The Fall Of Carinthor
Disclaimer: I do not own magic: the gathering, wizards of the coast or any of the conglomerate of companies that deal and supply magic: the gathering.
A nice little piece, a short story that I thought I would write. Draws it's roots from m:tg
Your eyes open. You don't know where you are. All you know, hear, see, smell and taste is a foul stench like you have never sensed before. You are in a hall, large but bound by great iron gates. You stand. The ceiling so far above you, your neck strains to see the top. You are numb, as if by a night of heavy drinking, however your head neither hurts nor is in peace. Stumbling you walk over to a vast iron rod, thrice your height, and thrice your width. Not knowing knowing what to do, your body moves on to more primeval urges. Your stomach rumbles, your breath quicker. Unlike before your mouth does not salivate, your stomach seems to only rumble out of being confused. This is not a hunger for food, but another kind of sustenance. One that is not as easily attainable, but much, much more delectable. As if out of desperation, you feint. Your time seeming spent, and your strength withered.
"Arise young master", calls a voice to your ears. For somehow you know that it is calling for you. You do not perceive yourself young, nor of any status to be called master. Wait....... this is a new feeling. You are not on cold, hard ground. You are on a feathered bed. Your body heat warmed by a thick cover. Your head arisen by several pillows. You hear the voice again... "Arise young master", however closer, more louder. You fears are as much as when you first opened your eyes. But there is nothing for it. Even if to stop that cackling voice that drums into your head. By part rage, and part annoyance, and even part fear; you sit up. You are in bed chamber, you do not know why it is a bed chamber, it is as if an instinct. You turn, to see a stout figure, barely half your height. A male, yes a male. His look is caring. His eyes soft, his arms strong. An extreme contrast of male. His voice projects itself again, "My young master, you have an stressful week. Please come and get dressed, we have a large day ahead of you.". What is this bafoon going on about? You are dressed. Wait, in night garments. He must mean dressed for the public. The public? what is this? You somehow know much more than it first appears. You seem to yourself old, but are called young. You are being cared for. You know this place, but what does it mean to you?
You are dressed now, clean. The foul stench has gone. You are sure on your feet, and strong in your disposition. But still you cannot get that primeval hunger out of your head. You need it. You want it. You are hurried along into a hall. Not the same one which you first arrived in, but another. More grandeur. You see a myriad of different types of people. Some old, some young, some wealthy and some barely living on the dregs of life. But still out of all these new faces, you can't get the hunger out of your mind. Ever consuming, ever strengthening, ever bending your will to act against what is good and proper. Even though you do not know what good and proper fully mean. Your craving overwhelms you. You run through the hall, you can smell what you crave. It is within your grasp. You are like a predatory hunter, after what it needs to survive. You stop at nothing to get it. Ripping through chairs, tables and people. You are being held back, but you cannot stop it. You delve deep into the place you once called home.
And there it is, all that you have craved. Mana........ The sheer flow, you take, you thrive on it's presence. The walls shudder with it's transportation into you. It is all clear to you now. All is right with the world. You feel the falling of the beams, the killing of the people, their death proclaimed for your hunger.
For you have witnessed now, and here The Fall of Caranthir.
Disclaimer: I do not own magic: the gathering, wizards of the coast or any of the conglomerate of companies that deal and supply magic: the gathering.
A nice little piece, a short story that I thought I would write. Draws it's roots from m:tg
Your eyes open. You don't know where you are. All you know, hear, see, smell and taste is a foul stench like you have never sensed before. You are in a hall, large but bound by great iron gates. You stand. The ceiling so far above you, your neck strains to see the top. You are numb, as if by a night of heavy drinking, however your head neither hurts nor is in peace. Stumbling you walk over to a vast iron rod, thrice your height, and thrice your width. Not knowing knowing what to do, your body moves on to more primeval urges. Your stomach rumbles, your breath quicker. Unlike before your mouth does not salivate, your stomach seems to only rumble out of being confused. This is not a hunger for food, but another kind of sustenance. One that is not as easily attainable, but much, much more delectable. As if out of desperation, you feint. Your time seeming spent, and your strength withered.
"Arise young master", calls a voice to your ears. For somehow you know that it is calling for you. You do not perceive yourself young, nor of any status to be called master. Wait....... this is a new feeling. You are not on cold, hard ground. You are on a feathered bed. Your body heat warmed by a thick cover. Your head arisen by several pillows. You hear the voice again... "Arise young master", however closer, more louder. You fears are as much as when you first opened your eyes. But there is nothing for it. Even if to stop that cackling voice that drums into your head. By part rage, and part annoyance, and even part fear; you sit up. You are in bed chamber, you do not know why it is a bed chamber, it is as if an instinct. You turn, to see a stout figure, barely half your height. A male, yes a male. His look is caring. His eyes soft, his arms strong. An extreme contrast of male. His voice projects itself again, "My young master, you have an stressful week. Please come and get dressed, we have a large day ahead of you.". What is this bafoon going on about? You are dressed. Wait, in night garments. He must mean dressed for the public. The public? what is this? You somehow know much more than it first appears. You seem to yourself old, but are called young. You are being cared for. You know this place, but what does it mean to you?
You are dressed now, clean. The foul stench has gone. You are sure on your feet, and strong in your disposition. But still you cannot get that primeval hunger out of your head. You need it. You want it. You are hurried along into a hall. Not the same one which you first arrived in, but another. More grandeur. You see a myriad of different types of people. Some old, some young, some wealthy and some barely living on the dregs of life. But still out of all these new faces, you can't get the hunger out of your mind. Ever consuming, ever strengthening, ever bending your will to act against what is good and proper. Even though you do not know what good and proper fully mean. Your craving overwhelms you. You run through the hall, you can smell what you crave. It is within your grasp. You are like a predatory hunter, after what it needs to survive. You stop at nothing to get it. Ripping through chairs, tables and people. You are being held back, but you cannot stop it. You delve deep into the place you once called home.
And there it is, all that you have craved. Mana........ The sheer flow, you take, you thrive on it's presence. The walls shudder with it's transportation into you. It is all clear to you now. All is right with the world. You feel the falling of the beams, the killing of the people, their death proclaimed for your hunger.
For you have witnessed now, and here The Fall of Caranthir.