WOLF CUB
STARDATE 04.03.24
THE GOLDEN AGE
“Look Father and Mother! I did it!! Look! Look!”
Young Ichaborn ran about, play fighting as he jumped and dodged through the air. He was but ten years old. In his hands, he held a sword made of pure flame. The Runes on his back were glowing bright.
His father, Icharioch, and his mother, Cymra, stood nearby smiling as they watched their son. The three of them were on a giant rock that floated high in the air. This was but one of many rocks that floated in the skies of Melnia. It appeared as though the top of the giant rock had mysteriously been cut off, leaving behind a leveled plane perfect for standing on.
“Well done, my son,” Icharioch said as he stepped toward Ichaborn. Icharioch was a tall, thin man with a serious demeanor. “I am proud of you. You have learned to access your Runes at an early age. But there is much more for you learn and master. Observe.”
Icharioch’s own Runes began to glow brightly all over his body. He reached out with one open hand toward the empty air surrounding the floating rock. A flame appeared, small at first, but one which rapidly grew in size. Soon, flames raced around the giant rock like a whirlwind. It was beautiful sight, for the flames danced about with a life of their own, growing and shrinking in size as they desired while they flew about. Ichaborn stood motionless, holding his flaming sword in one hand, fascinated by the strips of fire that his father summoned and commanded.
Icharioch closed his open hand into a fist. As he did so, the whirling flames gathered in front of him, forming a huge being made of fire. The fire creature moved as Icharioch willed and commanded. Ichaborn ran to stand in front of the fire elemental just as his father bade it to dissipate into nothing.
Icharioch knelt before Ichaborn. “And that’s not all the Sacred Flame is capable of, my son. Behold!”
Icharioch picked up a small rock that lay on the ground near Ichaborn’s feet. He closed his eyes and a fire engulfed the rock. Ichaborn watched his father with wonder and amazement. Slowly, the rock transformed into a figurine of a horse. Icharioch handed the statue to his son for him to hold. As he did, he whispered in his son’s ear,
“There is nothing the Sacred Flame is not capable of, Ichaborn. Remember that. It is the Sacred Flame that gives us life and it can restore that which has lost its life.”
Ichaborn gazed at his mother, who met his stare. Cymra was an albino like himself with long red hair and blood red eyes. She was beautiful.
Ichaborn’s childhood memories faded away and he found himself back in the present. His hands were chained to a large stone. He was in a large, underground arena filled with the cheering inhabitants of the settlement known as Domso. Looming above him stood a muscular figure holding a butcher knife. Two guards held Ichaborn down, one to his right and one to his left. Arutha, the town Elder, watched from afar with a wicked grin on her face.
“Are you ready to have your tongue cut out of your mouth, you who led a group of strangers into Domso, like lambs to the slaughter?” the muscular man said in a deep voice as he waved his butcher knife in front of Ichaborn menacingly. The crowd cheered loudly from the seats lining the outer edges of the arena. They couldn’t wait for Ichaborn’s screams to turn into a amputated gurgle.
Remembering his father, Ichaborn closed his eyes. The Runes on his back began to glow brightly. The chains binding him melted away, burned by the Sacred Flame. Fire erupted all around Ichaborn like hot springs coming out of the earth, forcing the muscular man and the two guards backward. As Ichaborn stood up, the flames coalesced into a long flaming sword which he grasped in his right hand.
The albino Captain stared with his blood red eyes at the two guards, the muscular man, Arutha, and all the people watching in the Arena.
“YOU WHO PRACTICE EVIL AND LAWLESSNESS…YOUR END IS NIGH.”