Voice work: Opening Rough Draft-

 

 

THE OPENING

 

        Dark shallow waves roamed over a calm, placid black sea resting on the edge of what usually was a busy coastal town. Snow fell in a flurry, and the icy currents glistened with the lights from the nearby shore. On more nights than not, the sounds of feasting could be heard, and songs of joy and adventure would fill the towns. For the kingdom of Ygdrungard was known as one of the greatest trade hubs in all the northern continent of Aethora.

       

        Even in the most frigid of winters there was still life to be heard and seen in the ports and villages along its glacier covered coast. But not upon this night. Not as the glimmering gold and bronze lights flickered and danced over the midnight waters or as strong waves began to break the calm. For as a young woman watched her town from a small boat, drifting out in the current, what she saw was no longer a haven of traders or a place of joy and rest. But a furnace. Kindling for the dead and hopeless.

 

        The grand seaside town now stood, if barely, wreathed in flames and torched beyond reckoning. Its homes decimated, its towers bent and broken, and its people either screaming as they fled or silent as ash. The fires spread through home after home as the flames gnawed and splintered away at every foundation. Warriors rushed with bows and spears across the singed streets and alleys as the tyrant loomed in the veil of smoke and cloud above. As its shadow broke through the veil, so, too, did the monster itself. A great dragon.

       

        Neither a mere fire drake nor a dragon from the wilds. No, this was a great dragon. One with skin as dark as night, scales like iron, and eyes red with unrelenting hate. Its wings could shadow the hills, and its greed could drain the very rivers dry and the valleys of all life and crop, if only to stead its hunger for a time. And fire… Fire far too furious, even for any dwarven forge to bear. As the dark terror flew over the coast, it roared a fierce stream of flame and crimson lightning upon the warriors below. Arrow after arrow struck the beast, but to no avail. Nothing could pierce its hide. It circled back, spitting its dreadful rage in a trail, cutting off the fleeing villagers from the warriors running to their aid. As the wall of fire separated them, the monster returned and lit the ground like a funeral pyre fit for entire cities of souls, far beyond that of this simple village.

       

        All the while a woman in a torn dress, covered in ash and blood, stood upon a broken tower, laughing and cackling wildly. For nothing was more pleasant a sight for the witch who set the beast loose. Especially to one as vile and cruel as the Wraith Witch herself. Her dreadful glee could be heard far and wide, even above roaring flames and crackling of wood, bone, and flesh. Even out to sea, where the young woman sat helpless and terrified. Slowly she bled, dying from a wound she could not mend. All she could do now was hold her baby close and keep him warm as she drifted away in the current’s mercy. Hidden beneath her cloak and wrapped in cloth, he was safe. For now.

 

        Yet, as the witch cackled along with the dragon’s roars of fiery rage, and the whisper of final breath left crumbling ashen lungs from the countless fallen, another set of eyes watched over the coast in secret. There a woman stood, cloaked and hidden beyond sight or harm. Silently she peered from a hilltop with a phoenix, quite rare, perched upon her shoulder, both watching the towering flames spread though the village like roots.

The fires painted the night like a sinister canvas of rage and sorrow as its embers danced with glee and madness.

       

        She was the infamous, meddlesome spellstress and wandering witch, Zaer. Having lived to see the ages pass and having learned countless spells and runes, she could have, with ease, quelled the fires, challenged the dragon, and combatted the witch. Yet, no hand or staff was lifted. Not even a whisper of a spell left her breath. She simply stood there. Observing. Waiting. Her eyes like molten glass, reflecting the dragon’s tyranny. Yet, still as cold and calm as a frozen lake.

       

        “Of all the threats and fiends I have hunted over the countless centuries walking this world, you, wraith, have been the most troublesome,” she said to herself as she watched the woman and the infant drift safely away, along the coast.

       

        “You’ve won this battle, wraith. But lost the war. For your prey, your prize, your hope has escaped. I’ll be sure to place it well beyond your reach and his talons.”

 

       As the boat drifted on, Zaer left the hilltop and followed. Never looking back at the Wraith Witch, nor the terror she had wrought.

 

        “I’ll see to it that the boy is raised, trained, and hunts you, wraith. The tool of your salvation will be the sword of your reckoning. Though, you will not be the last I hunt. Every century has its threats and terrors. For if there is one fact, one fate, one unbreakable truth to the world of Kelndroarn, it is that every era has its monsters…

 

        …And every age has its demons.”