Chapter one. ^^ Very happy, 'cause I have been planning to put this
thing together for a long time. The reason I'm not a very "experienced" fic
writer is because I have difficulty obtaining the character's personality.
Plus, most of my plots suck. But I find that after 7 years of reading
Tamora Pierce, I think this fanfic may be different. Read and review, if
possible. Thanks, enjoy ^_^ (UPDATE: Stupid Notepad. Now I have to write
with Word. * shudder * I hate Word!)
Most of the forests of the far north of Tortall were uninhabited. Shamefully, it was a lovely wood, redwood trees towering overhead, sunbeams shimmering through the thick canopy of leaves. But the forest wasn't favored, for it lay on the border of Scanra, the realm of poverty, pirates, thieves, and blood. Scanrans were masters of the sea, raiding the shores of every realm in its grasp. The fair haired, sapphire eyes of the Scanran's were despised and feared by most.
A huge ruckus of rustling leaves emerged from a nearby patch of bushes. A young girl with long burnt red hair and amber eyes tried to whack the thick branches with a stick. Tanned face was worn and bleeding from being lashed at by the wilderness. She collapsed in the clearing, panting heavily.
"This is just wonderful," She murmured to herself haughtily. "I'm stuck in this gods-forsaken forest with hardly any supplies or 'nuttin!" Her accent was rough, slightly accented Common. "I wish - " The young woman stopped herself suddenly and sighed.
"At least I've left them. There's nothing good back home. Me bein' different, and all." The girl heaved a sigh. "Different is well enough sometimes, but in this case..."
Feeling sudden pangs of hunger, the redhead began to rummage through her pack, hoping to unearth something edible.
"Yes!" She cried, victorious, pulling out her hand, fingers clutched around a thin, leather pouch. Inside was a mish-mash of trail mixes, preserved in salt.
Bit by bit, the girl ate the mixture, remembering the place she had come. Father shain't be that much bothered when he finds me missing. Always away at war, what did it mean anyways? She made a gruesome face to herself. I hate boats, just as well. And then there's the different thing again. I look different from all the rest, with their yellow hair and blue eyes. And I know I'm odd on the inside, too. My eyes ... and that time in the wood, "Zekan, Zekan!" they said. They kept calling and calling, but I couldn't hear...
The Scanran known as Zekan looked to find her trail mixture empty of all contents. With a depressing groan, she got up and shoved the leather pouch back into her pack.
As she began her toil in the moist forest once more, the forest began to change. It seemed subtle at first, but it was increasing, and swiftly. Zekan's eyes scanned to the top of the trees, the wood suddenly growing eerily dark.
"This is very odd... Hell-oooo?" The Scanran called, half expecting an answer. But the only answer was her echo.
Or that's what she thought.
If Zekan had been her normal self, she might have noticed the odd patching on the ground, as well as the irregular rock patterns. Unfortunately, this was not so, and she easily tumbled through the trap, falling into a pit.
She cried out as she fell, landing on dirt as hard as brick. A crushing pain sprang up her leg when she landed.
"Dammit!" She swore, "A trap made by hunters." Wincing, Zekan examined the foot, only to find - with a groan of displeasure - that it had been badly sprained.
"Just as well," she grumbled, "since this cursed pit is at the least 10 feet deep." With that, a chorus of 'colorful' language stranded from her mouth.
A chilling breeze entered the pit, and suddenly the Scanran felt cold and alone. It's not like I've never felt this way before… She thought to herself.
Yet this time, a voice answered back.
Yes, but this time, it's quite different -- Zekanvealadas Haddemsran.
--------------------------
"Daine," the voice said, "Listen."
"Who are you?" the woman replied.
"You shall know in time. Seven years... we have not forgotten."
Daine started. "Seven years?" She knew she was dreaming. All that could be seen was a fine, ash-gray mist. "W - where are you??"
"Where I always have been, Weiryn's daughter. You shall remember."
"Weiryn's daughter? A - are you a god?" It wasn't like she hadn't encountered them before.
"A god?!" the voice bellowed, "Me? A pride less god? I think not! Now, hush, and listen!" The voice had grown demanding, and Daine obeyed. "They are coming. We have sent her, Wingjade as well. Be prepared. I know little of the mortal realm, so listen well. Do not judge by appearance. Remember, they're coming. They shall oppose them."
"What?" The woman protested, "It doesn't make sense! They and them? Odd's bobs!" Her dream self scowled, stubborn chin stuck outward in defiance to the voice.
"I must leave, Weiryn's daughter. Have faith, mortal."
Yet Daine protested once more, "Wait!"
But he was gone.
Most of the forests of the far north of Tortall were uninhabited. Shamefully, it was a lovely wood, redwood trees towering overhead, sunbeams shimmering through the thick canopy of leaves. But the forest wasn't favored, for it lay on the border of Scanra, the realm of poverty, pirates, thieves, and blood. Scanrans were masters of the sea, raiding the shores of every realm in its grasp. The fair haired, sapphire eyes of the Scanran's were despised and feared by most.
A huge ruckus of rustling leaves emerged from a nearby patch of bushes. A young girl with long burnt red hair and amber eyes tried to whack the thick branches with a stick. Tanned face was worn and bleeding from being lashed at by the wilderness. She collapsed in the clearing, panting heavily.
"This is just wonderful," She murmured to herself haughtily. "I'm stuck in this gods-forsaken forest with hardly any supplies or 'nuttin!" Her accent was rough, slightly accented Common. "I wish - " The young woman stopped herself suddenly and sighed.
"At least I've left them. There's nothing good back home. Me bein' different, and all." The girl heaved a sigh. "Different is well enough sometimes, but in this case..."
Feeling sudden pangs of hunger, the redhead began to rummage through her pack, hoping to unearth something edible.
"Yes!" She cried, victorious, pulling out her hand, fingers clutched around a thin, leather pouch. Inside was a mish-mash of trail mixes, preserved in salt.
Bit by bit, the girl ate the mixture, remembering the place she had come. Father shain't be that much bothered when he finds me missing. Always away at war, what did it mean anyways? She made a gruesome face to herself. I hate boats, just as well. And then there's the different thing again. I look different from all the rest, with their yellow hair and blue eyes. And I know I'm odd on the inside, too. My eyes ... and that time in the wood, "Zekan, Zekan!" they said. They kept calling and calling, but I couldn't hear...
The Scanran known as Zekan looked to find her trail mixture empty of all contents. With a depressing groan, she got up and shoved the leather pouch back into her pack.
As she began her toil in the moist forest once more, the forest began to change. It seemed subtle at first, but it was increasing, and swiftly. Zekan's eyes scanned to the top of the trees, the wood suddenly growing eerily dark.
"This is very odd... Hell-oooo?" The Scanran called, half expecting an answer. But the only answer was her echo.
Or that's what she thought.
If Zekan had been her normal self, she might have noticed the odd patching on the ground, as well as the irregular rock patterns. Unfortunately, this was not so, and she easily tumbled through the trap, falling into a pit.
She cried out as she fell, landing on dirt as hard as brick. A crushing pain sprang up her leg when she landed.
"Dammit!" She swore, "A trap made by hunters." Wincing, Zekan examined the foot, only to find - with a groan of displeasure - that it had been badly sprained.
"Just as well," she grumbled, "since this cursed pit is at the least 10 feet deep." With that, a chorus of 'colorful' language stranded from her mouth.
A chilling breeze entered the pit, and suddenly the Scanran felt cold and alone. It's not like I've never felt this way before… She thought to herself.
Yet this time, a voice answered back.
Yes, but this time, it's quite different -- Zekanvealadas Haddemsran.
--------------------------
"Daine," the voice said, "Listen."
"Who are you?" the woman replied.
"You shall know in time. Seven years... we have not forgotten."
Daine started. "Seven years?" She knew she was dreaming. All that could be seen was a fine, ash-gray mist. "W - where are you??"
"Where I always have been, Weiryn's daughter. You shall remember."
"Weiryn's daughter? A - are you a god?" It wasn't like she hadn't encountered them before.
"A god?!" the voice bellowed, "Me? A pride less god? I think not! Now, hush, and listen!" The voice had grown demanding, and Daine obeyed. "They are coming. We have sent her, Wingjade as well. Be prepared. I know little of the mortal realm, so listen well. Do not judge by appearance. Remember, they're coming. They shall oppose them."
"What?" The woman protested, "It doesn't make sense! They and them? Odd's bobs!" Her dream self scowled, stubborn chin stuck outward in defiance to the voice.
"I must leave, Weiryn's daughter. Have faith, mortal."
Yet Daine protested once more, "Wait!"
But he was gone.