I'll try to get one in.

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Here is mine!

The Council of Raen
Chapter One

“Sir, we have a young lad waiting outside.”
“Ah yes, young Rana Astaldo. Admit him immediately, I have been expecting this visit.”

In the early morning sunshine, decisions were made to pull open the heavy shutters of steel, and let the white beams lighten the place up considerably. He approached slowly, awed by the majestic grandeur of the place, which stood out proudly in the enchanted rays of light. Some of the council half-smiled in experience, nodding at one another and sharing thoughts without using words.

The boy was awkwardly young, and petite for his age. His light brown hair hung directly at his shoulder-tops, and had evidently been cut with crude shears, apparent by it’s jagged look. Círdan frowned. This was not what he anticipated, not at all.

Lord Círdan of Dorthonion, stood tall and sharp in feature. His majestic presence was succeeded only by the receiving hall, with its high ceiling and bold decor. He looked down on the youth, knitting his brow and studying him with careful scrutiny. Rana winced, and bent knee and head in front of the lord. An advisor leaned to another and whispered hastily.

“He doesn’t look all Elf. Are you sure he is a pure blooded Elf? Look at that hair... and look at his height. Something doesn’t look right.”

“I’m sure they said he was all Elf, but it might have been lies. After all, he is uncommonly small, almost weak.”

Círdan frowned harder, this time aiming the glare at his councilmen. With a quick gesture of his long fingers, he motioned for the Astaldo to rise, and reinforced the command with his voice.

“Young Astaldo, rise and let us hear of your desire with your own words.”

The lord’s sharp eyes noted everything about the boy; from his tailored boots, to the scar which ran across his throat. Rana would never be able to hide, never be able to disguise himself enough to be a spy. The frown deepened.

The boys voice came out raspy and irregular, as if he was constantly gasping for air, or as if he had just been throttled and choked. It was airy, light, and held nothing of the other men’s deep tones. Notably, these vocal difficulties were probably caused by the scar marring his features. Círdan folded his arms dolefully, and thought it best to ask the boy about the scar in private.

“If it please my lord, I might be dismissed from the Council until I have rested from my journey–“

“It does not please me!”

What nerve this boy has! Asking to leave, asking to leave! One would think he already deemed himself a member of the council, the way he addresses us so...

The boy nodded, and glanced around the at the members positioned in their various informal ways. A few members looked aghast, most hid their faces in the awful desire they had to laugh, and the rest enforced Lord Dorthonion’s look of requisition. Rana coughed, and studies his brown boots, whilst continuing in the lord’s wishes.

“Excuse me my lord, I was not wishing to appear ungrateful to your outstanding benevolence towards me.”

He glanced around at the 15 members that made up the council of Raen. Most of them were just like the common men of Raen, virile and masculine, with the sharp features. If he had not been so used to living out amidst all sorts of proud humanity, if he had not become so null to fear and sensitive regard for the great ones; he would have been cowing about right now. As it was, he maintained a distant sort of respect, and yet stood up to them like equals.

The boy has evidently never been trained in respect, thought Círdan. Undoubtedly I knew he would need training in propriety, but this? He’ll never make it; I wonder at his idiotic parents, sending a street boy to be humiliated in failure.

“My desire, honorable sirs, is that of my father’s. From my early days, he longed for me to be in the Council of Raen as he had been in his youth. To be among the elect, the very few that have been worthy to bear the title. I merely echo his desire to do that which is above all else.”

He looked deep into the youths eyes, and tried to focus on his heart. There was something wrong, but he did not know what. His brow furrowed as the boy gazed directly back at him, with the gumption of a King. Once again, the older lord frowned.

“I hope you realize boy,” he emphasized, hoping to demean his pride, “this will mean giving up everything. You are turning everything over to us, and we will train you; but first you must let go of everything else in your heart. All in this room have once had to do it. Many, a great many have tried and never made it. You lose it all; your home, your friends, your life.” Rana flinched, almost unnoticeably, but Círdan’s trained eyes caught it. He repeated himself, as the other men looked on gravely, just remembering, “...absolutely everything. Are you willing? Can you bear the humiliation of failing; or the pain and anguish of making it through to the end?”

“Though difficult, it is superable.”

“And yet the majority never makes it...” an older Elf added, while the rest sunk into solicitous silence. For the first time, the boys eyes diverted his gaze, more in humility than nervousness.

“I am willing, and if death proves me less worthy, so be it.”

“Brave words, all of them filled with courageous speeches,” murmured Círdan, his eyes narrowing. “I presume you have been taught basic things? Are you knowledgeable in all that you should be?”

“I am sir.”

“Then as you have made your choice, we will see how far you go. I am no pessimist boy, but I am very wary; always warning. Trust my words, this will be anything but easy. God speed your actions, may you study and pass the tests with little unnecessary pain, and fortitude to bear the necessary. Avo acheno. Go now, and rest.”

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For the first time in his life Rana was able to stare unashamedly at his own reflection in absolute solitude. It was customary for those in training to always perform the first rituals (the ceremonious, decorated, and hyped ones) in spotless attire. It had a good effect on the townspeople, seeing on of their own under such pomp, and training for the fine task of Councilman. In actuality, Raen had not seen a new Councilmen for many centuries, and the cause can be guessed. The pomp and grandeur was for many to enjoy, if they could stand the humiliation of complete failure later. Sometimes it seemed none were worthy, and many begin to doubt if the younger generations would ever become Councilmen.

He did not admire his features at all. Whatever comeliness had once surrounded him was marred by that scar, laying across his throat like a warm dagger. His eyes and his nose were small; the tips of his ears just barely peaked up through his thick and mussy hair. And his voice, he loathed it. It had all the irregularity of a crackling fire, and all the cold airiness of a winters blue wind. Everything he wanted to say came out dreadfully wrong; all the animation and vitality stuck in that scar and refused to go any further, leaving him with a voice near lifeless.

The water rippled just slightly, cutting off his gaze, and waking up his reverie. It just caused all the more sporadic turmoil to gale up inside of him, and without doubt that was the last thing he needed. Already he felt as one made of glass and shattered with an anvil, and his mind had gone numb in the confusion, refusing to take anymore.

Rana Astaldo, one day to be stately Councilman of Raen. His ears rejected it, his mind rejected it, and his heart... where was his heart?

With a frenzied yank he pulled at one of the kinks in his waves of hair. The sun beat maliciously upon the back of his neck, causing a awkward tense feeling, and he knew his skin was beginning to ripple like the murky waters he was standing in. It would sting when he pulled the rough grey cloak over it. Stupid ceremony. Rana grunted something a bit rude, and dipped his head into the lake.

Everything, must give up everything. That means no more dishonorable activities. Why? What made the sports so dishonorable? If I ever become a councilman, I’m going to protest that; it is a senseless rule. Everything, and especially the sports; my interest in human activities would never be tolerated... maybe if I just practice a bit in private. Not for long, Just to ease myself out of it.

Yes he had a heart, because it burned in love for the activity which had consumed all of his time while growing up. Funny how one can become so attached to something so trivial. Was it trivial?

Everything, meaning people too. Naerwen won’t understand... how will I tell her? It will be best if I tell her nothing; if she never see’s me again. A parting would be too difficult, for her. But how can I leave here? So long she has leaned on me, and now... just to desert her?

He didn’t want to admit it to himself that he would find it hard as well. It would be fairly easy after the first three tests were over... because after that, he would be secluded from commoners. Made everything simple.

Pulling himself out of the riverbed, he eyed the terrain cautiously, like a dog about to bury a bone. Absolutely no one. First he stretched, his body twisting with resemblance to a tree caught in a storm. He brushed his forehead with the back of his hand, suddenly springing upward, flipping awkwardly, and handing upon his head with a small disgruntled sound. Rana couldn’t stop the grin that tickled it’s way onto his face, warming his features. With the agility of a dead leaf caught in a passionate wind, he flung himself to the left, stiffening his back and rolling a number of cartwheels in succession. It made him happy, so happy; that he was almost afraid of losing all wariness, and letting himself go in a fit of laughter.

They had taught him since he was a young boy, those humans. No one had ever known about it, not even his careful mother, somehow it had always been kept a hidden secret. He wouldn’t have been allowed to go near those “...disgusting mortals”, that lived like gypsy’s on the edge of their village. They told stories of other places, other nations, where humans dwelt alone, and where the chief rulers over all. Rana scarcely believed those fairy tales anymore: humans being supreme? What rot. But they did know some fascinating skills; ‘cheap tricks’ his mother called them. Nothing compared to th glory and nobility of being an Elf.

Young boys are apt to find themselves wanting exactly what they cannot have. Back then, it was only a bit of fun, a daring escape out of authority. Now it had become an obsession, a pleasurable obsession; fast on its way to being a reason to live. The humans had praised him, and been awed by his agility, encouraging him to try harder and more challenging tricks; walking on his hands, back triple-flipping... and these he had learned too, quite easily in fact. Rana fell back on a tree, his chest heaving.

“You look like one of the Mad People of the Wood, with your hair in such a state.”

“My lord Círdan!” Rana gasped, further backing up against the tree. He caught himself, he must not appear too nervous, must not let on that he had been doing something disapproving. He smiled, and bowed ever so slightly. “A gnome sir? Do I really?”
Círdan merely nodded, and his touched the boy on the shoulder with his eyes. Rana felt it, and drew back without realizing it.
“Don’t be afraid. I have come to talk, as a man with you. I sensed, yesterday in the council, that you are not like them: all the other youth.”
Rana nodded bashfully, still feeling the grasp of the eyes on his shoulder.
“Your scar,” the eyes brushed it softly, so softly Rana could hardly feel it. Just like having the wind hold and touch you. “How did you receive it?”
“An arrow... at the last attack on our village. It pierced my throat, and an enchantress saved me. I know not her name, nor anything of her. But my scar remains.”
“Mmm. I sense your bravery and fortitude. You indeed may be the first of your generation to join the Council. The alter has too long lay bare... too long has it taken lives and not given back.”
A cold silence fell between them. The sun sparkled in the clear waters, and danced among the woods where the Forest Gnomes dwelt. Nothing stirred, except in Rana’s heart. Death, the inevitable, the last test of a Councilman.
“What...” he stopped. Did he dare to ask? “What did it feel like? Overcoming death?”
The fair lord stared, stared at the sun, at the forests, at the water. A long sigh groaned out of him, and his eyes let go of Rana. He began softly, in a low voice.
“I did not overcome death. No of us did. We were chosen from before the beginning of time, we were the elect, and death was forced by a Higher Power to give us up. On the alter, I was just slightly younger than you, I stared at death in the face. When the knife was raised, the Blade of Destiny, knew. I knew death would give me back up, because I was chosen. Don’t deceive yourself Rana. If you are not chosen, don’t sacrifice your life.”

Lord Círdan glanced at the boy sadly, trying to impart to him understanding. Astaldo understood. The first ceremonies would be glorious, and could deceive him. He must face the truth. If upon that alter, when he gave his life to death... death might just claim him for good. The risk was high, his fate was uncertain. And once he went to this first ceremony today... there would be no turning back.

“Are you ready, young elf?”
“I am.”

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"The piano is able to communicate the subtlest universal truths by means of wood, metal and vibrating air."

I shall join, if it's okay. can I take the prologue out of a story I've recently already written?

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Sure, that's fine.

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Oh, oh, let me join, please!!!!!!!!!!!

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Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

Of course!

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would join, but I can't write on command and can't write fantasy. Though I love writing!

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Receiving So Much More.

PM me with prayer requests
www.therebelution.com
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Ahhh! *Covers eyes* I'm not quite done and the deadline is tooooo soon....is it okay if my entry is a little under two pages on Word? I bulked it up a little bit but it's still not very big...

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I'm actually going to extend the deadline to the 31st, since I haven't actually got started on my entry yet..*sheepish look*

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I'll join. I'm not 100% sure that I can get something done by the 31st, but I'd like to have my name down just in case.

I'm glad the deadline's been extended. lol. I've got it all wrote down, but I still need to type, edit and find out length. lol.

I just PM you mine, Rav!

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Just became a college freshman; be on sparingly

I'll try and enter! I need to practice writing fantasy anyway before November.

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This set was made by Nurrantiel, thanks!


Banner by Limwen - Villya

I got mine (and I decided not to take it from something I've already written after all)

Prologue

Blood.

Death.

Kill.

The child could be no more than five. On the dirt floor in the center of his homely cottage, he stood innocuous and alone. A stray shaft of moonlight, filtering through the window, gleamed upon the child’s tear-streaked face and bloody shirt – a shirt stained with the blood of his father. The man’s body, once a poor woodcutter by trade, lay sprawled not far away. The clean cut of a sabre slit his neck from ear to ear.

“Please! Spare us!” The man’s wife – the child’s mother – sobbed as she cowered in a corner of the one-room dwelling. Her frantic, pleading gaze darted from her husband’s corpse to her young son.

Bloody sabres in hand, the assassin paid her no heed. His black cowl obscured his features, but his eyes glinted an unnerving crimson from the cowl’s shadows. A vertical scar slashing through each eye only enhanced the effect.

The mother’s sobs escalated in volume.

Shooting an irritated scowl her way, he dropped one of his sabres and snapped out a dagger. He flicked his wrist, hurling the dagger at her chest. She went down choking on her own blood.

That done, he silently began advancing towards the child.

The child made no move but to look up. That look stopped the assassin in his tracks. Moonlight reflected in the boy’s clear brown eyes. Moonlight illuminated the purity, the innocence tainted by the horror of his parents’ deaths.

The boy, no more than five years old. The boy so bereft and alone.

That boy could have been me.

The assassin could bear it no longer. Biting back his own emotional turmoil, he turned away.

Twenty years ago, he could have been… but look at where he was now…

Death would be preferable.

Emitting a half-strangled cry, he spun and lunged with both sabres. The child’s end was swift and complete.

A moment later, the assassin stepped out into the empty street. This district of the city consisted of little more than filthy hovels and decrepit warehouses. The arrogant lords who ruled the city couldn’t care less about the deaths of peasants. It could be days – weeks, even – until someone found the bodies.

In the skies above, thunderclouds obscured the moon and stars. The darkness was perpetual. The assassin peered both ways down the street, then set off at a brisk pace. His black leather armor made not a sound as he melted from one shadow to the next.

He detected movement up ahead. He darted into a side alley and crouched, ready to spring.
Three middle-class men sauntered into sight. A robed figure among the three halted abruptly, ten feet from the alley’s mouth. The wizard chanted an arcane phrase before calling out, “Hedoc! Wherever you are, we have no time for games. Reveal yourself!”

The assassin stepped into view. “My payment, Lord Sylbard,” he connoted, deadpan.

At his sudden appearance, the other two men reached for their jeweled swords. Undaunted, Lord Sylbard curled his lip. “Are they all dead?”

“Do you doubt me?” Hedoc growled, crimson eyes flashing.

In response, the wizard only laughed. “A family of peasants. And I thought you could sink no lower. You’ve slaughtered so many, and yet… You’re pathetic, Hedoc. Or should I say Hedoc the Exile? Hedoc, son of no one? You claim that you know nothing of your past, but I believe you lie to defend your whoring mother and your equally damned father – ”

Sylbard didn’t have the privilege of finishing, for Hedoc launched himself at the wizard then and there. His sheer agility caught his adversaries off-guard, allowing him to score a hit on the wizard’s forearm. His second sabre was already moving to fend off the others.

Sneers twisting their faces, the two swordsmen raised their jeweled longswords.

They were in for a rather nasty surprise.

The assassin’s lightning reflexes shot him under one attack and set him to parrying another even as he played offense with his other blade. In the space of five seconds, one enemy swordsman was nursing a shoulder wound but with no idea how he’d received it. His not so fortunate companion was already sprawled, quite dead, on the ground.

In all his destructive fury, Hedoc would have fought on, had not a magical blast hurled him backwards. Pinned by magic to a warehouse wall, he could only watch in impotent rage as Sylbard, coldly exultant, approached.

Lightning flashed once in the night skies and wreathed his thin-lipped smile. “No discipline. No power. No self-restraint. You are pathetic.” The wizard tossed the payment – two copper coins – at Hedoc’s feet.

Lightning flashed again. In the distance, thunder rolled.

Hedoc wasn’t conscious of Sylbard and his remaining cohort leaving. Neither was he conscious of the spell expiring and dropping him into the muck. He lay there, unmoving, even when the clouds opened and rain began pouring down.

The child’s eyes. Those promising brown eyes, dimmed forever by the impalement of two slender blades. His blades.

On his latest kill, he’d destroyed innocence.

You are pathetic….

The rain soaked through his cloak, chilling him to the marrow. Rainwater deluged the streets, fast turning dirt pavement to mud. He rolled into a fetal position. Registering something warm trickling down his wrist, he looked to see he’d dug his nails into his palms and drawn blood.

Pain. He reveled in it.

Hatred for the world and everything in it bubbled within him. Like a caged beast he thrashed, confined by the shackles of his own rage. Thunder rumbled again, and he lost himself to the storm’s raw power. Rain mingled with his own bitter tears.

Who am I? What have I become? Would anyone notice… would anyone care…

Without even realizing his movements, he drew forth a dagger.

He could end it all tonight. He could end it all…

Slowly, deliberately, he brought the dagger to his throat.

“Stop.” The coercive, feminine voice pierced through tempest and time, shattering his concentration.

He didn’t even deign to glance up. “Why should I?” he replied in a tone devoid of all humanity.

“Because your purpose in this world is not yet fulfilled, Hedoc, son of Dyer.”

This time, he did look up.

A woman, beautiful beyond description and ethereal beyond mortality, stood before him. Her hair seemed spun of moonlight and her robes woven from an azure sky. Untouched by the storm, she knelt and placed healing hands upon his forehead.

“Leave me,” he snarled, turning away.

Showing no signs of obliging, the woman only sighed and continued to stroke back his ragged black hair.

“What are you?” he murmured.

Her laugh resembled a clarion bell. “I? I am eternity.”

Hedoc started at this unusual answer. Nevertheless, he coated his next words with venomous self-deprecation. “And why would eternity stand before a man soon to be dead by his own hand?”

She smiled – an enigmatic smile that somehow encompassed both bliss and sorrow.

“Because, Hedoc, son of Dyer, I am the only being in this world who holds the key to your past.”

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Hmm, that's a bit eerily similar to mine. Unfortunate. Well, I'm almsot done, so I'll post it soon.

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Yes... As I had feared, the writer's block has attacked again. The first sentence was pretty though. *sigh* No entry from me.