Roswell Fanatics

HI mareli
Thanks for the feedback ... right now there is a lot of violence on Antar especially as they slide downhill into a period of chaos. One man in his desire to take the throne and destroy the dynasties of Thardan and Rath is fueling this hate. In the end, justice and righteousness will prevail but the road is long and hard. There is even hope for our pod people to have some peaceful times coming in the near future. Thanks to all for hanging in there.
s_e_r


Book 2: Section 3: Chapter 2: Part 1 of 3

The Past Returns: Book Two of the Chronicles of Antar
Section 3: Temple of the Shadow Moon
Chapter 2: The Prophecy Revealed
Timeline: Seven Years after Rath’s Birth
~ Contemplation ~


"Men judge generally more by the eye than by the hand, for everyone can see and few can feel. Every one sees what you appear to be, few really know what you are." The Prince by Niccolo Machiavelli

At this very moment, far up on one of the foothills adjacent to the Dandler Mountain range, a small Antarian boy, only seven years old, was lying naked upon a boulder, staring at the sky, wondering who he was, why he was, and what he was. In the distance, herders of those domestic animals, needed for food and clothing, could be heard calling for their property in the hot afternoon sun. Tymin closed his eyes looking up at the sun through his eyelids as reddish designs danced across in his sight. The weather was warm; a gentle breeze stirred the trees nearby, whispering ancient songs of past battles. Over his shoulder and down the small embankment a creek babbled on, contradicting the stories of the wind and instilling its own version of ancient lore. He wiggled his toes in the air and stretched his body, it was getting late and he would have to return soon to the temple. He took a deep breath, the fruit trees were flowering, their fragrance drifted over him, he cold stay here all day cradled on this boulder, letting the sun warm his body and soul.

Soon he was asleep, he dreamt of a palace encased in vines covered with thorns and a purple silver tipped flower, an ancient yet alien intrusion into their world. He was standing at the top of a tower, a bloody sword in his hand, the ground was full of blood and it was rising like a swollen river during flooding. Far away he heard an indistinguishable noise, faint at first, growing louder with each passing second, finally the noise became audible to the ears, it was the rhythmic metallic beating of a drum. His gaze pierced the fog, which covered the landscape, to see ancient warriors dressed in battle accruements, beating their spears on the chest, their armor shimmering in the sun. There were hundreds of them in perfect ceremonial formation, they were paying homage to their heroes, men that died in battle; they were magnificent, invincible, the ultimate army of a warrior King. Then one came floating up to Tymin, removed his crested helmet and bent one knee down in a salute. “We await your return.” When he looked up his eyes were not Antarian, they were not black or silver: they were a light brown in a sea of white.

Tymin screamed as he fell off the rock. He jumped up quickly looking all around, half expecting to see the ghost army at his feet. Instead what he saw was the sun was about to set; Tymin knew he would be late for dinner, and if that happened he would starve that night or would have to risk being punishment to steal some food later that night. He put on his clothes and ran down the hill, his legs were quick as he jumped over varmint holes, small boulders, and ruts in the ground. He was soon at the temple; ‘good no one as usual saw me’ thought Tymin, proud of the fact that no one had ever caught him sneaking in or out of the complex. He was invisible to their naked eye, when he wished to be, all you had to do was be quiet and watch.

Master Galawen watched the boy sneak back onto the temple grounds. His platinum blonde hair shimmered in the fading sun, as his lithe body jumped effortlessly over the retaining wall; he was like fluid water in his movements. His legs were strong for such a young child and his muscle coordination was incredible. His face was red from the heat of the sun, he knew Tymin had been up in the foothills, it was forbidden for students to leave the complex, but Master Galawen never punished him or scolded him for his quests. Something about the boy puzzled him, the child was unnaturally gifted, brilliant for his age, wise far beyond his years and naturally intuitive. Truly this one was blessed by the ancients, for what purpose Master Galawen did not know. Being an orphan there was little hope for a future, why the ancients would bless and curse this child at the same time was a great mystery.

As Tymin approached Master Galawen he flashed him one of winning smiles, his silver eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint.

“Tymin be quick. The dinner bell is about to be rung. You need to be sitting.” Master Galawen said in his gruffest voice, smiling “Now hurry along."

“Yes Master Galawen.”

Tymin just barely made it to his seat with the bell rang. The food was simple but hearty. There was bread and soup, with some type of fish being the main meat for this evening. There were always lots of fresh vegetables and fruits, and for a small treat the students that night received a roll filled with a sweet spicy paste that had to be made by the hands of the ancients themselves, it was heavenly. Tymin had finished and was leaving the dinning hall when he heard Master Galawen call out, “Tymin. Come walk with me.”

The pair walked down the blue steps to the mediation forest. There they followed a cobbled path to a crystal spring that is said to bring visions to those who seek and clarity to those confused. An old tin cup was kept on a rock next to the spring. Master Galawen held the cup up to the water as it gushed forth from a crack in a rock and dropped into a pool below. “Here drink of the ancient spring and tell me what your vision was up in the hills today.”

Tymin looked up at the old man and smirked, he knew he had been caught. However, Master Galawen was different; he would listen instead of hitting or punishing. “And how do you know, Master, that I had a vision,” said Tymin as he drank the offering.

“Because I can sense you. Your emotions are strong, too strong, they overflow your body and vibrate outwards for others to pick up on. For those whose minds are weak and not condition like those of a master, you will find that beneficial in the future when you want to install the feelings of terror, panic, fear, and hysteria in your enemy. On the other hand you will be a blessing for a wife or confidant, for that person will feel love, lust, passion, or rapture.” Master Galawen looked at the child, so small he was now, in his heart, he knew this one had a destiny, he prayed to the ancients that he would live long enough to see what Tymin would become; would he fall to the Shadows or the Dark Waters.

Tymin snorted at the thought of marrying an icky girl, he saw the female students, most were weak and worried about heir hair and makeup rather than their stances or techniques with a weapon. The thought of taking a confident did not appeal to him either, no man would be his equal, he knew he could best the greatest warriors in time, the only one that would be match would be a king.

“Are you going to tell me your vision?”

Tymin was fidgeting with the cup, rimming its edge with his thumb, looking down at the ground. “It was nothing Master Galawen. I was on top of a tower of some palace covered in purple flowers with thorns. I saw ancient warriors coming toward me, one came close; I saw into his eyes, they were light brown with white surrounding them. He said ‘We await your return’ and then I woke up. That is all just a delusion from the sun.” Tymin shrugged his shoulder and handed the cup back to Master Galawen.

‘Could he be the prophecy?’ Master Galawen wondered as he took the cup and watched the boy walk away. Tomorrow he himself would retreat to the old library, far up in the northern suites to see if Tymin was to be their savior.

magikhands: thanks so much for the support, you know how much your words mean to me.. s_e_r

Book 2: Section 3: Chapter 2: Part 2 of 3

The Past Returns: Book Two of the Chronicles of Antar
Section 3: Temple of the Shadow Moon
Chapter 2: The Prophecy Revealed
Timeline: Seven Years after Rath’s Birth
~ Beginnings ~

"From this it follows that all armed prophets have succeeded and all unarmed ones have failed; for in addition to what has already been said, people are by nature changeable." “The Prince” by Niccolo Machiavelli


The bronze hinges creaked incessantly as Master Galawen pulled open the heavy carved oak doors. The library was in reality a depository of books, papers, maps, anything and everything was dumped here, waiting time to be catalogued restored, cleaned; in a word archived.

Master Galawen was amazed at the amount of information stored in these rooms, volumes upon volumes lines shelves made of oak. A dozen or so cabinets contained paper, notes, letters of old, correspondence between Kings, soldiers, a child’s first poem to this mother. All that is Antar laid here in this archive, not the technological place one would expect to find but more tangible, for these pages held the thoughts, the souls; the words of an era gone by. The hopes, dreams, and hardships one endured was immortalized in those pages, in those volumes, in those words.

Much of the ancient literature and papers were still awaiting translation, that task was hard and tedious, work that needed to be done by the mind and hand of a skilled artisan not by powers or preprogrammed intelligence.

Master Galawen noted one book in particular on the shelves. He reached up and pulled the worn leather bound edition down and placed it on the transcribers table. It had been so long since he read the story of Antar. Sitting himself comfortably upon the stool, he cracked open the book, he listened to the pages rustle, as he began to read the beginning.

~~~~~~~~~~~~


<center> Antar original home of the Royal Family </center>

The world of Antar was savage, brutal in its landscape and in its people. Long decades of ecological abuse had scared and turned the rivers into silt deposits, jungles into barren wastelands, and productive farmlands into deserts. Water became a precious commodity to be bartered, sold as gold. Even in these harsh conditions, the people found a way to survive and yes even to thrive. Children were dying not only from the harsh conditions but also from the lack of imagination and self-determination that comes from a mind not forced to seek food and water for hours day after day. Children no longer grew aspiring to become heroes, true heroes that once championed the great causes of Antar. Living to see the next dawn has become more important than defending a defined set of religious or political beliefs. Virtue, honor, and righteousness have all been lost.

The people had begun to tire of the constant battle with nature and are forcing the King to seek elsewhere where life can begin anew and fresh. Technology was highly developed and led to the exploration of the outer rim planets. Surely, there had to be a more hospitable climate that would accommodate the massive refugee population. Ten years into the King’s search for a world has brought nothing but hopelessness. The army is in shambles, equipment and military weapons have all but been dissimulated for parts, fuel, or barter when the rare “black market” ships those that have accidentally slid into the planet’s gravitational field. Any type of commercial, agricultural, and manufacturing enterprises was nearly non-existent. The population has taken the worse hit. Where as once the planet boasted a population of 3 billion, now only a few hundred thousand are left alive. Small pockets surviving here or there like in deep in the mountainous regions, or near the remains of the polar ice caps where some water is still available, or even underground maze of tunnels and caves that permeate the planet’s inner core.

Optimism survives in a prophecy, for those who believe this, hope become an eternal constant. It is said that a hero, reminiscent of days gone by, would again be born to save his race from extinction. This savior would be born at night during a violent storm, whose like had never before been seen. Those that were caught outside during this storm would be found dead the next morning. For this one reason, thousands never ventured outside in the dark.

Then one-day, this violent storm came, quenching the dying planet’s thirst, aiding to heal the scars and open wounds. However, common people being simple in their beliefs were determined to find the messiah, rumors were rampant. Where was the messiah, the savior who was to come and deliver us from this eternal damnation? Every newborn child was heralded as the savior, many ripped from their parents’ hands by eager devotees only to have the child crushed or fall to its death.

The planet began to respond to the life giving waters. Vegetation began to return but the rivers and seas were now the color of crimson, of dried blood, as a reminder of the wounds that were created on her body. For four years, the planet slowly spasmed with birthing pains that rumbled the mountains and cracked open the sea floors. In addition, for four years the people activity sought out the savior. The priests began casting to the night skies seeking the child while animals were slaughtered and their internal organs examined to determine in what direction the child laid.

Then one day, a simple shepherd, who had lost a few dozen sheep during a crack of thunder, was scouring the mountainside, found the child, the savior. The news spread far and wide, within days the priest had arrived. It was near noon, yet the sky was still darkened, when the high priests climbed to the mouth of a cave that was partly concealed by a large boulder. Bull rushes covered the small opening to the cave in a haphazard manner. The occupants inside were not concealing themselves from an enemy but more likely the elements of natures, especially of the fierce gale that blew from the east right up the side of this mountain.

On entering the cave, the priests found themselves walking hunched over not to scrape their heads against the slime-covered ceiling. Irregular in size, the walls were covered in moss, spiders, and a variety of other forms of vermin. A woman was crouched in the back of the cave, huddled next to a small fire. Next to her on the driest piece of ground that could be found a small child lay fast asleep. The child was covered in a scrap of worn cloth that had once been a part of a noble woman’s dress. The woman's head was bent forward with her hands clasped behind her head. Her long, platinum hair was twisted and snarled beyond grooming, yet on the side there was a barrette of gold and silver with fire gems embedded. Her features, once beautiful, was marred by a deep wound, extending down the length of her cheek. Her clothes, or what remained of them, were tattered, stained, and blood soaked, intermixed with animal skins, yet a finely weaved cotton slip could be seen. She was mumbling to herself, incoherent to the priests yet it was evident she was moaning and chanting in the ancient tongue, the royal tongue.

The child scarcely four years of age showed all the peculiarities of his royal origin in his pale face. He shivered and trembled in his sleep, and at intervals would stretch forth his emaciated arms and whimper out for his mother’s love. A terrible nightmare must have grasped the child in his sleep for he began to moan and weep relentlessly. The woman was awakened from her trance by the child’s cries and bent over him, caressing his cheek and speaking softly in his ear. All her attempts to compose the child were in vain, he was unable to leave the dream plane. The wretched woman looked vacantly down on the young boy’s face unable to express any emotion and then slowly pressed her lips to the boy’s as she drew him away from that shadowy existence and back to the grim realty of their life. Her life essence had been drained; her eyes were fixed, gloomy, cold touch of silver; her lips were livid, devoid of any redness that made have once colored them; her body shook in spasms from years of abuse; yet through all the physically and emotional pain that this woman and child has suffered there was still the connection of hope that fills the cave with that one kiss.

This intense empathy was so strong that the priests dropped to their knees weeping for they had found the savior.

Taking her child in her arms, she advanced toward the priests who remained at her feet, humbling themselves before her.

"I am Hala" she said in a firm, calm voice "sister to Minerte, King of Kandahar. I have escaped from being a bound slave of the tyrant Kalrick. This is my child born during the violent rain that assisted in my escape. The rain that came down from the stars was in the form of Ramist who resided in the Bull of Heaven, the Bull of Life. The child is Atarh, conceived on that night of hail and brimstone, conceived from the stars above. Is my brother alive? Is he still King?"

This simple declaration had a profound affect upon the priests, who marveled at her ability to survive despite the horrid conditions. They knew of her capture from the western palace during a Tyrian raid. Her brother looked for her for months, attempting to follow trails that ran cold, one after the other. Finally, he admitted defeat and prayed his sister would find a quick death to put an end to her existence at the hands of a cruel and vicious enemy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Master Galawen sighed as he closed the heavy leather bound book. That was the beginning of Atarh, the beginning of what we were to become. His father was an alien, his natural powers were intensified because of that one drop of alien blood, Ramist from the Bull of the Heaven, the first people, those ancients who came, ageless, terrifying in their own drive for power, holding multitudes in servitude. They come from the outer rim, some seeing the good in creation stayed as helpers to the native people they found, other found joy and recreation in tormenting souls with stories of damnation and hatred. All feared them, and if it were not for a visitor who stayed thousands of years before Atarh, if it were not for him who went against the protocol of his race and took pity on the peaceful Antarian, for it was he who fashioned the granolith to protect Antar from annihilation, today would not exist for millions. The granolith, the one secret that even Atarh was unable to unlock its full potential. A weapon so mighty that keys to it’s existence, construction, and use were broken into five metal plates and hidden on five planets, those planets which this ancient visitor deeded as the time went on to be noble and just in their DNA structure, with great potential. One of those places is reputed to be on D’wath the Antar of old, another on the Antar of today, the remaining three scattered, unknown places, unknown galaxies, unknown worlds.

<center>THE PAST RTURNS

Book 2: Section 2: Chapter 3: Part 1 of 2

The Past Returns: Book Two of the Chronicles of Antar
Section 3: Temple of the Shadow Moon
Chapter 2: The Prophecy Revealed
Timeline: Ten Years after Rath’s Birth
~ Revelations ~ </center>


“Master Galawen”, the small voice was gentle yet firm in its quest to revive the master who appeared to be in deep concentration. “Master Galawen, you are needed. There are visitors at the bell.”

“What, oh yes, yes of course I will be there momentarily. Be sure the visitors are escorted to the reception area.” Master Galawen had been reading the legends again, a ritual he found himself doing more and more lately. He returned the book to the shelf; that book which contained the ancient prophecy of the savior

~~~~~

“Open the gates,” yelled Ballack, one of the older students, who already decided to becoming a full Shadow warrior and thus has taken on the duties assigned to him, one of which was the guardianship of the gate. Ballack stood back and waited as the iron and wood gates, emblazed with the symbolic hawk and serpent, open wide allowing in three men.

All three were dress as warriors; hoods covered their faces although a thin sliver of flesh was noticeable around the nose and eyes of the center man. He was tall, his shadowed form hid a powerfully built body.

“May I ask who has come to call upon us, Master?” inquired Ballack as he formally invited them in with a motion of his hand.

“Yes tell Master Galawen that Master Jalan is here to see him.” The voice was harsh, very stern in its delivery, almost metallic in quality.

“Of course please follow me to the reception are, replied Ballack as he motioned to a young student, whispering in his ear, to search out and bring Master Galawen to the visitors.

The three men followed silently as they were escorted to the visitor’s area, their feet sang a silent song along the blue stone path; it was if they were floating, no noise could be heard emitting from their boots. Ballack on the other hand sounded like a thundering beast about to commit rampage on some poor unsuspecting villagers. As they made their way through the maze of buildings, courtyards, and students Ballack watched these men very closely. They had to be very skilled in the arts as to be so silent and move so fluid like. Ballack sent a silent prayer upwards to the ancients asking that one day he too could move like that, stealth in his attacks, but for now at only 12, he had a long road ahead of him. He could not even envision being a master before 20 that was young, even among the Shadow Warriors, who begin training boys to fight as young as 7 in actual combat situations.

However, to be a Master, one had to become proficient in certain skills, and those took time to develop. As they passed by the Courtyard of Endurance, Ballack looked off to the side and saw Tymin in formation. He shook his head as he thought, ‘how could an orphan be so skilled at such a young age.’ It angered Ballack and many of the older male students, that this one called Tymin was a natural leader and warrior. Everything he attempted was done to perfection in far less time than one could imagine. He already could out maneuver the best student, and at only 7 that was a feat that would had acclaimed him recognition if he had a House that is. Without no House to call his own, no lineage, no name, Tymin would be of little use to the world, a servant forever in the Temple.

They finally stopped in front of a massive engraved wooden door, which upon opening there stood Master Galawen, smiling at those who had come to visit.

“Master Jalan we are pleased that you have honored us with your presence.” The Old Master bowed in respect to Jalan and ushered him into the center receiving room where sitting had been provided. “Please sit and refresh your souls and body.”

May the ancients bless and receive you into their abode Master Galawen.” Jalan bowed low to the older Master. “These are my companions Lethos and Nocoal.”

“How may the temple be of service to you and your companions, Master Jalan?”

“We seek nothing but refuge for a few days; rest for the body and for our souls.”

“Then you are most welcomed, Ballack here will show you to the guest quarters, and please feel free to wander the complex at will.”

“Thank you Master Galawen,” Master Jalan rose and bowed low again as he followed Ballack out

The next morning Master Jalan moved about the students always watchful for the one he needed to make his destiny come true. His eye caught a small boy, with long white hair, sitting in mediation at the temple steps, unlike the other boys his age that wiggled unceasingly, this one was immobile, solid as a sue. He watched the boy for hours that first day, he was perfect in his techniques, stances, and endurance, but who was he and could Jalan get control of this child.

“Deep in thought Master Jalan?”

“Jalan turned to see the old Master hovering over him.

“No just admiring the students in their abilities.” Jalan spoke his eyes slatted opened as he stared at Tymin.

“Yes, they are a fine group; a tremendous amount of skill is demonstrated by our young people.”

“Tell me Master Galawen, who is that boy sitting so still.” Jalan pointed in the direction.

“Him? That is Tymin. He came to us as an orphan, left on the temples gate, the blood of his birth still upon his body.” Master Galawen looked affectionately at the boy. “We have been raising him every since. A special one that is, the power in him is great, raw untapped. He will be a great warrior. It is unfortunate he has no house to claim, with all his potential and he will never raise above the rank of a servant outside these walls. Even among us, if he was to master the arts, he will still be looked down upon. It is a shame great talent that one.”

Later towards evening, Jalan made a point to cross paths with Tymin, by running directly into him. From that momentary brief encounter, Jalan felt the potential of the boy, by connecting with him, Jalan knew threw the ancient rites that he could raise his power levels even higher. He just needed access to the boy to perform the rites and connections that have been abolished, even by the Shadow warriors in recent decades. He knew Tymin had to be off the royal line, probably some bastard son with a mayum, it always made him wonder just who the father was. But the child was perfect, the only orphan at the temple. No family to interfere, no one to care about what happens to him.

“Have you found what you were seeking Master?” asked Lethos when Jalan returned to his room that night.

“Yes, I think I have found the perfect vehicle to carry forth our plans. Now we need to eliminate two stumbling blocks, one is Master Galawen; he is old and needs to die, soon. The other is the last of the Rath line, once Tellydine is dead, Zan will be crushed. We must be sure she is pregnant, I want him to feel the blow, to be haunted by this final death for eternity, well that is until his father and mother are slaughtered, by then he should be a puppet, right for the picking.”