My parents know I'm writing-obsessed, but they're not very fluent in English so they haven't read my stories yet. I'm currently working on a fantasy series I've been writing since 4th grade. Due to the stupidity of my nature in elementary school, I've taken everything excluding the book I'm currently writing. I've written over 100 pages, but I finally got around to typing it, and I want to know what you guys think
Realms of the Last Age
Netherlord's Rise Book 1
Temple of Flame
Prologue
Year 9621 Eon of Shadows Fo.A., Sages Moon Second Week-Fourth Day
Two million years before…
It was the last night of the Age of Blood. The last night of a war that had spanned ten thousand years – a war that was but one horrific ideal in a contention that had waged since the Dawn of Time.
In the Dark world Ornium, off the east coast of the continent of Selth, the Azduran Sea shimmered black in what little light the waning moon shed. The normally volatile waters were unusually smooth. Somewhere out in the ocean, on the Isles of the Azdura soon to be called the Black Isles, six of the most powerful mages of both Dark and Light battled for their lives – and perhaps the fate of the worlds.
The Azduran Sea was seeing its final hours. As recorded by history, it would soon die, only to be reborn yet again.
In the deepest depths of the ocean, where no light from the outside world breached, twelve mermen swam unwittingly to their deaths. The mighty strokes of their sleek tails silently propelled them through the dark water. Each bore a shining globe. The globes shed dim but defiant light, illuminating each merman’s silver hair of spun moonlight and equally ardent eyes.
At the procession’s head glided a merman with shoulders stooped with age, with a face scarred by the wisdom and suffering of his years. But where the eyes of the acolytes behind him shone devotion, pure and divine, this merman’s eyes glinted with cunning and faith twisted by ambition. For he was Nyforan, son of Serrigal, High Priest to the Temple of Lorx.
The Temple of Lorx. The Temple of Flame, as most called it. An unholy place. A cursed place. A place, though dedicated to all the Ornium gods, had been forsaken by all but one.
The stagnant waters ahead picked up, circling with incredible speed to form a huge maelstrom.
Nyforan did not waver; nor did he betray the slightest hint of fear. The acolytes behind him did not falter, though any other merman would have long since turned away. The acolytes had been specially chosen. Only those completely given to the god were permitted to attend such a rite.
To allow otherwise would prove fatal.
Nyforan raised his hand, palm facing the maelstrom. The ancient Rune hissed from his tongue.
“Hoerlhasae lax gcarcentei.”
And the maelstrom heeded his command. The entire whirlpool simply stopped, the waters becoming tranquil. The twelve, bearing their globes of golden light, passed through.
In the center of the once existent maelstrom sat two massive sea dragons wrought of obsidian, their necks entwined. Upright, the temple towered nearly five hundred feet above the ocean floor. Thin crimson veins, like filament streams of blood, interwove through the obsidian. The semblance was carved to fantastic precision. If one did not recognize the temple for what it was, one would have mistook it for genuine sea dragons.
Two black sea dragons, entwined in the eternal embrace of death.
The twelve merpeople swam up until they drew level with the dragons’ heads. The dragons’ eyes, actually entrances into the temple, were hollow. A compelling sense of foreboding reeked from the four entrances.
Nyforan reveled in this, drinking in the evil of the place like a man dying of thirst. His face alight with passion, he entered the Temple of Flame.
All four entrances led to separate tunnels that would eventually coalesce once they encountered the main chamber. Sconces on the walls, enchanted to burn underwater, flared. The lambent flames cast eerie shadows as the merpeople progressed deeper into the temple. The tunnel sloped steeply downward, down the dragon’s neck.
At last they reached the main chamber – the belly of the dragon. The ceiling soared above them, unseen in the dim waters. Exactly ten enormous, squat torches lined the walls, five on the left and five on the right. Each torch was fourfold the thickness of an oak’s trunk, the fires leaping within twofold the height. Huge columns, reminiscent of a former glory, lined the walkway leading to a dais. On the dais was an altar, wrought of the same crimson-veined obsidian. And behind the altar…
A statue of a man in flowing robes. In his hands he held a skull, its fleshless mouth drawn back in a mirthless grin. Though the man’s corpse-like face was cruel and grim as the glassy rock that beheld it, so was the craftsmanship that a shadow of the skull’s grin twisted his eyes.
Despite the many torches, the water in the chamber bore a chill. The cold hand of death gripped all.
Treading water before the altar, Nyforan bowed his head in worship. Had he possessed legs he would have fully prostrated himself. The acolytes lowered their gazes in awe and nameless fear.
Nyforan dared to lift his face.
“Arxaii hei xheimitce xeibrilayra!” he shouted reverently. “O great and mighty Lord of Death! Hear the cry of your beloved disciples! We are your Chosen, your sons! Grace us with your presence!”
The acolytes began chanting, softly at first before their voices gained in resonance and echoed with icy thunder in the vast chamber.
“Gahasti lax hei aiacenir nsqemyhae. Gahasti lax hei aiacenir nsqemyhae. Gahasti lax hei aiacenir nsqemyhae!”
The flames on the torches danced with uncanny abandon. The fire darkened from vermilion, to crimson the color of blood, to black. The twelve globes of light flickered out, plunging the mermen into utter darkness. The chill deepened, creeping into flesh and marrow with grasping tendrils. From somewhere undefined. Keening wails split the silence.
There was one thing and one thing only that drew all attention. The statue of the Death Lord, Lorx, leered like a gaping hole in death’s black embrace. His eyes came alive, glowing with unholy divinity.
Reveling, triumphant, certain of his god’s favor, Nyforan cried, “Bless us, O mighty one! Imbue us with your power! Too long have we been losing this war! Too long have we bent under the scourge of the Silver Sorceress! The Staff of Void shall be channeled, the Sword of Death forged, and the Amulet of Blood banded! Help us! Hear our plea, and we shall serve you to the end! For are we not your disciples? For do we not remain loyal when the rest of Ornium has forsaken you?
“Arxaii hei xheimitce xeibrilayra! Gahasti lax hei aiacenir nsqemyhae!” He heard his mantra repeated by his acolytes, and he laughed as he felt the first wild surge of power sweep into him.
That was when it happened.
The ground shook. The Temple of Lorx groaned and trembled on its foundations.
“NO!” Nyforan gave a strangled shriek as he felt the power of the god receding.
The ceiling began caving in, trapping the twelve disciples. No one heard the final screams of the dying mermen as the Temple of Lorx crumbled and the land tilted, emptying the western Azduran Sea into the overflowing eastern, and flooding parts of entire continents.
The rapidly emptying waters buried the Temple of Lorx under the shifting sands of time.
------------
Far to the east, on what was then called the Isles of the Azdura, a black-robed mage fell bleeding to the already bloodstained grass.
In the beginning there had been six – one to represent each of the worlds bound to the One. The unicorns of Aina, the goblins of Ornium, the elves of Dareka, the dwarves of Durre, the centaurs of Tsarog, the sobek of Morlax.
Now there remained only two.
The last Dark mage was a goblin, a race similar to humans in height and appearance save for their slightly pointed ears. Blood and sweat clinging to her tattered robes, she saw her opponent through her hazy vision.
The last Light mage was an elf, his dirty white robes stark against the silver purity of the moon. Staggering to his feet, he raised a hand to finish his victim.
But the goblin proved faster. With her last vestige of strength she hurled the magic that would finish them both.
The elf sent forth his counter-spell.
The two titanic forces met and exploded! The cataclysm literally rocked the land. Anything – everything – within hundreds of miles fell to the sheer destructive power. The One, the source of all magic, felt the blast and shuddered. The magic swept the worlds, for a moment sucking them dry.
The two mages collapsed, writhing in torment and agony. The elf gasped as a final scream was torn from his throat:
“Amon izul!” A breath on the night wind, a closing of eyes for all eternity, and they condemned their souls to the Dark Chaos.
Thus ended the Third War and the age forever imprinted upon the minds of both earth-bound and celestial immortals alike as the Age of Blood.
but I think I could stick with this one. So, yes, I like it. For now. I've put a lot of work into it and I think it's one of my better stories.
I actually changed my sig. Wow.