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Member
Join Date: Nov 2007
Location: Another world.
Gender: Male
Posts: 10
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Untitled Fantasy chapter 1 part 1
The room in which he waited was quite large, at least one hundred spans wide and equal across. Within this room were but two chairs, and emence desk, and many wax candles. Quite sparse, but large nonetheless. The walls were plaster-white, unadorned by any tapestries or windows, as befitting an Archpriest--sterility.
The Archpriest was pacing in wait for someone, a peasant no less. A quite unnatural experience for the proud priest. He marched to and fro behind the large desk, staring at the floor behind the chair. He contemplated exactly why this meeting was in order.
A peasant had found the one thing the archpriest treasured most. A peasant! Of all things, a filthy peasant. He had heard from the clergyman that his was a particularly filthy urchin, and he cursed his luck, though he still considered his goddess to be on his side.
Yet, it was always times like these that he wished he hadn’t entered priesthood, had a wife and some children-legitimate children, that is-to take care of instead. But, unfortunately, he loved his goddess, Melkshar far more than any human he had ever lain with.
The Archpriest, Da’amon Cryshnyr, had a lanky body, short blonde hair, and was of the handsome sort. It was said by all the chambermaids and serving girls that his eyes could melt hearts and impregnate women. The later said under their breaths. Everywhere he walked supposedly smelled of cinnamon, which was the matron scent of Melkshar, for days.
He moved to and fro for what seemed like hours, though the sun hadn’t moved much on the horizon. Finally, there came the soft knock of a nervous clergy man on his door.
Quickly yet calmly, Cryshnyr sat in the oaken chair behind his desk, smoothing his pure-white tunic. “Enter,” He said aloud in what he thought was a calm voice, inwardly quaking in anticipation.
His heart’s pace sped up as the door opened. In came both the peasant and the clergyman from before.
“Your holiness,” the clergyman said, who’s name Cryshnyr couldn’t remember, only remembering that he may have been a bastard son of his. “This is Mikela, she says she knows where the item is.”
Da’amon’s heart quickened in pace indeed, for after a better look at this ‘peasant.’ he realized that she was not what she said. No, not at all, for under the grime was a full set of teeth, and where there was no dirt, her skin took on a sheen that only a religiously clean person could attain. She was beautiful, too! Oh, how beautiful she was with her jet shiny black hair and small, supple breasts; green eyes and perfectly fit nose.
By this time, Da’amon Cryshnyr had more than information in mind. “You may leave us,” he bade the clergyman with more than a little nervousness and edginess in his voice, working his charm before he even began.
The younger man, so closely resembling his could-be father, bowed and took his leave. As he left, Cryshnyr pulled the other chair from the corner, placing it in front to the desk.
“Sit,” he bade this ‘peasant,’ Mikela. “We have much to talk of indeed.”
__________________________________________________ ____________
The little boy, hardly of ten, ran through a forest he had yet to recognize. The shackles still adorned his wrists, though the chains were broken. His neck was still raw from an attempted lynching the night before, but he had survived and accordingly vowed to escape. And he did, after his daily lashings.
The voices still ran through his mind. This, boy, is to teach you a lesson. A lesson not to deal with royalty. Tonight we will show you what death is, so you will know our gods and rejoice in their refuge of your soul. But alas, he was not taken. In stead, the gods had indeed appeared before him.
What they had said still burned in his memory.
He stopped to catch his breath, feeling his knees tremble and weaken. Hardly standing up, he noticed the ground was wet from rain, sucking his feet under like quicksand. Rivulets of something wet ran from his back down his legs, pooling about his ragged feet. Kneeling because he could not hold his stance any longer, he saw that not all the blood about him was his.
He looked about and noticed that he was in a clearing, one with semi-long grass matted down with many, many bodies. His breath grew more ragged, gasping for fresh air. There was none, only the stinky weight of death.
Abruptly he realized that this is near where his torture had began, where his village had engaged the enemy in combat. His village’s first full scale battle in a century, and it had taken a toll--every man, woman and child, save the boy himself, where killed. He couldn’t recall the exact reason why they had gone to war, though he had guessed some nonsense like land. The true reason, though he knew it, was taken beyond his grasp by exhaustion.
While trying to recall, his knees slipped from beneath his body, forcing him face first into the mud. Thought had sapped even that strength from his body, though he still had it in him to cry, tears forcing their way from his eyes as the fading memories of his family rushed by.
His vision faded as he smelled the scent of mud, blood, and rain; taking him into the oblivion that was sleep.
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The noose was about his throat, he was dangling but his neck did not break, instead forcing him to suffocate. All about him, he could hear raucous laughter, as if his death was pure comedy. Behind him came the whipping, like a last minute punishment for a perceived wrong.
The tears he cried were more forced by the lack of air then true sadness. No, he felt no remorse, he was too young for that.
“Know our gods,” one of them said, “and take refuge in their forgiveness, for we could never forgive you ourselves.”
The remark made him more angry than it’s comforting intent. How he hated religious zealotry. He himself was taught that to accept life you must accept others, including their religions.
His life faded, taking what little vision he had from him. His heart slowed to agony, and then it was over.
Or so he thought.
He opened his eyes, and all color was distorted. He was floating, still in noose, above a land of purple-tones. Above him, the sky was orange.
And then, he awoke.
-------
He awoke in a place that he didn’t recognize. It was dim, but he could see some of his surroundings. He lay in a four-poster bed with silken sheets and most likely the same for draperies. The room itself was quite large, leaving the parameter of his vision, which spanned at least fifty paces, giving him the impression of royalty.
The seizure of came upon him, working its way down from his skull on through his fingers and toes.
And then he was aware of someone in the room, but they did not move to stop the arching of his spine. Aye, he was quite sure that someone was there, for he could smell perfume, it smelled of lavender and vanilla, and hear the scraping of wood on tile--a chair, he guessed.
Almost at once, the pain abated, until it near was bearable. He could feel now the injuries across his body. Scrapes were felt here and there across his chest and arms; his neck felt raw, as if recently lynched; and his back was sore as if he had been beaten and whipped, making it uncomfortable to lay back.
But he dared not move, for he had not any idea how bad his wounds were, only that they existed.
He was still in so much pain that he did not know who he was, as if his memory had dissipated with his taking root in the bed.
Again the seizure wracked his body, though he could hear more action to his left, the chair scraping, and further movement toward his person. This time, whoever had taken him in and taken to tending his wounds clamped their hands on his shoulders. They were in such a position that they were kneeling over me, legs caressing my oblique muscles.
The body was decidedly feminine. Husky, but feminine nonetheless. The hands upon his shoulders spoke of plumpness, but not obesity.
He managed to open his right eye. His left, however, remained closed. He looked forward and saw that the woman was beautiful. He didn’t know who she was, but aye, she was beautiful. His eye widened though he had thought to keep it semi-closed.
At seeing his eye open, the woman bent her head down next to his ear. “I see that you are awake.”
He attempted to reply, but all that issued from his mouth was a gargled “ag...,” that trailed into a cough, when aye was all he tried to say. It seemed that either spittle or blood had congested his throat. He began raising his head as he coughed so as not to make it futile, but the lady pushed it back.
He remembered looking up at her, his sight failing; going toward sleep, drifting between that and wakefulness hungry, miserable, and old-feeling. The woman was still mounted atop of him, her long blonde hair tickling his chest, her two blue eyes locked on his one glazed brown.
He laid on the edge of sleep, fighting because he did not know if he would wake, waiting for the next bout of pain.
Finally, after what he was sure were hours, Sleep won the battle.
----
After she was sure this boy was asleep again, Aislinn left the bed and sat in her chair.
That had been the second time he had wakened, though why he had not remembered her from the first time, she did not know. She only knew that she saw no recognition in his eyes.
Aislinn sat back down in her chair and began rewarming her tea over a candle. She did no particularly like taking care of the child, in fact, she abhorred his existence, but what her father commanded she obeyed.
Where is she? Aislinn though. Lillith was supposed to relieve me of my duties at dark. It is well passed that now.
Aislinn took a sip of her now-warm tea and cursed. It was now too hot in the stead of cold.
She looked again at the boy and thought about how pretty he would have been had he been noble, and about ten years older. She gave his age now to be ten, maybe eleven, though it did not really matter to her.
A slight tap at the nearby door took her attention away from thought. She turned her head slightly to view a young woman with mousy-brown hair that framed an acne-ravaged-but-still-beautiful face. The girl’s eyes were as her sister’s, blue, but the resemblance stopped at that, just eyes.
“Ah,” Aislinn said in disdain, “so you finally come, Lillith, how kind of you.”
Lillith walked toward her sister and sat in a chair opposite. “Thank you for claiming a great sense of time, not that you have it either.” Looking upon her sister, she took a cup and poured some tea. “Cold, no doubt.”
“It would not be, if you were not so late, Lilly. And no, I don’t claim perfect timing, but being at least two hours late for something just down the corridor?” She took a slight breath. “ That is absurd.”
Lillith began toying with the lace on her dress, looking for something to say. After moments of silence, she turned her attention to the boy laying in the bed.
“How fares he?” she asked her older sister, gesturing to the bed with a nod. “Well, I would hope.”
Aislinn folded her legs up in the chair. “He fares well, for a child who looks as if mauled by a bear, and apart from the occasional seizure. He has awakened twice, and neither time has he the use of his left eye.”
She had a troubled look about her, Lillith noticed, and upon noticing she realized the boy had a slim chance of staying alive. One could say he would surely die. How the bad eye had anything to do with anything, she did not know, but his life was in danger nonetheless.
-------
Before, I was running. Now, I am falling. Falling into and through nothingness. Yet, I did not become nothingness as I fell.
Then I could see. Just pure, blinding white light, as steel being tempered by a blacksmith. And with the light came dizziness.
Shape.
I could see just one shape. A massive white monolith that seemed to stretch on forever. Only they did not just seem to stretch on, they did. In my dizziness, the monolith was both in and out of my reach.
I stopped falling but I felt nothing beneath me.
Then came the ringing. It came from within and without my head both, as the smith’s hammer strikes the anvil to temper the blade.
If I had thought any pain mindshattering, I had felt nothing worthy of comparing itself to this.
Then, the strikes became voices, slowly forming into real human voices. Female voices.
I bellowed at the top of my lungs, for the pain wrenched it out of me. Slowly, the light faded. But the voices did not.
As I awoke, the voices did stop, for my scream came to the waking world with me.
-------
With all the strength he had, he sat up. It was daylight now, and the draperies had just been pulled shut accordingly. He could tell do to the fact that they were still swishing with momentum.
All about him were servants, many of an age with him, though mostly girls. Many had black hair, with matching eyes, quite the opposite of the woman he had seen.
He gingerly felt his chest, and found that the wounds were at least scabbed over, though still painful. Shading his eyes, he looked about to better assess the situation.
His heart’s pace quickened. Where, exactly, am I, he thought to himself. This is nothing like home...
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Beware the impending zombie invasion.
Last edited by Athnephiel : 11-14-2007 at 02:52 PM.
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