Site hosted by Angelfire.com: Build your free website today!

"Untitled Fantasy Story"

Well, I hafta tell you I'm still not quite sure what I'm doing with this story. I was telling myself I'd like to do some form of fantasy story. I still don't know what I want to call it, or what is going to happen with it. This is my . . . prototype to this world. If it's any good, tell me to make more of it, and what to do with it. I'll try my best.

In the meantime, I give you the prologue of sorts for this fantasy world of heroes, monsters, and magic. I bring it to you from the eyes of . . . . .



"The Rogue"

The ever-vigilant stormtroopers of Khanduras were on their hourly circle around the plaza; as they always have since I've been here. They really are quite the display - thunderously marching in their jet-black cloaks draped over the kind of plate that would gleam in an eclipse. Deathly-efficient ripswords at their sides, shields emblazoned with the Khanduran crossed-helix pattern on their arms, and to finish the ensemble, a helm that left them faceless and fearsome. Sometimes as they march, your mind wanders as to just how much of them are for show, and how much is actual ability. Actually, I've seen these proud characters in action once before. The men were devastatingly brutal; of all the things I have ever seen, nothing is quite as . . . impressive, as Khanduran strikebreaking.

Really, it was just a mob of starving tailors. The system just happened to be especially bad for them - the response was even worse. In an effective clean-sweep, the stormtroopers washed over the poor bastards like lava; they didn't have a chance. Somehow, the troopers seemed to have some weird talent for extracting entrails with their swings. It was the kind of display that would make you retch your insides out - that is, if they weren't already on the outside of you by then.

As for the gored entrails and hollowed vessels, they were carted to the Tartraz Valley, which ran between Khanduras and my native country Heyonah. The bodies were brought to the dark crevasse and hooded figures with picks and forks would proceed to . . . sow the pieces at the bottom of the ravine. What happened after that was anyone's guess - a great bellow erupting from the canyon followed by the Khandurans in full retreat back to the safety of their homeland.

Gods, I hated these guys . . . that is kind of why I took up this little . . . . . task, of mine . . . . .

Now I find myself hopping across rooftops, rappelling down walls, ducking through the alleys - just normal roguish stuff. I really liked this trade - working by yourself, for yourself. There's a fine sense of accomplishment too. I mean, it's absolutely amazing finding out just how much you can do with a little rope and a touch of know-how. The day I can see anyone do what I can and add the variable of broad daylight is the day I retire.
Of course, it wasn't broad daylight today - all the better.

I took to a mad dash to the tower in the center of the plaza once the troopers marched around the corner. Once I reached it, I found a large Iron Gate that was easily climbed and passed. What came next didn't surprise me too much; there were guard dogs. As per training, the large black dogs started barking an earful. Needless to say, this wouldn't help my progress. I was a touch frazzled from the canines, and couldn't select my preferred substance. I blindly reached into my belt pouch for a vial of anything; let it be sneezing power or toxic gas - I picked right. With a crack and fizzle, the white mist crept into the dogs and collapsed them. I then slowly tiptoed past the . . . yes, they were sleeping . . . . . comatose guards.

Behind the sleeping dogs was a large oak door (locked, of course). Delving into my little leather pouch once more, I pulled out my trusty old friends; the hook and pin lock picks. They all clicked perfectly (ten years of practice will do that, you know), and my mission continued. The main floor of the tower was quiet, with surprisingly nay a guard whatsoever - not that I'm complaining, I just never like running into anything unexpected. With the kind of stealth that only I am capable of, I began creeping up the stairs, eyes and ears wide open. Second floor: some emptiness. Third floor: a sleeping guard in an uncomfortable-looking chair, tilted against the wall - I guess it wasn't that uncomfortable . . .

Beside the guard was a large padlocked chest - a chest of the treasure-type, perhaps? I was never one to pass up such opportunities, so I inched my way towards the large chest, keeping a nostril out for the guard - yes, I can smell a stirring man.

The sleeping guard looked quite the sad picture; a leather tunic and a short sword on the belt as unfairly compared to the plate and ripswords of the stormtroopers. Lucky for me the lock was fairly simple and would be able to unlock it with one hand - the other could level my hand-crossbow at the guard's head. Through a feat of steady hands and square breathing I was capable of opening the lock (and more importantly, the chest). The guard remained undisturbed. Inside the chest I found several rolled-up scrolls tied together - they looked to be the wizard's sort. I tucked the scrolls into a sewn-in pocket in my cloak and proceeded to spend the extra three seconds to close and lock the chest - no sense in leaving things the way people don't remember. My exit back up the stairs was a happy one, with a bounce in each step. Once I left the room, I took a glance back - just to make sure the guard was still peaceful-like.

As I came down the small stone hallway at the top of the steps I couldn't help but marvel at the trimmings along the walls were becoming more and more elegant, extravagant, and impressive (if only my pockets were a little bigger . . . oh well). Above the door at the end of the hall was another artwork of questionable taste; a stuffed, mounted, and absolutely revolting wyvern head. I've always had a strong distaste for those dragon-wannabes; with their scaly, serpentine bodies, pointed snouts, scorpion-like tails and oversized bat wings . . . yes, strong distaste indeed . . . I left my source of shivers and pressed my ear against the solid wood door. I was certain I was hearing two distinct sets of voices and footsteps - more inept guards, I was hoping. The door was too thick to clearly hear what they were saying to each other. It was, however, thin enough to hear troubles from either side . . . . .

Play the music!

I took a quick moment to gather a course of action, and put it instantly into motion; I was going to use the oldest trick in the book. I scanned all the items of interest in my area, trying to decide which would clank down stairs the loudest. I decided upon the line of large brass urns. I stacked them like barrels and gave a good, swift kick to them. The noise was absolutely deafening - the long reverberating corridor below added to the excellent effect. I pressed my ear back upon the door and listened to the muffled-yet-frantic exchange of shock and things gone awry. The quick, heavy footfalls were my cue to administer the next phase of my plan.
With a deep breath (and heavy heart), I mustered my courage and leapt up to the inanimate wyvern head above the door. Each hand grasped a long horn on either side of its skull, and swung my legs up and over, effectively straddling he thing above its dull eyes. The backing to the trophy creaked - I tried to move even less than I had earlier.

One tends to notice that when one is in direct contact with something absolutely acrid to the touch, time slows tremendously. I was still praying that the mounted piece would hold my weight, and was holding my breath to intensify it. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the door opened and the two guards burst forth. I took a deep breath as the first guard ran under me. I waited for the second sentinel to rush through the door; then I attacked. He never saw it coming . . .

I dropped from the wyvern head, dagger in hand, and landed on the man's large shoulders. He didn't even have time to shout "what the . . ." before I drove my blade deep into his helm-less skull. The corpse began falling forward from my thrust's momentum, and I rode it all the way down, leveling my crossbow at the other guard. Now this one had time to murmur out something - a pity his breath was cut short as my bolt struck his throat.

The guard dropped to his knees, clutching his draining neck in a vain attempt to stop the bleeding - another swift kick relieved him of his duty. All in all, a very professional way to handle the scenario. I stepped into the now-empty room and took a look around. More wizard paraphernalia, as I had expected. I knew the staff had to be in here . . . Every second I spent scouring the area, the less safe I felt. Why I felt that way I couldn't quite pinpoint, excepting that I knew I should have already been out the door by now. Either mages had a way of hiding things very well - or I wasn't looking in the right place. Recalling all my arcane knowledge of wizard traits and know-how, something clicked for me to look up. And lo and behold, there it was, suspended by golden chains and a golden platform high above - the kind of place a levitated mage could reach. I was not that fortunate.

The ceiling seemed to go on forever, almost as if there was no ceiling at all! True, this wasn't anything I couldn't handle . . . my spider-like skills were once again called upon. I unclasped the rope and hook from off my belt - my aim was for one of the rings that held a chain to a wall. Once again, my superior ability in my trade worked its own form of magic, and the hook held - no slips of any sort. I began climbing.

Upon reacquainting myself with my grappling hook and meeting with the gold chain for the first time, I drank in the splendor of the mage staff - and what a splendor it was. Encrusted head-to-butt with jewels of all forms, the two to three foot staff shone brilliantly in what light there was. The headpiece was a thing of beauty: an irregular star-shape with a fair-sized diamond at the end of each tip. The headpiece as well as all the other jewels were nestled upon a stock that somewhat resembled snakeskin - very elaborately textured and marked. And soon it would be gone from Khanduras' grasp . . .

Deciding that a hand-over-hand crawl to be the better idea than tightrope-walking the chain (which I could have also flawlessly done), I made my advance on the staff. For such a treasure in such a precarious place, guarded by such a vast legion of elite forces, surely its loss would prove something drastic to the Khandurans. Surely such an embarrassment would cause some form of demoralization to the bureaucrats. I reached out and took hold of the shimmering stick. Then I fell.

I fell for a very long time. I couldn't quite understand what had happened. It was as if the staff found a way to immobilize a good portion of my arms and legs. Trying to regain control of my body, the ground continued to get closer - I was going to be in serious trouble if I was unable to turn my body and cushion my fall. In a desperate effort, I began twisting my chest left and right aggressively, hoping I could fling the staff from my grasp. With a split-second to spare, my efforts succeeded in freeing the cursed thing; with free mobility I quickly directed myself feet-first - too little too late. The bone-breaking impact was just that, with my left ankle in what I was sure was complete ruin. Extensive effort was required to get back up (I guess I was lucky enough that I even did), and I thought carefully how to move the staff out of the tower - without touching it, of course.

I settled on sawing off a couple feet of the still-hanging rope and used it to lasso the staff at one end, and thread through my belt with the other. It seemed that the paralyzing effect of the staff was restricted to bare-skin contact - good news within the bad. To my unconditional horror, I found no windows of any sort anywhere - I'd have to go through the main doors again. I went into a frantic hobble to the stairs, dragging my shattered foot behind me. I couldn't believe the intense pain I was feeling as I made my way down the tower. As I came upon the room where I had earlier explored, I found the guard once again, very awake and very angry . . .

I barely had time to slide under a slash that surely would have beheaded me. Suddenly all time moved in slow motion as I continued rolling down the stairs, simultaneously reaching into my pouch; reaching for the vial with the "x" etched into its cork. I thumbed the cork off and tossed the contents back at the closing guard. The acid splashed perfectly across the man's face, and I was free to leave unobstructed. My endless crash continued down the stone steps, a screaming man in my wake.

I finally tumbled to the main floor, bloody and beaten. Half crawling-standing up, I opened the main doors and saw clear sailing. I limped my way around the still-unconscious dogs and continued my ongoing task of escape with the previous artifact beneath my cloak. My efforts doubled as I took up a brisk gallop or sorts, leaving as little weight as possible off my left. Then I slipped again. For a man of my considerable agility (crushed ankle or no), such a fall was no accident. All across the ground in my area was a glowing, fat-like substance - I knew it to be a grease spell. The ground was completely frictionless, and taking my battered body into account, I was effectively finished. My head rose as best it could, and I saw a figure in a flowing, blood red robe. He had an unnatural aura to him, and his dark eyes were staring straight through me.

I was in deep trouble. He wanted his staff back . . . . .