Prefx
Lord of the City-Within
- Joined
- Aug 24, 2005
- Messages
- 285
Hello there,
I was playing around for a few minutes and came up with this. There is a lot I like about this little piece but I'm not sure if it draws people in or not. Anyone want to comment?
* * * *
As the old tales of the storyteller go, there is a region far west of the Borëon Mountains where the redbud trees are vast in both size and number. During the four seasons of the year, the trees release families of maroon petals to the passing winds. Yellow grass carpets the earth in every which direction, providing horses and cattle with plenteous food for their young. Those who have visited Blackthorn refer to it as the Calm Grounds, for like the Isles of the East they are dominated only by peace and have no interest with the happenings of the world.
Martyn and Gordon relieved themselves of horseback and wandered into this forest with little more than the clothes on their back and a few canteens of spoiled water. Night crept upon their journey, forcing Martyn to expose their cover. With a snap of the fingers he formed a fire that remained still over his thumb. Orange sparks jumped from the flame, reaching out for the trees before meeting their end.
The two men proceeded further, pulling along their speckled steeds in case they would later be needed.
A bird of the night— Gordon hoped it was an owl— swooped down from the treetops. With a flutter of its wings the creature chased after prey into the deep. Martyn moved his hand from left to right slowly, trying to make out the path before him. His face appeared pale in the flame's weak light. Wrinkles revealed his age, as did his distraught eyes. They were green and still full of life, but the pupils idly moved side to side as if he could not put forth effort.
At length they reached Northwall. The reserved town rested upon the outskirts of the forest, surrounded by an array of willows. As the name suggested, a large wall of stone covered the north end of the city. The structure, now crumbling in most spots, was built three centuries prior during the Great Raid.
Martyn snapped his fingers a second time, ending the flame that had thrived on his thumb. The soft light coming from inside the houses was enough to help his eyes.
"Which house is it?" Gordon asked in his deep and tired voice.
Martyn looked out at the cluster of buildings and thought. Northwall was unique in the sense that its houses were connected to another in some form or another. With the exception of a dysfunctional mill, everything in Northwall was made of stone.
"There," he said, lifting a slender finger towards one of the closer buildings.
Gordon looked up with his bleak face. "You sure?"
"I would hope so, my dear friend." The old man tugged gently on the horse's harness. "Else we might be in the wrong place altogether."
Gordon looked down at his black hands and noticed how many welts formed over his fingers. "The kid better be here." His dark eyes narrowed. "We've been riding for two months, Martyn. If he's not—"
"Ease yourself." Martyn threw his scarlet robe behind him and started forward. "Our journey will have not been in vein."
I was playing around for a few minutes and came up with this. There is a lot I like about this little piece but I'm not sure if it draws people in or not. Anyone want to comment?
* * * *
As the old tales of the storyteller go, there is a region far west of the Borëon Mountains where the redbud trees are vast in both size and number. During the four seasons of the year, the trees release families of maroon petals to the passing winds. Yellow grass carpets the earth in every which direction, providing horses and cattle with plenteous food for their young. Those who have visited Blackthorn refer to it as the Calm Grounds, for like the Isles of the East they are dominated only by peace and have no interest with the happenings of the world.
Martyn and Gordon relieved themselves of horseback and wandered into this forest with little more than the clothes on their back and a few canteens of spoiled water. Night crept upon their journey, forcing Martyn to expose their cover. With a snap of the fingers he formed a fire that remained still over his thumb. Orange sparks jumped from the flame, reaching out for the trees before meeting their end.
The two men proceeded further, pulling along their speckled steeds in case they would later be needed.
A bird of the night— Gordon hoped it was an owl— swooped down from the treetops. With a flutter of its wings the creature chased after prey into the deep. Martyn moved his hand from left to right slowly, trying to make out the path before him. His face appeared pale in the flame's weak light. Wrinkles revealed his age, as did his distraught eyes. They were green and still full of life, but the pupils idly moved side to side as if he could not put forth effort.
At length they reached Northwall. The reserved town rested upon the outskirts of the forest, surrounded by an array of willows. As the name suggested, a large wall of stone covered the north end of the city. The structure, now crumbling in most spots, was built three centuries prior during the Great Raid.
Martyn snapped his fingers a second time, ending the flame that had thrived on his thumb. The soft light coming from inside the houses was enough to help his eyes.
"Which house is it?" Gordon asked in his deep and tired voice.
Martyn looked out at the cluster of buildings and thought. Northwall was unique in the sense that its houses were connected to another in some form or another. With the exception of a dysfunctional mill, everything in Northwall was made of stone.
"There," he said, lifting a slender finger towards one of the closer buildings.
Gordon looked up with his bleak face. "You sure?"
"I would hope so, my dear friend." The old man tugged gently on the horse's harness. "Else we might be in the wrong place altogether."
Gordon looked down at his black hands and noticed how many welts formed over his fingers. "The kid better be here." His dark eyes narrowed. "We've been riding for two months, Martyn. If he's not—"
"Ease yourself." Martyn threw his scarlet robe behind him and started forward. "Our journey will have not been in vein."
