Thursday, 11 March 2010

Keeper of Devils.

Keeper of Devils.


Crystal quintessence, a diamond like serenity. The cold calamity and palpable illusion of stillness were shattered into sound as Whitemane’s hooves ripped through the misty moors.
A terrible and marvellous beast it was, a gargantuan ebon stallion, with a quicksilver mane and vibrant grey eyes of granite. The beast was only a steed however to the equally if not more horrific and fantastic beast that sat atop it.
Blane impelled his mythical mount to larger effort, urging it feverishly on. The black castle of Ulgaath loomed before rider and steed, crouching like a tenebrous behemoth awaiting its prey.
Enormous cloven feet smashed down on the heath land and fierce gusts of breath were expelled in tremulous snorts. The midnight mists swirling all around abruptly dissipated and the Azanian could see clearly the macabre host awaiting them.
A winged devil stood sentinel outside the castle gates, a purplish conflagration blazed about his reptilian skin and three holes Blane took for eyes burned a fiercer balefire.
The demon’s scabrous wings widened as Whitemane approached unfalteringly, it would take more than a demon to insight fear upon that intrepid mount.
Triple eyes of white fire met twin eyes of grey slashed with emerald as Blane and the devil considered one another. The demon taking in the warrior’s beyond impressive size and tribal markings.
“Greetings brave barbarian. My mistress bids you welcome,” the devil uttered in a sibilant slurring voice.
Blane cantered closer towards the amethystine demon, one strong hand gripped firmly on the hilt of his ancient Warsong blade. He surveyed the devil’s serrated wing’s flapping gently, although there was no wind to move them.
“The Lich lord spoke to me of Sarana’s guardian, be you he?” Blane asked brusquely, his eyes smouldering a fatal fire.
The demon’s lipless gash widened and rubiate fangs blossomed into existence. “One of many,” the fiend murmured assent.
Blane nodded mutely and dismounted fluidly.
The winged brute was of impressive size and amounted well over six feet, but Blane was taller still.
“Stay,” Blane commanded gently to Whitemane who snorted his understanding before standing stoically.
“Lead on,” Blane instructed the demon.
His malignant smile never changing, the purple devil turned and led the Azanian barbarian into the entrance of the black fortress.

The shadow from the woods prt1

Breathless and half scared to death, the young man ran as fast as he could. Swirling here and there between the tall trees that seemed to reach down to him with twisted arms and wretched claws as if to snatch him of the ground, his heart hammered in his chest, ready to explode. His every muscle burned with pain yet he could not stop fleeing.
He was a young boy from the village down by the river in the shadow of the Toreburgh mountain. That very mountain rumoured to be the throne of some long forgotten winged god with eyes like fire and feeding of the flesh and souls of mortal men. An old women’s tale some said. To frighten the young children from wandering too far into the woods, but Johanz knew better now. The fairy tales of his youth became the hard terrifying reality he was now running from.

Cursing with every step the soil he ran upon, his strength was beginning to wane. Soon he would not be able to do much more but crawl in some dark place and hope that the shadow from the woods does not find him. And what if it could smell its prey? No. Such thoughts could not be permitted to fill his mind. Not now as he was almost clear of the woods, closing in on the rocky fa├žade of the mountainside. There surely he would find many small caves and holes deep and dark enough to hide. At least for a while until…until what? What hope is there for a boy against such a beast that sailed the winds with wings wide a as three longships?

Then he fell. His legs failed him at last, overstrained beyond what a young and strong man of his age could possibly endure. As he laid down in the mud by a small stream flowing calmly as a never ending serpent through the tall grass he could hear naught but the clear singing of birds and the sweet chanting of the wind through the leaves. The nightmare was over. The old women’s tale was just that, a tale that returned from its long slumber in the dark recesses of Johanz’ soul to haunt him again. His heart slowed down its hammering as his breast was beginning to rise and fall in a calm, rhythmic pace. The sun even managed to pierce through the thick branches to send a warming ray of light upon his muddied face. He could at last open his eyes, just in time to see a monstrous gaping maw that seemed like a cavern’s threshold in size with uneven rows of stalactites dripping with froth and viscous bile. The warmth of the sun became a foul humid stench of decomposition and rotted meat. The ground shook but for a brief moment as if lightning had stricken it with all the might of the thunder god himself. Leaving behind, as the humongous winged form cleared the top of the trees dropping rocks and moist earth to the ground, a large whole in the wet, humid soil around the stream. In a loud yet deafened sound of flapping wings, the large shadow swirled its way up the mountain to disappear in some opening unseen to all but the gods from their heavenly abodes.

Later on that day at the village, the folk will speak in a low voice of a great shadow darkening the sun and the return of he who has been banished many winters ago. He who speaks the tongues of all beasts that fly, crawl and walk on all fours. He that summoned the mountain god.