Introduction
As you all know, the previous stories that I have written have taken place during the second coming of the evil Dragon Warg. He had escaped from his stone prison in the heights of the Copper Mountains. All this was from the failing magic of a certain tree in the depths of the subterranean city of Dark Elves. But this story does not take place then. Oh, it starts when the Dragon Warg was created, created from revenge, evil and madness. This story takes place five hundred years before the onslaught upon the Gremlins. This story starks back in the swampland of Steamspit, where the foul and uncivilized tribes of Argonians lurk. This is the the beginning of the Dragon Warg, how he was to become the Dragon Warg, and his yoke of oppression upon nearly all of the other countries. This is how it begins.
Jarnal Ra, the third son of the infamous Ra family, stared into the fetid waters of the Blackenshire, the dark and poisoned pond of which he was abandoned by his father, where he was left to fend for himself. It had happened some hours back. His father had taken him along in his crude raft, hoping to catch fish. But he had not intended to catch fish. He had intended to be rid of the nuisance of which was his son, Jarnal. His father was a crooked man, and he had never liked Jarnal from the start. It was because his father had hoped for a daughter, and when he found a that Jarnal was a son, he was not pleased. He brutally decapitated Jarnal’s birth mother, and abused Jarnal countless times. He ignored Jarnal and he disrespected him. He barely gave Jarnal enough food so he wouldn’t starve. Jarnal’s house was not the same one as his father’s, for his father made him sleep in a rotten and termite eaten shack near his father’s house. The Argonians’ lifestyle was living a life of survival, barely having enough food to eat, and having to struggle with keeping their shelter. The only thing that Jarnal had ever wanted was to please his father, but that never happened. His father was always trying to find a way to be rid of his, what he thought, a pestilence of a son. When the day came that he had taken his son along to go fishing, he saw his opportunity. He waited until the raft had drifted into the forbidden waters of the Blackenshire, where he flung his son off the raft. Jarnal’s father quickly grabbed the oar and paddled away, leaving Jarnal, hoping for him to drown or get poisoned. But luckily, before Jarnal could drown, or get poisoned, he found a large cedar log that floated along in the pond. He immediately grabbed hold of it, hauling himself onto the top, to stay clear of the water the could infect his skin. When the log finally floated near some land, Jarnal used his hands as an oar to push the log closer to it. When the log had been close enough to the land, he hopped off from the log, and tried to go for help. He ran along the bank of the dank waters of the fetid pond, trying to find an Argonian camped near the shore. But there was no one. After he ran hopelessly up and down the shore for countless times, he tripped over a piece of deadwood and fell face first on the hard ground, breaking his wrist in the process. He jerked upright into a sitting position and gripped his arm in pain. He screamed against the agonizing pain that was tearing at him like a lion. When he took a look at his wrist, he found that it was soaked in blood, and that his wrist bone was sticking out. He screamed louder this time, almost straining his voice. He lay in the same fetal position, screaming and whimpering for another half hour. He finally realized what he had to do. He had learned a remedy from an old Healer back in his village. His father had called them crooked half-crazed madmen, but Jarnal still liked them. Jarnal had to pop the bone back into place, dress the wound, and make a splint. He winced at the idea, but knew it had to be done. He found a twig to bite on, and put his left hand forward. He gripped his wrist, and then began to push. He screamed a muffled scream, for the twig gave him something to clamp his jaws onto. After fifteen agonizing seconds, he had heard the crack that his bone was back in place, but once again he screamed that muffled cry. He waited for a time, until he finally decided to dress the wound. With his free hand, he grabbed hold of a loose piece on his tunic, and tore it off. He wrapped it around his right arm, and knotted it with his teeth. Once again he cried a yelp of pain. Then he to stand up, and winced trying to pull himself forward. He successfully stood up, and then he began to look for the right size branch to construct a splint. He walked around for some time, clutching his arm with his left hand, when finally, he found the right branch. But before he picked it up, he grabbed four strands of palm from a palm tree. He grabbed hold of the branch and gently laid it down on his arm. He pulled forth the strands of palm he had collected, and wrapped them around the branch, once again securing the knots with his teeth. He watched as the black waters from the pond turned pitch, the night swallowing up every square inch of light that was visible. He found a large stone on the ground, wanting to smash the dagger on it to test its durability. He crouched down and began to hack like a madman upon the stone. But the dagger wasn’t the one who was chipped. There, where he had hacked, lay a big split through the middle. He couldn’t believe it! “I see you’ve found my dagger,” a voice said from behind the reeds.Jarnal fell back in surprise, luckily landing on his back. A Dark Elf appeared from out of the reeds, as gnarled as an oak tree. “W-who are you?” Jarnal asked shakily. “You’ll figure out in time,” the Dark Elf said. “I’ve been expecting you, young one. Ever since you were born I sensed a strong feeling of evil. And when time came, your devious father dropped you off here. It’s almost as if you were sent here by miracle. Yes, it was your destiny to come here.” Jarnal looked at him puzzled. “But how was it that you knew I could come here?”
“I have my ways,little one,” the Elf replied. “And just the way you acted, I knew you to be a great warrior. After all, you learn from the best. And your father showed you how to be brutal.” The Dark Elf scowled. Jarnal was angry now. “I’ve heard enough!” Jarnal lunged at the Elf, dagger in hand, ready to stab. Before he could jab into the Elf’s abdomen, the Elf caught him, with surprising strength, by the forearm. “Now,now little one. Let’s not get hasty,” the Elf whispered. The elf’s arms were coated with scales, and the palms were extremely rough. “Now this is the price you pay, Argonian!” The Elf grabbed hold of the index finger on Jarnal’s left hand on the tip, and began to crush it. Many of you might know this as the Wuxi Finger Hold. “Aaahh!” Jarnal began to scream. The elf released his iron grip from Jarnal’s finger, and flung him back. “There is much to learn to try to attack me, young one. I can, and shall, teach you all of the methods you will need to know to be a a worthy warrior.” Jarnal looked at his finger, finding surprisingly that it wasn’t broken. “That is one method, young one. Inflict pain without causing serious damage. You will learn that when the time comes.” The Dark Elf walked off toward a large patch of reeds, and they somehow opened up to him. “Come, young one. I can treat that arm of yours with some remedies I learned. Its in pretty bad shape.” Jarnal got back up and began to follow him.
Slosh…..Slosh…..Slosh….. The boat steadily made its way to the small dock on the shore of the Pond of Argonia. The small village lay on the outskirts of the large tribe of Rockrons in Steamspit. Jarnal’s father, Gentor Ra, exited the boat, and waded to shore, tying the rope attached to the boat to a wooden pole. He approached his small cottage on the edge of the bank, glad of the riddance of Jarnal. “You!” the old priest said as he approached Gentor. “You return with no son. I have seen this in my visions. Dark times are upon us. The land will be plagued! Death upon all of the Rockrons! The valley remains safe no more! Death upon Steamspit, for a Holocaust is coming! But you will pay the most.” Gentor smirked at him. “You are a fool and a liar! Now return to your hole, hermit!” he snapped. “Death and plague! The Gods will smite us! Save yourselves!” the priest yelled. “Humph! Foolish old man. He knows nothing!” But the priest knew all along that he had prophesied correct.
5 years later…
Jarnal sliced at the tree with his broadsword, hacking it in two. He jumped at the dummy made of straw and burlap and ripped off its head with one hand. he swung his leg in the air, just barely missing his master’s face. He ran up an oak tree, not using his hands, getting to the highest branch. He did a back flip off of the branch, and landed right beside a buck deer, embedding his short sword in its neck, stabbing too fast for it to react. He immediately ripped it out from its neck, wiping off the blood. The deer looked at him for a split second, then toppled over, completely lifeless. “Excellent, young one. Your task of retrieving the venison is complete, all done in your training exercise.” Jarnal looked up from the steel helmet he had stolen two years ago, and sheathed his sword. “Thank you, master. But there is still something to be done that you promised two days before. After five long years, I still have not learned your actual name. I have called you Master for so long, not knowing.” The Wood Elf looked over at him, confused. “Oh yes, I have nearly forgot. Come, young one, for my body is growing weak. Hack!” The Elf led Jarnal back to the hut where he had first taken Jarnal to heal his arm, which was so long ago. The Elf walked himself over to a large chair made from the hides of animals, which was stuffed with wool. He sat himself down, and Jarnal stood beside him. “Kneel.” Jarnal obeyed. “It has been so long since I have told anyone my name. The last time it was with my old apprentice, who has been long dead. Jarnal looked confused. “Then how is it that you are still alive after he is dead?” he asked. “Well, I have been keeping this from you or too long.” He paused and took a breath. “I am immortal.” Jarnal looked at him, shocked. “So, you were never a farmer who studied combat,” Jarnal said. “No, I just told you that so you wouldn’t think bad of me. I am really the spawn of Satan, born to wreak havoc upon the land, not stopping until it is done. But I could not without the help of an apprentice. Many apprentices have tried; all failed though, young one. Ever since the time of the Ackleis, when all of the races lived in peace, I have been searching, each time being unsuccessful. But you, now that you have come into the picture, you are my only oppurtunity for global domination!” Jarnal still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “My real name, however, is Dekrach, Son of Satan. There, I have told you.” Jarnal stood still for half an hour, mulling on the idea that his master had always told him a lie, just for him to be his apprentice. “But you are still not ready,” Dekrach broke the silence. “What must I do, Dekrach?”
…to be continued
