Post by frost92 on Mar 10, 2007 8:13:09 GMT 1
This is a rough draft of a story I am working on. The story will be told through the eyes of some of the main characters in limited third person POV. I'm not sure if I'll make this the first chapter or not yet. This chapter focuses on one of the main characters, Darkin. Since he is kinda out of it (as you'll find out), the details are a little vague by design. Anyway let me know what you think, good or bad. Any imput is welcome.
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Chapter 1 Crow's Call
The dragon’s roar brought him back. Ice cold raindrops began to trickle off his face. Slowly, Darkin opened is eyes while attempting to sit up. His face felt like it was getting pricked with tiny needles while the rain splashed against his cheeks. For a moment he did not recall anything. He did not remember his mission. He did not remember his party getting ambushed, or where they were going. He did not remember the spear piercing his side. The only clear memory he had was the feeling of floating up to the sky. Looking down upon the screaming and killing, he could not tell one man from another from above. He felt at peace. The whole universe embraced him and he felt the energy of the heavens and earth flow through him. There was something else too, but he could not put his finger on it yet. He thought there were others with him too. They were talking to him, they wanted him to do something…a promise. He closed his eyes again to get a bearing on his surroundings. Was it real? Did he hallucinate the whole thing?
The sound of thunder cleared Darkin’s head some. The grey clouds hovered over the sky, drowning out the sun, if there was a sun. He remembered his father used to tell him that thunder came from dragons roaring. Growing up, Darkin always became excited whenever a storm approached. He would stare at sky, determined to see the dragons flying with the clouds while his father watched on with a faint smile. The memory did bring some comfort, but a deep anger also was tied to it. The memory of his father beating him with a hickory stick suddenly flashed before him. It got real bad after his mother died. He learned to keep a stone face during these beatings and hold back the tears and cries. He used stone face as well when he witnessed his brothers and sisters getting beat. One day he will face judgment. That thought echoed in Darkin’s mind as the years went by. He remembered those words now, and he felt a small tingle of comfort, if that was even possible. “Judgment is sweet.” he faintly heard himself say.
As memories began to fill his mind, he knew their mission had failed. They were hired to go to the Frozen City and retrieve the box before others get to it. A dangerous mission surely, but his companions were capable fighters and he was well known across the lands for his “skill” with the blade. Notorious rather. The Silent Death or the Dark Reaper are what they call him. His services are not cheap and if that old crackpot Tomin had not offered so much coinage, he would have never accepted this job. Darkin worked alone, but for this job Tomin insisted that he needed more man power. The four companions Tomin hired to accompany him were strangers, names he had not heard of before in Kateural. There was Grug, a beast of a man with a thick black beard. Wes was a smaller in stature, but had the look of a cold killer. Benjin looked like the youngest of the group, but was well built. He claimed to be a master of the pole axe. Yern was the quiet one. He hardly ever spoke, but his new, fancy armor hinted of wealth accumulated. They might have come across sea from Rygher. But Ryghorian assassins are known for poisoning not blade work. Tomin insisted that they were “qualified” for the job none-the-less. Darkin suspected they were soldiers for hire rather than assassins, but he did not press the issue.
Tomin gave them strict orders that they were not to open the box when they find it. Good luck with that. Nobody is to learn of their “mission”, secrecy is of the essence. They were to meet Tomin at his countryside manor when they arrive back to town with the box. The journey to Unter, the frozen city, is a long one. One does not simply stroll into the cold north region of Kateural without careful planning. One mistake on location or one wrong path could lead to your frozen death. In fact, nobody had sat foot in Unter for a very long time, it is a ghost town. It is said to be cursed. There are frozen bodies inside frozen homes. Icebears are said to have overrun the town. “This damn box better be worth it.” Grug kept grumbling as they left Greenwood to head north.
They followed the Gilty River’s bank, away from the main road, for the first few days. Then they came upon the Mourning Hills, miles and miles of dead trees, deep gorges, and tall yucca plants. The traveler’s road ran on the west side of the hills. Darkin insisted that the gang just cut strait through the middle. Travel was slow that day, and the night was especially chilling, since they could not light a fire that might alert travelers on the road. The next day they woke at first sunlight and broke camp while they chewed on dry jerky. The morning breeze had an eerie chill to it. Everyone was on edge. Yorn even spoke up to say that they were being followed. Grug and Benjin backtracked to make sure nobody was on their tail, while the rest of them pressed on until they came to a deep gorge. Darkin’s instincts were warning him of danger, even thought he could not see any potential danger at that time. They decided to wait above the gorge until Benjin and Grug came back.
It was midday when they returned. Everyone was hungry, but they decided to wait until they make it through the gorge before eating. The hairs on Darkin’s arm stood up as they quietly make their way down the slope. Something is wrong, he kept thinking. His eyes scanned the tree line ahead, then slowly inspected the thick clusters of yucca, expecting someone hiding behind it. Suddenly Wes screamed as an arrow embedded in his back. Then out of nowhere armored figures charged out of the shadows from all sides. Darkin remembered grabbing for his sword, Bloodthirsty. But before he could unsheathe it, he was slammed on his left side. He briefly saw his assailant; he was tall and wore a black doublet over black chain mail. That was the last thing he remembered.
Darkin pushed the memories away. He needed to focus on the present. I am not dead, he thought to himself. The Death God surely would have appeared and taken his soul to the Otherside if it was truly his time to die. Maybe the Death God just gave him a little “taste” of the spirit world. Nobody he ever heard of has ever encountered death and came back to tell of it. What did those beings want of me if it was not my time to die? A flicker of recollection came, then, just as suddenly, disappeared. The crows are calling. He thought he heard them say that right before he felt himself falling back down to his body.
It was nearly impossible to determine fact from hysteria. Irritated, he decided to shake it all away and try to sit up. His 6 foot frame was aching everywhere. His legs and arms were stiff like a corpse. His dark, rain soaked hair clung to his face. Slowly, he wiped his long hair away from his eyes. The smell of death lingered here. He turned his head and saw several lumps scattered across the ground, which he was sure were bodies. The raindrops glistened as they beaded down the armor on the fallen ones. Overhead he saw tall, dead sentinel trees whose branches whistled with the breeze. Pairs of black eyes peered at him from those branches. Their cawing sent shivers down Darkin’s already cold body. He listened to the crows’ mournful song for a few moments. Crows always follow death and sing their song, the song of death. They seem to know when someone will die. Darkin wondered if the crows follow him and sing for the people he kills. He doubted they were singing for him now.
A smoky, white mist began to slither across the wet earth, like a ghost. It crept over the land and covered the dead bodies like a death blanket. As the mist started to get close to Darkin, he grew scared. I am not dead! His eyes stung and his face was numb from the rain. Before he could rub his eyes, a blinding, burning pain erupted on his side. Gingerly, he slid his hand below his rib cage and felt the end of the broken spear. Instinctually he gave a weak yank at the splintery wood. He tried to maintain stone face, but the pain was too much. He cried in agony. Pain was unbearable. The familiar feeling overcame him then. He again was weightless. He felt the world spinning. He heard the crow’s mournful cries, but he could not see anything but growing blackness. They are calling me. He thought he saw two dark figures heading toward him before drifting into the abyss.
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Chapter 1 Crow's Call
The dragon’s roar brought him back. Ice cold raindrops began to trickle off his face. Slowly, Darkin opened is eyes while attempting to sit up. His face felt like it was getting pricked with tiny needles while the rain splashed against his cheeks. For a moment he did not recall anything. He did not remember his mission. He did not remember his party getting ambushed, or where they were going. He did not remember the spear piercing his side. The only clear memory he had was the feeling of floating up to the sky. Looking down upon the screaming and killing, he could not tell one man from another from above. He felt at peace. The whole universe embraced him and he felt the energy of the heavens and earth flow through him. There was something else too, but he could not put his finger on it yet. He thought there were others with him too. They were talking to him, they wanted him to do something…a promise. He closed his eyes again to get a bearing on his surroundings. Was it real? Did he hallucinate the whole thing?
The sound of thunder cleared Darkin’s head some. The grey clouds hovered over the sky, drowning out the sun, if there was a sun. He remembered his father used to tell him that thunder came from dragons roaring. Growing up, Darkin always became excited whenever a storm approached. He would stare at sky, determined to see the dragons flying with the clouds while his father watched on with a faint smile. The memory did bring some comfort, but a deep anger also was tied to it. The memory of his father beating him with a hickory stick suddenly flashed before him. It got real bad after his mother died. He learned to keep a stone face during these beatings and hold back the tears and cries. He used stone face as well when he witnessed his brothers and sisters getting beat. One day he will face judgment. That thought echoed in Darkin’s mind as the years went by. He remembered those words now, and he felt a small tingle of comfort, if that was even possible. “Judgment is sweet.” he faintly heard himself say.
As memories began to fill his mind, he knew their mission had failed. They were hired to go to the Frozen City and retrieve the box before others get to it. A dangerous mission surely, but his companions were capable fighters and he was well known across the lands for his “skill” with the blade. Notorious rather. The Silent Death or the Dark Reaper are what they call him. His services are not cheap and if that old crackpot Tomin had not offered so much coinage, he would have never accepted this job. Darkin worked alone, but for this job Tomin insisted that he needed more man power. The four companions Tomin hired to accompany him were strangers, names he had not heard of before in Kateural. There was Grug, a beast of a man with a thick black beard. Wes was a smaller in stature, but had the look of a cold killer. Benjin looked like the youngest of the group, but was well built. He claimed to be a master of the pole axe. Yern was the quiet one. He hardly ever spoke, but his new, fancy armor hinted of wealth accumulated. They might have come across sea from Rygher. But Ryghorian assassins are known for poisoning not blade work. Tomin insisted that they were “qualified” for the job none-the-less. Darkin suspected they were soldiers for hire rather than assassins, but he did not press the issue.
Tomin gave them strict orders that they were not to open the box when they find it. Good luck with that. Nobody is to learn of their “mission”, secrecy is of the essence. They were to meet Tomin at his countryside manor when they arrive back to town with the box. The journey to Unter, the frozen city, is a long one. One does not simply stroll into the cold north region of Kateural without careful planning. One mistake on location or one wrong path could lead to your frozen death. In fact, nobody had sat foot in Unter for a very long time, it is a ghost town. It is said to be cursed. There are frozen bodies inside frozen homes. Icebears are said to have overrun the town. “This damn box better be worth it.” Grug kept grumbling as they left Greenwood to head north.
They followed the Gilty River’s bank, away from the main road, for the first few days. Then they came upon the Mourning Hills, miles and miles of dead trees, deep gorges, and tall yucca plants. The traveler’s road ran on the west side of the hills. Darkin insisted that the gang just cut strait through the middle. Travel was slow that day, and the night was especially chilling, since they could not light a fire that might alert travelers on the road. The next day they woke at first sunlight and broke camp while they chewed on dry jerky. The morning breeze had an eerie chill to it. Everyone was on edge. Yorn even spoke up to say that they were being followed. Grug and Benjin backtracked to make sure nobody was on their tail, while the rest of them pressed on until they came to a deep gorge. Darkin’s instincts were warning him of danger, even thought he could not see any potential danger at that time. They decided to wait above the gorge until Benjin and Grug came back.
It was midday when they returned. Everyone was hungry, but they decided to wait until they make it through the gorge before eating. The hairs on Darkin’s arm stood up as they quietly make their way down the slope. Something is wrong, he kept thinking. His eyes scanned the tree line ahead, then slowly inspected the thick clusters of yucca, expecting someone hiding behind it. Suddenly Wes screamed as an arrow embedded in his back. Then out of nowhere armored figures charged out of the shadows from all sides. Darkin remembered grabbing for his sword, Bloodthirsty. But before he could unsheathe it, he was slammed on his left side. He briefly saw his assailant; he was tall and wore a black doublet over black chain mail. That was the last thing he remembered.
Darkin pushed the memories away. He needed to focus on the present. I am not dead, he thought to himself. The Death God surely would have appeared and taken his soul to the Otherside if it was truly his time to die. Maybe the Death God just gave him a little “taste” of the spirit world. Nobody he ever heard of has ever encountered death and came back to tell of it. What did those beings want of me if it was not my time to die? A flicker of recollection came, then, just as suddenly, disappeared. The crows are calling. He thought he heard them say that right before he felt himself falling back down to his body.
It was nearly impossible to determine fact from hysteria. Irritated, he decided to shake it all away and try to sit up. His 6 foot frame was aching everywhere. His legs and arms were stiff like a corpse. His dark, rain soaked hair clung to his face. Slowly, he wiped his long hair away from his eyes. The smell of death lingered here. He turned his head and saw several lumps scattered across the ground, which he was sure were bodies. The raindrops glistened as they beaded down the armor on the fallen ones. Overhead he saw tall, dead sentinel trees whose branches whistled with the breeze. Pairs of black eyes peered at him from those branches. Their cawing sent shivers down Darkin’s already cold body. He listened to the crows’ mournful song for a few moments. Crows always follow death and sing their song, the song of death. They seem to know when someone will die. Darkin wondered if the crows follow him and sing for the people he kills. He doubted they were singing for him now.
A smoky, white mist began to slither across the wet earth, like a ghost. It crept over the land and covered the dead bodies like a death blanket. As the mist started to get close to Darkin, he grew scared. I am not dead! His eyes stung and his face was numb from the rain. Before he could rub his eyes, a blinding, burning pain erupted on his side. Gingerly, he slid his hand below his rib cage and felt the end of the broken spear. Instinctually he gave a weak yank at the splintery wood. He tried to maintain stone face, but the pain was too much. He cried in agony. Pain was unbearable. The familiar feeling overcame him then. He again was weightless. He felt the world spinning. He heard the crow’s mournful cries, but he could not see anything but growing blackness. They are calling me. He thought he saw two dark figures heading toward him before drifting into the abyss.