• St. Ephrem’s Cathedral, the Dranx
    December 19
    0319 hours


    Master Sun
    When the speed of rushing water reaches the point where it can move boulders, this is the force of momentum. When the speed of a hawk is such that it can strike and kill, this is precision. So it is with skillful warriors-their force is swift, their precision close. Their force is like drawing a catapult, their precision is like pulling the trigger.
    Disorder rises from order, cowardice arises from courage, weakness arises from strength.
    Order and disorder are a matter of organization, courage and cowardice are a matter of momentum, strength and weakness are a matter of formation.


    Lightning flashed, illuminating the room with a blue radiance before vanishing again and leaving the single flickering candle to once again light the large room by it self. It struggled to shine on the rows and piles of books that were on the shelves and tables all about the room.
    The reader didn’t mind though, as long as it was bright enough to illuminate the words on the page.
    Lightning flashed again and the reader looked up from Sun Tzu’s, The Art of War for a moment before going back too his reading. How many times had he read this? A hundred times…five hundred times in the last several hundred years? Once he had had an original copy, but it was lost, either with the time or simply misplaced among the rows and rows of books and scrolls throughout the huge library.
    Now he simply read a simple copy bought from a book store, but it just wasn’t the same. That was the way of time, its passage made things fade and eventually vanish. This was how it was for everything, even him.
    Many years ago he was known by a different name, a name that had been written in the pages of history. Now he was nothing, just a lowly mercenary, paid to do the dirty work of the wealthy. He lived under a false name now, the name of Dart Darkshadow. It was a name given to potential employers so they could identify him. But the name did not define him; it was no more apart of him than the shirt he wore.
    He had changed his name so many times in his lifetime that he no longer remembered the name that had been given to him by birth. No the name that gave him a sense of identity was Scar. It was short, simple, defined him, and was easy to remember.
    He had received the name from an employer ever so many years ago for the two scars that ran over his face, one starting above his left eye, crossing over it, and then going down his cheek to his jaw. The other started under his right eye, crossed over the bridge of his nose, over his left eye, and stopped. They were always there when he saw his reflection, thus it was easy to remember.
    Scar looked at the glowing numbers on his watch, it was almost four. He closed his book and rubbed his eyes, it was time he went to sleep. He placed the book on the small stand beside him and extinguished the candle with his thumb and forefinger.
    He sat back for a moment and closed his eyes, listening to the rain make it tap, tap, tapping sounds as it hit the window; then soon he heard the large wooden door to the cathedral open. It seemed that Scar’s cousin had just come back from his night of clubbing. While Scar spent his time reading his cousin spent his time in clubs dancing and finding women.
    Scar’s cousin, who went by the name of Lance Mitchell, but had gone through the centuries under the name of Renegade, was someone who humans would consider handsome and charming. These qualities had gotten him out of trouble many times when his excellent thieving skills got him into it.
    Two of the greats; their names engraved in the annals of Terra, were nothing now.
    He placed his hands on the arm rests and pushed himself to his feet and turned to make towards the door when he heard the scream of a female.
    “Sonya!” he said as he pulled the door to the vast library open violently and ran into the hallway.

    The female kneeled at the altar; the effigy of the Son of God crucified upon the cross was peering down at her as she prayed silently, as she did everyday, sometimes several times a day.
    She was young, late in her teens. Her hair was long and flowing, going down too her lower back, and blacker than pitch and accented her skin, which was a creamy white. To say she was beautiful was as if saying that water had a tendency to be wet. Too look upon her was as if seeing a piece of art as if done by one of the old masters, such as Michelangelo or Leonardo; it was otherworldly; celestial even.
    She lived here in the abandoned cathedral with her two uncles, Scar and Renegade. They weren’t her real uncles of course. They told her that her parents had been friends of theirs and they had left her with them when she was very young.
    Uncle Scar had told her that they loved her very much and wished they could be with her, but they couldn’t because bad people were after them and Uncle Scar and Uncle Renegade would be able to protect her until they could come back for her. But it had been sixteen years and there had been no word from them.
    But she wasn’t sad; Uncle Scar was always there for her and Uncle Renegade too; when he was home. God was always there to talk to as well. She had found Him when Father Finnegan had been here, the old caretaker of the cathedral. He used to tell her stories when she was little about Noah and the Ark, Jesus and his Twelve Disciples, Adam and Eve, Moses and his people, and many others from the Bible. He was always there to take care of her when Uncle Scar and Uncle Renegade had to work, but Father Finnegan died many years ago. But she was old enough now that she could take care of herself while Uncle Scar was working.
    Sonya heard the door to the cathedral open and quickly finished her prayer before opening her eyes, pools of perfect cerulean that sparkled as if the stars resided in them. She turned pushed herself to her feet and turned, quizzically looking to see who was entering the cathedral at the last hour, and saw a figure moving slowly towards her. The figure wore a hood over it’s head, so it’s face was impossible to make out.
    The figure took several steps before stumbling and fell against one of the pews that lined the walkway to the alter, grabbing at it to keep it’s balance. Sonya began to move forward, slowly at first, then the figure lost it’s grip on the pew and fell forward into the light, it’s hood falling back to reveal a shaggy mane of pitch black hair and an angular wolf-like face.
    “Ezekial!” She screamed as she ran forward.

    Scar ran down the hallway as fast as he could, moving with a speed few humans could match. He hit the large door that led to the cathedral’s sanctuary with a resounding crash and charged into the large room; a large double edge sword appearing in his left hand from seemingly nowhere.
    He gripped the sword’s hilt with both hands as he rapidly looked around. He quickly found Sonya kneeling down in the main aisle leading to the alter. Thinking her hurt, Scar swiftly moved to where he could see her better and found that she was kneeling over someone lying in the aisle.
    The sword vanished from Scar’s hand and he moved up to stand behind Sonya too get a better look. It was a boy, about seventeen or eighteen; not much older than Sonya. His hair was long and shaggy and darker than shadow. It framed his angular face that reminded Scar of a wolf. He wore a long dark blue, almost black, hooded coat. The coat was ripped and had several bullet holes in it along with a large amount of dried blood, which meant that the some of the blood must have dried before he had gone out into the rain. He was still alive, it was easy enough to tell from the boy’ ragged breathing.
    Scar knelt down behind Sonya, who was shaking and sobbing, and put one of his arms around her to try and comfort her. The boy’s name was Ezekial, Sonya had told him that much. She had told Scar that she had met him when she had gone out to the market and he had come around the cathedral a few times. Scar didn’t like him; he had seen him a few times at The Trench talking to the man called Bullit. But he was loath to tell Sonya she couldn’t see him; she had never had any friends growing up, save for Father Finnegan, and in this boy she had found one.
    So he had allowed it, but they were never together without him in the room. No, it was his task to protect her. She was special and the ones after her parents might just as well come after her if they found out about her existence. She wore thick robes when she went out and during the rare times that people came to the cathedral to hide herself from human eyes. She was now as well to shield herself from the cold.
    Scar squeezed her gently and spoke in a voice that defied his disfigured appearance, as he always did when speaking with her.
    “Can you heal him little one?” he asked her.
    She sniffled and nodded slightly, “I…I think so.”
    Scar let her go and she leaned forward and placed her hands on Ezekial’s chest and closed her eyes in concentration. Scar watched as a light began to glow from underneath her palms and slowly after a few minutes the boys breathing became regular.
    “You did it little one” Scar said softly.
    Sonya opened her eyes and gave him a tired smile. Doing things like this always took so much out of her.
    “Let’s take you up to bed”
    She opened her mouth as if she was about to protest but Scar gave her a stern look. “Don’t worry, he’ll sleep the rest of the night through and I’ll make sure he’s comfortable in one of the other rooms.”
    She conceded and Scar helped her to her feet and she turned and slowly walked from the room, heading towards her own room.
    Scar watched her go and then picked up the boy. He was starting to regret allowing this boy to be around Sonya. It was dangerous and the boy coming in covered in dry blood did not bode well.
    He and Ezekial would be having a talk when he awakened.