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Butch
October 10th, 2010, 12:30 AM
Hey guys :)
Here's a short story I'm currently writing and I'd appreciate your views on it, so please comment. Thanks.


Arygos halted next to the tomb; he panted heavily and leaned sluggishly on the enclosed crypt. His helmet was stifling, the air hot and moist, his chainmail was bulky and they only contributed to this uncommon surge of fatigue. He was but a man of steel, every limb shielded by some manner of metal. In his hand he held his weapon, a silver blade, conjoined onto a stylish handle, encrusted in a fine coat of black dye. It twinkled and gleamed from the flickering torches donned upon the high walls and something in the sleek black hilt stirred, a small shimmer as though darkness was moving underneath the speckled iron. An ancient sword, believed to have been forged at the end of the world, where monsters lurked and demons roamed, befit to only this formidable warrior, Arygos.

Arid vines hung overhead, draping across the slanted ceiling, tangling together in a warped and unsightly appearance. About him, the remains of ancient gods lay guarded in immortal tombs, the words of the dead etched into the robust stone, inscribing severe warnings to those who dare disturb the long buried kings. The moan of the wind whistled through hollows in the slack slabs underfoot, at least it sounded like the wind, that moan could have breached the frail barrier that restricted access to either realm. It could have been the murmur of something long dead, reaching his ears through a window in the atmosphere. For places that have suffered death and violence, the veil that separates our world from the spirit realm becomes thin, enabling some stray phenomenon to pass through. The moan was deep and foreboding, a low whistle that raised the hairs on the back of oneís neck.

Arygos peered into the gloom of the passage up the way, one of the torches mounted upon the wall flickered and waned, much like something dark and unseen had brushed passed the fading light. Something was here no doubt, a primeval spirit, an ageless soul, some demonic presence trying to communicate with him from beyond. Witchcraft, a stealthy rogue, a powerful warlock or maybe even just the nature of the elements as they toyed with the warrior in some uncanny fashion.

He didnít have long, he understood. Quickly he reached for the nearest vault, his leather concealed fingers brushed the rough stone. The surface was surprisingly smooth, finely chiselled and notched, the archaic pigmentations and markings extravagantly engraved into the precious marble. He heaved against the solid cover, and a low rumble echoed about the open chamber as the stony lid slowly and stubbornly eased to one side. He peered into the darkness of the longstanding grave, and he noticed a thin layer of grey mist seep from the rocky vessel, swirling and pouring over the sharp edges. Amidst the whirling vapour the skeletal remains of something ancient lay piled deep within the tomb. Some of the bones had corroded and the rotted remnants left did not resemble the corpse of a human, yet rather a distorted and malformed creature. One leg had been eaten cruelly by time, the tibia and fibula completely devoured, leaving behind a stump of round bone and a thin, frail femur that represented the top of his leg. The inhuman remains possessed less than six pairs of ribs and the skull had been reduced to a lump of small bone. The slender arms were still intact, though each hand was fingerless. The sight was horrific, yet the tomb had preserved the bones well enough and the smell was far less revolting as he had expected.

A sudden chill wisped by, as though the air had frozen in mid-circulation and another groan sounded, echoing in the small tomb as though the incomplete corpse was voicing its pain and sorrow. The air shifted, the wind tickled his veiled face through the air holes in his helm. Metallic whispers, dark murmurs, deep and hushed, something muttering from beyond the fragile veil. A prolonged, mournful moan reached his ears, trailing off in some manner of a growl as though the restless spirit was wrathful. At that moment a dark figure transpired near the passage entrance, a hazy, eternal essence of something crossing the veil. The air froze around the fierce warrior, the old crypt beside him adopting a layer of crisp frost. It materialised swiftly, eating upon the length of the firm stone, devouring the imperfect bones within its icy coating. The darkness of the temple surged forward, something evil and ancient storming his way.

It was indeed a spirit from the other realm, it glided towards him in sinister flashes where the ghost would fade and reappear. Its bottom half was transparent and where its legs should have been the spirit walked upon a swirling mass of tangled wrath like mist. Even so its face was a solid, pallid white with eyes as dark as a winters night. They beamed a malignant black, pits of sin and iniquity, forged from the deepest depths of the other realm. It was a wicked demon, the worst of its kind, the oldest soul to ever roam the spirit world and now it stood before Arygos in all its strength and glory. The active frost had slithered upon his armour and Arygos had scarcely noticed, yet the chill was as the coldest he had ever witnessed. The darkness continued to press forward as the spirit calmly ventured forth, bringing the tide of black with it and as it passed, the aiding torches began to fade as the light trembled in its wake. Arygos did not fear the approaching evil; rather he stood composed and ready. A sorrowful moan escaped the spirits formless mouth and then it vanished. Arygos scanned the room, looked beyond the murky passage, but the phantom was gone.

Katie D
October 10th, 2010, 11:41 AM
Hi Butch,
I saw your name and had to read because I was hoping it to be a romance. I'm a big fan of irony. Giggles aside, it's a great read. Please take what I say with a grain of salt and if it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, I apologize. Keep in mind I'm coming purely from a readers perspective.

Red - could be left out
Blue - May be used instead
Purple - General comment





Arygos halted next to the tomb; he panted heavily and leaned sluggishly (too much here, either omit heavily or sluggishly, or use a word which means leaned sluggishly like slumped) on the enclosed crypt. His helmet was stifling, the air hot and moist, his chainmail was bulky and they only contributed to this uncommon surge of fatigue. He was but a man of steel, every limb shielded by some manner of metal. In his hand he held his weapon, a silver blade, conjoined onto melded to a stylish handle, encrusted in a fine coat of black dye. It twinkled and gleamed from the flickering torches donned upon the high walls. and Something in the sleek black hilt stirred, a small shimmer as though darkness was moving underneath moved beneath the speckled iron. An ancient sword, believed to have been forged at the end of the world, where monsters lurked and demons roamed, befit to only this formidable warrior, Arygos.

Arid vines hung overhead, draping across the slanted ceiling, tangling together in a warped and unsightly appearance. About him, lay the remains of ancient gods lay guarded in immortal tombs, the words of the dead etched into the robust stone, inscribing severe warnings to those who dare disturb the long buried kings. The moan of the wind whistled through hollows in the slack slabs underfoot, at least it sounded like the wind, that moan could have breached the frail barrier that restricted access to either realm. It could have been the murmur of something long dead, reaching his ears through a window in the atmosphere. ;for places that have suffered death and violence, the veil that separates separating our world from the spirit realm becomes thin, enabling some stray phenomenon to pass through. The moan was deep and foreboding, a low whistle that raised raising the hairs on the back of one’s his neck.

Arygos peered into the gloom of the passage up the way, one of the torches mounted upon the wall flickered and waned, much like something dark and unseen had brushed passed the fading light. Something was here no doubt, a primeval spirit, an ageless soul, some demonic presence trying to communicate with him from beyond. Witchcraft, a stealthy rogue, a powerful warlock or maybe even just the nature of the elements as they toyed with the warrior in some uncanny fashion.

He didn’t have long, he understood. Quickly he reached He reached quickly for the nearest vault, his leather concealed fingers brushed the rough stone. The surface was surprisingly smooth, finely chiselled and notched, the archaic pigmentations and markings extravagantly engraved into the precious marble. He heaved against the solid cover, and a low rumble echoed about the open chamber as the stony lid slowly and stubbornly eased to one side. He peered into the darkness of the longstanding grave, and he noticed a thin layer of grey mist seep from the rocky vessel, swirling and pouring over the sharp edges. Amidst the whirling vapour the skeletal remains of something ancient lay piled deep within the tomb. Some of the bones had corroded and the rotted remnants left did not resemble the corpse of a human, yet rather a distorted and malformed creature. One leg had been eaten cruelly by time, the tibia and fibula completely devoured, leaving behind a stump of round bone and a thin, frail femur that represented the top of his leg. The inhuman remains possessed less than six pairs of ribs and the skull had been reduced to a lump of small bone. The slender arms were still intact, though each hand was fingerless. The sight was horrific, yet the tomb had preserved the bones well enough and the smell was far less revolting as he had expected.

A sudden chill whisped by, as though the air had frozen in mid-circulation and. Another groan sounded, echoing in the small tomb as though the incomplete corpse was voicing its pain and sorrow. The air shifted, the wind tickled his veiled face through the air holes in his helm. Metallic whispers, dark murmurs, deep and hushed, something muttering from beyond the fragile veil. A prolonged, mournful moan reached his ears, trailing off in some manner of a growl as though the restless spirit was wrathful. At that moment a dark figure transpired near the passage entrance, a hazy, eternal essence of something crossing the veil. The air froze around the fierce warrior, the old crypt beside him adopting a layer of crisp frost. It materialised swiftly, eating upon the length of the firm stone, devouring the imperfect bones within its icy coating. The darkness of the temple surged forward, something evil and ancient storming his way.

It was indeed a spirit from the other realm, it glided towards him in sinister flashes where the ghost it would fade and reappear. Its bottom half was transparent and where its legs should have been the spirit walked upon a swirling mass of tangled wrath like mist. Even so, its face was a solid, pallid white with eyes as dark as a winters night. They beamed a malignant black, pits of sin and iniquity, forged from the deepest depths of the other realm. It was a wicked demon, the worst of its kind, the oldest soul to ever roam the spirit world and now it stood before Arygos in all its strength and glory. The active frost had slithered upon his armour and Arygos had scarcely noticed, yet the chill was as the coldest he had ever witnessed. The darkness continued to press forward as the spirit calmly ventured forth, bringing the tide of black with it and as it passed, the aiding torches began to fade as the light trembled in its wake. Arygos did not fear the approaching evil; rather he stood composed and ready. A sorrowful moan escaped the spirits formless mouth and then it vanished. Arygos scanned the room, looked beyond the murky passage, but the phantom was gone.

Butch
October 10th, 2010, 07:25 PM
Hey Katie D,
Not at all, I'm always open to suggestions, this is exactly what i was looking for.
Thank-you for taking the time to read it, I hope it was enjoyable.
- Butch