SIMNER: THE ORIGINAL SCRIPT

The second "story" I actually wrote was a comic. I sent it off to a independent press. I never heard anything back from them so I'm assuming it didn't see print. Nonetheless, here is the written transcription of the lackluster comic. I would say enjoy but there really isn't much to this.

Simner Original Comic "Script"

Copyright 1997 C.E.
Wordcount 1919
Story #2

[Night time . . . ]

Brightly does the moon shine on the tree tops of a forest shrouded in darkness at its depth. Yet, the woman who traverses the darkened woods knows no fear, for it is familiar. These woods have surrounded her home since as early as she can remember. Many a times has she wandered into these woods, craving adventure. Now that adventure has found her.

Dawn is mere hours away and the woman can sense that the one she has been searching for is not far away. She has hunted this man, a murderer of a small elven child in her village, for the last three days. And now she feels this night mare is drawing to an end.

Her name is Simner. She is her village’s chosen warrior. A title she has held for seventeen years. Before her, the village warrior had been her father, Nedric. In her mind are memories emblazoned most vividly of the days of her youth that would guide her to her destiny.

It is said that God works in mysterious ways. Simner believes this now more than ever. But, when she was five, the sadness of fate never once weighed on her mind. The sadness that now still lingers in her soul. It is a sadness that echoes those days thirty years ago.

The day had started out beautifully, and would become a day Simner would never forget. On that day, she had been out in the meadows she enjoyed playing in so often, picking flowers for her father. It had been then that she first felt it. “It” was a feeling, a nagging thought at the back of her mind that she could not shake, not even when she had given the flowers to her father, whom had smiled at her joyfully. She remembered how delighted he was by the thoughtful gift. Though she had smiled back with her broadest grin, she still had to strain against the tingly sensation that raised the tiny hairs on her neck.

As the sky darkened, promising a fierce storm, later that evening, Simner and her father had retreated back into their home . . . and to the eager grasp of her mother. All was peaceful then, until the screeching. Everyone in the elf village must have heard the noise from the screaming object as it rushed from the heavens. Nedric Calicdrow, being the village’s chosen warrior, had the responsibility of investigating the unusual occurrence. So he grabbed his bow and his arrows and quiver and headed out in the direction of the sound. Looking to the distance towards the river not far beyond, Nedric saw a glowing from the tree top level. As did Simner. She watched her father leave and felt herself for the first time, afraid. Simner wanted to scream “don’t go!” but didn’t.

Nedric had found the small object that was emanating the incredible glow. It had come to rest in the shallow of the river. Unusual to Nedric, he took the small tear shaped object to Gothic, the village priest, who agreed to examine it and inform the Elven Council of its exact origin.

Unable to determine the exact nature of the “Tear”, Gothic set it aside and retired for the night. He had resolved to himself to better re-examine it in the morning to make his findings known to the council. During the night, he was visited by a spirit. How delighted Gothic was to discover the spirit to be that of his beloved departed wife, Isabelle. She had passed away a number of years earlier. Quickly, Gothic’s mind had shifted to their son, who had vanished when out on a quest. Though, he had not thought of it for many months. Perhaps, he figured, Isabelle had come to tell him where his son could be found or if he was in heaven with his mother. Unfortunately, Isabelle’s visit here was not a personal one, but far more necessary. Isabelle told Gothic of the importance of the tear, that it was God’s will that it be protected at all costs. And she smiled and was gone.

Come morning, Gothic locked away the tear so that it might never fall into evil and misguided hands. And he started referring to it as “The Angel’s Tear”. He went to Nedric’s house and gave the only key to him. The warrior in return agreed to protect it with his life. After Gothic had left, Nedric told only one other person of the significance of the “Angel’s Tear” and why it must be protected; his daughter Simner. Under her own honor, she vowed not to divulge the location of the key to the “Angel’s Tear”.

Though all seemed right with the world as Simner knew it, fate’s cruel hand soon took hold. That morning, the skies had remained unusually gloomy and dark. Simner now considered that foreshadowing, but then she knew not its meaning. It was noon when the evil came. And it came in the form of Gremlans; Elves who’s souls had been consumed in darkness and hate.

The village was under siege after the evil had discovered somehow the existence of the “Angel’s Tear”. And they knew it was there. Nedric led the counterattack against the Gremlan horde. Simner could only watch in despair as half her village was destroyed and slaughtered.

The battle raged for the better part of the day with the villagers having held the Gremlans off long enough for reinforcements to arrive from the nearest village . . . a Dwarf village. And the Dwarves were enough to shift the tide of the battle as they, with the remaining elf villagers, managed to drive off the Gremlan horde.

Casualties that day had been high . . . but fate’s hand had still not fully been played. The Gremlan horde had come for the “Angel’s Tear”. That much Simner knew. But even though she was aware of the tear’s significance, she still did not know, and still doesn’t, why the Gremlans attempted to slaughter a whole village to get to it. Simner was told that it was a holy and enlightening object. Yet, the concept of evil creatures wanting a holy object was far beyond Simner.

On the day after the battle and near massacre, Simner stood there, in the midst of a sacred ceremony in honor of the fallen, considering the whole concept. And cried. At the center of the ceremonial honors, was the coffin of her father. That casket she stood before, beside her wailing mother. Nedric had been slain by the Gremlan’s leader. That leader, by an ironic final twist of fate, had been Nedric’s brother. The tingly sense had returned to Simner then. It didn’t feel bad this time, though. It was like a driving force, urging her to strive forward and claim her destiny. A destiny that forged a path into the future.

As the years progressed, and Simner grew older, she began training and preparing for the day when she herself would accept fate’s challenge. She studied constantly in all written materials stimulating her mental capabilities. All the while, she worked on her physical developments; stamina, speed, endurance, and agility. And, as an archer, there was no equal to her skill. The Elven Council took heed of Simner’s progress and was impressed, so much so, that by the time she was eighteen, Simner was the village’s chosen warrior.

[Back to the present]

Simner’s thoughts refocused to her present dealing at hand. Tingly. I haven’t experienced this sensation since I was five. Yet, now here it is again? Occurring more and more frequently. Why? Is my fate, my destiny, to be defined now? Hard to believe I was eighteen when the Council appointed my village warrior . . . God, why did so many people have to die back then? Are you testing our faith? My faith? That child . . . she was just a little girl! It’s not fair. I . . . I swear I’ll bring this man to justice.

Answers never come easy. And while Simner tracks . . . elsewhere, a fire burns in the dark . . . Hands are easily warmed by a fire, but a soul cannot be warmed if the heart is as cold as ice. His name is James Takei, and he is an assassin.

What the HELL am I doing here!? I was nice and comfy back in Los Angeles. Then that freak show shows up with an offer. A simple job. Hmph! In and out he says. He’d be waiting outside of town. Was he? No. So where is he? What is he? Looked like some kind of . . . elf. A dark elf? Ha, that’s funny, a dark . . .

A swooshing sound zips by James’ face as a diamond tipped arrow lodges into a nearby tree. It is not fear that makes him run, but instincts. Instincts of a predator outmatched. And outmatched predators know when the fight is over. Even if it hasn’t begun yet. Some in his profession would call running “cowardice”. But is being a coward such a bad thing? Not in James’ eyes. It is also said that cowards live longer. However, for this individual, there are no options left as one well placed kick to his spine between his shoulder blades sends him careening into the dirt at his feet.

“Alright! *cough*, I’ve had it with this god-forsaken-place! You’ve attacked me from behind, knocking me into the mud, so apparently you wanna play dirty! I don’t know who you THINK you are, but if it’s a fight yo . . . “

SHUT UP!!” The elven woman shouts, cutting him off, “It was YOU who invaded my village and murdered one of my own! So the question is not who I think I am, but who YOU think you are!? As for who I am . . . My name is SIMNER! And as far as you are concerned, you festering worm, I’m your judge, jury, and executioner for your crime of murder of a elf child!”

“I don’t care who the hell you are. I was paid one helluva lot of dough to off that little runt so she obviously must have deserved what she got! So . . .”

“PAID!? You were paid!? Well, my APOLOGIES! Let me give you a hand!!”

Simner grabs the man by the scruff of his shirt, pulls him up to her, then decks him with her right fist. “OOPS . . . sorry. I meant fist. Paid. Revolting. What kind of a man would accept payment to kill a child? What kind of a monster would pay him to do it!? God, where are those answers?”

If only destiny were so simple as to ask “why”, but it’s not. Meanwhile, back within a home in Simner’s village . . .

An arm reaches from the darkness to a chest. And within the chest is a object of great importance. It is a key. A key he grasps firmly now in the palm of his hand. That key unlocks the future . . . his future . . . the world’s future. Excitement courses through his veins as he stands silhouetted by the slight light coming through the stained glass window he is before. Years of planning are now coming to fruition. And that fruit shall bare a terrifying beast.

At long last, that which I have long sought is in my possession. OH, long gone mother, how proud you would be of your son for that which he has orchestrated in the name of his father. Soon, what must be, will be. Dawn’s new day light pours in through the window. Only a bit of the room is illuminated while the rest remains cloaked in the darkness. As is the future . . .

The beginning of the end.

Email: kaipur@aol.com