Author Topic: just a trash from me  (Read 727 times)

Offline ikillsaint

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just a trash from me
« on: September 22, 2006, 01:36:24 AM »
Please, if you read some of this, give me some feedback or just a rating. Please!

Not a day has gone by since I was turned into this wretched creature that I haven’t thought about my family. They are all probably long dead now.

It all happened on a quiet summer’s day in our small town of Akarina, about 100 years ago.

I was eighteen, my sister thirteen. We had just gotten out of guardianship school, and were heading home.

I remember my sister less and less these days. Now all I remember is her long, flowing black hair streaming down to her waist. Her facial features have all become a blur, but I remember being slightly taller than she.

She had a heart of gold and I often wondered why she had become a guardian. She was very good at battle tactics, but lacked the will to send someone to the ‘Great Beyond’.

Now that I look back, I can only laugh at the way she always seemed to get in arguments with the teachers.

“But why do we have to kill them, why not take them in for interrogation or something?” she would constantly ask.

“Because, Chris, that’s what we do.”

Everyday, she would ask our teachers the same question. This would often lead to a heated argument about the topic, Chris always backing out before things got too far.

Anyway, we reached our house and found the door swinging slowly in the summer breeze. There seemed to be no sign of forced entry, so we decided to step in.

Nothing was missing or out of place. We figured our parents left the door open accidentally when they left for work.

I sat down on the couch to do some homework. I began work on a tough battle technique taught to me by Sanjen Demaon, the mace and whip teacher, being careful not to break any glass nick-knacks. Chris, on the other hand, walked up the tall, wooden staircase and stepped into a quiet room with posters of different lands and animals, mostly fantasy, strewn all over the walls. Her fascination of the unreal never ceases to amaze me. If I can't touch it or see it, I assume it isn't real. That shows just how different we were, like perfect opposites. Or maybe contrasts, one can't live without the other.

Chris would normally close the door and quietly go over her day. No one in our entire family knew why she did this, or even if it was her day she was going over, but we left her in peace. Whenever we would try to ask her, she would smile and change the subject.

What was different about today was that I didn’t hear the door close or the quiet click of the lock. After a while, I realized I didn’t hear the soft murmur of her voice either.

I got up slowly and silently found my way to the stairway. I looked up into her room and all was silent. I slowly trudged up the stairs and I wrapped my hand slowly around the large brass knob of the half-way closed door. It wasn’t even locked. I pushed the door open and found her lying on the floor, a large flowing cut throbbing on her forehead.

“Oclina!” I shouted. I ran to her side and took her hand. She groaned and looked at me.

“Orin,” she said quietly.

Her eyes opened wide. In them a mixture of fear and, strangely enough, understanding struck me. I also saw a faint outline of a man with a large club in his hand in that bottom-less pit of soft brown.

“Wha…” I was stopped short when the man whacked me across the temple with the end of the club. I felt myself hit the floor and then lost all senses.

When I finally came to, I was in a large black room. It smelled strangely of mushrooms and pine needles. It reminded me of the many pine woods that were outside of Akarina and all the grand family trips taken there to relax. It was really the only time Oclina and I could talk to our parents. They were always at work during the day. A small tear ran down my cheek as I thought of all the things I would probably never have the chance to tell them. I would never get married or have children, never risk my life for my charge. I would never be my most cherished dream, a hero. I had to do something.

“The boy has finally come to, mi alor,” a dark dusky voice said flatly.

There was a quiet crackling sound and then another voice announced,

“Bring him to me,”

“Wha… Where am I?” I managed to leek out of my hoarse, achy mouth. I raised myself to a sitting position. I tried to stand, but found it to be a futile attempt.

“Anitlo mi athspan vantor,” the dark voice uttered in a language that sounded vaguely familiar, but I could not place it.

“Excuse me?” I rasped.

“Translated roughly,” the voice boomed, “it means ‘Don’t ask me such morbid questions.’”

The owner of the voice picked me up and laid me in a small vehicle. The vehicle made a small buzzing sound and jerked forward.

“Morbid,” I said weakly, “What do you mean morbid?”

“Clamos,” he breathed.

Clamos. I recognized that as meaning ‘silence’. I closed my mouth and continued to wonder where I had heard that language before. No one in my family had ever spoken it, I was sure. I spent the long ride across the almost mile long room thinking on this.

We slowly moved to a section of the room where the man stopped and opened a narrow door. The rush of light caused me to blink fiercely.

This room was the exact opposite of the previous room. It was bright white with a mysterious light that seemed to come from an invisible source. This room also smelled of wildflowers and grass. I then remembered a trip my family took to the Naroroe plains. We met this old man there that told us of a place with rooms like these. The rooms would take on the smell of much loved memories.

Then it hit me. This was the place the old man spoke about. The language the large man spoke was the old language of Fanior, the Kingdom of Shade. The old man told us of the fateful prophecy that one day a castle like this would be rebuilt. These rooms were part of Janmon’s great castle, or so the old man said. He told us that this castle had been destroyed in the War of Seven Ages. Why was it still here, yet unseen to many historians and scholars? How did no one know it had been rebuilt? These questions puzzled me for many years after this great tragedy.

We came to a wall on the other side of the room and stopped. The man came around the vehicle and placed his hand on the wall. His skin was dark against the white wall, almost black. His cold, hard eyes focused on the wall. He whispered something and a hole slowly began to form.

This room was not at all like the other two. It looked like a castle hall made of dark gray marble. Columns lined the wide red carpet. The man pushed me through the hole into the large hall.

At the end of the hall was a large, iron throne with a small person in the center. The person was cloaked in blue velvet, and was difficult to see against the black iron. In his right hand he held a large black staff with what looked like some great battle scene. That staff looked several inches taller than the little man of only five feet.

As we inched closer, I began to hear quiet weeping sounds. On the floor, a small white figure with black hair sat sobbing on the cold, gray marble. What had caused this young person to cry so much? What had that man done?

« Last Edit: September 22, 2006, 12:34:53 PM by Lin Treadgold »
+*ZuP . I'm a ThUg u'LL LaV tah HatE..