This is perty much my first story. It started out as a class assignment that bloomed into something much greater. I am a firm believer in that fact that I cannot judge my own skills as a writer and that I need the opinions of many other people before I can truly judge my own skills.
This is a story of a teenage boy named Arche (Ark) Donamon who lives during a period of early industrialization. This is the just the intro of the story but it tells of his journey to his old friends house in where he will be told a story that will change his life.
Just tell me what you think of the intro and I will continue to post the story as I write it.
Thanks.
Gilth and Danul
I sit here shivering, hiding in shadow, and hugging my knees as my tears fall to the lifeless cobblestones beneath me. The frigid rainwater in the barrel at my back dripping steadily down my neck freezing my spine and making every breath toilsome. My head lying lifelessly against the brick and mortar wall of that damp alley way from which I watched his death upon the street. I’ve been here for hours, huddled in this little niche, this shadowy corner away from existence, and so has he.
His body just sits there lifelessly upon the street as streams of blood weave between the stones that brought his death. Streams that fervently carry his life away into the waiting maw of the gutters. I have watched for hours from my shadowy prison as people impassively walk by, not even bothering to gaze at the very crime that lay before them. I sit here and fall into wonder and fearful awe of the sheer dispassionate response to this so called righteous, but truly atrocious and fallacious crime. What would carry people to do such a thing to a man who showed only kindness?
His head is facing away from me, but even if I could see his face I could not bear to look into those frozen eyes that I was loved. I take a brief look at him and see only the tattered and broken body sprawled upon the ground in a heap of bloodied grey garment. I feel nauseous and I quickly turn my head away only to gaze upon the puddle of settling rainwater within the sunken stones of the alley. What I see is not truth. The creature that stares back at me in the murky water is not I. The sunken eyes on the face of a once fair skinned boy with short brown hair now look aged and unholy. The face I see is of a boy who has seen that which he should not. I break the entrancing stare and once again bury my face within the ever so comforting confines of my own little niche.
I sit for hours with ears filled with the footsteps and seemingly cheerful chatter of countless people. I sit in the dank darkness of my niche until my skin becomes pale and petrified by the frigid water continually dripping down my neck. I can only stare. I can only think. I can only remember.
* * *
I pushed open that flimsy, rotten wooden door and was instantly blinded by the brilliant light that shown in stark contrast to the dungeon that I had just exited. After spending twelve hours in a factory filled with the noises of demonic machinery and air saturated with lung paralyzing soot it was a simple bliss to breathe the fresh open air of the city and hear the bustle of the people upon the cobblestone road. But today was special. Today I was going to see Siravir.
I loved days such as today, and I loved seeing Siravir. I loved listening to his voice. A voice that was gentle as the shade beneath an eons young tree in a field of grass under a burning sun, but a voice as powerful as a bolt of lightening that could shatter the very heartwood of that ancient monolith. It was truly beautiful to listen to his stories of old and how his words would shape pictures within my mind.
I set out from that hellish prison that was my place of dreadful employment and embarked upon the familiar path that I had trod countless times. As was the norm, my gait was slow, thoughtful. I watched the world around me; the buildings, the people, each individual life flitting about in their busy lives. Each person bent on finishing the task at hand as fast as possible so they could get the next task, and continuing this cycle forever until their death.
My feet carried me in a ponderous demeanor across the arid landscape that was the city street. I waded though the crowds of people who were yelling out their newest bid or buying their less and less nourishing and already so scant meals for the night. I walked on past that busy bazaar and into an open lane that led straight onward past the forgotten slums of the city into the sprawling town square.
The square was a place of honor for this so called glorious city. Numerous sprawling residences rose high on all sides of the square making a seemingly unintended barrier against those who were not welcome. When the square was clear, which was never very often, you could see the intricate artwork that lay upon it. Countless tiles in even more colors laid upon the ground an image of the great crest of the kingdom. The great meeting place stretched for fathoms and thousands of people could assemble at once to be enjoined upon by the great monarchs or for a display of sheer power by a warlord of the north. People could meet to tell a story or display their knowledge in political process. The uses of the great void within the hustle and bustle of the city were limitless. Even today in the midst of this hot afternoon a group of people were gathering in what seamed the beginnings of a mob.
I walked on past the square and onward towards my destination. When at all possible I used side streets and alleys to avoid the eye of anybody that may be watching. I never like being watched. I liked watching, but never watched. I wove in and out of the narrow passageways and corridors that led between the main thoroughfares of the city.
With each step I was brought closer to my destination, and with each step I fell deeper into thought. I walked as a ghost amongst the people of this metropolis. I was unseen and unheard. I was neither loved nor loathed. I was nobody. I walked. I thought. The very people before me lived life as lonely individuals. Seeking lonesomeness on their own behalf with untrained intention. Seeking to die alone in a world uncaring; their memory lost to the passing of time. To fall into the unfettered oblivion that is forgetfulness. To surpass…
“Arche Donamon!” came a beautiful voice, “How are you, my boy, on this fine afternoon?”
“Fine,” my usual response.
“Please, do come in,” my old friend said, “I see that you are up to your old habits of dwelling?”
As I followed my old friend through the doorway of that humble hovel I could not help but be entertained by Siravir’s usual display of his innate ability to know what was going on. This old man ceased to amaze me. He always hid behind the distinct aura of a poor old beggar with his drab clothing and long withering beard. Yet he held distinct characteristics that I always liked. His eyes held a depth that was unfathomable and seamed to hold within them the knowledge of a thousand bygone lifetimes. He moved in a rickety fashion as was accepting for those reaching an age such as his but he emanated a presence of a hero of old.
Just as the thousands of times before I stepped past the threshold of that humble abode and gazed up the inside of my old friends house. He was a simple man. He was by no means poor, nor was he wealthy, but he lived in a fashion that many of my time would think was self-demeaning. The hut was a simple single room building with a dirt floor and the expected effects. There was a bed with a straw stuffed mattress and the remnants of a hide cover. A rusting iron wood stove sat against the back wall burning gently and putting off a beckoning warmth. Small cupboards and shells dotted the walls and held countless object some of which I never knew. Upon the floor lay a rug made of the skin of an unknown animal that resembled a colossal bear.
Only two things within this home would seam out of place to the errant stranger, a silver mirror upon the rear wall above the bed and a rocking chair that rested on the rug before the stove. The mirror always caught my attention. From a distance the antique seamed nothing more then a simple mirror the size of ones head bordered by a very old intricate work of tarnished brown silver, for the edging of the looking glass shined dimly in the soft light of the abode. But as one neared the artifact it changed. Grains upon the border became apparent and sudden ripples upon the surface of the mirror itself would confound the mind into thinking that the silver was truly mercury. Under close scrutiny one would be utterly amazed to find the seemingly silver border was truly made of some mysterious gleaming wood and the reflective surface of the mirror itself without visible flaw.
But the true beauty of the room was the chair that sat before the fire. The old rocker was much more then the resting place of an aged man. It was an artwork engrained with mystery. Every time I saw the chair it seamed different, a subtle change that one could never pinpoint. The chair itself had four sturdy legs that rested at their terminal within the rockers. The back of the chair was more than a head higher when a full-grown man sat upon it. A rocking chair that was supposedly ordinary when compared to the basic style of most rockers. But upon the chair itself were countless stories carved in relief. Tales of wars and battles on bloodied fields long forgotten. Epics of heroes and maidens and their terrors and toils of their journeys. Stories of mystery, deceit, love, passion, and hate all carved within the dark wood of the chair. One could spend hours gazing upon the carvings and be lost within their own imaginations when the stories came alive before your eyes. But if they blinked the stories would change. The carvings upon the chair never seamed the same twice.
As my I finished my customary mental tour of the room my gazed returned to the old man now seated in the chair. I strode across the room and sat down upon the soft fur of the giant hide and waited for the old man to speak. The pause was long and if I had not observed this very emotion within my old friend before I would have thought that he had quietly passed on whilst sitting before the fire. The pause was long but I would not venture to break this necessary silence. After a long while the old man spoke.
“So what story shall it be today my young friend?” He said with closed eyes, as though recalling long lost memories. My shy impassiveness led to the customary yet simple reply.
“Something new,” was all I could muster.
“Ahh, well then,” he replied with sarcasm, “that sure narrows it down. Lets see here, you’ve already heard the story of the eternal ephemeron and the crusades of the everlasting hosts. You’ve heard the stories of the order of the eternal witness and their condemnation to live everlasting, ever watching. So what to tell…”
“Ahh! Yes,” he stated with the aura of sudden realization.
“The story of never-dieing gods Gilth and Danul.”
At the mention of a new story that I had never heard my interest peaked. The world around me faded away into the oblivion of indifference and utter apathy as I dove into the realm of my imagination; a canvas upon which Siravir could paint his masterpieces. I sat upon the fir of the aged rug and awaited the wash of words that would carry me away into fantasy and drag me from this realm of pain and sorrow.
And so it began. The words began to spill from the man’s mouth with the resonance of an angel. I drank them in and fell away from all that I new was real into realm of existence much more material then the one that I had left.
* * *
Constructive Criticism is greatly appreciated...
Thanks.
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Type 2 WBU Solar Flare
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This is a story of a teenage boy named Arche (Ark) Donamon who lives during a period of early industrialization. This is the just the intro of the story but it tells of his journey to his old friends house in where he will be told a story that will change his life.
Just tell me what you think of the intro and I will continue to post the story as I write it.
Thanks.
Gilth and Danul
I sit here shivering, hiding in shadow, and hugging my knees as my tears fall to the lifeless cobblestones beneath me. The frigid rainwater in the barrel at my back dripping steadily down my neck freezing my spine and making every breath toilsome. My head lying lifelessly against the brick and mortar wall of that damp alley way from which I watched his death upon the street. I’ve been here for hours, huddled in this little niche, this shadowy corner away from existence, and so has he.
His body just sits there lifelessly upon the street as streams of blood weave between the stones that brought his death. Streams that fervently carry his life away into the waiting maw of the gutters. I have watched for hours from my shadowy prison as people impassively walk by, not even bothering to gaze at the very crime that lay before them. I sit here and fall into wonder and fearful awe of the sheer dispassionate response to this so called righteous, but truly atrocious and fallacious crime. What would carry people to do such a thing to a man who showed only kindness?
His head is facing away from me, but even if I could see his face I could not bear to look into those frozen eyes that I was loved. I take a brief look at him and see only the tattered and broken body sprawled upon the ground in a heap of bloodied grey garment. I feel nauseous and I quickly turn my head away only to gaze upon the puddle of settling rainwater within the sunken stones of the alley. What I see is not truth. The creature that stares back at me in the murky water is not I. The sunken eyes on the face of a once fair skinned boy with short brown hair now look aged and unholy. The face I see is of a boy who has seen that which he should not. I break the entrancing stare and once again bury my face within the ever so comforting confines of my own little niche.
I sit for hours with ears filled with the footsteps and seemingly cheerful chatter of countless people. I sit in the dank darkness of my niche until my skin becomes pale and petrified by the frigid water continually dripping down my neck. I can only stare. I can only think. I can only remember.
* * *
I pushed open that flimsy, rotten wooden door and was instantly blinded by the brilliant light that shown in stark contrast to the dungeon that I had just exited. After spending twelve hours in a factory filled with the noises of demonic machinery and air saturated with lung paralyzing soot it was a simple bliss to breathe the fresh open air of the city and hear the bustle of the people upon the cobblestone road. But today was special. Today I was going to see Siravir.
I loved days such as today, and I loved seeing Siravir. I loved listening to his voice. A voice that was gentle as the shade beneath an eons young tree in a field of grass under a burning sun, but a voice as powerful as a bolt of lightening that could shatter the very heartwood of that ancient monolith. It was truly beautiful to listen to his stories of old and how his words would shape pictures within my mind.
I set out from that hellish prison that was my place of dreadful employment and embarked upon the familiar path that I had trod countless times. As was the norm, my gait was slow, thoughtful. I watched the world around me; the buildings, the people, each individual life flitting about in their busy lives. Each person bent on finishing the task at hand as fast as possible so they could get the next task, and continuing this cycle forever until their death.
My feet carried me in a ponderous demeanor across the arid landscape that was the city street. I waded though the crowds of people who were yelling out their newest bid or buying their less and less nourishing and already so scant meals for the night. I walked on past that busy bazaar and into an open lane that led straight onward past the forgotten slums of the city into the sprawling town square.
The square was a place of honor for this so called glorious city. Numerous sprawling residences rose high on all sides of the square making a seemingly unintended barrier against those who were not welcome. When the square was clear, which was never very often, you could see the intricate artwork that lay upon it. Countless tiles in even more colors laid upon the ground an image of the great crest of the kingdom. The great meeting place stretched for fathoms and thousands of people could assemble at once to be enjoined upon by the great monarchs or for a display of sheer power by a warlord of the north. People could meet to tell a story or display their knowledge in political process. The uses of the great void within the hustle and bustle of the city were limitless. Even today in the midst of this hot afternoon a group of people were gathering in what seamed the beginnings of a mob.
I walked on past the square and onward towards my destination. When at all possible I used side streets and alleys to avoid the eye of anybody that may be watching. I never like being watched. I liked watching, but never watched. I wove in and out of the narrow passageways and corridors that led between the main thoroughfares of the city.
With each step I was brought closer to my destination, and with each step I fell deeper into thought. I walked as a ghost amongst the people of this metropolis. I was unseen and unheard. I was neither loved nor loathed. I was nobody. I walked. I thought. The very people before me lived life as lonely individuals. Seeking lonesomeness on their own behalf with untrained intention. Seeking to die alone in a world uncaring; their memory lost to the passing of time. To fall into the unfettered oblivion that is forgetfulness. To surpass…
“Arche Donamon!” came a beautiful voice, “How are you, my boy, on this fine afternoon?”
“Fine,” my usual response.
“Please, do come in,” my old friend said, “I see that you are up to your old habits of dwelling?”
As I followed my old friend through the doorway of that humble hovel I could not help but be entertained by Siravir’s usual display of his innate ability to know what was going on. This old man ceased to amaze me. He always hid behind the distinct aura of a poor old beggar with his drab clothing and long withering beard. Yet he held distinct characteristics that I always liked. His eyes held a depth that was unfathomable and seamed to hold within them the knowledge of a thousand bygone lifetimes. He moved in a rickety fashion as was accepting for those reaching an age such as his but he emanated a presence of a hero of old.
Just as the thousands of times before I stepped past the threshold of that humble abode and gazed up the inside of my old friends house. He was a simple man. He was by no means poor, nor was he wealthy, but he lived in a fashion that many of my time would think was self-demeaning. The hut was a simple single room building with a dirt floor and the expected effects. There was a bed with a straw stuffed mattress and the remnants of a hide cover. A rusting iron wood stove sat against the back wall burning gently and putting off a beckoning warmth. Small cupboards and shells dotted the walls and held countless object some of which I never knew. Upon the floor lay a rug made of the skin of an unknown animal that resembled a colossal bear.
Only two things within this home would seam out of place to the errant stranger, a silver mirror upon the rear wall above the bed and a rocking chair that rested on the rug before the stove. The mirror always caught my attention. From a distance the antique seamed nothing more then a simple mirror the size of ones head bordered by a very old intricate work of tarnished brown silver, for the edging of the looking glass shined dimly in the soft light of the abode. But as one neared the artifact it changed. Grains upon the border became apparent and sudden ripples upon the surface of the mirror itself would confound the mind into thinking that the silver was truly mercury. Under close scrutiny one would be utterly amazed to find the seemingly silver border was truly made of some mysterious gleaming wood and the reflective surface of the mirror itself without visible flaw.
But the true beauty of the room was the chair that sat before the fire. The old rocker was much more then the resting place of an aged man. It was an artwork engrained with mystery. Every time I saw the chair it seamed different, a subtle change that one could never pinpoint. The chair itself had four sturdy legs that rested at their terminal within the rockers. The back of the chair was more than a head higher when a full-grown man sat upon it. A rocking chair that was supposedly ordinary when compared to the basic style of most rockers. But upon the chair itself were countless stories carved in relief. Tales of wars and battles on bloodied fields long forgotten. Epics of heroes and maidens and their terrors and toils of their journeys. Stories of mystery, deceit, love, passion, and hate all carved within the dark wood of the chair. One could spend hours gazing upon the carvings and be lost within their own imaginations when the stories came alive before your eyes. But if they blinked the stories would change. The carvings upon the chair never seamed the same twice.
As my I finished my customary mental tour of the room my gazed returned to the old man now seated in the chair. I strode across the room and sat down upon the soft fur of the giant hide and waited for the old man to speak. The pause was long and if I had not observed this very emotion within my old friend before I would have thought that he had quietly passed on whilst sitting before the fire. The pause was long but I would not venture to break this necessary silence. After a long while the old man spoke.
“So what story shall it be today my young friend?” He said with closed eyes, as though recalling long lost memories. My shy impassiveness led to the customary yet simple reply.
“Something new,” was all I could muster.
“Ahh, well then,” he replied with sarcasm, “that sure narrows it down. Lets see here, you’ve already heard the story of the eternal ephemeron and the crusades of the everlasting hosts. You’ve heard the stories of the order of the eternal witness and their condemnation to live everlasting, ever watching. So what to tell…”
“Ahh! Yes,” he stated with the aura of sudden realization.
“The story of never-dieing gods Gilth and Danul.”
At the mention of a new story that I had never heard my interest peaked. The world around me faded away into the oblivion of indifference and utter apathy as I dove into the realm of my imagination; a canvas upon which Siravir could paint his masterpieces. I sat upon the fir of the aged rug and awaited the wash of words that would carry me away into fantasy and drag me from this realm of pain and sorrow.
And so it began. The words began to spill from the man’s mouth with the resonance of an angel. I drank them in and fell away from all that I new was real into realm of existence much more material then the one that I had left.
* * *
Constructive Criticism is greatly appreciated...
Thanks.
Type 2
WBU Solar Flare
The dragon. The symbol of ultimate wisdom yet infinite power.