ValentineDavis21
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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
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Ding-ding. The bells of Inferno called to him from the next room. A thin insistent ringing sound that pierced the shadows, scraping along the back of his neck like a blade sharp enough 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 the
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Crowe's life is forever changed when an angel delivers him an impossible task. During his travels through the Kenoma, Crowe encounters a lycan, an eight-foot-tall wolfman. Separated by language and culture, Crowe cannot deny he shares a powerful connection with the barbarian. Bound by mystical forces, their journey leads them to the small village of Timberford, a town that is gripped by a dark evil. Thus, Crowe must complete his first task. If he is to survive his first task and free the town from its dark curse, Crowe must face his own dark past and trust his new furry companion. But how can you trust someone you can't understand?
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If you need something to scratch the Hubris itch I recommend The Theocracy, which I plan on revamping at some point. I am still working on Hubris but will only be posting once a week as I have been working on moving and the chapters are getting longer to write because of the length. Similar mythology, different characters with Theocracy.
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This is an old one and not my best work. This is basically Underworld fanfic. I really wanted to write about a bad ass eunuch and was inspired by Hedwig and the Angry Inch a bit. One day I would like to revisit this character.
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Van’s apartment opened itself up to Bazzelthorpe as if it’d been waiting. Upon weekstepping over the threshold, he raised his head towards the ceiling and breathed in deep. Already Van's smell was familiar to him, distinct from the rest of the world. Bazzelthorpe could sense his presence like the trailing scent of a special cologne, vital and pulsing with life. He'd been here not that long ago. The Astorathian had come here in the hopes he would find a clue. It was a desperate, foolish thing to
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Bazzelthorpe woke up to find a familiar face sitting next to his bed; it wasn’t the face he wanted. The captain looked down at him with a face that was cold and bloodless. The slash of dark red lipstick across her mouth was meant to make her look more friendly and less of a monster, but Bazzelthorpe knew she was only here for one reason and it wasn’t for him. “Where is he?” she demanded imperiously. Bazzelthorpe blinked. He felt foggy. He felt light. He felt heavy. He felt all thr
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At first nothing moved in the murky shadow. Nothing at all. It was as if he was the last man in the world. He stood in the dark with his heart pounding in his chest, every muscle so tight he could hardly breathe. His vision had squeezed down to a single tunnel. Something moved in the dark. A human figure darting across his field of vision like a bunny. A hysterical peal of laughter that depicted only madness. The figure stopped and turned to look back at him. The exaggerated features of a
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Heidi Anderson’s parents stayed in a cabin ten miles outside the city during the summer months. Vanus could see why she picked it. It was close enough to the city she could drive there if need be and secluded enough she could hide. Out here in the boonies (was ten miles outside the city considered the boonies?) the eyes could play tricks on the mind. But it was also quiet. So quiet you could hear a twig snap. No matter where she and her daughter went, he knew it would not be far enough to get a
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In the hospital recovering.
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The part of Anderson that could still dream, dreamed of a white, gilded wedding. In it he wore an expensive tuxedo, his hair was combed back and he wore cologne. In this dream he could not hear Chagidiel's voice in his head. Heidi was there too. He recognized her by the color of her hair and the smell of her perfume, but her face was a mottled blur of flesh. When he leaned forward to kiss her she had no mouth. He woke up tasting the salt of his own tears on his lips. He rested on an o
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Van's injuries were bad, Bazzelthorpe's were worse. While the death magician had been getting his face pounded by Anderson and Leonidas, Dougherty, Bazzelthorpe, and his team had been left alone to deal with the nepharites. Bazzelthorpe walked away from the battle with several stab wounds to the torso, back, and shoulders. Both had been bandaged. He would live; the Astorathian people had always been more tough than the people on the surface ever gave them credit for. He would be in t
