Summer's End

Summer is finally over. The heat is fading and the leaves are beginning to burn with the colors of autumn. As much as I like the green and warmth of summer, the growing heat becomes a little to much for me after a while and I begin to look forward to fall. It is one of my favorite seasons, filled with festivals and beauty and the promise pumpkins and turkeys. The cold of late autumn and winter is unwelcome to many but I enjoy the crisp chill and the chance to warm my belly with my favorite hot chocolate and coffee. Honestly, I'm not a big fan of pumpkin spice, or even pumpkin pie for that matter, but I do like carving them and apple cider is one of the biggest things I look forward to as the apple trees begin bear their fruit. Sometime this fall, I intend to travel up through New Hampshire, across the White Mountains as I experience the tastes and colors of this wonderful time of year. If I get lucky, my wife and I will have some time to visit some of the season's festivals and fairs.

In the War of Light and Shadow: Part 3

This one is a short one, but it was the best place to stop. Tomorrow's excerpt will be quite a bit longer. The regular blog is going to be up in a couple of hours.

The knight swallowed and followed the elf into the fray, bulling through the clusters of undead. Two of the ghosts turned, wailing eerily as they drifted in to attack. Aravos’ burning blade blasted the first into icy particles and the second screamed in pain and rage as the knight’s holy sword pierced its side. The lich turned away from the faltering paladin and raised a fearsome claw, blasting the walltop with a sheen of ice. The knight yelped as the terrible cold bit at his skin through the thick armor. He snarled and raised his sword defiantly as the remaining ghosts closed in around him. Aravos swatted aside a moaning zombie and stopped, leveling his makeshift runeblade at the lich.

The mighty spirit peered at the Deathknight, swatting the paladin to the ground with a telekinetic blow.

“Deathknight,” it rattled, its voice sounding like wind soughing through old bones. “Why are you here?”

Aravos bared his teeth and attacked, driving the lich back past the unconscious paladin. The spirit wailed, pelting the Deathknight with icy magic as it backed away. The elf weathered the storm as well as he could, fighting to put the ghostly fire lining his sword into the lich’s center.

“I know you…” hissed the monster, its red eye lights shining with anger. “You were lost!”

“No!” snarled Aravos, his strength building with his fury. “I was rescued!” His blade caught the lich on the arm and passed through with a flash, reaching the spirit’s chest. The creature shrieked and vanished with a clap of thunder and magic that shook the earth and raised dust from the seams of the rock. The undead masses shivered and began to break, lost without the influence of their leader, their champion.

“We won,” whispered the knight, clutching his chilled arm. “We won! They’re retreating!”

“For now…” Aravos muttered, watching the horde scuttle away. “They won’t be gone for long.”

In the War of Light and Shadow: Part 2

I have a headache tonight, so I don't think I'll be blogging anything new. I might have something a little more serious tomorrow though. Anyway, enjoy the next excerpt from my story.

“I… I can’t,” stammered the knight. “You’re a Deathknight… you, you’re one of them!”

“A Deathknight that is fighting on your side!” snapped the elf, losing his patience. “Leave the chains if you must but let me save the city!” His eyes flashed with a cold blue light and he raised his commandeered blade. “Or would you like to try to kill me instead?”

With his strength and stature restored, Aravos stood on a level with the knight. Even chained, the Deathknight was an imposing figure, with his silvery skin etched with softly glowing runes. The soldier swallowed nervously, eyeing the long sword in Aravos’ powerful hands.

“Here,” he said shakily, digging a ring of keys from one of his pouches. “What do we do now?”

Aravos let the chains fall to the ground and rubbed his raw wrists. “The hordes are lead by greater undead, Deathknights, liches, vampires… we need to find whatever is holding this together and kill it.”

“Where?” panted the knight, following Aravos as he jogged away. “Where is it? How do we find it?”

Aravos hesitated at a crossroads, disoriented from his long imprisonment. “If we get close enough, I should be able to sense it.” His jaw tightened. “Without my own blade and armor my magic is weak. If the undead take my mind again, you need to take off my head, understand?”

He pierced the soldier with his strange blue eyes. “Understand?”

“Yes,” said the knight. “How will I know?”

Aravos gave a half-hearted chuckle. “When I stop killing the dead and start trying to kill you.”

To their relief the gates were intact, though skeletal warriors swarmed the ground outside, some raising crude ladders while others clawed their way up to the ramparts. The throwers had stopped, though the damage was already done. Aravos could hear the screams and sounds of fighting as more of the flesh golems stalked the streets, adding to the rampant chaos. The sun had long since vanished, overcome by thick black clouds. Thunder rumbled as the knight and the Deathknight fought shoulder to shoulder, sweeping shambling zombies and ravening ghouls from off the battlements. Aravos fought carefully, conserving the magic of his crude runeblade as much as he could.

The undead had overcome many of the knights manning this section of the wall. The few that remained were trapped near the guard tower, hemmed in by dozens of moaning corpses. Zombies turned on Aravos without fear only to fall beneath his blade. The men at the guardhouse watched in awe as the small swarm disintegrated.

“Hold this wall!” thundered the Deathknight, barely slowing as he shoved through the door to the guardhouse and across the deserted room to the far door.

The center of the wall was little better, though he could see clusters of knights gathered around shining paladins. The mighty champions fought with unequaled fury, fueled by the light and a deep hatred for the undead. It seemed, though the monsters roved the walltop, that nothing could stand against the holy men and women of the Church of Light. A cold feeling pierced Aravos’ heart and he hesitated.

The knight stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“A lich,” Aravos replied, pressing his thumb against his blade, wincing as it bit his calloused flesh. The knight watched in concern as he drew a series of crude, bloody runes on the wide blade.

“Lich?” the man asked. “Aren’t liches wizards?”

“Most of them were wizards once,” Aravos said grimly. “Men who turned to undeath to extend their lives and their research. Their magic is strong… stronger than mine.”

“How do we stop them?” asked the knight.

“They are creatures of ice,” replied the Deathknight. The runes on his skin and sword flickered and bluish fire lined his blade. “We need to use fire… it will weaken it enough to kill it.”

The knight spun around and ducked into the guardroom before returning with a brand from the fire. Aravos nodded approvingly. “Good. Now let’s go!”

Almost at that instant, something appeared at the walltop beside the nearest paladin. A tall figure, ghostly and shining with a pale light hovered over the battlements, its translucent robes fluttering in a non existent wind. Only its skull seemed solid, staring down at the champion with red lights that shone from empty eye sockets. Several smaller spirits, lesser ghosts, flanked the lich, striking at the knights with spectral swords. The blades drew no blood, but more than one soldier fell, stricken by the horrible chill.

Aravos swore. “Knight, do you wear a holy symbol?”

The man nodded and pulled a pendant from under his breastplate. “This.”

“Good enough,” said the Deathknight. “Wrap the chain around your hilt and repeat after me.”

When he said the once familiar prayer, the words caught in his throat. For a moment he felt sick, but gathered his strength, barely skipping a beat as he forced the incantation through clenched teeth. The knight followed quickly, stumbling over a handful of the larger words. Aravos grunted, glancing back at the lich and the paladin.

“That will have to do,” he said. “A consecrated blade will drive the ghosts away. Try to keep up!”

In the War of Light and Shadow: Part 1

This story was never meant to be perfect.  It has been superficially edited, and is a quick look into the life of a character I made several years ago. Still, I hope you enjoy it.

Aravos had been a paladin once, a defender of good and a powerful champion of the light. The Bulwark had been his home and defending the Kingdom of Stone, his life’s work. Now he was imprisoned, trapped in the sunless depths of the king’s dungeons. The cell was small, barely wide enough for the elf to stretch out on the chilly floor. The only light came from the ghostly blue runes etched into his silvery, metallic skin. Hunger gnawed at his belly; he couldn’t remember the last time the prison wardens had brought him food. Not that it mattered much now, not with the dark magic that kept him alive. Well, sort of alive.

His keen ears caught a distant sound and he frowned. The tap tap of boots on stone grew closer and he stood wearily, the heavy chains that bound his limbs clanking loudly as he moved against the wall. Torchlight stung his eyes as the door slammed open.

“So you are still alive,” boomed a deep voice. A paladin in shining, golden armor stared at him with cold eyes, flanked by a pair of knights.

“Ser Halvor,” Aravos replied cooly. “It seems that death has not seen fit to claim me yet.” He narrowed his eyes. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“The king requests your presence,” Halvor grunted. He stepped aside. “Though why he wants to have an audience with a traitor is beyond me.”

Aravos shuffled out into the hall, trying to ignore the knight’s drawn weapons. He was thin, little more than skin and bones and between the large soldiers and the massive paladin, he looked even smaller. He winced as one of the knights pushed his shoulder with a plated hand. His eyes flashed and he shot the man a dark glare. Less than a year ago he would have towered over the man, dressed in his own battle armor. Now, the man glared back and shook his sword.

“Move!”

Halvor hesitated by a heavy door. “It’s daylight. If you go out in the sun will you survive until we reach the palace?”

“I’m a Deathknight, not a vampire,” Aravos growled. “And I’m undying, not undead. There’s a difference. The sun’s no threat to me.”

“You fought for the damned king,” snapped the paladin. “You lead the undead against your own brothers, you commanded them… you are no different from the rest.”

“My will was not my own,” said the Deathknight, squinting his eyes against the blinding sunlight. “You know that as well as anyone. When Ser Zeffron freed my mind I turned myself in to the Church of Light. Does that sound like the undead to you?”

“Shut up,” rumbled the paladin. He started to continue but was cut off as screams and cries rose from the city below. He hefted his hammer and gestured at Aravos. “Get him out of here! Now!”

There was an explosion that shook the ground, knocking the weakened prisoner to his knees. The knights swore and grabbed him by the arms, hoisting him back to his feet as the paladin sprinted away. Aravos resisted feebly, helpless against their strength.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s happening?”

“Don’t you already know?” snarled one of the soldiers. “You’re one of them!”

“Quiet!” cried the other. “Just help me get him to the palace!”

Aravos would have whitened if he hadn’t already been the color of pale silver. “The undead… they’ve breached the Bulwark.”

A second explosion rocked the ground and Aravos fell a second time. “They have throwers,” he panted. “That means it’s an invasion not a raid. You need to kill the commander, break their strength!”

One of the knights stopped and leveled his blade at Aravos’ throat. “You were their leader once! Why don’t we just kill you? How do we know that you aren’t causing this?”

“We take him to the king!” said the other, urgently laying a hand on his companion’s arm. “We have our orders!”

“Killing me won’t make a bit of difference,” Aravos said calmly. “You need to get these people to safety before the wall falls.”

The knight’s blade wavered. “They won’t make it through the wall… they can’t….”

Aravos bared his teeth in disgust. “You’ve never even been at the front lines have you? Do you even know what those throwers are casting? Didn’t you hear me say that the undead are already inside?”

Something slammed into the walkway ahead of them, throwing them to the ground and showering them with dust. The knights lurched to their feet, raising their weapons as a hideous shape emerged from the choking dust. Its flesh was putrid and discolored, crisscrossed with oozing scars, held together by sloppy stitchwork. Its hands were gone, replaced by rusted iron hooks. A single milky eye rolled in its socket, locking on the knights and the prisoner as they shifted nervously. Aravos could see the blood drain from their faces as the monster moaned.

“It’s a flesh golem,” he said quickly, wishing fervently for a blade of his own. “An abomination! Strong but slow! Don’t let it get you in a corner!”

The first knight swore and charged recklessly, driving his blade into the creature’s barrel-like chest. It roared, more in rage than pain, and swatted the knight with a heavy arm, catching him in the stomach with the hook and hurling him into the air. It pulled clumsily at the blade in its ribs, slashing its own flesh as it hooked the sword’s hilt and tugged it free. The weapon clattered to the floor covered in black ooze, forgotten.

“Take the legs!” Aravos yelled to the surviving knight as the undead thing shuffled forward. “Knock it down and take its head!”

The man yelled and darted forward, ducking a wild swing from the beast’s hook hand as he hacked at a monstrous leg. It growled and stumbled, crashing into a wall as it waved its arms, keeping the knight at bay. Aravos gathered his strength and ran forward, throwing himself at the fallen sword. The knight, too distracted by the undead thing’s deadly hooks to notice the elf, cried out in pain as a blow caught his shoulder.

Aravos swore and snatched up the dead knight’s blade, nicking his thumb with the keen edge. He traced a rune on the hilt, feeling the magic in his runic tattoos begin to awaken. The red symbol flashed and the Deathknight cried out as the magic flooded his body, swelling and healing his withered body and filling out his gaunt frame. The crude rune flashed a second time and icy chains spat from his outstretched hand, wrapping around the golem and pulling it to the ground. The knight yelled in triumph and brought his sword down in a sweeping arc, parting the beast’s head from its shoulders. It fell to the ground with a wet thump, still bound by chains of frost.

“Is it dead?” asked the knight, menacing the fallen golem with his gore spattered blade.

“Yes,” Aravos replied, examining the fallen knight. “But there are more of them. We need to get to the wall and kill the horde’s leader.”

“What about him?” asked the knight, gesturing at the fallen soldier. “Is he…?”

“Gone,” Aravos grunted, gently closing the dead man’s eyes. He stood and spread his manacled hands. “Come on. Let me out of these, we need to get to the gate.”

Coffee and Books

As much as I like the quiet and solitude of the woods or my writing desk, I love sitting in the coffee shop at the local bookstore. Even if I'm not working on anything in particular, I like sitting in the corner and watching the people wandering through the stacks and tables. One of my favorite pass times, when I go out at least, is to read or write, observing the wanderings of my fellow patrons as I sip my favorite strawberry cream frappe. My only problem is leaving the bookstore without a new book.

Something New

As I promised yesterday I've done something new. I've been writing stories for years, but it's always been more about putting what's in my head down on a page than about trying to put them into public print. Recently though, I've been working on an old short story that I started several years ago, recycling its bones with the hopes of submitting it to a literary magazine. I've toyed with the idea before, but never quite worked up the courage to do so. It makes everything so very real, and the possibility of hurt and disappointment grows exponentially as my heartfelt work is exposed to the outside world. Even in the very likely event of rejection, I can't help but feel a pang of the heartache I felt several years ago in my two and a half year long job search. Still, there is always a chance that my story will be accepted and I will be able to take a major step forward in the dream of writing professionally.

So, after several minutes of near panicked deliberation, I pressed send. Thanks in part to the support of my lovely wife of course. I said before that I wasn't planning on making stories a major part of this blog, but I may post this story, cut up in parts, for the next few days. If any of the people who gave me my ninety six views are interested in seeing it, let me know. In the meantime remember two mostly nocturnal creatures, both struggling to conquer fear in the basement, one a flying squirrel and the other a story telling writer. So, even if it means trying something new and different for dinner, do something you've never done before. Oh, and sorry for continuing yesterday's thought, but it's something I've been thinking about a lot.

Squirrels in the Basement

I walked into the boiler room at work this morning to find a flying squirrel huddled in the corner, staring up at me with its bright, black eyes. It was the first flying squirrel I've seen since I moved into the area and it was inexplicably in a sealed room in the basement of the building. After several fruitless minutes of squirrel herding, I found a bucket and a large foam square, hoping to catch it and take it back outside. Even with these obviously professional animal catching tools, the squirrel continued to elude me, using the cramped rooms network of copper pipes as its own personal forest, occasionally even gliding over my head to the opposite wall. Finally I caught it mid leap, trapping it in the bucket long enough to return it to the woods outside. The result was a traumatized squirrel and a battered maintenance man and all because of fear.

It made me wonder, how often do we resist something that will benefit us, simply because we are afraid? We resist change, even good changes, because we fear the unknown, fear the insecurity of building a new routine. Sometimes we even miss out on great friendships or experiences because we are afraid to leave our comfort zones. Why don't we make a pact... try something new, something outside of the daily grind.