The First Chain (Revised)

[DarthVectivus]

This is my first real original story and revised from my other draft that I accidentaly published and cant get rid of. Give me your comments, your criticisms, everything. I consider it all help.




When kings will be vouched by smugglers, and thieves become princes, When Lux and Sol embrace, and the lands split to drink the blood of the fallen brother The base wil be crowned and the high will beggar as the Iron Queen cries tears of fire and blood These are the signs and breaking of the First Chain


You can’t change the past.

Tyr contemplated this for a moment as he sat in the straw bed,legs crossed. The room he was was pitch black, which was practical as it was amade for cargo. He’d had to make do with a blanket thrown over some straw in a room with no windows and filled with barrels of cheap smelling wine. He didn’t mind. It wasn’t as if he were some first class citizen. He wanted to slip in, nice and secretive.
A knock at the door pulled him from his reverie and a gruff voice that sounded as if it didn’t get much use spat out,” We’ve arrived at Shariz. It’s still night so you should be able to slip to shore without much fuss. Walk out with the barrelmen and keep yer head down.” And with that, the voice left.

Tyr rose and dusted himself off. With the lice around it would have pointless to decloth so he still wore the black hooded robe with its leather and metal shoulder armor and weapons belt. His boots were leather too, but concealed just as many daggers as his robe. The gauntlets on his wrists both held underblades, forged and enchanted by a Mordian artificer. His sword, curved as it was, also bore the small writ Mordian symbols along the length. They made him think of home, of the vhey’yim, the wood and long grass huts of home. Of Ayyims forge, the Mordian whose name no one could pronounce and so was named after the legendary long dead ironsmith. Ayyim always responded to the name the same way he responded to everything else; a grunt, a narrowing of his iron grey eyes and a stroking his silver beard, the only hair left on his already bald head.

And then there was his family.

These thoughts saddened him and so he let them from his mind. He left the cargo room and made his way through the darkness and up to the deck of the ships. The sun was only just passing on the horizon, leaving the sky a lazy orange red color. The crew of the ship Furioso , an Amestrian merchanteer ran about, securing this or that line, bringing cargo from below, exclaiming about the city, trading stories about what they’d do once they touched land. Shariz was indeed beautiful, the port area filled with incoming ships, from small traders to large warships. The buildings themselves looked brilliantly decorated, with the far Palace of the Seiyu ruler of the city far overtaking even the Place of the Arisen, the large round temple that housed the six old rulers of the Khemti-Xho Empire and who had ascended to godhood after death. Seven now Tyr remembered, as Man'Ra Tlewtho Sotho was dead.Now the 12 Heirs would be competing with the Elders Council so that another Man'Ra would be eventually receive a shrine within these temples. The light tower, which stood on its own lonely small island, shined its reflected light directly at the ship. For a moment it stayed, as the Furious passed by; before it resumed shining out past them, out toward the sea.

“Are you ready”? Tyr turned and the captain of the ship, an Amestrian by the name of Volnaire, shuffled over to him. Volnaire was limp in one leg and blind in eye, and his dark, hairy face was permanently fixed with a scowl. As the ship docked and the crew hurriedly laid down the walkway, Volnaire gripped his shoulder and steered him toward the back of the ship, behind the pilot deck, where no one could listen. He pulled him closer. “I brought you all this way. Where’s my cut, paisean?”

“Ah yes. That. Are you sure no other member of your crew knows who I am. Or of what my mission was?”
If possible, his scowl grew deeper.” Not even my First Mate knows.”

“Good.” Tyrs underblade slid out and he pressed a hand over the capatain mouth as his blade pierced deep into the mans throat. Blood flowed like a river as the Amestrian clawed at Tyr chest and face. Tyr relased the body and it fell to the deck in a twicthing mass.

He left the bleeding, dying body and ventured off the ships, past the crew carrying the barrels and boxes and past the suspicious but yielding port guards, off the docks and into the city. As he passed into the shadows, he heard the cry that was raised and thought to himself, you can’t change the past. He was always going to be what he was.

But you can change the future.