Justin Silverblade Posted June 13, 2002 Report Posted June 13, 2002 ~~ Well, as long as Call of the Tides is shot, might as well try something different. This is a story I'm writing over at AoD (an archmage guild). If it takes off, I'll continue posting it here. Enjoy! ~~ Welcome to the darkness. A place where everything rings true. Nothing and everything stays hidden. The Dark Fortress stood as a monument, and gathering place, for all things conniving, deceptive, fallacious, and evil. That was the phrase; the Army of Darkness. The legions upon legions of creatures that made that army up: elves, humans, dwarves and demons. Mages, thieves, priests and fighters. Indeed, welcome to the darkness. Looming high atop the brown hill the fortress stood solid in blackened stone. The moon, that seemed ever present by its side, hung shyly behind the clouds, in full bloom. Entering the creaking gates this quiet eve was a small caravan of wagons. Three to be exact. All led by the black stallions of the Army, and slaves with whips. The last two carried to the naked eye nothing, save for worthless boxes, but the first was notably important. The windows were draped in a grey silk, and the image of someone… something… could be made out. As that wagon passed by, innocents on the street could swear to hearing a distant laughter. The silence of the night was broken as the caravan stampeded through the gates, and into the outer courtyard. Stopping once inside the fortress walls, the three wagons circled together and came to a stop. Though everything worked like clockwork, not a sound could be heard save for the tired horses as the gates closed behind them. Two figures could be seen exiting the gatehouse and slipping in and out of the shadows. They made their way to the first wagon, and drew back the silk, and opened the door. They knew better than to look towards the being inside, and faced the ground in quiet homage. As if floating down from an ebony cloud, the figure from the wagon descended, and smiled. Home again. He, and it could be called a he, barked orders to the two who stood ever still and silent on either side of him. “Unload the wagons. Call forth someone from the Ministry, and inform them that Enos has returned.” A soundless moment stood in the air, before a raspy, more fearsome voice emerged from his lips. “Go!” The two servants slipped back to the shadows and did his bidding. One hurried back into the fortress’ buildings, and the other to the second wagon. Enos gracefully walked into the moonlight, and let his pale skin be basked in its glory. He, it turned out, appeared human. Old beyond many years of wisdom. He had a back that hung with the weight of two worlds, and a brow that cast a natural shadow over his eyes and upper nose. His eyes stood hidden under shadow, but their black flame of passion could be felt through, gazing into the fortress, despite their closed inner doors. Wearing what seemed like rags for clothes, they appeared to take careful planning to look both ragged, but yet stood clear of disrupting his mobility. There in moonlight, he waited, with a silent sinful smile.
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