((long post comin up. it's only here for those who want to read it. if you don't want to, then oh well.

Gabriel stared in disbelief once more at the man claiming to be his Grand-Sire. His eyes did show a huge degree of wisdom and age....but a METHUSALAH??? The ancient sighed, showing his weariness for the first time.

"Very well young one....would you like to hear my story? I will tell you then, of how I grew to become part of what I am, and how I embraced your Sire, which would eventually hold me from all I've strived for."

Gabriel listened silently as the age old figure spoke:



Chapter 1: Among the Wolves

“I was born eons ago my boy....my world of old hardly bares resemblance to this modern mess. Today everything so crowded....complex. What would of constituted as a lifetime of experiences back then now take place within a span of a few years. I was brought into a more simple life...among the rolling hills of what is now called Macedonia, in the bustling port city of Pydna in 186 BC, your calender. Ah if I had only known the wonders, and horrors, that lay before me......”


* * *

The wind howled outside the humble shack, the makeshift shutters doing little to keep the cold out. Inside, next to a flickering fire, Orestes II knelt down next to his wife, mopping her brow gently. She groaned in agony as the contractions sent waves of pain through her slender body.
“Yes,” Orestes exclaimed, “by the Gods I see it!” Diana bit her lower lip hard to stifle the scream that arose in her throat. She pushed with all her might, finally releasing her clamped jaw and howling along the wind in pain.
As her voice wavered and she slipped into a deep slumber, another cry filled the tiny cottage. The high, tiny cry of a newborn child, born on that chilly night in January. Orestes II stretched his broad shoulders, his black shoulder length hair resting on them royally. The child was light in his hands, his naked body tense and small knuckles clenched.
“Welcome...Orestes.” his father said with a smile. And so Orestes the 3rd started his new life.

Orestes grew quickly through out the years, as boy back then tended to do. Life was simple, if one was willing to work hard. The young dark haired youth spent his days learning how to farm the grape and olive fields along side his father on the family’s small plot of land just outside Pydna. His evenings were spent joyfully listening to stories of the Gods his mother would tell. His body grew tan in the Mediterranean sun, a sparkling smile always upon his face.
During the course of their weeks his father and he would travel into the city to the various markets. The crowded pathways were always a sight for young Orestes to take in. Various fruits, herbs, metals, rocks, animals, vegetables, and host of other goods could be seen, sometimes it was a bit overwhelming. But he treasured the trips he took with his father above all else, always striving to be seen as a man at his young age.
His father, for his part, treated Orestes as his partner, relying on him to perform a number of tasks around the farm. Orestes took joy in his work, and the satisfaction he got in seeing his fathers approval.
The young boy grew in strength, and eagerly looked forward to the following Spring, when he would at last be able to fulfill his dreams. Ever since he had been a child, he had marveled at the soldiers who routinely made their way down the market streets of Pydna towards to the docks. They were heroes of legend in young Orestes mind, and unbeknownst to his father he had been training for years, pushing his body to it’s physical limitations in hope of becoming worthy to serve in the Macedonian Phalanx. Yet his father would not allow it, unwilling to watch his only son march away to certain death. So Orestes obeyed his father’s wishes, working diligently on his farm.
Eventually though, his father realized the futility of his hopes. Sooner or later Orestes would make his own decision, whether he allowed it or not. The olive farm prospered, and his father hired extra help in preparation for his son’s departure.
By the age of 16, Orestes was every inch a man. His shoulders and arms had filled out, and rippled with young muscle. His black hair had grown long and hung just below his shoulders, rich and shiny. Within the outskirts of Pydna he had become well known for his skill at throwing the javelin, as well as his swiftness in a foot race. He was beautiful and kind, and it reflected in all those who came across him.

The gentle breeze of twilight scurried down the hill of Orestes farm, carrying a few scattered leaves with it. In the farmhouse Orestes stood, a wicker basket of full olives set upon his muscular shoulder. The stars shone brightly that night, and he smiled to himself and he set the final load of olives down on the dirt floor of the hut.
‘Someday, I’ll look up to those stars after my finest battle...’ he thought inwardly. He walked to the huts entrance and sat down on the soft grass, staring up at the twinkling stars which hung like glimmers on the sea. His romantic dreams were shattered as he heard the scurry of footsteps from behind him. He leapt to his feet, fearful of his father’s scornful look for catching him at rest.
Alexander, his friend since they were children, stood panting and catching his breath. His face looked pale and racked with worry.
“Orestes!” he gasped between breaths, “Quick....come quick! Pydna! Romans!!” Orestes was taken aback. Macedonia had been at war with Rome for several years now, and the city philosophers had often mentioned the impending danger to Pydna, but Orestes had never believed it. He clamped a firm hand on Alexander’s slender shoulder.
“Romans?? HERE?? Are you sure Alexander?” Alexander hunched over, desperately trying to regain his breath, Orestes knelt beneath him staring up into his face. He believed what he was saying.
“Take me to them Alexander.”


The young boys raced over the hills as fast as their legs would carry them. As they approached the foothills where they had once spent their time chasing each other in innocence, Orestes could see the smoke billowing on the horizon. The sounds of screaming and the clash of metal filled his ears. The screams were so numerous they were but a loud roar. Grabbing Alexander’s tunic, he whispered.
“Come Alexander, we should take cover in the bushes, or we might be seen.”
Under the cover of bushes, they crept up the last hill. Orestes stared in a mixture of awe and horror at the sight below. The Roman Legions had encircled the Macedonians and were brutally ensconcing them into a tight circle. So many men filled the once green pasture, that it was difficult for Orestes to even see individuals, only a mass of movement. Glints of sunlight reflected off of the swords, which raised and fell with each hack. Here and there he would pick up a scream out of the thunderous clamor.
He watched in horror as more and more Romans appeared from behind the foothills, eventually completely encircling the remaining Macedonian Army. He turned to Alexander, who was kneeling beside him, eyes wide and teary with horror and sorrow. He laid a gentle touch on his leg.
“Come on Alexander,” he whispered, “we should go before they find us. We have to warn our families and the rest of Pydna.” Alexander nodded and the two rushed from the bushes, darting down the path they had traveled over so many times in their youths.
They raced through the forest, neither speaking, each barely daring to breath, for fear that someone might hear them. Their sandals pounded against the dirt as they neared the fork in the path. The leftmost path led towards Alexander’s farm, while the right passed by Orestes’s home. The two boys paused and looked to each other.
“Alright Alexander,” Orestes said quietly, “hurry, and we’ll meet back here within the hour.” Alexander nodded as Orestes turned towards his path. He felt a hand grip his arm and he turned to meet it.
“Orestes,” Alexander’s eyes filled with tears, “be careful.” Orestes smiled and nodded, then the two boys parted ways. The entire run home, he thought of Alexander’s tears, and prayed that he would be alright. As he neared the opening of the forest, where his farm laid just beyond, the crisp smell of smoke filled his nostrils. Tears began to streams down his face as his worse fears came into sight.
The farm lay in ruins, smoke bursting forth from the small thatch hut in which he had lived his entire life. In a blur of panic and fear Orestes lunged forward, plowing through the rows of crops which he had worked so hard to nurse. Once again, he raised his thick forearm to his eyes, wiping away the tears that blinded him as he ran.
He heard deep voices from within the burning hut speaking a strange language. Orestes quickly recognized it as Italian, the same language many of the merchants in Pydna had spoken. Romans.
Taking cover in the storage hut just left of his home, he examined his options. Although he knew he stood no chance, his parents may still be inside, being tortured by those barbarians. His anger rose within, new tears, hot burning streams of hatred, flowing down his tanned cheeks. He grabbed his father’s old walking staff from the corner of the hut and raced towards the entrance of his home.
As he arrived he heard his mothers screams being silenced, and then replaced by a low pitiful gurgle. Two Roman soldiers appeared from within the hut, one adjusting his war tunic to it’s original position. His face was flustered, his big red nose crinkled in satisfaction as the smile beneath it widened. Orestes wasted no time.
He lunged forward, the thick wooden staff held high. The lead soldier turned just in time to receive the full force of the blow with his nose. Thick, red blood spewed forth onto the dirt below as the soldier staggered backwards, bracing himself against the hut. Orestes swung again, arching the staff through the air towards the Roman’s exposed skull.
A meaty, battle worn hand grasped the staff a mere foot from the soldier’s thick hair. The young boy tumbled forward as the walking tool was wrenched from his grip. The world spun around him as he felt the shattering blow of a fist on his chin....the world faded from sight and he was at their mercy......


((more on the way.....MUCH more...muwahahaha

(i look forward to more ...much more...muahahahah :roll:

((Sha-Bing!!! Whooo!!! more more more!!! Seriously man...excellent shit!

((FRIGGIN' EXCELLENT!!!!!

(( Damn man thats SOME KICK ASS writting :smile: good work i cant wait for more now ... POST! lol :smile: ))

((Yes for the love of *enter diety* POST!

((okay guys lol, glad to see you're enjoying it. as soon as i can i'll post the next part.

((another long on the way

Gabriel shook his head in modest disbelief as his apparent Grand-Sire stood off the bed across from him, scratching his head softly. He seemed to be musing something, and Gabriel wondered secretly what it was.

Chapter 2: Falling from Grace


“The next several days were a blur to me. Even now, after centuries of meditation on the subject, I can recall little. They come like hazy photographs. After I was beaten, I recall the smell of the ocean, as well as the burn of rope on my wrists. I could hear screams occasionally, and the moans of the defeated. Forceful hands on my back and shoulders, even the sting of a the whips. When I finally awoke from my comatose state, I was in the dark bowels of a ship.....”

* * *

Orestes chin lay pressed against his young breast, the gentle sway of the boat rolling his head this back and forth limply. The entire ship lurched as it fell from the crest of a wave and the young prisoners head snapped back striking against the wooden column he was tied to. Slowly his world came into focus, as if shaking off the vestiges of a dream.
He stared in horror at his situation. All around, his people sit in rows, tied together. They were covered in filth and blood, some of them were naked, and their bodies shivered violently. A few of them sat apart from the rows, tied to individual columns, and this is how Orestes found himself. His legs were curled up beneath him, awash in a mixture of water and blood that covered the wooden floor. His own body was marred as well from the battle, the sticky sensation of scabbing wounds flared on his back, the obvious result of whippings. His lower lip was swollen and his dark hair matted to his face with blood.
For several hours, he sat merely trying to accept the situation, his mind refused to believe. How could this of happened? What was to become of them? Above, through the thin layers of wood, he could hear the Romans shouting as they worked. Were they to be slaughtered like sheep? Why not just do it back in Pydna?
The moans of the suffering dwindled as near the corner of the boat, an elder called for silence. Orestes had seen the man several times before in Pydna on his trips, and gathered that he was fairly respected by the others. He looked different now though, his once proud white beard was ratty and dark, stained with soot and blood. His eyes were worn and defeated, he hunched over, as if he had already been killed.
“My friends,” he said once silence had befallen the hold, “we are on our way to Rome no doubt, to be sold as slaves.” He offered no more words of encouragement, but only slumped down, resting his head between his hands. The prisoners burst into a frenzy of panic and tears, all shouting at once. Orestes sat, a tear streaming down his face, his heart filled with fear.

* * *

The voyage to Rome was not a long one, but it was painful. Many of his countrymen died, and Orestes lived in fear that he would be next. He wondered what had become of his parents, and although he attempted to stay positive, he feared the worse. He passed the days listening to the salty waters of the Mediterranean lap against the framework of the boat.
When they finally arrived in Rome, Orestes found himself being thrust into the bright morning sunlight by the arms. Thick Roman soldiers stood sentinel as the line of captors shuffled off of the ship and through the city. Orestes stared up at the city is a mixture of wonder and horror. The smoothened white buildings, with columns of strength and power, rose above the crowded city streets. Even the brilliance of the sun didn’t seem to match their majestic glow. Orestes stared on in awe, large statues protruded from unseen bases, heroes, gods, and goddesses waited to cast final judgment on him.
But what slithered and squirmed beneath the buildings is what frightened the boy. The angry Roman citizens crowded and assaulted the prisoners, the guards doing little to stop them. All around him, angry faces and fists shook. Tomatoes pelted him and his defeated countrymen, who hid their faces with their arms to avoid further pain. The coarse angry bellows surrounded Orestes as he was moved further still into the city.
He felt the blinding sting of an impact on the back of his skull, staggering him off his feet and sending him sprawling to the stone street. He quickly rolled over onto his back, shielding his face with one hand against his attacker. A young boy stood over him, no older than Orestes himself. His face was filled with hatred and rage. In his hand he held a stone, the tip of which was coated in blood. He raised it once more and descended on Orestes, whose hands remained bound together with rope.
A soldier stepped in and grabbed the boy by the scruff of the neck, thrusting him back into the crowd with a few harsh words. He turned his attention to Orestes, grabbing him by one arm and hauling him to his feet, then giving him a hard shove to get him moving once more.
Beads of sweat poured down Orestes brow as they entered a large open area. Buildings surrounded the clearing in a large square shape, in the center towering columns stood. The forum square was filled with people, but these were different than the raging sea of Romans they had been met with.
They were civil, standing in a mass gathering, speaking with each other in their native tongues. They paid little or no attention to the line of prisoners who were gradually being herded onto a rickety wooden platform in the center. What was to become of them?? Orestes felt the hot sting of tears welling up in his eyes. One of the soldiers came by, placing signs around their necks and another rubbed chalk on their feet. All of this meant nothing to Orestes.
The soldiers left the stage, and the fifteen or so remaining prisoners stood on the platform, amid an ocean of bidders. Even Orestes naive mind had no doubt of what was occurring. They were to be sold as slaves. The tear drops began to well up further, finally spilling over down his young cheeks and landing on the wood below. Another roman, a pompous fat man, stepped onto the stage and began to speak to the crowd, who in turn cheered and whistled.
Throughout the hour one by one, random prisoners were sold into slavery, eventually led off the stage and into the hands of their new owners. Orestes could not distinguish who was buying and who was not, all he saw were open mouths and outstretched hands, points fingers and crying out. Finally he felt the firm grip of the Roman soldier’s hand clamp around him arm and yank him off the stage as well.

* * *


It had been a full day since the slave auction. Orestes had found himself in the hands of a thin, dark skinned man whose hawk like nose dominated the features of his face. He spoke a quick coarse language and was dressed in foreign clothing. His robes were thicker than the Romans robes, and he wore cloth over his head. He had taken Orestes from the market square and to a building on the opposite side of the city.
There, surrounded by young women, Orestes had been bathed and cared for. They tended to his wounds and rubbed him down with various oils until his skin shimmered once more. They took his blood soaked tunic and gave him a new one, fresh and folded. Orestes dressed modestly and watched as the female servants left the room quickly.
Footsteps fell on the hallway outside the simple room he was in, until finally the purple curtain that worked as a door was thrown back. The hawk nosed man stood there examining the freshly washed boy. He nodded slowly his approval and said a few words in his strange language. A flick of his fingers motioned for Orestes to follow him.
The two proceeded through the hallways of the building until they arrived in a larger room, adjourned with various pillows and incense. Soft purple smoke wafted from a large pot like structure in the center. Next to the structure, on a bed of pillows, sat a large bearded man. His face was hard and stern, but as Orestes approached he could see the hint of compassion behind his eyes. He wore thick robes similar to those of the hawk nosed man, but they were even more splendid. He looked up from his device as the two entered the room, and the hawk nosed man and the large man exchanged a few words. But the large man never took his eyes off of Orestes.
Orestes was shocked when the hawk nosed man spoke his language finally.

“This is Farshad Jerrahi,” he said in a broken accent, “he will be your new master.”

((Damn man :grin:

((just topping for now...i'm workin on the next chapter, it's just taking longer than i expected....

(( Man once again its a very cool posts :smile:

Can't wait for more :smile: ))