<center>--Chapter 1-- Into The Lion's Den</center>
Autumn in Valth was always cold. Without the lush forests like those of Kalshana or Riva it was hard to tell when summer melted into fall or when the fall drifted into winter. Spring came when the snows melted and the grass grew green, summer came when the chrysanthemums bloomed, fall and winter were almost indistinguishable from each other. The heavy snows of fall expanded into the vicious blizzards of deep winter, making life in the northern land miserable.
Perched in between two large hills, their height exaggerated by several feet of snow, was the city of Dialin. Snow swirled in all directions between the tall buildings and narrow alleys. The people hunkered down, clutching their scarves tighter around their mouths and noses and the trudged the well worn sidewalks in order to get to their destinations. Storeowners hurried outside to scrape away the compacted snow from in front of their shops, inviting the cold travelers to come inside and spend their money.
This was the best time for the stands call 'Steam Stops'. They were little stands that stayed perched on the Dialin corners year round, selling liquors and hot drinks to keep the Valthi warm. In the frigid air, steam circled like white marble pillars above them until it looked as though the pillars of steam were holding up the grey sky; a sky that always promised more snow and more misery.
Recently, Dialin revelled in a relative state of peace. Only the occasional gang war and corporate bombing rocked the otherwise quiet streets, so it was to be taken as a blessing when the news reported little other than reports of more snow and the occasional death a robber or such.
Sipping a warm cup of saké, a man of 22 or 25 was reading the news. Not for information or peace of mind but for the sheer pleasure of having his exploits recorded and feared. Above a picture of burning carriage was a caption in bold and striking letters:
<center> MURDER IN DIALIN! 5 DEAD AS GANG WAR PERSISTS</CENTER>
The man crushed the paper cup in his hand and tossed it carelessly to the ground. He rubbed rough black hairs on his chin with the back on of his hand, a habit for when he was thinking. For nearly a year, he had performed various tasks, endured tests of the all kinds, and erased his humanity to obtain the name 'Damascus'. It was a name that he prided while other feared. On his right forearm the black winding pattern of the Metal Lions gang that even held the law enforcement at bay. Even though the officers may chase, the efforts server only to keep the morale of the people up and their fears at bay.
It was that kind of feeling that filled this man's life. From living on the streets and wastes of others, to controlling the streets and acquiring riches and power beyond the dreams of even the hardest working stiffs of Dialin. It was for a good cause.
Damascus put on a furred hat that cover his now red ears from the wind and biting snows and tossed the now crumpled newspaper on the corner where he stood. He tramped over the drifts of slush made by the ploughs pulled by the woolly warca to clear the streets of the deep snow. He marched determinedly passed the shouting vendors and catcalls of the street girls searching out a good fare or a place to keep warm until the next day. Ignoring everything until he reached a tall brick and steel building with stone sign that said 'Haguin Apartments' on the front, Damascus finally let out a sigh of relief. Inside his small apartment was a warm stove and a warm bed. He pulled open the heavy wooden door to the building and jogged up the three flights stairs. Upon reaching his floor, he took of his furr hat to shake loose the snow and ice and stomp his boots free of the winter as well. He struggled around his pockets to find his keys that were all attached to a metal coil and singled out one of the brass ones to slip into the lock.
The young Valthman's hopes and desires for a relaxing night in the warmth and comfort of his home was soon melted away in the light of a note on his door.
The king of all creature here lies,
Not rancor, nor dragon infiltrates his pride,
Assemble his warriors, assemble his men
Come and fill with cries the lion's den.
With a reluctant sigh and nod, Damascus shoved his hat about his ears then ripped the note from his door and stuffed it into his pocket. As he jogged down the stair, he couldn't help but to rub the hairs on his chin.
Deep in a snug alley, hidden behind slabs of old wood was a door. It may once have been red or green or yellow, but through the years the paint had chipped away in places, leaving an unkempt mosiac of color. The handle was green with age, though once it gleamed copper. The door jamb was bowed and warped and nails stuck out where previous owners had tried to repair it or hang signs.
The building it was in faired little better, windows on the front were busted out from Valthi children who aimed to test their skill and arm. Boards nailed in a cross fashion over a few low to the ground, warding away beggars and vagabonds who hoped to find solace from the weather. The stair were crooked and crumbled from an earthquake that only graybeards remember. Crude messages were painted across the sides and old strips of flyers flapped like tassles.
Damascus looked up at the building then down both sides of the street. It wasn't busy. Most people were indoors listening to music boxes or huddled around the fire. He slipped into the alley way unnoticed. Even between two large buildings the snow was at least knee deep. Damascus waded through the snow to the door and wrapped it with his knuckles in a rhythm. There was a slight pause and the door creaked open where it was before locked.
He gave another brief look about he alleyway before crawling inside. The door was shut and locked with a click behind him, though he could not see in the heavy darkness who had locked it. He ran his fingers alond the plastered wall down a long hallway to another door. The air was stale and musty though the smell of burning herbs seeped from under the door.
The Valthman wrapped his fingers again on the door but in a different pattern. Again there was a hesitation before the door swung open into small meeting hall. Rather for walls were constructed in part of what was an open warehouse. They did not bother with an elaborate ceiling but instead laid light slabs of light metal over the walls. Lanterns were set around the makeshift room on crates and large empty spools for ropes. This was the Lion's Den.
Damascus took his seat beside twenty other men. They all sat in silence looking nowhere though they'd cast their eyes about the room as if for spies. There was no fear of infiltration, however; in their fifty years of operation there was never a leak. For what seemed like hours, there was a slow but steady stream of men that entered the den. Until the room was full with two score plus of men the room was silent. When the last, solemn face took a seat by a lantern the door was locked and the meeting began.
'The pride of the kings,' barked a barrel chested man. He hair was thick and curly, blue as the ocean and it shone in the dim light.
'The hunt begins,' the men obediently responded.
'The pride of the Valthi.'
'We must defend.'
'Hello, my friends. We have a new mark." <p>
<center><table border = 1><tr><td><center>
"You're cruel." "I am?"
"Yes. You are." "I aaam?"
"Yes. You are." "....Well, what can you do? *sigh*" --Nadeisco</center>
<center> 2 Sugoi!~~Mmm, Mechage RPGWW style!~~Live Journal</center></td></tr></table></center></p>Edited by: Nekogami
at: 8/11/02 4:22:51 am
</td><td align="center">Rum, White Magic, an' Cabbits.
</tr></table></p>
at: 6/10/05 16:56
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