Malachi

First part of first chapter, tell me what you folks think and I will post the rest of the chapter.

Elinadria
PROLOUGE - The Champion of Morath
As darkness fell Evrya steeled his nerves to face his people. At first he had craved release from the small wooden room, nestled high on the mountainside, but strangely now it felt like home. As he stepped out into the night air, it was a strange mix of freedom and burden. The torches danced in his eyes, thousands spread out on the plain below him.

Looking back into the four walls of shabby wood, the struggle they symbolized was still fresh in his mind. He had no way of counting the days, or the young messengers that had ran to the front door -- never opening and only asking that one question.

"Now?"

In the beginning, as he slowly succumbed to the hunger and weakness, he thought maybe it would never come and he would die alone in the small wooden room. Without him his people would not be able to hang on. Already they survived much longer then they rightfully should have, and Evrya knew that the darkness that was swallowing them all would succeed. He would die a failure, and leave his people lost. He began to pray more and more desperately.

The one night, after his body had been pushed to it's end, came a bit of hope. He had been lying on the ground, weakness and blackness finally closing in on him. Desperately he focused, searching within himself for the power that was his birthright. If he had passed out then, he may never have awakened.

Then, when time was surely running short, and sweat drenched his body, the flame came, the light a blinding flash in the deep darkness. For a moment it was his, the Forfin, the ancient rage. The brief flash, the fleeting flames, proved his bloodline, though Evrya never truly held doubt. It wasn't much, but it gave him strength and sustenance. Drained, sleep had claimed him that night, and dimly he hoped that he had done enough to keep himself alive.

The next day, as hard as he tried, he could not re-call the flame. The messengers came twice, sometimes three times a day.

"Now?"
"No."
"Now?"
"No."

Even the young ones who came, who surely could not understand the true importance and necessity of his success, had begun to let frustration and worry creep into their voice.
Again he began to grow weak. He realized that he still might fail, even though he had been able to call the flame once already.

Usually he sat with his back to one wall, looking dimly across at the small wooden door that he would eventually exit if he succeeded. If he failed, he would die in this room. The door made him sick now, and he turned from it, crossing his legs and facing the corner. Even in the day there was hardly any light in the small room, hardly any light anywhere for that matter. In the corner, in the absolute darkness, he began to loose desperation in place of peace.

And then, finally, he learned. He learned to touch to power of his people, and he learned to touch the power with in himself. Yet he still was not satisfied. Starving in the room for so many days had left his muscles weak, and his frame gaunt. Now that the flames would come at his will, and with them strength and nourishment, he had no reason to rush.

"Now?" Came the young voice brimming with hope.
"No."

He vowed would face his people like a king, and in full command of his power. So he practiced, making sure to keep the flames small so as not to burn down the shack around him. He laid flat on the ground extending his arms under him and pushed, or used the wooden beams to pull himself up, making his muscles scream and helping to regain what they had lost.

After working all day and all night long (for how many days he would never know), he was satisfied. He could command the flames with power and precision, and he weighed even more now then when he started in the wooden room. He would never forget his struggles there, but wanted to let his people see he would not be so easily broken.

And then, as it always did, the young voice came.
"Now?"
Finally the answer was, "Yes"

Then through the thin wooden door, without disregarding the profound significance it held in his life, he gave his first order as the king of his people.

"When all trace of light has faded from these dark skies, in the blackest of night I will come. The ceremony is tonight, they must get ready, and in haste. Now fly, and deliver my words so that they may be carried out in time."

Evrya was sure it broke custom to speak as a king before even stepping out of the dark room. Before he went to his people and showed them the power of his birthright he wasn't officially recognized, but things had changed. He knew he had been on the mountainside without food for a great many days, easily over a month. The fact that he lived was alone enough proof that he commanded the strength of the ancients. He also knew how his people yearned for leadership and guidance. To long had they been without king; the ten long years since his father had died.

Murderers. Red devils.

So Evrya waited, and contemplated. He waited until even the slightest trace of light relented it's struggle to shine through the thick blackness in the sky, and the torches lit the valley below him and danced in his eyes. Thousand held their lights, arranged in a enormous half circle below Sentra, his hometown and the name sake of his people.
My people, whom I shall not fail. We will crawl from this existence, this desperate cling on survival. If there is any chance, any way, I will find it.

Evrya made that vow. He would not relent until the breath was gone from his lungs. Looking down, he took a deep breath.

The descent of the steep mountainside was treacherous. It was known, depending on who you talked to, as either Kingsmount or Kingslayer. It was tradition that every Sentra King should scale the cliff side and lock himself up in fast to receive the gift of his bloodline, and then journey down again. Tradition denied that any of the Sentra should speak as they waited their kings descent, torches held in silent vigil. Often, when so weakened and drained from his trials, the descent would prove deadly, and the Sentra would watch in silence, much as they were that very day, as their future king fell to his death.

Evrya said a silent prayer as the tip of the ruins that clung stubbornly on at the very peak of the mountain finally slipped from view. An ancient temple where the original kings of his people come into their birthright, it was replaced by the small wooden shack many years ago when it's structure finally proved an unnecessary risk on an already treacherous task. Evrya thanked that temple, and the lessons his ancestors had left him. It was those lessons that made him stay in the room, gaining full and complete control of his mind and body, and the new strengths gifted to him.

The purchase became more and more scant, and the rocks became more and more loosely packed. Each step was a gamble. If the rock held, then Evrya could cautiously continued his descent. If it proved weak it was a scramble backwards to more solid ground. He watched many of these rocks tumble violently down, spinning madly and angrily drifting back in to crash loudly on the cliff side.

Evrya began, if only for a moment, to resent tradition.

"They finally built a path, so more then one in three of the young messengers sent would actually survive, and yet their glorious king must scale up and down this monstrous hunk of ancient earth like a mountain goat," he muttered to himself.

The thought at least brought a smile, one of the few he had enjoyed in the past ten years.

Father. Red Murderers. The might of the Sentra is your fate.

And the smile faded, but Evrya shook his thoughts, focusing on his path downward.

Suddenly a rock that had seemed firm gave way in a cloud of dust, completely shattering under his full weight. With neither time or momentum enough to propel him self backwards to safety, the cliff side was suddenly rushing by, small rocks and chunks of earth pelting his face. Panic gripped Evrya, and dimly in the back of his mind he thought he heard a gasp of worry, or a moan of pain, from the crowd assembled below.

In an instant time froze, the gasp playing slowly in the back of his mind like a death rattle. In that sound he heard the assurance of his death, and the desperation and sure doom of his people. They had broken Sentra law, by uttering even the semblance of a word during the vigil, and yet it filled him with joy, even in the face of death, that his people loved him enough to push custom to the wayside.

He only regretted he wouldn't be alive long enough to reprimand them.

He felt his body drifting back towards the rocks, towards crushing death. He ordered his eyes shut, and it seemed an eternity passing before they complied. A thousands thoughts rushed through his head, in that long moment as his eyes closed and his people moaned.

Failure. Death. Father. Murder. Sentra. Extinct. Blackness. Consuming.

Never.

And he fell, the wind whipping his clothes violently. He kept his eyes tightly shut, the darkness his final view. Suddenly the wind stopped, and all was still. He was sure that death had come, and thankful at least that the gods had spared him any pain.

Then, at first only dimly, he became aware of feeling, of breath. He felt a strain on his right arm, and his legs swinging below. From somewhere in the distance a sound replaced the moaning gasp. It was hard to discern it's meaning, especially in the jumbled heap of thoughts, questions, and feelings that inhabited Evrya mind in that pensive moment, but he was sure of one thing; it was a relieved sound.

He finally swallowed and took a deep breath, before daring to open his eyes. At first just peeking, unsure of just what he would see, and then fully opening his eyes. The rocky cliff side still filled his vision, a particularly jagged edge a scant inch from his face. His breath caught in his throat once more.

Am I floating?

Then his eyes traced up. His right arm was stretched towards the sky, and on his hand burned the Forfin. In the past the brute heat and power of the furious flames had been used in many ways. Whenever lit they would give strength and nourishment to the Sentra, keeping them alive as the Morosia slowly and methodically swallowed them. Also they where great weapons of battle, burning those who meant harm to the Sentra in righteous blue light, though the distance and strength of the flame always depended on the strengthen of it's wielder. Never had the flame been more then a tool of survival, or crude warfare.

What he saw now, in the blue flame at his fists, was a miracle and wholly unheard of. From where it burned painlessly on his hands it extended up, changing shape. It formed into what looked to be a hand, large and thick. That thick hand now clung tightly to the cliff side, stopping his fall and saving his life. He looked at the ominously sharp rock that swung just before his eyes, and knew that if he would have fallen even the slightest moment longer his death would have been sure.

Finally freeing the breath in his throat , he took a glance down. He had fallen almost all the way, the ground only a few hundred feet below. With a quick, yet vigorous, prayer to his ancestors he continued down to his people, hoping whatever force of destiny that saw fit to save his life once would hold out just a bit longer.

phurst

I see you have one post. Why would you want people to critique your work without returning the favor. I'll go ahead and do a few lines for you but that's all till you have proven that you're willing to help others. Fair enough?

Strange twice in first para.
You should explain why this guy was weak/dying and why he was depended on so much. It holds little interest in the first few paragraphs. Plus I don't know, when, where, what, or why.

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Any questions? PM me because I may not return to your post again.

Do your part, find a 0 reply post and help them out.

I am what I am and you made me that way.

Necromortis

^I hardly think that's fair really.

It was an interesting concept. Starvation to bring about a birthright is pretty cool, I liked the idea. You may want to up the pace a little in the beginning, I found myself skimming with my eyes to see when he'd finally get whatever it was he was searching for.

The part which describes his fall seems forced, especially when his fall stops and he thinks that he's dead. I don't know, maybe I'm being silly or something, but it doesn't seem natural at all. However, I liked how the crowd broke tradition there, it was a nice touch.

Keep writing, I'd read more.

~Christian

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Malachi

Thanks for the feedback, I just found this site so I am sure to review some stories in the near future.

Malachi

His legs shook violently under him when his feet finally reached solid ground, and he struggled to gain his composure. Before him a sea of still faces stood like a stone wall crowned in flame. Already he had almost failed them, nearly dying the way he vowed he never would. The hope or fear they might feel did not show in their eyes, nor did any sign of doubt. Only resolve, and a strange sad courage. They would do their part as Sentra, even if it meant killing Evrya that night, should he be found lacking. There was a great compassion in his people, but compassion hadn't kept them alive for the ten years since his father had died.

He kept his eyes forward, and his head high was he walked past the two long rows of stoic faces. He felt a slight stir as the people he passed fell in behind him, one by one. Of all the moments in his life he had previewed in his mind, events and trials that would surly befall him if he ever hoped to accomplish his goals, this day, his first as king, was the one that sowed the most doubt. It was now, in front of everyone he had ever known, that he would take the weight of every Sentra's life on his shoulders. Since he was ten he had been waiting for this day, sometimes with dread and sometimes with impatient vengeance. Had he been a normal man he would just this year be accepted as an adult, and able to speak freely to other men. Instead people had been hanging on his words since before he would lift an axe, and always with the same confidence and pride.

Tonight was different. The time had come, there was nothing left to plan or imagine. All that mattered was success.

The sea of faces began to blur, as Evrya quickened his step. The large tent that lay at the south end of Sentra finally came into view. Both sides of the curved crowd came together at that tent, which was where all of the most important decisions and choices where discussed, and eventually decided. Though he trusted his teachers and would always heed their advice, they were now advisors rather then mentors. Every decision, large or small, was now his to make.

There, on the small dais that had been built near the tent's entry, stood the men who had for so long been his guides. It would be hard to look upon them now with anything less then veneration, but of course they had taught him better then that.

Sakrin, his father’s best friend and constant companion. It was he who had led the Sentra as Evrya grew into a man. Next to him was Kreg, master of the darkly pious Darkfin. Older then any other Sentra, and by far, he still held a deadly air. These were men of the highest honor among the Sentra, yet they had also been his close friends as raised him into man.

Now they both stood waiting for Evrya, but their faces were dark. For Kreg it was almost normal, his face seemed stuck in a permanent scowl, but Sakrin usually had a warm smile. Kindness and guidance had ended, and turned now to cold expectation.

He stopped his stride short of them, putting his arms at his sides and waiting. He stared into the eyes of both men, but it was Sakrin who finally stepped forward. His loose tan robes swirled at his sides, and the dark hair he kept long followed suit in the light breeze. His eyes, a much lighter brown that most Sentra, seemed a piercing green in the bright glow of torches.

The words came cold .

"Evryafin Sentrain , son of Raygefin Sentrain, last of the Royal line, your place among our people is different than any king of our past. With your failure comes our final end, yet you are also a bright hope. In the past receiving a king was a strict ceremony, as some remember with your father. This is a new age for us, and I speak the heart of our people today, instead of in ancient times."

The crowd seem to press in even more tightly around him at Sakrin words.

"This day will signify much more then the crowning, or the death, of a king." For just a moment pain crept into Sakrin's voice, but was quickly quelled. "The future of every Sentra is decided today, for without a king of the royal line, one who can call on the aid and power the ancients, without that strength we are nothing." Evrya wished Sakrin would stop, but he knew this to be necessary.

"Some of us may wander to, and be accepted by, one of the six other clans, but many will die in dark dry land. Swallowed up by the Morosia, like so many of our brethren, swallowed up and left starve. Even with you leading, and the strength you will lend our people, the Sentra are a breath from extinction. Our farms have dried, and more then a year past every store of food ran clean. The other clans look at us hungrily, sensing our end.

"I say this not to dishearten, but rather let us all know that our fate as Sentra, and as individuals, is at grave risk. For these ten long years I have never lied, but it was hard for me to readily come forth with grim news. Yet this day is truly the judgment of our people. As a whole we must come together, in full awareness of the final consequences. We can no longer shield ourselves from the death that stares down on us now, dark and thick in the sky. We have clung here between emptiness and flame, and yet it has given our people strength."

With that Sakrin closed his eyes gently, seeming to search inwardly. Evrya felt slight anger stirring in the back of his mind, realizing the truth of Sakrin’s words. We are stuck between emptiness and flame, but I shall make them pay.

"Your are for to young, to be asked this," came Sakrin’s faint whisper, barely reaching even Evyra's ears. He continued, speaking a bit louder but with his eyes still closed. "For years our people have honored the new king with tales of all he may accomplish in his years of reign. We must now make our hopes a bit more humble.

“I step down now from my stewardship of the Sentra,” said Sakrin, finally opening his eyes.

"And I, also step down in my role to the people." Kreg intoned from behind Sakrin in a solemn voice.

"And we are naked, Evrya," Sakrin said, voice thick. "We beg you now, a people lost, save us."

There was a great silence, and then; "Summon the Forfin. Show us the worth of your blood." said Kreg and Sakrin in unison. The ceremony, though surly much different then those in the past, had finally come to him.

Evrya raised his hands and released.

*************

It was the dusky grey of noon before the ancient city came into view. Large rectangular ruins towered high over head, surly only a shadow of their original height. The ancient buildings seemed to be made with materials and techniques that were nothing like that used in Morath. Precise angles and lines, large flat clear rocks. The few times Evrya had been to see the oracle, these strange relics were always the most exciting part of the trip.

I would never argue the Darkfin’s mastery of poison and the Dafinark technique, but this Oracle knows nothing of the ancients. It shouldn’t even matter, I am king now, I shouldn’t be sent off on a journey like a common messenger.

Still, he knew he was being childish, this was his fault after all. He had just wanted them to see he was fit to lead. Sakrin’s words had been too much.

We are naked We beg you now, a people lost, save us.

Seeing the man who had held so strong for the Sentra for ten years finally collapse in relief that a king had come, well it shook Evrya. The fear in his eyes lent more to the dire state of the Sentra more then any words could. So when they called for the Forfin, Evrya had just wanted to push away the sadness, so he let go, completely.

The flames had shot through the sky, lighting even the dark Morosia above. The crowd erupted, finally able to release their silence. Dozens of people crowded in around him, praising the size and strength of his flames. They had promised Sentra would rise to power among the clans, with a leader like Evrya. They were all so happy, so full of hope. Evrya thought he had succeeded.

Then the first rock hit, striking a man next to Evrya, cleanly cleaving his skull in half. Instantly those around him jumped , taking Evrya to the ground and covering him for protection. Evrya heard a few more loud thuds, and a woman’s cry. Then there was silence.

He turned the block rock in his hand, wondering if it really was a piece of the Morosia, blasted out of the sky by the strength of the Forfin. Whether or not it really did, Kreg had demanded he travel to the Oracle. The Morosia actually falling the day a new, and possibly the last, Sentra king is named was more the random luck.

The small cave tucked into the rock side just before the ancient city was where the Oracle lived. Several clans sought her for advice, and brought her food and drink, yet it seemed all had strangely different beliefs regarding her. To Kreg, and therefore the Sentra, she was of the highest honor.

Evrya, though, had never put much stock in her visions. The farms would never re-grow, no matter the praying and rituals performed, not if the sun was unable to touch the ground.

Instead of calling his name and requesting and audience, he walked towards the two men that stood at the opening of the cave. Neither of the men were of the Sentra, and from their stance they seemed to belong to separate clans. Evrya wasn’t entirely sure how the guards were rotated.

They took notice of him, and took a slight step forward. Evrya flared the Forfin, lighting the grey sky in a quick flash. They both took a long look at him and stepped back. Regardless of how each clan felt about one another, times were far to desperate to risk war by disrespecting an enemy king.

He strode past them and through the mouth of the cave. A small passage lead to the large single room were the Oracle lived. The few times he had been here with Kreg she had always been sprawled on her lavish bed next to a roaring fire. This time is was no different, but now the Oracle appeared to be sleeping.

“Oracle, I have come for guidance,” Evrya said loudly. She didn’t stir.

“Oracle?” he questioned as he walked closer to her bedside, to gain a closer look. Her eyes were wide and wild, and she shook wildly as bits of salvia flung from her jerking mouth.

“What is this!” Evrya yelled as he fell to his knees at her side.

Suddenly her eyes caught his, and she seemed to shake a little less violently as her head craned towards his.
“Champion…..Morath…” she said, her jaw chattering.

“What? What is it? What has happened?”

“A true vision…” the Oracle said. Her eyes went cold, and her body still.

Evrya looked down on her in disbelief.

What is going on?

Then the oracles lungs filled up quickly with a final rough breath, though her eyes remained blank. Her lungs seemed to expel slowly, a wispy smoke rising from her mouth, and forming three strange words.

It was those words that would change Evyra’s life more then he could ever imagine, and send him farther then he knew he could go.

There like smoke frozen in the breeze; Ga Fetyui Elinadria

Malachi

There is part 2 of chapter one