Categories > Original > Fantasy
Untitled Fantasy
0 ReviewsIt'll get better.
Authors note: This is mine and only mine. Hmmm... ignore the random signs of italics... they should be what they are inclined to... though they will not. I'd enjoy it if I got some nice reviews, though I do doubt it, please give me some words even if you read it.
Say it is horrible, say it is nice, I do not mind.
The country of Jarahn had been feuding over thousands of moons. The three sides of their split region had once been united into a strong alliance of elves, men, pagans, and spirits; all living together in a comfortable peace and harmony. Everyday life was consisted in acts of notorious merrymaking, and in the days that there was no celebrations night was the substitute of an excuse to behave in an equally suggestive or foolish manner to lighten the spirits of each species and all content in an unblemished lifestyle. There was a peculiar aurora circling around this land was of such difference it was a warm welcome to be accepted in a stable community, and for such diverse species in one location it was an odd encounter to be at such serene emotions connecting to each drastically different life of a spare being. While other countries were in war, this was not true for Jarahn; many lived in solitude and happiness with their individualities separate from their discreet neighbors just beyond the other side of the hills and fields. For years they spoke nothing but kindness to each other which their gestures respectful when passing by another citizen. Yet, all changed abruptly; it was that of a new comer into the land of Jarahn that changed its natural course of life.
This new comer was distant and bold; Devaughn, a pagan witch of the realm of which he spawned. Guardian of the Dark that he was, also leader of a coven he had emerged from the dead long ago before his own time began to walk upon the soil. He was dressed in the finest attire of black silks. A robe cloaking his figure from the blinding shed of light and happiness that was crooned over Jarahn and his hair, a very dark sapien to the attraction of the gray pigment his skin tone was bond to. This colour obvious being produced by Devaughn having been possibly resurrected from the dead, and in that thought the result of him staying in Jarahn, in the region of Faranth, was deemed skeptical by many. It was told he was sent to this ancient land for a mission and one mission only.
The Guardian of Light and ruler of Jarahn—Freeile—let his stay become only very temporary. Pressured upon the act of being both respectful but having this Devaughn dangerously close to his people was an emotion of devastation. Perplexed he made his stay very temporary; the count down of five days for Devaughn to stay was made, and in those five days the peace of the Jarahn had began to deteriorate.
The actions that took place to the destruction were artless and so very displeasing. One by one each race, species, and creature began to fall into hostile terms with one another. Battles were rage between the stone paths of the town villages, and even more so it had progressed to become into a horrid impropriety. They had begun to kill.
Little were lost but it was all too many for Freeile, and in madness he had banished the snake Devaughn out from his country and back to swell with remises of the dead. He was to be under a hazardous spell, to stay within the dirt, the grim, and the rotting corpses to match his mingled mind of hated and deceit. From after being drove out of Jarahn, it had been far too late, as his desires had been fulfilled.
To make such desires to evolve into existence was nothing of a hard time. The people of Jarahn were mildly ignorant, not corrupt or aware of a scoundrel like many others of the countries Phalos or Rayola had been, hence why perhaps such wars in their lands had broke out easily.
Devaughn had many acquaintances, ones that were not of the living or in-tact with the world like many should be. These acquaintances ran back in age as long far back than anyone could possibly remember. In the past before Freeile and his line of family had ruled, this sacred land had not been such a sacred place. To elaborate, races and species alike now did not get along then, and hearing from some of the things they had done to each other, it was an absurd realization. The things of the past in their eyes could not be erased, innocent, naïve enough had they been, it only took a few facts until hatred boiled.
And the land of Jarahn long staid in its place until a new ruler stumbled upon the throne. Here Azarie starts his era.
”Azarie!”
Piercing his bow hushed his name that had been called; the focused determination entrancing the eyes of the elf forced his fingers to lessen upon the strong feathered arrow. While his mind intentionally blocked out the unnecessary auditable sounds that could conclude to his confusion, the voice of his trainer had barely quirked his curiosity to why he asked his name. The elf in his right mind would have guessed (and foolishly would he) that his trainer had no more intention of wishing to prepare him for a battle long battled upon. But never the less had the aching and the throbbing and the pain, all twisted into one result of panic strung between his fingers heighten his senses and his sensibility to come through, and straying off his balanced feet had he released one more arrow accidentally in the thicket of the goblin’s amour… he fell.
Not very hard, but hard enough to leave his breath gasping and a sensual pain probing in his side and soon more so on his chest. Finding it a tad hard to breath the young elf went to hoist himself up to only fall unwillingly back down, underneath him his long bow snapping and his bloody fingers immersing into the dirt.
”Yer! Yer!” It said, the figure that had climbed on his chest roughly began to heave itself up and down in fury to smack and hit Azarie’s whizzing chest. It pained very little, the thrusts somewhat strong for such a creature were no where near hurting the elf, where he soon discovered he was hitting it rather self consciously back and groaning through chapped lips.
”Get off of me,” he moaned, his head rolling from side to side. A goblin, so little and very light, weighing Azarie down was something truly embarrassing. With an extreme amount of anger and force had he finally delivered one last blow to the goblin’s stomach, and there it stumbled off his chest. He groggily got up to meet the skinless, four foot creature. It was struggling on the ground like it was born with four legs, deviously scampering on the dirt with claws protruding from its fingers. He snickered and ran after it with more disregard of another cry of his name, and still with a considerable amount of emotion bundled inside his heaving chest he snatched the goblin up from its one left leg.
”Now you listen to me!” Azarie said sternly, poking at its armor. “Being your ruler I demand you—“
”You don’t demand me nuthin’” It gleamed. The goblin’s voice was high pitched like young girls, but indeed it was a male struggling against Azarie’s grip. Its other leg was ferociously swinging around in the air, while at it the plated armor on its legs clanged. And again Azarie snickered.
”Do I? Damn you little creatures… damn you, I could…” Well, he didn’t know what he could do, but what he was previously attempting was going to kill the poor thing and obviously it had the attentive full right to say he demanded nothing of him out of spite, as the elf probably would of too in his position. Azarie gripped his leg a little more while cleverly rolling his eyes, and with one dangerous swing of his arm, he threw the goblin over across the field in front of him. “Aaaaaaa!” It cried. His arms and legs wagging like spiders would.
”You don’t demand me nothing my royal back cheeks,” Azarie grunted like a child, mocking the goblin with an odd hand gesture waving in the air about his head. He earned no respect around this country, none whatsoever. The conclusion that he was far too young to be ruling over such a vast, troubled country had never crossed his mind though in fact this was definitely the cause, for such a big portion of land and an daresay immature elf ruler with controversial rumors to its species it spoke lengths.
He crossed his arms over his chest with a gruesome expression playing on his long and handsome face, the straight strands of his shoulder length red tresses flying behind him while he walked briskly across the field. Had he been convinced that everything was out to get him that day he would have considered that even the birds chirping noisily at him were defying him, but alas, through this day one thing had gone according to plan. Azarie had visited his dear old uncle Freeile, now thousands in age but never the less still wise, it was good to belong with someone that did not believe that he was too childish to rule.
”Azarie, now what in all bloody hell, why have you been so embittered?”
Refalla, Azarie’s eleven trainer began to lecture him, waving his own hands in the air with a devastating glare in his eyes.
”Oh nothing, Refalla, its just that you are [i]horrible[/i] at training I and that pathetic goblin is defying me in my very own face—would I liked better it did it behind my back—and incase you haven’t of heard, people believe that I am too damned young to rule over this country of which I do and no one will for a very, very, [i]very[/i] long time!” He spat, joining the lean, muscular man to the side of the training hill. The parched grass was brown and dying, but in yards around it there was greenery everywhere to be seen. In Azarie’s words, it was the circle. The circle of which he was doomed to until Refalla deemed him worthy of succession in proper use of a bow as his tradition had been stated.
Refalla’s exhale of a breath was very distinct at this nonsense. “Go home, Azarie, you honestly don’t belong here.”
”Oh yes I belong here. I need to learn how to use this bow…”
”I believe you have done [i]enough[/i] damage for today, just wait for tomorrow, see what else you can conjure up to make my job harder for the both of us!” Refalla said scornfully while his mouth curled into a bitter frown of its own, only reflecting Azarie’s troubled one. His hands tore the broken bow from Azarie’s hands, and he sniffed very long and proud.
”Our ancestors have used this weapon for years, Azarie. I thought all elves were made, with our fingers long and slender… to wield this beautiful thing,” his frown turned into a loving smile when he gazed at his own bow in his left hand. Painted black and encrusted with gold Azarie outstretched his hand nimbly out to stroke it, but Refalla stopped him at once with a smack of his fingers.
”You dare touch my bow when you break yours! No, I think not,” Refalla hissed, hugging his bow to himself very discreetly. Azarie, shocked, curled his hand into a fist.
”Well,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “I suppose I shall just go then, you do not have the honor and time of my… presence…” Azarie turned on his heel with a wrinkle of his nose, stomping all the way to his bag and hoisting it up over his shoulder. He turned to look at Refalla, whom looking very relieved, smiled and gave a little wave of his fingers. “Tata, Azarie, I shall see you tomorrow.”
By this, Azarie’s eyes squinted in menace. “You…you idiot, you’re a flaming idiot. Of course you’ll see me tomorrow, dare you question my return!” His lips turned into a scowl. He argued for the fun of it, at least it was bits of amusement… but had Refalla of kept him for the three hours he was supposed to stay, he would have been at least a little bit happier.
Refalla smiled again. “Oh Azarie, you remind me more of a four year old elf than a 25 year old. Now please leave, I believe Epona is now here to search for herbs with me.”
Azarie turned around and faced Epona, green skin and the same very bright, obnoxious red hair… her figure looked very shy. With one black eye and white pupil, and another white eye and black pupil, they glanced up at him in laughter.
”I know your sister,” she grinned.
”Oh yes?” Azarie asked, arching his eyebrow. “[i]Good[/i] for [i]you[/i].” In a temper tantrum, he turned again and left down the dirt path, leaving Epona and Refalla with two, silly grins on their faces.
*
Azarie’s strides were agile and crisp while he walked across the fertile Earth soil, with the undersurface of his feet feeling the cool sensation it calmed him of his nerves. It was accepting to him (oh yes, he was particularly /fine/) that Refalla had kicked him out from his weapon training class once more, but something in him stirred differently that had no such connection to what had happened that day. Nor had it the day before, or the day before that one… it was of something of shame, something far hidden in his chest that was considered a clearly obvious beyond to the public but not to himself. What did these people see inside of him that he could not shell himself from, and as they had put it as ‘too young to rule’, how did they know they know what they were speaking of? Since when had one damnable species wish to rule Jarahn, as his uncle Freeile lay on his death bed, then had to pass down the throne onto Azarie whether his conduction would be swell or terrible; since they out come was never the matter in the situation, why had so many now turn their heads within his approach? His name was shed as grotesque as if grotesque was what it was inclined to subsist, if young had he not of been he would have thought nothing of absurdity. Yet absurdity was something Azarie had handled in grasp like a cube of fate; it was so fragile and so terrifying, the shape with sharp edges and multiple capacities. Whether he was to keep holding on or to let go was a question left in perplexity and unanswered, but still he wished to endure on the endless possibilities.
In the moment he walked alone. The build of nature was beautifully carved around him, the tall beauteous willow trees bolded bronze by the gold tint rays off of the setting sun stood in lines on both sides of the red dirt path, and here he walked towards the yellow crazed sun, there it was tumbling low against the gray seashore. It inhabited the stone castle of the far left that was built upon a rock cliff that was thick and sturdy in all its might, off a little to the side, a separate but small chateau where he resided along with the blood of his family or their close accommodates.
Say it is horrible, say it is nice, I do not mind.
The country of Jarahn had been feuding over thousands of moons. The three sides of their split region had once been united into a strong alliance of elves, men, pagans, and spirits; all living together in a comfortable peace and harmony. Everyday life was consisted in acts of notorious merrymaking, and in the days that there was no celebrations night was the substitute of an excuse to behave in an equally suggestive or foolish manner to lighten the spirits of each species and all content in an unblemished lifestyle. There was a peculiar aurora circling around this land was of such difference it was a warm welcome to be accepted in a stable community, and for such diverse species in one location it was an odd encounter to be at such serene emotions connecting to each drastically different life of a spare being. While other countries were in war, this was not true for Jarahn; many lived in solitude and happiness with their individualities separate from their discreet neighbors just beyond the other side of the hills and fields. For years they spoke nothing but kindness to each other which their gestures respectful when passing by another citizen. Yet, all changed abruptly; it was that of a new comer into the land of Jarahn that changed its natural course of life.
This new comer was distant and bold; Devaughn, a pagan witch of the realm of which he spawned. Guardian of the Dark that he was, also leader of a coven he had emerged from the dead long ago before his own time began to walk upon the soil. He was dressed in the finest attire of black silks. A robe cloaking his figure from the blinding shed of light and happiness that was crooned over Jarahn and his hair, a very dark sapien to the attraction of the gray pigment his skin tone was bond to. This colour obvious being produced by Devaughn having been possibly resurrected from the dead, and in that thought the result of him staying in Jarahn, in the region of Faranth, was deemed skeptical by many. It was told he was sent to this ancient land for a mission and one mission only.
The Guardian of Light and ruler of Jarahn—Freeile—let his stay become only very temporary. Pressured upon the act of being both respectful but having this Devaughn dangerously close to his people was an emotion of devastation. Perplexed he made his stay very temporary; the count down of five days for Devaughn to stay was made, and in those five days the peace of the Jarahn had began to deteriorate.
The actions that took place to the destruction were artless and so very displeasing. One by one each race, species, and creature began to fall into hostile terms with one another. Battles were rage between the stone paths of the town villages, and even more so it had progressed to become into a horrid impropriety. They had begun to kill.
Little were lost but it was all too many for Freeile, and in madness he had banished the snake Devaughn out from his country and back to swell with remises of the dead. He was to be under a hazardous spell, to stay within the dirt, the grim, and the rotting corpses to match his mingled mind of hated and deceit. From after being drove out of Jarahn, it had been far too late, as his desires had been fulfilled.
To make such desires to evolve into existence was nothing of a hard time. The people of Jarahn were mildly ignorant, not corrupt or aware of a scoundrel like many others of the countries Phalos or Rayola had been, hence why perhaps such wars in their lands had broke out easily.
Devaughn had many acquaintances, ones that were not of the living or in-tact with the world like many should be. These acquaintances ran back in age as long far back than anyone could possibly remember. In the past before Freeile and his line of family had ruled, this sacred land had not been such a sacred place. To elaborate, races and species alike now did not get along then, and hearing from some of the things they had done to each other, it was an absurd realization. The things of the past in their eyes could not be erased, innocent, naïve enough had they been, it only took a few facts until hatred boiled.
And the land of Jarahn long staid in its place until a new ruler stumbled upon the throne. Here Azarie starts his era.
”Azarie!”
Piercing his bow hushed his name that had been called; the focused determination entrancing the eyes of the elf forced his fingers to lessen upon the strong feathered arrow. While his mind intentionally blocked out the unnecessary auditable sounds that could conclude to his confusion, the voice of his trainer had barely quirked his curiosity to why he asked his name. The elf in his right mind would have guessed (and foolishly would he) that his trainer had no more intention of wishing to prepare him for a battle long battled upon. But never the less had the aching and the throbbing and the pain, all twisted into one result of panic strung between his fingers heighten his senses and his sensibility to come through, and straying off his balanced feet had he released one more arrow accidentally in the thicket of the goblin’s amour… he fell.
Not very hard, but hard enough to leave his breath gasping and a sensual pain probing in his side and soon more so on his chest. Finding it a tad hard to breath the young elf went to hoist himself up to only fall unwillingly back down, underneath him his long bow snapping and his bloody fingers immersing into the dirt.
”Yer! Yer!” It said, the figure that had climbed on his chest roughly began to heave itself up and down in fury to smack and hit Azarie’s whizzing chest. It pained very little, the thrusts somewhat strong for such a creature were no where near hurting the elf, where he soon discovered he was hitting it rather self consciously back and groaning through chapped lips.
”Get off of me,” he moaned, his head rolling from side to side. A goblin, so little and very light, weighing Azarie down was something truly embarrassing. With an extreme amount of anger and force had he finally delivered one last blow to the goblin’s stomach, and there it stumbled off his chest. He groggily got up to meet the skinless, four foot creature. It was struggling on the ground like it was born with four legs, deviously scampering on the dirt with claws protruding from its fingers. He snickered and ran after it with more disregard of another cry of his name, and still with a considerable amount of emotion bundled inside his heaving chest he snatched the goblin up from its one left leg.
”Now you listen to me!” Azarie said sternly, poking at its armor. “Being your ruler I demand you—“
”You don’t demand me nuthin’” It gleamed. The goblin’s voice was high pitched like young girls, but indeed it was a male struggling against Azarie’s grip. Its other leg was ferociously swinging around in the air, while at it the plated armor on its legs clanged. And again Azarie snickered.
”Do I? Damn you little creatures… damn you, I could…” Well, he didn’t know what he could do, but what he was previously attempting was going to kill the poor thing and obviously it had the attentive full right to say he demanded nothing of him out of spite, as the elf probably would of too in his position. Azarie gripped his leg a little more while cleverly rolling his eyes, and with one dangerous swing of his arm, he threw the goblin over across the field in front of him. “Aaaaaaa!” It cried. His arms and legs wagging like spiders would.
”You don’t demand me nothing my royal back cheeks,” Azarie grunted like a child, mocking the goblin with an odd hand gesture waving in the air about his head. He earned no respect around this country, none whatsoever. The conclusion that he was far too young to be ruling over such a vast, troubled country had never crossed his mind though in fact this was definitely the cause, for such a big portion of land and an daresay immature elf ruler with controversial rumors to its species it spoke lengths.
He crossed his arms over his chest with a gruesome expression playing on his long and handsome face, the straight strands of his shoulder length red tresses flying behind him while he walked briskly across the field. Had he been convinced that everything was out to get him that day he would have considered that even the birds chirping noisily at him were defying him, but alas, through this day one thing had gone according to plan. Azarie had visited his dear old uncle Freeile, now thousands in age but never the less still wise, it was good to belong with someone that did not believe that he was too childish to rule.
”Azarie, now what in all bloody hell, why have you been so embittered?”
Refalla, Azarie’s eleven trainer began to lecture him, waving his own hands in the air with a devastating glare in his eyes.
”Oh nothing, Refalla, its just that you are [i]horrible[/i] at training I and that pathetic goblin is defying me in my very own face—would I liked better it did it behind my back—and incase you haven’t of heard, people believe that I am too damned young to rule over this country of which I do and no one will for a very, very, [i]very[/i] long time!” He spat, joining the lean, muscular man to the side of the training hill. The parched grass was brown and dying, but in yards around it there was greenery everywhere to be seen. In Azarie’s words, it was the circle. The circle of which he was doomed to until Refalla deemed him worthy of succession in proper use of a bow as his tradition had been stated.
Refalla’s exhale of a breath was very distinct at this nonsense. “Go home, Azarie, you honestly don’t belong here.”
”Oh yes I belong here. I need to learn how to use this bow…”
”I believe you have done [i]enough[/i] damage for today, just wait for tomorrow, see what else you can conjure up to make my job harder for the both of us!” Refalla said scornfully while his mouth curled into a bitter frown of its own, only reflecting Azarie’s troubled one. His hands tore the broken bow from Azarie’s hands, and he sniffed very long and proud.
”Our ancestors have used this weapon for years, Azarie. I thought all elves were made, with our fingers long and slender… to wield this beautiful thing,” his frown turned into a loving smile when he gazed at his own bow in his left hand. Painted black and encrusted with gold Azarie outstretched his hand nimbly out to stroke it, but Refalla stopped him at once with a smack of his fingers.
”You dare touch my bow when you break yours! No, I think not,” Refalla hissed, hugging his bow to himself very discreetly. Azarie, shocked, curled his hand into a fist.
”Well,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “I suppose I shall just go then, you do not have the honor and time of my… presence…” Azarie turned on his heel with a wrinkle of his nose, stomping all the way to his bag and hoisting it up over his shoulder. He turned to look at Refalla, whom looking very relieved, smiled and gave a little wave of his fingers. “Tata, Azarie, I shall see you tomorrow.”
By this, Azarie’s eyes squinted in menace. “You…you idiot, you’re a flaming idiot. Of course you’ll see me tomorrow, dare you question my return!” His lips turned into a scowl. He argued for the fun of it, at least it was bits of amusement… but had Refalla of kept him for the three hours he was supposed to stay, he would have been at least a little bit happier.
Refalla smiled again. “Oh Azarie, you remind me more of a four year old elf than a 25 year old. Now please leave, I believe Epona is now here to search for herbs with me.”
Azarie turned around and faced Epona, green skin and the same very bright, obnoxious red hair… her figure looked very shy. With one black eye and white pupil, and another white eye and black pupil, they glanced up at him in laughter.
”I know your sister,” she grinned.
”Oh yes?” Azarie asked, arching his eyebrow. “[i]Good[/i] for [i]you[/i].” In a temper tantrum, he turned again and left down the dirt path, leaving Epona and Refalla with two, silly grins on their faces.
*
Azarie’s strides were agile and crisp while he walked across the fertile Earth soil, with the undersurface of his feet feeling the cool sensation it calmed him of his nerves. It was accepting to him (oh yes, he was particularly /fine/) that Refalla had kicked him out from his weapon training class once more, but something in him stirred differently that had no such connection to what had happened that day. Nor had it the day before, or the day before that one… it was of something of shame, something far hidden in his chest that was considered a clearly obvious beyond to the public but not to himself. What did these people see inside of him that he could not shell himself from, and as they had put it as ‘too young to rule’, how did they know they know what they were speaking of? Since when had one damnable species wish to rule Jarahn, as his uncle Freeile lay on his death bed, then had to pass down the throne onto Azarie whether his conduction would be swell or terrible; since they out come was never the matter in the situation, why had so many now turn their heads within his approach? His name was shed as grotesque as if grotesque was what it was inclined to subsist, if young had he not of been he would have thought nothing of absurdity. Yet absurdity was something Azarie had handled in grasp like a cube of fate; it was so fragile and so terrifying, the shape with sharp edges and multiple capacities. Whether he was to keep holding on or to let go was a question left in perplexity and unanswered, but still he wished to endure on the endless possibilities.
In the moment he walked alone. The build of nature was beautifully carved around him, the tall beauteous willow trees bolded bronze by the gold tint rays off of the setting sun stood in lines on both sides of the red dirt path, and here he walked towards the yellow crazed sun, there it was tumbling low against the gray seashore. It inhabited the stone castle of the far left that was built upon a rock cliff that was thick and sturdy in all its might, off a little to the side, a separate but small chateau where he resided along with the blood of his family or their close accommodates.
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