Nagith Chronicles: Discovery
Prologue

“Everything is nothing with a twist.”-Kurt Vonnegut

How to start a story? That can often be the most difficult part, the beginning, though it is not always the hardest part. Often it’s what happens in the middle of the story that is the most troubling, yet by some twist of fate that always is the part that seems to become the part that is most forgotten. It is always the beginning and the end that are remembered best, and while aspects of the middle are remembered there are always the things that one would like most to forget. Then again there are more than those things remembered in the middle, there are smaller things…tiny things that somehow stick in one’s memory. Something small as the way the light touched the face of someone you cared for, or a slight inflection in the way a word was said, in the smallest touch or feeling that seemed to stir within one’s self.

The best part to begin a story of course is usually the beginning; but that too can be something difficult to select. At what point can someone say truly that their life began, the moment they can earliest remember, the moment they drew breath, the moment they began to stir in a womb, the moment they made a friend, the moment they fell in love, the moment they brought another life into the world, the moment they began to die? Everything has bearing on how one gets to the point where they are, at any point, everything has importance, everything built up to that. So what is a story really, but a build up to the end, which in turn is the beginning of something else, while it is just another transition between another beginning and another end that is in turn a beginning?

Regardless, when telling a story one must ‘begin’ somewhere. So then…

Where to begin then and where will that beginning take us? To the end perhaps, then from that end, where do we go? What changes? What begins to grow in the void that once was?

The void…perhaps that in itself is a good way to begin. The nothingness that was the build up to the beginning of things that begin…

Once there was the void. Whether the void had been the first, or if it was the void of the most recent universe, there is no way of really knowing. Though what is certain though, the void came first. Then as time passed, slowly came things; particles, little flecks of being, of existence. Slowly but surely existence linked together, it took form, became defined and intricate.

Still even in the basic forms of existence they themselves were mainly void, mainly nothing. Despite this they gave substance, made worlds, galaxies, a universe; and in each of those- like their building pieces- the void remained dominant. Nothingness always existed, nonexistence always remained. So it was that Nothing found itself infected with existence, by natural laws in place of chaos it had so endeared.

Thus it was that Nothing, in spite of this, made its own creation. An existence of nonexistence. Of beings of chaos, of peoples that while in the shape of the peoples of existence, mock shadows, were filled with the void. Of this emptiness they were tormented, desperately, ravenously trying to satiate a boundless hunger to fill the nothing that filled them.

They were the playthings of Nothing, the toys of Tensombrek.

The sun never shined through the clouds, they were too thick, too expansive; the most that would ever get through was enough to make the sky seem to be a light gray swirling mass. The soil ranged from light gray to black, the majority of it a dark gray somewhere in between. Ice and water as it was known was reminiscent of oil or sludge, though even more fluid than what water would be, though it would be hard for a being of the existing world to imagine such a thing.

After all, this wasn’t the existing world, at least not in a sense that ‘matter’ would identify it. For all the similarities (albeit dark) that this universe had, it was not a place of substance, of true existence. It was the Nagith, the universe that shadowed the universe of existence, the universe of flourishing colors and burning gases of warmth. It was what they would think of as unnatural, though in all reality it was truly as natural as they were. All things in nature are counterparts, as the philosophy of one Earth culture once stated. Forces work in opposition and equality, forever pushing and pulling at one another, balancing what goes unbalanced. So it was only natural that while light had shadow, that existence had its counterpart.

One would perhaps view it as the ‘dark’ realm but that would not be true. While in terms of coloration perhaps it was ‘dark’, it was not darkness. Rather it was simply a mockery of the existing world that coexisted light and darkness. It mocked it in that this opposing reality did not coexist forces, merely one was present and one was not, it merely happened to be a force those of the other reality would call ‘dark’ , and not the one they would think of as ‘light’.

This reality was called the Nagith, a term derived from the word ‘Negate’ that rose out of the other reality, and as such its people were dubbed Nagithians. Though of course there were many more differences than merely a name-…

Regardless…there will be time to speak of this world in the telling, so the telling must proceed.

If it began at any point after Tensombrek created this reality for his amusement and of his spite, it began with Charin.

His mother was a whore. Not that that was bad, he just didn’t understand what it meant. She was so ‘good’ she could make people pay for it. He wasn’t sure what ‘it’ was that she was good at, but it was something adults did.

Not that he could be blamed for his confusion, he was young, and the status of his mother was a strange one as well. Promiscuity was not looked down upon by Nagithians; it was commonplace, it was normal for Nagithians to attempt as many encounters of intercourse as possible. For a woman- or a man- who was so ‘adept’ at such activities that they could charge for said services, the term ‘whore’ was assigned.

It was a complicated title to say the least; on one hand it was highly regarded as a respect to her or his bedding prowess as such things were prized. On the other hand they were despised as greedy, as misers that were arrogant enough to tell someone that they had to pay in order to be pleasured. Thus a respectful hatred usually resulted. Those of wealth were far more kind to the ‘class’ as they could afford such pleasures whereas poorer persons looked down upon them with disdain.

Well that didn’t have much of an effect on Charin’s story, though it did on his life, seeing as it was because of his mother’s ‘status’ that things began to unfold as they did. Charin would always be outside, scampering the streets as a child while his mother was with her various clients. He’d chase the small scavengers through the alleys, snapping at them with his jaws. Charin was a typical Nagithian child, as any other would he would spend much time in his reptilian form.

Though this was many millennia ago the form has not altered much- if at all- from that time. A large black reptile the size of a Maxianthan ‘dog’- that is, a ‘dog’ from the existing realm, the Maxiantha. He was a child of about eight or nine and like all his kind had the ability to change between forms; a more or less ‘human’ form and the ‘lizard’ form. The size of a Maxianthan dog, with four splayed legs and a whipping tail coated in black leathery hide.

Teeth and claws are also on their side of course, incredibly sharp. Then there was the odd mouth configuration… The jaws could split. There is not another creature in this or the other world that had a jaw quite like that- well...if anything it is reminiscent of a Maxianthan flower, a grotesque, scaled and toothed flower opening and closing, muscle sinews spreading and reconnecting the pieces. The tongue was long and whip like, which could be lengthened and shortened at will, to curl around objects and pick them up, move them, strangle them. The reptile forms then despite their grotesque design were very efficient, aside from the small, leathery vestigial wings attached to the neck.

They are laughably tiny and serve no purpose, well that is…they didn’t up until this point. One could argue perhaps that it’s because of the wings that everything started.

Charin had been going about amusing himself, snapping at the small creatures, dashing around, sniffing anything he found interesting. The little wings on his neck fluttered rapidly as he did so, his tail swishing to and fro. That was what had attracted the attention however…

While his wings were small, yes, they were still noticeably too large in proportion for his body. That was all that was necessary to get noticed. He had just stuck his head under a house, snapping at the small vermin beneath. His tail wriggled happily then went stiff as the ground gave an audible thud. The small beasts he had been chasing froze in place in their tracks under the house, their long ears flicking in multiple directions, little spines standing on end. He slowly pulled his head out from under the building, craning it up to look at what had landed behind him. He looked up…and up….and up…and up….

A creature very similar to his own form, but larger, sturdier, the legs were not splayed akin to a lizard but set under the main body, a longer, more serpentine neck, a set of broken and cracked horns, and a very large set of ebon wings. Charin curled up in a ball, eyes wide, staring up at the behemoth. There were only two of them, only two dragons. The larger served the smaller, but all knew well that despite the larger one’s size, the smaller was the more impressive…and the more powerful being. Still, that didn’t matter much to him, this one was just as important to fear.

Charin squeaked in terror, attempting a mad dash at an escape when the whip-like muscle wrapped around his throat. He shrieked in terror, slamming into the ground as the leathery tongue held him securely, the dragon inspecting him closely, the hot breath making him shiver all the more. He felt its huge snout prod his wings and he gave a whimper. What did it want with him? He had done nothing wrong, he hadn’t done anything, he had just been playing-

He gave a squeak as he was lifted off the ground, the dragon’s front teeth digging into the scaled ‘ridge’ at the base of his neck, his scruff. Instinctively he curled up, hanging from its jaws as he would hang from his mother’s as a baby.

That was the only part that was familiar to him, seeing as the next moment the ground was shrinking away. He squeaked again, his eyes widening as the buildings and streets shrunk before his eyes. High! They were up high! He curled up tighter, staring down, hearing the massive beats of the dragon’s wings as it carried him off. Everything moved so fast, the dusty gray landscape, the buildings of ebon and purple light, the blue flaming rakyals snarling in their hanging cages, lighting the streets. It looked like a patchwork of purples, blues and flecks of green, glowing in an elaborate network of black stone as they flew deeper into the city.

As the blur of travel passed him he found himself…there, in the castle, the fortress, the citadel, the temple. The dwelling of their master, their deity, he remembered attempting to wriggle free from the behemoth only to abruptly be lowered and dropped onto the floor. He gave an indignant squeak, shaking his head and looking up.

He froze, the tiny frills that were his ears lowering as he stared upon the sight.

It was- unnerving. A mass that he could not process, like darkness but- not, darkness was a thing, darkness was something one could perceive and label. No, it was a mass that he felt more than saw, felt twisting, writhing, pulsing; it was not there but it screamed its presence. He closed his eyes, ducking his head, he couldn’t take this, couldn’t take-

I told you I was to be left alone

The voice, echoing in his mind, shaking him to his core, shattering upon him like broken glass, falling onto him, it was a horrid ‘voice’ with no sound at all.

“Master,” the behemoth above him spoke in a deep, rumbling monotone. “The child is of interest to you. He is an impurity.”

Charin felt it ebb, felt the unease retract from him, drawing away back to its core. It had barely left him when he heard the voice, still low, dark, chilling, but now quite audible, quite real.

“What is it exactly about the brat that’s an ‘impurity’?” he scoffed, obviously disinterested. “Are you going senile, Malochite?”

Charin bit his claws into the grooves of the stone floor, eyes shut tightly as he tried to gain control of himself. That voice, that voice…he didn’t want to be here, he wanted to go home, he wanted to go back to his alleys, his tunnels…

“The wings, Master, as well as the leg structure, they are unlike the others. He is changing, similar to myself. Was this of your intent, Master, or shall I dispose of him?”

“Changing? They do not change outside of growing, Malochite.”

Charin summoned the courage to peek open one eye, panting, looking back toward what was the mass, the voice. He saw a form now, legs, donned in black, broken plates of ivory chained to his shins, and feet, armoring of sorts. He lifted his gaze, slowly taking in the figure. A man, he often took the form of a man, of a Nagithian like them. The broken ivory breastplate was secured with chains as well, a couple belts crossing his waist, one strapped diagonally across his chest. One arm was donned with another ivory gauntlet, the other was bare aside from what looked like the torn remains of a black sleeve. It was a common scheme, really, black and white, black and white…

Then there were the differences. Charin shuddered, scanning the two tendrils that moved about the figure, thick, black things that moved like snakes, as if they had a mind of their own. At the time, he did think them serpents, a pair of serpents growing from his back. They were not, however, as he learned. They were feathers, large, elongate, black feathers that constantly twisted and swayed about, hypnotic. Aside from that he almost appeared like one of them, the white skin, not just ‘pale’ as the Maxiantha would describe it, white. White, no color, no hues, nothing, empty, just as empty as the black hair which conveyed only oblivion in place of vision.

The eyes were the same shade- at least, at first he thought so. Black, dark, like his; like his mother, like all of them. He was wrong, they were not the same. Somehow, in the dark eyes, there was an even darker core, the pupils were slits of…it was like the mass he had ‘seen’ earlier, not darkness, darkness was more natural. In the pupils of his eyes, in the cores, there was…nothing, nothing and his mind scrambled like before, trying to make sense of it process it, his mind turning in on itself-

He looked away, shaking, forcing himself to stare at the floor. It helped, to see it, to know it was there, what it was…

“Interesting,” he heard him- it, speak. “He met my eyes, impressive for one so young.”

He heard him rise from his throne, heard the footsteps and the slight sounds of the feathers curling and whipping through the air, trailing behind the being that was nothing. Charin didn’t look up, staring at the flooring, trying to soak in its details, trying to keep his mind together. It happened sometimes, to all of them, if they stopped doing...anything, for even a moment. If they were not distracted, one could lose their thoughts, could go crazy, break apart-

Charin let out a sharp squeak of pain and alarm, one of the feathers curling around his neck and hauling him up into the air, suspended. He grabbed his snout with one hand, forcing him to look up at him. Charin stubbornly focused his eyes on his mouth and nose; he didn’t want to look at the eyes again, not ever again.

“Hm…he is strange isn’t he?” He said, mouth curling down into a slight frown. “Interesting, very well, Malochite, keep an eye on him.”

“Master.”

Charin felt the feather slip from his neck, dropping him onto the ground. He let out a short yelp as he hit the stone on his stomach, only to be hauled up again by his neck by the giant black dragon.

“H- Hey!” he spoke finally, his voice high-pitched, nasally. “What are you going to do with me!? I- I didn’t do anything! I didn’t! Let me go home!”

“That reminds me,” the feathered-man spoke, looking up at him. “What was your name, brat?”

Charin’s throat clenched, shivering at the voice but forced himself to speak, wriggling.

“Charin, I’m Charin.”

“Well then, Charin, you’re going to be our little guest for a while so just behave, mhm?” he tilted his head a bit, a brow raised. “I’ll be rather disappointed if I end up having to kill you before you even prove to be anything interesting. Take him away, Malochite.”

Charin jerked again, squeaking and thrashing, wings flapping frantically as the one known as Malochite carried him away, through the giant corridors.

That was his first encounter with Tensombrek.