I've been away on Moreton Island kicking back with family, etc. so I havn't been here to add anything. I have a few things I wrote (by hand no less,) to type up and you'll see them soon enough. But for now its unpacking time. I'll have something for you soon :)
- Take it easy all.
Saturday, 13 December 2008
Thursday, 6 November 2008
The Challenge - Draft Two
Harrok's back!
Harrok circled his opponent, his new trolltooth dagger in one hand, his iron knife in the other. The tribe circled the pair, silent and staring. No cheering for their faveroites, no support was given to either member, for this was a solem occasion. Hurorkap, literally translated as "Bad blood spills" but meaning closer to "The spilling of bad blood/emotions" was a ceremony of the most dire kind, a ritual dual to either death or surrender. Due to the nature of the tradition, death was almost always the result.
Rejk faced Harrok in the circle, moving slowly and readily, his norscan-forged iron sword in two hands. Between the pair the tribes shamman, Krajh, stood tall. His bare chest was tattoed with occult designs, and ritual scars, which extended to his upper arms, neck, back and lower face. Holding a ceremonial dagger his hand he help it above the pair, in view of the surrounding crowd. The whole tribe watched as Krajh spoke, telling the tale of Orik and Bjorn, and the enmitty betwene the great ancestor-gods that was tearing the pair apart. Where Bjorn wanted to go south and fight the horse-riders and the hill-warriors, Orik thought that the tribe should flee north where the southern armies would not follow. Bjorn called Orik a coward, and a fued between the pair begun. Their conflict was tearing the tribe apart, and if something was not done, the tribe would schism and be crushed by their southern foes. The pair decided to fight a single combat, the winner would continue, and the loser would not trouble anyone, leaving the conflict solved one way or another. Since that legendary fight, any fight between tribe members or any personal hatred within the tribe that threatened the tribe as a whole were decided by Hurorkap.
Krajh lay the dagger in the centre of the circle, and then stepped back, joining the circle. Now in order to complete his challenge Rejk must throw the dagger in the air, and the moment it hit the ground, the pair would begin their fight. Neither must intentionally touch the dagger, for that symbolised surrender.* Harrok sized up his opponent, a young warrior who had only recently came into his majority. "Too young to be fighting his first ritual combat, and a Hurorkap none the less. Something is behind this." The realisation hit him suddenly. "This isn't about Rejik and I, there is a deeper undercurrent the youth had gotten caught up in." As Harrok decided his course of action Rejk thought only of the insult he had been delt, the disrespect of this older warrior. By selding the trolls away, he had lost his chance to get a kill on his first trollhunt. It is as Grenk said, "Harrok is old and his time is up". The copper dagger flew high in the air, glittering in the low sunlight before plumeting down within the circle. The blade sunk into the soft snow, and the combatants lept at eachother.
Rejk swung his sword for a low hit, was parried by Harrok, reversed his sword and flicked his blade up attemping to cut Harrok's jagular. Harrok ducked, and stabbed with his trolltooth dagger as Rejk jumped back and lept on the offencive agian. Dancing the pair of warriors moved slowly back and forth, each scoring minor hits to the arms, and chest, but no telling blows. The snow a hinderance to fast movement, but to be completey stationary was to be flanked and defeated. A slow manouvering, a step here, a jump there; movement was done in quick increments, before steading yourself for a thrust or a parry, shifting your weight for a swing at an unprotected flank. "This fight will be over any moment now. Harrok is old, he has no fortitude, but his standing in the tribe is high. This will give me the honour and the admiration I deserve". Rejik leaped under a high thrust, rolled pst harrok and swung his sword at Harrok's unprotected calves. Harrok shifted his legs, but not quickly enough to avoid a vicous cut missing the tendon in the back of his leg by a hairs bredth. "Damn." Harrok thought "This youngling is quick. This might not be as easy as I thought."
Harrok jumped a second low swing, ducked a thrust to the throat and tackled his opponent, arms around Rejk's legs, holding the daggers out. The shock of this move caused Rejk to drop his sword, and Harrok dropped his dagger as his arm hit the ground. Freeing his arm, Harrok pulled his knife out from under Rejk, the cold iron dark against the slowflakes that adorned the crude blade. Rejk kicked Harrok in the face, spraying crimson blood over the pair, and possibly breaking bones. Spitting blood and teeth Harrok held Rejk down, barely flinching at the blow, despite the pain. He must seem relentless if he was to succeed. With a witheringly powerful headbut Harrok broke Rejk's nose, the younger fighter screaming in pain. Harrok placed a foot on Rejk's chest, and held the dagger over Rejk's neck. Asking Rejk if he would yeild he emphasised the point by placing the edge of his dagger against the soft skin on Rejk's throat. It was painfully cold, the rough blade raising pricks of blood from the exposed flesh.
Rejk suddenly stabbed Harrok in the leg with Harrok's dropped dagger. Again, unflinchingly Harrok took the blow. Deamons cried out in his head, but no outward sign of the agony was forthcoming. Pushing harder with his wounded leg, he felt intense pain but thanked Bjorn that he had missed the major tendons and muscles. Sudenly beneith his foot a rib broke, snapping loudly and painfully. Repeating in a voice that Harrok hoped was louder and more intimidating then it felt, Harrok one more requested "Yeild".
Rejk paniced beneith Harrok's boot and blade. He gave a scream of pain, and asked Harrok to finish it now. Instead Harrok stepped back and stood behind the dagger burried in the ground. He remained silent. The only noise that could be heard was the howl of the wind, and the heavy breaths of Rejk. Harrok stood there, breathing deaply, taking great pains not to sound laboured. He felt as if he would collapse any moment, the snow around the pair was stained with blood, mostly his. Harrok was covered with blood, bleeding from both of his legs, his face, and a number of small cuts to the arms and chest, looking worse then they were but still bleeding profusely. Wondering whether he had chosen correctly, or if he would pass out and be finished by the younger warrior, and leave his wife a widow. His determination and reslove returned in full measure and he straightened, dispite the pain. The dagger was still in his leg, bleeding slowly as it tortured Harrok.
Rejk saw his choice. The message was easy, chose to surrender by touching the dagger, or fight Harrok, and die. He realised his fued wasn't worth dying for, and attempted to rise, but collapsed. He knew if he passed out he would die, Harrok would be forced to kill him. Why Harrok hadn't already was a mystery, it was well within his right to. Marsheling his resources, he stood, stumbled a step forward and then fell. He began to crawl towards the dagger, and then collapsed. He almost passed out, and he felt his conciousness slipping away. Suddenly friendly hands lifted him to his feet, and helped carry him towards the ceremonial dagger. He knew the tribe couldn't interfere, and looked up to his unkown benefactor.
Harrok carried the young warrior over to the knife, gritting his teeth, refusing to gasp in pain. He could't give in to pain now, not now when he had almost succeeded. Lying the young warrior down next to the knife, he kneeled over him. After a moments thought he grabbed Rejk's sword.
Rejk reached out for the dagger, and life. Suddenly he saw Harrok grabbing his sword, and bringing it over. Collapsing barely concious, he failed. He couldn't muster the strength even to grab the dagger. The blow to the head must have concussed him. "What a way to die" Rejk thought "Killed with one's own sword." He waited for the death blow, and he realised that Harrok had placed the sword next to him, and didn't mean to kill him. He summoned the last of his reserves of energy and grabbed the dagger. He then passed out, sinking into blackness.
******
A week later Rejk came to. Lying in a bead of moss, next to a fire, he was covered by the skins of many animals. Tossing them off he gasped in pain, as his ribs ached. Looking to his chest, he saw the sign of Orik cut into his chest. The sign of honourable defeat. "But I surrendered? How could I have earned the sign of Orik?" Pondering to himself he went back to sleep.
Over the next few days, Rejk heard the tales of how Harrok had spared him, carried him across to the dagger and how, after he had passed out, Harrok had carried him to the shaman's hut, and only after he had made sure Rejk's wounds were bound, had removed the knife in his leg and bound his own cuts. How as he slept, Harrok carved the sign of Orik into his chest.
A week after the fight, Rejk could sit up and walk unassisted, his head injuy fully healed. His rib still hurt badly, particularly when he moved, but Krajh told him that he could hunt in another three weeks or more. Sitting in the shamman's hut, his tempory abode until he healed, a visitor walked in. Harrok sat down next to Rejk, and handed him the ceremonial dagger. Freashly sharpened the tip gleamed with a copper sheen. Rejk took the dagger and carved the sign of Bjorn into him, sealing his own loss, but graciosly with honour. Harrok smiled, and calmly worked on the open cuts on his chest, first covering them in healing salves, then binding them closed with cloth made from the hair of the Trakun, the great hairy yak of the northern mountians.
Rejk's next move shocked Harrok completely. Rejk took the ceremonial knife to his own skin again. Calmly cutting into his own arm, Rejk cut a stylised skull of a great bear into his own arm. As he did so he said to Harrok "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine**. Your enamies are my foes. Any fight you are in, I will watch your back before mine, defend your hut and fire as if it was mine own. If you take my oath, take this dagger now." Finishing these words of submission, he offered the knife to his potential leige. Harrok took the knife, and placed it in his belt, before returning the traditional responce. "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine**. Your allies are my friends. Any fight you are in, I will fight alongside you, defend your hut and hearth, for it is now mine."
Clasping eachothers forarms in the warrior grip the pair exchanged a smile. Rejk understood now that he was Harrok's man to command. His own disagreement was elipsed by the service he owed his new Jorg. (Roughly translates as leige or honour lord.) Harrok said to him "Rest now, sleep. When the dawn breaks, we will have much to talk on. Now I must return to my hut and family."
____________________
Notes:
* This is again connected to the story of Bjorn and Orik. Bjorn had wresteled Orik to the ground, and pulled a dagger, intending to finish Orik off. Orik spat in his face and met his fate eyes open. Or would have, had Bjorn not released him and handed the dagger to his opponent, admitting Orik was not a coward. Orik in turn surrendered, addmitting Bjorn wasn't the bloodthirsty brute that he thought he was. After the battle in ritual scarring Bjorn carved a stylised north rat (an animal fmaous for never bakcing down, even against the largest preditors) into orik's back and this has become known as the sign of Orik. Orik cut a Scarwolf (A symbol of brotherhood and nobility) into Bjorn's chest. This was the beginning of the Hurorkap.
**The word used was "Myln", which translates from Norscan to something close to mine. No ownership is inferred, and it is used as one would use mine in english reffering to one's own family.
Harrok circled his opponent, his new trolltooth dagger in one hand, his iron knife in the other. The tribe circled the pair, silent and staring. No cheering for their faveroites, no support was given to either member, for this was a solem occasion. Hurorkap, literally translated as "Bad blood spills" but meaning closer to "The spilling of bad blood/emotions" was a ceremony of the most dire kind, a ritual dual to either death or surrender. Due to the nature of the tradition, death was almost always the result.
Rejk faced Harrok in the circle, moving slowly and readily, his norscan-forged iron sword in two hands. Between the pair the tribes shamman, Krajh, stood tall. His bare chest was tattoed with occult designs, and ritual scars, which extended to his upper arms, neck, back and lower face. Holding a ceremonial dagger his hand he help it above the pair, in view of the surrounding crowd. The whole tribe watched as Krajh spoke, telling the tale of Orik and Bjorn, and the enmitty betwene the great ancestor-gods that was tearing the pair apart. Where Bjorn wanted to go south and fight the horse-riders and the hill-warriors, Orik thought that the tribe should flee north where the southern armies would not follow. Bjorn called Orik a coward, and a fued between the pair begun. Their conflict was tearing the tribe apart, and if something was not done, the tribe would schism and be crushed by their southern foes. The pair decided to fight a single combat, the winner would continue, and the loser would not trouble anyone, leaving the conflict solved one way or another. Since that legendary fight, any fight between tribe members or any personal hatred within the tribe that threatened the tribe as a whole were decided by Hurorkap.
Krajh lay the dagger in the centre of the circle, and then stepped back, joining the circle. Now in order to complete his challenge Rejk must throw the dagger in the air, and the moment it hit the ground, the pair would begin their fight. Neither must intentionally touch the dagger, for that symbolised surrender.* Harrok sized up his opponent, a young warrior who had only recently came into his majority. "Too young to be fighting his first ritual combat, and a Hurorkap none the less. Something is behind this." The realisation hit him suddenly. "This isn't about Rejik and I, there is a deeper undercurrent the youth had gotten caught up in." As Harrok decided his course of action Rejk thought only of the insult he had been delt, the disrespect of this older warrior. By selding the trolls away, he had lost his chance to get a kill on his first trollhunt. It is as Grenk said, "Harrok is old and his time is up". The copper dagger flew high in the air, glittering in the low sunlight before plumeting down within the circle. The blade sunk into the soft snow, and the combatants lept at eachother.
Rejk swung his sword for a low hit, was parried by Harrok, reversed his sword and flicked his blade up attemping to cut Harrok's jagular. Harrok ducked, and stabbed with his trolltooth dagger as Rejk jumped back and lept on the offencive agian. Dancing the pair of warriors moved slowly back and forth, each scoring minor hits to the arms, and chest, but no telling blows. The snow a hinderance to fast movement, but to be completey stationary was to be flanked and defeated. A slow manouvering, a step here, a jump there; movement was done in quick increments, before steading yourself for a thrust or a parry, shifting your weight for a swing at an unprotected flank. "This fight will be over any moment now. Harrok is old, he has no fortitude, but his standing in the tribe is high. This will give me the honour and the admiration I deserve". Rejik leaped under a high thrust, rolled pst harrok and swung his sword at Harrok's unprotected calves. Harrok shifted his legs, but not quickly enough to avoid a vicous cut missing the tendon in the back of his leg by a hairs bredth. "Damn." Harrok thought "This youngling is quick. This might not be as easy as I thought."
Harrok jumped a second low swing, ducked a thrust to the throat and tackled his opponent, arms around Rejk's legs, holding the daggers out. The shock of this move caused Rejk to drop his sword, and Harrok dropped his dagger as his arm hit the ground. Freeing his arm, Harrok pulled his knife out from under Rejk, the cold iron dark against the slowflakes that adorned the crude blade. Rejk kicked Harrok in the face, spraying crimson blood over the pair, and possibly breaking bones. Spitting blood and teeth Harrok held Rejk down, barely flinching at the blow, despite the pain. He must seem relentless if he was to succeed. With a witheringly powerful headbut Harrok broke Rejk's nose, the younger fighter screaming in pain. Harrok placed a foot on Rejk's chest, and held the dagger over Rejk's neck. Asking Rejk if he would yeild he emphasised the point by placing the edge of his dagger against the soft skin on Rejk's throat. It was painfully cold, the rough blade raising pricks of blood from the exposed flesh.
Rejk suddenly stabbed Harrok in the leg with Harrok's dropped dagger. Again, unflinchingly Harrok took the blow. Deamons cried out in his head, but no outward sign of the agony was forthcoming. Pushing harder with his wounded leg, he felt intense pain but thanked Bjorn that he had missed the major tendons and muscles. Sudenly beneith his foot a rib broke, snapping loudly and painfully. Repeating in a voice that Harrok hoped was louder and more intimidating then it felt, Harrok one more requested "Yeild".
Rejk paniced beneith Harrok's boot and blade. He gave a scream of pain, and asked Harrok to finish it now. Instead Harrok stepped back and stood behind the dagger burried in the ground. He remained silent. The only noise that could be heard was the howl of the wind, and the heavy breaths of Rejk. Harrok stood there, breathing deaply, taking great pains not to sound laboured. He felt as if he would collapse any moment, the snow around the pair was stained with blood, mostly his. Harrok was covered with blood, bleeding from both of his legs, his face, and a number of small cuts to the arms and chest, looking worse then they were but still bleeding profusely. Wondering whether he had chosen correctly, or if he would pass out and be finished by the younger warrior, and leave his wife a widow. His determination and reslove returned in full measure and he straightened, dispite the pain. The dagger was still in his leg, bleeding slowly as it tortured Harrok.
Rejk saw his choice. The message was easy, chose to surrender by touching the dagger, or fight Harrok, and die. He realised his fued wasn't worth dying for, and attempted to rise, but collapsed. He knew if he passed out he would die, Harrok would be forced to kill him. Why Harrok hadn't already was a mystery, it was well within his right to. Marsheling his resources, he stood, stumbled a step forward and then fell. He began to crawl towards the dagger, and then collapsed. He almost passed out, and he felt his conciousness slipping away. Suddenly friendly hands lifted him to his feet, and helped carry him towards the ceremonial dagger. He knew the tribe couldn't interfere, and looked up to his unkown benefactor.
Harrok carried the young warrior over to the knife, gritting his teeth, refusing to gasp in pain. He could't give in to pain now, not now when he had almost succeeded. Lying the young warrior down next to the knife, he kneeled over him. After a moments thought he grabbed Rejk's sword.
Rejk reached out for the dagger, and life. Suddenly he saw Harrok grabbing his sword, and bringing it over. Collapsing barely concious, he failed. He couldn't muster the strength even to grab the dagger. The blow to the head must have concussed him. "What a way to die" Rejk thought "Killed with one's own sword." He waited for the death blow, and he realised that Harrok had placed the sword next to him, and didn't mean to kill him. He summoned the last of his reserves of energy and grabbed the dagger. He then passed out, sinking into blackness.
******
A week later Rejk came to. Lying in a bead of moss, next to a fire, he was covered by the skins of many animals. Tossing them off he gasped in pain, as his ribs ached. Looking to his chest, he saw the sign of Orik cut into his chest. The sign of honourable defeat. "But I surrendered? How could I have earned the sign of Orik?" Pondering to himself he went back to sleep.
Over the next few days, Rejk heard the tales of how Harrok had spared him, carried him across to the dagger and how, after he had passed out, Harrok had carried him to the shaman's hut, and only after he had made sure Rejk's wounds were bound, had removed the knife in his leg and bound his own cuts. How as he slept, Harrok carved the sign of Orik into his chest.
A week after the fight, Rejk could sit up and walk unassisted, his head injuy fully healed. His rib still hurt badly, particularly when he moved, but Krajh told him that he could hunt in another three weeks or more. Sitting in the shamman's hut, his tempory abode until he healed, a visitor walked in. Harrok sat down next to Rejk, and handed him the ceremonial dagger. Freashly sharpened the tip gleamed with a copper sheen. Rejk took the dagger and carved the sign of Bjorn into him, sealing his own loss, but graciosly with honour. Harrok smiled, and calmly worked on the open cuts on his chest, first covering them in healing salves, then binding them closed with cloth made from the hair of the Trakun, the great hairy yak of the northern mountians.
Rejk's next move shocked Harrok completely. Rejk took the ceremonial knife to his own skin again. Calmly cutting into his own arm, Rejk cut a stylised skull of a great bear into his own arm. As he did so he said to Harrok "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine**. Your enamies are my foes. Any fight you are in, I will watch your back before mine, defend your hut and fire as if it was mine own. If you take my oath, take this dagger now." Finishing these words of submission, he offered the knife to his potential leige. Harrok took the knife, and placed it in his belt, before returning the traditional responce. "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine**. Your allies are my friends. Any fight you are in, I will fight alongside you, defend your hut and hearth, for it is now mine."
Clasping eachothers forarms in the warrior grip the pair exchanged a smile. Rejk understood now that he was Harrok's man to command. His own disagreement was elipsed by the service he owed his new Jorg. (Roughly translates as leige or honour lord.) Harrok said to him "Rest now, sleep. When the dawn breaks, we will have much to talk on. Now I must return to my hut and family."
____________________
Notes:
* This is again connected to the story of Bjorn and Orik. Bjorn had wresteled Orik to the ground, and pulled a dagger, intending to finish Orik off. Orik spat in his face and met his fate eyes open. Or would have, had Bjorn not released him and handed the dagger to his opponent, admitting Orik was not a coward. Orik in turn surrendered, addmitting Bjorn wasn't the bloodthirsty brute that he thought he was. After the battle in ritual scarring Bjorn carved a stylised north rat (an animal fmaous for never bakcing down, even against the largest preditors) into orik's back and this has become known as the sign of Orik. Orik cut a Scarwolf (A symbol of brotherhood and nobility) into Bjorn's chest. This was the beginning of the Hurorkap.
**The word used was "Myln", which translates from Norscan to something close to mine. No ownership is inferred, and it is used as one would use mine in english reffering to one's own family.
Thursday, 30 October 2008
The Challenge - Draft One
Harrok's back!
Harrok circled his opponent, his new trolltooth dagger in one hand, his iron knifethe other. The tribe circled the pair, silent and staring. No cheering for their faveroites, no support was given to either member, for this was a solem occasion. Hurorkap, literally translated as "Bad blood spills" but meaning closer to "The spilling of bad blood/emotions" was a ceremony of the most dire kind, a ritual dual to either death or surrender. Due to the nature of the tradition, death was almost always the result.
Rejk faced Harrok in the circle, moving slowly and readily, his norscan-forged iron sword in two hands. Between the pair the tribes shamman, Krajh, stood tall. His bare chest was tattoed with occult designs, and ritual scars, which extended to his upper arms, neck, back and lower face. Holding a ceremonial dagger his hand he help it above the pair, in view of the surrounding crowd. The whole tribe watched as Krajh spoke, telling the tale of Orik and Bjorn, and the enmitty betwene the great ancestor-gods that was tearing the pair apart. Where Bjorn wanted to go south and fight the horse-riders and the hill-warriors, Orik thought that the tribe should flee north where the southern armies would not follow. Bjorn called Orik a coward, and a fued between the pair begun. Their conflict was tearing the tribe apart, and if something was not done, the tribe would schism and be crushed by their southern foes. The pair decided to fight a single combat, the winner would continue, and the loser would not trouble anyone, leaving the conflict solved one way or another. Since that legendary fight, any fight between tribe members or any personal hatred within the tribe that threatened the tribe as a whole were decided by Hurorkap.
Krajh lay the dagger in the centre of the circle, and then stepped back, joining the circle. Now in order to complete his challenge Rejk must throw the dagger in the air, and the moment it hit the ground, the pair would begin their fight. Neither must intentionally touch the dagger, for that symbolised surrender. The copper dagger flew high in the air, glittering in the low sunlight before plumeting down within the circle. The blade sunk into the soft snow, and the combatants lept at eachother.
Rejk swung his sword for a low hit, was parried by Harrok, reversed his sword and flicked his blade up attemping to cut Harrok's jagular. Harrok ducked, and stabbed with his trolltooth dagger as Rejk jumped back and lept on the offencive agian. Harrok jumped a second low swing, ducked a thrust to the throat and tackled his opponent, arms around Rejk's legs, holding the daggers out. The shock of this move caused Rejk to drop his sword, and Harrok dropped his dagger as his arm hit the ground. Freeing his arm, Harrok pulled his knife out from under Rejk, the cold iron dark against the slowflakes that adorned the crude blade. Rejk kicked Harrok in the face, spraying crimson blood over the pair, and possibly breaking bones. Spitting blood and teeth Harrok held Rejk down, barely flinching at the blow, despite the pain. He must seem relentless if he was to succeed. With a witheringly powerful headbut Harrok broke Rejk's nose, the younger fighter screaming in pain. Harrok placed a foot on Rejk's chest, and held the dagger over Rejk's neck. Asking Rejk if he would yeild he emphasised the point by placing the edge of his dagger against the soft skin on Rejk's throat. It was painfully cold, the rough blade raising pricks of blood from the exposed flesh.
Rejk suddenly stabbed Harrok in the leg with Harrok's dropped dagger. Again, unflinchingly Harrok took the blow. Deamons cried out in his head, but no outward sign of the agony was forthcoming. Pushing harder with his wounded leg, he felt intense pain but thanked Bjorn that he had missed the major tendons and muscles. Sudenly beneith his foot a rib broke, snapping loudly and painfully. Repeating in a voice that Harrok hoped was louder and more intimidating then it felt, Harrok one more requested "Yeild".
Rejk paniced beneith Harrok's boot and blade. He gave a scream of pain, and asked Harrok to finish it now. Instead Harrok stepped back and stood behind the dagger burried in the ground. He remained silent. The only noise that could be heard was the howl of the wind, and the heavy breaths of Rejk. Harrok stood there, breathing deaply, taking great pains not to sound laboured. He felt as if he would collapse any moment. Wondering whether he had chosen correctly, or if he would pass out and be finished by the younger warrior, and leave his wife a widow. His determination and reslove returned in full measure and he straightened, dispite the pain. The dagger was still in his leg, bleeding slowly as it tortured Harrok.
Rejk saw his choice. The message was easy, chose to surrender by touching the dagger, or fight Harrok, and die. He realised his fued wasn't worth dying for, and attempted to rise, but collapsed. He knew if he passed out he would die, Harrok would be forced to kill him. Marsheling his resources, he stood, stumbled a step forward and then fell. He began to crawl towards the dagger, and then collapsed. He almost passed out, and he felt his conciousness slipping away. Suddenly friendly hands lifted him to his feet, and helped carry him towards the ceremonial dagger. He knew the tribe couldn't interfere, and looked up to his benefactor.
Harrok carried the young warrior over to the knife, gritting his teeth, refusing to gasp in pain. He could't give in to pain now, not now when he had almost succeeded. Lying the young warrior down next to the knife, he kneeled over him. After a moments thought he grabbed Rejk's sword.
Rejk reached out for the dagger, and life. Suddenly he saw Harrok grabbing his sword, and bringing it over. Collapsing barely concious, he failed. He couldn't muster the strength even to grab the dagger. The blow to the head must have concussed him. "What a way to die" Rejk thought "Killed with one's own sword." He waited for the death blow, and he realised that Harrok had placed the sword next to him, and didn't mean to kill him. He summoned the last of his reserves of energy and grabbed the dagger. He then passed out, sinking into blackness.
******
A week later Rejk came to. Lying in a bead of moss, next to a fire, he was covered by the skins of many animals. Tossing them off he gasped in pain, as his ribs ached. Looking to his chest, he saw the sign of Orik cut into his chest. The sign of honourable defeat. But he surrendered? How could he have earned the sign of Orik? Pondering to himself he went back to sleep.
Over the next few days, Rejk heard the tales of how Harrok had spared him, carried him across to the dagger and how, after he had passed out, Harrok had carried him to the shaman's hut, and only after he had made sure Rejk's wounds were bound, had removed the knife in his leg and bound his own cuts. How as he slept, Harrok carved the sign of Orik into his chest.
A week after the fight, Rejk could sit up and walk unassisted, his head injuy fully healed. His rib still hurt badly, particularly when he moved, but Krajh told him that he could hunt in another three weeks or more. Sitting in the shamman's hut, his tempory abode until he healed, a visitor walked in. Harrok sat down next to Rejk, and handed him the ceremonial dagger. Freashly sharpened the tip gleamed with a copper sheen. Rejk took the dagger and carved the sign of Bjorn into him, sealing his own loss, but graciosly with honour. Harrok smiled, and calmly worked on the open cuts on his chest, first covering them in healing salves, then binding them closed with cloth made from the hair of the Trakun, the great hairy yak of the northern mountians.
Rejk's next move shocked Harrok completely. Rejk took the ceremonial knife to his own skin again. Calmly cutting into his own arm, Rejk cut a stylised skull of a great bear into his own arm. As he did so he said to Harrok "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine*. Your enamies are my foes. Any fight you are in, I will watch your back before mine, defend your hut and fire as if it was mine own. If you take my oath, take this dagger now." Finishing these words of submission, he offered the knife to his potential leige. Harrok took the knife, and placed it in his belt, before returning the traditional responce. "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine*. Your allies are my friends. Any fight you are in, I will fight alongside you, defend your hut and hearth, for it is now mine."
Clasping eachothers forarms in the warrior grip the pair exchanged a smile. Rejk understood now that he was Harrok's man to command. His own disagreement was elipsed by the service he owed his new Jorg. (Roughly translates as leige or honour lord.) Harrok said to him "Rest now, sleep. When the dawn breaks, we will have much to talk on. Now I must return to my hut and family."
____________________
Notes:
*The word used was "Myln", which translates from Norscan to something close to mine. No ownership is inferred, and it is used as one would use mine in english reffering to one's own family.
Harrok circled his opponent, his new trolltooth dagger in one hand, his iron knifethe other. The tribe circled the pair, silent and staring. No cheering for their faveroites, no support was given to either member, for this was a solem occasion. Hurorkap, literally translated as "Bad blood spills" but meaning closer to "The spilling of bad blood/emotions" was a ceremony of the most dire kind, a ritual dual to either death or surrender. Due to the nature of the tradition, death was almost always the result.
Rejk faced Harrok in the circle, moving slowly and readily, his norscan-forged iron sword in two hands. Between the pair the tribes shamman, Krajh, stood tall. His bare chest was tattoed with occult designs, and ritual scars, which extended to his upper arms, neck, back and lower face. Holding a ceremonial dagger his hand he help it above the pair, in view of the surrounding crowd. The whole tribe watched as Krajh spoke, telling the tale of Orik and Bjorn, and the enmitty betwene the great ancestor-gods that was tearing the pair apart. Where Bjorn wanted to go south and fight the horse-riders and the hill-warriors, Orik thought that the tribe should flee north where the southern armies would not follow. Bjorn called Orik a coward, and a fued between the pair begun. Their conflict was tearing the tribe apart, and if something was not done, the tribe would schism and be crushed by their southern foes. The pair decided to fight a single combat, the winner would continue, and the loser would not trouble anyone, leaving the conflict solved one way or another. Since that legendary fight, any fight between tribe members or any personal hatred within the tribe that threatened the tribe as a whole were decided by Hurorkap.
Krajh lay the dagger in the centre of the circle, and then stepped back, joining the circle. Now in order to complete his challenge Rejk must throw the dagger in the air, and the moment it hit the ground, the pair would begin their fight. Neither must intentionally touch the dagger, for that symbolised surrender. The copper dagger flew high in the air, glittering in the low sunlight before plumeting down within the circle. The blade sunk into the soft snow, and the combatants lept at eachother.
Rejk swung his sword for a low hit, was parried by Harrok, reversed his sword and flicked his blade up attemping to cut Harrok's jagular. Harrok ducked, and stabbed with his trolltooth dagger as Rejk jumped back and lept on the offencive agian. Harrok jumped a second low swing, ducked a thrust to the throat and tackled his opponent, arms around Rejk's legs, holding the daggers out. The shock of this move caused Rejk to drop his sword, and Harrok dropped his dagger as his arm hit the ground. Freeing his arm, Harrok pulled his knife out from under Rejk, the cold iron dark against the slowflakes that adorned the crude blade. Rejk kicked Harrok in the face, spraying crimson blood over the pair, and possibly breaking bones. Spitting blood and teeth Harrok held Rejk down, barely flinching at the blow, despite the pain. He must seem relentless if he was to succeed. With a witheringly powerful headbut Harrok broke Rejk's nose, the younger fighter screaming in pain. Harrok placed a foot on Rejk's chest, and held the dagger over Rejk's neck. Asking Rejk if he would yeild he emphasised the point by placing the edge of his dagger against the soft skin on Rejk's throat. It was painfully cold, the rough blade raising pricks of blood from the exposed flesh.
Rejk suddenly stabbed Harrok in the leg with Harrok's dropped dagger. Again, unflinchingly Harrok took the blow. Deamons cried out in his head, but no outward sign of the agony was forthcoming. Pushing harder with his wounded leg, he felt intense pain but thanked Bjorn that he had missed the major tendons and muscles. Sudenly beneith his foot a rib broke, snapping loudly and painfully. Repeating in a voice that Harrok hoped was louder and more intimidating then it felt, Harrok one more requested "Yeild".
Rejk paniced beneith Harrok's boot and blade. He gave a scream of pain, and asked Harrok to finish it now. Instead Harrok stepped back and stood behind the dagger burried in the ground. He remained silent. The only noise that could be heard was the howl of the wind, and the heavy breaths of Rejk. Harrok stood there, breathing deaply, taking great pains not to sound laboured. He felt as if he would collapse any moment. Wondering whether he had chosen correctly, or if he would pass out and be finished by the younger warrior, and leave his wife a widow. His determination and reslove returned in full measure and he straightened, dispite the pain. The dagger was still in his leg, bleeding slowly as it tortured Harrok.
Rejk saw his choice. The message was easy, chose to surrender by touching the dagger, or fight Harrok, and die. He realised his fued wasn't worth dying for, and attempted to rise, but collapsed. He knew if he passed out he would die, Harrok would be forced to kill him. Marsheling his resources, he stood, stumbled a step forward and then fell. He began to crawl towards the dagger, and then collapsed. He almost passed out, and he felt his conciousness slipping away. Suddenly friendly hands lifted him to his feet, and helped carry him towards the ceremonial dagger. He knew the tribe couldn't interfere, and looked up to his benefactor.
Harrok carried the young warrior over to the knife, gritting his teeth, refusing to gasp in pain. He could't give in to pain now, not now when he had almost succeeded. Lying the young warrior down next to the knife, he kneeled over him. After a moments thought he grabbed Rejk's sword.
Rejk reached out for the dagger, and life. Suddenly he saw Harrok grabbing his sword, and bringing it over. Collapsing barely concious, he failed. He couldn't muster the strength even to grab the dagger. The blow to the head must have concussed him. "What a way to die" Rejk thought "Killed with one's own sword." He waited for the death blow, and he realised that Harrok had placed the sword next to him, and didn't mean to kill him. He summoned the last of his reserves of energy and grabbed the dagger. He then passed out, sinking into blackness.
******
A week later Rejk came to. Lying in a bead of moss, next to a fire, he was covered by the skins of many animals. Tossing them off he gasped in pain, as his ribs ached. Looking to his chest, he saw the sign of Orik cut into his chest. The sign of honourable defeat. But he surrendered? How could he have earned the sign of Orik? Pondering to himself he went back to sleep.
Over the next few days, Rejk heard the tales of how Harrok had spared him, carried him across to the dagger and how, after he had passed out, Harrok had carried him to the shaman's hut, and only after he had made sure Rejk's wounds were bound, had removed the knife in his leg and bound his own cuts. How as he slept, Harrok carved the sign of Orik into his chest.
A week after the fight, Rejk could sit up and walk unassisted, his head injuy fully healed. His rib still hurt badly, particularly when he moved, but Krajh told him that he could hunt in another three weeks or more. Sitting in the shamman's hut, his tempory abode until he healed, a visitor walked in. Harrok sat down next to Rejk, and handed him the ceremonial dagger. Freashly sharpened the tip gleamed with a copper sheen. Rejk took the dagger and carved the sign of Bjorn into him, sealing his own loss, but graciosly with honour. Harrok smiled, and calmly worked on the open cuts on his chest, first covering them in healing salves, then binding them closed with cloth made from the hair of the Trakun, the great hairy yak of the northern mountians.
Rejk's next move shocked Harrok completely. Rejk took the ceremonial knife to his own skin again. Calmly cutting into his own arm, Rejk cut a stylised skull of a great bear into his own arm. As he did so he said to Harrok "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine*. Your enamies are my foes. Any fight you are in, I will watch your back before mine, defend your hut and fire as if it was mine own. If you take my oath, take this dagger now." Finishing these words of submission, he offered the knife to his potential leige. Harrok took the knife, and placed it in his belt, before returning the traditional responce. "Brothers in mingled blood, your family is mine*. Your allies are my friends. Any fight you are in, I will fight alongside you, defend your hut and hearth, for it is now mine."
Clasping eachothers forarms in the warrior grip the pair exchanged a smile. Rejk understood now that he was Harrok's man to command. His own disagreement was elipsed by the service he owed his new Jorg. (Roughly translates as leige or honour lord.) Harrok said to him "Rest now, sleep. When the dawn breaks, we will have much to talk on. Now I must return to my hut and family."
____________________
Notes:
*The word used was "Myln", which translates from Norscan to something close to mine. No ownership is inferred, and it is used as one would use mine in english reffering to one's own family.
Thursday, 23 October 2008
Chapter 10 - Shadow sounds
G'day readers. Here's chapter 10 - Shadow sounds. If you want to read from the start, chapter one is here.
AEgon moved to the front of the marching order with Jarrod, finding that today the long and dreary march tired him not at all, despite the lack of sleep the night before. Iryl was walking next to Marie, renewing her hold on the physical world with a charm. "I know you haven't showed any signs of fading though yet, however I can't promise that I'll be with you when you do start to fade. This should keep you here until you are ready to go on. This magic will draw mana from the world around you - so if you start to fade go to a graveyard or a crypt and rest there for a few days as the charm builds strength again."
Turning to Bjorn he continued "Now, I couldn't re-create what I did with AEgon here, there were other forces in movement, and to be honest I'm not exactly sure how I did that. But this should help you instead. You haven't faded since your time - and if AEgon is correct you're an ancient ghost, much older then any I have met. I can sense some kind of magic already in play upon your spirit, although I can't tell what. Rather then tamper with it, I have added a layer of magic over it, that will take excess mana from that spell and allow you to use that to become corporeal at will." Iryl happily bubbled on about magical theory and the new spells he had placed upon the pair.
AEgon and Jarrod kept an eye out for the rest of the group, still worried by the events of the night before. Although the forest was thick they were traveling on a scrub path though the forest - not easy going by any means, but infinitely preferable to wandering through the forest at random, and much easier. The maps they were supplied with had no directions concerning the inside of this forest, but they were going roughly west, which was a good sign. Occasionally the forest crown would break, and they could see the sallow sunlight steaming in from behind them. The group would stop momentarily at these rare glimpses of light, before setting their shoulders and marching back into the silent shadows of the forest.
A low mournful sound wailed, causing the group to halt again, before stopping as suddenly as it started. "You hear that?" Jarrod piped up, breaking the eerie silence. Unconvingly Iryl dismissed it "Probably just a wolf, best to keep moving." They started their march again, this time with a watchful silence settling over the group. Even AEgon felt nervous, despite the fact that being already dead, whatever it was probably couldn't do any more to him.
The noise sounded again, this time the group sped up, nervously picking up the pace. Their watchfulness became jumpy, every forest noise made them jump. Again the noise sounds. It starts to become more frequent, every few minutes it echoed out through the forest, always from a different place; sometimes as if from nowhere, other times as if from everywhere. Like an invisible chorus it sung its mournful howling dirge from around them.
Soon it was calling out in a matter of seconds after it stopped, and then started to overlap itself. It had a sense of a predator closing in on helpless prey. The group began to run, but then Bjorn called out reassuringly, and commanded them to hold. They gathered into a circle, facing outwards, and watched, waiting for whatever it was to show itself.
The sound began to rise in pitch, becoming a scream, then a screech, then cutting out altogether. Jarrod went to talk, but found that he couldn't hear himself. Either could anyone else. Panic ensured. AEgon and Bjorn stood like levians above the panic, as the group screamed soundlessly to each other, desperate to be heard.
Bjorn began to stride forwards, an ethereal axe appearing in his hand. AEgon peered into the darkness, and then saw it, a ghost amongst the trees. Almost invisible in the dark, its ethereal form was like an un-shadow. Following bjorn, he drew as much mana as he could from the area around him, and willed it into a short sword in his hand. As he approached, he could see it was a woman. She turned as gave out a screech. AEgon heard a cry behind him, and looked back over his shoulder to see Jarrod and Iryl spasming on the ground, Marie kneeling over them, trying to calm them. He turned back, and it was gone.
*********
That evening a recently recovered Iryl revealed what he had surmised about their attack. "Basically, we're dealing with a banshee. A spirit of a a person, usually a woman, who has been killed in childbirth." Marie giggled and asked "Ummm, how can a man die in childbirth?"
"It's happened before, mainly magical pregnancies. Backfiring fertility spells and such. Irrelavently, the spirit will remain near the mortal plane, unless it is banished, destroyed or its child is burried propperly. If the child is alive, they are peaceful, and don't have much to do with the mortal plane, but once the child dies, it is a different story. Which is part of the reason orphans are sought after by unscrupulous aenecromanc-" AEgon coughed loudly, interrupting Iryl's flow. Iryl stuttered and then continued "But that is something to be explained another day. In order to eliminate it if it attacks again, we need to banish or destroy it, since the alternative is largely inconvenient. I propo-" Again AEgon interrupted, with a loud and altogether fake fit of coughing.
"I was getting to the heart of the matter AEgon, so be patient. We need one of you three ghosts to kill it. You'll need to find the correct spectral resonance dep-" This time Bjorn interrupted.
"We need to kill it, by hitting it. AEgon, you know how to touch another ghost, right? Good. Plan is, if it turns up again, we hit it, until it goes away, since Jarrod or Iryl won't be able to do much if it turns up. Marie, make sure if they're 'urt that you look after them. Talking done, now get ta sleep. I want to get out've this forest tomorrow if we get the chance. AEgon and I will take care of the watch."
AEgon moved to the front of the marching order with Jarrod, finding that today the long and dreary march tired him not at all, despite the lack of sleep the night before. Iryl was walking next to Marie, renewing her hold on the physical world with a charm. "I know you haven't showed any signs of fading though yet, however I can't promise that I'll be with you when you do start to fade. This should keep you here until you are ready to go on. This magic will draw mana from the world around you - so if you start to fade go to a graveyard or a crypt and rest there for a few days as the charm builds strength again."
Turning to Bjorn he continued "Now, I couldn't re-create what I did with AEgon here, there were other forces in movement, and to be honest I'm not exactly sure how I did that. But this should help you instead. You haven't faded since your time - and if AEgon is correct you're an ancient ghost, much older then any I have met. I can sense some kind of magic already in play upon your spirit, although I can't tell what. Rather then tamper with it, I have added a layer of magic over it, that will take excess mana from that spell and allow you to use that to become corporeal at will." Iryl happily bubbled on about magical theory and the new spells he had placed upon the pair.
AEgon and Jarrod kept an eye out for the rest of the group, still worried by the events of the night before. Although the forest was thick they were traveling on a scrub path though the forest - not easy going by any means, but infinitely preferable to wandering through the forest at random, and much easier. The maps they were supplied with had no directions concerning the inside of this forest, but they were going roughly west, which was a good sign. Occasionally the forest crown would break, and they could see the sallow sunlight steaming in from behind them. The group would stop momentarily at these rare glimpses of light, before setting their shoulders and marching back into the silent shadows of the forest.
A low mournful sound wailed, causing the group to halt again, before stopping as suddenly as it started. "You hear that?" Jarrod piped up, breaking the eerie silence. Unconvingly Iryl dismissed it "Probably just a wolf, best to keep moving." They started their march again, this time with a watchful silence settling over the group. Even AEgon felt nervous, despite the fact that being already dead, whatever it was probably couldn't do any more to him.
The noise sounded again, this time the group sped up, nervously picking up the pace. Their watchfulness became jumpy, every forest noise made them jump. Again the noise sounds. It starts to become more frequent, every few minutes it echoed out through the forest, always from a different place; sometimes as if from nowhere, other times as if from everywhere. Like an invisible chorus it sung its mournful howling dirge from around them.
Soon it was calling out in a matter of seconds after it stopped, and then started to overlap itself. It had a sense of a predator closing in on helpless prey. The group began to run, but then Bjorn called out reassuringly, and commanded them to hold. They gathered into a circle, facing outwards, and watched, waiting for whatever it was to show itself.
The sound began to rise in pitch, becoming a scream, then a screech, then cutting out altogether. Jarrod went to talk, but found that he couldn't hear himself. Either could anyone else. Panic ensured. AEgon and Bjorn stood like levians above the panic, as the group screamed soundlessly to each other, desperate to be heard.
Bjorn began to stride forwards, an ethereal axe appearing in his hand. AEgon peered into the darkness, and then saw it, a ghost amongst the trees. Almost invisible in the dark, its ethereal form was like an un-shadow. Following bjorn, he drew as much mana as he could from the area around him, and willed it into a short sword in his hand. As he approached, he could see it was a woman. She turned as gave out a screech. AEgon heard a cry behind him, and looked back over his shoulder to see Jarrod and Iryl spasming on the ground, Marie kneeling over them, trying to calm them. He turned back, and it was gone.
*********
That evening a recently recovered Iryl revealed what he had surmised about their attack. "Basically, we're dealing with a banshee. A spirit of a a person, usually a woman, who has been killed in childbirth." Marie giggled and asked "Ummm, how can a man die in childbirth?"
"It's happened before, mainly magical pregnancies. Backfiring fertility spells and such. Irrelavently, the spirit will remain near the mortal plane, unless it is banished, destroyed or its child is burried propperly. If the child is alive, they are peaceful, and don't have much to do with the mortal plane, but once the child dies, it is a different story. Which is part of the reason orphans are sought after by unscrupulous aenecromanc-" AEgon coughed loudly, interrupting Iryl's flow. Iryl stuttered and then continued "But that is something to be explained another day. In order to eliminate it if it attacks again, we need to banish or destroy it, since the alternative is largely inconvenient. I propo-" Again AEgon interrupted, with a loud and altogether fake fit of coughing.
"I was getting to the heart of the matter AEgon, so be patient. We need one of you three ghosts to kill it. You'll need to find the correct spectral resonance dep-" This time Bjorn interrupted.
"We need to kill it, by hitting it. AEgon, you know how to touch another ghost, right? Good. Plan is, if it turns up again, we hit it, until it goes away, since Jarrod or Iryl won't be able to do much if it turns up. Marie, make sure if they're 'urt that you look after them. Talking done, now get ta sleep. I want to get out've this forest tomorrow if we get the chance. AEgon and I will take care of the watch."
Thursday, 16 October 2008
18th delays
G'day any readers I might have. I turned 18 yesterday, so odds are I won't be getting much work in on this any time soon. The next chapter is in progress, so it won't be too long. Cheers all, take it easy.
Friday, 29 August 2008
Chapter 9 - Shadows and Shades
I plan to work on this more often, so hopefully you'll get more frequent updates. Anyways, here's chapter nine: Shadows and shades. Chapter one is here if you were looking for it.
Warning - there is some swearing in this one, so if you're prone to being offended by it, please don't read this post. Thankyou.
AEgon awoke, instantly at the ready. Grabbing the knife from under his pillow he jumped to his feet, ready to confront the intruder. Looking around, he sees no-one. Jarrod sits still, silent and awake. Then Jarrod speaks "Relax. There is no-one out there. The knights have all left." Jarrod spat the word, like an insult. "Don't know what it is about them big fuckers, but they irritate me." Jarrod spat the insult, like a word. "Something ain't right about them armoured men, gives me the creeps."
"Golems." Iryl muttered, still half asleep. "They were golems. Told you last night."
"They could be ghoul-fuckers for all I care, they freak me out."
As Iryl tried to explain to Jarrod what golems were, AEgon started cleaning up the campsite, eavesdropping on them.
"No Jarrod! They arn't people. Or elves. Or anything! They're made from magic. To follow orders."
"So, they're like elementals, what they summon?"
"No, they make golems. Sometimes they summon elementals into them. . . "
AEgon stopped listening as he put out the dying embers of last nights campfire.
Bjorn walked back into the camp, and looked at the newly arose party. "See you're still sleeping AEgon." Perplexed, AEgon aked why "Why shouldn't I have been?"
"Ya don' need it. It's just a habit of yours, most ghosts lose it after a few years." Looking down at the sleeping 'form' of Marie he commented "Looks like she hasn't been dead long either. Old habits an' all that."
After some more conversation the group was ready to continue. Following the aged map the priests of Morr had given them, they continued westward. As the day wore on the trees began to thicken, the meagre sunlight becoming weaker and less available.
********
Weary from a long days march the group slowed, wandering the dark paths under a night sky they oculd barely see. The party stopped as one, unconsciously coming to the decision that they had reached the end of today's treck. They began to make camp, setting up a campfire, Iryl and Jarrod setting up small tents to protect them from the elements. The firelight flickered, sending dancing shadows against the trees. The party sat down, staring into the fire; each was silent, their own thoughts filling their mind. Wondering on their futures, their pasts and their present.
Jarred tiredly watched the fire, staring into the licking tongues of flame with the fascination mankind has borne with fire since they discovered it. He began to think about everything that had happened to him since he left the Schola Magus with AEgon and Iryl. The bandits, the inquisitor and the following run-in with the white order, the escape and now a quest. Just like the stories old Vrin used to tell, of knights and chivalry. Of oaths of iron, and swords of steel. And the shadow-plays he used to narrate for the troupe. Jarrod's eyes moved to the shadows shifting against the trees. Jarrod and Iryl were on the same side of the fire, and their less corporeal companions on the other - so nothing blocked the light of the fire reaching the trees closest to the clearing.
Jarrod thought about his experience with the reapers of Morr. Shuddering he recalled their grim forms, and how even afterwards, how he could see them walking beside the people of Romah. He remembered them in the battle - even though he was focused solely on saving AEgon, his hindsight recalled the grim reapers' forms perfectly. He watched them cut them down, even as he himself cut them down. Unseen by all but him they danced about the battlefield, striking down each warrior as they fell. Even now he could see them cavorting in the trees, waiting for the hour of their calling, waiting to take the souls of his dead companions. He laughed to himself, shaking his head clear of the figures of his overactive imagination. "I'm wandering around some forest in the middle of nowhere with a necromancer, three ghosts - one of whom is also magical, and I need to imagine that we're being stalked by the personification of death to creep myself out."
Jarrod chucked to himself some more, before being startled by a form moving in the trees. Wary that it could be his exhausted mind playing him the fool again, he decided to check it out before panicking everyone. As he rose he saw more movement in the trees. Aware now that this was not his imagination he gestured to AEgon and Iryl to be ready. Announcing loudly that he would be back in a moment, he calmly walked towards the movement. Suddenly AEgon and Iryl leaped to their feet, yelling "We're surrounded!" The camp became a flurry of activity, Marie jumping to her feet, uncertain what to do, Bjorn howling dire threats to the attackers, his voice a vicious and terrifying threat from beyond the mortal coil. AEgon gathered what mana he could into himself, ready and looking for the first to enter the camp. Iryl did the same, watching the treeline with a steely glare. Jarrod, all pretence abandoned drew his sword, slowly stepping backwards towards the fire as he watched for an assault.
No attack came.
Bjorn's threats lost momentum, and they all stood still watching in the silence. Tension mounted. They watched. Nothing continued to happen. The forest was still.
The awkward silence reined a moment longer before a nervous giggle broke the silence. "Guess they ran off" Marie suggested. Suddenly the camp broke into laughter. Jarrod smiled to himself - at least tonight the drama would be put on hold.
*********
As they settled down for the night, Bjorn and AEgon both volunteered for watch. They talked throughout the night, AEgon learning much about life after life. As dawn broke the pair were still talking amicably like old friends, or perhaps reunited relatives.
Want to continue? Chapter ten is here.
Warning - there is some swearing in this one, so if you're prone to being offended by it, please don't read this post. Thankyou.
AEgon awoke, instantly at the ready. Grabbing the knife from under his pillow he jumped to his feet, ready to confront the intruder. Looking around, he sees no-one. Jarrod sits still, silent and awake. Then Jarrod speaks "Relax. There is no-one out there. The knights have all left." Jarrod spat the word, like an insult. "Don't know what it is about them big fuckers, but they irritate me." Jarrod spat the insult, like a word. "Something ain't right about them armoured men, gives me the creeps."
"Golems." Iryl muttered, still half asleep. "They were golems. Told you last night."
"They could be ghoul-fuckers for all I care, they freak me out."
As Iryl tried to explain to Jarrod what golems were, AEgon started cleaning up the campsite, eavesdropping on them.
"No Jarrod! They arn't people. Or elves. Or anything! They're made from magic. To follow orders."
"So, they're like elementals, what they summon?"
"No, they make golems. Sometimes they summon elementals into them. . . "
AEgon stopped listening as he put out the dying embers of last nights campfire.
Bjorn walked back into the camp, and looked at the newly arose party. "See you're still sleeping AEgon." Perplexed, AEgon aked why "Why shouldn't I have been?"
"Ya don' need it. It's just a habit of yours, most ghosts lose it after a few years." Looking down at the sleeping 'form' of Marie he commented "Looks like she hasn't been dead long either. Old habits an' all that."
After some more conversation the group was ready to continue. Following the aged map the priests of Morr had given them, they continued westward. As the day wore on the trees began to thicken, the meagre sunlight becoming weaker and less available.
********
Weary from a long days march the group slowed, wandering the dark paths under a night sky they oculd barely see. The party stopped as one, unconsciously coming to the decision that they had reached the end of today's treck. They began to make camp, setting up a campfire, Iryl and Jarrod setting up small tents to protect them from the elements. The firelight flickered, sending dancing shadows against the trees. The party sat down, staring into the fire; each was silent, their own thoughts filling their mind. Wondering on their futures, their pasts and their present.
Jarred tiredly watched the fire, staring into the licking tongues of flame with the fascination mankind has borne with fire since they discovered it. He began to think about everything that had happened to him since he left the Schola Magus with AEgon and Iryl. The bandits, the inquisitor and the following run-in with the white order, the escape and now a quest. Just like the stories old Vrin used to tell, of knights and chivalry. Of oaths of iron, and swords of steel. And the shadow-plays he used to narrate for the troupe. Jarrod's eyes moved to the shadows shifting against the trees. Jarrod and Iryl were on the same side of the fire, and their less corporeal companions on the other - so nothing blocked the light of the fire reaching the trees closest to the clearing.
Jarrod thought about his experience with the reapers of Morr. Shuddering he recalled their grim forms, and how even afterwards, how he could see them walking beside the people of Romah. He remembered them in the battle - even though he was focused solely on saving AEgon, his hindsight recalled the grim reapers' forms perfectly. He watched them cut them down, even as he himself cut them down. Unseen by all but him they danced about the battlefield, striking down each warrior as they fell. Even now he could see them cavorting in the trees, waiting for the hour of their calling, waiting to take the souls of his dead companions. He laughed to himself, shaking his head clear of the figures of his overactive imagination. "I'm wandering around some forest in the middle of nowhere with a necromancer, three ghosts - one of whom is also magical, and I need to imagine that we're being stalked by the personification of death to creep myself out."
Jarrod chucked to himself some more, before being startled by a form moving in the trees. Wary that it could be his exhausted mind playing him the fool again, he decided to check it out before panicking everyone. As he rose he saw more movement in the trees. Aware now that this was not his imagination he gestured to AEgon and Iryl to be ready. Announcing loudly that he would be back in a moment, he calmly walked towards the movement. Suddenly AEgon and Iryl leaped to their feet, yelling "We're surrounded!" The camp became a flurry of activity, Marie jumping to her feet, uncertain what to do, Bjorn howling dire threats to the attackers, his voice a vicious and terrifying threat from beyond the mortal coil. AEgon gathered what mana he could into himself, ready and looking for the first to enter the camp. Iryl did the same, watching the treeline with a steely glare. Jarrod, all pretence abandoned drew his sword, slowly stepping backwards towards the fire as he watched for an assault.
No attack came.
Bjorn's threats lost momentum, and they all stood still watching in the silence. Tension mounted. They watched. Nothing continued to happen. The forest was still.
The awkward silence reined a moment longer before a nervous giggle broke the silence. "Guess they ran off" Marie suggested. Suddenly the camp broke into laughter. Jarrod smiled to himself - at least tonight the drama would be put on hold.
*********
As they settled down for the night, Bjorn and AEgon both volunteered for watch. They talked throughout the night, AEgon learning much about life after life. As dawn broke the pair were still talking amicably like old friends, or perhaps reunited relatives.
Want to continue? Chapter ten is here.
Tuesday, 26 August 2008
Short one today: A Aliteration
Im an alliterative absolute archduke, always above any arguments, actively allocating awesome assonance attacks against aforementioned arguable agressors and associated angsty attitudes; actualy an artificial alter-ego; apparantly an alabi; anon, acting as an animated avatar of an alagamation of atoms attached alongside another, as an actual amature author called jack.
Read that and weep. ;) I am awesome. In an alliterative sence, of course. Next week, B.
Read that and weep. ;) I am awesome. In an alliterative sence, of course. Next week, B.
Thursday, 7 August 2008
Red Dusk - Harrok returns
I liked doing The Hunt, so I thought I'd do a sequel. This is Red Dusk, Enjoy:
Harrok moved slowly, the light of the falling sun beginning to fade. He lead his warriors through the twilight forest - the meagre light of the sun largely blocked by the sparse iron pines. Flashes of sunlight broke through the snow-covered boughs. Each of the warriors moved silently, troll skin boots muffling the crunch of fresh snow. The boots were made from the last fight with the trolls. Harrok remembered Bjard, who died in the last attack - ripped apart by a massive ice troll using only its bare hands. Grimacing he set his mind to the task at hand. They were approaching the ambush point, and Harrok signaled to his men. They all split up, binding their white furred pelts up, and stowing them in their war kits. They paired up, binding the war kits to each other's backs, and then began to climb the trees.
The first few feet were the easiest. They had to use their legs to grip the tree whilst reaching up and around with their arms to hold onto the tree. Then using their muscled arms they had to pull their legs higher, before gripping again, and reaching up with their arms. Their ascent of the massive iron pines was slow, but they slowly gained height. When they reached the lowest branches things became trickier. They had to move up as before, but avoiding the lower branches where some of the trolls would move through the forest. They couldn't leave marks where later snowfalls wouldn't cover their tracks. So they continued, until they were too high up to avoid the ever thickening branches. Here they wove themselves through the maze of branches, taking care not to break any. Finally they were high enough to not be seen from the ground, and they moved to a comfortable spot. Then they waited.
Hours later it began to snow, and still they waited, hidden in the upper branches of the massive iron pines, whose wood was uncuttable by any axes Harrok's tribe could fashion. Grund had a dwarf forged axe, that could fell them - but even then there was no point, they couldn't make spears from the wood, nor would it burn well. The wood was nearly impervious to fire, and the iron pines required fire to spread. Garrok remembered his father telling him how the mighty trees scattered their seeds. When lightning struck, it wouldn't burn the wood, but the highly flammable bark would catch and light. Within moments nearby trees would be aflame, spreading the fire until whole forests were alight, a gigantic firestorm which meant that any in the iron pine forests were doomed to a fiery death in god-sized pyre. The seed pods would then burst open, shooting the seeds all around. The firestorm would suck them in, pulling air into itself, and then they would be ejected up with the smoke and hot wind the inferno generated. They would fly high into the air, where the wind would scatter them across the mountains.
A sound shattered the silence. The bellow of a troll, still many leagues off. however trolls move quickly, and Harrok knew their wait was almost over.
The sounds grew more and more frequent, until the trolls were heard moving past the group, a long way to the north. Harrok sighed, in equal parts relief and disappointment. They would not need to fight today, by the time they arrived the fight would already be decided. However they wouldn't share in the glory or in the rewards. Trolls were rare, and their hides were much sought after by Harrok's tribe. Screaming out at the top of his lungs Harrok alerted all within earshot "North. Move." Without waiting Harrok jumped down out of the iron pine, dropping ten metred before he grabbed a branch. The rough bark of the tree tore at his calloused hands, but Harrok ignored the pain. When his momentum had slowed he dropped again, and repeated the procedure until he reached the bottom branch. Here he dropped to the snow covered forest floor and began moving north confident in the knowledge his men were following him.
Stealth was no longer an issue, the war party were moving in a high legged jog across the winter terrain. The wide soles of the troll skin boots made it possible for them to move across the packed snow, their feet only penetrating the soft layer of crunchy powder snow, allowing them to move at a reasonable speed across the difficult terrain. As the sounds of battle begun to drift acoss the still air, Harrok swifly but silently led his group towards the fray. Screams sliced the silence, daggers in the dark to dulled ears. As they closed in, the sounds of battle grew louder. An immence bellow of pain broke out, smothering the sound of battle in its volume. Nothing else could be heard over the echo in the trees, then even that faded leaving a muffled sound ringing in all their ears.
Moments after, disoriented and ears still rining from the intense sound, they were confronted by a massive troll. White fur covered its massive body, it looked like an unholy blend of polar bear, giant ape and deamon. Red stains showed where it had been cut, and half of a spear protruded from its stomach. Harrok didn't even check his stride, pulling a hatchet from his belt he leaped and grabbed the spear shaft with his free hand, and used it to pull himself up. His right hand however, sunk the hatchet into the beasts throat, reaching up as far as his hand would allow. Pulling the small axe clear he struck again, twice more, before letting go and dropping to the ground. The beast fell backward as Harrok hit the gorund, once more running.
The forrest was thinner here, and one could see the sun setting silently over the westward mountains, its light crimson, matching the growing snow-stain growing from around the troll's corpse.
Harrok barked an order, and his party split up, spreading out into a loose skirmish line. They moved forwards through the trees cautiosly, constantly aware of the possibility of trolls waiting in ambush, checking the trees as best they could, both for trolls hiding behind, and in them. They scanned the snow, trying to locate trolls hiding under the topmost layer of powder snow. Trained eyes looked less for outlines, and more for unusual contours in the snow. Suddenly one threw a spear into the snow, three metres in front of the slowly advancing line. The spear-thrower was rewarded with a scream of pain, and a troll running away from its attackers. The line spead up, looking as if it would chase after the fleeing troll, but was merely gaining momentum to throw the spears the furthest distance. The landscape suddenly sprouted spines, spear shafts protruding from the snow. The group let wounded trolls flee, but the few who made a dash for the line were delt with before they could close the distance.
Annother yelled order from Harrok saw the group pick up the pace, changing from a careful, cautious crawl on two legs to a paced run. Slower then the trolls , the group would be lucky to catch up with any - however they had to keep the preasure on. Now the trollish ambush was broken, there was little chance they would regroup to form annother. Spears disposed of, the group all carried hatchets and knives, ranging from crude flint tools to well crafted iron weapons.
Harrok moved slowly, the light of the falling sun beginning to fade. He lead his warriors through the twilight forest - the meagre light of the sun largely blocked by the sparse iron pines. Flashes of sunlight broke through the snow-covered boughs. Each of the warriors moved silently, troll skin boots muffling the crunch of fresh snow. The boots were made from the last fight with the trolls. Harrok remembered Bjard, who died in the last attack - ripped apart by a massive ice troll using only its bare hands. Grimacing he set his mind to the task at hand. They were approaching the ambush point, and Harrok signaled to his men. They all split up, binding their white furred pelts up, and stowing them in their war kits. They paired up, binding the war kits to each other's backs, and then began to climb the trees.
The first few feet were the easiest. They had to use their legs to grip the tree whilst reaching up and around with their arms to hold onto the tree. Then using their muscled arms they had to pull their legs higher, before gripping again, and reaching up with their arms. Their ascent of the massive iron pines was slow, but they slowly gained height. When they reached the lowest branches things became trickier. They had to move up as before, but avoiding the lower branches where some of the trolls would move through the forest. They couldn't leave marks where later snowfalls wouldn't cover their tracks. So they continued, until they were too high up to avoid the ever thickening branches. Here they wove themselves through the maze of branches, taking care not to break any. Finally they were high enough to not be seen from the ground, and they moved to a comfortable spot. Then they waited.
Hours later it began to snow, and still they waited, hidden in the upper branches of the massive iron pines, whose wood was uncuttable by any axes Harrok's tribe could fashion. Grund had a dwarf forged axe, that could fell them - but even then there was no point, they couldn't make spears from the wood, nor would it burn well. The wood was nearly impervious to fire, and the iron pines required fire to spread. Garrok remembered his father telling him how the mighty trees scattered their seeds. When lightning struck, it wouldn't burn the wood, but the highly flammable bark would catch and light. Within moments nearby trees would be aflame, spreading the fire until whole forests were alight, a gigantic firestorm which meant that any in the iron pine forests were doomed to a fiery death in god-sized pyre. The seed pods would then burst open, shooting the seeds all around. The firestorm would suck them in, pulling air into itself, and then they would be ejected up with the smoke and hot wind the inferno generated. They would fly high into the air, where the wind would scatter them across the mountains.
A sound shattered the silence. The bellow of a troll, still many leagues off. however trolls move quickly, and Harrok knew their wait was almost over.
The sounds grew more and more frequent, until the trolls were heard moving past the group, a long way to the north. Harrok sighed, in equal parts relief and disappointment. They would not need to fight today, by the time they arrived the fight would already be decided. However they wouldn't share in the glory or in the rewards. Trolls were rare, and their hides were much sought after by Harrok's tribe. Screaming out at the top of his lungs Harrok alerted all within earshot "North. Move." Without waiting Harrok jumped down out of the iron pine, dropping ten metred before he grabbed a branch. The rough bark of the tree tore at his calloused hands, but Harrok ignored the pain. When his momentum had slowed he dropped again, and repeated the procedure until he reached the bottom branch. Here he dropped to the snow covered forest floor and began moving north confident in the knowledge his men were following him.
Stealth was no longer an issue, the war party were moving in a high legged jog across the winter terrain. The wide soles of the troll skin boots made it possible for them to move across the packed snow, their feet only penetrating the soft layer of crunchy powder snow, allowing them to move at a reasonable speed across the difficult terrain. As the sounds of battle begun to drift acoss the still air, Harrok swifly but silently led his group towards the fray. Screams sliced the silence, daggers in the dark to dulled ears. As they closed in, the sounds of battle grew louder. An immence bellow of pain broke out, smothering the sound of battle in its volume. Nothing else could be heard over the echo in the trees, then even that faded leaving a muffled sound ringing in all their ears.
Moments after, disoriented and ears still rining from the intense sound, they were confronted by a massive troll. White fur covered its massive body, it looked like an unholy blend of polar bear, giant ape and deamon. Red stains showed where it had been cut, and half of a spear protruded from its stomach. Harrok didn't even check his stride, pulling a hatchet from his belt he leaped and grabbed the spear shaft with his free hand, and used it to pull himself up. His right hand however, sunk the hatchet into the beasts throat, reaching up as far as his hand would allow. Pulling the small axe clear he struck again, twice more, before letting go and dropping to the ground. The beast fell backward as Harrok hit the gorund, once more running.
The forrest was thinner here, and one could see the sun setting silently over the westward mountains, its light crimson, matching the growing snow-stain growing from around the troll's corpse.
Harrok barked an order, and his party split up, spreading out into a loose skirmish line. They moved forwards through the trees cautiosly, constantly aware of the possibility of trolls waiting in ambush, checking the trees as best they could, both for trolls hiding behind, and in them. They scanned the snow, trying to locate trolls hiding under the topmost layer of powder snow. Trained eyes looked less for outlines, and more for unusual contours in the snow. Suddenly one threw a spear into the snow, three metres in front of the slowly advancing line. The spear-thrower was rewarded with a scream of pain, and a troll running away from its attackers. The line spead up, looking as if it would chase after the fleeing troll, but was merely gaining momentum to throw the spears the furthest distance. The landscape suddenly sprouted spines, spear shafts protruding from the snow. The group let wounded trolls flee, but the few who made a dash for the line were delt with before they could close the distance.
Annother yelled order from Harrok saw the group pick up the pace, changing from a careful, cautious crawl on two legs to a paced run. Slower then the trolls , the group would be lucky to catch up with any - however they had to keep the preasure on. Now the trollish ambush was broken, there was little chance they would regroup to form annother. Spears disposed of, the group all carried hatchets and knives, ranging from crude flint tools to well crafted iron weapons.
Occasionaly lone trolls would attack, jumping out from behind trees, or a wounded troll would turn when it realised it could not outrun its persuers. These were short bloody affairs, the three closest tribesmen whould countercharge the troll, quickly going for the throat - the closet thing a troll has to a weak point. Usualy the troll would die quickly as a tribesman severed the throat and peirced the nerves in the neck; sometimes it would kill a tribesman as it charged, shattering ribs and turning organs to pulp with poweful backhand blows, or shredding limbs with wickedly sharp and large claws, or biting heads off whole (along with half a torso). Any tribesmen who had even a glancing blow from one of these creatures already belonged to Morr, there was nothing that oculd be done. In the far north, a wound that rendered one unable to walk, this far from camp meant death, even if he could be carried back to camp. Left on the battlefeild for the moment, the bitter cold would freeze and preserve them until the rites of death could be performed.
The snow was scattered with bodies, both in front and behind Harrok's war party. Left lying where they fell, they were a morbid testiment to battles fought. Crimson snow where blood had spurted from wounds showed the course of the battle, and the body at the end of each trail showed the result of each battle. In some areas lone trolls had fought groups of humans, usualy these had a troll corpse, but often enough it was acompanied by dead tribesmen too, often hurled some distance form the actual battle. Other places small groups had clashed, here troll corpses lay intermingled with human, both bloods mingling together and freezing together into slick red ice.
One such battlefeild lay before Harrok, as he pulled his men up short. A small group of trolls were holding a crude fort - made from fallen trees dragged across a rock fall. However it was manned by about a half a dozen trolls, and might as well have been a castle wall for all Harrok could do. He saw a group of tribesmen standing back from the fortified position, gasping for breath. The red snow, and the tribesmens' bodies scattered across the area far outnumbering the fallen trolls told a terrible tale.
Harrok lead his men to this weary group. One who seemed to be the leader was leaning hevily on a spear, a terrible gash across his left arm. A quick talk confirmed Harrok's suspicions, Bokkan, the 'leader' wasn't even the head of his war party, he assumed command when their leader had been cut almost in two by a wicked blow from an ice troll's scythelike claws. Half of the group were searching for other tribesmen, and gathering used spears, the others were picketed around the fortification, ready to call at the slightest sign of a breakout. In the open ground, the score of tribesmen would quickly overcome the heavily outnumbered trolls, particularly as the long limbed trolls fought best alone, undiciplened and wild in their attack, together in a tight group they would hinder rather then help each other. However attacking the fortifications would fail, as the supiriour numbers of men would be useless, and the trolls were spaced apart, so that they could each defend their part of the barracade.
One troll stood behind and above the defences, and was obviously the leader. Oddly for the northern trolls, who were crude, and rarely used weapons of any kind, he had a large iron war-axe, carried like a hatchet by the massive troll. Towering over the other trolls, even over the great trolls, this monster was 20' tall if he was an inch. He bellowed a crude challenge to the scattered humans in trollish. Although none understood the language, the intent carried clearly across the language barrier.
Harrok asked Bokkan for the spear he was leaning on. As soon as he got it, he charged across the gap between the them and the trolls, yelling a curt command for everyone to remain where they were. When he was close enough, he hurled the spear at the trolls. For a moment Bokkan thought that it would hit the cheif, but instead it dove deep into the throat of the nearest troll, killing it instantly. Standing thirty metres from the baracade, he stared down the leader. Closer to the trolls then any support, he would be run down if they tried. He yelled "Do any of you trolls speak Norscan?". Norscan was the most widespead language of the north, many tribes didn't speak common, and in the wilderness, some hadn't even heard of it.
One troll answered, in gutteral and crude, but understandable Norscan. "Yes, I speak Norse-tounge." Harrok inwardly sighed his releif. "We will let you get home, if you leave and go west." Muttering broke out amongst the humans, wondering why Harrok was letting such a bounty of troll fur escape. There were only six, the tribe would be turning up any moment now, why let them escape? At the same time the trolls talked quickly in trollish, until the lead troll spoke in trollish. The Norse-speaking troll relayed the message, "We go at sun-hide. Move your fight-men into the forrest-trees at sunrise-place. East." Harrok called a command to his men, who all fell back into the forest. Harrok lead some of the others back. Some came reluctantly, moving only when Harrok told them that if they were attacked, no help would be forthcomming.
One such battlefeild lay before Harrok, as he pulled his men up short. A small group of trolls were holding a crude fort - made from fallen trees dragged across a rock fall. However it was manned by about a half a dozen trolls, and might as well have been a castle wall for all Harrok could do. He saw a group of tribesmen standing back from the fortified position, gasping for breath. The red snow, and the tribesmens' bodies scattered across the area far outnumbering the fallen trolls told a terrible tale.
Harrok lead his men to this weary group. One who seemed to be the leader was leaning hevily on a spear, a terrible gash across his left arm. A quick talk confirmed Harrok's suspicions, Bokkan, the 'leader' wasn't even the head of his war party, he assumed command when their leader had been cut almost in two by a wicked blow from an ice troll's scythelike claws. Half of the group were searching for other tribesmen, and gathering used spears, the others were picketed around the fortification, ready to call at the slightest sign of a breakout. In the open ground, the score of tribesmen would quickly overcome the heavily outnumbered trolls, particularly as the long limbed trolls fought best alone, undiciplened and wild in their attack, together in a tight group they would hinder rather then help each other. However attacking the fortifications would fail, as the supiriour numbers of men would be useless, and the trolls were spaced apart, so that they could each defend their part of the barracade.
One troll stood behind and above the defences, and was obviously the leader. Oddly for the northern trolls, who were crude, and rarely used weapons of any kind, he had a large iron war-axe, carried like a hatchet by the massive troll. Towering over the other trolls, even over the great trolls, this monster was 20' tall if he was an inch. He bellowed a crude challenge to the scattered humans in trollish. Although none understood the language, the intent carried clearly across the language barrier.
Harrok asked Bokkan for the spear he was leaning on. As soon as he got it, he charged across the gap between the them and the trolls, yelling a curt command for everyone to remain where they were. When he was close enough, he hurled the spear at the trolls. For a moment Bokkan thought that it would hit the cheif, but instead it dove deep into the throat of the nearest troll, killing it instantly. Standing thirty metres from the baracade, he stared down the leader. Closer to the trolls then any support, he would be run down if they tried. He yelled "Do any of you trolls speak Norscan?". Norscan was the most widespead language of the north, many tribes didn't speak common, and in the wilderness, some hadn't even heard of it.
One troll answered, in gutteral and crude, but understandable Norscan. "Yes, I speak Norse-tounge." Harrok inwardly sighed his releif. "We will let you get home, if you leave and go west." Muttering broke out amongst the humans, wondering why Harrok was letting such a bounty of troll fur escape. There were only six, the tribe would be turning up any moment now, why let them escape? At the same time the trolls talked quickly in trollish, until the lead troll spoke in trollish. The Norse-speaking troll relayed the message, "We go at sun-hide. Move your fight-men into the forrest-trees at sunrise-place. East." Harrok called a command to his men, who all fell back into the forest. Harrok lead some of the others back. Some came reluctantly, moving only when Harrok told them that if they were attacked, no help would be forthcomming.
The red light dwindled and faded, the burning disk diving below the mountains, leaving a moment where the last rays of light streaked red trails across the sky. Then it went dim and colourless, the ice and snow slowly going from red and white to black in the darkness. Tomorrow they would gether the fallen trolls, skinning them for their warm, tough hides, and the fallen men, to be given their last rites. Tonight they huddled close together, waiting out the long cold nights in small comunal tent-huts, made from iron pine staffs and animal hides. They lit small fires, and watched the trolls stalk away into the darkness, each watcher silently thanking his gods that he was alive to watch.
Another sequel here.
Tuesday, 22 July 2008
Chapter 8: Knight Knight
Ok, time to get back to the story. I spent some time figuring out just how I wanted this bit to work, so hopefully it comes off how I want it to. New readers: Chapter one is here. If you're interested, please check it out, and give some critique. Cheers all.
Like statues, the iron clad knights didn't even shift at AEgon's appearance. They remain still.
AEgon wondered if they're still alive. If they were just empty suits of armour. He couldn't see anything inside the suits. Helmet meets gorget meets pauldron; pauldron seems fused to couters and couters to vembraces. Likewise pauldron joins faulds and tassets. Cuisses joined the impossibly impenetrable plates of armour that seemed to be the only body of the knights surrounding him. Each peice of the plate armour was an extension of the one before it, like a thick bony plating it was the body of the knights surrounding him in a way he couldn't fathom. There was no way there was anyone in that armour - they couldn't stand up in that armour, let alone put it all on.
Impossibly they rose as one. The former ring of statues became a threatening barrier of impenetrable steel.
Or so it would be for a normal human. AEgon just ran though the steel apparitions, heading towards his friends . . . who were just behind those knights there. He charged onwards, only to be confronted with the same armoured fence. Looking around, he had not moved. He was in the middle of the circle of knights - obviously some sort of magic was in effect. AEgon called to his comrades, but got no reply. "I must escape these inquisitors of the white order" he frantically thought. "There must be some way to escape this magic."
Suddenly a voice boomed from the universe, yet only came from inside his own head. "Be Calm", it commanded in a voice that was impossible to ignore. It commanded, and AEgon obeyed. He could only obey, he could not question, dissent or refusal was not an option. He obeyed.
The knights all stood in this circle, and waited.
After what seemed like an epoch, the voice boomed out again. "You are an agent of Morr." After a longer wait "You have a mighty destiny".
"You shall dim the unbearable light."
"You shall quote the scripture from Morr's book, and give balance to undeath."
"You shall administer the final mercies, and the mercy after those."
"You shall walk with the angels of death, dance with the reapers of Morr, and shall not survive, the end will see you not in the kingdom of undeath."
"You shall be Morr's vassal, the Spectral Knight, fighting for your liege. Protecting those who can not defend themselves, a shield to cast shadow from the harsh sun. An unliving sigil of the break in Ani's circle. To this end you shall have a company made from life, death, undeath and unlife. To achieve this you shall have these vassals under you. They will obey you in your hour of need, the captain of their lifeless, deathless, unliving and yet not undead company."
The voice stopped, and AEgon knew he would never hear it again. The circle of knights all kneeled as one, offering their swords before them. After a moment, AEgon heard another voice, coming from all the knights. It wasn't a group of voices, but one voice from many mouths. "Greetings AEgon. We are bound to you, Liege. Will you command us?" AEgon wondered how to respond. He decided to risk a command, "At ease, men." As one the knights returned to their seats around the circle." This second voice once more emerged form the mouths of the circle "Call your friends, we will take watch tonight. " Without speaking the circle of knights rose again, and like clockwork strode off into the darkness, presumably watching for intruders.
AEgon called to his friends, and they came into the circle. It was going to be a long night, a long explanation and so he began to pass on the tale of what just happened to him. The group huddled around the fire, avidly discussing and planning, questioning the odd knights, AEgon's voices and the consequences of this. Sleep didn't fall upon the camp until the moon was well above their heads - although the constricting canopy of the forrest made certain that the adventurers below never saw more then a glimmer of moonlight.
EDIT: Edited after Ravyn's comment. Fixed tense issues, and showed not told with the panic.
Want to keep reading? Chapter nine is here.
Like statues, the iron clad knights didn't even shift at AEgon's appearance. They remain still.
AEgon wondered if they're still alive. If they were just empty suits of armour. He couldn't see anything inside the suits. Helmet meets gorget meets pauldron; pauldron seems fused to couters and couters to vembraces. Likewise pauldron joins faulds and tassets. Cuisses joined the impossibly impenetrable plates of armour that seemed to be the only body of the knights surrounding him. Each peice of the plate armour was an extension of the one before it, like a thick bony plating it was the body of the knights surrounding him in a way he couldn't fathom. There was no way there was anyone in that armour - they couldn't stand up in that armour, let alone put it all on.
Impossibly they rose as one. The former ring of statues became a threatening barrier of impenetrable steel.
Or so it would be for a normal human. AEgon just ran though the steel apparitions, heading towards his friends . . . who were just behind those knights there. He charged onwards, only to be confronted with the same armoured fence. Looking around, he had not moved. He was in the middle of the circle of knights - obviously some sort of magic was in effect. AEgon called to his comrades, but got no reply. "I must escape these inquisitors of the white order" he frantically thought. "There must be some way to escape this magic."
Suddenly a voice boomed from the universe, yet only came from inside his own head. "Be Calm", it commanded in a voice that was impossible to ignore. It commanded, and AEgon obeyed. He could only obey, he could not question, dissent or refusal was not an option. He obeyed.
The knights all stood in this circle, and waited.
After what seemed like an epoch, the voice boomed out again. "You are an agent of Morr." After a longer wait "You have a mighty destiny".
"You shall dim the unbearable light."
"You shall quote the scripture from Morr's book, and give balance to undeath."
"You shall administer the final mercies, and the mercy after those."
"You shall walk with the angels of death, dance with the reapers of Morr, and shall not survive, the end will see you not in the kingdom of undeath."
"You shall be Morr's vassal, the Spectral Knight, fighting for your liege. Protecting those who can not defend themselves, a shield to cast shadow from the harsh sun. An unliving sigil of the break in Ani's circle. To this end you shall have a company made from life, death, undeath and unlife. To achieve this you shall have these vassals under you. They will obey you in your hour of need, the captain of their lifeless, deathless, unliving and yet not undead company."
The voice stopped, and AEgon knew he would never hear it again. The circle of knights all kneeled as one, offering their swords before them. After a moment, AEgon heard another voice, coming from all the knights. It wasn't a group of voices, but one voice from many mouths. "Greetings AEgon. We are bound to you, Liege. Will you command us?" AEgon wondered how to respond. He decided to risk a command, "At ease, men." As one the knights returned to their seats around the circle." This second voice once more emerged form the mouths of the circle "Call your friends, we will take watch tonight. " Without speaking the circle of knights rose again, and like clockwork strode off into the darkness, presumably watching for intruders.
AEgon called to his friends, and they came into the circle. It was going to be a long night, a long explanation and so he began to pass on the tale of what just happened to him. The group huddled around the fire, avidly discussing and planning, questioning the odd knights, AEgon's voices and the consequences of this. Sleep didn't fall upon the camp until the moon was well above their heads - although the constricting canopy of the forrest made certain that the adventurers below never saw more then a glimmer of moonlight.
EDIT: Edited after Ravyn's comment. Fixed tense issues, and showed not told with the panic.
Want to keep reading? Chapter nine is here.
Monday, 21 July 2008
My settings
G'day loyal(?) readers. Now I know I can use that 's' :). I wanted to talk about my settings here. I've been working with one of my settings on this blog, and it is a fairly normal fantasy setting. Dwarves, elves, dragons, magic, knights with big swords, and all that. I also have a few other settings I'm working on.
My 'Worlds crash' setting is set in our world, only it has 'collided' with a fantasy world. Suddenly we have magic, and therefore dragons, vampires, zombies. Different places treat them differently, but friction and therefore action ensures.
My 'Spacerift' setting is based, well, in space. This is not a place you'd want to live in though, corporations have set up harsh totalitarian dictatorships, and control almost all the money there is. Most people work for the system, but a few 'Riftpirates' work against it, making a criminal living by smuggling mainly, but often worse crimes. Genetic modification has lead to different species of humans created for specific tasks. The Krox for example are large four armed monsters with heightened aggression, strength, reactions and resilience, bred to be soldiers, whereas the 'Spacers' are lithe 6 fingered pilots whose enhanced reaction speeds and delicate movements make them natural pilots, but their fragile bone system will break and shatter under normal gravity.
There are others, but my fantasy setting (aka. the 'Erondian' setting or the 'Firstworld' setting) will be the one I work with most. Unless I state otherwise, all my stories from here on in will be set in my Firstworld setting, but the others will apear from time to time. Cheers all, and thanks for reading this.
My 'Worlds crash' setting is set in our world, only it has 'collided' with a fantasy world. Suddenly we have magic, and therefore dragons, vampires, zombies. Different places treat them differently, but friction and therefore action ensures.
My 'Spacerift' setting is based, well, in space. This is not a place you'd want to live in though, corporations have set up harsh totalitarian dictatorships, and control almost all the money there is. Most people work for the system, but a few 'Riftpirates' work against it, making a criminal living by smuggling mainly, but often worse crimes. Genetic modification has lead to different species of humans created for specific tasks. The Krox for example are large four armed monsters with heightened aggression, strength, reactions and resilience, bred to be soldiers, whereas the 'Spacers' are lithe 6 fingered pilots whose enhanced reaction speeds and delicate movements make them natural pilots, but their fragile bone system will break and shatter under normal gravity.
There are others, but my fantasy setting (aka. the 'Erondian' setting or the 'Firstworld' setting) will be the one I work with most. Unless I state otherwise, all my stories from here on in will be set in my Firstworld setting, but the others will apear from time to time. Cheers all, and thanks for reading this.
Tuesday, 8 July 2008
On: the gods and religion of the otherworlds.
So I've mentioned Morr and Ani, and hinted at other gods, but what do they mean to the Otherworlds? Well, for one, the pagan pantheon of gods worshiped in the Otherworlds are real (in the context of the fiction anyhow). However they are fairly vague sort of beings, and tend not to take to much of a direct hand in matters. So now I think some introductions are in order.
Firstly The Source, aka: The Source of all things, the creator, the first, the ageless, the infinite. He created the otherworlds. The rest is mysterious. ie. We don't know. However we know he created the titans and the ancients.
The Ancients are Ani, Morr, Wyrd and Hojo. They are the ancients of life, death, order/destiny and Chaos respectively. It is not so much that they are for those things, as much as Ani defines the characteristics of life. Death is death, because it is Morr's domain.
The Titans are also four in number, one dedicated to each element. K'z'k is the titan of fire, Sharna of water, Gorim of earth and Aegia of air. They are not so much defined by their element so much as they define the element. Fire is hot and burns stuff, because K'z'k personifies those traits. K'z'k is wild and violent, and very destructive. He is the fastest to anger, and takes the longest to calm. Sharna is moody and tempermental, and will also anger quickly, but will collect herself and calm just as quickly. Gorim is slow and ponderous, his temperment like stone (or more correctly stone resembles his temperment). He won't anger quickly, but when he is moved to violence, his wrath is an avalanche of implacable fury. Aegia is often depicted as his wife, and is fickle but not prone to violence.
The Eldar Gods are the gods of the elves, trolls, giants and dragons. They express loose groupings of moods and concepts, as they were created by the concentration of these concepts. Typhil, Eldar of sickness and disease for example is famine, illness and blight personified in a deity. His bloated body sits upon a throne of petulant corpses. He is attended by rats and the very ill. He was created by the collective thoughts of sickness, and as sickness spreads his power waxes. Nympus, Eldar of beauty however is a seductive queen with a body so perfect that all lust for her. She is called upon to bless children so they grow to be attractive, and her domain is over all things of beauty. As the old races, and the young races were spawned they also preyed to these gods.
The Old Gods in contrast are the gods created by the dwarves, gnomes, fayrie and meyr. They are created in much the same way as the Eldar Gods, but they are more focused. They are pantheons unique to each race, and they have complex histories fueding with other gods, fighting mighty beasts and banishing demons. The Eldar races never had gods in this fashion, as they each prayed to the Ancients, and the Eldar gods for protection. An example of this is Havestos, dwarven god of the forge.
The Young Gods make up massive and complex pantheons that are constantly in flux and the god's powers wax and wane. These gods are common, and are usualy much less powerful then the old gods or the eldar gods. However, they tend to take a much more avid interest in the life and day to day existance of mortals. This is as their power is in direct proportion to the amount of faith their followers have in them. These gods are constantly at war with eachother, and many are dying as their followers are put to the sword, their shrines torn down and their names forgottern.
The Dark Gods are a subgroup of all the gods. They are the negitive, evil gods, who are evil by their very nature. They are numourous and all bare only one common trait, being malicious in intent. They themselves are the product of evil deeds and thoughts, they will often work with and against eachother. They are lead by the Eldar God Malik, god of evil. Underneith him are the seven sins. Each one of the seven are gods dedicated to a sin.
The Spirit Gods are created by ancestor worship, by praying to the spirits of the dead they become a type of minor deity. They are weaker then most the other gods, but they are much closer to the mortal plane, and will frequently take a hand in what happens. They can be like a kind of gaurdian angel for their decendants, giving them luck and strength when needed.
The Chaos Gods were created by Hojo, they are a caste of gods designed to keep the world in a constant state of flux and flow. They were the original gods of the orcs and the beastmen. However, by their very nature they won't remain worshipped by any group, their fickleness means they make poor gods, and they usualy forget their charges and find new ones. They don't even have permanant names or identities - at times there is one, at other times there are an infinate pantheon of them warring with everything and everyone. Or not, just to mix things up ;).
Firstly The Source, aka: The Source of all things, the creator, the first, the ageless, the infinite. He created the otherworlds. The rest is mysterious. ie. We don't know. However we know he created the titans and the ancients.
The Ancients are Ani, Morr, Wyrd and Hojo. They are the ancients of life, death, order/destiny and Chaos respectively. It is not so much that they are for those things, as much as Ani defines the characteristics of life. Death is death, because it is Morr's domain.
The Titans are also four in number, one dedicated to each element. K'z'k is the titan of fire, Sharna of water, Gorim of earth and Aegia of air. They are not so much defined by their element so much as they define the element. Fire is hot and burns stuff, because K'z'k personifies those traits. K'z'k is wild and violent, and very destructive. He is the fastest to anger, and takes the longest to calm. Sharna is moody and tempermental, and will also anger quickly, but will collect herself and calm just as quickly. Gorim is slow and ponderous, his temperment like stone (or more correctly stone resembles his temperment). He won't anger quickly, but when he is moved to violence, his wrath is an avalanche of implacable fury. Aegia is often depicted as his wife, and is fickle but not prone to violence.
The Eldar Gods are the gods of the elves, trolls, giants and dragons. They express loose groupings of moods and concepts, as they were created by the concentration of these concepts. Typhil, Eldar of sickness and disease for example is famine, illness and blight personified in a deity. His bloated body sits upon a throne of petulant corpses. He is attended by rats and the very ill. He was created by the collective thoughts of sickness, and as sickness spreads his power waxes. Nympus, Eldar of beauty however is a seductive queen with a body so perfect that all lust for her. She is called upon to bless children so they grow to be attractive, and her domain is over all things of beauty. As the old races, and the young races were spawned they also preyed to these gods.
The Old Gods in contrast are the gods created by the dwarves, gnomes, fayrie and meyr. They are created in much the same way as the Eldar Gods, but they are more focused. They are pantheons unique to each race, and they have complex histories fueding with other gods, fighting mighty beasts and banishing demons. The Eldar races never had gods in this fashion, as they each prayed to the Ancients, and the Eldar gods for protection. An example of this is Havestos, dwarven god of the forge.
The Young Gods make up massive and complex pantheons that are constantly in flux and the god's powers wax and wane. These gods are common, and are usualy much less powerful then the old gods or the eldar gods. However, they tend to take a much more avid interest in the life and day to day existance of mortals. This is as their power is in direct proportion to the amount of faith their followers have in them. These gods are constantly at war with eachother, and many are dying as their followers are put to the sword, their shrines torn down and their names forgottern.
The Dark Gods are a subgroup of all the gods. They are the negitive, evil gods, who are evil by their very nature. They are numourous and all bare only one common trait, being malicious in intent. They themselves are the product of evil deeds and thoughts, they will often work with and against eachother. They are lead by the Eldar God Malik, god of evil. Underneith him are the seven sins. Each one of the seven are gods dedicated to a sin.
- Lucifer: pride
- Mammon: greed
- Asmodeus: lust
- Levian: envy
- Beelzebub: gluttony
- Amon: wrath
- Belphegor: sloth
The Spirit Gods are created by ancestor worship, by praying to the spirits of the dead they become a type of minor deity. They are weaker then most the other gods, but they are much closer to the mortal plane, and will frequently take a hand in what happens. They can be like a kind of gaurdian angel for their decendants, giving them luck and strength when needed.
The Chaos Gods were created by Hojo, they are a caste of gods designed to keep the world in a constant state of flux and flow. They were the original gods of the orcs and the beastmen. However, by their very nature they won't remain worshipped by any group, their fickleness means they make poor gods, and they usualy forget their charges and find new ones. They don't even have permanant names or identities - at times there is one, at other times there are an infinate pantheon of them warring with everything and everyone. Or not, just to mix things up ;).
Thursday, 3 July 2008
Fire, Clock, Certanity - A writing exercise
Now I'm going to try a writing exercise that I've seen elsewhere. Basicaly you get given 3 words and you must write aas fast as you can for 5 mins. You must start with one of the 3 words, and use the other 2 in the 1st paragraph. The idea is not to stop and over-think it or self edit whilst writing it. Here's my effort:
Fire scorced the old houde. It licked the walls with red hot tounges, slimbed the walls, burnt paintings and photgraphs alike. It arched across the old wooden roof, eating away at the bracings holding up the wall. An old grandfather clock boomed out its ringing cry, it was midnight. Then it too caught fire, and burnt. It was falling apart, just like the building. There was one certanity, and that was that the building would fall. Would there be survivors? Would anyone care? These things oculd not be known for sure, but Abagail knew as she left the burning infurno that come tomorrow there would only be rubble in this spot, instead of the only home she had ever known.
She ran out into the cobbled streets, and cried out for help. She screamed to her neghbours, she ranted and reved. Running down the cobblestones in her nightgown, the silloette of a little girl ran from door to door, asking for anyone to help. Anyone. But no-one did. No-onw could care less about another orphan, begging on the streets. Times were hard, and Abagail's parent's weren't friendly with her neighbourhood. they weren't friendly with anyone now, their charred sketeltons lying against the door of their bedroom, where they had been locked in. No-one wanted to kill them; well, no-one anyone knew of anyway. They were new to the neighborhood, hadn't had the chance to make friends or enamies. No-one even knew their names, except little Abagail, running down the street, crying. Searching for help.
Fire scorced the old houde. It licked the walls with red hot tounges, slimbed the walls, burnt paintings and photgraphs alike. It arched across the old wooden roof, eating away at the bracings holding up the wall. An old grandfather clock boomed out its ringing cry, it was midnight. Then it too caught fire, and burnt. It was falling apart, just like the building. There was one certanity, and that was that the building would fall. Would there be survivors? Would anyone care? These things oculd not be known for sure, but Abagail knew as she left the burning infurno that come tomorrow there would only be rubble in this spot, instead of the only home she had ever known.
She ran out into the cobbled streets, and cried out for help. She screamed to her neghbours, she ranted and reved. Running down the cobblestones in her nightgown, the silloette of a little girl ran from door to door, asking for anyone to help. Anyone. But no-one did. No-onw could care less about another orphan, begging on the streets. Times were hard, and Abagail's parent's weren't friendly with her neighbourhood. they weren't friendly with anyone now, their charred sketeltons lying against the door of their bedroom, where they had been locked in. No-one wanted to kill them; well, no-one anyone knew of anyway. They were new to the neighborhood, hadn't had the chance to make friends or enamies. No-one even knew their names, except little Abagail, running down the street, crying. Searching for help.
Saturday, 21 June 2008
Sunday, 8 June 2008
On: Gods of the Otherworlds - In progress
So I've mentioned Morr and Ani, and hinted at other gods, but what do they mean to the Otherworlds? Well, for one, the pagan pantheon of gods worshiped in the Otherworlds are real (in the context of the fiction anyhow). However they are fairly vague sort of beings, and tend not to take to much of a direct hand in matters. So now I think some introductions are in order.
Firstly The Source, aka: The Source of all things, the creator, the first, the ageless, the infinite. He created the otherworlds. The rest is mysterious. ie. We don't know. However we know he created the titans and the ancients.
The Ancients are Ani, Morr, Wyrd and Hojo. They are the ancients of life, death, order/destiny and Chaos respectively. It is not so much that they are for those things, as much as Ani defines the characteristics of life. Death is death, because it is Morr's domain.
The Titans are also four in number, one dedicated to each element.
To Be Continued. . . .
Firstly The Source, aka: The Source of all things, the creator, the first, the ageless, the infinite. He created the otherworlds. The rest is mysterious. ie. We don't know. However we know he created the titans and the ancients.
The Ancients are Ani, Morr, Wyrd and Hojo. They are the ancients of life, death, order/destiny and Chaos respectively. It is not so much that they are for those things, as much as Ani defines the characteristics of life. Death is death, because it is Morr's domain.
The Titans are also four in number, one dedicated to each element.
To Be Continued. . . .
Monday, 2 June 2008
Chapter 7: Flee to the wilds
Here it is, Chapter 7. Real Life, friends, work and other things (including my laziness) have delayed it, but here it is. I welcome all comments and criticisms, so please tell me what you think. For new readers, chapter one is here.
Mere days later, Ægon and his group escaped, fleeing into the catacombs below Romah. When questioned, the priests of Morr only revealed that they were built for the "chosen of Morr" and would reveal little else. Since they were already equipped and prepared for a long journey, the group could leave the city prepared for their treck. Their location - anywhere else, away from Romah, and the group of people trying to persecute them. They had been pointed towards the west, and to try and alert the high-priests of Morr there to the persecution of the Romah chapter. Although the Romah Chapter was a minor power politicaly, and held no political clout, the church as a whole held a much greater power, particularly in the Westerlands.
Walking through the dark catacombs the group lit torches to help them find their way. Flickering flames sent dancing shadows across the earthy walls. The walls were earth, held up by a macabre display, made of wood, tree roots, stone and human bone, forming grim arches and supports holding the ground above them. They walked quietly and touched nothing, afraid of disturbing the balance that kept the maze of confusing tunnels open.
Iryl detected magic in the arches and the tunnels, but kept this to himself. He also suspected they were being watched, and stayed silent on this point too. finally he stayed silent about the abundance of death mana which flowed into him from his surrounds, like a parched cloth soaking in water once plunged into a pond.
****
The group traveled like this for a long time, the passing of time under the earth was a mystery, but they marched, ate, marched more, ate more then slept in a cycle, moving many miles under the surface. This cycle was repeated 5 times, before they emerged into sunlight. Iryl and Jarrond were blinded by the sudden light, whereas the trio of ghosts merely faded in the sunlight. The intense light however was merely the dark green ambient light of the forest floor; dark and gloomy to the outside world, but a bright world of colour to our adventurers. They marched without halt until dusk, when they halted, ate, and then began to march into the night. The group were untired, and had in fact slept shortly before their emergence. They marched until they saw a the light of a camp, oft and away in the silhouettes of the woods.
Ægon strode through the trees in a disturbingly literal way. Flanked by Marie and Bjorn the ghostly trio were even more disturbing, as the dappled moonlight breaking through the living roof cast beams of light through their ethereal bodies. Iryl and Jarrod stalked slowly though the shadows, the latter with much more stealth then the former. However it proved sufficient for the group to sneak up on the camp ahead. Ægon whispered to Iryl to stop some distance from the firelight camp, and then did the same for Jarrod. Casting off the vestiges of his visible form with as much ease as one would cast off a cloak, Ægon strode into the camp and watched.
If you want to read on, chapter 8 is here.
Mere days later, Ægon and his group escaped, fleeing into the catacombs below Romah. When questioned, the priests of Morr only revealed that they were built for the "chosen of Morr" and would reveal little else. Since they were already equipped and prepared for a long journey, the group could leave the city prepared for their treck. Their location - anywhere else, away from Romah, and the group of people trying to persecute them. They had been pointed towards the west, and to try and alert the high-priests of Morr there to the persecution of the Romah chapter. Although the Romah Chapter was a minor power politicaly, and held no political clout, the church as a whole held a much greater power, particularly in the Westerlands.
Walking through the dark catacombs the group lit torches to help them find their way. Flickering flames sent dancing shadows across the earthy walls. The walls were earth, held up by a macabre display, made of wood, tree roots, stone and human bone, forming grim arches and supports holding the ground above them. They walked quietly and touched nothing, afraid of disturbing the balance that kept the maze of confusing tunnels open.
Iryl detected magic in the arches and the tunnels, but kept this to himself. He also suspected they were being watched, and stayed silent on this point too. finally he stayed silent about the abundance of death mana which flowed into him from his surrounds, like a parched cloth soaking in water once plunged into a pond.
****
The group traveled like this for a long time, the passing of time under the earth was a mystery, but they marched, ate, marched more, ate more then slept in a cycle, moving many miles under the surface. This cycle was repeated 5 times, before they emerged into sunlight. Iryl and Jarrond were blinded by the sudden light, whereas the trio of ghosts merely faded in the sunlight. The intense light however was merely the dark green ambient light of the forest floor; dark and gloomy to the outside world, but a bright world of colour to our adventurers. They marched without halt until dusk, when they halted, ate, and then began to march into the night. The group were untired, and had in fact slept shortly before their emergence. They marched until they saw a the light of a camp, oft and away in the silhouettes of the woods.
Ægon strode through the trees in a disturbingly literal way. Flanked by Marie and Bjorn the ghostly trio were even more disturbing, as the dappled moonlight breaking through the living roof cast beams of light through their ethereal bodies. Iryl and Jarrod stalked slowly though the shadows, the latter with much more stealth then the former. However it proved sufficient for the group to sneak up on the camp ahead. Ægon whispered to Iryl to stop some distance from the firelight camp, and then did the same for Jarrod. Casting off the vestiges of his visible form with as much ease as one would cast off a cloak, Ægon strode into the camp and watched.
If you want to read on, chapter 8 is here.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
A teaser for chapter 7
New Readers: Chapter one can be found here. Everyone else: Here's a teaser for my in progress e-novella.
Ægon strode through the trees in a disturbingly literal way. Flanked by Marie and Bjorn the ghostly trio were even more disturbing, as the dappled moonlight breaking through the living roof cast beams of light through their ethereal bodies. Iryl and Jarrod stalked slowly though the shadows, the latter with much more stealth then the former. However it proved sufficient for the group to sneak up on the camp ahead. Ægon whispered to Iryl to stop some distance from the firelight camp, and then did the same for Jarrod. Casting off the vestiges of his visible form with as much ease as one would cast off a cloak, Ægon strode into the camp and watched.
Want to read more?
Ægon strode through the trees in a disturbingly literal way. Flanked by Marie and Bjorn the ghostly trio were even more disturbing, as the dappled moonlight breaking through the living roof cast beams of light through their ethereal bodies. Iryl and Jarrod stalked slowly though the shadows, the latter with much more stealth then the former. However it proved sufficient for the group to sneak up on the camp ahead. Ægon whispered to Iryl to stop some distance from the firelight camp, and then did the same for Jarrod. Casting off the vestiges of his visible form with as much ease as one would cast off a cloak, Ægon strode into the camp and watched.
Want to read more?
Thursday, 17 April 2008
What next?
I now have three (3) things I could work on. I could work on my novella, and keep going with that, I could work on the arena pt II, or I could continue with Harrok, and finish off my short story entitled 'crimson snow' (which has been started, a little bit anyways). The poll option is broke, so please comment in with your votes. You have until April 24 to get it in, I'm busy until then, but after that I plan to work on whatever is chosen. Please let me know what you want, your vote may just swing it due to the entire low readership thing.
Tuesday, 8 April 2008
On Orcs
Here it is, a bonus post for reaching 3 digits of visitors. A bit late, but what the hey.
Orcs are large grenskinned humanoids, averaging 7feet in height and 180kg (400 lb). They have a tough leathery skin which darkens and becomes tougher as they age. Their facial characteristics are prone to much diversity, however bucket jaws and large fangs are common. Almost all are considered ugly by human standards, with any sense of proportion thrown out the window. To make their bestial faces worse, they are almost all scarred with broken noses and jaws and torn ears due to their rough lifestyle.
Often seen as the quintessential noble savage, orcs have a complex and rigid system of honour. However it is very different and alien to human chivalry. There is no compunction against attacking the weak or helpless, but it values courage and bravery above all else. Many orcish mercenaries have turned upon a hirer when they decide that they have been hired by a coward/that their foes are more brave then their allies. They do not see this as being a traitor, by being less brave they have forfeited the right to their service (in the orc's eyes).
The orcish social system is based upon these courage-honour ideals, with each tribe lead by a chief - the bravest and most courageous orc in the tribe. These tribes in turn make up klans, with the klan leader taking the title of boss-chief, warboss, warcheif or warlord (in ascending levels of seniority). When a particularly powerful boss-chief arises, he will exert respect and control over nearby klans, and arise to the title of warboss. A warboss will expand the orc's territory, aggressively conquering all nearby forces. As these klans grow in power, they will amalgamate other groupings of klans (called hordes), with the greatest orc being declared warboss. Often there will be competition for this spot - a group of the oldest orcs will judge, often calling for feats of strength, endurance, bravery and cunning to help decide. If all else fails, single combat shall decide the warcheif. Only the greatest orcs ascend to the title of warlord, and they lead great hordes across the globe in violent attempts to create an orcish nation. Orcish tribes will migrate across great distances to be part of such a great horde, and serve under such a brave and honorable orc. After the warlord dies, these generally loose momentum and fracture, but will unite again under pressure or when threatened.
There are few loose orcish empires made in this fashion. The wild plains is home to one such 'empire' as is the lands surrounding Frostpeak, the badlands in the northern end of the eastern desert. These 'empires' are based around a fortress like capital, with smaller orcish fortress-cities spread around. These cities aren't heavily populated, except in times of war, when they can house many times their normal population. The warlike nature of orcish society means that this isn't infrequently. The rest of the time, most orcs are semi-nomadic, setting up rough camps where they hunt their food, raid other camps or human cities for food (which includes humans).
Orcs as a rule, don't grow crops. They often have herds of animals in their fortress-cities, usually pigs (the orcs have bread a particularly large species of semi-domesticated pig which they use for many purposes) or a type of domesticated bear, but often cattle, and less frequently horses, sheep or other foodstock animals. Otherwise they hunt or raid for their food. If prey is scarce or there isn't time to hunt they will eat fruits and berries - however they will usually hunt if they can.
Orcs are often seen as evil, but aren't evil as such, any more then humanity, they are just a very violent, aggressive and belligerent people, whose culture and society is based on warfare. Orcs have become accepted in Erondian society (to a limited level anyway), and can live in a peaceful society. However, outside of cities (orcish or human) they don't see any reason for it. Orcish cities in fact have virtually no crime - this is as theft is almost unheard of (orcs would rather fight someone for something then steal it), and orcs are forbidden from fighting inside the city walls. This tradition was established to stop the orcish cities from infighting themselves to extinction during times of siege, when the lack of space makes the normally aggressive orcs barely controlled psycho maniacs. This has been enforced so strongly for so long, it is unthinkable for an orc to fight other orcs inside the city. Cities are 'safe-zones' from inter orc raiding, and violence, however they are rarely taken advantage of - as most (ie. almost all) orcs would exit the city to fight against any odds rather then be called a coward.
Orcs usually use crude spears or clubs, made from wood or bone whist the tribes are in their infancy, but once a blacksmith has been set up, weapons quickly become all metal behemoths too large for a human to wield. Massive battle axes, mauls, clubs, claymores, broadswords, maces and spears all forged out of cast iron for poorer orcs, or steel for richer orcs are common, and many use bones, fangs and teeth (usually from the orcs themselves, or from one of the larger beasts they hunt) in their construction. Bows are rare, and are almost unused amongst orcs, the few orcish bowmen around use massive constructions that launch arrows akin to javelins. The arrowheads are massive barbed brutal things, often resembling a morning star or having poisoned fangs protruding from the shaft. Orcish tribes often steal weapons off neighboring peoples, and many orcish choppas (choppa = pidgin orcish for axe [derived from chop-er, one that chops]) are crowned by an unfortunate knight's broadsword or an unlucky dwarf's axe .
Orcish religion is almost non existent. They believe that their ancestors form a kind of pantheon, their stature and power (and therefore importance) is created by the amount of glory and honour their deeds have earned them. Orcish shamans communicate with these spirits, and the spirits grant them power in a manner similar to paladins or clerics of the gods. Many shamans also practice warlockery (the usage of daemons, afrit and djinn to manipulate magical energies) and some are also mages (any mage-born orcs would be apprenticed to a shaman) or sorcerers (usually of limited ability, but some very potent orc sorcerers do exist). Orcish magic is similar to a blunderbuss - by firing assorted mix and match ammunitions a deadly (if unpredictable) effect is reached. It is not unheard of for an orc shaman to outmatch human master-mages, due to the volatile and unpredictable nature of his casting. Whilst the human magician will specialize in one type of magic, the orcish shaman would have a smattering of all of it. For example, almost all orc shamans can cast 'sorcerous crush' (referred to simply as 'stomp' by the orcs), but most know little to no other sorcery.
Orcs are large grenskinned humanoids, averaging 7feet in height and 180kg (400 lb). They have a tough leathery skin which darkens and becomes tougher as they age. Their facial characteristics are prone to much diversity, however bucket jaws and large fangs are common. Almost all are considered ugly by human standards, with any sense of proportion thrown out the window. To make their bestial faces worse, they are almost all scarred with broken noses and jaws and torn ears due to their rough lifestyle.
Often seen as the quintessential noble savage, orcs have a complex and rigid system of honour. However it is very different and alien to human chivalry. There is no compunction against attacking the weak or helpless, but it values courage and bravery above all else. Many orcish mercenaries have turned upon a hirer when they decide that they have been hired by a coward/that their foes are more brave then their allies. They do not see this as being a traitor, by being less brave they have forfeited the right to their service (in the orc's eyes).
The orcish social system is based upon these courage-honour ideals, with each tribe lead by a chief - the bravest and most courageous orc in the tribe. These tribes in turn make up klans, with the klan leader taking the title of boss-chief, warboss, warcheif or warlord (in ascending levels of seniority). When a particularly powerful boss-chief arises, he will exert respect and control over nearby klans, and arise to the title of warboss. A warboss will expand the orc's territory, aggressively conquering all nearby forces. As these klans grow in power, they will amalgamate other groupings of klans (called hordes), with the greatest orc being declared warboss. Often there will be competition for this spot - a group of the oldest orcs will judge, often calling for feats of strength, endurance, bravery and cunning to help decide. If all else fails, single combat shall decide the warcheif. Only the greatest orcs ascend to the title of warlord, and they lead great hordes across the globe in violent attempts to create an orcish nation. Orcish tribes will migrate across great distances to be part of such a great horde, and serve under such a brave and honorable orc. After the warlord dies, these generally loose momentum and fracture, but will unite again under pressure or when threatened.
There are few loose orcish empires made in this fashion. The wild plains is home to one such 'empire' as is the lands surrounding Frostpeak, the badlands in the northern end of the eastern desert. These 'empires' are based around a fortress like capital, with smaller orcish fortress-cities spread around. These cities aren't heavily populated, except in times of war, when they can house many times their normal population. The warlike nature of orcish society means that this isn't infrequently. The rest of the time, most orcs are semi-nomadic, setting up rough camps where they hunt their food, raid other camps or human cities for food (which includes humans).
Orcs as a rule, don't grow crops. They often have herds of animals in their fortress-cities, usually pigs (the orcs have bread a particularly large species of semi-domesticated pig which they use for many purposes) or a type of domesticated bear, but often cattle, and less frequently horses, sheep or other foodstock animals. Otherwise they hunt or raid for their food. If prey is scarce or there isn't time to hunt they will eat fruits and berries - however they will usually hunt if they can.
Orcs are often seen as evil, but aren't evil as such, any more then humanity, they are just a very violent, aggressive and belligerent people, whose culture and society is based on warfare. Orcs have become accepted in Erondian society (to a limited level anyway), and can live in a peaceful society. However, outside of cities (orcish or human) they don't see any reason for it. Orcish cities in fact have virtually no crime - this is as theft is almost unheard of (orcs would rather fight someone for something then steal it), and orcs are forbidden from fighting inside the city walls. This tradition was established to stop the orcish cities from infighting themselves to extinction during times of siege, when the lack of space makes the normally aggressive orcs barely controlled psycho maniacs. This has been enforced so strongly for so long, it is unthinkable for an orc to fight other orcs inside the city. Cities are 'safe-zones' from inter orc raiding, and violence, however they are rarely taken advantage of - as most (ie. almost all) orcs would exit the city to fight against any odds rather then be called a coward.
Orcs usually use crude spears or clubs, made from wood or bone whist the tribes are in their infancy, but once a blacksmith has been set up, weapons quickly become all metal behemoths too large for a human to wield. Massive battle axes, mauls, clubs, claymores, broadswords, maces and spears all forged out of cast iron for poorer orcs, or steel for richer orcs are common, and many use bones, fangs and teeth (usually from the orcs themselves, or from one of the larger beasts they hunt) in their construction. Bows are rare, and are almost unused amongst orcs, the few orcish bowmen around use massive constructions that launch arrows akin to javelins. The arrowheads are massive barbed brutal things, often resembling a morning star or having poisoned fangs protruding from the shaft. Orcish tribes often steal weapons off neighboring peoples, and many orcish choppas (choppa = pidgin orcish for axe [derived from chop-er, one that chops]) are crowned by an unfortunate knight's broadsword or an unlucky dwarf's axe .
Orcish religion is almost non existent. They believe that their ancestors form a kind of pantheon, their stature and power (and therefore importance) is created by the amount of glory and honour their deeds have earned them. Orcish shamans communicate with these spirits, and the spirits grant them power in a manner similar to paladins or clerics of the gods. Many shamans also practice warlockery (the usage of daemons, afrit and djinn to manipulate magical energies) and some are also mages (any mage-born orcs would be apprenticed to a shaman) or sorcerers (usually of limited ability, but some very potent orc sorcerers do exist). Orcish magic is similar to a blunderbuss - by firing assorted mix and match ammunitions a deadly (if unpredictable) effect is reached. It is not unheard of for an orc shaman to outmatch human master-mages, due to the volatile and unpredictable nature of his casting. Whilst the human magician will specialize in one type of magic, the orcish shaman would have a smattering of all of it. For example, almost all orc shamans can cast 'sorcerous crush' (referred to simply as 'stomp' by the orcs), but most know little to no other sorcery.
Thursday, 3 April 2008
The Hunt
Before I start, the _______ titles are so easy. Hmmm, its about a hunt, but not just any hunt. It's The Hunt. Replace the word 'hunt' with verb or noun of choice. Viola!
Harrok waited, still and silent in the soft snow. His white bear pelt kept his body above freezing, and hid him in the white expanses. Breathing the cold air was like sucking ice into his lungs, draining his last reserves of warmth from the inside. Harrok continued to wait, motionless. The sun, a point of brightness, refracted and reflected from the white cloudy sky, to the white ground below; Slowly descending, it glared from everything, making the world unbearably white. All Harrok could see is formless white; he had to resist the urge to check he could still see himself. Harrok's eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he could see everything - but there was only white to be seen.
Suddenly there was colour. The horizon splashed into view as red sunset bloomed. The world took on a pink tint, as the red light refused to stay on the horizon, but coloured everything there was to see. And still Harrok waited.
Further movement, and a massive head burst from the snow. A lone inky black head marred the delicate white pink wilderness. Soon massive furry black shoulders followed, and a massive great bear soon stood on the snow, emerged from its underground den. At least 9ft high, it was large, even for its own kind. It was the end of autumn, and the great bear's massive dark form was heavy with the fat built up for hibernation. Tonight would be its last hunt before it retired and slept for the winter. 'Mine too' thought Harrok 'It will be the very last hunt for one of us, great bear'. Shaking the snow from its furry hide, the bear lumbered toward Harrok's hiding spot in the snow, just as Harrok new it would. Harrock had been studdying this bear for months, learning its habbits and its mannerisms.
The bear loomed larger and larger in Harrok's vision, growing and expanding until it took up the whole horizon. It was mere feet from Harrok, and still Harrok waited. Harrok prayed to his gods that his camouflage was good enough, that the layer of snow completely covered him, that his eyes weren't too visible through the white rabbit hide mask under the snow, that he had hidden in the right spot, that the bear wouldn't amble over him unnoticing of Harrok's demise, that he would see his family again. That he wouldn't be joining his father and fore-fathers in the halls of the dead tonight. He prayed fervently, all the while motionless, knowing that the slightest movement would give his position away to the mighty bear, and cause him to be crushed beneath one of its mighty clawed paws. The monstrous black bear wouldn't even consider him a threat, but would crush him nonchalantly under his great paw, like a human would crush a bug. Great bears hunted the 'smaller' bears of the northern ranges, the polar bears and mammoths, the sabertooths and the rhinoxen. They were the top of the food tree, and only feared the snow trolls, who would hunt them for food in the long winter months.
Harrok's luck held. The bear stopped, and yawned, its hot breath creating a puff of steam in the frigid air.
Harrock continued to wait.
Suddenly the snow exploded. Harrok burst from his hiding spot. He pulled his knife from its sheath, and like lightning slammed it up into the bottom of the great bear's gigantic furry head. The iron knife slipped behind the jawbone and thrust into the bears brain before the mighty predator could react. The bear instantly collapsed as Harrok darted away, and watched the red blood bleed from the wound, a crimson stain spreading on the white snow, crimson stain contrasting against the pureness.
Stretching stiff bones Harrok grabbed his horn, and brought it to his lips. The horn sung out, its call echoing over the plains. Soon Harrok's family would be here, with fire to cook the meat, and a sled to help shift the carcass. As it was, Harrok could only wait for them to arrive - he couldn't even shift the carcass of the gargantuan beast alone. He looked out as the last traces of sunset disappeared from the horizon. Now all he had to do was wait. . .
For those who are interested, I have written a sequel. Red Hunt.
Harrok waited, still and silent in the soft snow. His white bear pelt kept his body above freezing, and hid him in the white expanses. Breathing the cold air was like sucking ice into his lungs, draining his last reserves of warmth from the inside. Harrok continued to wait, motionless. The sun, a point of brightness, refracted and reflected from the white cloudy sky, to the white ground below; Slowly descending, it glared from everything, making the world unbearably white. All Harrok could see is formless white; he had to resist the urge to check he could still see himself. Harrok's eyes had adjusted to the brightness, he could see everything - but there was only white to be seen.
Suddenly there was colour. The horizon splashed into view as red sunset bloomed. The world took on a pink tint, as the red light refused to stay on the horizon, but coloured everything there was to see. And still Harrok waited.
Further movement, and a massive head burst from the snow. A lone inky black head marred the delicate white pink wilderness. Soon massive furry black shoulders followed, and a massive great bear soon stood on the snow, emerged from its underground den. At least 9ft high, it was large, even for its own kind. It was the end of autumn, and the great bear's massive dark form was heavy with the fat built up for hibernation. Tonight would be its last hunt before it retired and slept for the winter. 'Mine too' thought Harrok 'It will be the very last hunt for one of us, great bear'. Shaking the snow from its furry hide, the bear lumbered toward Harrok's hiding spot in the snow, just as Harrok new it would. Harrock had been studdying this bear for months, learning its habbits and its mannerisms.
The bear loomed larger and larger in Harrok's vision, growing and expanding until it took up the whole horizon. It was mere feet from Harrok, and still Harrok waited. Harrok prayed to his gods that his camouflage was good enough, that the layer of snow completely covered him, that his eyes weren't too visible through the white rabbit hide mask under the snow, that he had hidden in the right spot, that the bear wouldn't amble over him unnoticing of Harrok's demise, that he would see his family again. That he wouldn't be joining his father and fore-fathers in the halls of the dead tonight. He prayed fervently, all the while motionless, knowing that the slightest movement would give his position away to the mighty bear, and cause him to be crushed beneath one of its mighty clawed paws. The monstrous black bear wouldn't even consider him a threat, but would crush him nonchalantly under his great paw, like a human would crush a bug. Great bears hunted the 'smaller' bears of the northern ranges, the polar bears and mammoths, the sabertooths and the rhinoxen. They were the top of the food tree, and only feared the snow trolls, who would hunt them for food in the long winter months.
Harrok's luck held. The bear stopped, and yawned, its hot breath creating a puff of steam in the frigid air.
Harrock continued to wait.
Suddenly the snow exploded. Harrok burst from his hiding spot. He pulled his knife from its sheath, and like lightning slammed it up into the bottom of the great bear's gigantic furry head. The iron knife slipped behind the jawbone and thrust into the bears brain before the mighty predator could react. The bear instantly collapsed as Harrok darted away, and watched the red blood bleed from the wound, a crimson stain spreading on the white snow, crimson stain contrasting against the pureness.
Stretching stiff bones Harrok grabbed his horn, and brought it to his lips. The horn sung out, its call echoing over the plains. Soon Harrok's family would be here, with fire to cook the meat, and a sled to help shift the carcass. As it was, Harrok could only wait for them to arrive - he couldn't even shift the carcass of the gargantuan beast alone. He looked out as the last traces of sunset disappeared from the horizon. Now all he had to do was wait. . .
For those who are interested, I have written a sequel. Red Hunt.
Friday, 28 March 2008
Waiter Rant
Hey everyone, I just want to plug this other blog I've had a look at recently. Waiter Rant is the story (stories) of a witty waiter, cliched clientèle, entertaining entrees and terrible tips told with a unique outlook. Is M15+, for themes, language and chimo. Check it out, it's good stuff.
Monday, 24 March 2008
Sydneysiders and canuks?
My sitemeter advises me that my 10 most recent visits are from sydney and canada. A little bit of a gap between the two places assures me that Aus and Canada are in fact much closer online. Now, could the canadian(s) please post, just to let me know it wasn't a glitch, and ditto the sydneysider(s).
Mainly I would like to know how well my blog is spreading on the internet, as opposed to the word of mouth spreading up here in Qld.
Mainly I would like to know how well my blog is spreading on the internet, as opposed to the word of mouth spreading up here in Qld.
Monday, 17 March 2008
The Arena
The dry wind blew through Krell's long dark hair, as he walked into the arena. His bare feet were scorched by the hot sand, his array of daggers hidden in his jacket. A disturbing smile lit up Krell's harsh face, his scared face mostly hidden behind rough stubble. A broken nose and an eyepatch made Krell unsightly, however his grace and charm were such that he often was referred to as roguish and rugged as opposed to ugly. His smile was brilliant, perfect white teeth, except for his lower left jaw, where he had had ivory teeth inserted where a mace had destroyed his mouth. One could not see the difference, but each was filed to a razor edge, capped by a small iron tip sharpened like a needle. Krell's eyepatch was a ragged red headband, which disappeared into his wild mop of hair. His remain eye was devil may care blue. Before he was scarred he must have been a handsome man, and not all of his good looks were compleately destroyed.
The audience cheered as the second gate into the arena opened, a giant portcullis raising as Krell's foe walked out. He was an unnamed orc, raised from childhood in slavery - learning to fight in the pits. Krell had found this all out from various contacts - trying to find a weakness to exploit. The orc was sold to the Arena for 20 gold peices - a great sum for a juvinile orc gladiator. Looking up Krell saw the hulking form of the orc youth approaching. "Smeg! He's a big 'un!" Krell thought. The orc's skin was still the relitively pale green of a young orc, not yet becoming the darker leatherlike skin of an older orc. "Still gonna be hard to stick a knife into. . ." Krell mused.
The voice of the pitmaster boomed out over the arena, magically enhanced by a gem held to his chest. "Tonight we have a fight between the Black Dock's two greatest fighters. Krell, the veteran of one hundread and thirty six fights, against the green barbarian who has been undefeated in 41 bouts in the last year!" The crowed erupted each cheering for their favorite fighter. Krell was almost unanimously the favorite, being human. However there were some trolls and orcs in the crowd, cheering for the young orc. There were more orcs then normal, the orcs normally preferring to be involved in fights then watching them. This had not gone unnoticed by Krell either, however for the moment he had more pressing thoughts on his mind. "Fight!" bellowed the pitmaster and the battle was on.
Krell lashed out with his dagger, slicing tough orc hide and flesh. Glimmering arcs of blood spurted out like a crimson fountain. "So you orcs do bleed red." Krell observed. The orc screamed in bloodlust and fury, ignoring the pain as he worked up a frenzy. Swinging a large meaty fist he winged an already retreating Krell, before chasing down his smaller adversary.
The orc was a paragon of madness, lathering at the mouth it grabbed a pike from the ground without breaking stride and hurled it at Krell as if it was no more then a javelin. It pulled the weapon it had forgotten in its rage from its back; A large sword of a make and craftsmanship unknown to Krell. It was obviously sturdy and solid, of a fine yet crudely proportioned make. The hilt was a stylised jaw, with pointed teeth jagging out from the pommel.
Krell sidestepped the javelin, and threw his dagger, which sunk to the hilt in the orc's chest. The orc didn't even slow down, but barreled onto Krell like an avalanche. Krell was prepared for this and fell with the orc, before using the orc's momentum to throw the orc into the ground with alarming speed. The crowd gave out a cheer, drowning out the orcs primal scream of fury as he rose to his feet. Krell wasn't sure why he didn't put a knife in the orc's spine, just that he knew it was a bad idea. Krell had these intuitive hunches from time to time, and they had never served him wrong. The one time he ignored it, he had ended up in debt to the arena and was inducted as a gladiator slave.
This same urge was telling him that he musn't kill the orc. However if he refused to fight the orc, ogre enforcers would be let into the arena, with orders to kill both of the participants. "That would be a bad idea." Krell decided. The only remaining path of action was to fight the orc, but not kill him. The round ended in a loss for both contestants if the fight exceeded 5miniutes. The crowd wanted to see freash violent fighters of daring and skill, not slow death's from bleeding and wounds. He would receive a harsh beating for his loss, but it would be better then ignoring his hunchs again.
He saw the knife he had embedded in the orc's chest had now been pushed entirely into the ork, only the base of the handle visible, holding the would open. Howver the bleeding had already began so slow. The ork screamed defiance, spittle and blood showering Krell. Krell fell back as the orc charged, dancing and evading the brutal hit, inflicting minor wounds on the orc with a knife he had pulled from his ragged vest. The crowd lauged and jeered and the orcs pain and humiliation. Suddenly the orc smiled as he spun around, and threw his sword at Krell. In a deadly glimmering arc, the sword spun, the sun reflecting off the metalwork. Krell ducked, having seen this comming - Krell's scources had told him that the orc had won other fights with this cunning manouvre.
Looking at the sand timer at the zeinth of the arena walls Krell could see he only needed to draw it out a little longer. Pulling a knife in each hand, he charged at the bemused orc, who in turn charged towards him with a gutteral warcry. At the last moment Krell jinked and then dived to the side, as the ork stormed past him, footsteps like pounding thunder. Twisting the ork slammed a meaty fist into Krell's head, knocking him out. Krell fell limp to the arena floor, the sand billowing away from his limp body as he hit.
The audience cheered as the second gate into the arena opened, a giant portcullis raising as Krell's foe walked out. He was an unnamed orc, raised from childhood in slavery - learning to fight in the pits. Krell had found this all out from various contacts - trying to find a weakness to exploit. The orc was sold to the Arena for 20 gold peices - a great sum for a juvinile orc gladiator. Looking up Krell saw the hulking form of the orc youth approaching. "Smeg! He's a big 'un!" Krell thought. The orc's skin was still the relitively pale green of a young orc, not yet becoming the darker leatherlike skin of an older orc. "Still gonna be hard to stick a knife into. . ." Krell mused.
The voice of the pitmaster boomed out over the arena, magically enhanced by a gem held to his chest. "Tonight we have a fight between the Black Dock's two greatest fighters. Krell, the veteran of one hundread and thirty six fights, against the green barbarian who has been undefeated in 41 bouts in the last year!" The crowed erupted each cheering for their favorite fighter. Krell was almost unanimously the favorite, being human. However there were some trolls and orcs in the crowd, cheering for the young orc. There were more orcs then normal, the orcs normally preferring to be involved in fights then watching them. This had not gone unnoticed by Krell either, however for the moment he had more pressing thoughts on his mind. "Fight!" bellowed the pitmaster and the battle was on.
Krell lashed out with his dagger, slicing tough orc hide and flesh. Glimmering arcs of blood spurted out like a crimson fountain. "So you orcs do bleed red." Krell observed. The orc screamed in bloodlust and fury, ignoring the pain as he worked up a frenzy. Swinging a large meaty fist he winged an already retreating Krell, before chasing down his smaller adversary.
The orc was a paragon of madness, lathering at the mouth it grabbed a pike from the ground without breaking stride and hurled it at Krell as if it was no more then a javelin. It pulled the weapon it had forgotten in its rage from its back; A large sword of a make and craftsmanship unknown to Krell. It was obviously sturdy and solid, of a fine yet crudely proportioned make. The hilt was a stylised jaw, with pointed teeth jagging out from the pommel.
Krell sidestepped the javelin, and threw his dagger, which sunk to the hilt in the orc's chest. The orc didn't even slow down, but barreled onto Krell like an avalanche. Krell was prepared for this and fell with the orc, before using the orc's momentum to throw the orc into the ground with alarming speed. The crowd gave out a cheer, drowning out the orcs primal scream of fury as he rose to his feet. Krell wasn't sure why he didn't put a knife in the orc's spine, just that he knew it was a bad idea. Krell had these intuitive hunches from time to time, and they had never served him wrong. The one time he ignored it, he had ended up in debt to the arena and was inducted as a gladiator slave.
This same urge was telling him that he musn't kill the orc. However if he refused to fight the orc, ogre enforcers would be let into the arena, with orders to kill both of the participants. "That would be a bad idea." Krell decided. The only remaining path of action was to fight the orc, but not kill him. The round ended in a loss for both contestants if the fight exceeded 5miniutes. The crowd wanted to see freash violent fighters of daring and skill, not slow death's from bleeding and wounds. He would receive a harsh beating for his loss, but it would be better then ignoring his hunchs again.
He saw the knife he had embedded in the orc's chest had now been pushed entirely into the ork, only the base of the handle visible, holding the would open. Howver the bleeding had already began so slow. The ork screamed defiance, spittle and blood showering Krell. Krell fell back as the orc charged, dancing and evading the brutal hit, inflicting minor wounds on the orc with a knife he had pulled from his ragged vest. The crowd lauged and jeered and the orcs pain and humiliation. Suddenly the orc smiled as he spun around, and threw his sword at Krell. In a deadly glimmering arc, the sword spun, the sun reflecting off the metalwork. Krell ducked, having seen this comming - Krell's scources had told him that the orc had won other fights with this cunning manouvre.
Looking at the sand timer at the zeinth of the arena walls Krell could see he only needed to draw it out a little longer. Pulling a knife in each hand, he charged at the bemused orc, who in turn charged towards him with a gutteral warcry. At the last moment Krell jinked and then dived to the side, as the ork stormed past him, footsteps like pounding thunder. Twisting the ork slammed a meaty fist into Krell's head, knocking him out. Krell fell limp to the arena floor, the sand billowing away from his limp body as he hit.
Friday, 14 March 2008
Life gets in the way. . .
Life has gottern in the way of writing again (By life I mean work, illness, a social life, the waaagh, sleep, 18ths and recoveries from the aforementioned 18ths) - and so I have decided to make a commitment to this site and whatever readers I probably don't have :P. By easter friday (Fri 21st) I'll have posted up the short story I'm working on. I'll leave you with a teaser:
Krell lashed out with his dagger, slicing tough orc hide and flesh. Glimmering arcs of blood spurted out like a crimison fountain. "So you orcs do bleed red." Krell observed. The orc screamed in bloodlust and fury, ignoring the pain as he worked up a frenzy. Swinging a large meaty fist he winged an already retreating Krell, before chasing down his smaller adversiry.
The orc was a paragon of madness, lathering at the mouth it grabbed a pike from the ground without breaking stride and hurled it at Krellm as if it was no more then a javelin. It pulled the weapon it had forgottern in its rage from its back; A large sword of a make and craftmanship unkown to Krell. It was obviously sturdy and solid, of a fine yet crudely proportioned make. The hilt was a stylised jaw, with pointed teeth jagging out from the pommel.
Krell lashed out with his dagger, slicing tough orc hide and flesh. Glimmering arcs of blood spurted out like a crimison fountain. "So you orcs do bleed red." Krell observed. The orc screamed in bloodlust and fury, ignoring the pain as he worked up a frenzy. Swinging a large meaty fist he winged an already retreating Krell, before chasing down his smaller adversiry.
The orc was a paragon of madness, lathering at the mouth it grabbed a pike from the ground without breaking stride and hurled it at Krellm as if it was no more then a javelin. It pulled the weapon it had forgottern in its rage from its back; A large sword of a make and craftmanship unkown to Krell. It was obviously sturdy and solid, of a fine yet crudely proportioned make. The hilt was a stylised jaw, with pointed teeth jagging out from the pommel.
Monday, 25 February 2008
Update
Hey guy(s?), just figured I'ld let you know, I'm working on chapter 7 slowly. My new job, and other commitments have been getting in the way lately. I hope to make some progress this week.
Wednesday, 13 February 2008
zombie video
Hey guys - check out this cool zombie video here. I figured it has some slight relavence.
Wednesday, 6 February 2008
Chapter 6 - The quick and the dead
Here you go: The much delayed chapter six. For new readers, chapter one is here. C&C is very welcome alnd looked for - so please comment - even an 'I like it' or a 'I hated it' would be good, although telling me why would be better. Also please tell me what you think about the leangth of each chapter, I'm trying to shorten each chapter to make reading less intimidating, so this may be the new leangth. Good? Bad? Don't give a damn? Tell me what you think. Or don't, it's your call.
Jarrod sprinted though the temple, Iryl having trouble keeping up on his shorter legs. The grim obsidian setting wasn’t registered by Jarrod’s mind, his mental focus on Ægon’s predicament. Bursting through the front door Jarrod ran to the top of the stairs and leaped out over the ring of black clad knights defending the stairwell against frothing fanatics. He landed in the pressing mass of fanatics, whose sudden frenzy to catch him managed to only wound their fellows. Jarrod ducked an axe swing, drew his dagger, deftly knocked aside a thrust from a kitchen knife and dived under a barbed whip as he charged through the mass, utilising the momentum from his leap. Iryl stood at the top of the stairs, barely seen over the armoured shoulders of the giant knights of Morr. Iryl cast his magic around for dead bodies, and found the graveyard. Again he heeded Vince’s warning and avoided disturbing the rest of these souls. He however drew upon the mana swirling around the massed cadavers. He raised the only other bodies available to him, the casualties of the battle in front of him. As he concentrated an azure glow emanated from his eyes as the recently dead began to move again, once more with purpose. A terrifying purpose; a horrifying hunger. Hunger for the flesh of the living, an insatiable desire to feed.
The zombies slowly rose to their feet, bleeding and mutilated by weapons and the crush of iron shod boots. Dead eyes gazed out, seeing and searching for food. Others, blind felt out and grabbed at any living thing they could feel. Legless corpses crawled along the floor, sliding on the blood soaked obsidian tiles, and adding to the gore. Entrails spilt out onto the ground as cadavers shifted and hunted for the living. The worst were the ones with their faces covered in open sores from the flagellants, a grotesque sanguine mask of cuts oozing crimson blood down the creature that once was human.
Where a sane person would have withdrew on terror or disgust at the mangled corpse-puppets, the flagellants screamed with fury and turned to face them. The remaining inquisitors resolutely stood firm, holding up icons of faith and chanting. As the words of faith came unheard to the zombies’ ears Iryl redoubled his efforts, holding firm against the priestly magic. Holding the zombies to the coil was constant struggle against the Inquisitor’s relics; sweat oozed from every pore on his body. Where before the hardest part was keeping them from attacking and attempting to devour Jarrod and the black clad knights, now keeping them moving was requiring almost all of his strength.
Jarrod emerged from the crowd covered in blood. He picked his way across the courtyard, avoiding the fallen bodies that had not risen. The ring of priests broke again as he bolted towards them, the standing inquisitors’ threats ignored before the more immediate fear of this blood-soaked avenger. Jarrod ignored the fleeing priests and barrelled into the closest inquisitor, using his shoulder to force the giant man back on his comrades. As the group fell, off balance, Jarrod drew his sword with his free arm and slashed out with it, whilst raking his dagger down the chest of the inquisitor.
Crimson blood spurted from the wounds, a sanguine river pouring forth from the ugly gashes. White robes stained red with the splatter and gore. The remaining inquisitors struggled to escape the dead weight of their wounded comrades. Jarrod leapt onto the pile of dead bodies, stabbing down with his two swords to kill the two closest of the inquisitors, before lifting his gore covered blades and striking again and again, like a demented snake, plunging steel daggers into soft flesh. Jarrod laughed with the voice of a madman, seeing death in all its guised coming for him and all around him. Reapers of Morr came in droves, taking the souls of the departed back to Morr’s Gate. Every visage was a different glimpse of death, some hooded, some helmeted, some showing grotesque heads, and some no more then empty clothes. Some carried swords, daggers or other implements of death, more carried scythes of various makes and designs. They all were macabre visions of mortality, of time, and death.
Jarrod rose and screamed in terror and exultation. He charged though the mass swinging his swords at the avatars of death which surrounded him, swords passing through their ethereal forms. Morr’s Reapers ignored him, and he screamed defiance in their faces. He moved through the ghostly mass of bodies that weren’t, bellowing at their silent demeanour; he challenged them all to fight, to take him, to kill him, to notice him. He yelled until his voice was horse, and he could yell no more. Only when his voice was going could he hear the insistent comforting voice in his ear. “It’s ok. It’s over now.” Jarrod turned to Ægon, and in a scratchy whisper replied “I know. Everything is over.”
If you want to read on, chapter 7 is here.
Jarrod sprinted though the temple, Iryl having trouble keeping up on his shorter legs. The grim obsidian setting wasn’t registered by Jarrod’s mind, his mental focus on Ægon’s predicament. Bursting through the front door Jarrod ran to the top of the stairs and leaped out over the ring of black clad knights defending the stairwell against frothing fanatics. He landed in the pressing mass of fanatics, whose sudden frenzy to catch him managed to only wound their fellows. Jarrod ducked an axe swing, drew his dagger, deftly knocked aside a thrust from a kitchen knife and dived under a barbed whip as he charged through the mass, utilising the momentum from his leap. Iryl stood at the top of the stairs, barely seen over the armoured shoulders of the giant knights of Morr. Iryl cast his magic around for dead bodies, and found the graveyard. Again he heeded Vince’s warning and avoided disturbing the rest of these souls. He however drew upon the mana swirling around the massed cadavers. He raised the only other bodies available to him, the casualties of the battle in front of him. As he concentrated an azure glow emanated from his eyes as the recently dead began to move again, once more with purpose. A terrifying purpose; a horrifying hunger. Hunger for the flesh of the living, an insatiable desire to feed.
The zombies slowly rose to their feet, bleeding and mutilated by weapons and the crush of iron shod boots. Dead eyes gazed out, seeing and searching for food. Others, blind felt out and grabbed at any living thing they could feel. Legless corpses crawled along the floor, sliding on the blood soaked obsidian tiles, and adding to the gore. Entrails spilt out onto the ground as cadavers shifted and hunted for the living. The worst were the ones with their faces covered in open sores from the flagellants, a grotesque sanguine mask of cuts oozing crimson blood down the creature that once was human.
Where a sane person would have withdrew on terror or disgust at the mangled corpse-puppets, the flagellants screamed with fury and turned to face them. The remaining inquisitors resolutely stood firm, holding up icons of faith and chanting. As the words of faith came unheard to the zombies’ ears Iryl redoubled his efforts, holding firm against the priestly magic. Holding the zombies to the coil was constant struggle against the Inquisitor’s relics; sweat oozed from every pore on his body. Where before the hardest part was keeping them from attacking and attempting to devour Jarrod and the black clad knights, now keeping them moving was requiring almost all of his strength.
Jarrod emerged from the crowd covered in blood. He picked his way across the courtyard, avoiding the fallen bodies that had not risen. The ring of priests broke again as he bolted towards them, the standing inquisitors’ threats ignored before the more immediate fear of this blood-soaked avenger. Jarrod ignored the fleeing priests and barrelled into the closest inquisitor, using his shoulder to force the giant man back on his comrades. As the group fell, off balance, Jarrod drew his sword with his free arm and slashed out with it, whilst raking his dagger down the chest of the inquisitor.
Crimson blood spurted from the wounds, a sanguine river pouring forth from the ugly gashes. White robes stained red with the splatter and gore. The remaining inquisitors struggled to escape the dead weight of their wounded comrades. Jarrod leapt onto the pile of dead bodies, stabbing down with his two swords to kill the two closest of the inquisitors, before lifting his gore covered blades and striking again and again, like a demented snake, plunging steel daggers into soft flesh. Jarrod laughed with the voice of a madman, seeing death in all its guised coming for him and all around him. Reapers of Morr came in droves, taking the souls of the departed back to Morr’s Gate. Every visage was a different glimpse of death, some hooded, some helmeted, some showing grotesque heads, and some no more then empty clothes. Some carried swords, daggers or other implements of death, more carried scythes of various makes and designs. They all were macabre visions of mortality, of time, and death.
Jarrod rose and screamed in terror and exultation. He charged though the mass swinging his swords at the avatars of death which surrounded him, swords passing through their ethereal forms. Morr’s Reapers ignored him, and he screamed defiance in their faces. He moved through the ghostly mass of bodies that weren’t, bellowing at their silent demeanour; he challenged them all to fight, to take him, to kill him, to notice him. He yelled until his voice was horse, and he could yell no more. Only when his voice was going could he hear the insistent comforting voice in his ear. “It’s ok. It’s over now.” Jarrod turned to Ægon, and in a scratchy whisper replied “I know. Everything is over.”
If you want to read on, chapter 7 is here.
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G'day. Here's a short passage I wrote in response to this post at creative writing corner.
He walks underneath the soft green foliage with a curious gait. A slow stalking walk, inexorably moving forwards without meaning to; a blur, not of motion, but more blurring in with his surrounds due to the lack thereof.
My eyes seem to be unable to focus on him. I know he is there, but my eyes revolt against his presence. They decide that he is not there, but I know better. Standing below the great oak, waiting for him to arrive. Eyes scanning the surrounds, constantly sure that this is him, that it is more then a trick of the light and my desires.
I wait. Minutes pass. I still wait. Hours pass. I wait, still; still as a stone. I wonder if maybe he is not coming, if I just want him to. If my need for him to arrive has conjured him. The sun sets, and he has still not arrived. When I think about him, my mind draws a blank; details of him skirt my mind like my eyes skirting over the landscape, searching for him. I wait.
Suddenly I hear a noise. I turn my eyes lock onto the movement, as all goes still. I know that something moved. I'm watching the exact spot I saw the branch move. It was this branch, right? This branch? I look closer. No it was that branch. I think.
"Boo!" He hisses from behind me, "Sorry I'm late." He whispers into my ear and I turn around. I see nothing. That's how I know he is here.