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| Welcome to Sectarians of Eliraihah.. We are a group of those striving to create a utopia for roleplayers and writers alike, and provide a shelter from the normal confines of society. On our behalf, enjoy yourself. Your friendly overlord, --Crimson Knight |
| The Burning; I dunno, how would you describe it? | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 1 2009, 09:14 PM (215 Views) | |
| Post #1 May 1 2009, 09:14 PM | Sgt. Tacoz |
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Prologue Such times were depressing, as it has been shown throughout history. When the streets came to riotous uproar and the night became filled with the sounds of destruction. Happiness would be no friend of the people. This was such a time, when a peaceful world was turned upside down by the thoughts of a single man. That single man had managed to turn the entire world on its head virtually overnight. His name was Alustein Krugis. Now, of course, there was no intentional hatred towards the world that led Alustein to commit such acts. Rather, it was the world’s hatred of him and his actions that made him do this. To be precise, it was his actions involving a small little book. A diary of sorts, you could say, one that he found amid the burned wreckage of an abandoned old building. A small little diary with words, words that form sentences, sentences that form paragraphs, and paragraphs that form a story. A story dark enough, true enough, to make an entire world hate a single person. Then again, all of the darker times of history tend to be exactly that, but it is not entirely about the story within the diary. It is about the diary, for it writes a story no darker than the present itself. Such stories of the present are generally feared by the world as a whole. Their truths, and such abominable truths they hold, are the source of the fear. They could talk about the secret dark lives of respected people, talk about the impending doom of the world that has yet to be noticed, it could even be something so pointless as to reveal one’s faults. None the less, it is the truth that people fear. In this small diary, the story writes itself. Well, technically it is written by Alustein, for he was the one to pen the words onto the paper. And such words he penned. He penned words of darkness and fear, of despair and depression, and to be held highest above all, of truth and secrecy. Not his own mind you, but the truth and the secrecy of other people. Now, if such a book came in to your possession, what would you do? Would you read the words and think it nothing but a child’s tale from the depths of one’s imagination? Would you drop the book into a growing fire and watch the edges curl in the flames before turning to a monotonous grey ash? Or would you read, and believe in such dark truths, to act upon the words within the confines of those tattered covers? +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+ The pages were of a pale yellow color with the edges a curled black and grey. A slight touch of the edge sent flakes falling down to the ground bellow. The black covers were tattered and beaten, worn through by the elements of nature after the shelter of wherever it was once kept burned away. The spine was in the same tattered shape, except for the faded golden letters that adorned it, giving some beauty and life to the old chronicle. The faded gold seemed to whisper the words to those that saw its faded beauty, The Chronicled Truth. Such an odd title for a book one might think, well that is true. But it is a title that is not meant to be normal or obvious. It is a title that both shows and explains what the small book contains, a chronicle of truth. But such dark truths that it holds are not for everyone. For weeks after the old building burned to the ground, the small diary sat atop the pile of burnt and ashen rubble, almost completely untouched. Maybe it was the condition of the diary as it sat atop the rubble the kept people away from it. Maybe it was an odd sense that the small diary held darker things than any mere mortal could handle while retaining sanity. Or it could have been fear, the people’s fear of that one word within the title. Truth. So as such, the small diary sat atop the rubble, weathering the harshness of the outside world for weeks. Through the rain and searing heat that could attract even fire to the water to cool down it sat. People walked by and gave the book no more than a second glance at best, trying to remain out of the eyes of people nearby, who were also sneaking a quick glance or two towards it. There is a fourth factor not previously mentioned that kept the book from being picked up by someone on the street. There were rumors abound that the old building did not ‘catch fire,’ not at all. In fact the word that seeped through underground communication networks was that there was a secret in that building, a very dark and terrible secret. A secret so terrifying that it was said that the arson had been arranged by the officials within the government, in an effort to subdue this secret. This was the fourth reason. It was thought that the small diary was the secret that was supposed to have been erased from the world. To be erased by a blaze as bright and high as to wake the Gods in the dark of the night, such was the fate of the secret within those old walls. If the diary was the secret, possession of it would surely lead to their being hunted, and their inevitable erasure from the minds and sights of the people of the world. And no one wants that, now do they? Of course, there were always exceptions to the general feelings of the public. Those that did whatever they pleased without a care from what the social or ideological consequences would be. They did what they wanted to do. Rakeil Gileis was one of those people. 1 The people that crowded the streets of this city were in such a state of disarray, and in such large numbers, that it almost shocked Rakeil. Almost, that is. He had been there for days, and his first and foremost thought about the city was that it and its people reminded him of vermin. The city was the sewer tunnel, with its dark, dank alleyways, the piles of rotten garbage that dotted the walkways, the small watery layer over seemingly everything, and the pollution filled air. The people were the vermin that inhabited these places, with their filthy rags, their horrible hygiene, and their unkempt appearances, with most of them looking as if they had never seen or heard of the marvelous invention called a razor. Obviously, Rakeil stood out amongst these decrepit peoples and their forsaken city. He wasn’t even from this damnable place, but he had to stay there as part of his assignment for the next two weeks. And what a damnable job of his it was. Rakeil worked as an intelligence gather, almost a scout or spy of sorts, for the world government. Of course, if the people here knew this, he would surely be found dead by the next morning in his apartment, bludgeoned to death with improvised weaponry. Found in the rundown apartment he was to stay in, nonetheless. Truth be told though, he had no base to complain about anything here. He looked like them all, he fit in to the crowds perfectly. Here, the way he looked now, made him just another face in the sea of nameless people. His face, which was usually clean and shaven, was covered in a light dusting of soot and he hadn’t shaved in days. The ragged beard becoming more apparent as the days passed. His hair was filthy, and covered by a tattered old cap he had gotten from one of the stores along the filthy street. His clothes were in even worse shape that the hat though, as it was only a worn and beaten old turtle-neck sweater, with it’ original dark green and blue pattern hidden beneath layers of dirt and assorted filth, and a well-used pair of black slacks. The final piece of his outfit was the small, black, tattered briefcase that he held in his right hand with an odd lumpy package inside of it. Of course, he had a filthy brown leather jacket with it all, but it was too hot to be wearing it outside today. He calmed himself down as best he could. After he met his informant and received the drop, he would be out of this den of vermin. That seemed to calm him down a bit, but his grip never loosened on the small, tattered briefcase he held in his right hand. He continued on through the dismal streets. His eyes darted back and forth as he walked by the people on the street. He could see their empty, greedy eyes as they followed the briefcase in his hands. He walked on through the fetid streets, ignoring the masses as they passed him in waves. It took nearly an hour of walking, but soon he had made it to his destination. Near the outskirts of the city where the buildings began to distance themselves and the beautiful dessert beyond them became visible through the cracks. It would not be long before he could walk through it one last time before being relocated on another mission of sorts. He longed to just ignore the drop point and continue walking towards the desert. With its rare and beautiful flowers, the majestic white sands, and the abundant night life that was found nowhere else. He suppressed the urges though and continued on. The drop point was just ahead of Rakeil’s current position. He could tell because it was marked by an old, burned down building that was now a pile of rubble. He noticed that it seemed like an odd place for a drop, seeing how this part of the town was even more crowded than the central areas. The outskirts of town were mainly inhabited by beggars and peddlers, lying in wait for the next group of travelers to pass through. It was too open, too accessible by anyone who wanted to intercept them, or to try and kill them both, but it wasn’t his choice to make. He walked as inconspicuously as he could up next to the building, all the while wondering why the people passing by looked at him strangely. Their eyes looked at him with a sort of demented pity, almost as if they enjoyed his unseen misery, as he stood there waiting for the informant to show up. His curiosity got the better of him and he turned to face the blackened rubble that sat behind him, wondering why they kept looking at him and then at it. Atop the rubble sat a small black book, its spine and covers faded from the harsh elements it lay vulnerable to, but the spine still had some of the gold lettering upon it. The Chronicled Truth. Such a simple title, but it intrigued Rakeil nonetheless. He quickly picked it up and stowed it into the briefcase before anyone could notice what he had done. With the book now in his possession, he could give the package to the informant and move on into the dessert, where he could take a look at it that night. +-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+-+ The dream. That damnable atrocious dream. The visions of despair plagued me again this night. Such a marvelous place it was, with such beauty, such wonder. Oh how I wish that that part never ended. But it did, as it always has. The beauty became overtaken, ravaged and decimated. Replaced only by despair, by darkness . . . . by death. Such as always, I should explain my dreams before I rant about the darkness they foretell as I forget this is one of the first entries within this small, depressing book of mine. A place of such beauty, cannot be consciously imagined nor created, only dreamt of in the deepest of sleeps. -+- Entry 1: Gardens of Desert Glass Such abnormalities were never normal within such a world we exist with, but in dreams, such a place is possible within the realms of dreams. Glass, it was everywhere, beautiful, colored, and majestic glass. Hmmm, maybe it would be better to describe the locale first. A fairly large clearing sits within the center of an old oak forest. The oak trees stand tall and proud, with only minimal spacing between their growth plots. Their roots entwining with each other as they contend for the precious ground on which they so rely. On the trees at the outermost edge of the clearing, rose vines have crept up the trunks and have their blossoms of varying reds and whites. The colors ranging from a soothing pink to the darkest violet imaginable, and from the purest of whites to the most shocking shades of gold. They dot the trunks like hands reaching up from below, grabbing hold and attempting to drag down the highest leaves to their level. The rose’s tendril vines didn’t end with the trees though, as they reached down to the ground and snaked their way further into the clearing. Their vines weaved back and forth, entwining with each other, forming a thorny carpet upon the ground with which the grass beneath it could not penetrate. The vines forced their way into the field until they dissipated into the mass of dahlia’s that covered the ground around halfway into the clearing. The dahlias were possibly even more awe inspiring than the roses that choked the ground before them, with their beautiful petals reaching up towards the sky in their blossoming glory. Their petals followed one of the most unorthodox patterns one has ever seen, with each individual petal being a different color. The color patterns changing from a combination of pink, purple, and red, to the oddest color combination of indigo, gold, and white. The final touch of the breathtaking plant-life within the clearing was the beautiful and sweet smelling hyacinth flowers that were scattered throughout the clusters of dahlias. Their flowers standing above the dahlias, like steeples on church buildings. Saturating the air with their beautiful aroma. Giving a beautiful color to the view with their purple, blue, white ,and pink blossoming flowers. It was beautiful to see it from where I was, from the trees covered in the grasping roses, to the blankets of roses and vines that extended into the field, to the final beautiful display of the roses blending into a stunningly orchestrated field of hyacinths and dahlias in an illustrious display of colors and an intoxicating aroma. But, there was a part I have forgotten to mention about this beautiful place. Within the center of the field sits a small sand pit. Now, you are probably asking what that has to do with anything, and rest assured, it has to do with everything. Almost like a geyser, at periodic intervals, the wind will whip through the field, catching the sand within the pit and covering everything in a fine layer of it. The heaviest coatings being the parts nearest the pit and a more speckled covering the closer to the forest’s edge you get. It’s like this for a few, peaceful moments, before the storm clouds come riding in upon the peals of thunder. Lightning strikes the clearing repeatedly until no area has been left unscathed by the brutal temperatures. Then the serenity returns and the clouds fade away from the sky, leaving no trace that they were ever there. Except for the coatings of glass that now cover everything. It is truly a magnificent sight to see. Almost as if the lightning was only attracted to the areas in the clearing that had some of the sand covering a part of them. Everything remained in pristine condition while the spots that were the lightning had hit were crystallized in a tomb of glass. The sun returned to the field of glass, shining its brilliant rays into the pristine beauty of the field. In a prismatic fashion, the glass coated plants reflected the rays of light in the spectrum. To see the miniature rainbows being emitted throughout the field, crossing each other numerous times. Their luminescent rays of beauty like nothing to be seen anywhere outside of the realms of dreams and make believe. Then, the clouds return. Rolling thunders shake the land and the glass begins to fracture. Lightning arcs between the ominous thunderhead clouds and illuminates the now-dark field like the flash of a camera, only for an instant. The sands kick in the screaming winds as they tear through the field, only to turn to glass as they reach the dark heavens. The clouds begin to rotate, faster and faster, until a single, enormous bolt of lightning comes down in the center of the field. The glass sands shatter with the next earth-shaking peal of thunder and the field begins to schism. The flowers fall into gaping holes, and the crumbling land begins to get swallowed whole by a fine, black sand that starts to rise out of the holes. The beauty is no more, death is rampant. I catch a glimpse of horrific torture, the sights of millions of people within the black sands. Their corpses burned in some parts, and cocooned by glass in other parts. Their faces show an intermingling atrocity of pain and fear, like an untouchable sculpture of the darker side of beauty. Then, it is gone and I awake in my bed. Also: Chapter 1 is by no means done, so don't think the next part will be chapter 2, it will just be chapter 1 continued. COMMENTS PLEASE! ^-^ |
I happen to know for a fact that Unicorns puke rainbows.
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| Post #2 May 2 2009, 04:35 PM | AkiraAsphyxia |
| al;jfldscmkl commas! The first part is particularly difficult for me to read because of them. It gets better as the story goes on, but you might want to look at that. I think I remember you telling me that you wanted to sound really sophisticated and kind of snobbish/rich, but I'm not sure that it really accomplishes anything. The plot idea is good though. |
We're All Here Because We've Lost Control
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| Post #3 May 3 2009, 01:12 PM | Sgt. Tacoz |
Plus you know how I is with teh commas of death and doom and destruction and all that good stuffs.
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I happen to know for a fact that Unicorns puke rainbows.
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| Post #4 May 3 2009, 01:21 PM | AkiraAsphyxia |
| That's why I'm your editor. (: |
We're All Here Because We've Lost Control
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| Post #5 May 8 2009, 02:10 AM | Fenrisulfr. |
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It was nicely done. Can be better, but nicely done. Rating from Me; 7.5/10. |
Loveable Hate Machine
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| Post #6 May 8 2009, 06:01 PM | Sgt. Tacoz |
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well, sadly enough, the entire story got a facelift, so as of now, this is discontinued. It did give me the idea for something else though, so that may be up sometime this weekend. Just the whole dreams part was cool, just until I had to write it. >.> Like I said though, after altering this story, it turned into something entirely new, so this is over. ;-; |
I happen to know for a fact that Unicorns puke rainbows.
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