A Setting Sun

As the sun slowly fades below the horizon, the air is filled with the terrible sounds of death. A black shroud slowly descends to cloak the blood soaked meadow where thousands of bodies lie in a chaotic tangle. Moans and groans are the only sounds audible from these bodies, though the myriad birds feasting upon still warm flesh assault the ears with a cacophony of raucous calls.

Staring blankly at the carnage from the edge of a once peaceful meadow, a haggard survivor struggles to keep his composure as his mind fails to process such horrible devastation. Slowly turning a slim profile to view the warriors resting behind him, he utters soft orders. “Teratha, let’s get the wounded moving and give Last Peace to those who can’t survive the trip.” Turning from the black haired priestess, he then addresses a wounded soldier resolutely standing at his side. “Lyet, we have to get back and tell the Emperor. He needs to know that all is lost and we must sound a retreat”. The soldier’s eyes widen at hearing that; he is not surprised by the fact as it a truth that they have all come to recognize, but he is more surprised at hearing his superior actually admit it out loud.

As the small band of wound soldiers slowly gathers themselves and prepares for an arduous trek, the leader turns one last look at the ghastly battlefield. “To think, the entire might of the Arkhold people will soon be spread amongst the carrion birds. May history never know the truth of this defeat.” With that he reaches down to pick up his equipment, a battered shield and a well-used battle-axe. A moment of reflection is spent gazing at these few pieces of metal that have so defined his entire adult life. No longer is his visage keenly reflected on the polished edges of the shield, nor does his axe bear the shimmering marks of the marvelous Adante metalworking. Instead they appear worn and torn, almost as if some ancient tribe had buried and lost these artifacts several centuries in the past. Realizing that his life now would be very different than it has been in the past, he actually drops the shield in the dirt and almost drops his axe before Lyet reaches over to stop him. “Hold, my lord Baratel,” mutters the young brunette, “We still have need of your strength in arms should we meet more barbarians on our trip to the Emperor.”

Baratel hearkens to the words of his junior officer, though he nearly demands to know what point there is in fighting the barbarians. Grudgingly, the small group forges onward through the branches of the forest and sets their sights to a distant point in the east. Hours blend into days and then weeks as they journey south, each day appearing to rise only to give them less reason to carry on. The air hangs heavy with smoke, laden with the horrifying stench of burnt flesh. Countless villages appear on the edge of the path they travel, but all are ransacked and destroyed; little remains of the vast Empire which once gracefully spread across the plains and mountains. Instead they face only reminders of their great failure, evidence that the time of the Arkhold Empire has come to a close. 

Gripping his battle-axe with bitter fierceness, Baratel mentally swears to protect the last remnant of his people until they can recover from this travesty and once again fill this world with true civilization. Gentle golden rays of sunlight caress his face for a last brief moment before the sun sets, almost as if abandoning the Arkholdian people entirely. As gloom settles, it matches the feeling in the heart of all civilization, and the question is left hanging against the flickering glower of the moon. “What will become of the Arkhold Empire and its people? Will history ever know that they existed?”

The Birth of a Berserker. Part 1

This is the first portion of a story that I started to right for Achaea.com, before my world was upended and I began to swirl in circles. It tells the story of the beginning of a Clan of Dwarves that were created by the Achaean God, Phaestus.

Feel free to comment or share!

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The air whistles in protest as the large metal head of the axe parts it aside and continues forward until smashing into the tree trunk with a shower of splintered bark. A simple grunt and the blade is yanked back out of the tree and the process begins again. The tree puts up a valiant fight, striving to stay upright but ultimately falling to the blows of the axe and joining its brethren strewn upon the ground. A quick shuffle of feet, another grunt, and the downed tree is shoved into position and the axe begins to separate the tree into individual logs. The forest backdrop has faded into silence, no sounds exist except for intermittent grunts and some growled expletives when a blow does not fall precisely as intended.

So intently is the work proceeding, that the heavy footfalls of the dwarf foreman are completely unnoticed until his gruff voice breaks into my consciousness. "Ho, Gladur, we only need a certain number of logs this month." The foreman stops at the edge of the clearing that I have created and surveys the scene of destruction spreading out from my axe. "Why are you punishing the trees this time?" He asks while a look of puzzlement comes across his features. "You know that the SoulForger only condones using what is required, no need to kill trees if we will not use them before they spoil."

His comments only add to the exertion in my strikes, heavily muscled arms straining in an attempt to cut right through the tree in a single blow. "Grrghph" is my only response, straining its way through gritted teeth. Even though the foreman is two centuries older than me, he seems to be completely confused and at a loss of what to do. "Gladur, please stop" he mutters, "We don't need the wood, we have everything we need." A final growl escapes me as I smash through the tree trunk and reach the end of the logs. Turning quickly to face the foreman, I give him a look that can only be considered a glower. "What would ye have me do, Biven?" My question is sarcastic as I quickly give him possibilities. "Should I carve a statue? With these massive hands that can't fit around a chisel without breaking them? Perhaps I can paint, or carve gemstones?" The color fades from his face as he considers the results when I last attempted the delicate arts that the Clan enjoys. "How about I go mining again? I am sure Brumbletock would enjoy another cave-in". I did not mean to continue, but suddenly the words just keep coming and I can't stop "What if I tried my hand at pottery, or I could try to put together another mural. I am sure we can keep building walls for me to break apart. Want me to go back around the animals and try to milk a goat or cow? Last time I tried, they quit producing for over two cycles."

My words suddenly choke off and I just stand there, staring at Biven from across the clearing while my chest heaves and my eyes bore into him. Even though we are over a hundred paces away, I still look down at him. His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to muster a response. Rage fills me at the delay and I snarl "What is my purpose, Biven. Why am I here?" He looks to the side, swallowing rapidly as I cross the clearing in just a few strides and stand glaring down at him and demanding answers "I am too tall to properly fit in the mines, and even when we widened out the tunnels every time I struck a blow, the mines nearly collapsed. My arms and legs are too big for me to do anything but the largest of tasks. My hands will crush every delicate thing that is ever placed in them." At this, my heart beats even harder as I remember something else. "And you know what else, Biven, I can't even have love!"

At this exclamation he quickly jerks his head up to glance at me, his expression once again marred with confusion. "What do you mean?" he stammers out. My anger slowly pours out of me as I turn away from him to stare out into the distance. “I can’t have love. Who would have someone as rough as I am, as large as I am? The Chieftain is the largest dwarf of the Clan, and he only makes it to my chest. How can I romance someone with these large arms and thick legs. I cannot swoon them with dance, nor with song. I cannot cup their cheek or give them a soft caress. These arms and hands are rough and powerful, knowing only destruction and not love.” My thoughts turn to Jemma and our last conversation. How she laughed and looked me in the eyes, but then I went to hug her and she winced and the fun faded.

Bitterness creeps into my voice as I turn back to face Biven. “The trees are the only task that I can handle without hurting others. You and I both know that this is the only thing that I can do for the Clan.” I can see the agreement in his eyes and the way that he avoids mentioning anything else that I might possibly do. This frustrates me, as Biven is considered one of the wisest of the Clans and yet he has no idea what to do with me. “Tell me, Biven, tell me why the God would do this. He claims to love all of us, to treasure us. He claims that we are His children and that He watches over us. Then tell me why He made me. Tell me why I am so different. Why can’t I be a normal dwarf and have a normal life? Tell me!” This last statement becomes a scream thrown towards the heavens, and then I am running. Running away from the village, from the pain, from my troubles. Running from my life.

My flight is both furious and frantic, tearing down the mountain and crashing through the trees and brush. My large shoulders smash into minor obstacles and send them flying, as my powerful feet grinds everything beneath my tread. Animals scatter before me in a cacophony of alarming cries, and yet I do not care. Emotions rage through me, and the very fact that I am feeling emotions upsets me even further. Growing up in the village, one of the constant ways that I was marked as different is the fact that I have such strong emotions. Most of the Clan are very mellow and unemotional. They feel joy and pride, they must if they are to be the master artisans that our clan produces. However, their emotions are rooted and calm which is completely unlike mine. The sight of the beauty of the smallest fluttering butterfly can make my heart melt, and the slightest insult will cause my muscles to bulge and prepare for a fight. I have tried so hard, but the emotions just flood over me despite all that I do. This pushes me further into my scrambled flight, but my legs suddenly begin to falter and I hit a tree root and flip completely end over end. Landing hard upon the ground, I twist to get my bearings but my large body becomes my enemy and suddenly I am rolling down the mountain in a series of bumps and jolts. Smashing into and through limbs and underbrush and tearing roots apart with my flailing arms, nothing halts my fall until I smash headlong into a large rock formation at the base of the mountain. I can barely summon a true dwarven grumble before the spinning stars clouding my vision mercifully fade into blackness.

Only after a very great amount of time has passed do I finally stir again, yet the throbbing in my head seems at an all time high. Moaning, I struggle to push myself to a sitting position and nearly pass out again as the world seems to spin around me. Muttering and complaining to myself, I slowly force myself upwards along the trunk of a nearby tree until I once again standing straight. Realizing that I have reached an unfamiliar part of the mountain, I slowly start to explore and search for familiar landmarks. My hands reach down to brush the sheath attached to my hip and relief floods me as I feel my axe still firmly attached.

The ground here is different, even my stinted dwarven senses can tell that much. Much harder and starched than what I am used to, and the vegetation is stripped to indicate a scarcity of food in this region. Wary now, I am moving slowly through the trees when I hear a faint sound upon the wind. As I am completely lost, I decide that finding any sign of life is better than mindlessly roaming around and so I turn and head that direction. My pace quickens as I hear the sound of screaming and then make out the clash of weapons. Breaking through the brush, I happen upon a family of dwarves under attack by creatures that I recognize as goblins. I have never seen one before, but old Grimlo tells stories around the campfire some nights and the gruesomely twisted bodies before can only match his description of goblins.

Stunned, I come to a halt and gape in horror at the violence spreading out before me. A cry for help comes from one of the dwarves, and I slowly piece together the scene to see that this must be a dwarven family of farmers. I can tell because of the ages of the dwarves, the familial resemblances and the fact that they are using farm tools to defend themselves against real weapons. Another cry for help grasps my attention and I stumble forward, trying to get my weapon from my sheath. A pair of goblins turns towards my entrance and instantly snap alert. "Issha byg un" snarls one of the goblins to the other and two more goblins turn to face me as well.

Having never been in a fight, I hesitate too long and they surround me while pointing weapons directly at my throat. Immobilized, I stand there in shock and one of the goblins quickly darts in and grabs my axe from my trembling hands. "Idiot!" screams one of the dwarves in a strained feminine voice that quickly twists into a pained scream. My eyes dart over to the dwarves and I realize that while I distracted the goblins, I had also distracted the dwarven man and he was now on the ground bleeding to death. A dwarven lass screams in fury and lashes out at the goblins but then is quickly swarmed as two of the goblins guarding me hurry to join the fight. I can only stare in horror as the dwarves are bound and drug over to the fire pit. While my mind is frozen in shock, the goblins have knocked me to my knees and tied my arms tight to the side of my body. Uncomprehendingly, I stutter something about being a peaceful explorer, but the goblins just laugh in mocking tones and one reaches out and slices some skin off my arm. As I recoil from the pain, he gleefully chews on my skin while prancing around my bleeding body. His gruesome face and bulging eyes are highlighted by the flickering flames, and he seems to have quickly recovered from his initial fear at seeing a dwarf as tall as himself. Before more of my flesh can become a snack, a sharp guttural order rings out from the goblin that I suspect is the leader and the goblins move in and drag one of the young dwarven lads over to the fire and then quickly slit his throat.

My world seems to explode in horror as the two dwarves left, both female, scream out in mixtures of sorrow and horror. The goblins move to the oldest female dwarf, but they seem intent on another form of brutality than slaughter. As the dwarf realizes this, she screams and wiggles free from the hands of the goblin pawing at her. Seeing that all escape is cut off, she flinches back from the slobbering jaws of the goblins around her and then throws herself unto the fire pit. Taken back, the goblins do not react in time and the screams of the last remaining dwarf are drowned out by the sizzling pop and acrid smell that floods the small meadow as the flames engulf the willing victim. A momentary pause enters the scene as all of us struggle to adjust to the rapidly changing situation. By now the goblins have deemed me to be a complete non threat and all of them are circling the last remaining dwarf and arguing over who gets first dibs. No longer screaming, the dwarven lass raises her head and pure grey eyes meet mine as a tear slow tracks down her soiled face. A slow whisper escapes her lips and time stands still as I strain to hear it. "Save me."

More than a Storm.

Steely gray eyes stare relentlessly across the void. Dark and full eyebrows furrowed as the man contemplated the unknowable questions of life. A slight twitch sets firm jaw muscles quivering as he turns slightly and glares down at the packed grass beneath his feet. His visage remains a mask for a few moments more, as certain thoughts rumble inside his head. A speck of gold briefly swims in the depths of his brown eyes before he closes his eyelids and emits a painful groan.

Resolutely, the man places one foot in front of the other and forces himself to walk forward a few paces, leaving his residence behind and stumbling into the open space for a brief moment. Dropping down to land upon a single bent knee, the man grimaces as he struggles to hold back his fears and even his tears. Flinging his head back as if to let loose a fierce yell, he is suddenly enchanted by the vision of the few moon above him, only slightly hidden by the clouds. But that very beauty soon begins to eat at him and the conflicted emotions crossing his face tells a tale to which not even a bard could do full justice.

Thoughts churning in his head, the man cannot even decide which thought to entertain, nor which emotion is truly suited. His low voiced growl of frustration is answered with a responding rumble of thunder and he briefly glances around before deciding that his inner storm is more important than any outside force.

"Do I love her?" rings in his head, demanding an answer that he can not seem to provide. The romantic idea of love pulls at him, but how can he know what is true when his emotions change every second. A fond memory of a moment with her surfaces and a slow smile steals across cracked lips. But then comes a harsh reminder of the truth in her actions and he growls in pure frustration. Sweet words seem to linger in the air, as conversations replay in his mind. Forcibly he reminds himself of the value as words, remembering the last kiss she shared with her as she chose a different path.

Anger pours through him now, though at himself and with no other target. "I swore that I knew better. Swore I was not going to let myself get hurt. I Swore that I could be just friends and not ask for anything more." A knotted fist pounds the dirt beside him and feels moist dirt cover his flesh. Surprised, the man opens his eyes and notices that rain has begun falling in a steady cadence. A wry chuckle echos in the air around him, as the realization strikes home that the weather is most appropriate to his current situation.

With that realization, it is as if a dam bursts within him and suddenly he can not hold back. Fire burns through his blood as he feels the heat of passion again, feels the touch of her skin and hears the pearling tones of her laughter. Raindrops land upon his skin and hiss away in steam as his body reacts to the recollection of her caress. A bolt of lightning rips across the night sky, splitting the world asunder in exactly the same moment as pain and loss fills the heart of the man. Screaming out against the dark of night, he feels again the hurt burning inside when he saw her in the arms of another man. Rage pours forth from him now, though he held it in then. "Remember, you had no claim. She was his and not yours, what right do you have to be angry".

His own words seem to slap him across the face and he stumbles for a moment, recognizing the pang of jealousy in the last flickers of the lightning leaping between clouds. Truth settles in his soul as he remembers those last fateful moments. He told her to choose, told her that there can only be one world in her life. Told her that he would accept whatever she chose and walk that path happily. But his tears coursing down his face begin to mix with the heavy raindrops that are hurtling down around him. "It would never work, there is much wrong. She doesn't even know me" he tells himself in a mumbled exertion. And just as he begins to feel a moment of comfort in that, suddenly he recalls the sparkle in her eyes as they share a moment just gazing at each other. Nothing else exists when she looks at him like that, the entire world stands still.

Stumbling to his feet against the wind and rain, the man stares forlornly into a night which he can no longer see. Every second that he breaths comes another emotion. Deep down, he knows that the past is the past and what has ended will not begin again. Practical thoughts seem to have little hold at this moment though, as another lightning bolt crackles down to shatter the tree next to him. Bowing his head for a moment, he breathes deeply to calm his thoughts. When he raises his eyes again, the fire in his eyes is reflected by the burning branches twisting against the thunderstorm. At last his emotions begin to fade, replaced by the soft patter of a healing rain. Once again, he places one foot in front of the other and continues along his journey. A gentle breeze caresses his face and gently tugs at his lips until he graces the world with a brief smile. Perhaps there is hope for the future after all. As the storm inside ends, the world outside no longer looks so grim.

The Decision: To be a Squire or a Knight

This is for H.A.

He requested a story and some advice that deals with how to approach the realization that you made a mistake and turned away someone for whom you had real feelings. I hope you enjoy and feel free to comment.

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The squire stares into space, eyes open but unseeing.

The gentle cry of a hawk sounds in the distance, but even that majestic sound fails to leave an impression. The world spins upon its axis, and yet still the squire stares. Searching forward in time, seeking answers to questions he is not even able to properly form. In all of his musing, no escape from the past presents itself and now the present demands attention. Closing his eyes tight, he remembers the infamous words that he can never seem to retract. He really did tell her that "I don't really love you like that".

A frustrated huff escapes the lips of the brooding squire, as he leans back against the tree he has taken refuge in. At one point, he was the epitome of confidence. Always knew what he wanted and where he was going, strode briskly forward and took life by the horns. Smooth and assured, it seems like nothing would ever go wrong. But now, now how can he go on? How can he face tomorrow when the memory of yesterday flashes before his eyes seemingly every second. He was sure he knew what he wanted, that he was never meant to settle down or tie himself to just one place. He was going to be a Knight! A champion whom all would admire, surely he would be sought after and never have to worry about companionship.

Dark furrows creased the brow of the squire, in complete contrast to the peaceful stillness of the meadow around him. Within his mind, a mental storm raged with utmost ferocity. Questions forming and dashed aside, emotions roiling but not addressed. How had things gotten this way, what had so complicated his life now? It was one simple sight, and yet he can never forget it or block it out. How dare he be so upset, so torn and lovesick, when he was the one who told her to move on. And yet nothing else matters but the repeating image of her full lips firmly locked upon those of another man.

One thought beats a tune in his mind until finally he can focus upon it. Does he really care that deeply for her, or is it just the fact that she has found comfort in the arms of another that has so upset him? A discomforting thought for sure, he slowly muses while clenching his armored fists against each other. His training has taught him to be calm and slow in his reactions, to judge the situation and determine outcomes before moving. And yet every time that he comes back to considering this problem before him, it is as if nothing else matters. The simple fact that he wants to see her, hold her, kiss her again has completely distracted him from all other worries. Even his weapons lie beside him in disarray, no longer able to keep his mind away from these pestering questions.

As a lonely cloud drifts across the pale blue sky, the squire feels a determination building up within him. These feelings can not be false, how deep they are and how much they have affected him. Something must surely be true here. Slowly his internal storm resides and he grows steadier, his eyes beginning to glow again as he realizes that he again has confidence. Now instead of regretting what is lost, he ponders how to address his errors and regain the rhythm to his heartbeat. How do you take back words that can never be retracted, how do you heal a pain that one should experience in the first place. No wizard stood before the squire with an easy answer or a magical wand to wave. His mentors and Knights taught him the art of battle and combat, not of navigating the powerful currents known as love.

Pulling himself onto one knee, the squire plants his sword into the dirt and leans upon the hilt. Surely there must be an answer, a recourse to address this terrible tragedy. Chivalry would not allow for the most direct means of simply marching into her presence, grabbing her close, and telling her that he was wrong. Besides, how could she possibly believe or listen to him if he did that? It would look like the arrogant action of one who is jealous and believes he has a claim. No, this path must be slowly trod and carefully measured. If the feelings beating within his chest were true and as deep as he considered them, then they would be his guidance. He must harken back to the times of yore, realized what she cared for and prove that he truly listened and cared about the things that she cares about. To prove that he truly cares about her.

Muscles rippling beneath him, the squire steadily rises and strides forward. No true answer has yet presented itself, but he is determined that he will not give up without a fight. A Knight shall not be known for moping around wondering what might have been, and so this squire has decided to act like a Knight even before receiving his spurs. He must tell her of his feelings, this is obvious. But only if he truly cares and has paid attention to the beat of her heart does he have a chance. If he cared only for her attention and not truly for her, then it would be best to turn away now and mold himself to be the Knight of the future. In his heart beats the truth, the truth of his decision.

As the squire disappears into the gathering dusk, a question lingers. How does someone prove that their love is true, that the words of the past where a mistake, that there is a future together? The soft twitter of birds as they come to rest in the tree branches illuminate an answer. Slow down and stick to the true beat of the heart, take the time to show a true interest, communicate, be open and honest. No excuses uttered to hide painful admissions, but only words of truth backed by honest actions of caring. And then the strength to accept the response and bear it like a true Knight.

The beginning, is it also the ending?

First and foremost, there is no ill will here. Not towards the Angel who has so captured me and carried away my imagination and desire. Nor towards the innocent other party on the other end of the spectrum. None of these feelings were planned, sometimes the world twists upon itself and throws our plans into disarray.

The story starts with a friendship, no ulterior motives or plans need apply. A quickly growing comradeship develops into an appreciation of like mind, quick wit and banter ease understanding and allow true laughter. Gentle chiding and teasing sarcasm lay a ground work for comfortable rapport.

Unwittingly, harmless flirting slowly blooms into serious compliments. Off handed gestures develop romantic flourishes. A simple glance lingers until it becomes a blazing recognition of desire. Struggling to clear the head and remember boundaries dissolves into a longing to feel the passion released.

And thus it grows, ignoring frantic attempts to hold back emotions and safeguard hearts. A wild storm front clears all obstacles and the world seems to fade away. Two souls, entwined, laying on a beach woven of fantasy. Every touch ignites, every caress melts the cares away. A single hesitant kiss tears passion from quivering lips and ends in a panting exclamation of awe.

Magic sweeps through the room, nothing else matters. Time passes, yet it stands still for these two as they gaze searchingly into the eyes of the other. Secrets tumble forth against better judgement,  dreams are shared and even expanded upon. Potential embarrassment and fright becomes a shared sense of understanding and acceptance. The world appears perfect.

But this is just one world, and this angel seems to reside in two worlds now. One she has known and feels the comforts of, and another that was just thrust upon her by fate or chance. These two worlds can not share the same space, they have the same demands and the same desires but two very different outcomes. She can not remain in both, though they tug at her and whisper glorious promises.

And now the angel wraps herself in her wings and flies into the heavens, troubled emotions raging in her breast as she ponders this new reality. How unfair things must seem, as she struggles to understand what happened and how she ended in this predicament. A decision must be made, lest two worlds collide and both die. Yet she is not ready, and so she flees. Dragging a wing in each world, she mourns on the inside and desperately tries to keep her face calm.

Below, the paladin gazes up where his angel disappeared. Both pain and understanding course over his features, as he comes to grip with the fact that his arms are empty of his beloved. Watching her vanish into the distance, he sees the shadow of her wing remaining to gently caress his face. He knows she must feel something for him, but he has no way to judge the heart of an angel. Laying back on the sand, the paladin feels the magic begin to fade but the soft murmur of his name drifts down from above and suddenly he is reminded of her face resting on his chest. Closing his eyes, he lays back and cherishes that memory. While the road ahead is murky and he knows not if he will ever see his angel again, he must continue on and be ready for the future.

One last impulse overtakes the paladin before he departs from the safety of the beach. Reaching down to pluck a few beautiful roses, he arranges them in a simple diagram. Should the angel find herself able to choose his world, he has given her directions to his heart.