Nor Mars his sword nor war’s quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
-William Shakespeare
Chapter 2:
He stood next to the Guardian of the Shrine, remembering when the statues were real, when fangs dripped poison and claws ripped flesh. Curiously, he could scent magic embedded deep, deep within the heart of the carved stone. It was magic so new he could almost taste it; and, in contradiction to the working, it was old magic. On a primal level, he responded to the magic of the ages, of eternity, of humanity, magic that had been long forgotten- by most. He, with his immeasurable power, was bound to that magic by blood and honor, his very nature denying him the freedom he had once meted out with vicious, victorious joy.
Oh, to be unleashed was a dream he had never forgotten in the long, long nights of his increasingly unused life. The balance of the world remained maintained by commanded violence. Where were the golden days when the sun shone upon strength and integrity?
He scoffed at his own thoughts.
The gods had placed their collar upon his neck the day they had gifted him with his pack. As he had always been, he was protector and alpha. Gold and silver- the striking ruler of the extraordinary in these times; and, this scent, this magic was most definitely a well-hidden bit of extraordinary. The gods had given him no clue of this strange discovery and none of his had stumbled across it before.
As the scent of spices and smoke drifted away with the breeze, he began the long climb up the shrine steps. Something, or someone would have to satisfy his curiosity.