I started this when I was 14yrs old, almost three years ago now and it just never seemed to take off and I lost interest in it after this first bit. I don't like it that much anymore tbh =S
Enjoy it anywho
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As the moon rose high into the bitter cold sky Arvel collected his thoughts and dipped his quill awkwardly into the ink well. By muted candlelight he hunched painfully over his desk and began to put his thoughts and deepest, innermost feelings onto parchment. The dark raven's feather quivered swiftly as words beyond description flowed from the nib onto the parchment, as if a torrent of tortured memories had been unleashed. As the quill stopped moving, Arvel closed his eyes drearily and took a long deep wheezy breath. As he exhaled he slowly turned his head towards the small, almost unnoticeable window and a smile broke out on his old weathered face. His ageing features exaggerated by the pale moon light which streamed into the bleak unsettling room of which he sat. He steadily got to his feet and heaved the old bulky book shut. Dust escaped from the ruffled leaves of the book and the blast of air blew the small candle out. With great difficulty he began to prepare a small fire. He drew a long black cloak around himself for additional warmth. Roughly he rubbed his frail bony hands together over the wave of flames and snarled as sparks from the fire caught the edges of his cloak. His long fair hair fell in strands over shoulders and it was obvious the icy weather was taking its toll on him. He shivered ever so slightly as a breeze entered the cramped room. Winters here were bitter, cold and harsh. The only form of heat existing was that from the dancing flames of gentle infernos. Brushing his hair out of his face he stared blankly into the forever moving colours. Painful memories, deep scars and piercing words came flooding back once again. It was this that tortured him so. It was this that made him toss and turn at night. Arvel was trapped, trapped within his own pain. His weary body and fragile mind too damaged with words and actions to go on for much longer. He was to forever to be haunted in his silent slumber. Amongst all this pain however lied anger, and a hunger. An insatiable hunger for revenge. A fire burned deep inside of him and nothing would be able to douse this fire, for it was a flaming passion, one that would rot his soul if ever released onto the world. Remembering the reasons for his agony he rose sharply and howled. Not only was his withering body aching, but his heart was too.
*
As the sun rose early the next morning, it cast a striking orange glow onto the earth below it. The scene was breathtaking. The fresh icicles reflected the sun's radiant glow and slowly dripped water onto the snow-white soil below. In the distance the town's people were already rushing about like ants before rainfall. Arvel was already wide-awake. His dull grey eyes cloudy and wide from the lack of sleep. His thin lips curled down at the sides as he heard the town awakening, he snarled and mumbled to himself. Before leaving his dwelling he covered the old book with a moth-eaten blanket and took hold of his long cloak. The air outside was fresh and cold. Arvel's breath clung onto the early morning mist and he began rubbing his scrawny hands together.
