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Aeraie

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March 2008 - November 2008

Post 1: Information
Post 2-3: Capt Chekaka's "Invincible"
Post 4-5: Torpeh's "The Vista from a Block"
Post 6-7: Ivir Baggins' piece
Post 8: Xanthangum's piece
Post 9: Dockwa's piece
Post 10: Yrolg's piece

26-Sep-2012 21:43:13 - Last edited on 02-Oct-2012 00:30:20 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

----- Capt Chekaka -----
1st Place, March 2008

Title: Invincible

"The art of a warrior is one of humility, his mind set to win all encounters, both mental and physical. Each battle is a story of its own, and every tale must come to an end."

An armored man stepped out from the shadowed enclosure all around him, becoming visible to those that watched from the stands above. His iron breastplate shone with brilliance, while his platelegs, adorned with festive markings, sparkled in the midday light.

Blinded by glee, the crowd let out roaring cheers as the man entered the center of the ring. His arms were bare and specks of perspiration gave them a slick feel, while his muscles, surging with adrenaline, faintly beat up and down as he moved. The helmet beneath his forearm, engraved with the symbol of his family, gave off a blinding reflection as the sun's rays fell upon its metal craft. Making his way across the sandy area, he stopped and gripped the hilt of his sword.

He raised his left hand to the crowd, signaling his will to fight before them all, or die entertaining them. Carefully, he lifted the helmet with his left hand and placed it firmly on top of his head. Taking deep breaths, he grasped the shield on his back and lifted it in front of him while grabbing the hilt of his blade and removing it from its sheathe.

A golden hue seemed to form around the spectators as the warrior glanced up at one figure, seated in a large throne high above. The man, his lord, nodded in approval and signaled to the guards far to his right; it was time. The gladiator watched anxiously as a large silver gate lifted, and death’s foul jaws came for him.

A slash of blinding steel;
The tearing of fragile, mortal flesh.
A smell of running blood;
The lingering feeling of failure.

26-Sep-2012 21:43:19 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:23:24 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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Nothing. No cheers came from the crowd; there were no glorious shrieks of victory, no cries of suffering. Silence crept upon the arena and embraced all within its grasp, while the fighter, in all of his glory, lay beneath the lion’s paws.

-- End. --

26-Sep-2012 21:43:25 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:24:09 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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---------- Torpeh ---------
1st Place, April 2008

Title: The Vista from a Block

When I think of the clouds, wistfully drifting miles above my head, no longer do I observe their strange, wild shapes – admire the airy wisps of light that cling to their façade – wonder upon whose shores their heavy shoulders will finally collapse, become unburdened. No: now, those thoughts are more distant than the sky itself. And, in their place, my mind is entertained by the darkest of fantasies. Looming over the surrounding villages, will the great sulphurous bulges of these very clouds send the minions rushing back to their houses? Rumbling across the spitting oceans, will the mere sight of them ignite writhing flares in the mind of every lonely seafarer? Crashing across the white skies of the plains, will the sun that breaks onto the steaming sands in their wake finally dissolve the wilted people's hopes to nothingness? Oh, only one in my position can apprehend the whole of such great carnage. It leaves a taste on the tongue quite unlike any other.

Indeed, as I lay here, not much about life concerns me. The sparkling sound of an axe grates against my ear; the vulture-like squawks of the blackbirds come quicker; the crowd's words sprawl across the air, tying my name to 'traitor'. But not one fragment of my mind is wasted in contemplating such hatred. Instead, as my eyes wander about this scene, they finally rest themselves on what, to everyone else, would seem but a speck. And yet, as it glides through the trembling morning airs, all the dark fantasies that hung from my mind dribble out into its silvery trail.

For a moment, I lose myself in reflection. The wings that flutter with a cloudless azure – the motions that drip with a fluid liquescence – the mysterious marks that enchant with an otherworldly desire – each attribute lucid alone, and yet each melting together into one form.

26-Sep-2012 21:43:31 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:24:36 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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The butterfly nears, and alights upon the end of this wooden block, the slight breath of its fluttering wings curling across my face. This creature, it has barely seen a day, and yet, by sunset, it will be joining me, freed from the boundaries of time, losing itself in the quintessence. But what am I, this betrayer of faith, this fading mortal, to the soul by my side, whose affinity only to the sky has enriched every motion, even in the face of death.

26-Sep-2012 21:43:37 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:24:54 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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------ Ivir Baggins ------
1st Place, June 2008

A single torch was the knight’s only company, held trembling in fearful hands. Its hopeless flames bled desperation across the walls of the pass, creating shadows that danced like nightmares across his sweating brow. His mind silently screamed for salvation, any escape from the faceless, soulless horrors that surrounded him, everywhere and nowhere at once.

It had been a source of great pride being selected to brave the unspeakable terrors of the pass. He and his men had proven adept soldiers, unquestionably loyal. Many a ballad had been composed recalling their limitless bravery and heroic courage. Just sight of their waving banner on the battlefield, tall and true, was enough to route their foes, as had been proven time and time again.

But now he was the only one left.

His contingent had received word of their mission only days before. The envoy bearing the news cited that their ferocity and fearlessness had suited them to the job perfectly. The King himself had selected them before all others, knowing that only the strongest could face the perils ahead.

A thought stumbled across the mind of the knight. It brought fresh beads of sweat to his face, and he swallowed the little saliva in his dry throat. He glanced about unnervingly, wary of the dancing shadows cast by his torch. The others were far behind him now, their unheeded cries for help falling upon the ears of beings too sinister and vile to bear description.

The thought was not his own.

They had left the city under cover of darkness, hooded cloaks hiding their shining armour. There were no waving banners, no streets choked with loyal citizens to wish them farewell and good luck. Their procession was solemn and austere; the clapping of hands replaced by the rough scraping of metal boots on the cobblestone paths.

Under a moonless sky, they entered the pass.

26-Sep-2012 21:43:44 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:25:12 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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The white soul ventured further underground, aimlessly seeking an exit from his hellish torment. This had not been a mission of valour; there were no great battles to fight, no gargantuan foes to vanquish. No songs would grace the warm flames of campfires at home. Their enemies were countless, lurking not in the shadows that fell harshly on the walls, but in the shadows of their hearts. Swords and arrows could do naught against the evil within.

The knight fell to his knees, the lone torch landing softly on the ground beside him. He had abandoned his helmet long before, and beads of sweat from his tangled locks dripped slowly into the puddle before him. A dark reflection starred sardonically back, emulating the most hidden depths of his soul.

The unspoken voice was now clear in his head. Its whisperings pierced the very core of his being, perceiving that the dark within had reached its zenith.

His torch went out, and in the rustling darkness, a voice spoke.

“Join me.”

This was no longer his nightmare. It was his home.

26-Sep-2012 21:46:41 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:25:29 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

------- Xanthangum -------
1st Place, August 2008

Raindrops clattered atop every rooftop in Varrock. The melodic and calming tune was interrupted only by the violent explosions of thunder accompanied by the forked ribbons of light in the sky. Not even the hardy warriors of Relleka would try to brave this storm.

A lone traveler found shelter beneath an abandoned market stall, his eyes fixed upon the king's window. He shook himself like a feral beast trying to get dry as he fiddled with his awkwardly long fingers.

"Not long now," He muttered, pulling his hood down over his narrow face, "Not long at all..."

Morning finally crept over Varrock and the weary traveler could hear the city guard looking for those sorry souls who had been caught in the storm. This would be his only chance to get inside the castle. His only chance to reach King Roald.

"Help me, I'm injured!" He lied, limping oto the nearest guard, who helped him to the castle's hospital wing.

"If you need anything else, just call for Nurse Poppy," The nurse said happily.

When she left, he slipped out of bed and crept through the castle's hallways. A guard began to question him outside Roald's chamber, but fell dead with a bloody hole in his throat. The guard who helped him watched from the shadows as the man entered the chamber.

"Who are you?" Roald asked biting his lip as the traveler pulled his hood off and his face was revealed. He was a werewolf.

"A friend. Do not be alarmed," The man whispered.

The king leapt away from the creature and shouted for help. Instantly, the guard ran in and skewered the monster through the back; an eerie howl filling the chamber.

"Who was he?" Roald asked frantically, "I am lucky you were here!"

"Lucky? No. He was trying to protect you," The soldier said as his eyes began to glow bright yellow. Roald gasped as the soldier's true form was revealed.

"My name is Vanstrom Klaus. Goodbye, King Roald."

26-Sep-2012 21:46:46 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:26:19 by Aeraie

Aeraie

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------------ Dockwa ------------
1st Place, November 2008

Time passes over the vulnerable, yet content, Varrock. A crescent moon looms aloft them, and an eerie night-sky smothers them with its ominous hand. Tragic news of the king spreads through the streets and into the homes like a morbid plague. Some eyes swell up with tears, and loyal subjects cannot help but fall to their knees. To the north of the ambient fountain in the heart of the land, King sleeps. The vigorous rainfall bombards his castle. King's lids conceal his eyes, his breath remains frigid. Only his family, his dearest family, stays at his bedside.

The traitors cower in the alleys; the remains of deceit are still held in their mouths.

Hands have gripped him: poor King Roald. The clock strikes for twelve, but Mister Midnight's toll desists not. Its hands are paralyzed by arcane spells, and they hold Roald still. Lord Dusk's presence is strong: its clock still chimes at twelve, even as the hours pass. Are they hours? Oh, wretched, twisted Dusk.

Touching the ground in a dark corner, a pale, faded note sits. Scrunched and deformed, its crinkles distort the black ink scribed on the papyrus.

'He used an Iron Fist, but it has rusted. His face, carved of gold, is now mold. In time his final breath falls. Oh, what are his possessions now?'

A young man clenches the scrap, observing it with eyes of curiosity. After examining it twice, he dismisses it as, "Preposterous!" before he tosses it into the blistering fire.

---

"Soon, old Roald, in the dark with eyes closed. The night is dark, yes, but the light is bright, too. The beacon—oh, so bright, it is not so far, as may seem."

26-Sep-2012 21:46:51 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:26:35 by Aeraie

Aeraie

Posts: 9,100 Rune Posts by user Forum Profile RuneMetrics Profile

--------------- Yrolg --------------
2nd Place, November 2008

“There stood before an exceptionally extravagant man, dressed in the camisia of royalty, deep hued, violaceous robes, and with the exorbitantly regal aigrette, an entity of indefinite beauty. Among the most powerful of people in the world, the lavishly dressed King had no choice but to obey the peremptory stare of this wondrous being; a man forced to admit and honour an entity greater than him.

“But alas, a relief it is, to find, after countless decades of ruling, someone able to command you, someone else able to filter through the refuse which is you kingdom, and go about fixing it. And when, at last, King Roald set his eyes upon such a deity, so manifest of such capabilities, of such generosity, as this being before him. His promise, nay, his command, was quite simple. It was quite easy. It was quite heinous.

“He never said his name, nor did he ever make any promises, save one. But it was a secret meeting, secluded even from the gods, and indeed even from Roald’s own memory, for a time. Three days passed, and not a thought of the encounter brushed the periphery of Roald’s conscious, before, at last, he realized his grave mistake.

“But the gold was so beautiful, the power and poise now accompanying the role of King so exceptionally pulchritudinous, that the mistake went unnoticed for many a year yet. The King sponsored three children, the youngest reaching twenty-three years, before at last his élan vital won over the spotlight, spreading it to the horrific disaster now fast approaching.

“But alas, the deal was made fast and binding, and inexorable it stayed, not yielding to the multifarious begging* of the King. The King would die—family held fast in bonds to watch.

"The King is ill.”

26-Sep-2012 21:46:59 - Last edited on 01-Oct-2012 23:26:58 by Aeraie

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