Work in progress

[Mekanikos]

It's a rough draft, so I realy haven't had time to polish it and whatnot. It goes along with the rest of my books. This is a time period between book one and two of the Dragonborn Saga.



I once believed, but over time it faded. With each person taken from me, that belief waned. Hope has died within me, and the gods have abandoned us.

As I sit by their graves, listening to the chill wind rustle through dying leaves, I can't help but remember a time when the sun shonejust a bit brighter and the wind blew more warmly.

The sky is grey, and the night is cold. Goosebumps rise as the wind howls past my numbing ears. I listen for their voices as the wind dies down, but there is no sound.

Looking over the graves, I call to mind each face, remember adventures past. Voices echo in my head, reminding me of times lost. How I wish I could change the past. The last of my family, the last of my friends.

I was the youngest, always surrounded by my elders; by friends who would watch out for me, guiding me. Now I'm the oldest, surrounded by empty memories and nothing more.

Aralia has grown colder since the Seal fell to earth. Cities barricade their gates, and towns without have sprouted them; spiked walls of fear. Caravans frequent the roads less and less. Something is in the air,
stirring hatred in the hearts of my fellow man.

I sit here, tears frozen to my cheeks, wondering what I can do. To change the world, so much like Vellefon Te'Erwen did in ages past, ridding the world of dragons, uniting warring countries, becoming a hero.

Impossible. A fairy tale.
It was all a legend anyways.

A branch falls somewhere behind me, crashing to the frozen ground. The very earth is rotting below my feet, and I can feel myself growing older impossibly fast. Something speaks to me...

Get out of here.

Noise fills my mind, an amalgam of voices.

Run.

An echo of the past?

RUN!

A voice in the present, but there's nobody there. Hairs rise on the back of my neck. Something's coming.

A sudden sense of panic washes over me. A paralyzing tendril of fear crawls up my spine.

Then it's over...a foreign presence in my mind calms me, lulling me. But it's not right.

Something is wrong, so terribly wrong. There's nobody on this island but me. I was the last of my village. I struggle to stand, prying myself from the icy grass.

Images blind me as I stagger away from the graveyard. I'm on a battlefield, surrounded by enemies, blood and death. I feel my blade, Crystal Lore, slip from its scabbard. I must fight!

A voice screams to me, but I cannot make out the words. I swing, years of experience guiding my sword, cleaving my foe in twain. Something strikes me in the shoulder, but I ignore it, twisting to find a new target. I get hit again by something stronger, throwing me off balance. If I fall, I die.

IT'S NOT REAL!

The tendril loosens ever so slightly, and I regain my footing.

[Mekanikos]

I can't edit >_< but I don't want to post all of it as a response ^_^o

I got just a little further...(woo, 2oo posts.)

[LizardKing]

Dude, that's excellent. I want MORE!!!!

* LK throws a kicking and screaming tantrum.

[Mekanikos]

Since I canna edit...here's what I've gotteb down so far.


I once believed, but over time it faded. With each person taken from me, that belief waned. Hope has died within me, and I feel as though the gods have abandoned us. As I sit by their graves, listening to the chill wind rustle through dying leaves, I can't help but remember a time when the sun shone just a bit brighter and the wind blew more warmly. The sky is grey, and the night is cold. Goosebumps rise as the wind howls past my numbing ears. I listen for their voices as the wind dies down, but there is no sound.
Looking over the graves, I call to mind each face, remember adventures past. Voices echo in my head, reminding me of times lost. How I wish I could change the past. The last of my family, the last of my friends.
I was the youngest, always surrounded by my elders; by friends who would watch out for me, guiding me. Now I'm the oldest, surrounded by empty memories and nothing more.

Aralia has grown colder since the Seal fell to earth. Cities barricade their gates, and towns without have sprouted them; spiked walls of fear. Caravans frequent the roads less and less. Something is in the air, stirring hatred in the hearts of my fellow man.
I sit here, tears frozen to my cheeks, wondering what I can do. To change the world, so much like Vellefon Te'Erwen did in ages past, ridding the world of dragons, uniting warring countries, becoming a hero.

Impossible. A fairy tale. It was only a legend anyways. There were no such things as dragons.

A branch falls somewhere behind me, crashing to the frozen ground. The very earth is rotting below my feet, and I can feel myself growing older impossibly fast. Something speaks to me...

Get out of here.
Noise fills my mind, an amalgam of voices.
Run.
An echo of the past?
RUN!

Voices in the present, but there's nobody there. Hairs rise on the back of my neck. Something's coming.
A sudden sense of panic washes over me as a paralyzing tendril of fear crawls up my spine. Then it's over. A foreign presence in my mind calms me, lulling me, but it's not right. Something is wrong, so terribly wrong. There's nobody on this island but me. I was the last of my village. I struggle to stand, prying myself from the icy grass.

Images blind me as I stagger away from the graveyard. I'm on a battlefield, surrounded by enemies, blood and death. I feel my blade, Crystal Lore, slip from its scabbard. I must fight! A voice screams to me, but I cannot make out the words. I swing, years of experience guiding my sword, cleaving my foe in twain. Something strikes me in the shoulder, but I ignore it, twisting to find a new target. I get hit again by something stronger, throwing me off balance. If I fall, I die.

IT'S NOT REAL!

The tendril loosens ever so slightly, and I regain my footing. My arms are numb, and the body parts I can feel are bruised and aching. Crystal Lore lays in the grass, shmmers slightly in the rain, glowing blue with its own inner light.

Stairs. My attention focuses on a building in front of me. My heart skips a beat as a breath dies in my throat. Its familiarity is haunting. I feel the urge to run, to get away from this place, but my feet remain still, as though rooted to the ground.
Groshartn t'Lor, an ogre holy place, carved from the same black onyx as the Seal. The Throne of Rain, meant to serve as a gathering place for the leaders of the most prominent ogre tribes. This is where they called upon their gods, and the place their gods failed to answer them.

A memory with no color. A flash of blue. Anjes points down the mountain, towards the path that leads up from the shore. An ogre leans against the entryway, bleeding from several wounds, a healer kneeling on the steps in front of him, praying to her god. A corps commander runs up the path, only to be cut down by an arrow from behind. Knights dressed in cloaks adorned with a raven march up towards us.

I've been here before, one year ago, almost to the day. That day, everything changed. I left the Hardcore Knights. I found the blade that calls itself Crystal Lore. I lost my Anjes that day.

Something calls me from atop the steps, urging me to enter. I think of the sword, lying in the grass, then quickly dismiss it. I won't need it anytime soon; there's no one on this island but me.
The roof ends merely a handful of feet beyond the stone archway. Rain pours in with abandon, a constant symphony created by pillars crafted for that single purpose. It always rains here. There's been no recorded date when it wasn't raining, and yet there are few puddles.
Perfectly and unnaturally smooth stones cover the ground, broken by the raised throne in the center of the circular structure, a good couple of hundred yards from the walls. It would be the only blemish, if one could find fault with it.

Mortal, repent.

I'm on the throne, staring up into the sky. Crystal Lore is in my hand, somehow. I should be afraid, but I'm not. Something calls to me and speaks to me, but I cannot make it out from the sound of the haunting music. The rain intensfies into icy spears of pain, and the symphony become a cacophony. A child whimpers near the base of the throne, and white light flares from the sky. My eyes burn, but I cannot turn away.

And thusly are you punished.

I see myself behind my wife, Anjes, as she baths. The blade punches deep through her back, which spews bright red healthy blood into the pool. I want to scream, but can't.
Drethlo, my childhood friend, looks at me with saddened eye as I twist the blade. I can find no reason. His eyes remain locked on mine as he slumps to the ground.
Ronsen, my brother, screams as the blades penetrates his chest. I regret nothing. His voice trails off into a gurgle as blood fills his lungs and throat.

A hollow echo of life.

All the memories, all those deaths. They were all me. This was all my fault. I cannot feel the sting of the rain anymore. I cannot see the light that blinds me as it fades away. I am unaware of my death.

* * *

The blade shimmers one last time, a flash of blue in the darkness, illuminating the skeletons around the throne. The Godstone relic sits silenty, oblivious to the pouring rain, the last remaining guardian of its ogre creators.

* * *

"Damnit!" Dreshnor cursed at the mountain walls. Some ranger I am. He stooped to look at the ground again. Nothing. The rain washes away everything.
"Great," he mumbled to himself. He had lost track of Alyssa and the rest of the corps a few hours ago. Or, at least he thought it was a few hours ago. With the permanent cloud cover, he really couldn't be too sure of how much time had passed.
"The tracks led from the graveyard," he said aloud to himself, "going this direction." The frozen grass had been bent and crushed over a wide area, similar to marks left by a platoon of careless Knights, but of course being this far north without much variation in temperatures could mean those tracks were anywhere from a few days to a few months old.

[LizardKing]

Mek, this is really good. It reminds of Michael Moorcocks Elric series, that same gritty, tense feel to it. Do you write for a living? Has this been published? If so I'd like to get a copy.

[Mekanikos]

I'm trying ^_^ Not published yet. This is between the first book (Still a toss up on names, either Shadow of the Dragons or Return to Chaos) and the second book of a trilogy, which I just might compress to make only two books out of. Second Book is either Return to Chaos (depending on whether this is a trilogy), or something else entirely.

Oh, plus it's all going to be part of three other series I eventually plan on wrting (I have all the stries in my head...getting them out onto paper is the hard part)

[MtlguitarJames]

This is pretty freakin intense. I can feel my stomach knotting up.

[Bassmama]

Damn.

Damn!

Talent, dude! LOTSA talent!