Far, far away from the Eastern Isles, those parts of the kingdom drenched in superstition and lore, yet another mysterious figure  was wishing destruction upon everything in the land. 

It was still night, and still grim. Yet there was no howling wind or lashing rain, and the tiny, winking starts that were barely seen was the only source of light. The buildings were old and grand and clung to old values that were only now starting to be questioned and to go in decline. In the Embassy building, an edifice that no one really knew why it existed, for war flourished and attempts at peace were rather fruitless, someone sat in a chair. His feet  were propped on a wide, polished desk engraved with faces screaming in agony, and he was not happy. 

In lands such as Xeverron, many are forced to live through extraordinary circumstances and make a name for themselves, whether it be their intentions or not. This person was no exception. 

A chalk-white face, with painted lips and hooded eyes, was contorted into an expression of pure agony. A very pointed nose, ears outlined in blessed metal rings, and the hooded eyes hosted a little diamond sparkle in the middle of each, signaling that his was no ordinary lineage. All in all, a face impossible to forget in lifetimes and lifetimes. Hands, as pale as the face, gray rings circling each finger, black scars criss-crossing, were tensed but flat, resting upon red-clad legs.

This man, his face, when not expressing the deepest of anger or loathing, looked ever so young. Yet appearances, though his clothes and opinions did shed light on his character, are always deceiving. The most unlikeliest turn out to be immortals, the most likely end up dying and  and hardly making a mark upon the murky topic of history. In these parts, it was wise never to make assumptions.

Inside, the man was screaming. Any anniversary of death of someone close to you will be painful, but even more so when conspiracies and war and a multitude of other losses are thrown in. Only another person, a young boy standing by a thick-paneled window that made up a whole wall, was present in the lavish but sparse room that only a select few were privy to.  

This boy had had many coveted experiences, and knew of the prestige that came with being able to enter this room; he was one of the trusted, and though he was not looking at the man, he knew exactly what was going on. 

Many people that have gone down in history, and that have lived through things that no one should have to bear, were trained, through experience and personal convictions, to never succumb to pain, to never show any emotion, whether in public or private. This man, of course, was no exception, and it was a testament to the gravity of the situation that he had allowed himself this tiny lapse in composure, this physical expression of all the internal turmoil and pain and anger he felt. 

Even now, his face suddenly smoothed out, his tensed body became relaxed, and he took his feet off of his desk. Straightening up, his hands smoothing the long, painstakingly detailed map that was the only ornamentation on the desk, he addressed the boy. Or, at least, as he was looking at the turned back and opened his mouth to speak, the boy suddenly turned and spoke, for the first time that night.

"Is is that bad?" A hesitant, but clear and strong voice.

"It is always this bad, or worse. It always is, always has been, and always will be. Any attempt to pretend otherwise, or to think that it will change, is pure folly and a plain waste of time."

"Alright. You say. What is it this time? And don't lie, Rapier, I know you are sorely tempted to, but I am old enough, I am man enough. I can hear." And it was true. Though he was not of age, anyone could tell you that here, your age and your worth is measured through the things you go through; he had lived through much strife, and had seen a great many horrible things that many would not be able to bear.

Rapier ran his hands over his face, and bit his lip in a practiced way. People always made him out to be a slippery fellow. No one could get a clear look at his character - too composed, too knowing of the expected responses. The only way to get a real glimpse of his character was to get him real angry, and you had to be part of certain classes to do so. Tonight, his mind was a blank slate, devoid of the usual tricky plans and plots. So, it was very easy for him to make a clear decision-though he hesitated greatly. Yes. It was that bad...

He took a deep breath, more for drawing fortitude and composure than because he needed air or calming. "Those blasted foes swamped our west border, are heading out to the Eastern Isles, for unknown and unfathomable reasons, and we lost more numbers than at the massacre. The Massacre. Everyone's spirits are in the low, so I'm told, and many of the families, here, even, have lost more menfolk that they can take. It is grim, truly grim. No one knows how to make contact with their shadow-essence, and even renowned warriors are at lost, the same place we were in when it all began. Hopeless. Yet, all we can do is fight more, lose more people and land and pride, and let the unbreakable cycle go on." 

His voice was tinged with despair, but most of all with deadness. A bleak, emotionless deadness. He only dared to speak this openly to a trusted few. In front of all of the constant prying eyes, he had to fake-speak, lie through his teeth and modify his voice until his throat could make sounds no more. It was always deception, lying, all of that. The only way of staying true to himself, and his heritage, however painful, being through the clothes he wore.

For, you see, this was no nameless man. Climbing through back circles and shadowy things, he had started to make a name for himself. Already, he had many privileges, was trusted by many, and was privy to great secrets and organizations. He had the keenest mind, and knew everyone.

Nodding from his place by the window, the boy, who held a rather esteemed position in Rapier's mind, knew exactly at once what was going on. It had started long ago, one day, or night, out of nowhere. All the lands of Xeverron had been ravaged by an onslaught of black-mist fiends, ones whose touch made a man crumble in pain without even a physical mar, who attacked in the night, made crops wither and die. They could travel in a mass of pure, malevolent darkness, or as mere shadows flitting on walls and on the ground, unable to be killed, unable to be caught, wreaking havoc and despair. No one knew where they had come from, nor how to vanquish them.

Regular soldiers were sent to fight them, a fight that was still being waged now. However, after many crippling losses, it had been decided to draft the Aeturnum into the battle. Those mysterious and shadowy soldiers of immortal life, their identities rather secret and their ways and rites blocked out to everyone else. And the boy knew how much this all weighted down on Rapier, what with all of the other wars going on, the ferocious and bloody ones with the drakons, only just recently ended, and those meddlesome Tervenien Outsiders who liked to wage battles. No one needed anything more added to that, especially an invincible dark-magyc species. The weight of such responsibility, and knowledge, was enough to drive any one off the edge. Yet this man still managed to lift his head, and deal with everything.

Inching slowly, unsure if he would have the permission, the boy went closer and closer to the desk, where the now-composed Rapier sat scribbling on that precious war map. Thick black lines snaked all over the brittle parchment, compiled from years and years of use for many wars and battles. Handing the concentrated man a tiny, special quill-pen, the boy took in all of the war plans, old and new, and the landforms of the kingdom. With bated breath, the two only occupants of the room watched as Rapier put quill to paper, and scratched out, in an unintelligible scrawl, a star, and a few words in the Old Tongue-the tongue of the mighty of this kingdom-on the left side of the spread-out map.

"What's it to mean?"

"Nothing -" Rapier responded distractedly, his mind now full of things to do, people to visit, bad news to bring... Feeling a questioning look directed at him, the man looked up, and added to his previous statement. "Just something, to help me remember."

Now, on to work. He had no specific profession or work, but rather kept everything on track, lent his tactical strategies to the wars, and aided influential people by any possible means. Rapier wished, though, that he could delegate competent people to the aid of the higher-ups, so that he would not have to run everywhere at once.

It was then he began. Though it was well into the deep night, and though he had been doing the task of the puppeteer, playing his strings to direct his marionettes to get affairs done and fulfilling given instructions, the whole day, he now started pulling down books, took a fresh writing instrument, and began to plan and to work.

 The candles in the wall brackets burned lower and lower, and  the only sounds was the scribbling, occasional movement, and the shuffling of papers. Nothing changed even as the sky outside of the window started to lighten. The city below started to awaken, the stars faded and clouds cleared, and still the man and the boy poured all of their energy into task after task. The world of papers and half-truths and bowing down to mightier people, flattering and pleasing them, passing laws, convincing those who do not want to be convinced, is as dangerous as the world of swords and physical battles, and takes its toll.

A clock within the Embassy building chimed, signaling mid-morning. Rapier was putting away papers and things, ink-stained hands trembling slightly from lack of rest, head full and scattered and in need of sorting, a half-thought about the advantages of an ankle knife coming to mind at the prospect of yet another meeting, most likely full of hissing vipers and hidden snakes and destructive drakons.

The boy was by the window again, holding in a yawn, a book in his hand opened to a page showing a crystal pendant, encircled by a winged dragon, its crystal pure black. The spidery text beside the painted image was hard to read, but it was in a common tongue, saying something about an heir destined for darkness,  set to spill much blood, born on a night of bad birth omens, who carries the name of the drakon.

Beneath that very building, scurrying past it in a hurry with no thought of her surroundings, a young woman had a furtive expression. Her brown hair seemed golden in the morning sunlight, and her delicate hand was clutching a missive in her hand. There was a black brand, burning and very recent, on her left shoulder, covered by a simple green dress with a loose silver bodice, the design three connected spirals. Her thoughts were full of uncertainty and fright. A horrible event, had just occurred, and there was a very scary man who was out for blood and looking for her, wanting to make her pay. 

Her first time in a city full of magyks and legends and creatures of the dark, and it was in circumstances she had never imagined. The name written on the outside of the missive, in glittering golden ink, no less, was Veronique. At least, it was meant to say that, but smudges and burn marks had marred it. The only letters visible were Ver.

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