A new Prologue

This is Siarles (as you know, since I am the only one who would write something this disjointed and odd).
This was the first story I ever worked on.  Thoughts?

Prologue:  Appointed Once to Die. . .

Rûndin Aersvörkensí was running for his life.  With his friend for life, the Qordan Aélnä Thrazhqor, he was running from the Näqan Deathunters while protecting the Book of Names.  The young Warrior Prophet had been hunted all the way from the lost cities of Vrína and Frë by the demonic warriors of the Mad Usurper Zak’kar due to both his occupation and the nature of the item he guarded.

As Rûndin and Thrazhqor flew over the mountains that formed a partial defense for the Bastion of Light, Rûndin’s base of operations, Rûndin glanced into the pouch carrying the Chronicle on Thrazhqor’s saddlebag.  The volume nearly glowed red as the blood of the dead it spoke of, dead elves that had been the victims of Zak’kar’s treachery.  He tucked the tome back under its leather covering as the drawbridge to his fortress closed.  The few dedicated guardians of the citadel moved with a speed born of long years of practice to their battle stations, and prepared for war.

------

The siege was going ill for the defenders of the Bastion of Light.  Rûndin saw this and was saddened greatly.  He knew now what he had only suspected before.  The mindless malice of the enemy was such that to save the manuscript and its prophecy, he would need to die, along with all of the defenders save one.  With a sense of doom, he summoned his most trusted captain and gave to him a suicidal—yet vital— mission.  With the manuscript taken care of, he went out to the walls for the last time to marshal the defense.

---

Temazrí was dying.  He could tell by the way that spineless apathy was falling over his body.  Oh, to sleep, to see his homelands once more.  Never again would there be peace, not until the Two Realms were once again made whole.  Until then, there was the mission.  And he was not allowed to die until the Chronicle could be delivered. 

            A curse in Zadkrudos.  The Fireborn had found him easier than he had thought they would.  Temazrí kept running.  Oh, Maker, please let him come soon. 

            There he was.  Temazrí literally bowled him over.  The Elfling was confused, likely did not even know his heritage.  Temazrí hauled himself up, yelled in the odd tongue they spoke on earth, “Take the book and run!  Flee the wrath ahead!  Your time will come soon enough.”

            The Elfling did indeed run, Rundín’s tome tucked under his arm.  Temazrí drew a pair of knives, the only weapons he had been allowed to take on his mission, and charged his pursuers.  All has been done, the end is near.  A sword slashed his throat.  Darkness.

---

Mikael Anderson was still running by the time he arrived at the library.  He had no clue why that strange man had given him the book, but it must have been important.  The man was dead, Mikael did not doubt that.  The only question, then, was what the book held. 

            Mikael walked into the library as calmly as he could and promptly ensconced himself in a corner with the book.  Its first page was indecipherable, although it looked like some sort of runic language.  The second page looked like a translation of the first: a lengthy block of text about a group of elves that had escaped some great apocalypse and fled to earth.

            He died for a novel?  Since when do people go to such extreme lengths for a story?  The next page:  the beginnings of a genealogy in the runic tongue with English underneath each entry.  The names sounded realistic…Wait.  Mikael re-read the last line.  Last known Descendents:  Bozeman: Anderson, Jones, Martin, Ferris...  “What?”  There was no way that any of those names were descended from such beings, was there?  The rest of the book seemed to follow a similar pattern, talking about different clans of elves and listing genealogies for those families.

            Mikael flipped to the last page.  The script was different than the rest of the book, but written in English.  Beware.  You no longer can claim innocence and know nothing of your heritage.  Now that the Book of Names is yours, you have a choice to run.  You can flee from those who will now wish to kill you.  However, your friends will have no escape.  Your second choice is to face the darkness in the North.  Fight back, and rally as many as you can to your cause.  Choose wisely, Mikael.  I have much faith in you.  Rundín Aersvörkensi.

Shadows fall, darkness rises.

Lightning from the Land Beyond

Shall end the world at Maker’s call.

A warrior, made prophet,

Who shall set you free;

And death taste twice,

before life without end.

Attached to the last page was a gemstone inscribed with runes of fire.

Hunting Peace

I've been working on a story this past week, and my brother said I should share some of it.  So here's the first chapter.  Before you read though, I must warn you the heroine of this story is an assassin.  Don't ask me where she came from, this character just appeared in my head and I couldn't get her out, she wanted to be written.  Please comment, I would love feed back on this one.
Morgan J

Chapter 1

Peace looked down at her small white hands and noticed absently to herself that they contrasted abruptly with the hard black revolver held in them.  She recognized the hard cold feeling in her chest that she always felt when she was on a job, it meant she was ready.  Lifting her dark red head the girl named Peace scanned the garden below her, where she could make out the figures of three guards patrolling a high concrete wall.  From her position on the roof of the neighboring building she had a good view of every inch of the ground behind the wall that was meant to keep people out, but when she got through with it, it was going to just keep the people in.

Exactly 75 seconds later Peace stood half-concealed inside the wall and behind a small ornamental tree.  One of the guards was moving around only a few feet away; he was going to be the first casualty Peace thought coldly.  As the other two men in the yard turned toward the house for an instant, the girl made her move.  When the other guards turned back around their friend was gone and the yard was empty.  Curious as to where their companion had gone so fast, but not worried about any danger since they felt safe behind the wall; they started walking down toward the small clump of dwarf trees where the body of the third guard was hidden.  As they got closer a lithe black form leaped from the shelter of a nearby shrub and took out the closest man with a flying kick to the face.  Almost as soon as she touched ground again she spun on her right foot and dealt a tremendous blow to the last man's head.  Dazed and staggering he fumbled clumsily for his gun, but he had not even got his hand around the but when the black figure with a burning red hair and white face drew a gun and fired.  He was dead before he hit the ground and the small sound of a shout muffled by a silencer was completely lost in the large garden.  The sound had barely disappeared when Peace was sprinting for the house like a lithe black cat she jumped over the porch railing landing soundlessly on the polished wood.  Minutes later she had entered the house and was working her way through the nearly empty rooms.  The only sound that could be heard was the lonely crackle of static on an old radio playing classical music somewhere upstairs.

Mr. MacGinty was the ring leader of a large drug organization operating mostly in London.  He could be said to be new at this game but he had worked his way up the ladder of success until he was in direct competition with some of the biggest drug lords in Europe.  This was the reason for the little red head's deadly visit to his home.  He had pushed the wrong man too hard and was not ready to handle the consequences.  This was the day he was going to learn the full extent of his mistakes.

Two days ago, Peace had been contacted by a German businessman with a commission.  He represented a group of powerful men who would remain unnamed, and who wanted her to take care of a little problem for them.  They wanted this Mr. MacGinty dead, and they had heard that she was the one to see about getting that done.  She had taken the job since work had been bad the last few months, even though these unnamed people were not recommended to her by anyone she knew, which was one of her usual requirements. It was an easy job, almost not worth the energy it took to accomplish it.  That must have been why she was irritated.  This job was degrading; any part time tough guy with a high powered rifle could have taken this MacGinty out from the roof of the office building across the street.  Her specialty was close up hands on work, and it would take much more than a concrete wall and three guards to even slow her down.

The stairs were heavily carpeted and the girl named Peace made no sound as she stepped lightly up there thick levels.  Peace thought it strange that the house was so quiet.  It was unusual that the house would be so empty at this time of day, and it worried the red head; this was the only thing she could not account for, the one thing she could not understand, and it was dangerous to have unanswered factors in her business.   MacGinty was supposed to be in sitting room at the top of the stairs, but as Peace reached the top she noticed that the sound of the radio was coming from down the hall. She hesitated an instant in the hall trying to understand the silence, but failing.  Suddenly the sitting room door opened and a painfully thin man stepped out of the noisy room.  Before he could even realize that she was standing there, Peace planted a powerful kick in his diaphragm that sent him staggering backwards gasping for breath.  The sitting room was crowded with some fifteen or twenty men in black suits, and Peace immediately understood that the room was sound proofed.  At the sudden reentry of their companion everyone looked up some grabbing for their guns, but for the moment stopped in mid motion ether with the surprise or indication.  In that instant of stillness the girl's quick green eyes located the big man sitting on the couch with a drink in his hand going by the name of MacGinty.  Her gun was out in less than a heartbeat and she took only a half second to aim before her finger tightened on the trigger.  But as the gun came out people started to react and as the gun bucked in her hand she saw a young man tackle her target throwing them both down out of the line of fire.  Guns were out and she leaped over the banisters as shots blazed over her head.  She had missed her target; she knew that without having to look back.  That young man had saved him this time, maybe he had even taken the bullet for him, she did not know that for sure, but then she did not really care.  As she hit the front door running she could hear sirens blaring and through the gate came three patrol cars.  It was a trap.  Somewhere down the line she had been set up.  Peace hugged the house heading for the back garden where she had seen the dogs that were released during the night, caged up next to the garage.  Their vicious barking could be heard even above the shots of the police.  The gate of their cage was padlocked but it took Peace only a passing shot to take care of that and as she leaped the concrete wall six Dobermans tore out after the officers that were just approaching their cages.  She had made a clean get away, but Peace was angry as she stepped into her black Mustang.  MacGinty was still alive and it aggravated her that she had missed her target.  Next time he would not be so lucky, and next time she was going to be more prepared.  Someone had set her up and she knew how much more dangerous that made her job, but she had taken it and she had to finish it.  Then she would look for the one responsible for setting her up. 

The next morning, a small redhead wearing a soft cream colored coat made her way up the steps of the court house.  She had learned that MacGinty was cooperating with the police and they had him down at the court house that morning taking his statement.  Peace knew exactly where to stand and what to say, and she was one of the few people in the hall when MacGinty was escorted out by two officers on his way into protective custody.  He never made it though.  As they came into sight, Peace lifted the gun she had been hiding under her coat and shot the big man in the neck, killing him instantly.  Before her victim could hit the ground her character changed and she became an innocent bystander shaken up by what she had just witnessed.  Confusion ensued and the court house was searched from top to bottom, but no sign of the mysterious assassin was found.  Peace was terribly shaken up and sat huddled on a bench in a neighboring court room where she waited to be questioned.  No one suspected the pretty little redhead.  She was so frightened and bewildered by what had happened.  A young officer tried to comfort her, but nothing he said seemed to help, she could not help trembling and her face was very pale.. They finally let her go after getting her name, address and phone number.  And pretty little " Mercy Walden" walked out of the court house without even a shadow of suspicion to dim her passing.

Yet another chapter

I was trying to figure out a way that I could identify myself in this posting without actually needing to identify myself, but I couldn't figure out anything...so this is Siarles.  The following is another chapter.  I think it's still stupendously rough...not to mention the fact that continuity factors may arise when it is compared to the overall chronology.  Maybe I should just ditch it...I don't know.

Chapter 5:

Avriel

(In which our visit with the Bey goes the way of Avacûdrin)

Argh!  Curufinwë was supposed to write this chapter, as per the agreement that we all had set up: one chapter each until the book was completed.  Instead, he pawns off some excuse about “my unique opinions being important to this portion of the chronicle.”  It almost makes me feel justified that I accidentally missed one of the druids before he set Curufinwë’s trousers on fire a few weeks ago.  But, that is a story for another time.  Right now, I will tell you what happened in Rundvark’s palace.  Later, I will figure out how to get revenge on Curufinwë for making do this monotonous task.

After the episode that was chronicled in the last chapter, we went upstairs to the two rooms that Curufinwë and Collin had rented for us for the night.  The night passed peacefully, save for the fact that Amras accidentally slipped off her bed and woke me up once.  Curufinwë and Collin reported no incidents during the night.

            The boys were already awake when we made our way downstairs the next morning.  We had a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, rye bread, and the dark beverage known as khaffeé.  After this repast, we made our way into the Aristokron Quarter and passed the mansions of the rich people.  After this quarter, we made our way toward the palace.  Unfortunately, the palace is right in the middle of the citadel.  As I mentioned before, the citadel is rather difficult to get into.  There are armed guards that will kill you if you so much as ask them the time of day, hidden automatic crossbow turrets, and many other nasty traps that will leave you a rotting corpse in some remote dungeon.  On that happy thought, let me tell you how we bypassed said traps.

            None of us really knew anything about what awaited us at the palace.  I only knew what I knew because Curufinwë had told us all what he had read in a book once.  Beyond guards and crossbows, we had no idea what we were up against.  Collin’s suggestion was that we just ask the guards for an audience with the king.  Curufinwë’s response was to give him a whack upside the head. 

            “Daemon's Blood, Collin, get a brain!” he exclaimed.  “Not only are the guards restricted to a monosyllabic vocabulary, we are nationally known fugitives!  If they did see us, they would more likely than not kill us, or send us back to the Mines, which is worse.”

            “Oh.”

            Curufinwë shook his head.  “We have no idea what else we have to deal with if we stay off the drawbridge and we have no way of knowing if we can circumvent the guards at the drawbridge.  Of course, the traps were built with the idea of siege engines and large groups of men attacking, so we could conceivably make our way around the large traps.  Could we climb up?”

            I nodded.  “Possibly.  It’s worth a try, anyway.”

The wall climb was a failure.  Unbeknownst to us, there were bladed wires placed along the top of the wall to cut through ropes.  These also kept us from using grappling hooks along the top of the walls by deploying very industrious Cutter Beetles that ate through the iron with their acidic saliva.  Discouraged, we withdrew for the time being. 

            The next time, we went with a different approach.  We smuggled ourselves into the gatehouse with a bundle of faggots that were coming in from the far southwest.  We got much farther this time, but still beat a hasty retreat when a guard mistook Collin’s foot for a piece of wood. 

            Finally, we swam in through the moat into the cistern underneath the castle.  The structure was massive, full of stone monoliths that were built of some sort of shiny obsidian that sparkled in the water.  While it was dangerous due to the Sawtooth sharks that were kept in the water, the beasts were slow and easily evaded. 

            By the time we made it out of the cistern, it was well past the afternoon and heading into nightfall.  The guards were mostly in their quarters, convinced that they had kept the citadel free from intruders yet another time.  The servants were likely in their quarters on the far end of the castle, and our path to the king’s quarters was clear.  We snuck through the dimly lit corridors and up the winding staircases that led ever-upward. 

            As we finally reached the king’s chambers, we realized that we had a minor problem.  “Hmm," Curufinwë said slowly, “this was unexpected.” 

            “Why isn’t the king in the palace?” Amras asked. 

            “That is an excellent question for which I have no answer,” Curufinwë replied.

            We took in our surroundings quickly.  The king’s bedchamber was well- protected from the outside world by a new type of iron window that let light through without letting potential projectiles into the room.  The furnishings were austere without being Spartan, a single tapestry depicting a great warrior slaying a dragon on one side of the room and a bed on the other.  I sighed.  “Well, I guess we missed the king.” 

            “If we missed the king,” Collin muttered, how are we supposed to talk to him?”

            Curufinwë shrugged.  “I suppose we’ll have to talk to Andrasfir--the Bey.” 

            I moaned.  “Arrah! Why do we have to talk to that idiot!”

            Amras looked at me strangely.  “Have you had previous dealings with Andrasfir?”

            I frowned.  “Nothing that adds to his public appearance.  He is as pompous in his sentencing as he is in his private life.  He was in town when I was condemned.  Therefore, he presided over the trial and sentenced me himself.  There was nothing out of place to ruin a 'perfect' trial.”

            “Regardless,” Curufinwë said.  “We need to see the ardrewllyn human.  To Andrasfir it is.”

The Bey lived in the same wing of the palace as the king, so it was a quick walk between Rundsvark’s private chambers and Andrasfir’s.  The Bey was sitting in front of an elaborate desk, reading a massive tome and muttering under his breath.  When he heard us come in, he spun around swiftly and squawked.

            “Guar-!” he yelled, never finishing the word.  My knives can have that effect on people. 

            “Hello, Andrasfir,” Curufinwë growled.  “So nice to finally meet you.  We came to argue a case before you.”

            “C-c-cases can be heard before the court on the third Frrorsday of every month,” the Bey stuttered. 

            “Oh, no, you don’t understand,” Curufinwë replied.  “You already sentenced some of us, and we came with new information regarding our innocence.”

            “Ah.”  Andrasfir frowned.  “In that case, I am unauthorized to overturn previous verdicts without an assurance of loyalty to the State.”

            I was about to tell him that ‘loyalty to the State’ was worth about as much as a parcel of Minotaur droppings, but Curufinwë spoke first.  “Such as?”

            Andrasfir’s eyes gleamed wickedly.  “The current quest is the hunting and slaying of a dangerous dragon known as Tragunam.  This dragon is Rhi Ninvaar’s favorite servant, and therefore is a danger to our armed forces.”

            Collin smiled.  “Is that all?” 

            Andrasfir nodded.  “That is the quest.  Will you accept?”

            Curufinwë glanced at me before answering, “Yes, I believe we will.”

            Andrasfir nodded.  “Good.  Now, I will pretend this conversation never happened.  Good night to you.” 

I suppose, in retrospect, certain things should have raised alarm at the time.  However, we were too excited by the prospect of earning back our freedom to pay attention to such things as details.  We had a quest, and we were going to fulfill it. 

We had a problem as we snuck out of the palace of the king.  None of us really knew anything about killing dragons.  Collin thought that you needed a large number of mystical weapons and charms that could be used to slay the monster.  The list he produced was filled with many items that really never even existed, and the ones that did were lost in shipwrecks and the like.  Amras’s idea was slightly more practical.  She suggested that we all buy spears and spike out the dragon’s eyes.  It was a safe plan, she argued, because it allowed for the dragon to be fully blinded when we went in for the kill.  Finally, Curufinwë said what we had all been thinking.  “We need to do some research.”

The Library in Vrielorn was twice the size of a city block, with brightly-colored banners all around it.  Amras curled her lip in distaste.  “It is rather gaudy,” she said as if that was all that needed to be said. 

            “Will they have any books on the subject we seek?” Curufinwë asked.

            “Hard to say,” she replied.  “Back in Icetae, the Library was a repository for all knowledge.  Here, it appears more like a circus.  I suppose we’ll have to go inside to find out.”

            The inside of the Library was much duller and drabber than the outside.  The scent of old parchment and paper wafted down from the shelves, all stuffed to their maximum capacity with books.  Amras glanced at the placard above the first shelf and snorted.  “That’s about as logical as a Minotaur riding a Hammarskjan!  They put the books that have subjects at the end of the letter spectrum at the front of the library!”  She moved down the row.  “At any rate, we need to go all the way back to find any entries for dragons. 

            Thus began and hour of searching.  We looked under ‘dragon,’ ‘firebreather,’ ‘wyvern,’ and even ‘useless, good-for-nothing four-legged lizard’ (at Collin’s suggestion).  Finally, under ‘wyrm,’ Curufinwë found the perfect resource.  The only title dealing with the subject was a journal made by an adventurer in the near past.  This chap had gone across the length and breadth of the world in order to hunt down the nastiest dragons.  At least, that was his intention before he met Tragunam.  At the end of the journal, we found an entry in Herebarian on a page spattered with a brownish substance that looked suspiciously like blood.  Roughly translated, it goes like this.

Fiernrisday, 10 Gereranon, F.A.C. 1600

Today, I found a beast that may well have made an end to my travels.  Tragunam, they call it, a monster that cannot be killed by the weapons in my possession nor by charms of any sort.  I found the wyrm out in the open, likely just off from leveling some village.  The beast spun quick for his size when I attacked, and immediately started spitting gobs of black fire at me.  I dodged as best I could and tried to stab it, but my sword and spear bounced off the baest’s scales and it got me off balance and came in for the kill.  It slashed me with the pruning shears it calls claws and took off my hand at the wrist.  I know that it would have finished me off then and there had I stayed there, but I ran like a daemon out of a Library and made away from the monster.  I have heard tales of a blade called the Sword of Kings, which is supposed to be sharp enough to cut steel, and will put all my energies to finding it after I put this journal in the Library in Vrielorn.  The blade is supposed to be in a secret tunnel in the Crypt of king Ranjor V, I will return for this when I find it. 

            “Well,” Collin said, he must not have found the sword, because the journal is still here.  However, if what he says is true, then Andrasfir would have sent us to our deaths and we would have known nothing about this!” 

            “True,” Curufinwë countered, “but at least we know what we need now, even if we don’t know where to get it.  I suppose that we should head back to the castle.  Back through the cistern, but into the crypt this time.”

My House

Hello! This Is Sierra aka SugarPop97. This is just a short story, paragraph group I wrote for Writing Magic. Tell me what you think. Enjoy!


My House

               It was a witchy house: the lowslung roof; that quiet grey paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. Never mind no one had lived in this house for over seventy years. Never mind everyone in town  thought it was haunted. Never mind that the neighbors all around are scarier than a haunted house. It was mine.
                My own house. My first house. I no longer had to live in a cramped, dirty little apartment, in a sweaty little dorm, with my parents. I was free and alone; Free and independent- I liked the freedom of these words. I said them aloud just to taste them on my tongue. I loved it. Every little bit of it.
                Really, I wasn’t planning on buying this house. I wasn’t planning on dropping out of college. I wasn’t planning on still being single. But plans change, sometimes for the better. I just had to get away from everything and maybe this was the way to go. I had to find out. I scraped together all of my money, got some loans, did odd jobs around town- I put together just enough money to buy this house. I also found a job. I obviously needed one to be able to pay for food and housing utilities and other things that people have to pay for when there an adult. Adult. Another word I said aloud to get its taste on my tongue.
                I brought my boxes into the house. My clothes, books, papers, and just plain junk I brought inside. All of my worldly possessions in my own house. I walked to my room. My own room in my own house. The hallways I walked through from my living room to my bedroom were drafty but I didn’t mind. As I stepped into my room and smelled the strong odor of mothballs I made a mental note to buy some Febreeze. After all, I didn’t want my own room to smell like mothballs. I sat down on my bed which had been moved in earlier. I sighed contentedly and thought about my future living in this wonderful house. My house.

Well hello there!

I'm baaaaack! It's been awhile, and for that I'm sorry. I seem to have missed a lot of good stuff during my unfortunately prolonged absence. I'll try to catch up on everything soon. Anyway, I got fed up with pop science fiction recently, so I decided to lampoon all of it in one sell fwoop. (I'm also somewhat sleep-deprived and I've been reading Terry Pratchett, so that may have something to do with it.) Don't look for any underlying message here; there really isn't one, other than Ecclesiastes. Sorry. (This is just the first part, by the way. And I typed this on my iPad, so if some words don't make sense, they were probably victims of an unfortunate autocorrect.) --------- Whooshvmmmm. Whooshvmmmm. Whooshvmmmm. Whuffmmmm. Fffffffffff... "Oh, blast. Blastblastblastblast." Sludge dropped his brightslicer, which he had been wiggling through the air like an electric eel through the deep blue netherworld by the Great Barrier Reef. The brightslicer was making little zzzt zzzt noises and sparking. It had shocked his hand. He swore, picked up the brightslicer gingerly, and deposited it in a convenient wastebasket. Mail-order brightslicers always fizzled out on a guy after a while. Well, so did most mail-order weapons, but that wasn't the issue right now. Sludge would just have to go back to his usual broadsword-and-laser-gun combination. Those brightslicers simply weren't worth the effort. Or the money. Or the burnt fingers. Sludge wandered into the kitchen and opened his Cryo-gen refrigerator. There was a bottle of dark green, noxious-looking liquid that probably had an ecosystem of its own and a jar of hot pink jelly. Sludge contemplated getting some toast, but he remembered the only bread in his house had the consistency and color of a small boulder. That is to say, it was hard, a bit flaky in spots, and beige. With a sigh, he shut the refrigerator door. He didn't want to go outside yet--it was a quarter till noon, which was pretty early for him. The air outside wouldn't probably be cleaned by the airbots until noon anyway. Now would be a good time to establish some facts concerning Sludge. Sludge is about twenty-three years old, blond, short, somewhat stubby, and a practitioner of the Course. He usually has food on the end of his nose, which is rather long, especially given the general shortness of the rest of him, and slightly hooked. His weapons of choice are a broadsword and a laser gun, though he obviously has tried brightslicers too. He lives in a little beige nook in the side of a beige cliff on a beige planet with a beige sky. Altogether it's a pretty boring place, but since Sludge has never been off world, he doesn't know that. We won't bother him with such details. Anyway, Sludge had no food in his fridge at the moment and he didn't want to gunk up his lungs by wandering around in a dirty atmosphere, so he went back to his bedroom and booted up his Comp-U-Tek 10,000. It looked like an Alienware tower, but sort of shorter and beiger, rather like Sludge. It also had a little beige knob where the Alienware logo is supposed to go. It would have been proudly made in the "SUA" by way of Malaysia if such things had existed at this time. Sludge navigated to one of his favorite sites. Or he would have, if his connection worked. It redirected him to an error page. With a sigh, he closed the browser. It bit him via his projected keyboard. "What is it with technology hating me today?" he shouted irritably. The computer sulked and refused to do anything else for him. He gave it a black look, considered destroying it with the Course for a split second, and then lost interest and wandered back into the kitchen. He opened the fridge again, saw the same two items, and shut it. The clock on the wall beeped. It was noon--the airbots were due to be out cleaning things up soon. Sludge began the complicated process of getting himself ready to go outside. First he put on a pair of leather pants. (Actually he took off his pajama pants first, but that isn't important. Well, it is, but... never mind.) They were made for someone a bit taller and skinnier than Sludge, so they dragged on the floor and strained a little around the top. They were, however, necessary for any practitioner of the Course to wear, so wear them he did. Next came the standard white shirt with slightly poofy sleeves. (Okay, not strictly white, as it hadn't been washed anytime in the past century or so, but it was close enough.) Sludge tucked it into his pants as neatly as he could, but he missed the back tail, which hung down behind him like a stiff, dusty, somewhat smelly tail. After the shirt was a short vest. It had been passed down from father to son for seven generations, and it was starting to show some wear. Essentially, it had at some point resembled a vest, but now it looked more like something you would use to clean a toilet, if the toilet was old and decrepit and had lost its self esteem somewhere along the line. After all that, Sludge popped a pair of old sneakers on his feet (sort of like chucks, but beiger and floppier and generally less awesome) and stared at them for a moment before he realized that he'd forgotten his socks. He pried the shoes off his feet, rummaged around in the only pile on his bedroom floor that wasn't a breeding ground for eight-legged things that would crawl into your ear at night and try to dine on your cochlea, and found two more or less matching socks. They were two different heights, but since his pants were too long anyway, it wasn't as if anybody would see them. He put the shoes back on and went on a hunt for his weaponry. At last he found his laser gun behind a miniature wall of toothpaste (don't ask) and his sword stuck in a dried mat of hair and who knows what else in the shower. It took him a good twenty minutes to figure out the little straps and such, and when he finally did figure them out, he got them backwards, so they were all twisted around. Oh, what the heck, he thought, I'm not going to go on a quest today or anything. I'm just going to the supermarket, for goodness' sake.

'Ello

{random new idea... don't know if i'll continue it... your thoughts?}

“Liadyn, get out of the pantry!” said the cook.

“Liadyn, get out from beneath the stairs!” said the butler.

“Liadyn, get out of the barn!” said the groom.

“Liadyn, get out!” said her father.

So out she went. Not permanently, of course. In fact, she only went down the street to the blacksmith’s shop and returned just after nightfall. But Liadyn had always been a wild child, and her absence caused such an uproar in the house that the staff promised, if she ever came back, to treat her much more carefully. And Liadyn despised it. She was babied, given everything she wanted, spoken to as if she was an infant, everything was done for her, and worst of all, she was no longer permitted to leave the house without an escort. Sometimes it was the butler, sometimes it was the groom - on rare occasions it was the cook and rarer still it was her father or eldest brother. But if she was allowed her choice, she always chose the aged gardener, for he never wanted to walk far, and when she wanted to go to the blacksmith’s, he complied, for there were places to sit.

And so Liadyn grew up, with the ability to do nothing and the longing to do everything. She could never help with supper - no, the cook would make sure it arrived at the table on time. She could never help with the cleaning - the butler was far too meticulous and was afraid of anything breaking. She could never help get her horse ready - when the groom brought him out, he was already immaculately brushed and saddled. And she certainly never, ever helped her father with his work. The only thing she could do was stoke a fire and pound out rings on an anvil, but if the household knew she could do that, surely they would take that away, as well.

As she grew, Liadyn slowly underwent a transformation - she was no longer a wild child. She became more thoughtful, quiet. But she always wished she had fought harder to keep herself the way she was; interesting. She was not an only child, nor was she the eldest or youngest. She was the fifth of eight children, sharing light brown curls with six of them and pale green eyes with three, and in the area of other similarities, she was perhaps the most unremarkable. But by being upbeat and energetic, she stood out. And now, sixteen years old, she was by far the most boring.

That was why she was beyond surprised when her older sister, Haizea’s, friend convinced Haizea to bring Liadyn along to a tournament in the city. “What kind of tournament?” Liadyn asked, but all she got was a degrading look and a, “This is why I don’t take you to things. And by the way, if you tell Dad where we’re going, I’ll kill you.”

Liadyn did not feel the least bit frightened, but she kept quiet anyway. She rarely ever got to sneak out, and this time she had a sibling in on it. So she shrugged off the threat and on a light cloak and followed her sister out the window and down the street.

And then it jumps right into the story. What do you think? Is the description too long? Does the wording seem funky anywhere?

~Charli Rae 

|Job 39:19-25|

New Tale to be told

Greetings from Siarles.  This is another story idea that popped into my head, which may actually end up being something.  Let me know what you think!

Chapter 1

Genesis of rebellion

Only seven were left.  Driven from the field of battle by an inglorious defeat, they fled north, hoping against hope to survive long enough to find the Dreamweaver.  They tore through the wrack and ruin produced by the Suthin Horde’s wanton destruction, the once proud cities of their people now devastated shells with the slaughtered inhabitants lying in the streets.  The Bezkrae warriors of General Téramba were rarely more than half a day in their wake, laying waste to the landscape as they sought the seven fugitives.

-- -- -- -- --

            General Téramba lounged in the resplendent throne of the erstwhile High King.  His Honor guard and secret warriors, the Sunt, waited upon him as the armies of the Suthin routed the last semblance of resistance out of his newly conquered lands.  The general’s massive battle axe, carved with Sutan runes and scarred like its master from countless duels and battles, lay propped up against one side of the throne.  On the other side of the throne, a titanic saber with a simple basket hilt and a notched blade leaned against the throne, looking slightly out of place among the noble and refined architecture in the palace.

The General himself was a giant of a man, easily eight feet tall, with closely cropped sand-colored hair.  He wore a loose shirt of chain mail over a blood red tunic, with a kilt made from a lion’s pelt covered his legs.  His eyes were devoid of any emotion, the black orbs seemingly dead.  Those that knew him called him soulless, a warrior without a conscience or moral code.  However, this was not entirely true.  The General had a moral code, but it applied only to combat.  He had sold his soul to gain his kingdom, and his conscience had died long ago.

 He often thought of the beginning of it all, the horror and shadow that had brought him to this throne, the murderous rage that called itself Froldr the Destroyer.  A rebel spirit that had been fighting Çaban ever since being thrown out of the kingdom of Light, the demon had been setting his sights on a union with a man that would topple the earth to its knees.  He had found a soul that would not object to the union in Téramba.

Téramba had originally been a private in the army of Suthen with something to prove.  Raiders from the Northlands had killed his parents and both of his siblings, leaving him for dead.  The boy had fought his way into the army before dueling his way into the officer corps by killing several colonels and a captain in the army.  The old general, an ancient warlord named Hundfrír Ironfist, had observed the young champion with trepidation as the young man rose through the ranks of the warhost.  He said to his heart as he watched the young man, “I must have him killed, for in this man I see my downfall.”  Hundfrír sent several of his champions to challenge Téramba, but each was systematically destroyed by the berserker.  The young soldier eventually saw the futility of fighting the trained lapdogs of the elderly Wrake Thmord, or battle master of the Suthen clans, and believed that his path would be far simpler if he could simply rise to the top of the command staff by killing the battle master.  In order to accomplish his scheme, however, he needed a power greater than his own.  He could not defeat the most powerful man in Suthen without a warhost, and he did not have many friends in the army. 

That had been when the spirit had come to him.  At first arrayed as a man in a black cloak that carried a flaming sword called Vengeance, the shade had appeared in Téramba’s dreams and offered him power beyond all reckoning, an army that would subjugate the universe.  The only price was to be control of the young chieftain’s soul.  Desperate to see his time come, Téramba had accepted the offer.

The first dividends of partnership with Froldr had been a war leader named Trysdhin.  A disgraced captain in the staff of the Wrake Thmord, he had also been visited by the treacherous spirit in his sleep and told to go to Téramba for a new leader.  Together, the crafty duo had recruited from the best of the best in the Suthin army a corps of champion fighters.  These were the first of the Bezkrae.  With these warriors at his side, Téramba began to forge weapons for himself and his men, not piddling army issue swords or shields these: the blades forged before the battle were monstrous, made by forgotten arts taught to this chief by the Destroyer in order to make for himself a host worthy of legend.  An axe that was twice the size of anything ever seen on the earth before was built for the chieftain, along with a saber that was so heavy that a regular man needed two hands just to lift it off the ground.  With weapons like these he armed his men, first training them to be the strongest of the strong and the cruelest of the cruel.  After he deemed himself ready, he threw off his disguised subservience and challenged Hundfrír to pitched battle on the plains of Gorodovw. 

When the general received the summons to battle, his heart was heavy in his breast, for he knew that his doom would be on this field.  Even so, he raised the standard of the Crimson Bear and rallied his forces at the city of Gers-a-Ruçim.  He raised a force that numbered twoscore and one thousands of foot soldiers and two thousands of cavalry before he left the city.  His army moved like a black carpet over the land, crawling to the place of battle. 

The two forces met at the northern end of the plains.  Téramba and his Bezkrae held the high ground on a bluff overlooking the rest of the field, and Hundfrír and his army were arrayed on the plains beneath.  Téramba looked over the army that had come to fight him, and his heart swelled with pride.  With a victory here, he would attain immortality, and if he was defeated, he would go to the halls of his fathers with a broken axe in one hand and a splintered sword in the other.  He grabbed the standard of the Black Dragon from one of his warriors and planted it on the ridgeline, yelled out the war cry of his warband, and charged down the slope, followed by a screaming mass of his men.  They plowed into the enemy line with alacrity, slicing and hacking at anything that tried to defend itself.  Many a sword was riven and shield splintered on that day.  The Bezkrae tide was unstoppable in its wild charge, going in and out of the enemy line with the speed of a whirlwind.  The war leaders under the Wrake Thmord tried innumerable times to regroup their forces, but the rout was too complete to stem the tide.  In the end, only the War leaders of his army remained defending the standard with their chief.  However, they were slain one by one, until all save Hundfrír were slain.  Then the forces of Téramba made a ring around the two chiefs in preparation for the ending of the conflict. 

Hundfrír gazed at his conqueror with disgust.  “Thou art indeed a fool if you think to best me.”

Téramba smiled icily, and there, in front of the assembly of the Bezkrae, he took at last the spirit to possess his mortal body.  Instantly, he grew another two feet, towering over his opponent.  “I never wanted to best you.  I only will satisfy myself with total annihilation.”  The ancient warlord had no chance.

After the victory at Gorodovw, Téramba and his army assimilated the broken host of the Crimson Bear and began to make war on the border outposts of Westhane and carving out larger bits of territory for his empire.  Armies levied by the High King were threatened and ignored by this overwhelming force.  There was little that the hapless Drymwender could do against Téramba, since over half of his army was already supplied by Suthen.  The Bezkrae horde swept through Westhane like an evil wind, leaving the ailing king of the western kingdom without defense when Téramba crushed him and his army at Trunsvorn. 

The next kingdom to fall had been the Nolténar.  This kingdom made a stiffer resistance than the westerners, but the end result was the same.  The king of the Nolte was slain in defense of his hall and the Suthin took lordship over yet another kingdom.  However, the core of the Nolten army had escaped to a secret fortress somewhere in the barren Dark Mountains, from which they carried on a fierce guerilla war with the occupying troops. 

Entáré was the last free nation in the land.  Seeing the folly of attempting to defend either the wide border that they shared with both Westhane and Nolténar or the eastern capital of Krunçvrim, the warriors of King Rejnar Blackwind rallied with the army of the High King at the royal citadel, Valnoria.  Many called that day the darkest in the history of the world.  The forces of Téramba broke over and over upon the shield wall of the allied warriors, yet the general always rallied his troops and led another charge into the hedge of spears. 

Many were the shields that were cleft in two by axe and sword upon that day.  The courageous Honor Guard of the Drymwender charged over and over into the horde of Suthin warriors, always creating chaos and many casualties within the rebellious ranks.  However, each time they made their sally out and then back into the citadel, fewer returned.  The Drymwender, seeing that the end of his time as king had come, summoned his seven greatest warriors and sent them out through a postern gate to find the next High King.  Their only clue as to where to look was “Go to the Mountains and enter the Gate.  Once you arrive, you will find him quickly.”

On their way out of the city, the seven ran into a patrol of Suthin warriors.  The Suthin were cut down quickly, but several escaped and reported the fugitives.  Téramba sent a cohort of Bezkrae after the fleeing warriors and then returned to the main battle.  Fourscore and seven thousands were slain in the battle, but the battle ended in victory for the warriors of Suthen.  The Drymwender was slain, and Téramba set himself upon the throne of the Four Nations as king.  He appointed his four chief lieutenants to the kingships of the four nations and focused his efforts on finding the Northern Rebels.  As he extended his iron grip toward the north, Téramba missed his chance to capture the last of the king’s warriors.  They disappeared like wraiths into the northern lands and strove to bring to fruition the Drymwender’s last command.