| Subject: *Grins really really broadly* Thanks so much for all your support guys. :) It turns out my dad took a laptop on the trip, so I can post more of my tale after all. Next part's INSIDE> |
Author:
Sekin brightfall
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Date Posted: 20:39:20 12/29/03 Mon
In reply to:
Swordslash
's message, "Really really really really good!!!!! Please post more as SOON as you get back! Get on your Computer and type as fast as the fastest river, Sekin (once you get back)!!!!" on 14:02:23 12/29/03 Mon
The carpet of dead leaves seemed thicker here, the loam deeper, squelching slightly underfoot. Shafts of glorious sunlight highlighted the edges of the leaves, the paling sky, and bruised the bellies of the clouds purple and deep yellow. Grisen felt the toe of his boot thunk into something and he almost tripped and fell flat on his face. Getting his feet under him, he twisted around to stare at the mound of leaves covering something.
Doubling back, he bent down and brushed the leaves off. A stone flute the size of his head lay half-embedded in the earth. Made of the same black stone as the wall and carved with twisting, flowing lines, it lay spider-webbed by cracks and breaks. The edges were crumbling away with age. Stone fingers, broken and covered with dirt, intertwined around the holes in the flute, ready for the instrument to be played by the hand’s statue, but they were only fingers broken off at the knuckles. The rest of the hand was nowhere to be seen.
Grisen squatted down and brushed off the rest of leaves. A city of the Watersingers…Carefully he extended a hand and ran it down the cool black stone, tracing the carvings with wonder dancing in his eyes. He had always heard tales of the Watersingers, strange people born from the rivers and streams, and even oceans or rain. Said to be able to talk with the water, they sung it commands and it answered, obeying. Legend had it that they built wondrous cities always near some source of water, built with stone from the depths of the seas. But, he had always thought them no more than legends.
Grisen shook his head and rose smoothly. Twenty four hours ago, he had thought the Shadow’s Plague was incurable. Twenty four hours ago, he would never in his wildest dreams even considered the possibility of seeing a Stabnar. Twenty four hours ago, he had been sharpening his sword in the kitchen of his house, ready to get his revenge, ready to join his beloved family. Some legends it seemed, were more than just myths.
The crunch of leaves broke out behind him like the snap of breaking bones. In a flash, his blade had left its sheath and he whirled, cleaving viciously downwards. With a clash of metal on metal, the sword stopped in mid-swing, halted by Fyrth’s long dagger. Grisen blinked at the man not more than three paces from him and then broke out into a relieved grin, lowering his sword and sheathing it. “You gave me quite a scare there Fyrth.”
Fyrth’s dead eyes blinked and he slowly lowered his outstretched arm as if unsure why he had flung it out in the first place. He looked silently at Grisen for a long time, then turned on his heel in a whirl of black and headed back towards the wall.
Grisen caught up with him; keeping pace with slight difficulty, but Fyrth never shifted his gaze from a point somewhere far ahead. “Where’s the horse?”
The cold, distant voice came again. “What horse?”
Grisen raised an eyebrow. “The one you were just riding!”
“The shetan?” Fyrth’s eyes seemed to flick towards Grisen, but so quickly, the Falkhan wasn’t sure if he had just imagined it. “I killed it.”
Grisen frowned. “What about the Stabnars. Did you kill them too or just the horse?”
Fyrth only shrugged and lengthened his stride.
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