Mock
November 30th, 2005, 04:50 PM
One of my fuzzier chapters, but here goes. Feel free to write criticisms. I don't mind a few, "This piece of writing sucks," here and there.
Prologue
Xenon peered into the darkness with glowing green orbs. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up, and an icy shock ran down his spine. Nevertheless, he remained outwardly composed, leaning against the rock wall and watching the two city guards with cool disdain. They were conversing in hushed tones as they approached, completely unaware of the Shade’s presence. Xenon grinned at the thought.
A single drop of water sang down from the heavens, splashing into a puddle along the curb of the cobblestone street. The beginning of a terrible storm, Xenon acknowledged, pleased. His hand tightened on the hilt of his razor-sharp dagger and slid it slowly out of his belt. The bare blade glistened in the faint moonlight, and he withdrew the weapon into the folds of his black cloak. He looked up at the ominous clouds, blanketing the city in a stark darkness. The moon did indeed shine through; as did the brightest stars, but the meager light did little to improve the gloomy scene. Not that the Shade cared. Xenon knew the darkness of the night greatly assisted his allies.
He returned his gaze to the guards, who were rapidly drawing closer. Thick mist enshrouded them, dulling their mail shirts and iron greaves. Thick leather gauntlets enveloped strong hands, clamping around steel-tipped spears. No shields were borne, to Xenon’s surprise. All the more to my advantage, then, he thought, fully understanding the power of a mere buckler—even when used offensively.
Suddenly lightning crashed through the gray clouds, striking outside the city walls. The soldiers looked up in surprise, and Xenon leaped out of the shadows, snapping his wrist forward. The jeweled dagger lashed through the musty air, embedding itself in the foremost guard’s thigh.
Before the weapon even struck, a long sword emerged from Xenon’s cloak. The Shade moved with inhuman speed, dashing past the wounded guard and slashing across the mail shirt. The man slumped against the cobblestones.
The remaining soldier cried out, and the Shade wheeled around, lethal blade leading. As he drew within range, he feigned to the right. His adversary angled his spear in defense, and he flicked his sword back, plunging it into the soldier’s ribs and drawing it out. The guard yelped and threw up his arms desperately, but Xenon once again drove his weapon in, and his opponent crumpled to the ground.
Another beam of lightning struck the ground within the city.
The Shade quickly wiped his sword clean, undeterred by the blood. After sheathing it, he retrieved his dagger, and strode down the street in the direction of the strike. It was close—so close.
The Age of Redemption had ended. The savior had not come.
The world was doomed.
A blinding shaft of light struck Xenon, and he shielded his eyes. When the brilliance diminished, there was something the Shade had never seen in his five hundred years of life.
A swirling red mist lay before Xenon, rising higher and higher until it towered over him. He slid his dagger back into his belt, unaware of his drooping lips.
And a bolt of lightning streamed down from above, grinding against the heart of the mist. A droplet of water pelted the Shade’s black cloak, then another. He drew the cowl over his head, staring up at the darkened sky. Thousands of globules of water streamed down, mocking him.
Xenon turned back to the mist. A portal, he realized, astonished. It seemed impossible. These arcane relics of ancient magic had vanished hundreds of years ago.
Hesitant, the Shade stepped forward and reached out with long, slender fingers into the mist. A fiery jolt coursed through his veins, and he swore quietly. Then he stepped in, and all went white as he drifted to another plane of existence.
The world was doomed.
? ? ?
Huge waves slapped against the high cliffs of the island of Lohne, beating relentlessly against dirt and stone. High above was Erech Miritor, the Tower of Tears. The beautiful golden tower rose far above the city that sprawled around it. Nevertheless, Allana looked upon it with cool disdain from her vantage point on a lofty hill. She had decided long ago that it was a flawed work of art—the remnant of a civilization long lost.
“Still dreaming of a utopia?”
She turned to the tall man standing beside her. Silthoneas Galdor was old, even for a Raie, having lived for well over a thousand years. Yet even then, there were no signs of age.
Allana smirked. And there never will be. Oh, how he loves life . . . and immortality. She couldn’t decide whether she liked the man or not. He was aloof and arrogant, but also quiet. When he does speak, it is worth listening to, though.
“Dreaming. Yes,” Allana said. “I know very well that it is impossible to discover the true location of the Golden Realm . . .”
“But you desire to solve the mysteries hulking about it. You think the unearthing of the ancient magic there would prove extremely useful to both Raie and humans,” the mage finished.
“Yes,” Allana marveled.
“But that is not why you have come to Erech Miritor. The Silvyn Council has summoned you. I was sent out to meet you.”
“And I presume you know why they demand my presence,” Allana prodded.
“Perhaps.”
“Would you care to tell me?” she questioned.
“All I know is that it has to do with Dranokbern,” Silthoneas offered. He began to walk down the hill toward the city gate.
“They want me to go there,” Allana said, “don’t they?”
“I think so.”
“I haven’t been to the mainland for decades. What could they possibly want . . .?”
“You may be going to Eldaroc.”
The woman froze.
“You have to put it behind you. They will accept you this time.”
“They don’t trust us. I wasn’t allowed to leave. I had to flee, Silthoneas . . . And when I returned, they wouldn’t let me into the kingdom.”
“No one trusts the mages of Lohne. You know they think we are secretive and deceptive. It is a sacrifice.”
“But it is our own fault,” Allana said grimly. She continued down the path toward Erech Miritor, prepared to receive her assignment—her punishment.
*More coming . . .*
Prologue
Xenon peered into the darkness with glowing green orbs. The hair on the back of his neck pricked up, and an icy shock ran down his spine. Nevertheless, he remained outwardly composed, leaning against the rock wall and watching the two city guards with cool disdain. They were conversing in hushed tones as they approached, completely unaware of the Shade’s presence. Xenon grinned at the thought.
A single drop of water sang down from the heavens, splashing into a puddle along the curb of the cobblestone street. The beginning of a terrible storm, Xenon acknowledged, pleased. His hand tightened on the hilt of his razor-sharp dagger and slid it slowly out of his belt. The bare blade glistened in the faint moonlight, and he withdrew the weapon into the folds of his black cloak. He looked up at the ominous clouds, blanketing the city in a stark darkness. The moon did indeed shine through; as did the brightest stars, but the meager light did little to improve the gloomy scene. Not that the Shade cared. Xenon knew the darkness of the night greatly assisted his allies.
He returned his gaze to the guards, who were rapidly drawing closer. Thick mist enshrouded them, dulling their mail shirts and iron greaves. Thick leather gauntlets enveloped strong hands, clamping around steel-tipped spears. No shields were borne, to Xenon’s surprise. All the more to my advantage, then, he thought, fully understanding the power of a mere buckler—even when used offensively.
Suddenly lightning crashed through the gray clouds, striking outside the city walls. The soldiers looked up in surprise, and Xenon leaped out of the shadows, snapping his wrist forward. The jeweled dagger lashed through the musty air, embedding itself in the foremost guard’s thigh.
Before the weapon even struck, a long sword emerged from Xenon’s cloak. The Shade moved with inhuman speed, dashing past the wounded guard and slashing across the mail shirt. The man slumped against the cobblestones.
The remaining soldier cried out, and the Shade wheeled around, lethal blade leading. As he drew within range, he feigned to the right. His adversary angled his spear in defense, and he flicked his sword back, plunging it into the soldier’s ribs and drawing it out. The guard yelped and threw up his arms desperately, but Xenon once again drove his weapon in, and his opponent crumpled to the ground.
Another beam of lightning struck the ground within the city.
The Shade quickly wiped his sword clean, undeterred by the blood. After sheathing it, he retrieved his dagger, and strode down the street in the direction of the strike. It was close—so close.
The Age of Redemption had ended. The savior had not come.
The world was doomed.
A blinding shaft of light struck Xenon, and he shielded his eyes. When the brilliance diminished, there was something the Shade had never seen in his five hundred years of life.
A swirling red mist lay before Xenon, rising higher and higher until it towered over him. He slid his dagger back into his belt, unaware of his drooping lips.
And a bolt of lightning streamed down from above, grinding against the heart of the mist. A droplet of water pelted the Shade’s black cloak, then another. He drew the cowl over his head, staring up at the darkened sky. Thousands of globules of water streamed down, mocking him.
Xenon turned back to the mist. A portal, he realized, astonished. It seemed impossible. These arcane relics of ancient magic had vanished hundreds of years ago.
Hesitant, the Shade stepped forward and reached out with long, slender fingers into the mist. A fiery jolt coursed through his veins, and he swore quietly. Then he stepped in, and all went white as he drifted to another plane of existence.
The world was doomed.
? ? ?
Huge waves slapped against the high cliffs of the island of Lohne, beating relentlessly against dirt and stone. High above was Erech Miritor, the Tower of Tears. The beautiful golden tower rose far above the city that sprawled around it. Nevertheless, Allana looked upon it with cool disdain from her vantage point on a lofty hill. She had decided long ago that it was a flawed work of art—the remnant of a civilization long lost.
“Still dreaming of a utopia?”
She turned to the tall man standing beside her. Silthoneas Galdor was old, even for a Raie, having lived for well over a thousand years. Yet even then, there were no signs of age.
Allana smirked. And there never will be. Oh, how he loves life . . . and immortality. She couldn’t decide whether she liked the man or not. He was aloof and arrogant, but also quiet. When he does speak, it is worth listening to, though.
“Dreaming. Yes,” Allana said. “I know very well that it is impossible to discover the true location of the Golden Realm . . .”
“But you desire to solve the mysteries hulking about it. You think the unearthing of the ancient magic there would prove extremely useful to both Raie and humans,” the mage finished.
“Yes,” Allana marveled.
“But that is not why you have come to Erech Miritor. The Silvyn Council has summoned you. I was sent out to meet you.”
“And I presume you know why they demand my presence,” Allana prodded.
“Perhaps.”
“Would you care to tell me?” she questioned.
“All I know is that it has to do with Dranokbern,” Silthoneas offered. He began to walk down the hill toward the city gate.
“They want me to go there,” Allana said, “don’t they?”
“I think so.”
“I haven’t been to the mainland for decades. What could they possibly want . . .?”
“You may be going to Eldaroc.”
The woman froze.
“You have to put it behind you. They will accept you this time.”
“They don’t trust us. I wasn’t allowed to leave. I had to flee, Silthoneas . . . And when I returned, they wouldn’t let me into the kingdom.”
“No one trusts the mages of Lohne. You know they think we are secretive and deceptive. It is a sacrifice.”
“But it is our own fault,” Allana said grimly. She continued down the path toward Erech Miritor, prepared to receive her assignment—her punishment.
*More coming . . .*