My Latest Story
Hello everyone.
So, as most of you know, (mostly because I won't shut up about the fact), I want to be a writer. And, so, of course, I write now, to better my craft and make myself a better, more concise writer.
So today, I bring you my latest work, and, please note, it is in no way finished or polished. I know it cuts off in a weird place... I only just now wrote it. Any feedback would be appreciated. My thanks.
The wordless screams of the dead rent the air like the shadowy claws of demons as the man fell from on high, the dead dragon beneath him offering little solace to the mighty battlemage.
As he fell, Edarvur cursed his bad luck. He'd come into the land of the dead for a brief foray... that had quickly turned into a fiasco of unbelievable preportions. He was cursing himself, magic, and his steel, all for his stupid mistake.
He damned himself to these hells for ever killing that dragon so close to the ceiling. And now he was going to turn into a tavern cake if he didn't cast a spell to save himself and quickly.
He formed the words in his head as he fell. His arcane chants filled the air. The power flowed. The energy flared--
--and fizzled out. "Damn," the man cursed as he fell. He should have remembered, magic was not as well suited to this damnable abyss as it was the world above. Anti-magics constantly corrupted him.
The man sighed inwardly as he braced himself for the impact and hoped the dragons great bulk was enough to take the force of the collision.
When they hit, Edarvur was thrown far and high. No, no, no! he screamed in his mind as he fell. He tried one last desperate attempt to cast a spell, and surprisingly it worked, stopping him three or so feet from the ground before fizling out and dropping him, flat on his back, to the ground.
Groaning, the battlemage rolled over and rose to his feet, taking stock of his situation.
His spellbooks were in order, thank the gods, wherever they were. His blades, forged in to the shapes of dragons wings, still rested at his hips. His robes, though tattered, still sat upon his back. And no bones were broken.
"I am lucky indeed," he murmured, a habit he'd picked up on his solo adventuring quests. He was alone, but craved companionship. So he spoke to himself. He stood on the huge plain of desolation and decay that was the land of the dead... or at least, one of them.
High above him, high above here, lay the Fields of Paradise, where the souls of the just and the goodly resided after their corporeal forms died.
But here. Here were the Plains of Despair, where the souls of the wicked, the unholy and dishonorable, the shunned and the wickedly ambitious, were damned to forever unlive in a state of torture unknown to any living being.
And here he was, Edarvur, mightiest of battlemages, trapped in the depths of this abominable place. He sighed as he looked at the thoroughly broken form of the guardian dragon. "A noble fight," he said, drawing one of his swords, Dragonwing, his right hand blade. He saluted the proud creature, then sheathed it, placing his hand upon the dragon's egg-shaped pommel.
The other weapon, Dragonsbane, (A name he found endlessly cliche, but it was a wonderful weapon), he drew and saluted the creature as a worthy opponent.
Both blades were identical, in all save the hilt. While Dragonwing was a red hilted blade with the egg being it's pommel, Dragonsbane was a deep, cleansing blue, the pommel of which was the great and mighty head of a blue, therefore goodly, dragon.
He took stock of the rest of his reserves, both physical and magical. He would have to find a high place on this flat land upon which to cast his spell of returning. And that would not be an easy task.
He would have to fight his way through legions of the damed to find said hill, and--
"You are a dolt," came a voice from behind him. Turning quickly, he sought to draw his sword, then calmed, when he saw it to be his wife, Crissa. A cleric in her own right and a mighty one at that, she must have prayed for his release. "And you, my dear, are a life saver," Edarvur said as he stepped towards her. He took her slim, shapely hand, and was drawn back to the world of the living.
He stood in his tower's library, surveying it with a calm fondness.
"You are lucky I was at hand," his wife, a tall, beautiful elven woman, said to him, her face playfully stern. "For then, you would be thoroughly dead by now."
"Is that so?" Edarvur said, going about cleaning himself off. He caught a reflection of himself in the mirror and smiled. For she was probably right, he looked terrible, though he didn't feel it.
His strong jawed face was cut in many places from his many falls of that day. His blue eyes looked tired, yet they sparked with his fierce determination and intelligence. His thick brown hair was matted with blood, not all the dragons, and his high, noble forehead had a particularly nasty gash upon it.
He shrugged his broad shoulders and removed his white robes to reveal the chain mail armor he wore beneath. "You are correct," he conceded. "I am very lucky you are at hand."
In all cases, he said to himself, smiling with pure contentment. She approached him slowly, resting her hands upon his face and giving him a long, loving kiss. And from that kiss came the healing energies of her god, smoothing the skin and clearing away the cuts as if with a sweep of some divine hand his corporeal form was shoved aside and replaced with a new one. He smiled at that thought, and for the kiss, for both were pleasing indeed.
After she pulled away and finished healing him, the mage smiled. "You would have done well to venture with me. Who knows what we could have found?"
"Oh, posh, we would have found our deaths," she said. "For not even my powers can stop a soul of the Plains of Despair." Her face darkened at that. "Not my sect, anyway."
He nodded and went to his desk, seating himself behind it and picking up a tome he had been writing in beforehand. He copied down his notes from his brief travel there-leaving out the particularly embarrassing part with the dragon-and set his quill and inkwell aside.
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