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Through the Eyes of Astrauld
A daily journal of personal opinions, and on occasion, a piece of one of my many stories.
The Drehal Legacies: Astrauld - Chapter One: Abuse
~Chapter One - Abuse~


It was a warm summer day in Ilkskava, the sun beating down on Astrauld as he picked raspberries from the berry patch behind his family’s cottage. It was a beautiful day, the mountains around the valley spiking through the clouds, blanketed in glistening snow. Yet, despite the beauty, Astrauld still felt uneasy. His father was home today, back from a hunting trip, and that was never good for Astrauld or his poor mother. He could hear his father cutting wood nearby, grunting and moaning. “Astrauld, get over here!” he ordered. Astrauld scurried over to his fatigued father. His father set down the ax and knelt beside him, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “Your mother told me another child hurt you while I was gone.” Astrauld felt a sense of affection from his father, hoping that somehow he had changed over the trip.

“Yeah, it was Lyyrn Konnshal. He hit me with a fake wooden sword over and over again.” Astrauld explained. “It really hurt.”

His father sighed. “Well, what did you do about it?”

“I came home and told mom. I was afraid.”

“Astrauld, it’s going to be okay.” his father assured. Astrauld smiled, feeling his father sympathy for him. “Because you’re going to beat that kid to a pulp.” The feeling of affection suddenly wore away, and he realized his father didn’t change whatsoever.

“But he’s two years older than me! He’s too strong.”

“I don’t care how old he is. You’re eleven years old, Astrauld. Mommy and daddy aren’t going to be here forever, so get used to defending yourself.”


“Wait, you were only eleven years old?” Imoro asked. “Was your father insane?”

“He was, but in any case, he was going to make me hurt this adolescent child. I always did what he told me to out of fear. He was incredibly abusive, you see?”


Sure enough, an hour later, Astrauld was on the street, standing in the face of Lyyrn. It was a very scary confrontation for the poor child. Lyyrn stood five inches taller and was far stronger than Astrauld. “What do you want?” the thirteen year old enemy asked. In fear of his father, Astrauld did not answer with words, but with a punch to the face. The thirteen year old boy fell to the ground, and Astrauld began to kick him. “Knock it off!” Lyyrn plead. “It hurts!”

“How do you like it, Lyyrn?” Astrauld asked. “How bad does it hurt?”

“That’s my boy!” Astrauld’s father called from behind. “Keep going!” While Astrauld was focused, one of Lyyrn’s brothers came to the scene. Before Astrauld knew it, he was kicked in the stomach, falling to the ground, crying.

“Don’t mess with my brother, you Drehal rat!” the young man shouted. “Let’s get out of here, Lyyrn.” The brother picked Lyyrn up and began to carry him to their home.

“Son of a b***h! I knew he wasn’t tough enough!” Astrauld’s father spat in disgust, slamming the door to the cottage behind him. Obviously his father was disappointed and angry, and there was only one thing Astrauld’s father did when he was angry.

That night, Astrauld and his father stood by the kitchen table. Astrauld looked up at his off balance father in fear, and his father looked at him in anger. His father held a large glass bottle that said, ‘Drake’s Finest Brew.’ It was nearly empty of the liquid. “You b*****d child!” his father shouted. “I told you to beat that kid to a bloody damn pulp! Why didn’t you do that?” Astrauld’s father placed one hand on the table to keep himself steady.

“I tried, father, but I don’t like hurting people.”

“GET USED TO IT!” he screamed, smashing the bottom of the bottle on the table, breaking it and facing the sharp shards at me. “People are going to hurt you! DEFEND YOURSELF!” He smashed the rest of the bottle on my head, and I fell on my back, screaming. My scalp was bleeding, as well as some cuts on my face.

“Mom, help me! Dad’s hurting me!” Astrauld screamed, tears and blood flowing down his face.

“Why don’t you help yourself, Astrauld?” his father asked, raising his right hand.


The backhand came quick and precise. Astrauld’s head hit against the counter, and he screamed in the nearly unbearable pain.

“Enough!” his mother bellowed from the kitchen. “You’re behaving like one of the damn Dweldren!”

“Cram it, Sofia. This is between me and our moron of a child.”

“If you lay another hand on Astrauld, I’ll… I’ll…”

“What are you going to do about it, b***h? Talk me to death?” his father began to laugh at his own joke. “Go make me some food. I’m hungry!”

“… Yes, honey.” his mother replied.

“Mom, no! He’ll kill me!” Astrauld insisted as his mother turned away and walked back into the kitchen. Another backhand came, and Astrauld was knocked unconscious.


“My childhood was very hard, Imoro.” Astrauld explained.

“How did you survive?” Imoro questioned.

“I honestly don’t know, Imoro.” Astrauld yawned and stretched his arms. “But I am very tired. I believe it’s about time we go to bed.

“But… What happened next?”

“That’ll be for the morning, Imoro.” Astrauld laid down beside the fire and shut his eyes. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Imoro replied.

Imoro woke up early that morning, just as the sun’s first light began to shine through the cracks of the cave’s blockade. The fire was out, and Astrauld was still asleep. As much as Imoro did not want to, he could not get the nightmare he had just had to leave his mind. Tears began to run down his cheeks, and he began to shake. He breathed heavily as he cried, most of his muscles flexing, trying to relieve the emotional pain he was suffering. Astrauld sat up when he heard the commotion.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“N-nothing, Astrauld.” Imoro replied, wiping his face of tears.

“You can tell me, Imoro. What happened?” Astrauld asked.

“I… I had a nightmare.” Imoro sniffled. “I feel so childish.”

“Fear is not childish, Imoro, no matter what most ignorant men say.”

“It’s not fear. It’s sadness.” Imoro explained. “It was a nightmare in the form of a memory. I witnessed the deaths of my entire family, and that memory reoccurs. I wake up like this quite a lot.”

“I’m sorry, Imoro.” Astrauld acknowledged. “I witnessed the death of my parents as well. Definitely a horrific memory.”

The two men sat in silence for a few minutes, shivering in the bright, cold sunlight. “Is there a possibility we can restart the fire?” Imoro asked. “I’m freezing in here.”

“I don’t have any fire rocks handy, so no.” Astrauld replied.

“Weren’t you trained in the Elemental Arts?”

“Yes, but at this age… Using those powers would kill me. I’m not strong enough to withstand the magic’s powerful effects.”

“Oh.” Imoro said, disappointed. He looked over at Astrauld noticing the Draconic Daemon Armor again. “You sleep in that armor?”

Astrauld chuckled. “Yes. It’s got velvet pads on the inside. Feels like a bed.”

“Where’d you get that armor?”

“I got it from King Xallyr’s private smith as a reward for my achievements in the field of war.” Astrauld explained. The armor was red on the plates with a black lining. Very decorative.

“What was his name?”

“He never revealed that information, actually. He was simply referred to as Ornjolf the Mighty, Ornjolf, of course, being the name of the son of the Heathen.”

“Yes, the one who carries the Crystal Blade.” Imoro confirmed. “I heard you say that you witnessed your family’s death. When?”

“You’ll know soon enough. Reach into the bag and grab a chicken leg or breast while I tell you more about myself.”


Astrauld awoke that night with Warhal sitting at the dining room table, sipping on some ale, tapping his foot. “You’re finally awake.” he solemnly said. “Don’t touch your head. You’re mother put some bandages on to make sure you didn’t get infected. Bah!”

“Can I go to my room?” Astrauld asked.

“No. Have a seat while I go grab some things.” As Warhal left the room, Astrauld picked himself off the ground and sat at the chair directly opposite of his father’s. What’s he going to do to me, Astrauld worried. Am I going to live? Astrauld’s father stepped back into the room, carrying two bows and two quivers full of arrows. “Strap this on your back.” Warhal tossed one of the quiver’s into Astrauld’s lap. “And you’ll need this.” He tossed a bow on the table directly in front of Astrauld.

“Why are you giving me weapons, father?” Astrauld asked.

“Lyyrn and his brother both snuck out of the house with a few bottles of ale. I watched them. You’re going to go redeem yourself, Astrauld.”

“Redeem myself?”

“Yes. Now strap that on and meet me in the front yard. Don’t forget the bow.”

Astrauld stood up, strapped the quiver on his shoulder, and picked up the bow. He felt like a man readying for battle, though he gravely despised the idea. My father’s a madman, Astrauld thought as he walked outside. Warhal sat on a stump, pulling on the string of his bow, imagining an arrow was in his hand, ready to kill. “I’m ready, father.”

“Good.” Warhal stood and stretched his arms, holding the bow at his side now. He looked down on Astrauld with excitement. There was a devious smile spread across his face that shined white in the moonlight. “You’ll never forget what will conspire tonight.”

Warhal and Astrauld hastily walked off their property and made their way to the edge of the Dweldren Valley Grassland, an immense meadow full of bison and other field creatures. In the center was a small grouping of trees, and from their position, Astrauld and Warhal could see smoke billowing from its center. “That’s where Lyyrn and his rotten brother are.” Warhal and Astrauld began to walk through the field toward the forest. Each footstep Astrauld took made him more and more nervous. He began to hear the hearty laughs of Konnshal brothers, the clinking of bottles as they drunkenly toasted whatever they were talking about. Warhal and Astrauld reached the border of the forest area, and they began to circle it.

“Stop here.” Warhal whispered. “We’ve got them in our sights.” Astrauld looked into the small forest. The two boys sat on a couple of logs around a small fire, bottles of ale in their hands, laughing hysterically. “Do you remember how to fire an arrow?” Warhal asked with a belch. “You were quite the archer if I remember right.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Aim at Lyyrn. I’ve got his brother.”

“Wait, what are you trying to do, father?” Astrauld asked fearfully.

“What do you think?” Warhal asked. “Now aim the damn bow and arrow at Lyyrn. Make sure it does all the damage needed.” The message was clear to Astrauld. The scared boy took an arrow from the quiver and aimed it at Lyyrn’s head. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, father…” Astrauld replied.

“When I say fire, take the shot.” Warhal ordered. “Three…” Astrauld’s heart started pumping rapidly. “Two…” He began to sweat nervously. “One…” He hesitantly closed his eyes, keeping the aim on Lyyrn’s head. “Fire.” Astrauld strummed the string of the bow, letting the arrow fly away from his hand. The laughing stopped. The only sounds made afterwards were the thuds of the bottles and their drinkers hitting the forest floor.

His Majesty Satan
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  • 07/08/12 to 07/01/12 (3)
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