Archive for the Fantasy Category

By the Lava-Steel of the FlameSword of Tarnaal

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Legends of the Primal Energy on April 12, 2010 by GuNNhead

Night falls across the battlefield. Hundreds of soldiers stand poised. The moonlight floods the scene as the sunlight dies out, billowing out their individual shadows into a conglomeration of continual darkness. Once the sun has gone, they begin forward, their armor, swords and shields gently clanging; lit in pieces by the moonshine. In the distance ahead of them, there is a beacon of light, of death.

On the other side of the field, the Lava-Steel of the FlameSword glows and burns the night air. The flames that lick the hands of its owner do not burn him, for he is Tarnaal. His muscles bulge as he lifts the sword, arms glinting with slight perspiration. His bare chest shines with the light of the FlameSword as a drop of sweat beads down in between his pecs and down his abs, down to his animal skin loin cloth. He breathes in deeply, heavily, taking in all of his surroundings.

The army is approaching. Tarnaal lifts the FlameSword over his head, and unleashes a horrifically fierce war cry. While only a yell of valor, it exudes manliness, injects the essence of man forcefully into the air. He runs toward them. A few of the soldiers run in the opposite way at the sight of this one man, screaming and brandishing a sword above his head. Some have heard the legends, some realize the source of their fright in their own imaginations. The rest regain their confidence in numbers, and pick up speed towards this sole warrior, this one man.

The opposing forces meet with screams of burning pain as the FlameSword scorches the flesh of any who it touches, in addition to cutting through the limbs. Arms and blood fly past Tarnaal. He makes his way deeper into the crowd, never stopping his assault. The battle lasts throughout the night.

As the morning sun begins to rise, the chill of the night remains. Tarnaal is the only figure that remains standing. He breathes out the cool night air into the morning, the moisture-laden air from his lungs chills into a mist. Blood is dripping off every inch of his body; his messy hair, caked and dirty. The FlameSword in his hands throbs and pulsates with energy, fed into the lava-steel. He, in his warrior mind remains confident. He did not always have the FlameSword, and used to engage in battles of this nature. Nothing has changed, only the amount of pain he inflicts towards those he cuts in twain. At the first sign of the sun appearing over the hills, it strikes his eyes, he spits upon the bodies of the dead soldiers.

He is loved, he is a friend, just not here.

Cat Fight

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, Legends of the Primal Energy on October 7, 2009 by GuNNhead

In the world of Wealdland, there exists much more than those who battle only for the power spoken of in the Legends of the Primal Energy. There are people who have magicks outside of that, kingdoms and wars, untouched by the hero Firedrake, or his vengeful brother Icemarrow. The battles between the Goddess and Ahriman are still but distant and budding tales here, in the warring kingdoms of Darpol and Raugai.

This battle is not over land, but over a woman; a Princess to be exact. Though, this princess was soon to be Queen, and was to unite these two Kingdoms, but her husband to be, the great warrior Thuramen was murdered in his sleep the night before the wedding. None knows by whom, the only witness being the Princess’s cat. With no suitor able to bring a united decision to fruition, be determined as an acceptable alternative to the deceased Thuramen, a battle was to be waged.

Days have now past. Dust and sand fills the battlefield in gusts of winds. The approaching armies come nearer to their mutual demise at each others swords. Each side believes they are in the right, and will fight to their death to prove such a thing. None are more patriotic than these men, who believe in their Kingdom’s power and entitlement over all others.

Suddenly, a beam of light lands in the center of the battleground, the armies stop fighting. The Princess steps out of the bean glowing in a radiant light as a simultaneously occurring downpour soaks the opposing armies. The Princess is weeping.
“I’ve lost my cat. He’s nowhere to be found,” she chokes on her teary words, “he was the only one to comfort me in the time of Thuramen’s passing, instead of bickering over who would take his place. I loved him! And now Malek is lost! You will all find him or I will surely die of heart loss!”

The cat really did mean a lot to the girl, he was the sign of her and Thuramen’s bond between each other. The armies stunned by the Princess’ outburst of magicks beyond her age, took to looking for Malek. The Princess’ cat, which they had reason to worry, that may have been a reincarnation of the prince, or some fort of evil familiar, a bad omen.

When they found the cat, it was in the closing act of killing the castle church’s priest. They ran to stop it, but it was far too late. It had escaped into the night.

A note was left, from Thuramen, saying that his spirit was taken from his body and placed into the cat by an evil sorcerer, the priest, who would seek to claim the kingdom as his own after the battle sorted out the strongest warriors among them for his own armies. Also lost with the sorcerer’s life, however, was Thuramen’s body: the priest had intended to it make his own; both it and the old man’s bodies burned to ash in a magical fire.
And so, Thuramen, forever cursed to be trapped in that, chubby, rolly cat’s body, could no longer bear to be around the life he once knew. He resigned himself to wander to lands for eternity, knowing it would be for the betterment of all Kingdoms to believe that he had died.

The Key: Episode 2

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction, The Key on September 2, 2009 by GuNNhead

“Oh my, who are you?”
“I… my name is… uh, Quarter.”
“What an interesting name, mine is Trisitone, from the land of Valencian winds.”
“Hey, that’s great, I really have to get going, though.”
“Where do you come from?” She stares at him intently.
“Uh, nowhere, look, it’s been great meeting you, but I have somewhere I need to be, bye.”
“Oh, it’s been a pleasure meeting you as well, Quarter!”

He takes the stairs downwards past the stone table, heading back towards the castle, when he notices that she following him. He turns around.
“Hey, Trisitone, where I’m going, I have to go alone.”
“Tris, call me Tris, all my friends do.”
“Hmm, you should really get back to what you were doing.”
“Oh, I really wasn’t doing much of anything.”
“Fine, whatever, where I’m going is a secret, can you keep a secret?”
“Ooh, I simply adore secrets! I have many I’ve never told to a soul!”
“Good, because this is that kind of secret, let’s go.”
“How exciting!”

He travels through the garden with her silent gentle footsteps in tow; through the large hedge maze, in between hidden sections and undergrown overgrowths. Finally, they make it to a vine covered wall on the eastern side of the castle. He begins to feel around, and simultaneously, he pulls upon a vine, and pushes against a brick. The secret passage slowly swings open towards the inside. He pulls her inside in front of him, and closes the door behind. They travel up a large winding staircase, lit only by iridescent mushrooms growing sporadically upon the walls and ceiling. Ignoring many other passages, an unrevealed one is at last chosen by Quarter, and they enter a mid-size room, a forgotten hidden section in the east wing. The floors are marble, and shine with a mirror quality polish. Turning to the left, they enter what appears as a dead end hallway. As Quarter presses himself up against the far wall, it slowly begins to glow, and the familiar red color appears, along with the white V ending in two white lines, then slides open.

Inside the marble floors begin anew, with the familiar stone walls adorned with painting and cloth. Directly to the front there is a pedestal with an extravagant fountain. Connected to this large structure is a small set of stairs, leading up to a large circular bed that is as wide as the room covered in red silk sheets, and hooded by veils.

“Ooo, how lovely! Is this your accomidates?”
“Yeah, I guess, but I need you to wait here, make yourself comfortable, there’s something that I must do.”

As she heads to the bed, he heads to the fountain. There is a scale on the top of the three tier fountain, with one of the scales disconnected, resting on the middle tier. First, he reconnects the disconnected right scale to the beam, balancing the scales. Then, he reaches into the water at the bottom, and as he holds his hand there, it begins to glow, and he pulls out the coin, a thin stone. He holds the coin in his hand, and rubs it, soon it turns a bright green, and four holes appear in it. It is ready, and he places it in the cavity in the flat wall of the front of the fountain behind the pool of water.

Suddenly he’s transported to a much muted reality, and, in great pain, he spits blood as it pours from his mouth.
“Fuck, this isn’t normal.”


Posted in Fantasy, Fiction with tags on August 17, 2009 by GuNNhead

“Yarrrrrrrrr,” said the pirate, counting doubloons.
“Yaaaaar,” said the captain, observing him carefully with his one eye, “Ye best count it well, y’ain’t the only one o’ me crew who can count, so don’t be thinkin’ fer a second that yee can pull a fast one on me, the great Captain Mayhem Paddock III, I’ll cut yer head clean off and feed it to the sharks.”
“aye aye, cap’m”

This is what I conceptualize to be a common dialogue on their ship, The Euphonia. It has been at sea for a few short weeks now, after a stop on land to pick up supplies, and to pirate the most precious jewels that this ship in particular seeks. This disembarkment had gone particularly well, and their findings continue to be enjoyed by all the crew aboard, and perhaps many of the accursed crowd they will encounter to pilfer from in the future. This crew does not plunder in the traditional sense, there are no reported murders, and no jewels, gold, or chastity are reported to have been taken unwillingly.

This ship, full of the vilest and most reprehensible riff-raff on the seven seas, pirates music. Murderers, rapists, and felons are nearly unheard of on this crew. These men all work together in a rum soaked ship to perform the most dastardly deeds the world has ever seen. They flow into town, and take in the local shows, orchestras, musicians, soloist virtuosos, minstrels, bards, and even yodelers; nothing is off limits to this pirate crew. They use special recording devices conceived by Captain Mayhem Paddock III himself, record the songs, and play them at future times for money and profit. Other times, this crew listens, remembers, and, taking instruments of their own, reperform the very same songs to others around the world. They truly are the most contemptible and underhanded of pirates.

The music that they abducted from the very air emanating from the original artist can now be heard around the world, for while these pirates are the best at what they do, and the most world-renowned, they are not alone in their depraved ways. There are other crews, who commit equally, if not worse atrocities upon the culture of mankind. These performances are no longer kept to a small and privileged few who can afford them, these pirates are spreading culture around as if it some sort of disease.

The Euphonia and Captain Mayhem Paddock III care not for culture or preserving neither the artist nor his managers, they only care to bring music across the seven seas, to those who have never heard it before, or anything like it. Those who have no right to listen to it, for they can neither afford it, nor do they deserve what is not native to their lands. They only see music as a means to join the world to their degenerate ways. I, Captain Reginald Ignatius Aapoiproire seek to bring every last one of these miscreants to justice. I have been tracking them for years, I cannot quit now without looking like a fool to my King and his entire court. I will see that the crew of the Euphonia hang for their crimes, especially that nigh-untraceable Captain Mayhem Paddock III. If only I could control or destroy him, could I see that this madness comes to an immediate end.

Of Honor and Composure

Posted in Fantasy, Fiction with tags , , , , on August 14, 2009 by GuNNhead

Cherry blossoms fall
Petals descend silently
He hears each last one

A nearby stream soothes
Over time rocks become smooth
By its persistence

Many souls congress
Living, breathing habitat
All in harmony

Insects buzz about
Dragonflies are most graceful
Landing upon reeds

Frogs croak at nothing
To hear themselves, they enjoy
Tonguing any prey

A sword remains sheathed
To expose the blade means death
For the opponent

Up above is blue
Though the sun will be setting
And colors will change

The meadow is green
Lush grass flows far into trees
A distant forest

Calming winds blow soft
Flowing through the scenery
Upon our hero

He sits in mediation
Upon a gentle hillside
His thoughts in focus

A grey kimono
A sign of nobility
From subdued colors

He is deep in thought
Quiet reflection of life
Of what he has learned

Mastery of martial arts
Skill with katana unmatched
A code of Honor

Surpassed his master
And then set out on his own
No more to learn there

Traveling alone
The way of the samurai
It is in his blood

For years he did train
One can never stop learning
Each day, new lessons

Mind is well above
The way that others would think
At one with the world

From the deepest well
Is where he draws capacity
Move beyond action

Sun begins to set
Divine color paints the sky
Breathtaking vision

He senses presence
Emerging from the forest
With sinister plans

A rival appears
To claim the life of this man
Focus singular

The dark to his light
He rushes with blade in hand
Intentions to kill

Light stands to defend
Withdrawing his katana
Swords clash, metals meet

Even in power
Their strength is but one aspect
A battle of skill

Wit vies with cunning
Steel meets steel again and again
Only one will win

Dark has no Honor
Does not abide by the code
An army for hire

No room for light
In the blackest dynasty
His blood must be spilt

An old samurai
That has gained too much repute
As a force of right

Their numbers, endless
He fights with all he has left
It is not enough

Many of theirs, dead
Dark assassin, among them
Light fought with Honor

Battlefield, silent
The sun has set, all is dark
Gentle stream runs red