|Topic Review (Newest First)|
|10-22-13 02:44 AM|
|10-21-13 12:30 AM|
Rite of Virtous Damnation
The ritual chamber was shrouded in darkness, save for the flecks of candlelight that pierced the gloom. It was silent, not even Väljassi's Dawn Elvish hearing could pick up a single sound, not even the breathing of those observing the rite could be traced. Yet the Ätsiilaissi knew they were there. They were never ones to miss the initiation of another into their brotherhood. A voice, more akin to a loud whisper, emerged from the twilight.
"Step forward, one who has been chosen to walk the road of damnation, to spare others from it."
And so Väljassi did, following the source of the whisper. The Dawn Elf remembered the event that earned the attention of his soon-to-be brothers-in-arms all too well. He had been a Shaman of his clan, devoted to using his magical gifts to serve his people and the gods. It was the closing days of the 6th Crux of the End Times. When they were joined by these otherworldly warriors, both the clan and the Order waged a war of survival against the Demonic hordes from beyond the Veil, joined by their twisted Nefaalaiset kindred. Their beautiful, snow-white visages conceal a cold, black heart; their eyes, the colour of either blood or midnight, convey the gaze a predator would give to its prey. The clan barely survived, many good Ätsiilaissi joined Tuonissä in her gilded, water-filled halls waiting for the next life to come; the warriors, impressed with Väljassi's grasp of the arcane, a trait so common among the Elven kindreds, that they offered him a chance to quell the rising darkness before it spills again into the world. Seeing the devastation of the his people and mystic woodlands from which they hailed, the Shaman had agreed.
Returning to the present, Väljassi had finally stopped, a circle of eerie azure light had surrounded him. Out of the darkness stepped forth a figure, completely swaddled in a blueish-black, star-woven cloak, save for a mask of ethereal silver that glowed balefully. Fear arose in the Dawn Elf's heart as the figure drew closer. The mysterious figure spoke, in that otherworldly loud whisper.
"You have come Dawn Elf, to walk in darkness so that others may walk in the light?"
"Indeed I have."
The figure gave no sign of acknowledgement to the Elf's response. Instead, it carried on speaking.
"Are you willing to raise a blade, to evoke a spell in the defense of those who are strangers to you?"
"To spare them from the worst an Eldritch abomination can bare, to save them from that we have witnessed; yes."
The mysterious figure then opened his robe, revealing a gloved hand that gently grasped a red chalice. It then reached its free hand towards its mask. Slowly, it tore it away and revealed a sight that horrified Väljassi. The being before him was definitely a male Elf, but his features were now a grotesque parody of their beauty. His face was gaunt, even for the Elven kindreds, what would have once been a radiant goldish tone was now a sickly yellow. The mysterious Dawn Elf's visage was marred further by visible black veins that laced his features, they were most apparent upon his high cheekbones. Most disturbing of all, was the warrior's eyes; that which should have been the colour of vibrant, cool gemstones, now stared at him with pitch black orbs, laced with throbbing crimson capillaries. He spoke once more, this time in a raspy and deathly hiss.
"Are you willing to sunder yourself, so you can spare others from it?"
Väljassi considered this question; should he accept a cursed life in servitude to those who would despise him? Or return to a life of near blissful service to the gods? A realisation dawned upon him, he could never go back. Not after what he has witnessed.
"Yes!" He yelled. "I am willing to sunder myself, if I die so be it."
The tainted Elf then pressed the chalice forward.
"Then drink! Drink deep of the blood of the Demon! Infuse yourself with the essence of the forbidden gods from beyond the mortal plain!"
Quickly, Väljassi took the chalice from the warrior's grip. He looked within; a blackish red fluid that possessed a fell, demonic glow swilled within. The Shaman put the chalice to his lips, expecting a sickly taste. The moment the liquid touched his tongue, he encountered something else entirely. Väljassi tasted wildfire, yet a strange force compelled him to drink more. The burning spread throughout his body, setting every nerve aflame with agony. From the moment the cup was empty, everything grew as cold as the Northern winters. The Dawn Elf stared at his tainted kinsman; a chant, invoked in a language long dead, gently poured fourth from his lips.
"Veritas de Vitae Incubo. Veritasde Vitae Ménmorkon."
Immediately, Väljassi felt something tug at his very soul. An overwhelming sense of nausea and exhaustion crept over him. His sight blurred and the tainted Elf's voice grew distorted. However, it seemed he wasn't alone in the chanting; many ethereal voice joined the warrior's litany. Some were heavenly and uplifting, whilst some were roars of deep rage that bayed for blood. Just as the world grew dark for Väljassi, the voices grew in intensity. He finally collapsed into unconsciousness, the last sight being of the one overseeing the ritual.
So what do you guys think? Should there be a second part to this short story?
|10-20-13 05:05 AM|
I think your story would do well with a small sentence clarifying each of your "fantasy words" used by the Dwarves. I don't think you actually referred your characters as Dwarves at all, though it was easy enough to piece together, like most of your Dwarven language. You just need to let the reader know which term is which, or people will get them confused.
Keep it up.
|10-19-13 04:44 PM|
The Moonlight Horde: Part 2
At the pace of the world itself, the night wore on for Zurubaal. In spite of the gifts his Dwarven physique granted him, his head still pounded which was exacerbated further by the blood rushing to it and his limbs ached, feeling as if he had held the mountains up for the entire season. The clouds were now smothering the three moons, making Zurubaal's mood even grimmer. How long has it been? He thought. How many solar embraces have befallen us? The Endrashil'Zhár pondered this, given that they were on the outskirts of a forest, it must have been for at least two weeks since the Khamags had taken them from Enkid'üruk. Something foreboding then crept into his hearty girth; the younger kinsman hadn't spoken since the dragonskins made camp.
He made no response, Zurubaal formulated another sentence around his lips but then heard a very slow dripping noise upon the soil. Painfully, he craned his head around. Though he was no miner, the elder warrior's Dwarven sight could still make out the creeping red stain, spreading throughout the fabric underneath the younger's lamellar. A good look at his bruised face revealed a very pale pinkish tone, compared to the dark reddish tone toted by a healthy, living, Endrashil'Zhàd. The younger warrior was dead, or so close to it that not even the power of the Mystics could bring him from the threshold of Hashari's realm. Lad must've only been fifty floods old, he thought mournfully. As if on queue, the Khamags began to bellow excitedly. Like desert vultures, it seemed they were waiting for one of the Dwarves to breath his last. That last breath signalled the mealtime call for the dragonskinned barbarians. The Khamags cut down the young warrior, he seemed like a human child or Elfling in their monstrous grip, and then hoisted him towards a great roaring fire. Zurubaal shuddered inwardly at the thought of what will happen next. It is the next deed that that boiled the elder Dwarf's blood. One Khamag drew a crude-looking knife and began to cut off the beard of the dead warrior. His fatigue forgotten, Zurubaal saw red and frothed at the mouth as he bellowed.
"Defilers! You dare to remove that which Ishadük has blessed us with!?"
A part of him told him that the barbarians probably didn't understand his words, the rest didn't care.
"When my hands are unbound, by the three sisters, you will not live past this night! I shall..."
Another Khamag fist smashed into his face, distorting Zurubaal's perception of the world. Dimly, he felt his arms and legs loosen up. Before he could move them, darkness finally took him.
Coughing, Zurubaal slowly returned to consciousness. If he thought his head felt painful before, now it felt as if it were in splinters. A coppery taste was prevalent in his mouth, in disgust he spat it out; it was blood that flew out of his mouth. A deep, growling voice emerged from towards his left. It seemed to laugh as well.
"I believe it is rude to spit in the domain of your host is it not Dwarf?"
Zurubaal was flabbergasted, the voice knew his people's tongue as accented as it was.
"Not in the presence of an enemy."
The voice burst into laughter, the Dwarf looked up. The Khamag before him was more grizzled. A shock of white hair was tied into a top knot, his beard bound in the skulls of children. The rest of his face spoke of a harsh, war-filled life, his left eye was glazed over with a white layer, no doubt the result of whatever caused an ugly scar to appear from each side of the eye. The Khamag then broke into a grin, bearing his tusks and fangs.
"Now now little one, even we 'savages' disapprove of spitting. Dear Yaltuç was quite offended."
Zurubaal bared his teeth.
"Yet your...warriors desecrated one of my kin!"
"Ah yes, you Dwarves have a pedantic veneration of your beards. It is amusing how the little people of the western deserts care more about a beard being shorn than being devoured."
The Dwarf spat at the Khamag, his bodyguard moved to punish him. Clearly their chieftain, he barked an order at them, causing the warriors to stop. The barbarian leaned forward.
"Let us speak, as one prince to another. I have many names but you may call me Çirak-Uldü."
More like a glorified savage chieftain, thought Zurubaal. Çirak-Uldü continued to speak.
"You have no need to introduce yourself, I know you are the elder brother of the king."
The Dwarf prince sneered.
"That explains your assault on my city Khamag."
Çirak-Uldü simply laughed.
"How little you know, your fickle gods must despise you if they delivered you into my grip. We could not believe that we acquired you during our raid."
"You know nothing of my gods Sharmazzan."
Either unfamiliar or uncaring of the Dwarvish word's meaning, the Khamag prince stroked his beard.
"True, but it seems your gods are hollow and empty, caring little for the people they created..."
Çirak-Uldü's wicked grin widened
"But I will spare you humiliation from a mere barbarian such as myself."
Zurubaal simply sighed.
"Just kill me and be done with, let us not delay the inevitable."
"You misunderstand me Prince Zurubaal, I have no intention of killing you. You are far more valuable alive."
Enraged, the Dwarf spat again.
"As a bartering tool; as much as you Dwarves value honour, I know you value family even moreso."
Zurubaal was somewhat astonished. For a being who believed his people came into being when dragons forced themselves onto their ancestors, the Khamag prince was clever. Çirak-Uldü then spoke to his warriors, they went in separate directions.
"I am not one to mistreat his guests, soon you will feast and drink dear prince."
Well, this is the end of Moonlight Horde. Don't forget to comment!
|10-18-13 02:32 AM|
Gives an interesting start, bit of a cliffhanger. Also leaves me wanting to know more about the dwarven captives; find out if, and why, they'd be good for ransom.
Your descriptions were done well too; picturing the captors took no effort thanks to your details.
There were a few minor spelling/grammar errors, little things like the "His arms and felt stiff" which is probably just a missing word or something like that. Just little things though.
Looking forward to seeing more parts of the story!
|10-18-13 01:49 AM|
The Infernal Legacy: Sagas of Korillian
Deciding it would be opportune to gather people's opinions on a universe me and a friend are creating. Here there will be a series of short stories. Any creative input you give will be greatly appreciated on how improvements can be made before the big story, any questions you have I will gladly answer
Without further ado, let's get rolling with the first story
The Moonlight Horde
Slowly he came to, the fog from his mind was clearing sluggishly and painfully. His arms and legs felt stiff, the pull of the world made him feel as though he were hanging from them. Zurubaal tried to move his hands, only to feel something chafe deep into his unarmoured wrists. His now clear eyes caught sight of ropes, binding his hands to a beam of stained white material. He struggled to free himself, alas Zurubaal realised that not even his Dwarven strength could break him free from his bonds as the rope cut into his night-shrouded reddish skin. Immediately, blood slowly began to drip onto his face, the warm crimson droplets did not perturb him in the slightest. He looked around, his captors had made camp here. From what Zurubaal could make out woodland, bathed in the white light of three full moons. According to legend, when the three sisters , Anzizzal, Tashanu and Natsarah climb to the highest peaks of the heavens, a warrior's fortune is decided. For Zurubaal, his fortune did not look particularly good and the gods of the Endrashil'Zhár were fickle beings; the light of three moons also shone upon his captors and their camp. They held the upright stance of many peoples and reached the height of the tallest Fhéradhashi'Zhár. This was the only thing they had in common with partially civilised peoples of the Western lands; the things that surrounded him had emerald green skin that glistened in the white light of the moonlight. Their almond-shaped eyes blazed like the flames of the forge, two tusks jutted from their lower jaws and long ebony hair, adorned with ornaments of tooth and bone, reached past their fur-clad shoulders. Underneath the pelts lay surprisingly ornate and beautiful armour that appeared to barely hold back their heavily muscled physiques. Khamags, was the word that came to mind as the emerald-skinned barbarians began to bark at each other in their harsh tongue.
A voice then called out to him, not in the ugly tongue of the Eastern barbarians, but in the smooth, deep yet sturdy tones of Endrashil'Had. One of his kin called to him. Immediately, Zurubaal began to look around. The voice called to him; it sounded from up ahead. The sons of Endrashil never quieted their voices, even if it would lead them to their deaths.
"Kinsmen...are you still breathing?"
"As if my movements were not obvious enough."
Replied Zurubaal, sarcasm etched his voice.
"Apologies brother...are we..."
This Endrashil'zhàd was definitely younger than him, for he was short of beard and no gold crested his curled tresses.
"Yes young one, the fiends have us in their clawed grasp."
The other Dwarf spoke again, the control over his voice was slowly beginning to crack and fear became apparent in his orange-laced eyes.
"Will they devour us?"
Zurubaal shook his head.
"Possibly...but if the Three Sisters smile upon us and if Ishadük wills it, they will hold us to ransom. Or..."
The Elder Endrashil'Zhár was cut off by a harsh voice. A shadow in the moonlight fell over him and he felt something pull his beard. The thing, now clearly a hand, pulled him into view of a particularly irritated Khamag.
"Içitrak! Yaruk taçul ilàmag ugluç!"
A piece of gold glinted in the moonlight. The barbarian's eyes widened; pain shot through Zurubaal's face as the Khamag ripped the cuneiform-etched beard-ring away. It gazed at the piece of gold; a single word surged through the fiend's tusked lips.
Angered at the taking of a blessed ring, the Dwarf spat at the reptilian savage. In response, the Khamag simply smashed his fist into Zurubaal's face. He spat out teeth and blood, realising that the force of the punch would have pulped his skull had he been a man, Elf or one of their mongrel descendants. Zurubaal braced for a very rough night ahead; no one would come to save him or his brothers from their barbarian captors.
Part 2 of this short story will be up soon. Do comment, for the reader's feedback is my opium!