# A Tale of Ashen Wings - Chapter 1: Upon Ashen Skies

Author: Andre Valias
Tags: Dark, Death, Dragon, Dragonian, Fantasy, Male, Medieval, Nords, child, elves, execution, flames, law, order, setting, story

The skies were overcast and heavy over Blackhold that
morning, as though the gods wished to make the world their stage and the
execution their play. But as Akalgan saw it, there was no way drama or
emotional connection that Imperial playwrights often crafted within their own
works would be found in today's events. The mighty Dragonian stood out amongst
the crowds in both muscular and foreign appearance as well as attitude and
stance. All around him were Dark Elven citizens and their odd few Beastman
servants accompanying them, all excited and headed towards the parade grounds
of the castle. Some spared the Dragonian their mixed attentions, with many eyes
absorbing the striking features of one of Arkathia's children so far from home.

However, Akalgan did not return the courtesy of their
notice, and kept his arms folded behind his head, relaxed as usual. His scales
were grey like the ash that fell from Mount Kilikadros, with fierce amber eyes
that sharpened his look. The great wings that were the pride of any Dragonian
remained closely folded behind his back to keep any odd fool from running into
them. His figure was well-toned and fairly muscular, befitting of a warrior whom
had seen many battles. Two straight and sharp horns adorned his draconic
visage, and his facial structure was common of any Dragonian. He wore the garb
of his vagabond mercenary stature: weary leather armour with hide tapering and
studded leather boots that provided more than enough protection and plenty of
mobility, his outfit in general coated generously with patchworks and minor
scratches. Across his chest and over his shoulder was his potion vial strap
that also held his quiver of arrows to his back. His crude but sturdy hunting
bow was slung over his other shoulder. But what was the most notable feature of
the fierce wanderer were his swords: three to be precise, two of them short and
made of steel, and the last of them long and forged of ebonite.Often, Akalgan would cast a glance to the clouded heavens
and think of other places than where he was at the moment, caught amongst a
crowd of gossiping and murmuring people who were excited to watch men die. The
thought of it disgusted Akalgan; that killing men was apparently a rare and
exotic commodity, or perhaps a luxurious form of entertainment to common people
who more than likely would have no idea how to wield a stick in the face of
adversity or conflict. Although, at the same time, there was the thought of the
same people who will be cheering for the executioners being sent screaming and
fleeing for their lives if even just one of Akalgan's past foes pursued them. That
thought brought comfort and amusement to Akalgan's mind. But even then, he
would still be reminded of how pathetic the people were when he would
inevitably overhear one or two conversations that went along the lines of "Hurry
up, we'll miss the beheading!" or perhaps "I hope one of them begs for
mercy!"--
As though you would not do the same... Akalgan thought with
disdain, glancing about the multitude of Dark Elven faces staring onwards with
either glee or expectation. Akalgan shut his eyes for a moment, feeling
overwhelmed by the sheer carelessness that seemed to outdo his own. He then
resolved to try and pick up his unconcerned demeanour by looking to the sky
once more, when he felt someone tapping on his side to draw his attention.
"Excuse me, sir,"
a little voice began. Akalgan cast his gaze downwards and found a young Dark
Elven child staring back at him, his hand clasped inside his mother's own as
they walked. "Are you a dra-go-nee-an?"
he asked. He seemingly struggled with the rather-simple name. Akalgan tilted
his head in slight annoyance, as he had little-to-no patience for children of
any race or culture. 
"What of it?" He
asked in response. The child tilted his own head in awe at the gruff voice. 
"They say you breathe
fire like the dragons, but walk like Humes!" The child exclaimed. "Can you really breathe fire?" He then
asked. His mother expressed disapproval by tugging his hand closer to her.
"Dear, enough of
that..." She murmured. But the child was persistent as he stared unblinkingly
at the Dragonian. 
"Pleeeeease?!" He
whined in ignorance of his mother. Akalgan rolled his eyes and then glanced around
his headspace, making sure there was nothing above him that would catch fire.
He then decided to humour the child, for his own amusement totally. 
Akalgan unfolded his arms from behind his head. He then hung
his head back and puffed his chest slightly as he took a deep breath. If he
could see the child getting visibly ecstatic, Akalgan probably would have burst
out laughing instead. But Akalgan kept his eyes to the sky as he let out a
ferocious plume of fire into the air. At that moment, everyone around him suddenly
ducked and shuffled in panic and surprise, and the closest of them felt the
heat of such intense flames. Akalgan cut off his breath of fire when he had
everyone's attention. There they made a visible circle of isolation around him,
and the crowd had stopped moving to stare at him in shock. Akalgan glanced to
the child, whose mother had pulled him away instantly and cradled him in her
arms, but she could not shelter him from his own wide-eyed and dumbfounded awe.
Akalgan snorted a laugh and kept walking as the people made way for the
frightening warrior. His arms were once again folded behind his head ever-so
casually.
Akalgan walked past murmuring people after making such a
scene. He did not care for the gossip of people about him, however. On the
contrary, he preferred it over the gossip that normally preceded an execution,
and was quite pleased that the common folk made way for him in perhaps fear,
awe, or both. The Dragonian liked to think of himself as different--perhaps even
better, than the common folk he walked alongside to the same event. He was a
weary traveller who wished to know all there is to know about the location,
including how they executed those sentenced to death. He had only arrived the
day before and heard the news over a drink at the inn he paid rent for a room
to stay at. 
While he was at it, Akalgan took the time to note the architecture
on either side of him a bit more. Blackhold lived up to its infamous name with
buildings and structures constructed with blackstone. Thus, the city itself
appeared to be a dark and imposing place that overlooked surrounding lands near
the border-mountains, as Akalgan had witnessed on his way to the city. However,
the use of blackstone was purely for aesthetic purposes. Blackstone, from what
Akalgan had heard, was only slightly stronger than the common stone that built
most cities. Other than that, the building style was very typical of Dark Elven
culture, as the architecture bore a sort of rough-cut form of elegance that
reminisced of Herefell's ashlands. The middle to upper class seemed to have
more intricate designs as befitting of their station, whereas the lower class
had more common looking buildings, but they did not look by any means much
lesser than those of the middle-class. Hm... Just like Aka-Rokun... Akalgan
thought of home for a moment, but then decided against comparing Dark Elves to
the proud Dwarves and Dragonians of Arkathia. He drew his eyes back to the
streets once more, and continued the foreboding walk. 
Eventually, the main street that Akalgan followed emptied
out into the parade grounds before the Black Citadel. The sight of Blackhold's
pride at so close a distance was enough to convince Akalgan to pause and look
upon the magnificent centre of power. Within inner walls was a structure that
towered well above any other within the city by far, as though to reach for the
skies. Elven-like towers and spires sprouted about the citadel, connected to
the main structure by covered bridges. Jutting out from the highest levels of
the citadel was a bridged bastion that overlooked the parade grounds and the
city onward. Akalgan could only imagine the omniscient vision that the vantage
point provided. The citadel itself was covered wherever possible with great
statues of heroes past, worn by time and circumstance. The sight was enough to inspire
respect from Akalgan toward the city, as he recalled tales of how the demon
hordes of the 2nd Ending were thwarted in this very place.
However, the tolling bells and gossiping voices brought
Akalgan back to the present, and he returned to what he was doing. The
Dragonian followed the rest of the Dark Elves to join growing mass of onlookers
gathered before a great stone dais. Seeing over the many common citizens was no
issue for Akalgan, and he watched intently as the Ordinators--the martial hand
of the Dark Elven theocracy, lead the sentenced prisoners toward their decided
fate. Already on the dais was the executioner--dressed in robes of black with
his hood up and a skull mask to hide his face, whose arms were folded with
expectation. Beside him was the grandmaster of the city's ruling house, the
House Sendalas. Akalgan recognised this only by the symbols embroidered onto
the Dark Elf's exquisite robes, and figured the city's leader himself would be
present to condemn the accused.
It was a visibly pain-staking walk for the prisoners up the
stairs and onto the dais. There were seven of them in total, all burly Nords
who were a little far from home. Their padded armour and garments of their
homeland were worn and tattered, and Akalgan could only assume their stay in
Herefell was an unpleasant and unwelcome one. However, despite standing before
death and a jeering audience of many people, there was no fear in their eyes.
Akalgan tilted his head curiously at the sight and situation the Nords were in.
Do
they not fear death? He wondered. Akalgan did not get the chance to dwell
on it any further. The grandmaster Sendalas turned to the crowd and cut the air
with a firm hand and the masses fell silent at his command. Even the bells that
had tolled for the last hour were stopped. The timeless moment was enough to
make Akalgan raise an eyebrow. 
Once the parade grounds were so void of noise that only the
breath of the wind and clinking of shackles could be heard, the grandmaster
spoke.
"People of
Blackhold," he began clearly with his hands clasped behind his back. "Today we shall witness the Tribunal's
judgement delivered upon these unworthy fools!" The crowd eagerly shouted
in agreement, and the grandmaster continued. "The Ordinators themselves have found these Nord pigs guilty of
conspiracy to assassination! The Law of the Three prevails!" He shouted out
with his fist held aloft in a leading gesture. The crowd shouted back with an
enthusiastic cheer. The grandmaster then turned towards the sentenced Nords,
and smirked as he held his hand towards them. "And thus to you, I extend the hand of death; may the Three have mercy
on your souls!" He announced to them. The grandmaster subsequently glanced
to the executioner and nodded.

Source: https://sofurry.com/view/894417

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