Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

View previous topic View next topic Go down

How's this gonna end?

100% 100% 
[ 1 ]
0% 0% 
[ 0 ]
0% 0% 
[ 0 ]
0% 0% 
[ 0 ]
 
Total Votes : 1

Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Fri May 29, 2009 4:11 am

The story 'ere takes place roughly 200 years before Sharnon I and details Sharnon's experience before becoming a nightwalker. I apoligize for Sharnon's thoughts not being italicized; the copying and pasting from Word seems to mess that up. Work with me here...
)()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()(
Sharnon sighed.
My scarf always ends up drenched.
From his battered helmet to worn leather boots, Sharnon was soaked. He inspected his sword as a connoisseur, then wiped it with his scarf. The result was that of a wet mop on a wet floor. His head swiveled slowly, scanning the remains of the field of barley. Hundreds of mounds were scattered throughout the grass, the bodies of horses and their riders, ripped flags and broken iron. The hillock had looked so peaceful by moonlight, the golden stalks moving in ripples around him. He could see for miles to the west, look down on the pines. He felt little droplets fall from his hair and quietly tap on his cloak.
It's still warm, he thought, looking at his gloves.
Heavy footsteps approaching broke the quiet of the morning.
“We’re leaving, Sharnon. There’s news of another legion trying to skirt along the river.”
Sharnon spun around. Drips flew from his clothes and spattered on the soldier behind him.
“The river! Really? How many?”
“Anywhere from two to four hundred.”
“Arms?”
“The full kit. Shields, swords, with axes and spears scattered throughout.”
“Armor?”
“Chain, isolated bits of plate.”
“Flashjacks?”
“Around ten.”
Sharnon shoved his sword a foot into the ground. He hooked his arm around the soldier’s and danced in a circle.
“Ahaha! They’ll try to cut across the tributaries and between the hills! They'll already be running when we get to them.”
Sharnon untangled his arm and wrenched the sword from the dirt. His dirty, patched cloak parted for a moment, revealing a hodgepodge of chain mail, leather, and steel plates. Leather chaps were hung over rusted greaves, and bandoliers and belts crisscrossed his chest.
“But we’ll be waiting in our holes, watching them trip merrily through the ditches! Aha! Let’s go!”
Sharnon pulled his hood over his helmet, a steel skullcap with a visor that swung down, covering his eyes and nose. There were spatters of dried black across his cheeks, his chin and lips. But his wide smile and brilliant white teeth belied the gore that covered him. He pulled the soldier after him and ran toward their camp at the base of the hill, where the rest of the Tyrian legion sat staring at the blood on one another’s faces.
It took the Sharnon only two hours to dig the hole by moonlight, a man sized gap deep enough to conceal his torso. The sound of grunting and the susurrus of dirt was almost literally drowned out by the rain. The constant hiss and patter on the ferns, the occasional clink of water hitting metal, the shh, shh, shh sound of shovels in the night. In the distance, the river’s continuous roar could be heard.
Sharnon sat in his hole and listened. Rain ran down his back and dripped off his helmet, but he didn’t feel it. He could almost see the little pieces moving in his mind, being dragged across the board, moving into position.
But this board has trees, and holes, and camouflage.
In his hands he held a little playing piece, a finger-high knight sculpted in pewter. His gloved fingers traced its armor and tiny sword while his eyes peered out of the darkness of his visor. He knew how he looked; a helmet among the ferns and dirt, with a slit for eyes and a wet scarf around his face, black hair hanging down, sitting like a wolf. The fear, that was what was important. A black slit staring into your soul.
Eventually, the sun shone through the trees again and the rain stopped. They had dug into the side of a hill, overlooking a deer trail, and camouflaged their holes with saplings and dirt. Below, the group could see the rows of trees and bushes, where animals had tramped them, and beyond that, the river. The holes had been dug in rows, the first one within twenty yards of the trail. Sharnon sat in one of the holes closest to the trail, a fern draped over him and dirt on his helmet.
For half an hour they sat in the cold morning light and breathed into their shirts, lest their breath rise in telltale clouds. They listened to birds wake and the river’s constant roar, waiting for the clink of metal and tramping of feet. Finally, a man appeared, creeping down the trail, scanning ahead carefully. He held a short, wooden horn in his left hand and wore loose chain mail under a faded green poncho. Every step he took made a slink sound as the mail shifted. It sounded so…discordant, out of place, foreign to the sounds of the forest. Sharnon reached into his cloak’s breast pocket.


Take a break. I'll get a handle on spacing my posts.
()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

-
Darnien watched his legion’s sentry sneak down the trail, keeping to the bushes and the shadows. He readied his own sword while he crouched. Their spies had reported that a legion of the Tyrian army, a mere one hundred twenty men, had learned of their movements and had sprinted to intercept them. The trail had been a sacrifice of security for speed, but Darnien’s comrades numbered four hundred twelve, and had fine chain mail, as opposed to the Tyrian’s ragtag leather and sheepskin. It was said that the Tyrians had a tradition of never purchasing their armor from a smithy.
He watched the scout creep over to a tree and crouch in a bush. Darnien winced at the minute clink of the armor. The scout’s head turned slowly, scanning the hills ahead. He turned back to the rest of the legion, hunkered down around a boulder, and nodded. Darnien nodded back, reassuring himself.
The legion began to move toward a clump of trees, hunched over and loping like a column of wolves. Darnien inhaled and smiled.
Like kings of this disgusting forest we move!
Shink
The sentry’s head slumped. He tottered for a moment, and then fell to the side. The wooden horn rolled out of his hand.
There was an instant, a split second of silence, before anyone could react. It was the time between dropping the pane of glass and the terrible, inevitable shatter.
Darnien’s eyes widened.
In the moment, something appeared in the midst of the Sifian column, or perhaps, it had always been there, hiding in plain site. It was not a man, for a man had eyes and legs, and a chest. This thing was a swirl of green and brown and black metal. A long blade could be glimpsed in its midst, and a black, horizontal slit stared out at the world.
The glass shattered.
Black lines appeared in the air as Sharnon’s straightsword swung.
One man at my left shoulder, two at my chest, three at my left rib, one at my right leg.
Seven men fell to the ground. The smalls rip or gashes on each man’s chain mail told perhaps of an iron toothpick.
One with a hurricane behind it.


-
Miles away, a spark fell on thatch roofing. The flames burst out of the dry straw and began to engulf the home. The fire almost matched the morning sky, and had a Tyrian been awake or their sentinels still alive, they would have seen two shadows leaping into the trees, carrying someone between them, chainmail clinking gently.
A candle was lit. It was the only light in the cold, damp room, and it illuminated the pale face of its bearer. He crouched down and shook the heap on the floor. A dirt-smeared hand swung up and grabbed his arm. The candle-bearer did not resist as the man on the floor pulled his face close. The man’s hand was a clammy vice-grip, and, the candle-man noticed, clenched around a pressure point on his wrist. The candle illuminated the dirty man’s wide smile.
“Give me the keys.”
“I don’t have them.”
“Outside? They’ll let you out?”
“They’re waiting on the other side of the vault, listening, watching. If all goes well, they’ll let me out.”
“They can stand screams, can they?”
“What-“
“Unless they open the door, they can listen.”
The candle-man flicked a finger upwards. His assailant did not look.
“I know what’s up there. I don’t care.”
The candle-man twisted his hand, tilting the candle. The other man’s graying hair and wrinkles were lit up. His wide, wild eyes were set on an emaciated face and the remains of a beard. He stared at his captor, a young man with blonde curls.
“He’s out there, isn’t he?” The older man laughter was rasping breaths. “You can’t stop him, can you?”
The candle-man gritted his teeth.
“We will break you, tree-beast. You’re already rusted. Now we just need the hammer.”
The candle-bearer flicked the candle stick. Searing wax splashed onto the old Tyrian’s face, but he kept smiling at his captor, unwavering, maddening. He let go of the young man’s hand.
“Bring your hammers. Bring your all of your hammers!”


Last edited by Sirch Hanom on Tue Jun 02, 2009 4:35 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Sweeping changes.)
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Fri May 29, 2009 4:13 am

Sharnon lifted his visor and looked back at his comrades. They were picking among the bodies, salvaging pieces of chain mail and bits of plate armor, or searching for a dagger to bring home. There was a reason that Tyrians rarely bought armor.
He walked among the bodies, enjoying the morning sun on his face. It was higher now, and the damp cold had faded from his skin. Every now and then he would nudge one of their helmets, apparently checking for life. In reality, he nudged their helmets over their faces. He held his straight sword in one hand, and played with the little carved knight in his pocket with the other.
The hiss of breath stopped him. He turned slowly and stooped over lying under a fern. Sharnon’s eyes saw no mark on his armor. He stood and turned his sword point-down. He inhaled deeply.
-
That godsdamn light is back…oh, make it go away…
The old Tyrian was lying facedown on the ground. Only glimpses of the candlelight were visible through his greasy hair. He lay on his cheek, eyes wide. The jailer spoke quietly.
“There is a man with a black half-helmet and a straightsword He has black hair and wears a large, stitched coat. Tell me about him.”
The man on the ground was silent.
“Do you want Master Tehatimah to come back? He would like to play a few more games with you.”
There was a groan and grunt from the floor. The candleman leaned forward.
“Sharn… loved…to play the games.”
“What games?”
The young Sifian crouched in front of the man. His voice was still soft, coaxing.
“He would make little lines of them…he loved those carvings…got him his own board…”
“He liked to play King-Errant?”
The elderly man nodded slowly. His hair, matted with sweat, barely moved on his head. He paused with his mouth open, then went on.
“He seemed like, seemed like…it was all random, but then he would move a piece, and everything…then there was no way to win.”
“He was very good, hmm?”
The man turned his head sideways and directed his words at the wall across from him.
“He would get into his moods and… no one wanted to play him… anymore.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t let them…stop.”
“What?”
The old man rolled over and got on his hands and knees.
“He would… hunt every one of their pieces down and…he wouldn’t let them give up. He had no…knowing…never learned…when to…”
The old man groaned again and lay still.
-
The chest beneath his sword convulsed, coiled and uncoiled. The tip of the blade was poised above Darnien’s neck. But Sharnon had seen the muscle contraction and recognized what they meant.
“You are... crying?”
Darnien’s gasped out through sobs.
“Y-ye-sssss.”
Sharnon lifted his blade away. His face was blank beneath the helmet.
He should not be crying…he is a soldier.
“You should not cry.”
“You-‘re going to k-k-kah…kill me.”
“It is the chance we all took. We were put into our legions and set against each other, and one side must lose. Today, you are on that side.”
Darnien sat up suddenly and leaned forward on his knees. Tears streamed from his face, but his eyes were narrowed in anger.
“Lose? We don’t lose, we die. And children are left behind, and my wife is…”
He gazed over at the bodies.
“They’re…all…dead. And you killed them. You killed them, just stopped... They had lives!”
He beat his fists against Sharnon’s legs and clenched his eyes shut.
“I knew them! We were people, not suits of armor…but you killed them…anyway.”
Sharnon stared blankly down at the shuddering man at his feet.
He’s not supposed to cry. He’s not…they‘re not…alive. They’re…
Sharnon’s eyes widened.
Pieces.
The man’s head lolled back and he wailed, “This isn’t a game-“
Crack.
Sharnon staggered back, away from the soldier. Smoke rose from the man’s side, and a quiet hiss; he tottered and then fell forward. Sharnon stepped forward, looked down at the man, then to his left. A Tyrian was checking the plunger of a smoking flashjack.
Sharnon looked down at the bodies around his feet.
What is this? What is this?
-


Last edited by Sirch Hanom on Tue Jun 02, 2009 4:55 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : Sweeping changes.)
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Fri May 29, 2009 4:15 am

They had propped the old man against the wall; he had forgotten how to move his legs. Master Teatime’s illusionary horrors and far-too-real fire had caused men to hang themselves by their own hair, and forgetting how to move was a mild effect in comparison. Somehow, the elder still spoke with a large thread of sanity. However, when he spoke, he never looked at his interrogators. Master Tehahtima had volunteered to twist the man’s head in whatever direction they desired.
“He was polite, always polite, never rude, always wanted to cheer up…handstands, tricks with throwing knives… little illusions the shaman taught him. Always smiled, smiled, not like when he played the games, no, a different smile…not a wolf-smile. Charming little chapper never said anything mean, very ambitious, ambling, ammunition, amiable. But at the games…no one wanted to play, it wasn’t play.”
The old man moaned.
“He was ruthless at the games, hmm?”
“Bird bird birds…there was the time…”
“He killed birds?”
“No, no, no! He sang one and she wanted to see one, so he had it on his finger tomorrow.”
“Who wanted to see one?”
“She did. He liked her…she made him a blanket.”
“Who?”
“Little girl…Helen. She followed him…He didn’t play games for weeks.”
“Why didn’t he play?”
“He brought arrows, tears, tears…left firewood and brought her back…”
“They were attacked.”
“Eight…Sharn drenched…scarf was wet, half his chest out him, but he ran. With her, he knew, there were arrows in her.”
Tears welled in the old man’s eyes.
“They were dead, both dead, but Sharn didn’t die. He wouldn’t die…shaman said he was too full of everything to be able to… die.”
“Everything?”
”Hate refined to art, freezing fire, blue flames. No one, no one can live with all of it in him. His heart stopped for a while…”
“His…heart?”
“Retribution…there wasn’t enough blood, he had to use something. You can feel it! There’s a blue fire! No heart! No heart! Rip apart, burn to ashes! It won’t escape! He’ll stop, he has too…Sharnon the Unsheathed!”
The old man staggered his feet.
“Sharnon the Unsheathed!”
The old man stood for a moment. The spider webs cracks in his mind spread.
The glass shattered.
The candle man stood up. The plate on the door slid back.
“This demon-man has cracks in his armor.”
He looked down at the body of their prisoner. No kind of life flowed through the old man, not even this Sharnon’s half-life.
-
Tir Nanin had been built on a hill; not one that children climb, but a true hill. It loomed over the river below, and the only thing that kept it from mountain-hood was its lack of snow and necessity for sharp tools to ascend it. Since the founding of the Sifian tribe, the hill-fort had sat in its niche on the hill and forged arms for its people.
Sharnon looked down on it from the safety of the cliffs, on the other side of the riverbut not with his usual anxiousness. The young man from the river had killed the joy Sharnon took in planning his attacks, observing his targets. The battle-frenzy that had seemed so familiar and safe before now felt wild and…foreign. To slip his blade between the ribs and mail of the enemy gave him no thrill. The thought of slicing through soldiers…people… didn’t feel the way it used to.
Thousands of pine trees, miles of pine trees, blanketed the hills around Tir Nanin. On their first scouting forays, they stole some of the bells the villagers hung from the trees. Sharnon watched the tiny black grains of sand flow through the streets of the little town. A massive pyramid stood in the middle of the homes, the primary forge. Untold arrows, uncounted swords, had been created specially to kill Tyrians. Hammers tempered with unending hate, the masters had said.
The glow of the forge, far below, lit up the hills that night, as it did every night. Warm winds blew up to him, heated by the metalworks. He had been told the villagers lived underground, in immense tunnel systems, to avoid attacks and the unending noise of billows pumping, liquid metal hissing, wheels turning. The folk there lived in shifts, and slept, ate, lived by their shifts in the forges and billow-rooms.
The metal…it hates the trees, the earth. It bites through the flesh of the land. Why haven’t the tree-spirits destroyed them?
Sharnon sat on the edge of the precipice, his comrades sleeping overhead, in the branches. He was always the sentry; sleep was optional.
To live a life of clockwork and metal, living without seeing the sun, constantly waiting for destruction…it kills the spirit.
The horror from the young man at the river lost some of its edge; perhaps the soldier did not understand how the game was played. Of course it was a game; there were tactics, probabilities, moves, strategies, disinformation…killing was how you rid the board of another piece. The boy had been unable to comprehend the game of war, had lost his sense of duty. The people in armor couldn’t be persuaded to make peace; they were pieces following their master’s command. Real people did not kill one another.
What does that make me?
He grit his teeth; such questions were not to be asked by a soldier. He began to make note of the holes in the wooden walls, collapsed earthworks, broken shana gates. Perhaps the forest spirits had tested the defenses after all…but Sharnon’s saw tiny specks of red and yellow among the damaged fortification, and little glints of silver.
Soldiers guard the workers as they repair…they’re probably criminals being punished by working outside the walls. Something will find them…perhaps Danan will come!
The thought brought him out of his cloud of confusion: Danan was something he could understand. Sharnon watched the edge of cleared trees for movement. But an hour passed, and no attack came. A terrible idea wormed its way into his thoughts.
Perhaps they killed him. Surely Danan would attack every night-
Tiny shouts from below. Sharnon’s searched the defenses wildly.
Two giant grey wolves were leaping over trenches and spiked ditches toward the lanterns. Each one was over six feet tall, but moved with such swiftness and ferocity that Sharnon felt a pang of fear. They closed the gap between them and their prey in seconds, though the edge of the forest was close to a mile away.
Sharnon staggered to his feet and climbed up the nearest tree. He shook the man awake and whispered, “Danan is attacking the village! Call the others, meet me at the fifth trench from the gates.”
Sharnon jumped down and ran to the edge of the cliff at full speed. He focused all his strength on his legs, and felt the heat blossom in them. He reached the end of the rock and when his heels on the very edge, he crouched and leaned forward. The fire in his legs began to blacken the skin, but he didn’t care. He shot from the crag straight toward the battle. He could hear the river’s roar below as he soared over, but he didn’t care about that either.
So clear…fight or run away.
Sharnon felt the comfort and familiarity of battle-thoughts envelope him.
-
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Fri May 29, 2009 4:18 am

The Sifian saw something out of the corner of his eye, something fast and airborne. He tore his eyes from the wolves in the lower earthworks and searched the sky. Out of the darkness, the glint of the blade rocketed toward him.
-
Danan also saw the figure erupt from the cliffs above. His yellow eyes narrowed.
A man?
He watched from the shadows near the clearing and bared his teeth. The man had flown at a flashjacker and cut the soldier in half, paying no heed to the plate armor.
He is not human. An Alfar?
Danan flexed his shoulder muscles and focused his eyes on the swirling swordsman.
If he is a demon, then let him face a god.
Danan sprinted toward the shouts and falling men. No moonlight fell on him.
-
Sharnon hacked away at the scrambling soldiers with the two wolves on his flanks. He could feel the unspoken camaraderie of fellow fighters between them, though they used claws and teeth. They ran the Sifians back to their gates and destroyed scaffolding on the walls. He pointed toward the rows of lanterns, and the wolves understood. Soon, the clearing belonged to the night once more. He threw his sword up at the wall so that it stuck in the wood, and leapt off a pile of earth. Sharnon’s cloak fluttered behind him as he took to the air once more.
He alighted on the blade like a cat and stood on it as he cut handholds with one of the Sifian knives. The wolves looked up at him, forty feet above. Sharnon heard voices above him, shouting and jacks being loaded. Arrows were being cocked. He chuckled quietly and slipped his toe into a foothold.
“Stop.”
It was a command. Sharnon looked down. A massive white wolf sat below, eight feet tall and a mouth large enough to fit an elk. With the antlers intact. Its eyes were locked on him, analyzing, planning. Sharnon’s legs twitched, but he stopped them; he could not bow on a sword.
In one movement, Sharnon slipped off the sword and, on the way down, wrenched the sword from the wall. He landed in front of the giant wolves and fell to one knee. His sword was held in his hands, and his head was bowed. The wolf sat motionless. When it saw Sharnon was not going to move, it grinned.
“You did not remove your helmet, my brother. Why?”
“There are enemies above us, master.”
“There are enemies in all places.”
Sharnon dropped his sword reluctantly and pulled off his half-helm.
“You will return to your brothers in the trees and tell them not to attack these people.”
Sharnon’s head twitched upward.
“But why? They-“
“You will not attack these people. My soldiers appreciated your aid, but no more.”
“But I can help! Use me as your teeth and claws to rid the world of these corrupting metalworkers. I want to help you.“
The pale wolf’s eyes narrowed.
“You want to lose yourself. You want to be a pawn. You want to kill and kill until there is nothing left.”
Sharnon’s eyes widened. The fury of battle drained from him.
“No…I defend-“
The wolf stood suddenly and its voice was whispering, angry.
“For now, you are a tool of your masters. But there will come a time when you kill friend and enemy together, in one swing. Everything will become food, shelter, and the enemy. Your heart will be engulfed in flame, and will leave a hole in its place. And that creature is not something I can let live.
“I’m not-I’m saving my people.”
“Even now, your service hurts your people, my sons and daughters. You are a tamed fire, but you will consume all things in time. Fire is a dangerous servant and a terrible master.”
Sharnon raised his head slowly. The moon lighted his unmasked face, and tears glistened in his eyes.
“You wish for me to die?”
“I wish for you to take off your helmet, and find the shard of your soul that is not tainted by war. Inhabit that piece, and let the fires go out. If you survive it, you have my blessing and praise.”
The wolf turned and walked back towards the edge of the clearing and left Sharnon kneeling before the walls of Tir Nanin. High above, Sifians watched the man stand up. The glass hung above the floor.
The man staggered toward the river, and the defenders let out their breaths.
A hundred men appeared out of the trenches and gathered around him. The Tyrians walked slowly back into the woods.
When they woke him the next morning, they had been sitting around him. One handed him a small scroll, with the symbol of the Tir Nanin Ironworks emblazoned on the broken seal. Sharnon saw the despair on their faces. He could feel their despairing eyes on him as he read the negotiation for the release of ninety Tyrian warriors. He read their sole demand.
Sharnon looked up at his comrades. He felt hollow, a tree whose wood has been burned away, but whose bark stood intact.

You will give us the warrior Sharnon in return for the release of ninety Tyrian prisoners, captured eight weeks prior at the battle of Na Cadmun. If you refuse to bequeath this man to the people of Tir Nanin within one hour, a Tyrian prisoner will be killed every hour until he is under our control.

The all-consuming fire in Sharnon’s heart went out.
-
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Fri May 29, 2009 4:20 am

The sky was still red when the Sifians saw their enemies emerge from the trees once more. Fully armored soldiers watched them walk up the path, in ten rows of twelve, between the trenches and mounds from the safety of the walls. Behind the wooden gates, six hundred Sif held ninety prisoners by thick ropes. Nooses were wrapped around their necks, with a rope tied from one man’s noose to the man next to him, so that no man could break away without having to drag the rest.
When the Tyrians stopped in front the gate, the master-at-arms appeared above them.
“Have you decided to meet our conditions?”
The one hundred twenty-first man of the legion looked up at him. The Tyrian wore a black half-helm with one horizontal slit for the eyes.
“We have decided that it would be a great honor for any man to save ninety of his brothers single-handedly. We agree to your conditions, provided you honor your promises to us as well.”
“Then let us commence!”
The gates were lifted, and the Tyrians stepped forward. The prisoners were brought to the edge of the portal. The silence that followed weighed heavily on the cold morning and made the Sifians uneasy: The ninety men were naked, bruised, and starved. Scars covered their bodies, and dried blood covered most of their long beards. They held their helmets to their chests; they were considered part of the man and were kept for ransoms.
The master-at-arms shifted uncomfortably.
“Step forward, Sharnon the Tyr, and relinquish your helmet and weapons.”
Sharnon lifted off his helmet and walked slowly up to the gate. He held his sword tip-down, a rare Tyrian gesture of resignation, and locked eyes with the nearest Sifian soldier. When he came within the first prisoner, however, he stopped. Fingers on arrows tightened.
Without breaking eye contact, he jammed his sword into the ground, slipped the cloak off his shoulders and slung it over the captured Tyrian. Above, muscles relaxed. Sharnon picked up his sword and handed it to the guard, along with his helmet. He spoke quietly, almost to himself.
“I don’t need them.”
Six men locked manacles on his wrists, feet, neck, and chest. When each locked had clicked, the master-at-arms signaled for the prisoner to be unshackled.
Sharnon’s face was blank as he watched his legion slip off their own coats and cloaks and give them to their freed brothers. They all turned to him when clothing had been dispensed. He nodded slowly. The Tyrians turned and jogged back toward the trees.
Sharnon smiled faintly and turned away.
Crack.
A Tyrian soldier fell forward, his shoulder smoking. Sharnon spun around, his eyes wide.
He was dragged, unresisting, inside the gates. His face was grim.
“It could have ended here. Now the cycle starts again.”
Howls erupted from the hills around Tir Nanin.
For eight nights, Dana watched his wolves conducted their hit-and-runs attacks on the metalwork town. Finally, the two gray wolves came back with Sharnon riding in one of their mouths. They dropped him gently in front in front of their white master; Sharnon sat with his head on his chest. When he spoke, he looked at the ground.
Danan growled; his charge was scarred by whips and blades, bruised by clubs, and starved until his ribs could be counted.
They broke their promise and kept their prize. They did not deserve him.
Danan spoke quietly, however.
“Do you wish for vengeance?”
“The men who did this will be reviled for all time. I do not wish for more death.”
“Do you wish for your sword?”
Sharnon looked up at the massive wolf. There was melancholy in its yellow eyes.
“No.”
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by xStarr_x3 on Mon Jun 01, 2009 5:52 pm

'Oly... Personally, I would continue reading it right now, but I'm too lazy to read more than your first post all in one go. o.o;
The first thing I see was that you had a first-person sentance near the top of the first paragraph. (gah, lot's of "firsts). "My scarf always ended up drenched". I dunno if that was on purpose or not, but, for me, it doesn't relate to the story. And also, this confuses me: "One man at my left shoulder, two at my chest, three at my left rib, one at my right leg. " Who's point of view is it, or is it simply put in for the sake of describing? Or maybe it was supposed to be in quotes? Whatever it's supposed to be, it sounds like a sort of chant to me.
EDIT: Just went back and read the top of the post. You can italicize on here, you know, right?
Like this. Ignore what I wrote. xD

The ending part of the first post also slightly confused me. Who's the crazy old man? Is he the one from the fire? (Although, when I was reading, I assumed he was) And the candle-man. Who's side is he on? I don't know if I were to keep reading if you'd explain that, as I'm stopping here.

But I like it so far. It appears to me that it's set in a midievil time, which I just luff. Sharnon's personality is unique, and makes me want to keep reading, just to see what he'll do next. Darnien, so far, reminds me of a child/teen that's been pulled into a war. I'm just guessing that, seeing as he didn't really say anything. xD
But, eh. I feel like I've read something like this before. People on two sides, fighting with swords and such... I've read tons of thousands of midevil books, and most are like this. Or slightly reminscent. But, again, that's what I'm just feeling from the first post. I have no clue how you're going to end the story so far, judging from the small glimpses of the other posts that I've seen when I scroll up/down.
I'm definatly going to keep reading this.
Good luck.~

_________________
Holleh likes taking evil slumbers. (and stealing candy from babies.)
She's PREGNANT. With a cow. How..?!
Holleh speaks to herself. In dreams.
HOLLEHS: Now come tree-size!
Holleh talks hotter than the sun. ;o
Holleh is an IN-SPURR-AY-SHUN. Believe it.
She thinks an artichoke is a type of fish.
She also gives lap-dances. To beds.
Holleh can van like a man.
avatar
xStarr_x3
Elite, Supreme, Whiz, Prodigy, Super-Duper World-Class Writer

Female
Number of posts : 7005
Age : 22
Points :
35 / 10035 / 100

Points 2.0 : 5901
Registration date : 2008-05-22

View user profile http://www.freewebs.com/awhisperinthedark

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sirch Hanom on Tue Jun 02, 2009 4:09 am

That was fantastic. Thank you.
I always prefer you read the whole shibang; it's so much clearer. To answer quickly...
1. I'm was too goddang lazy to itallicize all Sharnon's thoughts; I should edit that. Very confusing, that. The counting people at his chest, shoulder, was supposed to be him analyzing his targets. The scarf thing was supposed to be a subtle reference to the blood covering him after a battle that just ended; perhaps I need to make that clearer.
2. The crazy old guy was supposed to be a Tyrian, kidnapped by the Sifians and interrogated about Sharnon. He was indeed from the fire. THis may also be unclear. A good point. THe candleman is the interrogator, who is in charge of interpreting the tortured old man's replies about their previously unknown enemy.
3. I realize the plotline sounds hackneyed; that is supposed to be my cardinal sin, isn't it? But this is not simply about some guy kicking everyone's chain-mailed buttocks. I wish I could post my whole background on the Tyrian-Sifian feud, but I haven't finished it; it's a lot more meaningful then. Another excellent point.

Good feedback. I'll get to work editing the thoughts and the content right away.


Last edited by Sirch Hanom on Tue Jun 02, 2009 4:11 am; edited 1 time in total (Reason for editing : (Shoves hand through the chest of reason-box))
avatar
Sirch Hanom
Learned Writer

Male
Number of posts : 44
Points :
0 / 1000 / 100

Points 2.0 : 54
Registration date : 2009-05-28

View user profile http://assassinsforcheap.com

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by xStarr_x3 on Tue Jun 02, 2009 5:04 pm

I don't like reading everything at once; I like to give stuff time for it to sink in. So far, I've read down to the middle of the third post. Some stuff I've mentioned has become clearer since reading. xP

And your welcome.~

_________________
Holleh likes taking evil slumbers. (and stealing candy from babies.)
She's PREGNANT. With a cow. How..?!
Holleh speaks to herself. In dreams.
HOLLEHS: Now come tree-size!
Holleh talks hotter than the sun. ;o
Holleh is an IN-SPURR-AY-SHUN. Believe it.
She thinks an artichoke is a type of fish.
She also gives lap-dances. To beds.
Holleh can van like a man.
avatar
xStarr_x3
Elite, Supreme, Whiz, Prodigy, Super-Duper World-Class Writer

Female
Number of posts : 7005
Age : 22
Points :
35 / 10035 / 100

Points 2.0 : 5901
Registration date : 2008-05-22

View user profile http://www.freewebs.com/awhisperinthedark

Back to top Go down

Re: Lays of the Fianna- Sharnon II

Post by Sponsored content


Sponsored content


Back to top Go down

View previous topic View next topic Back to top


 
Permissions in this forum:
You cannot reply to topics in this forum