From birth, she had been destined to die. The sweet slumber
of death by old age was never in her fate. On the contrary, the universe had
designed for her such a painful and disastrous end that her story would be told
for ages to come. Worse than such a fate, was that even in her fame, her
identity would forever be lost.
Adriele was a witch, in simplest terms. Her craft was
wielding the magic of old, mastering the elements and serving those who lived
under her care. Witches have long been known for their evil acts and black
hearts, but few were aware that all witches were not so. Those of the
Moonshadow order swore themselves to the protection of human kind and the natural
balance of the world. They lived and died by this creed, though few would ever
know of their deeds.
Perhaps you recall the evil witch from the tale of Hansel
and Gretel? The awful woman, sick in
mind, who would lure innocents to her home only to devour them. She was a
sister of the Moonshadow order. The part of the tale that is never told is that
only magical creatures with evil intent were able to find her home. The
so-called beloved children were no less than demons, wearing the convenient
guise of innocent children. They managed to overpower her and by the time we
responded to her call for help, there was little left of her. And now, humans
have told the tale again and again of the evil, child eating witch.
It was to such a life that Adriele had been called. From
birth she had been molded and trained, taught and tested until she was deemed
ready to accept her assignment. A castle nestled in the heights of a mountain
would become her new home. Her charge, a wild demoness, a child of the Dracula.
The creature had been born and placed in the home of a king, and was destined
to become the ruler of a nation, and would have grown to do so had the order
not stepped in. She had been magicked by the prick of her finger and sent into
a deep sleep. Now, Adriele was to prevent her escape while simultaneously
warding of the advances of adventurous knights looking to make for themselves a
name and a wife.
The task would not be easy, but it was hers nonetheless.
_____________________________________
“Death! Death! Death! Death!”
The roar of the crowd shook the stage, making the silver
blade vibrate in time against its victim’s neck. Black eyes traced a long,
slim, marble column up and up until they rested upon the leather-clad figure of
a young man. He nodded. The sword flashed. A head, newly separated from its
body, rolled across the stage, staining its whiteness like a gory finger painting.
The stadium shook as the fans stomped their feet in
terrifying accord, marking the overwhelming approval of the execution. For that
was what it had been. Everyone knew the fight would be uneven. Cercaida and her
Mover, Hinrik, were undefeated. But the crowd wanted blood, and so it would be.
The sport of Moving had become a planet wide phenomenon over
the last forty years. There was the Mover, often young men and women of noble
birth who demonstrated superior physical ability, and the Surros. The surros,
short for surrogate body, often possessed tremendous athleticism, but they had
descended from the Insignificants. To be chosen as a Surro was a great honor,
and provided one of the few opportunities to escape from the living death in
which the Insignificants dwelled. Once selected, they were cultivated with
supplements, enhancements and all manner of experimental procedures until they
were a nearly unstoppable force. Of course, to leave such a force untamed would
lead to the downfall of society. And so they were mentally linked with their
Mover. In the tournaments, the two would work in sync. A deadly combination of
puppet and master, working in dance-like combat to destroy their opponent. Hinrik and his Surro were prime examples of a
team at the height of their performance.
Five men in heavy armor moved out onto the stage. One broke
off to take care of the still twitching remains of the defeated Surro. The
other four advanced slowly towards Cercaida, who stood like a stone monument,
unwilling and unable to move without her Mover’s command. The four men
surrounded her, too experienced to drop their guard when a Surro may turn
renegade at any moment. Once the men were within reach, one gloved hand
stretched out a brushed a tattoo that adorned the base of her neck. Instantly,
her body folded in on itself as though she had been filled with little more
than air. She blinked, in blank acceptance, until the world around her faded
into nothing.
