TTDW Chapter 5

The next morning, I awoke slowly, not really wanting to wake up, groggy and hazy.  What made me wake up was a constant sort of rumbling sound, like the noise an R/C toy engine makes.  There was also a slight pressure on my face, like something was leaning on me.  I opened the eye nearest to the source of the sound to see what was going on.
Sometime during the night, I had turned over onto my side, though most of my body was still on the rock, aside from my tail, which hung down off the boulder.  Also, sometime during the night, an animal had crawled up onto my face and fallen asleep.  It was a domesticated cat, an orange tabby kitten, probably not much older than half a year.  It was curled up on my snout, between my eye and nostril.
Domestic animals are not an oddity within the den.  Many of the homids keep herds of cattle and sheep near their settlements, as well as other farm animals such as pigs and poultry.  We occasionally buy an animal from the homids for our own meals, though not often; the homids require their animals for their own purposes, too.  Domestic dogs and cats are by far the most common familial pets; many roam free in the den.  None of these domestic animals have any feral relatives; we do require the homids keep track of their animals’ wanderings.  If one does get loose, and it isn’t recovered, it then becomes free game; the animal either becomes our lunch or our own pets.
Cats are often the latter; there isn’t a breed of cat that’s large enough to be considered even a side dish.  Cats have less to fear from a Ra’kyri than many of the domestic dogs; many of the large pedigrees are view as competition and dinner, and the smaller ones… well, let’s just say we’re cleaning off the bottom of our paws on a regular basis.  Cats have even become sacred animals in the Ra’kyri religion; we adopted Bastet, the Ne’jar of the Den, from the Egyptians.  We don’t mummify them, or worship them, but they are sacred nonetheless.
Sacred or not, the cat had to move; my stomach was starting to rumble, which meant I was going need to hunt soon.  Carefully, I nudged the cat with the wing I wasn’t laying on, prodding it to go elsewhere.  True to its species’ nature, the kitten simply yawned and looked at me with the same sort of contented look that all cats have.  Since prodding had failed, I reached up with my free paw and grabbed the kitten’s scruff with my index digit and thumb, careful not to impale the animal with a claw.  With a simple move, I removed the cat from my face and set it carefully on the ground.  The kitten, obviously annoyed with having been removed from its warm, cozy resting place, strolled off, tail high in the air, rump towards me, as if telling me what it thought about being “evicted”.  
I rolled over onto my stomach, yawning and shaking the last bits of sleep induced fog from my brain.  It’s not uncommon for me to wake up to a cat on my face, no matter its age.  I apparently seem to be a magnet for these animals.  I don’t hate these little fur balls, but I do wish they’d stop pestering the slag out of me in the morning.
I stood up onto my boulder, yawning again, stretching out, working out all the kinks that come with a good night’s sleep.  Looking at the den’s internal sun, I noted that I had slept away a good portion of the morning, as well.  I’m usually awake not long after sunrise, but the sun was well above the horizon.  It wasn’t close to noon, but it wasn’t dawn, either.  I shook my head, attempting to clear my mind.  There was a slight breeze this morning, and it wasn’t long before my nose caught a scent.
I raised my snout into the air and sniffed several times, trying to detect the origin of the scent.  The source was close – very close.  It was also familiar.  I glanced around, still sniffing, until my nose pointed me in the right direction.
The source was very close, like right under my nose close - literally.  I looked down to see a dead wild boar before me on the ground next to my rock.  There were no wounds on it, which lead me to believe its neck had been snapped, not a difficult task for many of the residents.  With it were a half-dozen ostrich eggs and a bowl of goat’s milk.  Ham, eggs and milk – it’s a breakfast classic.  Somebody obviously left breakfast out for me – and that someone hadn’t left.  Standing by all this food was a small creature wearing clothing common to Russian serfs.
The creature standing unafraid before me was a kikimora, a small being similar to a hobgoblin that looked like a hen that had been stretched to the height of a six-year old homid.  Kikimora had arms and hands instead of wings, but those hands held claws at the end of the fingers.  They even have the face of chickens.  Kikimora always wear the clothing of a peasant, including the headscarf commonly worn by Slavic women.
The kikimora are a strange yet fascinating race.  For one thing, all kikimora are female; there’s no such thing as a male kikimora.  Their male equivalent is the domovoi, gnome-like entities not much taller than a kikimora.  Both need the other in order to procreate; if the offspring is male, he is a domovoi, if it is female, she is a kikimora.  
Both kikimora and domovoi are extremely helpful entities; as long as a house or den is well kept, they will often help with the chores, coming out at night when living with humans.  Their unique race is native to Eastern Europe, in the predominantly Slavic regions.  They typically live in the cellars, behind the stove, or under the thresholds of doors in human homes.  In Ra’kyri dens, they sleep in crevices hollowed out for them by their hosts.  Humans consider both the kikimora and domovoi as harbingers of death if seen; Ra’kyri have no such association.
Ra’kyri have long employed domovoi and kikimora in their dens and we consider them even more helpful than brownies.  Brownies are hobgoblins with many of the same attributes of kikimora and domovoi, but with shorter tempers.  It doesn’t take much to set off a brownie.  Domovoi and kikimora will put up with considerably more abuse and they don’t have that annoying habit of turning into boggarts when upset.  However, if they do become upset, they’ll make a noise that can send a shiver down one’s spine.  Kikimora will also tickle the feet of sleeping children while domovoi will cause considerable mischief, the kind that is sometimes mistake as the work of a poltergeist.  You can appease them, but it takes specialized rituals to do so.  If they’re taken for granted for too long, then they’ll up and leave, and while there are ways to get kikimora and domovoi to return, going out to look for them isn’t one of them.  Rarely does Ptah provide anything without some sort of price.
Kikimora and domovoi are sometimes mistaken as fey or hobgoblins, but they are neither.  In truth, they are more closely associated with spirits, though if you see one, you’ll notice they lack a true spirit’s transparent nature.  Domovoi and kikimora are a far more ancient race than either the fey or goblins, and most have little to do with either.  The Seelie don’t accept “monsters” into their ranks and the behavior of the Unseelie is enough to put off even the hardiest kikimora.  Between you and me, the fey don’t know what they’re missing.
I looked down at the kikimora, who looked back at me with a calm, almost serene expression.  Fear does not come easily to these beings – beings spirits, why would they?  My voice curious, I inquired, “What is all this?”
Most people have never heard a kikimora talk, with good reason.  A kikimora’s mouth is the beak of a chicken, and thus not really well suited for verbal communication.  Kikimora and domovoi do have their own language, which takes the kikimora’s lipless beaks into account.  They are fluent in other languages as well, but when they do speak in another dialect, they usually have a noticeable accent and they sound like a slurred parrot when they speak in a tongue not their own.
In response to my question, the kikimora replied, “Your breakfast, Arrakis Darkwylde, courtesy of the white Ra’kyri.”
Sitkamoses – she was the only white Ra’kyri that I knew lived in this particular den.  I glanced down at the array of choices below me, ignoring the title the kikimora had addressed me by.  “Arrakis” is an ancient Ra’kyri word that modern homid linguists have translated to mean “lord”.  Today, the term is used quite liberally, much like “mister” and “miss” for humans; but it is more properly applied to the eldest female in the family, the clan matriarch.
Ra’kyri were once ruled by a monarchy, the legacy of Ra and the other Great Kings, Shu, Geb, Osiris, and Horus, in that order.  But after Horus, the monarchs were never as great, and after a few millennia, they lost power.  The great kingdom of the Ra’kyri collapsed and the Monarchial Age died, giving way the Clan Wars of the Barbaric Age.  It was around this time the females took control of politics and established the Matriarchy, where the eldest females ruled over the family clans.  It was said that males were too violent to rule, though how much of this was merely propaganda is unknown – many of the records from this period were damaged or destroyed.  We do know it was a time of great strife, where clans would fight great wars over the most trivial of grievances.  We were no different than the humans of today, fighting over territory, resources, petty squabbles, or just because the matriarch felt like it.  It was at this time the term arrakis came into use.
According to the Chronicles, our historical record, the wars became so violent that they threatened to destroy us utterly.  Our legends say that Ptah, frustrated with our constant bickering and convinced that we would annihilate ourselves, decided at this point to create the younger races.  As the younger races rose, we saw the folly in our petty conflicts and began to unite under a new government, a new order, which brought the Grand Council to power.  We became one race once again nearly five hundred millennia ago, which was fortunate; we could not have survived the Inquisition had we remained a fractured race.
Though our matriarchal society was phased out not long after the Unification, we still have several traditions left over from that age.  One such tradition involves how we trace our family lines.  Unlike the majority of European-based cultures, Ra’kyri trace their family line through the mother instead of the father.  Mapping out one’s family history through the mother is nothing new to sentient cultures, humans included, but Ra’kyri take it to a whole new level.  When Ra’kyri marry, it is the male that takes the family name, not the female; thus the male is the one that marries into the family line.  This custom is still very much in practice, although there are instances where the female, by choice, takes the male’s family name, or the pair retains their individual surnames.  Expect in cases when the female takes her mate’s surname, offspring born to Ra’kyri unions will typically inherit the surname of their mothers.  Needless to say, during the Matriarchal Age, there was more emphasis on having daughters than there was on sons.
The kikimora’s voice brought me back to the present as she said, “She felt you would require nourishment considering that you had not eaten anything last night.  She was concerned that you had not taken advantage of the arrangements of the previous evening.”
I nodded slightly, saying, “Please thank Arrakis Sitkamoses for her generosity, and yourself for taking such a duty.”
The kikimora bowed from her waist and replied, “We are here to assist when needed.  Do you require anything else?”
“Thank you, no,” I replied.  “If you have completed your tasks here, you may leave.”
The kikimora bowed again and was gone in the blink of an eye – literally.  This was fairly typical of kikimora and domovoi; once they sensed they weren’t needed, they disappeared, moving on to another part of the den.  They don’t move in the typical manner of mortals and other spirits; they’re there, and then they’re not.  Spooks the uninitiated halfway to Duat when that happens.  
I bent my neck down to investigate Sitka’s offerings to my snarling gut.  This is one of the reasons why I’m wary about telling Sitka about my feelings for her.  If I haven’t eaten anything since the meal before, Sitka sends me something the next meal, no matter what the situation.  I haven’t found any other male she does this for in the den, and its common for a Ra’kyri, male or female, to provide food for another they are attracted to.  You know, the way to another’s heart is through their stomach, or so the saying goes.  But there are other things that Sitka says or does that suggest that she may not feel the same way about me as I do about her, so I remain quiet.
Let’s face it, when it comes to the female of the species – any species – we males are just not equipped to truly understand them.  
The goat milk and ostrich eggs smelled and looked to be in prime condition, almost fresh.  The old legends about my race were correct in the idea that Ra’kyri liked milk, but when it comes down to a choice, most of us prefer goat’s milk to bovine milk.  The boar, however, was a little subject.  I wasn’t worried about poison – there aren’t many artificial toxins out there that can kill a Ra’kyri.  But pigs are raised by humans, even boars, and human agricultural products are rich in growth inducing chemicals which affect the taste, and not for the better.  I prefer my meat to be free range, but there are Ra’kyri, like Sitka, who seem to like the taste of industrial agriculture.
I spent several minutes sniffing the boar, searching for any trace of chemicals, without success.  But there were substances that have no smell, even to a Ra’kyri’s sensitive nostrils, and the only way I could detect those was by taking a taste, and I don’t mean by licking the carcass.  Holding the boar down with one paw, I bit down on a leg and with a quick twist, tore the limb off with a sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone.  Blood oozed slowly from the wound, dripping onto the grass.  Using my tongue, I maneuvered the leg carefully so that I could swallow it with ease, while testing the meat’s taste as I did.  Swallowing the leg in a single gulp, I discovered to my delight that the boar was free of chemicals of any kind, and so I dug in with relish.
I’m well versed in human etiquette, including those involved in eating, especially in public, but some of my co-workers are often shocked to see me eat in my true form.  When I eat in my true form, I eat as any other Ra’kyri would; if the meal is small enough, I swallow it whole, if not, I tear it into pieces that can be swallowed easily.  By homid standards, the process is messy and crude, almost animalistic.  But a Ra’kyri’s teeth are not designed to chew food, therefore, we either have to swallow meals whole or tear them apart.  Most of us are taught how to chew when we learn to master our mimicry, but speaking on a personal level, I prefer to eat like a crocodile.  It’s not the kind of behavior you want to use in front of a client at a business lunch, though.
All Ra’kyri are carnivores or meat-eaters if you prefer.  We can and do sometimes eat vegetation and other items not made from the flesh of animals, but as one of my relatives put it, “A vegetable is what lunch eats”.  Ptah made us predators and we make no apologies for the Creator’s decisions.  There are a few vegetarian dragons, but only a few – an extreme few.  Our systems aren’t “calibrated” for a purely “vegan” diet and those that do go for that lifestyle soon experience serious health problems, dying from malnutrition if they don’t return to a Ra’kyri’s natural diet.  Our pattern of eating doesn’t win us a lot of friends with hardcore vegans and members of PETA, but we usually ignore them.  I remember one PETA member confronted me after killing a deer near the highway, accusing of me of being insensitive about the deer’s feelings.  I asked him how sensitive a wolf might have been to the deer’s sacrifice.  I am what I am, and if you have a problem with that, tough griffin shit.
I polished off the boar in about fifteen minutes and turned my attention to the ostrich eggs.  I broke the top of the shell and zealously lapped up the golden treasure within.  I’m not concerned with catching salmonella from raw egg.  We’re like vultures; there’s not a lot out there that can make us ill.  Ra’kyri have a very aggressive immune system, as well as an extra level of protection.  Every Ra’kyri is born with a virus in their bloodstream, which is normally dormant.  But if a foreign body invades, the virus becomes active, attacking the invader without let up, no matter if it’s a bacterium, virus, parasite, or some other harmful organism.  This virus has even been shown to destroy the virus that causes AIDS, and I’ve heard researchers are looking into replicating its properties.  Unfortunately for the seriously ill, the virus can only exist in Ra’kyri blood; it doesn’t live long outside its natural element.  That’s not to say we can’t get sick, but it is difficult.
Familiar homids are also shocked to see the speed at which I eat.  It’s a common trait of my race, an instinctual relic from a more primitive time in our history.  We Ra’kyri are our own worst enemy, as the Clan Wars demonstrated, and in ages past we would routinely steal each other’s kills.  Scavenging expends less energy than hunting, so stealing a kill from another predator is a good way to obtain an easy meal.  The best defense against such thefts is to eat as much as one’s prey as quickly as possible.  The longer it took for a thief to reach a kill, the less there’d be left when he got there.
In this modern age, a Ra’kyri’s kill is as much his or her property, as a TV or car would be for a human.  Kill thefts are rare, though not unheard of, not to mention against the law.  The smell of a fresh kill will still attract other Ra’kyri to the area, but the one who made the kill in the first place is usually the one with first dibs on the carcass.  We’ll share if the kill is large enough, but we usually won’t steal it, nor do we usually steal from other sentients.
For a creature of our size, Ra’kyri don’t really consume all that much food.  Something as large as a goat will usually satisfy us for a few hours, depending on how vigorous our activities are.  The stomach of a Ra’kyri will digest just about anything, even the skull and teeth of our prey.  We don’t generate a lot of waste, either.  The amount of waste a Ra’kyri produces in a day could easily be handled by a toilet; though that’s a sight you’ll never see.  Typically, we just choose a secluded spot far from any homid habitation and, in the case of defecation, dig a hole, do our business, and bury it when we’re done.
I finished the third egg and lapped up some goat’s milk to satiate my thirst before starting on the next egg.  We Ra’kyri aren’t picky about what we eat, but there certain things that we just won’t touch if we had the choice.  European literature, especially the writings of the homids’ Medieval Period, depict us as man-eaters, thieves of livestock, and the scourge of kingdoms, with a particular taste for virgin maidens.  Some modern authors retains this bit of manticore shit about us.  Truthfully, as a rule, we don’t eat humans, or any other member of the younger races.  We don’t even scavenge the corpses of the younger races; we either burn or bury them.  The Grand Council has deemed the active predation of sentient species as akin to cannibalism and outlawed it millennia before the first homid civilizations appeared, though the law does allow for very specific considerations.
That’s just one reason, and it’s relatively minor.  The real reason why Ra’kyri don’t hunt and eat homids is because… well, there’s no politically correct way to say this.  Basically, humans taste really bad.  The best way I can describe how a human tastes is this; if you’ve ever gotten a whiff of a skunk after it’s released its musk, imagine that smell on your tongue.  Not a pleasant image, is it?  Well, I hate to admit it, but I’ve forced a few human corpses down my throat with that very taste on my tongue.  Heartburn usually followed not too long afterwards.  And with all the chemicals that humans cover themselves in these days, that flavor has only been “enhanced”.  Bleech!
Like I stated, Ra’kyri do not actively hunt, kill, and eat anything homid – not on a regular basis anyway.  A few individuals do develop a taste for human flesh, but most of them are considered psychotic, insane, or both, and usually placed in an institution of some sort.  But on a regular basis, if a Ra’kyri eats a human, it’s because he or she is desperately hungry and has no other choice.  Most of the time, if we do have to resort to man-eating, we’ll pick out some miscreant or vagrant that no one will miss.  Even so, a Ra’kyri has to pretty desperate to resort to eating humans and I’ve known Ra’kyri that have nearly starved themselves to death searching for anything other than a human to eat.  Just thinking about the taste makes me shiver.  Yech!
So how did such a myth as our fondness for human flesh come into being?  Well, it has its roots in Unseelie deceit and the bigoted propaganda of Inquisition priests, reinforced by the animalistic creations of warlocks and a few bad eggs from our own society.  The myth is still ingrained in the human consciousness, something the Triad and its emissaries have worked long and hard to change.  Some religious zealots still believe the slag and wield it to justify their narrow minded bias against us.  But when it comes to the PR war, it is the Triad that’s winning.
I finished breakfast and cleaned up the mess I had made, licking up blood from the boar from the grass, burying the egg shells into the ground for the worms to recycle, and licking the bowl clean of any trace of milk.  I set the bowl aside for a domovoi or kikimora to pick up later.  I then lay down, tucking my paws underneath me, like a satiated cat, allowing my stomach the opportunity to digest breakfast.  This is normal for my race; we rest after a good meal, giving our gut time to work without having to over stimulate our senses.
I had to say, Sitka had picked out a good selection for breakfast this morning.  I reminded myself to thank her if I saw her today.  I yawned, shaking off a food induced haze.  I heard something fly overhead and looked in time to see a pair of black colored Ra’kyri pass over me, oblivious to the world below them.  I was grateful it was Saturday; it meant I had the day off, unless something happened.  
I shifted slightly, an effort to get comfortable, and then I heard something rustling around in the brush around the glen.  I glanced over, curious.  I was far from worried; at four tons, the only thing big enough to threaten me is another Ra’kyri, and if one of them wanted my glen, they wouldn’t be sneaking around in the brush.  It was likely a fox or bobcat looking for scraps from breakfast.  Not that they’d find much; I pretty much polished everything off.
As I sat and watched the bushes shaking slightly, I heard a slight, low-toned chirp come out of the brush, a sound that was definitely not from a fox or bobcat.  And then I heard another high-pitched sound, like the sound of human children laughing.  I sat as still as my stone, waiting for the source of all this noise to reveal itself.  It soon did, tumbling out of the bushes in a ball of scales and wings.
The intruders were wyrmlings, very young in age, probably no older than seven years of age, not much longer than ten feet in length.  The pair were both green in color, a much lighter shade than my emerald, and they were locked together is a growling, hissing, laughing ball of scales.  They were playing, and they were not alone.  More wyrmlings came from the bushes, as did the young of the nagas and homids, all of them probably no older than nine years.  Several kikimora appeared, as did some much larger Ra’kyri.  These were not fully grown dragons; they couldn’t be more than twenty-five feet in length and twelve feet tall.  They were juveniles, the Ra’kyri equivalent of teenagers, doing what all juveniles often do at their age – baby-sitting.  I noticed there were no young gargoyles; probably asleep, as they were even more nocturnal than their parents.  
The youngsters had not yet noticed their intrusion, but almost immediately, the juveniles noticed me.  They seem to shrink back; shifting their attentions from me to the youths almost constantly.  The juveniles were at the age when they knew that intruding on another’s nest is not really the best idea in the world, especially when one is talking about a female tending to her clutch.  Youngsters haven’t learned this lesson yet, and are often chastised when they step out of bounds, by which I don’t necessarily mean a stern talking too.
Ra’kyri offspring grow exceedingly quickly; they are nearly fully grown by the time they reach their seventeenth year.  They don’t become sexually mature until their third decade, but that’s still fairly early for a race as large and as long-lived as Ra’kyri.  The Ra’kyri rate of growth, as well as the number of eggs a female can lay in a single clutch, have contributed to the recovery of our population since the slaughter of the Inquisition.  We once numbered in the billions, by the end of the nineteenth century, there were less than five million Ra’kyri in the world.  We’ve recovered considerably since then; by the start of World War Two, the population had risen to a little over fifteen million.  Today, our numbers have surged to over thirty-five million Ra’kyri worldwide.  We’re not the only ones; the nagas, whose population was considerably more devastated than our own, have also recovered considerably, and the gargoyles are also growing.  This news has been considered disturbing to many of the Triad’s enemies, especially those races whose own numbers are on the decline.
The two wrestling wyrmlings continued their game, urged on by the other youngsters.  The winner, however, would never be determined, for the wrestlers tumbled right into my shoulder.  The impact wasn’t enough to cause injury to anyone, but was enough for the two to stop their game and look at what they had run into.  I kept my expression as neutral as possible, but inside, I was smiling.  I remember wrestling with my siblings and friends when I was their age.  It was good to see that, in this age of electronic games, simple play was still popular with youngsters.
The wyrmlings broke their embrace and backed away, their expressions one of fearful apprehension, their short crests held flat.  Apparently, they had been reprimanded earlier and weren’t looking for a repeat.  The other youngsters noticed me as well and froze in place, their eyes firmly fixed on me.  Infanticide for Ra’kyri isn’t unheard of, but extremely rare, and punishable in our society, especially since our wyrmlings are considered precious and vital for our recovery.  But young Ra’kyri still have that instinct to be wary of strangers, just in case.
I stayed absolutely still, watching the youths as they looked back at me.  The juveniles moved closer, almost protectively, while the kikimora hung back, rather unconcerned.  I don’t know what the kikimora would have done had I any intention of slaughtering the lot, but there’s a lot we don’t know about what these spirits are capable of.  Both the juveniles and wyrmlings had adopted a submissive posture, while the nagas and homids simply stared.
Finally, one of the juveniles, a female, stammered, “We apologize for the intrusion, arrakis.  We had brought the young ones here away from the nests.  We had no idea that you claimed this area as your own.”
I nodded slightly, smiling a little, hoping to allay their fears.  “Quite all right,” I told the juvenile.  “There aren’t many nests in this part of the den; your error was understandable.”
The juveniles seemed to be relieved by my assurance, and they relaxed slightly.  The wyrmlings retained their submissive stance, apparently not as assured.  My smile only broadened; I’m sure I had adopted similar postures whenever I had managed to incur the wrath my parents or some other adult.
“You can relax, young ones,” I told them.  “I’m merely digesting my breakfast.  I assure you that you did nothing wrong here.” The youngsters finally relaxed, their submission turning to curiosity.  They did not return to their play, but seemed to be interested in me.  The caution of the juveniles has been allayed somewhat, but had not disappeared.  They were keeping their eyes on me.
After a moment, one of the young nagas exclaimed, “I know who you are!  You’re Tempest Darkwylde!”
I nodded slightly, staying silent.
“The Phoenix?” one of the young homids asked the naga.
“The same,” I stated, my voice neutral.  It was the tone I always use when someone recognizes me, one that reveals neither conceit nor modesty.  
The youngsters were now looking up at me in worshipful awe, as if I were Ra himself.  The wyrmlings seemed especially enthralled.  I have some notoriety with my race, considering that I am the only Ra’kyri thus far to have worked so long in and among homids.  In many ways, I was living proof that we weren’t as bad as some make us out to be.  It’s the kind of fame that can go straight to someone’s head and I consider myself fortunate that I haven’t fallen into that trap.  
I noticed the juveniles also seemed somewhat spellbound by my presence as well, although less so than the wyrmlings.  Juveniles are at that age when they understand that even heroes can fall, a lesson the wyrmlings have yet to learn.  I merely sat there, watching the small crowd.
“Whose he?” another young naga asked curiously.  The others looked at the youngster incredulously, while I just smiled.  It was always good to hear that question; a little humility is always good for the soul.  
“You’ve never heard of Tempest Darkwylde?” one of the juveniles inquired.
“No,” the naga youngster said.  “Who is he?”
“Tempest Darkwylde is the only Ra’kyri to have worked with homids for a matter of years instead of weeks!” another juvenile said.  “And one of the best detectives in the Securitas firm.”
“One of many,” I stated calmly.
“He’s also one of the best storytellers in the den!” a wyrmling said.  That made the scales on my face darken slightly; if I were human, I would have been accused of blushing.  That’s one reputation I can say I’m proud of.  It’s a reputation I have within the den, one I consider a tad more respectable, and one that often sends the young ones to me.
“I have that repute,” I said, unable to hide the pride in my voice.
“Can you tell us one?” one of the wyrmlings asked.  I angled my head slightly, a questioning expression on my face.
“I believe we have taken up enough of Arrakis Darkwylde’s time,” one of the kikimora suddenly said.  I think everyone started at the sound of her voice, having quite forgotten the kikimora were even there.  But the shock was short-lived, because a collective groan went up among the youngsters.  They pleaded with the kikimora to reconsider, but there was only one voice that would have any effect on them.
“It’s no trouble at all,” I said.  “Especially since it is the weekend.”
Cheers went up through the small crowd of youngsters, while the kikimora merely stepped back.  The juveniles weren’t as enthusiastic, but they didn’t protest, either.  The youngster came closer, expecting me to start at anytime.  I looked over the small crowd, wondering what to tell them, before coming up with an idea.
“So what story would you all like to hear?” I inquired of my audience.  I saw faces fall – they had expected me to pick the story.  But I wasn’t going to start an argument over what story they were going to hear; they could do that among themselves without my help.
“Isis and the Seven Scorpions!” one of the wyrmlings shouted.
“No,” another cried.  “The Princess of Bekhten!”
“The Thirteen Labors of Hercules!” one of the homid children shouted.
“All thirteen?” I inquired.  “That could take awhile.”
“The death of Hiranyakashipu by Narasimha!” one of the naga exclaimed.
“Don’t think I’m familiar with that one,” I said.
“The Cat in the Hat!” another homid youngster proclaimed.
“You’re always asking for that one!” a homid girl told her companion.  “Mr. Darkwylde is too old to know that story.”  Ah, the bluntness of youth.
“What about the betrayal of Osiris by his brother Seth?” one of juveniles suggested.  The eyes of the youngsters suddenly brightened and they all agreed on that story.  The story of Osiris and Seth was a popular one in the den, especially among the youngsters, as well as the adults.  It was a personal favorite of mine as well.
“The story of Seth’s betrayal of Osiris it is,” I said.  The youngsters all gathered closer and sat expectantly, waiting for me to begin.  I pretended to think for a moment, an act I had perfected since my first days in the den.
“In the days before the Grand Council, before the Matriarchy and the Clan Wars,” I began, “the Ra’kyri were ruled by a single monarch, claiming their right to rule was by Ra’s will.  Now, the rule of Geb, who was destined to become the Ne’jar of the Earth, was waning, and so he called all his courtiers together.  Geb told his advisors that his days among mortals was ending, and that he intended to declare his successor before that time.  Now, Geb had many children, but as his father Shu had before him, Geb chose the eldest, his son Osiris.
“Now before Osiris had hatched, there had been many signs and wonders observed throughout the world.  Of these, the most notable had been the voice of Ra himself on the day of Osiris’ birth, coming from Ra’s holiest temples, declaring that Osiris had been born to bring joy and prosperity to the kingdom of Ra’s Children.  Osiris was indeed the wisest and strongest of Geb’s children, and he married the most beautiful of Ra’kyri to have lived, the Ne’jar Isis.  Then came the day when Geb’s soul left the Earth, to join his father and grandfather beside Ptah, Creator of All.  
“When Osiris became king, he found the Ra’kyri to be savage and brutish, fighting over petty squabbles.  Cannibalism was common then, but the Great Ptah visited beautiful and wise Isis and told her of a way to put a stop to this.  Isis told her husband and Osiris went out onto his subjects, teaching them how to hunt the animals Ptah had provided to the Children of Ra.  He also taught them moderation and conservation, showing them that while prey might be bountiful now, their exploitation would eventually hurt and destroy our race.  Osiris also taught them how to make wines from the fruits available and how to use tricks and stealth to catch one’s prey.  Osiris also proclaimed cannibalism against the will of Ptah and outlawed it for all time.
“The Ra’kyri learned these skills and put them to use, and they prospered like never before.  Osiris traveled the Great Desert of the world, visiting all the cities and settlements that were under his domain.  It is said he even taught our ways to our brothers of the sea, the Leviathans and orcs.  Everywhere Osiris went, his deeds were praised in song and poem and soon the Great Desert was filled with peace and plenty.  Everyone was happy – save one.”
I paused, looking over the youngsters, who were captivated, by the story or my telling it, I couldn’t tell.  But they were waiting, so I continued.
“One did not share in the others’ praise of Osiris – his brother, Seth.  Seth envied and loathed his brother, nor was he fond of his sister-in-law Isis.  The more praise and love Osiris received, the more Seth hated him and wished to rule in his place.  It is said that Seth’s hatred was compounded by the betrayal of his own wife, Nephthys, who, in her desperation for a child of her own, had tricked Osiris into lying with her and so had a son by him, Anubis.  Seth’s desire to kill his brother and take his place burned in him like a fire, but he could make no move, for wise Isis was ever wary of her brother-in-law and kept a close watch on him.
“Yet Seth made his plans, aided by seventy-two of his wicked friends.  Seth secretly obtained the measurements of Osiris’ body and commissioned the construction of a magical chest to be made to fit only Osiris himself.  This chest was made from the finest wood available, the great trees that no longer live in our world.  Seth also planned a great feast in Osiris’ honor, where the guests would be his conspirators. And only when Isis was away did Seth spring this treacherous trap, serving only the finest food and drink and hiring the most beautiful of dancers.  And when Osiris’ heart swelled with happiness from the feasting and song, Seth had the chest brought in.
“Osiris marveled at the chest, impressed with its beauty, marveling at its inlaid with the purest and rarest gold and silver, and painted within with images of the Ne’jar and animals of that age.  Osiris desired the chest greatly.”
The youngsters had leaned forward, and even the juveniles seemed enraptured.  I continued, “’I shall give this chest to whosoever fits within exactly!’ Seth cried.  And as rehearsed, his conspirators began in turn to see if they could fit within.  But none could, for the chest had been built for only one occupant in mind.”
“’Allow me to see if I will fit into this marvelous piece of craftsmanship,’” Osiris proclaimed.  He laid himself down into the chest while all gathered round breathlessly.  After a moment, Osiris cried, ‘I fit exactly and the chest is mine!’
“’It is yours indeed brother, and it shall be forever!” Seth hissed with a sneer and slammed the lid shut.  In haste, the conspirators nailed the lid shut and sealed every crack with molten lead.  And so Osiris the mortal died within that chest, his spirit moving on to Duat where all departed souls are judged.  Knowing that Isis would return when she sensed her husband was in danger, and realizing she would search for the chest in which Osiris was entrapped, Seth reopened the chest and tore the body of Osiris to pieces, leaving his heart within the chest and casting the rest into the Great Ocean.  When this was done, Seth proclaimed, ‘I have done it – I have destroyed the body of Osiris!’
“As Seth had predicted, Isis did return, too late to save her husband from Seth’s treachery.  But Seth’s crime was not yet complete, for his rage soon turned on the unhatched offspring of Osiris and Isis.  Knowing that such offspring were a threat to his claim to the throne, Seth himself destroyed all but one of the eggs.  The one he did not destroy had been saved through Isis’ magic; for she returned to the nest in time to disguise the egg as a pearl, for the eggs of that time were mottled brown in color, and thus Seth was fooled.  To this day, our eggs are bear the color of pearls, in honor of this lone survivor of Seth’s massacre.
“And as Seth predicted, Isis searched the world for the chest Osiris had been murdered in, while he laid claim to the throne.  But while Seth’s rule was far from oppressive, the his subjects never accepted him as their king, and thus Seth’s rule was always threatened by rebellion.  His wary eye often fell on Anubis, the son of Nephthys and Osiris, and as such could be considered the rightful heir to the throne.  While Anubis held no such ambitions, Seth’s paranoia won him no support from the Ne’jar of the Funeral.
“Isis, meanwhile, had found the chest Osiris had been murdered in, but when she opened it, she found only his heart within.  Realizing Seth had scattered Osiris’ remains, Isis continued to search, for until Osiris’ remains could be committed properly, his soul could not move to the land of Amenti, where good and just souls go to rest while they await the next life.  With her was the egg she had saved, as well as others; her sister Nephthys abandoned her treacherous husband, as had Anubis.  Wherever Isis traveled, great scorpions went with her, protecting her and her entourage.  It is said that Thoth also assisted in the search, as did the Ne’jar Sobek, ordering his subjects, the crocodiles, not to touch the rent pieces of Osiris nor Isis herself.  Our sea brothers also aided in the search, led on by their own deities.
“It took many years, but piece by piece, Isis recovered all the pieces of Osiris, save one, which had been eaten by certain impious fish, which are no longer with us.  Wherever she found a piece, she had the priests build a shrine in which to hold the pieces.  As each shrine claimed to be the burial place of Osiris, Seth could not meddle with the body of the dead king.  Once all but that one piece of Osiris had been found, Isis gathered them all in one place and rejoined them by magic, creating a likeness of the missing piece to complete Osiris.  And for awhile, Osiris lived again, but could not stay, for no one, not even the Ne’jar, may have their soul reborn in their original vessel, as so decreed by Ptah.  With the assistance of Thoth and Anubis, Isis had Osiris’ body committed to the flame by which our father Ra forged us, and in this way was Osiris able to pass into Amenti.  Because his reign on the Ra’kyri had been brutally cut short, Ra, with Ptah’s consent, made Osiris ruler of Amenti, lord of the dead until the Last Battle.
“But Osiris’ murder did not go unavenged.  As I mentioned earlier, Isis had saved a single egg from Seth’s murderous rampage.  From this egg was born Horus, the rightful heir and vanquisher of the False King.  But that is a story for another day.”
The youngsters had sat entranced through the entire narrative, amazing considering how hyper youth can be.  But once the tale was finished, a collective and disappointed “aw” rippled through crowd of youngsters.  The same couldn’t be said of the juveniles and kikimora; though they showed no impatience, they were glancing up at the position of the sun.  It was far from dusk, but Ra’kyri commonly glance at the sun’s position when tracking time.
“Tell us how Horus got back at Seth for killing his father,” one of the wyrmlings pleaded.  The other youngsters’ beseeching consisted of similar statements, often followed by multitudes of “please” and “pretty please”.
They were all cut off when one of the kikimora stated, “My apologies young arrakis, but we must be getting going.  Your parents will be expecting all of you home soon.”
That set off another round of disappointed groans, and several of the youngsters looked up at me, asking silently for me to intervene again.  However, I wasn’t about to interfere in the plans of parents, so you could imagine the dissatisfaction when I said, “I’m sorry you could not stay longer.  I hope your time was enjoyable.”
Several youngsters continued to plead their case to stay, but neither the juveniles nor the kikimora were budging.  They were escorted away, many of the youngsters pouting; others simply walking in total silence, as if that might work.  But led away they were and soon they had disappeared in the brush surrounding my nest.
As soon as they were gone, I stood and stretched my legs; lying on the ground for that long had put them to sleep.  I also stretched my wings; they hadn’t been exercised since the previous night.  I noticed the milk bowl from breakfast had disappeared, no doubt taken by a kikimora or domovoi.  Now that this morning’s distractions were over, I began to think of things I could do.
“Ra shines brightly today, Tempest!” a voice from above called out.  I looked up to see a small group of Ra’kyri swooping in, maybe five at most, all male from the scent.  They halted their descent and hovered above me, their wings beating vigorously in an effort to stay aloft.
“He does indeed!” I shouted back.  “And Amon has graced us with fair winds today.”  I knew these Ra’kyri, friends of mine, from even before I lived in this den.  I had met them during the last world war, the last conflict the Triad had been involved in.  We had served with each other on the Eastern Front, fighting alongside Stalin’s Red Army.
“We were heading outside to do some fishing, Sobek so willing,” the original speaker shouted from his position.  “We were wondering if you would join us.  There’s a lake not too far from the den, still comparatively pristine, that’s jumping with fish!”
I grinned and yelled back, “Thank you for the invitation!  I think I will!” I spread my own wings and with a few hearty flaps, I was airborne.
Going fishing with one’s friends or den-mates is our equivalent of the human custom of going out to a bar and having a few beers with their buddies.  For us, fishing doesn’t involve a rod and reel, but either swooping down on an unsuspecting fish, snapping them up from the surface, or grabbing them from below.  Of these, I prefer hunting from below; less chance of a miss and it takes less time for the fish to drop their guard.
Of course, all these methods have their risks.  Coming in from above, you can only see the fish from the surface, especially difficult with all the pollution in the waterways these days.  Diving Ra’kyri can also spook human fisherman and boaters, and accidents have occurred when a Ra’kyri misjudged the position of a boat.  Hunting from below also has its disadvantages; Ra’kyri surfacing for air have often been mistaken for Leviathan or some other kind of aquatic beast.  You’d be surprised at how many inebriated humans have claimed to see a lake monster only to have the media embarrass them when it’s revealed that a Ra’kyri was the party responsible.
Of course, there are some Ra’kyri who just love to perpetuate such deceptions.  I have an aunt in Scotland who’s been fanning the flames of the Loch Ness Monster myth for centuries.  Aunt Irikara always did have a sense of humor.
Coming back to the present, I flew up to join the others and together we flew to the nearest exit out of the den.