Aardvark Posted February 15, 2003 Report Posted February 15, 2003 A grand cathedral, one of the largest in the country, it was. It attracted hundreds of pilgrims from far and wide, daily. Quite busy, it was, and noisy, too. Almost too noisy for a house of gods. The bustle of people, coming and going, the clang of bells, the chants of the choirs, the shouts of merchants camped a respectable distance from the ancient building, but doing their best to get some of that holy dollar into their pockets. When an area is this busy, one tends not to notice little things. Little things like one of the incoming pilgrims, ducking around to the side, 'specially when he's using his heightened sense of awareness to ensure no one can see him. When there's this much distraction and the individual is of this level of skill, even such a thing as scratching a rune into a coin, then pushing the coin into the solid stone walls of the church, 8 feet off the ground, you could be excused for missing it. Such an insignificant event, really. Even pushing the coin into the stone doesn't rate that highly when you notice the cracks opening up in the structure. Life goes on in the city, the pilgrims come and go, no one ever sees the individual who left the coin. Years pass, life continues as normal. Except for the bloody schism resulting in the beheading of hundreds of the faithful and a little bit of business for a few artisans who were needed to patch up the faces of the idols within the building. Peace. but an uneasy one. As time passes, hostilities in the surrounding countryside increases. More and more outlanders come to the church, with tales of butchery and savagery, praying for some relief from the gods. For evil has come to the land. The masses continue to pour from over the countryside. Raiders are sweeping through the area, looting and pillaging as they go. The survivors come to the church to pray for the safe return of their loved ones who've been taken away to... who knows where? Doomsayers begin to turn up dressed in rags, beating loud drums and claiming the gods have abandoned the people to the darkness. These people rarely last a day before being moved on. Proclamations are pasted everywhere. The monarch needs. as always, brave souls to help free the land from the grips of evil. Adventurers, lured by the promise of gold, are sent out to help gauge the extent of the evil. Few return, but the ones that do tell of armies of undead massing in the west. New proclamations, asking for brave souls to fight the evil are posted everywhere. The grounds around the church become choked with tents and training grounds, as the monarch tries to train and equip his army before the evil decides to attack. Priests from the church stride through the ranks of soldiers, blessing weapons, armour and, of course, soldiers, assuring them they fight with the Gods by their sides. Engineers begin construction of countersiege weapons and anything else to tip the balance in favour of the light. Days later, the hordes begin their rampage through the territory. The barely prepared armies of this town stand firm, led by seasoned veterans, fighting with the knowledge that they're defending their homes and families. But secretly, they know they don't have a prayer. Even with the strength of the Gods and the magical aid of every Wyrdcrafter the monarch was able to find, there are just too many of them. Their ranks swelled with the undead. Each soldier knows that if he falls, he could very well wake up amongst them. That doesn't stop them fighting. Indeed, they fight with a ferocity unmatched. But they're vastly outnumbered. All too quickly, their ranks dwindle. The few that try to take flight are cut down by the advancing hordes. Soon, the walls of the city have fallen and the streets are filled with the vile forces of darkness. Goblins and orcs tearing through houses, searching for valuables, ghouls feeding on the corpses of those who gave their lives and sometimes on the flesh of those who were about to. The clergy stand at the gates of the church, chanting the word of the Gods, invoking their divine power, sending bolts of purity smashing into the oncoming undead. But soon, even they fall. The church is ransacked and torn down. Before too long, the hordes have passed through, leaving only ruin in their wake Years, decades, centuries pass. The occasional nomad or traveler passes the ruins, but they take care not to stray too close. The occasional adventurer or scavenger pass through the ruins, in search of anything of value, but the place has been picked clean. As time progresses. nature takes over. The thatch cottages rot into the earth, feeding the long grasses. Rain, wind and frost wear down the stones from the more permanent structures. Slowly, the buildup of sediment pulls the ruins into the earth. By this time, the site is all but forgotten by the world at large. Then, one day, the new breed of wise men happen upon the ruins. Men of science, who believe that all can be explained and patches in history can be filled with a little patience and observation. A team of them are spread over the site, digging it up, brushing the dirt away from the foundations of the buildings. Any artifacts at all are stored in plastic and shipped out to far away lands. The people work carefully, knowing that even the slightest sneeze could ruin hours work. Or could uncover more than you thought you'd find this day. Best not to think about it, just dig Until one minute, his nose got itchy. He tried to hold it, but it was too much. He sneezed... then was surprised at the power of his sneeze. He'd caused a large rock to crumble to dust. He searched through the dust, not expecting to find anything. But he was mistaken. After an hours work, he found it. Not worth the glory he was hoping for, but a find nonetheless. He put the coin in a plastic slip and pocketed it, just as the call for lunch was sounded. As he walked, he never noticed the scratch on the side of the coin. He never noticed it glow red, either. He also never noticed the coin grow legs and fangs, crawl out of his pocket and up to his neck. He did notice a spider suddenly bite him, but by that state it was too late. The poison coursed around his body in seconds, felling the scientist. His colleagues did rush him to hospital, but it was too late Meanwhile, in another time, a man wearing a dark cloak felt the rustle of a large sum of gold suddenly appear in his safety box. He leaves the bar, gets in his car and hits a button on the dash. The car suddenly dematerializes, leaving no trace. The chronoassassin has shifted again
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 Fascinating story Aardvark, crammed with as much history and action as one could hope for in 1177 words. Very well written. And yet... It leaves so many questions unanswered. This is a wonderful synopsis of the action of a novel - not plot, because plot is what actually moves the action. Who is it that died? Why was he wanted dead? Who wanted him dead? Who was the chronoassassin (Oh! What a great series of novels that concept would make!)and how does he operate? How does he move in time? How was he able to hit his victim from such a temporal distance? The beginning of a story is always a promise - a promise to show, to explain, to satisfy our curiousity. We want the dirt! The more personal, the better. We want to feel as part of the story. Never pull emotional punches. Is this the scientist's story? The assassin's story? The guy who hired the assassin? An associate of the scientist, or someone else? As a real live novel this has so much potential!!
Archaneus Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 I pretty mush say the exact same thing as Zool. Yes, this has lot of potential as a novel. I have a suggestion, write a follow-up that goes into more detail about these questions Zool stated and and post it.
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 If it takes a lot of room, we understand...
Archaneus Posted February 18, 2003 Report Posted February 18, 2003 Hehehe. Hopefully it takes a lot of room.
Aardvark Posted February 19, 2003 Author Report Posted February 19, 2003 I could write a small novel going into detail, but two things stopping me. One, my dislocated thumb. I'm not belting out a hundred thousand words with one hand. Two, my attention span. If it can't be told in a thousand words, it's not worth the tellin' Although, give me a few years, I'll come back to these early stories for inspiration...
The Portrait of Zool Posted February 19, 2003 Report Posted February 19, 2003 One day the details will interest you. One day you will practically be posessed by a story and unable to shut it out of your mind until it has been told. One day you will have two good thumbs, I think. ;p
Aardvark Posted February 19, 2003 Author Report Posted February 19, 2003 Not if I keep making stupid bets with large, well-dressed iralian men named Tony "I Break Thumbs In My Spare Time" Genovski
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