Wilem

Hey, this piece is yet to be properly proof read, I mainly want suggestions on my descriptions and the pace of the story, what I can do to improve these. Anything would be nice. Thanks.




‘This Alliance is all but ended; you have failed to protect the realm, Albator. Consider this the official resignation of the Noid people.’ The heavily bearded man threw a neatly rolled parchment at Albator’s feet, follow by saliva. Then he marched the length of the great hall, turning every head as he followed the torches of green fire. The instant the great oak doors slammed behind him the room exploded into a hive of excited conversation.
‘Silence.’ Albator’s cries were drowned ‘Silence please.’ Again he was ignored ‘There will be SILENCE!’ His voice bellowed throughout the hall, silence fell. With angry winkles etched into his brow, he scanned the audience through dark hazel eyes, bloodshot and weary. His long silvery hair hung low below his waste swaying behind him, cleanly shaven, he gritted his yellowed teeth. Through them he seethed ‘Now is not nearly the time to be deliberating, not whilst our enemies grow by the heart beat,’
‘Yam is right though, isn’t he, leading the Noid away from this shit hole?’ A random man voiced from the sanctuary of the crowds, several murmured their agreement.
‘Yam’Drog, champion of the Noid, can do with his subjects as he wished. My one and only concern is that of the peoples of the Alliance.’ His voice steady and emotionless, he’d won few, if any, people by the heartless words.
‘You’re a damned idiot is what you are, independence to the Kalish!’ Another voice cried. Albator glanced over his shoulder towards an elderly man, he was bald, his face cracked with stress lines, he’d stiffened his posture at the mention of his race, eyes looking anywhere but Albator.
‘Maybe,’ he started, turning his attention back to the audience ‘Wrex Proudlance, Crusader of the Kalish, might want to decide that for his own, weak, race.’ Wrex narrowed his eyes, he stood.
‘You’ve many an enemy, my Leigh. Perhaps, now is not the time to attack your few allies?’
‘Do not preach to me, Kalish; remember how your race came to be. The Alliance is your only hope.’
‘Perhaps, old friend, it is time for the Kalish people to find their own way.’ He moved like a ghost, down the great hall and out into the night, several Kalish people trailing him.
‘Is there anybody else?!’ Rage overwhelming him, Albator had turned to face his three remaining Lords ‘Does anyone of you feel that their time with the Alliance has ended? Speak now, or do not bother.’ He exhaled a breath and turned his back on them, before he could open his mouth a woman strolled past him, her neat blue robes trailing her graceful stride down the length of the hall, ‘Dornia,’ he whispered, reality hitting him, he called after her ‘Dornia, Warrior of the Jinx. Your race has abandoned the Alliance; get your filthy abominations out of my land before sunset tomorrow.’ Less than half the crowds remained now, anxious Albator tried again to win them over, ‘What we face is emotionless beasts,’
‘Bit like you then.’ A woman heckled.
He continued regardless: ‘They are alien to this world; their only function is to destroy, and be damned to the families and bonds disturbed in the process. They are not like you or I. They are not of the lord’s creation, nor are they of the devils, they do not belong.’ A handful of onlookers stood and walked away, feeling desperate he half wailed ‘A storm is approaching, and what we do, determines whether this word holds… or is consumed.’ The last two remaining lords of the Alliance abandoned their leader; together they led the last couple hundred spectators from the great hall, leaving Albator alone.
Placing his head in his shaking hands, he breathed deeply and he whispered to himself feverously. Suddenly he burst into insane laughter, tears streaming from his eyes as he fell to the floor, cuddling his knees, rocking gently.

Outside the hall, the five ex-lords had gathered their separate races and had begun leading them away from the Alliance city of Lights haven. Bitter wind rushed in from the south, chilling to the bone, sweeping through the great dockside foundation. The night was clear, if not daunting, a sense of anticipation hung in the air.
‘Look to the skies!’ someone screamed, for all the good it had done. A magnificent red ball of molten rock and lava approached at immense pace. It had struck before anything could be done, sending a ripple through the ground, spilling most of the crowds balance. Several buildings collapse in a heap of rubble; many others had been struck slightly by the blast. Nonetheless, havoc erupted within the ranks of the newly founded refugees. The lords attempted, in vain, to organise the mass of fleeing people but found their struggled attempts futile.
Dornia turned her gaze down to the sea port district, where the rock had struck. Squinting, she shouldered a panicking refugee as she seeped through the mass of people. Realisation hit her, and as it did everything stopped. No noise, no wind, no crackling of a fire, no movement what so ever. An unearthly groan shattered the bliss, low and loud it rolled through the sounds waves, smothering any other noise.
‘Kiss dirt!’ she screamed, hitting the ground face first, the majority followed her lead, leaving a good hundred standing confused. An emotion short lived. Boulders and rubble showered over them, reducing those still standing to little more than bloody rain.
Dornia glanced upwards, she could see the creature. It quite resembled a dragon without wings, although it wasn’t covered in scales, nor did it breathe fire. Instead it slithered through the city, destroying everything and anything in its wake. It moved with a purpose which came as a surprise, as it just looked like an enraged beast and nothing more, incapable of intelligent thought let alone plan, but there it was, heading straight for the great hall.
Kal’Rince, Defender of the Adoganists, scrambled to his feet. He took a single glance behind him, back towards the burning city, and quickly started scrambling up the dirt hill that stood before him, abandoning any subjects and his fellow Lords. Once atop he froze. Spread before him, covering every inch of the five mile plain was a sea of the same creatures. Some smaller than others, they even shrunk to his own size, and they’d spotted him. Closing his eyes, Kal could think of only the last words Albator had spoke “A storm is approaching, and what we do, determines whether the world holds… or is consumed.”




Tyran grasped a knife between her teeth.
The cold steel felt divine, its metallic taste swarmed her mouth. A sword lay close, hidden in the shrubbery. Her fingers hovered over its shaft for a moment; she pulled back, and again moved her glance towards the target. It wouldn’t do bolting at the last moment, not after so long of plotting and stalking and waiting.
Icy rain hammered down all across the city, each droplet like a small needle pin, stinging as they fell. No moon illuminated the dark night’s sky; instead the heavens were locked behind a sheet of thick coal-black cloud, sparks of lightning dwelling within the mass, flashing for brief moments before retreating deep into the safe hold.
She nudged an inch. Being careful to remain low, soaked to the flesh, she remained as graceful as possible. Her hair plastered to her face, she tried her hardest to keep vision of the road ahead, although the haze of rain spoiled her view, and with the torches extinguished light was scarce, her essence of magic running dangerously low didn’t improve the situation. She viciously rubbed her eyes as her night-vision began to fade; the normally grey blue of her iris began to flicker back. When she removed her fingers the iris once again glowed a deep violet, allowing her perfect vision.
A modest sized Carriage entered the scene, pulled by two snow white horses. A man seated at the reins, urging the poor animals onwards, cracking his whip and issuing abuse. The carriage itself was made of metal, a symbol of high status, even more so was the crest imprinted on its side. A large rectangular shield featuring a phoenix on its face bearing a sword in one talon and an arrow in the other, flowers embedded the shield.
As planned, Lord Havion was heeding a call to the Queens palace, his haste was undeniable and Tyran knew she had little time to act. She leapt from her place of hiding, and sped down to the brick road, dagger and sword employed. Latching onto the back of the carriage she hauled herself onto its roof top, her finger tips squelched on the slick metallic surface, rain still hammering down hard she tried her best to remain where she was, pressing her body hard against it so as not to be blown off. Practically crawling she reached the front of the vehicle. Stealthily she lowered herself so she was sat just behind the driver, covering his mouth with one hand she slit his throat with other, he made a muffled gurgling sound and was dead. She kissed his temple softly and tossed the body from the chariot, it resembled a rag doll as it rolled about on the brick road and was quickly consumed by the darkness.
Quickly she separated the horses from their binds; they galloped off, still following the street. The slowing in momentum caused a stir from within. Tyran closed her eyes as the vehicle came to a complete halt, angry shouts in a foreign tongue bellowed towards the dead driver. Three guards, dressed in twill and draped in silver tabards emerged, swords in hand they made for the drivers seat, nothing. Confused at the lack of even horses they surveyed the surrounding area.
Tyran slipped into the carrage, unseen she silently set the door ajar. Opposite her sat an elderly man, night robes surrounded his person and his jets of silver hair were messy. His eyes were puffy and red, wrinkles etched his features, he’d clearly been woken from a slumber. Before Havion could raise an alarm, Tyran buried her sword into his stomach, raking upwards until she hit a rib, tumbling guts. He gave a low croak, his aged eyes glazed over; crimson stained his night robes, Tyran planted a soft kiss to his temple and vanished.

A sphere of deepest red circulated above, its bloody sheen glimmered in an unnatural aura which propelled onto the walls of the oval shaped room. It began to bubble, vibrating violently, its once solid appearance now resembled liquid as it splashed and stretched. Before long the sphere had taken the shape of a humanoid, its features still sketchy, but clearly an elderly man. A few moments passed, the illusion was crafting its final works on the man, dress robes and all. Once completed, he was recognisable to the spectators below, Lord Havion drifted lazily above their heads, and his night robes swam about him as if he was frozen within invisible water, his fatal wound included in the image.
‘What do we know of the assassin?’ A woman called from within the crowds.
‘Scarce little,’ Bervic confessed in a sigh ‘only this.’ He gave a lazy flick of his hand and Havion’s shade fell to the ground, unsteadily he stood, in a robust manor, as if an infant learning for the first time. ‘Turn.’ Havion stiffly moved so he stood parallel to the crowd, Bervic pointed to the lipstick stain on his temple ‘a calling card, one was found too on the driver, a one Mr. Pentisal, a devoted husband and loving father.’ Bervic’s already wrinkled brow creased further, he’d little patience for assassins, they held no honour and to a militant such as he, to have no honour was to have no worth.
‘What action is required Paladin Bervic?’
‘My personal band of paladins are already attempting to track the culprit, I shall lead their search. The murder of one with such high status is a treasonable offence, capital punishment being the only response. If there are no more questions I shall have to ask you all to disperse.’
Soundly the mass of people were directed through a pair of large oak doors, guarded by two paladins, draped in gold and white the paladins stood several heads above any other. Holy warriors born and breed for the battle, only the most ruthless gain such a noble status. Their hardened faces presented no emotion, most littered with scars, although plate helmets covered this. Never allowed wedlock their undivided love devoted to their god, the only true alliance they held. For they moved in a pack, forming allegiances with who ever presented them with the most coin, or magic resources, their only cause is to serve their single god and to survive in a growingly dangerous world.

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

A-L

A few grammar errors here and there, I think you meant spoiled instead of 'spoilt' croak or perhaps moan instead of 'crock' and 'and was vanished' should be and vanished. Other than that the story was very detailed and I liked its pace. Your opening sentence drew me in and I would really enjoy reading more, good job .

Please read and comment Metropolis (science fiction, fantasy) anything would be appreciated.

Wilem

Thanks for the comment, A-L. I've corrected the mistakes and will post an updated version shortly. (Although my Grammar is still bad, all I can do is try )
If you mean the very first sentence " The seal of the Crimson Rose.
For generations deemed lost, a forgotten creed, a pack between united ancestries." sorry I've gotten rid of it, the whole paragraph might just need rewording but it didn't fit into my plot reading back through it.

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

bloberville

very good start to what im sure "would be" a very good story, i want you to post more and try and stick out the whole story. Great desciptive talent and if it wernt for your small problems with some grammar and spelling id give it 10/10 =)

Wilem

Bervic exhaled a sigh; he surveyed the shade of Havion. The cold dead eyes store at nothing, unblinking, drained of colour. The lipstick stain stole his view. Wrinkling his nose at the injustice he moved in closer, something about the stain intrigued him. Their large, plump size, their length and thickness, he knew of only one type of human with lips so. As the paladins returned from ushering the crowds Bervic hailed them ‘Venice,’ he nodded towards one and then to the other ‘Gawn,’ they stiffened and snapped smart salutes. ‘Easy troopers,’ they stood at ease ‘I’ve acquired some information that might give us a lead on our killer. Venice, go forth to the elders council, tell them that my band and I have ventured into the realm of Dorthan.’

‘Dorthan Baby!’ She let out a high pitched screech and flung both arms into the air, letting her hair fly behind her, she closed her eyes feeling the soft kissing of the sun upon her face and body. Wind lashed about her causing her free hair to flutter about behind her. The serenity of it all, the thrill of freedom, the exhilaration of escape and the pride of victory, she beamed at the thought of Rinthera waking, only to find one of their nine Lords dead.
‘It’s beautiful Tyran,’ she glanced to her side, the skinny man that was Isolin trotting along side her, his mane of golden brown hair tied back in a slick pony tail that lashed around behind him in the wind. He turned to her and gave a boyish smile, revealing rows of milky white teeth hidden within a small cut beard, which was the fashion of the time. He was draped in a simple red cloth robe with, what seemed to be, a long stick strapped to his back.
‘You said it Isolin, we’ll be back in the old town before sunset.’ She whipped her view back towards the road ahead, Isolin kept his gaze fixed; her hard face was stern and fierce, unloved and dirty. Her hair was a wild fury of tangled black mess, she was stronger build than he but still slender, dressed in leather that left little to the imagination. A sword strapped to her back and a dagger tucked into her belt completed the look. Despite his preferences, Isolin found himself horribly attracted to her, although he knew better, he’d always been taught by mother to go for the good girls, he knew her reputation with menfolk and yet he still found him lingering over her assets.
Tyran spoke through a sigh ‘I can’t wait to see Ranult again, ya know?’
‘Hmm.’ Isolin didn’t really take in what he’d heard, but tore his eyes from her, quickly thinking up a response ‘Yeah, I bet he’s settled down, making a nice house husband of himself.’
‘Ya think?’
‘Well, he was pretty taken in by Mrs. Faulks daughter.’
‘Cartherine? Nah, that bitch couldn’t give him the right stuff.’ She winked at him, a cheeky grin spread from ear to ear ‘besides, she’s a militant, imagine her approaching Ranult’s mum to ask for his hand.’ She laughed; Isolin joined her, although in truth he didn’t really get the joke.
‘How long have we been gone, a good two, maybe three years?’
‘Two years seven months,’ Isolin blushed slightly at knowing the exact time was two years, seven months, three weeks, and five days ‘roughly.’ He added, for safe measurements.
Tyran whistled ‘A pretty damn long time then. Got much of your escort money left?’
The little he’d been paid barely covered the expenses of his horse, it reached far enough to buy him a new pack but apart from that he knew he’d been robbed in the deal.
‘Yeah… a good amount,’ He’d no place to complain, menfolk couldn’t ‘I’ll just be happy to be home in truth.’
‘I hear that, good old Blisfrix eh?’
‘Indeed.’

The sun scattered its last rays of light across Dorthan before retreating behind the horizon, to allow the moon and its many stars to gaze down upon the earth.
‘Ok so maybe I was w-wrong about being home by sunset,’ Tyran said, unsteadily through chattering teeth ‘bah, this wind cuts to the b-bone!’ She pulled her blanket tighter around herself ‘Start a fire will ya.’
Isolin rolled his eyes ‘I’m already d-drained but I’ll do my b-best.’ He stood letting his blanked fall to the ground, his lips blue from the chill. He employed his stave, muttering a chant he moved the stick in a steady flow, spinning it around himself. Small orange motes sparked into life around him, spinning with the wand they rained down on a space of ground between Tyran and himself, before long a cosy fire burnt happily, battling both darkness and cold.

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

bloberville

to the newly constructed prologue: inspiring work and very good description. Im a bit confused about this whole onlookers standing and walking away... usually onlookers i imagine people who are standing already and watching from afar apart, maybe thats just me! il b interested to read the rest when!

Wilem

Thanks for your comments Bloberville, I've posted another section just above you. As for the onlookers, I think it can be used in either sense .
Again thanks for your comments and keep 'em coming.

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

A-L

Seriously I really do like your stuff.

Wilem

Thank you very much A-L and Bloberville. Means a lot to me to hear someone I don't know say that, since I have little confidence in my work and seemed to be surrounded by yes men who feel obligated to say they like it.

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

Wilem

‘I’m so bored of this way of sleeping...’ Tyran said, reaching towards the artificial fire, her hair working as curtains over her eyes.
‘And I,’ he glanced up at her, instantly feeling strong attraction, wetting his lips, gaze fixed, he spoke again ‘Ya’ know-’
‘No.’
‘Aww, hear me out.’
‘No, Isolin you try it every night.’
‘Just saying we’d be warmer if we shared our body heat is all.’ Folding his arms he fell backwards onto the floor, staring up at the coal-black carpet sky, encrusted with blinking stars, centred by the enormity of the moon. Illuminating the sky with a sheen of bone white.
‘It’s always larger here.’ Isolin sighed.
‘What?’
‘The moon. It’s bigger in Dorthan.’
Tyran craned her neck to marvel at it ‘Yeah, I guess it is it.’
‘Ever wonder about our significant, ya know?’ his words became slurred as slumber began to grip his mind ‘I mean, like, would it matter if I died tomorrow?’
Tyran fell backwards too, the hard cold ground could have been the most comfortable mattress in the whole of Dorthan for all she cared, sleep had beckoned and she was inclined to heed its call, with a muttered goodnight she surrendered, drifting into a realm of dreams.

As dawn broke it brought with it a new day, new prospects and yet another sore back. Tyran woke to the whiff of conjured porridge; she silently wished she’d hired a further skilled magicmancer, as she did every morning. But she knew Isolin beforehand, and she’d grown to quite appreciate the man, regardless of his desires, and his cooking.
‘Slop again is it?’ she groaned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
‘Only the best for us,’ Isolin scooped a spoonful of the grey mixture into a wooden bowl; he had to shake the spoon vigorously before the porridge came loose.
Handing the bowl to Tyran he sat next to her with his own, slightly smaller, portion of the breakfast. ‘Blisfrix today.’ He beamed.
Tyran let a lump of the porridge fall from her spoon, wrinkling her nose at it she responded with a grunt, and nibbled at the small amount left on the spoon.
‘Ya know, you still haven’t told me why we travelled Rinthera. It’s lucky I knew my way round the place. They don’t take kindly to Dorthanians.’ He swallowed in anticipation, he’d tried countless times to find out exactly why he’d been employed, each fell on deaf ears, ‘and since we’re almost home you can tell me, right?’
Tyran’s grey blue eyes met Isolin’s plain green, she tried staring him down, he remained unmoved. Sighing, she placed her hardly touched porridge on the ground. ‘Ok,’
‘Ok?’
‘Ok,’
‘Right, wow-’
‘Shut up! Do you want to know or not?’
Isolin raised his arms defensively ‘Yeah, sorry, go ahead.’
‘Lady Fryance-’
‘Lady Fryance!’ Isolin exclaimed, eyes wide, mouth ajar.
‘Yes Lady Fryance,’ Tyran seethed, getting annoyed ‘she presented herself before the Hall of Daggers-’
‘The special league assassin squad.’ Isolin interrupted with a smile, which was quickly wiped clear following Tyran’s expression.
‘Seriously, stump my flow once more and you’re not hearing it.’ He flashed red and diverted his eyes ‘anyway she presented herself before the Hall of Daggers and addressed us all.’

‘I thank you, members of the Hall of Daggers, for allowing me this hearing.’ Lady Fryance looked bizarre to the assassins, without her plate armour or royal cress. She looked… human, her silky golden hair reached down her back, past her buttocks and just above her knees. Her smooth skin, delicate bone structure and soft pink lips gave her the impression of a handsome woman. Her eyes told otherwise. Hard and fierce, they were unloved and stern, darkest hazel, almost black, they looked out of place. They looked the eyes of a warrior.
She took in her surroundings, the dark room was lit only by three wall mounted torches, they were for her benefit, since she knew assassins bore night vision abilities. From what she could see the room was rectangular, hall like but not quite long enough. A shield baring the sections cress hung from each wall. This particular cress was of a dagger and a sword crossing one another to create an X shape. Centring the room was a long wood polished table, ten seats set around it, nine of which occupied.
‘Apologies, your ladyship,’ one of the assassins occupying a nearby seat had addressed her, the woman had shoulder length jet black greasy hair, rat like features and black rings circling her beady eyes. ‘Marthia Quint’ she gestured to the unoccupied seat ‘is currently away on… business.’ Slowly Fryance nodded her acceptance and turned her attention back to the group as a collective.
‘As you know my presence is normally following a case in need of disciplinary action. You may all relax; I am not here on one such call.’ No one seemed to loosen their posture ‘Given our current situation politics isn’t going as we might have hoped.’ Her face darkened, she practically spat her next word ‘Rinthera, on the other hand seems to thrive in others misfortune. Not long ago Denta’reem lost three hundred acres of territory, the faction may not bind with us, but they are our neighbours and so the Queen has issued that we send a quarter of our fighting unit to aid their campaign. This act has, naturally, put us in direct conflict with the armies of Rinthera and has such caused the state to declare open war on us.’ She breathed ‘I stand before you today to employee one of the ten legends of the Hall of Daggers, your mission: travel Rinthera and assassinate each of these targets.’ She threw a parchment forward onto the table; it was passed around, each one of the assassins mouthing the names of the eight targets, several frowning and shaking their heads at the task.
‘What say you?’ Fryance pressured ‘who will aid Dorthan, which one of you shall slay in the name of Queen Almine?’
‘I shall.’ Spoke the woman seated furthest away from Fryance.
She smiled ‘Valliant warrior, speak your name.’
‘Tyran Vaince’

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

omginternetlord

Couple of suggestions.

Why not change this:

Into ", her hair curtaining over her eyes,"

And this:

into ", instantly attracted,"

Just cutting down, making it flow better will improve it.

Wilem

Alright, thanks for the suggestions, I'll have a closer look

__________________
The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

A-L

Cool. I like your characters so far.

Wilem

Alone, bathed in a weak beam of light, eradiating from a half burnt through candle, wax dripping from its tip creating small droplets that cooled down the remaining shaft. A small man, bent over a mountain of papers, his hand moving swiftly from one side of a parchment to the other and then back again. He lifted his wrist and gently rubbed it with his free hand. Giving a satisfied nod he carefully placed the parchment onto the smallest pile, although none of them were particularly small. A loud rap on the door startled him; he slipped, knocking his ink bottle to the ground.
Through muffled cursing he said, in a rather shaken tone, ‘Enter.’ He’d barely finished the word when the door swung open, colliding with a bookshelf neatly placed besides it. Several paladins, a Rintherian guardsman, and three men, each of whom dressed in particularly fine thread robes, strolled into the room.
Peering over his half moon spectacles at the oddly matched band, the man frowned, ‘Three Lords, two mercenaries and a simple guardsman,’ he chuckled at the frankly insulting underestimation of his skills ‘of what do I owe the honour?’
One of the Lords step forwards, a parchment unravelled in his hands ‘Raven Litherntorn,’ the Lord glanced over the paper towards the man, and nodding to himself he returned to reading ‘You stand accused of three counts. Your first, preventing the cause of justice. Your second, involvement in an active terrorist organisation. And your last, conspiring to commit high treason. You’ve no right to a trial, nor do you posses the right to a public hearing; you shall be executed come dawn.’ The lord motioned for the captures to move in ‘how do you pled?’ he added pointlessly.
‘Guilty.’
‘Good, then I’m right to assume you’ll come quietly.’
‘Not quite, no.’ Placing both hands together Raven rubbed them enthusiastically, grinning all the while ‘Let’s get it started then, shall we?’ Confused and slightly amused the paladins and guardsman exchanged bemused looks, but quickly took to advancing. In hushed tones the Lords began edging towards the door, used to causing scrums, not being involved in them.
A passing breeze circulated the room and left as randomly as it had arrived, baffled the advancing men froze. A single white feather fell before them all, they watched it’s decent, hypnotised by its snowy pureness.
‘What sorcery is this, old man?’
Raven shrugged ‘I guess… that of ill fortune.’ In the blink of an eye the weathered man had vanished from his chair. He now stood inches behind the backmost paladin, his towering physique made Raven seem little more than a small mutt on its hind legs. The man-giant spun around clumsily, waving a full face of black knotted beard with him, reaching to grasp the old man in his bear like paws, stumbling like a drunken over his own body weight he fell forward with a large thud. Although an onlooker might assume he fell on his own accord, Raven knew this to be untrue.
The remaining paladin and guardsman store at the lifeless body in horrified wonder, they noticed the quickly deleting flicker of purple lighting pulsate around his armour.
Face twisted with anger the paladin, equally as intimidating as his fallen comrade, drew his blade from a belt scarab, the moment he did so a small black sphere burst into existence, it floated just besides his head ‘You stupid bastard, fuck the hanging, I’m gutting you right where you stand!’ he lunged forward, not caring for technique, the blade hit home, slicing straight through Ravens chest.
His features remained unmoved, he showed no pain, nor surprise. The paladin raked upwards, meeting little, if any, resistance. Raven vanished, a smirk spread on his face before hand. Inspecting his blade the paladins face crumbled into a frown, not a spec of blood stained the steel, a cry of anguish stole his attention.
Across the room the guardsman was on his knees, a neat circular hole burnt through his torso, the paladin could see directly through it, blood foaming from his mouth the guardsman glanced down at his wound, painful wonder etching his features, with a gargled whimper his eyes glazed over, he fell forward, dead.
Dressed in a sinister, mocking grin, Raven rubbed his hands together, hopping from one foot to the other, ‘Now, for the finally!’ With a final, evil glare, he closed his eyes. Immediately his features became sketchy, drowned in a fuzzy haze, he began a slow mournful chant.
‘Not a chance!’ A new found sense of survival gripped the paladin; he charged forward, sword stuck out before him, screaming, the moment the steel touched the static surface it melted into little more than a blunt dagger, anxious he stumbled backwards over the paladin corpse, ‘Not me, no way!’ He could feel his blood bubbling as the spell came near completion, slowly he began to bloat. Standing again, he stumbled towards the door, he tried the knob, it was jarred, he began to bang, crying for a saviour.
‘Listen, it’s fallen quite.’ One of the lords mouthed, sure enough the racket had died down, ‘Let’s assume they’ve captured him and he died during the… apprehension?’ the others nodded their agreement.
‘What the state does not know cannot cause them harm.’ Another put in, curling his whiskers thoughtfully, suddenly an agonising scream came from within the room shortly followed by a spine chilling squelch. ‘Let us move on.’

Watching the peons of every day life charge about their pointless business, weaving through the crowds of fellow weavers living in filth and poverty, she watched them, through eyes of discrimination.
Her pale powdered skin was smothered in makeup, a multicoloured dress of the finest thread and quill within the whole of Rinthera draped around her plump figure, snowy white gloves, un-creased and decorated in expensive gems, covered her delicate hands. Finally upon her head she fashioned a crown of purest gold, several gems encrusted in its many tilts.
Queen Humtress, known to many subjects as ‘warm heart Hummy’, strolled from her window and practically fell into one of her royal thrones. A servant hastily sped across the room with a stool for her to place her feet. She yawned, glancing around the room at the many faces, each of whom beamed back at her; she was sickened by the feigned smiles. Make no doubt, she’d have any of them killed in a second if they presented themselves otherwise to her, but she’d rather have fake popularity than to see peoples real feelings of her. A rap came from the door opposite. She nodded at one of the paladins securing the doors, he pried them open, making sure not to create a screeching noise, Humtress had killed a guard, a paladin, for opening a door too quickly and creating that particular noise.
From the corridor stepped a silhouette, he was hunched forward, hairless and squinting through overly large glasses. He quite resembled a mole that had learnt to walk on twos. He shuffled halfway into the room, gave a generous bow and cleared his throat, ‘Your highness,’ his voice boomed through the room, deep and confident, startling for those who’d never witnessed him before. ‘How are we today?’
‘Bored, Frightmuan, very bored.’ Her voice was high and overly girlish.
‘Well, I come baring news of our campaign abroad-’
The Queen yawned, interrupting the mole man. ‘Has a new Lord been selected yet Frightmuan?’
‘Well, ma’am, with all due respect, the selection of the Lords is only within your powers and we’ve not-’
‘Oh, very well, you’ll do.’ She waved her hand lazily as if to dismiss him.
‘Ma’am?’
Rolling her eyes, Humtress mocked his voice with a girlish giggle, the whole room burst into fake laughter, it ceased the moment she spoke. ‘You’re my new Lord.’
Frightmuan mopped his brow ‘Your Highness, I do not mean to… contradict your word, but…’
‘But?’
‘But, a Lord must be of noble blood, I am but a modest politician and cannot compete for such a glory, ma’am.’ He stammered and ended with a bow.
‘Fine,’ she turned to a servant ‘find someone with noble blood and tell them they’re a Lord, now.’
Watching the servant scurry away, Frightmuan spoke again ‘Your highness, regarding the empires position. The house of war has passed a bill declaring that all men, from the age of seventeen onwards are hereby automatically enrolled into the armed forces, magical or warrior.’ Noticing the Queen wasn’t paying him much heed, he spoke louder, ‘This is in order to boost numbers in the ongoing war in northern Prodlince, bordering the Denta’reem territory.’
‘Prodlince is a silly name, don’t you think?’ Humtress said, dreamily.
‘Yes, quite, but we can’t rename the continent.’ Growing impatient, Frightmuan fought back the annoyance in his tone.
‘Can we not? Shame, I’d quite like to name it all Rinthera one day.’
‘Rinthera is an empire, ma’am, one of three that dominates Prodlince.’ He spoke as if address an infant, imparting knowledge onto one less informed.
‘Who are the others?’ she sounded alarmed.
In disbelief Frightmuan’s jaw dropped slightly, he considered, for a brief moment, that she was joking and would soon start laughing, nothing happened. ‘Dorthan… and Denta’reem.’
‘Well are we culling the threat? When did they form? Are they renegade Rintherians?’ She’d risen from her seat, scowling towards the man before her.
‘Ma’am… We’ve been at open war with both empires for just under three years. They formed before you or I were inhabitances of this world.’ He’d noticed a potential strength to the Queens sudden vulnerability, ‘Now, as for the culling of these empires, I’ve a proposal for you.’
‘Speak it.’
‘Well, my lady, recant events have seen the enemy gain an upper hand on the war front. Which is, of course, inexcusable, I propose we use a weapon that’s still being developed but is in all aspects perfectly safe for usage.’ He chuckled, ‘Well, not for whoever’s at the receiving end.’ He crossed his fingers secretly.
After a short whiles hesitation the Queen nodded ‘Very well Frightmuan, you may use your weapon. I don’t wish to know what it is, but inform me of its effectiveness.’ He bowed and turned to shuffle away, ‘Oh and Frightmuan make sure these renegades don’t get too out of control. I’m a terribly busy person you know.’ With that she went back to inspecting the many rings littering her hands.

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The cake, it is a lie!
Questioning everything but learning nothing since 1991.

TevenB

I like your story so far. Theres nothing I can point out that no one else already has. I cant wait to read more!