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world renowned whogivesafuckologist
retired moderator
Original Poster
#1 Old 29th Oct 2007 at 4:20 PM
Default Tales of Malaris
An excerpt from the story I'm writing... The title of this thread isn't the story's title... It's currently untitled... Malaris is just the world it's set in.

Anyway. A dream sequence, from my favourite tortured, beautiful, haunted king. Bit old, but... I really like this bit, so I'm sharing.


He could feel warmth on his cheeks, bright light glowing from behind his eyelids. He was on his back, his body outstretched. Twitching the fingers of one hand, he felt damp, warm grass. Opening his eyes, he blinked at the brightness; sunlight poured down upon him through the gaps in the shifting canopy of the trees above him. The wind breathed a sigh, and the trembling leaves rustled their reply, the light skipping over him in golden patches. He lifted his head, hair dampened by the dew on the grass, and looked around him.

He lay in the center of a clearing. All around him, tender shoots of new lilies reached toward the sky, clustered in the areas not dominated by thick clumps of lush grass. Hanging ivy, the edges of the blackish-green leaves touched with crimson, hung from the trees surrounding him. He heard a noise, and looked up to see two red squirrels playing in the branches. One chased the other, leaping to a nearby tree trunk, then down, then they were gone, disappearing into the underbrush.

He reached up and pushed a lank strand of hair from his forehead. As he brought his hand down, he noticed there, on the back of his hand, a beetle as large as the end of his thumb, shining black tinged with iridescent green and blue. As he watched it, holding his hand out in front of his face, the beetle lifted its shimmering carapace to reveal delicate gossamer wings. It flittered them once, twice, dancing over the back of his hand, and then took flight, hovering in the air before him. He felt a puff of air from the beat of its delicate silver wings across his cheek, faintly scented with sweet and spice, and then it was gone, wheeling off into the trees with a fading buzz.

It was quiet then in the clearing. The wind faded, and the drone of insects and the birdsongs he had not realized he’d been hearing faded away.

But… it was not all quiet. He could hear… something.

He pulled himself to his feet, shaking the damp from his fingertips, and slowly turned around in the indentation his body had left in the grass. It was so faint, like the ringing of bells from far away… Or music? He tilted his head, listening hard, trying to hear over his own heartbeat.

There, over there, beneath the arc of two low branches, a path. Yes, there… He stepped over a hillock of grass, and around a cluster of smooth white mushrooms. A curtain of hanging moss draped over the space under the branches, and he held it aside with his hand as he ducked beneath, closing his eyes as bits of moss and dust showered his face and hair.

On the other side, the path was obvious now, winding its way through the trees. The forest was a cathedral around him, silent but for a breath of wind, and the slight movement of the leaves high above. The great trunks of the ancient trees lined his path and he found himself looking up as he walked, feeling the sun on his face where it had found tiny gaps in the great canopy above… and he did not see the rock in his path till he stumbled and nearly fell, catching the toe of one boot against it.

He tripped forward, catching hold of a sapling growing along the path, and managed to remain mostly upright. A thorned vine grew around the sapling, and as he brought his hand away, he saw blood in his palm, pierced between the lines of his hand. He looked back at the tree, crimson staining one large thorn, dripping on to the white petals below of a flower from the same thorned vine.

He brought his hand to his mouth, sucking at the wound. His blood tasted of copper and wine.

There… there… the ringing again… or maybe it was music. He watched the path as he walked now, but he sensed movement around him, in the underbrush where he could not see. Tucking his hand against his chest, he walked on.

The light seemed brighter down the path, more sunlight breaking through the trees, and he felt warmer as he continued. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt, letting air cross the sweat-dampened flesh of his neck and upper chest.

The sound seemed to come from up ahead… not louder, but somehow more full in that space. It thrummed through his bones, powerful yet inaudible at the same time. It pulled him along, and the path got brighter and brighter.

At the same time, the surrounding forest darkened, the canopy growing denser and denser around the path, till the only light through the trees shone down directly above him. And up ahead, it was brighter still, a brilliant glow that forced him to cast his gaze at the path right in front of his feet as he walked. As he continued, he raised a hand over his face, shielding his eyes from the brightness. There was almost a melody now to the soft chimes in his mind, something familiar that played just out of reach, in time with his footfalls.

Yet it seemed to be falling away from him at the same time, so close, yet he could not reach its source. He reached out his other hand into the light, feeling the air ahead of him, his footsteps quickening.

So close, so close… It buzzed in the back of his mind, thrummed in his belly, and ran up and down his spine. He broke into a run, closing his eyes, too bright even to watch the ground behind a hand. He stumbled over roots in the path, once tripping and catching himself on his hands. He picked himself back up, his hands dirty and the wound on his palm bleeding again, and kept going.

His feet shuffled blindly over the ground, both hands outstretched. The sound he could not quite hear was deafening, filling his head, and now he was sprinting through the forest, his boots sending up puffs of dirt as they slapped against the path. He felt as if he were flying, his strides sure and quick, that thrumming music like a roar, guiding him unthinkingly, unseeingly.

And then, suddenly, quiet. Utter silence and calm… and he skidded to a halt, gasping for breath, a runnel of sweat tracing down his cheek. He opened his eyes.

Beneath his feet was smooth stone, a circle within the forest ringed with great carved pillars supporting stone arches high above his head.

And in the in the center of the circle, there was a cradle, draped with sheer white cloth. That same glow emanated from within the cradle, shining from beneath the covering. It was a gentle radiance… yet he somehow felt he had found the source of the light which had brought him here.

His heart pounded hard in his chest, and he dared not move, and barely breathed, staring in wonder at the shrouded cradle.

Then, something seemed to take hold of him, and without meaning to, he stepped toward it. Though the space of the stone circle was large, he seemed to cross the distance in just a few paces.

He stood over the cradle, looking down at the shifting golden light emanating from within. It was warm on his face, warmer even than the sunlight, and its radiance bathed his pale cheeks with a gentle heat. He closed his eyes, basking in the glow, and let out a long, slow, quavering breath. A soft little smile turned up the edges of his mouth.

He opened his eyes. The glow faded… just enough to discern the silhouette of the child within. It was so small, just a baby, wrapped in white cloth like the cradle. It was the source of the light, the source of the music, and the source of this profound sense of peace in him as well. He felt hot tears welling in his eyes as he extended a hand into the cradle, his fingers brushing the cloth covering the child’s foot. He gasped at the heat against his fingertips as a tear coursed down one cheek.

A soft touch caught the tear near his chin, and he looked up, blinking in surprise.

Her eyes were golden, sparkling amber, and she gazed upon him with such benevolence that he felt himself collapse to his knees before her. She brought her hand to her lips, his tear glistening on her fingertip, and licked it away. She closed her eyes, her eyelids fluttering. Then she opened them again, turning her honeyed gaze down upon him, and knelt, running her hands over his shoulders, pulling him back up with a strong but gentle grasp.

He was paralyzed before her. The glow, the music… it was coming from her too, from the shining gold of her eyes upon him. He was laid bare as she looked over him, right through him. He was barely breathing through parted lips as she raised her hands and traced her fingertips over his cheeks and jaw.

His heart was beating so hard that he wondered how it did not burst from his chest. He trembled under her feather-light touch, her skin very warm, almost hot. He was frozen, in fear and in awe as she stepped closer, tilting her face up to him, cupping his chin in her hands. Her long russet hair fell to her waist in waves, brushing against his chest as she leaned in close to him.

She pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, sliding one hand to the nape of his neck. She smelled of honey and oranges, and as she lingered close to him, her breath hot on his cheek, he slid a trembling hand around her waist. His touch left a smear of dirt and blood on her pure white dress, but he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her closer to him. Her eyes went wide for a moment, and his heart skipped in terror that he had acted wrongly… But then she clasped the back of his neck with her fingernails and kissed him hard, pushing him back a step. He held her tight, pulling her with him, and her foot hit one leg of the cradle.

Inside, the child awoke, and began fussing, then softly crying.

She made a sympathetic noise and turned to look at the child, twisting from his grasp to lean over the cradle, murmuring soothingly and patting at the baby’s belly. After a moment, it quieted again, snuffling softly as it calmed.

She looked up at him and smiled. She was radiant, perfect, illuminated from within and by the glow from the child in the cradle.

He reached out to lay his hand atop hers, to feel the strange heat of her bronze skin. But as he did, she seemed to shift out of his reach. He gasped in dismay and tried to step toward her… but she only faded further. She reached out to him, still bent protectively over the cradle, sadness and surprise in her golden eyes.

He cried out, trying to run toward her, but she pushed further and further, and with her, the light faded… and all around him, there was nothing but darkness.

He could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet, the breath of the wind… or even his own body.

Yet still, he tried to struggle, to scream, to see or even imagine a pinprick on some horizon in the dark, some sign of her again. He thrashed against the nothingness, screaming noiselessly, trapped incorporeal in this void.



He awoke sitting up in his bed, drenched in sweat, tearing at his nightshirt. He became aware that he had indeed been screaming… his throat was raw, and his ears were ringing. He swallowed hard, throwing back the blankets. He put his feet on the floor and hunched forward over his knees, trying to slow his breathing. He ran his hands back through his hair, then rubbed at his eyes with both palms. His left hand stung.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked down at his left palm. A short, punctured line pierced his palm between two creases, the skin around irritated and red. As he stared down at his hand, he noticed dirt under his fingernails, and in the creases of his knuckles. His other hand was similarly dirty, but unwounded. He blinked again, slowly, turning his hands over, then stood.

He padded barefoot across the warm carpet to the vanity at the far end of the room. He poured some water from the pitcher into the basin atop the vanity, and rinsed off the wound on his palm. Using a small stiff brush, he cleaned the dirt from under his nails, then dipped a perfumed cloth in the water and ran it over his cheeks and neck.

Her… He shivered deeply, suddenly struck with the memory of her smell, her lips against his, her warm body encircled by his grasp.

His hand shook as he lay the cloth over the edge of the basin. He looked up at his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red, the delicate flesh beneath so dark it almost seemed bruised.

He picked up a tiny cobalt blue bottle from the vanity, plucking out its faceted stopper and drawing it across his neck. He closed his eyes and sighed, the old familiar scent comforting, then replaced the stopper and put the bottle back in its little silver stand. He reached down to pick up his comb when a flash of brightness and a flicker of movement from behind him in the mirror caught his attention.

He turned back, furrowing his brow. He looked at the window, the curtain half open, at the bright sunlight of the day happening outside. He pulled aside the curtain and gazed out the window.

Outside, past the railing of his balcony, and the battlements of the castle walls, and the cliffs tumbling to boulder-strewn shore… the sea glittered in the morning sun. Over its white-capped turquoise surface, dark sea birds wheeled and dove, plunging beneath the waves. Small fishing vessels dotted the bay, pulling up nets fat with writhing fish.

At the far end of the bay, one of the large merchant sailing ships was executing a long, slow turn, making a difficult maneuver to get into position to dock. Its white sails were bright, reflecting the morning sun enough that he winced, eyes still half asleep.

He pressed his forehead to the window, his breath fogging his view, and he watched the shape of the ship as it slid carefully into place in the port. Its sails fluttered and snapped in the breeze as he traced the shape of its outline with his fingertip in the condensation his breath left on the glass.

He could see her golden eyes in his mind, there like an afterimage every time he blinked. His eyes unfocused as he stared out at the ship, seeing her gaze in his mind, written across the white sails. His lips trembled, remembering the smell of honey and oranges, and feeling the sting of the cut on his palm, and his slender frame quavered, pale in the morning light.

His brow furrowed, and he wiped the outline of the ship from the window with the side of his hand. He didn’t have time for daydreams.

my simblr (sometimes nsfw)

“Dude, suckin’ at something is the first step to being sorta good at something.”
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#2 Old 31st Oct 2007 at 4:29 AM
This is beautiful, I love the way you write! Your imagery is wonderful and, because you took your time in describing all the small details, you really bring the world (both of them) you're describing to life--I could really see it in my mind. Is this story you're writing part of a collection of stories set in this world or is it just one story? Either way, I hope you post some more (I need to find out what else happens ).
world renowned whogivesafuckologist
retired moderator
Original Poster
#3 Old 31st Oct 2007 at 12:51 PM
Thanks, inkbottleblue!

This is an excerpt from the first story in the series... pretty close to the beginning, actually... possibly -actually- the very beginning.

I'm torn on whether I want to write the first story as a dual story or not - like Ender's Game and Ender's Shadow - the same events told through the viewpoints of two very different but equally important characters. Twice as much work, but... the two main characters are SO different, I'm thinking it might suffer if I didn't give them both equal time, so to speak.

So... it may actually end up being... three books, two stories.

... I'd really better get to work.

Anyway, yes, I do plan on posting more... probably little bits and pieces as I tend to write things totally out of order, though.

my simblr (sometimes nsfw)

“Dude, suckin’ at something is the first step to being sorta good at something.”
Panquecas, panquecas e mais panquecas.
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