Fantasy Writing

She was a widow

In metaphor.

A vast expanse of nothingness lay dormant in her mind.

Nothing to do but conform; dress appropriately; listen; stay put.

She found pleasures in small changes, where normal routine was broken. Treasured like islands, punctuating the treacherous waters that she was cursed to wade through forever more.

Identity lost, she was reduced to a she.

“No.” they said, and she complied. “Come.” they said, and she followed. “Woman.” they said, and she identified.

Of course not to would be violation of the law. Or so that’s what she was told.

He was a father

A commander, a leader, and a puppeteer - the headstone of the rebellion.

Always watching, waiting, pacing, finding, choosing, pointing, hating.

“The Cause” it said on his banners - plastered across the wasted towns; hanging from glass-smashed windows in greying, war-torn villages. A laconic platitude to inspire the naïve masses.

He’d taken unease, and he’d turned it into fear, distrust, and anger.

The rebellion of the people! The rebellion of one man.

With every advancement and blood-scattered warzone, he delved deeper into insanity; progress became a recurrent nightmare - just a sorry excuse for a red-soaked landscape.

The oppressed shifted ignorantly into oppressors - following the demon of a man who’d once promised hope.

He was now a beast. No better than the ones he’d vilified.

She was a sister

An assassin, a rebel, and a friend - all at the same time.

Though unrivalled in combat, she was born with the gift of patience.

Staying low to the ground, she would peer through gaps in each side’s forces, waiting quietly for her chance.

Then, in one swift motion, she would disappear into the ground - reappearing amongst the bloody violence with katana in hand; bladed end pierced straight through a chieftan’s throat.

Precise and on target. Every time.

Then as if it were nothing, she would slunk back into the fog of war, waiting for her next opportunity for a kill.

Countless victories won by her blade; never-ending fighting. It all felt the same to her.

He was a brother

A warrior, a rebel, and a friend - all at the same time.

Renowned in battle, he swung his sword with the brute force of a minotaur: charging.

His heavy armour glistened in the light of the surrounding fire - an imperial blur, stampeding into enemy forces.

Cracking bones sounded from across the battlefield, and his foes retreated in terror: screams, followed by the frantic sound of boots, scrambling through mud.

But after the shouts, the fire, and the anger died down, he was always the first to pray:

First, for others. Moving slowly from body to body, he would bless the dead, and watch tentatively as their spirits drifted on.

Then, for the cause. For an end to the violence; “… in revolution, I trust.”

And finally, for himself. In prayer, he became a child; a lost boy, looking for some form of divine guidance from the sky.

There’s a withering white curtain strewn across the length of the room. Unhelpful.

Through it, we can all still hear the reverberating sounds of enamel being hacked at with a chisel.

“Mighty big tooth ya got there, fella…” Remarks the high-pitched voice of a child, with the gentle yet tired tone of an adult. “Zereth almighty..” It murmurs, “-Excuse me language..”

Around me, knees are bouncing nervously.

Fingers tap on laps, and eyes flicker across the room.

For a few moments, not a voice can be heard through the thick, tension-filled air.

Now, only quiet mumbles emerge from behind the curtain, and we all have a moment to gather our thoughts; the mood starts to settle.

We sit for a moment, and a child even starts to talk to its mother, in the corner.

But then: the squeaking of chair legs signals silence, as light footsteps tap along the floor, and a small green face pokes out from behind the curtain.

I stand up.

He opens his mouth to speak, and my heart drops, as a loud object thumps onto the floor behind him.

“Kane.” I heard her say, amongst the whispers and inaudible growls.

Her bearskin hood was thrown over her head, so that I couldn’t see her face through the thickly drawn darkness. Anyhow, it was cast downward towards the ground.

Following her command, a pack of wolves appeared slowly from the fog - bearing their sharpened teeth, and letting out deep, guttural snarls.

She was crouched on a decimated tree trunk - one hand out for balance, and the other outstretched behind her, holding a long wooden spear, tipped with razor sharp steel, and inlaid with silver.

Her cloak - bellowing in the frosty breeze - cast her in a feline silhouette: the picture of irony, as her canine followers crawled forward by her will.

Finally, she brought her head up: bright yellow eyes, full to the brim with burning ire, and a face as pale as the falling snow.

Sorry guys, I’ve been really ill recently so haven’t had the chance to post, but I’ll get one done for sure tomorrow..

It might be in the afternoon though, because I don’t want to rush it:3

Thanks!

Long ago, tales told of a skybeast.

Great, white, and observant - it roamed the open air, looking out for disruptions, and holding balance in the natural world.

It gazed back and forth along the rolling hills, and checked every blade of grass for the slightest hint of discord.

The humans, below, looked up in wonder: at its puffy, white feathers; its long, waving tail, driving its vast body against the wind.

But once, for a reason we know not, it disappeared.

The sky was left blue and empty: clear, but vacant.

Conflict fell on the lands betweens humans, with no one to look up to, and no one to look back down upon them.

They blamed each other, but no one had the answers. Wars and carnage ensued.

Then, one day, something miraculous happened: its children appeared.

All across the sky, its children dispersed: each unique, given watch over a different piece of sky.

The humans rejoiced, and prayed to the air above them. Finally, their guardian was back - if only in a different form.

—-—-—-—-—-—-•-—-—-—-—-—-—

Now, many are taken for granted.

I stood with my back against the stone alleyway wall.

“Hello, Mister May.” He said, smoothly articulating every element in his words.

He stood in front of me, smirking, his hands behind his back. He stood upright: posture perfect, eyeline dancing down his hooked nose, and landing on my inferiority. Nevertheless, he reached out his hand from behind his long dark coat, and extended it to shake mine.

Spitting at the ground in front of him, I stayed in place. There was no way I was showing any sign of vulnerability - not now; not after all that I’d worked for.

“You seem flustered,” he commented slyly. It was true - my breathing was sharp and erratic, and my hands had gone cold with sweat. I was on the edge. “Anyone would think you’d been given some bad news.” He added, and my temper flared.

I let out a feral-sounding outcry, and lunged towards him, my hands scrabbling for his face.

But he was too fast: he stepped back as I leapt forwards, and his outstretched hand flipped over, revealing a small, blue marble that he’d been hiding. As my hand scraped at his cheek, his palm flicked downwards, letting the marble fly towards my chest.

I’d nearly got to him when it smashed against my body, bursting into a web of blue light, that flaked across my torso like a net, and then forced me back against the wall.

Once again, I was stuck - my breathing now even harsher, I could feel my heart thumping against my rib cage and my lungs ready to burst.

He stepped a little closer, knowing I couldn’t move - pinned against the wall by his magic, fixed like a target on a shooting range.

His face moved so that it was only inches from mine, his deep marine eyes looking deep into my soul.