Hello, everyone, it's been a while since I've been on, and to those of you who remember, my kneecap is back in working order. The point of this topic is for me to slowly write a story, maybe a few paragraphs at a time, simply because I feel like I haven't been doing much of anything lately. I'm extremely open to criticism, needed clarifications, and suggestions. If nothing else, please tell me what you think. The first part is a prologue, something to keep me anchored to this project.
I remember that day vividly, the last time for a long while that I had thought of my mentor, Izolov. I was standing on the terrace above where the Mourner was conducting the burial rites, watching the sun set in the distance behind the yard. It was cold, but you really can't expect otherwise in the Rakrans just after the Liberation Festival. I studied the Mourner, in her flowing robes the color of the sunset behind her. She might have been attractive at one point, but the ring around her neck from a noose pulled tight marked her as a revenant, the walking dead. The Rusalka (a more proper name for her kind, many associated "revenant" with vampirism) was standing just above the still open grave, a triangular symbol of Chirul in her left hand, and a book of Morana in the other, staring unblinkingly at Izolov's coffin.
Just before he had died, he had told me that I should try to convince as many people to leave the islands as possible, though I knew the futility of it. The Rakrans had always been at a state of complacent peace, boasting the most powerful military of nearly any nation on Prestolej. The army was rarely used, the destruction wrought by it unseen since Morana's war, forty years ago. No normal person would ever fathom that any large-scale violence would erupt in Ikro, the heart of international trade. However, among magi such as myself, normalcy is rare.
I didn't attend the funeral formally, knowing that Izolov's death was likely assassination, and I didn't want to risk my back talking about a corpse. The Rusalka gave a final word of prayer, and her two helpers began shoveling dirt on top of the coffin. I couldn't bring myself to weep, though the man had raised me as his own since my earliest memories. My wife Chavi had poetically said that I had lost all my tears thinking of the impending war. I hugged her, knowing that this would be my last night spent here. She refused to leave, Chirul's church being the only thing the woman had known. I hope that the church will at least remain standing, though that's a lot to ask for considering the invaders. I found my tears that night.
I left the next morning, the weight lighter on my chest than on most men forced to leave behind the most beautiful woman in creation to die. I offered a prayer to Kinjit, that justice would come to those that would have so many lives destroyed over pride. The prayer was not entirely heartfelt, if Chavi had known I revered the Tyrant so, it would not be long before I was hung. If there was one thing she loved more than me, it was Chirul. That name still leaves a bitter taste on my tongue. After the port was already out of sight, the sun setting, I heard the first howl.
I fled to the city of Olv, on the southern tip of the Mahtian colonies. At the time I had no idea of how to take revenge on the Zvej invaders, and no real desire to. I had thought that emotion led to weakness, that it was always better to forget the past, for no mortal magic could change it. Such a philosophy had served me well in getting to the upper rungs of the Rakran Academy, which had consumed my life since I first discovered the arcane power in my soul. Even now, I cannot remember the names of all the people I had paid someone to kill. I could not afford to feel guilt.
"City" might be a generous term for the settlement, really just a village that happened to be older and larger than the others around it. The town's inhabitants were mostly Pristat (them having originally settled in this area to escape the war), though quite a few more Viirm were there than most Rakra would feel comfortable around. The Viirm were considered human by most, but it's impossible to deny that they had inherited quite a bit from their Fey ancestors. Their emotions seemed dulled among their own kind, but among humans they often possessed vibrant personalities. Here, it seemed like they were treated as equals, likely out of necessity. It was a common saying that in Mahtia, you have friends for as long as you can lift things.
My first task after entering the colony was to find a place to stay. I had quite a few coins from my career as a politician and a Magus (it is rare to find one that isn't also the other), but I decided that it would likely be safer to stay in a commons. After claiming one of the more recently constructed rooms as my own, I set about finding work. It is difficult for an educated man to find work on the edge of untamed wilderness, but after two days I found a job as a clerk, translating the various trade orders from different nations. I offered the nabob a very low price considering the work. It would take quite a disaster for my funds to run thin.
It wasn't long before news of the Zvej invasion reached me. It was driven off, but total war would once again pour over the world. That was when the dreams began.
Author
Topic: My Writings (Read 747 times)