Otherworlds - Fantasy Multiverse

Chapter One: First Sparks

2011-01-16T15:13:00.000+10:00

John waited in ambush. The hated oppressors would have to come through soon. The small province of Surven had been conquered by Erondia, and he was leading the resistance. His father, the steward of Surven, had been slain in the initial conquest, and his Liege was still petitioning the Earl of the West to re-instate Surven’s independence. Until then, John was leading the remainder of the castle guard and a motley crew of peasants to make things tough for the occupying forces. From his vantage point in the tree he couldn’t see anything, but he knew an esteemed guest of the invading lord was arriving today; or would be, if it wasn’t for the ambush he had planned.

Hours passed, and John waited. “What if he doesn’t come?” John mused. “What if he comes by another route?” John quieted the problematic thoughts, keeping his mind on the job at hand. The other routes were covered, albeit not as well, and if the guest didn’t come, there was nothing John could do to stop that. Offering a quick prayer to Brereton, god of victory, his eyes returned to the path. Dusk was approaching, and then John heard the sounds of an approaching horse.

John waited a few more moments for his target to come into view of his hiding place, and took careful aim at the stranger. Strange was the word to describe him, he wore robes, like a Priest of Exidaid, but they were bright and garish. Blues contrasted with purples and greens, and odd symbols covered the entire robe. He wore an odd, crooked hat, tall and bent, fashioned from the same cloth as his robes. He rode side saddle, his robes too long to allow him to ride otherwise, and didn’t even have his hands on the horse’s reigns. However the horse appeared to know exactly where it was going.

He held his breath as he squeezed the trigger, and the bolt flew true. At least it seemed to, however when it reached the stranger it seemed to vanish. Confused, John knew exactly what he had to do. Dropping from the trees, he drew a short sword and stared down it’s blade at the now stopped rider. He could now see that his foe was podgy and poorly groomed. However his foe was not intimidated. Laughing heartily, the stranger made a gesture, and a gale struck up. Wind forced John to the ground, his sword dropped by his side. In a deep voice, stepped with authority the stranger spoke. “Arrogant child, attacking a wizard. I suppose they don’t have The Guild here, but still, surely one must know better. Follow me.” Muttering some phrase under his breath, the wizard calmly continued on his way.

John paused, confused, and began to walk away. However whenever he attempted to walk in any direction but along the path, after the wizard, gales tore him from his feet and forced him to follow. After the third time being blown several ells through the air, and then being dropped suddenly like a sack of turnips John decided that discretion, this time, was the better part of valour and followed meekly. Battered and bruised, broken in spirit, shattered in pride and thoroughly confused, John said nothing as the keep he once called home loomed closer and closer, taking on a terrifying aspect he had never noticed before. Everything in him told him to run, but he knew that it was futile. He was defeated.

Twice more in the slow and torturous trip returning home John tried to escape. Once when he thought the wizard was distracted. Later on he pretended to pass out, but the wind merely forced him along the ground at high speeds, ripping up his already poor quality clothing and skin. He was planning his third attempt, when the wizard spoke again. “I wouldn’t if I were you boy. You have to understand who you’re dealing with. I’m no mere hedge wizard or cheap conjurer. I am Articus Forron, wizard of the Sixth Tower.” The wizard’s voice dripped with arrogance and self congratulation. “Now, when we get to the castle, you are to immediately present yourself to the jailer, and ask for a cell, explaining who you attacked. I know you will, my winds of command will see to it.”

Helplessly, John found himself walking down the twisted and twirling stairs towards the dungeons. Step after step after step. At the merest hesitation, an impossible wind blew up pushing him onwards, threatening to topple him, throw him down the stairs, and potentially kill him. Suddenly John had an idea. He began running down the stairs, at double pace, remaining close to the wall. Any moment now he’d come past the old door, which never closed properly thanks to swelling with age and damp. He saw it and just as he came past it he dived to the right, into the room. Standing up slowly, with a feeling of success, he suddenly realised there was no wind billowing against him. Now all he needed to do was to open the old spy’s passage, and he could hide within the castle until he saw fit to make his escape.

He began to walk further into the room, but was launched backwards by a sudden billow. He suddenly found himself rolling down the stairs, bruising on every bounce, the cold and hard stone unyielding and unmerciful. Bouncing against a wall, he managed to pull himself to a stop, and then soon found his feet. Head downcast, he gingerly continued walking down the stairs, thinking of nothing except the next painful step. He suddenly realised that this was it, he’d lost. He couldn’t fool the magic; he had to follow Articus’s instructions to the letter. A tear ran down his cheek. “It couldn’t end like this! It just couldn’t!” Suddenly he realised that it was going to end like this; that life isn’t fair. This was the end of the road.

Each step seemed like a new defeat, with him not even daring to hesitate, going from loss to loss, surrender to surrender. He heard the sound of his footsteps, echoing and taunting him, each one a proclamation of his cowardice. Over the last month, John’s world had crashed around him, and today it was finally over; all that remained of his old life was rubble. He would likely end his days, ill and desiccated, starving and thirsty in the dungeons, too weak to even stand. He would be forgotten, unremembered by all but the dead. Even his name would be scratched out of the annals of nobility, perhaps he would be a footnote in history. John Pyra, last of the Pyras, lost Surven to invading forces. Verifying the existence of John Pyra is difficult, as he is no longer in the annals of nobility.

He finally arrived, his head bowed and his voice subdued. Walking up to the jailer he murmured “Can I have a cell? I assaulted Articus Forron.” The jailer stepped back, confused. “Punishment for assault is a day in the stocks lad, I think whoever sent you down here was giving you a scare. You go apologise to this Artikus lad, and think about what you’ve done.” John paused momentarily at hearing this, realising that he had fulfilled the letter of Articus’s instructions. If this didn’t work, all he’d get is a few bruises, and if it did, he was free. He walked away, with growing elation at his newfound liberty. The spell was broken, he could escape. He formulated a plan, and started running up the stairs, two at a time with the energy and vigour of freedom. He ran to the spymaster’s room, and walked through the old door that never closed. He found the section of wall that wasn’t attached, and pulled it out. Stepping through the gap, he carefully replaced the wall section behind him and then made his way quietly to the hidden room. He offered silent thanks to Tassan, the family god, for making him the 6^th son, and apprenticed to the spymaster.

When he arrived, he made sure that no-one had entered the room, and spoke the password to de-power the rune of explosive tension, designed to explode if anyone entered the room while it was powered. Once he entered the room he quietly closed the door, reapplied the rune, and watched the glow return to the arcane sigil. Next he decided to check the chest. Reaching into the chest, he removed the carefully organised false reports, and then the false bottom of the chest, before pulling out the most recent ledger of reports and catching up on the events of the last months.

Sateday, first of Oregust

Prior reports of the mobilisation of the Doge of Drakeward have been false. Instead of moving south, as if he were to invade Green Hall, he turned east. This bodes poorly for us, more information is needed.

Fewday, eighth of Oregust

It seems that the Doge of Drakeward is moving this way. Lord Pyra has left the castle, leaving command to Mark, Heir of Surven. Lord Pyra hopes to petition the Earl of the Westerlands to edict this war over, for Surven has no hope of withstanding a protracted siege.

Sunsday, twenty seventh of Oregust

Today both Mark and Tom have died, leaving me in command of the castle. I passed command on to Harrow Schmendrick, the Castellan of the Guard, and fled the castle. I hope to gather information regarding Drakeward that will help Lord Pyra’s cause. I am no fighter, but an informant and advisor in the ways unseen, so I shall help in the ways that Tassan sees fit.

Here John stopped, crying over the memories of his older brothers. Although they were much older then him, they were close. Tom taught John all he knew about fighting, and he could remember watching Tom die from an infected arrow wound. The priests did all they could to heal and cleanse the wound, however Exidaid had ordained it not to be, and the vileness had slowly choked Tom from the inside. Mark died instantly, falling from the walls after a piece of shrapnel pieced his head. He was too far gone for any of the Priests of Exidaid to even attempt to do more then scrape into a coffin.

The next report was in his own hand, as he took up the mantle of acting spymaster of the castle when his master left. Although there were no reports, he chronicled what he could.

Monusday, 28^th Oregust

Today marks my first day as acting Spymaster. There is little to be done here, most of my hours are spent leading the crossbowmen on the walls.

Fewsay, 10^th Septvember

Today Harrow died, defending the outer walls against the breach. His younger brother Raek Schmendrick has been promoted, and leads the castle defence. Martin is still with the priests of Exidaid, and can not lead us is battle, and all of my other older siblings are out the castle. Gerald is at court, and Erik we have not heard from in seasons. Leaving me the youngest, technically in charge, but I am inexperienced, and leave our defences in the hands of Mr Schmendrick.

Wetday, 21^st Septvember

Today we abandoned the outer walls, they are breached in too many places. We retreat to the Keep, where we should be able to hold for some time.

Highday, 30^th Septvember

Today the Keep has been breached. The defending forces have surrendered, in return for safe conduct to exile. Raek told Martin and I to leave, anonymously, and to make our way south to Court and join father in his petitions to restore us our lands. However, the roads are being watched by the Doge’s men, and we decided to wait anonymously in the villages until the roads are safer. Martin and I are taking sanctuary in the Church of Exidaid. The Doge doesn’t dare breach the sanctuary of Exidaid.

The last entry is written hurriedly, John remembers the panic of writing it down. They escaped by joining the priests moving out of the castle to the church. He remembers walking along with the novices of Exidaid, silently keeping his head bowed as they walked out in their white robes. The guards didn’t want to bother the priests of Exidaid, because who knows when they would next get hurt in their line of work? Some amount of injury is almost inevitable when you’re in such a violent line of work, and many of the guards owed their health, if not their lives to the mercies of the white priests and Exidaid. You don’t treat priests with anything but the greatest respect, because their lord is almost certainly more powerful then yours.

Several quiet weeks in the church went by. John found himself collating reports from a number of the peasants who were dissatisfied by the new regime. A few families fled, but most remained. After all, one lord in a castle that never speaks to you is no different to another, and this new lord wasn’t going to bother messing in the affairs of the peasantry. However some felt some commitment to their old lord, having been treated kindly and fairly in a dispute, or possibly having had their crops wrecked or family killed in the invasion. Only a very few supported the new regime, those who had been punished for crimes under the old for the most part; the greater part of the populace was mildly negative.

So it turned out that the invader had decided to set up court here for a few months, probably to deter any armies sent by lords more sympathetic to the plight of Lord Pyra. The holes in the walls his siege machines had left were being quickly repaired, and the army he had brought were being brought back up to fighting strength. Re-enforcements arrived in small bands, some mercenaries were hired, and the rebuilding for the inevitable attack was increasing. John had made sure that the peasantry, if let into the castle would do everything in their power to make defending hard, and if not, would assist with the siege. Those with farms close to the castle had already had their farms destroyed and their crops looted; the farms further out were safe, as whoever wanted the land wanted the foods and produce intact.

John waited these months for the incoming siege to come, and did all he could to prepare for when it came. However, when the invaders had held the castle for a full six months, and no attack had come, John could wait no more. The Doge had returned home, leaving an occupying force to hold the castle. A new lord of the castle was expected to arrive any day now. For John, this was the last straw. He grabbed his crossbow, visited the peasants he knew were most loyal to him, and set up a number of ambushes across many of the roads. The most likely road he kept for himself. Soon, there would be a reckoning.

Back in the present, John resolved that there would be a reckoning at the first opportunity. But he must not rush it. Wizards were no ordinary men, and first he must find out the limits of this wizard’s power. Then, he would crush him.

Prologue: Kindling the flames

2011-01-10T12:35:00.003+10:00

Part the First: Kindling the flames

Prologue

The Doge knew that he was not a kind man. He also didn’t think he was a cruel man, although this was occasionally brought into doubt. Today was one such day, where a guard had been caught stealing from the treasury. The money stolen was of little consequence, but it was the principle of the thing. He mused that putting the man to death seemed a little cruel, especially for the family, but it was too late change his judgement on that matter. A small smile washed over him, as he thought of a way to right the balance. “Articus!” He said, calling over his chief advisor, a wizard of not inconsiderable power. “Return the money stolen to the family of the diseased. It is worth far more to them then I; and it will help them survive without his income. In small coins mind you, we can’t have a poor maid trying to get change for a platinum piece, now can we. That’s how the guard got himself caught. And make sure that they know it’s in their best interests not to talk, can’t have people thinking that I hand out money to the families of everyone who tries to rob me, and they will be keen not to have their own treasures stolen from.”

Articus agreed, praising The Doge for his kindness and mercy, but inwardly thought to himself that the money would never reach the family. For that princely sum he would buy himself a wizardly staff of some power. Possibly an ancient artefact, if he could find one cheap enough. Alternatively, he could afford to hire a team of scribes to rewrite and send him tomes from the Wizard’s library. Not that it mattered at this stage, he had mastered all the spells he needed, more power was to be gained in politics rather then magic. Unlike the ageing wizards and magi in the wizard’s tower, he had real ambition, he wasn’t interested in the searching for scrolls of hidden knowledge, nor did he want to find aged artefacts for their own sake. Magic was a means, not an end; it was his tool to attaining real power.

“Now,” the Doge spoke once more, breaking Articus’s private thoughts, “I wish for a vision. What do the winds of fortune have in store for me?”. Articus prepared the spell, moving slowly as he decided what he wanted the winds of fortune to tell his Lord. “Some land would be nice. If the Doge expanded, he would have to trust an advisor to look after it. I will be the only obvious choice… by then at least.” Smiling at his private joke, he sat in the middle of the magic circle he had drawn on the ground and fell into a trance, incanting the words needed for the winds to show him their tidings from the future.

He saw a phoenix, rising. At one side it had a raven next to it, and to the other a parrot. The three birds flew together, higher and higher, and further away from the land; the land was slowly frosting over with bitter winds freezing the land. Eventually the birds turned on each other, and the raven burned and fell as the parrot fled. The phoenix burned out, turning to ash under a bright light. The raven and the parrot returned, and bowed down before the ashes, which once more caught fire, until from the flames of his death the phoenix was reborn. The phoenix melted the snows over the land, and left the two birds to feed, flying free and far away.

The flames and the faith - Prelude

2011-01-05T11:29:00.004+10:00

G'day loyal subscribers, I've finally done some more writing - actually, it was in November for NaNoWriMo. It's a great thing, and I plan on finishing this year. To motivate me to write more, I'm posting up my effort chapter by chapter. Enjoy.

The flames and the faith

Prelude

Despite everything, still he continued. Bleeding from his an innumerable amount of cuts and gashes, his blood marked where he had walked in a crimson path that trailed behind him. “Repent.” He coughed up blood, spitting it to the side and continued. “Repent for your sins.” Raising a crossbow to his shoulder, he stopped swaying for long enough to level it at his target. The flickering light from the pyre behind him showed him looming over his target, Goliath looming over David. Standing, frozen in fear, a young boy cried silently. Then the tall stranger loosed his bolt, and the boy cried no more.

The man left the room, his tall, dark form becoming visible in the moonlight. His features were harsh, but not ugly. There was evidence of a rugged life, some scarring, however he was not disfigured. No one would call him handsome or pleasant to look at. He was tall, a full six foot; he was broad and muscular. His long dark hair fell over his shoulders from under a large weather beaten leather hat. He wore a large leather jacket, under which could be seen the faint gleam of a tarnished suit of chain mail. At his hip was an empty scabbard, and a quiver of bolts was slung over his shoulder.

Walking away from the building, he smiled in satisfaction of a job well done. No heretics or sorcerers remained in this den of evil. However, he knew that he had to continue, this cult was rooted into the populace, and it must be removed, with faith and with fire. The Symbol of The Three burned at his back, and he turned crossbow reloaded, searching for a target. A wounded bird flew from one of the flaming buildings, and he took aim. Rumour had it these sorcerers and witches could change into the form of beasts. He fired his bolt, but it wasn’t true, and missed by a small margin. The bird was gone before he could reload. Scowling, he turned away from the burning village and walked on.

Chapter 11: Teaser

2009-09-07T06:57:00.003+10:00

G'day reader(s?). I'm finally back to work on spectral knight, by popular demand. Well, a demand anyways. And to prove it, here's the start of chapter 11, just to keep both my readers interested.

Aegon looked out into the night, the darkness all but absolute, with the moon being but a sliver. The firelight barely seemed to do anything about the omnipresent darkness. The sense of unease was almost palpable. As the others slept, Aegon and Bjorn scanned the shadows for any hint of the banshee that had been terrorising the group lately. The night dragged on.

Dawn approached. The birdsong broke out suddenly across the forest in a sudden cacophony. Aegon relaxed a moment, the dawn was almost here. Just as he began to rouse his companions a shrill cry cut through the birdsong. Suddenly silence reigned. The group were on their feet. The banshee appeared before them on the path, screaming again, and then fled, moaning a dirge as it ran. Bjorn and Aegon lead the chase, with the group not too far behind.

They were being lead down the main trail, where they intended to go anyway, so no-one questioned chasing the banshee. Suddenly however the banshee screamed again and darted down a side track. Almost unused, it was a scrub-path, cleared by wild animals. However it looked like it hadn’t been used in a long time, even by the animals. The group stopped at the side path, panting for breath. Even as they began trying to decide whether to follow it, an agonising series of screams echoed out from the forest as the banshee turned, stopping its retreat to lash out at its perusers.

Bjorn and Aegon dashed into the forest after the banshee and Jarrod, Iryl and Marie followed resignedly, keeping their distance. The banshee fled again from the pursuit, emitting a slow mournful dirge as it ran. Aegon began to catch up to the spectral woman, slowly but surely closing the gap between them. Suddenly the banshee disappeared, fading into nothing as the forest became eerily silent devoid of the banshees dirge. Aegon looked about on the spectral plane and saw the banshee disappearing into the forest. Not wanting to lose himself in the claustrophobic forest Aegon pulled up. Calling to everyone else, he pointed out a clearing ahead and cautiously advanced down the path. Pulling mana to himself, he noted that the surrounding mana was largely death magic. Now that he had slowed down, he also noticed that the trees were less healthy, and coming up to the clearing many were dead, and the remainder were very sickly. The rotting leaves and moss of the forest floor gave way to the dead earth of the clearing. A wooden cabin sits in the centre of the clearing, although sturdily built, the patchwork repairs aren’t of great quality.

Like it/hate it? Comment below, your feedback would be greatly appreciated. And if you want to read from the start, chapter 1 is here.

Chilled Blood, Part 1: Like, woah.

2009-07-25T14:37:00.006+10:00

The Ancen/t g/urus at /tg/ were getting their rage on about another fanfic vamp. series, and it came up that the most quality thing one introduced was the idea of surfer vampires. The idea of writing a short story on this for teh gits and shiggles appealed to me, so here it is "Chilled Blood". Enjoy, my good dudes, enjoy.

It was a dark and most excellent night. Me and my crew were chilling out punching some cones out beyond the breakers. I loved this time of night, no crowds, everything was all chill. All out of nowhere some headlights came on, halfway up the beach. It was probably my good dudes, Razz and Murph. I passed the J to Pez and caught a tiddler in. The propper waves won't start up for a while yet.

Once on the beach I wave down the ol' shagin' wagon and and sure as can be, Razz and Murph jump on out. "You got the stuff man?" I ask.
"Sure thing, bro. Never gonna leave a mate high and dry."
"Gnarley." Razz throws me a zip lock bag, half full. I open it at one end, and take a whiff. "Yeah, that's the shit. Kudos." I then take a sip, pouring it straight into my mouth. A trickle of blood drips over my chin. I lick it up with relish. Oh, man, forgot to let you know. Me, I'm a vampire. Pretty rad, eh?

It all started when Micky-J found this old book up in his attic. He's one chill cat, but he's all interested in the o-cults or somethng. Anyway, I always though one to many buds has slowed him down some, but the book was the real deal. Magic and deamons and shit. Like, woah. Woah. Anyways, he's all like "Dudes, dudes, ya gotta come over. I got some crazy shit to tell you. Like woah! Crazy." So we rock on up and he shows me this page in some book. It was all in like itallian or some wierd lingo, but I was pretty melaxed so I figured I'd ask him what he was on about. "Dudes, you'll never beleive this. But it's real. And no, I'm not trippin', but for real I'm a vampire." I woulda disagreed but he was kinda just floatin' there in midair. I thought I was tripping myslef, but Pez and K-dog could see it too. "Now don't freak out or nothing," Micky-J says "but I got this wicked crazy craving man. Worse then any major-munchies ever. It's like for blood man. Can I take a bite from one of you guys? If not, it's chill. Swap you a dimebag for it."

X'rael's War Teachings

2009-06-17T02:03:00.003+10:00

Some writing I did for a thread on /tg/, I figured I might as well post it here too. It's a nice idea for a setting.

++ Translated from X'rael's War Teachings ++

And of the humans, there is but one piece of information. Do not antagonise them, do not aggravate them, do not under any circumstances attack them. Although they are small of stature, they have a bestial mentality. Logic would dictate that one of our [heavy infantry] with it's superior armaments, greater strength, size, durability and stealth capacity could overcome one of these humans. And for the most part that is true. But these humans are possessed of a spirit and a comradeship like nothing else. Outnumbered and out gunned they will hold ground selling their lives to give their comrades extra seconds. They will attack with ferocity unheard of, using their crude technologies to extra-ordinary usage.

They use tactics unthinkable to us, so suicidal yet effective. In the last (and thank Luck, only) war we had with them they passed nuclear weapons out in their trenches. As soon as one area was breached, they would activate it, and charge with a fury unknowable to a civilised species. The sight of these dead men walking, dead men fighting, knowing that they would die and fighting for glory was terrifying. Then their weapon would explode clearing the area of all forces. And even when radiation rendered the area unusable they would hide in it, safe in the knowledge we could not pursue them. They would launch guerrilla warfare campaigns out of these toxic wastelands.

Their suicidal techniques inspired so much fear that very few of our soldiers would attack their trenches, and when we did, even a feint of a charge was enough to sound the retreat in fear of their self-destruction.

And when we attacked their cities, every building was a fort held against us, every human hand held a weapon against us, ever road was booby trapped and held against us. Their crude technologies, although simple were turned into weapons. Their ancient electrical networks were torn down to create deadly shock traps. Every city we took was sabotaged, and crumbled around us, and from the ruins they would continue to fight. Even the children. Occasionally we would capture some, but they were not done yet. They would strain our resources, break out of our camps, half starved and flee into the forests - not to escape but to begin the guerrilla campaign anew.

I recall one boy, a mere child by their reckoning, 16 if their years. Captured and tortured for where his comrades were, he refused to give in. Instead he laughed. Then he spat something metal into my face. A small ring with a pin attached. Next thing I knew it was fire and shrapnel. I was lucky and escaped only with this scar.

Every natural feature housed humans who had adapted to live there. Some species live in deserts much hotter then theirs, and others in tundra much colder, but I have never seen a species that lived in such a wide range of environs. Ever forest was home to a family who knew its every path, and could hide there indefinitely, making whole units vanish in our attempts to capture them. When we attempted to conduct a sweep with a whole legion, they merely burnt the forest down around us, shooting us even as the inferno raged.

Then the war turned on us. If we thought them bestial before, we were mistaken. They became a truly mobilised species. Every human was a warrior, trained in the arts of war first hand. Fathers taught laughing children how to fire a missile, watching with fatherly pride as they shot their first airship down.

And these were only the normal ones amongst them. Some of them were much better, as skilled in war as some of our greatest artists are at their own arts. One sniper hid in one of our cities for months. We thought it was an elite infiltration unit, but once we captured this one the attacks stopped. He killed 189 soldiers, and 598 civilians.

The capital of our empire used to be Njol'naix. Yes the wasteland planet. It was once red with life, a thriving planet. The humans changed that. They destroyed all traces of life, salting the earth with chemical toxins, biological warheads and their crude nuclear weapons.

They gave us one offer. We were to live on this moon, never to attack them again. We would create vast numbers of weapons for their army and conscript one in ten of our children to their army. We taught them our technologies, and their scientists (who were also fearsome warriors) soon turned them all into weapons. Who would have thought that our farming technologies could be so destructive.

We created the humans, the scourge upon this world. And now you will go and fight in their armies, and you will fight alongside these beasts and gain their loyalty and trust. You will learn to fear them as do I, and if you survive 10 years in their war camps you shall return and spread your fear of them to the next generation to be conscripted. This way we shall remain safe, for the fury of every other civilisation is nothing next to the wrath of humanity.

Found: Part 1

2009-06-10T04:27:00.002+10:00

Aaaaaand he's back. Finally got around to writing something, uni holidays are comming up, expect more.

A young boy ran down the dark alley, his puffing and panting loud in the otherwise quiet backstreets of Neotopia. Ducking behind a pile of waste, he held his breath, half attempting to avoid breathing the foul fumes from the refuse, but primarily trying to avoid detection from his pursuers. The quick click clack of boots running over the uneven pavement and junk that stew the back alley drew closer, and the boy drew even further within himself as he attempted to remain concealed. Time seemed to slow down, with the sound of perusers blacking out all other noise in the otherwise silent shadows. Suddenly, silence. Torchlight lit up the alley, and the boy barely stifled a scream in his surprise. Without warning the light vanished, and the sound of the chase resumed, this time away from the boy. Frozen in fear, the boy still didn’t move.

Suddenly lights flashed in the boy’s face, waking him. Squealing in panic, the boy realised he must have slept on the refuse, exhausted. “Please sir, don’t whip too hard. I’m still good, don’t bin me.” Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he looked up, and behind the light there was a face. But the overseers didn’t have faces. There was no brand on his forehead either, so it couldn’t be an escapee. So that could only mean an owner. Looking around he didn’t see any overseers. Maybe he could escape, there was a hole in the fence he didn’t see last night, and he was good at slipping through holes. There was no way an owner could fit through, although this one was skinny for an owner. Paying attention again he realised that the owner was holding out a red something. He had seen the overseers eat them from time to time, and one time he even got to taste one, after one of the other boys had stolen one. The other boy had given some to all of them in the same kennel, so they wouldn’t give him away. It was the most delicious thing he has ever eaten, even if he only gotten a bite. He couldn’t remember what it was called though.

The owner was still there, holding out the red thing. Maybe it was a trick. But he was a fast boy, to escape; maybe he could grab it and run. Grabbing it, he began to run, but the owner didn’t chase him. Instead the owner sat down and waited. Reaching into his tattered old coat the owner pulled out another red thing and sat down and began to eat his. This owner had a coat like nothing the boy had ever seen before. It wasn’t clean like most owners’ clothes, but it was better then any rags any of the other boys owned. The grey haired, odd owner called out, “There’s another apple in here if you want it, kid. What’s your name?” The boy stopped, looking back through the fence. Another apple? Maybe this was a trick. But he had never had a whole apple to himself before, and now this weird owner was offering him a second one. This was better then when he stole a bottle of rum from a drunken overseer, and brought it back to the kennel. He figured it was worth the risk. He stopped, finished his apple, and then walked back over, the whole time the old man simply watched him, saying nothing. “Here, catch.” The old man threw another apple, and asked again “What is your name, kid?”

“Name, Sir? I don’t got one.” The old man smiled and replied, “Well, you can pick one then. Any name you choose. My name’s Gaffer.” The boy blinked. “But, Sir. I ain’t no owner, I don’t get a name.” Gaffer smiled and said, “You’re out of The Kennels now kid, you can chose any name you like. But no rush. If you want a place to sleep and a meal, come with me. We got plenty more apples.”

The boy followed the man meekly though the back alleys. If there were more apples there, he’d work there. And if the work was too hard, or he was going to get thrown away, he could always escape again. He got away this time, so he was confident he could again.

Revenge of the Real Life

2009-03-28T18:08:00.002+10:00

Hey, if I have any readers left, I'm apologising now for the lack of update. Between Uni and my other projects, this has kind of fallen by the wayside. Once my schedule settles down I will get more done though.

Legend and myth - Intro

2009-02-11T23:51:00.003+10:00

Hey guys. Here's the start to the next story about Rejik, to whet your apitite. More comming soon.

Rejik.

The sun set like a drop of crimson blood, its colour splashing all over the sky. Alone, a silhouetted figure sat atop a hill, marvelling at the glory. A second figure approached the silent watcher from behind, picking his way carefully up the rocky terrain. After a time he joined the silhouette, his tall, gaunt body small and spindly against the majesty of the sunset. Silence reigned for a time, as the pair sat and watched. After the last rays of the sun had sunk, the newcomer broke the silence. "Krajh, I have something I want to ask you." Krajh merely nodded, and after a moment held up his hand to stall any other comments the younger newcomer could ask.

"Rejik," He started, his deep voice sounding loud next to the post-dusk ambience. "Before the fight, I told you the story of Bjorn and Orik. However, that was only a partial telling of the tale. Let me tell you the complete version."

Legend and Myth

2009-02-11T23:50:00.001+10:00

Rejik.

******

Bjorn and Orik were half-brothers. Bjorn was the illegitimate son of the cheif, born to a slave woman but he was the oldest and was next in line to be cheif. Orik was barely a month younger, but was born to a tribe woman. Whereas Bjorn was from youth a giant of a man, Orik was smaller in stature. A mere six foot tall, he was fair of hair and form, where Bjorn was dark haired and built like a bear. Both were popular amonst the trive - Orik was evrey man's friend, and Bjorn was admired for his feats of strength. It is said that during his fifteenth winter he wrestled a wolf do death, and had already hunted his first great bear. The pair were rivals, but friends in all things. No sooner then one had acheived something, the other would set all his energy into surpassing his half brother.

Now it so happened that the tribes from the Green South were raiding the north, in preparation for a larger attack - not for land, but for valuables, slaves and tribute. Normally this would not worry the hardy people of the White North, but they were amassing under a great horse-chief, and the attacks would be on a scale unseen in the history of the Northern Tribes. Bjorn's and Orrik's father was away viking, and wouldn't return for half a season, so both Orrik and Bjorn attended the gathering of the tribes to see what would be done. Even amongst the other northern tribes the brothers were both well thought of, and it soon became clear that the smaller tribes would follow their decision. However, the brothers did not agree. Orrik thought it wise to take the tribes into the northern mountains and endure the harsh conditions where the Green Southerner's wouldn't follow. Bjorn thought that they must stand, and fight to discourage further raids. They argued, and soon it became clear that if they did not agree, the tribes would fragment, and individually be swept away by the raiding host.

The brothers soon agreed that either decision was better then death, but neither would back down. Orrik called Bjorn a simple baresark, and Bjorn called Orrik a craven. Soon their rivalry turned sour, to animosity, and the pair decided to settle this on the battlefield. Only in death would the pair accept defeat. Bjorn was the larger fighter, but Orrik was better with spear and bow. The pair wondered off into the wilderness to settle their score.

Different versions of the tale tell various things about the battle. That it lasted for days on end, that they fought through a blizzard, that each was wounded beyond the survival of an ordinary man. However, all versions agree on this: that Bjorn finally gained ascendancy, and pinned Orrik down with a knife against his throat. He gave his half-brother a chance to surrender and back down. Orrik spat in his face, called Bjorn a bloodthirsty berserker, and attempted to throw Bjorn off. Bjorn easily held him down, laughed and threw the dagger away, announcing that "You're no coward, I surrender to you. You were willing to throw your life away to make a point, consider it made." That night the pair both ritually scarred themself with the sign of the other, as traditional for a defeated warrior.

The tribes followed Orrik and moved north, where most the Southerons didn't follow. Some tribes did, and attempted to attack the Northern Tribes, who were spread out to find sufficaint food. The conditions almost destroyed them, and the Northerners won every engagement easily. Bringing such an army north without plundering anything meant that the army and empire of the great horse-chief soon fell apart. Their father had died in the raids, so the next year Orrik lead the gathering of tribes, and Bjorn lead the viking.

On: mesurements

2009-02-08T20:33:00.004+10:00

Time for something fun! Mesurements. Ok, I admit it, this one is more for me to have reference material, but if you're interested, don't let that stop you.

Now we got rid of th-. . . Nah just kidding. It really is measurements.

In Erondia they use a set of measurements mainly based off the human body. A small object (such as a fork or a daggers length) will be mesured in digits - roughly equivalent to an inch (a digit is 1/16 of a foot or 3/4 of an inch). A longer dagger might be measured in palms or - defined as half a foot, so 4 digits is the same as 1 palm. As the digit is based on the width of a finger, 5 digits is often called a hand, although this is usually used informally in jest. A span is equal to 3 palms, and is used for measuring swords. A foot is 16 digits, or 4 spans - and is used to measure hight of people - further mesurements are given in spans informally (so 6'3" would be 6 feet and 1 span, usually said "Six foot one"). If further detail is needed, quater and half spans (digits) are used in addition to this. Someone who was almost 6'4" would be 6 ft 1 span, 1 digit which is usualy said "Six foot one and quater").

Longer lengths are an ell (based off the length from fingertip to elbow, and is 6 palms or 1.5 feet), an ald (based off a mans outstreached arms and is 4 ells or 6 feet (roughly 2m)), and more commonly used pace (baced upon the measure of a full stride ie. the position of the heel when it is raised from the ground to the point the same heel is set down again at the end of the step. Thus, a distance can be "paced off" by counting each time the same heel touches ground, or in other words, every other step The stride is standardised at 5ft). A pace is used to measure length on the ground, where an ald is used for cloths, or lengths of movable objects. Alds are also used to describe the heigts of walls accurately, as an ald can be approximated as the height of an average man. A Pend is 5 alds or 30 feet (roughly 10m). Pends are used to measure medium lengths, like short fences, and hallways.

An Erondian Mile is 1'000 Strides (5'000 ft or ~1524m). A quater mile (250 strides) is often informally called a Wald, and a fifth of a wald (1/20 Erondian miles) is called a Kiln, and a fith of a kiln is a wald. One Dek is a fifth of a wald, but is also 10 strides (50 ft or roughly 15m).

This can be summed up as:

1 palm = 4 digits
1 hand = 5 digits
1 foot = 4 palms = 16 digits
1 Span = 3 palms
1 Ell = 2 spans = 1.5 feet = 6 palms = 24 digits
1 Stride= 5 feet = 16 hands = 20 palms = 80 digits
1 Ald = 4 ells = 6 feet = 8 spans = 24 palms = 96 digits
1 Pend = 5 alds = 6 strides = 30 feet = 40 spans = 76 hands = 80 palms = 480 digits
1 Dek = 10 strides = 50 feet = 160 hands = 200 palms = 800 digits
1 Kiln = 50 strides = 200 hands = 275 feet = 1'000 spans = 5'000 digits
1 Wald = 250 strides = 1'000 hands = 1'250 feet = 5'000 spans = 20'000 digits
1 Mile (Erondian) = 4 walds = 1'000 Strides = 4'000 hands = 5'000 feet = 20'000 spans = 80'000 digits.

On: Gnomes

2009-01-14T19:49:00.006+10:00

Yeah, I know, its kinda late. But here it is, On: Gnomes.

Physically gnomes are diminutive (between 2 and 3 feet tall) and of roughly proportionate build to human, but with larger feet and hands. Their hair and eyes come in a wide range of colours, all of them bright. The hair and eye colour will also change throughout their lifetimes. They have between three and five fingers on each hand, and toes on each foot. A gnome with 7 fingers (on each hand) and 7 toes (on each foot) is said to be blessed by Hojo, and is supposed to mean the "blessed" gnome will have a chaotic, but fortunate life, and they should trust in their luck.

Mentally gnomes are formidable and have mastered sorcery, particularly entromancy (chaos magic). They are unusually curious, constantly tinkering with something or other, usually dangerously. Many gnomes have died because of their sense of curiosity has overpowered their sense of self preservation. This mix of a powerful intellect and an insatiable curiosity means that gnomes are often great scholars. However their short attention spans mean that only the most focussed and determined gnomes become a master of any given field.

Gnomes are frequently mages - as with all the other 3rd spawning races (Dragons, Ents and Elves). They gravitate towards entromancy (chaos magic) and away from syntromancy (order magic). Elemental magics are common, particularly pyromancy (fire magic) and aeromancy (air magic), Aquamancy is more common then geomancy (water and earth magic respectively), and similarly biomancy is more common then necromancy (life and death). Gnomish geomances tend to focus more on quaqe magic, and most mages are also sorcerers, who mix in dangerous amounts of enromancy to create unpredictable effects to their magic.

Gnomes venerate Hojo above all other immortals. Of the first gods, they prey to all of them, but mainly Gnok (curiosity) and after him Graj (discontent/wanting/hunger/rebelliosness/change). The gnomish temperment is ill suited to Modah (thoughfullness/contemplation/patience) or Shaw (calmness/sleep/contentedness).

As gnomes age, their hair and eyes tend to become less table, changing colours faster and faster. Their eyes particulaly will change rapidly, going from red to purple to blue and back again in moments in the oldest gnomes. As gnomes age, they show increacing signs of mutation, growing extra fingers, losing their hair (or occasionally it fading slowly as per other races), extre leangth in the limbs, extra ribs, stunted gowth, regression and eventually if they survive they will begin to grow extra stomachs, lungs, eyes and even limbs. This process will continue until the gnome in question dies. Some ancient gnomes resemble morphilks and choaskin, with extra arms, claws and undesirable limbs of all descriptions. Many will seak out a Syntromancer, to remove mutations magically - however eventually the gnomes build up a resistance to syntromancy and they slowly age and mutate until death. Eventually a mutation will kill them, a rib growing through a lung or a heart that pumps bile instead of blood. The gnomes are then burnt, their mutated husks being forgottern, so loved ones can remember the gnome that was.

Revenge of the Full Time Work

2009-01-09T01:03:00.003+10:00

My job's been keeping me busy lately, so I've been a bit slack on here. I'm posting to say sorry, and make a commitment - to post something up by Sunday 11th. Hopefully this should motivate me to get something done. Cheers all.

Return of the king writer-guy

2008-12-13T12:49:00.004+10:00

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.

The Challenge - Draft Two

2008-11-06T13:59:00.007+10:00

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.

The Challenge - Draft One

2008-10-30T23:35:00.008+10:00

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.

Chapter 10 - Shadow sounds

2008-10-23T12:53:00.002+10:00

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."

18th delays

2008-10-16T17:16:00.001+10:00

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.

Chapter 9 - Shadows and Shades

2008-08-29T21:58:00.002+10:00

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.

Short one today: A Aliteration

2008-08-26T02:01:00.007+10:00

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.

Red Dusk - Harrok returns

2008-08-07T23:09:00.014+10:00

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.

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.

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.

Chapter 8: Knight Knight

2008-07-22T22:56:00.010+10:00

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.

My settings

2008-07-21T14:33:00.005+10:00

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.

On: the gods and religion of the otherworlds.

2008-07-08T00:23:00.001+10:00

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.

Lucifer: pride
Mammon: greed
Asmodeus: lust
Levian: envy
Beelzebub: gluttony
Amon: wrath
Belphegor: sloth

The servants of dark gods are called daemons. The daemon's of each god will take on aspects similar to that god. A daemon of Asmodeus will be a succubus/inccubus and will be a embodyment of lust, hauntingly beautiful, yet utterly depraved. A deamon of Amon will be a warrior made, a beastial paragon of wrathful desires, presiding over murder, rape, war and all violence.

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 ;).

Fire, Clock, Certanity - A writing exercise

2008-07-03T23:15:00.005+10:00

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.

Blur

2008-06-21T18:43:00.004+10:00

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.

On: Gods of the Otherworlds - In progress

2008-06-08T19:24:00.005+10:00

Chapter 7: Flee to the wilds

2008-06-02T19:03:00.004+10:00

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.

A teaser for chapter 7

2008-05-08T22:40:00.006+10:00

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?

What next?

2008-04-17T23:40:00.004+10:00

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.

On Orcs

2008-04-08T11:30:00.007+10:00

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.

The Hunt

2008-04-03T15:32:00.010+10:00

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.

Waiter Rant

2008-03-28T00:10:00.004+10:00

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.

Sydneysiders and canuks?

2008-03-24T12:50:00.003+10:00

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.

The Arena

2008-03-17T13:08:00.005+10:00

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.

Life gets in the way. . .

2008-03-14T00:32:00.007+10:00

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.

Update

2008-02-25T01:01:00.002+10:00

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.

zombie video

2008-02-13T21:58:00.002+10:00

Hey guys - check out this cool zombie video here. I figured it has some slight relavence.

Chapter 6 - The quick and the dead

2008-02-06T12:30:00.003+10:00

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.

Off topic

2008-02-05T13:22:00.001+10:00

G'day. Today I just wanted to take the opourtunity to assure any readers I may or may not have that I am at work on chapter 6. EDIT: In fact I have finnished chapter six. It just needs some editing - you should see it up tomorrow.

Also I want to point out this site. It's called one song per week, and this guy plays some good music. Check it out if you have time.

On Elves

2008-01-17T15:29:00.001+10:00

As promised: On Elves. This will be added to in the (hopefully near) future.

The elves are one of the ancient races of the second founding, along with the dragons and the trolls. All of these races were created without elemental energies. This means that instead of having their own elemental energies, they take in and draw from the world around them. Elves take in energy from their environs and beliefs, over long periods of time. As they love for thousands of years (longer with magic) elves will have the chance to become much immersed in an environment. Tall and lithe the physical features of the elves change in relation to their environment.

The elves own tongue calls themselves a’quas’ani or the ‘children of Ani’. They believe that they were created by the Ancient of Life, and are his chosen children in spirit. These beliefs have caused a number of splinter groups to separate from the elvish nation, including the shadow elves, the fallen elves, the fated and the free kindred.

The first elves were spawned on a verdant island. According to elf lore they were created only by the ancient Ani in his image, and that Morr seeing the elves happy and free cursed them with mortality. The shadow elves in contrast believe that Morr later blessed them with death, as the first elves grew old and tired. However when they were created, there were no divisions between the elves, they were one free and happy people. Food was plentiful and they did not need to hunt, as there were fruits and berries in abundance. This land was called Sithis’tor – homeland.

The elves learned how to farm the berries and fruits as their population increased. They lived in the trees, and lived in harmony with the land. After a while the population increased further and they began to live on the plains of the island, in the caves and on the mountains. The elves that lived in these environs picked up the energies of these places. The elves that lived on the plains grew taller and fairer; they had to cut down trees to make their homes, and became skilled craftsmen. They learned how to work wood and created many things from wood. They also learned how to fish the lakes and rivers that covered the plains land.

The elves of the mountains grew tougher, and burlier. They also had to use woods to make their homes, but they soon learned to fashion stone – first crudely in rough walls, but with increasing skill and dexterity. There wasn’t much fruit and berries, so they had to learn how to hunt like the great eagles that they shared their alpine land with. The elves in the caves grew sharp of eye and could see in the darkness of the caves. Their skin became dark, allowing them to blend in with their environs. They learned the art of mining to make their homes and to find ores metals and gems. They learned to smelt ores, first crude copper implements in fires, but they grew in skill and ability. Living largely off the mushrooms of their subterranean homes they traded for other foods and goods.

Thus were born the first for kindreds of the elves: the wood elves who remained in their woodland homes, the high elves who moved to the mountains, the deep elves who moved to the caves and the river kin that lived on the river banks and plains.

Peace reigned and the conservative elvish communities changed slowly with the passage of time. The river elves began to use rafts and small boats to fish the rivers, ponds and lakes, and towns and villages grew around the best fishing areas. The high elves had learned to build stone buildings and create towers. They had also trained the great hawks, using them as a lord would use a hunting dog, or with the largest of them as flying steeds. The deep elves engaged in much trade – particularly with the high elves to whom they sold hunting spearheads and arrowheads. The wood elves were the most segmented from the other branches, but they traded for items such as they needed, but these were few. Their contact was mainly with the high elves, regarding the great eagles that left their rocky crags and hunted in the woods at the foothills of the mountains. The wood elves were masters at taming beasts, and often used squirrels to find nuts and boars to find truffles.

The coming of the dragons changed all this. The first dragon flew across the sea, and made its nest in the crags of a remote mountain. A commotion stirred throughout the land as the rumour of this mighty beast spread. A group of high elves were sent to observe the great beast. Regular reports came back to the mountainspire (the capital of the high elves).

Site Meter

2008-01-13T23:12:00.001+10:00

Hey guys. I now have a site meter (down and left). Please spread the word around, bonus material will be available every time another digit is added. At ten it will be a background piece on the elves, telling about their phisiology, history and beleifs.

Away again. Just when things were progressing.

2007-12-19T22:20:00.000+10:00

If anyone out there reads this/cares, I'm going away to Moreton Is for a couple of weeks. Camping. This means no computer - no updates. However I might do a short story or do some backgrounding so it may still be productive. Chapter 6 will be worked on when I return. By then if anyone actualy votes you'll have a title for chapter 6 too. Thanks.

Chapter 5 - Conflict of faith

2007-11-28T13:41:00.001+10:00

Chapter 5, Complete and whole. If you're looking for the start chapter 1 is here, otherwise - enjoy.

At dawn Ægon woke Jarrod and Iryl. In the small cellar room they inhabited there was no sign of dawn’s first rays as the pair stirred from their slumber. Yawning profusely they dressed, and rubbing bleary eyes emerged from the dark room into the Inn common room. The common room was empty, but for a barmaid who was busy cleaning the cheep wooden furniture for the new day. A mop and bucket lay in the corner of the room, and the barmaid gestured at the group whispering “Breakfast isn’t ready yet, you can get cold scraps from dinner in the kitchen if you wish, just watch the floor, it’s just been mopped.” Head down she returned to removing a stubborn stain from the table. Jarrod and Iryl left, whispering thanks to the young barmaid as they passed. After exiting the inn the pair continued towards the stalls that were already set up, the inhabitant watching their competition finish off their stalls. The pair strode along the stalls, checking prices and quality of goods, occasionally pausing to barter for an item.

****

Ægon waited patiently for pair of ghosts to awake, Iryl had claimed that they would awaken soon. Ægon marvelled at his lack of fatigue despite the long night spent awake first discussing plans for today and their escape tonight, later watching the city through the night from the rooftop until the sunrise. Suddenly the spectral ghost whose name he still didn’t know woke slowly, clearly confused at her surroundings. Ægon held out a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good morning lady, I'm Ægon.” Clearly confused she suddenly remembered, “…the priests, pain…. You saved m-…” Embarrassed she took a deep breath and introduced herself as Marie. Although dead, it could be seen that she was from the northern plains, by her dress and her features. Her blond hair was braided and fell over her shoulders in a carefree way. Her blue eyes shone brightly, despite belonging to one who was dead. Ægon thought she was beautiful, and was dumbstruck in her presence. Despite his apparent confidence as she awoke soon an awkward silence covered the room. Shortly Bjorn began to stir, and Ægon quickly busied himself to helping his new comrade up. “Thanks for the help last night, I was having a little tro-” He was soon cut off by the old warrior, “Twas nuthin’, lad.” Jumping to his feet he continued, “Wish I coulda helped out more. They gonna be chasin’ you lad, and this young girlie ‘ere. They prolly can track this young girlie here as well, so we should ‘ead off towards the Temple of Morr. Before we leave the city there’s a few people I wanna talk ta. And don’t you say no, coz there ain't nuthin’ you can do ta stop me, and I figure that Iryl guy could do me a few favours too. I’m not deaf ya know.” Grinning Ægon replied, “Wouldn’t think otherwise.”

****

Soon Ægon and Bjorn were introducing Marie to the ghosts at the temple of Morr. Sooner or later all ghosts were drawn to this place; the temple began to pull at their essence from the moment they died, and the longer they remained the stronger the pull. Bjorn was strong in essence, otherwise he could not have materialised even for a short time; the ghosts seen by mortals for any length of time have mighty essences, granted by great strength of spirit/willpower. These are usually madmen or victims with a purpose in remaining. Those afraid of the beyond usually have weaker essences. Bjorn could resist the pull for a time, but the longer and further away he went from a temple of Morr the stronger the pull of the temples would be.

Bjorn was a well-known face at the temple, and was probably the ‘oldest’ ghost there. He said his hardest goodbyes to aged monk, who was probably the oldest ghost there as far as mortal uses of the word go, having died of old age at the age of 103 he was ancient in appearance. “I would go with you, my son but I cannot leave this place anymore. It has been more then a century since I left, and my essence grows weak.” The ancient monk had remained as part of a mission to convert the souls of those who had died before the afterlife, and ease the passing of souls from this life to the next. He was Abbot Peter of an Abby of Morr in his day and still followed the path of Morr. He believed that in death he could serve his god further, and thus he did in the same way as he did in life. He assuaged fears of death, he eased the passing on of many souls, he counselled those spirits left behind, giving them purpose, and in fact he converted many to the path of Morr. He had converted so many that he had a small priesthood of Morr made up entirety of the dead, helping where they could with the running of the temple and helping the weakening monk with his self assumed duties. They also held celebrations for those who passed over. The continual flow of ‘new blood’ ensured that spectral chapter of Morr would continue to exist for long after their founder left for the domain of Morr, and there was talk of starting another spectral chapter at another temple.

Bjorn was one of the inaugural members of the dead chapter of Morr, having converted soon after meeting the old monk. The Norse were known for practicality towards their dealing with gods, and he figured that now he was dead, paying homage to the god of the dead would be a good idea. He never took part in the ‘priestly nonsense’, but he took care of much of the off-grounds business of the temple, his stronger essence allowing him to leave the temple without much discomfort. The long dead baresark drifted around the crowd of well wishing ghosts bidding him farewell; Ægon and Marie followed closely, mostly keeping to themselves. Suddenly a bellowing voice interrupted the gathering.

“This is Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel, to the temple of the damned. Your blasphemy has gone on enough, and now we have proof of your transgressions. We have traced a minion of a warlock to this place, and warlockery is a transgression of not only the divine will of our most holy god, but of the laws of Romah. I have here a detachment of soldiers of the city, and a coven of inquisitors and they have been ordered to clear the premises of people so we can hunt down the dark spawn of hell -”
“That’s us.” Bjorn whispered to Marie and Ægon.
“– and return them to their dark master! I suggest you comply.”

A deeper more resonant voice boomed out around the courtyard. “I suggest however that you back off. Men of the city – you are not to take part in religious feuds, ask your officer, he’ll tell you. I was a Lieutenant in the city guard before I dedicated my life to Morr. Any religious conflict is to be contained so as to not hurt the citizens, and any faction that endangers citizens, their property or city property is to be treated as a criminal faction. There have been no illegal proceedings here, and the city guard can come in and check this if they will.” By this time most of the ghosts had congregated around the front of the temple, under the shadow of the imposing obsidian building. A successful market day was wrapping up, and a sizeable crowd had gathered outside the temple, stopping their shopping to catch a glimpse of this unusual spectacle.

Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel stepped forward from the gang of inquisitors. He wore a white cloak, covered in writing. Parchment covered in scrawled lines of scripture was pinned all over the Inquisitor in armour of faith. Standing at 7 feet he was a giant of a man, and in his right hand was a crossbow made for a man of his great stature. It was loaded with a bolt made of wood, as long as a fencepost, and thicker. Instead of a left hand he had a silver device attached to his wrist. The flesh had grown around this device, which was covered in holy sigils. It consisted of two long spikes extending forward on either side of a small hook. To his side stood a young man, barely more then a child with the X shaped mark of the excommunicate emblazoned on his face. He carried a quiver full of bolts for the monstrous crossbow in arms scarred with what on closer inspection were more lines of scripture. His bare chest was covered in more scripture cut directly into his flesh. From beneath his tattered trousers more of the litany of the white order emerged, covering his legs in purple scars. His back may have been covered in more holy texts, but if it was it was hidden beneath a chaotic layering of scars, his back a tattered mess as the result of a whip. Some of the marks were still bleeding, and others were newly headed scabs.

Extending his right arm he held the gigantic crossbow out at arms length. He squeezed the trigger, launching the javelin-sized bolt straight from the crossbow into the chest of the Ex-lieutenant, his crimson blood spurting out of his chest as the momentum of his giant bolt carried the impaled man into the great wooden doors of the temple. The massive bolt continued into the great dark oaken doors of the temple, pinning the hapless man into the door with his feet dangling above the ground. Somehow alive, after all of this punishment he calmly looked down at the spear protruding from his chest, as the great doors swung open, a throng of black armoured knights spilling out of the temple. Following them came a group of purple clad priests, hooded and mysterious. Each carried a dagger in each hand. Bjorn noticed that each carried the longer dagger pointing up in their right hand, and the shorter dagger in their left hand held blade down in the duellist’s stance. All the priests of the god of death should know his art, and to a man they knew it well. An older priest with white trimmings on his armour lead them, despite being weaponless all the other priests seemed to defer to him. Behind this group the door swung closed once more, revealing a now dead body, blood dripping from his robes. His face though, was not in an expression of pain, but one of happiness.

Within moments the courtyard of the looming black temple became a hectic melee, the inquisitors leading in their retinues of white clad priests, and frothing fanatics against the temple’s defenders. The black clad knights of Morr marched in, their extremely heavy suits of plate armour heavy, but protecting them from all blows. The first to reach the Arch-Inquisitor was wielding a massive broadsword, glimmering bright against the black of the knight’s armour. In a loping stride the he closed the distance as the gigantic man levelled his crossbow, low reloaded with another heavy bolt. The young man next to him cowered behind his large frame, his fear for the grim black knights outweighed by his terror of the consequences of fleeing. A quiet click and a loud whoosh later – both unheard over the sound of screaming zealots in battle – the knight had stopped and fallen forwards, at the feet of the immense Arch-Inquisitor. Smiling Nathaniel stepped onto the body, dropping the crossbow and grabbing the sword of the now fallen knight in his one good hand. In the same movement he swung upwards with the blade, decapitating a purple clad priest. The spray of blood rained upon the Arch-Inquisitors white robes and parchment, covering him in a pattern of red splashes and speckles.

All of this happened in a moment, and then Peter held his hand up, instantly gaining the crowd’s attention. “Spirits,” he yelled to the ghosts surrounding him, “This temple has been good to us and for those in the service of Morr, and you are bound to defend it!” His stirring oratory continued, “The land here will strengthen your essence, go help in the defence of this temple as you may!” The crowd reacted slowly being used to inactivity, and not being in immediate fear for their lives (as their lives had already been taken). However there were a few exceptions. Bjorn and Ægon had rushed forward as soon as the knights began to charge at the interloping priesthood. As the guards slowly pushed back the citizens who were crowding in greater numbers and arrested those who tried to break into the temples courtyard, more of the ghostly host began to break off from the crowd, first one, then another, then a small group until the whole congregations of ghosts had joined the fray. Unsurely at first, but more confidently as they continued they flashed onto the mortal plane running about the courtyard; they drew strength from the temple, allowing even the weakest of the spirits to appear albeit faintly for at least a few moments. Many of the priests drew back in fear and revision, but the inquisitors stood firm, as did the fanatics who merely tried (and failed) to inflict grievous body harm on the wisplike spirits.

Ægon ran darting in out of the mortal plane, hidden from sight one moment, the next appearing for long enough to put a blade through the shoulders of an unlucky fanatic, and disappearing again. The repeated blinking into reality exhausted him, dragging at his essence, but his essence was continually replenished by his surrounds; the energy he needed flowed into him like a river, continually at a tremendous rate, so that he could not run out. In the maelstrom of souls the first inquisitor he attacked didn’t even flinch or attempt to black his attack. This one had nerves of steel. However hi didn’t have a chest of steel, and fell to the ground; a bloody furrow of gore appeared on his chest like a gasping red mouth of a daemon. One of the inquisitorial priests saw him in the flicker he struck and yelled “there is a real daemon in the apparitions!” The fanatics took no heed, unhearing in their frenzy. The Inquisitors ducked or parried any weapon blows from the ghostly host, but remained grim and unflappable in demeanour. The priests and other retainers in the inquisitorial retinues began to panic, diving to the ground as ghosts approached, flinching at everything and generally becoming useless.

One Inquisitor however soon put an end to this. He was a fearsome sight, wearing nothing but tattered rags and scrolls covered in scripture. His bare chest was covered in more lines of holy dogma burnt into his very flesh. A great copper sheet covered with intricate and interlocking holy sigils was nailed into his back, a mirror for the sun. With a barely controlled frenzy he gave a scream that rose above the battle. Ægon couldn’t understand a word of it but the priests did. With grim determination the priests rose and reformed the circle. Ignoring all wounds they chanted, stopping only with death. If a priest was cut down they would reform the circle without a break in the verse.

Ægon saw this, and attempted to intervene. However as he neared the voices, he began to feel something he hadn’t since he was alive. Pain. Excruciating pain. He dropped to the floor and began to spasm, surrounded by other ghosts, blinking in and out of the mortal plain. The tide began to turn. An unknown voice cried out, “Back to the temple!” The retreat began.

****

Iryl however felt Ægon’s plight and turned to Jarrod “Ægon’s in trouble back at the temple.” The pair left the Inn, where they had just returned with supplies. Running across the merchant square they had left they heard nothing above the hubbub of the marketplace. However as they got closer there was a growing crowd in front of the temple of Morr. The pair barged their way through, or more accurately Jarrod did, and Iryl followed. As they closed in on the obsidian walls of the temple grounds the crowd grew louder, but also did other sounds, sounds of battle. The ring of sword on sword, and shouts of bloodlust.

Suddenly the pair emerged from the crowd, and found themselves at a picket line. The city guard had placed a portable fence line to bar entry into the temple grounds. Jarrod was about to climb over when Iryl placed a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Wait.” Moments later a trio of youths ducked under the simple rope fence. Or attempted to, as the closest guard moved quickly tackling the first and restraining him. Before the other two could retreat into the densely packed crowd a second guard arrived, grabbed the pair by a hand each and passed one to a third. The trio of unfortunates were then arrested and a path was cleared by a couple of the guard to take them to the holding cells overnight. The officer at the scene yelled to the crowd, “Disperse now, calmly and quietly.” He then motioned to some junior officers to take their squads and facilitate the movement.

This was all in front of a backdrop of conflict. The obsidian grounds of the temple were slick with blood and bodies. Iryl and Jarrod saw the conflict occurring, saw the flickering ghostly forms spasming in an arc around the ring of priests; saw the slow withdrawal of the armoured priests as they covered their brethren in faith, both living and dead. Falling back slowly forming an armoured ring of black steel around the gates as the lighter armoured priests ran in up the obsidian steps. Slowly stepping back beneath a tide of zealous flesh and blood slick steel the ring shrank, wounded comrades limping back hurriedly. The knights of Morr didn’t fear death, but to die now would be to leave the temple undefended. Slowly they were being pushed back, each step they moved back paid for in flesh and blood. Their great weapons were limited in usage with the close proximity of their brethren, however they were not defenceless. A blow from one of those black gauntlets would crack skulls, break ribs, mince organs and kill.

Iryl and Jarrod withdrew from the scene of battle, scattering with the crowd. Unnoticed amongst the multitude they snuck into the temple of Ani. The inside of the temple was almost empty, as per usual. Not recognising any of the priests the pair moved throught the temple, finding it increcingly evident that some recognised Jarrod from his comatose stay. Jarrod lead them towards the back entrance, until he found a face he knew. A cluster of what seemed to be senior priests clustered around the back door, each privatley meditating in the room. Seated on logs, rocks and on the earth, it was more an enclosed garden then a room, much like the rest of the temple. Approaching Vince, Jarrod motioned for Iryl to follow. Vince spoke softly. "Come to me Jarrod." As Jarrod aproched Vince continued, talking in a tone that sounded so quiet and peaceful, the duo wondered if there was any noise. "Your friend is in danger, he needs you. Go to him, many lives will be saved. Don't violate the graveyard under any circumstances. Now go, don't hasitate to ask. And remember - do not violate the graveyard." Vince had barely moved at all during this, only moving his mouth to speak, and barely that. Iryl didn't wait, and had started to run at "now go", and now Jarrod began to follow. They sprinted to the back doorway, which passed into the graveyard.

The graveyard was a juxtaposition of abundant life and weary dead. Worn headstones were covered in growing ivy, the ground was a carpet of pale wraithflowers living off the nutrients supplied by the concentrated dead. The wraithflowers showed the location of the bodies, and the locations of the paths between them. Jarrod was mindful of Vince's warning and carefuly picked his path across the graveyard, Iryl carefully following.

Leaving the flower strewn graves behind them they approached the looming obsidian monument-building. The back door was fashined form obsidian and covered in strange runes. Wide open it showed a back room with one sole priest standing in the doorway. A wizened old man, his gnarled oak skin matched the staff he leaned upon, he both embodied and defied death; showing the true terror of the ravishes of age. Jarrod waled up to the priest and hesitated. "Go in young children," the ancient form croaked "find your friend." The dynamic duo didn't question the man, knowing that there were more important things at hand then how he knew their objective.

Like it? Keep reading here.

Scoolies and promises...

2007-11-18T14:40:00.000+10:00

School's out, I'm off to schoolies. When I recover from this week, I'll get back to the story, with more free time. If I have any readers... still... (I had some...) Wait it out, and I'll be back a~writing soon. Thanks.

EDIT: I'm back, have (mostly) recovered and am writing more now. You'll see it by friday.

Real life strikes back

2007-11-01T21:31:00.001+10:00

With exams, life, etc. I havent had time to work on this. Chaper 5 in full will be posted.... soon.

RL issues, chapter 5 thru 5.5

2007-09-30T23:28:00.000+10:00

Sorry, I've had to deal with real life, and so this hasn't been updated in a bit. I haven't been writing much, but here's half of chapter 5 to hold you. If you're looking for chapter one, look here. I'll post the rest in time...

At dawn Ægon woke Jarrod and Iryl. In the small cellar room they inhabited there was no sign of dawn’s first rays as the pair stirred from their slumber. Yawning profusely they dressed, and rubbing bleary eyes emerged from the dark room into the Inn common room. The common room was empty, but for a barmaid who was busy cleaning the cheep wooden furniture for the new day. A mop and bucket lay in the corner of the room, and the barmaid gestured at the group whispering “Breakfast isn’t ready yet, you can get cold scraps from dinner in the kitchen if you wish, just watch the floor, its just been mopped.” Head down she returned to removing a stubborn stain from the table. Jarrod and Iryl left, whispering thanks to the young barmaid as they passed. After exiting the inn the pair continued towards the stalls that were already set up, the inhabitant watching their competition finish off their stalls. The pair strode along the stalls, checking prices and quality of goods, occasionally pausing to barter for an item.

****

Ægon waited patiently for pair of ghosts to awake, Iryl had clamed that they would awaken soon. Ægon marvelled at his lack of fatigue despite the long night spent awake first discussing plans for today and their escape tonight, later watching the city through the night from the rooftop until the sunrise. Suddenly the spectral ghost whose name he still didn’t know woke slowly, clearly confused at her surroundings. Ægon held out a hand, helping her to her feet. “Good morning lady, I'm Ægon.” Clearly confused she suddenly remembered, “…the priests, pain…. You saved m-…” Embarrassed she took a deep breath and introduced herself as Marie. Although dead, it could be seen that she was from the northern plains, by her dress and her features. Her blonde hair was braided and fell over her shoulders in a carefree way. Her blue eyes shone brightly, despite belonging to one who was dead. Ægon thought she was beautiful, and was dumbstruck in her presence. Despite his apparent confidence as she awoke soon an awkward silence covered the room. Shortly Bjorn began to stir, and Ægon quickly busied himself to helping his new comrade up. “Thanks for the help last night, I was having a little tro-” He was soon cut off by the old warrior, “Twas nuthin’, lad.” Jumping to his feet he continued, “Wish I coulda helped out more. They gonna be chasin’ you lad, and this young girlie ‘ere. They prolly can track this young girlie here as well, so we should ‘ead off towards the Temple of Morr. Before we leave the city there’s a few people I wanna talk ta. And don’t you say no, coz there aint nuthin’ you can do ta stop me, and I figure that Iryl guy could do me a few favours too. I’m not deaf ya know.” Grinning Ægon replied, “Wouldn’t think otherwise.”

****

Soon Ægon and Bjorn were introducing Marie to the ghosts at the temple of Morr. Sooner or later all ghosts were drawn to this place; the temple began to pull at their essence from the moment they died, and the longer they remained the stronger the pull. Bjorn was strong in essence, otherwise he could not have materialised even for a short time; the ghosts seen by mortals for any length of time have mighty essences, granted by great strength of spirit/willpower. These are usually madmen or victims with a purpose in remaining. Those afraid of the beyond usually have weaker essences. Bjorn could resist the pull for a time, but the longer and further away he went from a temple of Morr the stronger the pull of the temples would be.

Bjorn was a well-known face at the temple, and was probably the ‘oldest’ ghost there. He said his hardest goodbyes to aged monk, who was probably the oldest ghost there as far as mortal uses of the word go, having died of old age at the age of 103 he was ancient in appearance. “I would go with you, my son but I cannot leave this place anymore. It has been more then a century since I left, and my essence grows weak.” The ancient monk had remained as part of a mission to convert the souls of those who had died before the afterlife, and ease the passing of souls from this life to the next. He was Abbot Peter of an Abby of Morr in his day and still followed the path of Morr. He believed that in death he could serve his god further, and thus he did in the same way as he did in life. He assuaged fears of death, he eased the passing on of many souls, he counselled those spirits left behind, giving them purpose, and in fact he converted many to the path of Morr. He had converted so many that he had a small priesthood of Morr made up entirety of the dead, helping where they could with the running of the temple and helping the weakening monk with his self assumed duties. They also held celebrations for those who passed over. The continual flow of ‘new blood’ ensured that spectral chapter of Morr would continue to exist for long after their founder left for the domain of Morr, and there was talk of starting another spectral chapter at another temple.

Bjorn was one of the inaugural members of the dead chapter of Morr, having converted soon after meeting the old monk. The Norse were known for practicality towards their dealing with gods, and he figured that now he was dead, paying homage to the god of the dead would be a good idea. He never took part in the ‘priestly nonsense’, but he took care of much of the off-grounds business of the temple, his stronger essence allowing him to leave the temple without much discomfort. The long dead baresark drifted around the crowd of well wishing ghosts bidding him farewell; Ægon and Marie followed closely, mostly keeping to themselves. Suddenly a bellowing voice interrupted the gathering.

“This is Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel, to the temple of the damned. Your blasphemy has gone on enough, and now we have proof of your transgressions. We have traced a minion of a warlock to this place, and warlockery is a transgression of not only the divine will of our most holy god, but of the laws of Romah. I have here a detachment of soldiers of the city, and a coven of inquisitors and they have been ordered to clear the premises of people so we can hunt down the dark spawn of hell -”
“That’s us.” Bjorn whispered to Marie and Ægon.
“ – and return them to their dark master! I suggest you comply.”

A deeper more resonant voice boomed out around the courtyard. “I suggest however that you back off. Men of the city – you are not to take part in religious feuds, ask your officer, he’ll tell you. I was a Lieutenant in the city guard before I dedicated my life to Morr. Any religious conflict is to be contained so as to not hurt the citizens, and any faction that endangers citizens, their property or city property is to be treated as a criminal faction. There have been no illegal proceedings here, and the city guard can come in and check this if they will.” By this time most of the ghosts had congregated around the front of the temple, under the shadow of the imposing obsidian building. A successful market day was wrapping up, and a sizeable crowd had gathered outside the temple, stopping their shopping to catch a glimpse of this unusual spectacle.

Arch-Inquisitor Nathaniel stepped forward from the gang of inquisitors. He wore a white cloak, covered in writing. Parchment covered in scrawled lines of scripture was pinned all over the Inquisitor in armour of faith. Standing at 7 feet he was a giant of a man, and in his right hand was a crossbow made for a man of his great stature. It was loaded with a bolt made of wood, as long as a fencepost, and thicker. Instead of a left hand he had a silver device attached to his wrist. The flesh had grown around this device, which was covered in holy sigils. It consisted of two long spikes extending forward on either side of a small hook. To his side stood a young man, barely more then a child with the X shaped mark of the excommunicate emblazoned on his face. He carried a quiver full of bolts for the monstrous crossbow in arms scarred with what on closer inspection were more lines of scripture. His bare chest was covered in more scripture cut directly into his flesh. From beneath his tattered trousers more of the litany of the white order emerged, covering his legs in purple scars. His back may have been covered in more holy texts, but if it was it was hidden beneath a chaotic layering of scars, his back a tattered mess as the result of a whip. Some of the marks were still bleeding, and others were newly headed scabs.

Extending his right arm he held the gigantic crossbow out at arms length. He squeezed the trigger, launching the javelin-sized bolt straight from the crossbow into the chest of the Ex-lieutenant, his crimson blood spurting out of his chest as the momentum of his giant bolt carried the impaled man into the great wooden doors of the temple. The massive bolt continued into the great dark oaken doors of the temple, pinning the hapless man into the door with his feet dangling above the ground. Somehow alive, after all of this punishment he calmly looked down at the spear protruding from his chest, as the great doors swung open, a throng of black armoured knights spilling out of the temple. Following them came a group of purple clad priests, hooded and mysterious. Each carried a dagger in each hand. Bjorn noticed that each carried the longer dagger pointing up in their right hand, and the shorter dagger in their left hand held blade down in the duellist’s stance. All the priests of the god of death should know his art, and to a man they knew it well. An older priest with white trimmings on his armour lead them, despite being weaponless all the other priests seemed to defer to him. Behind this group the door swung closed once more, revealing a now dead body, blood dripping from his robes. His face though, was not in an expression of pain, but one of happiness.

Within moments the courtyard of the looming black temple became a hectic melee, the inquisitors leading in their retinues of white clad priests, and frothing fanatics against the temple’s defenders. The black clad knights of Morr marched in, their extremely heavy suits of plate armour heavy, but protecting them from all blows. The first to reach the Arch-Inquisitor was wielding a massive broadsword, glimmering bright against the black of the knight’s armour. In a loping stride the he closed the distance as the gigantic man levelled his crossbow, low reloaded with another heavy bolt. The young man next to him cowered behind his large frame, his fear for the grim black knights outweighed by his terror of the consequences of fleeing. A quiet click and a loud whoosh later – both unheard over the sound of screaming zealots in battle – the knight had stopped and fallen forwards, at the feet of the immense Arch-Inquisitor. Smiling Nathaniel stepped onto the body, dropping the crossbow and grabbing the sword of the now fallen knight in his one good hand. In the same movement he swung upwards with the blade, decapitating a purple clad priest. The spray of blood rained upon the Arch-Inquisitors white robes and parchment, covering him in a pattern of red splashes and speckles.

All of this happened in a moment, and then Peter held his hand up, instantly gaining the crowd’s attention. “Spirits,” he yelled to the ghosts surrounding him, “This temple has been good to us, and for those in the service of Morr, you are bound to defend it!” His stirring oratory continued, “The land here will strengthen your essence, go help in the defence of this temple as you may!” The crowd reacted slowly being used to inactivity, and not being in immediate fear for their lives (as their lives had already been taken). However there were a few exceptions. Bjorn and Ægon had rushed forward as soon as the knights began to charge at the interloping priesthood. As the guards slowly pushed back the citizens who were crowding in greater numbers and arrested those who tried to break into the temples courtyard, more of the ghostly host began to break off from the crowd, first one, then another, then a small group until the whole congregations of ghosts had joined the fray. Unsurely at first, but more confidently as they continued they flashed onto the mortal plane running about the courtyard; they drew strength from the temple, allowing even the weakest of the spirits to appear albeit faintly for at least a few moments. Many of the priests drew back in fear and revision, but the inquisitors stood firm, as did the fanatics who merely tried (and failed) to inflict grievous body harm on the wisplike spirits.

Ægon ran darting in out of the mortal plane, hidden from sight one moment, the next appearing for long enough to put a blade through the shoulders of an unlucky fanatic, and disappearing again. The repeated blinking into reality exhausted him, dragging at his essence, but his essence was continually replenished by his surrounds; the energy he needed flowed into him like a river, continually at a tremendous rate, so that he could not run out. In the maelstrom of souls the first inquisitor he attacked didn’t even flinch or attempt to black his attack. This one had nerves of steel. However hi didn’t have a chest of steel, and fell to the ground; a bloody furrow of gore appeared on his chest like a gasping red mouth of a daemon. One of the inquisitorial priests saw him in the flicker he struck and yelled “there is a real daemon in the apparitions!” The fanatics took no heed, unhearing in their frenzy. The Inquisitors ducked or parried any weapon blows from the ghostly host, but remained grim and unflappable in demeanour. The priests and other retainers in the inquisitorial retinues began to panic, diving to the ground as ghosts approached, flinching at everything and generally becoming useless.

Chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour

2007-09-15T21:08:00.001+10:00

G'day loyal readers (that's right reader*s*... I got two comments now :P). Here's chapter 4: Knight in spectral armour. If you want to read from the start click 'here'.

Ægon grinned, laughing at his new friend’s outrageous tale. In the graveyard at the temple of Morr a fearsome group gathered, a ghostly group of rag-tag spirits. The mob of deceased included warriors fallen in battle throughout the ages, criminals and priests from days forgotten laughing together, criminals and priests from more recent times avoiding each other. Any spirit that had been part of the group for any amount of time felt no discrimination for any other member. For after death does it matter that the person next to you in life would have ripped out your jugular on sight? At the same time criminals couldn’t profit any from violence, thus many went about earning redemption after death to save them from whatever fate awaited them. Morr’s harvesters took the worst elements that were beyond redemption to their own personal hell, so those spirits that remained all had redemption within their grasp, and thus were accepted.

Ægon’s new friend was a baresark in life, from a Norse tribe near where Ægon was brought up. In his life Bjorn was undefeatable in single combat, and never succumbed to death despite the horrific injuries inflicted upon him until he was brave/stupid enough to go face to face with a cannon while attacking Romah. It turns out being able to go into a killing rage where you would rip friend and foe apart alike gave one a unique viewpoint in life. The scarred warrior’s stories were exaggerated in Norse legend, and at some time the news of this had found its war to the departed warrior, and he told the tales back but with the flourish of a true storyteller who has much practice expanding on the truth the end result was a preposterous series of antidotes that were verging upon biblical with divine self-inclusion made even more ridiculous by the fact that these stories were not only the stuff of legends and actually were centred around true events. The Norscan baresark managed to diverge from the legends with humorous footnotes, brining the story back to reality but expanding upon the incredibility of the story yet further.

“So, I didn’t really have a clue about the ambush, I just wanted a root, and as a rare occurrence didn’t want to kill nobody,” the baresark said, “If I had know they were around the corner I woulda got mad and charged off to kill ‘em. But instead I got lucky and liv-.” They were interrupted by a scream of pain from a northerly direction. A few of the newest members of the group reacted, but the group for the most part ignored it. Ægon however was up and running north, toward the scream. Bjorn was easily keeping up and asked curiously “Why are you running? You can’t fix anything you know.” Ægon looked back over his shoulder and replied grinning, “You can’t. I can. I'm not entirely dead, you see.” Surprisingly Bjorn took it in his stride, after death most things get a lot less surprising. Bjorn grinned, “Well, if you’re a bit dead ya might be able to get there a bit faster. You gotta forget your old limitations, when you’re dead not a lot slows you down.” Suddenly turning Bjorn ran through the wall, and mentally kicking himself Ægon followed.

The ghostly pair ran through the wall, darting through what could be seen to be a cobbler’s shop, with boots standing everywhere, covering the many work-benches around the building. Turning and looking back at Ægon, Bjorn grinned. “You won’t get tired, so sprint all the way.” Nodding Ægon sprinted through the work desk, and without checking barrelled through the wall. “That’s what I like to see!” Bjorn bellowed, his ethereal beard of white, yet somehow clear, yet somehow black hair being pulled at by a wind unfelt by mortals. The pair ran on through the night towards the scream, agonisingly sounding out not only on the mortal plane but also on the ghostly, ethereal plane. The scream grew louder as the pair of dead Norsemen came closer, closing the distance between them and the tortured cry.

They stormed into a pub via the east wall, and halted dumbfounded at the sight in front of them. Several yards above the centre of the room was the ghost of a young girl screaming in tortured pain as blinding light surrounded her body. She looked at Ægon for a moment tears in her eyes. “Help me, please, anyone help.” She cried ghostly tears that disappeared before coming close to the ground. Beneath her stood an Inquisitor of the White Order, distinguished by the paraphernalia covering him and emerging from his heavy trenchcoat. A necklace of gold held an amulet set with a diamond that glowed brightly. Beneath the folds of leather that made up his trenchcoat lay a bandoleer of wooden stakes. Porcelain trinkets hung off his garments everywhere, with parchment confirming his faith forming a mask with which he hid his lower face. A ring of white clad priests stood around the room chanting in a language Ægon had never heard before, but it was obviously causing the ghost pain. Ægon ran into the centre of the room, appearing on the mortal plane before the congregation, envisioning not only a sword of ice, but also a set of plate armour to match, all of glimmering ethereal ice. “Stop!” he yelled and the room fell silent, but for a voice on the spiritual plane laughing. “Yeah right, they really gonna stop coz you said so…”

However only Ægon could hear this, the voice of the dead baresark silent to the living, and the girl ghost was in too much torment to hear anything. Suddenly the chanting halted as the Inquisitor held out a hand. “Banish the unholy knight to his hell before we continue with the seductress’s spirit!” Drawing an ornamental crossbow loaded with a large wooden stake the Inquisitor started to chant, leading the priests in a hymnal, which wracked Ægon’s essence with a horrible, impossible agony. Ægon screamed and fell to the floor writhing in pain. The spectral girl fell to the ground the moment the priests stopped in their chant, and now attempted to run away. However she came to the walls of the building and couldn’t pass through them. As soon as she touched the walls white lightning struck her, appearing from an orb held up by a pair of priests, who were no longer hidden from Ægon in the darkness. Ægon however cared not; as he now found himself being lifted up slowly as the Inquisitor lead the chant. “Boy!” Bjorn yelled over the screaming in the ethereal plane. “Ye gotta fight it if ya want to fix anythin’! The pain is your friend in a fight!” However this was ignored by a spasming Ægon, who only felt pain unlike any he had felt whist alive.

Sighing the baresark thought to himself, “He better be able to fix this mess…” From his corner of the room he charged screaming at one of the priests who could not see him. Drawing upon his self will he forced himself onto the mortal plane, not truly as did Ægon but showing himself to the priest who stopped chanting and screamed as this new ghostly foe shimmered into and quickly out again. The priest was a young noviate brought on this inquisitorial mission reluctantly out of fear and awe of the inquisitor. His nerves were on edge as he chanted, and when the spirit of a baresarking lunatic charging towards him, bellowing was cries and screaming, tattoos and scars showing on a face distorted by rage and death only to disappear moments before barrelling into him he panicked. In pure terror he collapsed on the ground his pleas for mercy from his ghostly assailant interrupting the chant. Ægon dropped to the ground as the chant stopped, just as Bjorn exhausted with the effort needed to show his essence on the mortal plane fell to the ground just next to the young noviate pleading for him to be spared. Ægon grinned and suddenly rose to his feet, simultaneously calling on his magic to blast cold wind throughout the room. Suddenly everyone alive in the room flew back, away from Ægon who started running, unhampered by his weightless spectral armour. He ran up to the prone from of the Inquisitor and thrust the tip his sword through the mask of faded scripture on aged paper.

As the paper slowly stained crimson he yelled in a voice that was both terrifying and noble, commanding from both sheer terror and from righteousness. “Priests, I cannot think what would have caused you to torture the spirit of a young girl, but I do not wish to take your lives. Take this body and dispose of it as your faith will, and take those of you that I have hurt to the temple of Ani. There they can get the healing they require.” Pausing a moment he surveyed the room. Most of the priests were somewhere between hate and terror, but none spoke as they cringed in the corner of the room. Bjorn’s spectral body lay limp on the floor, and near the wall so did the body of the girl, who Ægon noticed only now was actually quite a pretty girl. Distracting him the youngest noviate spoke up “Why is it that you spare us? You break our relic, kill Inquisitor Proxus, and then spare us? We wont be pawns in your evil schemes!” Hysterical the noviate finished the sentence almost screaming, tears running down his face.

“I'm not evil; I just came to help this poor girl here. You were torturing fair maiden with your spell, an-” Suddenly Ægon was cut off silenced by the voice of one of the older priests. “We don’t traffic in foul majiks like your dark master! That girl is an abomination against the light! Otherwise the chant of cleansing would not of affected her! Or you! Which evil warlock do you serve spectre?! We shall not bend to his will!” Ægon attempted to explain to the group that he didn’t ‘serve’ any ‘warlock’, nor was he evil. However he had met xenophobia before (although never against ghosts), and soon gave up the attempt. Gathering up the spectral bodies of Bjorn and the ghostly girl whose name he didn’t even know he vanished from the mortal plane, and carried the pair of spirits back to the Inn where he knew Iryl and the recently recovered Jarrod would be asleep in the small basement room.

****

Lit only my candlelight Ægon explained the situation to Iryl and Jarrod, as the flickering light illuminated the lilliputian necromancers face casing dancing shadows on the stone walls behind him. Iryl explained, “They’ll be alright in time, their essences have been badly worn down. In fact…” Pausing a moment in his speech, Iryl concentrated moment, and with glowing green hands he touched them, first the scarred baresark, then the nameless girl ghost. “Picked yourself a looker!” Jarrod started, before continuing with his normal tact, “Hey Iryl, can ghosts take a roll in the hay with each other, if you know what I mean?”

Chapter 5 is in progress. If you want to read it so far its at: http://otherworlds-fantasymultiverse.blogspot.com/2007/11/version-58-early.html

Thankyou for reading

On magic

2007-09-08T17:22:00.002+10:00

I promised shiney things and background of the otherworlds, and so here it is. Before I start proper I would like to say that magic, majik, magik, majic, etc. or however the hell you spell it it's all good. I'm using magic, so get used to it. Some people seem to make far to big a deal out of that...

Magic is using various methods to manipulate energies in the world. The energies are called mana. Mana can be grouped into four major groups - fire, earth/ground, water/ice and air/sky. These groups were made by the four Titans (who will be explained in another post): K'z'k (associated with fire), Sharna (associated with water/ice), Gorim (Earth/ground) and Aegia (Air/sky). These four elements are what physically makes up the Otherworlds. Each of these energies flow through and around things of that element. Therefore fire mana flows around fires, deserts, etc. whereas earth mana flows around the ground, but particularly near trees, swamps, etc. However these manas are not interchangeable. Just as crows, parrots, sparrows, kookaburras and eagles are all birds but are not the same, the mana from swamps, trees, dirt, farmland, etc. are all earth/ground mana but are not the same. They can be transmuted to a degree, but this is complicated and difficult.

In adition to elemental mana there are other kinds of mana around. The 4 ancients (who will also be explained more fully in a later post) all have mana energies of their own. Ani is associated with life, Morr with death, Wyrd with fate, destiny and arcane magics, and Hojo with Chaos/change. When creating the world the Titans and the Ancients used their energies, and all lesser beings/things are made up to a degree of these energies. However at this stage it is enough to know that magic is made up of these different energies, and their permutations.

There are different ways of controlling these magics, and I will address each of these briefly, by the type of magician.

Mages have an innate control over magical energies. They are usually limited to control over certain elements/aspects of magic (eg. a pyromancer is a mage who uses fire magics). A mage can be identified by adding the suffix -mancer to the type of magic he uses (eg. aquamancer, necromancer, etc.). Very rarely one happens to be born with the ability to manipulate multiple energies. Mages are rare in most races, but in some they are almost unseen (ie. dwarves, ogres, etc.), in some they are more common but still rare (ie. gnomes, humans) amd in elves they are most common of all (so only mildly rare). In my novella (Spectral Knight - chapter one is here) Ægon and Iryl are mages (a cyromancer and a necromancer respectively).

Sorcerers use a different method to manipulate mana to create magic. Certain words, symbols, shapes, runes, gestures, etc. can manipulate the flow of magic. Sorcerers study these to gain their powers. Sorcerers are common among gnomes (whose armies are made up largely of sorcerer-cadets), and rare in dwarves (who have little trust for magic, with the exception of runesmiths), elves (because of their relatively large proportion of mages), and Ogres (who are for the most part unlikely to devote their lives to years of study).

Warlocks use daemons, spirits, elementals, genies, etc. for their power. They summon and command them in a variety of ways (summoning circles, sacrificial rites, etc.) and many use sorcery to boost their abilities. They also can commune with the world spirits and create portals/rifts between the worlds.

Priests are sometimes blessed with magical abilities from their deity. These abilities range in strength with the ammount granted to them by their deity. As gods gain there power from followers, and a larger god would spread their power across more priests whereas a smaller god would have less priests (who would gain a larger percentage of their gods power) the powers given don't vary in magnitude from god to god. The powers granted range from god to god, but are directly linked to faith/prayers from the priests.

Shammans are crude magicians from less cultured societies. They use a blend of warlockery, god-magics, crude (and often dangerous) scorcery and occasionaly magery (as a mage will almost always become the tribe's shaman) to create a crude but effective magic. The powers manifested by shammans vary greatly, and often are highly electic.

First poster to point out the sluggy reference will get a starfish. Starfish may be hypothetical.

Chapter 3: Don't fear the reaper

2007-09-08T17:09:00.001+10:00

Here's chapter 3: Dont fear the reaper. Yes the title is also the name of a blue oyster cult song. No, it is not a musical. If you're looking for the start chapter 1 is here.

****
Jarrod watched the sword come out in slow motion, helpless as his body moved like it was made of granite. He slowly staggered back, crossbow bolt in his chest, strangely painless, although he remembered the first time it hurt like hell. He knew how this dream went, and yet every time he fought it. He waited as Ægon and Iryl fought their assailant, somehow detached as his friends fought for their lives, like watching a fixed arena match. Even as he watched he trembled in apprehensive fear, because this part terrified and yet enthralled him. Jarrod stopped watching the fight, as another form appeared, invisible to everyone else. This spectre walked towards Jarrod, its gaunt white skin contrasting with the black robes. In its hand it held a sword, and Jarrod noticed again, old but always noticing anew, that the hand was but bone. He looked up as the form threw back its hood, and saw a fearsome sight. The face was normal, but for two things. The first was the skin, pale and flawless like an albinos but this didn’t make Jarrod afraid. Rather it was the eyes. Jarrod saw everything, his own life, and the world in an instant. He saw his death, many deaths, his friends’ deaths, and many more other deaths. He knew all the answers, and yet no longer cared. He went mad, and yet somehow detached from this process he watched his own insanity flower and bloom, but suddenly it all fell away. There he was, with the apparition. The horror came back in full measure, the insights meant everything to him, and yet they disappeared like water flowing through his hands. One memory stayed with him, Ægon’s ice-sword failing him and Ægon’s death at John’s hands. “We’ll see about that.” John thought as he grabbed his sword, and threw it, at but through the apparition in front of it, screaming in his mind, but determined that he should stop Ægon’s death, or at least try to. Angry at the creature in front of him with the dread eyes of black infinity. More then infinity it was unfinity, bigger then the mind could even pretend to comprehend, the horror and insanity coming back as he even thought of them, but he knew that it was but a pale recollection, an imitation of the unfinity made by the mindlessness he was suffering from.

The grim reaper of souls in front of him vanished for a moment, and Jarrod’s mind uncomprehendingly was brought back to the battle. He mumbled encouragement to Ægon, who soon darted back onto the assault. The shadowy creature in the hood soon returned, the threat of what was behind the hood seeming the greater fear to Jarrod’s horrified mind. Gibbering Jarrod watched the fight, his eyes widening when another of the avatars of dearth approached, also watching the battle. The new creature was white bleached bone underneath the inky hood. A jawbone protruded from below the hood, devoid of flesh of skin. Teeth lingered in their places. This one carried a curved sickle of shining silver that gleamed as if under an unseen light. The first creature turned its head and seemed to speak, the jaw moving, yet no noise came from the rotten lips. Regardless Jarrod could sense the confusion from the creatures, as he watched the bright white jaw of the skeletal reaper move silently. Not even the clicking of bone on bone could be heard. The pair of unearthly creatures watched the battle, with seemingly detached amusement. Jarrod somehow knew they were betting on the outcome. Jarrod did not know how he could understand these creatures of death; he knew only that it was to do with the void eyes, and the confusion. He realised that he somehow knew these creatures were the harvesters of Morr, gatherers of dead souls. He knew that never before had they been seen by one who had lived. He knew that they were men who had upon death had a debt to Morr, and walked the many worlds claiming souls for him.

This realisation hit him with the speed of a ballista bolt, but with none of the impact. It was merely subsumed into his knowledge; instantaneously he knew it, but it was as if he had known it all his life. He watched the pair duelling, and hoped against hope that Ægon could win. He saw Iryl dispatched on the ground, bleeding from a dagger in his leg. The miniature man couldn’t join the fight with that injury without his magic. Jarrod watched acutely. Even as he watched however the world around him grew murky. ‘That’s it.’ Jarrod thought ‘I'm dying, and those things are going take me to the afterlife.’ His thoughts became incoherent, and he tried to follow the battle, as if by dying it might cause Ægon to loose. He couldn’t make Ægon out, but stubbornly resisted unconsciousness’s sweet embrace to the last moment.

****

He relived the panic as the world went dark, and he thought he was looking back into those eyes, the eyes of endless dark in all directions, Impossibly large, yet still fitting easily into the rotting face of the beast. His dream took him back, again to the eyes, and the madness incarnate of nothing in its truest and purest form. He saw everything in the depths of nothing, and recognised that same nothing in everything he saw. A sight such as this had changed him, imperceptivity yet essentially. It had left him the same in every way, yet totally different in those same ways. He still thought the same things, yet nothing in his thoughts was recognisable as his. He wondered if this was what it was like to go mad, and knew that he was sane.

****

He awoke, sweating from every pore in his body, the dread fading, yet still seaming to remain. Falling and shrinking at imperceptible speeds yet always more then his mind could encompass, so that it always seemed to not only be at, but to be overwhelming and too much for his mind to accept. A feeling of there being a message in those eyes, that he would be fine if he only dared to ponder those eyes a moment, yet he couldn’t think on them any more then his mind could help. He wanted to think about those eyes, as he knew it to be the cure for the battle inside him, but his mind refused, the terror welling up at even the thought of contemplating the eyes, as if the truth that would be revealed by finding their secret would be so dreadful, so atrocious that he would always hate himself for knowing it. He felt as he had saw it in the eyes, and his mind had refused to see it, but the glimpse he had caught was beyond even the worst his imagination could come up with, worse then oblivion, worse then death, worse then any dark fate could possibly await him, and yet it did. The unplaceable terror that filled him knowing that inside him laid the glimmering outline of this knowledge that would curse his life just by looking at it overwhelmed him.

Suddenly that terror disappeared and Jarrod found Vince in the room, his presence somehow calming him. The old priest dipped his balding head towards Jarrod, saying in an impossible soothing voice, “You will only move on once you have conquered your fear. This may prove to be an unconquerable fear, though I think that you can overcome it.” Vince’s smile was reassuring, everything about this priest somehow more calming then anything Jarrod could remember. “And the greater the fear you have faced and defeated, the more trivial any other fear will seam next to it. True braveness isn’t gained though dismissing fear, or being fearless. It is gained through defeating a great fear, a fear so great that any other fear that faces you is insignificant.”

Leaving the room, Jarrod saw the eyes in his mind, and assured by the simple yet effective speech by the ageing man stared into the eyes with his minds eye, willing a confrontation. The world ended and he faced oblivion. Jarrod looked into the well of end times, saw the death of every individual and forgot everything he saw. He saw a myriad of deaths facing everyone, and he saw just as one was cheated the next claimed the life in the blink of an eye. He saw those that had ruined Morr’s scales of death, the necromancers that had cheated or worked against his servants. He saw those who had ruined temples of Morr, those who had fought his servants and those that had unleashed death or life in such a grand manner that even the reckoning of Morr and Ani was interrupted. This he all saw absorbed and took into his mind, yet it passed through his mind like a gale, leaving with no traces. Jarrod went mad, and became for the first time truly sane.

Jarrod was at peace.

The young fighter collapsed on the soft bed beneath him and slept, dreamless and yet dreaming of the eyes that held many secrets, yet none from him. For he had conquered the fear of the eyes and unlocked the truth, and even if he did not know the truth, it was free, and could one day be reached when needed.

Read on? Chapter 4 is 'here'.

Chapter 2: Interrogator

2007-09-06T18:59:00.002+10:00

Hey guys, heres chapter two of Spectral Knight. If you want to start at the start chapter one is here.

The soul gave out a shriek of agony that only Iryl could hear. “Now then,” Iryl started his voice dripping with malice, “Tell me the truth why you attacked us. I know you are fanatical enough to stay silent to the grave, but you’re already past that point.” Iryl focused his mana into a command. “Tell me.” The soul writhed in agony, tearing itself apart with a need to obey, but fanatical cause to stay silent. The candlelight flickered in the darkness, and went out, the spirits soul-light the only source of light in the room. The interrogation was taking place in the Inns basement room, dark and windowless for secretive adventurers or light-hating visitors. Iryl although diminutive was ineffably menacing, looking up at the spectre he exuded palatable menace. The spirit spoke, a sibilant voice issuing from its lips; “I hunt evil in all its forms, for that is my redemption.” The spirits face was contorted with pain, an X shaped scar glowing red in the spectral white of the spirits face. Iryl sighed with knew that after a month John’s spirit was weakening, and soon would give in to his orders. But when would the shade of the fanatical assassin break? Iryl knew that whoever had sent this zealot to kill them must have realized that his man had failed. Another attack could happen at any moment.

Suddenly an initiate in pale blue robes barged opened the door and stopped for a moment to catch his breath. “The temple of Ani requests an audience. Your frien-” and suddenly stopped the word stuck in his throat. The room was dark, yet the spectre glowed with an unearthly white light. As an initiate of the god of life the sight of the spectre must have shocked the child. Iryl started to speak to the child, but before the second syllable the child was gone. Banishing the spirit to the underworld he briskly strode outside his room and into the hallway. The light blinded him momentarily, but he strode on. The normally cheery man was grim and foreboding as he exited the inn, the sign of the Silver Star creaking slightly in the wind. Despite the weather the town square was full, for it was market day and everyone in the city was at one of Romah’s many congregation points. Guards watched the crowd, intervening in the disagreements between the people in the crowded area. Merchants displayed their wares proudly on their stalls. The farmers sold their goods at the West Gate, so here there were no foodstuffs, but here everything else was for sale. Adventurers of all races moved through the crowd in scattered groups, but for the most part they were human. Xenophobia although strong was temporarily put aside for the great motivator - greed. There were dwarven mining groups, elfin diplomats, gnomish merchants selling intricate goods and even an ogre strode through the throng, bedecked with all manner of weaponry his bare chest displayed tribal tattoos and crude piercings; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer. Tools and axes, swords and shields, pots and pans, shoes and shirts were all displayed above stalls, competing for customers. Tinkers, tailors and cobblers had stalls to repair goods; blacksmiths took orders for their forges. The citizens milled about, travellers strode through the mass buying supplies. An ogre strode through the throng, his bare chest displaying tribal tattoos; people cleared the way for the massive adventurer.

Iryl paused for a moment and waded into the throng. Being substantially smaller then most men, and not as sturdy as a dwarf he had some difficulty navigating the crowd, and soon found himself being washed away through the swarm of people. He wished he had more useful and less feared magics, with which to forge a path. Gritting his teeth he pressed on, occasionally clambering onto crates of goods, or merchant stalls in order to see where he was heading. After an exhausting twenty minutes he emerged from the crowd on the doorstep of the Temple of Morr, the ancient of death. None wanted to offend an eldar god, particularly one with such a grim reputation. The temple of Ani, the ancient of life was just around the corner. Iryl walked past the sombre, morbid temple, pausing only to flip a silver piece into the temple’s large obsidian donation bowl. Prudence payed, particularly when one worked within Morr’s domain. Momentarily he was at the temple of Ani, where again he flipped a silver into the temple’s donation bowl. Again the temples stairs were free of the crowd, although here the gap was smaller. Offering a quick prayer for Jarrod’s health, he berated himself for not thinking of his wounded companion more often, as he entered the temple.

The temple was a verdant place of life, with babbling brooks and flowing creeks pouring down miniature waterfalls, all surrounded by trees, shrubs, bushes, grasses and flowers of incredible lushness. Inside the building the grey stone of the city was gone, vines crawling up every wall, mosses and lichens covering every rock, insects and small life scurrying about. Colours seemed to explode from every flower, from beetles and butterflies, and from small fish darting about in their aquatic paradise. Around the temple there was a few scattered individuals talking to priests and praying. A group of elves were engaged in conversation with the head-priest, identifiable by the golden trims on his robe. Seeing Iryl he asked the elves to wait, and joined him. The priest started talking almost immediately, “Don’t worry about little Alex, you gave him quite a fright with your necromancy. But here we work closely with the priesthood of Morr, for as we are the guardians of the living, they are of the dead.” An ineffably knowing look entered the old priests eyes, “We all have our own paths, and despite the unlit road your path may take I think your motives wholesome. Your friend is through here.” Gesturing with his arm the ancient yet unusually spry man gestured to one of the many doors the chamber had. Door however was a misnomer; it was a gap in the vine-covered stone, where a man could pass into a smaller chamber of pristine beauty. In this smaller chamber life also emanated from every object in the room, except one. Gaunt and bony, Jarrod sat on a mound of earth blanketed with short turf in the middle of the room. Jarrod’s fine features were wasted away, his physique once the envy of every young man in Argon and the desire of every young woman, now was fit to compete with a skeleton. His hair grew wild in a dark mane, however his eyes still gleamed with mischief and life. Although he was no the brink of death, there was life and joy in his soul.

“Appears I overslept a few weeks,” Jarrod started, his voice sounding stretched, “and I was wondering when you and Ægon were going to turn up. Speaking of him, where has he got to? I can’t imagine him leaving you and me behind.” Iryl sighed wishing he didn’t have to bring the news to the remarkable survivor. “He’s dead… well kinda dead anyway…” Iryl started muttering. Jarrod shocked asked, “How in the name of ten-thousand unpronounceable gods can someone be kinda dead?! Either the kids dead or he’s not!” Iryl opened his mouth as if to explain, then suddenly turned to the venerable priest, who still had an infuriating glint of understanding in his eyes. How does this man stand there unshocked by all this? Iryl wondered before asking, “Would it be against the rules here to bring back a spirit here?” Amazingly unfazed by the question the old priest took it in his stride. “Normally we let such people do such things in the temple of Morr, but as your friend here can’t leave the temple we can make an exception.”
“Thankyou… fath-”
“Call me Vince”
Iryl suddenly focused and from an unseen portal stepped Ægon’s spirit. Iryl explained “Ægon is a spectre, a spirit given the ability to walk in this world, upon bit the material and spiritual planes on existence. However unlike wraiths he wasn’t removed from a living body, there is none of that dark influence. Unlike most spectres he can still tap into the flow of magic like he could when he was still alive. He can remain in this world by himself, although in order to explore the city he elected to stay in the spiritual plane, as around here people are wont to assume he is evil and start breaking out the torches and pitchforks.”

Jarrod, although familiar with the Iryl’s morbid magics was clearly surprised by this sudden turn of events. Vince however seamed unflappable and just nodded as if he had known all along. Ægon forced a grin saying, “Death has its advantages. I can get around easier and there are a lot of interesting people to meet.” Winking he continued sadly “Although I won’t be able to get drunk and tumble pretty ladies with you anymore.” Jarrod smiled, full of false bravado and replied “Well, you wont be able to regret it all the next morning either…” The conversation faltered, an awkward silence blanketing the room.

Cutting through the silence Vince quietly pointed out “Don’t you have something to say Iryl? You seemed awfully worried last we spoke.” Suddenly remembering his purpose here he explained to Jarrod the events since the fight in the forest, how Ægon managed to carry Jarrod, and help Orr to the guards. He told of slow weeks since that time with Jarrod’s life hanging in the balance; the time spent attempting to glean some knowledge from the fundamentalist assassin’s shade. Jarrod made the same connections as Iryl – “Someone’s after us,” the ex-guard gasped, before finishing “we better watch our backs.”

****

Some hours later Iryl emerged from the temple, a contingency plan for the next few weeks in place. Ægon and Jarrod would remain at the temple until Jarrod was fit to travel and defend himself. Iryl was to continue his attempts to probe John’s ghost for information. By this stage the day was all but over, and the lilliputian necromancer had no trouble crossing the street, the crowds had dissipated except for a few stray individuals. Iryl was soon tucking into a hearty stew in the inn, but the taste was lost on him; the filling fare reduced to tasteless mush in his mouth. Soon he returned to the basement, using the red-hot pokers of his mind on John’s helpless spirit. The spectres silent screams of agony contrasted with the steel in Iryl’s eyes; John felt every kick and every blow that Iryl had ever felt. He felt the knife Iryl had got in the ribs from an overzealous priest of Iskandos, the fires of his house burning down around him leaving only the ashes of his innocence and childhood. More then this he felt the rejection, the hatred that emanated towards Iryl for who he was born, the fear of the other children and of his fellow man. Every scar physical or mental that Iryl has suffered was simultaneously inflicted upon John’s distressed soul, and reverberated and magnified exponentially becoming a chorus of pain through John’s essence. Iryl smiled, cold and unfeeling. John confessed, his soul no longer caring for salvation beyond the end of the pain. John told Iryl everything, anything to stop the pain.

Iryl continued the torture, more pain then physically possible to inflict on the living, always increasing. Iryl stopped. He felt sickened with himself. Throwing up on the floor he emptied his stomach and still felt nauseous, wishing he had more to throw up. Appalled at himself, at the torture he had inflicted on the soul before him, even after he had the information he needed. His faith stripped bare; here was a man like any other. He had sunken to their level, could he claim the moral high ground any longer? He let go of his magical grip on the soul, letting Morr’s harvesters take the soul to its destined afterlife. Morr pictured the grim forms of Morr’s harvesters in his mind. They seemed to be spirits and cadavers in various states of decay wearing tattered black robes. Their eyes were madness, the black of knowing your own death but without insight. In their hands they carried scythes and sickles with which to harvest souls, or knives and blades to sever the spirits connection to the mortal coil.

Momentarily one of these grim entities of death appeared its teeth grinning in a gruesome grimace, its jawbone exposed by rotting flesh. Its hood covered its eyes, and in its hands was a war scythe of cast iron, so heavy no mortal man could carry it. From a rent in its robes two skeletal wings rose, as the grim harvester approached the demised fanatic. It lifted its hood as it approached, and the deceased zealot gave out a gasp. The soul disappeared, all trace of it leaving even the spiritual realm to whatever afterlife awaited him. Replacing its hood the morbid soul harvester nodded to Iryl as it followed John’s soul into Morr’s domain, where the ancient being of death judged all souls, laying all their deeds bare and sending them to their fated afterlives.

Continue? Chapter 3 is here.

Chapter 1: Ægon

2007-09-04T21:05:00.001+10:00

I'm slowly writing a novella, based in my otherworlds universe. It is called Spectral knight, and here's chapter one. Criticisms welcome (as is praise - I always welcome praise :P). If anyone actualy reads this, please comment, just to let me know what kind on interest I'm getting. Thankyou.

Ægon ignored the flashing lights behind his eyes. He blocked out the unsettling feelings in his head. He wasn’t going to lose. Sustaining his thoughts on the wall of ice in front of him, he reached out for his magic. Focusing hard he fortified it, strengthening it, against the barrage of flame blasting at its other side. The flame was growing weaker, but so was his wall of ice. For over an hour the students had been battling, and they were weakening. The young mage and his opponent were running out of mana – magical energy, and it was painfully evident. Although the pillar of flame glowing through the ice was weak and sloppy, it could still burn a man to death. He thanked the magical amulets each student wore, they would absorb all magic sent at the bearer, up to a point, when they would use the mana absorbed from the magic to magically cause the wearer to appear in the chamber below the arena. His amulet was glowing with a dull luminosity as he pulled himself to his feet for a new assault. Ægon marshalled his thoughts, summoning the anger he needed to motivate himself in this new charge.

He remembered the day where he and Pyran first met. The two were virtual opposites. Ægon was small, short and almost albino, save for his long raven black hair, and his shimmering grey-blue eyes. Pyran was tall, strong and dark skinned, with no hair on his pate, and flaring brown eyes, of such intensity they seem to burn red as red embers, or as naked flame in certain lights. Where Ægon was from a Norscan tribe, far to the north, Pyran was from a southern village on the boarders of Araby. It was of little wonder that such polar opposites did not react well to each other’s presence. As a child Ægon was picked out as ‘talented’ by an Adeptus Magus and was sent to the Schola Magus, an academy for those with magical innate abilities, to learn how to control his magical abilities to benefit the tribe. However apart from an inclination to know what the weather would bring, he showed no obvious signs of his talent. Pyran however had shown his talent from an early age, and was proudly juggling fireballs showing off to the other adepts before their first class. Seeing a small and easy target, Pyran danced the fire in front of the young Norscan’s eyes, laughing at the smaller child’s protests. However Ægon was not the soft target Pyran took him for. Growing up in a Norscan tribe, he had learnt to fight from an early age, and was as skilled a brawler as many ‘civilised’ men twice his age. He leapt and viciously struck Pyran across the face, and then proceeded to jab at his stomach before executing a wicked kick to the groin that caused the larger adept to fall to the floor, spitting blood. Pyran then retaliated by blasting the front of Ægon’s shirt with fire, which is when the Adeptus Magus came in and settled the dispute by sending each boy into solidary confinement for an hour. Since then the two had harboured an animosity for each other that had only grown with time.

These thoughts taking but an instant to sweep through Ægon’s mind, along with many memories of the conflict the pair had fought since then, always striving to out-do the other, to better the other in every way. He gave out a tribal war cry, and charged, his anger materialising as an axe of frost in his hands. He ran forwards at his wintry walls of ice as they shattered bereft of his attention. A wind stuck up, as cold as death and the arena became a blizzard; and at once he was the eye of the storm, assaulting the burning shell in which Pyran hid. Summoning his focus he stuck the orb of unnatural flame, flickering yet solid in the maw of the storm. Although he was exhausted he gripped his axe in both hands, and struck with what seemed to be the impact of lightning, and the sound of thunder spoke out as the orb split in two. And then the Norscan mage found that he could not sense the fire of his opponent and knew that he had won. He revelled in the victory for a moment, giving out another cry – this time a victory cry of his people, praising his ancestors for the strength they lent him in his battle. The fury of the storm seamed to howl with him, and abruptly he let it drop, the raging winds gone, the unnatural ice dropping into the ground bereft of the magical winds; the lightning and thunder stopped. He breathed deeply for a few moments and he too dropped to the ground, exhausted.

****

He awoke in a bed, unusual as he slept on a straw mat in his dorm, something his father had insisted on to ‘stop him going soft’. Ægon had stuck to that, and the weapons training with the guards, exercising his body as he exercised his magecraft. Although no longer short of stature he still practiced the brawling tricks his father had taught him to keep him safe with the playing boys of his village. Violence was part of the Norscan way of life, and even the weakest Norse was a formidable brawler out in the ‘civilised’ world. He had eagerly learnt swordsmanship skills from the guards, swords being rare in the Norscan villages of his youth. If the schola magus rules didn’t forbid his entering he would have been a contender for the duellists dagger, a local swordsmanship competition. He joined anyway, and got through the first two rounds before he was discovered and evicted by an Adeptus Magus in attendance.

The disorientation from his new surroundings was short lived, his memories from the fight returning momentarily, and everything falling into place. He looked around at the hospital, the white surrounds momentarily blinding him. Blinking furiously he sat up, trying to clear his head. Despite remembering the fight, his brain felt like it was made of cotton wool, his thoughts moving sluggishly. Tiredness swept over him like a wave, and he slumped back, asleep within moments.

****

Weeks later Ægon had recovered, he had awoken just days before the initiation ceremony. He was walking well now, and was fit enough to ride to the ceremony where he would leave his student life behind and go into the world as a journeyman mage. He had already planned for his journey to the North, back to Norsca and his tribe. His few belongings were packed in saddlebags; his newly bought horse was in the stables ready to go. He looked out the window at the Schola Magus, the place that had been his home for the past 8 years. When he had first arrived he had hated the authoritarian approach and the adherence to times, but he had grown accustomed to them if not fond. Glancing at the great clock he saw it was an hour to midday. He had half an hour before he had to be at the ceremony. Ægon briskly stood up, gathering his possessions and set out. He wanted to avoid lateness for his own ceremony.

No sooner then he had set his foot outside the doorway he was surprised by the sight of a tall dark haired and bearded soldier and a short black haired man in the robes of a journeyman mage. Momentarily he recognised the merry pair as Jarrod and Iryl respectively, and felt a surprised joy at the meeting. Iryl started laughing as he saw Ægon, and the pair rushed to greet each other. Iryl had been a mage a few years older then Ægon and was his initial roommate, the diminutive man helping the young Norscan adjust to life in the Schola Magus. Due to Ægon’s unusual acceptance of Iryl’s rare magic, which many found repulsive, he soon became his unofficial tutor and closest friend in the academy. Iryl had left as a journeyman mage some years ago, and occasionally visited the academy for the library, advice and reunions with the small group of close friends he had built up over the years. Jarrod was a different story altogether. The young man had joined the guard as soon as he was old enough, and was a sergeant of the guard at Argon, the small town that had built itself around the Schola Magus. He was a skilled swordsman, a good soldier and handsome rouge, too fond of a good beer and bad company. Ægon had met him quickly enough when he started training with the guards; they soon became duelling partners, drinking partners and then friends. After Iryl’s departure they had become close friends, on a Firesday evening after study they would often drink well into Sabathday morning, and wake in the afternoon of the Sabbath, blessing the fact they had the day to recover and cursing their heads, the cheap liqueur he had awoken and the noise of the campus.

The pair whisked Ægon to the gate, where the ceremony was to be held. As well as his horse waiting for him there was another two horses loaded up with bulging travelbags. His surprise must have shown, as Jarrod quickly quipped “you didn’t think I’d let you get away that easy – you’re the only dueller around here that can lay point to me. Without you life around here would be terribly boring.” Iryl chimed in “I'm heading northwards anyway. Some horse-magic up north has caught the eyes of the Schola, and I’m heading that way on a rekko.” Rekko was Schola slang for recruitment journey-quest; any journeyman living on the Schola grounds was required to finish any journey-quests given before he could return to campus. However in times of peace most of these would be recruitment, or taking on an apprentice. These journey-quests were a primary reason why there were so many journeyman mages, who continued their life with their already formidable abilities rather then spending many years on campus honing their magical skills to become a full Magus. Particularly in remote areas, mages were rare enough that a journeyman’s badge was ample guarantee of quality, and a full-blown Magus was lucky to be seen once in a lifetime. Although Iryl wished to become a Magus Batuere (battle mage), Ægon had no such desire. Although he was proficient in battle magic, he had little love of war, despite his relish of one on one duels. The young soon-to-be-jouneymage had studied particularly weather-magic, which he had much talent in, and other applications of cyromancy. His magic was with ice, unsurprising since he was from the cold snowy Norscan Mountains.

Iryl wished to become a battle-mage because it was uniquely suited to his magic. Iryl was born with the curse of being a necromancer. His magic dealt in death, and with the dead. After being brought to the Schola Magus by his parents who were fleeing persecution, the Schola Magus brought up Iryl. It is truly said the gods are fickle, that such an otherwise cheery and calm man would be gifted with such a curse. Necromancers are rare in the civilised world, being amongst the most persecuted groups worldwide. Because of his suffering as a child, Iryl’s desire to join the Magus Batuere was unsurprising. Specialising in the violent applications of magic this faction of the Schola Magus consisted of magical mercenaries, religious and people with a cause. Seeing as most mages joined at a young age, and there is almost a decade of training to become a journeyman mage, this group was in the minority. However any cause was greatly helped by the presence of one of these powerful and destructive allies.

The ceremony was over before Ægon knew it had begun, and momentarily he found himself out on a road northwards to Romah – the capital of Erondia, and a hub for trading. From there the trio hoped to travel with a caravan headed for The Mark. There Iryl would spend some time before returning to the Schola, and Jarrod would return with him for protection. Iryl didn’t need protection from brigands or such, but to deal with the many problems a smaller man faced without resorting to magic that would result in a pitchfork and torch mob or a member of the White Inquisition – A new religious group dedicated to hunting out what it perceived as evil in all its forms. This group was responsible for Iryl’s persecution – and Iryl would gladly remove such a person from the mortal coil. However they carried with them potent charms against magic (which they saw as evil), and in particular necromancy and the undead – both of which they saw as not only undeniably evil, but reasonable grounds to kill a person despite the law. Ægon planned to travel back to his tribe, study for some years and eventually return to the schola to become an Adeptus Magus, and become a teacher for all mages in the local (using the extremely loose Norse definition of the word) Norscan tribes.

Ægon ruminated on all this as the group rode out, their talk calming to a friendly silence with the occasional comment or banter from one of the trio. The road was easy and well worn, the grasslands slowly giving way to idyllic woods, the greenery pleasant and calming. Eventually Jarrod called the group to a stop, as they set up camp. All of the men were used to camp conditions, and soon a small campfire was merrily blazing away in a clearing, where they soon set up a canvas tarp. The group was quickly asleep, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows on the woods.

Suddenly awaking with a knife at his throat Ægon gasped involuntarily with fear of the cold steel on his throat. In the darkness he started to make out a face, and a harsh voice cut at his hearing. “Now then,” it mused “what have we gots ourselves here lads? A pair of scrawny kids and a soldier-boy.” Laughter came from around the camp as stealth was forgotten. Another voice barked out orders “Right boys – lets ransack this place, find their gold and supplies.” A pause followed and then almost as an afterthought “kills the soldier – the other two ca-” An unearthly scream cut the statement off, and for a moment Ægon thought it was Jarrod. As if to contradict him Jarrod rolled to the side, leaping to his feet sword in hand. The thief with the harsh voice rolled Ægon over positioning him between himself and Jarrod croaking, “You moves we cuts this lads pretty throat.” Now fully awake the young Norscan mage concentrated a moment and his attacker gave out a gasp of surprise as he ruptured and died; the water in his body freezing and expanding, and the frozen mess no longer recognisable as a body, but as a dark red explosion of ice. Next he mentally reached out for more mana to replenish what he had just used – but found little – and almost none particularly suited to his magic. Unlike the Schola that was dripping with mana and magical energies, the wilderness had little mana ready to him. However here there was an unnatural lack of mana, even for the outside world. Ægon resolved to ponder this at a more convenient time (i.e. when people weren’t trying to kill him). He looked over his shoulder and Iryl had dealt with his foe, whose limp but otherwise unhurt form laid on the ground. Ægon knew the bandit was dead. Ægon called forth a sword of ice-energies to his hand and charged, knowing he must save his magic for when there was no other alternative. Iryl’s hands began glowing an unearthly green he pointed to the apparent leader who began convoluting. Before Ægon or Jarrod could do anything more the rest had disappeared into the woods, fleeing in terror, weapons forgotten. The leaders spasms soon passed and the seemingly unconscious corpse froze in rigor mortis.

Jarrod deliberately strode over to the fire, carefully placing the sword next to him as he spoke. “Bandits this close to the schola… that’s something I haven’t seen in a long time. Somethings on the wind, mark my words.” He paused momentarily glancing at the sickly full moon before continuing, “There’ll be a few hours to dawn… I think we’ll se another visit from our friends before the suns up.” Iryl nodded adding “We better get under cover… they’ll use their bows this time, now they know what they’re dealing with.” Jarrod walked over into the shadows to where their horses previously were, and as expected only saw cut halters and shreds of rope. “Grab what gear you can carry easily, and leave the rest here. Don’t take what you can’t carry to Roma, it’ll only slow us down in the meantime.” Quickly but carefully the group re-checked their supplies, grabbed a travel bag each and walked into the gloomy shadows of the woods. Jarrod quietly spoke the noise seeming loud in the unnaturally silent wilderness. “Don’t talk if you can avoid it. Keep it down if you do, otherwise follow me. The road is leading north, so that’s where we want to go, but the road will almost certainly be watched.” The group silently moved through the forest, every tree seaming to hide a thug, every shadow filled with assassins and every hollow brimming with bowmen of the imagination. Suspicious of every stone, watching every branch, startled by the scampering of the wildlife the paranoid group slowly progressed.

Their progress was slow and they couldn’t tell how far they had gone in the darkness of the night. Ægon in fear for his life scanned for movement, checking over his shoulder every few paces. Every potential area from which attack could come he watched dutifully, always scanning for movement. Then without any warning, his mouth was covered. A voice murmured in his ear “Tell your friend in front that you’re going the wrong way. If you keep going like this you’re going to blunder right into an ichorn Nest” The hand covering his mouth disappeared as he whirled around, but the mystery man had vanished. He hissed to Iryl in front of him to stop. Iryl called Jarrod back as Ægon quickly told of his encounter. “If this wasn’t so serious I’d think we were the butt of a jest,” Iryl continued “but that isn’t the problem. The real issue is who is this man and why in the eternal dream of the sleeping god did he stop us.” After a few moments a voice to the groups left chimed in “I can answer that. It appears someone has it in for the couple of mages here, and doesn’t want them reaching the Mark. Word on the understreets is that your heads are worth a bit to the right people. Odd thing is for wanting you dead, they didn’t say much about you. You might be recognised on sight, but not a word on your magic.” Jarrod had his sword out by this stage and Iryl tensed, Ægon noticing that he was ready to spring into action at any moment, his mana at easy reach just below the surface. The cyromancer also readied himself, feeling edgy and high-strung. Seemingly unperturbed by all this the mysterious man continued, “As for who I am, that is of little importance, save that I am here.” He flicked back his hood, showing a face that was ruggedly handsome, save for a festering X brand burnt onto his left cheek. Grinning the nameless stranger continued, “I see you don’t recognise the mark of the excommunicate. Lets say the church of the light wants you dead and I have a problem with the church. Call me John.”

He proffered his hand across the group to Jarrod. Jarrod flicked the sword to his left hand and took the calloused and scarred hand saying, “This doesn’t mean we tru-” before being cut off by a knife though his throat. The Norscan ice mage rose with violent intents and anger, materialising as a shimmering sword of Ice in his right hand, his left glowing as he attempted to freeze the traitor John. John laughed at this, simultaneously drawing a dagger and flicking his sword out in an amazing display of dexterity. He then struck like fury and Ægon barely parried in time. John screamed, “Your black arts won’t work on me you vile sorcerers. I have been blessed by a priest of the white order.” The zealous fanaticism in his voice was tangible. Iryl tried to blast the attacker with the green energy, which had had such fatal effects barely a few hours before, but to no effect. Ægon realised this was the fight for his life and he moved onto the offensive, his sword dancing, light shimmering across its surface, as if refecting from an unseen sun. In a flash of magic they were in a storm of ice energy, the magics not hurting his opponent, but reducing his visibility and hindering his movements. A cold wind rose, tugging at the clothes of his opponent, and causing his attacks to falter, but he knew he couldn’t raise the tempest he could effortlessly raise at the Schola, or even normally. He was tired from the battle before and knew that something about this man was draining his abilities. Dancing like leaves in the wind, the two swordsmen duelled. In an instant Ægon found himself on the defensive, raising his sword and flicking it in glimmering arcs to stop sword and dagger strikes he didn’t see, but knew they were coming – his magic telling him of the path the sword cut through the cyromantic energies. There was no time to think, the melee was beyond reactions.

A dagger spiralled from the assailant’s hands well to the left of a pale Ægon. In the back of his mind Ægon heard a scream as Iryl fell to the ground, dropping his dagger. He saw his chance, and locked blades with his attacker, turning it into a competition of strength. The larger man grinned and slowly pushed the blades to his right, opening up Ægon’s guard slowly. Every time Ægon pushed harder so did his opponent. The Norscan cyromancer grinned and focused his energies. Cold swept into the paired blades, strengthening his, but making his foe’s steel brittle. With an ear splitting crack it shattered, splitting into thousands of metal shards swept away in the freezing winds. Ægon lunged but his sword shattered as it struck his foe, whose chest glittered with white stars dissipating the sword. Even as he called the mana to himself he felt it being sucked away and in a heartbeat he was without magic. Confused he was dumfounded, but so was his opponent. Weaponless the pair stood there a moment, Iryl on the ground bleeding from his leg, helpless on the ground; Jarrod dead to Ægon’s right. Again contradicting Ægon’s belief in his death Jarrod’s hand swept up, his sword arcing toward the journeyman mage’s hand, his teeth once more smiling. Froth bubbled on his lips and from around the knife as he rasped, “Give ‘im hell…” Gratefully catching the blade surprised at Jarrod’s endurance, he turned toward his opponent, who had pulled a concealed crossbow from somewhere in his jacket. A bolt jarred Ægon’s chest pinning him to a tree through his lungs. John showed his teeth in a predatory grin. “You shouldn’t be alive, either should your friend there, but for the blessed nature of the steel in the bolts and knives I carry. No one wounded by one can die until the weapon is removed from the flesh. I didn’t want your friend here brining you back to defend him with his dark magic. That could be … problematic.”

Ægon’s mind raced as his lifeblood trickled down from his chest, creating rivulets down his body and through his clothing. A swarm of fatalistic thoughts swarmed inside his head, but he banished them to his subconscious. If he had stopped them dying that meant that as zombies they could hurt him. He had seen Iryl spiritually bring the dead back to life before, in graveyards he often brought up willing spirits for a chat. But physically he had seen it once, the bodies coming out hungering for flesh of the living. Although it revolted him if it could help Iryl he decided he would do it. Laughing hysterically he realised that the answer was simple. Fatalistic madness gleamed in his eyes as he laughed; his deranged cackle the voice of someone no longer wholly sane. Although he couldn’t move, his blood and energy at his feet he noticed that since the bolt had hit him he could again feel mana surrounding him. The magical debris from the fight was thick in the air and he brought it in, filling himself with its power. Then he froze his chest around the wound, his flesh expanding and expelling the crossbow bolt. The pain was intense but he willed it to continue for Iryl’s sake, the mere seconds seaming like days. The bolt dropped, splashing into the dark puddle growing at his feet as Ægon slumped to the ground, a maniac grin on his face, knowing that he would have died anyway, and this way he had saved Iryl, and maybe even Jarrod.

But surprisingly he found himself still standing there. He was glowing white, and as he looked down he saw his corpse lying dead on the ground, yet somehow he was up outside of it. He heard Iryl’s voice in his head ‘Not zombies, he wouldn’t fear that… no you are now something else entirely.’ He looked at John, the terror showing on the excommunicates face. ‘You are something new to this world. Different to a wraith or weight, although that is the possibly the closest you could come. The specifics aren’t important at the moment though.’ John shot at him again, but this time Ægon felt the metal bolt pass through him, a strange feeling as it passed through his ethereal form. He instinctively used the mind talk to ask Iryl ‘Can I even hurt him in this form?’ as he looked at but somehow seeing through his hand.
‘Yes,’ Iryl started, but continued ‘however he can hurt you. Not with steel, but you are susceptible to fire and weapons made from some woods, and I think he knows this. Think a sword to your hand, similar to your ice-blade!’ Even as this was passed along the link, Ægon saw a wooden stake appear in the hands of his foe from the folds of his leather trenchcoat. Ægon concentrated and a sword cold as the grave appeared in his hand and he lunged, the tip of the spectral ice-sword disappearing in his foes chest as blood spurted out across the clearing in crimson arcs glimmering in the moonlight. ‘Thankyou my friend,’ Iryl said his voice heavy with regret and strained with pain. ‘I can’t hold you here forever though. I will be able to get by if you will remove this dagger from my leg. Our friend here let slip that we were almost at Romah. Help carry Jarrod, if we get him to a healer he might just survive…”

Chapter two is here

Introduction (Please read)

2007-09-04T19:38:00.001+10:00

Hi, I'm one of many aspiring writers out there. I figured that if operator please got found on MySpace, I should give it a shot. However most MyDrones don't read except if ThE WrItiNG LoOkS lyKe tHIs. jEaloUs MucH? So I figured give this blog a shot.

My stories mostly happen in a fantasy multiverse called the otherworlds, although some happen in *this* world (/shock_horror) or wherever I feal like. The otherworlds are a collection of fantasy worlds, ranging from peaceful forrest worlds where people all live in peace and hamony (and inhale various parts of the landscape) to wastelands of eternal night where war magiks have destroyed all light and armies vie for supremicy of the blasted and wasted landscape. It has been influenced by (surprise, surprise) Tolkien, but also Gemmel, Eddings, K.A. Applegate, the warhammer fantisy world and a swarm of other writers to a lesser degree. However it has elements that are new, as well as merging, sorting and defining many things that span across fantasy. My posts will range from short stories, chapters of a novella I'm (slowly) working on (go to chapter one) and random bits and peices of background, ideas, explanations and shiney things that have gained my attention.

Just to get a gauge of interest if you've gottern this far please add a comment, telling me what you think, if you're interested, if you are also an aspiring writer (if so smash us a bit of your writing, if you please), or even just to add a death threat.

- Thankyou.