Disclaimer: I don't own Breath of Fire or anything. This isn't really important yet, mind.
Foreword: Nobody ever freaking reads my stories! So here, I've just written the first chapter. If somebody decides to review the thing, and it sounds even remotely positive, I will continue. But only if. Please enjoy, and please review. And yes, the title is awful. I know.
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The figure sat.
The figure sat, hunched up, cursing the cold, and waiting. Out across the courtyard the rain danced and pattered amongst the broken paving stones and fed the weeds and moss that crept from between the cracks and into the daylight. Not that the sun was shining.
Here, it always rained. He hated it. Despised it. There was something about this continuos rain, day after day, often lasting for weeks; and it depressed him. With so little to do, he found himself spending hours every day just watching the rain. That, and questioning the insane pretence of logic that had led him to buy this forsaken building.
Why here, of all the places in the world? He had travelled. At some point in his lifetime, he must have been to every country, every isle on the planet. He had seen the stunning, breathtaking sunsets in the deserts of the great Southern continent of the East. One island he had seen, he remembered, was a rich, green, exotic place, with a central mountain from which cascaded countless waterfalls, roaring and spilling; roaming through the valleys in such a way that the island itself seemed to take on life. Even his home town, warm and comfortable; snowy, but charming in the winter; fresh in the spring, with the new-born birdsong and the first flowers of the year; and the long, hazy, warm summer days; such comfort and fond memories he took from these places: Familiar sights, familiar faces; friends who he loved. So why, of all places, had he chosen to settle here?
All it ever did was rain.
And yet he could not leave. He knew it, in his heart. Something had tied him here, and was keeping him. He felt it in the days, when he looked from the window and saw what he had known before he even rose from his sheets would be the rain; pattering, slapping heavily onto the faded leather awning that sagged heavily above the door. Every day, the sight, the sound; everything he knew so well of the ceaseless rain would rob him of his strength; and at night it kept him awake; uncomfortable, but too tired to move; he would lie in torment and misery, staring at the ceiling, until his eyes burnt holes through the back of his sockets and he wondered if the morning would ever come.
And then sleep would take him, but would give him precious little rest.
Weeks passed in this way, months, perhaps years, as all sense of time blurred into itself and he could not remember what he had done or thought on one day from the next. Time slipped by at such a rate, creating an impression in his mind that it no longer applied to him. His mind would emerge from this lifeless state on occasion, panicked, and he would make feeble attempts to create landmarks in the vast flowing river that was time. The house slowly became filled with messages to his future self, written on the pages of half-read books or scraps of loose paper. Over time these became more urgent in tone, often begging him to get out, get away, but when he came to find them again he could never remember when they had been written.
Until one day, when the rain trickled to a stop. He looked up from the stale bread that was his evening meal. With a strange calm he etched a crude drawing on the floor, an old friend, grinning with that carefree grin that his vague memory recalled. And then, with a great effort, he looked at the evening sky, at the stars that were just beginning to show, and he worked out what day it was, and then what month, and year. And then he heard the heavy patter of the rain against the land outside, and he fell into his chair, exhausted. Again his conscious slipped out into the void. The next time his mind settled on the picture he gave a start. When? He threw himself at the task, with fear inside him, beside himself to discover how much time had passed. He could not believe the answer he came to. He checked again, lethargic and drowsy as he felt, but he surely could not be wrong. Could he? No. Seven months. And he could not remember any of it. He shifted himself onto the stale mattress beside his chair and wept. In a matter of minutes he passed into the best sleep he had had since he had bought that cursed house.
In the morning, the rain had stopped. The sky was a clear, pale blue, and strained sounds of nervous birdsong could be heard, as if it was these birds had discovered for the first time that they could sing. The grass outside, having long consumed the stones that has formed the yard, was jewelled with the sparkling droplets of - rain? Or, possibly, dew? A strange, refreshing feeling cleared his thoughts. He still remembered the picture, oh yes. And now, looking, he began to remember more of his friend. A wave of loneliness swept over him, and nostalgia, and before long he found himself pining for company. And so, over the next hour, purpose came back into his life. His task was clear to him - wonderfully clear, and urgent. Before that accursed rain began again, he must get out of here. Get out of the house, get down from the hills and as soon as was possible get out of the country. Old information poured into his mind, roads he knew, routes he could take, local friends with which he could stay - how long had it been? Would they still remember him? He wondered if any would recognise him at all.
There was time for this now, time for it all. His new goal was set before him, and he moved with quickened pace. His walk was still a hobble, and the pain was still there; for he had moved about so little within his creaky hut, for as long as his memory would stretch. But now, all spirit and emotion of the old days filled him so that he felt he might overflow with it. Had he the strength, he would have shouted and hollered, leaping about through the rooms of his home. He could not do this as he was, but it would come, and he felt a tremendous joy at the thought of tracking down his oldest and dearest friend.
Once again, adventure!
------
Now you've read it, review it. Thankyou!
CrackMonkey
Foreword: Nobody ever freaking reads my stories! So here, I've just written the first chapter. If somebody decides to review the thing, and it sounds even remotely positive, I will continue. But only if. Please enjoy, and please review. And yes, the title is awful. I know.
-----
The figure sat, hunched up, cursing the cold, and waiting. Out across the courtyard the rain danced and pattered amongst the broken paving stones and fed the weeds and moss that crept from between the cracks and into the daylight. Not that the sun was shining.
Here, it always rained. He hated it. Despised it. There was something about this continuos rain, day after day, often lasting for weeks; and it depressed him. With so little to do, he found himself spending hours every day just watching the rain. That, and questioning the insane pretence of logic that had led him to buy this forsaken building.
Why here, of all the places in the world? He had travelled. At some point in his lifetime, he must have been to every country, every isle on the planet. He had seen the stunning, breathtaking sunsets in the deserts of the great Southern continent of the East. One island he had seen, he remembered, was a rich, green, exotic place, with a central mountain from which cascaded countless waterfalls, roaring and spilling; roaming through the valleys in such a way that the island itself seemed to take on life. Even his home town, warm and comfortable; snowy, but charming in the winter; fresh in the spring, with the new-born birdsong and the first flowers of the year; and the long, hazy, warm summer days; such comfort and fond memories he took from these places: Familiar sights, familiar faces; friends who he loved. So why, of all places, had he chosen to settle here?
All it ever did was rain.
And yet he could not leave. He knew it, in his heart. Something had tied him here, and was keeping him. He felt it in the days, when he looked from the window and saw what he had known before he even rose from his sheets would be the rain; pattering, slapping heavily onto the faded leather awning that sagged heavily above the door. Every day, the sight, the sound; everything he knew so well of the ceaseless rain would rob him of his strength; and at night it kept him awake; uncomfortable, but too tired to move; he would lie in torment and misery, staring at the ceiling, until his eyes burnt holes through the back of his sockets and he wondered if the morning would ever come.
And then sleep would take him, but would give him precious little rest.
Weeks passed in this way, months, perhaps years, as all sense of time blurred into itself and he could not remember what he had done or thought on one day from the next. Time slipped by at such a rate, creating an impression in his mind that it no longer applied to him. His mind would emerge from this lifeless state on occasion, panicked, and he would make feeble attempts to create landmarks in the vast flowing river that was time. The house slowly became filled with messages to his future self, written on the pages of half-read books or scraps of loose paper. Over time these became more urgent in tone, often begging him to get out, get away, but when he came to find them again he could never remember when they had been written.
Until one day, when the rain trickled to a stop. He looked up from the stale bread that was his evening meal. With a strange calm he etched a crude drawing on the floor, an old friend, grinning with that carefree grin that his vague memory recalled. And then, with a great effort, he looked at the evening sky, at the stars that were just beginning to show, and he worked out what day it was, and then what month, and year. And then he heard the heavy patter of the rain against the land outside, and he fell into his chair, exhausted. Again his conscious slipped out into the void. The next time his mind settled on the picture he gave a start. When? He threw himself at the task, with fear inside him, beside himself to discover how much time had passed. He could not believe the answer he came to. He checked again, lethargic and drowsy as he felt, but he surely could not be wrong. Could he? No. Seven months. And he could not remember any of it. He shifted himself onto the stale mattress beside his chair and wept. In a matter of minutes he passed into the best sleep he had had since he had bought that cursed house.
In the morning, the rain had stopped. The sky was a clear, pale blue, and strained sounds of nervous birdsong could be heard, as if it was these birds had discovered for the first time that they could sing. The grass outside, having long consumed the stones that has formed the yard, was jewelled with the sparkling droplets of - rain? Or, possibly, dew? A strange, refreshing feeling cleared his thoughts. He still remembered the picture, oh yes. And now, looking, he began to remember more of his friend. A wave of loneliness swept over him, and nostalgia, and before long he found himself pining for company. And so, over the next hour, purpose came back into his life. His task was clear to him - wonderfully clear, and urgent. Before that accursed rain began again, he must get out of here. Get out of the house, get down from the hills and as soon as was possible get out of the country. Old information poured into his mind, roads he knew, routes he could take, local friends with which he could stay - how long had it been? Would they still remember him? He wondered if any would recognise him at all.
There was time for this now, time for it all. His new goal was set before him, and he moved with quickened pace. His walk was still a hobble, and the pain was still there; for he had moved about so little within his creaky hut, for as long as his memory would stretch. But now, all spirit and emotion of the old days filled him so that he felt he might overflow with it. Had he the strength, he would have shouted and hollered, leaping about through the rooms of his home. He could not do this as he was, but it would come, and he felt a tremendous joy at the thought of tracking down his oldest and dearest friend.
Once again, adventure!
------
Now you've read it, review it. Thankyou!
CrackMonkey