Innocente, Book One of the Atokra Chronicles Options

[Darkom]

Atokra Chronicles
Book One: Innocente

Part One: Carcerato

Prologue
Sudemone, Kingdom of Sacropisa; 134 Kaieta Età, E.I.

The Agkel prisoner was dragged into the grand hall by chains. The bloody rags that covered her gaunt frame did not hide the dark purple of blossoming bruises, nor the long red gashes that crossed her pale body. Her thin face, swollen with bruises, was still held high. Her broken wings hung from a proud, straight back. Her pale blue eyes challenged each dignitary she passed to look upon what they had done, at the blood they had spilled. Each one dropped their gaze under the weight of that regal stare. Her feet were the only part of her not streaked with crimson, having been washed so she would not stain the king’s marble floors as she approached the throne.

Finally, the armored guards dragging the prisoner came to a stop, falling on one knee before the golden throne of the Lord of Sudemone. The splendidly dressed Vir sat rigidly in his throne, studying the bloody Agkel with a cold eye. His round face was turned upwards in a confident smile, his teeth bared like a wolf that has cornered its prey.

“So you have returned to my hall, heathen Agkel. Have you repented for your sins? The Sacrodeo forgives all peoples, even whores and traitors such as yourself.” The king leaned forward, his thick fingers gripping the golden arms of his throne, jeweled rings clinking in the silence of the hall. His expression was cold, but his eyes flickered with a dark glee; the pleasure before the kill.

The bloody Agkel looked up at him through the tangles of her frayed blonde hair with a defiant gaze. She straightened under the weight of her chains, fresh blood trickling from the scrapes the manacles left on her wrists. Her thin lips pursed in anger, but she said nothing.

“I am giving you a chance to redeem yourself, Agkel. I advise you take it.” The man glared down at the prisoner, his round face stern beneath his crown. The retainers lining the hall watched the scene quietly, the tension between the king and prisoner palpable. Their gaze flickered between the defiant Agkel and the scowling Vir; some held the prisoner with contempt, others merely with boredom. “Very well,” the Vir continued, settling back into his throne with his wolfish grin. “Bring in the boy.”

The Agkel’s defiant face did not change. Only her widening eyes revealed her horror. Two more armored Vir appeared at the great double doors at the front of the hall, flanking a small, blonde haired child. The boy stared ahead with eyes close to tears, latching at once to the bloodied visage of his mother. Only a thick iron collar round his neck kept him from running towards the Agkel, the other end of the chain held like a leash by one of the armored men. The guards led him into the center of the hall, the boy’s gray eyes meeting the mother’s blue ones, misery and fear shared by an unspoken bond.

“Now shall you admit your sin? Shall you admit the crimes you have committed, against your people and mine? Your husband is already repenting in the frozen pits of Nokenum, I am sure. If you are not careful, you and your son may join him. Do not fear, however; the Sacrodeo Kai is more than forgiving.” The king spread his pale hands to the vaulted ceiling, bowing his crowned head like a preacher. His thick lips twisted upwards in a malicious smile.

“Please, do not hurt him.” The Agkel turned to the king, her voice as regal as her stance; the only sign of her misery the tears welling beneath her pale eyes. “He has done nothing; he does not even know his father. There is nothing he can do to you now.”

The king winced at the mention of the boy’s father, but his menacing smile recovered quickly. His golden crown glittered against his dark hair as he shook his head. “That is not for me to decide, Mitaura. Only the Holy Patrikai can judge this- this thing.” The Vir’s face hardened as he regarded the child.

A tremor ran through Mitaura as the man spoke, her stately mask cracking. She glanced at the whimpering child- her child- and her back straightened once more, the broken wings shifting. “Please, Lord Balduino, I still hold some power with my people, with those that still fight the Latokra. Leave me my son, and I can help you. Help you fight the cretin who murdered his father.”

“It is the church’s place to decide what is to become of such a- such an abomination,” the king snapped. “I have no use for you, or your heathen allies. The Sacrodeo shall see your Latokra dead without your help, as surely as your late husband. Ligio, take the boy away; make sure he is ready for the journey to Erumii. Pray the Patrikai is merciful, Mitaura.”

A tall, stone faced Vir appeared at the king’s side, three golden flames of rank on his armored chest. The soldier bowed to the king silently before stepping towards the blonde haired child, his calm brown eyes well accustomed to obedience.

Mitaura’s outraged cries stopped the man in his tracks. “You shall take him nowhere! I have endured your tortures and your dungeons, but I refuse to endure your self-righteousness any longer! You preach the peace of Kai, yet you kill without mercy. Who are you to-“

“Silence!” the king roared, pulling himself to his feet before his throne, “You dare profane the Sacrodeo’s name with your heathen tongue? I shall do as the True Light commands me, and none shall question my judgment of His will!”

Mitaura’s pale face regarded the king with open malice, blood dripping onto the floor as she raised one slim finger to the king. “Then I curse you, Balduino, you and your so called gods. The Pystokra shall rise once more, and he shall smite your pathetic Patriaky. Kill me if you will, but I pray you shall live to see your god fall to ours.”

The king’s eyes blazed at Mitaura’s words. His round face was red with fury as he pointed one commanding finger at the Agkel. “Remove this blasphemer from my sight! Take her where her poisonous blood cannot stain my halls, and kill her!”

Mitaura’s two guards seized her roughly by her thin arms, scowling at the Agkel, and pulled her forcibly towards the door. The prisoner’s cold eyes remained on the king, spitting at the Vir as she was dragged away. Her spittle left a spray of red on the pale stone floors.

“Mana!” the young boy cried, straining against the stone faced Vir’s grip. His gray eyes streamed with fresh tears, his short arms outstretched towards his mother.

The Agkel turned her pale eyes towards her son, the icy blue softening to a deep azure. “Peace, child,” she smiled at the boy, soothing him in her native tongue, “It is your destiny to avenge your father. The Traignos would not let you die so easily as me, my son. My Edisi.”

“Mana,” the boy cried again, watching as his mother disappeared through the great double doors.

The tall Vir beside him placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder, his deep brown eyes troubled. “It-it’ll be okay. I promise.”

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Hello everyone! I know it's not really Tes fan fiction, but I just thought I'd share my current story with everyone here at Chorrol. Some of you may know me, but for those of you that don't (the majority, I'm certain), I frequent BGSF, as well as some other writing forums. I've been wanting to join here for quite a while, but never had the time. Now, however, I plan on coming regularly, both with updates on this story and, hopefully, some good reviews for other member's works. Thank you all so much for reading, any and all criticism is very much appreciated.


EDIT: Changed up the king's responses a little bit. Hopefully he'll come off as more of a jerk now, who is simply toying with Mitaura.

This post has been edited by Darkom: Jul 14 2011, 05:28 PM

[Darkom]

Chapter One

The Montascan Creed; First Chant

“We believe in the one Sacrodeo: Kai, the True Light of the Santofia, maker of Aythur and Tare, and the Savior of all things, seen and unseen. We believe in the first Deo, Morikai, Creator of the Vir and Mother of all Faithful. We believe in the second Deo, Lybikai, Father of the Righteous and Master of the Meditagia.”

Erumii, Stati Patrikai; 18 Kalijeru, 143 Kaieta Età, E.I.

“A coin, boy? A coin for a lost one?” The old beggar reached out towards the young boy, his grimy hands shaking. The Vir sat against a white-stone city wall; his clothes little more than stained rags, barely covering his sickly frame. A steady stream of brightly clothed people bustled about behind the boy, a light crowd for mid-afternoon in the forum.

The blonde haired boy looked down at the beggar pitiably, frowning at the white glaze of his unseeing eyes. The boy reached into a wide red sash at his waist- bright against his pure white robes- and pulled out a single silver coin. The beggar still held out his trembling hands expectantly, a hopeful smile hiding behind his unruly silver-white beard.

“Blessings of Kai be upon you,” the boy bowed his head as he handed the beggar the coin,
the golden Hypario round his neck shining in the last orange rays of sunlight. His thin, pointed face was softened by wide gray eyes, barely visible beneath a mess of dark blonde hair. His features still held the open innocence of youth, his smooth cheeks only blemished by the beginnings of acne.

“Grazie! Grazie, my boy!” The blind beggar cried fervently, pressing his dirt streaked hands together in thanks. The boy smiled as he stepped away from the old man, white robes swishing as he moved to rejoin the open square that was the Anthemian Forum. The sun was setting behind the tall white walls surrounding the city, the buildings surrounding the forum casting long shadows on the people below. The last rays of sunlight streaked the sky with orange, casting the clouds between a rosy pink and burnt gold.

The boy had nearly reached the tall stone statue at the center of the square when a rough hand turned him around. His gray eyes met the foggy whites of the beggar. “You are the one,” he whispered, unseeing eyes wide with disbelief, “The one to bring the very gods to their knees.”

The blonde boy struggled against the beggar’s grip, but the old Vir’s withered hands clamped like iron against the boy’s slim, bony shoulders. His thin face formed a mask of terror as the beggar continued, “Yes, I am sure, it is you! You are the one to complete the final cycle, to fulfill the Profiteia, as it was foretold!” Spittle flew from the old man’s lips as he spoke, catching in his unruly beard, some of it hitting the boy’s face. “The true Atokra shall rise- to command the people against those that would profane that name! Your mother shall be avenged, your father freed, and you shall fulfill your destiny!”

‘Someone save me!’ the boy thought, turning helplessly to the people passing by. Few so much as glanced at him, hurrying across the edges of the forum, fear plain on their faces. Even the street vendors stopped hawking their wares, shuffling behind their stands with their heads down. Erumii was not the grand city it once was; the people simply scurried past, not wanting anything to do with something that might bring the Sentinella. Not with the Patrikai’s justice hanging on their swords.

The blind Vir drew the boy close, his rancid breath washing over the blonde boy’s face. “Break away from their chains, boy, before it is too late. The Patriaky’s gods must fall, so the Santofia may burn again in this world!”

“Let go of me!” The boy shoved the blind beggar away, his eyes close to tears. The beggar fell back, grimacing at the boy’s words. The boy backed away from the Vir, but did not run. “What did you mean, avenge my mother?”

A smile tugged at the old man’s lips, wrinkles creasing along his dirt streaked face. “Spread your wings, boy; they are still there, even if you cannot see them.”

“What do you mean?” The boy practically whispered back, confusion mingling with the fear on his face. Before the blind Vir could respond, though, a gauntleted hand grasped his shoulder, yanking him roughly backwards.

“Screaming at children, beggar? The Sacrodeo shall teach you better.” The white cloak of the Sentinella marked the guard as surely as the golden flame on his breastplate, glaring at the old man through his polished basinet. Behind him stood two more armored Vir, faces even harder than the steel they wore at their hips. The pair seized the beggar roughly by the shoulders, dragging him off for the Cattedrale’s dungeons.

“Break your chains boy!” The blind Vir shouted back, struggling uselessly against the Sentinellas’ grip, “Break them before they bind too tightly, before they crush you! You are the one! You-” The beggar slumped into silence as one of the guards struck him with an armored hand.

‘My chains…’ The boy shuddered, watching the golden flames of the Sentinella’s cloaks disappear into the maze of city streets. People began streaming past once more, giving the boy- and the white cloaked guard that stood by him- plenty of berth.

“Are you alright?” the officer asked, calmly if not that kindly. The boy nodded, wiping his eyes with one long white sleeve. “Do not worry about him, my boy; mad beggars spout prophecy as often as not these days. We shall take care of him- the Investigators shall soon show him the Mercy of Kai.”

The boy nodded again, his white robe stained with grime where the beggar had held him. His soft gray eyes stared up at the guard, wide with lingering fear. The guard’s face dropped, flickering to a frown of annoyance before hardening to indifference once more. “What is your name, boy?”

“D-Donatello, signore, Donatello Dovere,” the boy stammered. “I-I’m a student at the Holy Ordine.”

The Sentinella nodded, looking past the straight rows of square-cut stone buildings, up at the white dome of the Cattedrale Sancrale in the distance. “Would you like me to escort you back to the Ordine, Donatello?”

Before the boy could answer, a worried voice called out through the crowd, “Don! Donatello!” The owner of the voice ran towards the boy, his white robes flapping out behind him, the golden Hypario at his neck bouncing wildly. The Vir’s robes were a mirror of Don’s, save for a wide red stripe running from collar to hem down the center of his chest, and a snowy white zucchetto skullcap surrounded by tufts of silvery hair atop the priest’s head. “Don, what’s going on?”

“The boy was being accosted by a beggar, good priest.” The guard cut in before Don could answer. “We have dealt with the matter; the filth shall be punished accordingly.”

The balding man looked up at the guard suspiciously, putting a protective hand on Donatello’s shoulder as he spoke, “It is good to see the Sentinella doing their duty, signor. May Kai bless you in your work.” The monk gazed kindly down at Don, his eyes twinkling beneath bushy white brows. “Now, if you do not mind, I shall personally see him back to the Ordine. I am the one meant to watch over him, after all. Thank you again for the help, signore, the Santofia illuminate you.”

The Sentinella nodded, saluting the two robed Vir before he left, walking briskly off in the direction of his two companions. The great forum’s crowd swallowed him as quickly as it had the unconscious beggar, the golden flame of the Santofia rippling on his cloak as he passed the thick marble columns of the Valerian Basilica and down the wide Erumii street.

“Are you alright, Don? Did that beggar hurt you?” The old Vir knelt down beside Don, one wrinkled hand on the boy’s white-robed shoulder.

“No, Father Raniero, he just frightened me is all.” Don’s gray eyes traced the smooth cobblestones of the forum, his thin lips quivering. He did not mention the beggar’s frantic words, words that would certainly give the infamous Investigators yet another reason to harm the old man. The boy marked the triangle of the Santofia on himself, tapping his forehead and shoulders, praying for the blind beggar’s safety.

“Well, everything will be alright now, Don. You are lucky the Sentinella arrived when they did; who knows what such mad Vir will do? They would dance for the Noke if they thought it would earn them a coin.” The old Vir stood, smoothing down his robes with both withered hands, a reassuring smile wrinkling his tanned face.

Don nodded, his uneasy smile not quite reaching his worried gray eyes, half covered by his wild blonde hair. The older Vir put one white robed arm around the boy’s shoulder, leading him briskly through the lively forum. “Come, we shall see if we can convince the cooks to leave an extra tart unattended in the kitchens.”

The boy’s small white teeth flashed as he laughed; letting the priest lead him back in the direction of the white domed Cattedrale, past the towering statue in the center of the forum. The grim stone eyes of Lucius Populius, the last of the great Erue Secundi, followed the pair of robed Vir across the square, the golden flames of the Sacrofia in his stone hand glittering in the sunset.


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Thanks to everyone for continuing to read my humble little story, I really appreciate you all taking the time to do so. As always, criticism is highly encouraged, I'd love to hear what everyone thinks.