The Eye of the Phoenix

[Angel]

I love this story - check your rep level for some secret Admin reppage

[Darg]

Sweet... sneaky reppage is the best of all reppage . I'm glad someone's reading this story. I was beginning to think people had lost interest in it. Anyway, thanks Angel and stand by for another chapter coming to a forum near you...

[xbox360luva]

i like it

[Arcage]

nice story

[xbox360luva]

wish i was good at english =(

[Darg]

Originally Posted by xbox360luva

wish i was good at english =(

Hey, sometimes it's just a gift. I bomb at math and science, as I really could give a flying crap less about them, so this is a way to showcase what I am at least good at.

[Darg]

Behold! Once more I return with another installment, number seventeen this time. Sorry, not as much action taking place in this one, but there is indeed a revelation... and a few flashbacks. Just look at the title...

Chapter 17~ Seasons Passed

The Northbound Glow shone through the shroud of the dark sky, nearer now than when they had first sighted it those few nights ago. The beautiful radiance of the floating colors was mesmerizing and amazing as anything the crew had ever seen. Veros, Durig and Badris sat by the bow of the ship, looking out over the strengthening dusk as they ate a late supper of scattered supplies. Under the advice of Tom, they were trying to conserve their rations for the journey on land. Veros gazed over at Badris, talking and laughing with Durig as always. He couldn’t believe that only earlier today his friend was almost taken from his life… for good. He recalled the mixed fury and hopelessness in his eyes as he struggled to free himself from the grasp of the Hook Coast guardsmen, though he could not do it alone. If it was not for the others, he and Veros would both be dead or worse… minions of Jack. In the same way, none of them could stand alone. They supported eachother this far through all that fate had to offer them, and they had triumphed. Veros knew it would never last though. This was no simple trip to the north, an outing to see the sights and return safely home. No, this was a race against time and evil itself, and they were not exempt from fate’s gaping jaws just yet.

The water was frothing with a white spray as the bow of the boat sliced through the water. It was truly amazing, Veros thought, being out to sea. It gave him the sense of freedom that he thought was unattainable while within the confining realm of his home, no more no less than what he knew. Oh, he almost laughed as he pondered what Melissa would think of him now were she still alive. He was an adventurer, a fighter and heading towards the Northern Wastes with a crew of hand-picked genuine freedom-seekers. He then smiled to himself once more as he thought of what she would think. She would be proud, he decided. She always wanted for him to see new things as she had, with eyes full of wonder and thoughts full of beauty. Veros would go on with her memory in his heart, knowing still that he would make her proud.

Veros glanced behind him, roused by the sound of sudden rustling. Finrar was sleeping above deck under a pile of old sails between two crates. It was nearing midnight, Veros guessed. The three of them on the bow were undoubtedly the last still awake, though Scorl and Rolf tended to the ship’s wheel alternately as the other slept. Veros also wondered about Scorl, what must be going through his mind. He was calm about things, the escape and even their present circumstances, but he had left all that he had ever known behind, his tavern, his friends, all of it. Every once and awhile when he was not on steering duty, he would sit awake on the ship’s edge, looking out to sea with longing, far-off eyes. His life had seemingly vanished before his eyes.

“Badris.” Veros said, his voice sounding rather out-of-place amidst the vast, surrounding silence. “You go ahead and rest. Durig, you too. I’ll take the first watch for any danger and I’ll wake you if anything comes of it.” Badris nodded groggily, Durig already preparing a makeshift bed.
“Veros?” Badris asked in the darkness, leaning up against a crate wearily. An aura of seriousness was evident in his tone.
“What?”
“Y’know back in Hook Coast?” Veros nodded half-heartedly, then realizing that it was far too dark for Badris to notice it anyway, though he continued. “When ya fell and I was snatched up by them puppets o’ Jack, I coulda sworn… I thought fer sure that you were… dead. I’ve never seen nothin’ worse than that, and I’ve seen some ‘orrible lots o’ stuff in my day. The guards… they weren’t even human any more. They were wild and they wanted t’kill ya like it was all that mattered. ‘Orrible as I’ve ever seen it and Jack can go back t’ hell if he damn dares to trifle with my friends. It can’t go on like this. Somethin’s gonna change and I’ll see to it that that somethin’ is Jack.” Without another moment’s notice, Badris drifted off into sleep with these words, leaving Veros to ponder his almost prophetic words. Badris was a strong-willed man, one who would never sit quietly while evil was in reign, but the unmistakably hard, cold tone in his voice told Veros that he wanted nothing more than to destroy Jack… at any cost.

The sudden sound of soft footsteps from the deck stairs issued Veros’s attention. It was Tom, emerging from below deck swathed in a dark green cloak, carrying something that shone vibrantly in the moonlight. As he approached, Veros noticed an unusually satisfactory look on his face. His eyes glimpsed the sleeping forms of Durig and Badris, and he stopped, beckoning for Veros to follow him. Veros got to his feet and walked behind him to the center of the deck, near the towering mast. Wordlessly, he lit up a match and proceeded to spark the fire in an iron traveler’s lamp, setting it on top of a nearby crate.

“Veros- take a look at this beautiful treasure.” Tom revealed the item in his grasp, a luminously white scale from the Kraken, about the length of his forearm and the width of his waist.
“What? How’d you manage to get that?”
“Oh, an experienced wanderer has his ways. This is surely a trophy amongst adventurers, a prize to show of great, bold deeds. I’ve spent the last hour or so polishing it up and preparing it for show. This will indeed be a story to tell the rest back home.” Tom said. With Tom’s words, Veros suddenly recalled from his childhood memories a flashback of times now long gone…

It was a warm summer morning, as he recalled it when he was but a child of ten years of age. Veros was young, witty and unknowledgeable to the rest of the world outside the beautiful paradise that was his home, and it was on a summer day that he first had his encounter with the heroes of Albion. Lounging in the rare Knothole Glade sunlight with his friends, nonchalant and without a care in the world, they had noticed an unusual bustle at the tavern and chose to see first-hand what was taking place. The tavern was packed with townsfolk, some cheering and some talking amongst themselves with wonder. Making their way through the thick crowd, they emerged in front of the crowd to look upon a man of fair height and weight, with tan skin and an impressive-looking dark brown mustache. Veros recalled him quite vividly, his warmly-colored red and brown leather armor sitting firmly on his body over an elegant black and bronze hued outfit and a traditional ranger’s dual-pointed hat perched atop his head. He stood next to a wide table on the tavern floor, blanketed with many items, both large and small. He recalled asking an adult around the area what was going on, receiving the answer that the man was a hero, Frederick Camberlon of Greatwood, showing off his many trophies, items of merit for any hero.

Amidst the many items that he would take from the table and display proudly above his head for the crowd to see was a crooked, soot-stained sword with unusual crimson markings on it. He held it up for all to see, proclaiming that it was the blade a Darkwood bandit lord that he had slain in a raid on their camp, taken from the dying leader as he was cut down by his valiant swordsmanship. Next he exhibited an unusually large, reflective black stone with jagged edges, which he said to be a portion of ore he hewed from his foe as he battled a rare, vicious Obsidian Troll of the eastern mountains. The final one that caught Veros’ attention at that particular moment was a gargantuan set of dark armor consisting of a hammered cuirass, two black pauldrons, a pair of thick chainmail boots, and the crowing piece that was a vicious-looking shrouded helmet with a sleek, ominous aura. It was a helm with two black horns stemming back from the front of the helmet, where two sharp eye-slits were carved, hollow and veiled in darkness. Many smooth forms shaped its entirety, as well as a few points where it jutted out in an impressive display of craftsmanship. The helmet he held up, declaring to the crowd that it once belonged to the high general of the dark Skorm armies during the Battle of Firemord Canyon, in which he shot straight through the general’s helmet to slay him with a single arrow, indicating the two crumpled holes where the arrow had entered and exited.

[Darg]

Veros was astounded by the hero, and the thought that there were such people who existed just as Frederick Camberlon in the Hero’s Guild of Albion was beyond incredible. He had always wished to go there, to visit the famed halls of its sanctums, to see the sights of its tall, ancient buildings, though at the time his parents had little money to travel. Through all those years, this memory still stuck with him, when he first discovered what a hero truly was.
Now, observing with wide eyes in the pale northern moonlight Tom’s prize, a question posed itself in his mind. “Tom?”
“Yes?” he said, holding the glossy scale up in the moonlight to examine closer.
“Were you ever… in… I mean a part of… the Hero’s Guild?” Tom stopped investigating the scale abruptly and simply stared at Veros.
“What?” he said, a slight flabbergasted tone in his voice.
Wondering if he should continue on, Veros asked once more, “Were you ever in the Hero’s Guild, Tom?” Tom’s eyes seemed clouded over and he avoided eye contact with Veros, an almost sorrowful, regretful look marring his usually jovial expression.
“Look, Veros…” he said, raising his head barely enough to show the noticeable pain in his eyes, “It’s about time that I told you something. I’ve always thought this would come up in conversation. Perhaps I should have never brought up this scale at all… but no, it’s far past due that I revealed this to you. Come now. Follow me below deck.” Trailing behind Tom, Veros only had one thing on his mind: had he provoked past scars or worse…

Below deck, Veros and Tom sat across from eachother at a wide oak table in the galley, the only ones still awake besides Scorl manning the wheel above. Tom’s expression could have worried a Hobbe with its sorrow. Something was definitely wrong. The galley was dark at this hour, lit only by a dim lantern placed in the center of the table. Veros could feel something in the air, a great longing to break the encompassing silence, until it welled up in him for anything, absolutely anything to transpire. Then, Tom spoke, “Veros, as long as I have been on this journey, there has been something haunting my mind, though at times I choose not to show it. Seeing you now, just as I was, not three years ago, leaves me with an inescapable feeling of regret.”
“Regret for what?” Veros sounded astonished.
“Ah, for that which you have lost,” he said, “I know of your late loved one, Melissa, and of all you have gone through to face her not being with you. My friend Veros… if only I had such courage.”
“Courage?” Veros said, even more astonished, “If I have courage, then trolls may as well have wings! What do you mean by this?”
Tom sighed, “You see, the courage to carry on. I once had my dearly beloved one with me to wed within two months, when she was… taken from me as yours from you.”
“How so?” Veros asked, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

“Let me tell you of seasons passed Veros. Of a golden summer three years ago when all was not indeed at rest, that is. During the Heroes Guild’s reclamation of Greatwood from the legions of Snarvem the Sly, I was enlisted as an instructor at the guild, with my soon-to-be wed lover Narala by my side in the guild, always aiding the kitchen-maids. Oh, sweet Narala, dear Narala, the moon and stars of my nights, the sun and the sky of my days… Beauty is at times fleeting, and cannot stand in this world of change and darkness. It is as a simple, graceful robin in the oncoming tide of a herd of bulls, fragile as the breeze atop the hills so thin. That summer day so long ago, my two fellow instructors and friends, Patrici and Mohelns, accompanied me into the forest on a mission to defend the Silorn Mill in Greatwood under siege by Snarvem. That darkened, blasphemous cretin was no better a servant of Skorm himself, though he did not value the gods or their values. He would stop at nothing to destroy all of Albion, the ones who exiled his life to be sanctioned only in the realms of midnight. His mastery of shadow magic and tainted soul had robbed the life from thousands of innocent men and women, and for this, he was banished by the laws of Albion’s Guild of Heroes.

But lo, he returned through his own shrouded will, in the wake of the guild’s golden age of might and glory, to wreak havoc and leave none alive. He had assailed Greatwood with his platoons of black-hearted warriors, destroying the farmhouses in the many corners of the wood without mercy. None survived. Patrici, Mohelns and I were to rid the last remaining structure, the Silorn Mill, of Snarvem’s tainted minions. Little did I know that my beloved Narala was worrying herself sick for my safety, though I myself knew I could prevail. She enlisted the aid of half a dozen other guild heroes, some novices and some masters, to follow her into the woods to help in defeating Snarvem’s minions. On our path to the mill, we faced much opposition from the horde of warriors, and all were defeated, and we pressed on. The mill, a blackened tall-reaching structure of timber and iron, could not stand the onslaught of the advancing enemies. By the time we arrived, its walls had been scorched and its beams had shattered. It was in ruin and we had nothing to do but escape or die inevitably against the overwhelming force. We were assaulted, a score of their troops hiding to ambush us by the road when we fled from the mill. Overwhelmed, we could do nothing but fend them off without any hope for escape. It was then that Narala and her six followers entered the scene, charging our foes with unmatched confidence. I shouted for her to stop, though she would not heed my calls and pressed on to defeat those who opposed us so. My trio rushed back into the fray to combat the foes, continually begging her to escape while we held off our enemies.
She was too headstrong, to protective. Her heart was larger than her logic, and she fought to defend me, though bloodied and battered she was. Two of her following heroes were slain in that attack. Then, she fell in a pool of blood beside my trio and I, and could not rise. I shouted and roared for the oncoming waves of soldiers, who swarmed us like flies to a carcass, to turn back and to give in. But in the midst of this, my Narala was dying, slowly and painfully. I broke into a run, bashing through the horde of dark warriors to help my love to her feet. But yet it was already too late. The endless tide of shadow descended upon her and pushed me far from her, cracking their weapons against my skull until I fell to the earth and lay on my side without the energy to move. It was then, in my last moments of consciousness, that I saw it. My dear Narala was cut down by one of the soldiers, harsh and ruthless, and it was by my weakness that I could not save her. She perished so long ago and still her grave stands on the edge of the Guild Woods, in the shade of a tall oak, peaceful and alone as I am now without her. The strife with Snarvem the Sly was ended on that very same month, but its toll for me was much worse than the loss of any property or the destruction of Greatwood. Those things may be rebuilt, but love can never rebuild itself, Veros. That same month also, I resigned from the Heroes Guild… for good. It had been on my behalf that she had died, in the face of circumstances I could not truly face with strength. If there is anything that I regret it is that I was not able to carry on, to let it stay in my heart and to allow me to never wish to wed again or continue on with my career. Though regretfully, I may never one day do so, you must not make the same mistake as I did. All the advice I have for you is to go on even in the wake of loss… for that perhaps is the only way to actually rebuild love.”

With these words, Veros was stunned. He had never truly known what lurked in Tom’s past, but he could have never guessed. Tom slowly stood up from his seat and wordlessly descended the deck stairs, leaving Veros to ponder all that he had said. Rebuild love? Was it possible that he, Veros Bantain, could once again find love? He thought back on Melissa, and if she could see him now, mourning still in his heart for her, she would grieve herself. She would grieve that he would never truly be happy without once more feeling love’s soft embrace. His mind pulsing with these thoughts, deep as the sea that surrounded them now, he brought himself to climb to the top deck to sleep under the cold, pale stars and imagine what the answer could be. What was he looking for in life, and more importantly, could he ever hope to find it?

[Arckon]

You destroy my fan fiction, , good read though

[Darg]

Originally Posted by Arckon

You destroy my fan fiction, , good read though

Hehe... that's what happens when you type non-stop until 1:30 in the morning. When you're so fricking tired and half-asleep, that's when inspiration comes in... just in time I'd say. Just keep checking in and see what else I have up my sleeve- be patient- there's alot up there.

[Darg]

Here I am again with another chapter, an unusually (maybe even nice for a change for some of you who like it short and sweet) short chapter. In this particular one, we shift our view for the first time out of the scope of our protagonist and take a look through the eyes of the supposed enemy, though despite everything, everyone has problems of their own, good or evil...

Chapter 18~ Massacre and Mutiny

The golden sun was resting on the horizon of the northern sea as it shone down on the ship of Sarvis Umbras and his crew, the Bloody Wraith. A blanket of mist was surrounding the shore at dawn, eastwards from the Lost Harbor of the Northern Wastes. The fog hung in the air, surrounding the black ship in a white shroud and obscuring all from sight. Sarvis stood near the ship’s wheel, manned by another minion of Jack, one known as Cragol. Sarvis was swathed in a dark crimson cloak and long scarf as he gazed out to sea fruitlessly. His face was still contorted, half of it still partially transformed into his true minion form, though it was as well a mask of hatred. He was furious at himself for failing to stop Veros Bantain’s party from escaping Hook Coast, and he knew in his heart that Jack would be as well. Somehow, some way, he had to regain his honor by defeating the opposition and showing once and for all to Jack that he was worthy enough.

For years, he had been a lowly servant of Jack before he was promoted to the rank of a captain in his growing army. Even then, he did not value Sarvis’ talents as a cunning negotiator and tactician. He was infuriated that others had been exalted in glory for their paltry deeds, rookies and novices that did not know what they were being bestowed with, while he stayed at the bottom for all those years, longing for something to come along. Now, this assignment had come along, his one chance to prove to himself and Jack that he was a master amongst beginners. He stared over at Cragol, a lazy hunched-over wretch with about as much brainpower as a drunken Hobbe and the looks of one as well. It was disgusting that he was cursed to work beside such buffoons and worthless louts, but he would persevere nonetheless.

“Hey! We have not made any progress since sun-up you foolish oaf. Why don’t you steer the blasted wheel instead of drool on it? We must dock at the harbor before they reach it! Pick up the pace already.” Sarvis shouted irritably. Cragol only stared at him with glazed, hatred-filled eyes.
“Oi! If you say I’m not doin’ my job right, then you can just damn well do it!” he bellowed back, slapping the wheel around angrily before brushing past Sarvis to join the rest of the crew on the other end of the ship. Sarvis caught him by the back of his coat, jerking him back around.
“You do not disobey the orders of your commanding officer, scum!” he spat furiously at Cragol, “As long as I’m still alive, then I will uphold my oath to Jack!”
Cragol shook himself free and turned around to face him, “I can change that,” with that, he drew from his belt a blackened steel cutlass, backing up to shout to the crew, “Aye mates! I’d say it was time the tables turned.” The crew thundered up to where Cragol faced Sarvis, who now also had his dark curved saber at the ready. He was an experienced swordsman and could take down any foe, though his confidence now wavered.

As the rest of the crew arrived on the scene, weapons swinging at their sides nonchalantly, some hurling insults his way, Sarvis said with a cunning, falsely certain tone, “What’s this? So you all are indeed the load of plundering fools I first thought you to be! Jack will not be pleased by your misdeeds.”
Another of the crew, a stout man with a shaved head, Huiren, came to the front of the crowd and shouted, “Shut yer trap, Umbras. Yer not wanted ‘ere. And Jack? Who exactly d’ya think authorized us to take this ship in the first place?” Sarvis was stunned, his jaw dropping open in surprise and agony.
“That’s not true!” he roared, his voice coarse with revulsion. He already knew that it was true. Huiren smirked and laughed, loud and long at Sarvis, turning to the rest of the crew who only jeered and whooped at his display before he continued.
“Not true? Not true, is it Umbras? Jack says your failure at the coast won’t be tolerated and that yer of no use to ‘im any longer. Lucky fer ya, he hired us t’do his dirty work! You won’t make it off of here alive, captain!” Huiren emphasized the last word with such scorn and ridicule that Sarvis was finally pushed over the edge.

With Huiren still in mid-laugh, pointing and sneering in contempt, Sarvis pounced on him, his blade gouging through his side like a swift stake through paper. Screaming and rolling about as blood spurted from his side, Sarvis did not relent, stabbing at him until he yelled one last time. The rest were already upon him, some attempting futilely to grab him by his arms and some slashing their weapons madly at him only to be thrown off in the fray. He thrust the sharp heel of his heavy boot into the leg of one of his ambushers from behind, hearing with satisfaction the painful groan as the assailant doubled over and collapsed. The black, curved blade made a ‘swish’ sound as it sliced through the air and caught an unsuspecting rogue in his back, cutting through the spine with a sickening crack. Sarvis sidestepped to avoid the blows of a pair of axe-wielding warriors, both of them crashing to the deck in a heap as the rest continued their assault. In a flash, he repelled them, slicing one under the knee and slaying another with a sideways jab. Then, in the midst of the skirmish Sarvis caught sight of Cragol, fleeing to leap off the edge of the ship, in his haste wildly tripping about himself. The escaping mutineer was Sarvis’ only goal that he could see in his blinding fury, and he broke free from the fray and pursued him with his sword drawn to its full extent.

Cragol squealed in horror as the shadow of the mutilated captain, his half-distorted visage a mask of determination, fell over him like the shadow of death itself. All was silent amidst the chaos, save for a terrible, blood-curdling roar that froze all in their tracks, Sarvis’ cry, “Die, you traitorous dog!” His shoulder swinging like a powerful pendulum of might, he rolled the saber along its longest edge and stabbed it out, laughing insanely as he skewered the fleeing rebel like a piece of meat on the razor-sharp tip of a steak knife. A sharp intake of breath signaled Cragol’s death, the air dissipating from his lungs as his final moments of life slipped away. With the death of Cragol came the death of hope for the mutiny of the Bloody Wraith, and a single black blade dropped to the deck of the ship, Cragol’s weapon. Another dark blade glistening in the air as Sarvis held it up with a dreadful roar issuing from between his warped teeth. The blade shone with Cragol’s blood as the sound of Sarvis’ horrible laughter could still be heard...

[Darg]

Okay, I'm kind of beginning to feel unloved what with no one commenting in almost three weeks now... Just please have patience with me, as summer time can take its toll on how frequently I visit the forums. Anyway, here we are at installment 19! I promise you though, in light of my milestone of reaching chapter 20, that there will be an epic chapter headed your way as soon as I can create it!

Chapter 19~ Just Begun

‘As long as the west wind does blow, as long as the river waters flow, and as long as falls the snow, traveling through this world I will go’ the quote still read on Tom Meldrinas’ family map as he held it against the surface of a crate against the faint morning breeze. Ever since they had first taken off that fateful day from Knothole Glade, Veros had forgotten the inscription on the piece of faded parchment that had gotten them this far. Though then he did not quiet know what it meant, after a full night of undisturbed rest, he had come to a realization. The quote was engraved into his grandfather’s grave the day he died, a saying he used to live by. How he had let such a simple thing slip his mind, Veros could only guess, though it still left him wondering long after.

After last night’s events, Veros could never be sure what to expect from Tom. He once more stood proud, joyous and adventurous-looking, though Veros was only increasingly confused about how his mood could sway as easily as a summer breeze. It was not as if it was a bad thing, though he was always left baffled with Tom, at times mysterious and at times so clear, though the answers still eluded him. Especially after what Tom had mentioned, he pondered deeply about the concept of Tom as a hero, even an instructor in the Heroes Guild. He had given up it all in his sorrow and never returned, though Veros would not understand why. To him, Tom had always seemed so strong, even perhaps invincible in his eyes, though all in all, no one was going to be there for him when the time came to prove himself.

“Ah, yes. Here we are,” said Tom, his finger hovering above an area of the map, to the west of the Lost Harbor, “our entry point lies somewhere in here. We’ll not want to dock at the harbor-house itself, as spies of Jack may be therein waiting for us. We must make the journey from the shore through the foothills of the lower north to the city of Snowspire. From there we may better continue with safety.”
“Snowspire?” Rolf Halmund snorted haughtily, “The people there are mad! After being cut off from the rest of Albion, some say they’re nuttier than peanut patch. There’s no telling what kind of trouble you’d be getting us into if we ventured there.”
“I can’t say that I quite agree,” Melinda Germain then entered the conversation, “I have some good friends that ventured up north. Twice every year they sent me letters at my Knothole Glade abode, and they were as normal as any other that ever dwelt in Albion. Granted, there are a few of them... pirates and rogues that skulk in Snowspire’s shadows, but then again, what city doesn’t have that problem these days?
Rolf sighed and fixed her with an intent gaze as he said, “Look, I’ll be tending to the ship while the rest of you go inland, but I only have this piece of advice for you: things are not as they always seem in the Northern Wastes. There are vicious things out there, man and beast, that won’t hesitate to slay you, no matter the nation you hail from or the status you have. Be wary.”
“I will stay aboard the ship as well,” said Rufus Almonder, lifting his eyes to match Tom’s, “as he may need willing hands to man our vessel.”
Tom sighed, “Long has this decision troubled my mind, as there are perils unknown out there. I am afraid that your skills will be needed, fair Almonder. Your prowess against your foes has yet to present itself. You must come with us and do what you will.”

Rufus stared at Tom for several seconds before he looked behind him to Rolf, who immediately said, “My young Rufus, I am afraid he is right. Your destiny does not lie simply on a ship, but in what you can do. Veros needs you... and perhaps even Albion. You would do me no good here I am afraid. I am old and would be of no worth to you, but you are young and have much life left in you. Destiny calls, Rufus.”
“A call worth heeding,” Finrar said, “We’re all in this together, and we’ve sworn our oaths. This isn’t for anyone alone, but for everyone.”
“If only that was true, Finrar, but in the end it will be Veros who must take up his mission alone. But enough of this, as we should be going,” Tom said, folding up the map, “Rolf, Rufus! We still have a bit more to go and I’m entrusting you to take us that much more on to the Northern Wastes. Everyone prepare themselves. The journey has just begun.”

. . .

Blood coated the deck of the Bloody Wraith as Sarvis Umbras stood atop its crimson-stained boards, his boots soaked with scarlet death. Everyone on the ship, from Cragol to his mutinous crew, was dead. He had done it. He had to do it. Their corpses littered the deck, torn and mutilated by his shadowed blade. How had this all happened? How had this gotten this far? More importantly, how had he let it get this far? All along, he had been a pawn of Jack, his fate already decided before he could do anything to change it. He was only used and tossed aside like an old rag by Jack, who did not care if he lived or died. Even now, he was probably laughing to himself about how he fooled him, tricked him and led him all this way to die alone. The anger boiled up in his stomach until he couldn’t take it any more, letting loose a loud cry as he hurled his blade aside and dropped to the deck, clutching his face. It was hardened, rough, and jagged with the face of one of Jack’s minions, just another one of his pawns in a game where he had all the cards.

It was not even his own face any more, but a shell that encased him like hard stone. Sarvis’ only thought at that very moment, despite it all, despite his circumstances, was to kill Jack. He had done this to him, made him the way he was and caused it all. Pulling himself to his feet, he once more grasped the hilt of his black notched blade, sheathing it in his belt. Jack was no power to him, he could not command him any longer and Sarvis was truly alone. Alone without aid, without hinder, but he knew what he had to do to defeat Jack. He alone had to obtain the blade, the Dawn Breaker. He would wield its legendary might and unleash it upon the one who had toyed with him so long and eventually become more powerful than Jack could ever hope to be. Sarvis grinned fiendishly to himself at the thought of striking down the masked demon, watching as he took his revenge one blow at a time. Sweet, sweet revenge, he thought...

On that fair morning, the true journey had begun for both sides, the winds of fate blowing tentatively. Nothing was certain, perhaps not even success. The only thing that was certain was that it would be a voyage fraught with danger and obstacles, the one way to finally win the growing conflict. From bows of both the Sea Wolf and the Bloody Wraith, the icy lands of peril and strife could be seen, bearing its fangs like an ominous, unstoppable beast ready to consume them into its frigid, dark underbelly. Never had they seen the trials that waited before them in the Northern Wastes. As Tom had said, the journey, it seemed, had indeed just begun…

[blu phoenix]

Wow...I mean wow!!! I'm utterly impressed. Excellent story and keep it coming!

[Dark Drakan]

Nicely written Darg, easy to read and nice structure to.

[Darg]

Why thank you Drakan. I'm glad somebody reads this, and after further inspection of the fan fiction page, I found to my surprise (and happiness) that my story stands as the second most viewed with 1,451 views (the first being Fable_Fan005's er... "story told by me" just to give him some credit)! Thank you all for your support and just for reading my rants. And here I have the (warning- sort of long though) THE 20TH CHAPTER! Well, even I didn't think I'd get this far. Anywho, here you go:

Chapter 20~ The First Leg

The wind stung against Sarvis Umbras’ face as he trudged through the blistering cold. All manner of protection from the cold was bundled around him to avoid the nip of the blinding blizzard. His eyes were narrowed against the storm and the skin that was unprotected was pale. The Bloody Wraith was docked in a secluded area not far from his current location, and from it he had taken all the necessary equipment to survive. He was desperate, but not stupid. Sarvis had only to rely on his tattered map to navigate the Northern Wastes, and inaccurate as it was, he managed to discover a marked trail on it, the one he now followed.

From the map’s directions, the trail lead on for awhile into the distant foothills and eventually reached the city of Snowspire. There he would stop for the night and carry on to Lake Bridmor. That was, if he could make it that far. He stumbled on for a while more, the wind whipping and roaring around him like a savage beast only mocking him in his failure. He still had not forgotten all that had gone on only in the last few hours. Within that long, Sarvis’ whole world had crashed down around him. He used to believe there was someone he could trust, someone who had something to offer him and to perhaps give him shelter from all the perils of the world. Well, he thought to himself, look where that all went.

He still couldn’t believe it, Jack betraying him. As long as he could remember, they had not exactly been on good terms, but they respected eachother nonetheless. Or at least Sarvis did. Everything had changed for him, now fighting for his life to escape the frigid cold and to stop the very thing he once upheld, though doubts of success were not infrequent in his mind. This would be a long day.

. . .

“This can’t be good.” Durig said, burying himself in a deep, heavy burgundy cloak. The company had reached their first trial on land, trouble never staying that far behind in their journey as it seemed. Not an hour away from their departure from the ship, they had difficulties finding the road that branched off from the Lost Harbor, as they had docked farther up beach from the place to avoid notice. To make matters worse, a shroud of white mist was surrounding them, blanketing the land. It was impassable, impenetrable, and the company was getting nowhere fast.
“Well, you think?” Rufus rolled his eyes and spoke with a tone of frustration in his voice.
“Look,” Tom said, “this fog isn’t going to clear anytime soon and we aren’t going to get anywhere soon either, so I suggest we stop here for awhile until it does.”
“Stop? We’ll not get anywhere before the enemy does! Finrar, don’t you have some sort of spellcraft to get us out of this?” Rufus said, looking around as if he could bore a hole in the fog with his stare.
“Er…” the mage scanned the vague surroundings uncertainly and shrugged, “I suppose… What say you Tom?”
Tom suddenly became rigid and said, “I’m afraid not. Do you have any idea what will happen if we carry on in this, even with magic to guide the way? We could fall behind even more if we get lost and venture even more off course. For the last time, I say that we should stand our ground here, though if your judgment tells you so, then so be it.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Veros had no wish to tarry in this place any longer, especially with the shadow of the enemy so near. They had to get to the sword as soon as possible. “Tom,” Veros said, avoiding eye contact until Tom’s gaze could no longer be ignored, “I’m sorry but if we are to wait any longer we’ll never reach the sword. That or the enemy will. It’s just what we have to do.” Then, Tom gave him a look that was seemingly wise and knowledgeable but somehow disheartened. With Tom, Veros could never really guess.

“Very well then,” Tom said, “Finrar, do what you can.” Finrar blinked hesitantly before he lifted one eyebrow and brushed off his heavy smock.
“Fine. I haven’t had that much of a use for this field of spellcraft. Honestly, I’m quite rusty. Here we go though.” With a quick stroke of his hand through the frosty air, he muttered some sort of incantation under his breath as he faced the insurmountable fog and occasionally paused. Veros noticed that his brow was furrowed as if he was confused. There was a long pause after he spoke the last few words of the incantation, rising in volume so that Veros could make out the odd dialect he was speaking. The words flowed sleek with a tone that was interrupted by the sharpness of certain strangely pronounced expressions. What Veros heard went:

“Alinoctum oru seluminoir vok saimornelis fanelum oru delarctu!”

The silence that surrounded them after he said this was as chilling as the cold that wrapped them in its frigid embrace. The words were of a language never heard in Albion, one that could instill a sensation in the hearts of all who heard it, a deep feeling that welled up without remorse within each of them. Suddenly, a black tower of smoke erupted from the still ground and parted the shroud like two great dark hands pushing aside the fog. A straight line through the split fog yielded the way over the frozen hills to the woodlands not but a few miles away. Veros hesitated a moment, caught up in the abrupt fury and intensity of Finrar’s spellcraft, something that never ceased to amaze him. He was instantly brought out of his daze as he noticed that Finrar was proceeding through the passage made by the spell. The rest followed, Veros close in tail.

For a few minutes, they only walked through the uncovered shroud, none of them saying a word. To break the silence and ease his mind, Veros slipped over to where Finrar led the group with a brisk gate and began speaking. “Finrar,” he said, trying to keep his tone level as he stared around at the massive pillar of shadow that held back the tide of the fog, “What sort of Will is this? I’ve never seen the like of this.”
“Precisely,” Finrar said matter-of-factly, “because this is no art of Will, Veros. This particular brand of magic is none other than the mysterious way of Siskarrala, the black magic of a land far off. Though the title of such a place eludes me, it has been said that the dark magic now practiced commonly by the shadowed magicians of Albion originated from the Siskarrala form of magic. The particular spell I just used was one known as the ‘delarctu shadoris’, or the ‘dark fist’ in our language. A very powerful bit of spellcraft indeed. The people of the Siskarrala were the first to know of the bonds of magic and human, and how exactly we could manipulate the forces of the unknown to bend to our will. As some still say though, magic is a truly fickle thing. Indeed, this was true in their case. Apparently the black magic was a force too overwhelming for such a people, and its superior strength brought their society to its knees. But I suppose that’s what meddling in the shadowed arts gets you…”

“How do you know dark magic?” Veros said, his tone coming out more accusing than he had anticipated.
Finrar fortunately not detecting this, replied, “Well, Veros. You should very well know. It is not something that anyone just ‘knows’. It is in the blood of those gifted enough to have possessed ancestral control of the magical properties. Take my grandfather Wilco Vodruke for instance. What a magician he was. Always pulling quick tricks to entertain my brothers and I, though I never truly knew of his full ability until my thirteen birthday when it was revealed that I possessed the very same blood of Will in my veins. It just so turned out that my grandfather had knowledge of the dark arts as well… a magician has to have his variety after all. As for you, someone in your family must have possessed the ability to cast dark magic. As for other forms of Will, it remains unknown. When you return to Knothole Glade you should research it.” Veros hung on to his every word, pondering deeply as soon as he said ‘when you return’. When? He had never truly thought of it, how he may never live to see their return…

Their footsteps quickened as they came to the end of the shroud’s long reach, much to Veros’ relief. They stepped on the other side of the invisible barrier that marked the end of the odd wall of fog, Finrar turning on one heel to close it with a single word of the Siskarrala dialect, “Omuri”. Veros wondered what the expression might mean, but from what he knew about long-lost languages, their words meant much of what could not usually be explained in Albion’s common tongue. The two black pillars that held apart the fog like a tall impenetrable wall floated smoothly back together like a massive gate, creating in their wake a deep, loud Oooormm sound that echoed and resounded around the area. They then dissipated without a moment’s hesitation, fading into the fog as if they were never there.
“Whoah.” Durig said. Yeah, Veros thought. That would pretty much describe it well enough.

. . .