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Addict
Join Date: Nov 2006
Location: Central Indiana
Gender: Male
Posts: 123
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Citadel of the Dead
This is something that I just dug up. It was going to be a major introduction for a short story that I had planned out, I just never got around to fleshing the remainder of the tale onto my computer, so this is what I have written. Tell me what you think. What you liked, didn't like, the flow of the story and the realisticness (not a word, but it is now) of the piece and whether or not you would read more of it, if there was more. Thanks, and enjoy!
The old man woke with a start.
He was still lying on his back, sand beneath his gaunt, fragile, aged body. Carefully, he rose to his feet, collecting his cane as he rose, putting most of his weight upon it; using it as leverage, until he was able to stand on his own two feet without relying on it too much.
Cursing the Seven Gods, he slowly ran his gnarled hands down the front of his now ruffled cloak. It was caked with sand and stale dried salt water that had crusted over forming a thick film on his cloak.
"Why does this have to happen to me?" The old man grumbled to himself, "Granted, I've got a few years left in me, but why rush death? It's not like I have anyone waiting for me on the other side. Lonely old man, I am." He mumbled under his breath, as he again, cursed the Seven Gods with loathing hatred.
He made his way across the cave in the dark, until he stumbled upon a crate of goods that had busted open against the large rock walls that held him in the haunting dark. His hands brushed against a leather sack, and he pulled it open without hesitation, sinking his gnarled hand into its depths.
He pulled out what he could only guess to be matches, and prayed to the Seven Gods that they were the special coated ones -- the ones that ignited even if they had been soaked in water for a millennium.
They were -- with a brush against the stone wall, and a sigh of relief, an eerie glow illuminated a portion of the rock wall, and his hard, leathery face, as the match sparked to life, giving the old man the one thing that he had wished for more than anything at that moment... fire.
The wooden body of the match didn't last long. Seconds later, the fire dissipated, leaving him in darkness once more. Grumbling and cursing, he drug another one against the rock. Using the small light that it offered, he bent down on his knees, and with one hand rummaged through the wooden crate, searching for anything he could use to help start a fire; even a torch to find his way around.
He found what he was looking for moments later. A large torch that still had the cloth attached to its tip. Hefting it up to his face, he took a deep sniff from it. Sure enough, the lighter fluid was still soaked into the old rag. A small smile played across his face, as fire ignited cloth, sending a dull light through the dark cavern, piercing the blackness.
Now that he had fire, it was time to move on.
Careful as to not drop the torch, the old man made his way back up to his feet. Torch in one hand, and cane in the other, he made his way once more across the cavern, past the spot were he had woken from minutes before.
The torches light slowly illuminated the dank cavern, revealing what had happened. He knew most of what had taken place -- the ship that he had boarded upon, had been taken over by pirates. What had been a large almost seemingly endless battle had taken place between the crew of the Citadel of the Dead, (the ship he had paid for safe passage upon... well, almost safe, that is.), and the pirates of the rather large ship that had boarded them in the middle of the Paliskin Ocean.
He had been on his way to the continent of Treaven. After close to forty-four years of living by himself in a small cottage, with only an annoying neighbor and the creations of his hobby to keep him occupied, he had grown bored of the life. And for the second time in his long human life, he craved adventure and excitement -- something that he believed was long overdue.
Well now old duff, you... this is what you wanted, wasn't it? Is this what you left your quant, boring life for? A nice person you are, breaking promises like that to yourself. You may still be lucky enough to have someone waiting for you in the Gray Place, eh? Don't you think? He argued with himself.
He pushed the voice out of his head, and concentrated on what lay ahead of him. Moments passed and all the while he kept the voice at bay, until finally it broke through his wall of silence, screaming at him.
Listen, can you hear that old man!? The voice in his head asked, bursting through the non-existent wall.
Indeed, he could hear the noise. It sounded like something bumping against wood. Someone possibly trying to get the attention of anyone who might have survived the wreck?
The Citadel of the Dead lay on its side; its guts busted against the side of the cavern, strewn out along the lip were sand met ocean. It was a large ship -- considered a warship of great stature amongst the Halodin Empire.
In fact, that had been part of the agreement. If he could put up with the threat of pirate attacks while on the open sea, he was granted safe passage to his chosen destination (as safe as could be expected that is) -- as long as it was on the way to were the large warship was destined.
The dull thump came again, only this time it had gained strength. Leaning the wooden cane against his disfigured leg, he cupped his hands around his whiskered face and spoke into them; amplifying his voice.
"Anyone still alive in there?" He yelled. The knocking had ceased.
"If so, can you please knock or make some kind of noise so that I may know that I am not the only one left alive?" He asked, straining to hear.
Nothing... and then... A dull thump came from the ship again, with a muffled groan that sounded to be human. His heart jumped in his chest; he pushed against his chest as a smile formed on his lips.
"Hold on lad. It might take me a few moments to find you, so hang in there!" He replied, making his way through the rubble of steel and floating wood. He placed his feet strategically, in spots that he could see and knew were safe enough to hold his weight.
Although he wasn't very heavy, he was clumsy. And that could spell misfortune. Not only for him, but for the survivor that lay restless inside the hull of the ship.
Finally, after almost a quarter of an hour of slowly making his way through the rubble, he leaned against the Citadel of the Dead'’s hull, catching his breath.
And then, it happened. The thing on the other side of the hull knocked again, only this time it was right behind the spot the old man had chosen to lean against. Jumping with a start, he tapped on the hull, "Hold on there friend, I'm going to get you out. You're just gunna have to hang in there and be patient. I'm afraid this old man isn't as strong as he once was."
The old man explained, looking around for something; anything he could use to smash the hull of the ship open. He scanned his surroundings, eyeing the rubble that seemed to be piled taller than him. His old gnarled hand had just begun to reach for a piece of steel that looked as though it might serve the purpose of helping the person on the other side of the hull out, when a low moan echoed forth from the ship.
Unsure of what the noise meant, the old man pulled the piece of steel from the pile of rubble, and swung it around with both hands, tightly gripping it. "Hold on there friend, I'm going to get you out, don't worry!" He yelled over the splintering of wood.
Blow after blow he dealt, the bigger the hole in the hull became -- until finally, when the old man's arms felt like they could give out at any moment, a bright light reflecting off of something metallic, blared into his eyes.
Picking his cane up from were it leaned against the ship; the old man carefully pulled himself through the hole, carrying the torch in his left hand. The metallic piece that had reflected the light into his eyes only moments before, slowly took the shape of a new pot. In fact, strewn across the dilapidated and crushed floor, were many pots and pans that had once served their purpose of feeding gruel to the ship mates.
The upper floor looked as if it had caved it, crashing into the galley and destroying everything in its wake. Besides the pots and pans that lay strewn across the floor, there were bags full of rice and flour that had busted open, the white powder covering the walls of the mess hall -- or what had at one time been the mess hall.
"Are you in here friend? If so, tap something to let me know." The old man said.
A low moan; garbled and unrecognizable pushed through the darkness that had filled the mess hall. The old man quickly located the groans. His heart sank when he saw what had happened.
The upper floor that of which had fallen through now lay smothering the man underneath it. The only thing visible was a white covered boot, which moved back and forth with little effort from its owner. The old man realised that the person underneath the dilapidated floor probably didn't stand a chance of survival, but if he could make the man's last few minutes/hours/ maybe even days -- better than just laying there under the flooring, then so be it.
He didn't have much of a strong back, but if worse came to worse, he would bury the poor soul if he had to. Praying to the Seven Gods for strength and the wisdom that it would take to rescue the man from under the rubble, the old man pulled with all of his might, forcing the flooring up and over his head. Maybe he was stronger than what he had once thought...
Slowly, he hooked his left leg -- his good leg -- around a bag of rice, and slowly moved it forward with his foot, until it lay directly under the exposed gap that he had created, by lifting the floor. With a sigh of relief, he let go of the flooring, and with a loud thud it hit the bag of rice, sending small beads of grain flying across the room.
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"True genius resides in the capacity for evaluation of uncertain, hazardous, and conflicting information." - Winston Churchill
"You have enemies? Good. That means you've stood up for something, sometime in your life." - Winston Churchill
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