Chapter 16

The days that followed were grueling. Hands tied to the waist of the one in front, Zechariah and his nine surviving companions marched across the scorching barrens on foot. Not able to change into better clothing, not able to rest in the shade of caravans, not able to drink when they desired it. The marched. On-wards and on-wards. Up and down the endless waves of sand that stretched on for as far as the eye could see. Though they had been reaching points where the sand seemed less and the rocks more frequent, they were soon treading back over the desert, all the while heading For. Constantly going deeper into the Barrens. The Draconian's seemed to have, what one might correctly say, an inhuman constitution. That was, of course, due to the fact that they were indeed not human. They spent as much time walking the peaks of the ridges in the scorching heat, as they did walking in the cooling shadows of the dunes.

Each night, Zechariah tried to talk to his captors, tried to understand more about their culture, but he learned nothing much of use. They were not particularly talkative, even in their own tongue, and though they would make the occasional joke and laugh together, they did not seem to speak much in the general sense of the word. Most people are prone to idle conversation, often sharing information or stories that are, fundamentally, useless to other people. Yet, these conversation are the most prevalent in the societies that Zechariah knew. However, here was a people...or...something of the sort... that seemed to spend no time in idle conversation instead only speaking when it was absolutely necessary or something caught their attention that they believed was worthy of note. He was not sure whether or not this was normal amongst their culture or if it w

as unique to the militaristic branch of their society. Either way, he could not help but be somewhat fascinated by this discover.

The day after capturing the caravan, the Draconian's had butchered their fallen comrades and several of the larger caravan workers. They had strung the meat up along side the outside of the caravans. Not having killed a single beast, they had consolidated the caravans, filling up the space used by workers to ride and rest during the day with more goods. This enabled them to leave two caravans behind in the sands of the Barrens and they used the extra beasts to aid in relieving the other animals as they marched the long haul across the barrens. This also meant, that all their goods were still in the caravans. Not a thing had been wasted. It seemed these Draconian's valued efficiency above almost everything else.

One night, as the Draconian's were taking inventory of the caravans, they stumbles across some items which seemed to catch their interest. Zechariah's quiet contemplation and thoughts were interrupted as they approached. Raising up a moderately sized wooden square of planks bolted together by iron bands and intricately carved they hissed “Who's this?” At once, all his fellow prisoner's turned and looked to Zechariah and the Draconians did also.

“Mine.” Zechariah admitted. “It's just something I do to keep my hands busy.”

The Draconians looked at each other and talked in their strange language seemingly trying to figure something out. After some deliberation and careful examination of the board they tossed it down in front of Zechariah. Squatting down, one of the Draconian pointed to several series of runes and spoke different words while doing so. “Where you learn?” The Draconian asked.

“I...I didn't learn. I taught myself how to carve.” Zechariah answered confused.

“Not carve. Runes. Where you learn?” The Draconian repeated.

“Runes? I didn't learn any runes. These are just patterns that I like. I carve them because they look pretty.” Zechariah said though...considering the bandaged wounds on his left hand, he was now beginning to believe that wasn't entirely true.

“How Yimposh die?” The Draconian asked. His expression seemed to take a cold tone to it. Not that they were particularly friendly, but so far they hadn't appeared particularly hostile either. However, with this question, Zechariah felt a palpable change in the air of their attitudes. They were not just curious about his art. They were angry.

“I told you. He was bad with his sword. His fire didn't work and I killed him.” Zechariah's heart was beginning to race. What if they no longer believed him?

One Draconian spoke to the another, and they debated a bit more amongst themselves. “Tonight we know.” They finally said.

“Tonight? What's happening tonight.” Zechariah asked with a shaky voice.

“Arrive at camp.” The other Draconian said, turning away, and walking over to return the items to the caravan and continue taking inventory. Camp. That was not good. Although death in the middle of the Barrens was not something to be desired, living your life as a prisoner of war was certainly worse.

November 4th, 2020

Zechariah's fatigue seemed to fade away as, with every step, the sun fell lower and lower into the peak, signaling the approaching time he would arrive in the Draconian camp. The fear and apprehension of being kept an an entire camp of the enemy, had all his fellow prisoners, even the wounded ones, to seem awake and alert. As the shadows grew long, and the sun began to fade, Zechariah saw it, as they crested the ridge of another dune and, looking down into the valley between two mountainous dunes, lay a hundred lights all flickering in the thickening darkness, illuminating the shiny scales of a thousand Draconians.

“We're going to die.” Whispered the man who was captive in front of him, as he spoke in silent wide eyed horror. No one else spoke, and Zechariah hadn't the mind to try and comfort his compatriots. Frankly, he wasn't sure he could any longer be bothered. He'd always been an outsider, and he felt himself disconnecting more and more. It was hopeless. If not by ostracization, then by abandonment or death, all people will eventually leave. Why morn it? They were herded down the side of the dune into the shadows as they made their towards the camp.

As the camp drew closer and closer Zechariah couldn't help but notice a palpable silence throughout the camp. It wasn't that the camp was quiet. No indeed, it was rather the opposite. It was loud. Weapons were being honed, armor polished, food prepared, animals slaughtered, fires started and so much more. However, what Zechariah noticed, was the silence of words. Even though he knew not the language of the Draconians, they didn't seem to speak to each other. Not a word was shared as all throughout the camp, every Draconian set upon one task or another.

A short way outside of the camp, Zechariah spotted two Draconian drawing in the sand. With large wide arcs, they drew a series of shapes in the sand. Standing in the middle, and with long sticks they drew in wards so that they did not step upon or disturb the sand upon which they drew. He watched in rapt awe as they worked in silent co-ordination. Finishing their work they turned and faced one another speaking not in Draconian, but in a different language all together. As they did so, their scales began to shine, and shimmer in a strange affectation. One's scales began dull, being covered as though by a thick layer of dust, the other's becoming shiny as though moistened by some dew. As their incantation progressed, the first began to exude sand from between his scales, the other, expelling water that flowed down and pooled at his feet. In short order, the sand began to harden, and form stone which reached a hand up and grasped the Draconian's leg, beginning to haul it's way up it's body, as the water acted similarly though instead of a solid hand it extended several tendrils and amorphously climbed it's way upon the Draconian's shoulder. Once residing upon each shoulder, the Draconian's extended their hands, and each demon respectively formed itself around the arm of it's master.

Kneeling, the first Draconian with the sandstone demon embracing his arm, placed his hand upon the sands and speaking, the demon on his arm began to writhe and pulsate. All at once the Draconian drew his hand back and slammed an open palm into the sands. As he did so, half the symbols in the sand began to dance. Moving in form and shape, the groves inverted and oscillated as though to an unseen song being played in some far off land. Releasing a might roar, the Draconian stood up, raising his hand as he did so and with this movement, and the dancing of the runes, the sands obeyed him. Temporarily stunned by the display of power, the prisoners had to be pushed forwards as they all stopped, open jawed in awe as the sands rose up and seemingly flew out of the magic circle dawn in the sand, depositing itself several yards away. A huge pile of sand. Before the Draconian, now sat a large deep pit who's sides began crusting over as the sands hardened into stone.

Following this display the other Draconian opened a small skin of water and poured it's contents into the newly formed well. As he did so, the remaining half of the magical runes lit up with an ethereal glow and though they danced as well, they did so in a different way. They danced to a different song all together. This dance was all smooth and rapid motions. Reaching out his hand, the Draconian spoke and the demon on his arms writhed, flinging tendrils out in all directions, squirming before plunging down into the well. All at once, water began gushing out of the Draconian's hand as though from an aqueduct. There came a strange smell of ozone, and Zechariah suddenly felt parched, his skin hot and dry, and in the matter of minutes it took for them to reach the edge of the camp, the whole procedure was done, and the well was filled with fresh, crystal pure water.

Finally entering the camp, the Draconian captors spoke quickly to a camp member and seemed satisfied with their short exchange. How...how could anyone stand against these beasts? Being led by a small squad of now seven Draconians was terrifying. But here he realized that these scouts were small among their kind. Probably why they were such good scouts. Here and now, in the middle of a camp of Draconians, Zechariah was again intimidated by they're presence. Some stood easily nine feet tall. Huge brutes, all muscle and hardened scales. Some were skinny and lanky, with large, broad wings, and others every kind in between. The most terrifying were the Draconians that had no wings at all. Standing a terrifying ten feet tall, clad in crude iron plate male, wielding shields and swords that would be impossible for the strongest man to hold. How...How could anyone stand against these beasts?

Walking through the camp, might have been the most terrifying experience Zechariah had ever witnessed, had he not been haunted by three demons of unknown power. Though these beasts were tremendous in strength of their own, he doubted they had the power to destroy the world in a wave of black flames. Then again, he didn't know if his demons had that power either but it wasn't a bluff he wanted to try to call. All that said as he and the others were led through the camp, they were watched by a thousand pairs of eyes, all looking down upon their pitifully small human frames.

His captors led them through the camp to a large tent in the center. Undoubtedly their leader's tent, where the lead captor dropped their rope as the lead turned to speak to them. “Stay.” Is all he said, before walking off and entering the tent.

“We're going to die.” The one man said again.

“Yeah.” A woman answered behind Zechariah.

“We're going to die.” The man said again, panic entering his voice. For Almaran's sake, he was going to panic and do something stupid, and then they would die.

“We're going to die!” He said his voice raising and drawing eyes from nearby Draconians. Fuck Almaran. Fuck the gods. Suddenly, in a moment of cold realization, he understood Zaki. Zaki, who the Draconians had honored as Mtu Asiyeogopa, had no power of his own. No gods to call upon, no magic, no charisma. Nothing. Yet, if his stories were to be believed, he had traded with kings all over the world. What did he have? Pragmatic tenacity. That was what Zechariah needed to survive. Pragmatic tenacity.

He kicked the back of the man's knees forcing him to fall down to the ground. He cried out in shock, then fear which quickly turned to anger. Before he could speak however Zechariah hissed at him loudly, and angrily. “Shut up! Shut up damn you. Shut up!” He was stunned. Perhaps from Zaki but not from quiet awkward Zechariah. “Yes, we're probably going to die. But we will certainly die if you don't shut the fuck up. And if you I do die, I want to die like Zaki. Not like you.” Looking around while keeping his head down, Zechariah had drawn the attention of several Draconians around him. As the man in front of him bit his tongue, and stood back up, the observing Draconians returned to their work, resuming to ignore the captives standing awkwardly in the middle of their camp.

After a short while, the entrance to the tent in front of them was thrown back, and out strode the first female Draconian Zechariah had ever seen. She was more slender and curvaceous than her masculine counterparts, but no less in stature. Indeed, she looked like she might be able to defeat any in this camp with relative ease. Garbed in little more than fine silken tunic that certainly did not cover her well, she walked with purpose towards the captives in front of her. As she drew closer, Zechariah could see that she was covered in many scars. Many many scars. It was clear many of them had not been from the brutal strike of a sword either. Most of the scars she bore seemed surgical in nature though Zechariah had no experience in those matters. They looked strangely beautiful, almost artful and Zechariah realized that she wore so little clothing, exposing her breasts freely, in order to display her scars with pride for at a simple glance upon her mostly naked form, one could easily tell a story of an extremely driven being with an indomitable willpower that had suffered and survived more in her life, than most would ever dream of in their worst nightmares.

As this female Draconian strode towards the captives, a cry rose up from one Draconian nearby and quickly all around her, the entire camp fell to their knees unfurled their wings and touched their wings to the ground. Zechariah and the captives looked shocked. Their captive Draconians tugged on their ropes forcing them to their knees as one hissed, “Empress.”. Empress? Zechariah's eyes were wide with the horrifying realization. This was Empress Maharrani.

“My scouts tell me they captured a caravan of metals and supplies of quite some wealth. Tell me, does your caravan master live?” Her voice was powerful, and though deep, it dripped with a sweet confidence. It sounded both like she was trying to intimidate, and seduce at the same time. However, no one replied, unsure of who should speak and if they should speak. Anger quickly flashed in the Empress' eyes. “Speak!” She commanded, and the man in front of Zechariah complied.

“N-no. Y-you Majesty.” He answered hesitantly. “He was critically wounded in the battle and died in my arms that same night.”

“Mtu Asiyeogopa.” Their captive leader said. The Empress nodded and spoke in her tongue for a bit with the lead before returning to them.

“Are any of you Mtu Asiyeogopa?” She asked, eyeing each of them in return, and they each looked away, unwilling to gaze into her eyes. “Are any of you not afraid of death?” The asshole in front of Zechariah finally spoke up.

“He brings death.” He said nodding over his shoulder at Zechariah. That fucking asshole. The Empress raised her head and looked at Zechariah.

“Are you Mtu Asiyeogopa?” She asked him.

“No Empress.” Zechariah answered. “Death terrifies me.” He answered honestly. The Empress pointed at Zechariah and spoke quickly with the scout leader who walked off to the caravans before addressing him again.

"And yet, my scouts tell me that you single handed, killed Yimposh and aided in killing Draambed. How did you kill Yimposh?” She asked, repeating the question that seemed to be plaguing him.

“I don't know Empress.” Zechariah said feeling a sense of dread washing over him as he feared to look in her eyes any longer.

“You don't know how you managed to kill my scout's magician?” The Empress said disbelieving.

“No Empress.” Zechariah said, answering as honestly as he could. The scout leader returned with Zechariah's wooden boards and handed them to the Empress. Upon seeing them, her eyes widened, and her expression got cold.

“Where did you learn this?” The Empress asked.

“I don't know Empress.” Zechariah answered again, heart and mind racing in equal measure.

“You seem not to know many things.” The Empress said disbelieving him.

“Yes Empress.” He answered simply. She eyed him for several long moments more, before standing up. Giving orders to the scout leader, she waved them away, and returned to her tent, carrying Zechariah's art. They were hauled to their feet and led off to a section of the camp where there were a series of iron cages. Some held beasts, some held humans, and they were untied and tossed in one of the cages, being left to dwell upon their impending doom in silence.

November 5th, 2020

Zechariah sat in the cage, trembling in the darkness, unable to sleep. He hadn't manage to truly rest in several days. Immediately after the horror of carving his own hand up, the Draconians had attacked and then they marched him across the Barrens at a gruesome pace. Exhausted both physically and mentally, he found that he still could not sleep. His heart raced in his chest,and his breathing was quick. Adrenaline coursed through his body and refused to let him rest. So he sat, his eyes darting from every shadow to every sound.

Next to him, someone began snoring. Snoring! In a prison cage in the middle of the Barrens, freezing cold at night in the middle of an enemy encampment. To be fair, he wasn't sure he could blame them. As exhausted as he felt, he wished he could be snoring as well. As it was, that was an impossibility. But he had to think. He had to try and figure a way out of this. Panicking, though totally reasonable, wasn't going to help him any. He had to try and figure things out. Taking several deep breaths to try to calm his mind, he began to try to think things through. Identify the immediate problems, find a solution if possible. If a possible solution exists, execute said solution. Holding his head in his hands, he identified two immediate problems, as obvious as they are. One; being a prisoner in the Draconian encampment and two; Maharrani's and the other Draconian's interest in his art. He never really thought killing anyone would become such a problem in his life. He never thought he'd end up killing anyone.

Two things and, unfortunately, they both seemed impossible. He was locked in an iron cage and even if he managed to escape, he'd have to somehow get through an entire camp of Draconians and then had to somehow get enough supplies to journey back through the Barrens.

It was impossible. He could never manage such a feat. Even if he somehow did manage to escape the Draconians with enough supplies to last the journey. He doubted he would be able to survive the horrors of the Barrens. By the Ten, what had he gotten himself into? He wish he had never left Hyran. But...if he hadn't...well, truth be told he didn't know. He didn't know if the demons that haunted him had the power they said but at least twice now, they had possessed him enough to cause him to harm himself. He didn't know what they had but...he also didn't want to find out. But he missed home so very intensely.

Damn it Zechariah! Get your shit together. Now is not the time to miss home! He berated himself for his longing. It wouldn't help him out here. Things had to be decided. Escape...it was impossible with the resources he had. He saw no way that it would work. Therefore, he had to assume he would be the prsoner of the Draconians for a time...perhaps...a very long time. So, he concluded with a nervously deep breath, how do I best survive my imprisonment.

He needed to get on Maharrani's good side. Which would both help him survive his imprisonment but also might be the solution to his second problem. Or his second problem being the solution to the first. Her interest in his art. He needed to know more about why it interested them. Why are they so sure he learned it somewhere and wasn't from creative imagination? "You've been carving them into everything you could." The words of his father rang in his head. They weren't magical, of that much he was sure. However, it was possible that they were close enough to resemble Rune Crafting that it confused the Draconians. Or, though more unlikely, they were Runes but for some reason were not magically infused or activated or whatever it was that Runes were supposed to do.

He doubted lying about it was a very good idea at all. Not necessarily because he wasn't the best of liars to begin with but also, he had a feeling that Maharrani might be quite good at deducing when someone was lying to her. You didn't become the Empress of an entire race of people for being stupid. At least...he didn't think you did or should. Rather, you didn't conquer most of the the known world by being incompetent. He concluded that that was far more logical of an answer. Honestly, it was probably the best option. He hadn't done anything wrong. Not really. Yes he had killed some of their people but...this was war. There were casualties. Pragmatically, you couldn't hold that over an enemy's head. That's what it meant to be enemies. He had fought and killed and that was all. What if he told her the truth? Would she believe him? That Yimposh's magic had just...failed? Would she accept that? Or would she demand to know more believing he was holding things back? What would she do if he told her he was haunted by demons? Then again...it seemed that her 'magicians' had demons of their own. Perhaps...

No. That's ridiculous. Even if they knew how, they'd never share that information with an enemy, unless they had some form of insurance, or a way to control him. He leaned back, resting his head against the bars of the cage sighing deeply. The fear of the darkness began to creep back into his veins, but he shook his head trying to banish the terror. There was nothing he could do about that right now anyway. If they came for him, there was nothing he could do about it. He banged his head against the bars in frustration and stress. "What do I do?" he whispered out, half as a prayer, half to himself. He sat there, for a very long time, as he watched the night through it's long hours. Through the warming dawn, until the sun began to illuminate the world once more.

As the dawn arrived, and the camp began to stir, Zechariah watched the habits of Draconians closely. Again he found that they spoke little. Each got up and began to set about tasks that the must have done every morn for hundreds in a row. It was...impressive how efficient they were. He and the others were fed some gruel, very tasteless but filling grains. He was surprised to see them eating grains of any kind, much less vegitables or fruit. Yet, as he observed their breakfast, they did indeed eat a number of different foods. The majority of it was meat. The vast majority. However each made sure to eat some fruit or vegetable. It odd to see. The dawn came and went, and the sun continued it's rise. As the sun rose, the day got more and more hot. They were given water every few rises, but for the most part were just ignored. He saw nothing of The Empress, and they were only let out to relieve themselves under observation, given no privacy. The Zeneth came and went and the prisoner's found little to talk about, sitting quietly in defeat. Save for Zechariah who, though quiet, watched intently everything that came and went before his eyes. He was practised at this art, having spent much of his time ignored in the corner as he watched other people go about their lives. So he sat and watched and made mental notes of all the behaviours he saw, of all the odd habits, of the subtle signs of expression, where he could see one didn't like another.

As evening fell, they were fed once again and given another blessed drink of water which Zechariah gulped down eagerly. His clothes stank of sweat and blood and sand but there was no cleaning himself. The only water he got he would not waste on hygiene. With the shadows growing long once again, the cage was opened and his captor grabbed him and, relocking the cage, took him through the camp. He didn't need to ask where they were going, for he already knew their destination.

Maharrani's tent was impressive. Not only large but exquisite also. As the tent was opened up and Zechariah brought inside, he was greeted with the smell of incense, soft glowing lights and, unbelievably, a well polished stone floor. The tent had several partitions in the back, but the main room served multiple functions. There were cushions and softer seating along the edges of the tent, offering a large area where one could dine comfortable with company. Yet just beyond the centre of the room stood a small but stern looking desk, surrounded by a series of smaller pedestals which held many books, surrounding the desk. Art and tapestries lined the walls of the tent and behind the desk sat Maharrani herself, head down writing feverishly on one page and then the next, dressed in a different sort of garb though very lavish. Despite all this splendour, Zechariah's eyes were drawn to only one thing. In the centre of the room, carved into the middle of the stone floor, was a large magical circle lined with golden candlesticks that were occupied by well wicked candles. The design was astonishingly complicated. He thought his carvings were detailed and complex but this...this could take a man revolutions to complete. It must have been easily nine feet in diameter, with intricate carvings that varied from large grand and deep grooves to what seemed like the finest embossing. Complex and delicate scratches filling every inch of the vast display of power. Stunned by the complexities of the circle, he found himself being pushed towards it. He reflexively resisted the Draconian, not wanting to step into the circle. Not for any fear of the magic it might possess but because he did not wish to tread upon such fine art. However, the deep growl of his Draconian captor quickly snapped his mind back to the situation at hand, and the eyes of Maharrani who gazed at him thoughtfully.

Being roughly pushed down onto his knees again in the centre of the circle his heart raced. The legends of blood sacrifices for magic suddenly coming to mind as he kneeled there, thinking of how his blood might flow through the grooves. Maharrani's shifting brought his attention back up to the present moment and, unsure of what he should do, he kept his eyes down, unsure of whether looking at the Empress was considered improper or not. His captor bowed to some unseen or heard command, and left the two of them alone.

"My Mchawi studied the board you carved. Do you know what it is they found?" The Empress began standing up and folding her hands behind her back. She unfurled her wings and gave them a shake before tucking them elegantly behind her. Zechariah had seen this done many times over the day. He figured it had several meanings, perhaps of, dusting one's hands or straightening one's clothes. He wasn't quite sure why they did it but non had folded their wings like Maharrani. She did so in a way that would make it quite difficult to rapidly unfurl them, seeming to cross them at an odd angle so they stood more out above her shoulders, rather than being tucked neatly behind.

"No Empress." Zechariah said. He hadn't decided yet whether or not he should be truthful yet, or even what he should be truthful about but, he genuinely didn't know so there should be no harm in saying no, right?

"Nothing." She said simply coming to stand before Zechariah. He felt his heart fall. An odd sensation. Why would he be disappointed that they found nothing? That was a good thing. It meant they had no reason to be suspicious or fearful of him. Not that he believed the Draconians were fearful of anything really. "Elegant carvings, and nothing else. Yet..." she paused for a long time. A very long time. As the pause grew longer and longer, Zechariah found himself fearful of breathing. Yet what? He tipped his head up slightly, daring to try and take a peak at her, to see if she was even paying attention to him any more. She was. She was staring right down at him. "Yet that does not answer how you killed Yimposh." She said, as she strode away. He wasn't sure what to do, or what to say. So he just kneeled there, quietly, praying to any of the Ten who might listen to help him. "My scouts reported that, according to your words, 'his magic failed him, and turned to blue dust'? Correct?"

Damn, he wasn't sure if that was good for her to know or not. He should have kept his mouth shut when he had the chance. "Yes Empress."

"Come here." She said in a tone which, although not harsh or terribly commanding, spoke of a confidence that her words would not be ignored. Unsure of what she wanted, but not willing to tempt her ire, Zechariah stood and walked over to her. He found her lounging in a sort of bench. It was cushioned and low to the ground but sloped up at one end upon which she had herself perched, her wings allowed to hang off the end of the bench which held no back. In fact, looking around, none of the furniture in here, had backs of any kind. Likely, because Draconians never leaned back against things. "Pour me some wine." She said, gesturing to a table before her. What was this? More terrifying, what was her end game? With only a moment of hesitation, Zechariah leaned forward and picked up the jug. He poured a draught of wine into a strange looking cup that had a spout of sorts on one end, which he quickly learned was to aid in the process of drinking for the Draconians. he supposed different anatomies would require the creation of different utensils.

"Do you want to know the one thing that I hate about this world?" The Empress asked. The question caught Zechariah off guard completely. What was she on about now?

"No Empress." He replied as he furrowed his brow in confusion at her. Seeing her meet his gaze, he quickly looked away, remembering who he was in front of.

"Take a guess." Maharrani said.

What? Zechariah though for a while before asking, "It's inhabitants?" It was as good a guess as any he figured.

"No. It's inhabitants have been rather curious and interesting." She said reaching forward and taking up a slim cutting of some kind of meat or another. Zechariah wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was from. She popped it into her mouth and chewed a bit before swallowing it. Chewed...did Draconians have molars? "What I hate most about this world, is the anomalies. I find them to be the most hateful things. Is your success against Yimposh due to some hidden power of your own? Or is it simply the result of an unseen anomaly that was there and is no more. Simply a stroke of luck?"

"I see Empress." Zechariah said, not sure how to respond.

"I don't care whether or not you see. I want to know, was it a stroke of luck?" She asked directly.

Damn. How did he respond to this? It was impossible? "If one believes in luck, then you might say it was a stroke of luck, though knowing my life, luck has never been on my side." He replied hoping it was a sufficient answer.

"You are certainly more clever than you first appear." The Empress stated. "A neutral answer, which I can decided how it leans. However, I will not decide, I will make you decide. Was your victory of Yimposh luck?"

Zechariah panicked. It...was...and it wasn't. Was it? He genuinely didn't know. It was lucky but...his feet itched and his left hand burned. "I do not know Empress. I have always had a certain...affiliation for destruction. I wouldn't call it luck, more a curse. It almost claimed the lives of my family more than once. Bad things happen to the people around me. It just so happened that...it is kind of useful if the people around me are my enemies." Zechariah said. He had most certainly said too much. He hat tried to halt himself but had found that once he had started down that line of conversation, changing it would might seem more suspect. So...fearfully, he had continued trying to be as vague as possible.

November 6th, 2020

The Empress sat there and looked at him for a while, calculating with unreadable expression, not only because Zechariah wasn't familiar with Draconian expressions but also, he assumed at least, she was well practiced at remaining neutral. The experience was surreal. He knew why she was asking him all these questions but...it just seemed so strange...he was a nobody. Why did he have to be the one to draw the attention of Maharrani? Why did he have to draw the attention of demons? Why had any of this happened?

”Are you a living anomaly?” The Empress asked, catching Zechariah off guard.

”I...I suppose it's a possibility Empress. I believe I was born from my mother's womb but I've been lied to before.” Zechariah said hesitantly.

The Empress laughed. Zechariah started at the sudden outburst. He was not expecting to hear laughter from his captors. He stood there confused, unsure of so many things. “Sit.” She said grinning with a smile full of sharp teeth, as she gestured to a cushion on the floor. Hesitantly, due to his grime and at the notion of sitting by the feet of such a large creature, he sat cross legged and stiff backed, tense. He had so many questions burning in his mind, but he dared not speak them for fear of stepping out of line and also for fear of revealing too much information. This deadly dance of words, he decided, was far too gracefully maneuvered by Maharrani. He decided to try to reveal as little as possible.

”Do you know much about magic, prisoner?”

”No Empress. I'm not very well educated beyond counting and basic letters.” Zechariah admitted, partially because he hoped that the less valuable or interesting he seemed, the higher his chances of being ignored were. All his life he had wanted to be seen and known and not cast out. Now, however, he would be happy to be cast out.

”There are many forms of magic. Too many to explain in their full complexity. However, the reason why Yimposh's death is so peculiar to us, is for this reason. Our magic does not produce blue crystal dust as a potential fallout. Blue dust is demonstrably a form of magical fallout that is unique to your people's 'wizards'.” Popping another piece of meat into her mouth to devour it, she let the hidden accusation rest in the air. His chest tightened. The implications clear.

”I am no wizard Empress. I'm naught but an overly ambitious farmer.” Zechariah said, trying desperately to convince her of her lack of interest.

”A farmer who killed a Mchawi single handed.” She said, to which Zechariah had no reply.

Unsure of where to go with things, scared and getting frustrated, he suddenly blurted out, “What do you want from me?” After which, his eyes widened in astonishment at his own brashness.

Her expression, yet again was unreadable. “I knew a man like you once.” She replied ignoring his question. He gritted his teeth, glad that she wasn't angry with him yet but...it was infuriating. “He wasn't as young as you. In fact, he was a fair bit older. He was less pathetic than you as well. Yet, I see the similarities.” She pondered for a moment, and Zecharaih bit his tongue. He bristled at the insults but, it was pointless to get upset. “He was an artist like you as well. Carved some magnificent pieces.”

”What does that have to do with me Empress? I am not the man you knew.” Zechariah said, hoping it wasn't too rude, but also hoping that she would bore of this conversation soon.

She thought for a moment longer, then suddenly stood up, shaking and folding her wings. She called out in her language, walking back to her desk. Without looking at him, she ordered, “Back to the circle prisoner.”

His heart pounded in his ears. He was sure he had just made a lethal blunder. However, with no other recourse to him he stood. On shaky legs, he made his way to the center of the magical circle and stood there, not quite able to hide his trembling. The thoughts of sacrifice came rushing through his mind.

She seemed to ignore him, leaving him standing there for a while, as she poured over her books and scrolls again. Several long moments passed, before the entrance to the tent was thrown back, and in walked a squad of Draconians. Nine in total. The Empress gestured to him and spoke a few words, after which the squad surrounded the circle and began to speak in a foreign language. They were going to sacrifice him. “NO!” He shouted and tried to run. He knew he couldn't win a fight, or escape, but he was beginning to panic. A Draconian stepped in his way and with one hand, slammed him in the chest with enough force to halt his momentum and throw him back into the center of the circle, landing on his back, his breath being knocked from his lungs. He gasped on the floor in the center, as the Mchawi began their spell.

They all began to shimmer, all began to pour forth their demonic energy and their demons crawled out and upon them. They spoke with their demons and the demons lept from their arms, and began to dance in the air above Zechariah. He had no idea what was happening, but he also wasn't sure he wanted to. As the demons dance, they began to shift and change, and mix and mingle in strange ways, creating something else all together. As Zechariah's breath came back to him, he lay on his back and watched the thing they were creating suddenly exploded into a black smoke which poured down over him. He covered his mouth and tried to hold his breath. Opening his eyes, he saw swirling darkness and lights illuminating the darkness like brilliant stars of various colors, many of which he felt he could not describe. He saw nine dancing above him, and nine surrounding him. The Demons and the Mchawi. It must be. But why were they glowing like that?

As suddenly as it came, it vanished, and Zechariah lay upon the floor staring up at the top of the tent. Looking around bewildered, he patted himself down to make sure he was still whole. Unharmed. He was perfectly fine. What was that? As he looked around, his eyes fell upon something that caught his breath.

In dealing with Maharrani, he hadn't really observed his surroundings very well. Now, his eyes fell upon a tapestry, a beautifully woven tapestry depicting an epic battle of magical energies between two forces. One, being Maharrani herself, a silver white dagger in her left hand, covered red with blood, and in her right hand, she wielded waves of fire. Her opponents however, were what grabbed his attention. One was of an elderly gentleman, whom he did not know. The man was wounded, a cut upon his arm, but he held a staff and swirls of dark energy surrounded him. He had a companion, a woman who held her hands before her, a glowing shield emanating from her hands and, in the fury of the battle, her brilliant red hair blew out behind her. It was her. The woman in his dreams. Suddenly, he was hauled to his feet, and the Draconians were talking in their tongue. Having trouble, he pulled his eyes away from the tapestry, and back to the Empress.

”My Mchawi have concluded that you are not magically attuned as your 'wizards' would usually be.” Waving to her Mchawi she dismissed them, commanding them, he presumed, to return him to his cage for they grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him roughly back to the cells where his captor locked him inside the cages once again. He barely registered any of it, or what Maharrani had said. She...she was there! In the tapestry. The red headed woman! She was fighting the Empress? Who was she? He HAD to survive this. More than ever before, he was filled with a determination not only to survive, but to escape. He had to learn more about that woman, and he doubted he would find good information from her enemies.

She was a wizard? She was certainly depicted as using magic. But...though the tapestry didn't look old, it wouldn't have been made and displayed if it was recent history. Not that it would only be old history but...had she survived? Had she survived her encounter with Maharrani? Or had she perished. She couldn't be dead, could she? No, that was ridiculous. Others in Perdale had seen her. He...the woman he was pursuing to the Dustmen was very possibly not the woman he had seen in his dreams. He hadn't gotten that good of a look at her. No...She had to be the one. He was sure he had seen her face. He...he couldn't be insane. People don't just have dreams like that. It had to mean something. He had to find her. He had no choice now. These questions would destroy him if he never found the answers. But then...

The reality of his situation bore heavily upon him. He likely would be destroyed soon anyway. He'd already been over this in his head time and time again. There was no way he could feasibly escape. No way out of the cage. No way past the Draconians. No way to survive the Barrens. He would either be executed out here, or locked away in some dungeon for the rest of his life. He likely would never meet the red haired woman, or even know her name or anything about her. He clenched his fists in frustration. He didn't want to just accept that any more, but saw no way out.

Night had fallen, and as the despair of his situation began to sit heavily upon him, he laid down in the cage, his tiredness finally catching up to him. As he drifted off to sleep, his final thoughts were of home. He wondered how Amir and Cedna were doing. He wouldn't be surprised if she was already pregnant. He hadn't been gone long but he didn't figure Amir would wait long. Was his Father staying up late worrying about his son? Or did he not really care. His Father. His inheritance. He'd lost it all. Years of saving. He curled up in his cooling cage, but no tears came to his eyes as he drifted into blissful unconsciousness.