socrates2479
Member
- Joined
- Aug 1, 2006
- Messages
- 19
Hi, I have already posted before with the title "Into a Darkening Storm", where I introduced one character. In this short extract I introduce another. Thanks in advance for any comments/critiques.
Into a Darkening Storm // Introduction to character 2
Prologue
The Rift was calm this night, a slight wind rose from the west, travelling across the deep ocean, darkest black in the night; a light wind where storms were commonplace, where travel was rarely attempted, and then only by the most foolish or the most brave. Across the Rift the wind travelled to the Isle of Dreams, standing alone, tiny compared to the giant continents to the north and south.
As it reached the island, it seemed to dissipate, the azure waters clean and fresh teemed with life, silent as they swam. The island was lush, covered with verdant forests from one end to the other; the single mountain standing proud to the north the only break in the trees. A small village surrounded it, huts made of the tough reeds that grew in abundance. The village was silent now, as the inhabitants slept, secure in the knowledge that they were safe. No guards or sentries were posted, the largest predators were not large enough or numerous enough to pose any kind of threat.
All was dark, silent; even the nocturnal insects seemed afraid to make a sound; yet not all on the island were asleep. In a cave high up on the mountain, a solitary figure sat waiting for visions of what might be.
Shahn groaned as his back began to throb; a deep pain that had been with him for many years, a pain that was set in his bones. He had been sitting cross-legged for several days now, focussing his thoughts for this moment. But this waiting had only served to make him more aware of all the aches and pains in his 130 year old body.
The blue robes he wore were covered with intricate scenes of hunting, a mighty stag pushed against a tree by hunters, its eyes reflecting its pain and anguish; a picture of the path of the moon and the sun, following their daily cycle of life and death and rebirth. There were many images, and all seemed to flow into one another, sewn with intricate care, capturing the very essence of the images portrayed.
He was bald now, his head no longer requiring the constant shaving that had seemed such a chore in his youth but now would be so welcome; he smiled at his own vanity. His face was also clean shaven, his skin darkened almost to black and covered by vibrant blood red tattoos on the left side of his head, beginning at the temple and stretching down his face onto his neck. What looked like a haphazard arrangement of arcane symbols were far from that; their true meaning and power were known only to him. Although they were tattoos, they shone brightly, as if the years had not dulled them. They were like an intricate network of blood vessels, pumping with life.
He shivered from the cold; the sun had set many hours ago, chased to his rest by his Sister-Wife, the moon, who watched the land half-asleep, tired from the chase.[FONT="] [/FONT]He often wondered where that legend had arisen, where stories like that came from. In his mind he could almost imagine the moon wagging a finger at the sun, telling him off much like the village women did to their husbands; he supposed it did not matter if you were human or a sun or a stag, women always seemed to berate men for some reason or another.
He sat upon a thin mat, the only protection he had against the cold, rocky floor of the cave where he often came to contemplate or meditate. His people, the Kanoute, placed great significance on mountains and caves; they believed that they were paths to the Underland, a place of great danger where the demons and devils lived; a place filled with pain and hate for the beings of the Overland. Any who travelled those paths were lucky to ever be seen again. Fanciful tales some thought, but with the knowledge he possessed, he knew these tales were based on some fact. Even so, he believed there was no danger on this island and came to these caves without fear.
The mat was about three feet long and barely wide enough for him to sit on, its rich brown long ago faded to a muted and lacklustre hue. His prayer mat he often called it, but he had never once used it for prayer. He believed, like all his people, every person only had one prayer that would be answered. Many used their prayers on frivolous things early in their youth, only when they got older and faced the hardships of life did they rue that wasteful attitude they had as youngsters. He had held onto his for 130 years, and he knew exactly what he wanted to pray for; there were dark times coming soon, and his people would need all the prayers they could get. He shivered again, and not from the cold.
Into a Darkening Storm // Introduction to character 2
Prologue
The Rift was calm this night, a slight wind rose from the west, travelling across the deep ocean, darkest black in the night; a light wind where storms were commonplace, where travel was rarely attempted, and then only by the most foolish or the most brave. Across the Rift the wind travelled to the Isle of Dreams, standing alone, tiny compared to the giant continents to the north and south.
As it reached the island, it seemed to dissipate, the azure waters clean and fresh teemed with life, silent as they swam. The island was lush, covered with verdant forests from one end to the other; the single mountain standing proud to the north the only break in the trees. A small village surrounded it, huts made of the tough reeds that grew in abundance. The village was silent now, as the inhabitants slept, secure in the knowledge that they were safe. No guards or sentries were posted, the largest predators were not large enough or numerous enough to pose any kind of threat.
All was dark, silent; even the nocturnal insects seemed afraid to make a sound; yet not all on the island were asleep. In a cave high up on the mountain, a solitary figure sat waiting for visions of what might be.
Shahn groaned as his back began to throb; a deep pain that had been with him for many years, a pain that was set in his bones. He had been sitting cross-legged for several days now, focussing his thoughts for this moment. But this waiting had only served to make him more aware of all the aches and pains in his 130 year old body.
The blue robes he wore were covered with intricate scenes of hunting, a mighty stag pushed against a tree by hunters, its eyes reflecting its pain and anguish; a picture of the path of the moon and the sun, following their daily cycle of life and death and rebirth. There were many images, and all seemed to flow into one another, sewn with intricate care, capturing the very essence of the images portrayed.
He was bald now, his head no longer requiring the constant shaving that had seemed such a chore in his youth but now would be so welcome; he smiled at his own vanity. His face was also clean shaven, his skin darkened almost to black and covered by vibrant blood red tattoos on the left side of his head, beginning at the temple and stretching down his face onto his neck. What looked like a haphazard arrangement of arcane symbols were far from that; their true meaning and power were known only to him. Although they were tattoos, they shone brightly, as if the years had not dulled them. They were like an intricate network of blood vessels, pumping with life.
He shivered from the cold; the sun had set many hours ago, chased to his rest by his Sister-Wife, the moon, who watched the land half-asleep, tired from the chase.[FONT="] [/FONT]He often wondered where that legend had arisen, where stories like that came from. In his mind he could almost imagine the moon wagging a finger at the sun, telling him off much like the village women did to their husbands; he supposed it did not matter if you were human or a sun or a stag, women always seemed to berate men for some reason or another.
He sat upon a thin mat, the only protection he had against the cold, rocky floor of the cave where he often came to contemplate or meditate. His people, the Kanoute, placed great significance on mountains and caves; they believed that they were paths to the Underland, a place of great danger where the demons and devils lived; a place filled with pain and hate for the beings of the Overland. Any who travelled those paths were lucky to ever be seen again. Fanciful tales some thought, but with the knowledge he possessed, he knew these tales were based on some fact. Even so, he believed there was no danger on this island and came to these caves without fear.
The mat was about three feet long and barely wide enough for him to sit on, its rich brown long ago faded to a muted and lacklustre hue. His prayer mat he often called it, but he had never once used it for prayer. He believed, like all his people, every person only had one prayer that would be answered. Many used their prayers on frivolous things early in their youth, only when they got older and faced the hardships of life did they rue that wasteful attitude they had as youngsters. He had held onto his for 130 years, and he knew exactly what he wanted to pray for; there were dark times coming soon, and his people would need all the prayers they could get. He shivered again, and not from the cold.
