Legends of Belariath
Dowjin Qui
Those that grew close to him, eventually learned more about the Drak than he even knew about himself. Behind the jovial mask of smiles and nods, behind the stalwart warrior that quested hard towards righteousness, lay a man beset by the ghosts of his own creation. His mind held a plethora of memories not his. He'd divulge them to a select few, showing his more vulnerable psyche, telling them all that troubled him... Well, the memories were his, but only his so long as he stood in the shoes of another. This dream, his dream, was as terrible as it was great. And he could not escape it; every night he was reminded of his birthing.
A sky darkened by smoke, the byproduct of raging fires that swept across the plains and villages dotted about. It was the beginnings of dusk, with an orange-striped sky that looked cut from a painting. A last stand, a last, desperate stand, against an army that stretched for longer than the eye could trace. He was himself. Or rather, he was who he was shaped after. The same handsome dragon man, but clad in heavier armors. A katana, wrought of the finest mythril. Runes that drew intricate pattens down the ridges of his plate, plate that was designed to look as fierce as he. As fierce as a dragon. Men and women, monsters and human, drow amidst centuar amidst dwarf amidst giant. From each varying culture, from each corner of the world. All soldiers of his, beside him, behind him, lives ready to lay down upon his word, and for the sake of- What was this battle for? He honestly couldn't recall, but one needn't have a reason when the war-horns sounded, when the demons were seen first-hand charging down the bluff. Other mammoth devils, creatures conjured from fear itself, rose like behemoths into the skies. The first explosions rocked the earth beneath his feet, snapping him out of a trance as bodies amung his ranks took flight, borne on wings of magic- tossing them to their deaths, and ripping others apart. More smoke and dust, puffing outwards from the front ranks. Friends of his, allies of his, and strangers that loved him and their homeworld so- they were all equals here, and deserved much better than this.
Charging! Running across the scortched ground. Weeds and yellowed grass trampled, a thunderous series of footsteps as his army mobilized. The faster amung them whipped by him, those upon wings arched intricately into the air to battle the wraiths in the sky. The casualties were staggering. Another explosion, louder than the first, and a grouping of brave souls; all to his imidiate left; perish. Green light whips up and discharges, the after-glow of the fearsome spell, one to detonate and kill. Malice, poured directly into energy form. His line met the enemies, soldiers tackling headlong into demon. Curses and shouting, cries of dire vengeance for the fallen. He hits the fiends hard, one crumpling beneath him as he viciously kicked and stabbed. He's grabbed from the side, and thrown to the ground. A sleek blade of enchanted obsidian swung downwards for him. He rolled! And lo, he survived! The blade crashed into dirt, and he kicked upwards. Catching the beast in the jaw, he righted himself, turning to and slashng a broad arc with his katana. He danced the dance of war, dodging and attacking in graceful spirals.
But it would not last. As the battle raged on, he was cut off. Demons filled the enemy ranks, some in platemail of they're own, others armored in vile exoskeleton and carapace, others vulnerable- but all the more dangerous. He was engulfed, and under a torrent of roars and counter-attacks, he fell. Swords bit deeply into him, teeth and talons found his body and pried it from his armor. His body was ripped to shreds by steel and claw. Coldness, and darkness, lost under a sea of hostile shadows.
This dream made him a hero and a leader. It made him a soldier. He pieced together his mind only enough to decide that he was going to fight for all that was pure and deserving to live. He would fight for justice and for all that was good. He struggled against his creator, his mind unwraveling during his spawning, the quickest path towards his being would be a Drak of darkness and nightmares. No! But he would not. He would cling to his ideals, and steal from his dreams hope. So he was born a metallic. The dream dyed his skin navyblue, poured crimson into his eyes, and instilled within him a feral heart, one which skipped a beat and pulsed for battle. But he had done it; he was alive, and he -was- a metallic. His hair spun platinum strands, his wings thrust out scales of silver. All the while he questioned who the people in his dream were, who he was, and how the war was so significant.
It would be a hard path for him to beat. Fate was unforgiving of foolish heroes, and this land was a dark synonym to all that he had dreamt battling. His thoughts lay scattered as he picked himself up and marched south, the only thing he remembered was a great glacial cave, and then months of wandering in the cold. He doubted himself at every step, he tried to gather information on what it meant to be a Drak, what it meant to be himself. But there were no answers, only a cold angry world for him to forge a destiny upon.