ValentineDavis21
-
Posts
788 -
Joined
-
Last visited
Content Type
Forums
Stories
- Stories
- Story Series
- Story Worlds
- Story Collections
- Story Chapters
- Chapter Comments
- Story Reviews
- Story Comments
- Stories Edited
- Stories Beta'd
Blogs
Store
Help Center
Writing
Gallery
Events
Everything posted by ValentineDavis21
-
1.01: Bleeding Skies
ValentineDavis21 commented on ValentineDavis21's story chapter in 1.01: Bleeding Skies
Thank you, it feels good to be back. 😊 -
The planet of Cathesan, capital world of the Cathesan Empire, was on fire. Cosmic rays of particle radiation beamed down on the hive cities below. Three cities covered the top half of the planet: layered constructions of rockcrete and adamantium; each layer consisted of thousands of residential and industrial blocks that formed massive manmade mountains capped by a crown of great spires that stretched thousands of kilometers towards the sky. Once, many, many centuries ago, the planet had been co
-
Aethan's Reign is the story of Aethan Valorian and his thousand year long reign over the fallen Cathesan Empire. Witness his rise from exiled prince to powerful Emperor and the slow development of his relationship with the volatile Prince Bhal-Ghor as they strive to build a new Empire from the remnants of the old following a dark age.
-
This is the last chapter of the first volume. I'm starting on Volume 2 as soon as I'm finished with finals.
-
He soared over the mountains, flying further North. The Stauros Highway unspooled like a black thread, cutting through the thick stands of pine trees. He soared over villages not much different from the one he’d left for Timberford; villages made of one and two-story wooden buildings with a well in the center. He should have been terrified - he’d never liked height even when climbing trees - but this felt freeing. To be weightless. To be unrestrained. To watch the world unfold before him, reveal
-
The practitioner expected Barghast to stop when he reached the surface, but he didn’t. He kept running…or leaping…or whatever a lycan did when they half ran half leapt through the air, the world flying by them in a blur of dark colors. Though he knew the Okanavian would not drop him - those arms held him in a vice with no wiggle room - his body instinctively clung to the lycan. He had no idea what direction they were heading in and at the moment he didn’t care. He felt his chest
-
Crowe blinked. The deafening, sickening grey fog was gone. He stood, breathing deeply, in sunlight. The air was clean, scented with a rich blend of ground aether and worn leather - the familiar scent that clung to Petras’s waistcoat. The light was blindingly golden, illuminating the porch. The change was so instantaneous, so profound, that a giddy, dizzying sense of confusion washed over him. The temple…the fall…it was all a nightmare. This is real. I’m home. I’
-
The sun was sinking rapidly, turning the western sky a blood orange. Barghast, the Okanavian, led the way, his tail straight with purpose with Crowe,Cenya, Rake, and the cowering Tannhaus close behind. They were moments away from the time of the damned souls of Timberford to emerge from wherever it was they hid during the daylight hours. They pulled gas lamps from their bags and lit them. The front of the temple was dominated by a large archway that receded back into shadow. Cro
-
The journey was agonizingly slow going. Cenya’s fierce determination was no match for the treacherous, uneven terrain of the woods. Still, for a crippled woman with only one leg, she maneuvered around her disabilities far better than Tannhaus. The scientist breathed like a wounded animal, stopping every several feet to clutch at his heaving, sweat-soaked sides. He glared resentfully at Crowe and Barghast, who watched him with matching frowns of disapproval. “I can hear what you’
-
The late afternoon brought no comfort to Crowe. Instead, as the sun began its slow, inevitable slide toward the western ridge - the direction from which Barghast had departed - the waning light became a clock counting down to a total emotional collapse. The angry mob had departed, moving with the heavy tread of the lethargic, as if the sense of elevation had left them and now all that remained was exhaustion and shame. Crowe watched them go and the loneliness that swelled in his heart was a phys
- 1 comment
-
- 10
-
-
-
-
The people of Timberford were huddled around the tavern. In spite of the night’s encroachment their voices rang with excitement, not fear. No sooner had Crowe and Barghast broke from the line of trees, the crowd was at them, raised not in shouts of accusation but triumph. “You did it…You defeated the beast…” “You can heal the sick. Monad has sent you to save us from the darkness…” “The Herald is here at last…” “Twin o’rre!” Barghast reached for him through the press
-
Crowe woke up to the feeling of warm digits twining through his hair, pulling at the greasy strands until his scalp tingled, brought him back into a quasi form of consciousness. His instinct was to play dead, slip back into dreamless black. The familiar drone of the Okanavian’s breathing anchored him to his body. He relaxed. Once he stopped fighting it the ministrations felt…really good. He dared himself to open his eyes. He looked up at the twin suns looking back at him. Bargha
-
The sorcerer cut a knife’s path through the woods. Tree branches snagged at his robes and his hair. He ducked under the last line of trees, arriving at the cave where he was to meet Bennett. He tried to contain his eagerness, hoping to find the older boy inside already waiting for him. A high-pitched girlish laugh sounded from inside the cave. The sorcerer stopped, listening. He didn’t slink away, ignoring the voice in the back of his mind that advised him to walk away before hi
-
A purgatorial mist descended over the night, casting an eerie, moisture-heavy glow over the village of Timberford, wrapping the world in a shroud of impenetrable gray. It was more than just fog; it possessed a palpable weight, pressing down on the village, stilling the rustle of leaves and muffling every distant sound; the air tasted faintly of damp earth. It cast an eerie, phosphorescent glow, turning familiar gas lamps into blurred, haloed smudges of light and transforming the twisted branches
-
Daylight. To see another sliver of light filtering through the grimy window pane was a miracle. It meant his prayers were answered; the night had passed. The thin light painted a weak, silvery diagonal slant across the dust motes hanging in the air of the tavern’s main room. Crowe’s body was a deep, aching testament to the stress of the previous night. Every muscle was a knot of protest, but beneath the discomfort, he was suffused by a heavy, pleasant warmth. It was a hot, heavy
-
The snow fell silently, muffling the already subdued sounds of Annesville. Crowe kept his head low, the collar of his worn cloak pulled high, his muscles protesting the gentle incline of the village road. Every nerve-ending throbbed from the beating he’d taken the night before, and the frigid air bit at his raw, bruised skin. He wore a jacket and gloves but they did little to ward off the cold or the deeper sense of dread that had followed him from the house on top of the hill.
-
The stench twisted Crowe’s stomach into knots.. It was a foul, metallic odor, like a mix of rusted iron and decomposing meat, overlaid with a strange, chemical sharpness. Bile rose up in his throat, hot and sour. He pressed the back of a hand to his mouth, swallowing hard against the revulsion, his body trembling more from the sickening smell than the cold. The crack of a twig, sharp and distinct, almost made him cry out in sheer terror. He twisted around, staff half raised, to
-
Barghast and Crowe watched the wagon travel South until it receded from view. The Okanavian was happy to see it go. He glanced at his guide, sensing an uneasiness about the practitioner. His twin o’rre stared heavily into the distance, his mouth shrunk down to a thin line. Crowe’s head tilted, not toward the road, but toward the dense, black treeline. It was a movement so slight a normal man wouldn’t have noticed, but Barghast saw the faint tremor that ran through the practition
-
The wagon moved at a snail’s pace, a heavy, groaning coffin on wheels, crawling along the Stauros Highway. It passed by fields dusted with recent snow and stands of gnarled, skeletal trees that looked like petrified hands reaching in protest against the gray sky. The air itself seemed heavy, frigid, and damp, pressing down on the land. Four torchcoats rode alongside the black-iron wagon. The unmistakable torch-symbol of Elysia stamped upon their breastplates and painted crudely
- 3 comments
-
- 10
-
-
-
-
Crowe hauled himself up the steep incline, trying in vain to keep up with the old man. The wind drove at them relentlessly, numbing him to the bone. The only light he had to guide him was the silver nimbus of Petras’s hair. He hated that hair. It was the silver of moonlight on a fresh grave, an eerie glow that belonged to something not quite mortal. Petras was not his father; he was a warden, a keeper who believed cruelty was the only discipline. Nothing was col
-
A bad smell surrounded the small dwelling, making Barghast’s stomach work and the hackles along his spine rise. His twin o’rre walked fearlessly towards it, oblivious of the sin he was about to commit. Did he not know that curses came with stepping into a place where death had thinned the veil between one world and the next? Barghast could feel the air here was wrong, heavy with what the Okanavi called ‘Ge-nah’- the lingering, bitter residue of despair and self-slaughter. It was
-
Crowe opened his eyes. The cave air was cool and smelled of damp earth and something musky - the lycan. He was still there, a great, gray mass, a living landmark in the dim morning light. There was no evidence to suggest he’d moved from his spot. The lycan rested on the side that was the least lacerated with wounds, his breath a deep, cyclical rumble that reminded Crowe of the tales Petras had told him as a child: stories of mountain monsters that descended at night to feast upo
-
There is a name for lycans who stray away from the hunt in the desert: it means lone wolf. Such a title leaves a mark for life, for the lycan is never able to return to their clan. To leave the clan is an act of hubris, a rejection of the harsh, pure traditions. For the Okanavi, the desert is the only place of truth, a reflection of the Void and its silent creator, Monad. To travel to the lush, living North was to embrace the deception of The Kenoma. Barghast was an exile, a dri
-
Crowe moved with practiced caution. Even before the Seraphim’s decree had shattered his world, he had spent years avoiding notice - a necessary skill for a practitioner isolated near the Stauros Highway. He knew the Theocracy maintained patrols in this region, looking for deserters, runaway indentures, or, worse, isolated practitioners to claim for the labor camps. He paused just beyond the treeline. The ground here was a mix of frozen dirt and thin, crunchy snow. His boots, alr
- 2 comments
-
- 11
-
-
-
-
-
Ding-ding. The bells of Inferno called to him from the next room. A thin insistent ringing sound that pierced the shadows, that scraped along the back of his skull like steel threatening to cut through bone. He didn’t need the bell to tell him what time it was; his body already knew the rhythm, for it was the same every day, a clock regulated by survival. Crowe rolled stubbornly onto his side. He clenched his eyes shut against the bone-deep cold that permeated t
