And so darkness came to conquer us – the dark walls lined with mystic ruins and haunted eyes followed us from our home.  A small band – encouraged by the inevitable of fate and circumstance and afraid.  I remember the day with crystal clarity as I sat behind my father on his horse.  Even in defeat he was proud, even in despair his eyes shone with hope and I will never forget – nor forgive those who took his heart from him and she had a name.

Much has been told of our matron – my mother – Silfryn Ravenschild, many a tale carries her name or deeds both noble and pure that of the house she formed in the days when darkness was a tangible thing.  Yet of the woman herself we, I know little of – a faint memory of her lingers in my mind – her laughter and her gentle hands – are all the memories a child of 6 as I was then could remember.

I had not learned the art of memory when the darkness fell – and without guidance I was lost to even the baser forms of magic. A sickly child I was not expected to live the days we were facing, yet I remember the night my father took the last of his great wisdom’s and sitting across me from the meager camp fire spoke of one so sweet, so innocent that even now my heart does bleed for him.   As the Kehmet he knew so many things – history a blur to his memory, compacts and alliances, sword and shield, armies for the fighting all were second nature but despite all his wisdom on this night he told me the greatest of his secrets and shame.  He told me he was mortal.  A man of few words I did not know at the time what he was telling me nor that soon I was to be orphaned amongst a hostile land.

He had lived through days of darkness and sorcery and had come to call one pure thing his own – his wife.  Yet of her history he can tell me little – apart from the stories of popular fiction that had her be the daughter of a mighty demon lord – forged by the gods in their mercy and given a path to walk throughout the days that the sons of man might set foot upon the lands.  And in all of this – man himself did flee from her – damned her , banished her, scorned her and reviled her.
 

He knew nothing of the arcane arts, nor did he understand the gift she has passed on to me – looking older than his years he passed across an amulet – fused with the raven and the rose above a lightning struck falling tower, and urged my tiny body forward to find my only light.  In some things memory is clear and others I still work through the morass of inconsistencies to understand the underlying meaning, but this night was special for when I took the amulet in my hands – the metal warmed and a subtle vibration coursed through my body.  I looked again to my father and he saw and felt nothing.

“How can I prepare you my son?” a deep voice which at once comforted and distracted me from the amulet. “How do I tell you things that I have no understanding of?” his eyes pale and beseeching in the firelight looked now within to the source of his own being and offered to me what he knew.

“Thalos was born of a dream Rowan – in the dark days our past was cruel and we – the masters of magic and sword cast a terrible glow upon the horizon of burning villages and plundered stores.  We were rich, and in the dead of night we grew richer  -  our people were not the noble lords that all our tomes tell of.  Then before my grandfathers time a group of travelers – the children of the House of Ravenschild found their way to our doors and taught us many things, including the wisdom of our own magic and strength – under their gentle hands we grew by degrees more prosperous and became that which we had longed to be – accepted by the young kingdoms.  No longer a dark stain on the horizon we glowed with the promise of understanding and peace – and within our walls House Ravenschild blossomed again.  Your mother Silfryn was the matron of the house – she ruled her siblings with ease and love – she was the mistress of memory and a shadow walker, Mystrielle her sister held the book of natural magic – a rune mage and wild she danced many a night away and was beloved by all.  Tourlain – brother to them was a great warrior and shapeshifter – he held the book of law – a gentle man and quick to defend the weak, Legion the forth of the clan”  my father shakes his head at the memory of that one , “Legion was pulled closer to the darkness than any of the others could have been – tormented by his own heart he questioned them at all times yet remained unswervingly loyal to Silfryn. He held the book of shadows. The last of the house proper was a reverend cleric Ashlin De’Valiance – she held the book of the soul and was the first to leave us.  And to the best of my knowledge my son they are immortal.  When you were born – your mother gave me the amulet and foretold me of the disaster that was to take our home and that in time you would lead  our people home.  It is a journey I cannot prepare you for”

The vibration in the amulet picked up again and through the clearing strode a woman – swathed in gypsy silks.  She walked the length of the camp – her feet following directly a path that would bring her to me – the guards stepped back to allow her and the women who traveled with the remnants of our house curtseyed as she passed.  Her body covered from head to toe in silver runes – carved upon the living flesh and glowing faintly in the moonlight – tiny bells hung around her feet miraculously made no sound.  As she appeared my father stood up and took me by the hand – she smiled and on reaching us dropped to the ground and did honor us both.  Dark eyes regarded me and darker hair fell about her shoulders as she took my fathers hand to stand.

“Greetings Yarren.” She said softly to my father.  He in turn kissed her hand, the top of my head then walked away.  She took me by the hand that night and lead me from the campfire, from my father and into the magic.  And as I looked back I saw my fathers face and I knew that at last he was defeated and would soon die.
 

The charade has been played out for centuries – before man felt the urge to dominate his surrounds – before the elves withdraw from hostile hands and before the smaller creatures fled into the realms of light – the charade was played.  Mystrielle taught me well how to hide my abilities – taught me the history of the house and of my mother – spoken of with love and understanding only ever in dreams did I see her face.  I pass my days in this age as lecturer to a group of bright students and it is here that I have the greatest access to the brood.  The children born of Ravenschild blood and Thalos.  Their lines are long and in every generation one will emerge fit and worthy to be included in the secrets of what we really are.  Tourlain in one such child and for over 400 years has been by my side, and there are others scattered about the world in houses similar to mine – yet I am the lord of this house and finally they will all come to me.
 

A good crowd this morning as I look about the lecture hall, Melissa is conspicuous by her absence yet there are others here, faces from the house, those Tourlain and others have marked for collection.  Mythology is always a popular class and today seems to be no exception.  The projector starts as I take my seat at the back, today we are discussing the comparison between Roman and Greek mythology and the short piece I have chosen for them to view will become part of their exam.  Its and easy class for me and I begin to drift off – presently I am startled from my reverie by the opening of a door, and Melissa enters – looking tired and hurried, she looks at me and smiles, the hint of challenge and understanding in her eyes.  I am pleased, unreasonably so.  She takes a seat next to her boyfriend and holding hands they whisper and settle back into the film, perhaps I am jealous of their obvious affections but still I know such things cannot be for me outside the brood proper.  I have witnessed the union between the brood and mortals and the heartache and scattered clans, all the best intentions of love and understanding woven on the loom of personal convenience and it was not for me to upset the balance.
 

Understanding the consequences of action does not make it any easier to accept – yet I would not deny the simple pleasures to any of the brood, should they wish to take the comfort they find.

The door opens again – the figure of a youth – a little younger than myself – mid 20’s at a guess, appears with trepidation.  Long flowing golden hair, halo’s against the light and I am reminded of Carravagio’s Angels.  Approaching him, I see his eyes for the first time and the trepidation – is an act, a small smile quirks the corner of his mouth and his posture is challenging.  Some where something else tugs at my mind, some small knowledge of being totally known and I shut my defenses tightly.  He smiles now fully – his tone hushed as he looks down at the course schedule in his hand.

“Can I help you,” my tone is distant and cold and his smile grows further – his is brood of that I am sure, but not of my brood stock – something else and I shudder at the implications.

“I hope so sir,” he steps closer showing me his course schedule, “Are you Professor Thane?” he frowns aware that my apparent age could not reconcile with a lifetime of study.

“Yes.” Seeking out the truth within this one I am met with the same normal buzzing on my subconscious as I do with all new students – behind it though is static and a definite wall and again I am aware of some portent of danger and his face – familiar in the half light.

He extends a hand – “Sir my name is Fion Gower,” a wave of nausea floods me as I take his hand in mine and reeling slightly I step back, “I am in your class.” He says, with evident satisfaction.

“Fine,” I mutter.  “take a seat, class interviews are held on Friday – check with your co-ordinator.” And I stumble for the door, taking in great gasps of fresh air and shielding my eyes from the light.  My hands are shaking as I send the mental summons to Tourlain, and resetting my wards and defenses I re-enter the class.

The film ends, and his eyes bore into me – it is not like the brood to reveal themselves so plainly and I ignore him as I would an insolent child.  The morass of usual questions I answer with all the fervor a condemned man answering questions of his future.  Melissa is tugging at my arm, cold sweat is pouring from me as I take the assignments and reports in for marking.  I look down at her and she is frowning – her boyfriend close by her.

“Ro….what.” Melissa asks.

 Fion  smiles as he leaves chatting to one of those marked for collection, a smirk as his arm snakes about her shoulder and walks out the door.

“Professor?” her boyfriend is by my side as well, concern evident in his expressive blue eyes.  The room empties.  Vaguely I am aware of a strong arm around me, guiding me down in the chair and a gentle probing against my mind – survival becomes my only conscious thought and pushing against the intrusion I feel the hand flung from me and a dull thud followed by colorful words against the twin spots of darkness that threaten my vision and my mind.

“Rowan.” The voice hisses in my ear and struggling against the darkness I try to focus on his words. “Ishkayel keintia Kehmet! Keintia.” the words spoken out loud, an ancient oath to protect the Kehmet spoken by a chosen few and my eyes open.  Tourlain is sprawled inelegantly on the floor against the lectern and Melissa hurriedly is escorting Ben from the hall –  looking back over her shoulder she smiles weakly and I return in kind.

“Tourlain?” he steps up – strong yet gentle hands check my pulse and my breathing – handing me the glass of water from my table,  he peers down at me with concern.

“You called sire?” his cheeky smile barely masking his concern.  I shake my head – the vision clearing and my heart receding from the pounding pace.  The water has a clean earthy taste as  I drink more deeply.

“Yes.” Drawing a deep breath I steady myself to continue.

“Who attacked you, Ro?”

“I don’t know.”

Tourlain frowns, “Far be if for me to call the master of my heart a liar.”  Still though his hand does not leave my arm.

“It’s true Tourlain. I don’t know, not really.” My hands begin to toy with the pen on my table – a nervous habit – and one my cousin knows well.  He waits, patience is his virtue and avoiding his gaze I speak. “You know the Elgowah.”  It is my cousin’s turn to pale – he sit's on the edge of my desk and looks at a distant past.

“Oh yes.  It is one name I will never forget.”

“Why?”

He runs his hand through long dark hair and smiles, not warmly – the feral hint returning. His eyes narrow as he looks at me somewhat in surprise “ You know the story, the Elgowah are a source of an old hurt Ro – long before you found me a brought me into the house, long before I knew I was brood – they took me in – their hands dark and sinister – their power unbridled, their hatred complete and they knew of the line of Tourlain before I did.  For decades I lived by their rules until you found me cowering from my own shadow in the darkness.” His words are bitter and the hurt is deep – ashamed that I need to know the details of the fractured past I take hold of his hand – offering what comfort and support I can.

“I’m sorry but I need to know Tourlain.” I too remember how I found him – mud and debris caked against his form – no older than his is now yet his eyes knew so much pain and defeat and his body broken by beatings too numerous and viscous to be counted.  His soul too cowered from me and it had taken too long for me to find him – to bring him home and nurse him.  Such changes from the proud man who stood before me.

“What did they look like?”

“Angels,” he whispered and then he turned to look at me fear and hatred a complex mix behind his eyes. “You’ve seen one haven’t you?”  his voice incredulous and soft in the large silent room.

“ I’m not sure but just before I was attacked a new student enrolled in my class today.”

“ Oh ,Shit.”