| Kaiser Blade; My attempt at NaNoWrIMo | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Nov 7 2009, 11:49 AM (109 Views) | |
| æ·Amon | Nov 7 2009, 11:49 AM Post #1 |
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Novice
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Okay, first off this story takes place in a medieval fantasy world I've been developing called Aeylisia. The story itself is inspired by a multitude of things. First off, the Arinoth, the cursed blade that dominates the main character's destiny is inspired by Frostmourne from the Warcraft series. The main character's story is also somewhat inspired by Samurai X--but with a classical fantasy twist. Kaiser Blade Synopsis: Arinoth the Cursed is one of the three legendary Kaiser Blades-- rune blades forged ages ago for the dwarven kings and created for one purpose--death. When it falls into the hands of a young man named Leslot it begins his transformation into the merciless Death Warden, a warrior legendary for slaying hundreds on the battlefield. As the Graycloak Rebellion pushes towards its final victory, the Death Warden has a rude moral awakening. Choosing a life of peace instead of war, he defies the very nature of the blade he wields and the name he has earned himself. After killing the rebel leader and ending the war single highhandedly, he wanders to faraway lands to find peace. But, it soon becomes apparent that his dark past will haunt him where ever he goes. Maps: I made a few maps of Aeylisia using a program called AutoREALM. I'm proud of them. World Map: http://i86.servimg.com/u/f86/14/46/92/78/aeylis10.jpg Ecarna (eastern human kingdom; where the story starts): http://i86.servimg.com/u/f86/14/46/92/78/ecarna10.jpg Three Kingdoms (land of the dwarves): http://i86.servimg.com/u/f86/14/46/92/78/threek10.jpg Elenglade (middle human kingdom): http://i86.servimg.com/u/f86/14/46/92/78/elengl10.jpg |
| Wizard's First Rule - People are stupid; given proper motivation, almost anyone will believe almost anything. Because people are stupid, they will believe a lie because they want to believe it's true, or because they are afraid it might be true. | |
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| æ·Amon | Nov 7 2009, 11:54 AM Post #2 |
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Novice
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CHAPTER ONE That day, on the trip to Whitehaven, I learned of death. I was just a boy and the first lives I took, were with no mercy. I stole them in the name of vengeance. It was the day the cursed blade Arinoth found me and began its domination of my heart. The covered wagon rolling down the Northern High Road was pulled by a team of six horses. The beasts snorted white steam in the frigid air as their driver pushed them onward with a snap of his whip. It had been a long day and fortunately the path had grown easy as it descended into the flat plains of the middle lands. Even with the rough northern mountains behind them, the horses were tired and slowing. Being late autumn, the night had come fast. With clouds blocking out the moonlight, dank shadows surrounded the wagon on all sides. The wagon’s only illumination was a single oil lamp swaying from a post below the canopy. The driver, a merchant from the mining town of Ippen, sat forward in his seat to check the darkness. Squinting, he tried to make out the shape of the road ahead. He was an older man with thinning hair, a graying beard and a ragged looking townsmen’s coat. The road between Ippen and Whitefair was well known for bandit activity. Travel during the night was a dangerous endeavor, especially since the start of the Graycloak Rebellion. He reached for his whip, wanting to hurry the pace again, but his wife’s hand caught his instead. She stepped over the back board and sat down next to him. He glanced at her and saw the deep concern in her eyes. She pulled back her hood revealing her blond braids and smooth face. The merchant was proud of his wife, not only for her kindness and loyalty, but also because she was the envy of Ippen. Despite being in her forties, she looked almost ten years younger, which was much to say for a woman of such a haggard town. The wives of his peers showed deeper signs of aging and often had large bellies from over consumption of food. He personally found them repulsive--at least compared to his own wife’s beauty. Often, at taverns he proclaimed himself the luckiest man in Ippen and made her stand on a bar stool for all to gaze upon her. It was never her favorite moment as she was humble about her beauty and didn’t like being shown around like a Summer Fair Day pig. “It’s very dark and it’s getting cold,” she said. “Don’t you think we should pull over and rest?” The merchant shook his head. “It’s not safe to camp around these parts. Graycloaks have been hitting merchant caravans of late. Last week old man Tugres had his entire shipment of oil taken. Besides, we’re so damn close to Whitefair; just a few more hours.” She sighed. “Your children are freezing and tired. There’s no way they can get proper rest in a bumpy wagon like this.” “Please darling,” he said. “I would feel much better if we made it to town first. I’m sure Eustace at the Firehearth Inn will have a cozy room and a crackling fire ready in no time. I would much rather sleep in a bed than on the cold ground, wouldn’t you?” Her answer was a muffled whimper and he noticed she was staring ahead. With bad eyes, he squinted again, trying to make out what she was seeing. The team of horses began to slow and neigh nervously as he finally picked out the silhouette. A single man stood in the center of the road. He was over six feet tall, had arms like tree trunks, a lion’s mane of fiery red hair and stone gray eyes. Despite the lead of six horses barreling toward him, he remained glacial. The horses dug their shoes into the hard pack mere inches from running him down. The wagon careened as its wheels dragged to a stop. The big man reached to his shoulder and wrapped his thick fingers around the hilt of a sword. In one swift motion he pulled a great sword from his back and pointed its deadly end directly at the wagon driver. The merchant found himself awed at the big man’s weapon. The blade itself was crafted out of black metal. The jagged edges on each side were sharpened to a glossy silver sheen. There were six runes engraved into the side of it and they glowed dimly with unnatural light. The hilt was crafted out of gold and polished so that the reflection from the wagon’s lamp danced and dazzled into his eyes. His wife nudged him in the side and he snapped to. “What’s this all about?” the merchant managed in a gruff voice. The big man spun his blade around twice, lowered it and shrugged. With an nonchalant step, he walked off the road and away from the wagon toward a line of trees. Just as he was about to vanish behind a tall oak, six other men burst from the bushes and charged the wagon. These men wore gray cloaks and their faces were covered by brown masks. They had axes and short swords and surrounded the wagon cautiously. Ahead another man emerged from the shadows, carrying a torch. He wearing a gray wool coat and his blond hair was greased back on his head. With lust filled eyes he approached the wagon. “Hail sir,” the newcomer said. “No need for worries. We only wish to talk.” The merchant stood up. His face was red with anger. “Or rob me blind as you graycloaks so love to do.” “That’s a misconception sir. We graycloaks are fighting for your freedom. Together we’re looking to end the king’s tyranny. But we can’t do it alone, we need aide.” “What tyranny?” the merchant asked. “I don’t see the king’s army out here stopping my business and pointing weapons at my family.” The man motioned and the six highwaymen surrounding the wagon lowered their arms. “The king’s tyranny, sir, comes in the form of taxation.” “Taxes aren’t a reason for you all to be spilling blood and stealing from hard working men.” “We’re just looking for cooperation. If you pledge your loyalty to the cause, then you can be on your way.” “Sounds like an ultimatum to me,” the merchant grumbled. “So what do you say? Are you on the side of liberty?” The merchant paused and looked at his wife. She was still sitting, practically covering her face and shaking in fear. Their lives were on the line. But so was his reputation. If word got around that he was supporting the graycloaks he might find himself thrown in the stockade. “I’m not pledging a word to anybody. But, I’ll give you anything you want, if you just let me and my family go.” The man smirked. “Let’s see what you have inside of this wagon then.” He walked around back. Two of his men flanked him and pulled open the cover flaps. There was a large stock in the back covered by a tarp. Swinging his torch inside, he could see to the back of the wagon and into the wide eyed faces of the merchant’s two shaky daughters. Cautiously, he lifted up the burlap tarp. Underneath were rows of neatly stacked iron ingots. He whistled at the bounty. “Not bad,” he said, turned to the highwayman on his left and pointed toward the girls. "Round them up." The merchant, his wife and his two daughters were pulled off the wagon and herded to the side of the road. The family was lined up by the tree line and stood shivering as the highwaymen and their leader discussed what to do with the merchant’s load. The merchant glanced down at his sobbing wife. She looked up at him, her eyes burning with desperation. He knew the reason for her tears and hoped the highwaymen wouldn’t search the wagon further. His son was still inside, most likely hiding under the burlap tarp toward the front of the load. “Plenty of iron you have here. Probably straight out of the Ippen mines too,” the leader said as he approached the merchant. “We’ll make many blades out it. Blades to kill loyalist scum, like you.” “Are you going to let us go?” the merchant asked, his voice cracking desperately. “I'm no loyalist. I'm not trying to pick any fight. You can take the iron. You can take my horses, just let us go.” “It wouldn’t be such a good idea to let you wander off. Loyalists have big mouths, I hear.” “I promise you I won’t say a word, and neither will my daughters or wife” the merchant said and gulped. “Have mercy, please.” “Someone give me a sword,” the leader said. One of the highwaymen ran over and placed the handle of a blade into his palm. The merchant’s wife broke into screeching sobs. His two daughters erupted likewise, shortly after. The merchant couldn’t hold back his own tears any longer. Falling to one knee in front of the leader, the merchant groped his pant leg. “Please sir, we won’t say a word, please sir,” the merchant begged between sobs. “Let us be on our way, that’s all I ask.” The leader’s face grew red with irritation and he glanced at the three girls. “Shut them up,” he spat. Their cries grew louder and he kicked the merchant down. “Shut them up!” “P-please girls stop--” Lunging, the leader plunged his blade into the wife’s midsection. He yanked it out and brought it across in a hard right swing, catching the first daughter across the throat. The merchant’s younger daughter, let out a defiant scream and started to run away. She didn’t make it far as the leader kicked her in the back, knocking her down and rammed the sword into the base of her skull. Blood dripping off the end of the blade he returned to the merchant who still getting to his feet. Gazing upon his mutilated wife and daughters, the merchant charged the leader. He was put down with a single thrust through the chest. The leader planted his boot onto the merchant’s chest and yanked his blade free, cutting a groove up and out the side of his neck. The merchant collapsed, gurgling on his own blood. The highwaymen looked away from the horror. Some of them brandished faces of disgust, but most pretended they didn’t care about the massacre. “Was it really necessary to kill them?” the big man with the mane of red hair said as he emerged from the shadows of the forest. The leader glared at him. “They were making all kinds of noise. The king’s rangers might be about. That’s the last thing we need.” "The rebellion is not going to win over hearts and minds by slaughtering innocents,” the big man said. “You’re just a mercenary,” the leader grumbled as he looked at the mess he made. “You kill who we order you to kill. You don’t get a say.” “Sir,” one of the highwaymen said. “I think there’s something in the wagon.” Sure enough, the wagon was shaking and they could hear whimpering. The leader approached cautiously. “Sounds like someone else is inside.” The wagon cover suddenly shredded and a boy hurdled out onto the road, roaring in rage. He had a short sword in both hands and tears running down the side of his face. The entirety of his frame was shuddering violently from anger. His brown hair was disheveled and his blue eyes were boring into the leader with an inferno of hatred. One of the highwaymen stepped toward him in attempt to grab, but the boy shrugged it off and rammed the end of his sword into the man’s gut. With a howl the surprised man fell back, clutching the growing spot of crimson in the middle of his tunic. “The little bugger got me,” he said, baffled. The boy charged him and struck with the blade, splitting the injured highwayman’s head like a ripe melon. Two other highwaymen moved in after watching their ally’s slaughter. The boy ducked under an axe swing and planted his sword into the attacker’s armpit. The second highwayman attempted to plunge his blade into the boy’s back, but was too slow with his thrust. The boy rolled away and kicked him in the back of the knee. The highwayman fell forward onto his knees Screaming in rage, the boy brought his short sword down in a vicious stab, planting it into the highwayman’s spine. Face first in the mud the dying highwayman was in spasms as the boy twisted the blade free and pointed it toward the leader. The leader, mouth wide, stared at the frantic boy with disbelief. He stepped a few feet back and waved his torch the boy’s way. “Don't just stand there, kill him, you fools.” The other highwaymen bounded around the wagon and came at him, blades at the ready. The boy was practically bowled over by the first highwayman as he rammed him. Attempting to finish the boy off, he fumbled to his knees and swung wide, but his sword only hit dirt. The boy had rolled underneath the wagon. Crouching low he waited until one of the highwayman stuck his face under to get a look. Thrusting the blade up, he drove it straight into the man’s eye. With a yelp, his foe dropped his sword and fell back, cupping the side of his face. His yelp turned into howls of pain. Blood flowed out of his eye socket and all over the gravel. The boy reached and grabbed the fallen sword, his hand almost being lopped off by another highwayman’s axe swing. The axe blade slammed into the tip of sword and bent it. Using his legs for leverage, the boy pulled hard and managed to yank it underneath the wagon with him. Now surrounded by enraged graycloaks, the merchants son had little time to think or react. Gazing around the wagon, he found himself focusing on the wheel. Stretching out, he jammed both blades into where the rear wheel core met the axle and cut out sideways. His swords broke several of the spokes. The immense weight of the load caused the rest of the spokes to crack and splinter. Fearing being crushed to death, the boy rolled back and out from underneath the wagon. The wheel finally buckled in and the wagon began to lean. The highwaymen were caught unaware as hundreds of iron ingots poured out of the back and on top of them. They let out muffled cries of pain as their bodies were crushed to death from the immense weight. The leader gasped in fury as he saw the boy emerge from behind the wagon, untouched and still hungry for his death. He turned to the big mercenary. “I don’t believe this, kill him Ver! Do it now.” Ver was staring at the boy too, but it was a look of curiosity instead of fear. He cracked a malicious smile. “Afraid of a child?” he asked. “Bah, you’re useless.” The leader howled in anger and charged at the boy, attempting to plunge the blade into his chest. The boy stepped to the side, parrying the attack with his good blade and the bent one at the same time. With the leader off balance he attacked his side, cutting a deep trench. The leader fell onto his knees, clutching the throbbing tear in belly flesh. Blood poured out, over his fingertips and splattered onto the road. Just as the leader turned to get back up, the boy pounced. He drove both blades into the middle of the leader’s chest. They shredded straight through his rib cage and out his back--puncturing both lungs. The leader wheezed and collapsed. He dropped his own sword and desperately tried to pull the blades out of his collapsed chest. With strength waning he merely pawed at them until his face turned blue and he slumped over. Ver had drawn his massive black sword and was studying it carefully. The boy shifted around and faced him, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath. The strength and rage the boy had was beginning to fade, but he still wore a look of brutal determination. Bending down, he picked up the leader’s sword and readied to attack the big man. “You fight like a true warrior, child,” Ver said. “But do not think you stand even the slightest chance against me.” The boy made the dash at him anyway, with a heavy vertical slash aimed at his torso. Ver brought his sword around with such speed that it was a mere blur in the boy’s eyes. The boy skidded to a stop and gasped for breath. Pieces of hair from his head floated past. Following them down, he saw that the sword he once held in his hand was nothing but a crude stub. Cloven in two, the other half lay at his feet. “It's very interesting,” Ver said. “It seems you were able to defeat those graycloaks because you were drawing power from my sword.The blade doesn’t wish for your death. Consider yourself lucky boy.” The boy gazed upon the black blade and the runes covering it. The sword had a beauty and charm to it that was supernatural. He could feel the energy radiating from it. The power was a warm and a comforting heat. It soothed him and he felt his whole body relax. Each finger on his hand loosened slowly and the stub of a sword he had been holding fell from his grasp. It clanged next to his feet. “Yes, you have the soul of a warrior indeed,” Ver said, still studying his mysterious weapon. “Arinoth has chosen a new heir. I am Ver, what is your name boy?” “Remy,” the boy said. He was unable to take his eyes off the sword. “That is not the name of a warrior, it is the name of a peasant. From now on your name is Leslot. You are mine. I will teach you everything I know and you will wield this blade upon my death. It your destiny.” Leslot couldn’t move or speak as he felt himself being further drawn to the sword. He caressed the smooth black surface of the blade, running the tip of his fingers over the engravings in the center. As his fingers passed them, the runes glowed a bright blue, red, green, yellow, silver and finally violet. Ver grabbed him by the collar of the shirt and lifted him up to face level, leaving his feet dangling in the air. “The first lesson you will learn is to never touch Arinoth unless I give you permission. Next time you touch it, I break all the fingers on each of your hands.” He then threw young Leslot to the ground. The boy tumbled and landed next to the corpse off his father. For a long time, Leslot gazed at his father hallowed face--stuck in an expression of agony. No tears could be conjured for the death. In fact, he felt nothing but a soothing calm flowing into hi s soul. All sentimental thoughts he might have felt scrambled. He could remember his father and the rest of his dead family, but the memory already felt fuzzy and irrelevant. The only thing of importance to him now was Arinoth and the blade pulled him with a magnetism that overrode all of his previous intentions “Yes, the blade will quell all pain. It will also ease your mind and give you a focus like none other. In its presence you will know no fear. You must learn to keep your mind sharp though, as the blade has a way of seducing you to get what it wants. With strong conviction you can become its master instead its slave.” The boy stood and nodded. “Good,” Ver said. “Now follow me, there is much to do and even more for you to learn. I fear my time in this world is fading.” |
| Wizard's First Rule - People are stupid; given proper motivation, almost anyone will believe almost anything. Because people are stupid, they will believe a lie because they want to believe it's true, or because they are afraid it might be true. | |
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