suggest you avoid that trip to Fiorair you’re planning during the cooling season.”

The man hesitated, his face a mask of different emotions. Uncertainty, fear and finally understanding. Only seconds after he spoke the words, that particular red thread of destiny dried up and died. The images held within it faded and turned to dust and the thread withered and fell away from the main stalk of the man’s soul. Disappearing altogether.

Releasing the old Draconian’s forearm, Dileas turned and strode towards the door. He opened it and lifted his face towards the sky and the rain.

He could see feel her like a red hot beacon of life.

Breathing in, he pulled power and disappeared just as the tavern door swung closed behind him.

[Witchblade]

Dileas watched her from the mouth of the alley. Watched as she walked through the wind and the rain, the haze and the fog. Her long black hair plastered to her head, rivers of water streaming down the black tendrils and cascading off her shoulders, back and the ratty pack she wore. The dark cloak, worn and thread bare at the ends, still kept most of the water off her body, the rain beading and falling off in droplets. From the distance. He'd picked, he could not make out many distinguishing features through the wall of rain and fog. Dileas could tell however, that sje bore not a single scale that he could see nd her skin was pale like that of a corpse.

The woman looked like a human.

He frowned as she walked up the cobbled street to the gate of Talmhaide. Never once did she turn his way and with each step she took he grew more and more certain that whatever this creatures was, for she looked but felt nothing like a human, she was not Folaires. Yet she felt exactly like her.

Pain lanced up his side as he thought her name. His face only showed the slightest twitch. The ache so familiar now he barely registered. Like a war wound that festered and spread until you knew nothing but the agony it gave you.

Look at me...

She turned not his way.

Look at me!

She did not even flinch from the silent command he screamed within his skull.

Why do you reek of her? Why!?

His glacier eyes narrowed upon her figure as the wall that surrounded Talmhaide loomed out of the fog. He could just make out the twin warriors that stood taller than any building in the city. Their faces impassive, eyes uncaring, as they looked down upon all who entered and all who left. Spears held languidly at their sides, shields hanging from their forearms and massive wings covering their backs.

"Faolan."

His eyes never strayed from the woman as the air next to him shimmered and warped, the curtain of rain shifting as Faolan emerged. Tall and lithe of frame, covered in scales the colour of the deepest oceans and with wings that spanned to nearly twice his size when fully extended, Faolan was the eptiome of a true Draconic form. And the large quantities of dragon blood, Dileas' blood, that flowed through his veins kept him strong, healthy and young. His son neared 430 years of age.

"Yes, Athair?"

The youth inclined his head politely to him, even as he frowned watching his clothes become soaked through from the ever present fat drops of rain. The forest green vest quickly plastering to his chest, his dark brown pants suffering the same treatment. The thin line of dark hair upon his head quickly plastered against his scales, becoming a sopping mess of tangles that flowed down the back of his head and to his neck.

"I want you to follow her." Dileas said flatly.

His son looked at him quizzically, "Follow?" then traced the line of his sight to the cloaked woman. "A human? Surely, you must jest. Why would you wish me to trail a human?"

"Do not look with your eyes," Dileas growled at him, "I trained you better than to be an imbecile. You are no longer a whelp."

Thus chastised, he watched Faolan focus on the female even as she passed between the stone warriors. By the time he turned back, she'd disappeared out of sight, though Dileas continued to watch that path as if expecting her to re-emerge.

"That's...not possible." His son whispered, his black eyes wide in disbelief.

Dileas had realized in his long and seemingly endless life that many things and more were possible, and the more fantastic it seemed, the more likely to occur.

"My side..." He drew in breath and slowly let it out as he finally turned and looked down upon his child. "It aches the closer I get to her."

"But that means--"

"I know what it means!" Dileas snarled, his anger getting the better of him. The curse, the constant pain, was his penance for unjust he had done. Given to him so he could never forget his betrayal.

The fact that she made it worse was not something he wanted to contemplate at the moment.

"I want to know who and what she is, where she's come from and what her intentions here are." His voice calmer than before, though his son had barely flinched at the sight of his anger.

"Of course father." Faolan inclined his head and stalked off into the rain towards the seemingly endless expanse of grasslands that lay between Talmhaide and the ancient forests of Luthmor that surrounded Donnalaich.

Dileas lingered a moment longer. Just feeling the water trickle down on his shoulders and head, dripping from the short strands of his black hair. He watched drenched Draconians move through the heavy downpour and sodden Fae scurry towards shelter. He watched, the one thing he had become so good at in the prevailing years, before he couldn't stand to do it anymore. Then he tilted his face up to the sky and disappeared from Talmhaide.

[Witchblade]

The rain never stopped. The ground lay a sodden wet mass beneath her boots that shifted and squelched in protest of her every step. She focused on it instead of the voices, instead of the constant droning and hum inside her skull that threatened to break what thin thread of sanity she had left. Witch knew not their origin and cared not to find out, she only wanted them gone. No, gone would be too pleasant a thing for them. The murderess wanted to rip their vocal cords from their throats, if they even possessed them. If not, she'd settle for fucking with their minds until nothing remained but shattered memories.

Like the rain, they remained a constant. In the hours since she'd left the sodding city of Talmhaide, the grey clouds never broke. The mist covered the ground, laying thick and heavy, impeding even her vision, and those voices droned on and on, saying things she could not understand.

In the back of her mind, she wondered where she was going. When her boots sunk in to thick mud and threatened to pull her down to the ground, she wondered what the hell she was even doing here. She knew nothing of Dheathain, it's people or it's geography. Witch did know, however, that something here called to her, pulled at her. That pulsing feeling that had washed over her in the port never completely went away. Like a beacon off in the distance she could feel it. And like the moth to the flame, she felt pulled to it though she knew not why.

Daegun seemed to love the rain though. Her companion frolicked through the tall grass, many times disappearing from her sight into the mist. His while scales allowing him to blend in surprisingly well in a way he never could in Concordia. Every now and again she'd spot his white body darting through the sea of green and brown, the long stalks bowed over from the downpour. He'd be chasing something, whether real or imagined she had no idea. The little guy always seemed to be chasing something.

Just what was she chasing?

Her mouth pulled down at that question, one she had no answer to. Perhaps the call would lead her to something. More than likely it meant nothing. Many times and more than she could count, Witchblade had pursued her past in hope of finding answers to who and what she was, but she'd never found anything. Not even a scrap. Now, she could barely remember those adventures and the people that had joined her during them. They were just names. Like Xilium Rupertus. A man who had saved her life. A man whose face she could no longer remember. MD, who had given her the egg Daegun had hatched from. Izvilvin, Lorenor, Torin Reahkari, Christoph and Elijah Morendale. So many and more. Their faces were slipping from her memory at an alarming rate.

Feeling a strange presence behind her, Witch paused and turned around. Her crimson eyes scanned the mist but saw no movement. Reaching out with her other senses, she was surprised to feel the amount of life all around her, large and small. Did someone follow her? She couldn't imagine why, she had no allies and no enemies here. More than likely it was her over tired mind, drained by fending off the voices.

Turning her back on it, she continued forward.

At some point the sun set. No pastel colours marked it's passage, Witch merely felt it pass below the horizon and the world around her marginally darkened, though her eyes quickly adjusted. She saw better at night most of the time anyway. So she kept walking. Mindful of the holes and ditches that sprang up in front of her. During the night, Daegun returned to her and his bed in her rucksack, having tired himself out doing the Gods knew what.

The rain mercifully stopped. The sun eventually broke the horizon, the lazy, orange globe burning away what remained of the mist and giving Witch her first real look at the region of Dheathain.

A sea of green spread out around her. Grass as high as her thighs covering every inch of land she could see. Rocks jutted out from the ground and though at first glance it seemed flat, she could pick out the roll of gentle hills and the sudden drop of ditches. Thrice during the night her boots had become wedged in a rocky crevice hidden by the thick vegetation.

With the sun and the break in the rain, the wildlife started to emerge as well. The creatures amazed her. Large and small, they milled about the rolling plains, some with fur and others with scales. She spotted what appeared to be a strange cross between a dragon and a snake far off in the distance and many smaller lizard type creatures. Not to mention these strange, hairy looking beasts that were so docile she thought them dumb. She walked right up to a group of them. Larger than a cow, covered in coarse looking hair and with wide faces and huge noses. They were the predominant creature that seemed to roam the grasses, mowing down the long stalks as they went.

Birds of varying colours danced through the air and the grasses, darting in and out of her vision as fast as arrows.

Daegun woke up, crawled out of her rucksack and decided those birds looked like fun to play with. Witch would have protested, but the little guy seemed so strangely at home here that she couldn't bring herself to.

Pushing the hood back from her face, Witch continued on her fool's errand, all the while feeling that sense of being watched.

[Witchblade]

Dileas touched down on the stone platform. Through the scales of his feet he could feel the cold in this place seep into him, fill him, and try to work it's way into the heated soul of his body. He shrugged it off, his massive body shifting as his powerful wings stopped pumping the air and the rest of him settled into a comfortable state. As the last of his weight and bulk settled, the shadow of a dragon disappeared and left in it's wake the Draconian that most of his followers saw him as.

It had been a thousand years or more since any who worshipped int he Fuileadan had seen his dragon form, his true form, and he could barely remember the last time he'd taken it. The thought was strangely sobering. If he stayed as a Draconian for too long, would he forget what it was truly like to be a dragon?

His clothes were no longer soaked, his thick black hair no longer plastered to his head. Simple things like that were fixed with a thought and a subtle exertion of power. Being worshipped certainly had it's benefits.

Wind whipped around his body in a fury, the sound of it piercing to his sensitive ears as it found any crevice it could in the rock face and whistled, both high and low. Dileas had forgotten that sound, no, perhaps not forgotten. He had chosen to not remember the ear piercing screams of the birthplace of his God-hood, and the birthplace of the Draconian race in it's entirety.

Nothing had changed here.

In the mountains, and the wastelands so far from his current home in Dheathain, nothing had changed. The rock was still as dreary and grey as ever, the wind still as biting and the cave across the far side of the platform had not changed at all. He remembered that cave. Remembered every nook and cranny, every side room and crevice he could squeeze his massive bulk into at the time, as the five of them had huddled their to discuss their future and what they could do to save their race.

Did we make the right choice?

The Gods of the Dead had never gotten his answer to that. He'd thought about it often, staring into the golden depths of his mead filled glass, contemplating whether they should have let nature take it's course and allow their race to disappear from the face of Althanas.

Running a clawed hand through his tousled hair, Dileas walked towards that cave entrance. Nothing in this place stirred as he moved. He felt no life here.

Passing under the massive entrance, his eyes immediately went to the wall where the rock was scarred by claw marks so deep he could slide his human looking hand right into it. He'd made those marks himself in a fit of rage.

As he walked further in, the darkness eclipsed even his eye site. With a simple flick of his fingers, several balls of softly glowing light appeared before him, hovering around his body and flooding the cave with light. He could pick out the drawings on the walls, the carvings of them as their dragon selves, their real selves, standing tall over the humans below them. He passed them all with barely a second glance, having them memorized in his mind already.

When he approached a branch in the cave, he paused, his gut clenching and a sick feeling settling deep in his stomach. The right would take him to the den, the place where they had made their home.

The place where his mate had breathed her last.

He felt compelled to walk down there again and before he knew it, his feet turned in that direction, the hard soles of his sandal crunching on the loose stones and echoing in the empty chamber, but he forced them to stop. He hadn't come here for that and he didn't want to remember it, even though the images still lay fresh in his brain as if they had happened only yesterday.

The claws on his right hand dug into the human flesh of his palm and he felt the sticky wetness of blood flow out from the puncture wounds. He didn't even feel the pain. He'd felt so much in his long life that such a trifle wound could do nothing to him. Not when the wound in his side pulsed and ached, not when his heart broke all over again just by being in here. Not when he'd lived for so long he could barely even remember the reasons he'd had to keep going. The real reason. Promises aside, there had originally been a desire in him, hadn't there? But it had been so long since he'd felt anything like that.

Gods should not be empty vessels...

Turning away from that long, dark passage, Dileas walked down the massive hall to his left. The walls massive and tall, tall enough for one of his kind to walk through and their true form. As he walked, he ran his fingers along the rough stone, feeling the dips and crevices, the sharp edges and the smooth surfaces.

When he entered the massive chamber at the en, for a brief second he saw Eammon in his true form. The regale dragon craning his long neck back, green scales reflecting the light of a blaming fire as his black eyes regarded Dileas with a curiosity. Then the image faded. His massive body disappeared and Dileas found himself alone. Like always.

With a wave of his hand, he dispersed the balls of light, their small shapes darting to the far reaches of the room and illuminating as much as they could. The chamber was massive, carved out by them so that all five of them could comfortably fit within the confines at the same time. The humans they had brought here had carved more images into the walls here, but he ignored the beautiful pieces of art. Instead, his eyes were drawn to the centre where five pillars rose from the ground. Just five of them. Created by them, forced from the earth by them. The image of a dragon lay on each one, carved out of the rock. He walked to one, the second to the left and looked upon the scarred face of Folairies.

Unlike all the others, this one had been defaced. Claws marks had destroyed her once long, lean and beautiful face. The wings on her back had practically been ripped right off. Rubble lay on the ground, giving evidence to this. Most of her distinguishing features were gone, destroyed, so that none would remember her true form. But he did.

Folairies...

Reaching out, he ran his hand across the smooth surface and felt the magic within. When he looked down, he could still see the spell etched over her name, obliterating it.

"You are still trapped, aren't you Folairies?" Saying her name aloud produced a fresh wave of agony from the cursed wound in his side. He grimaced and ignored it. "So why do I feel you still? Who is that woman and what are you planning with her?"

Nothing answered him but the wind as it whistled through the system of caverns.

He gave her one last look, his eyes travelling to the other statues, lingering on the one that represented him. He hated and loved this place. The birthplace of the Draconians, the place that made him a God, the place that nearly destroyed everything.

Turning away, he left the cave in search of answers elsewhere.