Darkness gripped the run down village as the last dyeing embers of the suns rays slipped feebly behind the western hills. No moon lit the darkened town and no torch would light through the howling gale. A black figure walked slowly and deliberately through the town. It was as if the darkness was swarming around this one figure cloaking them in a dizzying blackness. It stopped at the door to a small well-worn house. From under the gray cloak a feminine hand reached forth with a small bundle. She gently set down the package and rapped at the door. With a last glance down at her package she was gone back into the same unnatural night that she had come.
Armondel had been a warrior in his day. He had fought in the great battle of the southern plains. It was in this battle that he had lost his left eye and lamed his right leg. His career had ended that day and he had been devastated. For months afterward he had taken to drinking until one lonesome night he had discovered the bundle at his door.
It had been a child but like none he had ever seen. It looked human enough except for the silvered pupils and a strange frailty when exposed to direct sunlight. He had taken the boy for his son that night 18 years ago training him as a warrior. He named the boy Sendil that in the ancient tongue was “gift”. Sendil had proved to be an apt swordsman. He was as swift as the wind and as strong as a bear he quickly overcame his adopted father in skill.
Armondel could not have been prouder if it had been his own son but in his heart he knew that the boy was destined for greater things than a simple foot soldier. He knew that one day Sendil would go searching for the one thing his father could not give him; a past.
Edited by: Menbik Anklebiter at: 11/29/00 5:02:21 pm
