My latest story. If does NOT reflect my beliefs. Just saying. It's simply a story. Anyway, have fun!
Empty
By Adam Gonzales
Hell was cold, for starters. Really cold. Figgins stared down at his shoes. They were frosted over and frozen to the ground. Ice clung to his brown hair and eyelashes, and his teeth clattered violently as he looked around the long hall. It was more of a tunnel than anything else—a dark tunnel of rock and sleet. Bright blue sleet.
It was funny. Figgins had always believed Hell to be more crowded. Crowded and hot. But it was empty. Not a soul in sight. He wondered if maybe he wasn’t even dead yet, really, but he stopped that thought short when he remembered his last minutes alive.
It was curious how people said that when you got close to dying you saw your life flash before your eyes. He couldn’t remember it actually happening, but he supposed it was possible. If it did happen, he figured it must have been his memories leaving him; because no matter how hard he tried all he could recollect from his life was his last five minutes. Nothing else.
Figgins tried to lift up his feet. The ice cracked and gave way, but it was hard to move without shaking. Hell was so damn cold. Why was it so cold? He rubbed his arms and started to move forward. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew if he stayed idle any longer then he’d be in trouble. So he kept moving. Moving and thinking.
He remembered not wanting to die, but needing to for some reason. The reason escaped him at the moment, but he knew he’d remember if he tried. Walking in front of the blue bus had been frightening, but necessary. Figgins scowled. Necessary, yes. But why? Why in damnation had he thought he needed to die? Dying wasn’t fun. Dying wasn’t even practical. Hell, even being dead was horrible.
He stopped moving and closed his steel blue eyes, breathing in deeply. He was here for a reason. Whatever that was. He opened his eyes again. Small flakes of ice cracked as they peeled away from his lashes. There was no end to the blasted tunnel. Just solid stone and ice in an eternal black void. Figgins grimaced as he pushed himself forward once again. Then he stopped short. Had someone whispered his name? It couldn’t have been—could it? He was alone.
Figgins.
There was no mistaking it: someone or something was calling him. Was this why he had come here? To find the one who uttered his name?
Figgins.
But there was no way he could have known this would happen. No way he could have wanted to feel this chill down his spine. This deep chill that had nothing to do with the ice. He wanted a way out. But he wanted to know who was calling him.
Figgins.
“What!?” His voice didn’t carry or echo like it should have done in a hollowed tunnel. Instead it was swallowed. As if it was being shoved back into his mouth. It set him on edge.
Speak your reason.
What? His reason? His reason for being in Hell? He couldn’t remember.
Speak your reason.
“To find what I have lost.” Figgins had replied without even thinking. And yet he knew he was looking for something. He had come to Hell to recover something he lost. He knew why he was here. And the thought comforted him.
What do you seek?
He racked his brain, concentrating as hard as he could. He couldn’t remember. He wanted to, but he couldn’t. His memories were gone. It was almost as if they were blocked; being held from him in some way. “I don’t know,” he managed to croak.
A selfish request, asking for that which you do not know.
“What are you?” Figgins cried out in frustration. He was trying so hard.
Now that is a question I can answer.
The temperature dropped fast. What was left of the rock on the wall was enveloped in ice. Figgins lost his breath—the shock of pure cold shooting up his veins. A figure in deep blue stood directly in front of him. It bore the face of a woman, beautiful and inviting with rich brown hair and calm grey eyes. So lovely and pretty, yet—Figgins somehow knew—so alien. So wrong.
“Hello.”
The voice echoed and shook in his skull. It came from everywhere at once and seemed to want to rip him in half. Figgins clutched the side of his head and gave a ragged breath. “What are you?” he asked again, despite the fear that flooded his body.
The woman smiled, her mouth widening slightly, her eyes narrowing, hair shortening, nose extending. A man with grey hair and sad brown eyes was staring back at him now. His lip curled as his face shifted again until it held the image of a slick teenage boy with bright yellow hair and eyes that matched the blue of his robe. The boy smile wryly.
“I am the face of every being that has stepped into this domain. I am the tortured soul of every mortal that has dared to try God. I am the eyes of every fool that has failed to love. The mouth of every cavalier who thought himself greater than his own undoing. And I am the ears of every master who lost himself in sin.”
The boy’s features had changed even as he spoke, until an imposing and hawk-like man with stark black hair, and cold green eyes stared down at Figgins.
“I am Lucifer.”
Figgins had somehow known this would be the case. He was in Hell, after all. What should he have expected?
“No,” Lucifer whispered calmly, “this isn’t Hell. Not in the practical sense, at least.
Figgins started. Could he really hear his thoughts? Everything?
Lucifer nodded as if in response, but he continued to speak. “This,” he said touching the side of his head as he smiled, “is Hell. In here. I am both its keeper, and its gate. No, this that you see before you,” he raised his arms widely then lowered them in a quick swoop, “this is the empty confines of your soul.”
Somehow, even after everything that had already happened to him, somehow this scared Figgins the most. He swallowed hard, trying to breathe normally despite the sheer chill. “Why am I here?”
Lucifer gave a rattling chuckle. “To find what you have lost. Did not you yourself tell me that?”
Figgins scowled. “Yes. But why can’t I remember?”
Lucifer shot Figgins a look of contempt and utter hatred. “No,” he said softly.
He reached out for Figgins’ temple, his fingers arched. And shrieked when their skin met. A look of pure fury slid across Lucifer’s face as he took a step back. “How did you get here?” he hissed.
“I don’t remem—”
“How did you die?”
Figgins fell silent.
“Do not test me, child.”
“Suicide. I ran in front of a bus.”
“And yet you remember.”
Figgins nodded.
“But you cannot recollect the rest of your life.”
It wasn’t a question. Lucifer knew something. Something that made him mad. Furious, even.
“I do not take well to taunts and practical jeers, Figgins. Playing with Hell is a dangerous pastime.”
Figgins swallowed hard, ice collecting on the tips of his ears and the edges of his mouth and eyes. “I don’t mean to. I just came to get something. Something I cannot remember.”
Lucifer sneered. “Everyone who enters Hell remembers their whole life. It is part of the eternal damnation, the endless cycle of vicious torment. It is the very definition of Hell.”
“But I can’t.”
“Curious, is it not? And yet,” Lucifer turned his back on Figgins and spat on the ground, “you have been condemned to perdition.”
Figgins didn’t dare to move now that Lucifer had his back on him. He knew he was too cold to run, and he knew the pointlessness of trying to escape the devil. Even more futile than trying to cheat death. Lucifer would find him, and Figgins did not fancy the idea of earning Lucifer’s rage two fold.
Lucifer turned back. “It is known that no unclean thing can enter the Kingdom of Heaven. There is a similar principle for those who pass through damnation. No clean thing can enter the Kingdom of Hell. You cannot remember your life because, by the standards of men, you lived a life of purity.”
Figgins coughed. “What?!”
“You do not belong here.”
“Then how,” Figgins was struggling to focus in spite of the cold, “how come I’m here? How come my soul is so…cold?”
“Suicide. The act of taking one’s life is a crime and sin so heinous that the soul becomes instantly shattered and fragmented upon death. That is why you can remember your death and only your death. Your single sin.”
“I…I killed myself because I knew it would be the only way to get here.”
Lucifer’s face grew sour.
“But you still hoped to claim my soul. Even knowing I’d done nothing else wrong. And it didn’t work. You wanted it to work, but it didn’t. Why?”
Lucifer’s face shifted back to the beautiful woman. Her deep grey eyes sparkled. “Suicide is a sin. And though it fragments the soul, nothing is nobler than dying for someone else.”
As the woman spoke, a familiarity crept through Figgins’ body. He knew this woman. This woman. She meant something to him. Charolette. Her name was Charolette. She was…
“…my wife.”
The woman’s mouth curled into a wicked grin as her face melted back to the hawkish man. “Ah,” Lucifer whispered with an air of self-satisfaction, “you do remember. Yes. Charolette. A fine prize for the Prince of Light. A fine prize, indeed.”
Figgins felt his stare grow hard. The flecks of ice that had been collecting on his face cracked as his brow steeped into a scowl. “Give her back.”
“I’m afraid I cannot do that. She has already passed through the gates of Hell.”
“But why? If Hell abides by the law that no clean thing can enter its Kingdom, then why is she here?”
“Possession. A deal was made to spare the soul of her father. In return she took his sins as her own, and I took her soul.”
“And that is why I’m here, isn’t it?”
Lucifer turned to the side, his robe brushing against the shards of ice underneath him. “If it is, then I am afraid I cannot help you. Or will not. Either way. I care not what reason you find I use.”
Figgins was trying desperately to maintain an air of confidence and imposition. He pulled his hands to his side, splitting chunks of ice, and stared at Lucifer as he turned back around. “It must be quite maddening to know that a spotless soul stands before you, and you can’t do anything about it.”
Lucifer hissed.
“I have a proposition for you.”
“What might that be, then?” Lucifer’s eyes narrowed as Figgins drew in a breath.
“My soul for hers.”
Lucifer cackled. “A soul is a soul, foolish Figgins.”
“And yet you took Charolette’s for her—”
“For her father’s, yes. You see, Figgins, a woman’s soul is so much more precious. It is more difficult to corrupt as men are more naturally drawn to power, and therefore failure.”
Figgins shifted. “But surely a sinless soul is even more tempting?”
“Charolette’s was. As I have told you, and as you have already come to know.”
“But not really, was it?” Figgins stare remained firm. “On earth, yes, it was. But you told me her father’s sins became her own. Her spotless soul tainted. Mine is clean. No contracts or satanic deals to tamper it. Pure as you will ever be able to claim.”
Lucifer’s eyes grew hungry, his desire betraying his demeanor. “If I take your soul in exchange, your soul would be tarnished by those same sins. Those sins cannot go unpunished without retribution from the Almighty.”
“The reward outweighs the consequence.”
Figgins stared into Lucifer’s green eyes, not daring to blink. The Prince of Perdition’s lip twitched, his mouth hinting a worried frown.
Lucifer reached out his arm, his hand eager to seal Figgins’ fate. But Figgins held fast. “Charolette is released and her father’s sins purged. That is my only offer.” Confidence seeped through Figgins now that he knew his purpose for entering the domain of the damned. The ice began to melt.
Lucifer hesitated, his hand curling slightly. “And in exchange,” Figgins continued, “the soul of a valiant man. Unblemished and clean.”
Lucifer’s green eyes gleamed as his hunger overwhelmed him. His hand steadied and his wicked grin widened. Figgins breathed in deeply and clasped Lucifer’s hand.
His body became violently filled with cold and pain. His veins felt as if they had ripped in half as his skull split from every angle. The cry of a thousand thieves filled his ears and the blood of a thousand murderers filled his mouth. In his last moment of sanity he watched as Charolette’s person split from Lucifer, fading into existence—returning to earth. Her grey eyes met his blue as he smiled despite the deafening scream that peeled from his lips. And in the moment he heard the crack of his spirit snapping into Lucifer, into Hell, he knew he had won. He had saved Charolette. And now…now he was…
Empty.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Festral Dominions
Here's the finalized edition of Festral Dominions!
Festral Dominions
By Adam Gonzales
Throughout the course of his existence, Yyvellian considered his luck to be close to nonexistent. Not only was he tall and brown-haired unlike the rest of his kind, but he often found himself creeping into troublesome situations. Of course that was expected of someone Yyvellian’s age, but not on a continual basis. The rest of the elves living in Oglandador lived for the thrill of a good scam or dangerous escapade, like unto himself, but Yyvellian was constantly bending the oaths that they had made upon settling in their great city. Exploration was permitted, and even encouraged, within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, but journeying outside the caves of Oglandador was strictly unacceptable. It was known throughout the Kingdom that the elves had lost the Great War and had been forced to the depths of Festral’s bestial caverns as punishment, but Yyvellian had always suspected that it was all a hoax; after all, the elves were a mischievous race. Possibly this was the reason other elflings his age looked up to him, but then again perhaps not. But either way Yyvellian knew one thing: sooner or later he would be victorious in his endeavors of finding a way out of Oglandador.
Herder spent most of his days bounding from tree to tree, scouting for new hunting grounds and mapping new landmarks. True, the city of Bastille was a sight to behold, but Herder had always wanted to discover something new—either that or find somewhere where he wasn’t constantly bombarded with requests from the Dwarven Council. Herder was the Master of Game in Bastille and found that the Council was consistently pestering him with demands and questions. Were they going to have trouble during the Cold Season? Had the tesslir doves made their yearly pass yet? Was it safe to travel on the forest floor, or did they still need to be wary of gollan hounds? Of course, Herder would answer their questions with respect and then continue on with his day. He would climb the thick, wide branches that served as Bastille’s treetop city streets until he reached his small thatched hut where he would turn in for the night. If he was lucky, which he rarely considered himself to be, Herder might sometimes find himself camping on the forest’s balcony while on a particularly long mapping quest. It was those days that he would lay his strong arms under his short red hair and look at the starry sky, wondering if there was something greater in Festral waiting for him out there.
Sometimes Kallick simply wanted to die. Not because he thought his life ghastly or depressing, but more that he considered it horribly boring. Well not too boring, just boring enough. Yes, he had Estra to keep him company—and he never minded her company—but it was rather his daily routine that he wanted to escape. He was the horseman’s apprentice in the grand human city of Regral, and despite his greatest efforts to entertain himself between the gaps of the labor hours and his home life, Kallick never felt the true thrill that he was searching for. Admittedly Estra, yet again, helped fill that void in his life but Kallick believed in something much greater. True, he was not quite old enough yet to know what, but the fact that he knew was all that mattered. The cramped city nerved him to no end, and although he found some solace in knowing that no matter what happened, Estra would be with him, Kallick decided for once to be illogically rash. He was going to leave the city. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to and that was that. So when Estra came bringing news of Regral’s Naissance Celebration, Kallick couldn’t have been luckier. It was finally time.
It was a cold day in Oglandador; the torches flickering bluefire—a sign indicating the holiday of the city’s founding. Yyvellian’s stomach swelled in excitement as he scrambled through Oglandador’s large and spacious streets, bumping into no one due to their emptiness. Founding Day was one of the few holidays that the elves celebrated indoors. It was commemorated with heavy drink and thick pastries within the warmth of their private homes, and each family stayed inside in order to observe the holiday’s message of solitude from the proud races that had confined them to the caverns of their dominion. It had been well over a thousand years since the passing of the Great War, but no one forgot the harshness and cruelty that the elves faced during their sentence of seclusion; a fact that Yyvellian planned to exploit in his escape. Throughout the previous couple of weeks, Yyvellian had delved deeper into the caves of Oglandador, in hope of seeking a new tunnel that led to the outside world. And, although he had been close to ultimately discarding his freedom initiative, Yyvellian had actually found something new. Past the back alleyways of Oglandador’s industrial precinct, Yyvellian had noted that the caverns grew increasingly wide and dark, eventually leading to a black vertical crack in the far side of the wall. It had taken Yyvellian almost two hours to reach the opening, when he was eventually caught off guard by the loud chattering voice of a City Guard. Yyvellian had not been expecting anyone to be on duty during Founding Day, and began desperately racking his mind for some clever trick to distract the guards’ attention. He slid behind a particularly large stone and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his elfish sling that he had made years before. A smirk slipped across Yyvellian’s face a he slid a small stone into the sling and hurled it past the guards. The stone snapped across a pile of rocks in the distance, and the sound became amplified in the empty cavern. The two guards shifted uncomfortably as they turned towards the sound. Probably they thought it to be nothing more than it was, but Yyvellian decided to toy with their emotions and try to intensify their inner fears. Breathing deeply so as to make it look like he had been out of breath, Yyvellian turned from out behind the rock and began running towards the short blonde-haired guards.
“Hurry,” he yelled desperately, waving his arms, “the Elder says to get back into the city! She says that there are giant gworms on their way!”
The guards did not need any sign that what he said was true. They had already grown paranoid from Yyvellian’s stone. Barely even acknowledging Yyvellian as they passed, they began rushing hurriedly into the stone city. Yyvellian grinned as he watched the guards scamper away. He had acted characteristically elfish and had pulled a masterful prank—a prank that had granted him the opportunity of freedom.
Herder was finally alone. He had been completely overwhelmed while in Bastille’s Council Hall, and now that he was home he could finally relax. He had hoped that the day would have gone by rather uneventfully due to Bastille’s Dawn Festival, but he had been wrong. The Dwarven Council had directed swarms of concerned tree farmers and spring hunters to his cramped place of work. He had done his best in denying their fears and confirming their hopes, but by the end of the day he had found himself completely drained. He must have been one of the few dwarves staying indoors for the Dawn Festival. The grand tree that supported the city of Bastille would be filled with bustling vendors and enthusiastic merchants selling food, toys, and lightsticks. The lightsticks would be used to spray burning colors throughout the night sky, and the noises from the jovial games and contests would undoubtedly keep Herder up through the night. So for once in his life, Herder decided to do something different and impulsive. He gathered a small pack of food and clothes, slid his bow and quiver across his back, and slipped out into the crowded branches of Bastille. It took him nearly half an hour to reach the edge of the city, what with the lively throng of people filling the streets. But by the time he finally did make it out of town, he had gone by unnoticed—just as he had hoped. He reached a wide branch that angled north out of Bastille and tightened his pack and bow before leaping off towards a tree below. He reached out instinctively and found hold onto a branch that had been smoothed by use, and began to let his weight slide him towards the tree’s center. He slammed into the tree’s trunk with his feet and then hurriedly made his way up an additional branch that reached out to another nearby, level, tree. Herder continued on like this for over an hour before his arms began to feel sore, and before he finally couldn’t see the bright lights or hear the loud thumps coming from Bastille. It was in the canopy of a massive oak that Herder finally found himself deciding to turn in for the night. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled out a small bedroll out of his pack and placed it across the branch’s flat surface. He took in a deep breath and looked up into the night sky, smelling the clear air around him—smelling the air of freedom.
“Kallick, I don’t like this.” Estra’s blonde hair whipped in front of her face as she did her best to hide against the side of the stables.
“Hush, Estra!” Kallick kept his eyes forward, not daring to let them stray from the stone road of Regral’s main street.
Estra tugged him backwards, causing his brown hair to toss to the side. “Don’t you ‘hush’ me, Kal! I want to leave the city just as much as you do, but I just don’t like what we’re doing!”
Kallick rolled his eyes. “It’s not stealing.”
Estra stamped her foot and gave him a stern look.
“Well, it’s not. Coppercloud is my horse. I should be able to take him whenever I need him.”
“And the field lance? Is that yours?”
“Not exactly. But Master Youtle won’t be missing it. Besides, we’ll be needing protection once we leave,” he tried to rationalize. “We can’t go stumbling into the woods unarmed.”
Estra pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “We won’t be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Right,” Kallick acknowledged. “Speaking of which.”
He tilted his head to the chain wrapped around the stable door. Estra sighed heavily, shooting him an annoyed glance and braced herself against the stone floor of Regral’s grand city. Then a bright blue light flowed from underneath her feet and began to wrap around her hands, and in a single burst of white hot energy the light whipped out against the metal chain. And it fell, broken, to the ground. Estra stepped backwards and patted her hands lightly against her side. Kallick gave her a curt nod, and then stepped into the stone stable house, looking to the end of the large room. Coppercloud was a brilliant mahogany horse with a stark white mane. He whinnied slightly as he sighted Kallick, but quickly quieted himself upon noticing his master’s stern eyes. Kallick quickly saddled Coppercloud and had the horse out of the stables in less than five minutes. By then Estra had grown noticeably impatient.
“The grand horseman has returned,” she muttered sarcastically, trying to get Kallick to take her bait. He couldn’t refuse.
“Horseman’s apprentice…ma’am.”
Estra twitched at Kallick’s subtle prod: she detested being referred to as ‘ma’am”. Kallick initially said it out of respect, but when he had realized that Estra found the word to hint towards age, Kallick had begun using it as a sort of joking affront. He helped Estra onto Coppercloud, and then veered them into the stone backstreets of Regral. They were lucky; most of the city had filed in to the center square for the Naissance Celebration—they did not encounter anyone particularly noteworthy on their way out of the city until they reached the wall gate. The armored men guarding the gate gave them a suspicious glance as they approached. But before they could even raise question to their business, Estra sent a green pulse of light in their direction with her hands. The guards instantly stepped aside and opened the gates for them as they made their way out of the great stone city of Regral.
Kallick kissed the side of Estra’s head. “Have I told you that I simply love you?”
Estra smiled. “You can stand to say it more.”
Kallick grinned as they headed steadily forward into the forest—as they headed steadily towards freedom.
Yyvellian was too preoccupied to even consider feeling scared. Sure he was deep within the cracks of an unmapped cave, but the things that he was finding kept his mind from wandering on things like monsters and darkness. Not that it was too dark, anyways. There were tiny mushrooms that lined the different tunnels within the cavern that shone faint green and red lights. And so Yyvellian was able to make his way through the winding passages, using his hook and chain to lift himself when the tunnels grew too high for him to reach. He knew that he hadn’t thought his escape plan through carefully, and that it was only a matter of time before he needed to reconsider actually going through with it, but for the moment he enjoyed the light thrill of a potentially dangerous escapade. Then he heard something. It wasn’t the occasional clack of a falling rock that he had grown accustomed to hearing, but rather a flurry of unmated movement coming from a channel that bent a little ways off to his right. Yyvellian stopped short, pressing his body up against the rugged surface of the stone tunnel. Voices began echoing throughout the cave and it didn’t take long for Yyvellian to notice that they appeared to be clicks and hisses instead of actual words. Yyvellian’s eyes widened as two slimy, bald, reptilian creatures with nostrils stretched across their brown and red snouts turned the corner. They had wide flat feet for gripping loose rocks, and long, knobby fingers and tails for keeping their balance in the dark. Their eyes were massive and glowed a dim and pale green—almost useless if it wasn’t for the fact that they were coupled with the gaping holes in the side of their heads that served as ears. Yyvellian swallowed a gasp of fear: kobolds. He turned around swiftly, careful not to make any loud noises, but was shocked to find another kobold blocking his path. Yyvellian froze fearfully as the creature issued a shrill screech that bounced off the cavern’s serrated walls. Yyvellian didn’t need to look behind him to know that the other two kobolds had their eyes fixed on him; it would be foolish to think otherwise. He didn’t know what to do. True, his body screamed for him to flee or attack, but he was cornered and elves hadn’t trained in combat since the Great War—they were not warriors. But, then again, Yyvellian never considered himself a normal elf. In a quick flurry of movement, Yyvellian spun his hook and chain over his head and swung it to the cave’s ceiling overhead. It grasped a firm chunk of rock and he speedily climbed the chain just before the kobolds pounced on his position. He didn’t have much time; clinging to the ceiling would only prove a temporary respite from creatures that spent their lives climbing sharp rock. The kobolds hissed impatiently, trying to reach Yyvellian with their short pointed sticks that they carried. Yyvellian breathed in deeply. He didn’t have the liberty of planning what he was going to do so he simply acted. He yelled loudly as he dropped from the ceiling, smashing his feet into the kobold directly underneath him. Yyvellian heard a disturbing crunch as the creature’s head splintered against one of the caves many rocks—he was dead in an instant. Yyvellian didn’t allow himself to settle as there was a blur of motion as the other two kobolds began reaching out for him. But Yyvellian was quick in getting behind one of the rabid creatures and making sure that the other one lined up with him. Then, deciding to use his hook and chain as a weapon, he reached out for the far kobold and yanked hard. The kobold screamed as he was pulled, keeping his sharp stick pointed forward. The other reptilian monster turned to Yyvellian, ready to strike him down, but was met with a searing pain as the other kobold’s stick slammed through his body. Yyvellian smiled despite himself—he had pulled the far kobold into the other one with the hook, causing his sharp staff to pierce through the other’s slimy skin. Yyvellian finally paused. There were three dead bodies lying around him, each oozing out splotches of black blood. He walked over to the kobold that had the hook pierced into his back and tugged it out. There was a hissing sound as blood began to pour freely from the three pronged wound, and Yyvellian found himself calmed in spite of the bloodbath in front of him. He pulled out a linen cloth from one of his pockets and wiped his hook and chain clean. What had they been doing so close to Oglandador? Possibly gathering food? It didn’t matter. In an attempt to walk off the adrenaline pulses that were overwhelming his body, Yyvellian began to continue to walk down the cave. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew to follow the fluorescent mushrooms that were dimmer than the others; the deeper they were into the cave, the more they shone. By the time he had shaken off his initial shock from killing the kobolds, Yyvellian had wandered quite far into the caverns. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, but he knew it was significant. Angling his head up as he scampered up a particularly large pile of rocks he was able to make out a distant glow. It was bright and yellow—unlike any light he had ever seen. And he longed for it. So without questioning its origins, Yyvellian raced through the cave as the light got increasingly brighter. When he finally reached it, he was dumbfounded. The cave opened into a lush, green, bright world that he had never seen. True, he had heard tales from the stories of the Great War, but he had assumed them to be nothing more than a hoax, just like everything else the elves said. The light burned his eyes at first, but he slowly began to grow accustomed to it and was able to make out the beauty of the landscape around him. Bright green carpets smothered the ground and shot out of the earth, clumped together on top of massive wooden posts. Except they seemed…natural. No one had made these odd plants; they simply lived this way. Yyvellian smiled hugely, aware of the wave of freedom pouring down upon him. Then he paused as his ears picked up something strange and remote. He pricked them up, trying desperately to make out the soft and soothing sound that seemed to whisper for him. And when he was finally able to make it out, he was surprised at what he heard.
My Gatherer, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Yyvellian’s brow furrowed. Gatherer. That was the meaning of his name in elfish. An ancient tongue that was all but extinct. And yet he somehow knew that this voice was to be trusted—that it really did need his help. And it called again.
My Gatherer. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Yyvellian smiled as the sweet voice enveloped him. Then, thinking of nothing else, he followed the Call.
The arrow whipped through the air and struck down the tesslir dove. Herder gave a satisfied grunt as he slipped his bow over his shoulder and climbed down the tree to pick up his breakfast. He had enough foresight to realize that his arrows would soon become a rare and necessary commodity, so he carefully extracted to one he had used to shoot down the bird, cautiously wiping away the blood from its tip. It had only been two days since his departure from Bastille, but he had found them peaceful and longer than the days he normally took surveying the city’s border. Probably it was because he knew he was to never return to the treetops of Bastille, but he found them resplendent nonetheless. The majority of his days were spent hopping from tree to tree, but he knew that it would soon become more difficult to traverse through the branches in this way; he was passing swiftly through the Resplien Forest and drawing ever closer to the darker, and smaller, Wayward Wood. Herder frowned. He didn’t know what he was doing, or even where he was going, but he was sure that—despite its dark demeanor—he was supposed to make his way through the eerie wood ahead of him. It was a few hours before he reached the outskirts of the Wayward Wood, and Herder decided to continue onward despite the darkness that would be soon sweeping through the sky. He lit the small lantern that he had packed with him, and tied it to a short walking stick, giving himself a means of light for the dark wood ahead of him. He entered the wood wearily, trying to be careful to not get himself entangled in the thick brush and roots of the trees. There were tales of dark encounters and frightful fiends about the Wayward Wood that were only ever whispered in the bright and cheery streets of Bastille. Herder pulled his lantern closer to his side. Climbing the trees was difficult due to the gnarled wood of the perish pines, but it was better than sifting through the black mist on the wood’s floor, risking a cross with a gollan hound, a hex hob, or Light knew what else. He made his way through the black wood, catching the occasional glimmer of green light from above. There were multiple times when he thought he saw the flicker of glowing blue, or violet, eyes watching curiously from below. Herder began to grow anxious despite his usual hardy nature; there was no creature that he knew of that possessed such eyes and he carried no weapon of defense outside of his bow—which wouldn’t do him much good when he had no way of seeing his target. He began to question why he had entered the wood, deciding whether or not to turn back, but something tugged him forward. As if some sort presence urged him on. Then something hissed. Something nearby. Herder drew his bow instinctively, knowing that it was a futile effort in the overwhelming black of the wood. He shifted his weight on the branch he was standing on, locking himself into place in order to maintain his ground in case of an attack. The faint green glow above him began to grow nearer, and he quickly disregarded the idea that it had been filtering sunlight. Three massive forms dropped down from the top of the trees and it was all Herder could do from yelling in surprise. They were massive. Each of them were easily ten feet tall with what appeared to be bodies made out of giant brown leaves. Their legs were goat-like tree trunks, bending on a backwards knee, and their faces were nothing more than slits in a pile of sharp v-shaped foliage. They peered down at Herder expectantly, each grasping a large knotted sword of glowing green timber in their long wooden hands. Herder breathed in deeply.
“What are you?” His voice came out cracked and small.
The creature closest him stretched out its arm. “We are Waldgeist. We are guardians. We are protectors.” The voice seemed to resonate from all around.
Herder did his best to remain calm. “There is no need to protect against me. I am merely passing through these woods. Nothing more.”
“You bear arms,” they all boomed in unison, “you trespass on Holy Ground. You breathe as mortals breathe. You are not part of this world. You are not of the woods. You live.”
Cold sweat was trickling down Herder’s brow. He ignored it. “Then please, let me leave. Forgive me; I knew not your rules!”
“You die.”
Herder had moved before they had even finished speaking. He wasn’t irrational enough to believe he was going to get by free. He needed to run. And he needed to run fast. He heard an eerie chorus of shrieks issuing from behind him. He had little time to react to the blue eyes watching hungrily from below—it wasn’t the blue that he feared now, but rather the green that was growing closer and closer. Herder hazarded a glance behind his back and, to his surprise, saw nothing. But when he turned back around, he was shocked to see the three Waldgeist climbing out from the bark of the tree in front of him—as if they had been melded into its very essence. Flight was no longer an option, as Herder quickly assessed the situation. The closest Waldgeist flung its glowing sword vertically at Herder, who tucked to the side just in time. Wood splintered against wood as the sword crashed upon the twisted branch of perish pine. The Waldgeists shrieked bloodily, as if the damage to the tree was a blow to their own selves. Herder pulled his bow back out and quickly shot at the slitted eye of one of the Waldgeists, but was disappointed when it showed no sign of pain. The Waldgeists rushed towards Herder, grunting irritably as he continued to roll from side to side avoiding their persistent strikes. Then, in a stroke of genius, Herder stopped and let them get close enough to swing their swords inches in front of his face. They roared as their swords swooped upon him, but instead of getting completely out of the way, Herder raised his lantern for protection. Which shattered upon impact of the swords. Fire spread upon the swords like a parasite, hungrily feeding off the old, dried, wood. The Waldgeists screeched in fear and agony as it crawled up their blades and onto their arms, eventually enveloping their bodies in a pillar of flame. Herder was already gone by the time the Waldgeists had been completely devoured, finding that the time that he had spent fleeing the spirits had led him to the edge of the wood. He peered back as he stumbled out into the dark night, catching the faintest flicker of red and orange within the rotting wood. He breathed the crisp air around him and laid on the smooth bark of a particularly large tree, when he heard a faint whisper. He sat up quickly, fully aware that he felt the same presence he had felt when he had been lured into the Wayward Wood. Muting all the other sounds around him, he was finally able to hear the voice that had been ushering him forward.
My Protector, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Protector. Herder’s name meant Protector in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves, he was sure. Why was someone calling for him? Could this voice be trusted? Yes. Somehow he knew it to be pure and dependable. So he listened as it called again.
My Protector. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Smiling, despite the hour’s previous atrocities, Herder gathered his things and followed the Call.
“Some horse,” Estra muttered as she kicked up a pile of dirt.
“I don’t understand,” Kallick said as he rubbed his forehead, “Coppercloud has never had problems before!”
The red horse whinnied as it stumbled onto its feet, giving Kallick an almost apologetic look. They were halfway through the Meldwind Meadows, finding themselves towards the Meadows’ end where thick trees and shrubs were beginning to grow in tight clusters. They weren’t sure where they were actually going, but they knew that they wanted to get as far away as possible from the prison that was Regral. Coppercloud had grown ill after traveling for almost a day, and had nearly collapsed in the middle of the second night. Kallick and Estra were unsure of what to do next.
“Can’t you heal him? With your Life Magik?” Kallick asked.
“Probably,” Estra said, yawning, “If I knew any healing spells. I only know the illusion, manipulation, movement, and force forms of Life Magik. Or the yellow, green, grey, and blue spells, as it were. I never got so far as to learn the white, red, and purple spells of healing, heat, and transformation. Sorry, Kal.”
“But you know the Old Tongue,” he protested, “isn’t that enough?”
Estra scoffed, crossing her arms. “No! You need to speak Old Tongue, true, to use Life Magik, but you can’t just yell ‘heal’ and expect someone to get better! You have to know what to actually say. Hmpf! Boys!”
Kallick was too tired and frustrated to argue. He patted Coppercloud’s side, as the horse trotted slowly to rest under a small cluster of trees. The moon was bright, and Kallick found it easy to make out shapes and objects from a distance. He kept his lance in a readied position, in case anything tried to attack them during the night. He was just getting ready to tell Estra to get some rest when a rustling sound came from a nearby bush. A small púca rushed out of the bush in the form of a wolf. Kallick knew it was a púca from his training—the dark fur and orange eyes could come from nothing else—and therefore knew it to be harmless. But Estra; that was another issue entirely. Before Kallick had time to tell her to be calm, Estra was mumbling Old Tongue under her breath, casting blue light around her body. It drew from her feet, then into her hands, and finally it lashed out against the unsuspecting púca. The púca yelped in fright, and sprinted off as it morphed from wolf into a tiny goblin form. Estra’s eyes were wide with fear, and Kallick rushed hurriedly to her side in order to comfort her.
“It’s okay, silly. It was a púca. Just a small shape shifting sprite that likes to pull pranks on humans. Nothing to be afraid of. Completely harmless.”
He looked again into her eyes and noticed that she wasn’t looking where the púca had been. She was staring at her feet. Kallick looked down. All around Estra’s feet, the area where her Life Magik had sprung from, was dead grass. As if the blue light had drained the essence of the plants. Estra was beginning to cry, something that she did rarely, and Kallick did his best to help her over to where Coppercloud was resting. When she sat down she began to talk, stumbling through her occasional sobs.
“I always thought it just came from my feet. Not from living things!”
Kallick smiled, and tilted her head towards him with his left hand. “It’s fine, Estra.”
Estra’s brow furrowed. “No it’s not! I suck away the life from under me! I couldn’t see it before, because the streets of Regral are all stone. I must’ve been killing the plants underneath the city. Oh! And poor Coppercloud! It’s because of me he’s sick! Right before we left the city, with the guards. I wasn’t standing on the ground—my feet were pressed against Coppercloud’s side. I must’ve drawn my magik from him. No wonder he’s sick!”
Kallick sighed. He wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Estra hadn’t known better, but it was her fault that they were where they were. “Maybe,” Kallick said calmly, “it’d be best if you just didn’t use your magik for awhile.”
Estra nodded. Then, slowly, they fell asleep.
It was almost two days later before anything else exciting happened to them. The moon was bright and they knew that they were almost an hour away from the edge of the Meldwind Meadows. There were more and more trees now, and they were already close to the enormous Blackwater Mountains. Coppercloud was getting better and Estra had, once again, gained back her chatty and flirtatious attitude.
“I’m so tired of walking, Kal. Ugh! Why aren’t we riding Coppercloud? He seems better.”
“Because someone made him sick, remember?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean to, did I?” she said, pursing her lips. “Besides, I’m sure you’d rather me get on the horse’s back than collapse from complete exhaustion, now wouldn’t you?”
Kallick rolled his eyes irritably. He couldn’t wait to get out of the Meadows. Then something caught his eye in the distance. Then another something, and another. Kallick stopped, dropping Coppercloud’s reigns.
“Estra,” he whispered, “stay with Coppercloud.”
Estra began to protest quietly as Kallick walked forward with his lance held outward, but her vocal cries soon became inaudible. As Kallick drew closer to the three figures he was able to make out one of them instructing the other two with long, knotty arms. The other two, following the orders of their elected leader, shifted and gestured back. Kallick noticed that they were human in shape despite their shortened height and broad stature. They were dark grey and wore shabby cloth around their gnarled and twisted bodies. Their hands, legs, and faces seemed to be made entirely out of wood and their massive beards were knotted messes of roots and twigs. Only the two holes in their faces resembled anything truly human: eyes. But the most shocking thing about each of the creatures was thick hand axe that each of them carried. The first one signaled once more and the creatures began to run towards Kallick in a sprint. Kallick turned around and yelled to Estra.
“Leshies! Run!”
Kallick didn’t even check to make sure that Estra had taken off with Coppercloud. Instead he whirled himself back towards the leshies, lance thrust forward. They were gaining quickly. The closest leshy was upon him in moments. Instinct kicked in as Kallick’s battle lance clashed against the swing of the leshy’s axe. The moonlight reflected off of the blades as the continued to beat upon each other. Kallick saw the other two leshies almost upon him and in desperation drove his lance into the face of his current attacker. Brown, sap-like, blood oozed from the wound and the leshy instantly collapsed. He yanked his lance out of the bark skin, and turned just as the remaining leshies leaped on top of him. He was done for. He knew it. There was nothing left for him to do except die. He chuckled. Funny. Hadn’t he once said he sometimes simply wanted to die? Then, as he looked up between the two bodies that were on top of him, he watched as Estra leaped on top of the creatures, one foot on each leshy, and quickly muttered an incantation. Then, looking down, she smirked. A massive column of blue light enveloped the leshies and seeped into Estra’s body. Then, in one final push, she directed the light back towards the woodland creatures and blasted the energy towards them—killing them in an instant. There was a silence as Estra pulled Kallick up from the pile of bodies and led him back to Coppercloud. He smiled at her ingenuity; using the life force of the leshies to be used against themselves. He looked at her, smiling, and kissed her.
“Thank you.”
Estra smiled. “Well, you know: you’d have done the same.”
Kallick chuckled and Estra laughed, but they both quickly fell silent. They looked at each other, and nodded, indicating that they had both heard something. Straining their ears, they listened again. And heard a voice.
My Elected, My Instructor, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Estra grew noticeably excited. “Kallick! Those are our names! In Old Tongue! Kallick means ‘Elected’, Estra means ‘Instructor’! Someone’s calling us!”
Kallick pressed a finger to her lips as the voice called again.
My Elected. My Instructor. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Estra hadn’t stopped grinning. “Well?” she asked pointedly.
Kallick smiled. “Well, I say it sounds nice enough, whatever it is. I’m fine with following it.”
Kallick hadn’t even finished speaking before Estra rushed over to Coppercloud to grab his reigns. Sighing happily, Kallick made his way to Estra as they followed the Call.
One the seventh day of her Plea, Vlendessa watched as four beings and one horse made their way into her secluded glade. They were each startled by the other’s presence, each aware that they were different in appearance. But they stopped any misgivings that they had about each other when she called their names.
My Gatherer, My Protector, My Elected, My Instructor. Please. Be of good intent. I have brought each of you here for a purpose. I have brought each of you freedom, if you would wish it so.
The elf, Gatherer, cocked his head to his side and scratched his nose. “A plant that talks?”
“Yes,” Elected agreed, “a tree, it would seem.”
Instructor smiled largely. “Yes! A Sacred Tree!”
The dwarf, Protector, was in awe. “By the Light, it is! A talking tree! Never have I seen anything so precious and beautiful!”
My name is Vlendessa. I have Called you here and tested your worthiness with trials to prove your humility; to prove your right to reign.
Instructor scrunched her brow. “Vlendessa? That means Peacegiver in Old Tongue.”
“And in Elfish,” Gatherer concurred.
“As does it in Dwarvish,” said Protector.
Elected narrowed his eyes. “You sent those monsters?”
The other three fell silent. Vlendessa knew that this time would come sooner rather than later. I have tested your ability to show leadership in even the darkest of times. Festral is collapsing and the Great Expanse draws ever near. The separation of the races has lasted too long. A New World must be born in order to save that of the Old. A World of unity and peace. It is yours, if you would wish it so.
Instructor smiled and nodded. “I would accept this great opportunity.”
“As would I,” Protector said gruffly.
“I’m not sure as to what this all means,” Gatherer chimed in, “but anything is better than Oglandador. Count me in.”
“I suppose,” muttered Elected, “that I don’t have much of a choice if Estra has already decided.”
The road will prove difficult, and the opposition great. But at the heart of every pure ideal lies the ignorance of the self. You must seek the greater good outside of your own needs in order to bring this New World to Light. I will be there for you in your most desperate hours, and I will not. For the answer often lies within the heart, and not within its own desires.
“Again,” Gatherer said in a sing-song voice, “I’m not so sure if I get all this, but I will do my best making somewhere…happier…than Oglandador.”
“And I, a place more calm than Bastille,” Protector grunted.
“I wouldn’t mind somewhere more vibrant than Regral,” Instructor said happily.
“Then it’s settled,” Elected said sternly, “we will strive to do our best to make a brand New World.”
“You didn’t say what you wanted, Kallick,” Estra sighed.
Kallick smiled. “The tree said to not think of my own desires, right? Besides,” he said, sliding his arm around Estra, “I’m happy wherever I can find you. I think that’s all I could ever ask for.”
Festral Dominions
By Adam Gonzales
Throughout the course of his existence, Yyvellian considered his luck to be close to nonexistent. Not only was he tall and brown-haired unlike the rest of his kind, but he often found himself creeping into troublesome situations. Of course that was expected of someone Yyvellian’s age, but not on a continual basis. The rest of the elves living in Oglandador lived for the thrill of a good scam or dangerous escapade, like unto himself, but Yyvellian was constantly bending the oaths that they had made upon settling in their great city. Exploration was permitted, and even encouraged, within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, but journeying outside the caves of Oglandador was strictly unacceptable. It was known throughout the Kingdom that the elves had lost the Great War and had been forced to the depths of Festral’s bestial caverns as punishment, but Yyvellian had always suspected that it was all a hoax; after all, the elves were a mischievous race. Possibly this was the reason other elflings his age looked up to him, but then again perhaps not. But either way Yyvellian knew one thing: sooner or later he would be victorious in his endeavors of finding a way out of Oglandador.
Herder spent most of his days bounding from tree to tree, scouting for new hunting grounds and mapping new landmarks. True, the city of Bastille was a sight to behold, but Herder had always wanted to discover something new—either that or find somewhere where he wasn’t constantly bombarded with requests from the Dwarven Council. Herder was the Master of Game in Bastille and found that the Council was consistently pestering him with demands and questions. Were they going to have trouble during the Cold Season? Had the tesslir doves made their yearly pass yet? Was it safe to travel on the forest floor, or did they still need to be wary of gollan hounds? Of course, Herder would answer their questions with respect and then continue on with his day. He would climb the thick, wide branches that served as Bastille’s treetop city streets until he reached his small thatched hut where he would turn in for the night. If he was lucky, which he rarely considered himself to be, Herder might sometimes find himself camping on the forest’s balcony while on a particularly long mapping quest. It was those days that he would lay his strong arms under his short red hair and look at the starry sky, wondering if there was something greater in Festral waiting for him out there.
Sometimes Kallick simply wanted to die. Not because he thought his life ghastly or depressing, but more that he considered it horribly boring. Well not too boring, just boring enough. Yes, he had Estra to keep him company—and he never minded her company—but it was rather his daily routine that he wanted to escape. He was the horseman’s apprentice in the grand human city of Regral, and despite his greatest efforts to entertain himself between the gaps of the labor hours and his home life, Kallick never felt the true thrill that he was searching for. Admittedly Estra, yet again, helped fill that void in his life but Kallick believed in something much greater. True, he was not quite old enough yet to know what, but the fact that he knew was all that mattered. The cramped city nerved him to no end, and although he found some solace in knowing that no matter what happened, Estra would be with him, Kallick decided for once to be illogically rash. He was going to leave the city. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to and that was that. So when Estra came bringing news of Regral’s Naissance Celebration, Kallick couldn’t have been luckier. It was finally time.
It was a cold day in Oglandador; the torches flickering bluefire—a sign indicating the holiday of the city’s founding. Yyvellian’s stomach swelled in excitement as he scrambled through Oglandador’s large and spacious streets, bumping into no one due to their emptiness. Founding Day was one of the few holidays that the elves celebrated indoors. It was commemorated with heavy drink and thick pastries within the warmth of their private homes, and each family stayed inside in order to observe the holiday’s message of solitude from the proud races that had confined them to the caverns of their dominion. It had been well over a thousand years since the passing of the Great War, but no one forgot the harshness and cruelty that the elves faced during their sentence of seclusion; a fact that Yyvellian planned to exploit in his escape. Throughout the previous couple of weeks, Yyvellian had delved deeper into the caves of Oglandador, in hope of seeking a new tunnel that led to the outside world. And, although he had been close to ultimately discarding his freedom initiative, Yyvellian had actually found something new. Past the back alleyways of Oglandador’s industrial precinct, Yyvellian had noted that the caverns grew increasingly wide and dark, eventually leading to a black vertical crack in the far side of the wall. It had taken Yyvellian almost two hours to reach the opening, when he was eventually caught off guard by the loud chattering voice of a City Guard. Yyvellian had not been expecting anyone to be on duty during Founding Day, and began desperately racking his mind for some clever trick to distract the guards’ attention. He slid behind a particularly large stone and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his elfish sling that he had made years before. A smirk slipped across Yyvellian’s face a he slid a small stone into the sling and hurled it past the guards. The stone snapped across a pile of rocks in the distance, and the sound became amplified in the empty cavern. The two guards shifted uncomfortably as they turned towards the sound. Probably they thought it to be nothing more than it was, but Yyvellian decided to toy with their emotions and try to intensify their inner fears. Breathing deeply so as to make it look like he had been out of breath, Yyvellian turned from out behind the rock and began running towards the short blonde-haired guards.
“Hurry,” he yelled desperately, waving his arms, “the Elder says to get back into the city! She says that there are giant gworms on their way!”
The guards did not need any sign that what he said was true. They had already grown paranoid from Yyvellian’s stone. Barely even acknowledging Yyvellian as they passed, they began rushing hurriedly into the stone city. Yyvellian grinned as he watched the guards scamper away. He had acted characteristically elfish and had pulled a masterful prank—a prank that had granted him the opportunity of freedom.
Herder was finally alone. He had been completely overwhelmed while in Bastille’s Council Hall, and now that he was home he could finally relax. He had hoped that the day would have gone by rather uneventfully due to Bastille’s Dawn Festival, but he had been wrong. The Dwarven Council had directed swarms of concerned tree farmers and spring hunters to his cramped place of work. He had done his best in denying their fears and confirming their hopes, but by the end of the day he had found himself completely drained. He must have been one of the few dwarves staying indoors for the Dawn Festival. The grand tree that supported the city of Bastille would be filled with bustling vendors and enthusiastic merchants selling food, toys, and lightsticks. The lightsticks would be used to spray burning colors throughout the night sky, and the noises from the jovial games and contests would undoubtedly keep Herder up through the night. So for once in his life, Herder decided to do something different and impulsive. He gathered a small pack of food and clothes, slid his bow and quiver across his back, and slipped out into the crowded branches of Bastille. It took him nearly half an hour to reach the edge of the city, what with the lively throng of people filling the streets. But by the time he finally did make it out of town, he had gone by unnoticed—just as he had hoped. He reached a wide branch that angled north out of Bastille and tightened his pack and bow before leaping off towards a tree below. He reached out instinctively and found hold onto a branch that had been smoothed by use, and began to let his weight slide him towards the tree’s center. He slammed into the tree’s trunk with his feet and then hurriedly made his way up an additional branch that reached out to another nearby, level, tree. Herder continued on like this for over an hour before his arms began to feel sore, and before he finally couldn’t see the bright lights or hear the loud thumps coming from Bastille. It was in the canopy of a massive oak that Herder finally found himself deciding to turn in for the night. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled out a small bedroll out of his pack and placed it across the branch’s flat surface. He took in a deep breath and looked up into the night sky, smelling the clear air around him—smelling the air of freedom.
“Kallick, I don’t like this.” Estra’s blonde hair whipped in front of her face as she did her best to hide against the side of the stables.
“Hush, Estra!” Kallick kept his eyes forward, not daring to let them stray from the stone road of Regral’s main street.
Estra tugged him backwards, causing his brown hair to toss to the side. “Don’t you ‘hush’ me, Kal! I want to leave the city just as much as you do, but I just don’t like what we’re doing!”
Kallick rolled his eyes. “It’s not stealing.”
Estra stamped her foot and gave him a stern look.
“Well, it’s not. Coppercloud is my horse. I should be able to take him whenever I need him.”
“And the field lance? Is that yours?”
“Not exactly. But Master Youtle won’t be missing it. Besides, we’ll be needing protection once we leave,” he tried to rationalize. “We can’t go stumbling into the woods unarmed.”
Estra pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “We won’t be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Right,” Kallick acknowledged. “Speaking of which.”
He tilted his head to the chain wrapped around the stable door. Estra sighed heavily, shooting him an annoyed glance and braced herself against the stone floor of Regral’s grand city. Then a bright blue light flowed from underneath her feet and began to wrap around her hands, and in a single burst of white hot energy the light whipped out against the metal chain. And it fell, broken, to the ground. Estra stepped backwards and patted her hands lightly against her side. Kallick gave her a curt nod, and then stepped into the stone stable house, looking to the end of the large room. Coppercloud was a brilliant mahogany horse with a stark white mane. He whinnied slightly as he sighted Kallick, but quickly quieted himself upon noticing his master’s stern eyes. Kallick quickly saddled Coppercloud and had the horse out of the stables in less than five minutes. By then Estra had grown noticeably impatient.
“The grand horseman has returned,” she muttered sarcastically, trying to get Kallick to take her bait. He couldn’t refuse.
“Horseman’s apprentice…ma’am.”
Estra twitched at Kallick’s subtle prod: she detested being referred to as ‘ma’am”. Kallick initially said it out of respect, but when he had realized that Estra found the word to hint towards age, Kallick had begun using it as a sort of joking affront. He helped Estra onto Coppercloud, and then veered them into the stone backstreets of Regral. They were lucky; most of the city had filed in to the center square for the Naissance Celebration—they did not encounter anyone particularly noteworthy on their way out of the city until they reached the wall gate. The armored men guarding the gate gave them a suspicious glance as they approached. But before they could even raise question to their business, Estra sent a green pulse of light in their direction with her hands. The guards instantly stepped aside and opened the gates for them as they made their way out of the great stone city of Regral.
Kallick kissed the side of Estra’s head. “Have I told you that I simply love you?”
Estra smiled. “You can stand to say it more.”
Kallick grinned as they headed steadily forward into the forest—as they headed steadily towards freedom.
Yyvellian was too preoccupied to even consider feeling scared. Sure he was deep within the cracks of an unmapped cave, but the things that he was finding kept his mind from wandering on things like monsters and darkness. Not that it was too dark, anyways. There were tiny mushrooms that lined the different tunnels within the cavern that shone faint green and red lights. And so Yyvellian was able to make his way through the winding passages, using his hook and chain to lift himself when the tunnels grew too high for him to reach. He knew that he hadn’t thought his escape plan through carefully, and that it was only a matter of time before he needed to reconsider actually going through with it, but for the moment he enjoyed the light thrill of a potentially dangerous escapade. Then he heard something. It wasn’t the occasional clack of a falling rock that he had grown accustomed to hearing, but rather a flurry of unmated movement coming from a channel that bent a little ways off to his right. Yyvellian stopped short, pressing his body up against the rugged surface of the stone tunnel. Voices began echoing throughout the cave and it didn’t take long for Yyvellian to notice that they appeared to be clicks and hisses instead of actual words. Yyvellian’s eyes widened as two slimy, bald, reptilian creatures with nostrils stretched across their brown and red snouts turned the corner. They had wide flat feet for gripping loose rocks, and long, knobby fingers and tails for keeping their balance in the dark. Their eyes were massive and glowed a dim and pale green—almost useless if it wasn’t for the fact that they were coupled with the gaping holes in the side of their heads that served as ears. Yyvellian swallowed a gasp of fear: kobolds. He turned around swiftly, careful not to make any loud noises, but was shocked to find another kobold blocking his path. Yyvellian froze fearfully as the creature issued a shrill screech that bounced off the cavern’s serrated walls. Yyvellian didn’t need to look behind him to know that the other two kobolds had their eyes fixed on him; it would be foolish to think otherwise. He didn’t know what to do. True, his body screamed for him to flee or attack, but he was cornered and elves hadn’t trained in combat since the Great War—they were not warriors. But, then again, Yyvellian never considered himself a normal elf. In a quick flurry of movement, Yyvellian spun his hook and chain over his head and swung it to the cave’s ceiling overhead. It grasped a firm chunk of rock and he speedily climbed the chain just before the kobolds pounced on his position. He didn’t have much time; clinging to the ceiling would only prove a temporary respite from creatures that spent their lives climbing sharp rock. The kobolds hissed impatiently, trying to reach Yyvellian with their short pointed sticks that they carried. Yyvellian breathed in deeply. He didn’t have the liberty of planning what he was going to do so he simply acted. He yelled loudly as he dropped from the ceiling, smashing his feet into the kobold directly underneath him. Yyvellian heard a disturbing crunch as the creature’s head splintered against one of the caves many rocks—he was dead in an instant. Yyvellian didn’t allow himself to settle as there was a blur of motion as the other two kobolds began reaching out for him. But Yyvellian was quick in getting behind one of the rabid creatures and making sure that the other one lined up with him. Then, deciding to use his hook and chain as a weapon, he reached out for the far kobold and yanked hard. The kobold screamed as he was pulled, keeping his sharp stick pointed forward. The other reptilian monster turned to Yyvellian, ready to strike him down, but was met with a searing pain as the other kobold’s stick slammed through his body. Yyvellian smiled despite himself—he had pulled the far kobold into the other one with the hook, causing his sharp staff to pierce through the other’s slimy skin. Yyvellian finally paused. There were three dead bodies lying around him, each oozing out splotches of black blood. He walked over to the kobold that had the hook pierced into his back and tugged it out. There was a hissing sound as blood began to pour freely from the three pronged wound, and Yyvellian found himself calmed in spite of the bloodbath in front of him. He pulled out a linen cloth from one of his pockets and wiped his hook and chain clean. What had they been doing so close to Oglandador? Possibly gathering food? It didn’t matter. In an attempt to walk off the adrenaline pulses that were overwhelming his body, Yyvellian began to continue to walk down the cave. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew to follow the fluorescent mushrooms that were dimmer than the others; the deeper they were into the cave, the more they shone. By the time he had shaken off his initial shock from killing the kobolds, Yyvellian had wandered quite far into the caverns. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, but he knew it was significant. Angling his head up as he scampered up a particularly large pile of rocks he was able to make out a distant glow. It was bright and yellow—unlike any light he had ever seen. And he longed for it. So without questioning its origins, Yyvellian raced through the cave as the light got increasingly brighter. When he finally reached it, he was dumbfounded. The cave opened into a lush, green, bright world that he had never seen. True, he had heard tales from the stories of the Great War, but he had assumed them to be nothing more than a hoax, just like everything else the elves said. The light burned his eyes at first, but he slowly began to grow accustomed to it and was able to make out the beauty of the landscape around him. Bright green carpets smothered the ground and shot out of the earth, clumped together on top of massive wooden posts. Except they seemed…natural. No one had made these odd plants; they simply lived this way. Yyvellian smiled hugely, aware of the wave of freedom pouring down upon him. Then he paused as his ears picked up something strange and remote. He pricked them up, trying desperately to make out the soft and soothing sound that seemed to whisper for him. And when he was finally able to make it out, he was surprised at what he heard.
My Gatherer, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Yyvellian’s brow furrowed. Gatherer. That was the meaning of his name in elfish. An ancient tongue that was all but extinct. And yet he somehow knew that this voice was to be trusted—that it really did need his help. And it called again.
My Gatherer. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Yyvellian smiled as the sweet voice enveloped him. Then, thinking of nothing else, he followed the Call.
The arrow whipped through the air and struck down the tesslir dove. Herder gave a satisfied grunt as he slipped his bow over his shoulder and climbed down the tree to pick up his breakfast. He had enough foresight to realize that his arrows would soon become a rare and necessary commodity, so he carefully extracted to one he had used to shoot down the bird, cautiously wiping away the blood from its tip. It had only been two days since his departure from Bastille, but he had found them peaceful and longer than the days he normally took surveying the city’s border. Probably it was because he knew he was to never return to the treetops of Bastille, but he found them resplendent nonetheless. The majority of his days were spent hopping from tree to tree, but he knew that it would soon become more difficult to traverse through the branches in this way; he was passing swiftly through the Resplien Forest and drawing ever closer to the darker, and smaller, Wayward Wood. Herder frowned. He didn’t know what he was doing, or even where he was going, but he was sure that—despite its dark demeanor—he was supposed to make his way through the eerie wood ahead of him. It was a few hours before he reached the outskirts of the Wayward Wood, and Herder decided to continue onward despite the darkness that would be soon sweeping through the sky. He lit the small lantern that he had packed with him, and tied it to a short walking stick, giving himself a means of light for the dark wood ahead of him. He entered the wood wearily, trying to be careful to not get himself entangled in the thick brush and roots of the trees. There were tales of dark encounters and frightful fiends about the Wayward Wood that were only ever whispered in the bright and cheery streets of Bastille. Herder pulled his lantern closer to his side. Climbing the trees was difficult due to the gnarled wood of the perish pines, but it was better than sifting through the black mist on the wood’s floor, risking a cross with a gollan hound, a hex hob, or Light knew what else. He made his way through the black wood, catching the occasional glimmer of green light from above. There were multiple times when he thought he saw the flicker of glowing blue, or violet, eyes watching curiously from below. Herder began to grow anxious despite his usual hardy nature; there was no creature that he knew of that possessed such eyes and he carried no weapon of defense outside of his bow—which wouldn’t do him much good when he had no way of seeing his target. He began to question why he had entered the wood, deciding whether or not to turn back, but something tugged him forward. As if some sort presence urged him on. Then something hissed. Something nearby. Herder drew his bow instinctively, knowing that it was a futile effort in the overwhelming black of the wood. He shifted his weight on the branch he was standing on, locking himself into place in order to maintain his ground in case of an attack. The faint green glow above him began to grow nearer, and he quickly disregarded the idea that it had been filtering sunlight. Three massive forms dropped down from the top of the trees and it was all Herder could do from yelling in surprise. They were massive. Each of them were easily ten feet tall with what appeared to be bodies made out of giant brown leaves. Their legs were goat-like tree trunks, bending on a backwards knee, and their faces were nothing more than slits in a pile of sharp v-shaped foliage. They peered down at Herder expectantly, each grasping a large knotted sword of glowing green timber in their long wooden hands. Herder breathed in deeply.
“What are you?” His voice came out cracked and small.
The creature closest him stretched out its arm. “We are Waldgeist. We are guardians. We are protectors.” The voice seemed to resonate from all around.
Herder did his best to remain calm. “There is no need to protect against me. I am merely passing through these woods. Nothing more.”
“You bear arms,” they all boomed in unison, “you trespass on Holy Ground. You breathe as mortals breathe. You are not part of this world. You are not of the woods. You live.”
Cold sweat was trickling down Herder’s brow. He ignored it. “Then please, let me leave. Forgive me; I knew not your rules!”
“You die.”
Herder had moved before they had even finished speaking. He wasn’t irrational enough to believe he was going to get by free. He needed to run. And he needed to run fast. He heard an eerie chorus of shrieks issuing from behind him. He had little time to react to the blue eyes watching hungrily from below—it wasn’t the blue that he feared now, but rather the green that was growing closer and closer. Herder hazarded a glance behind his back and, to his surprise, saw nothing. But when he turned back around, he was shocked to see the three Waldgeist climbing out from the bark of the tree in front of him—as if they had been melded into its very essence. Flight was no longer an option, as Herder quickly assessed the situation. The closest Waldgeist flung its glowing sword vertically at Herder, who tucked to the side just in time. Wood splintered against wood as the sword crashed upon the twisted branch of perish pine. The Waldgeists shrieked bloodily, as if the damage to the tree was a blow to their own selves. Herder pulled his bow back out and quickly shot at the slitted eye of one of the Waldgeists, but was disappointed when it showed no sign of pain. The Waldgeists rushed towards Herder, grunting irritably as he continued to roll from side to side avoiding their persistent strikes. Then, in a stroke of genius, Herder stopped and let them get close enough to swing their swords inches in front of his face. They roared as their swords swooped upon him, but instead of getting completely out of the way, Herder raised his lantern for protection. Which shattered upon impact of the swords. Fire spread upon the swords like a parasite, hungrily feeding off the old, dried, wood. The Waldgeists screeched in fear and agony as it crawled up their blades and onto their arms, eventually enveloping their bodies in a pillar of flame. Herder was already gone by the time the Waldgeists had been completely devoured, finding that the time that he had spent fleeing the spirits had led him to the edge of the wood. He peered back as he stumbled out into the dark night, catching the faintest flicker of red and orange within the rotting wood. He breathed the crisp air around him and laid on the smooth bark of a particularly large tree, when he heard a faint whisper. He sat up quickly, fully aware that he felt the same presence he had felt when he had been lured into the Wayward Wood. Muting all the other sounds around him, he was finally able to hear the voice that had been ushering him forward.
My Protector, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Protector. Herder’s name meant Protector in the ancient tongue of the Dwarves, he was sure. Why was someone calling for him? Could this voice be trusted? Yes. Somehow he knew it to be pure and dependable. So he listened as it called again.
My Protector. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Smiling, despite the hour’s previous atrocities, Herder gathered his things and followed the Call.
“Some horse,” Estra muttered as she kicked up a pile of dirt.
“I don’t understand,” Kallick said as he rubbed his forehead, “Coppercloud has never had problems before!”
The red horse whinnied as it stumbled onto its feet, giving Kallick an almost apologetic look. They were halfway through the Meldwind Meadows, finding themselves towards the Meadows’ end where thick trees and shrubs were beginning to grow in tight clusters. They weren’t sure where they were actually going, but they knew that they wanted to get as far away as possible from the prison that was Regral. Coppercloud had grown ill after traveling for almost a day, and had nearly collapsed in the middle of the second night. Kallick and Estra were unsure of what to do next.
“Can’t you heal him? With your Life Magik?” Kallick asked.
“Probably,” Estra said, yawning, “If I knew any healing spells. I only know the illusion, manipulation, movement, and force forms of Life Magik. Or the yellow, green, grey, and blue spells, as it were. I never got so far as to learn the white, red, and purple spells of healing, heat, and transformation. Sorry, Kal.”
“But you know the Old Tongue,” he protested, “isn’t that enough?”
Estra scoffed, crossing her arms. “No! You need to speak Old Tongue, true, to use Life Magik, but you can’t just yell ‘heal’ and expect someone to get better! You have to know what to actually say. Hmpf! Boys!”
Kallick was too tired and frustrated to argue. He patted Coppercloud’s side, as the horse trotted slowly to rest under a small cluster of trees. The moon was bright, and Kallick found it easy to make out shapes and objects from a distance. He kept his lance in a readied position, in case anything tried to attack them during the night. He was just getting ready to tell Estra to get some rest when a rustling sound came from a nearby bush. A small púca rushed out of the bush in the form of a wolf. Kallick knew it was a púca from his training—the dark fur and orange eyes could come from nothing else—and therefore knew it to be harmless. But Estra; that was another issue entirely. Before Kallick had time to tell her to be calm, Estra was mumbling Old Tongue under her breath, casting blue light around her body. It drew from her feet, then into her hands, and finally it lashed out against the unsuspecting púca. The púca yelped in fright, and sprinted off as it morphed from wolf into a tiny goblin form. Estra’s eyes were wide with fear, and Kallick rushed hurriedly to her side in order to comfort her.
“It’s okay, silly. It was a púca. Just a small shape shifting sprite that likes to pull pranks on humans. Nothing to be afraid of. Completely harmless.”
He looked again into her eyes and noticed that she wasn’t looking where the púca had been. She was staring at her feet. Kallick looked down. All around Estra’s feet, the area where her Life Magik had sprung from, was dead grass. As if the blue light had drained the essence of the plants. Estra was beginning to cry, something that she did rarely, and Kallick did his best to help her over to where Coppercloud was resting. When she sat down she began to talk, stumbling through her occasional sobs.
“I always thought it just came from my feet. Not from living things!”
Kallick smiled, and tilted her head towards him with his left hand. “It’s fine, Estra.”
Estra’s brow furrowed. “No it’s not! I suck away the life from under me! I couldn’t see it before, because the streets of Regral are all stone. I must’ve been killing the plants underneath the city. Oh! And poor Coppercloud! It’s because of me he’s sick! Right before we left the city, with the guards. I wasn’t standing on the ground—my feet were pressed against Coppercloud’s side. I must’ve drawn my magik from him. No wonder he’s sick!”
Kallick sighed. He wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Estra hadn’t known better, but it was her fault that they were where they were. “Maybe,” Kallick said calmly, “it’d be best if you just didn’t use your magik for awhile.”
Estra nodded. Then, slowly, they fell asleep.
It was almost two days later before anything else exciting happened to them. The moon was bright and they knew that they were almost an hour away from the edge of the Meldwind Meadows. There were more and more trees now, and they were already close to the enormous Blackwater Mountains. Coppercloud was getting better and Estra had, once again, gained back her chatty and flirtatious attitude.
“I’m so tired of walking, Kal. Ugh! Why aren’t we riding Coppercloud? He seems better.”
“Because someone made him sick, remember?”
“Yes, but I didn’t mean to, did I?” she said, pursing her lips. “Besides, I’m sure you’d rather me get on the horse’s back than collapse from complete exhaustion, now wouldn’t you?”
Kallick rolled his eyes irritably. He couldn’t wait to get out of the Meadows. Then something caught his eye in the distance. Then another something, and another. Kallick stopped, dropping Coppercloud’s reigns.
“Estra,” he whispered, “stay with Coppercloud.”
Estra began to protest quietly as Kallick walked forward with his lance held outward, but her vocal cries soon became inaudible. As Kallick drew closer to the three figures he was able to make out one of them instructing the other two with long, knotty arms. The other two, following the orders of their elected leader, shifted and gestured back. Kallick noticed that they were human in shape despite their shortened height and broad stature. They were dark grey and wore shabby cloth around their gnarled and twisted bodies. Their hands, legs, and faces seemed to be made entirely out of wood and their massive beards were knotted messes of roots and twigs. Only the two holes in their faces resembled anything truly human: eyes. But the most shocking thing about each of the creatures was thick hand axe that each of them carried. The first one signaled once more and the creatures began to run towards Kallick in a sprint. Kallick turned around and yelled to Estra.
“Leshies! Run!”
Kallick didn’t even check to make sure that Estra had taken off with Coppercloud. Instead he whirled himself back towards the leshies, lance thrust forward. They were gaining quickly. The closest leshy was upon him in moments. Instinct kicked in as Kallick’s battle lance clashed against the swing of the leshy’s axe. The moonlight reflected off of the blades as the continued to beat upon each other. Kallick saw the other two leshies almost upon him and in desperation drove his lance into the face of his current attacker. Brown, sap-like, blood oozed from the wound and the leshy instantly collapsed. He yanked his lance out of the bark skin, and turned just as the remaining leshies leaped on top of him. He was done for. He knew it. There was nothing left for him to do except die. He chuckled. Funny. Hadn’t he once said he sometimes simply wanted to die? Then, as he looked up between the two bodies that were on top of him, he watched as Estra leaped on top of the creatures, one foot on each leshy, and quickly muttered an incantation. Then, looking down, she smirked. A massive column of blue light enveloped the leshies and seeped into Estra’s body. Then, in one final push, she directed the light back towards the woodland creatures and blasted the energy towards them—killing them in an instant. There was a silence as Estra pulled Kallick up from the pile of bodies and led him back to Coppercloud. He smiled at her ingenuity; using the life force of the leshies to be used against themselves. He looked at her, smiling, and kissed her.
“Thank you.”
Estra smiled. “Well, you know: you’d have done the same.”
Kallick chuckled and Estra laughed, but they both quickly fell silent. They looked at each other, and nodded, indicating that they had both heard something. Straining their ears, they listened again. And heard a voice.
My Elected, My Instructor, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Estra grew noticeably excited. “Kallick! Those are our names! In Old Tongue! Kallick means ‘Elected’, Estra means ‘Instructor’! Someone’s calling us!”
Kallick pressed a finger to her lips as the voice called again.
My Elected. My Instructor. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Estra hadn’t stopped grinning. “Well?” she asked pointedly.
Kallick smiled. “Well, I say it sounds nice enough, whatever it is. I’m fine with following it.”
Kallick hadn’t even finished speaking before Estra rushed over to Coppercloud to grab his reigns. Sighing happily, Kallick made his way to Estra as they followed the Call.
One the seventh day of her Plea, Vlendessa watched as four beings and one horse made their way into her secluded glade. They were each startled by the other’s presence, each aware that they were different in appearance. But they stopped any misgivings that they had about each other when she called their names.
My Gatherer, My Protector, My Elected, My Instructor. Please. Be of good intent. I have brought each of you here for a purpose. I have brought each of you freedom, if you would wish it so.
The elf, Gatherer, cocked his head to his side and scratched his nose. “A plant that talks?”
“Yes,” Elected agreed, “a tree, it would seem.”
Instructor smiled largely. “Yes! A Sacred Tree!”
The dwarf, Protector, was in awe. “By the Light, it is! A talking tree! Never have I seen anything so precious and beautiful!”
My name is Vlendessa. I have Called you here and tested your worthiness with trials to prove your humility; to prove your right to reign.
Instructor scrunched her brow. “Vlendessa? That means Peacegiver in Old Tongue.”
“And in Elfish,” Gatherer concurred.
“As does it in Dwarvish,” said Protector.
Elected narrowed his eyes. “You sent those monsters?”
The other three fell silent. Vlendessa knew that this time would come sooner rather than later. I have tested your ability to show leadership in even the darkest of times. Festral is collapsing and the Great Expanse draws ever near. The separation of the races has lasted too long. A New World must be born in order to save that of the Old. A World of unity and peace. It is yours, if you would wish it so.
Instructor smiled and nodded. “I would accept this great opportunity.”
“As would I,” Protector said gruffly.
“I’m not sure as to what this all means,” Gatherer chimed in, “but anything is better than Oglandador. Count me in.”
“I suppose,” muttered Elected, “that I don’t have much of a choice if Estra has already decided.”
The road will prove difficult, and the opposition great. But at the heart of every pure ideal lies the ignorance of the self. You must seek the greater good outside of your own needs in order to bring this New World to Light. I will be there for you in your most desperate hours, and I will not. For the answer often lies within the heart, and not within its own desires.
“Again,” Gatherer said in a sing-song voice, “I’m not so sure if I get all this, but I will do my best making somewhere…happier…than Oglandador.”
“And I, a place more calm than Bastille,” Protector grunted.
“I wouldn’t mind somewhere more vibrant than Regral,” Instructor said happily.
“Then it’s settled,” Elected said sternly, “we will strive to do our best to make a brand New World.”
“You didn’t say what you wanted, Kallick,” Estra sighed.
Kallick smiled. “The tree said to not think of my own desires, right? Besides,” he said, sliding his arm around Estra, “I’m happy wherever I can find you. I think that’s all I could ever ask for.”
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
I Still Exist
School has been a hindrance in my progression towards writing and creating new projects. I apologize. However, due to the fact that I have been HEAVILY editing the chapters that I currently have for my first book, I am confident that during the winter break much will get done. The Terris Letters WILL start back up once more (hopefully concluding by the end of January), I will be posting a few more songs that I have written, and at LEAST three new chapters will be added into my first book. Until that time I will be posting my finalized product of Festral Dominions, as well as posting the prologue to Wapper and the Spotted Egg!
-Adam
-Adam
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Terris Letters--Letter #2
Dear Hope of Mankind,
I realized that I have failed to mention the premise of these letters in my last message. It has recently come to my attention that the Great Eclipse, the air in the center of our world that blesses us with Life and Magic, is being rapidly drained. If the Great Eclipse runs dry then our bodies will become nothing more than hollow shells. This is obviously an extreme concern, is it not? And yet the townsfolk here mull about on with their business. Fools!
And so today, I depart, journeying into the Far North in aspiration of someone who will heed my profound and generous knowledge. And yes, I did leave the people of my small, rugged town with some instructions should they ever decide to read them. More than likely they will be used hastily in the application of a particularly moist buttocks. Huh! If nothing else, someone will be comfortably clean while their bodies get hollowed out. Nothing like a clean buttock, I always say!
I have decided to bring only the minimal amount of supplies that are necessary for my journey. Food, water, clothes, and the five essential Elemental Tomes. Helpful in making fires, or warding off danger in a tight spot. My sky blues Mage robes have been cleaned, their blood red cuffs shining nicely, and I have finally worn in my traveling boots. But there is something that concerns me greatly. During the two Epicenters of the day--noon and midnight--my ears ring with a violent piercing cry that seems to fluctuate on a magical field. Perhaps this is a surge within the Great Eclipse? Or perhaps I need to stop eating gravied lamb during the day. I'm going to go with the latter.
And so I press forward with a high spirit, and--for once--an empty stomach praying that everything goes my way (because the Sages know it never does)! For now then, I bid you adieu, and hope for a brighter tomorrow.
*~--Terris Rolland the Bright--~*
I realized that I have failed to mention the premise of these letters in my last message. It has recently come to my attention that the Great Eclipse, the air in the center of our world that blesses us with Life and Magic, is being rapidly drained. If the Great Eclipse runs dry then our bodies will become nothing more than hollow shells. This is obviously an extreme concern, is it not? And yet the townsfolk here mull about on with their business. Fools!
And so today, I depart, journeying into the Far North in aspiration of someone who will heed my profound and generous knowledge. And yes, I did leave the people of my small, rugged town with some instructions should they ever decide to read them. More than likely they will be used hastily in the application of a particularly moist buttocks. Huh! If nothing else, someone will be comfortably clean while their bodies get hollowed out. Nothing like a clean buttock, I always say!
I have decided to bring only the minimal amount of supplies that are necessary for my journey. Food, water, clothes, and the five essential Elemental Tomes. Helpful in making fires, or warding off danger in a tight spot. My sky blues Mage robes have been cleaned, their blood red cuffs shining nicely, and I have finally worn in my traveling boots. But there is something that concerns me greatly. During the two Epicenters of the day--noon and midnight--my ears ring with a violent piercing cry that seems to fluctuate on a magical field. Perhaps this is a surge within the Great Eclipse? Or perhaps I need to stop eating gravied lamb during the day. I'm going to go with the latter.
And so I press forward with a high spirit, and--for once--an empty stomach praying that everything goes my way (because the Sages know it never does)! For now then, I bid you adieu, and hope for a brighter tomorrow.
*~--Terris Rolland the Bright--~*
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Cool New Thing! (An Update)
So, in an attempt to write something new, and to wire a new audience, I have decided to start a new mini-series called "The Terris Letters". It is the story of as young mage who, in a desperate attempt to be heard, has sent letters all over the world to warn them of an impending doom. It recounts his tales and escapades and is set to have one to two letters per week, finishing sometime in December. I will be posting them here, and on my new blog dedicated solely to his letters. I hope you like 'em!
The Terris Letters-- Letter #1
Dear Hope of Mankind,
In a dehumanizing society full of grief and constant bickering, I often found the outside world rather...odd. It irked me to almost no end that one could find themselves slowly disintegrating into a vast sea of nothingness simply due to their lack of moral faith. That isn't to say that it was nonexistent, but rather that it was...how shall I say it? Neglected. But that's getting off the point. My name is Terris. And yes, I do tend to ramble. But, contrary to popular belief--popular belief being the belief of the rest of my no-good, ill-educated town--I am NOT a Wizard, or a Sorcerer. That being said, there is something you should know about me. I am a Mage. And yes, Mages are different.
Yes, I do find that most of my idle time is spent bent over a dusty tome or history, but what I find rather interesting is the fact that no one else in my dismal town does the same. They meander throughout their lives plowing the fields and sowing the seeds, giving no second glance to a young twenty-something or other magic-user with his face stuffed between the pages of a rotting book. That suits me just fine. I just hope that sooner or later they finally take heed to my pestering them about listening to the rantings of a wizened scholar. Not that they will.
But here I go off rambling again. My purpose in sending you this letter is that it may find its way into the hands of someone who has half a wit about them! To be put as frankly as possible...don't be a fool. Listen to me and everything will work out. I promise. Really.
*~--Terris Rolland the Bright--~*
In a dehumanizing society full of grief and constant bickering, I often found the outside world rather...odd. It irked me to almost no end that one could find themselves slowly disintegrating into a vast sea of nothingness simply due to their lack of moral faith. That isn't to say that it was nonexistent, but rather that it was...how shall I say it? Neglected. But that's getting off the point. My name is Terris. And yes, I do tend to ramble. But, contrary to popular belief--popular belief being the belief of the rest of my no-good, ill-educated town--I am NOT a Wizard, or a Sorcerer. That being said, there is something you should know about me. I am a Mage. And yes, Mages are different.
Yes, I do find that most of my idle time is spent bent over a dusty tome or history, but what I find rather interesting is the fact that no one else in my dismal town does the same. They meander throughout their lives plowing the fields and sowing the seeds, giving no second glance to a young twenty-something or other magic-user with his face stuffed between the pages of a rotting book. That suits me just fine. I just hope that sooner or later they finally take heed to my pestering them about listening to the rantings of a wizened scholar. Not that they will.
But here I go off rambling again. My purpose in sending you this letter is that it may find its way into the hands of someone who has half a wit about them! To be put as frankly as possible...don't be a fool. Listen to me and everything will work out. I promise. Really.
*~--Terris Rolland the Bright--~*
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Wapper and the Spotted Egg (An Attempt)
I am eagerly working on the Prologue and First Chapter of my Second Book, Wapper and the Spotted Egg while at the same time hurriedly finishing my First Book, Tarterrior: The Rise of the Sixth Kingdom. I hope to have the preview to the second book up by next month and the FIRST COPY of my First Book done by the end of this year. Let' hope! Just an update!
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Festral Dominions (Preview)
This is a short story that I'm writing. Right now it's about five pages, but when I'm done it's going to be about twenty five, or so. I just want to see what people think. I hope your like it. Let me know if you have any questions, comments, or ideas to help me out. Thanks!
PRONUNCIATION: Yyvellian = Yev-yeel-lin; Kallick = Cal-ick; Bastille = Bast-eel; Everything else is how it looks.
Festral Dominions
By Adam Gonzales
Throughout the course of his existence, Yyvellian considered his luck to be close to nonexistent. Not only was he tall and brown-haired unlike the rest of his kind, but he often found himself creeping into troublesome situations. Of course that was expected of someone Yyvellian’s age, but not on a continual basis. The rest of the elves living in Oglandador lived for the thrill of a good scam or dangerous escapade, like unto himself, but Yyvellian was constantly bending the oaths that they had made upon settling in their great city. Exploration was permitted, and even encouraged, within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, but journeying outside the caves of Oglandador was strictly unacceptable. It was known throughout the Kingdom that the elves had lost the Great War and had been forced to the depths of Festral’s bestial caverns as punishment, but Yyvellian had always suspected that it was all a hoax; after all, the elves were a mischievous race. Possibly this was the reason other elflings his age looked up to him, but then again perhaps not. But either way Yyvellian knew one thing: sooner or later he would be victorious in his endeavors of finding a way out of Oglandador.
Herder spent most of his days bounding from tree to tree, scouting for new hunting grounds and mapping new landmarks. True, the city of Bastille was a sight to behold, but Herder had always wanted to discover something new—either that or find somewhere where he wasn’t constantly bombarded with requests from the Dwarven Council. Herder was the Master of Game in Bastille and found that the Council was consistently pestering him with demands and questions. Were they going to have trouble during the Cold Season? Had the tesslir doves made their yearly pass yet? Was it safe to travel on the forest floor, or did they still need to be wary of gollan hounds? Of course, Herder would answer their questions with respect and then continue on with his day. He would climb the thick, wide branches that served as Bastille’s treetop city streets until he reached his small thatched hut where he would turn in for the night. If he was lucky, which he rarely considered himself to be, Herder might sometimes find himself camping on the forest’s balcony while on a particularly long mapping quest. It was those days that he would lay his strong arms under his short red hair and look at the starry sky, wondering if there was something greater in Festral waiting for him out there.
Sometimes Kallick simply wanted to die. Not because he thought his life ghastly or depressing, but more that he considered it horribly boring. Well not too boring, just boring enough. Yes, he had Estra to keep him company—and he never minded her company—but it was rather his daily routine that he wanted to escape. He was the horseman’s apprentice in the grand human city of Regral, and despite his greatest efforts to entertain himself between the gaps of the labor hours and his home life, Kallick never felt the true thrill that he was searching for. Admittedly Estra, yet again, helped fill that void in his life but Kallick believed in something much greater. True, he was not quite old enough yet to know what, but the fact that he knew was all that mattered. The cramped city nerved him to no end, and although he found some solace in knowing that no matter what happened, Estra would be with him, Kallick decided for once to be illogically rash. He was going to leave the city. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to and that was that. So when Estra came bringing news of Regral’s Naissance Celebration, Kallick couldn’t have been luckier. It was finally time.
It was a cold day in Oglandador; the torches flickering bluefire—a sign indicating the holiday of the city’s founding. Yyvellian’s stomach swelled in excitement as he scrambled through Oglandador’s large and spacious streets, bumping into no one due to their emptiness. Founding Day was one of the few holidays that the elves celebrated indoors. It was commemorated with heavy drink and thick pastries within the warmth of their private homes, and each family stayed inside in order to observe the holiday’s message of solitude from the proud races that had confined them to the caverns of their dominion. It had been well over a thousand years since the passing of the Great War, but no one forgot the harshness and cruelty that the elves faced during their sentence of seclusion; a fact that Yyvellian planned to exploit in his escape. Throughout the previous couple of weeks, Yyvellian had delved deeper into the caves of Oglandador, in hope of seeking a new tunnel that led to the outside world. And, although he had been close to ultimately discarding his freedom initiative, Yyvellian had actually found something new. Past the back alleyways of Oglandador’s industrial precinct, Yyvellian had noted that the caverns grew increasingly wide and dark, eventually leading to a black vertical crack in the far side of the wall. It had taken Yyvellian almost two hours to reach the opening, when he was eventually caught off guard by the loud chattering voice of a City Guard. Yyvellian had not been expecting anyone to be on duty during Founding Day, and began desperately racking his mind for some clever trick to distract the guards’ attention. He slid behind a particularly large stone and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his elfish sling that he had made years before. A smirk slipped across Yyvellian’s face a he slid a small stone into the sling and hurled it past the guards. The stone snapped across a pile of rocks in the distance, and the sound became amplified in the empty cavern. The two guards shifted uncomfortably as they turned towards the sound. Probably they thought it to be nothing more than it was, but Yyvellian decided to toy with their emotions and try to intensify their inner fears. Breathing deeply so as to make it look like he had been out of breath, Yyvellian turned from out behind the rock and began running towards the short blonde-haired guards.
“Hurry,” he yelled desperately, waving his arms, “the Elder says to get back into the city! She says that there are giant gworms on their way!”
The guards did not need any sign that what he said was true. They had already grown paranoid from Yyvellian’s stone. Barely even acknowledging Yyvellian as they passed, they began rushing hurriedly into the stone city. Yyvellian grinned as he watched the guards scamper away. He had acted characteristically elfish and had pulled a masterful prank—a prank that had granted him the opportunity of freedom.
Herder was finally alone. He had been completely overwhelmed while in Bastille’s Council Hall, and now that he was home he could finally relax. He had hoped that the day would have gone by rather uneventfully due to Bastille’s Dawn Festival, but he had been wrong. The Dwarven Council had directed swarms of concerned tree farmers and spring hunters to his cramped place of work. He had done his best in denying their fears and confirming their hopes, but by the end of the day he had found himself completely drained. He must have been one of the few dwarves staying indoors for the Dawn Festival. The grand tree that supported the city of Bastille would be filled with bustling vendors and enthusiastic merchants selling food, toys, and lightsticks. The lightsticks would be used to spray burning colors throughout the night sky, and the noises from the jovial games and contests would undoubtedly keep Herder up through the night. So for once in his life, Herder decided to do something different and impulsive. He gathered a small pack of food and clothes, slid his bow and quiver across his back, and slipped out into the crowded branches of Bastille. It took him nearly half an hour to reach the edge of the city, what with the lively throng of people filling the streets. But by the time he finally did make it out of town, he had gone by unnoticed—just as he had hoped. He reached a wide branch that angled north out of Bastille and tightened his pack and bow before leaping off towards a tree below. He reached out instinctively and found hold onto a branch that had been smoothed by use, and began to let his weight slide him towards the tree’s center. He slammed into the tree’s trunk with his feet and then hurriedly made his way up an additional branch that reached out to another nearby, level, tree. Herder continued on like this for over an hour before his arms began to feel sore, and before he finally couldn’t see the bright lights or hear the loud thumps coming from Bastille. It was in the canopy of a massive oak that Herder finally found himself deciding to turn in for the night. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled out a small bedroll out of his pack and placed it across the branch’s flat surface. He took in a deep breath and looked up into the night sky, smelling the clear air around him—smelling the air of freedom.
“Kallick, I don’t like this.” Estra’s blonde hair whipped in front of her face as she did her best to hide against the side of the stables.
“Hush, Estra!” Kallick kept his eyes forward, not daring to let them stray from the stone road of Regral’s main street.
Estra tugged him backwards, causing his brown hair to toss to the side. “Don’t you ‘hush’ me, Kal! I want to leave the city just as much as you do, but I just don’t like what we’re doing!”
Kallick rolled his eyes. “It’s not stealing.”
Estra stamped her foot and gave him a stern look.
“Well, it’s not. Coppercloud is my horse. I should be able to take him whenever I need him.”
“And the field lance? Is that yours?”
“Not exactly. But Master Youtle won’t be missing it. Besides, we’ll be needing protection once we leave,” he tried to rationalize. “We can’t go stumbling into the woods unarmed.”
Estra pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “We won’t be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Right,” Kallick acknowledged. “Speaking of which.”
He tilted his head to the chain wrapped around the stable door. Estra sighed heavily, shooting him an annoyed glance and braced herself against the stone floor of Regral’s grand city. Then a bright blue light flowed from underneath her feet and began to wrap around her hands, and in a single burst of white hot energy the light whipped out against the metal chain. And it fell, broken, to the ground. Estra stepped backwards and patted her hands lightly against her side. Kallick gave her a curt nod, and then stepped into the stone stable house, looking to the end of the large room. Coppercloud was a brilliant mahogany horse with a stark white mane. He whinnied slightly as he sighted Kallick, but quickly quieted himself upon noticing his master’s stern eyes. Kallick quickly saddled Coppercloud and had the horse out of the stables in under five minutes. By then Estra had grown noticeably impatient.
“The grand horseman has returned,” she muttered sarcastically, trying to get Kallick to take her bait. He couldn’t refuse.
“Horseman’s apprentice…ma’am.”
Estra twitched at Kallick’s subtle prod: she detested being referred to as ‘ma’am”. Kallick initially said it out of respect, but when he had realized that Estra found the word to hint towards age, Kallick had begun using it as a sort of joking affront. He helped Estra onto Coppercloud, and then veered them into the stone backstreets of Regral. They were lucky; most of the city had filed in to the center square for the Naissance Celebration—they did not encounter anyone particularly noteworthy on their way out of the city until they reached the wall gate. The armored men guarding the gate gave them a suspicious glance as they approached. But before they could even raise question to their business, Estra sent a green pulse of light in their direction with her hands. The guards instantly stepped aside and opened the gates for them as they made their way out of the great stone city of Regral.
Kallick kissed the side of Estra’s head. “Have I told you that I simply love you?”
Estra smiled. “You can stand to say it more.”
Kallick grinned as they headed steadily forward into the forest—as they headed steadily towards freedom.
Yyvellian was too preoccupied to even consider feeling scared. Sure he was deep within the cracks of an unmapped cave, but the things that he was finding kept his mind from wandering on things like monsters and darkness. Not that it was too dark, anyways. There were tiny mushrooms that lined the different tunnels within the cavern that shone faint green and red lights. And so Yyvellian was able to make his way through the winding passages, using his hook and chain to lift himself when the tunnels grew too high for him to reach. He knew that he hadn’t thought his escape plan through carefully, and that it was only a matter of time before he needed to reconsider actually going through with it, but for the moment he enjoyed the light thrill of a potentially dangerous escapade. Then he heard something. It wasn’t the occasional clack of a falling rock that he had grown accustomed to hearing, but rather a flurry of unmated movement coming from a channel that bent a little ways off to his right. Yyvellian stopped short, pressing his body up against the rugged surface of the stone tunnel. Voices began echoing throughout the cave and it didn’t take long for Yyvellian to notice that they appeared to be clicks and hisses instead of actual words. Yyvellian’s eyes widened as two slimy, bald, reptilian creatures with nostrils stretched across their brown and red snouts turned the corner. They had wide flat feet for gripping loose rocks, and long, knobby fingers and tails for keeping their balance in the dark. Their eyes were massive and glowed a dim and pale green—almost useless if it wasn’t for the fact that they were coupled with the gaping holes in the side of their heads that served as ears. Yyvellian swallowed a gasp of fear: kobolds. He turned around swiftly, careful not to make any loud noises, but was shocked to find another kobold blocking his path. Yyvellian froze fearfully as the creature issued a shrill screech that bounced off the caverns serrated walls. Yyvellian didn’t need to look behind him to know that the other two kobolds had their eyes fixed on him; it would be foolish to think otherwise. He didn’t know what to do. True, his body screamed for him to flee or attack, but he was cornered and elves hadn’t trained in combat since the Great War—they were not warriors. But, then again, Yyvellian never considered himself a normal elf. In a quick flurry of movement, Yyvellian spun his hook and chain over his head and swung it to the cave’s ceiling overhead. It grasped a firm chunk of rock and he speedily climbed the chain just before the kobolds pounced on his position. He didn’t have much time; clinging to the ceiling would only prove a temporary respite from creatures that spent their lives climbing sharp rock. The kobolds hissed irritably, trying to reach Yyvellian with their short pointed sticks that they carried. Yyvellian breathed in deeply. He didn’t have the liberty of planning what he was going to do so he simply acted. He yelled loudly as he dropped from the ceiling, smashing his feet into the kobold directly underneath him. Yyvellian heard a disturbing crunch as the creature’s head splintered against one of the caves many rocks—he was dead in an instant. Yyvellian didn’t allow himself to settle as there was a blur of motion as the other two kobolds began reaching out for him. But Yyvellian was quick in getting behind one of the rabid creatures and making sure that the other one lined up with him. Then, deciding to use his hook and chain as a weapon, he reached out for the far kobold and yanked hard. The kobold screamed as he was pulled, keeping his sharp stick pointed forward. The other reptilian monster turned to Yyvellian, ready to strike him down, but was met with a searing pain as the other kobold’s stick slammed through his body. Yyvellian smiled despite himself—he had pulled the far kobold into the other one with the hook, causing his sharp staff to pierce through the other’s slimy skin. Yyvellian finally paused. There were three dead bodies lying around him, each oozing out splotches of black blood. He walked over to the kobold that had the hook pierced into his back and tugged it out. There was a hissing sound as blood began to pour freely from the three pronged wound, and Yyvellian found himself calmed in spite of the bloodbath in front of him. He pulled out a linen cloth from one of his pockets and wiped his hook and chain clean. Then, in an attempt to walk off the adrenaline pulses that were overwhelming his body, Yyvellian began to continue to walk down the cave. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew to follow the fluorescent mushrooms that were dimmer than the others; the deeper they were into the cave, the more they shone. By the time he had shaken off his initial shock from killing the kobolds, Yyvellian had wandered quite far into the caverns. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, but he knew it was significant. Angling his head up as he scampered up a particularly large pile of rocks he was able to make out a distant glow. It was bright and yellow—unlike any light he had ever seen. And he longed for it. So without questioning its origins, Yyvellian raced through the cave as the light got increasingly brighter. When he finally reached it, he was dumbfounded. The cave opened into a lush, green, bright world that he had never seen. True, he had heard tales from the stories of the Great War, but he had assumed them to be nothing more than a hoax, just like everything else the elves said. The light burned his eyes at first, but he slowly began to grow accustomed to it and was able to make out the beauty of the landscape around him. Bright green carpets smothered the ground and shot out of the earth, clumped together on top of massive wooden posts. Except they seemed…natural. No one had made these odd plants; they simply lived this way. Yyvellian smiled hugely, aware of the wave of freedom pouring down upon him. Then he paused as his ears picked up something strange and remote. He pricked them up, trying desperately to make out the soft and soothing sound that seemed to whisper for him. And when he was finally able to make it out, he was surprised at what he heard.
My Gatherer, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Yyvellian’s brow furrowed. Gatherer. That was the meaning of his name in elfish. An ancient tongue that was all but extinct. And yet he somehow knew that this voice was to be trusted—that it really did need his help. And it called again.
My Gatherer. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Yyvellian smiled as the sweet voice enveloped him. Then, thinking of nothing else, he followed the Call.
PRONUNCIATION: Yyvellian = Yev-yeel-lin; Kallick = Cal-ick; Bastille = Bast-eel; Everything else is how it looks.
Festral Dominions
By Adam Gonzales
Throughout the course of his existence, Yyvellian considered his luck to be close to nonexistent. Not only was he tall and brown-haired unlike the rest of his kind, but he often found himself creeping into troublesome situations. Of course that was expected of someone Yyvellian’s age, but not on a continual basis. The rest of the elves living in Oglandador lived for the thrill of a good scam or dangerous escapade, like unto himself, but Yyvellian was constantly bending the oaths that they had made upon settling in their great city. Exploration was permitted, and even encouraged, within the boundaries of the Elven Kingdom, but journeying outside the caves of Oglandador was strictly unacceptable. It was known throughout the Kingdom that the elves had lost the Great War and had been forced to the depths of Festral’s bestial caverns as punishment, but Yyvellian had always suspected that it was all a hoax; after all, the elves were a mischievous race. Possibly this was the reason other elflings his age looked up to him, but then again perhaps not. But either way Yyvellian knew one thing: sooner or later he would be victorious in his endeavors of finding a way out of Oglandador.
Herder spent most of his days bounding from tree to tree, scouting for new hunting grounds and mapping new landmarks. True, the city of Bastille was a sight to behold, but Herder had always wanted to discover something new—either that or find somewhere where he wasn’t constantly bombarded with requests from the Dwarven Council. Herder was the Master of Game in Bastille and found that the Council was consistently pestering him with demands and questions. Were they going to have trouble during the Cold Season? Had the tesslir doves made their yearly pass yet? Was it safe to travel on the forest floor, or did they still need to be wary of gollan hounds? Of course, Herder would answer their questions with respect and then continue on with his day. He would climb the thick, wide branches that served as Bastille’s treetop city streets until he reached his small thatched hut where he would turn in for the night. If he was lucky, which he rarely considered himself to be, Herder might sometimes find himself camping on the forest’s balcony while on a particularly long mapping quest. It was those days that he would lay his strong arms under his short red hair and look at the starry sky, wondering if there was something greater in Festral waiting for him out there.
Sometimes Kallick simply wanted to die. Not because he thought his life ghastly or depressing, but more that he considered it horribly boring. Well not too boring, just boring enough. Yes, he had Estra to keep him company—and he never minded her company—but it was rather his daily routine that he wanted to escape. He was the horseman’s apprentice in the grand human city of Regral, and despite his greatest efforts to entertain himself between the gaps of the labor hours and his home life, Kallick never felt the true thrill that he was searching for. Admittedly Estra, yet again, helped fill that void in his life but Kallick believed in something much greater. True, he was not quite old enough yet to know what, but the fact that he knew was all that mattered. The cramped city nerved him to no end, and although he found some solace in knowing that no matter what happened, Estra would be with him, Kallick decided for once to be illogically rash. He was going to leave the city. He wasn’t sure how, but he knew that he was going to and that was that. So when Estra came bringing news of Regral’s Naissance Celebration, Kallick couldn’t have been luckier. It was finally time.
It was a cold day in Oglandador; the torches flickering bluefire—a sign indicating the holiday of the city’s founding. Yyvellian’s stomach swelled in excitement as he scrambled through Oglandador’s large and spacious streets, bumping into no one due to their emptiness. Founding Day was one of the few holidays that the elves celebrated indoors. It was commemorated with heavy drink and thick pastries within the warmth of their private homes, and each family stayed inside in order to observe the holiday’s message of solitude from the proud races that had confined them to the caverns of their dominion. It had been well over a thousand years since the passing of the Great War, but no one forgot the harshness and cruelty that the elves faced during their sentence of seclusion; a fact that Yyvellian planned to exploit in his escape. Throughout the previous couple of weeks, Yyvellian had delved deeper into the caves of Oglandador, in hope of seeking a new tunnel that led to the outside world. And, although he had been close to ultimately discarding his freedom initiative, Yyvellian had actually found something new. Past the back alleyways of Oglandador’s industrial precinct, Yyvellian had noted that the caverns grew increasingly wide and dark, eventually leading to a black vertical crack in the far side of the wall. It had taken Yyvellian almost two hours to reach the opening, when he was eventually caught off guard by the loud chattering voice of a City Guard. Yyvellian had not been expecting anyone to be on duty during Founding Day, and began desperately racking his mind for some clever trick to distract the guards’ attention. He slid behind a particularly large stone and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his elfish sling that he had made years before. A smirk slipped across Yyvellian’s face a he slid a small stone into the sling and hurled it past the guards. The stone snapped across a pile of rocks in the distance, and the sound became amplified in the empty cavern. The two guards shifted uncomfortably as they turned towards the sound. Probably they thought it to be nothing more than it was, but Yyvellian decided to toy with their emotions and try to intensify their inner fears. Breathing deeply so as to make it look like he had been out of breath, Yyvellian turned from out behind the rock and began running towards the short blonde-haired guards.
“Hurry,” he yelled desperately, waving his arms, “the Elder says to get back into the city! She says that there are giant gworms on their way!”
The guards did not need any sign that what he said was true. They had already grown paranoid from Yyvellian’s stone. Barely even acknowledging Yyvellian as they passed, they began rushing hurriedly into the stone city. Yyvellian grinned as he watched the guards scamper away. He had acted characteristically elfish and had pulled a masterful prank—a prank that had granted him the opportunity of freedom.
Herder was finally alone. He had been completely overwhelmed while in Bastille’s Council Hall, and now that he was home he could finally relax. He had hoped that the day would have gone by rather uneventfully due to Bastille’s Dawn Festival, but he had been wrong. The Dwarven Council had directed swarms of concerned tree farmers and spring hunters to his cramped place of work. He had done his best in denying their fears and confirming their hopes, but by the end of the day he had found himself completely drained. He must have been one of the few dwarves staying indoors for the Dawn Festival. The grand tree that supported the city of Bastille would be filled with bustling vendors and enthusiastic merchants selling food, toys, and lightsticks. The lightsticks would be used to spray burning colors throughout the night sky, and the noises from the jovial games and contests would undoubtedly keep Herder up through the night. So for once in his life, Herder decided to do something different and impulsive. He gathered a small pack of food and clothes, slid his bow and quiver across his back, and slipped out into the crowded branches of Bastille. It took him nearly half an hour to reach the edge of the city, what with the lively throng of people filling the streets. But by the time he finally did make it out of town, he had gone by unnoticed—just as he had hoped. He reached a wide branch that angled north out of Bastille and tightened his pack and bow before leaping off towards a tree below. He reached out instinctively and found hold onto a branch that had been smoothed by use, and began to let his weight slide him towards the tree’s center. He slammed into the tree’s trunk with his feet and then hurriedly made his way up an additional branch that reached out to another nearby, level, tree. Herder continued on like this for over an hour before his arms began to feel sore, and before he finally couldn’t see the bright lights or hear the loud thumps coming from Bastille. It was in the canopy of a massive oak that Herder finally found himself deciding to turn in for the night. He smiled slightly to himself as he pulled out a small bedroll out of his pack and placed it across the branch’s flat surface. He took in a deep breath and looked up into the night sky, smelling the clear air around him—smelling the air of freedom.
“Kallick, I don’t like this.” Estra’s blonde hair whipped in front of her face as she did her best to hide against the side of the stables.
“Hush, Estra!” Kallick kept his eyes forward, not daring to let them stray from the stone road of Regral’s main street.
Estra tugged him backwards, causing his brown hair to toss to the side. “Don’t you ‘hush’ me, Kal! I want to leave the city just as much as you do, but I just don’t like what we’re doing!”
Kallick rolled his eyes. “It’s not stealing.”
Estra stamped her foot and gave him a stern look.
“Well, it’s not. Coppercloud is my horse. I should be able to take him whenever I need him.”
“And the field lance? Is that yours?”
“Not exactly. But Master Youtle won’t be missing it. Besides, we’ll be needing protection once we leave,” he tried to rationalize. “We can’t go stumbling into the woods unarmed.”
Estra pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. “We won’t be,” she said, rubbing her hands together.
“Right,” Kallick acknowledged. “Speaking of which.”
He tilted his head to the chain wrapped around the stable door. Estra sighed heavily, shooting him an annoyed glance and braced herself against the stone floor of Regral’s grand city. Then a bright blue light flowed from underneath her feet and began to wrap around her hands, and in a single burst of white hot energy the light whipped out against the metal chain. And it fell, broken, to the ground. Estra stepped backwards and patted her hands lightly against her side. Kallick gave her a curt nod, and then stepped into the stone stable house, looking to the end of the large room. Coppercloud was a brilliant mahogany horse with a stark white mane. He whinnied slightly as he sighted Kallick, but quickly quieted himself upon noticing his master’s stern eyes. Kallick quickly saddled Coppercloud and had the horse out of the stables in under five minutes. By then Estra had grown noticeably impatient.
“The grand horseman has returned,” she muttered sarcastically, trying to get Kallick to take her bait. He couldn’t refuse.
“Horseman’s apprentice…ma’am.”
Estra twitched at Kallick’s subtle prod: she detested being referred to as ‘ma’am”. Kallick initially said it out of respect, but when he had realized that Estra found the word to hint towards age, Kallick had begun using it as a sort of joking affront. He helped Estra onto Coppercloud, and then veered them into the stone backstreets of Regral. They were lucky; most of the city had filed in to the center square for the Naissance Celebration—they did not encounter anyone particularly noteworthy on their way out of the city until they reached the wall gate. The armored men guarding the gate gave them a suspicious glance as they approached. But before they could even raise question to their business, Estra sent a green pulse of light in their direction with her hands. The guards instantly stepped aside and opened the gates for them as they made their way out of the great stone city of Regral.
Kallick kissed the side of Estra’s head. “Have I told you that I simply love you?”
Estra smiled. “You can stand to say it more.”
Kallick grinned as they headed steadily forward into the forest—as they headed steadily towards freedom.
Yyvellian was too preoccupied to even consider feeling scared. Sure he was deep within the cracks of an unmapped cave, but the things that he was finding kept his mind from wandering on things like monsters and darkness. Not that it was too dark, anyways. There were tiny mushrooms that lined the different tunnels within the cavern that shone faint green and red lights. And so Yyvellian was able to make his way through the winding passages, using his hook and chain to lift himself when the tunnels grew too high for him to reach. He knew that he hadn’t thought his escape plan through carefully, and that it was only a matter of time before he needed to reconsider actually going through with it, but for the moment he enjoyed the light thrill of a potentially dangerous escapade. Then he heard something. It wasn’t the occasional clack of a falling rock that he had grown accustomed to hearing, but rather a flurry of unmated movement coming from a channel that bent a little ways off to his right. Yyvellian stopped short, pressing his body up against the rugged surface of the stone tunnel. Voices began echoing throughout the cave and it didn’t take long for Yyvellian to notice that they appeared to be clicks and hisses instead of actual words. Yyvellian’s eyes widened as two slimy, bald, reptilian creatures with nostrils stretched across their brown and red snouts turned the corner. They had wide flat feet for gripping loose rocks, and long, knobby fingers and tails for keeping their balance in the dark. Their eyes were massive and glowed a dim and pale green—almost useless if it wasn’t for the fact that they were coupled with the gaping holes in the side of their heads that served as ears. Yyvellian swallowed a gasp of fear: kobolds. He turned around swiftly, careful not to make any loud noises, but was shocked to find another kobold blocking his path. Yyvellian froze fearfully as the creature issued a shrill screech that bounced off the caverns serrated walls. Yyvellian didn’t need to look behind him to know that the other two kobolds had their eyes fixed on him; it would be foolish to think otherwise. He didn’t know what to do. True, his body screamed for him to flee or attack, but he was cornered and elves hadn’t trained in combat since the Great War—they were not warriors. But, then again, Yyvellian never considered himself a normal elf. In a quick flurry of movement, Yyvellian spun his hook and chain over his head and swung it to the cave’s ceiling overhead. It grasped a firm chunk of rock and he speedily climbed the chain just before the kobolds pounced on his position. He didn’t have much time; clinging to the ceiling would only prove a temporary respite from creatures that spent their lives climbing sharp rock. The kobolds hissed irritably, trying to reach Yyvellian with their short pointed sticks that they carried. Yyvellian breathed in deeply. He didn’t have the liberty of planning what he was going to do so he simply acted. He yelled loudly as he dropped from the ceiling, smashing his feet into the kobold directly underneath him. Yyvellian heard a disturbing crunch as the creature’s head splintered against one of the caves many rocks—he was dead in an instant. Yyvellian didn’t allow himself to settle as there was a blur of motion as the other two kobolds began reaching out for him. But Yyvellian was quick in getting behind one of the rabid creatures and making sure that the other one lined up with him. Then, deciding to use his hook and chain as a weapon, he reached out for the far kobold and yanked hard. The kobold screamed as he was pulled, keeping his sharp stick pointed forward. The other reptilian monster turned to Yyvellian, ready to strike him down, but was met with a searing pain as the other kobold’s stick slammed through his body. Yyvellian smiled despite himself—he had pulled the far kobold into the other one with the hook, causing his sharp staff to pierce through the other’s slimy skin. Yyvellian finally paused. There were three dead bodies lying around him, each oozing out splotches of black blood. He walked over to the kobold that had the hook pierced into his back and tugged it out. There was a hissing sound as blood began to pour freely from the three pronged wound, and Yyvellian found himself calmed in spite of the bloodbath in front of him. He pulled out a linen cloth from one of his pockets and wiped his hook and chain clean. Then, in an attempt to walk off the adrenaline pulses that were overwhelming his body, Yyvellian began to continue to walk down the cave. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew to follow the fluorescent mushrooms that were dimmer than the others; the deeper they were into the cave, the more they shone. By the time he had shaken off his initial shock from killing the kobolds, Yyvellian had wandered quite far into the caverns. He wasn’t sure how far he had gone, but he knew it was significant. Angling his head up as he scampered up a particularly large pile of rocks he was able to make out a distant glow. It was bright and yellow—unlike any light he had ever seen. And he longed for it. So without questioning its origins, Yyvellian raced through the cave as the light got increasingly brighter. When he finally reached it, he was dumbfounded. The cave opened into a lush, green, bright world that he had never seen. True, he had heard tales from the stories of the Great War, but he had assumed them to be nothing more than a hoax, just like everything else the elves said. The light burned his eyes at first, but he slowly began to grow accustomed to it and was able to make out the beauty of the landscape around him. Bright green carpets smothered the ground and shot out of the earth, clumped together on top of massive wooden posts. Except they seemed…natural. No one had made these odd plants; they simply lived this way. Yyvellian smiled hugely, aware of the wave of freedom pouring down upon him. Then he paused as his ears picked up something strange and remote. He pricked them up, trying desperately to make out the soft and soothing sound that seemed to whisper for him. And when he was finally able to make it out, he was surprised at what he heard.
My Gatherer, the voice called, I seek your aid.
Yyvellian’s brow furrowed. Gatherer. That was the meaning of his name in elfish. An ancient tongue that was all but extinct. And yet he somehow knew that this voice was to be trusted—that it really did need his help. And it called again.
My Gatherer. I seek your aid. Come to me and you will find what it is you are looking for. You will find your sovereignty.
Yyvellian smiled as the sweet voice enveloped him. Then, thinking of nothing else, he followed the Call.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Markus and the Slumanari Gem Preview
Hey! Finally a new post! Here's a prview to my Sixth Book, Markus and the Slumanari Gem! Enjoy!
Book Six Preview
By Adam Gonzales
“Alsenoth,” Seth’s grey eyes were worn with concern, “believe me when I say that I’m sorry, but what you’re doing is completely irrational. We cannot risk the lives of thousands to help her. We don’t know, Alsenoth: she may already be compromised.”
Alsenoth’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m just trying to get you to understand what you’re asking, Alse. Are you willing to jeopardize the lives of an entire army for the sake of one soul?”
Emerald eyes gleaming, Alsenoth closed in on Seth—their snouts barely inches apart. “I have made the mistake before of turning my back on Kala and the pain that I felt was far worse than any soldier can ever imagine. Yes, you may be right; Wreaknatter may have forced her to give away our most precious secrets. But then again he may not have. Hell, Seth, she may have even read his mind with her Stimdärt abilities and gained invaluable information! But as long as there’s any doubt on whether or not she has given anything away—any chance that she is still alive—then I cannot and will not stand around doing nothing! I’ve made that foolish decision once already and now she’s gone! I won’t let that happen again!”
“Alse—”
“Seth, I trusted you; trusted that you’d be the one to lend me support!”
Seth stepped backwards, taken aback. “Alse, you know that I would. But the decisions you’re making are far too rash! You know how I feel about Miss Rööte, but your plan is murder!”
“No Seth. I’ll tell you what’s murder. The fact that Kala may very well be alive, may very well bet awaiting her death, and we’re sitting here doing absolutely nothing! The fact that not going to her aid could be the cause of her death! That is murder! So the question is, are you a murderer Seth?”
Seth sighed deeply, his eyes sagging slightly. And for the first time since he had known him, Alsenoth thought the general looked old. “Alse. More than anyone that I have ever known, you are a brilliant and intelligent individual. But the thing that makes you truly great is your loyalty and devotion to those you love. Someone once told me, ‘The question isn’t will we all have challenges? The question is How will we respond to them?’”
Alsenoth smiled.
“Alse. I have always given you my support. And although I still fear for the lives of these soldiers, I will stand by your side in battle like I always have.”
Alsenoth hugged his friend and stepped back, tears in his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you Seth. This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Seth gave Alsenoth a curious look and then gave a slight smile. “You’re sure she’s still alive, aren’t you?”
Alsenoth nodded slowly and started to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. “If she wasn’t, I would be in agony.”
Grey eyes on his friend, Seth grabbed Alsenoth’s shoulder. “Then let’s go save her.”
Book Six Preview
By Adam Gonzales
“Alsenoth,” Seth’s grey eyes were worn with concern, “believe me when I say that I’m sorry, but what you’re doing is completely irrational. We cannot risk the lives of thousands to help her. We don’t know, Alsenoth: she may already be compromised.”
Alsenoth’s eyes narrowed.
“I’m just trying to get you to understand what you’re asking, Alse. Are you willing to jeopardize the lives of an entire army for the sake of one soul?”
Emerald eyes gleaming, Alsenoth closed in on Seth—their snouts barely inches apart. “I have made the mistake before of turning my back on Kala and the pain that I felt was far worse than any soldier can ever imagine. Yes, you may be right; Wreaknatter may have forced her to give away our most precious secrets. But then again he may not have. Hell, Seth, she may have even read his mind with her Stimdärt abilities and gained invaluable information! But as long as there’s any doubt on whether or not she has given anything away—any chance that she is still alive—then I cannot and will not stand around doing nothing! I’ve made that foolish decision once already and now she’s gone! I won’t let that happen again!”
“Alse—”
“Seth, I trusted you; trusted that you’d be the one to lend me support!”
Seth stepped backwards, taken aback. “Alse, you know that I would. But the decisions you’re making are far too rash! You know how I feel about Miss Rööte, but your plan is murder!”
“No Seth. I’ll tell you what’s murder. The fact that Kala may very well be alive, may very well bet awaiting her death, and we’re sitting here doing absolutely nothing! The fact that not going to her aid could be the cause of her death! That is murder! So the question is, are you a murderer Seth?”
Seth sighed deeply, his eyes sagging slightly. And for the first time since he had known him, Alsenoth thought the general looked old. “Alse. More than anyone that I have ever known, you are a brilliant and intelligent individual. But the thing that makes you truly great is your loyalty and devotion to those you love. Someone once told me, ‘The question isn’t will we all have challenges? The question is How will we respond to them?’”
Alsenoth smiled.
“Alse. I have always given you my support. And although I still fear for the lives of these soldiers, I will stand by your side in battle like I always have.”
Alsenoth hugged his friend and stepped back, tears in his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you Seth. This means more to me than you’ll ever know.”
Seth gave Alsenoth a curious look and then gave a slight smile. “You’re sure she’s still alive, aren’t you?”
Alsenoth nodded slowly and started to speak, his voice barely above a whisper. “If she wasn’t, I would be in agony.”
Grey eyes on his friend, Seth grabbed Alsenoth’s shoulder. “Then let’s go save her.”
Saturday, April 10, 2010
An Update For The Uncertain
Yes, I am still writing ACTUAL stories, and yes I am still writing my book. I have two short stories on the way, along with a very short children's story. As far as my book goes, I have reached Chapter Nine in my typing, and Chapter Twelve in my writing. The last twelve chapters or so will be going by ridiculously fast in comparison to the first twelve, as they are more filled with action rather than information. My intent is to finish WRITING the book by September, and to finish TYPING by November. The short stories will likely be finished by October and the children's story, although already finished, will not be posted until May. If all goes according to plan, which it RARELY does, I hope to be able to be actively seeking a publisher by December as well as starting on my second book by January (Wapper and the Spotted Egg). Be on the lookout for more songs and short entries along the way, however, as I plan not to disappoint with the consistency of my updates. Wish me luck!
-"Adum" Gonzales
-"Adum" Gonzales
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Lantern
Here's a poem that I wrote yesterday. I guess it can be considered slam, but I HATE slam, so forget that. Anyway, it's probably one of the shortest things that I've written, but I like it a lot. Enjoy.
Lantern
By Adam Gonzales
And so what if a merciless vapor encircles its fingers around me?
Your fingers are bright and can tear through the night and on that I am counting
An angel's rapport can give nothing more than being a counter
And so for you I will wait, a more timelier date, my dear yellow lantern
For though courage I lack, it's patience I have and your voice will keep me
Afloat and aloft, a beautiful face, so pristine and lovely
Lantern
By Adam Gonzales
And so what if a merciless vapor encircles its fingers around me?
Your fingers are bright and can tear through the night and on that I am counting
An angel's rapport can give nothing more than being a counter
And so for you I will wait, a more timelier date, my dear yellow lantern
For though courage I lack, it's patience I have and your voice will keep me
Afloat and aloft, a beautiful face, so pristine and lovely
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Candle in the Dark
Here is my latest work, a story entitled "Candle in the Dark." It IS a bit verbose, as it is supposed to reflect the time period that it represents, but for those of you who like action: it is well worth the wait. Those who get somewhat queasy at death might not want to read ahead, even though I don't find it to be TOO bloody. Anyways, enjoy!
Candle in the Dark
By Adam Gonzales
The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot that Lucien patiently watched.
Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.
An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier, lackluster, encounters but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true none-the-less, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.
He wore a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him, and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman to the Ambassador’s right.
“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”
Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. Not that the news surprised him; it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.
The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.
“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”
The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife was the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting. Lucien was to kill the Good Ambassador.
The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.
“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”
If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”
Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.
Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched his hand towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearly white, double-edged, basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into violent spasms.
Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him, but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. Armor meant nothing to a trained assassin; it was their trade to know how to deal lethal blows even in the face of metal protection. He walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground, missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate; however it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.
Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it none-the-less. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was caught off guard as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. Thinking rapidly, he kicked the man’s shins with as much force as he could muster so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his fist into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the natural world. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.
There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.
Candle in the Dark
By Adam Gonzales
The Victorian hall was lavishly decorated. The six bullion chandeliers that hung high above the elegant marble floor below lit up the sparkling whites and golds of the seven grand tables that filled the hall. Each was set with a tablecloth made from the finest silk and laced with beautiful gold embroidery. Only the head table was any different from the rest. Clothed in deep red velvet, it was shaped into a half circle in order to stand out amongst the other six rectangular tables. That was where the Ambassador would take his seat. That was the spot that Lucien patiently watched.Guests of the Ambassador were bustling gaily, exchanging words of gossip in the proper fashion, but no one dared to take a seat until their host arrived. So Lucien was forced to mingle through the thick sea of silk and linen dress clothes, occasionally feigning interest in the pitiful social façade of the guests by feeding them a false smile or nod of the head every few minutes. It was degrading enough, to be sure, that he was required to mask himself with frilled cuffs and a stuffed shirt, and as a result he kept his communal interactions to a minimum. He wore a crème suit that boasted a collar that was much too high and stiff for his liking, with pearl buttons and green trimmings. But what offset him the most was his hair. It felt unnatural to, as the phrase went, ‘tame one’s hair’ and yet he had found himself slicking it back for the occasion. Every once in awhile, licks of mahogany would fall loosely in front of his olive eyes, only to be quickly pushed back once more—he needed to do his best in order to maintain an outward appearance of divine respectability, for such was the standard.
An hour passed before the Ambassador’s arrival, so as to give time for the guests to become comfortably acquainted with one another. And, true, Lucien did recognize the woman to his left and the man to his right from earlier, lackluster, encounters but he could not recollect their names or positions for the life of him—it was not his concern. She was probably the wife of some important nobleman and he, the son of an acclaimed politician, no doubt (it was not difficult to deduce the foolish frailties of men in such worldly company), and as such Lucien’s interest in them was only pushed further away. And despite the fact that they were all cold-hearted, envious beasts under their skin, Lucien found the ‘well-mannered’, ‘sophisticated’ superficial pretenses to be the truly disgusting portraits. It was quite disheartening but true none-the-less, and if it was anything to go by then the Ambassador was the ugliest among the uglies.
He wore a frocked coat that matched the lush red of the velvet tablecloth in front of him, and a radiant shirt with a gold cravat underneath—not to mention his gold cuff links and golden monocle. Lucien sneered: too much gold. Gold belonged in pockets, not upon one’s viewing spectacles. It irked him, to be sure, but he strained himself to peer past the Ambassador’s vanities in order to collect his thoughts for the task at hand. And although Lucien felt that his irritability was a stain across his face, no one else seemed to notice. Lucien found this remarkable until it came to his attention that murmurs were flitting across the hall, everyone’s interest fixated upon the woman to the Ambassador’s right.
“If I am not mistaken,” the woman to Lucien’s left whispered, “that is not the Good Ambassador’s wife.”
Similar comments and remarks were arising in hushed tones at all of the tables, save the Ambassador’s. Lucien managed to quickly contort his face into some sort of semblance that resembled concern in order to meld himself into the overall hive mind of the dinner party. Not that the news surprised him; it was the reason that he was present in such a suffocating assembly. That and the gold coins that were weighing down his breast pocket.
The Ambassador, being the ostentatious host that he was, took the ill-gained attention and twisted it into his favor. He stood up, placing his left hand in his pants pocket and raising his champagne glass with his right. White teeth flashed brightly underneath his perfectly combed mustache as he smiled largely for all to see. His parted brown hair reflected the yellow light from the chandeliers above and his rich blue eyes slowly swept his audience as he cleared his throat. The hall became instantly silent other than the shuffling of the servants’ feet as they flitted between the tables carrying discarded glasses of champagne. Every pupil in the room locked onto the Good Ambassador, the Respectable Ambassador, the Kind Ambassador, the Honored Ambassador. Lucien stifled a cough of laughter—all these humble names were not fitting for such a man. The Adulterous Ambassador would be more fitting. Even so, the guests of the lying fiend slipped to the edges of their seats as he began to speak.
“My esteemed friends and colleagues, I am sure that you have all been somewhat mystified as to the night’s purpose. As you may or may not have observed, my dear wife Angelica—whom many of you are well acquainted with—is not present here tonight. The reason being is that I, months prior to our current engagement in this hall, found her to be playing part in an affair most scandalous.”
The hall became instantly calamitous. People gave utter disregard to the proper code of dignity and began to gasp and mutter loudly. One man even, to the disgust of those beside him, sprayed out the champagne that he was drinking across his table. Lucien did nothing of the sort. He simply sipped his cider and placed his glass gently back on the table. True, this did bring a moral complication to mind on whether or not he should still carry out his task knowing that the Ambassador’s wife was the genuine infidel, but, again, the gold in his pocket cried out his name. Lucien shrugged—money was money and he was not being paid by the Ambassador’s wife to sort out the law of chastity. No, he was hired to do something that he found to be much less conflicting. Lucien was to kill the Good Ambassador.
The cries of shock and subtle murmurs from the crowd became slowly muffled as the Ambassador pulled his left hand from his pocket to raise it for silence. His right hand still clutching his glass of champagne, he gave a nod of the head to his beloved audience as he, once more, began to speak.
“I thank you all for your concern and sympathy, but that is not why I requested your audience here tonight, although it plays a major part in its purpose. You see, I have called you all here to proudly announce my betrothal to the beautiful Malinda Wennebriar whom you see present at my side this very minute.”
If it was possible, the hall became even louder than it had previously been. An affair and an engagement announcement within the same evening was unheard of. And amidst the uproar the Ambassador set down his glass and opened his arms wide yelling over the hubbub, “Come! Share my happiness! Meet me in good health!”
Almost every person was up out of their seat, rushing to greet the Ambassador in congratulation. All save Lucien. A smirk slipped across his face as he rose out of his chair and did his best to make his way to the back of the crowd at an angle where he would have a decent view of his target. It was difficult to catch a glimpse of the Good Ambassador’s face above the bobbing heads of people who seemed to be drooling over shaking the man’s hand. To which, naturally, the Good Ambassador was obliged to do. One respectable balding gentleman found his way to the Ambassador’s left and gave a warm greeting before leaning to his ear to whisper something apparently provocative. As the man pulled away from his ear, the Good Ambassador began to laugh loudly, although the noise was lost to the steady hum of excited voices. This was Lucien’s moment—exactly what he had been patiently waiting for. His thoughts raced as adrenaline flooded throughout his body, but rather than succumb to its intoxicating pleasure he wiped his mind clean and breathed in deeply, as was his ritual.Lucien slid his hand into his pocket and quickly arched his hand towards the Ambassador’s face, mid-laugh, releasing his grip on the object that he had so carefully concealed. A shrill scream of horror reverberated off the marble walls of the hall as every eye wandered sickeningly to the Ambassador. The hilt of a pearly white, double-edged, basilard dagger was sticking out of the Good Ambassador’s open mouth, deep red splashed across its blade and the curl of his lip. Lucien could not help but chuckle as a spurt of blood sprayed out of his mouth—he had timed his throw perfectly catching the Ambassador on a downbeat, knowing that he would try gasping for air upon impact. The crimson blood melded with the velvet tablecloth as it jetted upon the table, but did wonders on the Ambassador’s pale face as it gushed down the sides of his mouth. Flecks of red speckled his gold cravat and his new fiancé, proving to escalate her desperate screams. And, just as Lucien had known they would, the guests all tried to aid the Poor Ambassador as his eyes rolled violently backwards and his body seeped into violent spasms.
Lucien turned sharply and started to run to his escape. He knew that the Ambassador would surely have men that would try and stop him, but he was prepared. Stealing away into the shadows of the massive corridor just outside the hall Lucien pulled out a long dirk dagger from a concealed pocket in his sleeve, careful not to touch its heavily poisoned blade. Turning around the second corner he came to, he was thrilled to find two men blocking his path. They were both wearing light chain mail and helmets pulled down over their heads. Each wielding a long steel blade, they readied themselves in an offensive stance, placing their hands on the hilts of their weapons. Lucien laughed. Armor meant nothing to a trained assassin; it was their trade to know how to deal lethal blows even in the face of metal protection. He walked forward slowly, keeping his dagger hand pressed against his thigh. The first man rushed towards him, holding his sword in the backhanded fashion. And as he swung his weapon at his target, Lucien dropped swiftly to the ground and hacked the bare opening in the man’s crotch, where the armor failed to protect. There was a piercing cry as the man collapsed to the floor, clutching the burning wound that would kill him within ten minutes time. Lucien stepped over his writhing body and nodded his head at the second man. There was a pause in his stance as he contemplated whether or not he should do as he was supposed but he decided against faltering and raised his falchion over his shoulder, crying a fierce battle cry as he did so. The sword crashed to the ground, missing Lucien as he speedily side-stepped the attack. There was a fleeting moment of fear in the man’s eyes as he realized his fate; however it was quickly replaced with wide-eyed shock as Lucien slashed the bare side of the man’s neck just underneath his helmet. Blood spewed out of the precise gash in his skin and a red rash, a side-effect of the poison, began to spread around the wound. Not that it mattered—unlike the previous victim, this man was instantly dead. His body lurched forward and buckled down to the stone ground below.
Lucien sighed as he kicked aside the body in front of him so that he was able to continue forward with some sort of dignity. Pushing the wooden door that the men had been guarding open he stepped out into the cold chill of the night, his feet meshing into the wet earth as he spied a carriage some two hundred meters in the distance—his avenue of escape. An alarm rang out in the sound of a gong as the panic within the elegant hall finally reached the gates of the Ambassador’s magnificent stone manor. Lucien knew that a dash to the carriage was almost futile, as there were at least five armed men (albeit protected only by thick leather plating) between him and it, but he tried it none-the-less. Slapping mud up off of the ground as he bolted forward, he pulled a small misericorde dagger out from his pants pocket with his free hand and flung it at the closest armed sentry. It stuck firmly under the man’s mandible and he slipped to the ground. Knowing that he would not make it if he tried to fight them all off, he passed by the following two bemused sentinels without a second thought. By the time he reached the third patrol they were all aware and ready for a fight. Lucien was caught off guard as the man smashed the broad side of his rebated against his right shoulder, causing him to lose his grip on his dagger and fall to the ground. Thinking rapidly, he kicked the man’s shins with as much force as he could muster so as to send the man to the earth. Then, pushing himself back on his feet, Lucien bashed in the man’s teeth with his heel. There was a loud crack as the shattered bones snapped out of place, but Lucien was used to such noises in his exertion. He did not bother searching for his venomous blade as the fifth guard rushed at him with a double-handed battle ax. Instead he swept forward beneath the heavy weapon and smashed his fist into the man’s gut. And as the man lurched forward to gasp for air, Lucien wrapped his arms around his neck and looked into his face as his olive eyes flashed in the dark of the evening. In one fluid motion that was only possible for one as deft as Lucien, the man’s head was forced at an angle that was not possible to achieve in the natural world. A splitting crack filled the air as Lucien released the man’s body from his arms, a delightful and satisfying sound—even if there was no time to actually enjoy it.There were voices growing close behind Lucien. The two guards that Lucien had passed were almost upon him, and the carriage lay in wait only ten meters ahead. His shoulder still in pain, Lucien hastened to the navy blue coach as fast as his body would let him. Swinging the door open as he reached its sliver handle, he slumped into the sticky leather of the seat inside and yelled for the driver to depart. And as the strident galloping of the horses’ hooves patted the ground, Lucien smiled smugly. Warmth filled his body as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the cloth sack of gold. He tossed it gently up and down, matching the horse trots, and sighed contentedly as he looked to the dull night clouds outside. The Ambassador was dead, and all was well with Lucien.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Prologue to Book One
After editing TWICE myself, having my older cousin edit it once, having my aunt proof-read it, and having my editor edit it, I am finally ready to post my
finalized Prologue to my first book. Enjoy!
Tarterrior: The Rise of the Sixth Kingdom
Prologue
The emerald trees rocked gently in the soft flow of spring’s silver zephyrs. The humid air hung in the atmosphere as grey clouds rolled across the horizon; spring’s first showers were on their way. Mordin laughed as he crawled and jumped through the secluded glade outside his uncle’s thatched hut. His blue eyes danced as he chased the small animals that called the glade their home.
A dragon of only seven, Mordin was barely growing into maturity. The spikes on his back were just coming in, and his wings were not developed enough to carry his small, crimson body more than a few feet forward. He even—but only on occasion—coughed out small bursts of flame that marked his body’s development. He thought this new ability shocking and exciting, and found endless joy in practicing his fire spitting on small logs and animals. The flames were not large enough to do any real damage and would wither and die quite rapidly. All the same, though, his brother and uncle watched him carefully from the hut’s porch as they engaged in hushed conversation.
Zech, Mordin’s uncle, was a tall, brown dragon whose face showed a resolute understanding of the world in which he had lived for eighty-nine years. Tarterrior was vast, and it was rare to find someone who knew as much as Zech, and yet he remained modest and humble. Mordin’s brother Griff, on the other hand, was eighteen and restless. He lived faithfully under his uncle’s protection and listened to all that he had to say, but he was not without questions. His muscles rippled beneath his red skin, which showed worn signs of stress. His orange eyes flashed as he talked with his uncle under the dark shade of the hut’s porch, not bothering to hide his worry.
“I just don’t find it worth my time, uncle.”
Zech watched Mordin as he practiced sneaking in the tall grass. His eyes were glazed in thought, and when he spoke his voice was controlled and quiet.
“It is not a question of whether it is worth your time or not, Griff. You are bound tightly to it, and there is no turning away from that. It is in your blood; it cannot be changed.”
“But it shouldn’t have to be me,” Griff remained calm even in his pressured state. “It should be his responsibility. My father—”
“Is dead,” Zech cut Griff off abruptly, “and you are next in line. So it is a matter of your decision, not your father’s.”
Zech paused for a moment and heaved an exasperated sigh. Griff gave his uncle a curious look and watched as his solemn eyes glinted. Turning to Griff, Zech asked his nephew a question that had been tugging at the back of his mind for quite some time. “Griff, what is it you plan to do? Do you wish to exterminate it before it falls into the clutches of Greilner? I know you have been anxious about the idea, but it would not take as long as you think: only four months at the most.”
Griff hesitated. He turned his head to the clouded glade and watched his brother laugh joyfully as he caught a small bird. Time passed between the two dragons in thoughtful silence as Griff pondered his uncle’s question. He folded his arms and leaned back in his wooden chair as he sighed deeply. The years without his father had affected him severely and he tried to cover it up by acting firm and decisive. But a decision this large was almost unbearable. He turned to Zech.
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time uncle, and wonder if it would be a smart decision to keep it here, hidden.”
Zech gave a relieved smile. “It would, indeed. I have been hoping that you would make such a choice when the time came. Trying to destroy it would bring unwanted attention from Greilner, and it would prove most difficult to complete such a tremendous task. Keeping it here on the edge of Valdak Canyon—a deserted place—is a wise verdict; it would take much searching on Greilner’s part to find it. Better to bring no attention to it at all.”
At this, Zech placed his hand on the small table that sat between them. On it sat a crumpled piece of parchment, torn slightly on the edges and yellowed with age; a relic of time. Griff looked to his uncle. He was staring at the parchment with concern. Griff knew that he needed to keep it hidden. He knew what was important.
He looked up. Mordin had been sneaking through the grass until he was at the foot of the porch. Griff chuckled. Mordin was getting good: neither he nor Zech had heard him. With a grin on his small face, Mordin pounced playfully at Griff’s feet. He rolled on the floor of the porch and carelessly clawed the air while on his back. ‘Poor kid,’ Griff thought, ‘all this going on and he has no idea what’s happening. But that’s the way we decided it to be. The less he knows, the less chance he has of getting hurt.’
Mordin continued playing for a while, then stopped abruptly. He turned to his brother.
“Big brother? What’s wrong,” he asked innocently, “What are you going to hide? I bet I can find it!” He laughed and looked at Zech; his eyes drifting to his uncle’s hand. “Is it that paper?” he asked. “If it is, that’s not a good hiding place. I can see it, silly.”
Griff turned to Zech and cleared his throat. Shaking his thoughts away, Zech looked to Mordin and saw him eyeing the parchment. He smiled at his younger nephew warmly and moved toward the door, parchment in hand. As he opened the old wooden door of the hut he gave one last look to Mordin. Then he disappeared inside.
Mordin looked at his older brother, a question on his face. “Is he hiding it now, Griffy? When can we go look for it?”
Griff tensed as he lifted Mordin onto his lap. He decided to talk simply so that Mordin would understand. “Little brother, Uncle Zech is going to hide that paper where no one can find it, understand? It’s not supposed to be found. So, we’re going to play a game. The first one to find the parchment loses, got it?”
Mordin nodded and smiled. He liked games, but he still wanted to know something. “What happens if someone finds it then?”
Griff looked at the grey thunderheads rolling into the glade. A sudden, cold wind gave him a slight shiver as he held his brother close to him. He wouldn’t lose another family member. Not again. He stared intently at the clouds and answered in a quiet breath.
“Let’s hope we never find out.”
finalized Prologue to my first book. Enjoy!
Tarterrior: The Rise of the Sixth Kingdom
Prologue
The emerald trees rocked gently in the soft flow of spring’s silver zephyrs. The humid air hung in the atmosphere as grey clouds rolled across the horizon; spring’s first showers were on their way. Mordin laughed as he crawled and jumped through the secluded glade outside his uncle’s thatched hut. His blue eyes danced as he chased the small animals that called the glade their home.
A dragon of only seven, Mordin was barely growing into maturity. The spikes on his back were just coming in, and his wings were not developed enough to carry his small, crimson body more than a few feet forward. He even—but only on occasion—coughed out small bursts of flame that marked his body’s development. He thought this new ability shocking and exciting, and found endless joy in practicing his fire spitting on small logs and animals. The flames were not large enough to do any real damage and would wither and die quite rapidly. All the same, though, his brother and uncle watched him carefully from the hut’s porch as they engaged in hushed conversation.
Zech, Mordin’s uncle, was a tall, brown dragon whose face showed a resolute understanding of the world in which he had lived for eighty-nine years. Tarterrior was vast, and it was rare to find someone who knew as much as Zech, and yet he remained modest and humble. Mordin’s brother Griff, on the other hand, was eighteen and restless. He lived faithfully under his uncle’s protection and listened to all that he had to say, but he was not without questions. His muscles rippled beneath his red skin, which showed worn signs of stress. His orange eyes flashed as he talked with his uncle under the dark shade of the hut’s porch, not bothering to hide his worry.
“I just don’t find it worth my time, uncle.”
Zech watched Mordin as he practiced sneaking in the tall grass. His eyes were glazed in thought, and when he spoke his voice was controlled and quiet.
“It is not a question of whether it is worth your time or not, Griff. You are bound tightly to it, and there is no turning away from that. It is in your blood; it cannot be changed.”
“But it shouldn’t have to be me,” Griff remained calm even in his pressured state. “It should be his responsibility. My father—”
“Is dead,” Zech cut Griff off abruptly, “and you are next in line. So it is a matter of your decision, not your father’s.”
Zech paused for a moment and heaved an exasperated sigh. Griff gave his uncle a curious look and watched as his solemn eyes glinted. Turning to Griff, Zech asked his nephew a question that had been tugging at the back of his mind for quite some time. “Griff, what is it you plan to do? Do you wish to exterminate it before it falls into the clutches of Greilner? I know you have been anxious about the idea, but it would not take as long as you think: only four months at the most.”
Griff hesitated. He turned his head to the clouded glade and watched his brother laugh joyfully as he caught a small bird. Time passed between the two dragons in thoughtful silence as Griff pondered his uncle’s question. He folded his arms and leaned back in his wooden chair as he sighed deeply. The years without his father had affected him severely and he tried to cover it up by acting firm and decisive. But a decision this large was almost unbearable. He turned to Zech.
“I’ve been thinking about it for some time uncle, and wonder if it would be a smart decision to keep it here, hidden.”
Zech gave a relieved smile. “It would, indeed. I have been hoping that you would make such a choice when the time came. Trying to destroy it would bring unwanted attention from Greilner, and it would prove most difficult to complete such a tremendous task. Keeping it here on the edge of Valdak Canyon—a deserted place—is a wise verdict; it would take much searching on Greilner’s part to find it. Better to bring no attention to it at all.”
At this, Zech placed his hand on the small table that sat between them. On it sat a crumpled piece of parchment, torn slightly on the edges and yellowed with age; a relic of time. Griff looked to his uncle. He was staring at the parchment with concern. Griff knew that he needed to keep it hidden. He knew what was important.
He looked up. Mordin had been sneaking through the grass until he was at the foot of the porch. Griff chuckled. Mordin was getting good: neither he nor Zech had heard him. With a grin on his small face, Mordin pounced playfully at Griff’s feet. He rolled on the floor of the porch and carelessly clawed the air while on his back. ‘Poor kid,’ Griff thought, ‘all this going on and he has no idea what’s happening. But that’s the way we decided it to be. The less he knows, the less chance he has of getting hurt.’
Mordin continued playing for a while, then stopped abruptly. He turned to his brother.
“Big brother? What’s wrong,” he asked innocently, “What are you going to hide? I bet I can find it!” He laughed and looked at Zech; his eyes drifting to his uncle’s hand. “Is it that paper?” he asked. “If it is, that’s not a good hiding place. I can see it, silly.”
Griff turned to Zech and cleared his throat. Shaking his thoughts away, Zech looked to Mordin and saw him eyeing the parchment. He smiled at his younger nephew warmly and moved toward the door, parchment in hand. As he opened the old wooden door of the hut he gave one last look to Mordin. Then he disappeared inside.
Mordin looked at his older brother, a question on his face. “Is he hiding it now, Griffy? When can we go look for it?”
Griff tensed as he lifted Mordin onto his lap. He decided to talk simply so that Mordin would understand. “Little brother, Uncle Zech is going to hide that paper where no one can find it, understand? It’s not supposed to be found. So, we’re going to play a game. The first one to find the parchment loses, got it?”
Mordin nodded and smiled. He liked games, but he still wanted to know something. “What happens if someone finds it then?”
Griff looked at the grey thunderheads rolling into the glade. A sudden, cold wind gave him a slight shiver as he held his brother close to him. He wouldn’t lose another family member. Not again. He stared intently at the clouds and answered in a quiet breath.
“Let’s hope we never find out.”
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