Three Fingers of Fate: The Continuing History of Zeldryn Havarrian

[Zeldryn]

[Author’s Note]

Hi everybody! I just wanted to say a few things before we get to the good stuff!

Firstly, all characters mentioned in the stories in this thread are written with the permission of, and often with edits/suggestions from, their rightful owners. Because they’re great.

Secondly, this thread will (hopefully) serve as, for the most part, a collection of stories, short and long, about Zeldryn’s (and his friends!) pasts, present, and futures—and how they interweave.

Thirdly, and in specific regard to this story: This is something that we really wish we could’ve done in character at some point. We would do it if we could, but ahh—the unfortunate life of responsibility. Schedules don’t match up, free time becomes work time, and things happen. Anywho. It’s so circumstancial—I’m sure you’ll understand when you read. Either way, I had a lot of fun with this one.
Take this for what it is: and reader discretion is advised for bits of bodily grossness, and detailed descriptions of violence.
[End of Author’s Note]



As the sun broke free of the horizon, the world was bathed in light and heat.



The sky was a cloudless, borderless mural of hazy cerulean, and the morning mists stubbornly lingered on the shore in a determined attempt at mocking fate. But with every foamy crash of sea kissing shore, the fog gradually gave way to the glow of white sands under dawn's gaze. In their place, sprawled lazily upon the earth, was one Zeldryn Havarrian, clad in naught more than a snugly tailored pair of snow-white briefs, resting his head upon his rucksack.

With eyes cast adrift in the churning green-white cascade of the sea, Zeldryn permitted himself the smallest of sighs. Moments of peace found him so rarely that he’d recently made it a point to seek them out under his own power, absent his pendant. And this particular venture had been well worth the effort of the ride to the coast. The silent beauty of watching the sun rise over the brine was one rarely afforded him in the quarantine. So, when he had the opportunity to partake by his lonesome, he took it.

To hells with the consequences. he needed a damned moment to drink in peace.

As the sun climbed the sky, it’s rays began to assault his eyes. Thoughtlessly, Zeldryn blindly grasped backward, took hold of the first article of cloth he felt, and yanked it free of his bag. Without so much as a moment’s appraisal, he blocked the encroaching sun's piercing aura with a bundle of half-wrinkled silk. He allowed himself a quiet breath of relief, then paused; something… Didn’t… Feel right. As he took another breath, the thick coating of briny air in his nostrils was replaced with the sharp, metallic tang of corroded copper. He wrinkled his nose, furrowed his brow, and hastily ripped it free of his face, only for his gaze to be greeted with the sight of his half-dried, gore soaked tunic flaking freely onto his chest. With a snarl, he tightened his fingers into a fist, crushed the garment into an uneven, wrinkled ball of flaking, bloody silk, and hurled it forcefully down the length of the shore.

"And they say I have anger issues."

Zeldryn's breathe caught in his throat, his stomach folded, and his lungs fell into the depths of his gut. With a grimace of irritation, he tilted his gaze toward the interloper, propping himself up on an elbow in the process.

His guest stood just under six feet in height, and was clad in a simple array of blues, greens, and grays, a long leather whip curled on one hip, a bladed bronze urumi on the other. There was a light speckling of crimson drying on his left sleeve, and he held a battered flask in hand, greeting Zeldryn with a tip of the vessel and a radiant, playful smirk. Not only was he one of the last people he'd like to be surprised by on large, he was likely the last particular gent' that he'd like to watch the sunrise with at all, if he was being totally honest with himself.

"Ya' lost or somethin'?" Zeldryn queried, trying, and failing, to maintain a neutral tone.

"Oh, I'm exactly where I'd like to be, Bruv." The interloper replied, sipping tentatively at his flask. Smacking his lips loudly, he fired another half-smile toward Zeldryn, who responded without so much as an attempt to mask the cloud of irritability settling on his face.

"Can I help ya' somehow?" Zeldryn pressed, rolling his eyes.

"Pardon my skepticism, but I significantly doubt ya' just happened to show up here while I'm tryin' to enjoy myself."

At that, the interloper chuckled-- his mirth dripping from every syllable.

"Ah, I can see that ego of yours hasn't gotten any smaller. Is it really so hard to believe that maybe, just maybe, I wanted a little moment of peace?"

"Uh. Yeah. It is, actually. On account o' all o' th--"

his guest interrupted him with a dismissive wave of his flask.

"Yeah yeah, bruv. Black oil. Murder. Slander, I get it, we're not pals."

At that, Zeldryn's exasperation peaked. Rising to his feet, he dug his heels into the sand, and strolled pointedly toward his guest, throwing his arms out to his sides, and gesturing lightly toward himself with angled fingers.

"CAN I HELP YOU?" He repeated, hazel eyes flashing with irritation as he glared.

To his credit, the man simply chuckled once further, shook his head, and offered up his flask.

"Nah, bruv. Just figured since I saw ya', that I'd say hi, offer a drink. You know. Captain's courtesy."

Zeldryn simmered. His eyes darted out toward the waves, then up toward the sky. For the briefest instant, he could feel, almost hear the blood pounding against the walls of his skull. Then, with a deep, heavy sigh, he took the offered flask and turned back and away to face the brine once further. The man didn't so much as fart in response. His gaze simply followed the flask as Zeldryn tightened his fingers around its base. Another sigh slipped through the locksmith's lips, and he turned to face his guest.

"Sorry. Rough night." He offered.

"They usually are, with you." Came the casual retort. That earned him a chuckle.

"Yer' not wrong, there.” Thoughtfully, the locksmith turned his head down toward the sand, furrowing his brow. Then, lifting his gaze, he shrugged.

"To takin' a breather?" The interloper suggested.

"To takin' a breather." Zeldryn agreed. Then, he brought the flask up to his lips and drank deep. The interloper smiled.

The bitter, coppery grittiness that parted his lips, soaked his tongue, and forced its way down his gullet forced a gag. Zeldryn's stomach turned, he staggered backward, and, turning back toward the flask's owner, his surprise, disgust, and bitterness were etched into his expression as he parted his lips to speak. All that came, however, was a quiver of his guts, and an explosion of blood and bile that painted the sand scarlet between their feet.

"You--" Zeldryn gasped between heaves, only for his stomach to keep churning and send another wave of bile to rip through his gut and explode out of his lips and nose. He fell to his knees, propping himself with his hands as the heaving, gasping expulsions ripped through his core. His guest watched on, grin growing all the while.

"What's the matter? Not enough canyon swill?" The interloper taunted as Zeldryn sputtered the last of the blood back onto the beach. At the sight of it, he frowned, hastily pawing at his nostrils. He stared for a moment, then, turning toward his guest, he croaked,

"...Naw"

Then, with every last ounce of smugness he could muster, he continued,

"It Don't burn enough.” The man laughed.

He approached Zeldryn then, still grinning and chuckling his mirth, and extended a hand toward the kneeling locksmith. Without so much as a moment's hesitation, Zeldryn took the offered hand.

"See? Being nice isn't so--"

Then rose to his feet, tightened his grip, and pulled the man by the wrist as he drove his knee forcefully up and into his nethers. The man's eyes bulged out of their sockets; The sincere surprise burned into his pair of blues was enough to light a fire in Zeldryn's gut. Before he could so much as gasp toward his assailant in response, the islander crushed the battered flask into his blue-eyed guest's jaw with all of the force he could muster.

"Captain's courtesy," Zeldryn snarled, spitting bloody foam into the interloper's face as his head snapped backward. He ground his knee upward, palmed the man's chest with his free hand, and shoved him toward the brine as he continued.

"You fu--"

'CRACK!'

Zeldryn's words caught in his throat as a trio of hooked bronze studs embedded into the length of the man’s whip passed narrowly before his eyes. Cold fingers of adrenaline dripped along the length of his spine, and his body started doing his thinking for him.

Taunting abandoned; the locksmith sprung leftward, gritty sand scraping his shoulders as he tumbled to his feet. As his enemy’s arm pulled back for another crack of the whip, Zeldryn snapped his arm forward and sent the flask spinning in a bloody corona toward his adversary's whip hand.

It collided with his knuckles, and his enemy reflexively opened his palm, dropping the whip down into the sand as the blood from the flask spattered his face. He blinked his eyes shut with the impact, and Zeldryn couldn’t fight the devilish grin that blossomed across his features. Without taking a single step forward, he dove into a tumble, landed in front of his blinded guest, and jammed his shoulder into his adversary's abdomen as he rose back to his feet. A breathless, wheezing gasp exploded above the locksmith’s head with the impact, and he grasped outward with his left arm, hooking it around his opponent's knee as he wrapped his right around the waist. With a last grunt of effort, he rose to his full height as he yanked his guest's leg out from under him and used the leverage of his grasping arm to drive his shoulder, and his opponent, forcefully downward into the clotted sand at the brine's edge.

Zeldryn scrambled, lurching haphazardly atop his prone foe; It was only a matter of time, now. With a nimble snap of his wrist, his fingertips found… The space where his stiletto’s hilt would be, if he’d been wearing any damned boots. Well… That was a problem. A big problem. In that moment, it occurred to him that his clothing, his pouch, his belt, all of his gear, spare his white briefs were bundled in his rucksack on the shore behind him.

As he fumbled, his enemy threw his hand forward. An instant later, Zeldryn's vision was momentarily obscured by an iridescent ball of blue before it suddenly whited out with the hissing, 'Pop!' of the projectile impacting his face.

The flesh around his eyes was consumed by bitter, blinding cold, and, in panic, his hands pawed at his face in some fruitless attempt to restore his sight. His flesh burned with agony under the contact of his fingertips, and his stomach started doing backflips as he realized his lashes and brow had frosted over under the impact. He mindlessly rose to his feet, stumbled backward into the sea as he rubbed at his eyes, and yelped as a crushing weight bore down behind his knees. The briny waters, as suddenly as they had been forgotten, pried his feet out from the sand, flipped his heels up and over his head, and dunked him into the depths with merciless precision. He scrambled under the flowing waves, simultaneously dabbing at his eyes, and fighting to breach the surface, but as he finally seemed to find purchase under one of his hands, another relentless swell crushed him back down into the shallow depths.

For a moment, he was almost content to lay there with the brine’s roar whirling through his mind. The waters rushed comfortably around his flesh, and the rhythmic lull of the current pulled at his limbs with a hauntingly companionable pressure. All he had to do was just... Lay here. He'd have what he wanted, in some sense. Sure, it wasn't exactly the fate he'd envisioned for himself. Certainly not recently. But it would be easy. A lot easier than fighting, in all truth.

"Get up and die on your feet."

He sighed-- bubbles exploding from his mouth and nose. Even when he was lying here, blind, frostbitten and soaked to the bone, Uncle Haydrian just couldn't leave him be. So, what if he wasn't the one who deserved a good dragging into the depths? That didn’t mean he had any wind in his sails. He'd die how he wanted, thank you very much.

"If that's what you want."

The lightly accented lilt, and the somber acceptance accompanying jolted Zeldryn forcefully out of his stupor. A flash of onyx hued eyes bored through his psyche, and he could feel the telltale tingling of rage crawling on his back. Exhaustion forgotten, His guts churned in his belly, and another snarling veil of bubbles exploded from his parted lips. He was already resigned to the harder path. Zeldryn buried fingers in the sand, clenched them into fistfuls of muk, and forced himself upward to breach the surface.

His adversary was waiting.

As sheets of briny sea poured off of his face, Zeldryn glimpsed the luminous sparkle of sunlit bronze through his hazed, half-blinded eyes. But something was different. In the instant that it arced toward him, he could’ve swore he saw the jagged edge of the void adorning the urumi’s bladed edge. Thoughtlessly, he observed his arms fall out from under him, and felt the familiar burning sting of flesh parting on his cheek as he collapsed back under the waves.

“First rule of knife fightin’, son? Yer’ gonna’ get cut.”

Bleeding in the salt, Zeldryn kicked off of the ground with the tips of his toes, scraping his chest along the muk as he darted forward with the rushing current. Blindly splaying out his arms in an attempt to find his opponent, the locksmith floundered as a white-hot knife of agony parted flesh on his back. As he writhed miserably, the blazing, acidic burn transformed into bitter, relentless chill, sufffocating the surrounding flesh as it wept into the sea. Refocusing himself, he kicked off with the current once again, and as he scraped forward with the brine, his fingertips finally seemed to gain additional purchase. As his fingers curled into fists, he held the soaked oilcloth of his guest's bootlaces between his knuckles.

Jackpot.

Zeldryn tightened the fingers of both hands around both ankles, then, with a last, adrenaline-fueled burst of rage, cranked his legs, and heaved himself back upward to his full height. As he moved, he arched his bleeding back, grit his teeth, and yanked his enemy off of his feet and into the drink. This time, without so much of a blink of the eyes, Zeldryn pounced atop him, took hold of his adversary's wrist, and repeatedly slammed his hand into the surf and sand until the urumi fell free. As it splashed into the shallow depths, Zeldryn brought both of his fists back and over his head, linked his fingers together, and hammered downward into his opponent's face, sending his enemy’s head bouncing below the brine. He drew his arms back once further, hammered down again, and was stunned to see the sodden bronze of a heater shield part the waters and catch his fists.

Crushing, blazing needles of pain wedged themselves into Zeldryn's knuckles and wrists, but he was blind to it, now. He took hold of the edge of the heater shield with one hand, pried it aside with a jolt of his elbow, and snapped a straight punch into his enemy's nose. They fought for control over the shield, however briefly, but Zeldryn was on top, his enemy was on his back, and the waves were crashing over them second after second; the advantage was his. With another jolt of the elbow, he drew his right arm backward, and sank a curving right cross pointedly into his enemy's eye-orbit. Then, rising to his feet, he angled a kick against the shield’s rim, snapping it’s strap and sending it spiraling off into the shallows and wedging it on its edge in the clotted sand.

His enemy watched as his shield sailed away, and with the hymns of victory shrieking in his mind's eye, Zeldryn lunged down with both hands, tightened his fingers around the man's jacket, and pulled him up and out of the water to his feet. An instant later, he kicked his enemy's knee out, caught him by the lapels, and carelessly hip-tossed him sidelong into the briny depths. Zeldryn stood still for a moment, panting as a combination of anger, resentment, and adrenaline seared his veins. Half-frozen blood crept slowly down his face as he gathered his wind. He knew full-well that there was one last dance left in them both. He wouldn’t get his rest quite yet.

Refocusing, the locksmith stared dispassionately as his enemy attempted to scramble back to his feet. Then, blood still roaring in his ears, he strolled closer to his downed foe, brought his leg back, and punted him in his floating ribs. As the man flipped onto his back, Zeldryn took a step forward, reached down, wrapped his fingers around the man's throat, and yanked his head up and above the surface of the water. He was done dancing. He didn’t have any time, or energy left for it.

"You don't quit, Dunk." He panted, venom dripping from every syllable. Dunkin grinned in response, one eye rapidly swelling, twin streams of crimson drooling serpent-like from his nostrils.

"Nope." Dunkin croaked. His fingers fought for purchase around his neck, trying to pry Zeldryn's hands free. The locksmith simply snarled, hazel eyes flashing with wrath.

“Alright then, Dunk. I'll give ya' to Verungnr. He'll know what to do with ya’."

At that, his adversary paled. Dunk’s eyes widened slightly, and he renewed his efforts of fighting against the locksmith's grip. Zeldryn slowly shook his head in response—only once. Then, without further pause, he slammed his hands together, interwove his fingers, and squeezed with all of his power as he forced Dunkin's head back beneath the brine’s churning green surface. Zeldryn grit his teeth with effort as a fist found his face, tilting his head back and cracking the edges of his lips. His wiry arms flexed with effort as he leaned his weight downward, and he let out a toneless, manic roar as the sorcerer struggled against his grip. Another fist found his neck, then his eye, and then, as Dunk’s hands fell away, his body’s frantic jolting slowed. The bubbles spewing forth from beneath Zeldryn’s dispassionate gaze gradually fizzled into oblivion, and the fight began to fade from Dunkin’s limbs alongside the popping bubbles. Despite the conclusion, the battered locksmith firmly maintained his hold, lifting his head skyward as he felt the fight leave his quarry.

"This isn't what I wanted, Ma'. It's not. This is what they make me do." He muttered bitterly. A moment afterward, he released his grip.

Zeldryn maintained his skyward stare. It wasn't a lie, really. He never saw himself becoming this desperate. This manic. He always knew he had his issues. But he was only one man. He only had so much resolve to offer, so much patience to erect, and so much moral high ground to fall back on before enough was enough. This certainly wasn't a first. but there was a part of him, even through the scarred flesh, the frostbite, the cracked lips, chipped teeth, and ground down resolve. There was a part of him that felt horrible in the face of what he’d done. Who in the hell was he to sit here, panting and bleeding into the waves instead of drowning below them?

At the thought, Zeldryn tilted his head back downward.

The sight that met him was a shadowy-black congregation of soul and sin. It almost appeared to smile at him as it lifted it’s claws, tracing their tips along it’s abyssal cheeks in a mocking impression of whiskers.

He shivered; How could he—How did he—It was impossible! Nobody could’ve—

Zeldryn’s gaze fell, and blue eyes, bruised and swollen, burned out from the transparent green waters beneath. Dunk’s twin palms were linked together above the surf, fingers fanned outward, and their flesh enshrouded in an obscene, wriggling mass of frosted black tendrils. As the tendrils shivered and whirled, a nebulous void materialized amongst their center, and seemed for the briefest instant as if it would consume his hands completely. Then, an instant later, it stabilized into a cohesive sphere of lightly frosted darkness. Zeldryn paled as his gaze lifted.

Mr. Whiskers lunged forward, fast as a snap of lightning, inky claws aimed at the locksmith’s throat.

Zeldryn was frozen. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe. With every action he considered, another tangled up his train of thought. plan after plan blazed to life and into ash as quickly as they were born. With panicked haste fading, reserves of adrenaline and adaptability exhausted, his circumstances fully dawned upon him.

"Fu-"

The last thing he saw was the tendrils, silently obeying the whims of their guide, flinging the orb nimbly upward and into his face. The last thing he felt as his consciousness faded was the incomprehensible acidic burn, and the unforgettable sensation of nethric chill beginning to erode his left eye.

...It was always the left eye, with Havarrians.

Then all was black.


[Post-Script: Feedback greatly appreciated! At least one eye may have been harmed in the making of this post. FYI: Zeldryn didn’t die, neither. Just got beat up bad and left unconscious, face down in the sand. In case you were wondering. ]

[Vaelin]

Ooooh, can't wait to read what's next. Love how viseral your fight scene is.

[Zeldryn]

[[Author's note: It's not the update you wanted, but it's the update I needed to write. Hopefully it's enjoyable!]]


"Stop yer' fidgets'n hold still."

Her voice, melodic despite it's insistent drawl was balm for the soul.

YANK! Yank! Yankyankyank!

"FFFFF---!" Zeldryn hissed, silenced only by another fierce yank of the threaded needle.

"Watch yer' language! And hold. The hells. still!"

Regardless of what was said, her words flowed like a song. It was soothing, really. Soothing was a good thing. Considering his soul was ablaze with throbbing, boiling agony. Everything was haze. He was no stranger to it, but after one's taken enough beatings, they all start to blend together. All he knew for sure was that it happened.

Yank. Yank. Yank.

He was half-pitched over a circular beechwood table, and apparently had spent the better part of an eternity being kicked in the face. At least, that was the impression he had as he gazed down at the mess of blood, sweat, and grime on his shirt. His left eye felt swollen shut and gored open simultaneously, and his swollen jaw, split lips, and bloody nostrils certainly weren't painting an attractive portrait in their own rights.

"One o' these days yer' not gonna' have any lids to sew shut, the way ya' run off and get yer' arse whipped." The sharpness in the remark was accompanied by a pinch of the lid in question as the needlework became more rapid and precise.

He tilted his head downward in some vain attempt to reflexively break eye contact, but another hellish yank of the threaded horror sent him hissing back into a simmering, front-facing stare. tears flowed, crimson and otherwise, and fiery, electric jolts showered his brain; But that was a sort of pain that could be tolerable. The sort that wasn't was the unfiltered worry beamed into his brain through her squinted hazel stare. He did what he could to cease his fidgeting, but as she finished his lid and moved to the adjacent flesh surrounding his tear duct, an involuntary twitch forced the catgut from the needle's eye.

The stare which followed was exasperated, but patient. Worried, but alarmed. Nurturing, though accusatory. A million words and emotions clouded his mind at the sight of it, and all he could muster was an apologetic frown before his head hung. Silently, methodically, as if it'd been done a thousand times before, his savior rethreaded the needle, tilted his chin upward, and hastily finished her gruesome work. Not a moment later came the bottle and the cloth; Zeldryn winced at the sight of it alone.

"Don't swim with sharks if ya' don't wanna' get bit."

At that, Zeldryn frowned. His heart kicked into overdrive, and the cold, telltale fingers of adrenaline dripped along his spine like a flowing river. She didn't get it. It didn't matter how many times he explained it, how many different words he used, how many rationalizations he gave. She'd never get it. She just couldn't get it. It was him or nothing. The alternatives weren't acceptable. Cheeks flushed with heat, his words came unbidden.

"So, what, I just let Mozan get whailed on?"

As he spoke, the cloth was folded into a neat bundle and placed atop the bottle's neck, the bottle was upended to soak the cloth, and she was dabbing at his face. But as the words left his lips, there was a fraction of a pause in her methodical dabbing, if only for a moment, before she dabbed again. Despite the fiery agony ripping through his wounds with every press of the soaked cloth, he continued.

"Family's family. It's what ya' told me. Uncle H said--"

"Uncle H isn't a lad, and ya' know that's not what I meant when I said it." Came her sharp retort. At that, his cheeks started roasting.

"But--"

"But nothing." She repeated.

Silence hung between them as she continued to clean and dress the gashes and cuts on his face. When they were thoroughly washed and tended, she took a roll of gauzy white linen to hand and started cutting off strips with a pair of shining scissors. With every click and tear of metal on cloth, her defte hands quickly moved to tie the bandages in place. All the while, Zeldryn's cheeks burned as crimson as the clotted blood on his shirt. With a knowing look, she brushed a locke of bright blonde hair away from her eyes.

"Hands?" She urged.

In response, he lifted the appendages in question. His fingers and forearms were bruised, his knuckles were gashed and split, and one of his thumbnails was cracked, half-ripped free of it's bedding, oozing half-dried scarlet.

"Zeldryn," She breathed, her voice absent it's sharpened melody. In it's place lingered a mixture of reluctant sadness and incredulous bewilderment. At that, he laughed-- quietly, but he laughed all the same. As his mirth rolled through his chest, she retrieved a jar of ointment, cracked open the lid, and began dabbing his knuckles liberally. That put a stop to his laughter as quickly as it started. He tried to flinch away, but she held fast.

"STOP! FIDGETING!" She hissed.

"I'm fine! It's nothin'!"

"Aye, 'til yer' damned fingers swell up like baloons. Then you'll be howlin' 'bout how I shoulda' used the fire salve." At that, Zeldryn had nothing to say. His eyes spoke every word of reluctant agreement his lips refused to. She smirked at the sight of it. Then, the question came as it always did.

"How many?" She asked.

"Three." At that, she glared. He was quick to raise his hands in defference.

"Why d'ya think I did it? I didn't want 'im to get hurt." As he spoke, she grasped his forearm once again and began to bandage the knuckles of his left hand.

"And what about you?" She pressed.

"What *about* me?" He echoed indignantly.

"What exactly did ya' think ya' were gonna' accomplish?"

"That wasn't the point." As he made his excuses, she pinned the bandages in place with a small hawk-shaped clasp.

"It's never the point. Doesn't mean it's not daft." She chited quietly.

"I'd have felt worse if I let it happen."

With that, silence hung between them as she finished tending to his hands. Her work was quick, but gentle, and the pin shined on the edge of a knuckle, one sapphire-flecked eye glimmering up at him from it's setting in the hawk's eye.

"Three. Ya' damned daftie." Her words were sharp, but her voice was soft.

"You should see the other blokes. Old man Neilson's gonna' be knockin' again."

She spared a moment to wash her hands clean in a basin of salt water, wiped her hands dry, and pulled a strip of cloth from her blonde lockes, letting it fall down her back. With a quick shake of her curls, they aligned themselves in an orderly, presentable fashion before she leaned over and wrapped her arms snugly around Zeldryn's shoulders, pulling him into a hug from across the table.

"Yer' a good lad. I just worry about ya'. Y'know that."

"I know, Ma'. I love ya'."

"We love ya' too, Zeldryn. All o' us. No matter what happens."

**********

As the moon broke free of the horizon, the world was bathed in quiet radiance.

The sky was a cloudy, faceted tapestry of murky twilight, and the evening fog encroached upon the shore in a determined attempt at escaping the brine. And with every foaming crash of sea kissing sand, the windy shore gradually gave way to the blanket of mist under the moon's gaze. Within the fog's embrace, sprawled carelessly upon the earth, was one Zeldryn Havarrian, clad in naught more than a snugly tailored pair of snow white briefs, blindly gasping in agonized pain, one hand clutching his burned and battered face.

[[To be Continued]]

[darkangel]

An update at last :)
looking forward to more, keep going!