Kieran Song
Author. Sorcerer. Overlord.
Hey lovely (and supportive) folks at Chrons, just some context: I posted earlier in the forum with the title: The Beta and ARC reader dilemma. Gist of the post: New author starting out, trying to get those initial Beta and ARC readers.
Recommendation by the @The Judge was to post some words here and see if people enjoy my style enough to want to help make the story/give initial reviews into something better.
So here goes...I'm taking the big plunge and going full kimono!
**************
Obidi Seven dreamt of touching a star one day. It was a beautiful dream, one filled with the promises of space-faring romanticism and intergalactic adventure. The thing about dreams, however, was that sometimes they were implausible.
You see, the stars themselves were luminous balls of radiation and being in close proximity to one would reduce a person into ash instantly.
Obidi also didn’t have a spaceship to reach this star and with the way things were going, probably wouldn’t be able to afford one in this lifetime. He barely had enough credits to pay for the essentials such as food and shelter.
But one could still dream, couldn’t they?
Obidi actually had many wishes and dreams. He wished he had the means to explore the entire galaxy and have himself some grand adventures. He needed that damned spaceship for that.
He also wished that this stupid sixty-three year war was done and over with. It was all a bunch of poppycock, if you asked him. Cymerians were killing Asrai, Asrai were killing Aksu, and the Aksu were killing anyone that breathed.
The war had turned the great beyond into a smorgasbord of death and destruction. At least here on Nexus—the commerce capital of the galaxy—it was safe. No one dared attack this planet. The entire economic landscape of the Universe would simply collapse if they did.
Finally, he wished he could turn back the clocks. He’d have stayed home that day, never setting foot in that mausoleum, and he’d certainly never have taken her with him. How different life would have been now.
Perhaps he’d be serving a greater purpose as oppose to having a thirteen inch blade, rammed down his throat, praying that it would come out just as easily as it went down. With his head fully tilted back, he took one last look at the magnificent night sky, where the deadly stars looked as pretty as gemstones, and grabbed the hilt of the sword.
He slowly pulled the sharp steel from out of his mouth.
“Filthy Nordiscans, they’ll put anything down their throats for money,” one reptilian-like Dromedian ranted. He turned to his son. “You’ll never try that at home.”
Obidi rolled his eyes. It wasn’t easy these days being a street magician, especially if you were a Nordiscan. He never did understand why his race were viewed as lesser beings compared to a Cymerian or an Aksu.
Sure, the skin of the Nordiscan’s were pinker than other races and they were rather short in stature—the tallest recorded Nordiscan clocked in at five-foot eight (Obidi was a healthy five-seven)—and they were known to the galaxy as wanderers; a species without a home. But who cared?
Apparently everyone did, when it came to the hierarchy of aliens and cultures. The Nordiscans were one rung above cockroaches, but barely.
Obidi scanned the rest of tonight’s crowd. A few of his usual doe-eyed groupies were engaged by the show, but the majority of spectators didn’t seem impressed. His routine was getting a little stale, seeing as how he performed it on a nightly base in the middle of the commerce district of the Capital City.
Obidi ran his hands gently over his chestnut-brown hair, tied back into a man bun. It was something he did whenever he was nervous.
“Voila,” he announced to the crowd. “The power of magic has allowed me to successfully swallow the ancient sword of Vey. Rumor has it that this sword once cut down a mighty dragon.”
“From slaying dragons to being shoved down your throat,” one Cymerian businessman jested, “Even relics can fall onto hard times.”
Laughter dispersed throughout the crowd.
Obidid did his best to hide his frown. With the way the crowd was responding, it didn’t look like he was going to earn enough tips for room and board tonight.
He’d end up sleeping on a park bench again, underneath the moon and stars.
“I thought it was an amazing trick!” one girl shouted from the crowd. It was Conseca, a pretty Asrai female with skin the color of milk and long, crème-colored hair that flowed down to her waist.
She was there at every one of his shows, always cheering him on fiercely. Occasionally, she’d give Obidi a lust-filled glance, with the intentions of hanky panky smoldering beneath it.
Thank you Conseca, Obidi thought. He definitely needed some crowd support tonight.
“And that’s all it was: a trick,” the crotchety Dromedian said. “Our lying Nordiscan here has been going around, advertising his show as a spectacle of magic when in reality, he knows nothing of it. Magic, my dear friends, has long been dead.”
No, magic isn’t dead, Obidi thought. He’d seen and heard enough in this lifetime to convince him otherwise. Images from his memories danced through his head like a carousel of pictures displayed before his very eyes. It always ended with the outstretched hand holding the blood red apple, being swallowed up by the dark pool of water.
Magic was very much alive.
Recommendation by the @The Judge was to post some words here and see if people enjoy my style enough to want to help make the story/give initial reviews into something better.
So here goes...I'm taking the big plunge and going full kimono!
**************
Obidi Seven dreamt of touching a star one day. It was a beautiful dream, one filled with the promises of space-faring romanticism and intergalactic adventure. The thing about dreams, however, was that sometimes they were implausible.
You see, the stars themselves were luminous balls of radiation and being in close proximity to one would reduce a person into ash instantly.
Obidi also didn’t have a spaceship to reach this star and with the way things were going, probably wouldn’t be able to afford one in this lifetime. He barely had enough credits to pay for the essentials such as food and shelter.
But one could still dream, couldn’t they?
Obidi actually had many wishes and dreams. He wished he had the means to explore the entire galaxy and have himself some grand adventures. He needed that damned spaceship for that.
He also wished that this stupid sixty-three year war was done and over with. It was all a bunch of poppycock, if you asked him. Cymerians were killing Asrai, Asrai were killing Aksu, and the Aksu were killing anyone that breathed.
The war had turned the great beyond into a smorgasbord of death and destruction. At least here on Nexus—the commerce capital of the galaxy—it was safe. No one dared attack this planet. The entire economic landscape of the Universe would simply collapse if they did.
Finally, he wished he could turn back the clocks. He’d have stayed home that day, never setting foot in that mausoleum, and he’d certainly never have taken her with him. How different life would have been now.
Perhaps he’d be serving a greater purpose as oppose to having a thirteen inch blade, rammed down his throat, praying that it would come out just as easily as it went down. With his head fully tilted back, he took one last look at the magnificent night sky, where the deadly stars looked as pretty as gemstones, and grabbed the hilt of the sword.
He slowly pulled the sharp steel from out of his mouth.
“Filthy Nordiscans, they’ll put anything down their throats for money,” one reptilian-like Dromedian ranted. He turned to his son. “You’ll never try that at home.”
Obidi rolled his eyes. It wasn’t easy these days being a street magician, especially if you were a Nordiscan. He never did understand why his race were viewed as lesser beings compared to a Cymerian or an Aksu.
Sure, the skin of the Nordiscan’s were pinker than other races and they were rather short in stature—the tallest recorded Nordiscan clocked in at five-foot eight (Obidi was a healthy five-seven)—and they were known to the galaxy as wanderers; a species without a home. But who cared?
Apparently everyone did, when it came to the hierarchy of aliens and cultures. The Nordiscans were one rung above cockroaches, but barely.
Obidi scanned the rest of tonight’s crowd. A few of his usual doe-eyed groupies were engaged by the show, but the majority of spectators didn’t seem impressed. His routine was getting a little stale, seeing as how he performed it on a nightly base in the middle of the commerce district of the Capital City.
Obidi ran his hands gently over his chestnut-brown hair, tied back into a man bun. It was something he did whenever he was nervous.
“Voila,” he announced to the crowd. “The power of magic has allowed me to successfully swallow the ancient sword of Vey. Rumor has it that this sword once cut down a mighty dragon.”
“From slaying dragons to being shoved down your throat,” one Cymerian businessman jested, “Even relics can fall onto hard times.”
Laughter dispersed throughout the crowd.
Obidid did his best to hide his frown. With the way the crowd was responding, it didn’t look like he was going to earn enough tips for room and board tonight.
He’d end up sleeping on a park bench again, underneath the moon and stars.
“I thought it was an amazing trick!” one girl shouted from the crowd. It was Conseca, a pretty Asrai female with skin the color of milk and long, crème-colored hair that flowed down to her waist.
She was there at every one of his shows, always cheering him on fiercely. Occasionally, she’d give Obidi a lust-filled glance, with the intentions of hanky panky smoldering beneath it.
Thank you Conseca, Obidi thought. He definitely needed some crowd support tonight.
“And that’s all it was: a trick,” the crotchety Dromedian said. “Our lying Nordiscan here has been going around, advertising his show as a spectacle of magic when in reality, he knows nothing of it. Magic, my dear friends, has long been dead.”
No, magic isn’t dead, Obidi thought. He’d seen and heard enough in this lifetime to convince him otherwise. Images from his memories danced through his head like a carousel of pictures displayed before his very eyes. It always ended with the outstretched hand holding the blood red apple, being swallowed up by the dark pool of water.
Magic was very much alive.
