23-01-2010, 01:10 AM
Gen: High Fantasy
Limba: Engleza
Restrictii de varsa: nu prea cred ca o sa fie cazul
Ce vreau de la cei ce citesc: critica constructiva daca se poate; daca nu, opinii despre text si tot sunt bune si alea.
Este un singur capitol pe moment, scris undeva prin noiembrie si postat prima data in decembrie. Am fost foarte ocupat in ultima perioada asa ca n-am putut finisa capitolul 2.
Textul pentru primul capitol este trecut deja printr-o revizie sanatoasa...si va mai urma una imediat ce mi se elibereaza programul. Daca aveti sugestii...post away.
Fara alte discutii:
These are the stories for other times. Stories lost in time for many but their runners, stories that deserve not to be forgotten, stories to which I alone have been a silent witness in millennia past. It has been a role I had embraced in place of slow eroding insanity; I, who had once been creation of the Demigods, friend and confident of theirs, brother to the wind and shadow in the azure glow of the sky, teacher of Man, Elf, Dwarf and even Daemos. I, by chosen name, Adamar, have taken to keeping these tales and remembering them well, each and every one, as far as my thoughts could carry me out of my stone walled prison.
For the fabric of stories is lighter than thought and infinitely as fickle, embracing new form and meaning from one teller to the next, from one tavern to one campfire, from behind one mug of ale to the rattle of a jester’s joyful bells. Little remains of the essence that there once had been, as each new teller gives a fresh spin to what he’d, predictably, come to consider a stale old legend.
Stories live and thrive, grow old and diminish, naturally to perish in the end, in the mortal world. For nothing is more than simply ephemeral, set to pass once it’s seen its fair share of truths and lies. Set to pass and become, perhaps, a share of truths and lies, for other generations to bother themselves with. Everything done as the natural stride of things would dictate.
There are no tales irrelevant to a world.
There are no stories without marks left behind.
There is nothing in the world more wondrous than itself, in whole and in minute detail, nothing worth blunting to myth, and nothing worth dismissing to cold forgetfulness.
These are those stories some heroes save for other times. They start and they end, their champions walk on or simply fall, but they are to be remembered.
I have the knowledge and I share it freely, for you all to know. Knowledge of toils grand and small, never to be utterly forgotten.
This one story starts where roads and destinies cross all too often.
It also starts on a thunderous night, where flashes of lighting crossed the skies and illuminated briefly the narrow cart track. The storm had been tensing up over the wide forest for days on end until, finally it started to rain, lashing the trees and the dense growth governing the side of the muddy path. Hoof marks and the trenches of too many overweighed ox carts had begun overflowing in mere minutes and the way became little more than a treacherous quagmire.
Focus your gaze away from the rain and peer inside yonder tavern in the large clearing. One small figure of a man, soaked through his cloak, muddied from ankles to belt and empty sword sheath, had just passed through the door, into the main room, lighted by few candles and a generous fire still burning.
There were few taverns in the lands of elves. Large, wooden buildings, tarred to keep the water out, double walled to last the caprices of time, fenced to keep the animals away, these were the only places in which weary travelers could find a warm meal, and a bed that wasn’t made of leaves or stones; and they only occasionally hid a toothless mugger or would be attacker. The rooms were small, with a simple wooden table and chair, and a low bed almost on the floor, but that was more than adequate after days of riding in rough leather saddles.
The small figure walked slowly up to the main bar. None of the patrons gave him a first look, nor did one notice the faint click as the man deposited a long box on the counter. Shaking with the cold, he unhooked his soaked mantle and set it close to the fire, in the faint hope of it drying enough to serve once more if he’d be required to move on again.
In the dim light you could see his features as he approached the fireplace, if you cared enough to glance in his direction. A young lad, tired looking in the eyes and muddied in the face, he wore what would once had been a tailored red and white velvet suit. It was simply a red vest of uncertain origins now, ragged in appearance, still bearing the frills of its flamboyant past. The cloak he set down was no better, battered and ripped, the mud covered up any insignia it may have had.
A bear of a man finally got up from one of the tables where his discussion with an old patron was on the verge of becoming violent. He watched the boy sit back at the counter, head in palms, and went towards him. His name, the boy would never learn, really was Bear.
“One gold piece the night, one silver a hot meal and a strong drink.†he said patting the boy on the back, almost knocking him over. He started laughing and caressing his bald, eagle like head as the boy got up with a start, tightly clutching the box he had set close to him, watching the host with terror filled eyes. “None of that ’round these parts…†the man gestured him towards the chair and poured himself a glass of wine as the boy retook his seat. He was proud that his tavern had glasses but kept most of them for himself or the patrons he’d known for a good few years. The things had cost him more than he would’ve cared to admit and always preferred the story that he had won them off a dwarf in a drinking contest.
“So, sounds fair to you, lad?†he ventured to ask again before downing the liquor.
“What?†was the startled response. Coming in from the cold, the heat finally began taking its toll on the exhausted lad, making him feel drowsy and barely able to focus on the massive man in front of him.
“For the food and room lad. Take it or leave it, otherwise, it’s the stables for you and…†laughing to himself, “these folks here don’t carry no friendly horses.â€
Two big brown eyes watched him from underneath a clump of dark hair starting to dry in the heat. His thin lips straightened into a pale line while his hands gripped the long wooden box tighter, until his knuckles turned white.
Bear watched him with an expression of both puzzlement and amusement and finally knocked loudly on the door behind his simple counter when his new customer finally relaxed and started prodding pockets, holding the box tightly at his chest, with his elbows if somehow else he couldn’t.
“For the roaders!â€
He yelled at the top of his grizzly voice and some bustling began behind the closed door. A woman’s voice, unpleasant and screeching, answered back and told him to simply wait.
Two gold coins were pushed towards him with trembling fingers and a look of pleading; the eyes had sunk perhaps even deeper into a face the innkeeper, had only then realized was pale and frightfully thin, skin covering white bones and cheeks sucked in. The coins were pocketed just the same, but Bear couldn’t avert his eyes now from the piercing, expecting stare. He could read the famine of one lost on his way for too long before reaching a place such as his, and he tried to comfort each such soul the best he could. One learns fast that friends can come from many places and a helping hand lent out only rarely gets bitten in response.
A key was produced from beneath the counter, as well as a covered clay pot. He pulled back the green coverings and prodded inside with his thick hand. It was hard to get a big man like himself to the point of blushing, but the expectant stare he felt on his action was enough to turn a pumpkin crimson. Finally, he produced a large pickle and handed it to his new customer.
“First one’s on meself boy. But the next ye’re paying a copper for, they ain’t cheap.â€
“Thank you†came a weak response. It was the first real food he’d tasted in weeks of running, and, with great effort, he staved his hunger pains and enjoyed it, bite by bite. He enjoyed his real meal minutes later, still under the eye of the barman who, in lack of anything better to do, had taken to minutely cleaning a glass.
“Where you heading then?†he inquired as he took the empty plate away. “Towards the elven capitals?â€
“No. Just away. Far away.â€
A full belly and a strong, clear drink, from a small flask, in a transparent glass, had relaxed him a bit and he spoke more freely now. His accent however, Bear couldn’t quite place from any of the cities he had visited.
“There’re the capitals if you keep on the roads for a few days. I hear there are no quicker ways out of the damn forest, and no real horrors to worry about on them.â€
“I don’t know, really. I’ve lost my heading. Wandering the road has got to be all I’ve got left to do now.â€
“Damn shame then to not see the capitals.†Bear continues his train of telling, uninterrupted. He had been in the elven cities quite often in his youth and would encourage anyone unfortunate enough to catch his story telling mood. “There’s still raw magic there, ya know? Lots of it. The kind that flows through the leaves like ghosts in the night and if you listen carefully enough to it, on a real quiet evening, you can hear it being drawn into chants and castings. ‘s like a river flowing, only that you can really hear the words on the other side.â€
He watched a peculiar stubborn spot in the glass he had just begun cleaning. “Nothing like the sight of magic to lift your spirits boy, even a woman†he said in a conspiring lower tone, winking at the lad.
“Really?â€
“Truly boy.†But a blank stare was upon him. With a sigh, he pointed to the stairs on the far side of the room. “Second door on the left, second floor. Ya got the key already.â€
In a series of rather uncoordinated movements, the boy got off the chair, thankful in his own way for the advice of travel. Someone there could probably help him with his heavy task. But a night’s rest was what he needed first and what his aching joints and body craved. With his warm cloak under his right arm, and the box under the left, he climbed the stairs slowly, stumbling at every second step.
Sleep came as soon as his tired little frame hit the hard mattress of the bed. It was nothing like he had been accustomed in his past, but much better than what he had in his later days. He was thankful.
“Bear, you’re going to have some unpleasant guests soon enough, I’m guessing.â€
“Feeling it in your bones again, eh?†the tavern master retook his seat at the table, two full glasses in front of him and his friend. They knocked on the table once for luck, toasted and downed the liquor in a single sip.
“Old bones speak no lies friend! You would do well to remember that.†the patron went on, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm guard. “There are things following that boy. He reeks of forgotten magic and the bony hand of Death. There’s no good to come of him being here.†There was a tone to this Wanderer’s voice that could split the edge off a sword and keep even the deep forest shadows away. It was an old voice; though you would much too easily dismiss this to a figment of your own imagination when his features came into view.
Bear watched him thoughtfully and, nervously rubbing the back of his head, turned his gaze away.
“When have I ever turned someone away Taros?†his small piggish eyes went round the now empty room, most of the customers having retreated to their chambers. “There ain’t a traveler that I would turn away, even if they were to bring Hell itself in here.†He got up and walked over to the fireplace, prodding it sharply with the poking iron.
“So what if he brought his troubles here?†he finally conceded, as he placed the poker in its place. “He didn’t seem a wrong lad…could merit the trouble.â€
His friend had watched him with interest and was now stretching on the chair. There were hardly any candles left burning in the main hall of the room and the rain outside had gotten loud, though the thunder and lighting had receded. The tall, slender man got up from his place and walked towards the rack close to the fire place, picking up a long sword sheath and belt which he fastened around his waist.
With a pat on Bear’s back, he too went on to the rooms on the floors above. “Let trouble come…†were his words before disappearing in the pitch black darkness.
Limba: Engleza
Restrictii de varsa: nu prea cred ca o sa fie cazul
Ce vreau de la cei ce citesc: critica constructiva daca se poate; daca nu, opinii despre text si tot sunt bune si alea.
Este un singur capitol pe moment, scris undeva prin noiembrie si postat prima data in decembrie. Am fost foarte ocupat in ultima perioada asa ca n-am putut finisa capitolul 2.
Textul pentru primul capitol este trecut deja printr-o revizie sanatoasa...si va mai urma una imediat ce mi se elibereaza programul. Daca aveti sugestii...post away.
Fara alte discutii:
Chronicles of Sapheria
Chapter 1:Foreword to a story
Chapter 1:Foreword to a story
These are the stories for other times. Stories lost in time for many but their runners, stories that deserve not to be forgotten, stories to which I alone have been a silent witness in millennia past. It has been a role I had embraced in place of slow eroding insanity; I, who had once been creation of the Demigods, friend and confident of theirs, brother to the wind and shadow in the azure glow of the sky, teacher of Man, Elf, Dwarf and even Daemos. I, by chosen name, Adamar, have taken to keeping these tales and remembering them well, each and every one, as far as my thoughts could carry me out of my stone walled prison.
For the fabric of stories is lighter than thought and infinitely as fickle, embracing new form and meaning from one teller to the next, from one tavern to one campfire, from behind one mug of ale to the rattle of a jester’s joyful bells. Little remains of the essence that there once had been, as each new teller gives a fresh spin to what he’d, predictably, come to consider a stale old legend.
Stories live and thrive, grow old and diminish, naturally to perish in the end, in the mortal world. For nothing is more than simply ephemeral, set to pass once it’s seen its fair share of truths and lies. Set to pass and become, perhaps, a share of truths and lies, for other generations to bother themselves with. Everything done as the natural stride of things would dictate.
There are no tales irrelevant to a world.
There are no stories without marks left behind.
There is nothing in the world more wondrous than itself, in whole and in minute detail, nothing worth blunting to myth, and nothing worth dismissing to cold forgetfulness.
These are those stories some heroes save for other times. They start and they end, their champions walk on or simply fall, but they are to be remembered.
I have the knowledge and I share it freely, for you all to know. Knowledge of toils grand and small, never to be utterly forgotten.
This one story starts where roads and destinies cross all too often.
It also starts on a thunderous night, where flashes of lighting crossed the skies and illuminated briefly the narrow cart track. The storm had been tensing up over the wide forest for days on end until, finally it started to rain, lashing the trees and the dense growth governing the side of the muddy path. Hoof marks and the trenches of too many overweighed ox carts had begun overflowing in mere minutes and the way became little more than a treacherous quagmire.
Focus your gaze away from the rain and peer inside yonder tavern in the large clearing. One small figure of a man, soaked through his cloak, muddied from ankles to belt and empty sword sheath, had just passed through the door, into the main room, lighted by few candles and a generous fire still burning.
There were few taverns in the lands of elves. Large, wooden buildings, tarred to keep the water out, double walled to last the caprices of time, fenced to keep the animals away, these were the only places in which weary travelers could find a warm meal, and a bed that wasn’t made of leaves or stones; and they only occasionally hid a toothless mugger or would be attacker. The rooms were small, with a simple wooden table and chair, and a low bed almost on the floor, but that was more than adequate after days of riding in rough leather saddles.
The small figure walked slowly up to the main bar. None of the patrons gave him a first look, nor did one notice the faint click as the man deposited a long box on the counter. Shaking with the cold, he unhooked his soaked mantle and set it close to the fire, in the faint hope of it drying enough to serve once more if he’d be required to move on again.
In the dim light you could see his features as he approached the fireplace, if you cared enough to glance in his direction. A young lad, tired looking in the eyes and muddied in the face, he wore what would once had been a tailored red and white velvet suit. It was simply a red vest of uncertain origins now, ragged in appearance, still bearing the frills of its flamboyant past. The cloak he set down was no better, battered and ripped, the mud covered up any insignia it may have had.
A bear of a man finally got up from one of the tables where his discussion with an old patron was on the verge of becoming violent. He watched the boy sit back at the counter, head in palms, and went towards him. His name, the boy would never learn, really was Bear.
“One gold piece the night, one silver a hot meal and a strong drink.†he said patting the boy on the back, almost knocking him over. He started laughing and caressing his bald, eagle like head as the boy got up with a start, tightly clutching the box he had set close to him, watching the host with terror filled eyes. “None of that ’round these parts…†the man gestured him towards the chair and poured himself a glass of wine as the boy retook his seat. He was proud that his tavern had glasses but kept most of them for himself or the patrons he’d known for a good few years. The things had cost him more than he would’ve cared to admit and always preferred the story that he had won them off a dwarf in a drinking contest.
“So, sounds fair to you, lad?†he ventured to ask again before downing the liquor.
“What?†was the startled response. Coming in from the cold, the heat finally began taking its toll on the exhausted lad, making him feel drowsy and barely able to focus on the massive man in front of him.
“For the food and room lad. Take it or leave it, otherwise, it’s the stables for you and…†laughing to himself, “these folks here don’t carry no friendly horses.â€
Two big brown eyes watched him from underneath a clump of dark hair starting to dry in the heat. His thin lips straightened into a pale line while his hands gripped the long wooden box tighter, until his knuckles turned white.
Bear watched him with an expression of both puzzlement and amusement and finally knocked loudly on the door behind his simple counter when his new customer finally relaxed and started prodding pockets, holding the box tightly at his chest, with his elbows if somehow else he couldn’t.
“For the roaders!â€
He yelled at the top of his grizzly voice and some bustling began behind the closed door. A woman’s voice, unpleasant and screeching, answered back and told him to simply wait.
Two gold coins were pushed towards him with trembling fingers and a look of pleading; the eyes had sunk perhaps even deeper into a face the innkeeper, had only then realized was pale and frightfully thin, skin covering white bones and cheeks sucked in. The coins were pocketed just the same, but Bear couldn’t avert his eyes now from the piercing, expecting stare. He could read the famine of one lost on his way for too long before reaching a place such as his, and he tried to comfort each such soul the best he could. One learns fast that friends can come from many places and a helping hand lent out only rarely gets bitten in response.
A key was produced from beneath the counter, as well as a covered clay pot. He pulled back the green coverings and prodded inside with his thick hand. It was hard to get a big man like himself to the point of blushing, but the expectant stare he felt on his action was enough to turn a pumpkin crimson. Finally, he produced a large pickle and handed it to his new customer.
“First one’s on meself boy. But the next ye’re paying a copper for, they ain’t cheap.â€
“Thank you†came a weak response. It was the first real food he’d tasted in weeks of running, and, with great effort, he staved his hunger pains and enjoyed it, bite by bite. He enjoyed his real meal minutes later, still under the eye of the barman who, in lack of anything better to do, had taken to minutely cleaning a glass.
“Where you heading then?†he inquired as he took the empty plate away. “Towards the elven capitals?â€
“No. Just away. Far away.â€
A full belly and a strong, clear drink, from a small flask, in a transparent glass, had relaxed him a bit and he spoke more freely now. His accent however, Bear couldn’t quite place from any of the cities he had visited.
“There’re the capitals if you keep on the roads for a few days. I hear there are no quicker ways out of the damn forest, and no real horrors to worry about on them.â€
“I don’t know, really. I’ve lost my heading. Wandering the road has got to be all I’ve got left to do now.â€
“Damn shame then to not see the capitals.†Bear continues his train of telling, uninterrupted. He had been in the elven cities quite often in his youth and would encourage anyone unfortunate enough to catch his story telling mood. “There’s still raw magic there, ya know? Lots of it. The kind that flows through the leaves like ghosts in the night and if you listen carefully enough to it, on a real quiet evening, you can hear it being drawn into chants and castings. ‘s like a river flowing, only that you can really hear the words on the other side.â€
He watched a peculiar stubborn spot in the glass he had just begun cleaning. “Nothing like the sight of magic to lift your spirits boy, even a woman†he said in a conspiring lower tone, winking at the lad.
“Really?â€
“Truly boy.†But a blank stare was upon him. With a sigh, he pointed to the stairs on the far side of the room. “Second door on the left, second floor. Ya got the key already.â€
In a series of rather uncoordinated movements, the boy got off the chair, thankful in his own way for the advice of travel. Someone there could probably help him with his heavy task. But a night’s rest was what he needed first and what his aching joints and body craved. With his warm cloak under his right arm, and the box under the left, he climbed the stairs slowly, stumbling at every second step.
Sleep came as soon as his tired little frame hit the hard mattress of the bed. It was nothing like he had been accustomed in his past, but much better than what he had in his later days. He was thankful.
“Bear, you’re going to have some unpleasant guests soon enough, I’m guessing.â€
“Feeling it in your bones again, eh?†the tavern master retook his seat at the table, two full glasses in front of him and his friend. They knocked on the table once for luck, toasted and downed the liquor in a single sip.
“Old bones speak no lies friend! You would do well to remember that.†the patron went on, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm guard. “There are things following that boy. He reeks of forgotten magic and the bony hand of Death. There’s no good to come of him being here.†There was a tone to this Wanderer’s voice that could split the edge off a sword and keep even the deep forest shadows away. It was an old voice; though you would much too easily dismiss this to a figment of your own imagination when his features came into view.
Bear watched him thoughtfully and, nervously rubbing the back of his head, turned his gaze away.
“When have I ever turned someone away Taros?†his small piggish eyes went round the now empty room, most of the customers having retreated to their chambers. “There ain’t a traveler that I would turn away, even if they were to bring Hell itself in here.†He got up and walked over to the fireplace, prodding it sharply with the poking iron.
“So what if he brought his troubles here?†he finally conceded, as he placed the poker in its place. “He didn’t seem a wrong lad…could merit the trouble.â€
His friend had watched him with interest and was now stretching on the chair. There were hardly any candles left burning in the main hall of the room and the rain outside had gotten loud, though the thunder and lighting had receded. The tall, slender man got up from his place and walked towards the rack close to the fire place, picking up a long sword sheath and belt which he fastened around his waist.
With a pat on Bear’s back, he too went on to the rooms on the floors above. “Let trouble come…†were his words before disappearing in the pitch black darkness.
![[Imagine: 14wyiz6.jpg]](http://i43.tinypic.com/14wyiz6.jpg)
Pentru intrebari sau orice alte interactiuni cu mine, folositi cu incredere mesajele de profil. Contrar opiniei populare eu nu musc...si chiar daca as musca, am toate vaccinurile facute.
![[Imagine: 87201674.png]](http://img204.imageshack.us/img204/8881/87201674.png)