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An old, battle scarred man named Herai sat within a small hut situated between two large hotels. His story and legacy has been written upon his arms in black ink, tattooed forever. The stale air of the city fills the air. A hammock is hung from the ceiling, curving it's way from one side of the hut to the other
A disheveled traveler walked toward the hut, stopping to glance inside the open door. Upon seeing that it was occupied, he hurried inside. His slim shoulders and pale skin stand out in the darkness. Long hair falls onto his back. His hair was matted together. Dried blood was standing out against his light skin and hair, scars covering his hands and arms. He dares hope his journey is over. Weariness was etched in his gaze. He shook his head slightly, hair swinging out of his eyes.
His gaze turns to the old man. The elderly warrior was clothed in the traditional fighting garb of the monks. His eyes were open, glazed, as if thinking of a faraway place. He turned his head to acknowledge the presence of another, and held out his arm.
The man appeared apprehensive, for the first time unsure of himself. He knelt beside him, stoically deciding his fate.
Sellers and buyers filled the streets. Although hundreds of people passed the hotels, their eyes skipped over the small hovel with merely a second thought. One small boy of about nine years stopped for a moment. He glimpsed the hut. It sat there, groveling in the dirt between the tall wooden walls. A man walked up to the small shelter and stooped through the entryway.
The boys brow began to twitch up and down, his bare feet patting out an anxious rythm. He unconsciously touches his wrist, a bronze bracelet pulled tight around his arm. He looked dissapointed as a group of rick marketers turned down the street. He hurried away from his position before curiosity could overwhelm him, and jogged confidently up to the doorway.
Herai's ancient eyes snapped back into reality, causing the younger man to flinch and turn. The child stood in the doorway, proclaiming his right to be there with silent dignity. The old fellow smiled and beckoned for him to enter.
The young warrior frowned. "Are you sure that this is wise? Are there not those that would seek to find this boy because of what he will see?"
The old man shook his head, "Let him be, perhaps what he sees shall awaken some part of him to reality." He motioned for the man to continue. The other shrugged his shoulders and beckoned to the boy.
The child stepped, a bit cautiously, into the dark interior and melted into the shadows. The young man held up the loose sleeve of the old mans robe. Taking a long knife, he slit the robe along the seam. The robe fell to the ground around Herai.
The child's brow furrowed, his confident features melting away. Intricate tattoos adorned his arms and chest. They seemed to move, telling a story that flowed like a river across his body. Such art was considered magical, demonic. This art was told of by old men. It was illegal to even discuss. The man sat down across from the old warrior, crossing his legs. He took ahold of Herai's arm once more.
To the eyes of the boy, it appeared as if a whirlwind of sand and fire had sprung up from the filthy floor. A tornado, encompassing the dark interior. A fiery eagle swooped about the room. A spotted leopard made of fire prowled around the two men. A sandy snake slithered from the mass of flaming figures toward the boy. His curiosity vanished into fear. He tried to run from the scene, the heat beginning to sear his eyes. The leopard leaped in his way, the surreal image presses it's paws against his chest. Two paw marks burned their way through his shirt. He stumbled back against the wall, doubled over and clutching his chest. The eagle landed on his back, fire licking at his clothing.
The shapes changed after moments, and seemed to last for decades. Lives of great and noble, lives of poor and sorry danced inside the tornado of memories. Spirits of the dead leaped from their graves, screaming silently as they were torn apart by demons of night.
Then it changed. The horrifying scenes changed to ones of peace, of prosperity. A land filled with wonders and power, enveloped the tiny abode.
Hope was in the air, a tangent and living substance upon which the land grew and prospered. Upon the outskirts of the great kingdom, the tornado came to rest. A baby is born, the mother holding him tight. Than comes the sound of pain. The scenes change once again, and the child knows that he is seeing the life of the old man. Decades of living begin to flash before him. Specific stories, jumbled, yet clear begin to appear. He collapsed to the ground, writhing in agony as emotions and pain pervaded his mind. He passed out, his breathing shallow, but the vision continuing in his dream. He registers that he is viewing Herai's life, before being completely overwhelmed by the intense memories.
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A fist flies into a young boy's mouth. He flinches, spinning on his heel and bringing up his arms in defense. An older boy stands before him, sneering. The young boy shuffles back a step, his eyes wide. Adrenaline causes him to tense, readying for a fight to the death.
Keen not to fail once more, he grits his teeth, his tongue flicking between the large gaps in his half smile. The sudden movement of speeding knuckles and he ducks, circling with his leg to connect with the older boys abdomen. His opponent shows no surprise or pain, but grabs the child's foot before he can withdraw. He gives a savage twist and the young boy flips, rotating once before landing on his hands. The child yanks his foot, spins, and launches himself into his attacker.
The older boy lands on his back, the child atop him. His fists thud into his opponents face, blood spilling onto the black stones. He presses his forearm against the fallen boys neck. After several seconds, the victorious boy arises, looking down at the larger figure on the ground. The older boy lies still, his nose and lips and gushing red as his face begins to swell.
An older man sprints down the hallway, followed by several young students. Two of them pick up the knocked out boy and rush him back down the corridor. The eldest man grabs the victors shoulder and smiles, looking into his eyes. They stand there for a moment, no words exchanged, but a silent understanding. He had finally passed his exam. He envisioned the new tattoo that would forever stand proudly on his forearm. Maybe tomorrow he would be chosen. He was only in his seventh year, and had beaten one who was ready for final assignment.
The boy, who's name is Herai, leaves the scene of battle, his mind wandering. He makes his way through courtyards, where statues of ancient rulers stand head and shoulders above the battlements. He arrives at the living quarters and fills his small bag with clothing. His staff in hand, he leaves room. Several of his friends acknowledge his promotion, nodding and smiling. Several of them call out out encouragement, although their young faces show fear for what could away him.
Dusty stone steps lead him to the topmost level of the castle. Through the stone windows, he glimpses swirling shapes far below, turning the training grounds into a copper storm of movement. The small hallway opens up, revealing his new quarters. The brown, dusty walls of the Lower Keep appear festive when compared to the Herai's new quarters. The stone walls are completely black and unyielding, the stone carved from obsidian over two hundred years ago. Fire red hangings decorate each room, searing Herai's vision.
Other students of his own age surround him, working at desks, sharpening tools, or leaving for teaching. Herai makes his way through the busy room, entering the sleeping area. He lays down his belongings and lies down on his sleeping mat.
He awakes several hours later, stretching and feeling nervous. He picks up his polished oak staff and steadies himself. The common room is deserted when he arrives. Frowning, he closes his eyes and takes several deep breathes. A roar of rage encompasses the room, fading down the hallway. Herai's eyes snap open. Holding his fists tight around his staff, he marches toward the noise.
The roar comes again, louder than before. The boy keeps walking, out of the common room and down the dark corridor. The click of talons on stone bounces through the castle.
Wind rushes through the battle scarred walls, bringing with it bright flashes of light. The boy is running now, his face grim and his teeth clenched. His breathing catches painfully as he springs around a corner, leaping down stairs several at a time.
He hits a wall and pushes off, his shoulder turning red beneath his robes. He keeps running, slapping his arm until the feeling returns. Herai exits the tall keep, the open night revealing itself. He steps into the shadows, the moon shining brightly. The wind grew as a sound of rushing wind swept through the air. The flickering from lamps and torches on the passageways high above him burn out.
Herai stands on his toes and brings his arms around, touching the ground and holding his position for several seconds. The scrape of talons pushing off against castle walls carries to his ears. The boy walks slowly toward the middle of the courtyard. A giant shape speeds over the battlements, the wind whistling as leathery wings speed around towers and under archways.
The flying shadow swoops behind Herai. The click of talons. The sweeping sound of takeoff, and the figure bursts from the archway ahead of the boy. Herai's eyes are closed and his jaw clenched. Fire erupts once more, filling the courtyard with heat and setting torches afire.
The heat recedes, stone still glowing red. The black mass of scales and sinew stops behind the glowing crescent of stone. Two glowing eyes shine into the night, resting upon the small child. Herai opens his eyes, breathing steadily and shifting his gaze repeatedly. He steps forward, holding his staff high, and bowing his head.
The dragon steps forward across the molten stone and breathes upon his staff. The wood glows, turning a bright red, and returning to its original state. The scales of the dragon reflect the stone. Red and black shadows dance across the muscle as the dragon turns, dipping it's head to Herai. He moves forward, his palms sweaty.
The small boy's hand brushes the side of its cheekbone. His tiny hand brushes the gleaming scales until his hand catches on a scarred horn. He fixes his fingers onto a deep gouge and pulls himself up. His legs encircle the beings neck. His chest relaxes. His breathing returns to normal. He holds his newly reinforced staff and grips the horn. Muscles ripple and the dragon leaps.
The masters look on from the tall castle walls, as the dragon beats it's wings. The boy grows nearer to them, and satisfaction replace looks of unease. The fliers reach the parapet. The dragon soars toward the masters. A moment before he reaches them, he beats his wings harder. Herai holds tight to the dragons horn and they climb even faster. The masters yell with anger as the dragon wings off into the night.
As the fires faded away far below, fear ate away at Herai. His skin itches. He holds still, afraid of falling. No monk had ever spoken of being carried away. No stories of great dragons carrying away children for good. He grips the horn harder and his breath catches in his throat. The wind pulls at his robes and the air thins.
The dragon's body heats Herai's clothes, warding off the cold night. Points of light fill the sky above the pair, keeping the suffocating dark at bay. After several minutes, the dragon tucks his wings. They plummet through the atmosphere, dropping below the clouds. Herai leans forward, his face pressed against the warm scales. A mountain peak pushes it's way through the dark. The dragon slows down, pulling up and landing upon a dark, grass covered plain.
Herai tumbles from the beasts neck, lying on the damp earth. His breathing returns to normal, despite the presence of the reptilian beast. He hugs his legs to his chest. His staff glows a muted green, bathing the area in a soft light. The dragon stretches his wings once before ascending back to the sky, leaving Herai alone in the wilderness.
