Who in the Hell started this disclaimer crap anyway?

Built by the goblins during a war forgotten, the dread fortress of Azkaban has stood for nearly seven hundred years. Testament to an age lost, it's stone corridors have housed some of Britain's most notorious criminals. Or those the Ministry wished to silence. Despite their best efforts, the infamous prison reminds the magical world of the darkness they would choose to ignore.

See no evil, has long been the protocol.

Over the years, the inmates have varied from those sentenced for petty crimes, to those who commited the most vile of acts. Margarian Gray, heir to one of Europe's oldest pureblood families, was once sentenced to Azkaban after he successfully robbed Gringotts twice in the same day. According to legend, his loot is still hidden in a location only he knew.

Aldaric Solon, a promising Ravenclaw alumnus, once served three years for engaging in illegal, Dark Arts activity. Years later the world would know him better as the Dark Lord Grindelwald.

The prison was guarded by more than just walls and gates. Numerous wards surrounded the fortress, many of them having been cast by the goblins themselves. As such, they only grew stronger with age. The island is further isolated from the outside world by the unplottable charm placed upon it, and the Floo System is only connected to the fireplaces of a selected few; Amelia Bones and the Minister of Magic among them.

The island is accessible by Portkey and apparation, though security wards are in place to prevent any unauthorized guests. Furthermore, one can only Portkey to a place they have been to before, which means the individual would need to have previous, first hand knowledge of Azkaban Isle.

Luckily for the Lord Potter, he knew a famous alchemist who had once served as Liaison Officer on the island when it was still governed by the Goblin High Council.

The Lord of Flamel could get him in.

Norman Chomsky was not an overly talented wizard. A Hufflepuff alumnus, he had always finished in the middle part of his class. A short and rather portly fellow, he had risen to where he was today by knowing the right people.

And when the opportunity presented itself, by riding the hem of their robes.

He had joined the Ministry of Magic right after completing his Hogwarts education, and eventually worked in the Department of Magical Catastrophes with his former dorm mate Cornelius Fudge. Years later, when Fudge was appointed Minister, he had made Chomsky the Warden of Azkaban Prison.

It wasn't a job that Norman particularly enjoyed, as nobody wished to work with the Dementors that formerly guarded the island. It was a rewarding one though, with a rather inflated salary and an invitation to all the big parties. Unfortunately for Norman, the job also carried a lot of responsibility, which was something he had never been fond of. Over the years he had procured his fair share of critics, due to the rather sloppy way he went about his work.

Azkaban had been built nearly seven centuries ago, and for over three hundred years it has served as the Ministry's prison. In all that time there has only been two successful escapes, each of them happening within the last three years.

Each of them happening under Norman's lazy watch.

The escape of Sirius Black had dragged Azkaban into the spotlight, and Norman along with it. A Ministry investigation had followed the headlines, and it was then that the critics started to voice their opinions. Things eventually died down, but peace was not to be. Less than six months ago there had been another break out, and this one was even bigger news.

Rookwood the spy, Antonin Dolohov, and the infamous Lestrange brothers had been among the escapees. Not to mention Bellatrix Black Lestrange herself, the most feared dark witch that ever served He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. The media had a field day when knowledge of a second escape was made public, something that Norman had tried to prevent.

This time, it was only due to his old friend Cornelius that he kept his job. Norman really didn't want to think about the public reaction that would occur should the recently recaptured prisoners escape again.

He was starting to get a headache as it was.

Reluctantly skimming through the piles of parchment that covered his desk, the portly Warden couldn't help but feel that Fudge's days in power were numbered. And he had the unwelcome suspicion that his were as well.

Norman couldn't possibly imagine how right he was.

The familiar sensation of a hook jerking behind his navel came, and in a howl of wind and swirling color, Harry felt his feet slam into the ground. Just as planned, he and his two associates had arrived exactly at nine o'clock in the evening, in the middle of the office belonging to Azkaban Warden Norman Chomsky.

"Who the Hell are you?" a whiny, swine-like voice demanded from behind him. Harry and the other two turned around to find a short, rather portly man sitting behind a large desk. Oddly enough, there was sweat pouring down the man's balding head, and he was paling more by the second.

Harry couldn't exactly blame the pig-like Warden. Three strange figures had just appeared in the middle of his office, all clothed in the black robes and white masks often donned by Death Eaters. Which was exactly why Harry and the others where wearing them. They did have to make this convincing.

"Good evening, Warden," the refined voice of Charles Morgan said from behind a white mask.

Stepping forward, the former Unspeakable quickly raised his wand and muttered, "Stupefy!" There was a powerful beam of red light, which hit Chomsky right in the chest, and the portly man was blown out of his chair, unconscious before he hit the ground. "Good night, Warden."

Gesturing to Harry and the third member of their party, Morgan ripped of his mask and began searching the draws of the Warden's desk. "You get the wand," Charles said as he rifled through a file of parchment. "I'll find the prisoner number and cell location."

Harry nodded, ripping off his own mask as he walked toward the nearest wall. The whole thing was covered in dusty, wobbly shelves. The shelves in turn were stacked floor to ceiling with long, thin boxes, each box having a name and date written on the end. "November of '81," the third robed figure said as he walked up beside Harry and took of his mask, revealing the tanned face and silver-streaked black hair of Nicolas Flamel.

"Norahdi Draven was apprehended and sent to Azkaban Island on November 18, 1981," the famous alchemist said, his steel grey eyes scanning the rows of boxes.

Like so many other prisoners who have been incarcerated during Chomsky's tenure as Warden, the wand of Norahdi Draven had never been snapped, contrary to Ministry protocol. The portly Warden had a thing for collecting 'trophies', and personally saved the wands of many of his inmates. Especially the more infamous ones. As emerald eyes scanned the shelves, Harry saw some rather familiar names written on various boxes.

"Here we are," Nicolas said, pulling a thin, dusty box from its place on a shelve near Harry's shoulder. On the end of the box, in black letters was written:

Norahdi Arcerias Draven

11 - 18 - 81

Within the box was a long, slender piece of dark wood, in the same condition as when last used by the Heir of Lord Voldemort. Despite the rather innocent way the wand lay within the box, Harry could feel the magic that radiated from it.

"The stronger a wand," Flamel commented from beside him, handling the box cautiously, "the fewer who can us it. And if I'm not mistaken, this one is rather powerful."

Replacing the lid on the box, Flamel carefully stored it within the folds of his voluminous black robe. "We wouldn't want to experience any backlash," the alchemist continued, his steel grey eyes studying the office as he walked around.

Harry, however, didn't move from his spot by the shelf-covered wall. Frozen in place, and paying no mind to the action around him, emerald eyes stared at the shape of a particularly dusty box that seemed to call his name. For some unknown reason, a feeling of dread washed over Harry, and he could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, long fingers reached out toward the box. The dust on it was smeared by his touch, and the fine powder was brushed aside, revealing the words that were written beneath.

Sirius Orion Black

11 - 1 - 81

Slowly, his fingers curled around the long, thin box that contained his godfather's wand. Lifting it from its place on the shelf, he made to open the lid, his throat feeling oddly constricted. . . . . .

"Found it!" Charles suddenly exclaimed from the other side of the Warden's office, holding up a stack of parchment and tearing Harry out of his trance. Quickly putting the lid back in place, the messy-haired young man shoved the box into his robes before the others could see. Sirius was a rather personal matter, and he had no intention of discussing it with anyone. Carefully schooling his emotions, Harry strode over to join the others.

"Draven, Norahdi Arcerias," the former Unspeakable read, his ice green eyes scanning the top parchment. "Prisoner # 713; sentenced to life imprisonment on Azkaban Island, November 18, 1981. Charged for repeated use of the Unforgivable Curses, conspiring to overthrow the Ministry, engaging in illegal Dark Arts activity, suspected links to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, etc, etc, etc. . . . ."

Handing the file over to Flamel, Charles unrolled a large, yellowed piece of parchment. Spread across the Warden's desk, the parchment was illuminated by the glow of the fire, revealing the inky black lines of a detailed map and floor plan. "According to the file, Draven's cell is located in Block 3, Wing B."

"B Wing is here," Nicolas said, using his wand as he pointed to a far corner of the aged map. "We are currently in the Administrative Wing, which is located three floors above Cell Block 3. Now, Azkaban began using lifts at the same time as the Ministry, and when last I heard, they were still in operation today."

"Platfrom 7," Harry confirmed, pointing to an elevator shaft that was illustrated on the map. "It's the closest one to this office, located right down the hallway. Now, if I'm reading this correctly, and I would like to think that I am, then it runs all the way from the Administrative Level to the basement dungeons. All we have to do is get off at the right stop."

"From there we make are way down Corridor C, through the high security checkpoint that requires administrative clearance, around the heavily manned Auror station, and past the impenetrable, iron-wrought door that leads to Cell Block 3," Nicolas murmured enthusiastically, tracing the route with one long finger. "Of course, that's if we manage to go unnoticed while sneaking past the Aurors that walk the beat."

Harry frowned slightly, as did Morgan, both of them watching Flamel with piercing green eyes. "What has you so damn excited?" Charles suddenly demanded, taking the words right out of Harry's mouth.

"What?" Nicolas sputtered, surprisingly enough, his face turning red. "Well, I. . . .um . . . .I haven't had this much fun in centuries. Since the Goblin Rebellion of 1729, if I remember correctly."

Harry and Charles exchanged bewildered looks, their eyebrows raised, and this time, it was Harry that asked the question. "Why did we invite him?" the emerald-eyed boy inquired after a moment.

"Because he's abnormally powerful, with six hundred and seventy years of experience, has first hand knowledge of Azkaban Island," Charles listed helpfully, "and his wife wanted him out of the house."

"Ah, yes," Harry murmured thoughtfully. "That explains it."

"Would you two act professionally for a moment?" Flamel snapped, glaring at the younger lords as they began to laugh. "This is a rather risky operation we're about to undertake, and the consequences will be drastic if either of you get caught."

"Oh, don't be such a worry-wart, Nick," Charles said, regaining his usual calm, cool demeanor. "It's only Azkaban we're raiding."

The alchemist merely snorted and turned toward Harry, who was now standing over the unconscious form of Norman Chomsky. " This was your idea," Nicolas said pointedly. "I take it you do have a plan?"

"Of course I have a plan," Harry retorted indignantly. Pointing his wand at the Warden's chest, he muttered, "Ennervate." The portly man opened his beady eyes, and immediately scrambled against the wall when he say Harry and the others standing over him, white masks hiding their features once more.

"The plan!" Harry announced, glancing at the other two. Pointing his wand at the terrified Warden once again, he muttered, "Imperio!"

Regularly clad in robes of a flashy scarlet, with a ponytail down past his shoulders, Greg Williamson had been an Auror for nearly seven years. A Gryffindor alumnus, he had been accepted into the academy immediately after Hogwarts. The years following the Dark Lord's defeat were rather quiet in the Department, with most of the Aurors being assigned to investigations or intelligence gathering.

Things had generally remained the same over the past year, even with the rumors of You-Know-Who's return. Williamson considered himself as loyal to the Minister as any Auror, and had payed no attention to the far-fetched stories that were spouted by Potter and Dumbledore.

That is until a month ago, when he had responded to an emergency call from the Ministry, and had seen the truth for himself. Williamson had arrived in time to see a tall, skeletal man with red slits for eyes, just as he disapparated with a dark haired woman in tow.

The next thing Greg knew, the Minister officially confirmed the return of You-Know-Who, along with the capture of eleven of his followers and the revolt of the Dementors'. A day later he was being shipped out to Azkaban as part of a new Auror Squadron tasked with guarding the infamous prison.

Needless to say, Williamson was not pleased with his current assignment.

A series of jangles and metallic rings perked his interest though, and the pony-tailed Auror briefly looked up from his place at the security checkpoint. The brass grilles slid open, and Williamson immediately removed his boots from their place on his desk when he saw who it was.

"Warden Chomsky," the Auror greeted neutrally, hiding his disgust as the short, portly man waddled down the corridor.

"Williamson," the fat man replied in his usual, swine-like voice. "There is a situation in Block 3 that requires my attention, if you could buzz me through. . . . ."

The scarlet-robed man frowned slightly, wondering what could have occurred to warrant Chomsky's participation. The portly Warden was a joke among the Aurors stationed on the island, and Williamson and the others only associated with the man when left with no other choice.

Nodding his head almost reluctantly, Greg walked over to the magical control panel, failing to notice the slightly glazed look in the Warden's beady eyes. Also to escape the Auror's detection, was the slight glimmer as three disillusioned figures stealthily crept out of the lift and toward the security checkpoint.

Pushing down on the button marked 'OPEN', there was a buzzing sound, and Williamson stepped back as the gate between Corridor C and the checkpoint swung open. Chomsky walked through doorway with the same glazed look in his eyes, and this time, the young Auror noticed. Grabbing the Warden roughly by arm, Williamson peered into the man's small, beady brown eyes. . . . .

. . . . . . .and verbally cursed himself as he recognized a sign of the Imperius Curse. One hand flying into his robes, Williamson drew his wand with practiced ease, right as several voices shouted, "Stupefy!"

The pony-tailed Auror took all three Stunners in the chest, and was blasted off his feet and thrown toward the stone wall behind him. With a rather impressive crashing sound, Williamson hit the unforgiving wall and slid to the floor in a heap of scarlet robes, his head rolling to the side as the darkness washed over him.

Nine hours later he would wake up in a St. Mungo's hospital bed.

"Well, that sort of defeats the purpose of stealth," Harry remarked, eying the unconscious Auror as he cracked his wand hard over his head. Their was an odd sensation, as though something hot was trickling down his back, and Harry knew the Disillusionment Charm had been lifted.

"Indeed," Morgan commented smoothly as he removed his own charm. "That resounding crash was rather loud. I do hope the entire prison has not been alerted as to our presence."

"Mmm," Nicolas hummed in agreement, unrolling the prison map once more and spreading it out across the control panel. "But that is out of our hands. We can only hope that the element of surprise remains with us.

"Now, we have broken through to the security checkpoint," the alchemist said, pointing to their current position on the map. "But in order to reach Cell Block 3, we still have to get past the Ministry Aurors. Who, according to this, are stationed in a command center twenty meters from the security checkpoint."

All three of them turned their heads in unison, peering down the corridor at the heavy, reinforced door at the other end. The heavy, reinforced door that separated them from the Aurors, and effectively from the cell of the man they wished to break out.


It appeared that Flamel was harboring thoughts along the same line, while Charles merely settled for a low whistle. Walking to the end of the corridor, Morgan knelt to the ground, closely examining the door and frame.

"Heavy iron," the former Unspeakable muttered, trailing a hand across the door. "Standard issue lock and handle, requiring magical clearance in order to pass. Door reinforced with multiple Strengthening Charms and numerous Stealth Sensoring Spells."

Turning toward Harry, the elder lord raised an elegant eyebrow. "And how, dare I ask, do you plan on getting past this. Or was this particular aspect of the operation not in your pre-devised plan?"

Harry merely raised one of his own eyebrows in response, emerald eyes narrowing slightly at the challenge apparent in Morgan's voice. To be honest, he hadn't made-up a plan at all, and was pretty much flying by the seat of his pants, playing with the cards dealt him.

So in summary, he was doing what he had done for the past five years.

Harry absentmindedly acknowledged that that strategy might not work here. Thinking quickly, emerald eyes moved from the impenetrable door to the stone wall that surrounded it. The stone wall that was unprotected by charms or wards. The stone wall that could be blasted through if the curse was powerful enough.

"I'm a Gryffindor," Harry said as he looked Morgan in the eyes. "We don't plan, we improvise."

That declared, the messy-haired youth pointed his wand at the stone wall and muttered two words.

"Avada Kedavra!"

He could hear it already. The shouting and yelling of incantations. The loud impact as a curse misses its intended target. The dull thump or emotionless echo as a lifeless body hits the floor.

It was the sound of battle; the symphony of the duel.

The sounds were familiar yet oddly strange; almost forgotten after fifteen years of hearing the same thing, after hearing the screams and insane mutters of the other inmates. He retained his sanity though, where few others ever had. Nevertheless, the cries of pain brought forth memories Norahdi Draven had all but forgotten.

Tom was coming, and per usual, death was coming with him.

The shouts and yells were getting closer, as the Aurors inevitably lost ground. The fools! Could they not see what was before them. Could they not see that they were all but squibs when compared to the Heir of Slytherin. Norahdi knew that better than any other, as he had been trained by the best.

And admitted so freely, albeit bitterly.

His own magical power was immense, as had been the power of his entire blood line. Yet his abilities were only substantial when compared to the Dark Lord. Tom could wield powers beyond imagination, powers that not even the old man could compete with.

The Aurors were already dead, they just didn't realize it. They were dead the moment they turned their wands on the Dark Lord.

The level of noise was slowly diminishing, and Norahdi could tell the battle was nearly over. Resolutely, he accepted the fact that he would soon be dead. Tom had no reason to keep him alive, and death was the price of betrayal. Of course, he reasoned, death couldn't be much different that what his life had been. Thirty-two years he had been on this earth, with fifteen of them spent in the company of Dementors. As for the remaining years, the majority of them had been spent in the service of Tom.

Which in retrospect, was nearly as bad as the soul-sucking fiends.

A series of clicking sounds jarred Norahdi from his thoughts, and piercing blue eyes looked up to see the iron door of his cell swing open. The Heir of Voldemort watched emotionlessly as a masked figure walked in, looking weary with robes slightly singed.

Absentmindedly, he noted the average height and slender build of the Death Eater, and wondered if Tom was taking them a bit younger these days. Norahdi merely watched as the robed figure stood in the doorway, faintly surprised that he was still breathing.

Of course, Tom no doubt wished to do the job himself.

As soon as that thought originated though, the Death Eater ripped off his white masked, revealing the messy black hair and piercing green eyes of a boy who could be no older than sixteen. The raven-haired youth watched the Dark Heir with an unreadable expression, cocking his head to the side as though contemplating something. He apparently came to a decision, for the boy gave a slight shrug and pulled a wand from within his black robes.

A wand that Norahdi recognized immediately, despite fifteen years of separation.

"Catch," the green-eyed boy said, tossing the slender piece of wood high into the air. Thunderstruck, the auburn-haired prisoner grabbed the wand as it fell, reveling in the immediate rush of power that surged through his body. He could feel the magic pumping within his veins, rising to the surface after so many years, as strong as the day the wand chose him.

"Glad to see your skills aren't completely rusty," the messy-haired youth said, a smirk spreading across his aristocratic face. "Welcome to Red Dawn."

High-heeled, buckled boots clicked softly on the stone floor, long robes and a purple cloak sweeping the ground as Albus Dumbledore walked through the darkened corridor. For the second time in recent weeks he had been summoned by Kingsley Shackelbolt, and for the second time the in recent weeks the Auror had told him it was urgent.

Which brought Albus to the here and now, walking through the dank halls of a place he had always despised. The infamous Hell that was Azkaban Prison.

Popping a lemon drop into his mouth, the aged Headmaster came to the end of the corridor and entered the office of Azkaban Warden Norman Chomsky. Albus was not overly fond of the portly Warden, and knew all too well that it was only because of Fudge that Chomsky kept his job.

Surprisingly enough, the office was full of various ministry officials when he arrived, giving Albus reason to frown. It was disturbingly similar to the crowd that had gathered at Bellatrix Lestrange's murder site. Several members of the Minister's cabinet were present, as was the Head of the Auror Office, Rufus Scrimgeour, a man with grey-streaked tawny hair and keen, yellowish eyes that looked out from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

A man of action, Albus thought, if somewhat forceful at times.

It was not Scrimgeour who he was looking for though, nor was it any of the other officials currently in the office. "Ah, Mr. Shackelbolt!" Albus exclaimed, feigning formality so as to avoid suspicion from any who may be watching. The dark skinned Auror had just entered the room, and walked toward the Headmaster after spotting him in through crowd.

"Dumbledore," the Order member greeted, motioning for Albus to follow him. "The Minister wishes to speak with you."

"But of course!" Albus beamed as he went with Kingsley. The dark skinned Auror led him out of the office and down the nearest corridor, which ultimately ended in the brass grilles of a lift.

"I assume there has been another escape?" Albus asked, dropping the 'Headmaster act' as soon as the grilles banged shut. At Kingsley's affirmative nod, the old wizard sighed wearily, making him look much older than he had moments before. "How many?"

"Only one escaped, surprisingly enough," Shackelbolt said as the lift stopped on the desired floor. The grilles opened with a bang, and the dark skinned Auror stepped out. "It was Norahdi Draven."

Albus froze in mid-step when he heard the name, his lined face snapping toward Kingsley in shock, and something akin to horror dawned in his aquamarine eyes. "What did you say?"

"Norahdi Draven," Kingsley repeated in a deep voice, his back turned toward the old sage. Had he bothered to look, the veteran Auror would have been shocked and puzzled to see Dumbledore's face completely devoid of color, and for a brief moment, it almost looked as though a lone tear was trickling into the Headmaster's silver beard.

"We got the alarm shortly after ten o'clock," Kingsley continued. "From what we can gather, three Death Eaters portkeyed directly into Chomsky's office. They overtook the Warden easily enough, not surprising, and then put him under the Imperius. After which they used him to gain access through the security checkpoint."

The bald-headed man went on to explain how the Death Eaters took out the entire Auror Squadron, using brutal but non lethal force. Kingsley continued as they walked down Corridor C, failing to notice that his words fell on deaf ears.

Albus followed the Auror as if in a trance, paying no attention to what the man was actually saying. The Mugwump was barely aware of the surroundings, his mind recalling events he had tried to forget. Events that the name 'Norahdi Draven' was painfully reminding him of.

A blue-eyed boy, no older than five, laughing happily as he stroked the red and gold plumage of a beautiful, swan-like bird.

A young man, eighteen perhaps, looking thoroughly bored as he sat on the hard bench of a Ministry containment cell. Long, auburn hair fell into his handsome face, shrouding cold, blue eyes as he ignored the Aurors that tried taunting him.

The same man, a few years older, slightly thinner, auburn hair matted, sitting with his back to a stone wall, looking quite sane with a bored expression on his face, unnerving the Ministry officials who stood outside the cell.

Albus quickly shook his head, trying in vain to block the painful memories. There was nothing he could do about it, the past was best left were it was.

Words reached his ears, and Dumbledore realized that Kingsley was still talking. Listening intently, he latched onto the Auror's every word, anything to forget. . . . .

" - got to Draven's cell, bypassed the Wards around Block 3," Shackelbolt commented as they walked into an open courtyard, the ocean wind blowing slightly. "Still trying to figure out how they did that one. . . . anyway, they got Draven out somehow.

"We're pretty sure that this was their exit point," Kingsley said, gesturing to the open courtyard they were currently standing in.

"And what makes you think that?" Albus asked, examining the courtyard closely. The veteran Auror merely raised an eyebrow at the question, and pointed upward toward the dark evening sky. The Headmaster followed the gesture, craning his neck as he looked up. . . . . . . .

. . . . . .and the twinkle vanished completely from his blue eyes. There, in the night sky above Azkaban, was a colossal skull, comprised of what looked to be emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. It appeared to burn in a haze of greenish smoke, carved into the black sky like a new constellation.

The Dark Mark had risen again.

"Dumbledore!" a voice gasped from behind them. Albus and Kingsley turned in unison, only to see the Minister of Magic standing in the courtyard entrance, surrounded by several members of his cabinet.

"Hello, Cornelius," Albus said curtly, not bothering with titles or fake cheerfulness.

"W-what are you doing here, Dumbledore? And what is going. . . . . . . . .the Dark Mark," Fudge finished in a kind of whimper, staring up at the skull that dominated the nighttime sky. "Ooh, what is going. . . . why is. . . . . what does this mean?"

Fudge looked around wildly, as though expecting an answer or hoping someone would tell him what to do. Kingsley stared at the Minister, apparently wondering how the man could possibly be so daft. The Ministry officials merely stood there, perhaps wondering the same thing, or perhaps searching for an answer themselves.

"What does this mean?" Albus demanded magisterially, his patience with the incompetent minister breaking at last. "It means, Cornelius, that war is officially upon us, that the people can no longer turn a blind eye! It means, Cornelius, that the forces of darkness can attack when and where they wish! It means, Cornelius, that Lord Voldemort has regained his most powerful servant!

"It means, Cornelius," Dumbledore continued in a frigid voice," that the reign of terror has begun!"

HOLY CANOLY, BATMAN! An update? After (checks calender) six weeks? Yes, about that. . . . .um. . . . .you see. . . . . .I'm sorry? I could prostrate myself before you and beg for forgiveness, put my fate in your hands or offer my life to the gods . . . . .

. . . . .but I won't.

You see, Dalyon, unlike some other authors, wishes to retain some level of dignity and self-respect. Dalyon does not lower himself to the act of bowing or begging, nor does he feel it necessary to explain his updating lapse. Dalyon would much rather make sarcastic comments and discover the secret to immortality (still having problems with that one).

Perhaps you think Dalyon is ungrateful, thankless, and self-centered? Well, maybe I'm not a 'reliable author', I'm not 'reader friendly', or 'reviewer considerate', I don't 'shower daily', or . . . .

What? Um, forget that last part.

Anywhooo! I, Dalyon, can assure you, reader, that the next chapter will be posted within the two week schedule that I try to abide by. You see, I already have the chapter finished in my head, now I just have to find the damn thing.

Ain't that reassurin'? Anyway, this is Dalyon speaking, and remember, shit happens when you party naked.