Balthazar - 1. Chapter 1

“Well...what have we here?”

Balthazar stared down at the nondescript package unceremoniously abandoned for him to find outside the outermost gate of his keep. Wary of the unmarked parcel wrapped in plain brown paper, the golden dragon grimaced in distaste. To anyone else it would appear quite unremarkable, but to one as old as himself...

“Daniel, I swear if I open this and it sucks me away into some other dimension I shall be most displeased.”

Picking up the parcel with all the delicacy of one handling a ticking bomb, Balthazar waited with baited breath for some manner of impending doom to befall him from simply handling it. Nothing good came to mind where the black dragon was concerned, chaos often following in the wake of his seemingly self serving plans.

He felt every inch the fool as he stood out in the dark of night holding the brown papered package out at arms length. No explosions...no dimensional warps...if fact nothing happened at all.

“I’d almost say you’re losing your touch, Mythara.”

Turning on his heel, the golden dragon retreated within the inner walls of his ancient Welsh keep. Behind him heavy Rowan hewn gates swung shut of their own magical accord, a cord of rough Oak at least two feet thick falling into place with a thunderous thud and barring further entry to any creature stupid enough to attempt entry into his lair.

Honeyed gold eyes peered down at the offendingly innocuous square held between his long dexterous fingers. It couldn't have weighed more than a few pounds at most. While he could discern no immediate sense of danger, that was one of the things that troubled him the most. Daniel was an annoying do what ‘I’ want-willy-nilly...ancient and powerful being. The very absence of something amiss raised his hackles in suspicion. The unshakeable feeling of impending doom hung heavy like a foot crossing his grave.

Damn you, Daniel Mythara.

On that black dragon’s name he would be willing to lay his life that this mystery was the fault of no other than he. Everything about it reeked of his calculated fly by the seat of his pants mode of operation. He knew damn well that he wanted naught to do with his hide and so resorted to childish tricks to gain his attention like a toddler.

Cradling the likely ‘Trojan Horse’ to his chest, Balthazar arced a hand out before him. An arching doorway crafted of the same Rowan as the keep gates creaked open before him, the fluttering flames of gas lamplight dancing over the stained glass Hawthorn branches adorning the ancient wood. The cobbles were damp and slick beneath his feet and it felt like rain in the air. In the back of his consciousness it troubled him that these small things seemed to be ingraining themselves into his sense of awareness. Another ill boding nagging at his brain.

As the doors swung shut behind him, Balthazar’s anxiety escalated. Instead of being ensconced in the safety of his own lair, it felt much like cell bars shutting him in with whatever fate awaited him.

Why not just boot whatever it was to the curb? Toss it in the trash without so much as peeking within...because being Ancient and a preternatural dinosaur came with certain responsibilities, senses that could not be denied.

Setting the parcel down atop his velvet inlaid oak desktop, Balthazar dropped like a stone into the leather chair behind it. Releasing the rush of breath he’d unconsciously been holding he began meticulously unfurling the plain brown wrapping.

“Waiting isn't going to get me anywhere I suppose...Hope you know what you are about, Mythara.”

Beneath the nondescript brown paper was an equally plain unmarked packing box, taped neatly with nary a bubble.

“Morally questionable and yet you are a gold star present wrapper...who knew.”

One long clear claw elongated, slicing a neat line down the middle of the boxing tape. Tauntingly the box popped open with a soft crisp shuffle, what lay within remained hidden from his view. To his right he could hear the patter of rain against his dark study windows. So he’d been right…

A fold in each hand, Balthazar opened the box wide in one fluid motion. Nestled alone against the bottom of the parcel was a bound bronze tome belted by a golden lock with no keyhole. Upon closer inspection and recognizing a familiar magical signature, Balthazar noticed the book to be bound in dragon hide.

“Not Ragnar...Damnit it, Mythara, just what has come to pass.”

The hide bound tome was warm to the touch, magic humming beneath the shining lock. Reclining back into the pillowy leather chair he adored so much the golden dragon stared down at it, lost in thought over what it must signify.

Placing the warmth of his palm over the constricting ribbon of gold a seam began to melt away, falling aside like a little girl’s diary. Stroking his long fingers across the almost still breathing binding, Balthazar sighed heavily.

“I suppose I shall have to hear your tale, Daniel Mythara.”

Within the pages were blank and white, with the warmth of a resigned exhalation the flowing flowery black script appeared.

Balthazar Anshar,

Sorry about this, Old Boy.

Sincerely,

Daniel Mythara

It was then that he felt the invisible tongues of fire incinerating his very veins, clear claws elongating to gouge deep furrows into the wooden arm of his favorite chair. Pain unlike anything he’d ever experienced wracked his very being and then the world went mercifully dark.