Generation One, Chapter One

This is basically summing up how Dratma became King, however I plan on going back and adding much more detail later. ...Is it too much backstory too soon?

       Blood splattered across the young werewolf's emotionless face as she cut through the seemingly endless amounts of soldiers. She recognized a single face within the enemies' clutter of armor. Normally, a human would not have noticed such a thing during war. However, her inhuman eyesight allowed her to quickly realize who this man was. An old friend of hers stood stone cold in the crowd, almost paralyzed by how powerful his childhood friend had become. There was unmistakable fear in the young man's emerald green eyes.

       Dratma just turned away. She had no reason to attack him until he attacked her (and by the looks of it, he barely had enough strength to stand). Her black hair barely came into his view as she walked away from her past, and welcomed a daring new future for the whole country. For the good of the people.

       Slowly, that memory became fuzzy, and a new one took its place. Her eyes opened to a dark cell, and she remembered the pain in her gut. A mixture of torment from the sword wound's lack of treatment, and starvation. Only now did she know the true meaning of 'torture'. She could only lay there against the wall, every breath bringing in a new wave of insatiable pain. Even the smallest of movements from the shackles around her ankles and wrists could set her off.

       Even now, that memory, too, became distant. Now, she was much better. She had gotten a small obsidian dagger from one of the jailers. He secretly worked for the rebellion. He tended to her wounds in secret, and nursed her back to health. She would later meet this guard again as an equal. But or now, she was using her rough, dirty hands to carve a small escape from her cell. After just a few minutes, for the dagger was truly a wonderful creation, she escaped through a large whole about the size of half of a doorway. As she took one last glance at her cell, she stepped outside and back into the fight. A few more steps, and her vision became hazy, as all the other memories.

       Now, she was within another rebel camp, teaching untrained medics how to properly treat wounds. Everyone thought that it was odd to see the leader of the rebellion treat the injured, let alone teach other medics. Eventually, she went back into the main tent to plan their next raid against the Legion. She stepped through the tent, and everything went dark around her as her eyes attempted to adjust to the dim lighting.

       However, a new scene appeared before her. A scene very familiar. It was extremely dark on the battlefield, but barely dim to a werewolf's eyes. Around her were pools of blood and shattered souls, which the new weapon in her hand was currently feeding upon. To come across one of the three legendary weapons was very good luck. Almost as if it were fate. However, the face that she saw in front of her displeased her greatly. The young man, with slowly dimming green eyes, blinked once and attempted to smile. The crystal sword plunged through his abdomen didn't seem to register into the man's memory. He slowly lifted his hand, stroking Dratma's cheek once with bloodied fingers. He was most likely remembering the Dratma of the past. The blood left a trail down her neck from when his body had gone limp. She wanted to cry, but she only felt a unrelenting ache where a normal being's heart should be. She quickly released the sword from the man's body, making sure to not allow his soul to be captured by its invisible snare. She at least wanted him to rest in peace.

       His body unceremoniously fell, Dratma catching the corpse just before it landed on the blood soaked ground beneath them. She suddenly had the urge to laugh. The inhumane ending of this battle somehow struck her as funny, since normally everyone expects at least a few final words like in the stories. However, all he did was smile at her as if he wasn't even in pain.

       The memory of his smile faded just like everything else. Another vivid memory came into play. She now sat on a throne, her formal wear now on. She wore the crown that all rulers had worn before her. Next to her was the last king's head- a human's, to be exact- on a pike to show to everyone who was the new rightful king. Although looking at the head disgusted her, she still wore a bored expression, and gazed upon the mass of werewolf and vampire rebels all cheering for her. She now had a new name- “Dratte ma Viberne”, or King of Death. Originally, her name had been “Dratte ma Sollus”, or King of Thieves. Her new title seemed more fitting. She smirked slightly, and forced herself to sit upright in front of what was now her kingdom.

       “Let us celebrate this victory in a more fitting way,” She said, loud enough to where everyone's attention turned to her. “Tonight,” she cried, “we feast!” A great roar erupted from the crowd, everyone joining in on the festival. Dratma got off of her throne, and placed the crown on the seat. She then joined the rest of her fellow soldiers as equals. There were no empty stomachs in the city walls that night. Every rebel was treated equally, and there was no such thing as a “servant” or a “master”. Well, almost every rebel.

       That scene slowly washed away as her mind fogged up throughout that night. And here she was, having a man who had been thrown in the prison at the end of the battle being dragged to her by some of the guards a few days later. He was beaten up badly, but definitely recognizable. This man was the jailer who had allowed her to escape. Slowly, rage built up in the pit of the King's stomach. Who had given the order to torture any prisoners? She ordered the two guards who dragged him in to leave, but they insisted on at least leaving on the bindings on his hands and feet. Only when they left did Dratma realize that her rescuer was a vampire. His crimson red eyes, however, refused to even glance upon her Majesty's face.

       Once they left, she got off of her throne and walked down to where the prisoner was. He refused to look her in the eyes, and instead decided to stare only at her brown fur boots.

       “Do you know who I am?” she asked calmly. She had war paint across her face, which had had not been visible when she had been imprisoned, so she was barely recognizable to him, even though he never dared to look at her face.

       “You are the King of Death,” he replied. Only now did Dratma notice that he had a strong and almost commanding voice, showing that he was not originally a jailor.

       “Do you know my original name?” she questioned.

       “No,” he answered.

       “I am Dratma Sollus, the King of Thieves, and the rebel prisoner that you let escape.”

       The man slightly shifted, looking away from her Majesty. Was he scared, nervous perhaps? At this point it didn't seem matter. What did matter to Dratma was the fact that she owed this man her life, and her kingdom. However, she was not willing to give up her throne for a measly jailor.

       She pulled out the obsidian dagger that stays hidden in her right boot, and pointed it directly at him. She had no intention of harming him, as there was no need.

       “And who are you?” she questioned.

       After a few seconds, the man replied, ”Who am I that the King of this realm should know my name? It only matters that my duty to her Majesty has been fulfilled, as I am now at your feet once again.”

       Dratma stared at the man, and then laughed aloud at his inquiry. So, he had been at the original meeting. Had he traveled all the way across the country to be a jailor? Just to let fellow rebels escape unnoticed? Or was he just trying to make amends with her for his indifferent attitude towards her months before in the jail? Whatever the reason, her Majesty found the whole situation ridiculous.

       “So,” the king inquired, “if I were to ask again for my rescuer's name, he would not give it even if commanded to do so? Does your loyalty stoop so low as to not do something as simple as give a name for recognition's sake?”

       The man flinched at her words, but quickly regained his composure (or what was left of it, as he was still on his knees staring at her boots).

       “No, your Majesty. I am known as Vosri Kodez, a mere noble's son,” the prisoner explained.

       Dratma expected more of an explanation, like how he had become a rebel and why he decided to work as an undercover jailor. But the man's silence told her that there was more questioning to do.

       Vosse ri Kodez, or Death's Blade. Dratma found the name similarities between his and hers very humorous. Does this mean that “Death” is an actual being? Or does it mean that this man, a noble, shall be her servant? At this point, it seemed to be the latter. He'd already proclaimed his loyalty aloud.

       “What made you become a rebel? Is it because you're a vampire?” she questioned.

He nodded his head in agreement. “Whenever my family was killed for being vampires, I was not killed because I was the one who turned them in. I knew that at some point we would be found out, and all of us would die. I just sped up the process, and escaped a terrible fate while doing so.”

       All respect that Dratma had for the man drained away at this statement. He deserved to rot in a jail cell. Then again, so did she. They both deserved to die or what they've done in their past. But fate always had a twisted way of keeping even the worst of villains alive.

       “Do you regret anything?” she asked.

       “No,” he replied.

       “You deserve the worst death that fate has in store for you.”

       “I know,” he answered. “but what happens to me no longer matters in my eyes. What matters is how this kingdom is governed, and how well you can do so on your own, your Majesty.”

       Dratma slowly lowered the blade to her side. There is no way that he only wanted to be loyal to her.

       There's always a hidden motive when it comes down to people like him, she concluded.

       “What exactly do you know about governing a city- no, an entire kingdom?” she questioned.

       “I am a noble's son,” he declared, “I was born and raised to govern. My whole childhood I had been taught how to persuade, cheat, govern in a way that would benefit everyone, but would still throw the odds in my favor.”

       He actually lifted his head up, daring to lock eyes with the King. As he did so, the King did a quick yet thorough examination of Vosri. There was no mistaking it. His bright ruby eyes definitely were those of a pureblood vampire. His skin was a pale light grey, but the darker outline around his eyes and the bloodstains on his lips were what really caught her attention. Even in this condition, he was still making an effort to serve her. The thought that this man was willing to risk life and limb for some heinous plot seemed foolish. Vosri, as far as she could tell, was no mere fool.

       “I have no reason to fight anymore. I don't even really like the thought that I have thousands of years ahead of me when I can't even stand one. When I heard about your rebellion, I knew this was my chance to redeem myself for all of the past mistakes that I've made. By being loyal to only you, it benefits both of us. I finally have a use again. A purpose,” he claimed, never once breaking eye contact with her Highness.

       “You want to serve me for a purpose?” she scoffed. “Then prove to me within three days that you are of use to me. If you don't do so within the time limit, you'll be thrown back into the streets.”

       “You aren't going to throw me back into the cell?” he asked ith genuine confusion.

        Smirking impishly, her Majesty replied, " Honestly, I'm not that cruel of a king."

Reviews

[Rich Weas]

The story is a lot of ink. Descriptions are good, however do not think that you have errored. It is good just try and cut the matterial down to the longest paragraph being five lines. You have a heck of a tale there, keep up the good work, you have done here.