Information

Damarion has a minion!

Azarchylus the Dungeoned Dragon

Damarion
Legacy Name: Damarion

The

Darkmatter Tigrean
Owner: Dracien

Age: 15 years, 8 months, 4 weeks

Born: December 18th, 2010

Adopted: 15 years, 4 weeks, 2 days ago

Adopted: August 17th, 2011

Nominate Pet for Spotlight

Statistics

Level: 5
Strength: 11
Defense: 10
Speed: 10
Health: 10
HP: 10/10
Intelligence: 3
Books Read: 3
Food Eaten: 0
Toys Played: 0
Job: Store Clerk

Master, I will become greater than you could ever hope to be.

"The water looked deep and inviting. Peeling off his black, high-collared robe, Damarion tossed the garment aside and prepared himself to leap in with careless abandon.

It was a little-known fact that just past the briar bushes at the far end of the garden, around the hardy little balsam that was missing three quarters of its boughs, and a short sprint past the only apple orchard for miles around, a hidden gem was secreted away behind a curtain of tall grass and cattails. The pond â€“ for it was just the right size to be called such â€“ was just one of the many treasures hidden in the hundred-odd acres of the Arbordun property, though it was one of the most beloved.

The pond was a calm and quiet place, sitting conveniently enough under a patch of sky where the limbs of the populous firs occupying much of the surrounding area could not reach quite far enough to block out the trespassing sunlight. On sunny days, motes of dust and pollen â€“ products of the various flora thickly grown across Arbordun's forest floor â€“ danced gayly as one would expect a wood sprite to do, their existence proven only by the bright through which they floated on fair gusts of wind, over dark water beneath which one could scarcely see their hand a mere inch below the surface, let alone their feet at the bottom (which extended to just under five feet in depth). A single boulder jutted out into the water at the southern edge of the pond, furthest from the manor build upon that particular stretch of land, as if to make up for the lack of rocks and stones in the immediate area with it's acting as both an impromptu diving point and as a resting nook for those not inclined to take a dip.

It was upon this boulder that Damarion crouched, naked as a sheared sheep, robes tossed to the side and toes and fingers digging into the rough stone beneath him. A light early-summer breeze tousled his dark hair as he contemplated his own reflection on the pond's rippling surface, pale skin and violet eyes glaring back up at him until he could stand the sight no longer and lurched clumsily into the water face-first.

Though enough light trickled through the break in the forest canopy to illuminate the pond's surface, it seemed as if no natural light could shed the layers of darkness that shrouded Damarion as he tumbled down, down, down to the pond's smooth bed. There had been weeds here before, he knew that, but it was in all likelihood that the kelpie Caoimhe had been through recently; the eerie and age-old water horse had a fondness for the weeds that grew at the bottom of the pond and took every chance she could to devour them all in passing.

Digging his heels into the soft muddy bed, the young apprentice propelled himself back towards the surface, lungs screaming for need of air. If the ancient creature had been here before, she was no longer, and he need not fear her wily charms.

Breaking the pond's surface was a mixture of relief and regret â€“ relief for the rush of oxygen that he sucked in with short gasps, and regret for the loss of the enshrouding darkness of the pond's depths. His majik throbbed sympathetically beneath his skin, coursing from the ends of his toes to the tips of his long and nimble fingers. Beneath the ripples of water, it illuminated his fingertips with an ever-so-faint violet tinge. The shadows at the bottom of the pond stirred in response, swimming eagerly about his ankles with the likeliness of thick, black eels, falling still again only when the young apprentice willed away the presence of his majik.

Now that he was in the water, Damarion belated realised it was colder than he had at first assumed. The chill of it was something he expected Beryllius to enjoy, what with his ice majik and all, but the longer he stood in the light tug and pull of the water, the colder it seemed to get, and that just would not do.

Raising his hands until just his fingertips were submerged, the pale apprentice began to trace a complex pattern of curlicue runes and diagrams over the surface of the water, until he was left with a mass of luminescent majik lines displayed completely still beneath the surface waves. The majik scrawlings remained for a brief moment before they appeared to sink into the depths of the water and meld with the darkness, seemingly taking no effect, for whatever purpose they had been drawn for. But then, after a brief instance of no noticeable action, the shadows at the bottom of the pond began to writhe. At this, Damarion smirked triumphantly and skimmed his fingers over the pond's surface in a distinctive 'shooing' motion.

The shadows that darkened the depths of the pond began to part as if blown away by a wind. They writhed and wriggled, shrinking further and further outwards towards the pond's banks until they disappeared altogether, leaving behind a crystal clear body of water. The dark majik thrummed in Damarion's veins as he banished the pond's shadows to another some other end of Arbordun, warming him in a completely different way than the sun that was at last able to pierce sufficiently through the pond's clear waters."

Excerpt, short story "To Take a Life"

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