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Author Topic: The Embers of The Past: Progress Update & Oath of Brotherhood, Scene III  (Read 18827 times)

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Offline Myen'Tal

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Re: The Embers of The Past: Black Ashes - 1st CH - Ver. 4.0
« Reply #220 on: May 6, 2021, 11:22:20 PM »
Starting to get around to doing some serious editing! Turns out that the MS Editor tool and the 'Read Aloud' feature in Word is actually very useful when you combine the two for editing purposes. This is going to be one of my final passes before handing this off to the editor soon, so I need to get started now to get the whole manuscript up to standard  :).

After this pass, I just need to start implementing some more world specific terms and phrases to get rid of the common place and mundane ones.


Kendal Giram Qallin watched snow bury what remained of the Dawn Fields. A fell wind sliced through the dusk wolf cloak draping his quilted armor, dyed black and reinforced with extra padding. His breathing frosted around his lips and an aching cold oozed into the marrow of his bones. The scabbard of his long sword jostled with every sudden quiver. 

Qenroth, his ebon stallion, shuffled in the snow. Kendal reached downward to stroke his mount's mane. He sifted his fingers through the combed horsehair. 

Kendal was sixteen summers when he had fled this land. His journey had been a long, winding road ever since, only now coming full circle back to the Mist Hollow. Several years had come and gone like the seasons, and the world he knew had changed forever.

Snowfall fell over the Kingdom of Hallorn. 

Kendal tried to remember the same golden fields on the fringes of the Deep Woods. Qenroth waded into the luminous white to approach the ruined village. In vain, Kendal searched for the homely farmsteads and villages. He searched for anything left to salvage from the destruction.

Scattered debris was all that remained of the homesteads, charred to ruin. The villagers were nothing more than skeletal remains, corpses picked clean of flesh scattered amid the debris.

Kendal beheld the death of the Dawn Fields. His childhood no longer existed, burned to ashes. A shiver passed through him as he looked toward his mentor, Vindiaccos. “I remember these fields from my childhood. My second home away from the Mist Hollow's heart.”

Vindiaccos steered his mount to Kendal's side. “Don't surrender to despair. Our foe is swifter than wind, and all—consuming like an inferno. We shall cease their rampage soon enough.” 

Fear weighed on Kendal's heart, but he banished his concerns. 

A firm hand on Kendal's shoulder reinforced his mentor's presence. Vindiaccos insisted, “Are you certain you don't need me to come with you? I've a hundred of my finest veterans at your disposal.”

He gestured toward the deafening jostle of armor and war dirges sung through the howling winds. Kendal glanced over his shoulder. Out of the snowfall, a lengthened column of mounted raven-clad knights waded through the winter fields. A score of banners woven from grey, black, and silver thread marked the elite cavalcade, heraldry of the Raven perched upon a chalice fluttering in the breeze. 

Kendal considered the small detachment, then glanced back at Vindiaccos. He shook his head, grimacing. He answered, “No. I'll be fine. Our brethren are needed to protect the surrounding villages. My home rests in the heart of the woods, isolated from anything within half-a-day's reach. You will only slow me down on the forest paths that will take me to the Emerald Road. It should be a short journey from there.”

His mentor inclined his head in agreement. “Your decision, Kendal. Which means we will need to part ways here at the Dawn Fields. We'll follow the Vale River and check on any villages in the area. 

“If we cannot find the source of this destruction, then it'll be me who will come galloping to you. Promise me that you'll do the same?”

Kendal agreed, “Should I encounter any warbands emerging out of the snow, I shall come galloping for you.”

Vindiaccos” countenance brightened. He lightly punched his apprentice in the arm. He replied, “I've only met your parents on occasion, and I know we're nothing more than acquaintances. Yet I believe that they will feel at home in the City of Raven’s Croft. It's another chance to achieve their dreams, of which they've possessed since they settled in Hallorn with you.”

A broad smile spread on Kendal's frosted lips before concern wearied him again. “Akine and Rynath are my inspiration. They believe I have a gift for sharing her teachings with the world.”

His mentor affirmed him with a sigh. “Inspiration is good. It is the reason I chose you as my apprentice. Always patient in the face of every challenge, no matter the severity. Forged in the fires of temperance like a magnificent work of steel by the Gods themselves.”

Realization seemed to dawn on Vindiaccos. He reminded his apprentice. “You're much like your father in that regard. Stoic Rynath. You should hurry home. Deliver your parents and all survivors you find back to Raven's Croft… in case you cannot find me, or I have left this world.”

Grimacing, Kendal nodded. “I understand, Vindiaccos.” 

He urged Qenroth onward.

Vindiaccos shouted words of encouragement to his apprentice. His words echoed, “We shall meet again underneath this bleak daylight! Let the Heavenly Flame blaze in your chest and warm you against winter's onslaught!”

Qenroth trotted farther into the woods until the gloom between the black earth and forest canopy swallowed him whole. 

 Ancient roots from centuries-old trees twisted down the steep hills and weathered cliff faces that supported their foundations. As he rode, Kendal ducked under a maze of hanging branches. Small falls of snow shaken from half—buried foliage came raining down on him whenever he snagged a tree limb in his passing. 

Mist Hollow grew and abounded around him, teetering higher and higher until the snow-laden canopy blotted out the wane light of the sun. He steered Qenroth over wooden bridges, fording half—frozen creeks and placid streams into the thick of nature's labyrinth.

Kendal searched for marauding bands of elves through the ceaseless snow. Wolves howled out of the gloom, hidden in the heart of the forest. Quiet creatures of the wood darted through the underbrush. 

Dawn's light continued to intensify over the passing hours. As Kendal journeyed on, the forest canopy became lit through by the cascading rays of the midday sun. Before the noon sun came to its zenith, Qenroth had finally appeared onto the Emerald Road, the cobblestones buried underneath a shroud of snow. 

Kendal searched for any presence in near proximity. His hawk eyes scanned the forest for stranded souls and bandits lying in wait by the roadside. Before long, Kendal noticed a hazy shape coalescing into view. He craned his head to assess the surrounding terrain for danger. A familiar scent of charred wood and ash lingered on the wintry air. 

He listened to the wailing wind, but heard nothing beyond the natural forest life. As he approached, Kendal beheld the remains of a travelers’ caravan. Each wagon in plain sight was nothing more than scorched ruins. A score of bodies half-buried in the snow scattered about the massacre site. 

Kendal reigned Qenroth to an abrupt halt on the massacre's perimeter. A sense of foreboding quickened his heart. A glance toward the tattered banners not yet concealed by the snow, informed Kendal that it was a supply caravan for the Dawn Field Garrison. This garrison hailed from Ulannis village, more than half-a-day's journey from Kendal's manor. 

The ambush had befallen the caravan on their journey into the village of Brightmorn, from where Kendal had come. They had chosen the Emerald Road, unsurprisingly, unaware they were venturing directly into the raids burning across the Mist Hollow. 

Kendal cursed. The Lani elves were still on the rampage after all this time. A calculative thoroughness went with the carnage they unleashed upon the surrounding Halish lands. Nor could he understand the elves’ motivations.

A subtle crack - like the snapping of a tiny twig shattered the uneasy tranquility of the forest.

Kendal made no sign of acknowledging the sound, but slipped out of his saddle with caution. His leather boots vanished amid the deep snow. He searched the area for any signs of life, but could not find one soul. After another brief assessment, he trudged through the deep snow to approach the destroyed caravan, Qenroth pulled along by his reigns. 

He searched his surroundings with subtle glances, but could not discern any threat nearby. A woodland beast, perhaps?

He stumbled first upon the corpse of a young woman, no more than twenty summers of age. Beneath the layers of animal hides was a silk dress of burgundy and off-white. Kendal knelt next to her and realized she had several slender arrows embedded in her torso. A gruesome and agonizing death, but Kendal knew that she had succumbed to the blizzard's sleep inducing cold. Blood trickled from her lips, building up behind her teeth.

Kendal grimaced as he gazed upon the distressing sight, transfixed. He whispered to the deceased woman. “Hanneth's light reveal the hidden paths for you...” He picked himself up and continued to search through the caravan.

The supply wagons were ransacked by whoever had slaughtered their guardians. Scattered across the main road were shattered chests, broken open with force both natural and applied. He uncovered all manner of currencies buried in the blood—stained snow. What Kendal had noticed was the lack of essential supplies needed to survive a journey.

The only mark the Lani left at the ambush site was a forest floor riddled with a hail of spent arrows. Broken ones, Kendal realized after picking up several. Of course, they had left behind their victims as well to freeze amidst the Black Blizzard. Several minutes of thorough searching left Kendal with precious little. 

He stood over the carcass of a workhorse slain under a barrage of feathered and steel-tipped shafts. Kendal shook his head in resignation.

 As the mist of his own breath evaporated into the snowy wind, he noticed another subtle breaking of twigs from behind him. The sound came more forceful this time, followed by sounds of someone bounding through the snow. 

Kendal surrendered to instinct, whirling around with a hand on the hilt of his sheathed sword. A dark, hazed figure came rushing toward him through the veil of snow. 

He unsheathed his long sword with a cry, practically ripping it from the scabbard. His blade parried an overhead thrust from the dim figure's long spear. A shower of sparks erupted from the collision of their steel—stinging Kendal's frosted features. His ambusher's blurred outline hurtled past him after impact; such was the speed of her charge. 

 The sentient shadow slid to a screeching halt amid the snow. Her features became visible in the midday light. She was all lithe muscle and gray skin, grayer than the brooding skies over the Mist Hollow. Raven hair flowed around her, caught in the wind like eels surging through the seas. She was clad in dull grey leathers to match her skin and the freshly tanned pelts of slain foxes and wolves. 

A Lioness, Kendal thought, came out of her crouched stance, so near that her frosted breath mingled with his own. Her scarred lips were pale and full, spread into a wolfish grin. A nasty crimson wound was carved from her forehead down to the bottom of her jaw. 

She watched Kendal with keen eyes the color of a deep sea. 

Kendal lifted his hands in a gesture of peace. She planted a leather boot on the back of the corpse she had dragged out of the snow. She studied him with cold, calculating eyes, that concealed a hidden flame beneath the façade. 

He blinked, and she darted through snow and rubble unhindered. Kendal parried a flash of her spear. She wove around his counterstroke for her chest, then pushed off her grounded foot. Her elbow crashed into Kendal's temple. 

Kendal shouted in pain from her cut across his cheekbone. 

Agile beyond human limitations, the gray elf pounced. She aimed her spear thrust for his vulnerable thigh. Kendal let the spear pass through his legs, then countered with a swift swing to give himself distance. 

She slunk beyond his immediate reach, coy laughter on her lips. 

Kendal scrambled back as his opponent came for another bout. 

He stopped his retreat, and committed to an engagement. He swept his blade in a low cut, missing the bandit's limb by a narrow inch. She brought her spearhead into an uppercut. Kendal parried the strike on the length of his gauntlet. Sword gripped one—handed, his fury of blows drove her back.”   

Seeing an advantage, he feinted to his left, then brought a chopping blow to bring the elven bandit to heel. 

Charging forward, the gray marauder halted Kendal in mid-execution, her elbow pinned against the pit of his supporting limb. Kendal cursed. She created an opening wide enough to see him dead. The elf lunged into him… and meshed her pale lips onto his frosted ones. She gently shut her eyes for the briefest moment, then pulled away.

Kendal could only watch her fade into the wintry gloom. He was too stunned to stop her, whilst she mocked him even as she faded into the winter gloom. He sneered in disgust after he realized she would not return, more at his own weakness than anything else.

He brushed any thought of the Lioness aside and sprinted back to Qenroth. He climbed back into the saddle and spurred the horse into a full—tilt gallop down the Emerald Road. He wanted to turn back the way he had come, to warn Vindiaccos and rally the Raven Vale Knights to the defense of Qallin Manor. There was no time left if there had even been to begin with. 

Qenroth galloped, swifter than wind, to deliver Kendal to his homestead before all was lost.
« Last Edit: May 6, 2021, 11:23:54 PM by Myen'Tal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Myen'Tal

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The Embers of The Past: Black Ashes Ver 4.0 Scene 2/2
« Reply #221 on: May 19, 2021, 08:07:43 AM »
Alright, so as I promised... I've been working away on the reconstruction of Chapter One.

I wanted to implement a few things with this chapter:

More creative, specific language in the form of terms and phrases for each culture/civilization that I created for the Embers of the Past.

I've decided to start with the first chapter as that seemed a good a place as any. Here is a short list of what I've changed:

Kendal's horse had a name change to Atlas, as opposed to the former name Qenroth, which was just too similar to Kendal's name lol.

Kendal Giram Qallin --> Kendal Ciluran Qallin

Lani Elves --> Lai'nurai Ishal

Elf --> Ishal

Elven Gods --> Ishalnan

Lani Elf Antagonists for CH I --> Siren Wraiths Clan

Lai'nurai Druid --> Dur'waith

Qenroth, Kendal's Ishal war horse --> Atlas

Qin'sar --> Noble-blooded Children of the Sun

Zar'qin --> Slave Warrior

Tu'shik --> Grand City of Canals

That's all I can think of for the moment, but this list will inevitably expand as I make the final pre-manuscript critique pass.

Second, recreating Chapter One has proven a very fruitful endeavor. I've had to split the original chapter into two, since there is so much new material.

This time, I've been aiming to create a really suspenseful, almost otherworldly event that will start Kendal's narrative. Of course, the consequence to this is that I must now take a look at all his dialogue and chapters, since now I think I've finally found this character's voice.  I've noticed that the Kendal I want to write about is still in the other parts of the text, but his narrative arc as a whole just needs to be brought in line so that it's consistent.


Swifter than wind, Kendal rode into the heart of the morbid winter. Sunlight dwindled the farther his steed, Atlas, raced into the primordial wilds of the Mist Hollow. The winter conspired with time itself, strengthening until the horizon became a deep, colorless gray. A shrieking wind cut through his armor, lashing against his bones. A heavy snowfall clouded the path forward, until he had only his memories to guide him onward. 

From the dark heart of the Mist Hollow, sirens wailed into the bitter wind. Kendal first thought them howling predators on the hunt, until he noticed hazed, slender figures emerging out of the white shroud. Wherever Kendal heard the eerie wailing, he noticed only more of these strange, bipedal creatures appearing through the snow. 

Each time he heard their cries, the closer in proximity they seemed to come with every reappearance. Kendal spurred Atlas to the height of his limits, gliding like they had never done, but still the spindly shadows seemed to be closing an invisible noose around his neck. 

Kendal realized, when the first arrows struck the foliage around him, that the disturbing shadows were of the Lai’nurai Ishal, the Druidic and enigmatic race tormenting the Mist Hollow.

His heart almost burst within his chest, when the first Lai’nurai lying in wait behind a roadblock of hewn down trees, unveiled themselves with ear-piercing screams. His warhorse reacted on instinct, before Kendal even thought to take control of the reigns. Atlas diverted from the glinting tips of moonlit spearheads, weaving into the untamed forests of the Mist Hollow. 

The Lai’nurai were everywhere, Kendal realized, spotting the gloomy shadows by the score in any direction he searched for them. These Ishal were deathly pallid, so brilliant a white that their skin almost matched the snow blanketing the forest. Their shapes were whipcord thin, lithe enough that an ordinary man like himself appeared twice their girth. 

These Ishal were incredibly gifted of height, their males two heads over the tallest of men. Their hair was a deep contrast of dark and pallid shades, often dyed into soft, but bright hues of color. Their eyes unnerved Kendal most, piercing stares of lavender, cerulean, and vermillion piercing the winter gloom even when the Lai’nurai were all but invisible. 

Kendal could not shake the feeling that hundreds were watching him flee for his life. They studied him for every perceptive detail of horror and unease, many of them displaying a not—so—subtle mirth behind their cold, pitiless gazes. 

Inexorable, the Ishal strode through the winter woods toward him. Yet their aggression was subtle. The Druidic creatures refrained from closing the last few leagues between them and their quarry. Their archers, however, loosed entire volleys at him while they shrieked into the fell wind. 

A constant rain of luminescent, cerulean—white tipped shafts came raining down around him. Atlas weaving behind the protective bulk of teetering trees, Kendal was convinced the Ishal considered him sport rather than a threat to be neutralized. 

By Hanath’s deliverance herself, Atlas burst out of the labyrinthine realms of the Mist Hollow. Kendal found himself riding through a field of violet roses, where leafy white stalks, crowned with gold, bent unceasingly with the wind’s direction. Of the towering trees, the countless varieties in the Mist Hollow faded in numbers, until only several of the Anorian Guardians dominated all the fields beyond the forest. 

The Guardians were so world defying, that their branches and leaves formed an endless domed canopy over the entirety of the Mist Hollow’s heart. Their hulking trunks rivalled the girth of entire valleys, and their height rivaled those of the mountains. Their created canopy contained every kaleidoscopic color, so translucent that Kendal at first thought he had entered a world hidden under a sky of stained glass. 

Kendal remembered his pursuers, and snapped back into focus. He remembered where he was now; only a stone’s throw away from the farmstead of his childhood memories. He glanced over his shoulder more than once in search for the Ishal, but after the seventh time, Kendal wagered they had ended their pursuit.   

Nestled in the gargantuan flank of an Anorian Guardian, the Unknown Valley’s entrance loomed where the fields of violet roses came to an end at a massive cliff face. Kendal spied a natural, off—beaten path that would lead him safely down the cliff and into the foothills surrounding the miles’ long valley. 

Hope kindled, then blazed within his chest as Atlas galloped the last few miles around half of the most southward Anorian Guardian. When he approached the lowlands where his homestead was isolated, his hope withered into despair at the first signs of pillaging. 

Atlas twisted down winding roads, guided toward the smoke billowing into the bleak night where his homestead should be. The ashen pillars were only visible by the great orange glow appearing to bathe all the secluded valley. 

Kendal refused to surrender to temptation, and throw himself headlong into danger again. Atlas descended into the lowland farther still, until the heart of the Mist Hollow vanished from sight. All that remained was the valley carved into the flank of a mountainous Guardian, swallowing him whole.   

Once in the valley proper, Atlas raced across the last few leagues between his master and his home. He dared to hope that his parents were still alive. He dared to hope that somehow this was all a nightmare he could not awake from. 

When Atlas stumbled across a familiar path, and rode through the toppled gates leading through walls strong enough to rival a fortress’, Kendal no longer dared hope for anything. He rode swifter than wind itself through the shattered gates, trampling its dead guardians underfoot, and came into the lush, fertile fields of the Qallin Farmstead. 

The Lai’nurai Ishal were strange beings. Kendal would have thought them lustful for Seanna’s Wishes, the enchanted substance grown and harvested on Qallin farmstead. Even a purse full of the stuff was worth entire strongholds and the armies that garrisoned them. Yet the Ishal left several acres ripe with the enchanted pearls untouched. 

Laboring for breath, Atlas finally slowed when crossing through the last acres separating him from his farmstead. Kendal lightened his demands on the Ishal warhorse, knowing that if Atlas collapsed, then his efforts to rescue his parents were for nothing…

The fires of hope faded within Kendal’s chest, scattered like dead ash, when he laid his eyes upon Qallin farmstead. His home was already engulfed by a raging inferno, all eight tiers of the grand work charred so badly that the entire house had collapsed in upon itself. Shocked into inaction, Kendal could only behold the sight of his entire life fading away amid the dancing embers. 

Of the Lai’nurai, there was no sign. All they had left in their wake, Kendal noticed after a brief pause, was a field of their slain foes left at the foot of the blazing destruction. Kendal steeled himself, and slipped out of Atlas’ saddle. He quickly took his horse by the reigns, and walked the last remaining paces to where the dead lay in their open graves. 

The heat from his burning manor became so intense, that his skin started to sweat profusely after a minute or two near its remains. Kendal pressed onward, however, until he stood on the perimeter of the massacre site. He studied the unblemished faces of each, and every poor soul heaped over the snow. Many were Qallin Manor’s farmhands and armed garrison, many of which he remembered in the days before his sixteenth summer. 

There were others. Distant kin of his Cenlori father, Rynath Ciluran Qallin, of which Kendal could not bear to see what they had plainly suffered before their demise. Of the scores that were heaped in the manor courtyard, Kendal could not seem to find the faces of his parents amid the death and ruin. 

Relinquishing Atlas’ reigns, Kendal patted the wearied warhorse, instructing him to stay nearby. Almost irreverently, he began to sift through the ranks of the dead. He tried with some semblance of ceremony to wade through the fallen for any sign of his father and mother, until he finally cast such notions aside. He picked up any corpse that looked to be burying another, throwing it aside with abandon when it did not uncover what he searched for. 

A voice unfamiliar by its spoken words, but vaguely familiar by the pure sound of its hushed breathing, called out to him. 

“None of the kin you’re searching for are here, half—blood.” 

Kendal picked himself up out of the bloody mire surrounding him, and turned back toward Seanna’s fields. He blinked, but could not dispel the illusion before him. The lioness he had encountered on the Emerald Road stood before him. She held no weapon at the ready, but kept her arms folded in patience. 

Kendal searched her stormy blue eyes, and found, to his surprise, a great empathy behind what he remembered a cold, calculative gaze. 

She spoke again, “There’s nothing left for you here. You should not have hoped that the gods would be merciful to you…”

Kendal studied her, perplexed. He asked, “Who are you? You’re not one of the Lai’nurai?”

She frowned, the expression brimming with distaste. “I am of the Ishal, but of another clan. The Siren Wraiths are no kin of mine. That is the reason why I am here in the first place. Doing the same thing that you are. Hunting our enemies.”

Kendal shook his head in deliberate motions. “I did not race all this way to defeat an army on my own.” He gestured to the mansion, a despairing laugh slipping his lips, absent of anything good. “I cam—”

“Search all you want, little Qallin,” She interrupted, “Your parents aren’t here any longer…”

Kendal felt the dying flame of hope gutter within him. 

The Ishal’s words sparked his dying spirit, until it blazed once again. “Your parents still live, Kendal. I saw them make their escape back the way whence you came from. You should know that they do not have much time.”

Kendal shrugged, and pushed any thought of her out of his mind. He whistled, calling for Atlas, and mounted back into his saddle when the horse came racing for him. He paused, before he spurred Atlas toward the exit. 

Kendal looked toward the Ishal warrior maiden in his midst. “You have my eternal gratitude—”

“Ishali,” She proclaimed, “My name is Ishali Winterwood… Do you think you’ll rescue your parents from that Lai’nurai horde on your own?”

Kendal arched his brow, “I don’t understand why you care, Ishali.” Speaking her name was like a revitalizing breath. “Why are you here, telling me what I need to know?”

Ishali shrugged, winking up at Kendal, her eyes fierce with interest. “I’ve a qualm with these brainless barbarians… let me ride with you, Kendal. I can guide you to your parents far sooner than you can find them on your own. Let me fight with you. I swear on my life that you’ll never regret it.”

Kendal almost became insistent, wanting to demand more information from her. But after some thought, he relented, and gestured for her to hop on Atlas’ back. Ishali chortled at him, and then whistled through the snow. Her own mare came trotting out of the fields, a pure ebony warhorse with a mane so lustrous, it sparkled in the firelight with an incredible sheen. 

Ishali gracefully mounted her mare, patting its mane. “Come, Naila, we must ride swift for our new friends here.” She looked to Kendal. “Come, let’s ride!”

Kendal spurred Atlas into a full gallop, and still found himself trailing behind Ishali when she commanded Naila with only a spoken word.
« Last Edit: May 19, 2021, 08:10:14 AM by Myen'Tal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Myen'Tal

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The Embers of The Past: Kindled Hopes
« Reply #222 on: May 26, 2021, 05:16:20 PM »
Another reveal of Kendal's overhauled narrative - this time quite a bit later in Act I.


A crackling of wood drifted from the hearth fire, flames filling the emptiness with a pleasant heat. He had slept peacefully to the calming sounds, and the soft lullaby of the summer wind. Nestled away under quilted blankets, Kendal awoke at the first sound of firewood tumbling deeper into the hearth. 

He opened his eyes, taking in the scent of burning apple-wood, and found the cedar roofs of his home housing him within his room. After spending his whole life beneath this roof, the mere sight of it became stifling. Unadorned walls crafted from fine redwoods never seemed to change. 

Too familiar for him to feel anything beyond a distant nostalgia. It offered no challenge, but the same mundane tasks he had come to endure for all his years. 

Kendal watched the hearth blaze, flames rising like the defiance of one’s true purpose. A purpose many took for granted in these blissful days; he knew. For years, he was no different. Always thinking the gods had a place for him. Always confident that some aspect of destiny would forever alter his life the way he saw fit. 

It was like his father, Rynath Qallin, had spoken to him the day before.   

“What would you do if destiny altered your course the way you desired? Would you stride through these doors like a fated hero? You, a young boy with many aspirations, but learned of none of the lessons that such heroes would know by heart… Remember, my son, that patience is what separates true myths from even legends.

“You want to live forever? Of course, you do, everyone does. Then I suggest you continue your studies, and keep chopping firewood… you’ll never wield a sword without respect for the basics of life itself. Let alone anything so demanding in the disciplines of the mind and body.”

It was only upon awakening when Kendal realized how much his father’s words bothered him. Tried as he might to pull the blankets over himself and fall back asleep, the effort was futile. Eventually, he kicked off his quilts and rolled over to sit on the edge of his bed. Minutes passed into hours, as Kendal spent his night before the hearth fire, reflecting on himself. 

He always did so absent the watchful presence of his parents. As Kendal thought about his mistakes, his father Rynath always so quick to point them out, he knew he would not fall asleep again tonight. 

Leaping to his feet, Kendal drowsily navigated the spaciousness of his room. He wove around the gnarled oak roundtable placed at the heart of his chambers, past a triple door wardrobe to approach the space most familiar, and beloved by him. With a ginger touch, he nudged aside his assortment of scrolls and ancient tomes, gathered from across the fabled lands of Ios and Khios continents, his parents had always bragged. 

Kendal wasn’t so certain if there was any truth to that. But he wouldn’t argue that some of the finest scholars of their own ages had placed pen to parchment, creating some of these exemplary tomes from ages long forgotten. 

He sat down within the claustrophobic confines of his study, somehow at home amidst the chaos. 

Picking up one of the dust-laden tomes, a gentle knocking at the entrance of his room interrupted him. Kendal leaned out of his armchair, twisting uncomfortably toward the source of the disturbance. The door came sliding open in silence, without even a squeak to betray the presence of the one who had opened it. 

A woman of unblemished caramel skin, dressed in flowing night robes of pallid lavender and beige silks, stood before him. She leaned against the doorframe with her arms folded, eyes of golden amber watching her son with a curious look. Her endless falls of hair, a dim shade of midnight, was bound into a great crown around her head. 

Nairi, his mother, studied her son within his adapted environment. Casually, she swept her gaze across his room for anything alarming, before it settled on Kendal again. With a puzzled arch of her brow, she smiled in the way he had always recalled. As he would always remember. 

Kendal made to open his mouth and explain himself. Yet, Nairi cut him off with her own confession. 

She sighed, “Can't sleep? I thought you’d be up, reading your books.” After her confession, Nairi swept into her only son’s room, and closed shut the door behind her with the quietest muffle. 

Nairi kept a hand raised to the doorway as she contemplated her choice of words. She warned, “You shouldn’t be up like this. You’ve given your father more than enough to worry about these last few weeks… Don’t you think, son?”

Kendal shook his head in disdain, turning back to the tome clutched in his hand. He unfurled the sprawling pages, and started skimming through their contents. Without looking up, he asked, “When have I given either of you cause to truly worry about me? It’s not like I’m half a world away, just out of reach of you for forever.”

“No,” Nairi agreed, but pressed her point. “It’s your sixteenth summer, Kendal. We know you’re no longer a child. No one is trying to treat you like one… You jest about being across the world itself, but once you choose to walk out of these doors, then you could very well be so distant from your parents.”

Kendal sighed, becoming frustrated. He set the ancient tome in his hands back down on the table. He tried his best not to accuse them outright. “If this is supposed to happen, then why am I being berated by guilt and fear? Both of you always said, there must come a time when I must know more than what the Mist Hollow has to offer. Why are both of you changing your minds?”

Silent, Nairi drifted away from the door to his room, and seated herself in one of the roundtable chairs by the burning hearth. She shook her head, “Your father isn’t angry with you, Kendal. Neither does he vent his frustrations to my face… he becomes inward when he must confront his own mistakes. Much like his only son, I might add.” 

“What mistakes?” Kendal cocked his head at her, “he only ever believes himself right.”

Nairi lifted her hand in a gesture of calm. “When you have lived a century or two short of several, then you may have wisdom enough to question his doubts about you. If I were you, son, I’d start assuming the faults were my own. I would begin to think about how I could mend them, then turn that weakness into strength.”

Kendal shook his head, “Mother, I cannot waste all my years in this lonely place. As much as I love you and Rynath… there has to be somewhere else as comfortable as all this.”

Nairi warned him again, “Reality is far harsher than you realize, Kendal Ciluran. Push too hard on the boundaries, and it’ll all come raining down upon you in ruins.”

The door to Kendal’s room fell open once again, the frame filled this time with the shadow of a majestic figure. 

“Nairi,” The familiar tone of his father’s patient voice called out to them. “Leave us. I’ve words for Kendal meant for him alone…”
« Last Edit: May 26, 2021, 08:49:30 PM by Myen'Tal »
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company

Offline Myen'Tal

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The Embers of The Past: Progress Update & Oath of Brotherhood, Scene III
« Reply #223 on: June 10, 2021, 08:14:37 AM »
Progress Update:

Manuscript has reached about 102,000 words. Less than 8,000 away from hitting my target word count of 110,000. I think I'm going to over it a bit at this rate.

I'm actually writing the final chapter of Embers of the Past now, basically wrote the first two scenes. Now I'm just tying up some scenes I never quite finished, then everything should be ready for my critique.

I've done a lot of editing, kind of paused to resume writing the story again. But getting ready to dive back into editing the rest of the manuscript once I complete it.

Almost finished overhauling Kendal's entire Act I narrative arc, just have one last scene for him to go. Then I've one more chapter to seal up, and a battle to edit through on the fly, and that should be it!

I want to thank everyone who is still holding interest! It might be a while before I'm able to go through the other editing steps with Embers, but if that happens, then I'll switch to Plan B to focus on the Map + Website + maybe some additional art for EoTP.

Azat stood alone on the battlefield, abandoned since the evening dusk of yesterday. Ominous thunder split the dawn skies asunder till they wept. Ceaseless rain came pouring down from the heavens onto the mountain pass of Reaper's Lantern. Galerider waded through crimson water coming up to his ankles, through the innumerable dead heaped upon the craggy earth. 

Azat took in the aftermath as the storm raged on. Cleansing rain washed away the gore and filth of the battlefield back into the Suranna Plains. Despite the weather, warriors of the Ardent Vigil hunted the field without end. Each of their number combed through the dead's morbid legions in search for wounded or deceased comrades.

Thousands had died in the span of a single day. Azat gazed out across the thick of ruin left in the wake of two clashing armies. He shuddered at the sight of such violence and death. It was no different than that fateful day, thirty years ago, where a King had perished, and his armies put to the sword. 

Yesterday, he had little time to assess the damages done to his forces. The battle at Reaper's Lantern had not even came to close that night, when Azat was forced to quit the field to execute his strategies for the morrow. Of course, the first day of the battle had proven indecisive. Old Myria had repulsed the Dominion back into Cressa's Lantern, but his own battered army was all but spent holding their ground. 

Azat knew any attempt to spearhead an assault into the mountain valley was suicide. 

So, as the dawn sun crested the horizon, Azat waited for the Carthites to take to the field for another day. He was unsurprised when less than a fraction of the Dominion’s hordes sent against Old Myria yesterday, came riding down the steep slopes into the mountain pass. He counted about two hundred riders, a mix of Zar'qin warriors and their Qin’sar masters, riding under one banner. 

They held aloft no white banners for parlaying, but Azat knew that was precisely what they wanted. He knew from the God King of the Carth Dominion riding at the fore of the cavalcade. 

Erasyl of Tu'shik, Azat thought, in the flesh himself. 

Azat folded his arms, standing his ground before the oncoming stampede. The Ardent Vigil combing the fields looked up from their grisly task. They saw the enemy charging through the heavy rain, and drew their swords out of caution. His Immortals quickly gathered around him, forming a protective formation as the Carthite cavalry began to slow when they drew near enough. 

Their voices carried on the howling winds; their wailing battle cries distorted by the storm, sounding like howling sirens of death. A handful of the Anahir Immortals clashed their swords over shields to strike courage in the hearts. A handful of Ardent Vigil glanced over their shoulders toward safety, but the presence of the Anahir Immortals amassed in the backfield forced them to look forward. 

The deathly cries of the Dominion's warriors continued to haunt the Old Myrian ranks, well after the cavalcade halted amid the battlefield. Azat felt the earth under his feet gradually cease its shuddering, as his enemies kept a respectful distance from the Old Myrians. Still, they were near enough that he could make out their shadow clad figures in the burning light of pitch—soaked torches. 

From the howling ranks of the Dominion, one warrior rode out toward Azat alone. He shouted the command for his archers to stand down, and spurred Galerider to meet the Dominion's herald on middle ground. Galerider waded through the endless dead and came into the light of a lonesome torch, blazing between either army. From the opposing direction, Erasyl of Tu'shik did the same. He rode a massive ebon warhorse the size of which Azat could only imagine in fairy tales. 

Lightning cracked open the dark skies, and thunder bellowed until the Veiled Mountains quivered out of fear. 

The God King of the Carth Dominion smiled graciously when he first noticed Azat's approach. The two figures neared one another until they stood face to face, and could see the white in each other's eyes.

“Lord Zakarian,” Erasyl intoned. He brought his gargantuan mount to a halt, looking down on Azat with a look of extraordinary pride. “I should have known you'd find some way to survive the onslaught. I must confess, that you've impressed me. I can see why my father was struck down by your hand, when you were in your prime.” He looked Azat up and took in the sight of his repaired armor. “There is not a talented blacksmith in all the world that could clean out all the blood in those iron scales.

Azat disagreed, “It is the blood of the countless slaves you've sent to their deaths, and of the friends that perished fighting against them. This is not a wardrobe that I'm proud of.”

The God King inclined his head out of respect. He replied, “Azat Zakarian, the Black Wolf of Irothis… I remember the days some thirty years ago, when you were a much brasher, arrogant sort. Perhaps not vain like my father, but I can appreciate the wisdom you've gained in your elder years.”

Azat smiled, “In theory, my wisdom is probably only a grain compared to the full hourglass of a thousand-year-old man. The fact alone that you continue to fall into the same pits of sin like any mortal shows that mankind is flawed beyond hope.”

Erasyl lowered his gaze, glaring down at Azat with a patient smile. He answered, “What guilt I must bear for my transgressions, I gladly bear for the sake of all the children of man. You wouldn't understand, Lord Zakarian.”

Azat arched his brow, “Are you so certain about that? Always have the Children of the Sun stayed an enigma to Khios. Should you have some convoluted lesson shrouded in all that religious encryption, I would gladly listen.”

Erasyl considered Azat's insistence, pleasantly surprised judging from his expression. He contemplated, then declined with a mere shake of his head. “You're gracious enough to ask, but you and I both know that there are more pressing issues to be discussed during our parley.”

Azat squinted into the rain crashing down on him. He asked, “Shall we stand here in the rain till we've reached some agreement?”

Erasyl bellowed with hearty laughter. He answered, quickly sobering, “Would you feel comfortable accompanying me back to my encampment? I am certain you would not, as I would not feel comfortable riding out alone into the Suranna Plains.”

Azat smirked, “Candor from a tyrant? And here I thought you a fearless sort.”

Erasyl shrugged, “Fearless, perhaps, but certainly not foolish…”

An eerie silence descended upon Reaper's Lantern as the Carthite war hordes eventually ceased their wailing cries and the Old Myrians stopped beating their shields. There was only the storm raging, as a moment of silence haunted the still ranks of the fallen. 

Erasyl shattered the interlude with an unusual request. “Let us cast aside our obvious demands. There is little point in asking you to abandon Reaper's Lantern, as there is no point of asking the Dominion to withdraw from Cressa's Lantern.”

Azat heard Erasyl's reasoning, and nodded in agreement. “We would be at an impasse otherwise. You surprise me, Erasyl, I thought you would send another legion of your Zar'qin to batter us aside. You and I both know that you could have your victory on this second day of the battle.”

The God King did not disagree, but neither did he agree with Azat's opinion. He countered, “It has only been the first day of our battle at this mountain pass. I have lost several thousand of my finest Zar'qin warriors. And you?”

Azat arched his brow, taken back by the confession. The last thing he wanted was to reveal the number of his own fallen to the God King of all the Carth Dominion. He thought upon the matter, and decided to parlay in honest transparency. 

Azat sighed, “I've lost nearly three thousand able bodies. All that said, I have no intention of surrendering the mountain pass, or allowing you to march on without retribution.”

“That is no surprise to Carth's Immortal Son.” Erasyl smiled knowingly. “I could order another assault on your forces, but I could risk my casualties spiraling beyond ten thousand valorous souls… and for Old Myria, is the rest of your three thousand living, able sons and daughters not too great a sacrifice?” 

Azat cocked his head at Erasyl, puzzled. “Are you suggesting an end to this petty war?”

The God King answered with a grim shake of his head. “This war is far from petty, Azat. It is a reckoning over one thousand years in the making. But for either of us to lose so many in the first two days of this war… It is unbecoming of any general or monarch to waste valuable lives in such numbers.”

Azat slowly inclined his head in agreement. “Then we've come to another impasse. What is it that you are suggesting?”

Erasyl smirked. He must have thought Azat was being coy. “You must have an idea already? In the days of wars long forgotten from history itself, our ancestors would solve pressing issues like these in personal combat. They would allow their armies to gather and spectate, and two champions selected by either opposing army fought on till the death in most cases.

“I suggest that we forgo a trial by combat to the death, but determine the victory by the first grievous wound.”

Azat countered, “Either of us would risk death anyway, if it was to the first wound that leave us unable to fight.” 

Erasyl nodded, “True, but you'll have your chance to survive, should you remain strong. The same applies to me. Such is the way of war, even those fought honorably.”

Azat nodded without hesitation. He said, “shall we get this over with now then?”

Skeptical, the God King questioned him, champion to champion. “How do you feel after the first day of battle? I heard from my scouts that you led from the fore. I was greatly impressed to hear of your exploits, and am impressed further still that you are still here, breathing.”

Azat begrudgingly answered, uncertain how to be thankful to his mortal nemesis. “Perhaps we could wait…”

“Seven days.” Erasyl suggested. “We shall meet here one week from today, our armies assembled, when Sirius has reached its zenith in the clear skies. You and I shall fight a trial by combat to the first grievous wound. Should you wound me, and I yield, I shall take the warriors of my Dominion… and return from whence we came. Should I wound you and you yield, you must surrender Reaper's Lantern to my armies.” 

Uncertainty haunted Azat. He wrestled around in his thoughts, calculating which choice was the correct decision. He concluded, that if anything, another seven days for reinforcements to arrive was better than losing the mountain pass and his entire army, then his life on the morrow. 

He accepted with a nod. “Seven days from now, the fate of our entire war shall be decided by who is the better warrior.” 

Erasyl nodded, still smiling. “It shall be a myth to pass down into the centuries. Should either of us die in our struggle, we shall be remembered as legends.”

Azat sighed, “It feels odd, doesn't it? Men as old as we are already carved legacies that will last into history. It is strange that after thirty years, you and I are poised to repeat history once again.”

The God King turned his great warhorse back to the Carthite lines, and went ahead to take his leave. As the storm winds howled ever louder, the God King's words pierced the veil like a Sage's prophetic warning. 

Erasyl promised, “Us old guards must do what we can for our children. For one day, they must take up the sword when we are gone from this world. Let them spectate a little longer. There will be no return to peaceful days of bliss and waiting for champions to decide Khios' fate, when they replace their forebears on the battlefields of ceaseless war…” 
“Evil is relative…You can’t hang a sign on it. You can’t touch it or taste it or cut it with a sword. Evil depends on where you are standing, pointing your indicting finger.”
― Glen Cook, The Black Company


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