Post by Mirage on Nov 28, 2007 19:43:24 GMT -5
Here's the story for this year's creative writing contest. Yet again enjoy.
Death Personified
The king of Leahanarea sat at his great, oak desk and stared into the fire. A treaty from the country of Lavarea lay on his desk, and if he agreed to the terms of the treaty, then the long and bloody war that had been waged between the two countries would finally come to an end. He watched as the fire danced, and being mesmerized by the sway of the flames, fell into a trance as a vision unfolded before his half closed eyes. A dragon took shape in the deep, orange flames; its tantalizing sway making the dragon look like it was in flight. The dragon was fierce and terrible to behold as its form danced in the fires. Blood from an unknown victim dripped from its claws and maw, and its fierce blue eyes were filled with hatred and malice as they cut into the very soul of the king. A distant yet familiar voice came from the dragon’s maw, “Death is coming this night,” it said as the fire guttered out. The king came out of his trance, shaken and disturbed by the vision yet not fully comprehending the meaning. He soon passed it off as nothing more than a strange fancy of whim and fell asleep; his head still resting on the unread treaty lying before him.
No sound was heard, and no alarm was raised as two guards slipped into the dark abyss of death. The assassin moved unnoticed by all as she passed by. There were no shifting shadows to foretell the approaching doom that awaited the king of Leahanarea, for this assassin was nothing more than a shadow herself, and shadows are neither heard or noticed.
Silent footsteps made their way down the marble corridors of the palace. No sounds came from the feet padding on the stone floors, for how can a shadow have feet? She took a few more turns and the door to the king’s study was in sight. This shadow had no need to think about where the rooms of the palace were; she knew the maze and had memorized each hall and the agonizing memories that went with each passage in that forsaken palace. The silence grew oppressively heavy to the point where one could feel it.
As of yet no one suspected the danger that was in their midst; no one thought that a mere shadow could have a vendetta against any one, let alone believed that death had been personified in a shadow. The shadow walked into the king’s room, not even bothering to open and close the door for shadows have no need for doors. She walked over to the desk and tapped the king on the shoulder as her body began to return to its physical state, yet still maintaining her invisibility.
The king awoke from his slumber with a start as icy cold fingers touched him. He reached for his dagger only to find that it was no where to be found. The king cautiously stood up and in a quivering voice asked, “Whose there?” The Shadow remained silent, a cruel and sinister smile toying on her lips. He turned around and saw no one when the shadow allowed her invisibility to go away so that a ghastly mirage appeared before the king. She was dressed entirely in black, shining white hair, and flashing icy, blue eyes took on the visage of a ghost. The king backed away and bumped into his desk; the terrifying specter looking much like his deceased wife Sahara. “So you’ve come back from the dead to kill me Sahara, for that is your purpose is it not?”
“I’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years,” the specter finally replied, her gentle yet hate filled voice sending chills up the king’s spine, “waiting for the day when I could get my revenge for when you murdered my mother Sahara and my little brother Dante,” she hissed as she drew closer to the king. “And now I will finally be able to avenge their deaths Dicaran.”
“Mirage…” Dicaran whispered as his eyes filled with terror. “What happened to my sweet little daughter?”
“You destroyed her the day she looked on in horror as you slaughtered her loved ones and beat her every day until she ran away.”
“I went mad, surely you can understand that,” he stammered as he looked for a way to get away from the fate he knew was his.
“I think not,” Mirage replied as her eyes glinted dangerously. “And sorry will not suffice for what you did to me, so don’t even think about trying to get out of your fate.”
“Killing me is treason Mirage,” Dicaran responded. “I would hate to see my only daughter killed for treason.” He drew closer, no longer fearing the specter that was his daughter. Surely his own daughter would not really kill him.
“You had no qualms about killing my mother and brother,” she hissed bitterly, her face mere inches from Dicaran’s. Her eyes blazed, filled with malice. “You had no qualms about beating me when I was six years old.” Dicaran reached out to touch her to reassure himself that she was really there when his hand went through her. He pulled back as he was once more overcome with fear.
Mirage returned to her physical state but maintained the ghostly appearance. She walked around to the front of the desk and stopped. Dicaran turned to face her, but to his astonishment found that she was only a apparition of the real Mirage. A short gasp escaped his lips as the cold steel of his dagger slipped through his shoulder blades and slashed through his heart. Blood dripped down onto the still unread treaty. He tried to call out to his guards, but all that came out was spittle mixed with blood.
A soft and malice filled voice softly whispered in his ear as he breathed his last, “I regret nothing.” Dicaran fell onto his desk, dead, as Mirage released the hilt of the dagger and once more vanished. She once more became a shadow and walked through the door. Mirage was nearly out of the palace when a lightning bolt tour through her. She managed to stay standing but was once more visible. Her appearance was that of a half elf and half shade, quite beautiful and yet deadly. A wizard emerged from behind a half closed door and yelled, “Guards, intruder! After her!”
Mirage bolted for the door of the palace and narrowly escaped the guards. The palace was thrown into an uproar as the king was found dead, slain with his own dagger. Mirage mounted a black, Friesian stallion and rode out into the midnight sky. She let out a bestial scream as if she herself were the personification of death itself and rode on through the night mare that had become her life as the lightning bolt took hold of her body and caused both horse and rider to become nothing more than a mirage doomed for all eternity never to be a true person again and always for ever more death personified.
Death Personified
The king of Leahanarea sat at his great, oak desk and stared into the fire. A treaty from the country of Lavarea lay on his desk, and if he agreed to the terms of the treaty, then the long and bloody war that had been waged between the two countries would finally come to an end. He watched as the fire danced, and being mesmerized by the sway of the flames, fell into a trance as a vision unfolded before his half closed eyes. A dragon took shape in the deep, orange flames; its tantalizing sway making the dragon look like it was in flight. The dragon was fierce and terrible to behold as its form danced in the fires. Blood from an unknown victim dripped from its claws and maw, and its fierce blue eyes were filled with hatred and malice as they cut into the very soul of the king. A distant yet familiar voice came from the dragon’s maw, “Death is coming this night,” it said as the fire guttered out. The king came out of his trance, shaken and disturbed by the vision yet not fully comprehending the meaning. He soon passed it off as nothing more than a strange fancy of whim and fell asleep; his head still resting on the unread treaty lying before him.
No sound was heard, and no alarm was raised as two guards slipped into the dark abyss of death. The assassin moved unnoticed by all as she passed by. There were no shifting shadows to foretell the approaching doom that awaited the king of Leahanarea, for this assassin was nothing more than a shadow herself, and shadows are neither heard or noticed.
Silent footsteps made their way down the marble corridors of the palace. No sounds came from the feet padding on the stone floors, for how can a shadow have feet? She took a few more turns and the door to the king’s study was in sight. This shadow had no need to think about where the rooms of the palace were; she knew the maze and had memorized each hall and the agonizing memories that went with each passage in that forsaken palace. The silence grew oppressively heavy to the point where one could feel it.
As of yet no one suspected the danger that was in their midst; no one thought that a mere shadow could have a vendetta against any one, let alone believed that death had been personified in a shadow. The shadow walked into the king’s room, not even bothering to open and close the door for shadows have no need for doors. She walked over to the desk and tapped the king on the shoulder as her body began to return to its physical state, yet still maintaining her invisibility.
The king awoke from his slumber with a start as icy cold fingers touched him. He reached for his dagger only to find that it was no where to be found. The king cautiously stood up and in a quivering voice asked, “Whose there?” The Shadow remained silent, a cruel and sinister smile toying on her lips. He turned around and saw no one when the shadow allowed her invisibility to go away so that a ghastly mirage appeared before the king. She was dressed entirely in black, shining white hair, and flashing icy, blue eyes took on the visage of a ghost. The king backed away and bumped into his desk; the terrifying specter looking much like his deceased wife Sahara. “So you’ve come back from the dead to kill me Sahara, for that is your purpose is it not?”
“I’ve been waiting for this day for twenty years,” the specter finally replied, her gentle yet hate filled voice sending chills up the king’s spine, “waiting for the day when I could get my revenge for when you murdered my mother Sahara and my little brother Dante,” she hissed as she drew closer to the king. “And now I will finally be able to avenge their deaths Dicaran.”
“Mirage…” Dicaran whispered as his eyes filled with terror. “What happened to my sweet little daughter?”
“You destroyed her the day she looked on in horror as you slaughtered her loved ones and beat her every day until she ran away.”
“I went mad, surely you can understand that,” he stammered as he looked for a way to get away from the fate he knew was his.
“I think not,” Mirage replied as her eyes glinted dangerously. “And sorry will not suffice for what you did to me, so don’t even think about trying to get out of your fate.”
“Killing me is treason Mirage,” Dicaran responded. “I would hate to see my only daughter killed for treason.” He drew closer, no longer fearing the specter that was his daughter. Surely his own daughter would not really kill him.
“You had no qualms about killing my mother and brother,” she hissed bitterly, her face mere inches from Dicaran’s. Her eyes blazed, filled with malice. “You had no qualms about beating me when I was six years old.” Dicaran reached out to touch her to reassure himself that she was really there when his hand went through her. He pulled back as he was once more overcome with fear.
Mirage returned to her physical state but maintained the ghostly appearance. She walked around to the front of the desk and stopped. Dicaran turned to face her, but to his astonishment found that she was only a apparition of the real Mirage. A short gasp escaped his lips as the cold steel of his dagger slipped through his shoulder blades and slashed through his heart. Blood dripped down onto the still unread treaty. He tried to call out to his guards, but all that came out was spittle mixed with blood.
A soft and malice filled voice softly whispered in his ear as he breathed his last, “I regret nothing.” Dicaran fell onto his desk, dead, as Mirage released the hilt of the dagger and once more vanished. She once more became a shadow and walked through the door. Mirage was nearly out of the palace when a lightning bolt tour through her. She managed to stay standing but was once more visible. Her appearance was that of a half elf and half shade, quite beautiful and yet deadly. A wizard emerged from behind a half closed door and yelled, “Guards, intruder! After her!”
Mirage bolted for the door of the palace and narrowly escaped the guards. The palace was thrown into an uproar as the king was found dead, slain with his own dagger. Mirage mounted a black, Friesian stallion and rode out into the midnight sky. She let out a bestial scream as if she herself were the personification of death itself and rode on through the night mare that had become her life as the lightning bolt took hold of her body and caused both horse and rider to become nothing more than a mirage doomed for all eternity never to be a true person again and always for ever more death personified.