Shadrak

He was below decks in his quarters when the shout came up. A flicker of hope filled his mind, but was quickly contained in a cage of rationality. They had been wrong before.  Carefully he put away his inks and instruments, rolled up his parchments, and placed them in their proper containers. Just as he was finishing, the knock on his door came.

"Come," he barked at the door. It swung open quickly but carefully, and in the frame was the bosun.

"Land, sir," the bosun smiled widely, betraying his joy at the prospect of being free from their journey.

"Hmm," replied the captain. He finished calmly putting away his parchments and turned towards the door. Absentmindedly he fingered the large ring he bore on his pinky finger. He nodded, but could not return the smile.

The two of them emerged from the belly of the ship into the bright sunlight of the day. The crew was quietly jubilant, not wanting to disturb their captain but unable to contain their joy. At last his eyes adjusted, and on the horizon he saw it.

The glittering Golden City. At last.

A smile cracked his lips. There was naught it could be but their goal. Freedom at last.

"Start the ritual." He ordered the crew, who immediately erupted into thrilled shouts. They cleared the spell circle in the centre of the ship and rushed to gather the components.

The captain toyed once more with his overlarge ring, and turned to the bosun.

"Would you do the honours?" He asked, pulling out his knife and handing it handle-first to the bosun. His eyes lit up with surprise and respect.

"I would consider it a privilige, sir." He took the intricate knife, and bowed deeply to his captain. The two moved to the centre of the circle.

The two men looked into each other's eyes with the pride of a job well done, and the bosun slit his captain's throat with the blade in a single, vicious, practised strike. As he fell to the floor, blood gushing from his neck, the captain made no action to stem the red tide. Instead, he pulled the ring from his finger, and placed it in the bosun's hand.

The two shared a last look of profound respect, and the captain's blood ignited the arcane circle etched in the ship's deck. Out of the mystic circle came the dessicated face of the Emperor-Dead, gazing down upon the crew with polite disinterest.

The bosun slid the ring on his pinky, and felt it clamp down with an almost living strength. He stood up straight, and spoke to the image of his ruler.

"This is captain Shadrak of the Dereth Pride, and I am pleased to report that we have found the Golden City for you, my Lord." He bowed to the image, which flickered in reds and blues before him, an ancient face that ever so slightly betrayed a sense of excitement at the news.

Mishak

I have loved you for a thousand years, oh Queen mine.

I let my desiccated hand delicately trace the fine lines of your face in the painting once more. The exquisite agony of the memory of your flesh on mine ripples down my arm into my heart, and I am strengthened by it. As I have always been. As I will always be. My eyes take in the burns on your painting, my greatest shame. I could not even protect your image.

But your face remains, and it is enough. A thousand years, I have forgotten not one freckle, not one line. A smile threatens to crack the dry skin of my face, but it is tempered by my patience.

There can be no joy without you. The last ten centuries have proven this.

I fold my arms into my sleeves, and stare into your eyes. Soon.

I do not know how long I spend with you on this day. Or those days? Time has become such a nuisance. An impediment to progress. But I am nothing if not patient. I am patient, for you.

At last, my mind is sufficiently filled with your divine beauty for me to continue my work, and I can turn away from you. For now. The ache settles instantly in my heart, but I can bear this burden for now. As my ancient eyes adjust to the light, I see an assistant scuttling towards me, his boots clicking on the stone floor.

"Sir?" He asks quietly, not sure if I have been roused from my reverie. I nod slowly, to show my attention is on him. He gulps, and holds out a scroll. With a flick of my wrist, it levitates from him to hover before my face. I cannot read it.

Sigh. The glasses.

I reach in to my robes, and pull out a pair of golden rimmed spectacles. A quick polish on my flowing robes, and I place them on my dried face. The words congeal from blurry lines into a flowing, precise script.

The fourth cask has been unearthed. I nod my approval. Soon I will allow myself a smile, I think.

I hand the nervous assistant back his note. He bows respectfully, and begins to back away.

"Mishak," I call his name out, and he freezes. His eyes rise to meet mine, wide and anxious. "It is nearly time. Have the altar prepared."

"Aye sir." He replies swiftly, once again bowing.

"And when you have finished," I continue calmly, replacing my glasses in the cloak. "Bring me your daughter."

Mishak's face brightens visibly, and he stands a little straighter. "Thank you, sir!"

Your painting tugs at me from behind, but I do not turn. I cannot be lost in memories now, not when things are so close. Mishak's daughter has already suffered overlong due to my childish reveries.

"Your service has been impeccable. It is past time she was cured, I can only apologize for my tardiness." I bow my head slightly.

"No apologies necessary, your Worship," he bows deeply, thrilled, before turning to run off and complete his task.

I watch him scuttle out, his zeal renewed by the love of his family and the knowledge that his work will bring them the relief they deserve. My bones ache. You call to me, in the painting.

But I cannot be with you now, my Queen. Soon.

I have loved you for a thousand years, and soon I will tell you so in person.

The Monster in the Mountain

There is a monster, they said.

The mountain has slept for generations, a peaceful reign long enough for the people to prosper and outgrow their town. Long enough for them to spread up the mountainside, and make use of its fertile soil and dense forest.

The people spread and grew like a tide, rising up the mountain, while it continued to slumber. It had slept so long that all said it would never again wake.

It was only grandfather's grandfathers grandfathers fathers that had seen the living mountain in it's rage, and they had died long past. Now it slept the forever sleep. It was obvious.

So when the thing came to the town and was cast out, when it stumbled up the mountainside away from the people, when it disappeared and the mountain woke with thunder and fire, all was clear.

It was a monster, they said.

As I climbed the ten thousand steps, as I crossed rivers of fire that ran through houses that were, as I drew my cloak across my mouth to combat the noxious breath of the mountain, I could not argue. What could cause this much destruction, this much loss, but a creature of the vilest hells.

And here I stand, sword drawn, at the mouth of the cave it has made its home. Bathed in the orange light of the searing earthblood, fatigued by the oppressive heat, swaying with the shuddering earth, I stand ready. I can see the thing now.

It is a monster.

Its body is twisted and hunched in a painful attempt to hide from the scene unfolding around it. Its clothes tatters and rags of singed fabric, barely holding together on its gaunt frame. Worst of all, its face is contorted in a grotesque mask of pain and fear. I can see in its wet eyes the same shame and sadness that threatened to take me, once. And in that moment, I know what I must do with my sword.

I cast it aside, and step towards the boy. He cannot have seen any more summers than I, barely in his teens. He tries to recoil, but I'm too fast. My hand reaches his shoulder, and I bring him to me in a tight embrace. I press him to me, holding him firm.

The heat is almost unbearable, I can feel my skin beginning to burn all across me, but I will not let go. The cave erupts with flame and heat, the mountain shakes, and the cavern echoes with screams of loss and sadness. I grip him tight. It is too much. I drop to my knees. But I will not give up.

The moment comes that I think I might lose consciousness, and in that blistering moment of heat and panic, the mountain goes silent. The fire dies, the earthblood cools back to stone, and the thunder that pealed across the sky is replaced with the quiet sobbing of a boy, cursed to be a sorcerer by an uncaring world.

I open my burned eyes. Everything hurts. I loosen my grip on the young sorcerer, but do not let go. He buries his head in my shoulder, and I do not stop him. I rest my head on his, and pat him on the back reassuringly.

"It's going to be alright," I lie to the boy, in accordance with the Divine Book of the Platinum Dragon.