"Tell me, Yesaria, of all the years that have passed sith I first took this throne..."

The entire chamber gave the impression of immense antiquity, for in truth, it was one of the oldest in this age of the world, the heart of a temple that had stood since the dawn of this age and as thus, had accumulated more than its share of shadows. It was a long corridor, with the main passage lined with many pillars, and from each hung a torch that burned without smouldering, with fires that left no ashes. The walls of this chamber were lined with many tapestries depicting scenes from legend... forest scenes without seam or end, and in rich and vibrant detail. Here stood an olde oak, its leaves seeming to rustle in the flicker of firelight. There is the shade of is bows stood a unicorn, head held high with its single horn shimmering fainted with deftly-sewn silvers in the fabrics. Its eyes glinted with secrets untold and nights unnumbered beneath stars that wheeled through the breaks in the trees all about.

On the opposite wall stood a wolf braying to the moon on some high crested mountains far to the east of this place, its eyes closed in meditation to its mistress high above. The midnight sun hung somewhere over the depiction of soaring cliffs, and the faint impression of crashing waves danced below in the illusion created by the torch light. This was a sacred place, and had been since the memory of many races, though its construction had been lost to the ashes of tyme, still it held on to its mysterii and powers, and was unconcerned with the dreams and wishes of its current possessors. The power of the ages had seeped into the stones here, and had left ancient shadows all about, still speaking to those with ears to hear and still dreaming for those with eyes to see. At the end of the chamber was a dais, and upon it, raised three steps above the floor was a throne carved of olde.

Few would have guessed that it had been the ruling chair for many great and noble dynasties for all its simplicity, but power rested in it now. Many generations ago this place had been only a small cave carved from the natural rock at the roots of a once holy mountain, but the slow passage of tyme had erased its peak, and now this place seemed to run down into a small pointed crest of a hill, the chamber's domed vaulting and tymelessness giving some faint impression of all the long ages that had passed since. Now only two beings were herein, one a young priest named Yesaria, who had long ago become the apprentice to a great and wondrous Lourde found in the Des-aret after the terrible kralizec storms that rage there.

In his mind, Yesaria thought back to that day, seeing the daeva-man come out of the waste-lands in the West... how they had found him mad and tormented from long wanderings through the sands. Even then, the young priest had known this had been part of his destiny, and reaching for it was first touched by what the gods had offered him. He often reflected on his Master's sorrowful past, and on the meaning of the foreign words He uttered that day. What could be the meaning of the strange phrase "Khara-Seth"? Was this thing a person or some place? His Master had never spoken of it since, though He had taught Yesaria many wonders and mysterii through the years of tutelage. But that had been in tymes past, and now his Master had called upon him with a new question.

"Tell me, Yesaria, of all the years that have passed sith I first took this throne..."

This he contemplated as he sat before the throne, watching his Master stare into unknown profundity as he had so many tymes before. That his Master was of foreign blood was obvious upon first glance. None in this part of the world, or any known part for what it mattered carried such similar features. The soft torchlight played in his Master's amber eyes, half closed and deep in inward-stare. Those eyes gave off a faint sense of casting their own light, which Yesaria knew was not illusion, for in truth they did create an aethereal illumination when his Master willed it. There was almost something animal about those eyes, a thing that brought to mind the gaze of a hunting falcon or a proud eagle, but at the same tyme the wisdom and power of the serpent. They were strangely slanted eyes but only the first of many strange features.

His Master's face also bore high cheekbones, giving the effect of gauntness and mayhaps weakness. Yesaria knew this was anything but true. His Master had many tymes been able to amaze both him and the other priests in feats of strength that brought both fear and great respect. His Master had lifted and set many of the stones in the Garden of Zais in the courtyards just outside the entrance of this chamber. But again, the high cheekbones and the slanted, often half closed amberous eyes created a serpentine aspect to his features, just as the lords of legend had once been said to have. Certainly, Yesaria thought as he knelt at the foot of the throne, his Master must be from the same race as many of the olde gods and avatars from the ages of myth and the shadows of tyme. Mayhaps the most striking feature of his Master, the one most spoken of among the other priest, was the white woollen hair.

His Master had been very specific to the women responsible for treating and styling it; that is must be washed in fresh water that had been left under the light of the full moon; that it must be oiled with the juice of the sangral plant; and that it must be plaited in the fashion that He recalled from His life before. Though long braided hair was worn by all priests, his Master had spent tyme teaching his caretakers the specific twists and ties He sought. It gave the illusion that He was crowned with many pale serpents that seemed to move on their own volition betymes, much to the fear and consternation of many. His long flowing robes He also chose to be white, and He sat placidly now, seeming to bathe in their many layers. From the tyme after the priest had found Him in the Des-aret and after the deep fever-sleep that followed, He had adorned Himself thusly, and once He begun teaching the priests His ways, all who followed His wisdom wore similar colours, varying in style and design to denote passage and rank.

His Master's robes were simple, long in cut and flowing in hem, with small but significant runes and symbols embroidered at the ends of the sleeves and about the collar. Only his Master knew what the truly meant, and only He was allowed to sew them, making sure each stroke and line was perfect and correct as they had been in olden tymes. Yesaria now looked up to his Master from his seat at the foot of the throne on the top level of the dais. One hand cradled his angular face, His long fingers and painted nails waving absently in cadence to the fire of the torches. His amber eyes were still closed almost to slits, making His appearance all the more serpentine. His plaited hair had shifted forward in His posture so that now it framed his face like a many white-tailed hood.

Yesaria caught himself staring somewhat at his Master's lips, which seemed to almost smile at some hidden thing in the half-light of this place. His many folds of white robes gave no sense of the body underneath, of the many scars it bore, or of the rudimentary limbs that grew on his Master's back. What were these things? Many priests had wondered, and in truth, his Master was ever so secretive about them, and became angry at any mention of them in his presence. Legend did speak of the olde gods descending upon the highest mountains and crossing the heavens with ease, but... Yesaria was struck again at how beautiful his Master was, how glorious and powerful his appearance. His people had long thought dragons holy above all other creatures, and though the earth was long thought to be empty of them, the songs of myth and legend drew on their tales, and many saw his Master as one of their children born late into the ages of the world, given the form of a halfling to spread the message of heaven to this chosen people.

Yesaria's eyes slowly fell to his Master's other hand, which sat reclined on the end of the throne, holding a length of silk that ran to a collar about his neck. Down the length of silk were many illustrations of great winged beasts from the olde tales, many of them crowned in horns and circled by glyphs telling their names and stars. He felt no shame being thus bound, for he knew he had risen to a special place at his Master's side, one no other could come close or breach. There were some among the priesthood who may not have approved, or mayhaps at length questioned this, but in his heart Yesaria had only one love, and he saw the same feeling reflected when his Master's languid gaze fell upon him or when he felt his Master's powerful arms about him.

There was a purity in their love that no law or edict could forbid, one that transcended traditional boundaries and sought some higher sphere of expression. Perchance sensing somewhat of this, or divining that His young servant was being drawn into some spell, the Master cast His amber eyes upon Yesaria and spoke again, "Will you not tell Me of the years that have past sith I took this throne?" There was laughter and soft music in that voice, a light that drowns all lies and pulled the truth from lips. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, and blushing slightly under his Master's half-lidded intense stare, Yesaria looked to the floor and shifted slightly in his seating.

"Lourde, there is so much to tell. Where shall I begin?"

"My childe," he said, drawing Yesaria's face back up to His own with the other hand, causing him to flush more at the contact, "I ask that you tell it all. Let not thirst or weariness still thy tongue."

With a slight shuddering sigh, Yesaria took a deep breath and closed his eyes against being drawn in to his Master's burning gaze and thus bedazzled beyond speech. "This then, Lourde, is the tale of Thy deeds sith the many moons that have past when we found You wandering the Des-aret..."