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Author Topic: Chapter Two: Of Fiery Beginnings and Lonesome Ends  (Read 1549 times)
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Ailin Ioeil Seafra Cyeall
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« on: 25 June 2004, 04:21:00 »


CHAPTER 2 : Of Fiery Beginnings and Lonesome Ends


OR: Fiery Rebirth / Of Fiery Beginnings and Forlorn Ends / A fiery encounter?


Amid the crackling flames he woke; dimly remembering the clouded faces of the priests chanting around him. When they saw his dark green eyes break away from the heavy, sealing lids, a mass of orange robes involuntarily parted – much reminded him the early blooming of a sunflower. Soon the orange-red ranks closed in on him again, the monotonous chant ever thudding against the thick walls. Sometimes a chorus all clad in black robes with a mammoth, white sun painted above the chest joined the tedious hymn, lighting – if not making eerie -  the foreboding tune ever so slightly:

O’ha-reeeeh! Si-o’reeeyh!


Just when the black choir would hold onto that last syllable, a throng of red-hoods would break through, swirling and singing around the altar. In exactly every three steps they would dip their hands into an unsealed and seemingly endless supply of lorahough seeds beneath their robes and throw a handful into the air; each hooded figure moving as the one before him starts to retreat. Their voices cut through the murky tune, sparking with a low rumbling and slowly reaching a vibrant inferno towards the end. Midway through their sharp cries the dull hymn of the priests would be heard again. With the clerics’ chant fastened around them, the fireseeds would burst into bright white sparks when they touched the chains pinning the mystic to the obsidian altar. The glints would then incarnadine into a glowing ember and fade as they descended towards the floor.

Even amid the dazzling symphony taking place in the small chamber illuminated only by the dancing shadows a dozen torches cast at the walls, the resting mage could discern the clinging (ringing?) armor of the Mélár’áh-Khéin. He assumed the warriors had met the temple guards by now. “Fierce yet foolish,” the mystic thought; he had heard of the squad’s reputation but… human flesh was human flesh, and the mage had not seen any that did not sizzle under the scorching blades of the Guardian’s troops. The thought of burning flesh caught him off-guard and hurled his mind into a disturbed journey to a far-flung past.

It was not your fault. Or so the young mage had been told. “It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault. It’s not my fault…” he had been muttering all day long over the body lying next to him. The eyes, they were the worst part thus far. Blue eyes, once vivid and lighthearted, now dull and gray… Now that the life had been sucked out of them, they appeared… shallow… and… The mage sighed: empty. He looked over the body he had not allowed to be taken away for a proper burial rite, and then to his blood stained hands. If it had been on anyone elses’ ‘twould certainly have dried hours ago; but not on his. The khieh instinctively drawn by his body had kept the blood glistening still. And alive. Ironically that was all the mage, even a powerful one like he, could do. No mortal alone could battle against the clasp of death and win. Or so the teaching of Aniss said. But that was not for the ears of a man who had lost all faith in the words of others earlier that dreary day. Even against the tormented cries of Ksiárájh he had not yielded. “But…If not mine, it is of my arrogance and neglecting,” the mystic whispered, for it was all he could manage, to the hand, once vibrant and now sucked dry with the dusty stroke of death, enclosed tightly in his. All through the blazing day, he had clutched that white hand, that sick sight, and now that the sun had retreated to its castle far above and the night crept low over the lands, covering and soothing their pains with the thick blanket of blackness. The nocturnal scavengers were the last thing he worried when the cool night air sent a shiver down his spine. They would not dare to approach them, especially him in such a state.

He had cried to the Goddess. Over… and over… In thunder, lightning and bitter tears. She had not chosen to respond. With his prayers futile and offerings in vain all the mystic could do was watch the light soul soar towards a lonely journey.

The mage, with a pallid stare, looked at the young and dead man. Had he not died before Korinth got there, the mystic’s magic would be enough to save him. But reclaiming a man after he crossed the mountains of death was far beyond a mortal’s powers. If only… “If only I had returned in time…” No matter what the priestesses, all shining with the light of the Goddess blooming to the eyes of the mystic, had told him, they could not stop him from blaming himself for all that had happened on that grey day.

Edited by: Ailin Ioeil Seafra Cyeall at: 6/25/04 15:56
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Coren FrozenZephyr
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« Reply #1 on: 26 June 2004, 06:22:00 »

To escape the bothersome thoughts howled by the chilling wind the shárath turned his troubled gaze to the munificent meadow, seeking whatever comfort the land had to offer. The bluish fáberige could offer not even the slightest solace to a man who had lost the one soul that genuinely befriended him in a whole decade; not for his power, not for his connections. The more he looked at the blue hearts the more he could perceive the unvoiced mockery of the green ground. The color of the berries was indeed a wicked one, recalling the perturbing countenance of the once, before the aloof waters of lost bereavement had washed him over, fine-looking namer in the agonized mind of the mystic. Once vibrant as a blazing Zhunith zenith, he appeared drained now. The crash of each navy wave soaked away more from his soul than did the passing of sixty grim seasons. The cold waters washed away all but the enduring pain of his raging soul. The throbbing in the scarlet chambers of his heart swelled like a dampened sponge. He could not haul the heavy loss entrenched in every twine of his essence anymore. Like a tainted wound the soreness spread. A nightshimmer vine breeding in my heart, groused the earthen one.

Then slowly it came, first a slight rustling of birch trees, then a sly swing of feral grass. The mage did not have to glance to make out the vile serpent rising at his back.

- Gell’nóth’inderh kork’trú’mth. I feared you would not come…

The answer came in a brush of parched scales and from a slithering fork-tongue:

- érn Grissshh márheynsssss. Never leave tasssty meatsth behindt.

The mystic’s brown eyes burst open, then, leisurely like that of a serpent trying its prey they narrowed.

- Dórén’trúhs alk fhú-súnth. A fool you were to return.

- Dáráth á lliyar yüz’ünh ófkhéylhé mhorthártrú? Sán Éláh dogondálín gél’ír. Why does fury mark your gentle face so livid? All but life comes with a price.

With a side glance at the corpse whose chest was pestered with the bluish bruises left by vile venom the creature continued; still a good dash away from the mourning man:

- És laerín muyho’trúpárh? Was that not what your people’s teachings read?

‘Twas unwise for the beast to utter so much before attacking, and yet fortunate for Korinth. It gave him the time to prepare his defenses. After all, what kind of a man would turn his back to a full grown Le-Sephet unprotected? He could still hear the unearthly serpent hiss a mouthful of Krath-mélár'ián to demonstrate how sharp it was. The beast talked too much; now that it was liberated from the mental grip of its mother. A most ill-timed tête-à-tête… Still with his back to the impending beast, the mage chewed a tiny Éáh’s Eye. He had always esteemed the word choice; with a vivid white ray of petals fanning around a smaller disk of deep purple petals the flower much resembled an eye. The mystic did his best to pick up the glass bottle lying right beside him as quietly as he could. His trained ears intently searched for any sign of the huge Sephet advancing, but they found none but the snake’s unrelenting natters. The gorgeous warrior drank the clear green liquid as swift and silently as he could manage under the ill-fated circumstances. When he finished the spell he was muttering under his tongue, which was quite a challenging task with a mouth full of ghastly-tasting liquor, he almost dropped the brittle bottle in his cupped hands. Thankfully the beast was still talking, and quite absorbed in the resourceful threats it had come up with since it learned to act without a puppeteer. The mystic gazed at the wet grass. The spell would protect him from the noxious grease covering the monster’s skin, but it could do little for the venom veiled inside the jawbone. He had to be careful not to get in the fangs’ way. Routinely the mystic’s mouth began to murmur a short prayer of deliverance to the Goddess, one he brought to a halt as soon as he noticed what he was doing. The Goddess had not chosen to help him; why should he honor Her with further plea?

The creature had noticed the absence of his side of the chitchat. It spit the wittiest comment it had gathered back at the silent shárath:

- Sán Éláh dogondálín gél’ír. All but life comes with a price. És laerín muyho’trúpárh? Was that not what your people’s teachings read?

- And that’s why only the Goddess can claim what She has granted.

The Sephet mimicked the mocking expression it had seen on the council member’s face earlier that day – before he had sliced him into delicately cut piece that was – as an appetizer to the greater meal waiting for him, baked under the hot sun in the tastiest of sauces, fear and pain, for a whole day.

- Oh now I know where your supreme Goddess was: Enjoying the meal with me! That must indeed be reason; why else would She abandon one of her frail humans?

The sorcerer was starting to get bored with the senseless speech. He was gnashing his teeth already for what had escaped from his mouth. The derisive monster went on, launching the shárath’s remarks back at him in that same tainted way that draped its whole being, but as it did the keen warrior noticed an intriguing aspect to the monster’s speech: Even it feared to disparage the Goddess in Her tongue. The Le-Sephet had launched the last of its acrid ridicules before discharging a ball of lethal acid:

- Kálén’trúh alk ésh fhú-súnth. A fool you were to stay.

Edited by: Coren FrozenZephyr at: 6/25/04 15:52
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"Everything should be as simple as possible and not simpler." Albert Einstein

"Is he allowed to do that?"
"I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico."
"Yes, what does that mean?"
"'Because I say so', I think."
"That doesn't sound like much of a rule!"
"Actually, it's the only one he needs." (Making Money by Terry Pratchett)
Coren FrozenZephyr
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« Reply #2 on: 19 July 2004, 09:49:00 »

Any comments, no?

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"Everything should be as simple as possible and not simpler." Albert Einstein

"Is he allowed to do that?"
"I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico."
"Yes, what does that mean?"
"'Because I say so', I think."
"That doesn't sound like much of a rule!"
"Actually, it's the only one he needs." (Making Money by Terry Pratchett)
Coren FrozenZephyr
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« Reply #3 on: 21 July 2004, 06:47:00 »

:: two sad drops of being neglected begin to form on the young boy's face ::

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"Everything should be as simple as possible and not simpler." Albert Einstein

"Is he allowed to do that?"
"I think that comes under the rule of Quia Ego Sic Dico."
"Yes, what does that mean?"
"'Because I say so', I think."
"That doesn't sound like much of a rule!"
"Actually, it's the only one he needs." (Making Money by Terry Pratchett)
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