Artistic Wizard
January 12th, 2004, 07:29 PM
Heres a quick sample of a story I'm working on. Please keep in mind this is still a rough draft. I would love any kind of feedback I could get. Whether its grammer, story contents, whatever. I'm looking forward to comments. Thanks.
The Soul Stone
Prologue
In the land of Maelfore, the stone lay on the marble pedestal deep within the bowels of the temple of the Elders. It sat there for centuries, unguarded and safe. That was all about to change.
Azamoth, Bayle approached the stones chamber, his red robe flowing behind him. His face was long and thin, with green eyes that had the look of intense confidence. His jet-black hair was pulled back tight and tied with a red leather cord. Stopping at the edge of the entrance, he carefully examined the chamber and it’s contents. The room was an enormous sphere approximately one hundred feet in circumference. Its surface was black marble with swirls of gray, so smooth that it looked wet. Murder holes riddled the surface of the chamber, an indication of one trap ready to strike like a pit viper, if the stone was disturbed.
The stone lay on a pedestal the shape of a cylinder that was approximately three feet tall and appeared to be made of the same material as the chamber walls. The pedestal floated in the center of the chamber. There were no visible catwalk, pathways or floor in which led to the stone.
A blue globe of crackling energy enveloped the stone, an obvious attempt to protect its owner’s relic. “Childs folly,” Azamoth muttered under his breath. “Farmers with pitchforks could defeat this futile attempt at protecting one of the most powerful relics in the land. Pathetic!”
A deep look of concentration welled up on Azimoth’s face, as he tightly closed his eyes. His body was tense, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead and brow. An emerald green sphere the size of a skull formed between his palms, as he slowly raised his hands above his head. The sphere crackled and snapped with electric energy as he slowly lowered his hands to chest level. Powerfully thrusting his arms forward, the magic sphere left his hands with a stream of green fire trailing behind it. Immediately after the energy left his hands it began to grow. It continued to grow until it was the size of the chamber, then with a thunderous clap, all of the air was forced out of the chamber as a vacuum was created. The blue energy surrounding the stone imploded in on itself with a concussive boom. The murder holes fired. Iron bolts left their homes with a murderous intent. As if defying nature, the bolts stopped in mid-air, turned to slag and then fell to the floor harmlessly.
Azimoth’s eyes snapped open and a smile stretched across his face. A guttural laugh erupted from him so evil, it would have sent chills down even the most evil of demons. With a flick of his wrist, the stone leapt off the pedestal, crossed the chamber and stopped in his hand. The stone was warm to the touch and approximately the size of a human fist, shaped like a teardrop, with thousands of facets cut into it. I was the color of blood. Crimson. Azimoth examined the stone, and then placed it in his belt pouch. Tightening the leather cord, he checked the contents one last time ensuring its safety. Once again a smile cracked his wicked face, as he turned and disappeared down the dark corridor.
:confused:
The Soul Stone
Prologue
In the land of Maelfore, the stone lay on the marble pedestal deep within the bowels of the temple of the Elders. It sat there for centuries, unguarded and safe. That was all about to change.
Azamoth, Bayle approached the stones chamber, his red robe flowing behind him. His face was long and thin, with green eyes that had the look of intense confidence. His jet-black hair was pulled back tight and tied with a red leather cord. Stopping at the edge of the entrance, he carefully examined the chamber and it’s contents. The room was an enormous sphere approximately one hundred feet in circumference. Its surface was black marble with swirls of gray, so smooth that it looked wet. Murder holes riddled the surface of the chamber, an indication of one trap ready to strike like a pit viper, if the stone was disturbed.
The stone lay on a pedestal the shape of a cylinder that was approximately three feet tall and appeared to be made of the same material as the chamber walls. The pedestal floated in the center of the chamber. There were no visible catwalk, pathways or floor in which led to the stone.
A blue globe of crackling energy enveloped the stone, an obvious attempt to protect its owner’s relic. “Childs folly,” Azamoth muttered under his breath. “Farmers with pitchforks could defeat this futile attempt at protecting one of the most powerful relics in the land. Pathetic!”
A deep look of concentration welled up on Azimoth’s face, as he tightly closed his eyes. His body was tense, as beads of sweat formed on his forehead and brow. An emerald green sphere the size of a skull formed between his palms, as he slowly raised his hands above his head. The sphere crackled and snapped with electric energy as he slowly lowered his hands to chest level. Powerfully thrusting his arms forward, the magic sphere left his hands with a stream of green fire trailing behind it. Immediately after the energy left his hands it began to grow. It continued to grow until it was the size of the chamber, then with a thunderous clap, all of the air was forced out of the chamber as a vacuum was created. The blue energy surrounding the stone imploded in on itself with a concussive boom. The murder holes fired. Iron bolts left their homes with a murderous intent. As if defying nature, the bolts stopped in mid-air, turned to slag and then fell to the floor harmlessly.
Azimoth’s eyes snapped open and a smile stretched across his face. A guttural laugh erupted from him so evil, it would have sent chills down even the most evil of demons. With a flick of his wrist, the stone leapt off the pedestal, crossed the chamber and stopped in his hand. The stone was warm to the touch and approximately the size of a human fist, shaped like a teardrop, with thousands of facets cut into it. I was the color of blood. Crimson. Azimoth examined the stone, and then placed it in his belt pouch. Tightening the leather cord, he checked the contents one last time ensuring its safety. Once again a smile cracked his wicked face, as he turned and disappeared down the dark corridor.
:confused: