Monochrome

 be   can you be   something more than black white and gray 

The Veiled Dell


 * There are places in Fastheld that are older than the name of the Empire itself. Places that have stood unflinching in the face of the passage of time, caring little for the events that define history and the people that live and die as they forge such legends. Where the concepts of Good and Evil have no quarter, and where only the Natural Balance of Mother Nature holds court. Places that one can stumble upon due to something as innocent as going right when they should have gone left, and places that - once left - might never be found again.


 * The Veiled Dell is one such place, if not the very personification of such places. Existing as a copse of dense Shardwoods and River Oaks that stand side-by-side like brothers in arms, the dell includes that natural palisade as well as the clearing that stands in the middle as a glade of short, soft grasses and a single rocky pool of crystal water.


 * If one were to stand within the middle of the glade within the ramparts of tall and ancient trees, it would be easy to understand why those who have been here refer to it as the Veiled Dell. That very same enclosure of Shardwood and Oak appears to have no trail or path leading to or from the dell itself, and one might soon wonder how it was that they managed to navigate through the small woodland into the heart of the dell to begin with.


 * Regardless, of all the secret and hidden places in Fastheld, this is certainly one of the most well disguised. One of those places that is fully under the watch of nature herself, and hidden in plain sight just as elegantly. The remarkable greenish-cyan crystalline structure known as the Viridian Tower peeksabove the tree line in one direction, though - without a point of reference - it is difficult to discern what that direction actually is.


 * It is a warm night. A steady gentle breeze stirs over the land. It is raining. All six moons - the cerulean orb of Herald, the crimson Dayhunter, verdant green Stormwatcher, the rich violet of the Serpent's eye and the gray baubles known as Torch I and II - wane dimly in the sky in a rather scattered pattern.

'''Where secrecy reigns, carelessness and ignorance delight to hide while skill loves the light. '''A misplaced step, a left instead of a right, and such a secret has apparently presented itself to one Syton Temple. Amidst the rain, the darkness of the overcast night, and the generally featureless landscape that follows along the bank of the Fastheld River, such misdirections are easy to make. However, one might wonder how much of this discovery is accident, and how much of it is fate...'''

A small figure stumbles--or rather falls--from within a dense stand of ancient oaks, landing on the wet grass of the dell with a flat thud and a soft "oof." The figure, barely visible as a young man in the gloom, struggles up to his feet and shakes the wet mud from his hands. Cloakless, the soaked man runs a still-somewhat-muddy hand through his hair and takes a few steps out into the Veiled Dell, turning around slowly to inspect, but continuing in the same direction.

'''Abruptly, and for no discernable or logical reason at all, the previously relentless fall of rain ceases entirely in a sudden blackout of moisture and sound.

'''It is as if someone had become tired of the precipitation and merely snapped their fingers to cause it to end - just like that. However, there was no such click, and there is no such 'someone' within the dell beyond a certain sodden Freelander; and that is, it would seem, all that still remains.'''

'''What's even more curious is that the hiss of rain beyond this mysterious glade can still be perceived as a low ambiance beyond the edges of the clearing. The patter of water against leaf and branch is certainly apparent, as is the occasional glimmer of raindrops collecting and falling from such foliage.'''

It's raining in Fastheld - just not in the dell.

The small, wet man stops and looks up suddenly, as though expecting to see a roof over his head. For a second, he is completely still, looking at the clouds overhead and listening to the not-so-distant sounds of rain. His mind struggles to rectify the strangeness around him, and when it ultimately fails, it settles for alarm.

The young man abruptly levels his gaze and wheels around quickly, taking a few stumbling steps backwards, before turning again suddenly to face another side of nothingness. "Who is it?" he asks the darkness loudly. After another few seconds, he turns again, and so it goes, panting heavily, held by fear in the center of the dell.

"Vexatious weather, is it not?" The question is attached to a voice that seems to resonate from somewhere to the left of the Freelander. It's a voice that is at once as deep as oblivion, yet as smooth as the softest of silk. A rumble that is as pococurante as a roll of thunder on a summer's eve, with a tone as disquisitive as the most curious of quizzical feline. "Though I do admit to enjoying the sheer classicality of such weather from time to time," that same voice adds from somewhere behind Temple, "I find that we have little use for it on this occasion, wouldn't you agree?"

Syton turns on the voice crisply, first to the left, then behind. He squints, peering deeply into the darkness without daring to move from his position. He stands tense, wound up, ready. With no small effort on the part of the Freelander, he remains thus--ready, but restrained.

Warily, the young man takes a step back, vaguely away from the voice. A frown creases his lips. "The weather? Shall we talk about the state of the roads, as well?" Syton sneers, his fear giving way to a healthy dose of defensive anger. Sharply, he asks, "Who are you?"

"The real question, Syton Temple," the owner of the voice asks from somewhere ahead of Syton's field of view, even though the voice lends no physical attachment or source to it at all, "Is who are YOU?"

Silence follows that question, leaving only the background hiss of the rain beyond the edges of the dell to fill in the blanks.

Syton's jaw clenches at the sound of his name, and he takes another step backwards. He glances over one shoulder very quickly, checking his escape route, but he doesn't make a run for it just yet.

His attention goes back to the darkness, in the direction of the voice. He hesitates before speaking this time, swallowing and licking his lips before opening his mouth to say, "And if you want me to answer yours, you'll answer mine."

"Very well," that deep and ingratiating rumble of articulation offers from directly behind Syton. Directly behind, and quite dauntingly from, the location that the Freelancer glanced at over his shoulder but a moment ago. For in that space now stands a certain creature of legend, roughly fifty feet in length from the top of his snout to the tip of his long and sinuous tail. A creature covered in lustrous overlapping scales of deep, dark metallic charcoal, draped in leathery wings of soot and obsidian. A creature with ivory horns that curl back and sweep gently upwards from above fanned ears.

One with bone white talons and eyes of pure deep azure, shimmering like gemstones against his aphotic form as he gazes towards the top of the crystal tower that peeks just above the dell’s surrounding skyline. "My name is Zael'tharalax, but you may call me Zael, should you find the full structure to be too difficult to pronounce."

A black dragon.

To see Syton Temple reel around on Zael'tharalax, you might think that this was the first Drake the young man had ever seen. Or at least the first he had heard speak. Or /at/ /least/ the first he had seen up close. Wrong on all three counts, and yet there Syton stands, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, fear sweat rolling from his already soaked skin.

When he finally moves, it's to take a step backwards. His foot slides on the rainslick grass and falls out from under him, bringing the Freelander down roughly on his back. The contact with the ground shakes Syton from his panic, and he struggles up to his feet quickly. "You're a-a Drake," he observes. His mouth stays open, but he says nothing else, just staring at the Dragon.

"And you are quite the perceptive one," Zael'tharalax remarks in that eternally sonorous tone of his, still looking towards the peak of the greenish-cyan crystalline structure he appears to be interested in, evidently caring little for (or opting to politely ignore) Syton’s conflict with gravity and friction. Silently, and with all the fluidity of the shadows that seem to color his body, the Dragon sits back on his haunches, finally turning his head to regard Syton as Syton in turn stands there regarding him. He is, in appearance, half the size of Val'sharax, but there's something about his demeanor that suggests that size matters little in this instance. If Val'sharax's raw and untempered fury could be described as being a clear and present for all to see, Zael'tharalax's tenacity is far more subtle, yet just as apparent. If Val'sharax is to be compared to a hurricane, then Zael'tharalax is surely an ocean by contrast - reserved, forgiving, but utterly unyielding. "I believe we had an interchange of questions and answers, did we not?"

"Um... but... uh..." Syton's thoughts, scattered as they are, do not come out easily. Looking up to azure eyes of the looming black Drake, he seems unable to form anything coherent. In an act of sheer desperation, Syton takes shelter by diverting his eyes away from the Drake.

He turns to the stand of oaks from which he emerged, taking a step or two in that direction before clearing his throat and turning to the Drake. The young Freelander speaks quickly, getting it out as quickly as he can. "You already know who I am, though. I mean, you said my name, so you must know me... unless- I mean- unless you meant something else?"

The dragon seems to smile at that; an expression of suppressed mirth that is unlikely to make his much smaller companion feel any more at ease. "Oh, I know your name, but I am of the understanding that even YOU are not quite sure of who you are - and in that light, how would one reach the conclusion that anyone else did?"

Zael'tharalax lets that question stand for a few moments before casting his azure gaze back in the direction of the previous item of interest - the Viridian Tower. "Explain something to me," he asks, making what amounts to a demand sound like a mere request, "What is it with you Imperials and your attraction to such trivial displays of influence and potentiality?"

Syton seems to let the Drake's first point go without comment, offering only a vague nod. If he relaxes at all, it is simply because he has not yet been eaten, obliterated, or worse. He runs his hand through his hair, again, and looks elsewhere for a moment, following the Black Dragon's gaze back towards the tower in the distance, much less visibile from the human's perspective.

"Um, a desire to appear as we see ourselves, I suppose," he answers, seeming surprised by the ease of his words. He clears his throat softly and continues, still looking at the tower, "Influential and capable men want to appear that way, but they cannot change how they look, so they build an extension of themselves." Syton looks suddenly uncomfortable, shrugs, and softly adds, "but that's just what I think."

"I see," Zael'tharalax murmurs, granting the crystal tower one final glance before looking back upon Temple once again, his ears folding back against the sides of his head as he regards his smaller companion with an expression of astute curiosity.

"And how do YOU desire to be seen by others of your kind, Syton Temple?" The dragons voice dips into a deeper tone of inquisitiveness as he asks this, watching the Freelander intently. "You command the Shadow to some extent, yet appear free of the tendrils of corruption that it enjoys sinking into the hearts of your species. You appear to understand the divide better than most of your peers, to such an extent that many seek your advice above that of the more respected of your kind, with your words holding sway in the hearts of those born in higher standing to yourself." "Yet you wear no brand like the others that strive for acceptance, and walk among these people as if you were like them," he continues, his tail twitching behind his charcoal form, "And they accept you, even though you are nothing like them at all. You are quite the riddle indeed, and thus we return to my original question:"

"Who ARE you, Syton Temple?"

Syton shifts uncomfortably beneath his soaked armor, which makes a wet sucking noise with the movement. He tries to look up at the Drake for as long as he can, with increasing agitation, until he is eventually forced to drop his eyes down to the grass at his feet. He shakes his head slowly. "As you said, I do not really know."

Gradually, Syton is able to raise his eyes a bit. He looks at the scaley, wall-like black chest of the Drake before him. "My relationship with the Shadow is one of give and take. I let it win, when it suits my purposes, or when it doesn't matter, and I keep it in check the rest of the time. In that respect, I guess you could say I'm equal parts Mage and diplomat." He coughs uncomfortably and glances up to meet the Zael's gaze for a moment. "That's not a very good explanation, but I think it's all I have."

"You LET it win?" Zael'tharalax repeats, evidently quite amused by this part of Temple's answer. The azure of his gaze sparkles like the most priceless of gemstones. "Ah, my unpretentious and naive Imperial, one does not LET the Shadow win, for the Shadow rarely loses. It will use you, and it will destroy you, and when it tires of you it will cast you aside for the wolves to devour. Make no mistake about it."

The dragon takes a deep breath at this point - one that soon becomes an equally deep sigh as he shakes his head, pushing himself back on to all fours with a grace and fluidity that defies convention, though making no indication towards a departure just yet. "A pity. In you I saw so much of the Balance that I had high expectations of what to expect in turn. Perhaps I was mistaken. A vexing turn of events indeed."

"Forgive me, but I do not believe I am mistaken, Sir Drake," Syton replies in a deferential but direct tone, able to maintain eye contact with the Drake more consistently now. "It is as you said--the Shadow will win. If I fight it, I may hold it off for a while, as some of my friends are trying to do, but I will tire and it will not... and that will be the end of me and whatever I hope to accomplish." He shrugs glances away for only a moment, back towards the tower, before returning to Zael and continuing. "So I suppose I should say that I let the Shadow win the small fights /more easily/, and in return, I keep the strength to keep myself in the big ones."

He takes a single step back from the Drake, as though making way for his departure. "I don't know what your 'Balance' is, but I've a balance of my own. I cannot be all Shadow, and I cannot be without Shadow. This is the middle ground I've taken."

"The Light and the Shadow are not much different from Night and Day," the black dragon remarks, looking up towards the heavens as he does so, watching for any sign of one of the celestial bodies that sail the dark sky, or for the ocean of shimmering stars that they drift upon, should they show themselves through a break in the overcast of the dark clouds above. "Night and Day exist in balance, one chasing the other, the other chasing it in turn, neither giving ground to the other. However, while both harbor a certain allure, few things are born in the Night, and few creatures meet their natural end during the Day. Conversely, many die in the caress of darkness, while many are born in the blessing of warm radiance. So it is with Light and Shadow, for while a few are blinded by the Light, many are blinded in the depths the Shadow. While the Light leads the way, few can find their way in the Shadow." There's a pause after he offers this to Temple, though WHY a dragon such as this one would bother to take the time to explain the Balance to a mere Imperial remains to be seen. "Your elaboration of your original statement makes me wonder if you are part of an equal balance - that the Shadow cannot consume you because the Light will not let it..." The Dragon turns towards Temple at that, taking a step closer and lowering his neck to bring his snout in line with Syton's head. "Interesting."

Try as he might Syton is unable to resist the urge to recoil back from the massive Draconian visage. He cringes back a little bit, glancing back to the Drake briefly, then longer, until he is eventually able to face Zael long enough to speak.

"I-I don't know about that," Syton replies, hesitating a bit at first. "I think the machinations of the Shadow and the Light are a bit beyond me, right now." He straightens his armor, again, and its leather squeaks this time. "I mean to make a difference with my life--for the better, I hope--and I must have as much of my soul intact as I can manage if I'm to succeed. If that is only possible by the will of the Light, then I am grateful for it."

"You have much untapped power," Zael'tharalax states, pulling back a little to give his Freelander associate room to breathe, "I wonder if you even realize your potential? The Shadow and the Light both want you, yet it would seem another has made a claim first, which explains much."

Those azure eyes narrow for a moment as the Drakar'ri considers something which is then punctuated by an indignant huff of air. "This Mark," he notes, his tone deeper than before, "Avoid it. These Imperials that accept you for who you are, unknowing of the conflict that lingers within," he resumes, "Continue to let them. Reveal nothing more than you have to, and nothing less than you mean to. I may have a role for you to play yet."

Syton blinks, an empty look in his eyes, and only manages to nod at the Drake. It takes a few seconds before he is able to produce anything more. "Very well, Zael'tharalax," he ultimately agrees. Managing the Dragon's full name gives Syton a hint of pride that allows him to continue with ease.

"I will not take the Mark, as you wish..." A pause. "But I do not know what help I could be to you. I am only a Freelander, and a fledgling Mage, at best. I believe that I do have power and potential, as you say, but it would take me a lifetime to master it, if even then."

"The Balance is indifferent to the dispute between the corruption of the Shadow and the redemption of the Light," Zael'tharalax offers by way of reply, granting the Freelander a final estimating glance before looking away one final time. "Men live by the Light and die by the Shadow, Syton Temple, but all are born under Nature's watch, and all die beneath that very same vigil. If you have ever stopped to ponder who it is that the Drakar'ri serve, you have found your answer. Do with it what you will."

'''And then the rain begins to fall upon the dell once more, soaking the land and the grasses that blanket it in a wall of water. Yet, in the merest of heartbeats, the black Dragon has utterly vanished, and no mark of his passing remains. Even the grasses, soft as they may be, bear no imprint of the fifty-foot Dragon; for in this case, the weight of his words far exceeds the mass of his sinuous form, it seems...'''

Syton looks up to the night sky as the rain begins to pour once more. After a moment, he suddenly looks back down to the Drake--or rather, to where the Drake once was. The young Freelander spins quickly in the grass, inspecting the rest of the clearing. He opens his mouth to call out, but the finality of the Drake's departure strikes him silent.

The young Mage stands motionless, contemplative for a long time. Finally, he nods resolutely to no one at all and turns to quickly leave the dell. He shoulders his way between two broad Shardwood trees and disappears from the Veiled Dell.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)