Chao
Setting sail for fail in the sea of lame.
- Reaction score
- 63
I honestly just came up with that title now - I've addressed this story as only "The Adventure" since I started writing it. It's at 90 pages, and with the proper motivation to continue (ie. commentary!) I'd be happy to regularly post new editions. This is JUST the prologue... a page and a bit in writing. I'm pretty self-conscious about my writing, so be gentle! Of course, criticisms, commentaries and the like are appreciated!
Once characters start being introduced in the next chapter, I'll be including bios (I have 5 pages of character information) so as to eliminate potential confusion.
Once characters start being introduced in the next chapter, I'll be including bios (I have 5 pages of character information) so as to eliminate potential confusion.
Dark times were coming. Everyone knew it. Even humans, mortals with no sense of magic without years of intense training could tell. It was a world set to crash. But no prophet could tell how, and no oracle could tell why, no shaman could tell when. Nor could an agreement be reached.
When in the bowels of brimstone spawned a beast so terrifying to behold that the world beneath its behemoth foot would tremble and shatter like glass, then the world would be darkened. So said the elves. But the orcs knew better.
Others said that years of torturing the world’s resources would be the cause. The mighty castles of stone and villages made of the trees around them upset the earth and would cause an unbalance of mentality, driving forth insanity, chaos, and in the end, anarchy. So said the humans. But the elves knew better.
And others still said that the orcs would summon a creature, much like a demon, that could be controlled, harnessed, fight by the side of the orcs. The elves and humans alike knew better than to listen to any barbaric creature such as an orc.
Alas, a gnome was correct.
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to - ”
“Blech! Whassat mean?”
“Uh – well…” Keeran Whistlebender stuttered, “it means what it means. The interpretation is in the meaning.”
The man, who had risen after hearing his fortune, teetered dangerously, with the diminutive and hapless gnome slowly moving in, claiming guardianship over her crystal ball. “That’s garbage, useless!” He stumbled out.
Keeran, obviously relieved by the drunk’s departure, sighed a deep breath and calmly focused on the ball again. What did the reading mean? How did it apply to some drunk? Keeran stared hard into the crystal ball, but the haze she had seen moments earlier was gone, the abhorrent face in the mist that had frozen her little, rapidly beating heart was gone with it. What was the Season of Songs? Why was it so familiar, and why so important? And why the drunk? A sane person would have seen that reading as more than a fortune. That was an omen.
Her attention was drawn by a light plopping noise and she looked up. Something had fallen on top of her tent. And it was moving.
The drunk, William McTagard, stumbled out of the purple-and-yellow fly tent and back out into the streets of Hayden. The county fair was a jumbled blaze of firelights and twistedly comedic visages, peasants dancing in masks, lutes and stringed instruments bellowing their merry tunes.
William ignored all of this. He wanted to go home. Or at least get somewhere near home and pass out. He half-decided to take a familiar shortcut through an alley. He ambled along, his vision a blurry mess. He could see the light at the end of the passage.
A soft noise came from behind him. He turned resignedly around to see what it was, but instead only saw the entrance and heard the fading sounds of the carnival.
When he turned back to continue along, there stood before him a black figure.
He had armor the shade of a midnight sky, trimmed in a glossy onyx that gave way and coincided with the shadows hidden around him. He wore no mask, but had on a helm that pincered inward to his mouth, granting a vertical slit with which the figure’s lips and the bridge of his nose could be made out. The figure’s eyes were hollow, and he donned a midnight blue helix that came to a sharp point after only a single circulation, glyphed in the center of his chestpeice.
“Whu –”
“The omen was correct.”
“Wha –”
William McTagard was sliced from the brim of his tattered hat to the tip of his groin in a single movement so fast that William could not have registered the imminent attack if he were sober. The sword that rent the man was flicked in a gesture; blood spattered on the cobblestone walkway and some, too, on the bricked building beside the blade. With a quick wipe along his black cloak and an inexorable, unsmiling nod of satisfaction, the mysterious assassin of William McTagard sheathed his sword and blended back into the shadows with but a whisper, “the omen was correct.”
When in the bowels of brimstone spawned a beast so terrifying to behold that the world beneath its behemoth foot would tremble and shatter like glass, then the world would be darkened. So said the elves. But the orcs knew better.
Others said that years of torturing the world’s resources would be the cause. The mighty castles of stone and villages made of the trees around them upset the earth and would cause an unbalance of mentality, driving forth insanity, chaos, and in the end, anarchy. So said the humans. But the elves knew better.
And others still said that the orcs would summon a creature, much like a demon, that could be controlled, harnessed, fight by the side of the orcs. The elves and humans alike knew better than to listen to any barbaric creature such as an orc.
Alas, a gnome was correct.
“When the Season of Songs feels a chill night and the moon falls, then will the evil rise to - ”
“Blech! Whassat mean?”
“Uh – well…” Keeran Whistlebender stuttered, “it means what it means. The interpretation is in the meaning.”
The man, who had risen after hearing his fortune, teetered dangerously, with the diminutive and hapless gnome slowly moving in, claiming guardianship over her crystal ball. “That’s garbage, useless!” He stumbled out.
Keeran, obviously relieved by the drunk’s departure, sighed a deep breath and calmly focused on the ball again. What did the reading mean? How did it apply to some drunk? Keeran stared hard into the crystal ball, but the haze she had seen moments earlier was gone, the abhorrent face in the mist that had frozen her little, rapidly beating heart was gone with it. What was the Season of Songs? Why was it so familiar, and why so important? And why the drunk? A sane person would have seen that reading as more than a fortune. That was an omen.
Her attention was drawn by a light plopping noise and she looked up. Something had fallen on top of her tent. And it was moving.
The drunk, William McTagard, stumbled out of the purple-and-yellow fly tent and back out into the streets of Hayden. The county fair was a jumbled blaze of firelights and twistedly comedic visages, peasants dancing in masks, lutes and stringed instruments bellowing their merry tunes.
William ignored all of this. He wanted to go home. Or at least get somewhere near home and pass out. He half-decided to take a familiar shortcut through an alley. He ambled along, his vision a blurry mess. He could see the light at the end of the passage.
A soft noise came from behind him. He turned resignedly around to see what it was, but instead only saw the entrance and heard the fading sounds of the carnival.
When he turned back to continue along, there stood before him a black figure.
He had armor the shade of a midnight sky, trimmed in a glossy onyx that gave way and coincided with the shadows hidden around him. He wore no mask, but had on a helm that pincered inward to his mouth, granting a vertical slit with which the figure’s lips and the bridge of his nose could be made out. The figure’s eyes were hollow, and he donned a midnight blue helix that came to a sharp point after only a single circulation, glyphed in the center of his chestpeice.
“Whu –”
“The omen was correct.”
“Wha –”
William McTagard was sliced from the brim of his tattered hat to the tip of his groin in a single movement so fast that William could not have registered the imminent attack if he were sober. The sword that rent the man was flicked in a gesture; blood spattered on the cobblestone walkway and some, too, on the bricked building beside the blade. With a quick wipe along his black cloak and an inexorable, unsmiling nod of satisfaction, the mysterious assassin of William McTagard sheathed his sword and blended back into the shadows with but a whisper, “the omen was correct.”
