Home  | Login  | Register  | Help  | Play 

The Last Sylvan

 
Logged in as: Guest
  Printable Version
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Legends and Lore] >> Writers of Lore >> [The Bookshelves] >> Other Creative Prose >> The Last Sylvan
Forum Login
Message << Older Topic   Newer Topic >>
7/26/2013 22:16:41   
Trainz_07
Member

Greetings, here is my latest tale entitled 'The Last Sylvan'. I've had this story spinning in my head for quite some time but due to RL and multiple episodes of writer's block, I haven't gotten around to putting it down into words until now.

Please proceed to the Discussion Thread for any comments. Feedback, critique and any questions are always welcomed and appreciated.

Without further adieu, I hope you enjoy The Last Sylvan.

< Message edited by Trainz_07 -- 7/26/2013 22:33:11 >
AQ  Post #: 1
7/26/2013 22:21:36   
Trainz_07
Member

Prologue: Loss


Alderon woke up with a start, fumbling through the dark as his mind continued to struggle between the abyss of sleep and the lucid, waking world. Obscure images flashed across his eyes, remnants of inexplicable dreams that had coursed through his consciousness, like a murky river replete with unknowns. Once he found his bearings, Alderon rose from his make-shift hammock, his mind abruptly clear as he shook off the haze of sleep. Something besides the phantoms of sleep had roused him, and his uneasiness was only compounded by the fact that he had never awoken at such an hour save for one particular night...and that night had turned out to be an unpleasant one indeed.

He took a few steps forward, his gait slow but careful, his movements betraying no hint of inelegance. Miniature clouds of gossamer white blossomed into existence with every breath, yet the cold night air barely troubled Alderon, who frequently slept naked from the waist up. Even so, he decided to don his usual apparel: a handsome tunic woven from a panoply of different leaves sporting shades of red, yellow and orange – the celebratory colors of his people. He slipped into his tunic effortlessly, sighing in appreciation as he felt the smooth texture slide over his skin.

He wore at his side a resplendent rapier, whose design and craftsmanship would put many a swordsmith to shame. Alderon had meticulously carved the hilt and guard from the bark of an ancient olive tree, while the blade itself was composed of layers and layers of Steelion grass, sung into the desired shape and form. Gleaming under the moonlight, the rapier’s pine green blade could rival if not surpass any steel counterpart.

Suddenly, the silhouette of an owl flew overhead, its characteristic hooting breaking the nocturnal silence, as if portending a grave tragedy. Alderon frowned as he noted that the forest was unusually quiet; there were no wolves howling, no raccoons scurrying through the undergrowth, no crickets or cicadas serenading the forest with their familiar rhapsody. Nothing but deadening silence. Even the stars were blotted out from view, their usual twinkle banished from the night sky. Alderon gasped as a sudden chill raced down his spine, and he instinctively knew that something evil was lurking about in Illyaweir, his forest, his kingdom.

Whomever it was that dared to encroach upon my forest will feel my blade, was Alderon’s promise to himself as he began to run, temporarily dismissing his senses in favor of his natural attunement to the forest, which directed him to wherever the source of distress was. Just like a spider and its web, Alderon held absolute omniscience over the entirety of the forest. At almost any given moment, he could subtly feel the steady growth of an oak tree or the serene flow of a stream. Even a twig crunched by someone’s boots could not escape his attention. Yet for some unknown reason, though he could sense the impending evil, he failed to determine what it was exactly.

As fast as the Sylvan was, Alderon knew he could not keep such a pace up for long. In a low, indiscernible whisper, he beseeched the power of the forest. Almost instantly, he felt an abrupt motion passing under his feet, moving him along his path like some sort of flying carpet. The forest had answered his prayer, and the grass beneath his bare feet had come alive, thrusting him forward with uncanny swiftness. Despite the situation, Alderon allowed himself a grin of satisfaction; though he envied the prowess of flight that his cousins, the Sylph, were renowned for, he was very pleased with his own ability to glide through the forest on a sea of green, a talent that none other could lay claim to.

A stray fringe suddenly obscured his vision, and as Alderon swiped away his dark green locks, he caught a glimpse of a patch of moon flowers that hid themselves among shrubbery. Like true prima donnas garbed in virgin white, moon flowers only bloomed under the splendor of moonlight, folding and closing their petals at the first sign of sunlight. Yet as though that wasn’t enough, Alderon had seen fit to enchant those flowers to also acquire a blue, lambent glow whenever bathed in moonlight. The floral sight brought a modicum of warmth to his heart, temporarily staving off the anxiety that festered within him. When he reached his thirtieth summer, almost a century ago, when he crowned himself king over Illyaweir, Alderon vowed to devote his life to protect and preserve the beauty of the forest, to show to the world its splendor, and to safeguard it from all who would wish it harm. He was not about to fail it now.

The blackness of the sky before him gradually gave way to a sullen red, which took on the eerie semblance of a bloody fog. Apprehension coursed through his veins, as the pungent smell of smoke and soot invaded his nostrils. Fearing the worst, he quickly unsheathed his rapier, then propelled himself forward with a burst of wind, rushing along a grassy path as if the Reaper himself was brandishing his scythe from behind.

And then the unholy sight came into full view.

Pennons of vermillion flames licked the sky as they climbed up trees, voraciously consuming the ancient monarchs of the forest and reducing them to naught but ashes. One by one they fell to the blackened earth below, creaking and moaning as they snapped at the base. And with every prey devoured the flames seemed to grow even more, cackling like mad demons at a banquet of carnage. Billows and billows of smoke tumbled through the night air, their underside highlighted with a ruddy light as the cauldron of flames continued to burn, giving off such an intense heat that Alderon had to cloak himself in a protective barrier.

He tightened the grip on his sword as he witnessed the chaos that ran rampant before him, fury burning inside him as searing as the flames that tore through his forest. How could such a disaster happen? What happened to the layers of shields that he had erected just days ago? Strewn about the fiery arena were the corpses of animals that failed to escape the burning inferno. To his right he saw the charred corpse of a mother elk, who no doubt died protecting her young. Alderon covered his nose as he detected the stink of burned flesh, tears welling up in his emerald eyes at the thought of his dead companions. Every muscle in his body tensed with rage, every fiber in his being crying out for justice.

It did not take the Sylvan long to discover the culprits behind the wretched conflagration. Spread about the flames that crawled on the earth were loathsome creatures – two-headed hellhounds that spewed bursts of fire straight from their fanged maws, their smoldering, crimson eyes underscoring their demonic appearance. Alderon saw that they were large creatures, standing well over eight feet, their sizes thrice that of horses. Their backs were covered with a disorderly morass of stiff fur as if somebody had decided to haphazardly plaster it on them. No visible direction could be seen among the beasts; they simply went around every corner and unleashed their fiery breath, sending wave after wave of flames that hastily spread throughout the forest.

Alderon could wait no longer. Like a coiled spring compressed to its limit, he rapidly propelled himself into the fray, catching one of the hounds by surprise as he thrust his rapier forward, skewering each head in turn in flashes of emerald. He pulled the blade out of the monstrously large head with the utmost of ease, nose momentarily wrinkling at the sight and scent of oozing, sable blood on his precious sword. Yet he refused to pause to wipe his blade clean; only when every single one of these vile beasts lay on the ground dead would he stop. The Sylvan was a mild creature, in truth, though when his cherished forest was concerned, he would suffer no insolence.

It was only when he felled another of their comrades did the hellhounds finally took notice of his existence, and the monsters were quick to surround him, pools of saliva forming below their gruesome maws as they snarled at him. Alderon met their gazes defiantly, his shoulders pulled back and his head held proudly high, daring them to challenge him. One of them, an ugly brute with one missing eye on both heads, took the bait and began charging towards him, white fangs glistening in the red light.

While the oncoming sight was indeed terrifying, he maintained the utmost of calm, easing himself into a stance, his blade poised forward. At the very last second, just as the hellhound’s gaping maw began to smolder with an impending burst of fire, he sprang upwards above it, twisting and gliding through the air like a fallen leaf in summer’s breeze. The moment when he was aerial seemed to span an eternity, the world around him slowing down to a painfully laggard pace, and for a brief interval in time, nothing, not even the devastation around him, seemed to matter. Then reality came back in a rush of adrenaline, and as he gyrated ever so slightly in the air, Alderon struck with his blade, laying the beast’s necks wide open with deadly precision. With a flourish of his sword, he landed with scant any impact as if a cushion of air broke his fall. His adversary, however, collapsed to the ground with an ungainly thud.

The death of yet another one of their comrades served to aggravate the rest of the hellhounds, howling with rage as they bounded towards the Sylvan, their burning eyes pulsating with bloodlust. As the horde of demonic hounds closed the distance, Alderon still maintained his self-possession, not in the slightest way fazed by his enemies; it was not courage that lent him such composure, it was something deeper than that – an unwavering love for his homeland and the weight of his duty looming over him, gifting him with a rock-hard certainty that he would prevail this night.

He broke into a brisk run, now that the charred ground stripped him of his gliding. Holding his left hand outwards, he briefly spoke the necessary words of power and as soon as the last syllable parted from his lips, a burst of yellow light engulfed his hand, materializing an ornate, golden gauntlet that shone with the light of the sun. With a quick flick of his hand, a golden blade slid out of the gauntlet above his fingers, this one composed of a single leaf from the Tree of Broken Glass. Unlike the rapier that he forged on his own, the gauntlet was a gift from a dear old friend and to honor his memory, Alderon had tirelessly trained himself to use it.

And thus the dance of death began. As two of the hounds flanked him and prepared to sink their fangs into him, Alderon deftly evaded them with a quick roll, slashing their calves in perfect synchronicity as he got up. A sudden tongue of flame reached out to scorch him to which he sidestepped almost instantaneously, spinning around as he moved under one hound’s heads and lanced through one of the heads with a swift thrust of his rapier, his face a mask of absolute aplomb even as he pulled out his stained blade without trouble. Even as the other head howled in excruciation, Alderon turned ever so slightly and, with little momentum, leapt high into the air above. Like a true acrobat, he handled himself flawlessly airborne, avoiding a stream of fire with only the slightest of movements. As gravity beckoned him once more, the Sylvan flung himself down towards the hound, bringing his incandescent blade down with the force of a meteor as he sliced cleanly down the neck of the surviving head, tearing through bone and flesh alike.

One hellhound attempted to spring from behind, but Alderon was ready for such surprises. As it darted its brutish head towards him, he casually flicked his wrist, muttering a quick string of verses. The earth trembled slightly, and then disgorged a large pillar of wood that promptly slammed into the beast, killing it instantly. More came rushing towards his side, and once again he employed one of his spells, this time summoning a net of gnarled roots that burst forth, ensnaring the hounds like flies in a spider’s web. It seemed as though nothing could hope to even hinder the Sylvan, as he continued to dance from foe to foe, blades twirling with blinding speed.

Yet even he was not immune to exhaustion. With every stroke he acutely felt the strain on his muscles, a subtle, burning pain that slowly began to seethe throughout his body. His spells grew weak as wave after wave of heat passed through him, sapping him of his strength. His people were never meant to wield the sword, and thus it was with remarkable fortitude that he managed to hold his own against such a brutal pack of beasts for so long.

Just as he prepared to launch himself into another salvo of attacks, a sudden shift of the tension in the air stayed his hand. All around him, the hounds too tentatively backed off, their sullen eyes remaining stubbornly fixed on him, just as his own swept the surrounding for whatever it was that managed to halt the hellhounds’ assault. His answer laid in a man, or at least the semblance of one, who sauntered out of a curtain of flames. Clad from head to toe in jet black plates of armor and cloths of red, with no emblem or insignia to reveal his origins, the most distinguishing aspect of his appearance was the trails of smoke that seemed to ebb from his helm, which was adorned with a pair of sinister ram horns. Alderon’s keen eyes took note of the air of obedience that suffused the hounds as soon as the mysterious man appeared.

“Who are you and why have you sought to bring ruin to my forest?” demanded the Sylvan, who was not in the mood for any banter. He held his blade towards the man, maintaining the air of dignity despite the sense of fear that began to take root in his heart.

The armored man deigned no answer, at least not a verbal one. Instead he stretched an arm forward, palm facing up as a swirl of fire blistered into existence. Alderon’s eyes widened in alarm as they took in the sight of the flames that burned a malevolent sable. Devil’s Wroth, it was known, the forbidden black fire that was said to burn hotter than hellfire. Rumored to corrupt the soul of the victim even as they charred the body to a crisp, mastery of these flames required either the utmost of discipline or one to have the vilest of souls. Alderon wondered through which path the armored man took to acquire such a reprehensible power. To brandish those flames within the forest is reason enough for me to strike him down.

Before the Sylvan could even act, the armored man abruptly unleashed a cannonade of flames that soared through the air with an acrimonious shriek. Doubting he could evade in time, Alderon hastily summoned an escutcheon of russet wood, made from the enchanted bark of the Stalwart tree. Yet though his shield stood strong against the fiery assault, the force of the impact spoke all too clearly of his adversary’s potency.

Alderon quickly dismissed his shield, and then drained a portion of his mana to call forth a storm of flower petals that flooded the air before them, making it almost impossible to see one another. As he expected, the armored man expelled a tide of black flames that easily scorched the floral tempest, though what he had not counted on was the Sylvan diving at him from the air, green rapier poised to lance through the opening in his helm. Unexpectedly, the armored man whipped out a sword covered in black flames as he riposted dexterously, to which Alderon countered with his golden blade. That, however, left him wide open, and his opponent exploited it with a swift kick to the ribs.

As he slammed into a soot-covered log, Alderon’s mind raced with both bewilderment and fear. How is this happening? No mortal should be able to react that quickly. The armored man did not relent, not even waiting for Alderon to get up as he held a hand forward, the trail of smoke from his helm turning into billows. After just the briefest of pauses, the armored man released a roaring river of flame that even the bravest of heroes would balk at. It was as though he had ripped the very fabric of reality, tearing a hole to the deepest recesses of hell to bring forth such a terrifying power.

Alderon drew his Stalwart shield once more, yet as soon as the surge connected he knew that there was no chance of him withstanding it head on. No matter how much mana he let flow into his shield, he was forced to concede to his adversary’s monstrous strength.

At the very last second, just before the inevitable destruction of his shield, Alderon threw himself aside, forgoing all grace for the sole sake of survival. He managed to escape from the black tide of flames with only minimal burns, though the ordeal left him ragged and drained, his breath coming in shallow bursts as the sweat on his skin mingled with his blood. Such power, such frightful, demonic power, was beyond him.

Yet even as the armored man approached him, lying on the ground as he was, even as he saw the black sword raised high towards the sky, Alderon refused to entertain his foe with any expression of fear or despair. For he was Alderon Bladesong, Monarch of Illyaweir, Greenweaver Savant and the last Sylvan, and none would be permitted to impute his name with cowardice. His one and only regret was his inability to protect that which he loved so dearly.

His regret was short-lived, as his executioner brought down his fiery blade.

< Message edited by Trainz_07 -- 8/15/2013 6:45:35 >
AQ  Post #: 2
8/9/2013 3:06:29   
Trainz_07
Member

Chapter 1: Fairy Queen


Rheanne glided across the field, her bare feet brushing the tips of the grass, her translucent wings shimmering iridescently. The moon loomed above in the dark empyrean amidst a sea of stars. Tonight it assumed the form of a golden crescent, shining over the land with a ghostly yet somewhat serene luminescence. She closed her eyes as an errant wind swept past her face and through her golden curls, bringing with it the refreshing fragrance of moonflowers and a wistful sound – a haunting song of love and doom, of broken princes and forgotten ghosts. That was what she loved about the wind; without fail it always carried some unexpected tale or some enchanting ballad.

She took a quick glance behind her. Gliding at her back was a score of other fairies, men and women clad in fine green armor chased with gold, an emblazoned stag galloping across their breastplates. Each carried a long sword whose blade boasted a beautiful coat of pale yellow and silvery white. Oaths of fealty were etched along the sides of the blades, an ineradicable reminder of their duty to their queen.

Though she was far from keen with her honor guard tailing her wherever she went, she supposed it was necessary. After all, she bore not only the floral crown, but also the hopes and dreams of all her subjects. They were prepared to give their lives to her, their beloved queen, and she was not about to trample upon such noble intentions by showing ingratitude.

Two other men strode abreast her, their lean bodies clothed in robes of dark green and gold instead of armor. Though they were very much capable of flight, they eschewed airborne traveling; it was customary that only in battle or in the gravest of emergencies that their kind took to the skies, their aerial skills second only to the Sylphs. They belonged to the Heirs of Ysa, and thus were beholden to none, not even Rheanne herself. Rather they took it upon themselves to safeguard the monarch of the fairies in whatever way they deemed fit. Nobody held the authority to order them otherwise.

Fascinating creatures, these Aes Sídhe. Though they too were of fairy blood, Rheanne found that she knew precious little about them. Though they guarded their secrets well, the one thing that they could not hide was their extraordinary skills with the blade. In fact, it was common knowledge that the Aes Sídhe were the undisputed, nonpareil maestros of swordplay amongst all the fairies.

Just as Rheanne began imagining what a duel between two Sídhe would look like, she saw that they had arrived at their destination – Ringfort, capital of the fairies. She decided to alight then, both feet landing gently on the ground as she dismissed her ethereal wings. As she passed under the vined archway that marked the city’s main entrance, a woman garbed in virgin white approached Rheanne, her dress fluttering in the wind.

“And so the queen returns,” said the woman as she greeted Rheanne with a curtsy, her voice rolling out like sweet honey.

“And so I have,” replied Rheanne with a smile as radiant as the sun. “It is good to see you again, Dahlia, no matter how ridiculous you look in that dress.” Ignoring the inevitable eye-rolling, Rheanne spun around to address her honor guard. “You may all return to the castle for now, I will be spending some time with Dahlia here.”

Almost immediately, one of the knights stepped forward to protest. “But your Elegance, we must –”

“Get some well-deserved respite,” said the queen matter-of-factly. “It has been a long journey, and even the fairies are not immune to exhaustion.”

“Besides,” said Dahlia cheerfully, her hands gesturing extravagantly, “she’ll be with me the whole time, so you have nothing to worry about it.”

It was as if a specter had passed right through each and every one of them, sapping every ounce of color from their faces until they were as white as the dress Dahlia wore. The knights remain rigid in their stance, their piercing eyes stubbornly fixed upon an innocent looking Dahlia.

Rheanne sighed, having lost count of the number of times she had been put into such a situation. By no means was Dahlia dangerous, though there was that time when she set Rheanne’s hair on fire. She was merely fond of indulging in harmless mischief, though there was that time when she went too far with pestering the snow wolves. Deep down she was a good-natured and kind woman, though there was also that time when she almost castrated a soldier for some reason she never revealed.

Perhaps they were right to worry about their queen.

“I will be perfectly fine,” said Rheanne in what she hoped to be a reassuring tone, “look, even the Heirs have departed.” Knowing the queen’s preference of being left alone at times, the Aes Sídhe would make themselves scarce whenever they deemed that Rheanne would be relatively safe from harm.

The knights looked at one another uneasily, unable to decide what course of action to take. Then, the captain of the honor guard, who was the knight that protested earlier, nodded in acquiescence. “Very well, your Elegance, we shall await your return at the castle.” With a brief gesture, he led his knights away from the two, their footsteps in perfect unison. Rheanne thought it was amusing in a way.

Dahlia seemed to grin with satisfaction, as if she had won a great battle and that Rheanne was her prize. “Now that that’s taken care of, let us be off then.” She linked her arms with Rheanne’s and practically dragged the queen in the opposite direction.

Though she was gone for only a week, Rheanne had missed Ringfort dearly. Besides being the capital, the city was also the ancestral home of the fairies. Eons past, the place where Ringfort stood was nothing but a sea of trees when the first of the fairies reached there. The great mages of the time then sang powerful ballads and hymns, willing the trees and the land itself to assume a form that could accommodate their race. Such was the birth of Ringfort.

They walked along a street down an incline, their entire bodies bathed in soft lights of various hues. Instead of oil lamps and lanterns, the fairies enchanted their flowers to naturally release clouds of glittering lights that would bask the city in an ethereal, sublime illumination. It was as if they moved through a waking dream, drifting in an ocean of mellow colors.

“So how did the talks with the Undines go?” inquired Dahlia as they rounded a corner, past a small copse of cherry trees whose flowers were bestowed with a faint, shimmery light that gave them a ghostlike quality.

“Negotiating with them was easier than I had thought,” replied Rheanne with a smile, “King Aquareon has pledged to bolster our troops with his own. He surprised us all when he proclaimed that he would even lend us the Nagas.”

“That’s wonderful news! But what of our other cousins, the Sylphs then? Surely they would jump at the chance of aiding us against the Spriggans?”

Rheanne sighed with disappointment as she shook her head. “Regrettably, no. Or at least not yet. The royal family is still grieving over the loss of their newborn heir, and it would be cruel of me to torment them any further with talks of war and alliances. For the time being, we’ll just have to manage without them.”

“I see…that is certainly unfortunate,” remarked Dahlia sincerely, “I guess we won’t be able to see those gorgeous archers of theirs. I swear they must be doing some forbidden method of training to be able to produce such sublime physique.” The smitten fairy looked as though she was about to faint.

“I’m sure they just happen to be exceptionally dedicated, they do have a reputation to uphold after all.” Despite her words, Rheanne couldn’t suppress her own childish grin. For whatever reason, the archers of the Sylphs were notoriously known to infatuate any woman who laid eyes on them. “Perhaps they don’t have a beautiful maiden like you to distract them.”

“Yes, what a tragedy.”

A group of fairy children suddenly sped past them, barely even registering the presence of the queen and her friend. Three boisterous boys were hell-bent on pursuing three other girls, the latter looking back to stick their tongues at them. The sight warmed Rheanne’s heart, their little game of tag bringing up fond memories of how she used to indulge in such activities with her childhood companions. How I miss those days.

“So how has he been doing since I was gone?” asked Rheanne as the sound of the laughing children gradually died behind them.

“Hmm? Oh right, well nothing has changed much. He doesn’t seem all that depressed, though he spends most of the days locked up in his room.”

“I see,” said Rheanne flatly as she brushed a stray fringe away. Though she had expected as much, a small part of her still wished that he would somehow snap out of his trance. “I suppose I should talk to him again then.”

Beside her, Dahlia crossed her arms, her lips curling into a blatant pout as she made it a point to show her displeasure to Rheanne. “I thought you would say that. You always leave me for some men or the other. Oh if only the kingdom knew of your endless liaisons, the people would be devastated! And you would lose the crown, and I would be forced to seek refuge in one of the human cities, living off scraps of food and sleeping in the gutters. Tragic!”

Such was her dear friend’s obsession with drama. It had become so unruly recently that Rheanne subconsciously began to block her out, lest even she was driven mad. “Yes. Well. I’m sure even in such an unlikely situation you’d do perfectly fine without me. At any rate, I think we should part ways here for now. You should head back to the castle, I will join you within the hour.”
With surprising grace, Dahlia once again curtsied to her friend and queen. “Very well then. I am eager to see how your honor guard responds to seeing me return without you. They’ll probably go mad with distress.”

“I’m sure you’re quite right.”



< Message edited by Trainz_07 -- 8/15/2013 6:46:12 >
AQ  Post #: 3
8/15/2013 6:47:50   
Trainz_07
Member

Chapter 2: Resolution


Rheanne closed the door behind her with a gentle push. She glanced around the room with a soft smile, noting how the décor seemed to suit him perfectly. The rich, dark rosewood walls closed in protectively, a wooden shell that gave one a sense of security and comfort. The ground below her feet was covered with a verdant carpet of grass, cushioning her soles like a bed of feathers. At a corner of the room grew one of the enchanted nightflowers, swaying ever so slightly as it filled the room with its luminous spores, a contrasting blend of bright green and soft yellow.

Alderon was nestled on a cushioned bench that had been pushed against the wall, allowing him greater view of the city through the windows. Rheanne felt a faint tingling of magic, and when she glanced at the foot of the bench, she saw rows of flowers sprouting from the very ground, their petals all the color of blood. Dark crimson roses, they were called. Enchantingly beautiful, yet they were well known as flowers of mourning. Rheanne knew that he would only conjure these roses when his heart was truly breaking apart.

Without so much as a sound, she placed herself opposite of the Sylvan and for a while no words were exchanged between them. It was with him that she could truly appreciate the sublime serenity of silence, both of their gazes fixed on the clusters of glittering lights that floated aimlessly about, even as their celestial counterparts twinkled in the velvet skies above. She briefly wondered if she could forever remain there, a stagnant stone in the gushing river of time.

“Dahlia said you’ve been quite the recluse,” she said casually, a finger twirling her golden locks, “very unlike you, to hide yourself behind these walls for so long.”

It took a few moments before he answered, as if he needed time to recall the usage of words that he must have eschewed for the past seven days. “Dahlia says a lot of things,” he replied in a smooth voice, “often times in the most exaggerated of fashions. Did you know she almost castrated one of your soldiers once?”

Rheanne allowed herself a giggle, “I was there actually, when she threatened him. I’ve never seen any of my men so pale as the unfortunate young man. Till this day I still haven’t figured out what did he do to anger her so.”

“Apparently that young man had been convinced by his friends to try and have a look at her while she was showering. What infuriated her wasn’t because he had seen her naked, but that he told his friends that she wasn’t as ‘well-equipped’ as other women.”

Rheanne could barely contain her laughter as she held her aching sides, tears rolling down her cheeks out of sheer amusement. It took her a while to recover, and even that came with gasping breaths. After she finally regained her composure, she glanced at Alderon, who in turn regarded her with one his rare smiles.

“Oh come here you,” she said as she proceeded to pull him into an embrace. There was a brief struggle on the Sylvan’s part, but ultimately he submitted to the queen’s wish and hugged her back, filling her nostrils with the sharp smell of pinecones. She had known Alderon for almost half a century now, and she knew full well that even when he was cast into an eventide of sorrow, he would still show others the glory of the sunset that skirted the horizon, never asking them to wallow in the dark with him.

Even as they broke away from the embrace, even as he graced her with a reassuring smile, Rheanne pierced through his defenses and felt every ounce of his sadness, a well of profound grief that came with the abject destruction of his forest and his home. While some may question the relevance of his emotional turmoil, Rheanne knew better. Alderon cherished his woodland kingdom, and he shared a bond with each and every tree that was fundamentally incomprehensible to anyone outside his kind.

They were his dearest companions, just as she was his.

Gingerly, she placed a hand on his, feeling the grooves of his knuckles, “I am sincerely sorry for what’s happened, Alderon.”

There was a tightness that spread across his face, and for a brief moment she thought that he was about to shed tears. But then he simply turned away, retreating once more into his shell of silence. Rheanne closed her eyes, shoulders rising and falling as she sighed; she found it perplexing how he was always so intent on maintaining a semblance of forbearance even when it was not warranted. Showing emotion, after all, was not a sign of weakness.

Just as she decided that he was not going to come out of his shell anymore, he spoke, “What truly tears a hole in my heart and fills it with unbearable pain is the fact that despite facing such peril, Illyaweir still sought to protect me.” He turned his head to face her, eyes meeting hers even as his hands shook and trembled. “Even now it felt like a dream, how the forest cradled me in its spell and sent me here, far away from the fires that have now turned it to ashes.” Alderon shook his head slowly, and Rheanne then saw a surprising spark of light in his eyes. “But all of that now lies behind me in the abyss of the past, and I believe that I have mourned quite enough. Now is the time for me to move on.”

Though she wasn’t completely convinced that he could move on so easily, Rheanne nodded in support of his decision, “then I am glad for you, my friend.”

“Thank you, Rheanne. You have so graciously sheltered me in my time of grief, and for that I am eternally grateful,” said Alderon as he nodded back to her. “Now then,” his voice now took on a serious tone, “may I know if you have had any progress in determining who or what exactly invaded my home?”

Rheanne bit her lip, a habitual sign of hesitation. She briefly considered withholding the truth from him, but then again he would have found out sooner or later on his own. “More than you know. According to several reports, I have concluded that the enemy you faced was a Sluagh.”

Alderon raised an eyebrow, “a Sluagh? You mean to tell me that one of the shades of the underworld has been allowed free rein to roam the lands once more? How is that even possible?”

Rheanne could only respond with a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. Though there haven’t been any sightings for the last thousand years, I am quite certain that it was indeed a Sluagh.”

“I see,” said Alderon tentatively, evidently contemplating the gravity of the situation. A Sluagh was a vile, unholy being that embodied chaos and destruction. What made matters worse was the fact that the longer they stayed in the physical realm, the stronger they became. “For the Sluagh to exist here in our world it would have to possess a host, do you have any idea who it might be?”

Though she wished it otherwise, Rheanne held no answer to his enquiry, “I’m afraid that piece of information has not been revealed to me. Whoever he might be, he must be a potent mage to be able to house such an evil spirit. Its mastery of the Devil’s Wroth is of particular concern as well. To my knowledge, Sluaghs are not inherently capable of wielding such a power.”

Alderon nodded in agreement, “which means that somebody must have conferred the power to it. But who would do something like that?”

“I believe I may have a clue or two about it,” said Rheanne in response, “I expanded the range of my investigation and discovered traces of that vile magic emanating from one of the human cities. I can’t say for sure, but I think that there are people experimenting with the Wroth. Worse still, I think that the very same people may be connected to the Sluagh. It seems far too unlikely that these two incidents are merely coincidence.”

“Then the path before us is all too clear now,” said Alderon as he clapped his hands in finality. “I must venture into this city and confront those people.”

Rheanne blinked at his sudden declaration. “Excuse me?”

“You said it yourself, these two incidents are intimately connected. Besides, whoever had the grand idea of giving an unholy power to something as dangerous as a Sluagh obviously have some sinister motive and we have to know what it is.”

“Well, it’s true that we can’t allow the Sluagh to continue its rampage,” conceded Rheanne, “but are you sure you want to volunteer yourself? I’ll tell you now that the city in question is Myris Pavron.”

She saw it then, that sliver of light that flashed across his eyes, marking the shock that must be surging through him now.

He let out a long breath and rubbed his temples, then suddenly stared at her with a look of fierce determination. “All the more reason that I go then.”

She wanted to protest, to argue, to forbid him even, yet in the back of her mind she knew it would only be folly to do so. While she cared for his safety and would go to great lengths to protect him, she realized that at that moment, he was not Alderon the friend of Rheanne; At that point of time, he was Alderon the Monarch and it was his sworn duty to avenge his fallen kingdom, to exact vengeance upon the foolish villain who had challenged him.

She stood up and turned towards the door. “Very well then. Come meet me tomorrow at the palace where we will discuss further our strategies.”

As she closed the door behind her, she faintly heard the words ‘thank you’.



< Message edited by Trainz_07 -- 8/15/2013 6:54:13 >
AQ  Post #: 4
Page:   [1]
All Forums >> [Gaming Community] >> [Legends and Lore] >> Writers of Lore >> [The Bookshelves] >> Other Creative Prose >> The Last Sylvan
Jump to:






Icon Legend
New Messages No New Messages
Hot Topic w/ New Messages Hot Topic w/o New Messages
Locked w/ New Messages Locked w/o New Messages
 Post New Thread
 Reply to Message
 Post New Poll
 Submit Vote
 Delete My Own Post
 Delete My Own Thread
 Rate Posts




Forum Content Copyright © 2018 Artix Entertainment, LLC.

"AdventureQuest", "DragonFable", "MechQuest", "EpicDuel", "BattleOn.com", "AdventureQuest Worlds", "Artix Entertainment"
and all game character names are either trademarks or registered trademarks of Artix Entertainment, LLC. All rights are reserved.
PRIVACY POLICY


Forum Software © ASPPlayground.NET Advanced Edition