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 Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2009 10:43 pm
A full moon hangs heavy above the rocky coast of Vedden'Saro and Nanarn stands alone on a quickly disappearing spit of sand. In the time since he first ventured down from the relative safety of his temple home the once wide shoal ink coloured sand had been eaten away by the swiftly advancing tide. The priest mutters a curse under his breath as the water creeps closer to his exposed toes. The rumble of far off thunder sounds a growled response.
"You could at least have sent me here on low tide!" he hisses back, voice hoarse from hours spent in silence.
As if in reply, the slightest hint of wind creeps across the still ocean towards Nanarn. It starts with so little force that it is barely noticeable, but the tiny breath of air is all the waiting man needs. Nanarn closes his eyes and empties his lungs of stale air. He lifts his face to the sky and fills his lungs with fresh air. Almost instantly he is hit by the overpowering tang of dried blood and burnt flesh flood his mind. He reels from the sensation. The pungent smell of dead things stirs a long dormant hunger in Nanarn's belly and it aches terribly. He runs a black clawed finger across the bare flesh of his stomach. The scare covered, hollow flesh reminding him of vows he had taken so many years ago.
“Not now,” he whispers to himself. “Soon. So very Soon...”.
The priest brings his mind back to the task at hand. The wind is shifting direction slightly and he needs to be ready. Repeating his previous movements, the priest empties his lungs with a long sigh, them sucks in a another lung full of cool sea air. The lingering reek of corpses fills his thoughts again, but this time there is something else hidden within.
Something new. Something so alive. Something he’d been waiting for months.
His eyes dart in the direction of the new scent had originated. There’s a light. The tiniest of lights. So small it could be mistaken as being nothing more than the reflection of a star or a trick on the mind. Nanarn smiles wide. He was beginning to suspect they'd run aground on some hidden reef.
He carefully slips a hand into the leather pouch at his waist and gathers a handful of fine silver power. He clutches it tightly between long fingers before tossing the metallic grit high in the air above his head, the movement a little awkward after being still for so long. A blinding light erupts as the powder makes contact with the damp sea air. A shower of hissing sparks cascades down, extinguishing themselves with a tiny ‘pop’ as they hit the water bellow. Nanarn hopes the idiots that had been hired had enough brains to realise the flare was intended for them, not just a pretty little sea fairy. The light on the horizon sputters for a moment before beginning to grow larger, moving quickly towards where Nanarn waited.
Nanarn watches as a sorry little wooden dingy drifts into sight, dragged in by the incoming tide. As it makes its approach, Nanarn slides a hand along his hip, fingers finding the thin blade that is strapped to his outer thigh. He has no trust for the men who deal in the trade of small children (or any of the various Common folk that he is forced to do business with far to regularly) and would much rather have not have been present for this particular exchange. He knows he has only his over merciful god and his vague ability to speak the Common Tongue to thank for his current position. He catches a glimpse of movement off in the and again wishes he were else where. The beasts that lurked in the curses waters around his home were all too familiar to him and he sincerely wish not to meet one personally. Nanarn clenches his jaw in an attempt to mask frustration then finally raises an arm, beckoning the little craft towards him.
“Sooner he’s here, sooner I can leave,” he says it almost as a reassurance to himself and the tiny fish that hide around his ankles.
As the dingy moves within a few dozen feet of Nanarn, a coarse male voice shouts from within, "Ahoy der, Mr. Priesty sir!"
Nanarn flinches at the thick accent of the intruder and gives a curt nod in reply.
A thick, balding man sits in the vessel, squinting in to the darkness, "Yur would be de Mr. Veed I'm meant ta' be meetin' den?"
The man pulls the boat alongside Nanarn as he speaks, dropping an anchor into the shallow water. The priest recoils at the brashness his actions and the anchor that was all but dropped on his toes.
"Yur a hard man ta' find. Can't see wha' we can't 'av just met ya' out in open wattas. I t'ink dis is a lot of trouble for dee wee little child".
Nanarn can do nothing but gape at the daft smuggeler. They had quite obviously sent the most backwards of their crew to deal with him. He blinks and again reminds himself of his duties to the temple.
Nanarn breathes in the man's scent as he comes closer. He stinks so much of Commonfolk the Garrion can't help but wade forward in the rising water until his is all but pressed against the boat. Nanarn screws his nose up at the chemical bite of gunpower that is mixed with the brute’s reek. His eyes go to the man’s bloated waist where pair of pistols sit tucked into his pockets. Nanarn leans back a little from the other, and clears his throat. He begins speaking slowly, unsure of the half breed pirate’s comprehensive abilities.
"The location of our meeting is mere technicality now," he pauses to check for signs of recognition, “I take it you've got we you were asked to bring?".
The Common man beams at Nanarn, either oblivious or too desperate to please to notice the Garrion’s growing annoyance, "Oh yes sir! We got 'im . We 'ad two, but well sir, I ‘ate to say et, but de udda had a bi’ of a accident on da way to da ship".
The brainless pirate pauses for a moment to think, hand scratching his chin as if all answers lie within the unshaven skin, "Yur welcome to see 'im sir. De boy is a little on de ‘tin side I'm a'fraid. 'E refused ta' eat while we were sailin'".
Without waiting for a response, the man hauls a large bundle from behind his seat and shakes it out on to the decking bellow. A waif of a body rolls out from within the thick wadding with a rather harsh ‘thud’. It barely whimpers as the Common man rolls it onto its back with the toe of his boot. A tinge of relief shows in Narnar’s face at the sight of the wasted figure - it’s most defiantly Garrion blood, and male. He had feared the buffoon had bought him some scrawny little common out cast, which would be so very use less, so many ways. Noticing Nanarn’s lack of excitement at the sight of the boy, the Common man hoists the child up for Nanarn to better see. The smuggler speaks quickly, desperation seeping into his voice, "Ee' does still has some life in 'im, I swear to sir! Jus' when we crossed dem reefs ‘ee was cryin' like a little babe! ". The man shakes the boy roughly. “Maybe ‘ee is seasick?”.
Nanarn raises a brow at the pitiful creature clamped between the burly pirate's hands. He leans in closer to examine the boy, frowning at the motley coloured bruises that cover the it’s arms and chest. The older Garrion’s eyes trail over the bony figure before settling on tiny hands that clutch tightly around a small box. Nanarn tugs the little thing from the boy’s hands looks on it in awe – it had been so long since he’d seen a child with one. All those who arrive on the island come without so much as a name, but this child had its physical soul. He rolls the little treasure over in his hands, inspecting the filth caked carvings and dull gold inlay that covered it. It is in tiny, worn down script, hidden on the underside of the he finds the name. Nanarn traces it with a black claw and looks up at the boy and whispers to him, “You’re name is Zanith, isn’t it?” The boys eyes crack open the words and Nanarn’s heart lifts.
A black toothed grin cracks across his face, and the man recoils to a safer distance, pulling the boy back on to the decking with him. Nanarn drops the little box in after them and hauls himself into the rocking boat.
The Garrion Priest laughs as his sits down next to terrified pirate, " Oh, not to worry my dear buccaneer, he's got some life in him yet".
The face blanches by the sudden closeness of the tall stranger, but the prospect of payment overcomes his fears. He smiles a toothless grin and joins the adult Garrion in his laughter.
The brief moment of distraction is all Nanarn needs to slip the long knife from his side and bring it across the man's throat. The skin splits slowly until a wound running the length of the man’s great neck is exposed. Bright arterial blood flows freely form the wound and begins to for a puddle around his feet. As the Nanarn slips the knife into the vast belly of the near death Common man, a tiny sob behind him draws his attention. Nanarn bows his head against the dying man’s shoulder, brows furrowed in exhaustion. His last meal had been weeks ago, and the smell freshly spilt blood was intoxicating. He turned to the direction the sound had come from. The Child, Zanith. He turns to the boy who now stands behind him, legs shaking and arms wrapping around its frail torso. Nanarn pushes the knife the rest of the way into the pirate’s torso.
“I’d best get you onto dry land before something decides to eat us,” he pulls the boat’s anchor onto the deck as he speaks, hand brushing against something wet, solid and slightly scaly in the water.
(( 1739 words.
And now I remember why I never
ever write in present tense.
I can't do it to save my life.))
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Posted: Thu Jan 14, 2010 6:24 am
Nanarn presses long clawed fingers against his temples as a teen apprentice runs down the corridor towards him. He squeezes his eyes shut and concentrates on the nagging pain in his head instead of impending conversation. An febile moan escapes his lips as he listens to the slap of the nearing foot falls, “A moments peace is all I ask for once in a while...”.
The youth barely stops before he crashes into the older man. “My Lord! ” he cries breathlessly. The young apprentice remains standing until he catches his breath, at which time he becomes aware his grievous mistake. The boy’s eyes go wide in panic as he realises his lapse in protocol and he falls to his knees, head bowed so low that his forehead touches the cold, stone paved floor, his voice straining from fear and exhaustion, “Forgive me my lord! ” His hands trembing as he speaks.
Nanarn cracks open an eye at the boy’s obvious distress. The sight that greets him is equal parts beautiful and pathetic. The garrion youth is awkwardly proportioned from a recent growth spurt, too-long limbs made even more obvious thanks to the boy’s waif-like figure. Thick, Roughly braided hair veils the youth’s gaunt face, hiding the pained expression that is no doubt etched across his features. A smirk dances across Nanarn's features at the quivering messenger - He does so love it when they’re scared witless. Nanarn finally opens both eyes and straightens to his full height, towering over the juvenile Garrion.
He gives the boy a rough kick in the side, “Get up you useless little wretch!” he snarls. Nanarn waits for the boy to scramble to his feet before continuing. “There’s a body down by the dock, bring it up before something else decides it needs it more we than do”.
Terror falls over the boys face at the mention of the dock, his thoughts going instantly to the stories that are whipsered about what dwells in dark waters of Vedden’Saro. Nanarn pays no to the hesitation in the boys expression and moves on to a fresh though. “Before you go, bring something for the new brat to eat”. A vague gesture to a balled up figure behind Nanarn accompanies his last words. The apprentice nods quickly at his instructions, then bows low and backs away. As he turns to leave, he chances a glance into the room behind Nanarn in the attempt to catch a glimpse of the new kid. Nanarn waits until the boy has disappaeared from sight before he turns back to face his quarters, the tiniest flicker of pity in his heart at having sent the boy on a rather unpleasant errand. The docks where indeed an unpleasent place for anything but seaweed and dead fish.
Nanarn knees before the child, staring into its wide, seemingly vacant eyes. He reminds himself yet again that it has a name and that he must actually care for the little beast. “Zanith Pari,” he mutters to himself and the big, dull eyes dart up to meet his own. Apparently it was at least somewhat cognisant, if not so far completely uesless for anything but taking up his bed. He decides to try something on the miserable creature, and Nanarn slides the steaming bowl of soup-stuff that had arrive earlier across to the child.
The child, Zanith, stares down into the anaemic coloured liquid. A chunk of oily flesh floats to the surface when he dips a finger in, and the he beings stirs at teh stuff in an attempt to bring more little treasures from the depth. Zanith’s eyes light up as more and more little bits of coloured material drift up and he lets out a a little squeal of joy.
Nanarn sucks in a breath and repeats the previous gesture pressing thumb and forefinger to his temples, scowling at the boy from under his hand.
“You’re meant to eat it,” he sighs, patients quickly escaping him. Zanith stops stiring, and looks blankly up at him, index finger still submerged up to the top knuckle in the soup-stuff. Nanarn clenches his fists and makes an effort to resistant the urge to throw the contents of the bowl in boy’s face. He pulls in another deep breath and settles on a different approach.
Nanarn relaxes his fists and gently takes the bowl from the child. He musters the most sincere look of kindness he could ever hope to achieve, and speaks with slow, hushed words. “Like this,” he coos as he lifts it to Zanith’s face, “Now open your mouth.”
For a moment the forced smile and sweet voice faltering when the boy fails to react. Nanarn’s heart races and his brows furrow, but the child’s lips part eventually and the priest quickly tips the bowl up, allowing the contents to pour into Zanith’s mouth. For a moment all is fine. Zanith takes hold of the bowl and happily slurps away at the watery soup. It is when he finally comes to bite down on one of the little chunks of meat that Nanarn’s efforts come undone in a shower of greasy soup and half chewed flesh. The child freezes as his milk teeth sink into rough sinew, his eyes popping and bottom lip being to quiver. In a flurry of movement, Zanith throws the bowl aside and beings to wipe at his tongue, spitting little drops of saliva and soup as he struggles to be free of the strange taste. He wails loudly to being with but finally resigns himself to a methodical “Ick, ick, ick!” between bouts of tongue scraping. Nanarn grimaces as the majority of what was thrown begins to slid down his face, leaving a cold, wet and oh, so slimy train as it goes. As it begins to run down over his lips, his black strained tongue darts out to catch a piece of falling meant. As the stuff oozes over him, he sits perfectly still in an attempt to regain composure and fight back the initial urges to throw the boy right back in the ocean where he came from. Reason over powers instinct and Nanarn decides on a more rational course of action. He squares his shoulders and begins to gather the scattered remains of the meal in fine, deliberate motions, his expression blank and body relaxed. While he works, Zanith continues to fuss, beginning to cry something apparently about poisoned. A brief flicker of relief runs through Nanarn’s mind at the boy’s use of actual worlds. He’d been growing a little concerned at his general lack of speaking.
When Nanarn collects as much of the large pieces of tossed food as could be salvaged, he dumps them back in the little bowl and turns to Zanith. “You will eat,” he growls, all signs of civility vanishing from his form. The boy stops his hysterics and goes bug eyed at the sudden harshness in the tall man’s demeanour. His lower lip pulls up and the Zanith begins to tear up, great gulping sobs rolling form his tiny mouth. Nanarn ignores the little tears that run down the hollow cheeks of his charge, instead moving forward slowly, bowl in the one hand, the long, bony fingers of the other stretching out towards the boys ragged collar. Before the boy can register danger, Nanarn has him pinned roughly by the neck, broad hand stretching all the way around. The priest drops the bowl beside the boys head and uses the spare hand to force little mouth open. Half sprouted canines make a vain attempt at Nanarns fingers, and the adult bares his row of long, black teeth back at the boy.
“If you do not eat, I will make you,” he whispers as the hand around Zanith’s throat is replaced by a knee pressing lightly on his chest.
((1307 words
not happy. nonono.
hopefully the next one
will be less long winded, boring
and with slightly less crap paragraphing))
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Posted: Sat Jan 16, 2010 6:34 pm
Zanith was not quite four years old when he was first allowed to witness the bloodletting rituals performed by the Priests of Zazzar. He remembered it perfectly up until the point when the chanting started and he had passed out, meaning to say he remembered walking into a vast cavern that smelt like flowers and flesh and was hot like an oven but not much else. He’d woken hours later on the steps leading to the holy space, face caked with blood and skin already starting to burn from the time spent in the harsh summer sun. Later, when Nanarn had returned from evening prayers, Zanith had tried to ask the man what had happened while he was unconscious, but the only reply he received was a series of muttered curses and a rough shove towards the door. He’d gone to bed that night with his thoughts swimming in images of ghostly pale bodies swirling through a thick red haze.
The second time Zanith was given the opportunity to be present during the ritual was a month before his fifth birthday. As he’d shuffled through the narrow door behind the 12 other boys he shared sleeping quarters with, he’d vowed to himself that he’d at least make it half way through this time.
From the moment he’d stepped through the thick stone doorway and into the deep cavern, Zanith felt the stifling heat crash down on him like a wave. It closed in around him like a wall and sucked the air from his lungs when he tried to breath. When he did finally tried to catch his breath, the sickly-sweet bite of incense flooded into his nose and mouth, stinging his throat. Zanith could feel himself going to cough, so he held his breath as he walked further into the room, biting down on his lip as the sting in his throat grew more and more demanding. As his chest began to ache, he knew the inevitable was coming. His hands had flown to his mouth in an attempt to at least muffle the rising cough, fingers clamping down tightly around his lips. The boy next to him raised an brow as Zanith’s body convulsed and a tiny squeak escaped his mouth. While Zanith continued to struggle for breath, a sharp clawed hand took hold of his elbow and jerked him to the side.
“Breathe it in deep boy,” a harsh voice whispered against his ear. “Don’t try to hold your breath, you’ll only repeat the events of last time”. As the voice spoke, another hand came up to ruffle Zanith’s knotted hair, before grabbing hold and shoving him back towards the gathering of bodies that stood before him. Zanith stumbled into the boys, arms flying as he attempted to take hold of something solid. His sucked in desperate gasps of air as he struggled to grab hold of the sweat slicked limbs of his peers. “Help,” he cried hopelessly as he felt himself slipping to his knees. Deep droning chants began to fill every inch of the world around him, resonating from the walls and bodies alike and everything began to spin.
Zanith felt the world turn upside down and darkness begin to curtain his vision. He clawed feebly at legs as he slipped, until finally a small hand took hold of his own and pulled. He rose slowly to his feet, legs all but jelly under neither him. “
Th-thankyou,”” he stammered as the hand that had saved him let go, it and it’s owner turning their attention to a sudden movement that was taking place before them.
Zanith snapped his eyes to the space before him and felt his jaw dropped. Two male figures danced circles around each other, one leading the other as it reached gold tipped fingers out in a harsh caress. The taller of the figures – the one in pursuit – towered over the other, his long limbs and motley coloured wings making it appear as if it was one of the great birds of prey, chasing a tiny mammal. As Zanith stared, transfixed on the spectacle, his heart began to race. There was something hanging thick in the air, besides the chocking incenses, that made him shiver with excitement. He found himself taking in deep, steady breathes, the taste increasing the feeling of anticipation. A sudden raise in the pitch of the chanting that surrounded him drew his attention back to the bodies moving in increasingly tight circles before him. The face of the smaller one turned suddenly towards Zanith and he saw the look of utter terror that was clear on every inch of the man’s features. As if also startled by the rise in tone, the small man stumbled in his steps, feet slipping on an unseen patch of moisture. It was the slip that the taller one had been waiting for and it pounced, gold tipped fingers slipping around the waist and neck of the man, drawing him in close. The taller man, turned to face the crowed of on lookers, blue stained face raised high in triumph. It was then that Zanith saw it. His heart beat faster, and a fluttering sensation welled up in his stomach. Bright eyes, deeply scared features and a wide, black toothed smile looked down on him. Narnar, his care taker, stood before him, broad hands wrapped firmly around the quivering throat of some poor, terrified creature. Zanith’s head swam at the sight. He’d always thought of Nanarn as nothing more than teacher and prayer leader. Now he was something so different, something so dangerous. It made Zanith shudder.
As Zanith watched the pair stand together, something began to creep into his mind. The smaller man, the one held tight to Nanarn’s tower body, was different. No black feather wings stretched from its narrow shoulders, and it’s straw coloured hair hid no shining black horns. It was strange but familiar, evoking long forgotten memories of Zanith’s past. The difference nagged at Zanith’s mind and Curiosity finally got the better of him. He leant close to the boy next to him and whispered, “What’s wrong with little one? “ he paused to look back up at the pair, "I mean, why is he different?”.
The older boy next to Zanith stole a glance at the interruption, glaring down on him. “Whattya’ mean, ‘What’s wrong’?!” he hissed. The boy beside the one Zanith had whispered to shot a scathing glance and the older by leant in closer to Zanith. “Ya’ mean you’ve never seen one of the Common?”.
Zanith shook his head quickly in reply, but then changed his mind, blurting, “I think I’ve seen one. Maybe. I dunno”. He bit at his lip in an effort to order his thoughts. “What I mean is, why is Nanarn doing that to him?”
The boy made no attempt at hiding his complete surprise. “Geez kid, what the hell do they teach you all now”.
He grabbed Zanith’s head and turned it back to look at the podium where Nanarn stood. “Watch” he whispered, tiny smirk slipping to his lips.
Zanith had to squint to see through the growing haze. Nanarn still stood holding what the older boy had called a ‘Common’, but now blood ran slowly from the captive’s neck. The little stream of bright red rolled slowly the common man’s bare chest until finally finding its way to the floor bellow. From there it disappeared from Zanith’s view. Nanarn sunk his gloved fingers deeper in to the other man’s neck, evoking a feeble yelp from its lips. As the blood began to run faster from the common man’s wounds, something stirred behind Nanarn. It rose slowly from the obscured floor, dripping body arching to reveal nearly transparent skin. Zanith’s eyes went wide at the sight, fear gripping his heart as the strange thing began to lift its vast lower limbs, bringing them up to cover near Nanarn’s shoulders.
It was as the pale, dripping being slid a dim coloured limb along Nanarn’s shoulder that a sudden flurry of actions transpired. A bright crimson shower erupted from the Common man’s body as Nanarn sunk his fingers in and pulled, sending a shower of shredded flesh and blood over the eager crowd. As arterial blood cascaded down the man’s front, Nanarn dropped the dying man into the arms of the waiting apprentice’s bellow, who began carving with long knives. Nanarn turned to the creature, who lifted its black veiled head, revealing glassy black eyes that seemed to reflect the dim light of the room tenfold.
Zanith began to speak, dozens of questions rising in his head, but he was stopped by the fine mist of blood that had begun to form a red haze around them. It fell upon his skin, still warm from the body it had flown from only moments before. Zanith was terrified, but something in his head kept telling him to taste it. The something nagged, pulling at his mind until gave in and stuck his tongue out to catch the delicate fall of blood. When he pulled his tongue back in and swallowed, it hit him like a blast of fresh air. His head was clean for the longest of moments, a deep fulfilment filling his heart. As the sudden happiness faded his head began to spin, and he left so very dizzy.
Zanith sat cross legged in Nanarn’s chambers, waiting for the priest to return. He had woken just like before, blood soaked and sun burnt, but this time would be different. This time he would have his answers.
(( 1596 words
rushed ending.
Will probably rewrite it one day))
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