Chains of Destiny: Inquisition

Prologue: Reborn (Rewrite)

         In a city kissed by the divine that rules them all, the self-proclaimed capital of the world, in the pitch of night without the moons. A lone figure moves silently and swiftly. The city Guards are like many you hear of, not exactly aware of everything around them, in this district governed by dwarves, and they never have had the best eyesight.

         Subtle signs of a woman, she moves from shadow to shadow like she’s gliding, or flying. Many of the torches need to be changed, the central fire in the district that is generally roaring, now a pile a very hot coals, but subtle light.
She whispers something under her breath and tosses a small pouch into the coals. It immediately starts to smolder. She moves to spy her concoction roast. It starts billowing smoke, several guards from the main district tower leave their post to investigate.
Exactly what is needed, she thinks to herself.

         The door just happens to be locked, of course. She moves around the thorny bushes to the side of the frontward door. One of the only two windows just happens to be slightly ajar. A few cuts from the unforgiving devils club does not stop a mother from her sacred one. Most deathborn babes didn’t make it but a few trifling moments, generally killed on the spot by second mothers, wet nurses or priests. Perhaps killing all who know would be quaint.

         It’s just past Silentnight, where without the aid of an open flame or torch, you wouldn’t be able to see past your hand. Darkness here is true darkness, where closing your eyes is a comfort. Man has evolved greatly inside its towns and cities, but the wilds in and around can be nightmarish. This was the greatest city; it is known as the city of a thousand towers. Tonight, you could hear the wings of a bat if you listened close enough. The guards start moving back around to their posts, she lifts herself up, gingerly able to get ahold of a bookshelf on the inside of the window, and her small petite body slithers inside with grace, although her long legs take a bit more effort to get through. A guard hears the window shut, ever so slightly, just as he gets into his previous position. He taps the haft of his spear and his partner is on his heels immediately. As they round the edge of the entranceway to the tower, nothing. They shrug to themselves and chalk it off as to it being the wind.

         Inside there are many books, bronze figures, some of Rams, two catch her eye just to the top of the bookshelf that she was able to hold onto to climb into the tower. It’s of Neath and Iirth, twin dwarves forever inside a colosseum, fighting to the death. In dwarven histories it is said that if either of them was to win, it would mark the end of the world. The figures can be found all over dwarven ruins and undercities alike. They can be found in many varying forms, from the one she looks at, Neath holding a sword and Iirth a Warhammer. Locked forever in battles grip as a general reminder to all dwarves that battle always awaits and does not wait for the prepared.

You may always strive for peace, but prepare for war, she thinks

         The inside of the first floor does not resemble anything close to that of brick and stone mortared together as much of the outside does. She runs her hand along the wall where a type of flag, or perhaps simply a drape that is Golden bronze with a pair of Rams horns in the middle. The horns are front facing, but without a skull, trying to curl to a point, bleached white with shades of grey.

         The loan desk stood slightly small, unmanned, with two chairs on the other side. Beyond them a staircase that spiraled up leading to the many floors that each of these beacons of power and diplomacy had. She quickly started up the stairs, the object of her desire so close and within reach.
         The dwarves are the lords of stone and a few crops other than cave mushrooms that always seemed to have their economies booming. Jewels and diamonds, rubies and emeralds sure, but the common folk could never afford such things in great number, or very small for that matter. Horned lemons, dragons’ fruit, and bitter star were in an emerald fruit bowl of sorts, these fruits gave them an above ground economy that was always in need and desire.
         Other than the dwarves you see in the Collectives capital, the Island of Wynrial Holm, was a giant farming community of Dawnborn dwarves. They as a people learned to depend upon themselves to sustain, constant expectations to deliver from the races of men, elves and many others was not in the nature of dwarves. But the soils of Wynrial bore so much, they oft times would produce near twice that what was required to sustain themselves.
         And of course, there was never a short supply of marble, obsidian, granite and other types of building materials. All of which the Dwarven Kingdoms have expertly crafted and stored for many moons. An argument could be made that they were the most advanced of all the races of men and even the elves from time to time. To a degree even the old ones were whispered about.
         Another thing that caught her attention was the three histories of the dwarves, 3 volumes that depicted their evolution from cave dwellers, the fleeing, and the searching of their new home. They say there is a 4th being constructed, planning to document the change from bloodlines to the educated select and voted for rulers, dawnstrider and stonecarved alike.
Instinctively she reaches up, brushing her hand top the shelf where the dwarven histories where. She smiles to herself as she touches bark. She brings the large tomb down; its weight catches even her off guard. It plumbs with dust abound and whole holding back the sneezing and coughing, she traces her delicate hand around a rune symbol for balance.

She is an above average height for a female human, one would say she shared elven blood. Dusting herself off while putting the tomb away. The stairs she makes quick work of, and while she is silent like the midnight wind, she nearly crashes into the dwarven priest she had been meaning to find. Other than their ruler, and the governing council, it is said he holds the most power, especially above ground and could be considered the dawnstrider true leader.

The Dwarves are more complex than we give them credit for, she thinks.

         As she quickly makes work to outmaneuver the slower dwarf, that truth be told, he is way over dressed. But that is how the religious like to do it, bring together the greatest contrast of colors to make oneself apparent the most too many to be able to convince them that they have the truth in this chaotic pit of unknowns. And with all those colors and the words, they have the known.

         With all the half truths and half lies. It could be suggested that its close to nine lies for every truth.

         The dwarven priest Vasmoik expression obviously can’t believe whom he is looking at, he has had clear accounts of her death. Stories or Prophecies born to truth. She is simply looking at the dwarf with a slight smile and almost, batty with her eyelashes.

         Vasmoik was the High Priest of the Dwarves, as it is a lifetime appointment. There have only been a handful since what they like to refer to as, the great escape. A time when millions died in very short order in a world of chaos, demons, fire, floods, warfare, famine and the first of blood magics gone wrong.

Zedena, old one, all believed Goddess and protector of the Oceans. Some extent to all life with others. She came to them in their greatest moment of need and summoned a mighty warrior that ate The Red Dread whole just before the creature of blood and fire could destroy the last life. Vasmoik thought.

         He takes a firm stance mocking the batty, did you miss me eyelashes, and proceeds to walk upstairs to the holding rooms. Each step deliberately slightly slow, he brushes up on the outer side of the tower stairs. It was odd to Morgana, but she had no interest in creating even more tension, and possible conflict. Perhaps he will speak to distract.

“Well, besides the fact that you should not even be here, I think I know exactly what you have come for. How you knew it came into our possession, I hope to never know.” His eyes dart up to her from the side a few times.

“Has something gone amiss?” She asks bluntly
“The Child, it doesn’t draw breath, but still carries life?” He shutters before continuing, “The child was born in death.”

“You just answered your own question.” She states while motioning for him to continue.

He stops just ahead of her near one of the simple slit windows and sucks in a very unsteady breath.

The women put her hand on his right shoulder giving a slight grip, not a hard grip, but one to give a slight massage as if to convey she did not intend him any harm. The subtle brakes in his voice portraying a dry mouth.

“I am not who you think I am, I worry in my dreams that it was just a simple matter of enjoying blood, enjoying death. Or the worst possibility is that she simply just wants to watch all burn.”
They continue the long walk up, perhaps about another ten stories, now mostly in silence.

“So, how did you know we have him?” Vasmoiks question lingered

As they entered the more secure parts of the tower, and you can’t think of these as everyday simple towers, they’re all massive in size, one leave could house an entire family for two or three generations. Multiple levels with multiple rooms.

“About two generations ago I put into motion the possibility, with those that I might call relatives.” She stops a moment and she can fill his eyes on her. Her eyes looking at the palms or her hands, cupped and rubbing together, slowly.

“You might say anything can be done with the right frame of one’s mind and enough patience.”
She clears her throat and continues to walk. “With where his birth parent lived you had a high probability of coming into contact with them in their time of need.”

Although the Dwarven race was considered inside of a boom, with their economy and technology advancing very quickly, they always had the problem with their population. Less population meant less guards, less guards meant ease of subterfuge. Now the underpire was a different matter, you couldn’t sneak a worm inside without them knowing.
Because of that boom, many roads were created, and on the more northern roads, mostly dwarven or Dawnborn would be traveling and bartering.
The Dawnborn numbered about one in five of their total population. And honestly not always popular but had a great understanding of the need, more than a want.

She got an eerie chicken skin type of feeling creep up her very real spine.

He did his best to hide the fact that he was watching her every move, this was not lost on her, he had been very young when they first met. Was he trying to figure out the cloth that she wore? it shifted and shimmered in a way that was almost water like, but as black as the darkest night. It did not fit like a normal dress, long cuts in weird spots that showed her near bleach white skin, shoulders, knee and parts of her calf. Her shoulders were unnaturally a little higher and almost formed a point, the black silken dress created a V shape ending just above her belly button.

She could seduce the gods, he thought.

         Her hair was jet black, lips the color of a darkened blood, eyes like a hawk yet so dark you had a hard time making out her pupils. Just a hint of pale pink touched her cheeks. The eyebrows had the slightest of angles, giving her a type of serious look at a natural resting position. The darkness around her was accented with a gold trim that was very selective of where it was located. The seam of her very long cuffs of the sleeve, around her hood,

          “This is it.” Vasmoik stated, pulling out the final key, making that casual tinging sound as the many keys clanged together.

The key cracked the silent hall with the door unlocking.

Morgana slipped past the priest to an obsidian bowl were the small babe lie, whooshing and comforting, embracing the babe to her breasts and patting its back. “If you are not to breath, you become something far worse than what you already are, young one. You’re going to be okay” she said in a tone so low that the priest could barely hear her. And continued, “Your mother’s sacrifice provides you with the gift. A gift only a few have had the opportunity to wield. A gift you will cherish, hate, love and despise.


Cling, cling, clack, clack, metal on stone faintly heard in the distance, Morgana’s eyesight and hearing were enhanced tenfold because of what she was. Or rather, what she had become.

          “It’s a shame Vasmoik. A real shame to think you could set a trap for me.” She looks him up and down. Deciding if he could potentially be a good meal and ever so slightly licks her lips.

         His jaw dropped open in shock “It is not like that at all, I simply wanted to protect myself from the possibility that you were or are your sister.”

She lets out a small laugh, "Your water god killed her a very long time ago, why this world would still think she's around is beyond be. The Wralok is said to have swallowed her whole. Isn’t that in your books and histories?” Towards the end was a mocking tone.

Vasmoik started to protest and Morgana cut him off before he could whisper a word, "She may have been the worst evil the world has seen, but she was still my only sister. I have had to turn this world inside out trying to have a child, with this babe I'll finally be able to do that, all the gods have granted and an incredible price."

She motions him over, “Now lock the door behind you and bring be that staff.” Vasmoik does as instructed, the footsteps would indicate that he shut the door in the guard’s face. The door locks as he turns around and starts walking toward her.

He looked at her sternly, he did not appreciate mocking his beliefs and stood his ground. "Whatever it is you think or believe in, don't mock me. There is only one god that matters, and she is as you say the only reason life still persists of and in this Realm."

She rolls her eyes, “No, she has purpose enough as a god and has granted me this. She mentioned it’s guardian would choose doom and glory or his people.”
He slightly cocks his head, shaking it as if in an unknowing yes.
She had firsthand knowledge of the gods, she was said to be half a god herself and that's where her gifts had been granted. "Debate about the gods is pointless, she was not born of the dwarves, she was born of man adopted by the dwarves because they saw her in action. Seeing action and just having faith are very different things. Not all the gods care much of the mundane lives of this Realm. And there are many of them."

Vasmoik speaks while approaching, "I am sure you already know how to get out of this, right?” It must have been dawning on him that he has the upper ground, guards on the way, no easy way out.

She laughs a little, raising her voice as thunder roars around them "Is that from the guards that you called to action? Do you think I am so blind as to notice a red glove gone astray?” The static inside the tower was influencing their hair, “Trust me, I don't plan on stepping on ground for some many leagues."
Dwarves were known for their sturdiness, but he was now noticeably shaking. Vasmoik seemed to be having a kind of conversation with himself with the way his facial reactions contort in disagreement and the slow reasoning and final agreement has him standing near her. Vasmoik hands the staff off.
Storms rumble was upon them with wind, rain and chaos.
Morgana knew that his god was speaking with him, informing him of a great disaster, past, present, told and untold. Where the game was death, the war a utopian pandemonium inferno with the battle raging across eons. His tears showing every minuscule trifling of great sadness and overwhelming joy.

She reaches towards the sky conjuring words that can’t be heard, a relentless tornado of lightning strikes disintegrates the top of tower off, as the staff is summoned to her hand, Vasmoik in an awestruck stance, mouth agape both with the words spoken to him and the things happening around him. The dwarven priest is thrown back into the door, where it collapses onto the bewildered guards. He scrambles to his feet, where a lesser being would simply lay down and let what happens happen, he rises, shielding his eyes the best he can.

Another lighting strike hits, but this time is strikes directly upon the obsidian bowl, Morgana still mouthing words unheard or unspoken she was in a trance. The lighting was that best described as a hand, with a touch to the boy’s chest.

With life a great cry was awoken quickly silenced as eyes opened and wandered. With chest rising and falling he was given what was so rarely obtained.

Morgana Laughs wickedly. She screams out to the worlds above, “This was promised! We the dragonborn will rule! I claim this forgotten son as mine. I have witnessed Fire and craven lust for power absolute, he will rise and be defenders of all!

A huge lighting strike blinds them all as the last word escapes her mouth as she grabs the babe in claw.

All that remains of everything is brick a mortar, small pieces of furniture, broken wax candles. The priest and his guards stumble over each other in awe at seeing what they see. Books torn and sundered. It was so black that it was hard to ascertain what it was exactly in front of them. Was it a great beast? A reptile or something forgotten from the old world? It was massive, looking back at them on the edge of the tower stairs, it took up the entire top of the tower. Its wings hadn't yet even been unfurled.

Just as cued.

The snake lets out a huge thunderous roar, as if letting the entirety of the city Levinos and all surrounding lands that she had arrived, or her pure animalistic instinct responding the lighting strikes showing everything that Vasmoik is looking at in fine detail.

Vasmoik had access to a library amongst the largest in collection. Written word was in high demand, but that was always minimal to those that wanted or yearned to read. A winged lizard the color of night and silent as a bat was only described in connection with the Red Dread, the beast slain by the god Zedena.

The black of death was not able to remove itself from the thunderous beast. As it’s told Zedena the water god consumed its brother the red Dragon, Ember. As its told near ten thousand years ago. The red dragon consumed the world like none other, it was supposed to be a savior and became the downfall of all the old world. It’s brother no match to the pure raging wrath of revenge. Once it was defeated, instead of going back, Zedena warned the last of humanity and the dwarves that the old world would not be a place they would be able to survive for many lifetimes, if ever. Very few were privy to the truths, but it is said from Vasmoiks expert mind that Zedena washed away all death from those lands with wave after wave after wave, a great flooding to cleans the land. What grew next, no living could know.

Now he knew.

Vasmoik gets up as best he can, staggering to his feet, yelling as if to the stars. "You say you're not your sister!” The realization must have come to him from Morgana’s transformation.

He gets as close as he dares, grabbing the intricate blue steel staff and throwing it down. This surprised Morgana a great deal, and to an even greater extent, Vasmoik. Creating a small crater into the marbled stone at his feet, a vortex erupted with a sonic boom. sound could not enter, normal objects floated as if gravity was effectively lost. He let go of the staff and walked over to the monstrous beast, "Raise that child right! He will never know how important he is! Everyone will try and use him to advance themselves with no thought of his sacrifice."

The entire city was in alarm, soon arrows were attempting to strike at her, she could hear them whizzing past, their fires burnt out moments after launch. Thankfully an arrow doesn’t do much damage, but they can be terribly annoying.

A voice enters his head, the dragon's deep blood red eyes piercing to his soul. "A legacy of dwarven bloodlines is ending, The one King of Levinos dead. Both will need leadership in a time of great turmoil.”

As the small magic faded, "May the Knights protect them all." Vasmoik stared out in awe and wonder as what could only be described as Dragon dove out into the nothingness furling out its enormous wings amongst the winds and the rains. He ran to the edge, all of his attire was drenched and soaked and ruined, but he had no care. A new age was upon them, and he smiled to be able to be part of it.

Alarm bells started out through the city, flaming arrows flicked in and out but loosed themselves in the air to nothingness. Morgana dove so quickly she created a small tsunami without even touching the water, and she was gone before she could enjoy it. Something she may have wanted to do in her youth with a revenge-stricken sister that thought the world was hers as she saw fit.

With her advanced senses in this form she was able to hear guards trying to get Vasmoik out of his awestruck. She could only imagine what his reactions would be seeing what he had spent many a fortnight trying to find simply disappearing into the night and black wake of the ocean below. Much of her future actions in this instance were going on her gut feeling.

None of this should have came to pass. Her father was as much as she could remember of him during the not so maddening day, above reproach. As with all, as with many. As with herself and her sister. A complicated mess of power that while being wielded changed the very essence of whom you were. Away from the crazed city that just lost a king, and would no doubt think somehow, she was involved through a few hundred of conspiracies.

As she flew through the shadows a question approached her thoughts. Never in a thousand lifetimes did she ever foresee the possibility of what truly transpired. She had a descendant. Someone to carry on forward through the ages. A few thousand rotations around the fire fighting tooth and nail against her own crazy lunatic sister. A tear froze in the corner of her right eye, her emotions getting the better of her after realizing a terrible truth.



I can’t raise this child.