Stuff.
Now that the pain has subsided, and I have calmed down, I've thought some things through. First of all, I hate my current submission plot premises for NaNoWriMo. What am I going to do? Change it of course.
I had the idea for this story a LONG LONG time ago. It's called The Talisman and it's a rawking storyline with all sorts of stuff to talk about. Plus, it's very characteristic of my style, so I'm going to go for it.
So... here is my promo shot. X)
I stood in the light of the dawn as a strange breeze began to blow from the South. It picked up my soft locks of hair and formed arcs of flowing gold scarves above my head. The calm blue folds of my dress draped along my feet and I blinked back a tear in the autumn chill. The soft burgundy wool of my cloak offered mild comfort through the cold and the amulet around my neck was like ice. I shivered.
So many lives had been lost in the great ruins below me. I wondered how many that had been exactly. Yet that was long ago and the ancient spirits still lingered. It chilled my heart to a slow rhythm. The cold starlight in the western skies faded away with the sun’s rays and the world might have been warmed, but not even the cheery gold sun could heat the damp darkness of the mood.
“You are so alone,” whispered the wind, “You are so alone…” And it was so true. The tears that could have fallen seemed to form cold crystals on my frozen cheeks. How long would I stand here in the silence of the dawn before I could accept the truth that they were all gone?
The vast armies of long ago still stretched out for miles around me, only it was just my imagination. All around me was barren earth; the dead breaks of the land. It was covered in the tangles of the wild, the breath of the savage side of nature. Where once stretched the great green fields of Dagorath was nothing but memories and the aftermath of death. Only the fires of hell itself could have destroyed such innocent beauty. And Lindoria had been forsaken by its God. Evil had burned, raped, and pillaged the innocence. I was one of the few survivors.
I turned from the depressing outlook and forced myself along the narrow Cliffside path. I no longer cared if I fell or not. The only thriving portions of Lindoria left were the seaside villages and the realms about Flamaria.
“You are so alone…” The wind whispered again. Devastation wracked my being. But a softer voice over-rode it, “I am here. Seek me…”
“Thranwin…” I whispered back, reaching out to touch the wind. Only cold fingers of air reached back and ripped at my form, so vulnerable to fall. But I withdrew and continued my descension. I retreated from the Angwoshian realm, with the bitter knowledge of my grief-stricken immortality and the haunting voices in the wind. Those voices defeated my confidence and will power. I would not give in. Thranwin couldn’t have survived the battle. None of the warriors in the first seven lines had. And still his voice called to me. His ghost. His ghost and nothing more. Still some part of me wanted to believe he was alive. Some part of me wanted to believe he’d reclaim his lordship over the Allurian Realms. Lindoria was old, but it couldn’t fall yet.
I entered the forbidden shadows of the dark forest and walked without purpose. Dark things ruled these trees now. They did not see friend from foe anymore, they saw only foe. I had been a friend of these woods long ago, but they would not remember me. I could remember when some of them had been but seeds in the palm of my young hand. The hand looked the same, but was weathered from my travels. And the trees were merely stone statues that watched from the bleakness of hatred. Little light penetrated the treetops above me anymore. An occasional beam would shine through the gaps, offering little more than a dim glance ahead. Other than that, darkness ruled. The air was stifling but cold and heavy like sheets of ice vapor. All about me rose the black and twisted forms of old trees.
When I reached the other side, I stepped out into the light of mid-day and partially green, rolling hills. In the distance stood the Fallorian Castle. It was constructed of many types of stone; granite, marble, obsidian, and flagstone walkways. The gardens were poorly tended and overgrown by a variety of weeds. I could still remember the gardens that used to thrive here. Races from all realms came to marvel over the perfection of the Fallorian gardens. Now they were little more than thorn patches and berry bushes. But this was the realm of the nonmagic people: the mortals. They had once invaded our lands and threatened war but we had created an alliance and therefore, a peaceful coexistence. Though lately since the massacre of so many immortals, they had been discussing tearing down the gates of Mortalia. They would not succeed if they tried. All would stand in their path, for the gates of Mortalia were the boundaries of the mortal and immortal worlds. They could not exist as one.
I had the idea for this story a LONG LONG time ago. It's called The Talisman and it's a rawking storyline with all sorts of stuff to talk about. Plus, it's very characteristic of my style, so I'm going to go for it.
So... here is my promo shot. X)
I stood in the light of the dawn as a strange breeze began to blow from the South. It picked up my soft locks of hair and formed arcs of flowing gold scarves above my head. The calm blue folds of my dress draped along my feet and I blinked back a tear in the autumn chill. The soft burgundy wool of my cloak offered mild comfort through the cold and the amulet around my neck was like ice. I shivered.
So many lives had been lost in the great ruins below me. I wondered how many that had been exactly. Yet that was long ago and the ancient spirits still lingered. It chilled my heart to a slow rhythm. The cold starlight in the western skies faded away with the sun’s rays and the world might have been warmed, but not even the cheery gold sun could heat the damp darkness of the mood.
“You are so alone,” whispered the wind, “You are so alone…” And it was so true. The tears that could have fallen seemed to form cold crystals on my frozen cheeks. How long would I stand here in the silence of the dawn before I could accept the truth that they were all gone?
The vast armies of long ago still stretched out for miles around me, only it was just my imagination. All around me was barren earth; the dead breaks of the land. It was covered in the tangles of the wild, the breath of the savage side of nature. Where once stretched the great green fields of Dagorath was nothing but memories and the aftermath of death. Only the fires of hell itself could have destroyed such innocent beauty. And Lindoria had been forsaken by its God. Evil had burned, raped, and pillaged the innocence. I was one of the few survivors.
I turned from the depressing outlook and forced myself along the narrow Cliffside path. I no longer cared if I fell or not. The only thriving portions of Lindoria left were the seaside villages and the realms about Flamaria.
“You are so alone…” The wind whispered again. Devastation wracked my being. But a softer voice over-rode it, “I am here. Seek me…”
“Thranwin…” I whispered back, reaching out to touch the wind. Only cold fingers of air reached back and ripped at my form, so vulnerable to fall. But I withdrew and continued my descension. I retreated from the Angwoshian realm, with the bitter knowledge of my grief-stricken immortality and the haunting voices in the wind. Those voices defeated my confidence and will power. I would not give in. Thranwin couldn’t have survived the battle. None of the warriors in the first seven lines had. And still his voice called to me. His ghost. His ghost and nothing more. Still some part of me wanted to believe he was alive. Some part of me wanted to believe he’d reclaim his lordship over the Allurian Realms. Lindoria was old, but it couldn’t fall yet.
I entered the forbidden shadows of the dark forest and walked without purpose. Dark things ruled these trees now. They did not see friend from foe anymore, they saw only foe. I had been a friend of these woods long ago, but they would not remember me. I could remember when some of them had been but seeds in the palm of my young hand. The hand looked the same, but was weathered from my travels. And the trees were merely stone statues that watched from the bleakness of hatred. Little light penetrated the treetops above me anymore. An occasional beam would shine through the gaps, offering little more than a dim glance ahead. Other than that, darkness ruled. The air was stifling but cold and heavy like sheets of ice vapor. All about me rose the black and twisted forms of old trees.
When I reached the other side, I stepped out into the light of mid-day and partially green, rolling hills. In the distance stood the Fallorian Castle. It was constructed of many types of stone; granite, marble, obsidian, and flagstone walkways. The gardens were poorly tended and overgrown by a variety of weeds. I could still remember the gardens that used to thrive here. Races from all realms came to marvel over the perfection of the Fallorian gardens. Now they were little more than thorn patches and berry bushes. But this was the realm of the nonmagic people: the mortals. They had once invaded our lands and threatened war but we had created an alliance and therefore, a peaceful coexistence. Though lately since the massacre of so many immortals, they had been discussing tearing down the gates of Mortalia. They would not succeed if they tried. All would stand in their path, for the gates of Mortalia were the boundaries of the mortal and immortal worlds. They could not exist as one.