Changed it a bit, now its a prologue for the beggining of my story, also has different aspects.
Prologue:
A dragon flew in silence over the land, its mind seeking anyone who could help it, someone to pass along its lore to. To tell them of the coming peril.
‘Help me! For the peril arrives on this world’
The dragon flew on, passing empty cornfields, screaming again and again for anyone to hear him, for anyone to respond. Further and further he flew on until he passed a cornfield that was not so empty.
A young peasant worked his field that as his father had instructed, black locks of slightly curled hair covering his eyes and shadowing striking blue eyes, shining with a dulled and damaged intelligence, visible to none but the most perceptive of beings. The peasant worked, tending the corn and killing the bugs. His simple mind bored beyond comprehension, repeating a task he had done every day for five years, since he could lift the heavy rake and shovel. At first the faint voice, did not seem real, calling for help as it was. Glancing upwards into the sky, the boy saw something amazing. A great beast flew overhead, violet scales glinting in the sky. A great wound was visible to the peasant, and from it, a single drop of blood fell, splashing into the peasant’s eye. He screamed, and so did the beast, plummeting down. The peasant did not see, his pain unbearable, until the visions and memories of the dragon entered his mind.
…a mighty battle raged over an ancient canyon in the ancient home of those who rode dragons. Those who were supposedly the controllers and masters of the dragons. Two combatants were high in the air, locked in a deathly embrace, both fighting for their lives and the wills of their lords, both losing. The dragons bore saddles upon their backs, tied tightly to the armour that each dragon wore. The saddles were empty, clear proof that no-one could control such a mighty beast as a dragon. One dragon screeched in pain, a single violet scale falling below to land in the river at the base of the canyon. A deep rent was visible in the amazing beast’s indigo armour. The other dragon was crimson, deep, black armour covering its body. The violet dragon seemed to gain an upper hand, pain fuelled strength slashing a tear in the red dragon’s side, but then, a mistake. A terrible mistake. The mighty red paw, tipped with black talons arced in a powerful slashed towards the violet dragon’s weak belly, slashing deep and harsh. Another fierce roar lanced through the canyon, the red dragon bellowing triumph. The violet beast plummeted to the river below, red flying high.
‘It is done my lord, the last beast is dead, and the skies are mine.’
‘Good, Vilmarne, good.’
‘Dead, am I?’ The indigo-armoured dragon shot upwards, a violet blur of pain, despair, and retribution. Once again the beasts clashed, armour slamming together in a ringing cacophony of battle. The red dragon, was shocked, and reacted a second too slow. The violet dragon’s jaws snapped together, as if creating silencing in the wake of the crimson dragon’s death, it’s neck broken, red blood slowly trickly between the violet’s jaws...
The boy’s eyes opened again, the dragon’s memories within him forever. The boy leapt back, shocked. The violet dragon stood before him, blood congealed and crusted upon its stomach.
‘You boy, you have seen my memories, you know what happened.’ The dragon said, using its mind as a bridge between the boy and dragon to convey its message.
“H-how do you know?” the boy whispered, shaking.
‘Why boy! They are my memories!’
“Oh…”
‘Yes and not mention your eye is now the colour of my scales, and bears the tear drop of blood, a marking scar.’
“m-my, eye, is…purple?”
‘NO! It is not purple boy, it is violet.’
“Oh…”
‘Now listen boy, for my time is nearly over.’
“Ok…”
‘The world is at peril, there are no dragons left on this world, for I am the last. I have slain the one who was last before me, and now…I am leaving too.’ The dragon shifted its weight, the violet scales glinting dully, the congealed blood of its injury cracking open, more blood flowing freely. ‘The goblin hordes are nigh, soon they will attack your kingdom, and attack your king.’
“But what can I do?”
‘You are not a hero boy. This is not a childhood fairytale. You can do NOTHING!’
‘Now I die, in my place will be a stone. Take it and care for it, do not show it or tell anyone about it.’
“I understand…”
‘You will never understand, boy.’ The boy was shocked, and in his stupor he said nothing, the dragon breathed deeply, then simply drifted away, a small stone lying in its place. The boy picked it up, watching as it melted into his hand, leaving nothing more than a small, blue tinge on is skin. The boy ran, fleeing the field until he came to the river by his house, the waters clear and cool, sparkling softly. He sat quietly, alone with his thoughts.
‘Was that just a bad dream, or my imagination dreaming of excitement?’
‘There is nothing left, the smallest of colour upon my palm, might only be a bruise.’
‘Will I ever know?’
‘I guess not.’ The boy thought, his mind sinking into the river, letting it calm him and cool him, taking solace in the waters. He shifted, and a pebble fell into the river with a small splash, but the water hit his face and entered his eye.
‘My Eye!’ the boy thought, glancing down and staring at his reflection in the water. He saw that which glanced at him every morning, dull blue eyes, not a trace of the dragons passing.
‘It was just a dream?’ the thought was sad, and despairing. The boy turned and left the river, moving back to his house where his mother greeted him with fresh food and a hug, asking where he had been.
“By the river mother, nothing more.”
“Oh, well that’s good then; you are just in time for lunch and to help me clean the dishes.”
“Very well, mother.”
“What a good son you are.” She said fondly, ruffling his hair with a hand.
The afternoon passed, the boy helping with dishes before feeding the chickens and milking the cows, simple jobs for a simple boy. There could not possibly be anything exciting in his life…
The most annoying of roosters crowed its morning call, shouting twice, before its voice finally cracked and sent the pathetic bird into a flurry of annoyance, clawing and scratching its throat until eventually it decided that wasn’t going to work. By now, the rooster had made enough to noise to at least wake the dark haired boy from his slumber. Cutting of the dream that sent the boy’s mind into a whirlwind, he flew with dragons and then melted into the sea, flying high and swimming deep, tasting freedom.
A crack of light peeked into the bright blue eye of the peasant boy, slipping in past the barely opened lids and lashes to rouse the boy further from the abyss of sleep. A breeze blew through the open window, brushing aside the curtains and letting in the day. Getting out of bed, the peasant boy tugged on some worn and old trousers, their original white colour stained with dirt, animal crap and blood, died a deep reddy brown. The boy stooped low as he went to his draws, the sloping roof of the second-story attic only barely allowing for room to place the small chest of draws. Reaching inside, the boy pulled out a cotton shirt, hard and rough by badly made wool, stripped from the day-old carcass of a mutton sheep. The shirt was a faded blue, not yet stained by hard work, a rather decent shirt considering the fortunes of the small boy. He moved across the floor, the floorboards creaking softly under the weight of a barefooted boy, too poor to afford anything better. There was no door on the boy’s room, simply a wooden ladder with only half the safe amount of nails holding it up, yet another courtesy of Lady Luck. Swinging down onto the first rung with almost catlike grace, the boy leaped of backwards, arcing downwards, head flying first. The boy fell in the spear of his body past the second floor landing, deftly reaching up to catch the bottom of the safety rail and swing lightly into the kitchen. The boy grinned in ecstasy, rarely was he allowed to do that, especially not when his father was around. The boy darkened visibly, angry at the mention of his father, a small heat glowing in his tinged palm.
A woman peeked her head ‘round the corner of the stairwell, glancing at her small son cooking himself a breakfast of a single egg, a small scrap of bacon and a slice of butter less bread.
“Good morning son, sleep well?”
“Yes thank you mother, would you like something to eat?”
“No, son, eat up, we’re going to town today and I can’t afford to have you begging for food at every turn.” She said, eyes twinkling in mirth.
“Ok then, sure?”
“Yes, now eat!”
Breakfast was a silent affair, the boy’s mother sitting and looking out of the window, ribs poking through her gown, cheek bones stretching the skin tightly against her face. The boy ate quickly, downing the bread in few bites, but the meal doing little to ease the constant pain of hunger.
“There he is, the bloody oaf…” the woman muttered.
“Is he drunk mother?”
“Yes he is son, very…”
The door slammed open, crashing against the wooden wall, dislodging a precariously hung painting, which fell to the floor with a clang and a smash, the ceramic frame shattering into a thousand pieces.
“Stupid drunk fool, you drink away all our money and then come home and drunkenly break more, Idiot!”
“Don’t talk to me like that, woman!” the man crossed the room and slapped the boy’s mother, hard. She burst into tears and ran from the room, a purple smudge already blossoming on her cheek.
“I hate you! If I could change it, I would never have married you!”
“Stupid woman….”
“My mother is not stupid!” the boy shouted, his eyes flashing with unclouded fury, a heat growing on his palm and spreading up his arm, growing in heat and intensity, until it was a burning flame, concealed only by the flimsy barrier of skin.
“Even if she is not, you must be, stupid boy!” The drunken idiot took a looping, overhand swing at the boy, intending to knock him down and deliver brutal punishment. But the boy slipped aside, the blow sailing past his left ear and into the kitchen table. A sickening crunch accompanied the man’s screams of agony.
“I’m going to kill you boy…” the fool picked up a razor sharp carving knife, sharpened to barely an inch of width, but razor sharp and deadly.
“Please….don’t…..No!” the knife slashed down, the boy unmoving in the glint of the blade.
Snap.
The knife was broken, the blade and handle resting separate on the boy’s palm, shining bright violet and burning with heat. Shocked, the boy lifted up his hand and looked deeply into his palm, a single, violet eye reflected back at him in the shining sheen.
“Boy, you were my son, but no longer. Julyas, get out, you are my son no longer. No longer.” The man did not seem so drunk anymore, just cold and hard, a cruel and terrible man. Julyas ran out the door, the heat in his hand fading, tears streaking down his face. The grass was cool under his bare feet. The stone path racing next to him, the boy fled down the lane, out the white picket fence bordered on either side by forest. The road stretched on, a wide world of danger and uncertainty, the young boy barely fourteen and hardly mature thrust harshly into the open, unprepared and unequipped. The cobblestones were hard and Julyas’s knees and elbows were raw and bleeding by the time the crossroads came into sight. A great, ugly sign stood in the centre, the south reading Vladmir and Family Farm. To the east was the town that Julyas had visited as a child, west was yet another small village. North read ‘Wilderness, beware.’ The boy’s palm glinted, and he remembered his encounter with the most magical and mystical of beings. Julyas hardened, steel shining his eyes, the sweat and fear leaving him, standing straight and true Julyas strode forward into the world. North.
