Dynasty of Darkness 1

1
Running, faster and faster, her legs pumping hard, breath coming in short, quick, painful gasps. Faster she had to go and faster she did until free at last, airborne, child of the sky and night. Cool wind whispered around feathered wings, moonbeams illuminating a face that is as pale as death, the delicious sounds of the night enveloping all. The moon shines brightly, dealing out ghostly light to all it chooses to touch- illuminating some things very brightly but leaving the rest in the deep, dark, depths of a black shadow. She slips between the moonbeams, going unnoticed, unseen. The moon chooses to protect her – to shield her from unwelcome eyes. She loves the bright orb in the sky as a child loves her mother. For the moon is the mother of her race. Those who worshipped her were gifted with freedom and flight. Her wings beat powerfully and gracefully against the air carrying her to the same destination she has always gone to on this night- to celebrate the festival of Samhain- more commonly known as Hallowe’en. It is the festival of the dead.
She approaches a small hill and lands quietly and gracefully, like a cat, at the top of it. Her wings fold up neatly on top of her back- the black feathers smoothed into a slick, oily-looking sculpture of deep blackness made of nothing but pure, unrestrained power. She cautiously makes her way down the hill. She is always cautious on land especially when there is no wind- without it she cannot easily escape to the freedom and safety of the sky. There is not even the breath of a breeze. She is at the base of the hill when she freezes - she hears something. She crouches down on her legs, ready at any moment to spring either into action or into the air. Her legs tremble with the energy flowing through them- the energy of fear and intensity. Her eyes are wide open attempting to see the unknown threat, her ears pricked, trying to hear - but nothing. She slowly, cautiously rises from her pose and half walks, half glides with her wings outstretched and arrives at the reason she came.

The cemetery is cold, dark and unwelcoming. She is used to that feeling and it no longer bothers her. It is empty of life and the living, except for her, but full of the dead-there are hundreds of gravestones spanning the plot of land. And who is to say that the dead are truly dead? They are just as alive as she is. They think and watch from beneath their gravestones. Their bodies lay forgotten in the ground. Who is to say that the loss of the body means the loss of life?
Soon the festival will begin.

In the eyes of the others like her she is a Ruler, a Queen, a Goddess of the Night - they will not keep her waiting long. She crouches upon one of the tombs (a large, white, marble structure with engraved cherubs on it) and begins to wait. Moments later the first one arrives. It is brown winged, pale faced and without fear, just like she is - they are close kindred. He approaches her cautiously out of respect for his Goddess, kneeling carefully at her feet, muttering a blessing- words meant for her ears only. She rises to her feet, but keeps going until she is easily hovering far above the land. Her hands rub together quickly and with terrible purpose. Her hands become still and she puts them in front of her, palm up. She blows on them and a spark leaps up, then another until she is holding a bright, orange ball of flame. She casts the handful of fire downwards and it erupts into a huge, flaming hell- fire, many feet high. It will summon the others.

She drifts down to land like a leaf upon the air. The male has already disappeared. She must not keep her people waiting. She strides over to the fire and walks into the flames of hell. The flames leap and dance at her entrance and turn an electric blue. She does not burn- she does not even feel the heat of the flame that is pressing all around her. Instead she vanishes into the flame- then the flame vanishes itself, leaving no trace of the meeting that just took place.


She walks into a large crowd of people like her and very suddenly all is deathly still and silent – they all hold their breath to keep the silence complete. She strides down the pathway that is made for her, passing many others like her. She recognizes some, but not many of her people. She has been gone for many months on The Quest in order to prove her leadership and dedication to her people and a great battle had just taken place, a battle to the death for many who deserved life. Many of those she knew are now in the death lands. Although her people live very long lives naturally, they take chances; take risks and live all the shorter for it.
Some of her people have grey wings; some brown but most black like hers. Their faces are pale due to the nocturnal schedule they all follow- sleep the day away and awaken at the setting of the sun to fly, unseen and unnoticed, as the Children of the Night. The only light they usually see is the luminescent glow of the moon – the moon is their second goddess, the true mother of their queen. Their hair is almost always the same color as their wings- grey with grey, black with black. Her hair is the same absolute black color of her wings; so black it does not shine, but instead absorbs all of the other surrounding light. They all wear silky very dark grey robes, the traditional dress for such an important festival such as Samhain. The dark grey is their reminder that they are the Children of the Night - not the night itself. She is the only one that wears black - a robe so dark that one forgets there is light in the world, a blackness so intense that one cannot look directly at it without fear of being sucked in to it. The intense black reminds them that she is true night, while they are nothing but twilight.

As she passes her people, they bow to her, some even going to their knees to pay allegiance to her. Blessings for her echo around the cavern they are in, wishing her strength and courage. Happiness or good fortune are never blessed to her - how could she not be happy when she has the ability to feel the wind in her wings and what better fortune could a living or even dead being have? The saying “Fly high, fly strong, fly far” reaches her ears many times. It is a very old and simple blessing. To fly high is to be safe, to fly strong is for health and strength and to fly far is endurance and courage. The blessing must work for she flies high, strong and far –if she didn’t she would not be their Queen.

Although she does not show it she is greatly disturbed by their numbers. Every year there seems to be fewer and fewer of her people. Even the great Jesumid clan who used to boast of having over 10 thousand in their line is not dwindling down to two, perhaps three thousand. She remembers back centuries ago when she was but a child and her father was the God of the Night - there were many more of them. Their numbers were so great they could not be counted. They were like the millions of stars that span the sky at night. Now her people are dwindling into nothingness. The great four lines are dying. Her people are noble and great; their lineage, pure and true - they do not deserve to die out like a forgotten and unknown people - they should have better.
Although she doesn’t know the exact reason they are dying she can easily guess. They are not a peaceful people. Feuds lasts centuries and anger never dies. It is all love and hate. They love to hate, hate to love and even love eventually leads to hate – but hate never leads to love. This is hate so deep it runs through the veins like blood and captures and ensnares the mind like poison. Fury so pure they do not even consider peace or truce – the only thoughts are to rip the other, tear the other and see their blood gushing forth out of their bodies like a fountain. Unfortunately, they are not the only people who are like that. They have two main enemies. The first is the Donatas, the dragon people. They are much like her people, winged and ever hating. They are cruel and vicious. They rip wings off, and then eat them alive. Their teeth are one inch long, their tongues – forked. Their wings are enormous and strong. Their live near volcanoes, where it is always warm – but every so often, they leave their dens and come to terrorize her people. The other is mankind. Men are proud and they believe that they are the dominant creatures of the earth, and when they aren't they make sure they become so. They spread over the earth, occupying it all. Eventually, they will run her people to the edges of the earth – and it will be the end of a proud race.
She slowly makes her way towards the center of the cavern. In the center there is a circular stone platform that is about the same height as she is and half as wide. She spreads her wings and flies to the top, deliberately making large circles around the platform in order to draw their attention once again to herself. Once all is still and silent she speaks. Her voice is beautiful - it flows thick and sweet like the purest honey and smooth and sharp like royal blood; but it has an edge of steel to it. Her voice can lull anyone into the deepest sleep if she so chooses, but it also seems it can cut through flesh, bone, mind and spirit with the sharp edge it possesses. She welcomes them to the festival of Samhain and then in turn blesses the four great clans – Jesumid, Karish, Quuila and Aatisha. It would be folly to bless everyone there – even though there are fewer here then there used to be their numbers still span in the thousands.

Their Samhain festival is the largest festival of the year. It is also the only one where all four clans are together. It is the festival of the dead.
The festival is started with a chant. It is monotonous, the same few pitches being repeated over and over again. There are no words, just soft sounds of breathing to the notes. Everyone present joins in until it is a calm ocean of sound, swelling, dipping, rising again. Smooth and together it rises and falls. Eventually the tone changes from soft and smooth to harsh and jagged, the coolness of the ocean replaced with intense heat, the heat brings pain. Their voices rise and fall going higher and lower than before, the feeling of the flame is almost palpable – the very air buzzes with the electricity, it roars under their closed eyelids and the crackle of flames is almost heard. They even taste the sharp, sting of ash on their tongues and throats. The climax is nearing. All of a sudden their voices stop and the cavern explodes from the pure darkness of the night into the light of day. An enormous fire, reaching almost to the top of the cavern illuminates the entire area. The one odd thing is that the fire instead of being an orange, red color is a bright white. The fire is to honor the moon, the mother of their goddess. As the moon calls her dead, this fire will call them too.
At the appearance of the light many fling their arms across their eyes, shielding them from the painful, harmful, evil white light that they were raised to fear and hate. Many have not seen the light of day (or in this case the dazzling light of the night) for many months – not since Samhain last year. The brightness submerges the cavern into a blinding hall of white light. Their deathly pale skin reflects the light so that every movement they make is transformed into a shifting of light, not actual physical movement.

They do not normally like light. Light is the symbol of the day while darkness is the symbol of the night. Why turn to the light when they can have the sweet, sweet, night? This is the exception. The moon is the only light of the night, and this is the essence of the moon– now it is just multiplied many times.


Their Goddess chants a rolling verse, an ancient verse, a verse to call the dead.

“Bright light, moon’s light,
Bring the dead here tonight.
White light, moon’s light,
All the dead make them follow.”




They cannot see or hear the dead arriving. They are as silent as the graves they were buried in, quiet as a graveyard at night. They cannot be seen in the light they are in now – they can only be seen in the utter darkness in which they lay for most of the year. The dead are nothing but a feeling, a light tug at consciousness, a prickle of the skin when they pass by, an unearthly coolness that hangs around them. The cavern adopts a coldness to it, the coldness of the dead, the coldness of being dead.
The cavern cools down very quickly and soon the fire starts to flicker and grows smaller and smaller until finally, as abruptly as it started, the fire is extinguished by the breath of the dead - once more the cavern becomes black as the darkest night and very suddenly the dead can be seen.

“Let the festival of Samhain begin,” whispers their goddess.