Original Submissions by Taven of type 'Stories'
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Legends of 'Nak: The Four Orders
Added on Nov 26, 2008Four Orders to serve His Will, four colors of the Robes. This is a legend or story a commoner might hear or speak about what the roles of His Templarate are, and explain their existence in ways mere commoners might understand.
There are four orders to serve the will of the Golden Tower, four orders
that enforce His will upon the sprawling sands of civilization; the realm
and city of Allanak. Four orders to hold His will:The Keepers of His Gifts. The Black Dragon spread it's wings across the
sky, enveloping the worthy. He Who Saved Us vanquished the defilers of His
Will, tearing from them the Gift they abused: Not only life, but existence
itself. The Templars of the White bequeath unto His City water, source of
all, the toll they take a reminder of the cost of His Gifts.The Speakers of His Voice. His Gloriousness, like the Golden Tower He resides in, is far above the puny affairs of His Citizens. Unending, He sees a year as but a
moment, a King's Age as a mere day. The Templars of the Blue are entrusted
the Judgment to speak with His voice on all matters. Their word is His
Will: Their word is Law and Truth.The Bearers of His Blood. In His City, citizens might first convey an
order by voice, and then enforce it with brutal and precise force. To
comprehend in small the orders who serve him, this example will serve. The
Great Templars of the Red are His Blood, and to them is given unimaginable
gifts, to obliterate any who try to defy or rise above the speakers of His
Voice.Those formed of His Shadow. His Shadow encompasses all. White are for
Gifts, Blue for the Voice, Red for the Blood. Those who are of His Shadow
don robes as black as the Dragon's very scales. The High Templar Lords of
the Black are unseen, unspoken. It is they who set the cast, the mold for
His City to follow in, as the Shadow of His Gloriousness wills.There are four orders to serve the will of the Golden Tower, four orders
that enforce His will upon the sprawling sands of civilization; the realm
and city of Allanak. Four orders to hold His will:The Keepers of His Gifts. The Black Dragon spread it's wings across the
sky, enveloping the...
Continue Reading...Dreams of death for ever-more
Added on Jan 6, 2008Set during and shortly after the Gith War in Allanak , this gruesome story focuses on Private Karriv Amosson of the Arm of the Dragon and the horrors of war and death. Please note there are reoccurring and graphic depictions of violence. Constructive criticism welcome.
The eerie, haunting melody slipped out over the brown-splattered, corpse-strewn streets, seeming only to enhance the utter stillness. Slowly it drifted through the air, each word lingering the way the stench of death lingered, permeating the air.
“No thoughts of glo-ry, this is war,
Dreams of death for ever-more…”
The gaunt wisp of a girl threaded her way over the precarious, gruesome footing with ease, seeming the only thing alive in the nightmare around her. The city had elapsed into a shocked, numbed silence, the reeling of incomprehension before reality sinks in. All sounds save those of mindless reflex were crushed, gone before the weight of fatigue. Soon even the distantly heard clash of blades would cease, the sounds of a few stragglers in a war already over.
“Ba-the your sword in crim-son red,
Cele-brate the bodies dead.”
The gore surrounding the blood-drenched figure seemed like something out of a defiler’s wet dream. Scraps of burnt flesh were plastered to the wall of the building slumping behind him, clung to his armor and littered the road. Goblets of bloody hunks of tissue and ripped strands of twisted muscle were scattered along the road, kank-flies already beginning to buzz. The cold, unseeing eyes of monstrous gith and soldier alike leered from mangled and trampled corpses.
Karriv Amosson’s eyes could scarce be told apart. They too stared unblinkingly and unseeingly at nothing, unfocused and uncaring. The differences were subtle. These eyes still glistened, not yet drying out as so many others, and when a kank-fly approached to suck out the moisture, they would flicker in their numb stare with a single, reflexive blink. In his blood-caked, trembling arms was the body of a woman, her fingers still clutched around a jade-emblazoned, razor-edged sword.
“Dressed in jade, clad in black,
“‘Gainst the Highlord’s Arm none will take ‘Nak…”
The words echoed in Karriv’s thoughts, a spark of awareness in the vast dunes of numbness. “’Gainst the Highlord’s Arm none will take ‘Nak…” Bile rose in his throat, thick and acidic. He retched, splattering the remains of his last meal across the ground in heave after heave, until his retching came dry-- There was nothing left.
Her eyes sparkled as she smacked his head; with anger or amusement he couldn’t tell. “How many times do I have to tell you? It’s not ‘Yza’ and it’s not ‘Belle,’ it’s Yzabelle. You’d think you’d have it by now, you stupid lug”
He gave a wide grin. “Well, you know, yelling ‘Yza, Yza, Yzaaa! Ooo!’ isn’t near so fun to yell as ‘ Yzaaabelleee! Ooooo !’ in bed.”
Yzabelle smirked at him. “Been practicing on the whores again, Karriv? Or do you practice while playing with yourself, because you couldn’t even pay a whore to fuck you?”
He clutched his chest. “Ouch, you’ve a krathi-tounge. Ooooh, how it burns.”
Yzabelle rolled her eyes. “I’d say see a vivadu, but you’re already wet enough.”
“Good, then we can get to it!” He grins incorrigibly before pausing. “Seriously, Yza, why not? We’d both have a damn good time, you know that.”
She gave him a soft smile. “Because fun fucks come easy, and a man who is so persistent at making a fool of himself is a much rarer treat.”
He grumbled something unflattering under his breath.
“Besides, I’m not going to fuck a man just so he’ll get my name right.” She pressed two fingers to her lips, then pressed them to his cheek.
“Hey, love-kanks!” They both started, Yzabelle’s face a scowl as she prepared to vehemently object. “Save it. Serge is callin’ the unit together.”
The sergeant begin, and it was not long before Karriv interrupted. “How many fuckers?! Wigglin’ child of a rinthi necker-spawn!”
Yzabelle smirked. “Don’t worry Karriv, I won’t let the scary Gith get you.”
The memory dissipated, Karriv abruptly wrenched from it like a babe from the safety womb thrust into the cruel jowls of reality. Somewhere distant the high wail of a child split through the air, a jarring refrain.
“What’s wrong?”
Karriv started, sword reflexively up and point pressed to the speaker’s throat. It was just a child. Karriv forced tense muscles to relax, withdrawing his sword. Large blue eyes continued to look at him unblinkingly, and she spoke again in that same ethereal voice. “You won, you know.”
He tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak. The sharp tang of acid was still strong in his mouth, his throat felt as raw as the fleshless globs of oozing flesh scattered about. Karriv coughed, throat seared with pain. He took a long swig of water, cool, cold, refreshing-- And spit it out. The pungent smell of blood, sweat and the dead permeated everything. The girl only continued to watch him, cool eyes unwavering.
“Who- Who are you?”
“I’m only the first. There will be many songs to follow, for a victory so grand. The losses were acceptable, the foe vanquished.”
He blinked with incomprehension, and she turned to continue. The distant child’s wail finally died, and she continued the slow, floating melody.
“Bloody, shat-terred broken dreams,
Victorious tri-um-phant screams…”
------------------------------------------
“To the Highlord!” Karriv raised his glass to the toast, downing it in a single swallow. Five glasses later, he wasn’t even buzzed, much less drunk. He didn’t remember the last time he had gotten drunk. True, this was probably because afterwards he always awoke on the floor of the Gaj, knowing nothing save the intense pounding pain of a merciless hangover.
He filled the glass again, watching the Lord Templar Nariliek give out awards. He didn’t know the men and women up there; over half his unit was dead. Over half the unit. I’ve reduced them to nothing more then a statistic. Of course he had. Karriv wanted them to be a statistic, to have that distance from them. Because if they didn’t exist as more then numbers, then they weren’t gone. Then he wouldn’t feel this nameless, sinking all-consuming void within him. You want to forget. And that only inflamed the guilt. He couldn’t deny it, he wanted to forget everything that seared his heart so, and that in itself was a dagger plunging into him.
The drunkenness would have purged all of this. It made him numb, it made him not care, gave him the illusion of happiness and joy. And when he woke up, everything was all the darker, all the bleaker, making him crave the delusion of bliss all the more.
“Karriv!” He started as an elbow found his ribs. “The Lord Templar has called you twice already.” Nariliek’s hard eyes stared at him expectantly.
“Sorry, milord. Must’ve been a bit krath-struck,” he said, rising smoothly. Too smoothly for his lapse to be wine induced, the Lord Templar noted with a flicker of satisfaction.
“Private Karriv , your performance on the battle field was exceptional, a fine example for--”
Thrust, slash, parry, block. Too quick for conscious thought, weapon merely and extension of self, self a creature with only one goal: To kill. Complete and utter chaos. Something shoved something your way; you rammed your sword back in its face. Protect the soldiers on either side of you, hold the line. Anything else was death.
“Therefore, I present you with the jade cross, as well as--”
He slashed out, bone slashing across the jugular with a spray of warm blood spurting across his face. No time to wipe it away. He turned to block a blade aimed at his head, stumbling over a fallen body. No time to think. He smashed down a boot for better footing, crunching bone and mashing flesh, smashing the face beyond recognition. Merrik’s face. Merrik, oh Highlord, not Mer -- Block, parry, slash, dodge . No time to think. “Hold the line! I will fucking personally flay anyone who breaks. HOLD THE FUCKING LINE!” Roared a voice, as the hoard of Gith continued to come, as far as the eye can see, snarling with feral blood lusting eyes--
--The soldier beside him, arm brutally severed with a rush of crimson, endlessly spurting and the screaming, oh Highlord, the screaming-- “MEDIC! MEDIC FOR ASHIA!” He yelled, voice lost amidst the clash and clang of weaponry, the screams of the injured and roars of the combatants. A vivadu, a medic, something or she’d bleed out--! “Arrows!” someone yelled a few soldiers down, barely audible. Too late, as one pierced Ashia’s eye, slicing through it with a thunk as it hit something beyond. Her screams cut off abruptly, dieing in a strangled gurgle of blood.
Yzabelle moved to fill the gap in the line, shield firmly before her. “Yza, Ashia, I couldn’t--” Her eyes met his. “I know Karriv. I couldn’t save her eit --” She slammed an offending Gith down, ramming her sword through its gut and as it fell into Ashia’s corpse beneath it. “--er. It’s not over, Karriv. We’ve got a War to win. Now let’s kill these fucking sons of bitches!”
In the distance, cross the lengths of fighting sweat-soaked soldiers and treacherous footing made slick with blood and adorned with gore came a cry. Yzabelle spun to look for the source of the sound. “Karriv, the Lord Templar!”
Another explosion of gore, shards of sizzling-hot bone flew through the air. Blood, torn and shredded strips of muscle covered him like a mantle. Karriv could feel his heart racing in his chest (thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk) as the soldiers exploded around him, with not so much as time for a scream. He was going to be next; he was going to go-- His bladder released, seeping down his pants, urine mixing with the sweat that soaked them.
Beside him, Yzabelle rushed on, eyes also wide with fear. Her breathing came ragged, and she clenched her jaw, narrowing her gaze on their goal. They ran on, a deadly obstacle course of gith , stone road completely obscured by bodies and blood, both waiting for a misstep to send them booth sprawling down in the chaos. They scrambled to keep their footing and their sanity in this nightmarish reality.
“Karriv, cover me-- I’ll take point.” Karriv dropped back, focusing to the sneering, snarling Gith to either side. Yzabelle was free to focus her efforts on surging forewords. The repugnant stench of gore and the fallen filled the air, along with the all-permeating odor of burnt flesh, but it barely registered as the two sweat and blood-soaked soldiers pressed on.
They reached the Templar, Karriv rushing to route the gith in the front, Yza darting behind the Templar’s back. He didn’t know how long they hacked and slashed, if it was only moments, or endless days but suddenly there was nothing left to kill. Karriv stood, blinking blearily, breathing haggard as he waited for that simple yet inconceivable fact to register. “Yza?” He croaked. “It’s… Yzabelle…” Was the equally hoarse and haggard reply. Someone moaned, and they both were reminded of the cause for the frantic rush to get here.
Karriv stumbled over with a weary sigh, dropping to his knees to look the Lord Templar over. “I think he’s been poisoned.” Karriv begin to rummage through his belt, only to find that it had been slashed somewhere along the fight, precious contents lost somewhere amidst the chaos of battle. Fuck, now what?! He stared at the Templar, no answer coming. Then something clanged off his helmet, bouncing off. “You… Stupid… Lug…” Yzabelle’s breathing was still harsh and ragged, but she offered a grin. “Always loosing your shit. I swear ,you’d be a helpless babe without me.” Karriv snorted, inwardly clinging to the banter the way a man fallen over the edge of the shield wall would cling to a rope. It was familiar, it was reassuring and it kept him focused, able to ignore the ravages around him.
He picked the pouch thrown at him out from the rubble and gore, peering into it to discern the proper tablet. “Lord Templar?” Blue eyes flickered weakly over to gaze unsteadily at Karriv. “Milord, you have to eat this. You understand?” He placed the tablet in Nariliek’s mouth, making sure he ate and swallowed it-- Without choking or vomiting it back up. He poured the water from the flask to the Templar’s lips, and the blue eyes closed-- Breathing slowly getting steadier and more even. Karriv let out a sigh of relief, slumping down. “Yza, we did it. We did it.”
She gave a tired smile back, for once not complaining about the nick-name. “Yeah, we did.” They both just rested, recovering best they could before the inevitability of more fighting, more insanity. The adrenaline drained out of Karriv , leaving him glad that he was already on the ground; he didn’t think he could stand if he wanted to. Yzabelle didn’t seem much better, slumped against a wall, her fingers seemingly only still clutching her sword because they’d forgotten how to do anything else. His shield seemed to be wanting to drag his arm out of it’s socket, so damn fucking heavy. Had it always weighed this much?
He ached all over. Head to toe, nothing didn’t hurt. But they’d done it; they’d rescued the Lord Templar. They hadn’t exploded, and they weren’t dead. All in all, things were looking up. They just had to wait, either for re-enforcements or until they could lug the Lord Templar back to a secure spot to rest. Karriv wished he could rest, not likely; no able-bodied soldier could afford that luxury while Nak was threatened. Still, it was nice to be able to just sit awhile, aches or no, just rest, if only for a moment.
“GREEEAAAAAARRRKKKK!” A screech split the air, and Karriv turned, eyes wide in horror at the snarling form lunging towards him. He fumbled, trying to get his sword up, but it was too late; the Gith was too close, and in moments the blade would slice through his flesh, biting to the bone, severing-- Suddenly, in a blur of motion, the Gith was tackled from the side. Oh thank the Highlord, thank-you, Shadow Above, thank-you…
“ALLLANAAAAAAAK!” Yzabelle cried, slashing forwards. The Gith pulled up it’s face into a gruesome sneer at it was plowed into from the side, then let out a gurgle as it hit the road with a thunk, sword plunged clear through it. They both hit in a sprawling heap.
“Highlord, Yza, I’d thought he’d get me for sure. Fuck that was close!”
There was no answer. He could feel his heart beating, thump-thump-thump, and it seemed an eternity of silence, despite the fact that somewhere in the back of his mind he new that couldn’t be right; the battle was still going on. There was screaming, the clash of blades, surely… But he heard none of it. He heard nothing; nothing. No answer.
“Yza?” A chill of denial was already running through him. No, no, it couldn’t be… There were no last words, no moment of understanding before the end, no chance to say good-bye. She was playing, it was just a game. She always did have a bad sense of humor. “Yza, this isn’t fucking funny.” He rose shakily, heading over to where the gith and Yzabelle lay sprawled together in a heap. “Yza-- Yzabelle?” He knelt, turning her over-- Her guts spilled out, intestines still warm. Horror and loss overwhelmed him, and choked back the bile that rose. A voice, a memory, that flash of smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you from the scary Gith.” As he gathered her lifeless corpse into his arms, her head lolled to the side, helmet clanking off, her rich Quirri-black hair plastered to her forehead with sweat, eyes vacant as a doll’s, staring off, unseeing for evermore.
“And furthermore, you’ll now serve as the Corporal of your unit.”
Claps and cheers rose in the background, with the occasional cry of “Congratulations, Corporal!” or “You showed the fucks! Karriv Amosson the Gith-Smiter!” Karriv didn’t hear them. He only said one word: “No.”
Lord Templar Nariliek frowned. “What did you say?”
Karriv spoke again, shaking his head, voice raised to be heard over the clamor. “No. No! I’m not the one you want. I didn’t save you, I didn’t do shit! Yza--” He choked on the name. “Yzabelle’s the one you want. Ashia’s the one you want, Merrik is the fucking one you want! All the damn others-- They are the ones you want! I’M NOT A KRATH-FUCKING HERO! She fell and I fucking froze, I was reduced to a damn blubbering heap. I am not your damn hero.”
Complete and utter silence. The Lord Templar looked shocked, features blank with disbelief. His unit’s Sergeant looked horrified, the rest of the gathered soldiers couldn’t have been more stunned if he’d announced that he was the Sun-King. The Sergeant was the first to speak, his voice dangerously low. “Private Karriv Amosson , you--” The Lord Templar held up a hand, and the sergeant fell silent. The silent seemed overwhelming now, as oppressing as the sweltering heat of Suk-Krath at High Sun.
Two words, sharp as knives. “Collect yourself.” A hand pointed to the door, and Karriv left without a word into the ravaged city under the endless void of night. And in the silence, he swore a voice drifted, floating through the air like a tendril of breeze, a melody impossible to forget as inescapable as the death surrounding him.
“Win the bat- tle, loose the war,
Dreams of death for ever-more…”
The eerie, haunting melody slipped out over the brown-splattered, corpse-strewn streets, seeming only to enhance the utter stillness. Slowly it drifted through the air, each word lingering the way the stench of death lingered, permeating the air.
“No thoughts of glo-ry, this is war,
Dreams of...
Continue Reading...
