(This chapter is a first draft. I'm confident enough with my work to upload it, but for some reason this chapter came to me with considerable difficulty. I'm uploading partly because I'd like opinions on whether it needs a rewrite, and perhaps some suggestions. It is only fair to my kind reviewers that I keep the quality of my work high, but I may, occasionally, need your help to do that.)

Chapter 3

The only light comes from a raised pedestal in the centre of the room. The small stone construction lowers again to form a hollowed out middle, in which a flame burns bright and high. Five creatures sit around the flame as it licks at the sides of a large egg, easily many times the size of a human. The deep red shell, with scorched streaks of black appears to be smooth, and creates its own eerie glow within the flames. Sounds of non-metallic tools striking stone echo faintly through the great hall of the ruined Castle, any distinguishing features lost to battle and time. The fire's glow, though strong does not reach the ceiling or walls. The inhabitants of the room, kneeling with taloned hands upon scaled knees lower their snouts to their chests, occasionally baring vicious teeth and huffing smoke into the firelight. Blazing red eyes are closed for now. This humanoid species of dragon has no wings, save a select few, who claim to be chosen by the Dark Primes. One such creature sits at the apparent 'head' of the group, wings arched high above his shoulders in a statuesque manner. To further indicate his status, the creature at full height stands about three to four feet taller than the average size of his species, at an even twelve feet. The room would be silent if not for the crackling of flames, and the faint sounds of construction outside. No creature dares disturb the psions, the highest members of Drakorian society as they meet. Within the confines of their minds, a conversation is taking place, the only recognizable 'voice' being the leader's.

"The reconstruction is going well."

"My clan has captured two more barbarian tribes, to add to the human workforce."


"Is the region secure?"



"We represent the largest clans."

"Others oppose us."

"They will not stand against our alliance."

"And when He comes."

"Rival clans are moving on us. He will not rise if they storm this place."

"We need not worry. They will join us or die."

"We must attack first! They will overrun us! No! The Dark Primes have blessed us. You are a fool. They will bless us when we prove our worth. Then let us do so by striking our enemies now, taking this land so it is ready for its master. Drakoria will be united in time. If we attack, we kill potential followers. When He is awakened, Wyrmmes will put aside this infighting, and we will unite but he will never wake if we do nothing to stop these attacks we must be patient you are wrong we must take the - "

"Enough!" The stronger voice silences the muddle of arguments, echoing through the minds of the other psions. Two of them raise a taloned hand to their foreheads, and wince. "We will coordinate a defense. Those who do not fall to their knees in the face of clans working together will when the Abomination rises. That is not why I called you here." For a while, there is silence. "Three days ago, He shared his dream with me, my brothers. Our sleeping Lord spoke of a prophecy, given by the Primes themselves. And then I found myself in the body of a human. A great battle was going on around me, and I was dying. A clash, between wrymme and human."

"Then Drakoria..."

"Drakoria will be ours." He continues. "The only threat we face is from those influenced by the Light. From Kasuria. A man forgiven by the Light will stand to oppose Him." A clamour sounds in the present minds, each of the other four voicing his protest, until one comes through strong.

"A mortal oppose a creature born of the Primes? What you speak is blasphemy! No mortal can stand up to the power of the Abomination! He is half Prime himself! That much was shown to all of us." A snarl sounds through the room.

By the time the others open their eyes, the winged wyrmme is already airborne. Before he has time to react, the one who spoke of blasphemy is forced backwards, arms and legs pinned to the ground. He can feel the sharp points of teeth threatening to break the scales upon his neck as a voice pounds inside his mind.

"You will not speak of blasphemy in my presence! This egg was shown to me in the fire mountains to the West. As we sit here, upon the plains of Goresh Mahoon in the shadow of His birthplace, given to us by the Dark Primes themselves you will not challenge me!" The sharp points begin to retreat, and the winged wyrmme returns to his place. "A human will stand before His might. But it was shown to me that he will fall. I felt his dying breath, before the end of the deciding battle between our two nations. He does not make his final blow."

"But that means..."

"My friends. No creature, wyrmme or man, will stand in our way. When the Abomination wakes, this world's fate is sealed."

The five walk into the daylight, and two men put their shoulders against the large doors, beginning to close them. The slaves wear naught but animal fur, wrapped around their wastes. They don't speak to each other. As the doors close, a large group of wyrmmes standing in ranks that face the psions drop to one knee and lower their heads in respect. As construction goes on overhead, and caravans come and go, loaded with raw materials from the mountains to the West, and forests to the North the winged wyrmme speaks. It is said that the voice of those gifted by the Primes, dark or light is not meant to be heard by men. Those that do not curl up, clutching their ears at the high pitched tones run to the walls enclosing the large courtyard and are struck by bone-pointed arrows. His followers rise, and the sound of seven hundred stamping feat brings a smile to all five leaders. The wyrmmes turn, shouldering their clubs and swords made from the bones of vanquished feral dragons. They jog away with a deep roar.