Down below, the figure in the dirty robes arose to his feet and walked to the bars, gesturing over to Spinson's stand-in, who was a half-bothered younger wizard, who was sitting down all to himself, not bothering anyone at all, whilst smoking a pipe and reading his book.
The wizard sat completely unperturbed, absorbed into the book he was currently reading. On closer examination, the book was a novel, one of those fiction novels about an imaginary world where in place of magic, people relied absolutely on technological gadgets that ran on different types of energy instead. This particular adventure involved escapades involving horseless carriages that were fueled by a strange type of oil. Pure fantasy for these people, but truly compelling.
The wizard was now at a point where the story reached a climactic point. In this chapter, there was now a chase involving two of these horseless carriages along a mountain road, reaching speeds of over one hundred and fourty miles an hour.
Then, from the other cell, the croaky man cried out:
“Help! Heeeelp!”
“Not again. You don't need any help.”
The croaky man's cries were ignored. He just stood there in vain, steadying himself against the bard, watching the young wizard read the apparently unputdownable fantasy book.
Later on, the old man suddenly collapsed and dropped to the floor, just like that - all of a sudden, landing onto a wooden bowl that clattered noisily out of the way, a bowl so noisy that this finally distracted the young wizard from an intriguing paragraph, where the main character was trying to get away from somewhere, but happened to be running low on the mysterious oil that fuelled the vehicle.
After putting his bookmark in place, the young man wondered over to peer down at the ungraceful pile that was Rondar.
“Old man. Can you hear me?” he asked.
But nothing happened. This flummoxed the young wizard a great deal, so much that he fumbled around with his own face, as the cold sweat began to build.
“Oh-erm-I-erm-oh dear.”
“Get a doctor!” said the other prisoner over to where he stood.
“W-what? What?”
“Get a doctor... now!”
“Oh crikey, yes! Ooh!”
The wizard, in panic mode, learning again how to use his own feet, ran, nearly tripped over his own robe in the process. Then he fell up the stairs, catching himself on the legs – which would be cheap slapstick fun if it wasn’t so serious.
“Bollocks! Ow.”
And just a few minutes later, he returned down the stairs with a man dressed in a very strange get-up indeed... covered in swirls and strange patterns in body paint, dressed in pieces of animal hides and wearing one scary mask, decorated with fangs and feathers. This man appeared to be wearing many different necklaces, one of which had a small sac attached to it. Whatever he was supposed to be, he descended down the stairs, with an air of importance, together with his skull-tipped cane.
“Where is he, then?” demanded the strange man, impatiently.
“Oh, just here. Oh, suppose I’d better unlock it. I’ll just get the keys.”
As the wizard stumbled over to the table to fetch the bunch of keys, the strangely dressed man grasped his cane by the shaft and shook it at the bars, making a shaky sound as if the skull had been filled with beans or generally dry bits of something.
Suddenly the door’s lock unlocked, and the door swung opened by itself, just as the wizard turned his head.
“Well, I wasn’t going to wait for you! Anyway, let’s look at the patient.” The man remarked.
The strange man crouched down over Rondar, pressing two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse.
“He’s out cold. A few more minutes and he’d have been a goner. I can feel his life force still there. Now, young man, here comes the fun bit.”
The strange man tore off his mask and discarded it to one side, revealing a face painted like a skull, staringly and grinning madly. He turned Rondar over onto his back, raised his hands in the air and exclaimed:
“AAAAKHTUMA!”
Instantly, a ball of lightning began to slowly grow between his clawing hands.
“CLEAR!” he roared.
He dragged the lightning down into Rondar, placing his hands either side on his chest, the left higher than the right. Then he gripped his hands into Rondar’s skin as the charge emitted a loud ‘Thump’ causing Rondar to try to arch his body upwards. Then the man pressed his lips to Rondar’s, held his nose shut between his fingers, and breathed into him.
“Come on!” he said between gritted teeth , and shouted again into the air, “AAAAKHTUMAAA!”
Again the charge grew between his hands, which he then plunged deep into Rondar’s still body.
“Grraaargh!” he roared as the charge thumped, and Rondar’s body automatically lurched up. Once more, he then breathed into Rondar’s lungs.
Rondar retched and coughed, stirring slowly from almost death, staring up in shock at this strange man’s painted visage. Rondar’s stare looked completely glazed and blank.
“Hey. You there.”
The witch doctor waved his hands frantically infront of his eyes, but Rondar didn’t appear to recognise this movement at all. The doctor turned his head to the young wizard.
“What’s this guy’s name?”
“R-Rondar.”
The witch doctor switched his wide eyed grinning stare back to the old man.
“Rondar? I’m a doctor. I’m putting you to sleep and we’re going to go upstairs. If you can hear me in there, there’s no need to worry.”
“Is he going to be ok?” the young wizard asked.
“Who knows? Time will indeed tell!”
The witch doctor now grabbed his stick with his two hands and raised it above his head, and stared at the ceiling. Then he began to chant warbling gibberish, as he shaked the staff at random intervals. For a moment, it is if the witch doctor had entered into a trance.
Within a minute, Rondar’s eyes closed and the witch doctor shifted his piercing gaze back to the wizard, who was already uneasy with him.
“You. You can move him upstairs.”
“What, you mean pick him up?”
“No? Use some of that wizard stuff!”
“What? Oh... yeah. Not thinking. Sorry!”
The witch doctor shook his head in despair, then went to get his mask. The young wizard unleashed a straight walnut wand (which looked as if it hadn’t been used a lot) and pointed it at the sleeping Rondar.
“Tarupa!” he attempted to bellow, as he whisked the wand in a careful-ish through the air.
“Tarupa!” he repeated.
“Tarupa! Oh bloody hell. Oop-“
Rondar suddenly accelerated from the floor upwards, his head hitting the frame of the jail cell door quite hard. Understandably, the young wizard cringed and felt as if the best place for him was a quiet corner to shrink into.
“What the hell are you doing?” inquired the witch doctor.
“Trying to levitate.”
“Don’t they teach this in first year wizard school anymore?”
“Sorry. I’m re- I’m really sorry.”
“Come on, let’s go.”
Rondar left the prison like a helium balloon tied to a string, the two of them trying their best not to injure him any further. Or accidentally let him out of a window. Because that would be quite an experience to wake up from that.
Into the infirmary they went, and they pulled poor Rondar down to strap to the bed. The witch doctor then reached over to checked his pulse again.
“He’s stable. “
“W-what do you think’s happened.”
“Well, medical opinion says heart attack, maybe stroke. Tell me about the patient.”
“I don’t really know a lot. Tell you what, I’ll get Spinson.”
“Who the hell is Spinson?”
“H-Head Gaoler, I think he’s got records of all the prisoners we ever have here, somewhere.”
The witch doctor stood there with his arms folded.
“Well, I’d like to meet this... Spinson then.”
“I’ll erm- go and fetch him then.”
As the young wizard left, the witch doctor tutted and shook his head.
“I don’t know, anyone is becoming wizards these days.”
The witch doctor turned towards the sleeping Rondar and clapped his hands together to rub them, and by doing so, energy warmly crackled between his palms. The doctor’s eyes closed and he breathed deeply, centring himself.
He held his palms an inch over Rondar’s body for a few seconds, then began to sweep them up and down, sensing if there was anything untoward in there. The doctor’s face looked relaxed.
As his hands hovered over Rondar’s cranium, they stopped there.
“Oh my.”
A few minutes later, Spinson arrived with the young wizard, who at this point in time was still feeling the after-effects of much alcohol. Though, this little emergency’s sobering effects muchly negated this.
“Who are you and what’s going on?” Spinson asked.
“Me? I’m the renowned Doctor Julius Wolagnub, WD. Your prisoner has had what we would call a myocardial infarction-“
“A what?” replied the astonished Spinson.
“Oh yeah, for people like you, he’s had a heart attack.”
Spinson considered for a moment what this meant.
“Bloody hell. Is he dead?”
“I managed to save him, oh, and he’s had a stroke at roundabout the same time too. I want to keep him here for now.”
“Well, that’s fine by me, you can keep him.”
“Before you go, can you just tell me a little about the patient?”
“Well, erm, his name is Rondar, and we locked him up for a series of robberies years ago, escaping justice and all that. Age-wise, he’s about mid seventies, yeah?”
“Is there anything... medical we need to know?”
“He’s got arthritis and, oh yeah, his short term memory’s going.”
“I scanned his body and there was something there I couldn’t put my finger on. An unusual level of blood clotting, all at the same time.”
“What does that mean?”
“When the blood clots, it blocks arteries. In older men, particularly if they’ve been smoking or,” he sniffed the air, looked down and pointed at Spinson, staring down at him, “Drinking too much, they can get narrowed. Makes blood clots more easy to form. You don’t know any family history?”
“No, nothing. What can you do for him?”
“At the moment, I’m just keeping him stable. Though tell me, where’s your Lord Pommenby?”
Spinson slapped his own forehead.
“Oh shit.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Wednesday 23 September 2009
Monday 21 September 2009
The rules
Usually there are a set of rules for writing - plan out what your story will be like in advance, do yer sequence of events in the story, write it, edit it, edit it, edit it, then begin the hard bit - getting it published.
I don't see rules as rules, they're kind of more like guidelines. If I plan out a story in advance, more chance than not the plan seems less appetising and I would veer away and write something else entirely. Sometimes I don't know where I'm going and this injects quite a bit of unpredictability into the story. This doesn't mean that I can't put in intelligent twists into the story, but it does make it more difficult.
I've been breaking rules already with this blognovel, I've got a basic skeleton for how everything is going to pan out, but the parts I've been publishing haven't been edited greatly. Plus, once they're published, they can be edited still but maybe I should leave them the way they are, imperfect, but not necessarily faulty. Sod any grammatical or structural mistakes, eh?
I don't see rules as rules, they're kind of more like guidelines. If I plan out a story in advance, more chance than not the plan seems less appetising and I would veer away and write something else entirely. Sometimes I don't know where I'm going and this injects quite a bit of unpredictability into the story. This doesn't mean that I can't put in intelligent twists into the story, but it does make it more difficult.
I've been breaking rules already with this blognovel, I've got a basic skeleton for how everything is going to pan out, but the parts I've been publishing haven't been edited greatly. Plus, once they're published, they can be edited still but maybe I should leave them the way they are, imperfect, but not necessarily faulty. Sod any grammatical or structural mistakes, eh?
Sunday 20 September 2009
Part 3 soon!
Sorry for the delay... I wrote a largeish chunk, so I've published about half of that, so I need to check and edit the next part which should be ready soon.
I feel as if I have been slacking, which isn't ever good.
I feel as if I have been slacking, which isn't ever good.
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Pommenby, ahead of the throng, descended a couple of levels and sauntered into a room with a round sandpit, surrounded with dangling bells. Stood by this pit was a young wizard with a concerned look on her face.
“Well then, operator? Any luck? Did we get through this time?”
The young woman’s face was uncomfortably grim, as if she were to burst into tears.
“Afraid not. No signal at all. We didn’t even detect any interference from beyond the shield. It’s as if it were stronger than before.”
“That can’t possibly be true! No, no, no.” Pommenby replied, a little frustrated, “Not unless our enemy is strengthening it. That’s the only explanation for it!”
“My Lord, if I may suggest something?”
“What is it?”
“Our efforts may have simply been strengthening the shield. Our enemy could-“
“No, young lady! That can’t happen. That’s not how it works!”
“I don’t want to upset you, my Lord, but we do seem to be trying random magics out of desperation now. Has it really come to that now?”
Pommenby paused for a second, then retorted in a very overassertive manner.
“Do not concern yourself with that, young lady. Focus on your work, and we will do ours. Rest assured, we will make contact.”
Pommenby was visibly stressed at this point. Even the regular meditation didn’t have much of a relaxing and calming effect on him anymore. He thought to himself that this would be the time to seek out special potions to help him.
Strolling past the Potions room, Pommenby went next door to the Wizard’s Bar. Spinson was already there, propping the bar up.
“Spinson!”
“’Ello, sir. Did we win?”
“Not this time.” Pommenby ahem-ed, “Barkeep?”
“Yes, my Lord, I’m surprised to see you here. Can I do anything for you?”
“I want a bottle of house red.”
“Bad day, my Lord? I’d have thought you’d be on that meditation stuff, not here.”
“Oh it wasn’t too bad. The spell looked very pretty. First time I ever cast that one.”
“Do I, erm, take it that this was a complete failure then, my Lord?”
“Oh, not completely. Even though times are hard, someone has to remain positive. We only need one spell to work.”
The barkeep, who was also a wizard, but not nearly as senior as the others (and needed to hold down this job to pay the bills), had lost his enthusiasm days ago. He saw that the best, the great and good of this land just could not cut the mustard, and that all hope was indeed lost, which was some genuinely tough mustard oh yes. Anyway, the barkeep found a slightly dusty bottle of red wine down below the counter, something rather befitting for the Lord Wizard.
“Will this do, my Lord?”
“Ooh, let’s see. 845 Vintage. That sounds like it could be enjoyable, yes.”
Lord Pommenby then proceeded to wave his hand above the bottle and spake:
“Sisa Thuasis!”
And with that incant, the cork appeared to slide out of its own accord, and plopped neatly onto the bar.
“Very good, my Lord.” Said the unimpressed Barkeep.
Lord Pommenby, who chose to not reply, grabbed the bottle firmly in his right hand and swigged heartily from the bottle, emptying half of it within seconds, some of it spilling down his cheek into that beard. Spinson, who at the time was only a mere spectator, felt he had to comment on this with conviction:
“Hey ey ey ey, steady on! Steady on!”
Pommenby turned to his left.
“What?”
“What the bloody hell are you doing? Slow down!”
“Sorry, my friend. Just a reflex habit.”
Spinson, who had already been present here, in the bar for a couple of hours, was already in the process of marinating his liver with a choice of local brews. Or from another point of view, ensuring that what beer was left behind didn’t go to waste. As he spoke, he tried hard as he could to keep his gaze on poor Pommenby.
“You won’t enjoy it necking it like that. Just pace yourself.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Pommenby replied, who was clearly a little irritated.
Spinson was already in the phase where he couldn’t help but converse with his hands as well. Steady at the bar, he stretched out his palm and fingers at Pommenby.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Trust me, you know, this sort of thing I’m an expert in.”
“I’d have you know, I’ve been abstintent for twenty years. Abstinunt.”
“No worries. Times are hard but you have to take it slowly. Trust me, you’ll feel better. Oi... Barman, bloody get him a glass would you? Come on.”
“Right up, sir.”
Barely hiding his annoyance at the pair of them, the barkeep swiftly produced a wide wine glass from the shelf under the bar, upon the table.
“Right, just sip it, don’t, you know, glug it down. That don’t help nobody.”
“Don’t woollrry, I’ll be alright.”
Pommenby presently filled the glass almost to the brim with wine, set the bottle back onto the bar and without pause or hesitation, swigged the entire glass.
“Oh for f-, no, no, no, no don’t blame me if you’re sick. I did tell you.”
Pommenby suddenly took righteous offence at this and lectured back:
“There’s bloody alien forces on our land and there’s nothing, nothing we can do about it! None of our spells work and you’re bloody asking me to enjoy myself? Do you know how much we’ve tried this past month? Well?”
“So you’ve given up all hope then? I tell you, yeah, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t have given up. I never did anyway. No. I wouldn’t. You know what I’ve lost?”, Spinson replied, counting his losses on his fingers, and either looking close to punching someone or crying, “My wife... yeah? My two boys? My beautiful baby girl? YOU – you ain’t never had a family but if you had of done, how would it feel like?”
“Pretty bad.”
“You see, that’s it yeah, you wouldn’t understand because you never had one. You’ve got all this..” He bounced his index finger off his skull repeatedly, “Up here, so you people can NEVER give up hope, never.Iif they ever brought an army here, if they brought an army up here, right, I would break every one of their stinking bloody necks, “ He said as he rammed his fist on the bar, “Before they had me. I don’t care if they did. I’ve got nothing. Nothing here.”
Pommenby began to point his finger wildly back at Spinson in response.
“Spinson... we have, have tried everything... in the books. That’s all of our, of our magical knowledge. So what then? If we’ve thrown everything at it, what do we do?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m no magician. I look after these bloody prisoners. We’re kind of counting on you lot to get us out of this mess. I can’t believe you’ve tried everything. It’s bullshit-”
Suddenly, a younger wizard burst into the bar, waving his arms around.
“Lord Pommenby? Lord Pommenby!” He exclaimed loudly.
“Ooh, company?”
And Lord Pommenby slowly turned around to look.
“Two more have arrived. Wizards of the West, my Lord.”
“Good, good. Tell them. Tell them..” He gestured with his finger at the young man, “Ask them young man... see if they have any ideas we could try. Any spells we haven’t used yet.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The young wizard bowed to Lord Pommenby, switched around and left the bar. Pommenby turned himself back to Spinson.
“They’re all good you know.”
“Well, they’re the best wizards in all the world. What’s left.”
“Yes, I forgot. I had many, many colleagues. Some of them, Spinson, I never saw that much because of study and whatnot. I do miss them. Yes.”
“So, would you say you’d think that’s something to be worth fighting for?”
“Well I suppose so. You know that's what we're fighting against.”
“They're not your friends any more. They're slaves now and they ain't coming back.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
“Well then, operator? Any luck? Did we get through this time?”
The young woman’s face was uncomfortably grim, as if she were to burst into tears.
“Afraid not. No signal at all. We didn’t even detect any interference from beyond the shield. It’s as if it were stronger than before.”
“That can’t possibly be true! No, no, no.” Pommenby replied, a little frustrated, “Not unless our enemy is strengthening it. That’s the only explanation for it!”
“My Lord, if I may suggest something?”
“What is it?”
“Our efforts may have simply been strengthening the shield. Our enemy could-“
“No, young lady! That can’t happen. That’s not how it works!”
“I don’t want to upset you, my Lord, but we do seem to be trying random magics out of desperation now. Has it really come to that now?”
Pommenby paused for a second, then retorted in a very overassertive manner.
“Do not concern yourself with that, young lady. Focus on your work, and we will do ours. Rest assured, we will make contact.”
Pommenby was visibly stressed at this point. Even the regular meditation didn’t have much of a relaxing and calming effect on him anymore. He thought to himself that this would be the time to seek out special potions to help him.
Strolling past the Potions room, Pommenby went next door to the Wizard’s Bar. Spinson was already there, propping the bar up.
“Spinson!”
“’Ello, sir. Did we win?”
“Not this time.” Pommenby ahem-ed, “Barkeep?”
“Yes, my Lord, I’m surprised to see you here. Can I do anything for you?”
“I want a bottle of house red.”
“Bad day, my Lord? I’d have thought you’d be on that meditation stuff, not here.”
“Oh it wasn’t too bad. The spell looked very pretty. First time I ever cast that one.”
“Do I, erm, take it that this was a complete failure then, my Lord?”
“Oh, not completely. Even though times are hard, someone has to remain positive. We only need one spell to work.”
The barkeep, who was also a wizard, but not nearly as senior as the others (and needed to hold down this job to pay the bills), had lost his enthusiasm days ago. He saw that the best, the great and good of this land just could not cut the mustard, and that all hope was indeed lost, which was some genuinely tough mustard oh yes. Anyway, the barkeep found a slightly dusty bottle of red wine down below the counter, something rather befitting for the Lord Wizard.
“Will this do, my Lord?”
“Ooh, let’s see. 845 Vintage. That sounds like it could be enjoyable, yes.”
Lord Pommenby then proceeded to wave his hand above the bottle and spake:
“Sisa Thuasis!”
And with that incant, the cork appeared to slide out of its own accord, and plopped neatly onto the bar.
“Very good, my Lord.” Said the unimpressed Barkeep.
Lord Pommenby, who chose to not reply, grabbed the bottle firmly in his right hand and swigged heartily from the bottle, emptying half of it within seconds, some of it spilling down his cheek into that beard. Spinson, who at the time was only a mere spectator, felt he had to comment on this with conviction:
“Hey ey ey ey, steady on! Steady on!”
Pommenby turned to his left.
“What?”
“What the bloody hell are you doing? Slow down!”
“Sorry, my friend. Just a reflex habit.”
Spinson, who had already been present here, in the bar for a couple of hours, was already in the process of marinating his liver with a choice of local brews. Or from another point of view, ensuring that what beer was left behind didn’t go to waste. As he spoke, he tried hard as he could to keep his gaze on poor Pommenby.
“You won’t enjoy it necking it like that. Just pace yourself.”
“I know what I’m doing!” Pommenby replied, who was clearly a little irritated.
Spinson was already in the phase where he couldn’t help but converse with his hands as well. Steady at the bar, he stretched out his palm and fingers at Pommenby.
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. Trust me, you know, this sort of thing I’m an expert in.”
“I’d have you know, I’ve been abstintent for twenty years. Abstinunt.”
“No worries. Times are hard but you have to take it slowly. Trust me, you’ll feel better. Oi... Barman, bloody get him a glass would you? Come on.”
“Right up, sir.”
Barely hiding his annoyance at the pair of them, the barkeep swiftly produced a wide wine glass from the shelf under the bar, upon the table.
“Right, just sip it, don’t, you know, glug it down. That don’t help nobody.”
“Don’t woollrry, I’ll be alright.”
Pommenby presently filled the glass almost to the brim with wine, set the bottle back onto the bar and without pause or hesitation, swigged the entire glass.
“Oh for f-, no, no, no, no don’t blame me if you’re sick. I did tell you.”
Pommenby suddenly took righteous offence at this and lectured back:
“There’s bloody alien forces on our land and there’s nothing, nothing we can do about it! None of our spells work and you’re bloody asking me to enjoy myself? Do you know how much we’ve tried this past month? Well?”
“So you’ve given up all hope then? I tell you, yeah, if I was in your shoes, I wouldn’t have given up. I never did anyway. No. I wouldn’t. You know what I’ve lost?”, Spinson replied, counting his losses on his fingers, and either looking close to punching someone or crying, “My wife... yeah? My two boys? My beautiful baby girl? YOU – you ain’t never had a family but if you had of done, how would it feel like?”
“Pretty bad.”
“You see, that’s it yeah, you wouldn’t understand because you never had one. You’ve got all this..” He bounced his index finger off his skull repeatedly, “Up here, so you people can NEVER give up hope, never.Iif they ever brought an army here, if they brought an army up here, right, I would break every one of their stinking bloody necks, “ He said as he rammed his fist on the bar, “Before they had me. I don’t care if they did. I’ve got nothing. Nothing here.”
Pommenby began to point his finger wildly back at Spinson in response.
“Spinson... we have, have tried everything... in the books. That’s all of our, of our magical knowledge. So what then? If we’ve thrown everything at it, what do we do?”
“Why are you asking me? I’m no magician. I look after these bloody prisoners. We’re kind of counting on you lot to get us out of this mess. I can’t believe you’ve tried everything. It’s bullshit-”
Suddenly, a younger wizard burst into the bar, waving his arms around.
“Lord Pommenby? Lord Pommenby!” He exclaimed loudly.
“Ooh, company?”
And Lord Pommenby slowly turned around to look.
“Two more have arrived. Wizards of the West, my Lord.”
“Good, good. Tell them. Tell them..” He gestured with his finger at the young man, “Ask them young man... see if they have any ideas we could try. Any spells we haven’t used yet.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
The young wizard bowed to Lord Pommenby, switched around and left the bar. Pommenby turned himself back to Spinson.
“They’re all good you know.”
“Well, they’re the best wizards in all the world. What’s left.”
“Yes, I forgot. I had many, many colleagues. Some of them, Spinson, I never saw that much because of study and whatnot. I do miss them. Yes.”
“So, would you say you’d think that’s something to be worth fighting for?”
“Well I suppose so. You know that's what we're fighting against.”
“They're not your friends any more. They're slaves now and they ain't coming back.”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Thursday 17 September 2009
Next part ready soon...
I've been a bit busy, including my other, older project (i.e. another novel i haven't finished yet which I should really focus on as well).
Thursday 10 September 2009
Off for the weekend
The next part is underway. I'm going away for the weekend but I may be able to still spend time on the next installment.
I have one follower... (thank you though) but I wasn't expecting anything until I had several parts of the story online! Anyway, I hope you're patient.
Also, there's been no more incidents with the fire alarm.
I have one follower... (thank you though) but I wasn't expecting anything until I had several parts of the story online! Anyway, I hope you're patient.
Also, there's been no more incidents with the fire alarm.
Monday 7 September 2009
I love bacon
But not when you're cooking it early in the morning, and you accidentally set off the fire alarms in the house, waking your wife up (who has problems sleeping anyway). Sorry!
Intergalactic Hall of Heroes - The Chalice of Souls
Book One – The Ravaged City
Chapter One
Race For The Tower
The Head Gaoler, a very hardy fellow who had many scars across his face, which looked as if it had been carved from granite, sat glumly at the round wooden table in the centre of this small prison. The prison, of which, was situated underneath a rather important tower.
Supporting his bald, heavy head with his fist, he appeared deep in thought. One would wonder what burned deep inside the soul of such men, for they would never show the entirety of it in fear of advertising a weakness.
And yet another thumping explosion nearby reverberated inside the prison, which shook various chains and loosened grit and plaster from the ceiling.
“They’re coming... But they’re not all here yet. I can just about... sense them.” Spoke an eerie, wispy, burdened voice from one of the cells.
“Shut up!” The gaoler shouted back.
“They’re in... peril.”
“Will you bloody shut your mouth? I’m thinking.”
“May I ask... what you are pondering?”
“No.”
“You can tell me... I won’t tell anyone.”
The head gaoler jolted upright and marched towards the cell in particular, grabbed onto the bars with big strong hands and bellowed:
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, RIGHT! I DON’T CARE. JUST SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP OR GOD HELP ME, YOU’D HAVE WISH YOU DID. ALRIGHT?”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
“I WON’T BE SORRY WHEN I’M FINISHED WITH YOU.”
“I didn’t mean... any offence.”
“I’LL SHOW YOU BLOODY OFFENSIVE, MATE.”
“Please... I meant no harm.”
Another shockwave hit, dusting the gaoler’s head. This did nothing for the gaoler’s rage.
“Nothing would satisfy me more than throwing you outside into the absolute hell outside right now. Of course, after I’ve taken that Stone of Submission they tied around your neck and shoved it right up your f-“
“Spinson!” someone bellowed (in a friendly manner).
Spinson jolted around to see the jolly white bearded magician plod into his domain, who stood there, belly ungracefully out protruding from within his loose scarlet robe. He stood there, with a jolly grin.
“Why, I heard shouting from above. Is there cause for alarm, Spinson?”
“Oh, just the prisoner, my lord. Never will shut up, will he?”, he replied, attemping to meet the wizard’s jollity of the moment.
“Well, sorry about the noise outside. The wizards of the west are approaching, just a little covering fire, ho ho!”
“How is that distress signal going?”
“Coming along nicely. If we can solve that conundrum of breaking through the barrier of course. No reply yet though, but more people are coming to join us to focus their efforts. The more the merrier, as I always say!”
“Well, yeah.”
“No need to look so glum, Spinson! Cheer up! Help WILL be on its way!”
“Ain’t gonna bring back my family though, will it, sir?”
The jolly magician put his hands onto Spinson’s shoulders, who managed to hide his embarrassment for now.
“We must look forward, Spinson! Never backward! Now, let me have a word with old nastyface.”
“My pleasure.”
Spinson walked away back to the table. The only thing he actually liked about this tower was that even in these adverse circumstances, with all the crap going on, this place was quite safe. You just had to put up with all manner of weird people, people from all kinds of magical professions wittering on about their experiments and meditations, far away from the company of equals where most of the conversation would revolve around sport, dirty jokes and sexually attractive members of the opposite sex, and what each of them would like to do to them.
The wizard peered into the cell, where a dimly lit figure, concealed in brown rags sat.
“Are you giving my friend trouble again?”
“Not... intentionally, my Lord. I take it that you have made... no contact yet.”
“That is not for any of us to discuss with you.”
“My offer to help... is still offered to you.”
“I can say that we shan’t possibly need your help. Not that I’d consider releasing you. You may sooner ally yourself with the enemy than give us aid.”
“Your efforts... will fail, Lord Pommenby.”
“That’s enough.”
Lord Pommenby’s patience was truly tested. Normally, the gentle lord was convivial, upbeat and accommodating, but even he showed disdain towards the mysterious prisoner. It wasn’t the stale pissy smell emanating from within, but something much worse than a bad smell.
The wizard turned around to Spinson, who was sat at the table again, playing with a broken pencil.
“I must leave to meditate. The more powerful I am, the more chance we can break through and finally make contact.”
“See you, then.” Spinson replied, not even making a glance up from the table.
“Farewell, Spinson!”
As the Wizard left, Spinson grabbed his face with both hands and stretched the skin down. It helped ease the stress and tension. He growled slightly, just so anyone else could just hear.
The man in the rags lay eerily still. You couldn’t tell from looking at it whether whoever it was in there was indeed alive or dead. It never flinched, it just sat there perfectly still as a statue.
Above, at the great portal to the Wizard’s Tower, in the pouring rain of the evening, two fists rammed hard upon the wooden door.
“Is there anyone there?” bellowed the bald mage, as heavy rain hammered onto his head.
The door opened, where stood Lord Pommenby, as well as a few other important looking wizards.
“My goodness. Come inside at once! Are you hurt?” Pommenby asked.
“I’m not used to this weather. I live in a desert!”
This wizard was completely soaked to the bone in his sky blue robe, and shivering. He staggered in.
“Are there others with you?”
“They didn’t make it.”
Pommenby waved his palms through the air, weaving a complex pattern of magic, and chanted:
“Amutis Entstrai!”
Suddenly, the soaked wizard’s clothes and hair plumped outwards, spraying fine droplets of water in all directions. The wizard examined how dry he and his clothes were.
“My many thanks!”
“Ah good. Now, would you like a nice cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes please!” The wizard emphatically replied.
“Well, if you would follow me upstairs please, tell me, do you like custard creams?”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do!”
After the nice cup of tea, Pommenby introduced the new guest to the other wizards up at the top room of the tower, where the staircase also led to the very top. Various learned men and women from different magical professions were congregated here, some of which had also travelled considerable distances.
It was a relaxed environment here, with gentle lighting, dark wooden furniture and a large round red carpet.
A tall, thin man with olive skin, harsh features and a hooked nose approached the newcomer. With a deep, booming voice he said:
“Welcome, Wizard of the West, to the Tower of the Eternal Light. We have heard many stories of your kind, and your journey must have been long. I am The Most Venerable Ardnal, Grand Sorceror from the Entesis Empire and former advisor to the late Emperor.”
“We have heard word of you before. I am Haklatus, Senior Thaumaturge and Trainee Overseer from the Krentok Academy. Though I think I’m the last one left.”
“All of us have lost people close to us here. Now you ARE here, you can aid us in preventing any more deaths. You must rest, obviously, for later, but please make yourself acquainted with your new colleagues.”
Back in the dungeons, the thing in the cell spoke again.
“Someone’s arrived.”
“What?” Spinson replied.
“I can just about taste it in the air... Whoever it is has come from afar... yet alone.”
“So what?”
“It means there’s little chance that... anyone else will arrive. It’s been a whole month... now... since the message went out. ... This is all the help... that they will get. It isn’t enough.”
“Well, there’s bugger all else to put my faith in right now. All of the major cities have fallen, or have been destroyed. Everyone’s surrendered.”
“I have... not forgotten. Quite impressive... don’t you think?”
“Well of course, I forgot. The murder of innocents. That’s right up your street, isn’t it?”
“I achieved... much. Now my notoriety... is forgotten. They stole it from me.”
Spinson giggled.
“Does it piss you off that this made your genocidal rampage look a little tiny?”
“You could sum it up... like that, yes. It makes me... jealous.”
“Well, it’s good you can’t do anything about that then, is it? Now, will you shut up?”
An old man’s voice from one of the other cells croaked.
“Water! I need water!”
“Oh, not you as well.”
Spinson shook his head, huffed in despair and went upstairs to fetch a bowl of water.
“He’s really good to us, you know. Us old evil types.” It croaked.
“You’ve lost... your touch. I think prison... finally broke you. You know I admired you... once.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Fourty years ago I think. Many, many robberies.”
“We showed them... in our own ways... our greatness.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I just got rich, and then lost the lot. I am nothing but a cursed name now, a trinket, a prize to be bandied around the world in a cage.”
“Are you... proud?”
“Only proud. Erghm.”
The croaky man, making some disgusting noises, coughed up some phlegm and spat it out somewhere.
“I am only proud that those who caught me were otherworlders. They were heroes from afar. All I did was go into exile, but they had to get outside help to find me.”
“The Intergalactic... Hall of Heroes?”
“Oh yes. Nothing but the best of course. I heard on my way here that that’s who they’re trying to reach. They’re trying all their magical knowledge, but nothing is breaking through the barrier!”
“I know... They tried to summon the best minds in the craft here... but they forgot at least two.”
“Oh I was a cunning one, but I was never a powerful wizard! And all my power has gone away now. They should ask you to help.”
“If only... it wasn’t a matter of principle for them.”
“That’s a shame. They need you, you know. But they won’t admit it.”
The croaky man coughed some more, and didn’t seem to be able to stop. Though it had taken much effort, he shouted (croakily):
“Help!”
Spinson returned, hurriedly, down the stairs with a bowl of water.
“I’m only gone two minutes. What’s the bloody matter?” He asked, unlocking the croaky man’s cell.
“I’m a dying man!” He croaked.
“No you’re not. Keep yourself warm in that blanket over there. Don’t be stupid.”
“Can I have my water?”
Spinson huffed as he passed the bowl to the croaky man, who gripped it with shaky hands and raised it to his mouth to drink. Droplets of water streaked down his matted and unkempt beard. The empty bowl was handed back to Spinson.
“Thank you.”
“Now, wrap yourself up.”
“Okay.”
The croaky man shuffled off the floor to get the blanket off his bed, while Spinson locked him in again. Spinson huffed, then began to whistle a tune, which kind of resembled a popular folk song of these parts, “The Naughty Bard” if only he could get any of the notes right.
Later on, at the twilight before dusk, all of the wizards began to congregate on the very top of the tower. The storm continued to lash up here, and the wind howled past, catching the wizard’s robes. Leading the party was Lord Pommenby, who somehow managed to stay upbeat, despite the awful inclement weather.
“All of you assemble around the perimeter for this one!” he shouted, “Link arms with the person stood next to you.”
Senior members of the magical profession arranged themselves near the battlement perimeter, steadying themselves, and linking arms with their neighbours. Meanwhile, Lord Pommenby was passed a large, gnarled wooden staff by an assistant, who nodded and then turned to leg it downstairs out of the rain.
Lord Pommenby tapped the butt of the staff onto the worn flagstone floor three times. He then chanted:
“Blessed Hazdar, eastern Lord of the Sun, aid us in our quest to break the shield. We are gracious for your presence here. Give us the power of your maelstrom.”
With the butt of the staff, Pommenby began to draw a clockwise spiral towards the centre. Still, the wind howled as the sun set.
Pommenby finished his spiral.
“Hazdar, though you set, your power rains eternal. We call on you to bring light to dark, bring hope to suffering, bring peace to war. I summon thee here!”
All together the wizards and witches chanted:
“We summon thee here!”
Where Pommenby had traced the spiral onto stone, a red line appeared. Pommenby walked to the edge to join with the other wizards there.
“Could I just put my staff here, by the wall? Thank you very much.”
And together they chanted.
“The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.”
From the centre of the spiral, a shaft of golden light had burst upwards through the clouds, dispersing them. Above, an expanding circle of clear sky flickered between day and dusk. The shaft widened and intensified, spinning rapidly, twisting itself into a drilling golden helix above, which would be visible for miles.
The tower vibrated, which coursed back down to the prison below. Spinson had retired for the evening, leaving the two prisoners to their own devices.
“You... Rondar. You escaped from prison before... This building does not seem... structurally safe.”
“I don’t think we’ll get out of here, unless you fancy climbing out of thousands of tons of rubble. If you’re still alive. If I could have escaped from here, I would have done it years ago.”
“Oh... bollocks then.”
“Well at least it’ll be a quick death.”
“Hmm.”
“I think I’ve had a good innings anyway.”
“I don’t think... my work is finished yet.”
“Well if you can escape from a wizard’s prison, fair enough. But you won’t.”
Atop, the wizards and witches held fast as the light continued to burst upwards. Then the light began to wane. Soon, they were all bathed in darkness, but as people of magic were, this would not be for long, as various people began summoning light for personal uses, whether it be at the end of wands, floating orbs, magical rings lighting up or ghostly fireflies and stuff.
“Thank you once again, ladies and gentlemen.” Pommenby announced, “I will see if we managed to get through!”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Chapter One
Race For The Tower
The Head Gaoler, a very hardy fellow who had many scars across his face, which looked as if it had been carved from granite, sat glumly at the round wooden table in the centre of this small prison. The prison, of which, was situated underneath a rather important tower.
Supporting his bald, heavy head with his fist, he appeared deep in thought. One would wonder what burned deep inside the soul of such men, for they would never show the entirety of it in fear of advertising a weakness.
And yet another thumping explosion nearby reverberated inside the prison, which shook various chains and loosened grit and plaster from the ceiling.
“They’re coming... But they’re not all here yet. I can just about... sense them.” Spoke an eerie, wispy, burdened voice from one of the cells.
“Shut up!” The gaoler shouted back.
“They’re in... peril.”
“Will you bloody shut your mouth? I’m thinking.”
“May I ask... what you are pondering?”
“No.”
“You can tell me... I won’t tell anyone.”
The head gaoler jolted upright and marched towards the cell in particular, grabbed onto the bars with big strong hands and bellowed:
“I DON’T WANT TO TALK TO YOU, RIGHT! I DON’T CARE. JUST SHUT THE BLOODY HELL UP OR GOD HELP ME, YOU’D HAVE WISH YOU DID. ALRIGHT?”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have-“
“I WON’T BE SORRY WHEN I’M FINISHED WITH YOU.”
“I didn’t mean... any offence.”
“I’LL SHOW YOU BLOODY OFFENSIVE, MATE.”
“Please... I meant no harm.”
Another shockwave hit, dusting the gaoler’s head. This did nothing for the gaoler’s rage.
“Nothing would satisfy me more than throwing you outside into the absolute hell outside right now. Of course, after I’ve taken that Stone of Submission they tied around your neck and shoved it right up your f-“
“Spinson!” someone bellowed (in a friendly manner).
Spinson jolted around to see the jolly white bearded magician plod into his domain, who stood there, belly ungracefully out protruding from within his loose scarlet robe. He stood there, with a jolly grin.
“Why, I heard shouting from above. Is there cause for alarm, Spinson?”
“Oh, just the prisoner, my lord. Never will shut up, will he?”, he replied, attemping to meet the wizard’s jollity of the moment.
“Well, sorry about the noise outside. The wizards of the west are approaching, just a little covering fire, ho ho!”
“How is that distress signal going?”
“Coming along nicely. If we can solve that conundrum of breaking through the barrier of course. No reply yet though, but more people are coming to join us to focus their efforts. The more the merrier, as I always say!”
“Well, yeah.”
“No need to look so glum, Spinson! Cheer up! Help WILL be on its way!”
“Ain’t gonna bring back my family though, will it, sir?”
The jolly magician put his hands onto Spinson’s shoulders, who managed to hide his embarrassment for now.
“We must look forward, Spinson! Never backward! Now, let me have a word with old nastyface.”
“My pleasure.”
Spinson walked away back to the table. The only thing he actually liked about this tower was that even in these adverse circumstances, with all the crap going on, this place was quite safe. You just had to put up with all manner of weird people, people from all kinds of magical professions wittering on about their experiments and meditations, far away from the company of equals where most of the conversation would revolve around sport, dirty jokes and sexually attractive members of the opposite sex, and what each of them would like to do to them.
The wizard peered into the cell, where a dimly lit figure, concealed in brown rags sat.
“Are you giving my friend trouble again?”
“Not... intentionally, my Lord. I take it that you have made... no contact yet.”
“That is not for any of us to discuss with you.”
“My offer to help... is still offered to you.”
“I can say that we shan’t possibly need your help. Not that I’d consider releasing you. You may sooner ally yourself with the enemy than give us aid.”
“Your efforts... will fail, Lord Pommenby.”
“That’s enough.”
Lord Pommenby’s patience was truly tested. Normally, the gentle lord was convivial, upbeat and accommodating, but even he showed disdain towards the mysterious prisoner. It wasn’t the stale pissy smell emanating from within, but something much worse than a bad smell.
The wizard turned around to Spinson, who was sat at the table again, playing with a broken pencil.
“I must leave to meditate. The more powerful I am, the more chance we can break through and finally make contact.”
“See you, then.” Spinson replied, not even making a glance up from the table.
“Farewell, Spinson!”
As the Wizard left, Spinson grabbed his face with both hands and stretched the skin down. It helped ease the stress and tension. He growled slightly, just so anyone else could just hear.
The man in the rags lay eerily still. You couldn’t tell from looking at it whether whoever it was in there was indeed alive or dead. It never flinched, it just sat there perfectly still as a statue.
Above, at the great portal to the Wizard’s Tower, in the pouring rain of the evening, two fists rammed hard upon the wooden door.
“Is there anyone there?” bellowed the bald mage, as heavy rain hammered onto his head.
The door opened, where stood Lord Pommenby, as well as a few other important looking wizards.
“My goodness. Come inside at once! Are you hurt?” Pommenby asked.
“I’m not used to this weather. I live in a desert!”
This wizard was completely soaked to the bone in his sky blue robe, and shivering. He staggered in.
“Are there others with you?”
“They didn’t make it.”
Pommenby waved his palms through the air, weaving a complex pattern of magic, and chanted:
“Amutis Entstrai!”
Suddenly, the soaked wizard’s clothes and hair plumped outwards, spraying fine droplets of water in all directions. The wizard examined how dry he and his clothes were.
“My many thanks!”
“Ah good. Now, would you like a nice cup of tea?”
“Oh, yes please!” The wizard emphatically replied.
“Well, if you would follow me upstairs please, tell me, do you like custard creams?”
“Ah, don’t mind if I do!”
After the nice cup of tea, Pommenby introduced the new guest to the other wizards up at the top room of the tower, where the staircase also led to the very top. Various learned men and women from different magical professions were congregated here, some of which had also travelled considerable distances.
It was a relaxed environment here, with gentle lighting, dark wooden furniture and a large round red carpet.
A tall, thin man with olive skin, harsh features and a hooked nose approached the newcomer. With a deep, booming voice he said:
“Welcome, Wizard of the West, to the Tower of the Eternal Light. We have heard many stories of your kind, and your journey must have been long. I am The Most Venerable Ardnal, Grand Sorceror from the Entesis Empire and former advisor to the late Emperor.”
“We have heard word of you before. I am Haklatus, Senior Thaumaturge and Trainee Overseer from the Krentok Academy. Though I think I’m the last one left.”
“All of us have lost people close to us here. Now you ARE here, you can aid us in preventing any more deaths. You must rest, obviously, for later, but please make yourself acquainted with your new colleagues.”
Back in the dungeons, the thing in the cell spoke again.
“Someone’s arrived.”
“What?” Spinson replied.
“I can just about taste it in the air... Whoever it is has come from afar... yet alone.”
“So what?”
“It means there’s little chance that... anyone else will arrive. It’s been a whole month... now... since the message went out. ... This is all the help... that they will get. It isn’t enough.”
“Well, there’s bugger all else to put my faith in right now. All of the major cities have fallen, or have been destroyed. Everyone’s surrendered.”
“I have... not forgotten. Quite impressive... don’t you think?”
“Well of course, I forgot. The murder of innocents. That’s right up your street, isn’t it?”
“I achieved... much. Now my notoriety... is forgotten. They stole it from me.”
Spinson giggled.
“Does it piss you off that this made your genocidal rampage look a little tiny?”
“You could sum it up... like that, yes. It makes me... jealous.”
“Well, it’s good you can’t do anything about that then, is it? Now, will you shut up?”
An old man’s voice from one of the other cells croaked.
“Water! I need water!”
“Oh, not you as well.”
Spinson shook his head, huffed in despair and went upstairs to fetch a bowl of water.
“He’s really good to us, you know. Us old evil types.” It croaked.
“You’ve lost... your touch. I think prison... finally broke you. You know I admired you... once.”
“Oh, that was a long time ago. Fourty years ago I think. Many, many robberies.”
“We showed them... in our own ways... our greatness.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I just got rich, and then lost the lot. I am nothing but a cursed name now, a trinket, a prize to be bandied around the world in a cage.”
“Are you... proud?”
“Only proud. Erghm.”
The croaky man, making some disgusting noises, coughed up some phlegm and spat it out somewhere.
“I am only proud that those who caught me were otherworlders. They were heroes from afar. All I did was go into exile, but they had to get outside help to find me.”
“The Intergalactic... Hall of Heroes?”
“Oh yes. Nothing but the best of course. I heard on my way here that that’s who they’re trying to reach. They’re trying all their magical knowledge, but nothing is breaking through the barrier!”
“I know... They tried to summon the best minds in the craft here... but they forgot at least two.”
“Oh I was a cunning one, but I was never a powerful wizard! And all my power has gone away now. They should ask you to help.”
“If only... it wasn’t a matter of principle for them.”
“That’s a shame. They need you, you know. But they won’t admit it.”
The croaky man coughed some more, and didn’t seem to be able to stop. Though it had taken much effort, he shouted (croakily):
“Help!”
Spinson returned, hurriedly, down the stairs with a bowl of water.
“I’m only gone two minutes. What’s the bloody matter?” He asked, unlocking the croaky man’s cell.
“I’m a dying man!” He croaked.
“No you’re not. Keep yourself warm in that blanket over there. Don’t be stupid.”
“Can I have my water?”
Spinson huffed as he passed the bowl to the croaky man, who gripped it with shaky hands and raised it to his mouth to drink. Droplets of water streaked down his matted and unkempt beard. The empty bowl was handed back to Spinson.
“Thank you.”
“Now, wrap yourself up.”
“Okay.”
The croaky man shuffled off the floor to get the blanket off his bed, while Spinson locked him in again. Spinson huffed, then began to whistle a tune, which kind of resembled a popular folk song of these parts, “The Naughty Bard” if only he could get any of the notes right.
Later on, at the twilight before dusk, all of the wizards began to congregate on the very top of the tower. The storm continued to lash up here, and the wind howled past, catching the wizard’s robes. Leading the party was Lord Pommenby, who somehow managed to stay upbeat, despite the awful inclement weather.
“All of you assemble around the perimeter for this one!” he shouted, “Link arms with the person stood next to you.”
Senior members of the magical profession arranged themselves near the battlement perimeter, steadying themselves, and linking arms with their neighbours. Meanwhile, Lord Pommenby was passed a large, gnarled wooden staff by an assistant, who nodded and then turned to leg it downstairs out of the rain.
Lord Pommenby tapped the butt of the staff onto the worn flagstone floor three times. He then chanted:
“Blessed Hazdar, eastern Lord of the Sun, aid us in our quest to break the shield. We are gracious for your presence here. Give us the power of your maelstrom.”
With the butt of the staff, Pommenby began to draw a clockwise spiral towards the centre. Still, the wind howled as the sun set.
Pommenby finished his spiral.
“Hazdar, though you set, your power rains eternal. We call on you to bring light to dark, bring hope to suffering, bring peace to war. I summon thee here!”
All together the wizards and witches chanted:
“We summon thee here!”
Where Pommenby had traced the spiral onto stone, a red line appeared. Pommenby walked to the edge to join with the other wizards there.
“Could I just put my staff here, by the wall? Thank you very much.”
And together they chanted.
“The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.
The setting sun is the rising sun.
Power is eternal.”
From the centre of the spiral, a shaft of golden light had burst upwards through the clouds, dispersing them. Above, an expanding circle of clear sky flickered between day and dusk. The shaft widened and intensified, spinning rapidly, twisting itself into a drilling golden helix above, which would be visible for miles.
The tower vibrated, which coursed back down to the prison below. Spinson had retired for the evening, leaving the two prisoners to their own devices.
“You... Rondar. You escaped from prison before... This building does not seem... structurally safe.”
“I don’t think we’ll get out of here, unless you fancy climbing out of thousands of tons of rubble. If you’re still alive. If I could have escaped from here, I would have done it years ago.”
“Oh... bollocks then.”
“Well at least it’ll be a quick death.”
“Hmm.”
“I think I’ve had a good innings anyway.”
“I don’t think... my work is finished yet.”
“Well if you can escape from a wizard’s prison, fair enough. But you won’t.”
Atop, the wizards and witches held fast as the light continued to burst upwards. Then the light began to wane. Soon, they were all bathed in darkness, but as people of magic were, this would not be for long, as various people began summoning light for personal uses, whether it be at the end of wands, floating orbs, magical rings lighting up or ghostly fireflies and stuff.
“Thank you once again, ladies and gentlemen.” Pommenby announced, “I will see if we managed to get through!”
© Luke O'Sullivan, 2009
Tuesday 1 September 2009
Hmm...
I'm sat here in the morning, pondering how this blog should actually look. I'm tempted away by a nice bagel with well done (burnt to a crisp) bacon and Heinz tomato ketchup. Basically, the story should be easily readable, whether this is someone catching up on the story on a regular basis or someone reading a large amount from scratch.
So I should see how other people are doing it, obviously. But not steal of course. Hmm...
I've got another part which I can get published soon and although no one's reading this yet, I'm ok with that, I'd rather have several bits here anyway before advertising myself.
So I should see how other people are doing it, obviously. But not steal of course. Hmm...
I've got another part which I can get published soon and although no one's reading this yet, I'm ok with that, I'd rather have several bits here anyway before advertising myself.
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