Martin Lesnoy
New Member
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2009
- Messages
- 3
Here follows the opening of my 'covert' Science Fiction novel, as I like to call it. At first glance, it may not appear to be Sci-Fi, however, the truth of the matter becomes apparent as the plot begins to unfold. I have presented for your intense scrutiny, the first two pages, which is, for the most part, exposition. I do feel this to be necessary, though, and you do not need to fear as the first twist in the plot is just around the corner. Please feel free to leaves comments or suggestions on grammar, wording or concerning any matters of the plot.
‘Unholy defiler of this world, did he desecrate the temple of love and glory, of Seth, bringer of all. A billion deaths dealt at his hand, the last was to be his own. Whence he returns, we pray, deliverance to those righteous among us. Purity will be unchained from the miasma of the impure, and will be ris’n to the Realm of Perfect Form.’
Such a strange place for a tree, so lonely and desolate, sitting atop the barren tor, illuminated only by the pale gleam of waning sunlight. Its roots delved deep into the rocky plinth, upon which it had stood defiantly for centuries, to the unremitting force of death, which had devoured all life at its feet.
Such wonder did fill the mind of Arun’thor Telarion as he knelt before it, gazing modestly at the canopy of foliage above him. The leaves were like black coals against the ashen sky, dancing to-and-fro to the cold and blustery wind, which blew down from the northern wastes. Arun’thor’s careful scrutiny could reveal no sign upon this tree of what had befallen all else around it. No blemish did mark its proud bark, nor did its leaves bear any signs of decay. For all his eyes could discern in the twilight, it was utterly intact.
He rose to his feet, to reveal a figure, tall and slender, and clothed in such attire that appeared to be crafted from the mud that begrimed his overcoat of un-dyed leather. His features were strong, yet at the same time, sensitive, and his eyes were a most peculiar shade of grey and green combined, that at times appeared as pallid as bone—and now, especially, as the night had stolen away colour and reduced all into shades of grey. They gleamed like an animal’s caught in a fragment of light—feral, piercing and hypnotic.
This night, as so many hitherto, he found himself alone, for seldom did travellers come near this place, by night or even by day. It was a place of ill omen, shunned by the townsfolk, and avoided by beast and bird, alike. Whenever he sought consolation, Arun’thor would find himself here. Alone and at peace in the calm of the night, he could dispel the affliction that plagued his crestfallen mind.
The Church—its hands ever stretching-out to govern each and every part of a man’s life. But not mine, thought Arun’thor. For much of his life, he had sought to evade the clutches of the Church, turning to the wilds that lay beyond the Vale of Solutrean—the home that had been forced upon him. But, time and again, the apparently infinite reach of the Church would prove too great, indeed, and he would return. They would always have found him, of course, a fact that Arun’thor would never desire to confess.
He was bound to the Church, just like everyone else, and when he would return, he would resume his work as a scribe—to record in writing, dogma promulgated from the uppermost orders of the Church of Salvation. It was an arrangement that saved him from abject poverty, but in his mind, he would had rather have been at labour, starved and poverty-stricken, than to be working for the very power that chained him.
He did not choose such a life—the same as every other priest or man who served out his duty to the Church, he was chosen. To diverge from this path that the Holy Master himself had chosen for him, was punishable by death. The scripture sounded in his mind:
‘Unholy defiler of this world, did he desecrate the temple of love and glory, of Seth, bringer of all. A billion deaths dealt at his hand, the last was to be his own. Whence he returns, we pray, deliverance to those righteous among us. Purity will be unchained from the miasma of the impure, and will be ris’n to the Realm of Perfect Form.’
- CHURCH OF SALVATION
I
Such a strange place for a tree, so lonely and desolate, sitting atop the barren tor, illuminated only by the pale gleam of waning sunlight. Its roots delved deep into the rocky plinth, upon which it had stood defiantly for centuries, to the unremitting force of death, which had devoured all life at its feet.
Such wonder did fill the mind of Arun’thor Telarion as he knelt before it, gazing modestly at the canopy of foliage above him. The leaves were like black coals against the ashen sky, dancing to-and-fro to the cold and blustery wind, which blew down from the northern wastes. Arun’thor’s careful scrutiny could reveal no sign upon this tree of what had befallen all else around it. No blemish did mark its proud bark, nor did its leaves bear any signs of decay. For all his eyes could discern in the twilight, it was utterly intact.
He rose to his feet, to reveal a figure, tall and slender, and clothed in such attire that appeared to be crafted from the mud that begrimed his overcoat of un-dyed leather. His features were strong, yet at the same time, sensitive, and his eyes were a most peculiar shade of grey and green combined, that at times appeared as pallid as bone—and now, especially, as the night had stolen away colour and reduced all into shades of grey. They gleamed like an animal’s caught in a fragment of light—feral, piercing and hypnotic.
This night, as so many hitherto, he found himself alone, for seldom did travellers come near this place, by night or even by day. It was a place of ill omen, shunned by the townsfolk, and avoided by beast and bird, alike. Whenever he sought consolation, Arun’thor would find himself here. Alone and at peace in the calm of the night, he could dispel the affliction that plagued his crestfallen mind.
The Church—its hands ever stretching-out to govern each and every part of a man’s life. But not mine, thought Arun’thor. For much of his life, he had sought to evade the clutches of the Church, turning to the wilds that lay beyond the Vale of Solutrean—the home that had been forced upon him. But, time and again, the apparently infinite reach of the Church would prove too great, indeed, and he would return. They would always have found him, of course, a fact that Arun’thor would never desire to confess.
He was bound to the Church, just like everyone else, and when he would return, he would resume his work as a scribe—to record in writing, dogma promulgated from the uppermost orders of the Church of Salvation. It was an arrangement that saved him from abject poverty, but in his mind, he would had rather have been at labour, starved and poverty-stricken, than to be working for the very power that chained him.
He did not choose such a life—the same as every other priest or man who served out his duty to the Church, he was chosen. To diverge from this path that the Holy Master himself had chosen for him, was punishable by death. The scripture sounded in his mind:
‘Any crime, great or small, and towards any person or entity, is heresy, for it is deemed as breaking the Law of our Holy Master. Any committer of such acts of abhorrence will be banished from His protection, and therefore be subject to the full and unmitigated wrath of the Defiler.’
Arun’thor stiffened at the mention of ‘the Defiler’—a name that was the synonymous with all the terrible things in life, the very embodiment of war, pestilence and sin. It was a name uttered from the highest authorities within the Church, and passed down through generations, to be whispered before the dying embers of a late evening fire, so that none would fail to hear. All would know of the crimes the Defiler had committed.
