Bah. It always seems like I'm submitting rough drafts for these. By the time I have a good story idea, it's a couple days before the deadline, and I have to rush it, and we end up.. here.
Waaaayyyy overshot the word limit. Welp. Judge as you will, oh mighty writing-GAF. Not as clean as I'd have liked, not as coherent, but there's something decent in here... no, really!
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Wanderers (2222 words) {at least that's a sweet word count}
Through the smoky silence, a weary voice broke a whisper,
"Yae-lis, Yae-lis.
Thy mighty walls and colored halls,
Yae-lis, Yae-lis.
Oh the call of thy glorious falls,
Yae-lis, Yae-lis.
Where mighty Yael wrests its peace,
Thy will is strong, 'gainst ghoul or beast,
May ye never go wrong, ye 'ternal East,
Yae-lis, Yae-lis,
Yae-lis, Yae-lis."
"The Yaelis of your forefathers has long since gone, old man. The natives there now call it Mizon, and they've fallen to the delusion and greed of mankind."
In the shadowed corner of the musty frontier tavern, a grim stranger approached. Even in the dim light, his short hair shone silver, as though struck by stars. His face was long, with a longer-still scar the length of its right side, his eyes and weathered cloak a dirty dark red. He peered down to the wizened man he had interrupted.
"So have we all in troubling times," said he, his sharp blue eyes twinkling as he noticed the newcomer. He sat huddled over at the far corner of the long room, shrouded in wispy haze. A crooked tree branch with a rounded end sat in his lap, a long gray beard ran down atop his colorless robes, and a pointed brown hat rested crookedly upon his head. A thin pipe stuck from the corner of his mouth, and he blew out a thick puff of smoke before he spoke again. "Have a seat, stranger. Usually I keep company with lighter-hearted folk, but I guess it uncanny fate that we meet this night."
"If it's a light heart you seek, the desert is a poor place to look."
"Ah, but if you don't look you can't find."
The tavern, such as it was, was the bottom floor of the finest inn in the lake town of Itene, the last oasis at the southern edge of the Great Continental Desert. Itene was a crossroads, and as a crossroads its inns were always a busy blend of men of all sorts. There were the tall woodsmen from the east, stocky and strong fishermen and traders from the coastal cities to the south, and small but sturdy nomads who traveled the desert lands to the north. More rare were men of the north, magicians and soldiers from the beyond the desert -- from the Empire of Mizon.
There were no men, nor anything else, from the west. Those who went west never returned. The shadow of evil there was too thick, the darkness too deep.
The proprietor of the establishment, a tall brunette, swept around the tavern with swift grace, her blue silk dress swaying only slightly as she approached. She was lovely, but stern, and though many a patron made a pass at her, she did not respond beyond polite kindness. For a moment her eyes flashed to the corner, where a pair sat in the shadows. Then she resumed her patrol.
"Tidings, tidings!!" a voice boomed from outside. The wooden front doors swung open, and a troupe of three men lumbered in. They were a dazzling sight, clad in lavish purples and reds, wearing sparkling trinkets of gold and silver around their arms and necks. One had a large pack on his back, and his eyes were darker than the others'.
"An honor, gentlemen," the patroness said quickly, greeting her customers with a slight bow. "Are you looking for a place to stay for the night?"
"Perhaps, but that should depend on how long the night lasts."
While clearly not grasping his meaning, the patroness nodded and asked them if they would like to take a seat.
"Where are you gentlemen from?" she asked, eying a gold bracelet with interest.
"We travel, passing from the distant west."
A few feet away, burly man nearly fell from his chair.
"The WEST?!" he shouted. The noise echoed across the room and back, and the newcomers greeted this salt-water breathing hoodlum with visible distaste. A moment later, a cascading avalanche of footsteps fell from above.
"Do my ears deceive me?" a tall woodsman asked, ducking under the archway leading from the upstairs. "Travelers from the west are here?"
"Your ears are true," a sitting man donned in purple said. "My name is Nysskel, and we three have indeed passed from the west."
"Surely you're not from the west, though?" the woodsman pressed. "The shadow looms too thick for even the nomads to tread it."
"Ah, but there are those who dare to tread it," answered Nysskel. "You are right to say we are not from the west, per say. Both I and the friend on my right are magicians from Mizon." To his side, a man in red nodded in agreement.
"From the north, then," the woodsman smiled. "Well met, nonetheless. Little merrymaking indeed could we do if not for the walls of the north. I am At'tas of the east. We're called savages by some, but we keep the men of the sea busy by giving them plenty of boats with which to adventuring."
"Aye, you do that if nothing else," the burly man a few feet away from before answered with a sip of his whiskey. The group laughed.
With introductions out of the way, the general merrymaking proceeded. Drinks were bought, stories were told -- surprisingly few of the west, considering how the excitement had begun. Sensing that some sort of party had begun, other travelers came down from their rooms, and soon the tavern was packed with patrons. The two wanderers in the corner eyed the center of the commotion with suspicion.
"What do you think of these men from the west, old man?"
"'Old man' cuts too deep, swordsman," the old man said with a puff of his pipe. "Call me Pilgrim."
"Then I am 'Red'."
"To answer your question, I do not think much of them. They are adventurers, rich with the fruits of their labors. They return home with gold and silver, and stories of questionable truth."
"And of the west?" asked Red, the eyes of the same color glinting in the dim light.
"You'll get no answer to that, not with this many in earshot."
"The shadow stretches thicker every day, it is said."
"That I have heard as well," puffed Pilgrim.
"Hear hear!" At'tas called from the center of the bar. "How about a tale of adventure from our guests from the west?"
The sturdy rower-men from the south, the tall builders from the east, and the skinny nomads from the north presently gathered around to hear what the newcomers from the west would say.
"I have little in the way of tales," Nysskel lied professionally, "but how about something better? Since this inn is called the Wayworn Wizard, how about we do a magical demonstration of sorts?"
There was a gasp and a cheer, at the thought of this rare spectacle.
"So, what say you, Pilgrim? Is he a wizard?"
The old man blew a puff of smoke.
"I think not in the White Arts."
Nysskel had risen to his feet. A thin white glow seemed to outline his regal purple robes.
"Aquarius!"
Water lept from his glass, gathering into a floating blob that bobbed and weaved around the room. The crowd applauded. Finally, Nysskel raised his glass, and deposited the lump back into it and took a sip.
"Thank you, thank you. It's nothing."
"Encore!"
The man sighed, an incredulous smile on his face.
"I'll handle it, boss," a dark-eyed man clad in a paler shade of purple said. Nysskel looked surprised.
"Truly, Mosash?" He smiled. "Excellent! Ladies and gentlemen, my guide Monash! I said before that two of us were from the north, but Monash is indeed from the west."
The room fell silent. In the corner of the room, Pilgrim's eyes blazed.
"One reckons so," he rumbled in a low, harsh voice. "I have braved the shadow all my life. But that is enough. Behold!" He cast aside a cover, revealing a shining golden cube -- about the size of a breadbox. It sparkled, and an unearthly light rolled off it and onto the onlookers. They gasped. He reached to open the box.
"The Dragon's Eye!"
"STAND DOWN!"
A voice boomed from the corner, forceful and immense. Some of the crowd turned to look. Pilgrim had risen to his feet, pipe still in his mouth, walking stick held aloft with both hands. A white light shone from it, and from his beard and hair. He breathed a cloud of glowing smoke.
"Now old man, don't be hasty," the voice of Monash echoed from across the room. Even as it did, a dark shadow began to bloom from the golden box, a cruel smoke blacker than the most moonless of nights. Monash began to laugh, and he was enveloped in the cloud. Then others in the crowd too succumbed to the laughter, and the darkness began to spread.
"Elenus! Ainran Elenus!"
From Pilgrim, white light rose like a shockwave towards the shadow. It crashed and met it, and his weary figure shrunk back a step. Then, with a shriek, he raised his staff again and shouted,
"All who still have your wits about you: Run, it is not safe here!"
The shadow began to fall back under the pressure of white light. Pilgrim stepped forward, his brown hat glowing gold under the heavenly light from his crooked staff. But he staggered with each step, and his face was weary with concentration. The tavern was emptying, with only a handful still present. There was At'tas, lingering at the exit. There was Nysskel and his fellow man of Mizon, both lying unconscious at the floor. There was Monash, only his feet visible under the black shadow. And there was Red, lurking in the back corner, unmoving. The patroness was nowhere to be seen.
"Ainran Elenus!"
Again the white shockwave crashed into the shadow, a wave of light against the dark void. Monash shrunk back. Pilgrim was nearly close enough to touch the shadow now, but he made no move.
"I have no power over it," he muttered softly. "Is there truly no other way?"
Thump. The whole room shuddered, and a crippling terror took hold over all men's hearts. At'tas cowered. Nysskel awoke, and he screamed.
Before their eyes, the patroness stood. Her skin was the void, and her eyes glowed with a venomous yellow fire. She walked, and as she did she erased all that had been before. The wooden floor shuddered, peeling away at her steps. The table melted at her hands. Monash turned, free of the shadow at last, his eyes fearful.
"No!"
"Yes," the patroness spoke, her smile like the end of the world. She reached out a hand to the man, and he trembled.
"But I..."
He stared at her outstretched arm for a long moment -- into the void -- shaking. Then he took it, and the shadow enveloped him as well.
"Yes!," he shouted, his voice shaking the very foundations of the inn. Pilgrim shrunk back, now holding his staff to the ground, his face still torn in concentration and his eyes still glowing with white fire. A sphere of blue light formed around him, and he shouted.
"You have no power here, Shadow of the West!"
"Save your breath, old man," grinned Monash, his chuckle swallowing what dim light remained. "The shadow stretches thicker every day."
With a start, Pilgrim whirled, his face white. 'Red' was gone without a trace of silver hair in his wake.
"Delusion and greed indeed," the old man cursed. His staff shook, and the shadow drew nearer. It engulfed the tavern now, pressing him to the familiar back corner that still smelt of pipe smoke.
"Don't be so quick to abandon hope, fellow pilgrim."
Like the outline of a constellation in the stars above, a silver shadow slipped into the darkness. It weaved its way through the void, sidestepping plumes of golden flames before reaching the pair at the dark center of the room. The patroness shrieked, and all sound was lost.
The shadow collapsed with the abruptness of a waking dream. Red stood at the center of the room, holding the woman in her blue dress in his arms, his face still alight with golden flame. Monash was gone.
"No!" gasped Pilgrim, leaning on his staff in shock. "You cannot control it! You mustn't try!"
Red paced to a chair, seating the woman into it gently. His eyes were bright, and his hair seemed to be bleeding from silver to black.
"I have no designs on this power," he said simply, striding over to where the golden box still stood. He laid his hands upon it. The room shook, and an unearthly cry called the shadow back once more with a single word.
"Valcyris."
But the shadow popped again, this time without leaving a trace. The golden box had turned to stone. Inside was a large glass orb the size of grapefruit. Red picked it up in one hand. Pilgrim trudged over to him, his face muddled in puzzlement.
"That is the most marvelous thing I've ever seen, Lost One."
"Old man, not all those who wander are lost."
