Em, dunno if this fits the theme, but whatever
The Peaks of Midnight are seldom travelled in the day. During the lit hours the deepest pits and ravines swarm with the foul spawn of evil, the heights which pierce the sky so majestically also create shadows, shadows which are deadly to walk in. They say that in even the brightest of days, the more daring of the beasts will venture from their shaded caves and hunt the passes, looking for fat merchants to feast upon. Their harsh cries as they feast on man-flesh echo around the rocky walls of their valleys.
I’m here at night.
The dark hours are the worst; the monsters cover the mountain range like a blanket of night. But nonetheless, I am here. I am here, and my task will be finished. I swear it on my honour, my sword…my life. I only wish my friends could be here…But that is unimportant. I stare at the great gaping hole torn into the cliff face in front of me; feel the putrid wind which whistles its way past me on my face. It almost looks like a gruesome mouth, inhaling everything in the world, sucking all light in.
To get here I had to do battle with all manner of creatures. The she-demons of the river lands felt my blade and fled in terror. The Wyrrms of the magma fields flew before my wrath and the trolls of the mountain-passes learned their skin was not as hard as they had once thought. And here I am, staring at a hole in the ground. Scared. I curse my cowardice and, taking a deep breath of the sulphurous air, step beneath the clinging stalactites of the cave.
The torch which I found near the entrance splutters, momentarily throwing shadows across my path. The tunnel is leveling out after its steep downwards turn, finally halting my staggering, stumbling descent. I have found no beasts so far. A bad sign. Most stay near the entrances, waiting for prey…only the more powerful stay deep, have their prey brought to them. A very bad sign. I come to a roughly-hewn arch. The walls around me seem less natural, more carved. The knolls on the rock look like screaming faces, twisted in agony and fear. I tear my eyes from them and keep going. That has been my mantra for days now. Keep going, keep searching. You’ll find her.
Suddenly my foot-falls reverberate back to me and I’m spat into a dank sphere, a bubble of darkness trapped beneath the skin of the earth. Each step I take scrapes over twigs and bones. Bones of rats, of birds. Bones of Elves, of Dragons, of Humans and Dwarves. Bones which I don’t even know the name for, let alone the animal they belong to. My blood runs cold, and in opposition of its ice my anger rises like a flaming brand. The beast that did this killed many. Much blood is on its hands. I draw my blade, a thin sliver of silver light gleaming red in my torches illumination. What it doesn’t know is that much blood is on mine, too.
A thin rattling sound echoes strangely in the room, and a dark shape slowly drops from the ceiling, unwinding from a stalagmite that almost touches the ground. I don’t look up, I don’t move. I know that it thinks it is surprising me, and to show otherwise would spell my death. My breath rasps loudly and my sword arm trembles oh-so slightly, but I stand my ground. I stand it for her, for Kara.
It comes into the edge of my vision, a bag of pulsing flesh. Quick as a bolt of lightning, I strike, blade flying straight and true. The edge catches on flesh, judders, and glides on. The beast cries out in an unintelligible language, roaring and shouting. A spray of black blood strikes the walls, hits my buckskin shoes. A wing the shade of the blackest pits of doom falls to the ground, and lies there as a crumpled mass. A second later, the being itself follows suit, fall cushioned by its own shredded flesh. I walk forward and wipe my blade on its heaving skin.
My sword back in its sheath, I lean over the thing. Its face is hidden in the fold of a wing, its only wing, now. Shaped like a slim human, figure seductive and inviting, the beast looks more like a woman than most dwarven or human girls I have met. Shapely and sumptuous, curves running down the naked body ensnare my gaze and heat my face…My eyes follow her figure until they reach the bloody wound hacked into her back. There, they jerk away; I feel sad to have caused such pain to such beauty. But then I see the remaining wing, see the hooks spearing outwards from a joint, and I push down my lust. I focus on that wing as I lean over, gently turning her over. Her skin feels cool, comfortably so after the oppressive heat in the tunnel. She feels slightly waxy, almost like a doll. Damn, how much I wish I hadn’t hurt her! She rolls over, and I see the face.
Pain
Surging through me, pain. It is Kara. My love, my wife; Stolen from me by a hunting party of the demons of the Peaks of Midnight, she must have been Turned. My stomach heaves as I remember the process which all who are Turned go through, the way she earned those wings. My heart splits and, withering, dies. She is gone. None who are Turned can be saved. I raise my blade, look at her face, so peaceful, so sweet. I look at her shapely lips, how they turn down at the sides. Her mouth is stained red; a recent kill. With a cry of despair, I plunge my sword through the husk of my wife, and with that stroke end her.
Sobbing inconsolably, I leave the blade sticking out of the beast; the one the Necromancer had said would know where my wife was. Anger blossoms deep inside me and once again strives against the ice. This time, the ice wins. Shaking, crying, I stay in a huddle for many hours.
Though I didn’t know, and wouldn’t have cared if I had, it was the break of day when I finally stood up, wiping tears from my eyes. I know what I am to do. The ice in me has become a part of me, and I will use it against the beasts that did this. I calmly take the sword from my wife’s body, wipe it clean and re-sheath it. The monsters of the Peaks of Midnight will know my name; their very existence will be filled with fear of it. My wife will be avenged. With a new purpose, I leave the darkness of the earth and step into the light of day.
Also, a random poem I wrote.
NamÓlin the Sylvan Maid
O NamÓlin the Sylvan maid
Who wandered long on Urd
And learned the secrets of the den
And from the nest of bird
Her touch was gentle on the green
Which grew on forest hills.
Her magic long lay on the land
Which man now sows and tills.
Her gown of green and earthy brown
In sun shone as she walked
Through wooded hills and citadels;
To beasts and birds she talked
Of Lady Green the bards still sing
With sorrow in their song
For into night her story leads;
Her lands with shadows throng
Through Eastern woods her foot falls went
To border wreathed in fear
Which twists and turns through haunted hills
And cuts through shadowed mere
Ah, NamÓlin! Where walk you now?
The woods your passing mourn;
Their grief is seen in faded leaf
And branches torn by storm
Lamenting are the trees and stones
Which lie on icy ground
And moon-lit lakes shed silver tears,
For never was she found
The stars on high look down in grief
Upon the darkened land.
The sun shines on, but saddened now;
A dimmer flaming brand
Aaaaand another
A breeze which rippled through the grass,
Showed to me through ferny green,
A band of happy revellers
Who dance and joyful sing.
I stand in awe and look from high
Upon their tiny troupe.
They stand but an inch from the ground,
Arrayed in dancing hoop.
Bedecked in clothes of green and brown
They hop and skip and jump,
Around my feet they sing and beat
On drums a rhythmic thump
Their felt clad feet are very fleet,
Their song is sweet and high
It fills the hollows of the land
Then rising meets the sky.
They dance away into the wood,
The breeze which welcomed me,
Forsakes this place where I met them,
Their dance not mine to see.
Criticism is appreciated!
Author
Topic: ___/The Writer's Apprenticeship\___ (Read 314213 times)