I'm putting this tagline on all three threads, pardon the generics: I know I haven't posted much lately. But I promise, if you give one of my things a crit (there's one in lyrics, one in poetry, and one in fiction) I'll return the favor, they could all use some work, so I'm looking for good, honest critiques.
Here's the thing so far:
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The entire intro, for a taste:
Introduction: A Vague Blackness
Where he was, he did not know. All around was darkness, an intimidating, impenetrable blackness that threatened to consume him. His vision seemed narrow, fixed straight ahead of him, he could see nothing on either side. His breathing grew heavier. The sound of his heavy breathing fell into the nothingness and stood out against the void. His breathing echoed, or was something else breathing behind him? He turned his head around, to see if anything else was there, stalking him, but nothing lay within sight. He was relieved momentarily, but then he held his breath. A shiver ran down his spine, for the breathing continued. But if it came not from his mouth, then where did it come from? His breath was still choked up in his throat, but not by voluntary choice now. All the hairs on his body stood on end, his muscles tensed and his pupils engorged themselves until the whites of his eyes were nearly gone. Something was there…but what was it?
Realizing that he needed air, and had stopped breathing, he suddenly released his pent up breath and took in some fresh air. But he was now disturbed, there was definitely something there with him, but he could not figure out what it was. He began to step in a direction opposite to the alien breathing, slowly at first, but his pace gradually increased. Before he knew it, his legs were running, running as far away as they would take him, but the breaths behind him continued. It disturbed him, it froze up his mind and made him numb, sweat began to pour from all over his skin. He turned his head slightly and saw not one, but several pairs of glowing, red eyes. This made him jump a little bit, and he stumbled in his step, but he recovered quickly and continued running at a renewed pace.
What were the things that trailed behind him? And why did their glare seem so intense and sinister? These questions poured themselves into his thoughts as he ran. He tried imagining what they could be and his mind put together an image of an oversized wolf, black, hairy and menacing. He couldn’t be sure that his image was accurate, but it was enough to spur his legs to run just a little faster. His breathing grew sparse as he pressed on, his lungs struggling to keep up with his furious pace. However, his limbs did not grow tired, he did not feel weary from the otherwise stressing predicament.
Time passed beyond counting, he did not know how long he had been running. It could have been minutes, hours, days…without weariness or pain he could not accurately judge the time at all, and the surrounding blackness pressed in on him. When time defeated him he turned his thoughts inward, trying to remember why he was here. But his thoughts returned nothing, his memories, if ever he had any, were gone. His name was beyond memory, where he lived was beyond memory, there was nothing there…nothing. He felt a brief sense of loss for the memories he
didn’t have, a pang stabbed through his heart, and he felt vaguely empty.
It seemed everything would defeat him now, he could not catch the time, or his memories, his only hope lay in the fact that the things behind him seemed just as incompetent at catching him. But why did he run from them? Without any thought as to who he was, what purpose was there in running from them? All that seized him was some primal fear that urged him onward. But if it was fear of the unknown, then why was he not afraid of himself? For he certainly didn’t know who he was at the moment…or maybe he was afraid of himself…his thoughts paused to think on it. There were no assurances that he would like who he was, he merely assumed that it was so in his present moment.
The beasts kept up behind him, tacked on to his scent, their pursuit seemed never ending, just as he never grew weary. Hate surged up in him, it was the first real emotion he’d felt since the loss. The hate was burning, bubbling inside of him like boiling water, he hated the things behind him, he hated the situation he was in, he hated it all. Something inside him wanted to lash out, to take down his pursuers, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The hate was there, but not the will, he didn’t have the will to do anything but run.
Soon the hate abated, it was foolish to hate. But what could he feel? In a place where there was nothing, no change and no substance, his own feelings were the only change he could hold on to. If he didn’t have those at least, then he would truly be in nothing, and he couldn’t bring himself to accept that.
Some time later he began to feel their hot breath. It pulsated with a regular rhythm between the colder air of the stillness, and the almost sickeningly warm air of their breath. If he hadn’t been assured of their substance before, he was now. Every step he took distanced himself from them, but every step they took caught them up. Then it slowly crept up on him, that he could now feel their breath meant they were gaining on him. Slowly but surely they were gaining on their inevitable prize.
He wondered if all of it was worth it, knowing now that they were gaining on him, and in time, would catch what it was they sought. Knowing that it was inevitable, why did he delay it? He wasn’t even sure it would be so horrible anyway; he wasn’t sure why the fear gripped him so hard. But then he thought about the warm, sickening breath, a promise of something truly dreadful. Then he thought of the red gleaming eyes, so intense that he didn’t dare to look back and see what they had been a part of. And their dauntless pursuit, they never grew weary or bored, but remained single-minded in their goal, it was as if they expected him to run, but they knew they were gaining, and it was all they needed to drive them onward.
He had to make a decision. He wanted to do something to change the situation. His mind raced with thoughts, but only one stood out clear and understandable, he had to stop. That was it, he had to stop. There was not thought for what might happen after, it didn’t seem to be as important as the thought to just stop. If they were going to catch him anyways, then he might as well let it happen now. And, if they weren’t really so bad as he feared, then he’d save himself all the trouble of continuing on, maybe they held the key to why he was here, and why he couldn’t remember a thing.
He stopped. It was simple, as simple as the entire situation should have been, but never was. Though there was nothing to it, he had complicated it with his own thoughts. And then, quick as a blink of an eye, he found he was no longer there. Everything rushed back into memory, and there he was, in a cold sweat, sitting up in bed in his room. The wind howled outside, and his surroundings were cold, mostly because of a star shaped hole in his window. But everything else was silent, and dreariness overcame him
He took in a deep breath, his surroundings were familiar, but he hadn’t been here in a long time. Standing atop a hill, he surveyed the moor below him. There was no one in sight. With one quick motion he swept away a strand of auburn hair that fell across his face and continued looking out. The air smelled like rain, and in the distance he could see dark clouds ahead. The fact that the wind was blowing in his face told him that the storm was heading in his direction, or rather, that he was heading into it, for his path directed him to Grünash, a small village some several leagues beyond the hill. They had sent a letter requesting his aid, for terrible things, mysterious in nature, had been happening there.
He was a mercenary for hire, as such of his kind were often called. Snuffing out trouble where it was found, for a price. But he did not find much honor in his profession, he hated charging for his help, but he needed to make a living. He didn’t charge much, and it disgusted him that many of his colleagues ripped off the poor victims of calamity. Grünash contacted him because he was one of the best, not just because he was cheap of cost. The fact that he was still alive after fifteen years of it meant something. While many of his peers lay dashed against some stone, or buried underneath the ground, rotting away to skeletal remains, he alone remained alive, the eldest and longest standing mercenary in his profession.
But he had not been to the Barren Hollows, as the land he was in was called, named that because of its empty, barren nature. It hadn’t always been that way, once upon a time it had been a great trading route, the crossroads of the three great nations, now since gone to the past. All that remained was one weak kingdom, and several small feudal systems that fought and squabbled against each other. The kingdoms of the past had lived in peace for many centuries, trading, and the land around was prosperous, villages dotted the route in many places, and at the very center was a large city where traders would meet and sell.
The city’s name was long forgotten, just like much of the area’s past, but folklore still told of its massive size. Larger than any city in the present, it stretched out as far as the eye could see, and when it did end, it merely broke up into smaller villages so that the city’s edge could not be easily discerned before it was lost to the wilds. Each of the three nations shared the one city, and there were three palaces of splendor in it. Faires and festivals were always happening, and the populous was happy.
But people were greedy, people always wanted more. And for some reason, the wisdom of the past was lost as generations went on. The nations began to rival one another. Fighting broke out in the streets. And soon, mere tension and conflict erupted into all out war. The war lasted centuries, nearly as long as the peace itself had lasted, and whole generations of people knew nothing but fighting and misery. The city was slowly burnt to the ground, and the prosperousness of the region became its haunting memory. For now, there was not even a trace of its once grand splendor. The vast plains below him showed no signs of previous inhabitants. Grünash was the only village for many, many leagues, and it was one of the few villages left on the continent that was neither under the control of a kingdom or a feudal lord. It was a truly neutral village, but it was also cut-off from any outside aid if needed, only left alone for fear of the Barren Hallows, which had been in ill-repute since the fall of the nations past. He sniffed the air again, resigned to the fact that he would be forced to deal with the rain and headed down the hill.
His years of training had prepared him for everything. He could run long strides without rest, eat on meager meals, and withstand the elements. None of it dampened his spirits, even though he lived much like a pauper, he felt richer than the richest kings. He was doing what he loved, helping people, and fighting epic battles. Though, the truth was, most of his fights weren’t epic. Most of the time, it was a simple task that needed doing, but something that the average person just couldn’t do, but every once in awhile, he’d get a task truly worthy of his skill.
It was just after noon when the dark clouds finally stood right before him. He could see, off in the distance, a gray sheet of rain hurtling to where he stood. It appeared to be coming down heavy, and within a few minutes, the storm overtook him. He continued on, though at a much slower pace. His armor was drenched, and his hair stuck to his cheeks, chin, ear, and the rest of his face, obscuring his vision and making it hard to see. The wind howled and whipped, as fierce, if not fiercer, than any storm he’d ever been in. It wasn’t long before he decided he should seek shelter until the storm passed. A small save appeared to offer this opportunity for him, it was situated merely a few hundred yards from where he stood, a lone outcrop of rock in the middle of the plain, with a large, dark, but beckoning crevice in the center. He hurried over and ran inside, and as soon as he crossed the threshold, everything, all the rain, the wind, stopped, and he felt safe.
‘
flegomai’ he uttered, and with a small flick of his hand a bright ball of flame appeared before him. The flame lit up an area around him with a diameter of twenty feet or so. From what he could see, he was in a large, cavern-like room that was located just below the surface of the ground above. The air felt stiff, but it was not old, it still circulated, and breathed as if life had recently been in its depths. Still, the cave went on, growing narrower and narrower, as if funneling him into its trap, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Several minutes later, he stepped out into another cavernous room, much like the one he’d entered. Then something caught his eye. At the very far end of the room, was a swath of light, some lit room off to the side of the cave.
He thought about it for a second, and reflected on whether or not he should enter it. Logically, going into such unknowns was vastly dangerous. However, at the same time, he’d gotten to where he was because he’d taken risks, and lived. He wasn’t some dimwit amateur, so perhaps he should explore it. After all, it might have something to do with Grünash’s problems, he reasoned. And so he set his path to lead to the door, though every footstep got a little bit slower, and a little bit quieter as he approached. When he was just feet from the doorway, which was much more defined now, his walking had turned almost into a dead stop. The doorway was roughly hewn, and it was hard to tell if it was a natural extension of the cave, or man-made. But that didn’t matter, what mattered was that someone was
using the room, man-made or not, and as he got closer, he could distinctly hear a chanting coming from inside the room.
The chanting was spoken in low tones, deep and resounding. It had a rhythmic nature to it, and was almost musical in a way, although it sounded sinister. As he leaned against the wall, he was almost lulled to sleep by it, but he caught his eyes drooping and snapped his attention back to the room. He edged closer, his heart beating faster with every inch, his adrenaline beginning to pump. His body was preparing itself for an oncoming fight, even if it didn’t happen, but it seemed that more often than not these days that one could be sure of the former, as opposed to the latter.
The times grew dark, in every sense. It seemed that daylight hours were shorter, winters were longer. The sky was more often gray than blue, and creatures from the nether crawled from out of their layers, into the open. In the past five years, he’d dealt with more plaguing troubles than at any other point in his career. It had meant more work for him, which was good, but it boded ill. He found himself brooding on the dilemma many nights, trying to probe his learning for answers to the coming “Dark Days”, as the populous called it. Still, he hadn’t made any connections, and the puzzle eluded him, hanging vaguely in front of his eyesight, but never closes enough to see.
He took in a breath, and gripped the side of the doorway only slightly with his hand, so that he might only be seen by the most skilled of observers, and even then, only those looking for it would manage to see. He made a quick countdown in his head, for mental readiness and a point at which to thrust himself all-forward, into whatever lay ahead.
Standing there was a heavily cloaked figure, dressed all in black. The figure’s clothing served a stark contrast to the well-lit room, which had no less than ten torches about its walls, as well as a large fire in the center. The heat was so intense that he wondered how the figure was not in a puddle of sweat from it all, and he wondered why he hadn’t felt a bit of it until he actually entered. Above the fire in the middle was a glistening rune. It sparkled magnificently, and the rune also shed light, it was to the rune that the figure was chanting. He released his hand from his hilt, looking at the figure. He had been prepared to fight, but now he was too stunned to be sure exactly what he should do next.
The next few actions happened in a matter of seconds, though, to him, they felt much longer. First, the cloaked man turned around and faced him. Though faced was probably not the best choice of words, for he could not see the figure’s face, shrouded as it was in the darkness of the hood. The figure became silent and outstretched a hand, taking this as a cue to act, he, in turn, drew his sword and pointed it at the cloaked figure. The figure snapped his fingers and all the fire in the room went out, it went pitch black, and then he lost consciousness…
