Doroschuk
08-08-2010, 09:13 PM
Hello, I am a young author, closer to ten than twenty, and I hoped this would be a good website to share my story on. Sorry about the problem with the indentation, but it's still readable.
Chapter 1: The Hunt
The old forest had been quiet for a long time. Only the soothing sounds of the far off trickle of water and the humming of insects broke this natural silence. It was peaceful, but the tranquility was soon to be broken by an unwieldy passerby. Through the thick trees there came a man, running as if for his life, crashing through the forest, brushing tall trees, and crushing meager plants underfoot. He stopped in a clearing to catch his ragged breath.
The man was light in complexion, with short bushy hair, and no beard to speak of. The man’s clothes were ragged, his shoes were of torn leather, and his only weapon was a small blade tucked beneath his belt-sash. Broken shackles dangled from his wrists, making a very loud noise as he ran, and he began to hate himself for not removing the actual bands around his wrists. His face was wrinkled with frown-lines, and his tooth-lacking mouth hung open so as to catch a breath in all his haste. The tired man’s dark eyes constantly scanned ahead for a clear path, but every so often he would quickly glance behind to see if the rangers were near.
Not far behind the man were six figures, each cloaked and hooded. Each was clothed all the same, with their cloaks a grayish-green color, making them indistinguishable from the rest of the forest. The figure in the middle bent down low to the ground, and softly listened to the earth. He then brushed his fingers across the leaves and dirt. The hooded figure slowly stood up again, and held his right hand in the air, pointing three fingers upwards, then two downwards, he stuck his thumb towards himself, and finally balled his hand into a fist. A slight rustle could be heard as three of the cloaked men gathered up the trees, all the while the center figure walked ahead, distantly escorted by the final two.
The rangers slowly circled the clearing, until they surrounded it at six points. Finally the captain walked forth into the clearing, making himself noticed. The man in the center turned abruptly and faced the captain, who unveiled his face, showing an old and serious portrait, with one green eye, and the other covered with cloth. His long dark hair was a wild mess, and showed signs of grayness and age; his wizened face revealed years of battle and anguish; and several scars wound their way across his gnarled features. He himself seemed a relic of a darker time of pain and war, but peace had made him an old man, clinging to his long-forgotten past. His eye was like a pool of sorrow, masked by a veil of hatred; a hatred of those who would disturb the peace he sacrificed so much to bring.
The old man pulled the cloth from over his mouth and tucked it in his sash. The man with the shackles turned to run quickly away from the ranger, but the other two closed in, and the man stopped short and held his breath.
The captain smirked and said, “You are trapped, my friend, like a rat, and death rears its ugly head at your miserable self. You stand accused of murder in the first degree, and after being sentenced to life in prison, you escaped. If I were in your position I would have rotted in jail instead of escaped the prison. We all know escape from punishment is a personal insult to the king, and his Highmaster Sheo, and it also shows cowardice. Are you unable to face your just punishment for taking a life unjustly? For murdering the innocent? There is now a child with no father, a wife with no husband, and you are to blame. Now you face death, the ultimate price. But I give you a way out: put your mouth to the dirt and beg me for forgiveness for your crimes, and then you will beg to the family, you will grovel and writhe in the dirt until they are convinced of your immense regret. Then and only then may you go back to prison; but if you attempt anything unsavory, I will be forced to break you. And then of course you will die.” The thief moved his head down to the ground, as if bowing to the captain. He began to beg for forgiveness, but his remorse seemed hollow.
“Please,” he said, “I beg forgiveness for the murder of this innocent man.”
“I don’t believe you!” shouted the captain, “Beg, for your life depends on it.” He kicked the man, yelling and striking him. Tears streamed from the poor escapee’s face. He began to shout hysterically.
On the other side of the wallowing man their stood another ranger, who was called Furion. He was tall and thinner than the others. His hair was long and dark, but his eyes a piercing shade of gray. They were mesmerizing, like dew on the mountainside in the early morning. They were soft and inviting, but could be swift and terrible if he were so inclined. He had been the old captain’s protégé since he could remember; some say the captain had adopted him as his own almost immediately after the boy’s mother died in childbirth.
Furion was young and mindful of the world about him, the beautiful island of ancient forests and shimmering coastlines. He was a great ranger, even though he was still an apprentice, not even owning his own bow yet. His ears could hear incredibly well, and his eyes could see things distant as if they were clear as a still pool of water. He thought he knew everything, as all young people do, and he claimed he knew the old captain like the back of his hand. This was a routine for the captain, and Furion had seen it many times.
The captain, Merodus was his name, enjoyed it when captives begged. It reminded him of his glory days, back in the war, forty years ago. He was in his seventies now, but the old man still was frightening, and his hair was dark and thick. His age had made him bitter to all but Furion, but he always told stories to those who asked him: stories of his great deeds in the war as the Grand Captain of all the rangers, and he always told of the losses and sorrows faced by him and his kin. That is why he toyed with criminals. That is why he liked to turn them into emotional wrecks, he wanted them to lash out. He wanted to hurt them.
Merodus kept yelling at his prey, and continued to berate and insult him, moving ever closer to the man. The murderer had had enough, his confusion turned into rage, and he leapt up, grabbing his dagger, and slashed wildly at old man. Anticipating this move, The ranger swept towards the man’s right side, and grabbing his arm in two places, threw the fool to the ground. Then, placing his foot at the elbow, he yanked the man’s forearm, and there was a great snap as the man’s arm fell limp. The poor criminal began to scream wildly as the captain smirked proudly. Finally, a kick to the head knocked the captive unconscious, and the rest of the rangers leapt into the circle.
***
It was the day prior to the capture of the escapee when three men arrived on a boat in the port city of Mindalos, the quaint seat of government for the small island kingdom of Elhambrad.* They were tall and thin, very lithe and snakelike in appearance. They were pale and all had light gray hair, their cheekbones high, and their lips tight. The two on the side were dressed identically, a dark purple tunic and a red sash across their right shoulders. Each wore light boots and silken trousers. They both bore a mighty spear, a curved glaive of sorts, vicious and deadly.
In the middle was the most noble of the group, with hair as white as snow. He was taller than his companions and his clothes were far grander. He had black silk hugging his thin body, and a mantle of cold steel, with jagged edges making his appearance even more menacing. In the center of his ornate armor was a purple jewel, long and dull, and it seemed to hiss as he walked off the boat with his escort. His dark purple cloak whipped about as the man nimbly moved amongst the dock workers.
The party walked through the streets of Mindalos, with the leader staring disgustedly at the populace, while his escorts grimaced angrily at passerby. The men made no noise as they walked, even with the tallest man’s heavy girding. As they walked up towards the mountain, they caught sight of the palace, nothing more than a large beer hall to the white haired lord. People began to leave the party a wide area of space between them, and some stared frightened at their dark visage.
The snakelike men came to the palace guards, who stood in defiance of their passage through the gates. The leader of the group stared at the palace guards, whose eyes became wide with bliss. They embraced his soft, inviting gaze.
“You will open these gates,” the noble man said “and usher me forth as an honored guest, will you not?” The man tilted his head to the right and smiled, wide-eyed.
“I will indeed,” he said, and his voice echoed with the voice of the party’s leader. And happily he opened the gates and let the group through.
He brought forth a small horn, and upon blowing it loudly in the middle of the courtyard, he proclaimed, “Hail, king. Come to meet our honored guest, a lord from distant lands.” Within minutes, several large men, brutes with clubs and swords, came marching out into the courtyard, followed by a middle-aged man who wore a silver crown on his head. He was very flustered.
The king shouted with some sort of snobbish annoyance, “What is this disturbance that interrupts my breakfast!” The party’s leader stepped forth and raised his right hand. The king saw the man and took a quick step back. His mouth hung slightly agape, and he couldn't catch his breath. He attempted to look away from those eyes, those inviting eyes.
“I believe you refer to me,” the white-haired man said, smirking, “but I would not speak in such a way to a person of my status. You are the disturbance, old man, and I have already lost a bit of my nerve hearing your foolish complaints. You should be honored to have my person as a guest. But I have no time for party in my honor, I am on a tight schedule and I require you to answer my question with haste.”
The king almost fell back at such a response, all he could say was, “Go on.”
The gentle-eyed man spoke, “I am Turos Fialis Si’hiron; Turos, most call me, and I am lord of the Eldari Si’hiron. I look for a man, his hair dark, his body thin and tall. He would have eyes reminiscent to mine.”
The king shook his head, and stepped back again, "I don't know who you think you are, but this is my land, and my people, who I protect."
The noble man showed a great rage and grabbed hold of the king, his guards being too frightened to intervene.
He took the foolish king in close and said, "It won't be yours for long."
His eyes lost all the softness, they were swift and terrible. The king gasped, and collapsed on the ground, his guard once again standing back.
His eyes were wide with fear, and he breathed heavily, gripping the grass for support.
"I have seen those eyes before,” he said.
***
It was dusk when the rangers returned home with the bounty of their hunt. All of them walked in a tight group, speaking little, but Furion showed more pride in the catch than anyone. This had been his first hunt as a brother, a title bestowed to a young man at the age of sixteen. It was only a title, worth nothing more than a name. Furion was still an apprentice; still learning the ways of the rangers, still kept under supervision.
They climbed up the steep mountain pass, an ancient pathway, known only to the rangers, used to bypass the village at the foot of the mountain. This was necessary as the people would become uncomfortable when near rangers. The rangers had always been a highly respected group of well-trained individuals, but the people knew they had a black and white view of law. It was best to stay away and avoid them, lest you be the target of their attention. Thus, the rangers avoided the people, not out of spite, but simply because their goal in life was to stop high level threats to peace, not to catch cat burglars.
When the party arrived at the top of the mountain, Furion stopped to see the setting sun. From hear one could see all the way to Mindalos, and out to the sea beyond. Dalom came up beside him.
“You wish you could go don’t you?” he said quietly. Furion sighed and turned to face him. Dalom was a tall man, with dark hair and eyes of hazel. He had an unshaven face, complimenting his chiseled jaw. His gear was that of every ranger, except for a necklace he kept hidden beneath his cloak. It was the crescent moon, given to him by his parents before he became a ranger. He hadn’t seen them since he was eight years old.
“More than anything brother,” Furion replied, “I just want to know what’s out there, I want to see for myself.”
Dalom grinned, “Is the library not good enough for you?” Furion shook his head.
“I see strange places in my head, and I don’t know why. I wish I could go and see it for myself. But my place is here with the rangers, to serve and protect.” He sighed again and turned back to the sunset. Was he to live out his days here, filled with hope and stupid ideas? He knew he could never leave, he was sworn to stay, a pact that can only be broken by direct order of the grandmaster of the chapter.
They walked slowly the rest of the way, chatting lightly, and staying well behind the other rangers. The sun was close to going under the horizon, blanketing the world in twilight and those little white lights called stars. The crickets began their mellow drone, and the wind blew the sound out upon the land. It was late summer, mid-August, in the year of Drua, one of the seven great spirits.
There were many spirits in the world, and the Seven were like a pantheon, and all great nations revered them. Each held a certain realm as his own though, with their little island being the ancestral home of Highmaster Sheo, lord of the hunt, and of the forests. He was a quiet spirit, taking the form of wolf. His gift to humanity was wit, and the bow. Drua was the lady of the seas, a kind spirit, who kept the seas under control. But she was quick to temper, and then her wrath was terrible, destroying ships and lives. She gave humanity sailing, and helped shape fish. There were many others, and they were all of the same origin, The One. But that is a tale for later.
The Monastery was built atop Mount Gilcus, and it was a massive building. Filled with monks, rangers, and pilgrims alike, the place was the greatest temple to Sheo in the entire world. It was tall and wide, columned all about. It was built of red stone, eroded by age, giving it a dusty look. It was surrounded by the Gardens of the Highmaster, filled with beautiful trees and hedges, statues and fountains. The entire square was surrounded by a red stone wall, which stood about waist height. Beyond the Monastary was a great set of stone steps, leading all the way down the mountain and into the village. The sun showed its last rays against the building, giving the place a mystical look, befitting Lord Sheo.
***
Now the figure robed in black arrived in the small village, accompanied by the hooded men. Turos eyed the peasants with disdain. He couldn’t waste anymore time. The invasion would come soon, and he needed to be long gone by that time, it was his mission. He remembered his home, as large city, gleaming white, and towers that seemed to touch the sky. It was surrounded by green fields and white mountains, followed by a deep blue sea. He smiled for a fraction of a second, but then he remembered his mission. He had to find the boy, and prove his worth to his father.
He picked up the pace of his walk, passing stone huts, with the little ugly people who lived in them. Meat and clothes were left outside, and a foul stench hung in the air. The street was hardly a path, beaten by travel, and it led straight to a massive set of steps in the mountain, and it led upwards, but Turos couldn’t make out the top. He continued, closely escorted by the other two, and they all made the arduous journey to the top.
Upon arriving at the end of the stairs, Turos saw a building that had a great magnificence, even if it was of humble design. He was almost in awe at the beauty, but he shook it off. Daylight was waning, and the sun was not far from the edge of the world. He held his hand up, signaling his bodyguard to stand behind. They were more for intimidation really, he didn’t actually need them, he was quite capable of protecting himself.
Turos walked up the steps leading to a great doorway, with massive wolves heads carved in gold on the front. Each was ferocious looking, and held a thick ring in its mouth. Turos took one ring in hand, and banged against the door. After a while, the door creaked open, and a little man came out from behind it. He was small, and very old, with a great white beard hanging from his face, hiding his mouth. His eyes looked as if they were creased shut, and his face seemed entirely made up of wrinkles. There was no hair atop his head. He was bent over his cane, and he dressed in simple red robes.
The old man spoke quietly, “What can I do for you my child?” As he spoke he shook terribly, and his beard seemed to bounce below his nose.
“I come to seek man, dark haired, tall and thin, his eyes are gray. I was told they call him Furion. Do you happen to know where he resides, old master?”A smile seemed to creep under the old man’s beard.
“Aah Furion,” he said, “yes I know of him. He resides here, but he is gone right now; gone up north he has. I believe he is to return tomorrow, midday if all goes well. I would invite you in, but our rooms are full at the present. Perhaps you could find boarding in the village?”
Turos shrugged, “I will come tomorrow then, and we shall finally meet.” The old man hinted malice in these words.
“Indeed you shall,” he said, and closed the door. Turos turned angrily, and walked back to is escort.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Then I shall have my prize. Then they turned, and headed back towards the village.
***
Furion and Dalom were in the great dining hall of the Monastary, enjoying a feast with their fellow rangers. The meal was excellent, and all agreed that Friar Hamma had outdone himself. Salted pork, corned beef, fruits of all kind, plus squash and potatoes, and of course the best ale in the cellar. They all sat in rows on wooden tables, all perpendicular to the great fire, in the middle of the hall. Closer to the fire was a circle with a wide rug, and chairs all around to sit and smoke your pipe in. Here the rangers told stories and tales of glory, each more wild than its predecessor.
After dinner they all sat in this circle, smoking and drinking, telling stories of old. Furion sat a little outside the circle, thinking more than listening. He neither smoked nor drank ale: neither suited him; smoking made him sick, and he had yet to find any ale he cared to taste. It was well into nighttime when Captain Surrocus walked into the room. He was a large man, garbed in red robes and thick boots. He was the Grandmaster’s gopher, a simple fellow, elevated to captain status simply to please his ego. The room went silent as he approached Furion.
“The Grandmaster wishes your presence in his study,” Surrocus said, in his slow, deep voice. Then he slowly shuffled out of the room. As Furion stood to leave, everyone stared at him as if he was in trouble. Dalom gave him a questioning look, and he answered with a confused shrug. Leaving the room, he tried to remember his way into the Grandmaster’s study. Upon navigating through the maze of green colored walls, he found the large red door leading into the study. Opening it, Furion saw the Grand master in his small pillowed seat, which he meditated on, but still leaned back in, as he was very old and tired. The younger man bowed to the floor, with his hands stretched outward.
“Rise child,” the old man said. His face was grave behind his thick beard, and his tone was foreboding.
“Grandmaster,” said Furion, “Why have you called upon me?” The old man’s face fell even more downcast.
“Before you and the other rangers returned to the Monastary, we received a visitor. He was tall and thin, with white hair and an air of pride. He seemed a respectable man, and he asked to find you. I lied to him, telling him that you would return tomorrow. I know my decision was right, for his next words were filled with a poison, like a burning acid in his voice. I retreated back into the walls, and he went down to the village.” Furion’s eyes were focused on the old man, following his every word. He bent down, and tried to take in all this.
“What am I to do, Grandmaster,” he asked. The old man shook his head.
“Sleep for now, and if it comes to it, you may need to flee somewhere safe. Go now, get some rest young one.” Furion wandered into his dormitory, which was still empty. Changing into his sleeping robe, Furion went to his bed. It felt unusually hard, and he rolled to his side to get more comfortable. After what seemed hours he finally fell into the darkness of sleep.
But even this was haunted. He saw gleaming white towers, and great mountains, but then it was black, fiery and terrible. And in the sky he saw a face, not a man’s, but a woman’s. She was beautiful, with dark hair, and golden eyes, she smiled maliciously, and then let loose a laugh, a terrible never-ending laugh. It was a laugh of pure cruelty. Furion felt his mind tear from his body, and fly towards the woman. The laugh continued as he flew into the blackness of her mouth, and then there was a scream.
Furion woke with a start, sweating, and his heart beating. He threw back the covers and began to walk towards the dormitory’s deck. As he went outside, he found peace in the forest’s darkness, its calmness. But as he looked towards the horizon, in the direction of Mindalos, he thought his eyes played tricks on him. From afar, he could see a great light coming from the city, and he made out smoke. He watched it with uncertainty, but then something happened that made him nearly jump. A great bolt of lightning flew forth from the city, making a great clap of thunder, and lit the night sky. This was unnatural, insane. He ran to get his clothes on, and found several of the others awake. Dalom, wide awake, asked what was going on.
“Lightning,” Furion replied, “lightning as if from the earth. And the city burns.” They all sat up in their beds, except Shek, a young man assigned with the duty of warning the surrounding island of danger. He ran out of the room and towards the central monastery tower, while all the rest gathered their clothing.
They were all dressed when they heard a great horn blast through the night, and soon the entire monastery was buzzing with confusion. After half an hour in the courtyard, Furion was approached by the elderly Grandmaster. As Furion started to bow, the old man stopped him.
“Now is the time you must leave,” he said, “this place is no longer safe for you. You must leave by a ship arranged for you at the eastern end of the island. Merodus and Dalom have volunteered to escort you, and will die in your defense. Get to the continental port, and head northeast. Look for that which is pure, yet can kill the foolish. Go now!”
Furion was confused, “But master, why am I the one who gets protection, who has to leave. Why can I not stay and protect my home?”
The old man sighed, “There are things that will be cleared up soon, but remember, you are far more important than you can possibly imagine. Now go.” And with that, Furion was grabbed by Captain Merodus, and led to the mountain path.
Halfway down the mountain they met Dalom, who nodded to the captain. Then they all jogged quickly towards the sea. Leading the way, Dalom found the ship that was to take them. It was a long vessel, with a great beast’s head on the front. The captain of the ship stood next to it, ushering the rangers up the gangplank. He then proceeded up himself, and had his men set sail. The rangers then turned back and watched the island as they slowly took off. It seemed as if the great fire was spreading, and Furion looked down, filled with grief. Merodus patted him on the back gently.
The old warrior looked back at the island one last time and said, “Please Sheo, have mercy on their souls.”
Chapter 1: The Hunt
The old forest had been quiet for a long time. Only the soothing sounds of the far off trickle of water and the humming of insects broke this natural silence. It was peaceful, but the tranquility was soon to be broken by an unwieldy passerby. Through the thick trees there came a man, running as if for his life, crashing through the forest, brushing tall trees, and crushing meager plants underfoot. He stopped in a clearing to catch his ragged breath.
The man was light in complexion, with short bushy hair, and no beard to speak of. The man’s clothes were ragged, his shoes were of torn leather, and his only weapon was a small blade tucked beneath his belt-sash. Broken shackles dangled from his wrists, making a very loud noise as he ran, and he began to hate himself for not removing the actual bands around his wrists. His face was wrinkled with frown-lines, and his tooth-lacking mouth hung open so as to catch a breath in all his haste. The tired man’s dark eyes constantly scanned ahead for a clear path, but every so often he would quickly glance behind to see if the rangers were near.
Not far behind the man were six figures, each cloaked and hooded. Each was clothed all the same, with their cloaks a grayish-green color, making them indistinguishable from the rest of the forest. The figure in the middle bent down low to the ground, and softly listened to the earth. He then brushed his fingers across the leaves and dirt. The hooded figure slowly stood up again, and held his right hand in the air, pointing three fingers upwards, then two downwards, he stuck his thumb towards himself, and finally balled his hand into a fist. A slight rustle could be heard as three of the cloaked men gathered up the trees, all the while the center figure walked ahead, distantly escorted by the final two.
The rangers slowly circled the clearing, until they surrounded it at six points. Finally the captain walked forth into the clearing, making himself noticed. The man in the center turned abruptly and faced the captain, who unveiled his face, showing an old and serious portrait, with one green eye, and the other covered with cloth. His long dark hair was a wild mess, and showed signs of grayness and age; his wizened face revealed years of battle and anguish; and several scars wound their way across his gnarled features. He himself seemed a relic of a darker time of pain and war, but peace had made him an old man, clinging to his long-forgotten past. His eye was like a pool of sorrow, masked by a veil of hatred; a hatred of those who would disturb the peace he sacrificed so much to bring.
The old man pulled the cloth from over his mouth and tucked it in his sash. The man with the shackles turned to run quickly away from the ranger, but the other two closed in, and the man stopped short and held his breath.
The captain smirked and said, “You are trapped, my friend, like a rat, and death rears its ugly head at your miserable self. You stand accused of murder in the first degree, and after being sentenced to life in prison, you escaped. If I were in your position I would have rotted in jail instead of escaped the prison. We all know escape from punishment is a personal insult to the king, and his Highmaster Sheo, and it also shows cowardice. Are you unable to face your just punishment for taking a life unjustly? For murdering the innocent? There is now a child with no father, a wife with no husband, and you are to blame. Now you face death, the ultimate price. But I give you a way out: put your mouth to the dirt and beg me for forgiveness for your crimes, and then you will beg to the family, you will grovel and writhe in the dirt until they are convinced of your immense regret. Then and only then may you go back to prison; but if you attempt anything unsavory, I will be forced to break you. And then of course you will die.” The thief moved his head down to the ground, as if bowing to the captain. He began to beg for forgiveness, but his remorse seemed hollow.
“Please,” he said, “I beg forgiveness for the murder of this innocent man.”
“I don’t believe you!” shouted the captain, “Beg, for your life depends on it.” He kicked the man, yelling and striking him. Tears streamed from the poor escapee’s face. He began to shout hysterically.
On the other side of the wallowing man their stood another ranger, who was called Furion. He was tall and thinner than the others. His hair was long and dark, but his eyes a piercing shade of gray. They were mesmerizing, like dew on the mountainside in the early morning. They were soft and inviting, but could be swift and terrible if he were so inclined. He had been the old captain’s protégé since he could remember; some say the captain had adopted him as his own almost immediately after the boy’s mother died in childbirth.
Furion was young and mindful of the world about him, the beautiful island of ancient forests and shimmering coastlines. He was a great ranger, even though he was still an apprentice, not even owning his own bow yet. His ears could hear incredibly well, and his eyes could see things distant as if they were clear as a still pool of water. He thought he knew everything, as all young people do, and he claimed he knew the old captain like the back of his hand. This was a routine for the captain, and Furion had seen it many times.
The captain, Merodus was his name, enjoyed it when captives begged. It reminded him of his glory days, back in the war, forty years ago. He was in his seventies now, but the old man still was frightening, and his hair was dark and thick. His age had made him bitter to all but Furion, but he always told stories to those who asked him: stories of his great deeds in the war as the Grand Captain of all the rangers, and he always told of the losses and sorrows faced by him and his kin. That is why he toyed with criminals. That is why he liked to turn them into emotional wrecks, he wanted them to lash out. He wanted to hurt them.
Merodus kept yelling at his prey, and continued to berate and insult him, moving ever closer to the man. The murderer had had enough, his confusion turned into rage, and he leapt up, grabbing his dagger, and slashed wildly at old man. Anticipating this move, The ranger swept towards the man’s right side, and grabbing his arm in two places, threw the fool to the ground. Then, placing his foot at the elbow, he yanked the man’s forearm, and there was a great snap as the man’s arm fell limp. The poor criminal began to scream wildly as the captain smirked proudly. Finally, a kick to the head knocked the captive unconscious, and the rest of the rangers leapt into the circle.
***
It was the day prior to the capture of the escapee when three men arrived on a boat in the port city of Mindalos, the quaint seat of government for the small island kingdom of Elhambrad.* They were tall and thin, very lithe and snakelike in appearance. They were pale and all had light gray hair, their cheekbones high, and their lips tight. The two on the side were dressed identically, a dark purple tunic and a red sash across their right shoulders. Each wore light boots and silken trousers. They both bore a mighty spear, a curved glaive of sorts, vicious and deadly.
In the middle was the most noble of the group, with hair as white as snow. He was taller than his companions and his clothes were far grander. He had black silk hugging his thin body, and a mantle of cold steel, with jagged edges making his appearance even more menacing. In the center of his ornate armor was a purple jewel, long and dull, and it seemed to hiss as he walked off the boat with his escort. His dark purple cloak whipped about as the man nimbly moved amongst the dock workers.
The party walked through the streets of Mindalos, with the leader staring disgustedly at the populace, while his escorts grimaced angrily at passerby. The men made no noise as they walked, even with the tallest man’s heavy girding. As they walked up towards the mountain, they caught sight of the palace, nothing more than a large beer hall to the white haired lord. People began to leave the party a wide area of space between them, and some stared frightened at their dark visage.
The snakelike men came to the palace guards, who stood in defiance of their passage through the gates. The leader of the group stared at the palace guards, whose eyes became wide with bliss. They embraced his soft, inviting gaze.
“You will open these gates,” the noble man said “and usher me forth as an honored guest, will you not?” The man tilted his head to the right and smiled, wide-eyed.
“I will indeed,” he said, and his voice echoed with the voice of the party’s leader. And happily he opened the gates and let the group through.
He brought forth a small horn, and upon blowing it loudly in the middle of the courtyard, he proclaimed, “Hail, king. Come to meet our honored guest, a lord from distant lands.” Within minutes, several large men, brutes with clubs and swords, came marching out into the courtyard, followed by a middle-aged man who wore a silver crown on his head. He was very flustered.
The king shouted with some sort of snobbish annoyance, “What is this disturbance that interrupts my breakfast!” The party’s leader stepped forth and raised his right hand. The king saw the man and took a quick step back. His mouth hung slightly agape, and he couldn't catch his breath. He attempted to look away from those eyes, those inviting eyes.
“I believe you refer to me,” the white-haired man said, smirking, “but I would not speak in such a way to a person of my status. You are the disturbance, old man, and I have already lost a bit of my nerve hearing your foolish complaints. You should be honored to have my person as a guest. But I have no time for party in my honor, I am on a tight schedule and I require you to answer my question with haste.”
The king almost fell back at such a response, all he could say was, “Go on.”
The gentle-eyed man spoke, “I am Turos Fialis Si’hiron; Turos, most call me, and I am lord of the Eldari Si’hiron. I look for a man, his hair dark, his body thin and tall. He would have eyes reminiscent to mine.”
The king shook his head, and stepped back again, "I don't know who you think you are, but this is my land, and my people, who I protect."
The noble man showed a great rage and grabbed hold of the king, his guards being too frightened to intervene.
He took the foolish king in close and said, "It won't be yours for long."
His eyes lost all the softness, they were swift and terrible. The king gasped, and collapsed on the ground, his guard once again standing back.
His eyes were wide with fear, and he breathed heavily, gripping the grass for support.
"I have seen those eyes before,” he said.
***
It was dusk when the rangers returned home with the bounty of their hunt. All of them walked in a tight group, speaking little, but Furion showed more pride in the catch than anyone. This had been his first hunt as a brother, a title bestowed to a young man at the age of sixteen. It was only a title, worth nothing more than a name. Furion was still an apprentice; still learning the ways of the rangers, still kept under supervision.
They climbed up the steep mountain pass, an ancient pathway, known only to the rangers, used to bypass the village at the foot of the mountain. This was necessary as the people would become uncomfortable when near rangers. The rangers had always been a highly respected group of well-trained individuals, but the people knew they had a black and white view of law. It was best to stay away and avoid them, lest you be the target of their attention. Thus, the rangers avoided the people, not out of spite, but simply because their goal in life was to stop high level threats to peace, not to catch cat burglars.
When the party arrived at the top of the mountain, Furion stopped to see the setting sun. From hear one could see all the way to Mindalos, and out to the sea beyond. Dalom came up beside him.
“You wish you could go don’t you?” he said quietly. Furion sighed and turned to face him. Dalom was a tall man, with dark hair and eyes of hazel. He had an unshaven face, complimenting his chiseled jaw. His gear was that of every ranger, except for a necklace he kept hidden beneath his cloak. It was the crescent moon, given to him by his parents before he became a ranger. He hadn’t seen them since he was eight years old.
“More than anything brother,” Furion replied, “I just want to know what’s out there, I want to see for myself.”
Dalom grinned, “Is the library not good enough for you?” Furion shook his head.
“I see strange places in my head, and I don’t know why. I wish I could go and see it for myself. But my place is here with the rangers, to serve and protect.” He sighed again and turned back to the sunset. Was he to live out his days here, filled with hope and stupid ideas? He knew he could never leave, he was sworn to stay, a pact that can only be broken by direct order of the grandmaster of the chapter.
They walked slowly the rest of the way, chatting lightly, and staying well behind the other rangers. The sun was close to going under the horizon, blanketing the world in twilight and those little white lights called stars. The crickets began their mellow drone, and the wind blew the sound out upon the land. It was late summer, mid-August, in the year of Drua, one of the seven great spirits.
There were many spirits in the world, and the Seven were like a pantheon, and all great nations revered them. Each held a certain realm as his own though, with their little island being the ancestral home of Highmaster Sheo, lord of the hunt, and of the forests. He was a quiet spirit, taking the form of wolf. His gift to humanity was wit, and the bow. Drua was the lady of the seas, a kind spirit, who kept the seas under control. But she was quick to temper, and then her wrath was terrible, destroying ships and lives. She gave humanity sailing, and helped shape fish. There were many others, and they were all of the same origin, The One. But that is a tale for later.
The Monastery was built atop Mount Gilcus, and it was a massive building. Filled with monks, rangers, and pilgrims alike, the place was the greatest temple to Sheo in the entire world. It was tall and wide, columned all about. It was built of red stone, eroded by age, giving it a dusty look. It was surrounded by the Gardens of the Highmaster, filled with beautiful trees and hedges, statues and fountains. The entire square was surrounded by a red stone wall, which stood about waist height. Beyond the Monastary was a great set of stone steps, leading all the way down the mountain and into the village. The sun showed its last rays against the building, giving the place a mystical look, befitting Lord Sheo.
***
Now the figure robed in black arrived in the small village, accompanied by the hooded men. Turos eyed the peasants with disdain. He couldn’t waste anymore time. The invasion would come soon, and he needed to be long gone by that time, it was his mission. He remembered his home, as large city, gleaming white, and towers that seemed to touch the sky. It was surrounded by green fields and white mountains, followed by a deep blue sea. He smiled for a fraction of a second, but then he remembered his mission. He had to find the boy, and prove his worth to his father.
He picked up the pace of his walk, passing stone huts, with the little ugly people who lived in them. Meat and clothes were left outside, and a foul stench hung in the air. The street was hardly a path, beaten by travel, and it led straight to a massive set of steps in the mountain, and it led upwards, but Turos couldn’t make out the top. He continued, closely escorted by the other two, and they all made the arduous journey to the top.
Upon arriving at the end of the stairs, Turos saw a building that had a great magnificence, even if it was of humble design. He was almost in awe at the beauty, but he shook it off. Daylight was waning, and the sun was not far from the edge of the world. He held his hand up, signaling his bodyguard to stand behind. They were more for intimidation really, he didn’t actually need them, he was quite capable of protecting himself.
Turos walked up the steps leading to a great doorway, with massive wolves heads carved in gold on the front. Each was ferocious looking, and held a thick ring in its mouth. Turos took one ring in hand, and banged against the door. After a while, the door creaked open, and a little man came out from behind it. He was small, and very old, with a great white beard hanging from his face, hiding his mouth. His eyes looked as if they were creased shut, and his face seemed entirely made up of wrinkles. There was no hair atop his head. He was bent over his cane, and he dressed in simple red robes.
The old man spoke quietly, “What can I do for you my child?” As he spoke he shook terribly, and his beard seemed to bounce below his nose.
“I come to seek man, dark haired, tall and thin, his eyes are gray. I was told they call him Furion. Do you happen to know where he resides, old master?”A smile seemed to creep under the old man’s beard.
“Aah Furion,” he said, “yes I know of him. He resides here, but he is gone right now; gone up north he has. I believe he is to return tomorrow, midday if all goes well. I would invite you in, but our rooms are full at the present. Perhaps you could find boarding in the village?”
Turos shrugged, “I will come tomorrow then, and we shall finally meet.” The old man hinted malice in these words.
“Indeed you shall,” he said, and closed the door. Turos turned angrily, and walked back to is escort.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “Then I shall have my prize. Then they turned, and headed back towards the village.
***
Furion and Dalom were in the great dining hall of the Monastary, enjoying a feast with their fellow rangers. The meal was excellent, and all agreed that Friar Hamma had outdone himself. Salted pork, corned beef, fruits of all kind, plus squash and potatoes, and of course the best ale in the cellar. They all sat in rows on wooden tables, all perpendicular to the great fire, in the middle of the hall. Closer to the fire was a circle with a wide rug, and chairs all around to sit and smoke your pipe in. Here the rangers told stories and tales of glory, each more wild than its predecessor.
After dinner they all sat in this circle, smoking and drinking, telling stories of old. Furion sat a little outside the circle, thinking more than listening. He neither smoked nor drank ale: neither suited him; smoking made him sick, and he had yet to find any ale he cared to taste. It was well into nighttime when Captain Surrocus walked into the room. He was a large man, garbed in red robes and thick boots. He was the Grandmaster’s gopher, a simple fellow, elevated to captain status simply to please his ego. The room went silent as he approached Furion.
“The Grandmaster wishes your presence in his study,” Surrocus said, in his slow, deep voice. Then he slowly shuffled out of the room. As Furion stood to leave, everyone stared at him as if he was in trouble. Dalom gave him a questioning look, and he answered with a confused shrug. Leaving the room, he tried to remember his way into the Grandmaster’s study. Upon navigating through the maze of green colored walls, he found the large red door leading into the study. Opening it, Furion saw the Grand master in his small pillowed seat, which he meditated on, but still leaned back in, as he was very old and tired. The younger man bowed to the floor, with his hands stretched outward.
“Rise child,” the old man said. His face was grave behind his thick beard, and his tone was foreboding.
“Grandmaster,” said Furion, “Why have you called upon me?” The old man’s face fell even more downcast.
“Before you and the other rangers returned to the Monastary, we received a visitor. He was tall and thin, with white hair and an air of pride. He seemed a respectable man, and he asked to find you. I lied to him, telling him that you would return tomorrow. I know my decision was right, for his next words were filled with a poison, like a burning acid in his voice. I retreated back into the walls, and he went down to the village.” Furion’s eyes were focused on the old man, following his every word. He bent down, and tried to take in all this.
“What am I to do, Grandmaster,” he asked. The old man shook his head.
“Sleep for now, and if it comes to it, you may need to flee somewhere safe. Go now, get some rest young one.” Furion wandered into his dormitory, which was still empty. Changing into his sleeping robe, Furion went to his bed. It felt unusually hard, and he rolled to his side to get more comfortable. After what seemed hours he finally fell into the darkness of sleep.
But even this was haunted. He saw gleaming white towers, and great mountains, but then it was black, fiery and terrible. And in the sky he saw a face, not a man’s, but a woman’s. She was beautiful, with dark hair, and golden eyes, she smiled maliciously, and then let loose a laugh, a terrible never-ending laugh. It was a laugh of pure cruelty. Furion felt his mind tear from his body, and fly towards the woman. The laugh continued as he flew into the blackness of her mouth, and then there was a scream.
Furion woke with a start, sweating, and his heart beating. He threw back the covers and began to walk towards the dormitory’s deck. As he went outside, he found peace in the forest’s darkness, its calmness. But as he looked towards the horizon, in the direction of Mindalos, he thought his eyes played tricks on him. From afar, he could see a great light coming from the city, and he made out smoke. He watched it with uncertainty, but then something happened that made him nearly jump. A great bolt of lightning flew forth from the city, making a great clap of thunder, and lit the night sky. This was unnatural, insane. He ran to get his clothes on, and found several of the others awake. Dalom, wide awake, asked what was going on.
“Lightning,” Furion replied, “lightning as if from the earth. And the city burns.” They all sat up in their beds, except Shek, a young man assigned with the duty of warning the surrounding island of danger. He ran out of the room and towards the central monastery tower, while all the rest gathered their clothing.
They were all dressed when they heard a great horn blast through the night, and soon the entire monastery was buzzing with confusion. After half an hour in the courtyard, Furion was approached by the elderly Grandmaster. As Furion started to bow, the old man stopped him.
“Now is the time you must leave,” he said, “this place is no longer safe for you. You must leave by a ship arranged for you at the eastern end of the island. Merodus and Dalom have volunteered to escort you, and will die in your defense. Get to the continental port, and head northeast. Look for that which is pure, yet can kill the foolish. Go now!”
Furion was confused, “But master, why am I the one who gets protection, who has to leave. Why can I not stay and protect my home?”
The old man sighed, “There are things that will be cleared up soon, but remember, you are far more important than you can possibly imagine. Now go.” And with that, Furion was grabbed by Captain Merodus, and led to the mountain path.
Halfway down the mountain they met Dalom, who nodded to the captain. Then they all jogged quickly towards the sea. Leading the way, Dalom found the ship that was to take them. It was a long vessel, with a great beast’s head on the front. The captain of the ship stood next to it, ushering the rangers up the gangplank. He then proceeded up himself, and had his men set sail. The rangers then turned back and watched the island as they slowly took off. It seemed as if the great fire was spreading, and Furion looked down, filled with grief. Merodus patted him on the back gently.
The old warrior looked back at the island one last time and said, “Please Sheo, have mercy on their souls.”