Sunrise
By Jeffrey Ryan Ingram [Author Info]The sun brings with it the searing pain of a thousand flames dancing on his skin. The light floods into his eyes, burning them with brilliant heat. He stands, blind and burning in the early morning sun, and yet he resists the urge to slink back into the shadows like so many of his kind. He runs his fingers through his iridescent hair, letting locks of it brush against his face playfully, and enjoys the pinprick sensations of the sunrise. The drow removes the purple and black robes of a dark mage of death that he wears so falsely on this trip back home.
He comes from a house that long ago broke from the underworld's traditions, deciding to take back the homeland they were exiled from. High into the mountain range, nestled in the crevices of a mountain and the treetops of the forests that rise to meet it, his people live. The house that formed there, within the shadows of that mountain, still holds all of the traditions of the underworld, with all the viscous cruelty the drow bring. When his mother hears the news he brings from the distant lands she will not be pleased, so this solitary drow takes his time in delivering it. There are many hazards along the path that could delay travel, after all.
"Such a brilliant thing, this golden orb that my people see as fiery death. Constant pain, but it spreads a welcome warmth to the coldness that lies forever in my bones..." The drow standing on the cliffside talks to the snow cheetah lazing at his feet. He crouches, soaking in the warmth despite the pain, and scratches his friend behind the ears. The spider on his shoulder chitters at him in mock jealousy, and he laughs a wispy, haunting laugh … laughter which echoes through the valley beneath him.
He lingers in the crouch, and enjoys a moment of complete isolation from the lesser races. "I think I am battling that group of trolls right about now, and in a few minutes I'll be animating them to attack a nearby village." He chuckles slightly at the tales he will tell his mother, and turns to the spider now perched on his knee. "I know I will catch no end of torment and disgrace for forsaking the family profession in lieu of such a cowardly line of work as being a mage. I will be slaughtered if they find that I became a protector of the forest, so I shall just pretend to be a death mage -- shameful to the family business, but at least it's acceptable." He chuckles again, a spidery type of laughter that he is becoming known for among the lesser creatures.
He crouches, stroking the animals of the forest that have chosen to accompany him from his new home to his old one, and looks out from his perch. Smoke rises in delicate little whirls on the horizon, another funeral pyre mayhaps. Violence has flourished like a disease in the lands he has grown to call home. Many companions have fallen or fled because of the blight. Now, though, it seems a mere triviality.
The sun is slowly rising in the sky, the cold morning air warming only slightly in this chill winter. Farther up the mountain paths, snow can be seen glimmering like gems piled unto one another. Here though, it is just crisp and cold. The cheetah speaks up, in a combination of growls and meowing understood perfectly by the druid, 'It will get only hotter for you, Traehl. You may wish to find shelter from that orb of yours.'
Traehl, whom the animals so kindly renamed, smiles ever so slightly, and removes his black silken shir. He stretches in the midmorning sunlight. His muscles ripple underneath his taught black skin, and he sighs from the warmth. 'I know ... but it will do me good, friend.' He stands again, against the wishes of the spider that was comfortably perched on his kneecap.
He gazes out over the horizon one more time, a figure to be seen. Traehl's hair blazes iridescently, colors shimmering and playing between strands, and his green eyes again fade to the color of black marble. He breathes deeply for several long moments, closing his eyes and letting the world sink in.
With overwhelming reluctance, he turns his back to beauty before him, and picks up his clothes, once again donning the blacks and deep purples of a master of the dead. His spider friend nestles deep within an inner pocket with minimal complaint, and the cheetah stands and stretches as well. "Time to hit the trail, mother waits." the drow mutters, and the ebony wanderer of the forests fades into the woodline.
| Author Info |
|
Copyright © 2001 by Jeffrey Ryan Ingram. This material may be distributed only subject to the terms and conditions set forth in the Open Publication License, v.04 1998 or later (the latest version is presently available at http://www.opencontent.org/openpub/).
Distribution of substantively modified versions of this document is prohibited without the explicit permission of the copyright holder.
Permission not granted to use the email addresses on this page for commercial purposes. Please contact us, but don't spam us. Unsolicited commercial email from the address on this page will be considered an act of trespass.
