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Old 04-15-2010, 05:16 PM
Negthareas Negthareas is offline
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CHAPTER 1

"So, in the 13th year of King Thernad’s reign," said the hermit "that the Lords of Menthorn rose up in rebellion. They stormed the city of Daghbor, killing hundreds of innocents, and many of the nobles. But King Thernad stood firm. Though pressed hard and in dire need of arms and food, he and his servants defended the royal palace against the besiegers. Many of the attackers were killed, so many that mounds of them piled up at the base of the palace walls. After holding them off for three days, Thernad was rescued. Leading a force of fifteen thousand men from western Southmount, came general Itherad. He drove the Menthorns from the ruins of Daghbor, and sending them fleeing back to the Wold." The hermit thought to himself for a while, and then said "Yes, that is how it happened."
"Then you were there?" asked the boy in front of him, surprised and eager at the same time.
"No, of course not," the old man responded. "Do I look like I am 200 years old?" the man, bent double with age, chuckled to himself. "No, I am nowhere near that old. Even so, I imagine that when you reach my current age, Dithno, you will look much older than I presently do." the man stopped and thought for a moment, then glanced at the hourglass. "Bless the king! Why didn't you tell me it was already this far into the night? You know I promised your parents to send you back before nightfall. Now go, get out of here." The man muttered a little to himself, as Dithno, sighing, collected a few books, a quill, and a couple tablets.
After peeking out at the frost-covered ground, Dithno returned to his tutor, saying "My, it seems quite chilly and windy tonight. I will most probably freeze on the way back to the villige. No one will ever know what happened to poor Dithno. Young Dithno. Innocent Dithno. Handsome Dithno..."
Here the old man cut him off "Innocent, eh? I wouldn’t bet a tin cup on it. Fine, fine, you can take a horn of my wine with you - mind you, don't drink it all at once, and don't let your parents know I gave it to you - it is strictly for keeping you warm inside, understand?" the Old Hermit, as the people of Letheram called him, gazed sternly at his fourteen year old pupil. "That is not ale, it is much stronger - the last time I gave it to you, you ended up stumbling into your neighbor’s home singing love songs to his daughter! I expect you to be more responsible this time. Do you hear me?" the man raised a finger menacingly, but Dithno only laughed.
"Ha - you know as well as I that you would never harm a fly, and that I only used your wine as an excuse to sing to Loritha - ah, she is sooo beautiful - the chance was worth the whipping father gave me afterward."
"Well, whatever," the hermit replied "Now get out or else, I'll...I'll...I'll never tell you any more concerning the battles of the War of Kings." The hermit had barely finished his sentence before the door slammed shut. He chuckled. Anyone would call his bluff when he threatened physical harm, but at least Dithno knew that he kept his academic word to smallest syllable. The door creaked open, and Dithno's head appeared around its edge.
"Master, sir," he said "do you think my father will be alright?" Dithno looked very worried, and the hermit knew he should answer the question carefully. Dithno had climbed to the hermit's home the previous night, crying. His parents had argued horribly with each other over the war. Lord Verthas of Halternon and Felsing, a vassal to Menthorn, seeking further expansion had invaded the dominion of Lord Derglas of Galehock the year before. Lord Derglas had been wiped out, leaving the southern expanse of Rollingplains open to conquest. Now they had invaded the nearby city of Warphel. General Yamorth Tavir had summoned militia from all the surrounding villages and towns, including Dithno's father. Dithno's mother had tried to convince him not to go, and their conversation had quickly escalated into an arguement. Dithno's father, with spear, sword, shield, and helm, had left. Dithno, unable to find comfort in his weeping mother, had come to him, his teacher, for solace.
"Dithno, I cannot say how the battle will go. General Tavir and his son, Lumer, seem very confident in their chances of success. Try not to worry about your father. Think of how he may come home as a hero, having slain at least twenty men single-handedly. But, if things go worst, be strong - for your mother. You may have to be the man of the home."
Dithno shook a little, then said "Thank you sir, have a good night." Dithno shut the door, and the hermit pictured him in his mind's eye begin the long, but relatively safe trek down the side of the stream to the village of Letheram.
"Dorat-Bingal, may he be protected," he said "and given the strength he will need, he will be tried so."



CHAPTER 2

Besides slipping on some ice and nearly tumbling headlong, Dithno made the journey down unharmed, and soon found himself safe and sound back at his cottage. He would have stopped at his neighbor's house, and spoken to Loritha at her window, but he was tired, and too worried about his father to consider anything else. He pounded a few times at his door, before his mother opened it for him. Dithno walked in, shutting the door and replacing the heavy piece of timber that locked it. His mother was red-eyed, and he could tell that she had been crying when he was away. He decided it would be best not to bring up the issue. They ate dinner in silence. It was a good soup, with beef, carrots, and potatoes, but the lack of conversation seemed to cool the soup's warmth and flavor. Dithno finished and went to his bed, a pile of hay with a few blankets laid on top. Thinking of his father, and what would happen to them if he died, Dithno cried himself to sleep.
Dithno sat up with a start as horrifying screams echoed in the valley. Then he heard the cries "Lord Verthas’ men are coming!" People were running past his window, carts were being overturned, children were crying aloud for their mothers. Dithno got off his bed, throwing on his shirt, and grabbing his knife. He ran into the main room. Dithno realized that the door was unbolted, and looked around for the locking beam. Then his mother opened the door, slamming it quickly shut behind her. She winded, and part of her shawl had been ripped off.
"Hurry, Dithno," She gasped, "the door...lock the door." Dithno found the beam and hefted it into place. Moments later the door shook.
"Open up in the name of Lords Verthas and Menthorn" the soldier outside yelled. Hearing no answer, he hefted an ax, smashing away at the door. Piece by piece, it fell apart. Dithno stood in front of his mother, knife in hand. Then she fell to the floor. "Mother!" Dithno yelled. He kneeled at her side. Her skin was bluish and cold, but wet with sweat. She had no pulse. "No! Not now, not her heart!" Dithno bent over her and started pumping her upper chest with his hands crossed, crying and swearing at the same time. Then the beam, finally weakened, broke, and the soldier knocked the door down and stepped in.
"Look you, tell me where the valuables are hidden and I will only cut out your tongue!" he said, gestering angrily at Dithno. Dithno froze, not knowing what to do. Then the soldier swung the ax down at his head. Dithno darted forward, landing between the man's legs, and stabbed his dagger up into the man's groin. The man screamed, falling down and clutching between his legs. Dithno cut his throat, and the soldier's shrieks silenced with a gurgle.
Dithno was shaking all over, and dropped his knife. He curled up under the table, not crying, but just staring out the door into the night. Then more soldiers arrived.
"It’s Captain Jassuk, he’s dead!" one of them shouted on seeing the dead soldier, and the pool of blood. Then he saw Dithno. "That little rat must have done it!" He drew his sword and kicked over the table. Dithno, unprotected, just sat there gazing limply up at him. There were a total of three soldiers inside the room now, two on either side of the door, and the other standing in front of Dithno. Then a long staff was held through the door way, leveled out horizontally, and then wrenched back against the necks of the two guards with such force that it cracked their vertabrae. The two soldiers collapsed to the ground, and the remaining one turned towards the doorway. He fell dead to the ground with a throwing blade through his left eye. Dithno flinched at the piercing yet short scream and then looked up. There by the door stood the old hermit. But he had no beard now, and he was not bent low. Beneath his cloak sheened polished armor, and he wore a quiver, bow, and shield. The hermit came in, and gathered Dithno in his arms. Taking him outside, he placed him on his horse, tying his legs down. Then he mounted and urged the horse into a gallop.
Dithno looked back at his house, and managed to weakly say "But, what about mother? What if father returns? No one will be there to greet him."
The hermit was silent for a while, and then said "Dithno, your mother is dead. I do not know about your father, but I know he will not return here. Do not worry, I will keep you safe." The two of them galloped out of the town. Just as they reached the crest of a small rise, Dithno looked back at Letheram. It was burning. Then it was hidden from sight as a steady drizzle began to fall.


CHAPTER 3

They rode long and hard for the entire night, stopping only for a quick rest by a stream. Once the first rays of light appeared in the morning sky, they stopped for the night. The hermit setup a tent, and laid out blankets.
“Aren’t you going to build a fire?” Dithno asked.
“No,” he replied. “I don’t want to do anything that would attract unnecessary attention. With the wood as wet as it is, a fire would reveal us to the eyes of anyone within 15 leagues.”
“Oh,” Dithno said, tired from the incessant rise and fall of the horse. He perked up when the man offered him food, however.
“It is not warm, but it will keep your stomach full,” he said, handing Dithno a large piece of dried venison and a hunk of bread. Dithno took the food, and sat on the ground, his back to a stump. The hermit sat next to him, and looked up at the stars.
“Who are you?” asked Dithno while chewing.
“Who am I?” the man said. “Well, I have been many things – teacher, warrior, ruler, and, yes, even a hermit.” Dithno stared at the man hard, as if not believing him.
“Then, how old are you?”
“Old? No, I am not an old man, but I am not young either.” The man thought to himself for a moment. “In fact, I am no age at all. But I am very very old.” Dithno looked puzzled. The man laughed.
“Dithno,” he said. “I am an elf.” Dithno was silent for a long time.
“But your ears are normal? How could you be an elf?”
“Long ago, I fought a dwarf in battle. He won, but rather than kill me, he carved off the tips of my ears with a knife. So, even though I am alive, I am an outcast even among my own race.”
So you have been on Mythador from the beginning?” Dithno asked.
“No, not from the beginning,” replied the man. “Do you remember what I taught you about how elves came to be?”
“Yes – I do,” said Dithno. “When Mythador had been formed, and after the uncountable plants and animals had been scattered across its surface, the spirit Dorat-Bingal planned to create the Man. But his servant, Bodethil-temin, was jealous of Dorat-Bingal’s power. Bodethil-temin was the greatest among Dorat-Bingal’s servants, subject only to him. Bodethil-temin felt that he had been patient and waited long enough, for he had seen most of his lesser brothers create Mythador together, while he, the greatest of Dorat-Bingal’s servants did nothing. In time, Fetjethdbladulr, one of Bodethil-temin’s more powerful brothers, was tasked with creating the Elves. He created them as advisors and counselors for the future man. But Bodethil-temin strove against Fetjethdbladulr, causing the creation to go awry. These creations were stunted and unsightly to gaze upon. They became known as the dwarves. Bodethil-temin sent the dwarves to destroy the lands of Mythador where man would be created, so that Dorat-Bingal’s plan might be thwarted.”
“But Dorat-Bingal tasked Fetjethdbladulr to create elves as protectors of Mythador, and they fought the dwarves for centuries upon Mythador, protecting it for the future man.”
“Yes,” said the elf “that is how we came to be, for the most part. I was born many years ago, hundreds of years ago. I have fought and killed many dwarves. But our wars with them only escalated higher. Finally, when mankind was being made, Ethorowfraw, a servant of Bodethil-temin, took men and elves and dwarves, mixing them all together. Then he struck them with a lightning bolt, and they came alive. These are the orcs and the goblins. The spell he used was a powerful one, impossible to break. For every time lighting strikes Mythador, a child born in the womb of an elf, women, or dwarf, becomes dead, to be stillborn. Its life is transferred to a new spawning of an orc. Many haved tried to stop or destroy the spell, but to no avail. Orcs are just as unpredictable as lightning. They rarely fight together. This is fortunate, for as a few, they are weak, like static energy. All together, they form a great tide of death, and they are nearly unstoppable as long as they abide each other’s company. Ethorowfraw now felt he was as powerful as Bodethil-temin, and he fought with him. Thus, here on Mythador, there are dwarves, elves, men, orcs, and goblins all fighting one another.”
“However, the worst enemies of all are the dragons. Bodethil-temin himself created them, and with their fire and smoke they have ravaged Mythador again and again. Bodethil-temin himself was their king, ruling them in the form of a great Heraldic Dragon. He came close to bringing all of Mythador under his rule. However, the dwarves perceived that he might turn against them, so they too fought against him. The dwarves were decimated, and driven into the north. The orcs cowered before the dragons, and fled to the east. Left to themselves, we elves were almost wiped out against the onslaught. However, the greatest of the elvish spellcasters gathered and, calling upon the power of Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr, cast spell after spell to the detriment of Bodethil-temin. All of the spell-casters died by their efforts, and Bodethil-temin was driven far from Mythador into distant worlds. There he stayed, for he is fearful of the wrath of Dorat-Bingal, his master. However, we elves suffered horribly by such use of magic, and magic passed from us into Mythador. That is why other races besides elves have mages. With Bodethil-temin gone, the elves able to drive the dragons back into Sssilistra. There, we killed enough of them that they were decimated, and have never since recovered.”
“However, the dragons we killed were not gone forever. Divested of their bodies, their spirits wander Mythador, until they find men that are evil. Then they corrupt the will of those men until they control them completely. These are the flomanros, the untiring servants of the dragons. They are no longer men, merely dragons with bodies of men. I have killed many of these. However, the enemies of the elves, though powerful, are not as powerful as we, for we are closer to the perfection of our creation, while they have wandered far from it.”
“Dorat-Bingal and Fetjethdbladulr guide and strengthen us. It is their bidding that we defeat our enemies, and bring peace to mankind, and to Mythador. Of course, those men that stand against us are our enemies as well.”
“I have never told you my name, Dithno. Indeed, you have never asked it. And why should you – I was just the hermit on the mountain. I will tell you it now – I am Ragertholimenshathropan, but you may call me Shathro.” Dithno looked at the elf with confused, tired eyes.
“I see you are sleepy,” said Sathro “and you have every right to be. Go on and get some rest, I will wake you in the morning.” Dithno watched Shathro for a while as he looked at the stars, before he fell into a deep peaceful slumber. His dreams were peaceful, and during their whole course, Dithno felt a great power shining from behind him, guiding the way he should take.
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Old 04-15-2010, 05:18 PM
Negthareas Negthareas is offline
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Hmmm - I had some apropriate DoF screenshots in-between the chapters that didn't show up - oh well.
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Old 04-15-2010, 06:05 PM
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I think we could do with a fanfic forum. =]

Will read your story and move in other fanfics later tonight.
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Old 04-15-2010, 06:33 PM
Negthareas Negthareas is offline
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Thanks Alex - makes sense to have one of these.
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Old 04-15-2010, 08:23 PM
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Great story Negthareas. Do you plan on continuing it?
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Old 04-16-2010, 08:39 AM
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Yes - I am on ch. 6 now.
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Old 04-28-2010, 08:01 PM
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Here is the next few chapters guys, thinking a a good ch. 7 right now.




CHAPTER 4

Dithno woke with when Shathro placed his hand on his shoulder. The boy felt refreshed and ready for the new day. Then he realized that he was in the woods with a friend who was really a stranger, his home was burnt, his mother was dead, and he had no clue where his father was. Dithno broke down and wept.
Shathro comforted him, but did not try to make him cheerful or happy.
“Go ahead and weep, Dithno.” He said “Sorrow has a place in this world.” Half an hour later, they had breakfast. Dithno did not want to eat, but Shathro encouraged him to.
“You need to keep your strength up – we have a long way to go today.” At this Dithno looked up sharply.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I am bringing you south to Bonten. Lord Tavir’s army should be there, and hopefully your father as well.” Dithno brightened up at this prospect, and chewed a bit more enthusiastically on his jerky. They finished eating quickly, and were soon back on the horse. Dithno sat behind Shathro, whose black hair blew in the wind. They made good progress as they traveled southward, towards to edge of Rollingplains.
It was nearing nightfall, and Shathro was looking for a place to camp, when he heard hooves on the ground behind them. He turned and saw 10 soldiers urging their horses on, trying to catch up to them.
“In the name of Lord Verthas, stop or be killed!” the leader shouted. Shathro did not stop, instead pushing the horse to its limits, galloping thunderously across the open fields. Then the leader raised a horn to his lips, sounding a blast that echoed in the valley they were riding through. This valley ended in a narrow defile, where 10 other riders now appeared. Shathro was trapped, and with him Dithno.
“Shathro, what are we going to do?” Dithno asked, drawing his dagger.
“Don’t worry, Dithno” Shathro replied “Just stay by me, and be ready to close your eyes and cover your ears, understand?” They were a few hundred feet from the chasing riders now, but only a hundred from the others, several of whom had drawn arrows to bows, ready to fire. Shathro stopped the horse and dismounted. The riders approached now from both sides, ready to cut Shathro to ribbons if he fought.
“Surrender or die!” the leader said from fifty feet away. Shathro looked at them all.
“I will not, but I will give you all a chance to do so.” The soldiers laughed, and their leader rode at Shathro with a spear held high.
“Dithno, close your eyes, and cover your ears.” Shathro said. Dithno did as told. Sathro yelled out in an eerie voice, rising high to a near scream before falling to a monotone chant. Dithno could make out no words, as his ears were covered. Then there was a blast, and Dithno felt a wave of heat wash over him, and water. There was a hissing and a crack. Dithno could hear the men screaming and crying out. The thick stench of burning, boiling flesh filled the night air.
“Dithno, come now, we must leave.” Dithno looked up. Great puddles of water lay all over the ground. Steam filled the air which was oppressively hot. All of the soldiers lay on the ground, dead. On some of them, the skin was badly scolded or burned. On others, it had been stripped right off. There was one who was still alive, several hundred feet away, but he soon fell to the ground, coughing up phlegm and blood. With a large retch, his aorta ruptured, spurting blood for yards around. With a choking cough, he died.

There was silence, and a breeze blew some of the acrid stench away.
“Don’t worry Dithno,” Said Shathro. “You are safe. Come we, we should move on, other soldiers would have heard the horn.” Dithno looked at Shathro, half in fright, half in awe, then mounted the steadfast horse. Shathro mounted after him, sighing, and very tired.
“Here, Dithno, hold the reins. I think I may pass out.”
“Are you ill? Are you going to die… like them?”
“No, but I am exhausted terribly. Please… just keep the horse heading south.” Dithno obeyed, and they traveled for a few hours. Eventually, Dithno found a small sheltered grove, and made camp there. Sathro got off the horse, but fell to the ground, immediately lying in a deep sleep. Dithno himself laid down, falling asleep only after an hour of deep pondering. On the far horizon of Rollingplains, the sun rose.



CHAPTER 5

Sathro woke Dithno up in the morning. He still seemed very tired. Dithno noticed that the ground was very wet, and guessed that it must have rained during the night.
“I don’t have any jerky or bread left,” Sathro said, “but I was able to find these wild carrots. Here, take them.” Dithno could see that the carrots had been washed and cleaned, but that made little difference to him – he was hungry.
“Did you have anything to eat?” he asked Sathro.
“ER – yes, I am quite satisfied. Go ahead and eat those.” While Dithno chewed on the tough roots, Sathro packed the horse. They mounted and rode south.
“What was it exactly that you did last night? You are not just an elf, but a sorcerer too, right?” Sathro was silent for a long time. Then he spoke.
“Yes, Dtihno, I am a sorcerer as well as an outcast of an elf. The dwarf that cut off my ears cursed me, himself being a magician, that my ears might never grow back as an elf’s but a man’s.”
“Surely you could heal them with magic?”
“No, I have only a slight grasp of magic – I almost killed myself with the spell yesterday. You see Dithno, the greater one’s ability to use magic, the less strength it takes to cast a spell. Of course, some spells are stronger than others, and require greater or lesser strength to begin with. I went to many elvish mages, but none could find an appropriate counterspell. Soon, I had lost all of the gold I had saved over the years. The Elves, tired of seeing my unhealable mutation, cast me out of their territory, and I have been wandering ever since.”
“Why did you save me?” Sathro’s long silence was filled only by the soft squelching sound of the hooves against the muddy turf and the splattering of dirty water.
“Dithno, I settled down on the hill for a purpose. I was waiting. You see, even though I can only use a little magic, I have dreams… dreams that always seem to come true. Of course, there have been sometimes when my dreams were wrong. I told someone a dream, and, rather than live with what I told them about their fate, they tried to change it, and endured one even more horrible than the one I had anticipated. That was the last time I ever told someone one of my dreams, before it came true.”
“Dithno, I had a dream that one day, there would be a young, but powerful mage born in Letheram. One that would be able to cure me; one that would be able to destroy even dragon spirits. One that would lose a mother, and flee from his burning village. Dithno, even though you have never used magic, you have a far greaty ability to do so than any other sorcerer on the face of Mythador.”
Dithno was silent for a long time. Then he spoke.
“How could I be a magic user? I have never done anything like that! It is a stupid idea! All I want is to find my father in Bonten and build a new life with him! He doesn’t even know… he doesn’t even know mother is dead.”
“We will continue to Bonten,” said Sathro “I had always planned to do so, but once there, you must make a choice.”

An hour later, they came over a gently rising slope, and saw smoke in the distance. Both Dithno and Sathro dismounted, stretching their legs.
“That must be the cooking fires of Lord Tavir’s army!” Dithno said.
“No,” said Sathro “that is too much smoke.” He sighed, putting the horse forward into a slow trot. “Yet another of my dreams come true, Dithno. Last night, I dreamt Bonten would be sacked by an army of orcs.”
“No… I don’t believe it,” cried Dithno. “I don’t and I won’t!” he scrambled back onto the horse, and raced down the turf towards the distant smoke. Sathro, frowning, kept held of the horse's reins and strode steadily after him.

As the sun set, burning a brilliant orange, Dithno wept in the burnt ruins of Bonten. Sathro was there with him. For many hours they had searched among the mounds of the dead. The slain men numbered in the tens of thousands, with over twenty thousand dead orcs and goblins as well. Near the main gate, the mound of orcs towered to the battlements. It was up this pile of arrow-spitted bodies that the bloodthirsty hordes had come, in numbers too great for the men to hold back. From there, it appeared that the defenders had retreated to the inner gate, only to find the keep already in possession of several hundred goblins, who had climbed the walls from behind using ladders.
There, in the courtyard before the gate to the citadel, the corpses of over five thousand men lay. Most were butchered mercilessly, the arms and legs hacked off, the faces disfigured – eyes stabbed, nose ripped off, tongue torn out. Sathro also noticed many that had been partially eaten and gnawed, and others with huge teeth marks stabbing straight through their torsos. Indeed, a few ogres were visible among the dead.
Dithno refused to leave the city and sleep in the tent that Sathro had pitched, searching obstinately for his father’s body. As each body was turned over, each head examined, then cast aside, Sathro would throw it onto one of the ever growing funeral pyres. Flames roared, but flickered, and the stench of burning flesh filled the air. Eventually, long into the night, Dithno collapsed. Sathro carried him outside the city, laying him in the tent, and casting a spell of warning about it, that he should know if any beast creep near the boy. Then he returned to the city, and worked through the night, searching for the boy’s father, and burning the rest. The orcs he left to rot.



CHAPTER 6

The next day was much the same, as was the day after. On the third day of their arrival to the ruins of Bonten, Dithno and Sathro finished burning the bodies of the men slain in defense of the city. There were few women or children numbered among the dead.
“Usually, orcs do not kill the women or the children,” said Sathro. “The women they take back with them, driving them like cattle, for food as the army returns. The children become slaves to their new masters, beaten and cruelly treated, sometimes picked and roasted if displeasing.” Sathro did not immediately address the question he knew lurked in Dithno’s mind – where was the boy’s father? Dithno’s father had not appeared in Sathro’s dream – he knew not what happened to him. His body had not been found. There were many possible solutions. He could have been tortured beyond recognition, or burned to ashes. Sathro even considered the possibility of a ravenous ogre stuffing the body whole down his mouth. But he did not know.
“Dithno,” he said, after they had finished eating, “The time has come for you to make some decisions. I do not know what happened to your father. Speculation will not help, and finding him is near impossible. I am too weak to cast a spell of searching, though with the proper training, you could. I can begin that training, and take you northeast to Uttal Atras, in the elvish land of Bilt’Ranta Na. There you can be trained by the most powerful elf mages, and realize your true potential. Or, you can chose your own path. I can take you north to Darssen, and leave you then.” Dithno looked around at the ruined city, and thought of Warphel and Galehock.
“I will come with you, Sathro,” he said. “I am sick of destruction, and evil, and the greed of man. Take me to Uttal Atras.”

So the next day they set out. At first, Sathro went south, hitting the Nuttul’renyat River. There they built a raft, and followed the river on its course to lake Himat-Yalanq. On the way, Sathro began to teach Dithno in the ways of magic.
“Magic is something that has been written about greatly. There are different theories on magic. Some mages believe that it is simply a telekinetic power that some possess. Others believe it is a power into which any being can tap with training, but some more than others. There are even those that think it is the power of the spirits being channeled through their servants. I do not adhere to any of these. I merely know that there is power out there called magic, that it influences many things and is not just limited to spells. My dreams are an example. This is the most important thing of all though: magic is very dangerous. Improper use or improvision could mean instantaneous death. After we elves lost much of our magic through our spells against Bodethil-temin, we could no longer use magic as well as before. We were forced to always utter know specific spells, and could no longer use magic freely, without any form. Countless Elvish mages died at first, for we did not know many spells to speak. All of the accumulated spells we have were formed through trial and error – and death. Never try to improvise a spell unless your life depends on its success. Also, never use a spell that requires great skill. If you do not yet have the skill, you will die. Lastly, consider the fact that, when such things have happened, some form of a spell is made, and is often devastating to the surroundings.” As he was speaking, the river turned, and they entered a vast empty expanse of mud, and nothing else.
“Do you see around us, Dithno? Do you see any living thing?”
“No.”
“This is a prime example. In the Great Dwarf war, after the Dragons had been driven into the far western mountains of Sssilistra, a massive dwarven army assailed the elvish capital of Illas Yalanq. There was a great elvish army there, as well as many men, for they were closely united with the elves at that time. As they approached, a great elvish mage, renowned in his time for his intelligence and skill, cast a spell to destroy all life where they were. He spoke very generally, so that it would be impossible for the dwarven mages to counter the spell. However, he spoke too vaguely. The Dwarvish mages realized they could not stop the spell, so they together cast a likewise one. The dwarves and the plants around them were struck down, withering into dust, as did every man, elf, and tree in Illas Yalanq. Behold, Dithno, the greatest city ever built on Mythador. Empty, and lifeless.”
Dithno looked out, and saw that the river approached the mouth of Lake Himat-Yalanq. There, stretching almost entirely around its shores, lay the ruins of a great city. Its walls were massive, stretching over sixty feet tall. The interior of the city was filled with ruined stone houses, beautifully carved and engraved, and large dirt hills. Dithno could not understand what the hills were.
“Sathro, are they burial mounds?” he asked.
“No, Dithno, they are all that is left of the great trees. The spells killed every living thing. After this, the most powerful elf mages assembled, as cast a spell that would instantly kill anyone attempting to cast a spell to destroy life. That is why, today, I have to cast a spell that would do something that would in turn kill someone. The spell itself can only indirectly kill. When the race of man fully realized what had happened, they abandoned us, and refused to listen to our counsel. Thus, our races have since been estranged from each other.” Dithno looked around, and saw no fish in the water.
“The spell continues on into today, Dithno. Any living thing that touches the land it was cast upon dies. The air has been freed from its oppression, as well as the water, for the most part. There are no fish because they die as soon as they touch the lake’s floor. Dithno, I am going to move the raft closer to the city. Do not touch anything but the raft.” Sathro poled the raft closer and closer to the shore. Suddenly, he could feel something. A heavy weight upon his head. A force pushing against him, pulling him away. He lost sensation of his legs and arms.
“Sathro, my arms and legs… I can’t feel them anymore!”
“The curse is still strong… Dithno, fight it, try to push it back.” Dithno thought, and tried to push back. But he could not. It was too strong for him.
“Try hard, Dithno, use an emotion. Think of your father.” Dithno pictured his father, just beyond his reach. He felt, almost saw the dark pall of the death spell hanging between them, trying to push Dithno away. But nothing could push the spell back, and eventually, his father faded away from his imagination. Dithno hung his head, remembering he did not even know if his father were still alive.
“Don’t worry, Dithno. You did not fail – it is impossible to defeat a spell like this. Besides, you would need a spell to do it. I just wanted you to feel the spell, the danger. You will get a feeling like this whenever you are about to be targeted by a spell, or when something near you is. When you get that feeling, that is when you start citing a counter spell. As you become more skilled, and as the feeling grows greater, you will be able to tell what kind of spell it is, and will know how to counter them better.”
Sathro turned the boat about, and headed for the opposite side of the lake.
“We will camp on this side,” he said “and leave tomorrow, heading North-East. We must be careful and quiet now, Dithno – we are in orc territory.”
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Last edited by Negthareas : 01-21-2011 at 10:16 AM.
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  #8  
Old 04-29-2010, 01:21 AM
otomotopia otomotopia is offline
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Well done! Can't wait to read more!
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Old 04-29-2010, 03:06 AM
Yami-Yagari Yami-Yagari is offline
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Really nice .
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Old 04-29-2010, 05:06 AM
blackfang blackfang is offline
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Owww i wish i could read it now but i just can't (gtg soon maybe tomorrow or the day after )
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