Tug
02-03-2006, 09:10 AM
Ok, so I have an idea for a story bouncing around in my head, based on the end of the Chaldean empire and the "lorekeepers" who preserved fragments of a once mighty civilization.
To use my writing powers for good, I'll begin the story here.
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The rain began on a cloudless night, sheeting from the sky as if some errant washwoman threw used suds from the heavens. Fat,heavy, and warm, drops of water fell, blazing like tiny diamonds in the moonlight. A thousand thuds sounded a torrential fugue, the beginning notes of a deadly symphony. As the chill settled and clouds began to obscure the full moon, hoods came up and cloaks were wrapped tight. None suspected that the coming storm would unleash such rivers from the sky, nor that the torrrents would be matched drop for drop in blood.
Lliam enjoyed second watch, though it meant splitting his night. The darkness offered silence and solitude, which suited the priest nicely. He watched in slackjawed amazement as moonbows formed and shimmered, sparkling in the reflected light of the night. He felt, rather than heard the first drops splash down, thrumming against the parchment windows of the watch-house.
Soon enough, Lliam felt, the rain would cease to fascinate, and he'd be left in the cold until third watch. Thankful of his training, he reached out mentally and lifted two logs onto the fire, then stepped outside to begin his patrol, before rainfall made the task too unpleasant. For the horse, of course.
Thoughts wandering as he wound his way to the temple stable, he didn't at first understand the cries and tolling of the watch bell. Rapid, panicky understanding beset him and he slipped on the slick stone just in time for the heavy blade of a poleaxe to whisper through where his head had just been. Guttural curses emanated from behind a dull plated visor, and Lliam shouted out as he scrambled to his feet, almost contemptuously igniting the skin and hair of his assaillant with a word of power.
"Alfar! To the sanctum!," he cried.
Turning to face the friends of the vermin he'd just dispatched, he threw up his hands. Cold light lanced out from his fingertips, shattering bones and igniting armor like spliffs of dry cedar. The heavy scent of blood joined the fresh rain and Lliam began methodically clearing his way to the inner sanctum, hoping against reason that the Alfar he had slain were the last and only threat this night.
To use my writing powers for good, I'll begin the story here.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The rain began on a cloudless night, sheeting from the sky as if some errant washwoman threw used suds from the heavens. Fat,heavy, and warm, drops of water fell, blazing like tiny diamonds in the moonlight. A thousand thuds sounded a torrential fugue, the beginning notes of a deadly symphony. As the chill settled and clouds began to obscure the full moon, hoods came up and cloaks were wrapped tight. None suspected that the coming storm would unleash such rivers from the sky, nor that the torrrents would be matched drop for drop in blood.
Lliam enjoyed second watch, though it meant splitting his night. The darkness offered silence and solitude, which suited the priest nicely. He watched in slackjawed amazement as moonbows formed and shimmered, sparkling in the reflected light of the night. He felt, rather than heard the first drops splash down, thrumming against the parchment windows of the watch-house.
Soon enough, Lliam felt, the rain would cease to fascinate, and he'd be left in the cold until third watch. Thankful of his training, he reached out mentally and lifted two logs onto the fire, then stepped outside to begin his patrol, before rainfall made the task too unpleasant. For the horse, of course.
Thoughts wandering as he wound his way to the temple stable, he didn't at first understand the cries and tolling of the watch bell. Rapid, panicky understanding beset him and he slipped on the slick stone just in time for the heavy blade of a poleaxe to whisper through where his head had just been. Guttural curses emanated from behind a dull plated visor, and Lliam shouted out as he scrambled to his feet, almost contemptuously igniting the skin and hair of his assaillant with a word of power.
"Alfar! To the sanctum!," he cried.
Turning to face the friends of the vermin he'd just dispatched, he threw up his hands. Cold light lanced out from his fingertips, shattering bones and igniting armor like spliffs of dry cedar. The heavy scent of blood joined the fresh rain and Lliam began methodically clearing his way to the inner sanctum, hoping against reason that the Alfar he had slain were the last and only threat this night.