Old Bird's Roost

The Poles Scene: The Whales

2006-01-02T06:54:23Z

A random writing post for you, if you please. Somewhere in the middle of The Poles. Voan, Jygin and Quith are traveling south down the western coast when they come across something surprising.

Some premier reactions from the dragoness here. This is about the first time she ever freaks out in a soft way. I'll not tell you why.

Title: The Whales
Rating: G
Warnings: Animal distress

“What are those shapes on the shore?” Jygin had faced himself to the ocean, squinting down against the glinting water. The dragoness perked and followed his gaze, Quith did as well. Several large black lumps marred the white sand of the shore, the heavy figures sprawled out in different directions, some in the water and some out. The elf puzzled over them, unable to see clearly due to the sun’s hot glare. He turned to Voan, expectant of an answer, but found she was not there at all.

Sand sprayed up in all directions as the female ran down the dune’s side, leaping without grace or care over rocks and clumps of plants that grew so sparingly. Her form fled in all abandon, trying to make it to the dark shapes on the beach. The demon to Quith’s side glanced at him; ruby eyes full of question, but the elf shook his head and bounded down the hill in pursuit.

The smell of salt filled their heads as the sea grew closer and the sand hissed underfoot. Calves strained themselves against the ground that gave away so easily under their weight, making the pursuit of the swift dragoness more difficult. The dark shapes began to grow defined, and Quith’s heart tightened with every detail.

These shapes had mouths and eyes, their backs came up in a great arch and lay in a strong ridge down to their large, paddle tail. There were two oars on either side of them behind tiny beaded eyes impressed within their heavy skulls. These were not shipwrecks or rocks…

A whisper from the ocean was interrupted by a loud groan from one of them as it wrenched its sluggish body in hot fatigue. A movement that would be graceful in the water’s cool embrace was wasted upon the dry beach that stranded it. These great animals of the sea, the whales, lay trapped on the jeweled sand.

Strides ahead, Voan reached the largest of them and fell next to its enormous head, looking into a small, glossed eye. They did not hear her as she spoke to it.

“Voan…” Quith was gasping, both because of shock and the wind from the run, “what has happened?”

The dragoness’s head was shaking as she whispered to the great beast that heaved before her. “A wrong turn. They are tired.” It was the only reply given, she ran her hand across the rubbery skin, its blackish surface crossed with lines of scars and dotted with barnacles from the sea.

“They are dying.” Jygin moved closer than the elf, moved enough to touch the creature’s nose with one hand, which he quickly withdrew. “Slowly, they’re dying.”

Voan wrenched herself upward, turning around. Both of her companions were shocked and somewhat horrified to see the horror on her face. “We must move them back! We must get them to the water again!” Her voice cracked with unknown emotion, eyes shining.

“Voan, they’re huge. We can’t possibly move them.” Quith frowned at the great one before him and glanced at the other four smaller beasts that lay sprawled in the vicinity.

“No.” She refused and grabbed her belt, unhooking it and tossing to the sand. “You cannot.” Back to the whale she turned, her body trembling. “I will move you brother. I will return you, but you must help me.”

Quith shook his head. The beast would not understand her… whales were intelligent creatures of Faristad, but the Common Tongue was not of them. They were rumored to sing, but not in any land speech. His head shook harder, but then in disbelief as the huge thing moaned in response for the Dragoness.

She threw her sword and flask down, disguarded everything with the exception of one; her scepter. Without a word, she marched past the grounded animal and into the bubbling surf.

Harlon walked in front of the two stunned males and collected his mistress’s possessions in his claws. A red head turned to them and his jagged teeth split with words. “Get back. She’ll not pay attention to you for this.”

Jygin registered what was happening before Quith did and grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him backwards up the beach. Voan had stopped in the water when it consumed her waist and turned back to the shore and the stranded beasts on it.

The elf saw the scepter glint, flash its purple brilliance, and then plunge into the demigod’s head. He yelped in shock as the thing seemed to disappear into his companions forehead and then once again as she twisted violently.

The change was so fast he had no idea how it could have been possible. One moment he saw her there, in a half form so familiar to him, and another moment that shape folded and collapsed, expanded and crunched until a full Dragon stood ankle-deep in the stirring seawater.

Her scales shone a silvery violet where the sun struck, and a blackish purple everywhere else. Voan’s natural body was a powerful one indeed. Four gray horns spired from the back of her shaped head, accompanied by large, long ears. The markings on her face and limbs existed on the body still and seemed to flow within themselves; runes of molten white on flesh. Wings much larger than the pair he had witnessed flexed once as she moved to stand at the fluke of one tide victim.

Her voice sang to theirs; a low thrum of cords with higher keen every few notes. The whale’s eyes closed, it’s front flippers pressed hard to the dry sand and Voan, in her full body for the first time sense their encounter, clamped her front paws around the base of the giant’s tail. Her body reared back, massive legs cording up and with a great heave, brought the beached animal back a short distance. Once, twice and a third time more she did it, and when the seawater lapped to the thing’s jaw it began to wriggle and aide her. The dragoness’s wings beat in her final pull, throwing water to the air around her, and she fell backwards as the whale escaped the deadly embrace of the shore.

One was not enough, four more groaned out to her, and she did not deny them. Each was given her full strength, her calming hum and strenuous effort. And when she was to her chest in water, the freed animals caught her as she fell onto her back again, and shoved her upright so the rescue could continue.

When the last gray beast rolled free in the surf, a chorus of praise erupted from the frothing waves as the dragon emerged, wings limp and dragging heavily to her sides. Water streamed off of her glittering scales and with a toss of her head, the demigod loosed a return call in the form of an astounding roar.

Her frame sagged as the note died, and Voan stumbled forward a few steps, out of her gargantuan body and back to her half form, before she collapsed in the water. Jygin started forward, but it was Harlon who thundered out into the oncoming waves to retrieve his exhausted mistress. She draped herself over wide his back, and the chimera emerged from the ocean like a sea-beast, drenched and proud, with a powerful goddess upon his shoulders.

Roe Piece #1

2005-06-13T18:02:45Z

This is a piece written merely for the sake of writing it. Dox is a character name that I use profusely in realistic fiction and Roe… well, she’s special.

In all reality, this is a dramatazation of my mental breakdown last year. The situation is made up, the circumstances are completely fictional, but the feeling is actually the same.

Her head hurt. It always hurt… yet the reason to why was near invisible.

She slept well, she ate well… perhaps too well, but she was healthy. After the car accident her leg gave her trouble… but it had been a year. She was physically fine. It wasn’t as though she was suffering from a tumor or some tremendous stroke either… in fact, all the tests they had done on her after her breakdown proved that there was nothing wrong with her brain. She had been traumatized, but all tests came back negative for mental problems.

Dox knew she wasn’t crazy. She knew she didn’t have an aneurysm. No doctor could ever tell her why her head always hurt.

But she could. She knew the reason for the strain in her cranium, that pressure at the zenith of her spine…

It’s very hard to fit two people in one body.

Dox lay down on her bed and let it attempt to swallow her with its softness. The ache made her dizzy, and she thought it better to lie down when suffering. The lights were dimmed as well, and her door was closed. It was best to be alone at a time like this. It wasn’t as though she was going to have an attack…

She was going to have a visitor.

Roe was taller, more svelte and liquid-like. Her eyes were darker and her skin a stabbing white. She often heard Roe rather than saw her, but it was better to close her eyes and see that black-laced figure than to merely stare at nothing. It made their conversations more normal.

Dox sighed and closed her arms around the plush of a pillow. Roe was always cold. The other girl’s voice would send little shocks down her spine. They felt terrific, but mildly terrifying.

The room was quiet with the exception of her breathing. It was a mere precursor against a torrent of sound that was to follow. Roe was argumentative and persistent; she would not leave Dox alone until she had said all she needed to say.

Based on the sort of day the resting girl had had, Roe would have a lot to talk about.

Sweetheart…

“Hello.” She whispered to the misted image in her eyes, the black body of it warped and rippling as if seen through ancient glass. Was Roe smoking? She looked as though there was a cigarette in her mouth.

What’s wrong?

“You’re mad at me.” The image struggled to straighten its waving. Oh, no… she wasn’t smoking. She had a liquor bottle in her hand. That was worse. “You’re very mad at me.”

Do you know why?

“I didn’t do it again today.” It was hard liquor. Roe’s eyes were misted over and her face slightly relaxed. Alcohol to Roe was a tranquilizer to a tiger.

No you didn’t. You didn’t do anything important today. You ate more than I told you to. What have we talked about?

“I’m sorry.” She was.

How are you ever going to loose weight when you do that? I thought we worked this out…

Roe wanted Dox to be thin… wanted her to be more beautiful. The girl was dumpy; a tire of fat lay around her stomach and bulged over her pants. It was a real trauma for her… she hated being fat. Roe hated it too.

“I’ll exercise tomorrow.”

Fair enough. You better not back out on it either, or you’ll be sticking your finger down your throat again. Roe was a fan of purging. Dox frowned.

“I’m going to do it.”

I’m sure. Roe took another deep swallow and gasped through it. Sharp gray eyes, imaginary, but entirely real, drilled back to Dox yet again. You didn’t do the other thing too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Why did she lie? What good was it to lie?

You do. Roe tapped her temple with one crooked finger. I saw your thoughts go to it the second I mentioned it. The boy.

Her lips hardly moved. “What about the boy?” The boy. The boy Dox had an obsession for. It was a very touchy subject. Repeated rejection made its scars on her. Roe was on dangerous ground.

And she knew it. You damn cow. How’re we going to get fucked if you don’t give a goddamn effort? Apparently, Roe had not drank enough to calm herself completely. Her voice flared like a furnace.

“It’s not going to work.”

Not with you in control.

“You want it?!” Dox’s face twisted a little, that rare anger was seen. Roe’s laughter bit like a snake. “You can take it!”

You want it. You take it! The dark girl mocked, leaning back further, sucking on the bottle like a leech. Through her rasps that followed she hissed out the truth. Damn coward.

Dox did not flinch, she swallowed. Her throat was parched.

You want some of this? Roe shook the bottle and the liquid rattled.

Her whole body squirmed. “Yeah…”

Tell me why you want some.

“I don’t want to.”

Roe was smiling. It was thin and terrible, a like of pearl white behind her dark blood lips. Beautiful and sickening. Tell me, Doxy baby. Why do you want this?

“I just do… I want to be a teen. I want to…”

No. That isn’t it. Roe’s face was getting clearer, and her voice was hurting her; making those tiny cold shards stick to her veins. Tell me why you like to drink Dox.

Her head felt like it was about to split. “I…”

Dox!

“It makes you shut up!” The air was thick with her gasping and despite how her eyes wanted to open, they would not. Roe’s smile turned to a leer.

That’s wrong.

Dox sobbed.

You know it but can’t say… so I’ll do it anyway. I know why you like to drink. It isn’t that it makes me shut up so much is it? It’s because it makes us connect. We don’t have these arguments when you’re shit-faced because of one reason. Roe laughed and reached out with her long, white hands. Dow felt a caress on her cheek and winced away from nothing. This pathetic excuse of a human you live as doesn’t exist when you’re drunk. It’s me you become.

“I don’t like it.”

You love it.

“Be quiet.”

You’re the only one talking.

“Leave me alone!”

You are alone!

Her hands slammed to her temples and she gritted her teeth. If there was no one there, if there was no Roe… then why did that laugher play in her ears? Why did that cool touch tingle on the sensitive nerves of her cheek?

Dox’s hair stood on end. She shivered and rolled her face into the thick scent of her pillow. The vision was gone, but the voice never left. In the back of her mind it trickled into her eyes. Into her mouth. Into her throat. Collecting there like a pocket of ink and closing off her lungs. Suffocating in the dark pigment.

She pressed her face hard into the plush of her bedding and let it out. A chilling, bubbled laugher that shivered down the length of her curled spine. The darkness receded. Dox lifted her head to breathe again. Her strain was relieved yet the laugher shrouded her like a funeral pall.

She sat in the darkness with her. They were silent together now.

This was how she liked it.

Oh no, no, no… Dox certainly was not crazy.

She just wasn’t sane.

No comments on my mental health please.

The Writer's Reference

2005-03-13T03:41:33Z

I think, one day, I should make a sight that has loads of information for writers and links to sights so that they can learn what they're actually talking about. That would be cool.

Not going to happen though... too lazy.

I do, however, have a handy, dandy color list that is useful for anyone.

Blue

Cerulean

Azure

Cobalt

Sapphire

Indigo

Navy

Lapis Lazuli

Cyan

Sky-hued

Blue/Green

Teal

Sea Green

Aquamarine

Aqua

Turquoise

Oceanic

Green

Celadon

Emerald

Jade

Olive

Lime

Viridian

Verdant

Mint

Perodot*

Yellow/ Green

Chartreuse

Yellow

Flax

Fiar

Blond

Gold

Lemon

Amber

Straw-colored

Yellow/ Orange

Tawny

Amber*

Saffron

Topaz

Mustard

Bronze

Carmel

Brassy

Orange

Sienna

Pumpkin

Ocher

Ginger

Red-gold

Copper

Sunset

Brown

Russet

Chocolate

Auburn

Ginger

Bistre

Tan

Coffee

Sepia

Copper

Cocoa

Red

Rouge

Crimson

Garnet

Claret

Ruby

Scarlet

Cherry

Cerise

Carmine

Rosy

Blood

Red/Purple

Heliotrope

Burgundy

Magenta

Fuchsia

Maroon

Purple

Amethyst

Violet

Lavender

Mauve

Lilac

Orchid

Plum

Purple/ Blue

Periwinkle

Indigo

Pink

Coral

Salmon

Rose

Blush

Black

Coal

Onyx

Soot

Sable

Ebon

Ebony

Ink

Raven

Somber

Night

Obsidian

White

Crystalline

White

Sallow

Ashen

Linen

Ivory

Pale

Beige

Cream

Snow

Quartz-like

Pasty

Opal

The Second Part of the Prelude!!!!

2005-03-07T23:51:55Z

Muarharharhar! It's finally done! ... The second part to The Poles prelude. Alright, so it nearly took a year and the whole prelude isn't even close to being done. (I planned just 2 parts, but I am long winded. The 3rd part will come soon; it is half written) But, because this was getting up there in length, I changed it into two.

I know you don't mind.

So, read and give feeback. Find errors? Tell me! This is the rough version, so I need to revise before putting it up on Wyvern's.

The 1st Part.

Title: The Poles Prelude ~ The Travelers - Part II
Warnings: None. Dark.
Rating: PG - 13
Length: 5,448 words
Summary: The second installment of the Prelude, the Travelers enter the land of the Barrens with thier captive. However, the dumb and sleeping mind of an imprisoned elf stirs with some new voice. A voice that screams in warning.

Prelude to The Poles

The Travelers

Part II

The elf knew nothing but the foul air he breathed and the dust turning under his feet as he endured along. Ever-trusting the leathery tail of his four legged keeper, one hand clutched to it like a babe’s to his mother’s chest, careful to observe the movements of the limb under his grasp, as it warned always of oncoming danger. A slight lift would indicate a rise in the ground in which his knees must bend more and his feet become more flexible, likewise, it was the opposite with a drop of the limb. Movements to the side would indicate that direction to turn and a sudden twist meant to be wary of some object impeding his path.

Forever he had trusted this creature, for it was the only of them that showed concern for his comfort. Some nights, the thing would unbind him from his tying post and allow him to sleep in the hollow of its front legs, sheltered by a muscled neck and heavy head.

No commands had come through the tail he gripped to, and the elf marched onward in the same deadened manner he always did, feet near silent on the harsh ground. All around him walked the other shapes, the ones he did not trust. Their steps varied from one to the other; the colossus plodding heavily next to the stealthy feet of the smallest member. It had been ages since the youth had seen their actual shapes, but each could be told from the other with the usual observations; breathing, footfalls, smell and most surely their voices. Their voices seemed to hiss all around him at that moment; they were excited, although he could not tell why.

Language itself, boxed into one simple category, seemed to have left his mind, the random vernacular that his guardians babbled on in passed along him, uninterrupted. Had he the power to comprehend it, he would have listened in on them. But long ago he had learned not to interact with the shadows at all, for they were belligerent and had sharp hands.

. . .

“There was no proof of Barring in the Gate House; the man was wrong. He did claim the way was not clear to passage however.” Haige was eager, they all could feel it. The man was trembling under his sable robe and his lean, almost sickly face was even paler in anticipation. It was only a matter of time until he became ferocious and commanding to them all in that sudden excitement, but until he shouted himself hoarse, they could endure his trembling. “There is no need to delay; we’ll make it tonight.”

“This is reckless.” That is, everyone except Leorna would endure it. Her voice was hissing now, different from the smart purr she had used at the pub. “We should not be using the roads.”

“There is no other way than the Veins! Step off of the path and try to cross the barrier… you’ll end up clear on the other side.” Haige turned his head to her, for she walked behind him and off to the side. In the circle they had formed around their ward, the man walked to the front, as he always assumed it was his right to.

“If this Gate turns out to be closed, we may have to try the Eastern passage and do just that.” She was an irritated female; sharp of tongue and truculent, the exact opposite that was so expected of her fair race. “I don’t like that we go about like this showing it off to civilians… what would happen if they caught on?”

“They’re human peasants; they’re stupid. Even if they comprehended this... what would they possibly do? Wave pitchforks. Start a mob.” The man gave a dry laugh at the idea of it. “They are too superstitious to even tread foot here. We are safe from the filth of human society.”

“The loyalty of men to their own breed astounds me.” Leorna laughed, crossing her arms over her breast as she walked, one of the only of them that did not carry any sort of luggage on her.

Haige would not allow the obvious to pass by and whispered it smoothly; “Hypocrite.”

“What’s that?” The female was quick to snap back, her pace speeding up; she brought herself to his side and with one fluid stroke, pulled her hood from her brow. Golden hair gleamed in the night’s slight glow.

The man turned to her, looking more than a little frustrated. All the rest of the company slowed their march and even the Sogorain looked upon the two curiously with his cat-like eyes. At the beast’s tail, their cargo turned his head, confused to the change of pace. It was to this one that the man pointed.

“You caught it didn’t you? Don’t tell me I have no loyalty to my race, elf.” Haige seemed to dismiss her, moving forward once more and forcing the other eight to follow after. Leorna was not one to let him do such a thing and she opened her mouth, ready to retort. The man did not let her. “Be done with your bitching, put on your hood, and get back in line.” His stern, commanding tone was back.

“You have no authority over me, you blackened priest!” The elf’s voice was shrill and promising blood. “I still can break my pledge-”

“Silence. You disturb all of this.” So surprised were the lot of them at the sudden voice that they did so. The hood from which the words hailed belonged to the youngest of them, a slim Elven male from the East. He was so alien to the group that they had no name for him. The youth cared nothing of all for his fellow Travelers, but his lack of patience forced him to speak out. “A vagrant and a termagant have no place to scold each other. Keep on like we are and the Gate will shut itself to your quarreling.”

The silence that followed was like the grave.

. . .

The Gate was indeed blocked, but not as they would have suspected. A pile of rubble loomed up in front of the great arch that was the passage into the Barrens. Even though it looked to be enough to take away time for them to clear, the blockage was nothing at all. What they had suspected was far more difficult to pierce.

The Barrens were a locked land, bound around with a great barrier that prevented one from stumbling into it. The only entrance was that of Four Gates, one in each direction. Each Gate had a house in which a Keeper was on guard. Those not cleared for passage could not enter through the portal, and thus not roam in the dead land.

Keepers were cursed things; immortal servants made by the Gods, each one emotionless and obedient. They were impossible to fool, and the Travelers had attempted the Gates of both the North and South only to find those immortals as their blockade.

But now, with the West Gate long abandoned, they could enter without interference. Well, without much interference.

The rubble was a towering stack of stone that seemed to be from the decorative outer-arch and had been pulled down to block its inner brother. The outside arches themselves were nothing important; mere structures of stone and cement made ages ago. Runes were etched deep into the faces of the rock, but they too were of little power. The real strength of the arches was molded within the keystone of the inner one, it having been blessed by the God of that direction. Without reinforcement from its Keeper, however, this passage was nothing more than a ruined doorway.

“It’s enough to climb over.” Haige laid a hand on a rather large stone at its base, running his fingertips over it gently. “This is fortunate.”

“Fortunate for those who can climb.” The voice that spoke was deep and raspy; that of the gigantic Traveler, the Mort. Its large hand, having only three fingers, as was accustom to its kind, gestured out to their cargo. “That one is not coherent enough to make such an ascent.”

“You’ll just have to carry it then.” The man was smiling from under his hood, knowing that the Sogorain could carry the cargo up as well.

There was a grumble from deep within the colossus’s chest and it stooped, grabbing the small bound finger by an arm and wrenching it upward, clear off the ground. The thing gave a cry of surprise and the Sogorain bore its teeth to the giant.

“Careful with it!” The predator seethed, its eyes thinning in threat. “You’ll kill it.”

“Yes, don’t be too eager with it SelTair.” Haige seemed more amused than worried. “You wouldn’t want to get on its bad side.”

“Oh certainly not.” There was jest in the great thing’s voice and with a swing he brought the elf’s squirming body up onto his shoulder, letting it rest over it. As soon as his flat hand was laid on the thing’s back, it ceased its struggling and hung limp.

The man waited until all the party was looking upon him again before he spoke. So excited was Haige that his arms were shaking. “My sect, we are at the mouth of the tunnel. Let us go to her land now and please her with our company and gifts.” The entire group nodded, every set of eyes under the hood just as eager, just as hungry as his own. Haige took an unsteady breath and set his foot on the lowest rock slab. “Into the Barrens at last!”

. . .

From where he swung on the rocking giant, the elf let his arms hang down the great one’s back, treasuring the feel of the robe in his raw fingers. With his wrists bound together like they were, he could not move them much. The small one could barely support himself and was knocked around as his warden moved, his rope leash dragging somewhere behind.

It took little sense to know they were climbing over something and the dust of the ground wafted up his nose, clogging it with its granules. Something caused a prickle to attack the back of his neck and chill down his spine. His movements became panicked, and something deep within his deaf and blinded little soul screamed for the freedom of his hands. Sneezing, the youth began to dig into the cloth once more.

There was something he was looking for. Something instinctual told him to look for it, for so often he had heard the sound of it being withdrawn by this Traveler that he knew it was hidden there, somewhere under the cloak. When his fingers found the cold hard of steel, they moved faster.

This one often wore it ready; getting to the blade was not difficult. With careful touches, the youth wormed his hands around the hilt and groped down to the guard of it, finding the hook he liked. With a quick jerk, he had the guard over the ropes on his chewed wrists and began to gently pull…

But he was too slow working. With a sudden jolt the colossus had reached level land again and jerked, the hand on his back gripping and preparing to pull him off. There was a deadened stillness and the elf became aware that the Leader’s voice must first sound before any movement occurred.

. . .

A commoner would say that they were in the same place they had been before, but the Travelers knew better…

They were there.

All of their day-less wandering, all of their hiding and secrecy… it was over. They had found the doorway to their destiny and had done so right under the Gods’ noses! They had found the Sacrifice, they had found the one they needed and had taken him, bound him, blinded him; trapped him. They brought themselves together from a whole collection of the all seven races and joined as a brotherhood in the dark.

Haige could not handle it, and sat himself down on a slab of stone, tears streaming down his dusty face and leaving tracks in their wake. The smallest, the Hellkou, had knelt in the dust and lowered its head in prayer. The two Elvin races, both alike and different in so many ways, were less affected by this change. The Sogorain shifted and the Mort simply wanted to drop his burden.

“I hate to jar you, Haige,” The colossus whispered, more friendly to the man then the rest… but they had known each other longer and hailed from the same region, “But should I set it on this ground?”

The man looked up, his face gaunt in the light. He nodded, emotional eyes on the captive. “Yes, you can put it down now.”

With a quick jerk the Mort did so, but pulled more than a limp elf-child off of him. With a flash, his blade loosed itself as well and slid up his back, biting through his tough clothing and even tougher skin. The giant roared in surprise and dropped the small figure, clutching at the place where the blade had scored his shoulder.

“What? What is it?!” Haige was up in a second and scrambled forth, feet scratching in the gravel. Hearing him, the elf scurried back from the commotion he had caused, wanting the shelter of the four-legged one for safety.

“That little incarnate bastard nearly took my arm off! Pulled my sword up from the scabbard and cut it up my back!” SelTair tensed as if he meant to strike the small, huddling shape for the action, but Haige waved him off and looked to their ward with a slight surprise.

Long legs folded under his ebony robes, bringing him down a level to peer at the masked child. One of his hands waved before it and he snapped two bony fingers, making the figure jump in response. “You think it knew to do that?” The man questioned without actually asking, his voice oddly airy. “You think it knows?”

“It knows danger, as every animal does.” The Sogorain loomed up behind it, and at its speaking, found that the elf scuttled back to be in between his front legs. Haige was not amused by it.

“You like to think that it’s more intelligent than it is. Don’t credit it. Any elvish smartness was bashed from its head long before you appeared.”

Haige reached out for it and the Sogorain snapped its teeth, making him shy away. “Don’t lay your hands on it just yet. You may have it at the Pit.”

“It isn’t your pet, Bon.” The man spat the name bitterly, for he hated the Sogorain with passion. It was unfortunate that the captive was so attached to him. “This game is almost over.”

“But we are still playing.” The beast never lost his calmness, not even faced with a human he was longing to split in two. All of the company’s eyes were upon them, expecting a bloodbath from the one they knew so stoic for so long. The Sogorain had been the last to join them and he was surely the most dangerous.

“There is time for our quarrels later.” One hood came forward, a white, tattooed hand appearing out. “We have just entered the fire and already our caste splinters over foolery.” SelTair mumbled at his injury being called foolish, but stood down under the eldest voice. “Get on with this, or Eritireah’s fiery eye shall delay us a night.”

No one argued with the Yomyeal, for he was older and more wise then all. Also… his negative eyes, soot black against stark white irises, were too frigid to attempt such a thing. Instead, they shifted uncomfortably and bowed their heads in agreement. They were already pushing their time and it would be a long march to get to the Pit.

“Keep your pet if you want it. Don’t fall behind.” Haige seethed to the wilds-demon, turning his vehement gaze away from it and to the rest. “We have to pick up our pace. There are only four hours left until the sky lightens and we must beat the sun. Double time now; no slacking.”

With a renewed and zealous fervor, the Travelers marched to their scorched promise land.

. . .

The pace was terrible for him and his butchered feet. Grit and ash worked their way deeper into the scores in his heels, stopping the bleeding by clogging the wounds with a rusted mud. He had learned how to block pain, but it was difficult now. He was amplified… the air held a stronger scent and his ears were more acute to the excited breathing around him. The only reason for this, he supposed, was that now he was a fugitive in waiting.

The cords that bound his wrists were merely held on for show as the blade had done its job well and severed the ropes cleanly. He had held them in this way for hours now, too frightened to attempt to take them all the way off. It was a task to hold his guardian’s tail and the lines on at once, but he dared not to falter now. Something clever was alive in him.

Consciousness was unusual after such an absence, but his head was roused and filled with new images, new ideas. He understood nothing of words any longer, and sight was only in dreams… but now, with a new freedom given in his darkness, the old dullness of his mind became whetted like a barb.

There was a sudden movement on behalf of his leader, and the Sogor pulled his tail away and slowed, allowing the elf to come alongside. The party shuffled somewhere ahead, having been too impatient to keep up the circle.

A leathery snout touched his hands and the elf started, fumbling the cords. Something like a breath of laughter escaped the daemon he walked astride and a feeling of sharp approval flowed from it. It knew!

Then… something even more startling happened.

Visions appeared in his masked eyes, blurring in the beginning, but sharper after his confusion ebbed. He saw without looking. There was a path in front of them, and the Travelers were quick ahead. To their sides were stands of trees, craggy and ugly things… blackened but not dead. He knew much about trees… he remembered trees well.

There was speech in his head now too… it was the voice of the Sogor, but he knew it was not actually talking. It could not speak aloud to him; the others would hear. It was through their minds, like the vision itself. The language it echoed was so very familiar, but it had been long since he had heard it.

A small, cracked-lipped mouth fell open in effort to understand. The voice was urgent, the voice was commanding. He needed to understand. The vision in his head shifted, turning to the forest, and with a sickening motion, plunged deep within it. Yet, they had not veered off their real course; what he saw was what the guardian was speaking of.

Ashy trunks of ghoulish trees flashed in his mind and they twisted like great snakes as the vision passed trough them, running on wings with a speed unheard of. Back to the way they came it fled, relying on the cover of the trees. It continued on until the arch loomed before it and over the wreckage it scrambled, out into the world and away from the sinking feeling within his chest.

Then, the vision did something odd; it turned back to the gate and ran past the outside of it, attempting to return through the bare forest. A flash daggered his already aching head and something new lay before the frantic dream; green forest and a bright, terrible orb of light. Behind it; a different gate and the exit to a dead world.

The shock of vision was interrupted by the Sogor’s voice again, and from it came a new and terrible explanation. This time, he understood.

-Go!- It screamed at him, pleading in its urgency. –To the East! Flee!-

. . .

She was smaller than them all, faster, more predatory and alert. Only the Yomyeal was cleverer than she. But she was silent, more standoffish. No race, even her own, knew exactly how to deal with a Hellkou.

They were in a land that seemed to sleep; the trees were wilted, yet not dead. The native birds roosted, but never called. This was the Barrens and it was that indeed, not of resources, but of the will to live and the joy of it. She was at home here, for she knew what slumbered in the center.

A feeling the Hellkou had never known, one of eagerness and fulfillment, rushed her cold beating heart. It was alien, but welcome. She would meet her Master soon. They would all meet Her.

Long feet, merely walking on the toes, wished to run ahead of them all and to be there right then, to finish their pilgrimage that moment. She damned being slowed by child they carried, but in the small female’s mind, she knew that there was a process to be done, there was a great purpose for it. They had gone through great pains. This elf was a treasure… it was a key.

Her head turned a little, ruby eyes set on the others. They all had their reasons for this quest, but she had purpose in it. This was her Goddess; this was her dead race’s last calling. The Hellkou would be the last one in the sect to give up this quest, this mission and this key they carried would open a new world to them… a world meant for her and her kin.

This key meant a new beginning for her.

Which was why she was the first to realize that it was gone.

. . .

There was an animalistic manner in his run; it was wild, it was panicked, but it was effective. He didn’t think about it, for it was not as though any branch or root would stop him. The trees had learned to move aside for him.

Back upon the road, in the dust, lay the strip of cloth that had blinded him, that had kept him captive. The pain in his newly exposed eyes was incredible. They burned with a vengeance against the even slight, late night glow. His keepers had hated the light; they had trained his eyes to as well.

It was impossible to be inconspicuous as he bolted, for, when darting his bare and torn feet through a thicker stand of trees, the plants groaned loudly and splintered, alive with movement to let him pass. A voice came up from the road, loud and breaking in alarm. He did not hear or care. Every fiber of his being was being drawn back to that gate. Every drop of his blood roared only for that. This place was evil to him.

So concentrated on the direction and what lay ahead of him was the elf that he did not notice the shadow that came from behind. It was faster, slightly smaller than himself and it flitted like a phantom on his trail, nearing.

Only when an enormous, semi-bare oak threw itself down behind him did the elf become aware of his pursuer. When he did, branches flew at the shadow as the trees stuck out, attempting to protect. The shadow was faster, wiser than that and weaved its way trough the flora.

He picked up his speed and began to cry out as he ran. Useless words, ancient words. He did not even comprehend them, but pleaded them to the relentless shadow. It took no notice.

There was a swell of darkness ahead of him that became a thicket in his blurred and sensitive eyes. The bushes did not comply to his path, and without the ability to slow his tremendous speed, the elf tumbled into them.

Sound came back, the blood retreating from his eardrums, and he heard his lungs rasp. Fear stank like piss and the elf struggled to stand, realizing now how weak his body was when the energy that had drove him to run was spent.

He quaked as he tried to walk, tried to go again, driven by a low thrumming terror. There was the smell of fire and the gritty taste of ash, but no flame burned. It was in his mind, wild and licking at his feet and heels. It scorched him inward, made him cry out in fear of every step.

He could not find the shadow; it had been consumed by the throbbing blur of darkness that undulated in a deadened wind. Cold, yet so hot. The elf was burning in ice. Where was it? Where was his hunter? It lurked around him; he knew that it meant to take him deeper into this tortured place. It must not happen… must not.

A last rush was made through the thicket, the beaten skin of his legs tearing; making ribbons of blood run their way down in small claret streams. It was the blood that summoned it up, the unmistakable scent of a precious commodity, like gold to a greedy beggar.

The dark shape came down upon him in an instant and the youth wrenched back and screamed his babbling words in alarm. A flash of lightning blue scarred the both of their eyes and the Hellkou reeled back in shock at the burst. The elf gave a cry and tossed his head wildly, slamming his eyes shut and stopping the light. When the darkness resumed she rushed him again, clasping a soot-colored hand to his raw wrist in attempt to draw the child down. Again he let out his forgotten speech and the light flared as he looked to her in terror. His eyes, so long masked and guarded, glowed in the darkness with fear. He was pleading in words he did not know, in a language none of them could remember.

The Hellkou stared back at him, awed, silted pupils thinning in the brightness of his gaze. This was their treasure that she held struggling in her hand, their treasure that was slowly becoming aware of himself.

There was one last fight from the elf as he tried to pull away from her, tried to hit her, tried to free himself from them all. There would be no freedom. They had waited long enough. She would not allow her legacy to slip out of her fingers.

The Hellkou opened her mouth and roused her vocal cords for the first time in years. A slow sound whistled out of her wide and gaping jowls and the elf screamed when he saw the rows upon rows of her tiny dagger-like teeth glinting in his light. Her tongue curled as the sound came into her throat and collected there. Silence was the precursor to the boom of the terrifically shill call that shot from her mouth.

The strength of the Hellkou’s unearthly voice pierced trough his skull and the light in the elf’s freed eyes finally flickered out as they rolled into the back of his head.

* * *

In the brightness of the day, the Barrens lost some of her glory. A land of gray and smothered black was what the afternoon shined down upon. Haige was not in the light, for he could not stand it. His eyes stung even in the shadow of the rock ledge they had hidden under. The man groaned irritably; nothing was working out the way they planned.

For one, they were supposed to already be at the center of this land and working in the Pit, readying the ceremony. But, due to their ‘mishap’ they had been set back hours. The elf had made it over two thirds the ways back to the gate in only a few minutes. That was beyond mortal ability; their ward was becoming aware of their plan. And, due to the Hellkou’s report about her chase, the trees could not be trusted… they were sympathizing to the elf’s pleas.

Damn the guardian spirits that still lingered here; they were causing him a load of trouble.

But that was not his main concern. The real danger at hand was the Sogorain. The beast had not made a sound when their ward had fled, he had not warned them at all. Haige already knew that the wilds daemon’s loyalty was questionable, but this was beyond him. There was danger in even keeping the Sogorain alive.

Watery, pale blue eyes, half mast and squinted, looked to the beast sitting in the sun away from them, near the trees. The two elves were the only other members of the party who were braving the light. Unlike the man, the Mort and the Nocturnes, they drew strength from the sun. The wild daemon held his head alert and muttered something to himself, into the dead air.

Haige decided that as soon as the Sogorain played his part, he would demand its death.

There was a slight shift of the one next to him and Haige looked over to see the black eyes of the Yomyeal staring from under their hood. The white irises were irking.

“What do you think of it?” Haige offered, knowing the Yom was most likely already aware of his thoughts.

“I think that you are correct. There is danger in the beast… but we have no choice but to keep him with us until the ceremony. After, slit his throat as quickly as you can.”

The man looked out into the gray light again and winced at it. “I should leave that to you and Nashees.” He muttered, referring to the sleeping Hellkou that had curled into a protective ball in a small crack of the rock near the Yom’s shoulder. Unlike the other Nocturne, her kind could not suffer the light in the least.

The Yomyeal nodded. “It will be done. The daemon shall not know the blade until it is buried in him.” With that, the pale-faced one turned his look down to the space between them and watched what lay there.

In leather straps and burlap wrapping, the elf child squirmed when he felt the eyes. His own were bound so thoroughly that only his mouth and nose were free of the cloth. Haige looked down to their ward as well as it gave another squirm and its mouth fell open. Jumbled words spilled from it, and the man felt a chill rush down his spine at the sound of the Dark Language coming from an elven youth.

He raised his hand to strike it as the volume of the pleas grew, but the Yomyeal shook his head in negation and brought his own white, ghostly hand down over the youth’s bound eyes. The words ceased. An instant passed, and the child fell into a trance-like sleep.

The Yom turned his irking gaze back to Haige. “We must not try to stir him more. He is becoming aware.”

“Do you know what he says?” The man shifted, looking shocked at the possibility. The Yomyeal were an old race, the Dark Language was once theirs.

“He speaks of an awful scent. He asks for his freedom. But, the tongue is garbled. He knows not of where we are.” As he spoke, the Yom folded himself up again, thin limbs rewrapping him in the thick cloth. He planned to hibernate through the rest of the wretched daylight. “It is best we leave as soon as possible tonight. This one is not stupid. He will figure out where we are going. This place stirs his numbed mind.”

The Yomyeal closed his eyes, ending the conversation. Haige looked down on the one between them, wrapped like a corpse, but awaiting death. It was irritating that the elf had awakened from his complacent state, despite their attempts to still and sedate him for months on end.

It did not matter. They had him still, had the path to their dreams…

They had the key to unlock the Old Goddess of Void, they all had the key to open Hell and burn this wretched place. Remake it as their own.

The elf groaned and twisted under his cords. Haige watched him with a sudden hunger and jealousy, wondering if he dreamed of fire and sulfur, and in it, saw Her face.

TBC

Talks Over Beer

2005-02-28T02:52:51Z

I've posted this on my original journal before, but here it is again. An actual favorite of mine: A Quith and Voan interaction in the beggining of The Poles.

From: The Poles
Warning: None
Word Count: 896

“You’re a god, right?” The question was out of place… stupid, and out of place. They were relaxing for Dimitrov’s sake! Why did he have to ask questions?

“Yeah. What of it?”

“Isn’t it… I mean,” damn this kid for struggling with words, sooner or later he would need to get over it, “aren’t you meant to have a temple then? A shrine?”

“I’m a demi; not all of us get shrines.” Voan tipped her head down, looking into the swirl of her rich-colored port. She had asked for a lager and the whorish barmaid had given her a port. A simple flick normally would have saved the accident, but the dragon was not in the mood for alchemy.

The elf would not let up, the damn annoying insect that he was. “I know, but do you have one?” He seemed too eager, too excited to be drinking next to a goddess for his own good. She was hoping that this excitement wore off; otherwise she’d have to dump him on someone else to watch, no matter what Dimtrov said.

“Yeah, I have a shrine.”

That set him into frenzy. “Really? Where is it?”

One fist rapped down on the wooden countertop and she glared through her hair at him. “Right here, Brat. It’s right here.”

“This is a bar.”

“Exactly.” With one toss she threw back her drink and downed it, wasting no time in inebriating herself. One did not often swill port. Quith was not a bad kid; he was driven and not easily beaten down, but when he wanted to be, he was damn annoying. Why did he have to go ask questions like that?

After a second, the elf seemed to catch on. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t bother you about your affairs.” He sunk a little in the chair, awkward in its cradle. The elf was old enough to be in such a setting, but here he didn’t fit; he looked meeker than before, more cautious. Voan began to lighten her chastising tone.

“It isn’t a problem.” She moved on her stood, heavy tail shifting behind her so she could look at him. “It’s better you ask now than annoy me later.” With a sigh, the dragoness gave in. Better to be away with all of the easily explained now than to leave them open. They were to be stuck together for some time… she might as well try to be accommodating. “Do you want to know anything about it?”

“Only if you won’t be angry. This is a nice place and I’d like to keep the walls intact.” A smile glimmered out at her and she started at the sudden change in him.

“You just insulted me with showing your back, and I was terribly drunk, no thanks to you.”

“Are you now?”

Voan smirked and knocked on the table twice. “Not yet.” She replied, signaling the bar keeper to bring her more. “So ask quickly.”

Quith leaned forward on the counter, grasping his half-empty glass and peering into it curiously. “Why do you order drinks if you can make them?”

“Why not?” A new glass was settled before her and she was pleased to see that this time it was a fine lager. “These people work hard to create this stuff, it’s only right I should pay to drink it. Plus, my own make gets annoying after a while.”

The boy seemed satisfied with the answer and nodded smoothly. “Alright. Why are you affiliated with both Dimtrov and Faristad?”

“That’s a little more difficult to answer.” The dragoness took a singular gulp this time, not downing all of it at once. “Other than the elements mixing to make me… even though not literally,” at the glance he gave her she sighed and explained, “you know, fire and water? The taste of my craft. Liquid fire is the element I can create and control.” A dangerous look laced her eyes as she smiled at him. “I can create things more lethal than alcohol, but that is exactly the point. Although I was made under Faristad, I was taught under Dimtrov. Both are involved in the process of death. My essence causes this.”

Quith looked to his mug once again and cerulean eyes lit up in sudden understanding. “You kill people.”

“No, that’s where the Wisdom comes in.” The dragoness had turned to face him fully now, eyes very intent and determined. “I do not kill people. I give them the option of it with my craft. What I make slowly kills a man and brings him pleasure in the process. One may drink with me their whole life and never suffer from it…” her voice lowered and so did her posture, “if they are smart… For s man has the choice to drink himself to death. I merely weed out the weak andmake merry with the rest.”

“Isn’t that a little cruel, still?” Quith didn’t seem alarmed at her actions in the least, only intrigued by the workings of it. “You give an option…”

“Exactly!” She was roused, for she cut him off. “There is an option; celebrate with me smartly or glut yourself in me and die.” The goddess lifted up her beer, the amber liquid shining through the glass. She regarded it skeptically, with all the knowledge of its workings. “Too much of a brilliant thing… will kill you.”

The Poles (related)

2005-02-23T01:19:33Z

Okay then, this was done a little while ago. It is not a part of The Poles, but it is a snippet of Jygin's story... more of his youth and whatnot. To summarize to your understanding, an adolesent Jygin (named Dart at the time) is owned by a Devil named Meduma. She's an immortal with extreme power in the underworld of Lekrowse and collects half-devil's... aka: demons. (By my own definition) Her small, young posse of demon's supplies her with blood, entertainment and servants.

She owns Jygin (Dart) and Atomysk (Bluebat). There are others as well, such as Len, Rell and Sootskin... but thier characters are more obscure. (Except I have Sootskin appear in The Poles for about 3 seconds)

At this point in time, Dart is has not yet bonded with any in the house with the slight exception of Len. He's quiet, quick and easily angered. Bluebat is ambitious and prideful... and beginning to master his craft for seduction, as incubi often do.

Warnings: Blood and Beating! Huzzah.

Dart could always tell when there was punishment due, for he smelled it in the air; encroaching castigation in the Ras-Kale manor smelled like sweat and piss

He had not seen Bluebat for three nights, so scenting him in the house was a surprise in itself, but smelling fear from him made the youth’s skin crawl. Apparently the incubus son was amiss for so long that Rell had been sent out after him, and that, the Sogorboy supposed, was the reason for the smell of punishment to slink its way all throughout the domicile.

Down the hallway and to the main chamber he followed it, and knew that was where the spectacle was due to the fact that Len was peeking around the doorway. He was not as meek as her and took his post at the Hellkit’s side, against the opposite brace to get a better view inward.

Meduma was stony in her chair, cold-limbed and icy in her look. Black eyes, set like onyx gems, stared down at the crouched thing before her. The air in the chamber was hungry and waiting for her words so that it could stab at the terrified prisoner on the floor. In the other entryway across from the Sogor and the Hellkou stood the capturer; Rell himself. Watching from the darkness behind him was the elusive Sootskin. All of the Devil’s children had come to see the fate of one.

His sharp, crimson toned eyes looked to the hunched and naked back of the incubus half-breed, surprised at how the ridge of his spine trembled. Bluebat was never one to show his fear, but now, awaiting the punishment of a preternatural female that burned both hot and cold without warning… all proud walls of indifference to authority broke. He was terrified of her.

Meduma was their Goddess… and damned be the one that angered her.

Limp, undeveloped wings lay paralyzed at the demon’s side. All of his jewelry had been taken off and the only thing in the way of clothes that covered his frame was a sable cloth tied around his waist. It was all for the better he was not decorated, for it would only make him seem all the more the haughty and vain creature he was.

The silence was confused and the tension peaking; if the Devil did not say what she meant to soon, Dart was sure that Bluebat would die from the stress of it. He could see the incubus’s long hands clenching and unclenching in terrific nerves and the tremble that affected his spine had crept into his arms and dipped head. What had he done that could possibly be this heavy?

When Meduma finally spoke, all of her children winced in turn.

“Bluebat…” It was ice, pure and stabbing cold. “When did I ever give you permission to mount one of Denassik’s females?” The children not being addressed shrunk back in horror at the severity of the crime. This was not just a three day disappearance. Dart suddenly puzzled to which of the incubus son’s possessions he would inherit. Their Mistress continued; “Did I ever permit you to mount anything of his? When did you think that this independence was yours to take; to destroy another’s valuables?”

She stood then and Dart’s heart sped terrifically, thundering like a drum in his chest. Next to him, Len raised herself up onto the balls of her long feet and bounced there excitedly. Meduma’s strides reached the top of the stairs that led down to the mass of huddled demon that was Bluebat. Each step was like a new needle being driven deep within his courage, each one challenging his rebellion.

“It might be in your inherited nature to commit lewd acts so young…” By the sound of her voice, it seemed like she counted on such a thing from him, but, if one caught the undertones of such voice, they would be aware that it seethed a slow poison. Bluebat had heard it, and in each level she descended, the adolescent demon shrunk even more.

“But,” the Devil was before him now, and like a sword poised for a deathly blow, she cast a shadow upon him that even the deepest nocturn would find empty, “you must learn control… and discipline.”

It was then, fueled by instinct, that Bluebat made his terrible mistake. With a horrified yip he threw himself backward, scrambling much like a crab away from a gull. He did not make it so far as an inch. Meduma’s poised hand came down like an eagle’s claws and caught the very crown of his head. Frigid fingers dug deep into his scalp, cutting the skin and making his hair slick with blood. Muscles corded in her statuesque arm and she wrenched him up without mercy, making the screaming demon a flailing marionette that dangled in front of her.

“If you continue on like this…” she thundered, as if he was not wailing in a peaking voice or suspended in the air, wings going like pinwheels, “I will be forced to take measures against you.” The incubus son’s hands grabbed at her one and he was crying, lines of rosewater tears streaking down his dark sapphire face. Meduma gave him a shake and, using the part of his brain that was not clenched within her fingers, Bluebat finally stilled and let his tortured body swing, silent sobs gently shaking his frame.

“I do not wish to put a ring on you, incubus.” She was not using his name, a severe demotion. “I do not want to have to castrate you. Use your head.” Dark eyes widened at the concept she offered and he whimpered in terror at it. The Devil let him drop from her grip to create a puddle of defeated servant on the floor. Bluebat curved his back in submission, touching his head to the stone at her feet.

“You are not to mate with anything unless I approve it.” Her voice was like honed blade against his quailing throat. “You will seduce only whom I demand and your tastes will be confined to this household until I say otherwise or until you gain your freedom.” Dart felt as if she were now, in turn, punishing all the rest of them. Len grunted disapprovingly and tucked her tail tight between her legs, as if guarding herself.

Silence faltered in the room again and Meduma bent her solid frame down to the black silk, blue leather and blood that begged at her feet. With surprising gentleness, the Devil cupped his chin and lifted Bluebat’s defeated head. His liquid eyes, swimming like ink with tears, quivered as he looked up to her ever unchanging face. The incubus son was brought to stand before her, sagging at the shoulders and weak in the knees; a demon put into his place. The strike was swift and this time he did not cry out as her sharp nails drew lines of crimson across his thin, youthful chest. Ribbons of blood bloomed out from the four scores and carved their own small rivers down his body. Even from where he stood watching, Dart’s stomach wrenched in hunger at the smell of the rusted fluid.

Meduma raised her stained hand to Bluebat’s mouth, eyes intent on him. “Your face is too valuable for me to mark.” It was a sort of compliment to him, a cold comfort in the face of humiliation. “But… go against me again and I shall mar you beyond recognition.”

The youth nodded his understanding, shaking a few drops of scarlet onto the floor. Then, frightened, chastised and broken like a brittle twig, the incubus muttered thanks and, gently with his tongue, licked the blood of his Mistress’s fingers.

Starting Up

2005-02-18T01:40:31Z

It's the new, the shitty... and the never going to be updated... writing journal!!!

Umm. What now?