Note: Umm… I sorta fergot to add this in the first chapter… but Arexandreia is the capitol of Crescent, the planet on which this story takes place, and it is placed in the Fertile Crescent—a small crescent-moon-shaped section of the middle-eastern portion of Crescent where there are plants, birds, water, animals and life. The rest of the planet is barren wasteland. The planet is, by the way, very large. Darl Crescent is another major city, located just outside the Fertile Crescent. Also, Xiaô-lyän is the Black Mage Council's large city-state monastery spice-mine colony on Crescent, where mages-in-training go to receive either punishment from the Council, or enlightenment.

* Niimbaä – The planet fifth-closest to the sun in the Aczar V galaxy; the planet of One Continent housing the countries: the Forests of Shikaä, the Arafel, Celéne, Imperia (i.e. the Imperial City-States), Na'ärdôn, and the Black Desert; the planet where 'The Saga of Eruûne' takes place; where the black-mage-in-training was born and from.

** Free Crescent – Crescent, the planet sixth-closest to the sun in the Aczar V galaxy was called 'Free Crescent' after the War of Independence from the Galactic Order in 178 A.E.. Just in case you didn't read the story summary in Chapter I, there is a planet-wide event called the 'Festival of Mecha' that happens every year, remembering and celebrating Crescent's independence from the corrupt government that formerly ruled the trade and travel throughout the galaxy. However, this year (248 A.E.), the Festival is happening on the same day as the coronation ceremony for the new Empress of (Free) Crescent.

Journey Through the Sands to Meet Someone Special

II

Aariadûr looked down at the shackles locking his two dark, gloved hands together; two metal loops connected by a staggering red laser-light. Unlike on the Ancient World, these handcuffs weren't locked with a key, so there was no easy way to break out of them. He sat there, in the back of the small speeder, pouting and staring now accusingly at the tall young man piloting the craft. His captor sported a long, black trench coat with the mark of Dragon flashing on its back, and a black headband around his sand-colored hair. Aariadûr loathed him; he had only met him an hour or so ago, but their meeting had not gone over too well.

Turning around, he could see the Temple of a Thousand Years disappearing over the distant horizon. The tawny sand was endless, and it swept out in all directions. If he had stared up at the sky, he would have noticed how dark it was, how you could see the rainbow stars and moons, galaxies and planets glowing up there. The atmosphere was very weak around the Central Desert of Crescent, for it was where the Meteor fell through. It had never quite regenerated its self, and no one cared enough about the lifeless desert to do anything about it. The few people whom traveled to the Central Desert—all of which were coming to see the Temple—found the starscape-sky haunting, romantic, even beautiful.

But not Aariadûr. He didn't see it, and didn't care. He was a hostage now, to a mysterious man of the Arexandreia Royal Fleet, judging by the Medals of Seal he wore on the front of his pilot's-style trench-coat, whom claimed to be an 'old friend' of Aariadûr's; however long the elf tried to argue saying they had never met before.

Suddenly, a loud beeping interrupted the dark-elf's thoughts. Glancing over his tall captor's shoulder, Aariadûr noticed something blipping on the digital seismograph attached to the cruiser's control panel. A red flashing light in the shape of a long worm was coming at unbelievable speed towards the center dot—their cruiser—and all around them were hundreds of millions of kilometers of barren wasteland. Not a single space-port nor nomad-circle to be seen in the Central Desert. No one lived there, for it was too hectic having to wear an air mask that was especially designed to not only filter sand, but create a worth-while flow of oxygen. The atmosphere was too shallow around the Central Desert for one to be able to breathe on his own.

If Aariadûr hadn't his air-mask on—or his hands free so he could switch it to talk-mode—he would have told his captor to turn around and seek shelter from the on-coming Tswrang-Tûk (ts-rahng | took) in the Temple of a Thousand Years. That building was the only place for as far as the satellite-radar screen on the control panel read that was stable enough for them to hide in—for nothing, not even the vicious, three-hundred-meter-long armored-worm-like Tswrang-Tûk could breach its black-stone structure.

However, the Arexandreian (ah-RAY-hah-n-DRAY-ah-/-n) pilot had different plans.

As the black-mage-in-training dismounted the mercenary's sand-cruiser and stepped out onto the ground in front of the mercenary's headquarters, he felt a wave of nostalgia crest over him. He wondered why, for he had never once been to Crescent before. It was, in fact, his first time off his home-planet, and it had not ended well. Not only had he been separated from the rest of the black-mages-in-training, but his long, braided queue of hair had been cut off—signifying his turning traitor to the Council of Mages. This had happened by a mistake, and as he though back on it, it was a very stupid mistake. In a few short seconds, his whole life had been taken away from him.

Its not like he really liked the Council—truth to tell, he hated them and their system almost as much as he hated the mercenary—but he didn't want to have such a powerful assembly of mages against him. He knew that it was futile living life as an exile—hell, he had known that before even his coming to Crescent; that was why he'd traveled to study with the other immigrant mages at Xiaô-lyän, for he was an exile on his home-planet. But it seemed that Fate had determined that being a supposed outlaw was the only way of life for him. He'd been born into a whole society of exiles, and now he would be joining an assassin group of assorted banished refugees. This happy thought made him grimace even further.

"Dude, you're like lagging behind," the mercenary told him. "Until we get the Council's tracking mechanism off you, they'll be able to track you down. So, get yer ass over here, okay?"

He said nothing to this command, but silently followed the tall boy over to an ovular, white-metal door outlined by a black frame in the side of the white-metal structure. The mercenary pressed a number and letter combination on a rectangular control panel left of the door, and simultaneously, a holographic projection of a face appeared in front of them both.

The person in the hologram looked to be around the age of eleven, and he wore a reddish-brown cloak that concealed his face in shadows. In a young, statically-interfered voice, the hologram asked, "Please sate yer name and business here."

"You know who I am, you street-rat," the mercenary growled. "So just open the damn door!"

"Boss says we need to keep the name an' business objectives of each person who enters or exits the building in a log on this computer, which is directly linked to the main terminal computer that 'Daggar—"

"Cut the crap already!" he groaned. "Just lemme in! I brought back the 'mage from the Tenshi flight in from Niimbaä*', so OPEN THE DAMNED DOORS!"

"Sorry, but Boss says." The boy at the terminal shrugged. "I can't let ya in, Triball."

"Okay, have it your way, bastard," he grumbled, and then retorted, "My name is Triball Vidane Ornitier-Stryfe (tree-bull | vah-ee-day-n | or-nih-tee-er | strife), and I come to free this 'hostage' from the Council and make him part of this group. My blood-type is A positive, and my favorite food is—"

"Don't make fun a' me!" the boy shouted. "I'm just following orders!"

"Okay, okay, OKAY!" Triball, the mercenary, stated, banging his fist against the door. "So open it up already!"

The hologram fizzled out, and the doors slowly slid away. Grabbing onto the mage's hand, Triball dragged him inside the building. As soon as they both stepped on the ground, the metal door closed shut and was locked by a series of computer-controlled and programmed locks. The blonde, lanky mercenary-boy abruptly turned a corner and found the cloaked boy sitting at a small computer built onto a metal desk protruding from a wall. He grabbed the cloaked child, and held him by the collar up in the air.

"You don't wanna piss me off, Tsune (ts-oo-neh)," he smirked. "I can beat ya up any time."

"Put me down!" Tsune screamed. "I'll sick Eugene on you again!"

"I ain't afraid of no elf-scarecrow wizard-wannabe!" Triball laughed, thrusting Tsune down onto his chair beside the terminal. "'Specially no nerdy one!"

"Yeah, well he can cast that spell on you like he did last time," the boy rolled his eyes. "And you'd better be nice to me 'cause…" he pulled his hand out of its hidden position in his long, auburn sleeve, and held a black object. "'Cause I got yer wallet!"

"What the —?" Triball shouted, searching his pockets frantically. "When'd ya do that ya little runt?!"

Tsune just grinned, and held it between his fingers. "I made ma' life as a pick-pocket before yer group took me in, Triball. Don't underestimate me just 'cause I'm a kid."

"No shit, but…" this was Triball's turn to flash a know-it-all-smirk across his face, "The joke's on you—I've got no money in it!"

"Huh? Whatcha' doin' with a wallet with no dough?" the boy gaped, searching through the black wallet.

"Do you think I'm gettin' paid right now?" the tall boy asked. "I haven't done a job in months 'cause of this group. They haven't put me up on the lists, so I haven't been gettin' any clients, 'cause they want me full-time on this new stupid Mission."

The black mage stood there, watching the whole conversation, saying no words. He had no facial expression, and wished that he had nothing to do with both the pick-pocket and the mercenary. He wished that he and the rest of his crew from the ship the Tenshi had landed in Ecaspo IX—there were many other space-ports all around the planet; why not land in Arexandreia? Then they'd at least get some respect from the other citizens, unlike at a sleazy port-town.

The 'ports in Arexandreia were booked, he remembered. Same with Darl Crescent, and all the other major cities around the Fertile Crescent. All the high-class tourists and royalty from other planets wanted to stay in a nice town, not a space-port, so, hence it being the day before the Festival of Mecha, and the coronation ceremony of the tenth Empress of Free Crescent**. He sighed and tried to tell himself to think positively; he was going to be paid a damn fair amount for kidnapping the new Empress the next day. It wasn't as if he owed any patriotism towards Crescent, for it wasn't even his home-planet. Maybe he'd take the money and buy himself a ticket off the planet, maybe making his living on New Earth.

"Come on, dude," Triball once again gripped the former-mage-to-be's hand, and dragged him along through countless halls and passageways, all of white metal walls and black floors, occasionally pressing codes to open doors, or kicking down stacks of boxes to reveal hidden passageways. "You've gotta meet the gang."

He wanted to give the retort 'but I don't want to meet them, you fool. I want to get the hell outta' here!', but he repressed the urge and stayed silent. Half tripping over a stack of empty cargo boxes, he and the mercenary finally made it into a large common-room, buried deep within the labyrinth that was HQ.

"And here," Triball had been giving him a babbling tour of the place, though the mage hadn't given it thought enough to listen. "This is our common. Quite a hunking pile of junk, isn't it?"

The room, despite its large size, was cram-packed with old couches, tables, chairs, computer and television modules, telecommunication sets, holographic data-bases, books, boxes, trash and every other sort of space-junk that one could think of.

"Come on, have a seat on something and lets wait for the rest of the gang to come," Triball smiled, gesturing for the dark-skinned young man to do his bidding. "There's some couches around here somewhere…"

"Who is 'the gang'?"

"Ya talked!" the mercenary laughed, but then stopped, seeing the irritated glare on the mage's dark face. "Well, so-rry man, but like ya haven't said much at all. Anyway, there's… lessee… me, and yer there, and Tsune—that puny shrimp in the desert cloak who used to be a pick-pocket in Darl Crescent—um… 'Daggar, who's a cyber-hacker, Eugene, Rain—they're elven wizard-wannabes from your hell-hole-of-a-planet—and…"

"You want me to work with a bunch of random bastards you picked off the street?" the mage asked, aghast.

"Well, if that's how ya wanna put it, then… yeah, I guess." He shrugged vaguely, picking up a soda-can from the top of a wavering tower of junk and taking a reluctant sip to see if it was uncontaminated and drinkable.

"You can't possibly mean that you're putting me at the level of god-forsaken alien sludge, do you?"

"Well, the elf twins like to think that they're actually above that level—though one wears clothes stolen off a scarecrow, so that really doesn't help too much—and 'Daggar's actually sophisticated to some extent and—"

"Okay, that's it! I am so leaving this place!" he shouted, turning and preparing to walk away. Triball clicked a button on a control panel on the wall, and all of the doors out instantaneously shut. "You ain't goin' nowhere, buddy. Not after you've seen this place. Not to mention, you'd like so die out there in the wasteland—it's more than five hundred kilometers from here to Ecaspo IX, and what are you gonna do in that dump? I mean, even if you did, by some bizarre change, make it to that sleaze-hole, what would you do? Work in a strip-bar?"

"I'm not that desperate, you moronic space-bum," the mage rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in front of his chest. "I have connections, and I can always use my communicator to call someone—"

"Nuh-uh," the mercenary shook his head, his messy blonde hair falling in even more of an awry fashion. "You can't do that. The Council can track you even better through your com-lines, and you know it. Even I know that. All of your electronic gear is property of the Council, so they could like find you the instant you use it. It's like a bright shining light that points you out from halfway across the galaxy."

Saying nothing, the young man threw himself down on one of the junk-covered couches and sulked. Not only was his life ruined, but he was stuck having to live with it. And pretty soon, this group of vagabonds and whatnots would find out the real reason why he was being shipped off to Xiaô-lyän.

Note: Do you guys like this story so far? I'm sorry it's going so slowly… but I'm still figuring out what I should do with it… where I should end it and stuff like that, you know? Unlike 'The Saga of Eruûne', this story was not thoroughly planned out before I wrote it. I gave it thought, but not much thought, you know? ^-^;; Well anyway, it'll get more interesting, and the stupid notes, by-the-ways, and just-so-you-knows will go away, too. I just forgot to say some stuff about Crescent in the first chapter, so I had to explain mostly about the places in it… ^-^;; Whooo… So, could you review or something and tell me what you think? I really really REALLY want feedback on this story, because it's different than my others… sooo….Yeah…

Anyone pick up some of the minor parody aspects yet?