THE SEAGULL'S CRY
 BY COREN FROZENZEPHYR


Fifty years have passed since the Clock Tower of Náráh heralded the new millennium, the 19th century b.S., and even more since the first Anpagan sailors set foot on the continent’s western shores, bringing with them the beginnings of a new era; but despite the changing landscape, life in the upper echelons of imperial society goes on as it always has; intrigue wrapped in luxurious glory.

Away from the reach of an evil brewing under the High Temple of Ankriss, festivities burgeon under the rich sun of an indifferent society. How long before trouble sprouts from the lush soil of southwestern Nybelmar? How long before these lands, once submerged and lifted into the light, warmed over and over again, with bright Maren Zyloth making their border with wave embroidery, crumple into folds and ridges under the perpetual greed of man?

Sprinkled through the hourglass, glimpses into life in Great Krath provide perspectives as colorful as blossoms in a Krean garden, which both challenge and complement that of an unnamed narrator. Events leading to the collapse of an empire begin to surface amid the tides of time as a young Appraiser, by the name of Déárán, ventures deeper and deeper into the uncharted halls of human psyche, reshaping Zhun in his image as he goes.


CHAPTER II:
 A DISTANT SEA: DARKNESS WITHIN

he ambitious young officer looked out of the great glass windows into the cool night. The sounds of a busy town sailed the serene night breeze with succulent jasmine scents drifting from the lower gardens. He paid little attention to either, having too much on his mind. Lists were made, crossed out and remade; lists of places to visit, correspondences to keep, reports to draft; thoughts flying from flower to flower like the honeybee of a midsummer’s day. The vineyards must be inspected tomorrow. Buzz… Lady Akis – birthday, Thursday; golden necklace on Laurel Avenue? Buzz... Docks, statement – due? Buzz. Buzz. News from the Twin Senate? Buzz… Remember: Rumors of a paralysis outbreak north of Kárákán. Buzz. Seems to affect only bronze workers – notify the High Temple?

A solitary jasmine brushed against the glass panel; reaching out with a dance-like grace to greet the tiny traveler the young Lillivear’s hand closed (half absent-mindedly) on its delicate shadow. Then, the terror seized him; a scarlet fear… No; darker still, the purple of a bruised heart. He grasped the velvet arm of a stiff courtly chair, attended by a little page of a stool for greater state, for balance.

Soon, the world was consumed by scarlet twirls of terror. Colours so rich that they permeated all sentiment with their otherworldly presence. Combinations so haunting and wonderful that they dominated the inner sight. O’ terror! What master hath painted thee?

The fear revolved around him – within him – in twisted helixes, pouring down into vortexes of scarlet red asphyxiating in their beauty. Scarlet fear rounded on him from all angles; pressured him to flee down a hall with no exit. Blind fear… Oceans of terror rose and with the ebb tide threatened to suck him in to their depths, their nullified depths. Vacuums to the void… His body circled the round writing desk as his mind fought the pull of the dark ocean. The scarlet surge threatened to wash him away, threatened to drown him in its scarlet depths; yet he held on. He held on to the transient image sailing the waves above him. The frightened face of a young man no older than himself. Déárán fought the surge and surfaced. The sandy haired face now filled the sky. He was uplifted to the heavens (he could feel the sickly cold warm droplets dribbling off his legs) – or perhaps the face was drowning with him – within him – deep below. He could not be sure. His feet in a world far away leaped deftly over the open tomes of Crimson Reconnaissance: A Treatise on Post-Áérálvr Society scattered over the floor. The sadness of the face expanded into him.

Brows crossed in defiance at a fate so horrible that the memories of all the spring blossoms Déárán summoned wilted before it like spoiled goat cheese under the noon sun… Yet Déárán saw beyond that intent gaze: a motherless child, smeared in the filth of other men, staring into the light of the High Roads from the black corner of a black, black alley. Pools of fear glistening in the profoundness of innocent eyes… For a moment Déárán could see those sad eyes up close; for a moment he was the sadness in those eyes, the sadness in those beautiful eyes. A mother dragged away across mud-covered alleys in tight bonds. A flock of white gulls flew over the black surface.


 

The face on the sickly shining waters was again that of the sandy haired young man. Déárán felt the hatred burning in those eyes; hatred so black and venomous that… A shivering took over the Lillivear’s drifting body. He could endure the man’s suffering no more. Déárán opened himself to the earth’s power like a blossom opening to the warm rays of the sun, and channeled. But the fear, this time, instead of dissolving into cozy warmness withdrew abruptly like an injured animal, and leashed back. The láváno opened/pushed its majestic petals further to take in the full splendor of the bright morning sun. Fear whipped back.

Pockets of sweet brightness caved in on themselves and crystallized into frozen lattices of scarlet and deep purple. The more Déárán channeled, the stronger came terror’s retort. He tried to empty his mind as the priestesses had instructed over and over among the heavenly gardens of his childhood, but the resulting emptiness was so profound that a new fear, a new fear of his own overtook him. The Lillivear felt a great urge to crawl into a corner and cuddle into a blanket, taking shelter in the towering might of the walls until the storm washed away, like he used to when he was still a child.

The hatred of the owlish eyes oozed into him like tiny rain droplets trickling down glass panes after a night’s heavy rainfall, pouring into little streams as Déárán Sálíádor, the youngest sorcerer in two centuries to pass the citadel’s test, sought complete the emptiness of his psyche. The sea around his paralyzed body roared, and waves of hatred diffused through the emptied channels with great fervor.

In blind fear, the Lillivear lost control. Darkness, strong and sweet, expanded within the mage’s young body. Hatred rushed, slowly at first then surging like the Great Kimb, surging in his veins, empowering limbs thousand-fold as it passed. A sourness so strong and fulfilling that it was almost sweet water for his parched soul. The darkness exploded, sending shards of frozen scarlet flaring like great and colorful works of fire, up to the black sky. A rich shower of flares rained down, each winding in its own fantastical way, and along them came Déárán.
 

Story written by Coren FrozenZephyr View Profile