House of the Forsaken

Before Daurian there appeared a faint shadow.  It spoke to him in the soft voice of a young girl, saying, “Have you come to destroy us?  Why so?”  A sound came like weeping.  The sound multiplied all around him, and ere long legions of silhouettes of man and fæ and chimera formed all throughout the darkened cathedral.

The girl’s voice whispered, “If you banish Shacor, we too will suffer the Nether.  No mercy will be shown us; no grace given.  We will face the Wrath for all eternity.”

The wailing deepened as it also echoed through the lofty citadel.

“Daurian,” cried a familiar voice.  Daurian whipped his head this way and that, until his eyes rested on a single Shade, one that stood apart from the rest.  “Do you know who I am?” it said in a tender voice, now standing before him.  A draft passed through the Shade and to Daurian, carrying with it as it passed the sweet scent of clover blossoms.

Tears sprung into his eyes.  “Mother.”  When he moved to embrace her he instead passed through.  “I am so, so sorry I left you,” he wept.  “If I could undo one thing in my life so far, it would have been that.”  The tears cascaded and he found himself fighting for air.  “I would take that back in a heartbeat.”

“It is too late now to undo what has been done,” said the Shade of Nannali, “but you can atone for your desertion, if you only save us from the Nether.”

Daurian looked on the Shade with hopelessness.  “Mother, I am powerless in the face of Eternity, benevolent or malevolent.”

“There is a way that you may gain some sway in the Empire of the Dead,” said the Shade.  “Supplicate to the Lord of the Damned every full moon, and he will deliver unto you one who you love and have lost.”

Daurian could not utter a word.

“Will you not do this for me, Daurian?  For your father and infant sister?  Would you allow us all to perish in cold flame?”

Still he was silent.

“Make your answer ere the ascent of the black sun.”

The doors of the cathedral swung open with creaking, and the Shades were swept away like pillars of smoke in the wind.

A True Warrior

     Okay y'all, I just wrote a relatively crucial scene, in which Glamoriel, who has a bad history with Avären, has a conflict with Kieran.  They used to be lovers, but eventually Glamoriel's rabid hatred for Avären drove Kieran away.  Nonnah's connection with Avären makes her an obvious target, and a rather easy one when she's not with Kieran or any of his siblings.
     So Glamoriel has her own plans for Avären's demise that are somewhere along the lines of gaining Avären's confidence by making his enemy (the Covenant) hers.  This obviously doesn't sit well with Kieran, who is sworn to see the Covenant consecrated in its proper form.

     “Glamoriel,” Kieran said, dodging the strike of a long and sinister blade.  “What have you become?”  She stopped her onslaught, and Kieran spoke.  “You once wanted to fight alongside the Covenant, and now you are so desperate to undo Avären that you will destroy it!”
     “I have decided to do what I can to achieve what I must, even if it means destroying a taboo pact that I used to worship.”
     “But do you not see that the sentiments you hold are the same as those of Avären?  You hate him, but you are so much like him.  You have become the very thing you have long striven to defeat.”
     “I am not a philosopher,” she spat through her teeth.  “I am a warrior.”  She lunged forward and swung her sword, grazing Kieran’s exposed neck.  “A true warrior fights for what she believes in, and I believe in the death of the Great Usurper.”
     “A true warrior fights not to destroy what she hates, but to protect what she loves.”
     “Who are you to tell me what a true warrior is?  You are but a coward and a fool!”  Glamoriel once again struck out like a snake and caught Kieran on a rib before he could block her blade.  He felt the rib crack beneath his armour and staggered backward, clutching his throbbing ribcage.  He recovered only enough to feebly divert her blade, which only slid down Kieran’s and sliced his wrist.  He stumbled again and into a shelf, the contents of which rained over him.
     “Do you yield, loved one?” Glamoriel asked.  She knelt in front of him, grabbing the front of his leathern hauberk and bashing his jaw with the butt of her sword.  “Will you love me and support me, like you once did?”  He did not reply.  She punched his broken rib, causing him to cry out in agony.  “Stand beside me!  Do you not wish to see the Great Usurper dethroned?”
     “And be usurped?” was his strained reply.
     She beat him on the jaw again.
     “Do you not see how you are the same?”
     Rigid with anger, Glamoriel stood and stepped back.  She took a bow and arrow from the foot of Kieran’s bed and drew it.  Kieran tilted his head back and proffered his neck.
     She released the arrow.

     Enjoy the cliffhanger.  *Grins deviously and recedes into depths of cruelty*

Mahz Falls

Nonnah laboured hard in the auxiliary tent tending to the wounded, when a blood-curdling screech came from without.  One of the internal guards exited the tent, but was slain with a sickening splatter of blood on the canvas wall.  Hooves were heard and Nonnah ventured to peek outside the tent to see a creature of horrendous proportions and an awful shape hobbling over toward the tent, looking straight into her eyes.  The sound of hooves, she saw, came from Mahz, who galloped toward the tent at a great pace.  It didn’t take long before he reached the creature, and sliced through its neck with his claymore with ease.  He looked at Nonnah and shooed her into the pavilion, but as she turned the ground beneath her shifted violently and out of it rose a creature of equally brutal but not similar shape and size as the one outside.  Many more burst from the ground around the pavilion like ugly birds from their shells and promptly hacked to pieces with utter brutality and numbness the women and the wounded.  Mahz burst inside and began hacking the brutes, and they all turned on him, who was the greatest, and only threat among those in the healing tent.  Nonnah hid behind a side-turned table and in horror watched as the creatures tore at her father’s flesh with their sinister claws with looks of glee upon their malformed faces.   Mahz fought valiantly and slew many, even as they crowded around him and bore down heavily and mercilessly, obviously joyed by his struggle and his agony.  When one only stood, he rose to cleave its neck, but this one was quicker than the rest.  It dodged his claymore strike with ease, but then turned and drove his claws into his side, and Mahz fell.

So, this is the climax of Book One.  I wrote this in a Word Sprint challenge with my family on December 29, 2012.  It was a great bonding moment with my family, and many quirks were revealed, as we only had time to write what our semiconscious impulses dictated.  We had also done a 5-minute Love Haiku challenge, a 3-minute Riddle challenge, and a 5-minute Limerick challenge.  Part of the Limerick challenge required that we played a random song of whatever genre that matched the limerick, and did interpretive dancing to match it.  It was glorious madness, and much fun was had.  I feel this begins a new Earle tradition, and one I will certainly pass on to my future children, if the Good Lord decides to send me down that path.  

Visual Dare: Up (Pride St.)

Courtesy of the wonderful Miss Angela Goff

“I have a newfound appreciation for the desert,” Daurian said, peering down into a filthy cistern beneath Walkjöra. 

Drismatir grunted.

Daurian felt a jabbing in his rump.  He spun around to face a little boy standing behind him, a smirk on his dirty face.

The boy said, “I don’t think you’re as wise as Halvardr says.  Adults aren’t as smart as they think.  The only reason children are called stupid is because we don’t have age to cover it up.”

“Yes, but children lack the wisdom that comes with age.”

“How d’you know?”

Daurian laughed.  “I was a child, too.” 

Visual Dare: Peeking

The statues carved into every tree and stone peered down at Daurian, forbidding his advance into the Vitasbæn Woods.  Most of them were large and commanding, some were small and eldritch, and a few looked like frightened children.  As he passed each one, he examined their faces – the spiderwebs in their mouths and empty eyesockets, the moss clinging to their cold skin, and the dead leaves caught in the deep crevices of their bodies. 

Beside Daurian, Borisdar’s movements were rigid.  Drismatir tried to calm the horse’s unease, but her own agitation prevented such success.  The horses of Kieran, Lyreth, and Lorendel – who led the procession – were even more nervous.  

Narri’s brows were beetled, his eyes narrow, and his breaths short.  He allowed Daurian to come up beside him and said, “I feel as if the statues’ eyes are trained on us.”

Drismatir interjected, “They are gargoyles – their eyes are trained on you.  But they look not at your physical forms, but your spiritual.  They decide whether or not one deserves to pass through alive by scrutinising the soul.  If one is deemed unworthy, they will kill him.”

Visual Dare: The Odd Couple

I must use this image in one of two ways:

*Incorporate it into my current WIP - literally or figuratively
*Use it as a 100 word flash fiction to get the brain going in a different creative direction.

Elenora and Eris argued much; Elenora usually won.  Eris told himself that Elenora’s cat eyes, black hair, and gracefulness were not the only reason he married her, though her snobbish, fickle attitude was hard for him to ignore.  Elenora thought similarly of Eris.  He seemed always to flee at the first hint of Elenora. 

Elenora awaited Eris’ return, hoping to remind him of his wrongness.  He barged in and flew up the staircase to his laboratory; Elenora followed. 

“Drink this wine,” Eris said.  Elenora did and yowled like a cat as it burnt her throat.  Eris uttered a raven’s cackle.

Photo prompt courtesy of Anonymous Legacy's Visual Dare

Just A Few Words about Nothing in Particular

  Okay, so I've created a blog series separate from my "Spiel-blog" called "I Have Some Words for You..."  Originally, "Some Words" was just going to be about my current WIP (Work In Progress), but I wasn't careful and consistent with my topics, and it turned into a Spiel-blog.  However, his series will be exclusively about "Fables of the Kirmakor," my current WIP.  Not this post, though, because it's just an orientation.

  Those of you who read my first blog, which I neglected to name, have already had an overview of "Fables," so y'all are familiar with my ideas.  However, my story is ever-changing, always maturing and going in directions I never thought it would go, so y'all are going to have to unlearn some things as my story evolves (for instance, I've already taken Daurian's Orondíl-hood away from him...  Poor kid).  In fact, the only time I'm not contemplating the inner workings of my iceberg of a story is when I'm riding Atlas. When I'm riding is when all that goes through my mind is some song or other on an endless loop.

  Actually, y'all deserve a picture of Atlas, because he's a great horse, if a little stubborn and slow to love a person:

   Yes, he's my best bud.  If he and Saphira (from the Inheritance Cycle - I'm an Era-nerd) were competing for the Best Non-Human BFF Award, Atlas would win, hands down.  Saphira wouldn't touch him.  He has little to nothing to do with my story (though his name is used in my father's book, The Eye of Telerion), I just thought y'all should meet him.  :)

  That's all I have for y'all for now.  Y'all should be proud - I didn't go on a rant this time!  I'm determined to make this blog a no-rant zone.

  My dear Atlas...  He carries the world upon his shoulders.  He's too fat to shrug though...  Sorry Miss Rand...