Note: This is a writing exercise and isn't completely coherent. It is unedited and raw, and I have little desire to clean it up. Read at your own risk.
Cyran looked around at the dry landscape and longed for his lush island. The days here were long and hot, the nights frigid, the air stale. He would be home if it weren’t for Moresa. Yet another escapade called him to this land.
Trouble clung to Moresa, fitted itself to her and drank of her aura. The darkness she commanded pulled her into its misery, but it didn’t seem she followed unwillingly. Her thirst for blood was only eclipsed by her hunger for power and both were the bane of his existence. Had she been an enemy and not his blood he would have dispatched of her long ago to keep the greater peace.
His small command of soldiers was bedded down for the night. Cryan glanced back to the men and sighed. He should have brought more. He feared Moresa’s strength had grown. They were loyal, each one, and he loathed seeing them in a losing battle.
Elanna squinted at the stiff paper in front of her. The ink had barely dried and she dared not touch it yet for fear of smearing the delicate letters. It was a hasty copy, done out of necessity rather than for pleasure or profit, but done all the same. She dropped her quill into the inkwell and stood.
She wandered to the small window and looked out across the watery landscape. The island was small and could be traversed in a day on foot. The scenery was lush and tropical and wild birds sang as they hid among the trees. Elanna sighed and turned back to her work. It was important that she finished it tonight.
Cyran was the rightful lord of the land, but he couldn’t hold much while he was still imprisoned. A kind soul to everyone he met, he gathered respect and honor around himself like full cape. Though thick and long, worn in a tie at his nape, his hair had been turned prematurely gray by his sister Moresa long before he reached adulthood. His eyes were a shade darker, and turned to a rich charcoal when his emotions flared. When his magic was aroused they became deep ebony pools, almost as if they were absorbing the light around him to fuel his gift.
Elanna had known of Cyran since her earliest of memories, and had been honored to become his scribe. Not a profession that was normally given over to women, Cyran had ignored tradition and hired her anyway. In doing so he had saved her from certain poverty and a likely death from it. She owed him her life, and was glad that she was able to repay the debt in some way.
She glanced in the mirror at her costume and smiled. It had cost her all of her meager savings, nearly a year’s worth of salary, but it was the only way she could help. The long dress was just a bit more blue than gray. She peered at the cut and marveled at modern fashion. It was much too tight at the top and she pulled on the too-low neckline. It dipped sharply in at the waist and flared at odd angles off her hips. She personally thought it looked ridiculous, but it was the latest design and no lady of any means would be caught in public wearing an older one. She turned one way and the next, both fascinated and disgusted as it glittered with abandon in the sunlight.
She gathered up her cloak and her courage and headed back to the paper on the desk. It was the key. It would get her into the prison and him out. It would prove his identity and set him free. It was not the perfect solution, but it was the best she could do on her own. She would get him free, and the rest would handle itself.
The damp stone walls stood like cold soldiers, unmovable and mute as they guarded him in his exiled prison. His mind wandered to his home and the people waiting for him there. Without the benefit of light and dark, sun and moon, he had no idea how long he had been in here. Had it been days? Weeks? Where was Moresa? His captain? Even one of his foot soldiers? Did no one miss their lord? Did no one come for him?
The land was foreign, far enough that his name was known but his face was not. Left for dead by a band of thieves,
Cyran stalked toward Moresa, his nearly infinite patience exhausted. Each step he took thundered with restrained power. The muscles in his neck tensed. His head lowered as he approached her, eyes trained on her face.
Moresa stepped back, her resolve wavering. Elanna watched in fascinated horror as the man she loved turned into a monster she didn’t know. His dark eyes evolved to an obsidian pool that hypnotized their victim. His arms were like bands of steel in front of him as he walked, the muscles straining against the power that was rising. His hair began to stand on end, and though it never quite stood out from his head it formed a halo around a face that was darkening even as she watched.
He stopped moving forward. Moresa stopped moving backward, mesmerized by his spell. His eyes had completed their metamorphosis, no longer eyes but a well of power. His arm snapped in front of him, and the balled fist exploded open. A brilliant flash engulfed his arm to the elbow. He straightened to his full height and flung his arm behind him before hurling the glowing ball toward Moresa.
A blinding streak sailed across the courtyard and landed in right on the mark. Moresa screamed as the light drowned her, covered her in its power and released her to a shriveled heap on the ground.
Elanna stepped away from Cyran, afraid of his power, afraid of his temper. Where had her beloved gone? This man was no lover of hers, he was a stranger. Rage contorted his face to an awful grimace. The power he unleashed consumed him, covered him in its glory.
No comments:
Post a Comment