Prologue
Determination
Kelethin. It was bustling with life this time a day, for the sun was resting high, peering down on the face of Norrath. Merchants sold, young ones played, combatants trained. It was as if there were no problems in the twisted world that was reality, everything was peaceful.
Peace. What is peace, really? A short period of time where the ground is not stained with crimson? For, really, there is no peace. The inhabitants were living in their own world, apart from the harsh, merciless world that was out there. War was not a time period, it was a life style.
Blood trickled down his mouth, branching off in different directions; not unlike the massive trees in the area. It created a river of crimson that blocked out the tan skin, a river that was pain itself. Yet, he still fought. It just gave him more reason. He stood his ground; toes pointed away, legs shoulder-width apart. He breathed in raggedly, his armor moving up and down with the flow of his body. A dull gray sword was held gingerly in hand; ready to cause death with a fierce swing. He convinced himself that he was not afraid, but in the back of his mind, he was screaming. Right now, he was a god. Ready to let death to wrap its icy claws around the victim, and rip its soul from its body. He was death itself. Or so he thought. Pain surrounded the area that the spear had penetrated. His armor did little for him, yet it was to be expected with dull chain-mail. He let out a cry, his eyes forcefully closed as he spit up crimson. With a barely audible splashing sound, it collided with the ground. A small puddle, no bigger than a fist, lay as proof of the battle. His body arched back, trying to get away from the assailant. With the spear continuing to dig into him, he spun swiftly to his right, slamming his blade into the carrier's face. Blood splattered below it has it fell, letting go of the spear and landing with a thud. It was gruesome; its head was cut diagonally, giving a doorway for more blood to ooze out. He grasped the spear, and pulled it out quickly. A searing pain ripped through his body, as the wound was exposed to air. He still stood, despite the blood running down his back and unto the ground. Droplets splashed centimeters away from the previous one. He wiped his face with his left, gloved hand. Orcish shields are painful when smashed into you. Blood had now stained the leather glove, but he didn't mind. He was just glad to be breathing. His breathing was quick and ragged, but it was still breathing. He scanned his surroundings. The grassy area was now bloodied with three Orc bodies. A broken spear was wedged into an Orc's skull, that same Orc missing an arm and most of a leg. Another one was cut brutally, to the point where its entire body became a mass of crimson. The longest living Orc out of the trio lay in front of him. He looked at it emotionlessly. His gaze was interrupted by a muffled clapping. A Wood Elf, much like himself stepped out from behind a tree with his eyes closed, a smug grin on his face. Much unlike the dull-chain mail, this Elf was in silver full plate armor, a tree symbol engraved on the breastplate; the symbol of Kelethin. "Well done, well done," The Elf smiled, eyes still locked shut. "You've gotten stronger, Amril." Amril watched the Elf, not taking time to blink. A short silence followed, broken only by the sounds of birds chirping. The two stood, watching each other. This Elf was much older than Amril, proven by the little wrinkles under his eyes and on his forehead. His brown hair was long enough to come down to his eyes, but it was parted in the middle, leaving an opening for him to see. "... And you've gotten older, Regen."
Author's Notes: Not as long as I wanted it to be. Oh well, it's just the prolouge. Expect Chapter One - Siliquil to be out in a week or so, being that it will be 2 or 3 times longer than this, perhaps even more if I feel that it is not substant enough length wise. Well, as I said, expect it in a week.
Thanks to Plant Wanabe for pre-reading.
~The Death of Hope
Kelethin. It was bustling with life this time a day, for the sun was resting high, peering down on the face of Norrath. Merchants sold, young ones played, combatants trained. It was as if there were no problems in the twisted world that was reality, everything was peaceful.
Peace. What is peace, really? A short period of time where the ground is not stained with crimson? For, really, there is no peace. The inhabitants were living in their own world, apart from the harsh, merciless world that was out there. War was not a time period, it was a life style.
Blood trickled down his mouth, branching off in different directions; not unlike the massive trees in the area. It created a river of crimson that blocked out the tan skin, a river that was pain itself. Yet, he still fought. It just gave him more reason. He stood his ground; toes pointed away, legs shoulder-width apart. He breathed in raggedly, his armor moving up and down with the flow of his body. A dull gray sword was held gingerly in hand; ready to cause death with a fierce swing. He convinced himself that he was not afraid, but in the back of his mind, he was screaming. Right now, he was a god. Ready to let death to wrap its icy claws around the victim, and rip its soul from its body. He was death itself. Or so he thought. Pain surrounded the area that the spear had penetrated. His armor did little for him, yet it was to be expected with dull chain-mail. He let out a cry, his eyes forcefully closed as he spit up crimson. With a barely audible splashing sound, it collided with the ground. A small puddle, no bigger than a fist, lay as proof of the battle. His body arched back, trying to get away from the assailant. With the spear continuing to dig into him, he spun swiftly to his right, slamming his blade into the carrier's face. Blood splattered below it has it fell, letting go of the spear and landing with a thud. It was gruesome; its head was cut diagonally, giving a doorway for more blood to ooze out. He grasped the spear, and pulled it out quickly. A searing pain ripped through his body, as the wound was exposed to air. He still stood, despite the blood running down his back and unto the ground. Droplets splashed centimeters away from the previous one. He wiped his face with his left, gloved hand. Orcish shields are painful when smashed into you. Blood had now stained the leather glove, but he didn't mind. He was just glad to be breathing. His breathing was quick and ragged, but it was still breathing. He scanned his surroundings. The grassy area was now bloodied with three Orc bodies. A broken spear was wedged into an Orc's skull, that same Orc missing an arm and most of a leg. Another one was cut brutally, to the point where its entire body became a mass of crimson. The longest living Orc out of the trio lay in front of him. He looked at it emotionlessly. His gaze was interrupted by a muffled clapping. A Wood Elf, much like himself stepped out from behind a tree with his eyes closed, a smug grin on his face. Much unlike the dull-chain mail, this Elf was in silver full plate armor, a tree symbol engraved on the breastplate; the symbol of Kelethin. "Well done, well done," The Elf smiled, eyes still locked shut. "You've gotten stronger, Amril." Amril watched the Elf, not taking time to blink. A short silence followed, broken only by the sounds of birds chirping. The two stood, watching each other. This Elf was much older than Amril, proven by the little wrinkles under his eyes and on his forehead. His brown hair was long enough to come down to his eyes, but it was parted in the middle, leaving an opening for him to see. "... And you've gotten older, Regen."
Author's Notes: Not as long as I wanted it to be. Oh well, it's just the prolouge. Expect Chapter One - Siliquil to be out in a week or so, being that it will be 2 or 3 times longer than this, perhaps even more if I feel that it is not substant enough length wise. Well, as I said, expect it in a week.
Thanks to Plant Wanabe for pre-reading.
~The Death of Hope