Kraig Dafoe
was born in Potsdam, New
York and grew up in Canton. He played
high school football and joined the United States Army Reserves at the age of
seventeen.
Kraig married at the age of
nineteen and moved to Virginia Beach,
Virginia where he worked as a Private Security officer
for The Christian Broadcasting Network and also attended the
Tidewater Community College
for business.
After five years as a
security officer, he became a Deputy Sheriff for the city of
Chesapeake Virginia.
Kraig left the Sheriff’s
office after nine years of service and pursued a couple of different business
opportunities before he went on to publishing his debut novel.
Kraig is the father of five
children and he currently resides in Kansas, raising
his youngest son.
His latest book is the
fantasy/adventure, Search for the Last Realm.
Search for the Lost Realm is an epic journey in which a young man named
Varan wants to find a power which has been missing from the world of Kantania
for thousands of years.
Varan sets out but soon discovers his true mission
is to save the worlds creator from a spiritual bond placed upon him by the
powerful demon, Eldrok.
From demons to dragons and sorcerers to soldiers,
battles erupt and Varan must hurry or the world could be lost to darkness
forever.
This story does not consist of action alone as
Varan faces dilemmas of the heart, struggles of the flesh and complex issues of
the mind.
A sound normally dismissed during mid-day, the lock’s scarce clatter rang
out like church bells, trespassing on a death like serenity. As tumblers
aligned, Varan hoped his crouched frame went undetected on the sage’s porch.
With his remaining eye, the thief peered over his right shoulder at ghostly
shadows cast upon a vacant street. Choking down his heart, he ever so cautiously
swung open the door and, after easing into the shop, he gently returned it to
its frame. A shaft of moonlight pierced shutters flush, as the lurking thief,
through dusty air, investigated a dreary interior. To his left, shelves of musty
books, with their worn bindings, all stood erect by ornately carved bookends. In
the near corner, to his right, a large silver‑blue sphere, dimly glowing, sat
upon a heavy wooden pedestal.
First Chapter for First Chapter
Reveals:
A sound normally
dismissed during mid-day, the lock’s scarce clatter rang out like church bells,
trespassing on a death like serenity. As tumblers aligned, Varan hoped his
crouched frame went undetected on the sage’s porch. With his remaining eye, the
thief peered over his right shoulder at ghostly shadows cast upon a vacant
street. Choking down his heart, he ever so cautiously swung open the door and,
after easing into the shop, he gently returned it to its frame. A shaft of
moonlight pierced shutters flush, as the lurking thief, through dusty air,
investigated a dreary interior. To his left, shelves of musty books, with their
worn bindings, all stood erect by ornately carved bookends. In the near corner,
to his right, a large silver-blue sphere, dimly glowing, sat upon a heavy wooden
pedestal.
Varan quietly
embarked on his journey across hard wood planks toward the rear of the building.
If the militia catches my Scathrin ass, they’re just going to kill me... if
I’m lucky. With that thought racing through his mind, a disturbing creak
from one of the floorboards froze the young man in place. Like a single island
in the middle of a vast ocean, Varan stood in the center of the shop, holding
his breath. After exhaling the tension, a moment of gripping fear gradually
passed and he again, crept.
On the back wall,
above the counter, was mounted his long sword. A weapon handed down for
generations by the Scathrins forefathers and recently lost by his bravado. In
silence, he reached for its jeweled hilt, as the night’s bluish rays softly
illuminated the finely crafted blade. With the weapon removed from the first of
two mounts, Varan heard a noise that chilled his very core. Hinges from a door
that led to the living quarters behind the shop shrieked with alarming volume as
it
mysteriously drifted
inward. Squinting his good eye, the thief gazed that way as his chest tightened
and a bead of salty cold sweat settled in the corner of his mouth. He could see
nothing, there was nothing in the dark recesses of the frame, yet the door
continued to open. In a nonchalant manner a black cat sprung onto the
counter-top, causing the startled thief to jump back and rap the weapon’s point
against the wall. Fearing the thump against hollowed planks was loud enough to
wake the slumbering proprietors, the Scathrin abandoned his regard for stealth.
Seizing the weapon
from the final mount, he bolted for the door, as the feline’s golden gaze traced
every fleeing step. The soles of his tattered boots hit the dirt road with the
dust of its surface trailing behind him. Yearning for sanctuary, Varan dwelled
on nothing but returning to his room at the nearby inn. In a frantic state, he
charged down an alley and into the back door. Once reaching his room, the winded
man quietly closed the door and fastened its dead bolt.
With a heavy sigh, he
leaned against its frame to catch his breath and regain his composure. The
snorts and stammers of horses, invading the still chamber with echoes beckoning,
soon shattered Varans moment of peace. In nearly complete darkness he went to
the window and peered through the slits of the shutters. From his vantage point,
he saw the porch of the shop, where stood an old Eacye man with a balding head
and beside him a young lady with fair complexion and dark wavy hair. In the
middle of the road, on a mammoth gray and white steed, sat a massive Eacye
warrior with wild black hair and decked to the hilt in bulky armor.
Varan had little
respect for warriors and their way of life, but he never actually told one to
their face. It appeared this militiaman was in charge as the others around him
diligently searched while he periodically barked out a command. Like a great
golem of iron he methodically dismounted and knelt, investigating the ground at
the base of the steps.
“My tracks,” Varan
mumbled. “He’s looking for my tracks.”
Meticulously the
warrior scanned the area and eventually proceeded along the Scathrins' route of
escape. Varan wet his parched lips as his breaths became shallow and his heart
quickened. With concern for his wellbeing, the Scathrin instinctively considered
his options. He watched the warrior, who was soon accompanied by another, move
toward the alley.
The second
militiaman, with a bald head and bushy mustache, looked to be the big man’s
partner. Noting characteristics was a strong point of the Scathrins’ and, in
this case, he didn’t want to forget a single detail. To Varans relief, they
stopped a pace short of the alley and, with a disgusted scowl, the huge warrior
headed back for his horse. His partner, giving his discouraged boss a pat on the
shoulder, returned to speak with the older gentleman.
Moments later, Varan
heard muffled conversation down in the lobby, which dissipated seconds after it
commenced. Making his way to the dresser, where a bottle of Shoquor
waited like a lonely friend, Varan listened for approaching footsteps, but heard
none.
On the chest of
drawers sat a large lantern, which he lit to brightly adorn the chamber’s decor
with a trace of amber. Furnished with a large comfort chair, a pallet garnering
drab blankets and a corner oak closet, the humble features of the room were all
he required. Feeling the heat of the muggy night, the young man splashed fresh
water on his face, from a bowl provided by the inn.
A couple of shots
of this potent brew should do the trick. Varan poured the sharp smelling liquid into
a small glass. “It will calm the mind and relax the body,” he whispered in such
a manner to convince him that the alcohol was medicinal.
As the first couple
of ounces seared his throat, Varan decided his original prescription for
tranquility was insufficient and continued to indulge. After a third of the
bottle had been consumed, he stopped pacing and lazily leaned against the chest
of drawers. As he looked at the ripples on the liquor’s surface, a humble grin
came over his face. A fleeting memory, of a rare warm moment with his father
came to the forefront of his thoughts.
Red skinned demons,
scoundrels and cutthroats they were referred to by the majority of Kantania.
Veshnarin they called themselves, professional thieves of high esteem. Stealing
not only those things of great monetary value but of great significance to
others, with pride they would display and defend these items so all could see
what a master they were at the trade. Varan’s father Varell was such a master.
With the bottle over
half gone, the Scathrin became aware of his image in the mirror across the room.
In days gone by he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to take a gander at his
debonair features. Now these features were shrouded by a thick beard and cloaked
with long brown hair that shadowed his face like that of a dark hood.
Varan slowly moved
the way of the looking glass as his right eye gazed upon the gaudy patch
covering his left. A viscous wound delivered by the hand of his older brother
Varcain that cut so deep it not only severed their relationship, but the bond
between Varan and his father as well. From that day, he would have to bare this
scar and garner this covering, reminding Varan of his disturbing past. Though it
happened over ten years ago, the feeling of hatred and vengeance he harbored
raged on with a determination to right the wrong at any cost.
In a fit of painful
frustration, the Scathrin tore the band of black from his head, staring wildly
into the gaping socket. With a venomous gaze he focused deeply into the
affliction, watching the veins pulse with each beat of his embittered heart. The
young man reared back to strike the object, which revealed his shame, when
common sense overthrew the urge and restrained his trembling fist. If the
militia were still in the area, the crash of shattered glass would surely peak
their curiosity.
Varell had always
favored Varcain and made no bones about showing his partiality. The entire
family expected that one-day, Varcain would take his father’s lofty position as
the greatest Veshnarin from their region, or perhaps all the Scathrin isles.
Varan, wallowing in self-pity, drank to a state of delirium. Passing out in the
chair, the empty bottle slipped from his grasp and rolled away from its victim.
The next morning the
young man awoke to the sound of a busy street and to the stench of rancid drool
that had settled under his chin and soaked into his vest. His head pounded like
a bass drum and his joints ached as they had many a morning after a night of
drinking. Varan sluggishly made his way to the large bowl of water, and
splashing the cool liquid on his face, he became more alert. With a cottony
mouth, he pooled some water in his palms to rinse out the dry feeling. As he
leaned down Varan noticed the distinct smell of ammonia omitting from the dingy
fluid. Apparently during his drunken stupor, he used the basin to empty his
bladder. With a look of disgust, he released the water, and grasping the
dresser, he gazed upward. How much lower can I possibly sink?
Reeking of strong
alcohol laced with malodorous urine, the young man exited his room in a state of
dazed apathy and headed for the bathing area. On his way, Varan passed a young
lady who moved aside and, with an appalled glance, placed a silk hanky over her
nose. The woman’s reaction was of no consequence to the Scathrin who was now
sulking about his subterranean status among his family and peers. Soaking in,
what amounted to an oversized barrel, the young man’s spirits lifted slightly as
the grime of days past washed, away. Fulfilling one need, Varan decided to go
downstairs to the Tanner Inn’s pub and eatery.
The young man wore
his finer set of clothes, consisting of richly colored loose garments. A
trademark of the Veshnarins, the apparel displayed their bold attitudes and
casually covert ways. For Varan, the baggy duds had a second and more useful
function, in creating a little deception when covering his slim yet wiry frame.
Before leaving his room, he carefully wrapped the elaborate hilt of his sword in
soft leather, securing it tightly with thin cord. Most weapons were identified
by their hilt, and Varan didn’t want to take any chances that someone could pick
his out as the one stolen.
The windows of the
pub were blown wide, letting in the warm breeze and brazen sun, which drove the
swaggering man to a shaded corner of the room. The aroma of fresh bread and pig
fat sizzling on the skillet, careened throughout as the smell of hay lofts from
across the way, frequently intruded with the periodical gusts. As was his room,
the eatery’s decor was simple, sending forth an air of hospitality to all those
who dined. Varan sat alone at a small table with his head in his hands, as the
late morning crowd loudly conversed, having no mercy when dragging and shoving
their chairs across the wooden floor.
Out of the corner of
his eye, Varan saw the waitress. A young girl, with short brown hair and soft
milky skin, she wore a brown short dress and white top. Her brown leather boots
shuffled from table to table as she enthusiastically did her job. With the color
of her hair and hazel green eyes, it appeared to Varan, most likely she was
local.
The young man ordered
strong coffee and dry toast. With a cheerful smile, not returned by Varan, the
waitress came back and placed his request before him.
“Um, If there is, ah…
anything else you need sir,” she stated awkwardly while trying not to stare at
the reeling man, “just call for me.”
The young woman
stepped back and looked at him with a hint of distress in her eyes. Varan
glanced at her with disgruntled acknowledgement, then looked away to stuff a
crust of bread in his mouth. As the young man consumed his modest breakfast, he
saw a huge brown-skinned man enter the pub. It was the militiaman from the night
before and, in the sun’s light, he looked even more menacing. One facial
attribute of this nearly seven-foot tall man, caught Varan’s eye over his dark
goatee and square jaw. As the breeze lifted strands of his long black hair
across his hardened expression, the warrior took in the room with eyes that were
not Eacye, but Savashod. That would explain his tremendous size, stature, and
lack of intellect in his expression.
In the Scathrin’s
opinion, the Savashod was a race of overgrown green-skinned imperialist with
barbaric demeanors. Like a warmongering wave from the northland, they would
storm down wreaking havoc over the mainland. If it were not for the Ryore,
another massive people but of good nature, this city of Magniowa would also be under the ogres’ tyrannical
rule. One of the features of the Savashod that differed from other races was
their eyes. Unlike most, the Savashod had light colored pupils and dark retinas.
This warrior’s green eyes possessed that difference.
Wearing a welcoming
smile, the bartender waved the militiaman over, as others in the hall cordially
greeted the warrior.
“Sergeant Maus!” he
bellowed, pointing at a large tray of assorted foods and a pitcher of grape
cider. “Why don’t you join me?”
The militiaman, with
weighty footsteps, lumbered toward the counter, however before reaching his
destination, a perky waitress and a few of her lively friends intercepted him.
It was evident that this hulking figure of a warrior, with biceps rippling, was
extremely disorientated when talking with the ladies. The stern expression the
Sergeant held when entering was quickly melted away, becoming a series of half
grins and subtle nods. The youngsters, with energy abounding, buzzed around the
man as if he were their idol.
I guess it’s good
to see the law enforcement getting such respect. Varan thought as he drank from his mug.
One of the skills the
Veshnarin’ were particularly proud of was the ability to discern and store
information, then if confronted in the future; they could use the knowledge to
their advantage. Quite innocently Maus turned the Scathrin’s direction with
their eyes locking for only a moment, a moment that was entirely too long for Varan.
The sword at his left side grew in weight, as he became immensely aware of its
presence and the chance of Maus spotting it. Varan, in casual surroundings, was
a cool character when sober, giving the militiaman a slight bow of the head
while continuing to eat.
The Scathrin finished
his meal and, after tossing more than enough copper pieces on the table, he
departed. As he walked through the double-doors, Varan unconsciously clasped the
hilt of his weapon, being uncomfortably aware of the Sergeant’s presence behind
him.
Still dealing with
the lingering effects of alcohol, Varan decided to walk it off while scouting
the multi-racial city of Magniowa. With the melting pot of cultures and
peoples, the common language of Kantania was a must, and a tongue in which the
Scathrin was well versed. Having already procured the item he came for, he would
turn his attention to more lucrative ventures and, in a city this size the
potential was limitless.
As he walked the busy
streets, Varan stopped to take in the magnificence of the fortified palace, with
its tall shrubbery’s and gray rooks boldly towering into clear blue skies. Its
drawbridge lay across a shimmering mote with the building’s seemingly polished
stone reflecting off waters calm. While standing slightly enchanted, Varan
considered moving from the inn where he currently presided. If I was to
relocate, that cretin of a Sergeant may put two and two together. Ah forget it,
an infidel bruit like the Sergeant doesn’t intimidate me, and there’s still so
much more I want to experience here, the man thought as he gazed about.
The main street, a
good seventy feet wide, was littered with pedestrians and an occasional
militiaman on horseback. Some maidens carried a parasol to shade themselves from
the summer’s rays while citizens, glistening, paid a copper piece for a small
cup of water or the use of a damp cloth. Varan dropped a coin down for a quick
drink. And they call us Veshnarin thieves.
In the distance, he
saw the towering gates of Magniowa, which remained open during daylight hours.
There were establishments of all sorts, and any need or desire could be filled
somewhere within their ranks. Vendors selling a multitude of various goods
crowded the middle of the road, calling out to those who passed, inviting them
to sample their wares.
Unlike many of the
surrounding cities, Magniowa had advanced methods of waste disposal, in turn
diminishing the threat of pestilence. Several deep canals were dug throughout
the city, to utilize the powerful current of the Magniowa River. This eliminated one of the unpleasant
aromas but did nothing to stem the tide of the foul masses and the livestock
they toted and lead along for bartering tools.
Besides the taverns,
strong lures to Varan were the alchemy shops, where the young man hoped to find
alternate forms of intoxication. A bell above the door announced his presence as
the air of fine pipe tobacco enveloped his sense of smell. The quaint shop was
well kept. Tall shelves on the sidewalls and one in its
core were busy with
hundreds of unique substances. It was not long before the sly Scathrin located
the items he longed to obtain. A middle-aged Eacye man came out from behind a
counter, positioned in the rear of the shop. With a sturdy wooden pipe, well
riveted betwixt yellowed teeth and a pleasant expression, he approached Varan.
“Scorcher today, is
it not?” the clerk asked, padding the sweat from his partially bald head and
shuffling his feet. “This reminds me of the time … oh I don’t know I guess it
was three or four years ago when the wife was sitting on the back porch with our
granddaughter. The heat must’ve got to her because she was passed out. It was
the cutest thing… we found little Ellowese singing her a lullaby. Do you have
any children young man?”
“Well you don’t know
what you’re missing. Just last week little Ellowese looked up at me…”
“Sir, please,” Varan
said with a scowl and raised hand.
“Well alright son…
you don’t have to be so rude as to cut me off in mid-sentence,” the old man
stated pointing the end of his pipe at the frustrated man.
“I’m sorry Sir. I’m
just in a bit of a hurry.” Varan responded, disarming the clerk’s aggression.
“You truly do have one fine shop here.”
“Well… that’s OK, no
harm done. Depending on what you’re looking for, we’ve got many things on the
back counter reduced in price.”
“Yes I see…You appear
to have practically everything.”
“Practically
everything Huh,” the man stated taken aback. “We've got it all.
Just the other
day Healer Bryant came in looking for Sarth oil. You know you have to draw that
directly from the Sarth's claw only moments after death or it spoils. He didn’t
think we would have it but …we sure did…yep, we sure did. We have it all, and
then some,” the man stated waving his arms at the merchandise.
Varan gave him a half
smile. “Well is that so?” he asked raising his brows. “Actually the item I’m
looking for doesn’t seem to be anywhere in the shop,” the young sly man said,
curiously looking around.
The man was
noticeably put out by Varan’s words, losing some of his good cheer. “We have
everything imaginable,” he snipped, taking the pipe from his mouth and pointing
the stem at his customer. “So what exactly are you looking for, young man?”
“Blood rage,” Varan
replied raising his brows again.
“We have that. It’s
simple kept in the back,” the man stated with arrogant vigor as he turned away.
“If you knew anything about the drug, you’d know its rarity and how expensive it
is to produce. Do you think I’m an idiot and would keep something as exotic as
that out front to be stolen by some half-ass rouge?”
Varan knew these
things and anticipated the clerk’s reaction to be just what it
was. The Scathrin
watched the gentleman disappear into the back room then, with casual sleight of
hand, appropriated one box of Calmaridia’s finest smokes.
“Never mind,” Varan
bellowed as he walked toward the front door. “I seem to have forgotten my coin
pouch,” he added with a pat of his vest pocket, where the smokes rested
comfortably.
Varan heard the man’s
footsteps and gazed back to give him a parting smile, when the little bell over
the door chimed once again. The Scathrin’s disposition changed dramatically when
he looked upon the two that entered. The first was a hefty Ryore Commander with
full armor that displayed his rank and countries crest. On his back was a great
axe, its thick handle swaying, passing before the sun’s light, while casting its
long shadow on Varan’s smallish frame.
The Ryore were a
heavyset race with lazy extended ears and wrinkled faces, possessing an
elongated snout that supported ivory tusks. This man was bald, and like all male
Ryores, had two such tusks protruding up from his thick gray hide. The second,
upper and smaller horn bore a slight crack that looked to be a battle scar.
Right behind him was a female Ryore lieutenant with stubby hazel hair and, like
all female Ryore’s; she had one tusk jutting up from the crest of her snout. She
also garnered weighty armor displaying her rank. By first impression it seemed
they had no intention of yielding the Scathrin passage.
To Varan the Ryore
was a highly unattractive race and seeing the predicament he was in at the time,
they were growing uglier by the second. His stomach churned and his head became
light, but none of this did he show, as the Veshnarin remembered his lessons
well, maintaining a relaxed demeanor. Making the moment all the more
claustrophobic, the elder closed in from behind Varan. “Good day Commander
Rusard, sure is a scorcher is it not?”
“And a good day to
you as well, fine sir. You are quite right,” the Ryore replied.
Inspecting Varan with
piercing blue eyes, the Ryore tugged at his belt to secure his girth. Varan,
without displaying his fear, began to walk toward the door as the Ryore
Commander went to meet the shop attendant. However, the female Ryore did not
budge and, with a sharp aqua gaze, she stared down at the Scathrin while wearing
an expression of discontent.
“As much as I would
love to stand here and drink in your infinite beauty, I really must be going,”
Varan stated sarcastically with raised eyebrows and a smirk. “So if you don’t
mind.”
Varan attempted to go
around the woman only to be cut off and placed back into the original stalemate.
“You took something
unlawfully, did you not?” the portly female asked with cynical tones, as she
leered at him, seemingly challenging his calm posture.
Varan’s mind weeded
through several responses. The Scathrin was confident in his skills and did not
believe they saw anything. She’s bluffing. That's impressive for a warrior
and especially a Ryore. “Don’t you think your predigest
is getting the best
of you?” Varan asked as he took a step back and gave her an uppity look to joust
her slanted remark.
Before the woman
could respond, the Commander spoke up and ordered her to move aside, allowing
the fine citizen room to exit. Varan knew the Commander didn’t trust him either,
but what he also knew was the honorable nature of the Ryore and how to
manipulate their strict codes to his liking.
“We will be keeping a
close eye on you Varan,” the lieutenant stated quietly with clinched teeth and
bitterness in her tone. “Son of Varell,” she added with a gruff whisper.
Varan left the
building not looking back. The fact they were privy to his lineage only
disturbed him a little at first. After all, my father was a predominate
figure around the world and I’m sure his son’s names were mentioned more than
once. Besides the Ryore were more than thorough when it came to investigations
or controlling their providence, not to mention that here in Magniowa they had
the most prominent archives at their disposal.
A spiritual hall of
records that, according to legend, has existed since the beginning of time, the
archives, a two-story masterpiece of architecture, possessed all the most
prestigious events on tablets which held mystical properties. In Magniowas'
early days, the population was primarily made up of those who came here on a
pilgrimage to seek truth. Now, the city is filled with a variety of faiths and
others whose ancestors came here for adventure and the thrill of the unknown,
concerning the archives.
Varan wandered the
main strip until early evening, and all the while could not shake the event at
the alchemy shop. The fact the Ryore knew who he was and did research on his
roots, rubbed Varan the wrong way, making him feel singled out. I suppose for
my entire life I’ll be harassed because of all the supposed crimes my father
committed, the young man thought, as he watched the people around him go
about their mundane existence. It’s also apparent I’ll be subjected to blind
hatred for those offenses as well.
Varan, opting to
remove himself from Magniowa’s nightly activities, retired to his room at the
Tanner Inn. It was a humble and peaceful environment,
and for tonight, just what the healer ordered. The Scathrin did so enjoy the
festivities after dusk, but on this evening, he desired to relax with his
buclabah and get a good night’s sleep. These CM smokes will surely do the
trick. The young man climbed the stairs to his room. Moreover, I won’t
wake up with a sickly hang over either.
As he groped in his
pants pocket for the key, Varan noticed the scent of sweet perfume in the air
and the soft voice of a young lady in the room across the hall. The Veshnarin,
with a perked ear, fought his insatiable curiosity and the urge to eavesdrop.
With a turn of the key, the door eased open and Varan soon followed into the
shadowy chamber. After lighting the lantern on the chest of drawers, he saw that
the housemaid had refreshed his room. With four days gone of the six-day week,
he paid for in advance, and his funds running low, Varan intended to fully enjoy the
comforts of the inn. If he did not land a job or come up with some money, he
would soon be sleeping outdoors like he had many a night's past. But for this
evening that’s not the case and tomorrow will take care of itself. The young
man lit the first CM smoke. The flavor of the leafy cigarette was smooth and its
effect delightful. Varan sat back in the comfort chair and slowly indulged into
a euphoric peace, as he took in, held, and blew the smoke upward. It was not
long before the Calmaridian drug had the young man’s conscious reeling and his
thoughtful mind wandering from subject to subject. The sounds around him
intensified, from the shutters gently rattling as the warm breeze trickled
through, to the muffled voices of those in the adjoining rooms.
The young man was
torn between simply hitting the sack or going across the hall and seeking out
the angel that belonged to the alluring scent. As he pondered this dilemma,
Varan tugged at the brows above his good eye. Scathrins were blessed with three
eyebrows that started at a point over the bridge of their nose and fanned out
and upward toward the temple like crows’ feet. Whenever the young man was deep
in thought he nervously tugged at the thin brows. She’s probably a hideous
wench and I’ll end up regretting what I did in the morning. “Not like I
haven’t done anything similar in the past,” he said to himself, followed by a
subdued laugh as he exhaled.
With his thoughts
still on the opposite sex, Varan reminisced about his first love and the feeling
of foolish youth that came with the experience. Fallese was her name and she was
the daughter of his father’s best friend or Uncle Claybius as they called him.
If only my self-proclaimed hero of a brother would have known about our
relationship, Varan thought as he reveled in the secret. They’re bonded
now and have a little arrogant bastard child of their own named Varell, in honor
of my arrogant father. I wonder if my brother misses his sword, he
concluded, looking over to the fine weapon.
The emotions he was
experiencing toward his brother were based on pure anger. The feelings toward
his father however, were that of a hurt child masked by the bitterness of years
past. Varan didn’t want to, once again, let the ghosts of his former life
intrude on another evening and shook them free, recalling brighter memories.
The Scathrin began to
dwell on his true love, the glory of becoming the greatest Veshnarin ever.
Though his peers were off and running with their careers and his was at a crawl,
the young man still felt confident. If he could just get a big break, or make a
tremendous find, it would propel him into fame among his people. There were
three major possibilities to look into, and two of these were located in regions
far away. The third was the legend of the buried city of Magniowa and the realm that was lost with its fall.
According to those of faith, the city was the first and only with seventy-seven
righteous families living under the rule of a holy King and Queen. In the
Magniowan archives, that now stand, was kept the huge tablet of divine
knowledge. Within the very molecules of this great stone was
sealed the realm of total understanding and the pure power of knowledge itself.
On a dark day, the
wicked warlock of the underworld convinced the King and Queen, if they were to
touch The Divine Tablet that all things would be revealed to them. Then they
would be able to better serve their beloved followers. The story is not clear
after that meeting, but it is said the tablet exploded with portions of the holy
stone falling strategically throughout the world. None of the tablet’s particles
have ever been discovered, with some believing they were quickly gathered up by
the evil master’s minions, as others proclaim they could not be touched by such
wicked spirits and will be revealed in time. These same faithful who, as one,
still hold true to this account, believe the races of Kantania all have roots in
the first Magniowa and the seventy-seven families that dwelled there.
Time was kept after
that day and now eleven hundred and fifty-six years later they search for The
Lost Realm and artifacts from the first city of Magniowa. If Varan could find any piece of this huge
divine tablet or the submerged city, he would, without a doubt, become a popular
and influential figure. With dreams of grander swimming about his head, the
Scathrin swooned with hopes. Before long the drug hit hard and in an absolutely
relaxed state the adventurous youth bedded down, falling fast asleep.
Reconsidering his
position the following morning, the Veshnarin determined he would primarily
remain in his room for the next three or four days. Varan thought it wise to
allow his recent unlawful act to drift further into the past before showing his
suspicious face. At night, he would make an occasional trip to the main road,
covertly appropriating some extra cash through his adequate pick-pocketing
skills. During the daylight hours he would exercise his nimble frame and
practice the arts of his trade in temperatures over ninety degrees. A Veshnarins
livelihood depended on being at the top of his game, and calisthenics that honed
these aspects were never taken lightly by the young man, no matter what the
conditions. The late evenings were spent dwelling in solitude, when Varan would
take a cooling bath, than indulge in a hit of buclabah before
retiring
