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Post by Kaine on Jun 3, 2010 12:14:56 GMT -5
Hello everyone, Kaine here. I've been writing an original tale, unattached to anything else I've been writing over the last several years, and I thought I might share it here. I'd love some feedback if you read it, as that determines if I continue to post the story. I hope you enjoy it; I think what I have so far is some of the best writing I've accomplished.
Have fun, and immerse yourself in The Journey. When this all began, I was but a young man with a longing for adventure and glory. Now I pen my journals as an old man weathered and scarred by the merciless march of time. To tell you I found the glory I had sought for all my days would be a lie of most grievous proportions. It burns my heart even to this very day that all my searching would return fruitless. Glory is a cruel temptress. She will promise you many great and wonderful things, yet she will deliver none of them without collecting many long years of greatest sacrifice.
There was one thing I did find in my many travels throughout this world, however. Adventure became my brother and very dear friend. Not an hour had passed after I left my father’s dwelling that adventure became my constant companion. Oh, if only adventure and glory traveled hand in hand! Alas, as soon became all too painfully obvious to me, they often do quite the opposite. I scaled mighty mountain peaks that dared me to observe that which most men never even dream of seeing. I plunged into the murky depths of Lu’ vael Lake, the Qui’alm River, and even the Cerulean Oceans to uncover the secrets of their long-forgotten past. I traversed many ancient ruin sites, bearing witness to the mighty cities of the Angular and Mlvrean empires. I learnt of countless cultures, languages, arts, and peoples.
Yet for all my travels, for all my discoveries, that cruel mistress glory kept her presence from me. I toiled and labored for years on end to achieve even an inkling of the great glories of the old heroes, but to no avail. As my body began to age, and my mind began to slow, I began to give an ear to those thoughts that whispered to me about how glory had passed me by, about how I was too old and fragile to perform any noteworthy deeds that history would remember generations from now. The longer I spent on my journeys, the louder the whispering in my mind became, and the more I began to doubt things; things that, at an earlier time in my life, made perfect sense.
Time continued its slow, deathly march. I realized that I was so obsessed in my search for glory that I neglected another personal wish: I would never be a father. I found love to be a mistress of even greater cruelty than glory, for even when looking in earnest, even when one has the correct place and time, love is often not found. I knew for certain that, in my old age, that I would not find a mate of my own, and I would never sire children in my image that I could raise. Glory had passed me by, and no trophies of my lineage would outlast me. I realized this and suddenly became a broken man. I wished for a warm hearth and kin surrounding me in my last days.
I traveled far and wide across the land until I looked once more upon the ancient lands of my fathers. A tear of happiness slid down my aged cheek as I gazed upon the lush grasslands and small forests. I walked as quickly as my body allowed me to find the house of my father Drizlon Do’Tyrnial. I knew my father would no longer be living; I departed him when he was near my current age, and I had been gone for nearly six decades. However, I held the hope that my kin still held possession of his house.
Oh, what a glorious house my father owned! I remember running through the halls and rooms playing games of chase with my brothers and sisters, while father was out carving lumber or hunting, and mother stayed in the kitchen to smoke the meats and prepare the meals. Tears clouded my vision once more, as happy memories of my childhood flooded my mind’s eye. I drew close to the door of my father’s house and almost could not bring myself to disturb whoever might now call that blessed place home. For nearly an hour, I stood deliberating until I finally decided that I must know who now owned that building.
I delicately knocked on the door and was greeted by the cheerfully innocent face of a small child, barely old enough to be walking. Moments later, the child’s mother appeared, a look of uncertainty was upon her face. I explained who I was and she sent out a call for a certain elderly lady. Once the lady appeared, I knew I was home. It was none other than my baby sister, the youngest of the family, living in our old house with her daughter and grandchild. They took me in and loved me as best they could. I could not have asked for a better homecoming than the one I received.
I took up woodcarving as a hobby and profession. I had become quite skilled in it, as it was my father’s profession and I had practiced for various reasons in my travels. Within a couple years, I became an established member of society again, and I was able to entertain all the local children, and most of the adults as well, with stories, tales, and songs of my countless journeys and encounters.
I realize that glory and true love have passed me by. However, I have found my family, and I have found my home. My soul can rest at ease for the remainder of my days, for I know that, regardless of the deeds of mine that shall be remembered, I have lived an incredibly full life. And I know that is more than most men can say.
—Draizolv Do’Tyrnial
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Post by Kaine on Jun 3, 2010 17:25:38 GMT -5
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Chapter One
Stories of the Past
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Draizolv Do’Tyrnial delicately moved the tiny chisel and hammer across the wooden surface with surprising speed. Even in his quickly advancing age, his fingers were always nimble and his aim was always accurate. His grandniece Angelice sat nearby, watching him work in rapt attention. Draizolv had told her he was going to be carving a mighty bear out of the log. She did not understand at the time what he meant, yet watching him now she could see the head of the great beast. Her great uncle was so skilled. She could even make out the individual hairs on its head, and its eyes looked almost real.
Draizolv turned and saw Angelice sitting near him and chuckled. “Do you like it so far?” he asked gently.
She nodded and responded, “Yes I do, very much so, great uncle Draizolv. How much longer will it take to be finished?”
Draizolv raised a hand to rub his chin, exaggerating his movements deliberately to play along with her. “Well,” he said in a very serious tone. “I am not entirely sure yet, my dear. I hope to have it finished in about a week. Is that acceptable for you?”
She also exaggerated her movements, acting much more serious than any girl of seven should act. “I suppose it is, great uncle. But only if you have to take that long.”
She stared at him trying to keep a straight face. Neither could hold the look, however, and both were laughing heartily seconds later.
They heard a door close near the house and Draizolv looked up to see Delorene, Angelice’s mother, walking slowly up to the woodcarving cottage. “Angelice!” she called gently, yet forcefully. “It is time for your supper!” Delorene arrived in the doorway shortly after to see Angelice sitting next to Draizolv, giving her mother a pooch-lipped pouting face. Delorene chuckled softly and spoke again. “I’m sorry young lady, but the rules are what they are. Your grandmother specifically demands that you come. She has made your very favorite dish especially for you.”
Angelice’s eyes lit up suddenly. “Grandma’s made wumpkins?”
“Yes she has,” Delorene answered, “but she said that if you do not show up for supper, you will not get a single wumpkin.” Delorene had barely finished her sentence when Angelice raced out of the cottage and into the house for her supper. Delorene and Draizolv shared a chuckle.
“Children are quite adorable when they act so, would you not say?” asked Draizolv quietly.
Delorene smiled warmly. “Yes, I would say they are.” She chuckled softly again, yet a sudden shadow had passed over her normally cheerful face.
Draizolv caught it and inquired. “What has caused that normally joyful face to express such sorrow, my dear niece?”
Delorene turned on him quickly, wiping her forming tears as quickly as she could. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean, dear uncle.” She forced a smile and turned to leave.
“Come now, my dear,” soothed Draizolv. “I promise not to tell anyone what is troubling you.” She stopped in the doorway and half turned, the shadow once again covering her face. He waited a couple more seconds and when an answer was not forthcoming, he chanced another inquiry. “Is it perhaps the memories of Angelice’s departed father? You never told me what became of him.”
Her mask cracked then and she fell to her knees burdened with silent tears. Sobs without sound racked her body and she gently convulsed, trying to will herself to stop. Draizolv stood and helped her to her feet and rushed to get her a cup of tea. He returned in minutes with a steaming cup.
“Now my dear,” he spoke softly, “tell me everything that happened. My experience tells me that speaking it out often helps to soothe the soul.”
Delorene nodded and spoke with a soft, quivering voice. “It happened somewhere around seven years ago. He was a hunter of our village, and he came from a proud lineage. He was among the village best. Three days prior, he told me he was leading a great hunt to bring down a mighty Korblond to bring a great supply of food and skins so we could survive the coming winter. He led twenty other men to the glory of the hunt that day. Only three returned five days later.” She fell silent for a time. Her voice had grown steadier as she talked, but her eyes continued to stare off into the distant past. Draizolv could see it; she was reliving the entire encounter.
“We had become so worried,” she continued, her voice barely above a whisper. “We feared the beast had bested them and were about to send some of the men who had stayed behind to find what became of them. Then the three who had survived hobbled into the village square. Everyone had so many burning questions to ask: Why have you returned so late? Where are the others? Did you manage to slay the Korblond? Why have we not been sent word? Are the others yet continuing the hunt? The questions are forever burned in my mind, as I was too much in shock to ask anything. I could not even manage the one question my mind had cried out for the past several days: where, oh where, was my beloved husband? My beloved Baennlin?
“The men told a tale of horror and survival none of us expected to hear. They had wounded the Korblond and were tracking it to a secluded glade and closing in for the kill. The men began to cheer their victory, until harsh squeals and cries joined their voices. The men froze, yet the callous, painfully loud cries and screams continued, and even grew in volume. All the men looked to Baennlin for guidance and he led them all back to the trees to find the source of this intrusion. The sight chilled them all to their core. They saw a small raiding party of orcs leading their troll and goblin slaves into the forest to find lumber and meat for their harsh mountain winters in the Wroathgraimnian Mountains. A small troll caught sight of one of the men, cried out, and the battle had begun.
“The men stood no chance. The orcs had superior weapons, armor, and fighting skill, and their numbers were augmented by their slaves. Several men fell within the first few seconds, but Baennlin rallied them and they slew a fair number of orcs, along with most of the slaves. Yet, the orcs were still gravely superior to the men, and Baennlin, sensing imminent defeat, sent those three men running back to us to warn us of possible attacks, and to rally the remaining men into the defense of our village. Baennlin was the last to fall, his body broken and battered by orc axes, his flesh pierced by no less than five goblin arrows, so they said.” Her tears returned as she finished her tale, the images no doubt displaying a mutilated version of the man she loved more than life itself.
Draizolv sat in amazement and confusion. He was amazed that tragedy had hit so close to his home, that it had even harnessed direct influence over his family. He was confused because he had seen and traversed the Wroathgraimnian Mountains, and knew they were an incredible distance from the Plains of Vul’tair and this village, called Vythyryse.
“Delorene,” Draizolv said very softly. “What became of the orcs? Did they fulfill your beloved’s fears and attack Vythyryse?”
Delorene cleared her throat and shook her head. “No, we never saw any orcs here. Many of the villagers whispered that with our men’s heroic sacrifice, the orcs had found the meat they sought, and that they retreated farther into the forest. Others said that Baennlin succeeded in vanquishing the remaining orcs but succumbed to his wounds before he could return. Regardless, we sent a massive search party out to look for them once the imminent threat of the orcs had passed us by. I was a part of it. We found them near the glade they were hunting in. The bodies had been picked clean of any possessions, yet the orcs had not touched their flesh. I saw…” She choked yet again with the memory of that day. “I saw him. The tales the men told of the devastation wrought upon his body was nothing compared to the awful truth. Arrows pierced him all over, so much so that he could not even lay flat on the ground. He had numerous wide gashes across his body that had long ago bled dry. It was too much for me. I succumbed to my grief entirely and had to be escorted back to Vythyryse.
“They brought the men back and set up a great funeral pyre to honor them for their sacrifice and courage. And, to the benefit of the village, the Korblond they had been hunting seemed to have perished during the battle, and we were able to harvest its meat and its skins for our uses. We actually experienced a plentiful winter that year.” Her body shuddered again as she finally got the tears under her control. Draizolv still sat nearby, enrapt in her story.
“The reason I continue to struggle against my emotion, dear uncle, is because I see my daughter, my beautiful Angelice, growing into a fine young woman, and my beloved Baennlin will never see her, will never see the great woman she will become.” She sniffed loudly and stood abruptly.
“I am sorry I have troubled you this long, uncle” she spoke hurriedly. “I did not mean to ramble. I must return to the kitchen. No doubt Mother and Angelice will wonder what became of me.” She forced a chuckled and hurried off to the kitchen, leaving Draizolv alone in his woodcarving cottage.
“You are mistaken, Delorene,” he spoke in quiet response. “You did not disgrace my attention. In fact, you have told me a marvelous tale, once which I intend to investigate when I am next given the opportunity.”
Draizolv chose against joining his family for supper that particular evening. He had eaten his luncheon later in the afternoon than normal, and was not yet hungry. In addition, he had planned to do a little investigating. His many years abroad had taught him many useful skills, and foremost among them was tactfully gathering wanted information. He walked the pathways of Vythyryse slowly, trying to ascertain who might have been present for the arrival of the messengers and the subsequent search party. Near the tavern, he spied an elderly man, Novlun Junebergm by name. He and Novlun had grown up together and Draizolv considered him a dear old friend. Draizolv smiled, nodded, and began walking towards Novlun. If any man in the village had been here for this event, Novlun was that man.
Novlun stood just a couple inches shorter than Draizolv, and was actually two years younger, though he looked much older. His stark white hair gave contrast to his well-tanned skin, and his white beard had grown to an impressive length, so much so that he had to tuck it inside his belt so it would not hinder his movement. But beneath the visage of a decrepit old man, Novlun was a warrior. He had journeyed with Draizolv through the wilds for a time, but he had followed the inner call to return home many years before Draizolv himself had. Novlun was a mighty fighter and his strength was nearly unparalleled by any Draizolv had met. Since Draizolv’s return to Vythyryse, he had reconnected with this old friend. Novlun could still beat him in challenges of pure brawn, but Draizolv’s wit often proved too much for his old friend.
Draizolv approached Novlun and called out a greeting. “Hail Novlun!” he cried. “How do you fare this fine evening?”
Novlun turned with a jovial grin on his face. “Draizolv, my old friend!” Novlun responded as he gripped Draizolv hand and pulled him into a bear hug. “I am doing all right this moon, though my bones have taken to aching more as of late. How do you fare?”
“I’m feeling quite good! My carving is coming along excellently.”
Novlun laughed heartily. “Good! Good! Say, why don’t you join me for a nice tankard of Juel’s finest ale?”
“I would be most honored, my friend.” They entered the slightly rundown building that housed Juel’s tavern. The room was darkened, lit only by the roaring fire along the far wall and a candlelit chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The musty smell of the building mingled with the pipe smoke and spirits from the bar, creating a delightfully pungent aroma that always succeeded in whetting Draizolv’s appetite. And although Juel Ivernyan had let the building fall into a small amount of disrepair, his ale continued to surpass any spirit Draizolv had sampled. The two took up a booth a distance away from the door and Juel came to bring them their drinks within seconds. Normally Juel would converse with the two about their travels, as the younger man had a yearning to know what the world was like beyond the Plains of Vul’tair, yet today was uncommonly busy, and Juel had only enough time to set their tankards down and nod in salutation before rushing off to cater to his other, more unruly patrons.
Novlun took a deep draught of his tankard and sighed happily. “Ah, it just gets better every time I have some!” he exclaimed. Draizolv chuckled and nodded, taking a draught of his own tankard.
“Now Draizolv, to what do I owe this surprise visit?” Novlun looked at his friend with a look of shrewd interest.
Draizolv cleared his throat and responded, “I was looking for someone who might be able to give me some information.”
“What kind of information are you searching for?” Novlun started to stroke his beard, a sign that his interest was piqued, and his mind was working.
“My niece. Her husband was involved in some sort of tragic accident about seven years ago. She told me how he led men of the village on a great hunt to bring down a mighty Korblond to feed and warm the village, and of how his hunting party happened across a company of orcs leading troll and goblin slaves who slaughtered all but three lucky survivors. Do you remember this event?”
Novlun nodded with recognition. “Yes, I recall this happening. It was a tragic time for all of us, as we all lost a family member or close friend. It sounds like Delorene gave you a detailed account.”
“She did, yes, but do you not find it odd that Wroathgraimnian orcs were all the way over here, on the borders of the Plains of Vul’tair? The Wroathgraimnian Mountains are easily thousands of leagues from here.”
A look of consternation appeared on Novlun’s face as he nodded. “You’re right. We should know, we traveled all over those mountains. But, the arrows were obviously of goblin make, and I have yet to see another race use axes branded with orcish clan symbols. I don’t see how it could be anything else.”
“Is there anything that happened that might be considered out of the ordinary? Something that might have struck you as odd, but that you quickly dismissed as your own paranoia?”
Novlun thought for a moment, eyes shut in concentration to block out the tavern noises. He shook his head and looked back at Draizolv. “You know,” he spoke with growing trepidation, “thinking back on it, nothing seemed right. The men who returned to give us the tidings were never on good terms with Baennlin. They also swore the orcs were screaming taunts at them and orders at their slaves in our tongue, but I know for a fact that an average orc’s knowledge of our language is minimal at best, and they would not give orders to their slaves in any language but orcish. Their wounds also seemed to be too…” he waved his hand in the air as he searched for the word. Draizolv motioned to Juel for more ale.
“The wounds weren’t all that deep,” Novlun said at length. “They were much too shallow to be wounded by an orcish war axe. You and I both know those things cut deep, even from a small cut. None of those men who survived had any deep wounds. They seemed to be in immense pain, however. I don’t see how they could be, unless they faked the pain.”
Draizolv nodded, appearing to be in deep thought. “Was there anything else?”
“Yes, actually. They said the orcs probably thought of the men that had been killed as their source of food for the remainder of their hunting, so they warned that there might not be much left but bones. But when we arrived, not one man had been stripped of his flesh. No one seemed deterred by this, and the messengers barely reacted, if they did at all. In addition, I thought that the orcs would have continued to kill the Korblond, as it would provide a good amount of food, plus skins to keep them warm, but the beast simply lay there dead, almost as if it waited for us to return and claim it. It made no sense.”
“Did you tell anyone else of your thoughts?” Draizolv had a more than a touch of urgency in his voice and bored into Novlun with an intense gaze. It made Novlun nervous.
“No, I never spoke of my thoughts to anyone. Like you said earlier, I thought it was nothing more than my own paranoia wanting to create a situation where things were more than they appeared, that there was a bigger reason why those good men were slaughtered. Now I see my fears might turn out to be correct.”
“Yes, it seems that way. What became of those men who told of the attack?”
“I… I have no idea. As far as I know, they disappeared on another hunt not three months later. Why?”
A small chill manifested on Draizolv’s spine and crept up towards his neck. “This is not good. I fear this might mean those men had some sort of agreement or truce with a band of Wroathgraimnian orcs. Which means that Baennlin and his men were not killed by orcs, but by those three men, and then the orc attack was staged.”
Novlun nodded his agreement, a look of confused consternation upon his face. “But… why would those men want Baennlin dead? And why would they go to the orcs to see it done? Why not lure him away on a small scale hunt and dispose of him then, saying some predatory beast took him?”
“It makes no sense to me either, old friend. Though we might have found a reason to trek upon the trails of the wild once more.” They shared a chuckle, both knowing that if they did indeed journey through the wilds again, it would be their last adventure.
Draizolv checked outside the window and stood to leave. “I’m sorry Novlun, but I must be getting to the village square. The children are expecting me to tell them more tales from the past very soon.”
“Still telling those old fables, huh?” Novlun laughed. “Ah, why don’t I join you. I miss the old days, and in light of these chilling new developments, I think some good old tales would do me some good.”
Draizolv and Novlun arrived in the square close to the complete darkness of nightfall. A bonfire was being prepared, and children had begun to gather around and play while they waited, their parents talking near the slowly growing fire. Draizolv took his place on the ancient wooden bench on the north end of the square in front of the bonfire, and Novlun sat nearby. Once the children saw him take his seat, they rushed up to him and fought over the best places to sit on the ground. None of them wanted to miss a new story. Draizolv and Novlun shared a chuckle as they remembered being that age and fighting with other boys to get the best seat to hear old Grizzmal Dun’ Handred.
“Children, please,” Draizolv spoke softly, causing all noise to cease. “You will all be able to hear me, I promise. And if you cannot, simply raise your hand and let me know, so I can speak a little louder. Now, it is almost time to begin!” The children hurriedly sat down where they stood, suddenly not caring who was closer or not. Draizolv waited ten minutes more, watching as more children trickled into the crowd at his feet.
Once enough time had passed, Draizolv stood and addressed the children. “Dear children, jewels of Vythyryse, you have my deepest gratitude for coming this evening. I know you are all eager to hear a new tale, therefore I shall call upon one of you to choose a topic. Who would like to choose?”
Dozens of child hands shot up into the air, all trying to catch Draizolv’s eye. They each had something different they wanted to hear. Draizolv thought for only a second before deciding on a little boy looking no older than six summers.
“You, young man,” he said, pointing at the boy. Groans of disappointment were heard throughout the crowd, though all were silent as they waited to hear what the story would be. “What is your name, little boy?” Draizolv asked softly.
“I am called Raelnon, sir,” he answered in a cute, small voice.
“Well, Raelnon, what sort of story would you like me to tell tonight?”
“Um, I was wondering if you could tell the tale of the fall of the Angular and Mlvrean empires. I have always loved the stories of those peoples, and I want to know why they are no longer here.”
Draizolv was impressed with the child’s vocabulary. It was not often he found a child with such a specific request. “All right, Raelnon, I shall tell of the fall of the Angular and Mlvrean empires.
“Now, the Angular were a race of fish people, living deep within the fabled Lu’ vael Lake and the mighty Cerulean Oceans far to the west. They had a great many kings over the centuries, and they all lived in their palace in Juliëân’rethos, their mighty capital city. This incredible city lay in the very center of the Cerulean Oceans, at their deepest point. Their last king was called Rhuxiallx XIX. Rhuxiallx was a very cruel ruler. He drove his people to exhaustion when they worked, and always wanted a reason to go to war against their neighbors, the Mlvreans.
“The Mlvreans’ origins have been lost to the threads of time, but we know they were very similar to us in appearance. Some even say that all men are descendant from them. They loved the coastal dwellings they held, as they sailed into our lands from a very great distance away. They were intrigued by this land, and came to love it more than any other they had ever encountered. They held a great connection to nature in all ways, and an even greater connection to the seas. They were a very peaceful people and hardly ever resorted to ways of war. They were ruled by a single man, a Prophet. The Prophet was an incredible man with a very long life, much longer than you or I will ever see. The Mlvreans carved out their lives from the cliffs bordering the Cerulean Oceans in the northwest, and became a mighty people through calm meetings and peaceful talks.
“The Angular coveted the land dwellings the Mlvreans had claimed for their own, saying that the Angular should rule all, as they thought they were vastly superior. The Angular slowly built up their armies and advanced certain technologies to where they were sure that victory would be immediate. The Prophet, however, foresaw this coming doom. The Mlvreans were able to completely counter the initial attack by the Angular, and even achieved a sound victory against their new foes. Not to be deterred, the Angular kept pressing the attack, and while the Mlvreans won most of the battles, they continued to sustain heavy casualties. The Angular had the superior numbers, so the losses in battle meant less to them. The Mlvreans were beginning to dwindle, even as the Angular were still able to field vast armies. The battles began to shift in the favor of the Angular.
“Yet in an hour of sudden doom for the Mlvreans, the Prophet was suddenly given an incredible and powerful gift by the gods. He was given the forces of magic, and the ability to teach them to a select few individuals. The Prophet and his mages quickly devastated the Angular forces, in such a way that shocked even King Rhuxiallx. With this new, mighty gift, the Mlvreans quickly retook any of the lands that the Angular had taken from them. In addition, their new magical prowess gave them the opportunity to strike at the Angular capital; they could finally strike against Juliëân’rethos. Both peoples hunkered down in their respective capital cities to amass the remainder of their armies and to prepare for their final assaults. The Mlvreans struck first, completely obliterating any settlements they found along the way to Juliëân’rethos. With their mages’ ability to grant the soldiers the same properties as the Angular themselves, such as breathing underwater and increased underwater mobility, they cut a swath right through the heart of the Angular lands, right up to Juliëân’rethos. Yet when the powerful Mlvrean armies arrived in the waterways of Juliëân’rethos, there was no resistance. There was hardly a living soul inside the massive underwater city. In a rare occurrence of rage, the Prophet demanded the city be burned and any outlying villages destroyed. His armies easily carried out this task, and soon not a single city, village, or outpost of the Angular Empire remained.
“Meanwhile on the surface, the Angular armies had met the same lack of resistance at the Mlvrean capital city of Wÿrnmaen. There was no waiting army; there were hardly any commoners to kill. They were completely dumbfounded at this turn of events. Rhuxiallx laughed heartily and immediately ordered the city be destroyed, and his warriors went to work. The Mlvreans in the nearby villages saw the fire and smoke rise towards the heavens, and fled to take shelter in the mountains. Without any resistance, the Angular forces marched across the plains and destroyed any and all settlements of the Mlvrean Empire.
“Now, I can see what you are thinking. How is it that both armies could destroy the other race’s lands at the same time without the other knowing? Well, both the Angular and Mlvrean armies completed their conquest around the same time. The Prophet called for a victorious return to Wÿrnmaen, while Rhuxiallx ordered his forces to return to the seas. The armies spotted each other on opposite sides of the Ungollor Plains, and became unruly. Both were itching for a true fight. The Prophet delayed his forces while he attempted to commune with the gods. The gods granted him a vision, the vision of his beloved city being burned to ashes by the Angular. The Prophet once again flew into a maddened rage and ordered his armies to attack. At the same instant, Rhuxiallx had found out the army on the other side of the plains was the Mlvrean army. Through his looking glass, he could see barnacles and seaweed still stuck to their armor. He knew they had been below to his city. And he knew they had treated it with as little mercy as he had treated their own. He also ordered his armies to attack.
“There was an incredible battle. It raged on for several days with neither side admitting defeat. Finally, on the dawn of the fifth day of battle, the Prophet came face to face with King Rhuxiallx XIX. They dueled for the entire day while their armies fell to their deaths all around them, until finally, as the sun gave its final look upon the land at twilight, the Prophet struck down King Rhuxiallx with a mighty spell. The Prophet was gravely wounded however, and he lay on the ground, his body broken, waiting for death’s final embrace. Both armies had been soundly defeated, and there were minimal stragglers on either side. The remaining Angular fled to the shelter of the seas, never to be seen or heard from again. The remaining Mlvreans found their Prophet and tended his wounds to the best of their abilities. He led them into the mountains to find the refugees from Wÿrnmaen and the outlying villages, and this is where most scholars say that we, humankind, came from.
“Thus ended the two greatest empires our land of Drakova has ever known: the Angular Empire, and the Mlvrean Empire.”
Draizolv sat to thunderous applause from the children, and to his surprise, all of the adults present. He surmised that none of them had ever heard this tale before. He smiled inwardly because he was able to tell them.
“Thank you, thank you,” he said, motioning for quiet with his hands. The applause ended as suddenly as it had begun. Draizolv looked at the bonfire and decided he had the time to tell them one more tale.
“I thank you, Raelnon, for providing me with that most intriguing subject. Now, I believe we have time for one more story. Who shall I choose this time?” The competition for his attention began anew. This time, he chose an older girl near the back of the crowd. He thought she looked close to adulthood. “Young lady, what is your name?” he asked as he pointed to her and she walked up to him.
“I am Luvienna, of the Brothellune household,” she replied quickly.
Draizolv nodded and smiled. “I see you come from a proud family.”
She gave him a nervous smile and he saw two adults, presumably Luvienna’s parents, beaming with pride. “What story or tale might you like to hear tonight?”
“Well, sir, I was, uh… I was wondering if there was some sort of… love story you could tell?” Her face flushed bright red and she looked around nervously. She did not seem used to the attention.
Draizolv chuckled and responded, “I think I have just the tale for you. It is the tale of Alice and Farabar. It is an old Mlvrean fable.”
Luvienna sat and listened with rapt attention. She obviously did not want to miss anything.
“Many long years ago, when the Mlvrean Empire was at its peak, and Wÿrnmaen was its crowning jewel, there lived a certain noble girl named Alice. Her beauty was unparalleled in all the Empire. From the time of her childhood, she and a boy named Farabar had run through the city’s alleyways and streets playing and going on many magnificent imaginary adventures. Farabar had grown into a fine specimen of a man by his twentieth summer, and though Alice could have had any man in the Empire, she had eyes only for Farabar. Fortunately for Alice, Farabar had loved her from the time they had met. Their love blossomed into something beautiful, something not normally seen in those times.
“Alice’s parents, however, did not approve of their union. For you see, since Alice was a nobleman’s daughter, they felt that only a nobleman should be allowed to court their daughter. For this reason, they banished Farabar from their household, and Alice was forbidden from seeing him ever again.” Draizolv paused and heard Luvienna gasp. He wondered if this story would convince her that her own personal romance would happen in some sort of similar fashion.
“Farabar,” Draizolv continued, “was not deterred by this in the slightest. He would covertly sneak into Alice’s room at night, even for just a few seconds of being in her presence. But even this would not last. For not three weeks had passed until Alice’s father caught Farabar sneaking into her room late one night. He reported Farabar for trespassing and had him thrown in jail. Farabar was given two choices: he could either stay in his prison cell until his sentence was completed, which would have taken forty summers; or he could enlist in the Prophet’s holy army to battle against the rising Angular horde. Farabar, being of a strong body and mind, instantly chose to enlist. He knew this way he could somehow regain his freedom.
“Alice was distraught. She knew not the next time she would look upon the face of her love, and she shut herself up in her room for up to weeks at a time. She would not even speak to her father. Her father was a strict man of tradition, and unfortunately saw this as an act of total rebellion. He sent her away from his house, to live and work in the fields in one of the nearby villages.
“For many years, Farabar fought in countless battles against the heartless Angular, and Alice labored in the fields. Neither knew where the other was, but they both knew they would see each other again someday. That is, until the Prophet decided to take the fight to the Angular. Since the advent of his mages, the Prophet had become increasingly brash in his attacks, and with the discovery of certain new spells, he felt his armies could now survive underwater long enough to attack, and possibly even lay siege to, Juliëân’rethos. Farabar was one of many warriors who plunged into the pristine waters of the Cerulean Oceans, who might possibly never see the surface again.
“Alice heard that the army was to go underneath the Cerulean Oceans and feared the worst. She knew her beloved would be first to sign up for this dangerous task, and she worried for his safety. Soon, however, a new threat came upon Alice. The Angular army, thought to be defending their capital city, marched upon Wÿrnmaen less than a week after the Prophet and his armies had departed. The Mlvreans evacuated to the mountains as quickly as they could, with Alice among them. She then lost her hope that she would ever see her beloved Farabar again.
“Of course, Farabar did survive the battles in the depths. Indeed just now I have told you of how the Mlvrean armies obliterated everything held by the Angular underneath the Cerulean Oceans. So yes, Farabar did see the surface again, but was caught up in the massive battle against the Angular on the plains of Ungollor. Many times Farabar wondered if his love yet lived, if she had been among those refugees to survive to the mountains. Yet, many times more he was forced to worry about whether or not he would be alive to find her. He fought ferociously, as though every new foe had killed his beloved, until he saw the Prophet and the dreaded Angular king locked in an epic duel to the death. He continued to fight on through the duel, yet his attentions were divided. He wanted to witness this greatest of duels in all its glory. He finally realized that most of the Angular army had been decimated and almost began the cheer of victory, until he realized his own brothers in arms were as badly defeated. Torn between victory and defeat, he continued to gaze upon the incredible duel between his leader and the leader of his enemies.
“Finally, the Prophet landed his powerful killing spell, and the Angular king lived no longer. Then Farabar and his brethren did raise up a cheer of triumph, decimated though their army was. They watched as the Angular crawled back to their oceans, and then turned to see the Prophet laying on the ground, in a pool of his own blood. The healers who survived worked on the Prophet ceaselessly until the Prophet could travel once more. The small band of soldiers headed towards the mountains to find the rest of their people.
“And find them they did. It took them several weeks, but they eventually came upon a small village full of wooden cottages built by those who had escaped the Angular. Farabar had been granted his freedom, so he began an earnest search for Alice, yet she was nowhere to be found. Those in the village knew her, and told Farabar they had seen her earlier that same day and did not know where she might have disappeared to. He searched the entire village over many times, but alas, he could not find his love. Broken and defeated, he sat down in the snow and began to weep. He wept because of his past hardships, he wept for his people, yet most of all, he wept because he had lost the one thing in his life that he lived for. What a cruel twist of fate that he should survive the war only to find his love had left him!
“Late that night, as he lay shivering in the snow, he heard small footsteps coming towards him. He jumped to his feet to find a small woman crouching nearby, hands raised up in defense. She spoke softly, and Farabar could hardly make out her words. He walked closer to her and uncovered her face to find a most delightful sight. This woman who had come to him in the dead of night was no other than Alice, his love. She brought him back to her cottage that night, and they were wed by the Prophet himself the next afternoon. Their love was like none the world had ever seen before, and they lived very happily ever after, until the end of their days.” Again, the end of his tale was met with applause from all who were present. He smiled and stood to address them all one final time.
“My friends and neighbors,” he said calmly. “I am honored by your applause, but the hour grows late. Children should be in their beds, and I must return to my home for the evening. I very much look forward to our next meeting, in two weeks. Farewell!” He heard several children groan at his speech, but they all obeyed nonetheless.
Novlun strode over to Draizolv and clapped him on the back roughly. “That was some mighty fine storytelling, Draizolv. I had forgotten the talent you have for it.”
Draizolv chuckled and replied, “It’s a gift, I suppose. Though I do not do it because I am skilled at it. I do it for the children. For if I did not tell them these tales, who would?”
Both friends shared another laugh and Novlun said, “Allow me to accompany you to your home. I have a feeling our subject from earlier was not quite finished in either of our minds.”
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