Difference between revisions of "The Shardscape"
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The once-pristine golden spires that had glittered in the morning sun were strewn across the pavements, shattered. The marble ramparts, that had gleamed white while the sun was high above, and had glimmered with the colours of sunset at evening's beckon, had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The city of [[IldCarr]] had been taken. | The once-pristine golden spires that had glittered in the morning sun were strewn across the pavements, shattered. The marble ramparts, that had gleamed white while the sun was high above, and had glimmered with the colours of sunset at evening's beckon, had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The city of [[IldCarr]] had been taken. | ||
| − | The intruders were from the [[ | + | The intruders were from the [[Termalttë|unknown lands]] that lay in the east. Little was known about them, much like the lands that they hailed from. All that the races of men knew of them was that they were [[Tretallë (Culture)|riders of pale skin]], that they were cruel beyond belief, and that they were merciless on the battlefield. |
It had been six hours since the grand city of IldCarr had fallen to invaders, and still, the [[deathrider|deathriders]] yet scoured the battlefield. They hunted for any and all signs of life. Any survivors, young or old, man or woman, or child. They snuffed out whatever they found with little regard. | It had been six hours since the grand city of IldCarr had fallen to invaders, and still, the [[deathrider|deathriders]] yet scoured the battlefield. They hunted for any and all signs of life. Any survivors, young or old, man or woman, or child. They snuffed out whatever they found with little regard. | ||
Revision as of 00:15, 12 June 2015
The wind howled. Its lonely lament was joined, for the longest time, only by the snapping of pennant flags in its relentless grip. Plumes of smoke covered the sky, and clouds of dust billowed across the ground and the carnage that lay bare over it. The fields had only hours ago been green and lush. Only moments ago, it had been filled with the sound of clashing swords and men.
Now it was different. The ground itself was stained red with the blood of thousands, if not tens of thousands. They were dead. They were slain in a vain last-ditched effort to protect the city from its wroth invaders.
The once-pristine golden spires that had glittered in the morning sun were strewn across the pavements, shattered. The marble ramparts, that had gleamed white while the sun was high above, and had glimmered with the colours of sunset at evening's beckon, had been reduced to smouldering rubble. The city of IldCarr had been taken.
The intruders were from the unknown lands that lay in the east. Little was known about them, much like the lands that they hailed from. All that the races of men knew of them was that they were riders of pale skin, that they were cruel beyond belief, and that they were merciless on the battlefield.
It had been six hours since the grand city of IldCarr had fallen to invaders, and still, the deathriders yet scoured the battlefield. They hunted for any and all signs of life. Any survivors, young or old, man or woman, or child. They snuffed out whatever they found with little regard.
Carrion birds circled high overhead. Even the clouds of war were afraid to descend upon the carnage down below. They did not want to face the ire of the strange warriors from the strange lands.
The slow clop of hooves of a passing deathrider faded into the distance behind a heavily wounded soldier. He had spent the last agonizing half hour lying as still as he could, breathing only shallowly, and even then, only when absolutely necessary. Thankfully, his ruse had so far been successful. He had deceived the deathrider into thinking he was already dead.
Knowing that he would soon die either way, the soldier threw all caution to the wind and crawled toward the outstretched arm and dead eyes of his brother. Between them was a pool of fresh blood. Its surface was calm despite the incessant howling of the wind. Before he could grip the arm of his long-gone brother, he heard a high-pitched neigh behind him.
Within the man, a dull rage sparked and something inexplicable snapped. As he heard the horse whinny and rear up on its hind legs; as he heard the unearthly steel of the deathrider's blade scrape against its scabbard, and the whine that followed the weapon on its downstroke, the world dissolved into darkness.
Below the soldier, the pool of blood turned silver and it expanded as it spun into a massive mirror spanning as far as the eye could see.
The mirror before the soldier showed him on the ground, with the deathrider towering behind him, ready to end his pitiful existence. As he watched, the reflection save for himself blew away like ashes in the wind. On the tail of the disintegrating world, a fantastical landscape of towering facades and bright lights and strange metal carriages that moved without horses followed.
The image solidified and the soldier felt himself fall through the mirror. For the briefest of moments, he saw a stranger world, one vast and covered with mist, containing mirrors arrayed in arcs around something. When he blinked, that strange other world vanished, and he saw only a road paved with black stone.
The soldier let go of consciousness, and the world turned black.
