The lost story of Vincent Drayk.
There in the darkness of this long forgotten castle stood a man over 3,000 years old. A
man that merely looked like a man, but was something much more. He was called Vincent,
a name he chose from the human tongue. For none could ever hope to utter his true title.
The nobleman was of close draconian descent, blood so pure, being fourth generation of
draconian mother Lucial.
Leaning against an ancient column, one that stood there almost as long as he has
existed. Holding up not near as well as he, as age was irrelevant to his species. Crumbling
as his back shifted against the cold stone, pebbles fell to the equally rugged floor. He just
stood there for days on end, thinking, distraught about feelings he could not explain.
Unfortunately for the past few hundred years he had been doing this more frequently,
looking gaunt with hunger as he often forgot that he needed to eat. And like the destroyed
castle he had begun to fall apart. For he realized he was missing something.
He felt listless, utterly lifeless, and he could not understand why. He had all he could ever
want, treasures, concubine, a forge for his craft, a vast quiet castle…Whatever else was
there? He sought the answer he could not quite grasp, even though he knew it taunted him
from right out of his reach. Flinging his long dark, loose hair from his eyes he crossed his
arms as he stared into nothingness, with eyes two cold coal black voids, ones that saw into
any lightless abyss. Sighing deeply he strode over to the stonework window, and drew the
dust ridden and ratty curtains. With an outburst of surprise and outrage he shielded his
sensitive eyes. His pupils injured by the light, being so long adapted to the darkness could
not withstand such brilliance, they dilated into near emptiness, looking like mere pinpricks,
his eyes now a ghostly white. Turning away he angrily flung the curtains back across the
cracked window frame, returning to his beloved shadows. The days have begun to run
together, for he no longer cared whether it was day or night.
Walking to the broken hearth, he crouched, his coattails gently dusting the floor. He has
pondered for years on designs of his weapons, this long thought process was nothing new.
But now it was much worse, and he has lost several recipients due to his lack of
concentration and interest.
As he thought this he distractedly waved his pale, calloused yet attractive hand through
the flames. Flames unlike any a mortal would see and live to tell about. It was his own, his
species unique type. For it burned a lightless black, as putrid smoke heavy with deadly
poison roiled up and out the dilapidated vent. He watched without thought as the outer
layer of humanly flesh melted off, revealing his glossy black draconian scales beneath. By
magic it stayed lit, for any material placed in draconic fire would be instantly disintegrated.
His particular kind preferred total darkness, an aspect of the obsidian dragons. Though he
and all of his species are one of the most solitude oriented sort, he has not seen or heard
of his people in thousands of years…
He froze in sheer excitement, as he jubilantly realized he had finally found his answer. He
clasped his scaled hand into a fist, the skin already growing back. Miniscule veins of black
stretching to the tips of his fingers, branching like tree roots. Flesh filling out, pale with all
past blemishes erased. It was so simple he thought himself ignorant. All he required, and
all he yearned for, was a mate.
He was lonely, even surrounded by his concubine. Not conscious until now of his deep
hidden need for a secure female he could devote himself in his entirety to. Never once in
his many millennia did he seek a companion. For he was a sword smith beyond the class
of master, or even a description in words. He dealt in the manufacturing and distribution of
enchanted weaponry, as each and every draconian was born with a preternatural sense of
magics. But always it was difficult to sell his products, as he saw them as pieces of his
hearts. But the clientele paid large sums of gold, and sometimes other currencies, if they
were shy of the hefty payment. Such currencies as perhaps a soul. Souls were good for
giving weapons immense power and… Personality. This discipline required all of his
attention, his last recipient requested a near impossible build. A demon that demanded the
terrifying blade’s name be the Agony. That specific blade took a half of a millennium to
construct, and the other to enchant it. He paid in both an unimaginable amount of gold and
souls, one for each year it took to complete. His craft was very time consuming, as was
previously contemplated. But the thought of finding the missing piece of the puzzle, pleased
- Title: Dragon Blades: The Lost Story
- Artist: Anadalya
- Description: This is the tale of Vincent Drayke, one of the many characters I have created for my books. This particular story was just written though I have had it in my head forever. I had no where to put it yet. : ] Hope you enjoy!
- Date: 06/04/2010
- Tags: dragon blades loststory medieval love
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