Luiglin
Getting worse one day at a time
In attempt to beat myself free of the mental doldrums I took a look at the start of my Dark Lord WiP.
I've posted it before in the critiques and some noted that it didn't have enough of a pull to drag the read in - orginal thread In the beginning...
So I've removed the world bit and replaced with the below. This will be the first chapter and the awakening of the Dark Lord, the second.
As normal, good, bad, ugly etc
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Lightning arced across the peaks, each strike punctuated with a tumult of thunder in ear drum bursting smacks. Not wanting to spoil the effect, the storm let loose sheets of rain to lash the dread castle, driving with a merciless, unforgiving wind.
The warrior trod the last few exhausting steps to the top of the tower. Any neutral spectators looking on at the time would have, in an instant, noted him to be the hero. It was not due to his wild hair whipped by the wind in sultry flicks. Neither was it the armour, dented and torn from many blows, the rain washing the blood away in streams of red. It certainly wasn’t the pose he struck upon reaching the top, all bent over and gasping ragged breaths.
No, it was the sword, gleaming in the light of the lightning strikes, a beautiful piece of ancient smithship, an edge so sharp that raindrops were cleaved neatly in half as they streamed past and slicing the wind into two tone pitched screams.
If there had been any spectators they would have marvelled at how the warrior drew himself upright, squared his shoulders and swept the sword in a challenging display, ready to meet his destiny. A cynical spectator may have pointed out that the sword seemed to be doing most of the work. That same spectator may also have noticed how tight the warrior’s eyes were shut. The sort of tight where you just knew that the hero was seeing a kaleidoscope of black and white chequer boards spiralling in and out from the pressure.
Opposite the hero stood a decrepit figure of darkness. Torn robes flapped in whip like violence exposing a decaying body of grey bones and green hued strips of dead flesh. Said invisible spectators would have marked this figure to be the villain of the piece. They wouldn’t have been wrong. It was indeed evil. A monstrosity that had sought to enslave all the living beneath its undead heel just because it wanted to. A stereotype? Yes, and proud of it.
The dark figure stood its ground, it had to, for there was nowhere else to run. Then, in a voice the sound of mulched leaves and mud, it simply said, “Fine, you win.”
The hero, risked a peep through one eye, suspecting some diabolical trick. Seeing none, in a voice that warbled between teenager and adult, said, “Pardon?”
“You win,” said the dark figure. “You’ve got me. Can I ask a quick question though?”
The hero stumbled a step forward, wrestling the sword with both hands to keep it from striking down the dark figure. “Pardon?” he said again.
The dark figure raised its head to the sky and the heart of the storm. If there had been any eyes in the skull they no doubt would have been rolling. “Yet another idiot farm boy,” it muttered to itself, and then louder, “Does that thing have a name?”
The hero was back on safer ground with this. “It is the Blade of Nightending. Forged by the ancients to end your evil once and for all. Granted to me by the spirit of Gravmadur himself.”
“Gravma who?”
“Gravmadur, First King of Maat. He who defeated the evil that was the Dark Ogre and his Horde.”
“Oh, him?” said the dark figure. “He was Gavin the gong farmer when I knew him.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. To be honest at that point the whole ogre phase was getting a touch annoying. Do you realise how much work is needed to refurbish a castle to accommodate an ogre sized body?”
“Err… no,” said the hero. This wasn't how the wizard said it would go. “Aren’t you meant to curse and declare that you’ll rise again?” he said, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“You know what? No. Not this time.”
“All the legends say that’s what happens,” said the hero, voice starting to edge on pleading.
“Just get on with it. Look, I’ll even turn my back if it helps.” The dark figure turned on the spot.
The sword couldn’t be held back any longer. The hero, eyes once more squeezed tight, lurched at the dark figure, the sword plunging deep into the undead back.
“Well that’s disappointing,” announced the dark figure, touching the tip of the blade that emerged from his chest, “I expected at least a strike of dramatic lightning.” Slowly he toppled off the tower and into the gaping maw of the chasm below.
Reg, apprentice sprout farmer, reluctant hero and now victorious warrior, opened one eye. He blinked, then dropped the sword in sudden realisation that standing on a high tower while holding a great lump of metal during a thunder storm wasn’t a good choice for a long life.
So began the reign of Regmazmadir the Wise, First of his Name, Wielder of Nightending and Vanquisher of the Dark Lich.
Times passes. That is its nature. It can’t really do anything else.
History, on the whole, is a lethargic subject, happy to allow itself to go from truth, to legend, to myth, just for an easy life.
Once lauded, Regmazmadir the Wise, First of his Name, Wielder of Nightending and Vanquisher of the Dark Lich, soon lessened to King Regmazmadir, the one and only. At the end, as nations fall and rise, even that was forgotten. For those that may bemoan this loss of cultural heritage, don’t’ worry, in the case of Reg, it was not a great loss.
What is remarkable, while heroes are forgotten, villains never are — especially those that have a habit of coming back.
I've posted it before in the critiques and some noted that it didn't have enough of a pull to drag the read in - orginal thread In the beginning...
So I've removed the world bit and replaced with the below. This will be the first chapter and the awakening of the Dark Lord, the second.
As normal, good, bad, ugly etc
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Lightning arced across the peaks, each strike punctuated with a tumult of thunder in ear drum bursting smacks. Not wanting to spoil the effect, the storm let loose sheets of rain to lash the dread castle, driving with a merciless, unforgiving wind.
The warrior trod the last few exhausting steps to the top of the tower. Any neutral spectators looking on at the time would have, in an instant, noted him to be the hero. It was not due to his wild hair whipped by the wind in sultry flicks. Neither was it the armour, dented and torn from many blows, the rain washing the blood away in streams of red. It certainly wasn’t the pose he struck upon reaching the top, all bent over and gasping ragged breaths.
No, it was the sword, gleaming in the light of the lightning strikes, a beautiful piece of ancient smithship, an edge so sharp that raindrops were cleaved neatly in half as they streamed past and slicing the wind into two tone pitched screams.
If there had been any spectators they would have marvelled at how the warrior drew himself upright, squared his shoulders and swept the sword in a challenging display, ready to meet his destiny. A cynical spectator may have pointed out that the sword seemed to be doing most of the work. That same spectator may also have noticed how tight the warrior’s eyes were shut. The sort of tight where you just knew that the hero was seeing a kaleidoscope of black and white chequer boards spiralling in and out from the pressure.
Opposite the hero stood a decrepit figure of darkness. Torn robes flapped in whip like violence exposing a decaying body of grey bones and green hued strips of dead flesh. Said invisible spectators would have marked this figure to be the villain of the piece. They wouldn’t have been wrong. It was indeed evil. A monstrosity that had sought to enslave all the living beneath its undead heel just because it wanted to. A stereotype? Yes, and proud of it.
The dark figure stood its ground, it had to, for there was nowhere else to run. Then, in a voice the sound of mulched leaves and mud, it simply said, “Fine, you win.”
The hero, risked a peep through one eye, suspecting some diabolical trick. Seeing none, in a voice that warbled between teenager and adult, said, “Pardon?”
“You win,” said the dark figure. “You’ve got me. Can I ask a quick question though?”
The hero stumbled a step forward, wrestling the sword with both hands to keep it from striking down the dark figure. “Pardon?” he said again.
The dark figure raised its head to the sky and the heart of the storm. If there had been any eyes in the skull they no doubt would have been rolling. “Yet another idiot farm boy,” it muttered to itself, and then louder, “Does that thing have a name?”
The hero was back on safer ground with this. “It is the Blade of Nightending. Forged by the ancients to end your evil once and for all. Granted to me by the spirit of Gravmadur himself.”
“Gravma who?”
“Gravmadur, First King of Maat. He who defeated the evil that was the Dark Ogre and his Horde.”
“Oh, him?” said the dark figure. “He was Gavin the gong farmer when I knew him.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, don’t worry about it. To be honest at that point the whole ogre phase was getting a touch annoying. Do you realise how much work is needed to refurbish a castle to accommodate an ogre sized body?”
“Err… no,” said the hero. This wasn't how the wizard said it would go. “Aren’t you meant to curse and declare that you’ll rise again?” he said, trying to get the conversation back on track.
“You know what? No. Not this time.”
“All the legends say that’s what happens,” said the hero, voice starting to edge on pleading.
“Just get on with it. Look, I’ll even turn my back if it helps.” The dark figure turned on the spot.
The sword couldn’t be held back any longer. The hero, eyes once more squeezed tight, lurched at the dark figure, the sword plunging deep into the undead back.
“Well that’s disappointing,” announced the dark figure, touching the tip of the blade that emerged from his chest, “I expected at least a strike of dramatic lightning.” Slowly he toppled off the tower and into the gaping maw of the chasm below.
Reg, apprentice sprout farmer, reluctant hero and now victorious warrior, opened one eye. He blinked, then dropped the sword in sudden realisation that standing on a high tower while holding a great lump of metal during a thunder storm wasn’t a good choice for a long life.
So began the reign of Regmazmadir the Wise, First of his Name, Wielder of Nightending and Vanquisher of the Dark Lich.
Times passes. That is its nature. It can’t really do anything else.
History, on the whole, is a lethargic subject, happy to allow itself to go from truth, to legend, to myth, just for an easy life.
Once lauded, Regmazmadir the Wise, First of his Name, Wielder of Nightending and Vanquisher of the Dark Lich, soon lessened to King Regmazmadir, the one and only. At the end, as nations fall and rise, even that was forgotten. For those that may bemoan this loss of cultural heritage, don’t’ worry, in the case of Reg, it was not a great loss.
What is remarkable, while heroes are forgotten, villains never are — especially those that have a habit of coming back.
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