Well, kinda, the introduction. I'm writing this sorta as I'm making the game, so I dunno which is going to influence which more.
It sucks, I know, but the points was to write, and this is somewhat of my intro. Enjoy.
Edit: I dunno if it helps, but the person telling this story is a fairly young-woman, with a cynical edge to her voice. I ALMOST picture Keira Knightly, but that's only because I just got done watching Pride and Prejudice.
“It’s been my experience, that the end of the fall is only the start of the beginning.” At least, that’s what my mamma always use to tell me. She also use to tell me, “When it’s all over everything will be okay, and if it’s not okay, then it’s not over.” You know, like it’s not the end.
I tried to believe in that.
But, by her own logic, if the end was just the beginning, then it would never be okay.
See, that’s the sort of thing that would drive normal folks crazy finding out: that the end of their torment is only the start of another cycle leading to more torment. Like a Ferris Wheel to people who are afraid of heights. When it’s up high and you can see for miles, and your heart beat is somewhere really deep in your feet, and you just want to come down, and it starts to come back to earth, where you are safe, only to put you right back where you started at. Way up high wondering where your heart went.
Drives people absolutely insane.
But it sure makes for one hell of a story.
The sounds of a battle always seem to make my stomach ache. Mostly because of the memories that always seem to pop up when I hear the sound of swords clashing against each other. Silly, I know, considering my line of work, but it does. No matter what I am doing, that metallic cling makes my stomach churn. Most of the time I can hold it in until I’m alone, then I can let that nausea out in a corner of an alley, along with whatever alcohol I like to dumb down my sorrows with.
Usually it’s the same memory.
A dusty, red dusk, where the sun is so low you can actually look at it without burning out your retinas. Those pretty sunsets that you see written about in romance books, and that you fantasize about when you’re a teen, ready for marriage. One of those pretty red disks, but it wasn’t set against any sort of background one would want to fall in love to. It was half-hidden by a duel-towered fort that reached to the darkening sky like pillars holding up heaven.
Circling the towers were dark shapes battling each other in a medieval dogfight. Men upon dragon-beasts who flew with deadly accuracy, trying to best their opponents in fight and flight, most ending up closer to heaven by way of ground then by way of dragon-beast. A few stout blows left dragon-beasts reeling into the side of the towers, painting the dark stone with an uneven smear of red and gold before tumbling to the battle below. That was another story in of itself.
Ten thousand men were sent to take the towers that day, to fight against more then their own numbers. Enough to win if given proper-leadership, but eager to die if willed forward. To this day I feel that men become no more intelligent then beasts when given a sword, a shield, and a divine sense of invincibility. This same invulnerability that drove them headlong into battle, to find their eyes pecked out by magic-birds, and their lungs on stakes and spears. Ten thousand men to be swallowed whole by the tower’s curse, and puked up half-alive on its doorstep.
General Oleander would have it no other way.
He was the one man of ten-thousand, who gave the order to attack full-force in a suicide run on the towers. He thought himself greater then gods with the new knowledge he gained in our travels, and turned mad with it. He stood tall and proud, in aging armor that had seen hundreds of years and battles beyond anything I probably could comprehend. A furrowed brow marred by several fire-burns and sword-cut scars. His eyes were dark and brooding, dull hazel. A full mustache and graying hair that hung limp against the pallid face. A man who had seen too many battles and too many friends die, only to feel that his life was far more valuable then the men he served.
A suicide run, a soldier reminded him. A pretty boy who looked way too far from his home, uncomfortable in his armor, though he had worn it for near ten years before this battle, only wanting to save his fellow soldiers from their deaths. This man, who at one time felt more comfortable holding a bow then a sword, challenged everything that he had learned as a soldier, and risking everything he knew…just to question a madman.
General Oleander said nothing but, “Charge the gate,” as the youth challenged him. The man tried…
I don’t think I can ever forget the day I watched that Oleander murder not only one of his top soldiers, but his closest companion and confidant.
That day I watched my best friend die.
It sucks, I know, but the points was to write, and this is somewhat of my intro. Enjoy.
Edit: I dunno if it helps, but the person telling this story is a fairly young-woman, with a cynical edge to her voice. I ALMOST picture Keira Knightly, but that's only because I just got done watching Pride and Prejudice.
Introduction
“It’s been my experience, that the end of the fall is only the start of the beginning.” At least, that’s what my mamma always use to tell me. She also use to tell me, “When it’s all over everything will be okay, and if it’s not okay, then it’s not over.” You know, like it’s not the end.
I tried to believe in that.
But, by her own logic, if the end was just the beginning, then it would never be okay.
See, that’s the sort of thing that would drive normal folks crazy finding out: that the end of their torment is only the start of another cycle leading to more torment. Like a Ferris Wheel to people who are afraid of heights. When it’s up high and you can see for miles, and your heart beat is somewhere really deep in your feet, and you just want to come down, and it starts to come back to earth, where you are safe, only to put you right back where you started at. Way up high wondering where your heart went.
Drives people absolutely insane.
But it sure makes for one hell of a story.
***
The sounds of a battle always seem to make my stomach ache. Mostly because of the memories that always seem to pop up when I hear the sound of swords clashing against each other. Silly, I know, considering my line of work, but it does. No matter what I am doing, that metallic cling makes my stomach churn. Most of the time I can hold it in until I’m alone, then I can let that nausea out in a corner of an alley, along with whatever alcohol I like to dumb down my sorrows with.
Usually it’s the same memory.
A dusty, red dusk, where the sun is so low you can actually look at it without burning out your retinas. Those pretty sunsets that you see written about in romance books, and that you fantasize about when you’re a teen, ready for marriage. One of those pretty red disks, but it wasn’t set against any sort of background one would want to fall in love to. It was half-hidden by a duel-towered fort that reached to the darkening sky like pillars holding up heaven.
Circling the towers were dark shapes battling each other in a medieval dogfight. Men upon dragon-beasts who flew with deadly accuracy, trying to best their opponents in fight and flight, most ending up closer to heaven by way of ground then by way of dragon-beast. A few stout blows left dragon-beasts reeling into the side of the towers, painting the dark stone with an uneven smear of red and gold before tumbling to the battle below. That was another story in of itself.
Ten thousand men were sent to take the towers that day, to fight against more then their own numbers. Enough to win if given proper-leadership, but eager to die if willed forward. To this day I feel that men become no more intelligent then beasts when given a sword, a shield, and a divine sense of invincibility. This same invulnerability that drove them headlong into battle, to find their eyes pecked out by magic-birds, and their lungs on stakes and spears. Ten thousand men to be swallowed whole by the tower’s curse, and puked up half-alive on its doorstep.
General Oleander would have it no other way.
He was the one man of ten-thousand, who gave the order to attack full-force in a suicide run on the towers. He thought himself greater then gods with the new knowledge he gained in our travels, and turned mad with it. He stood tall and proud, in aging armor that had seen hundreds of years and battles beyond anything I probably could comprehend. A furrowed brow marred by several fire-burns and sword-cut scars. His eyes were dark and brooding, dull hazel. A full mustache and graying hair that hung limp against the pallid face. A man who had seen too many battles and too many friends die, only to feel that his life was far more valuable then the men he served.
A suicide run, a soldier reminded him. A pretty boy who looked way too far from his home, uncomfortable in his armor, though he had worn it for near ten years before this battle, only wanting to save his fellow soldiers from their deaths. This man, who at one time felt more comfortable holding a bow then a sword, challenged everything that he had learned as a soldier, and risking everything he knew…just to question a madman.
General Oleander said nothing but, “Charge the gate,” as the youth challenged him. The man tried…
I don’t think I can ever forget the day I watched that Oleander murder not only one of his top soldiers, but his closest companion and confidant.
That day I watched my best friend die.
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