Welcome to Gaia! ::

Hey there. Welcome to the guild! Everyone here is a really skilled writer and I'm sure you'll find a home. Welcome again.

Okay, so after reading this piece, I have one question: Why is it called Amulet? I actually don't think that word was mentioned once in the entire piece. Or was it and I missed it? I dunno... But I was just wondering about that.

Then again, this is a work in progress, so perhaps that will be revealed later. If so, don't spoil it for me! Haha.

Also, I see that you're very good at descriptions. You have many complex and compound sentences throughout this. Perhaps some compound-complex... Anyway, that could get a little wordy. And your reader (like me) will have forgotten the main idea after finishing reading a sentence, causing them to go back and take long statements piece by piece. Which I suppose isn't a bad thing a few times. But you don't want to fall into the habit of doing such. So maybe you might want to play around with punctuation marks like hyphens, commas, semicolons, and the like to better break up long sentences while keeping the main thought fluid.

For example: The atmosphere was thick and oppressive; each breath stung Michael’s nostrils with the bitter scent of burning herbs and swirled in his lungs as he struggled to blow it out of him.

What exactly "swirled in Michael's lungs"? Was it the scent of the herbs or the thick atmosphere itself? You could break this into two sentences, possibly. Something along the lines of: "...burning herbs. The aroma swirled in his chest, enveloping his lungs as he struggled to force the scent out by coughing."

But that's how I interpret it. I'm probably way off on what you wanted to say with this so feel free to disregard that remark if you like. sweatdrop

Keep writing!

.:~o*'Isianya'*o~:.

Thank you guys! The comments were great. I was starting to think no one would ever reply. Yeah, the amulet doesn't come into this for a little bit, but when it does it's important. I edited things up to make his aunt his mothers sister, because Michael's mother died in childbirth, and I thought maybe I could hint at it being in the family. Anywho, this is the next section/chapter thing as it's not divided up yet. I'm wondering what you think of the religion, because it's starting to seem like a fake Christianity cop-out to me... Also the book seems like a cheap way to bring the reader up to speed.


“May the Good Lord guide us through the day, and protect us from evil, and those who carry it. May he keep us from the uncivilized races that populate this land, and keep their souls that contain the Dark Lord’s poison from infecting our own.”

Michael’s father lived by those words. He spoke them at the beginning of every Enlightening, and every member of the Believers could recite with him beat by beat. Michael could also, but still every day he was told ‘Listen. You learn by listening, son.’ Every man woman and child could be a divine if listening were all it took to replace Michael’s father. At the podium, his beetle eyes glittered, and like the night before, Michael could see the beads of sweat the decorated his brow. He spoke with fervor, mostly of the evils of magic. They were words that had once echoed out across the rooftops from the castle balcony when Michael was only a child, and over years had bled into their religion so permanently that it was a divine’s job to teach it.

“But we have tragedy among us today, which mars this sweet day given by the Good Lord.” Michael jerked out of his stupor at his father’s words. Tragedy?

“A child has been taken from us today, by those who are the epitome of evil, who call themselves sorcerers, but we know, yes my friends we know, their souls are those of demons. From our midst the savages took this babe, and whisked her off to teach her the dark ways. It was, in fact my sister-in-law’s child, and we grieve deeply on this day. And yet we must be thankful that the Good Lord took the child away, for she held the seed of evil in her soul. She would have been a weed in our society, and a weed must be pulled my friends, before it oppresses the fruitful garden in its entirety.” He repeated the opening prayer and stepped away from the podium. Wearily, the divine made his way down to Michael.

Michael’s aunt walked behind him, looking weary. Michael realized he had never given a second thought to how she had been yesterday after they had left, and immediately felt guilty. Her shoulders slumped in defeat as she walked along silently. She had loved that baby nesting in her rotund stomach more than life itself, and he realized she must be devastated. Michael had heard stories that wove their way up and down the streets in whispers about children spirited away by wizards, but never had he thought Aunt Clarissa’s could be the next one. Even now, he could see the glint in his father’s eyes, watching, and wondering how wife’s blood could have produced such a monstrosity. Michael didn’t believe there was anything special about the poor baby. There was no way they could know which child was a wizard. The sorcerers stole, and if it was the wrong child so be it.

Aunt Clarissa and his father had reached Michael now, and his father was surveying him disdainfully. Aunt Clarissa would not meet his eyes. Truthfully Michael was glad; he did not want to see the deadness he knew would be there. He had only seen it once, when he was just a small boy and too young to know his aunt’s first child had died.

His father, apparently satisfied with Michael’s appearance, placed one hand on Michael’s elbow and led him over to a table by the window, which was laden with candles and flowers. In the corner was a stack of books.

“Take these, boy. Read them in the library. You should finish them within a week.” he said gruffly. Michael took them in his outstretched arms and felt his knees buckle ever so slightly. Michael wondered how far the man would go to escape teaching anything.

Michael wasn’t sure how to get to the library, having never been there, but he didn’t want to ask his father. No doubt he’d be called an idiot and a fool to boot, and walk away with no more knowledge than he’d started with. The library was probably over in the left wing, where the scholars resided, he reasoned. His feet echoed loudly on the pale marble floors. He felt like an intruder, as if any minute someone would ask him why he was walking alone in the palace, and he would be unable to produce a plausible excuse. He felt like a child. The palace had high ceilings and wide hallways. Portraits, and even a few newfangled photographs of scholars and warriors, and several of the King lined the halls. He was the only true king Davria had ever had, for the wizards had ruled even a few years after Michael was born. Michael heard tell that the castle had been nothing but rough hewn stone kept warm and dry by the magic. He could not imagine it stripped of its current splendor.

The left wing however, was more worn than the rest of the castle, not like the King’s quarters or the Enlightenment room. The floors were polished wood instead of marble and the white paint on the walls was flaking. Michael figured that the scholars took little notice of their surroundings, so involved in their studies they were. It was widely known that the King was losing money, and he probably wouldn’t spend it on people who didn’t care. He used to bring exotic peoples to the city, some even traveled years by sea, all for his clocks and toys. They wore brightly colored silks and darkened skin, and they shivered at the winds that blew the length of the city as though they were great cold. Whether they stopped coming or the King stopped making first was not known, but the people were no longer seen anywhere around the city. Only a few prominent figures came anymore, and they did not give business to the people like the exotics did.

Michael came to an abrupt stop in front of a pair of large oak doors, engraved with flowers and books. They looked like library doors. After all, why would books be carved on any other kind of door? Michael put one hand on the handle, balancing his stack of books in the other. For a second he wondered if he should knock, but decided not to. It was public, after all, and there were no rules that said he could not enter. The door was heavy, and he had to put his full weight into it to open it.

The library was very large, and filled to the brim with books, some of them beautiful and crisp, others old and decrepit as though they had been on the shelves for many years. Long corridors of books wound around and around the room, like the streets of the city. Michael could see no one in the room, even when he peeked down each row. Walnut tables edged the room, unsteady on their singular legs. Michael sat down on a thick bench next to the table, his back to the wall, gazing warily towards the door and hoping they would not open. After much delay, he turned his attention to the books. They were all prayer books, each filled with prayers set in blindingly small print, half of which not even his father knew. He paused on the second page. Why did he need these when someday he would need to write his own? They were worthless, recycled prayers that only the unimaginative used. He would not pore over these books fruitlessly. He simply would not.

After his small rebellious decision Michael sat back in his chair, wondering what to do. He could go back to his father and tell him this assignment was utter nonsense. But the idea was dismissed as quickly as it came; he knew with one flash of his father’s condescending eyes he’d be in the exact same position as he was now. With little conviction, he rose from his seat and began to pace the aisles. Each one writhed around the room like a captured snake, meeting in the exact center, or so it seemed. The shelves stretched to the high vaulted ceiling. He ran one finger absently along the spines of each leather bound book, feeling ridges where gold lettering was embossed.

He wondered what would happen tonight. They would, no doubt, go visit Aunt Clarissa. He wouldn’t want to do that; the silence would pad the spaces between them like cotton until none of them could breath, let alone speak. The evenings had always been long and stifling, for as long as Michael could remember. He would come home each evening from the Academy and find his father in front of the fire, beetle eyes flashing. Sometimes he would ask what Michael had learned that day, and in the small lines that framed his father’s mouth, the tilt of his head, the creases that adorned his forehead, Michael could see disapproval. Sometimes Michael would feint exhaustion so he could lie in bed with his eyes wide, free of expectations if only for the night. However, he could see his father sneered upon his low tolerance for work, so he stayed up each night, thinking of a million different ways to start a conversation and rejecting them all. His father seemed perfectly at ease, reading his books that told no story and held no interest for Michael. Evenings had become a silent torture. He feared them with a deep, embarrassed terror that rested in the pit of his stomach. Tonight at least he could talk to his aunt, if only soft comforting words that were no good to anyone but himself; quenching his longing to fill the silence.

The titles of the volumes that covered the walls were fascinating, Michael discovered. Nothing like his father’s thick books. Beyond the wall: An explorer’s legacy, The history of Azruth, The rise and fall of Davria, The isolation of Azruth. Michael hooked one finger expertly onto the top of one of the books and pulled it off the shelf, leaving a gaping hole in the fortress. Taking it back to his small table, he set things up so he could easily stack the theology books on top of it should someone enter. He flipped eagerly to the title page and began to read.

Introduction: A Brief Overview of the History of Azruth

Azruth is a small island country off the coast of the Continent. It is a temperate nation, going through the cycle of seasons regularly. To reach Azruth, one must travel for months from the Continent and many years from the tropical nations. Since the major tropical nation of Bahia has developed steam boats, they can reach this enchanting country must faster. However, they very rarely come as the economy is declining in both nations. To see the reason we must travel back to the very roots of Azruth.

Strangely enough, Azruth was one of the very nations inhabited with other conscious beings before man. The gypsies were the predominant species for many hundreds of years, and are most probably the oldest species in this world. Endowed with strange pitch eyes that allow them to see the future, these beings lived mainly in the mountains. In the past few hundred years they have begun to travel around exploiting their talents for money, and even crossbreeding with humans. However, they lived solitary lives with only nature from the beginning, until a strange tropical species arrive.

They were from the tropics, come up in some impossible way on their primitive boats. They had a power to rival even the gypsies, the power to transform. Though many species of shape-shifters lived in the tropics, these evolved into only two: cougars in the mountains and wolves in the forests. The only thing every clan of shape-shifters has in common is the fact that they are predatory animals. They have the ability to become human only for short times and maintain all of their animalistic instincts. Though they are intelligent beings, many have argued that they are more creature than human. Several clashes between the clans of wolves and cougars took place, with separate gypsy families on both sides. These ancient battles have driven a wedge between both the shape-shifters and the gypsies that exists even now.

Only then did man arrive on the scene. They came over from the Continent; fleeing oppression .They came in peace, and stayed away from the other races. No conflict came from man for many hundreds of years, until a strange anomaly appeared; one that had never before been seen in peoples from the Continent. Some say it was inter-breeding with those of other species, others simply the aura of this strange isle of Azruth. But some humans developed the ability to wield magic, previously only seen in the shamans of the tropics.

The humans were afraid of these beings, their fear increased by the fact that it was their offspring that held these strange powers. Soon wizards were creating their own settlements, and enlisting the fortune-telling prowess of the gypsies to find future wizards, for they had lost the power to reproduce. The rulers of the capital city Davria feared the wizards, and so gave them only the rights of half citizens. After many years of oppression, the wizards rebelled. With their powers, they overtook the capital city. For many years they ruled with a heavy hand over the humans and the shape-shifters who refused to ally with them. This went on until around twenty years ago, when a young man in a small village over the mountains-

Michael stopped and looked up. The thick wooden door was swinging inward, and a tall thin man slipped around it, closing the door almost silently behind him. He started when he turned around and found Michael gazing at him. Grinning nervously, he ran one hand over his gray hair. “Hello boy.” he said cautiously. “What are you doing here?”

Michael fidgeted in his chair and pointed vaguely to his book, which he realized too late he had forgotten to hide. “Well… reading.” Which should be obvious, really, but Michael gave away none of his thoughts, afraid the man might throw him out.

“I wouldn’t have picked this place to do research on Azruth, if I were you.” The man said.
“
Why? Are the books not accurate?”

“Oh, they’re accurate enough, up until about twenty years ago. What kind of books do you think the king would allow in here, ‘cept ones that sing his praises?”

It sounded to Michael as if this man was almost criticizing the King. He had never heard of such a thing, and wondered how this man would have the gall to do it in broad daylight.

“Who are you anyway? I ‘aven’t seen you around the castle.” the man continued, looking as though he’d realized he’d said too much.

“The uh…” Michael wasn’t sure how to title himself. “The divine’s apprentice.” Better than nothing, he thought.

“Oh.” Flickers of distaste and fear chased across the man’s face. “You’d best leave, it’s getting late.” Michael glanced at the clock. It really was, it was almost four-o-clock already. Michael stood up and pushed his chair in. Self consciously, he shuffled his feet while stacking up the theology books, which he felt a pang of guilt about not reading at all. After putting the book back on the shelf, he made his way to the door. While he was heaving the door open with his one free hand, the man put a palm on his shoulder and began to speak. A small shock jumped through Michael’s veins and he turned back politely to listen to the man, but he had oddly fallen silent. His bright eyes were round as coins and his lips were slightly parted. Blinking rapidly, he bit his bottom lip and dropped the hand resting on Michaels shoulder listlessly. He seemed to be having some kind of internal struggle. Finally, he muttered “Why don’t you come back tomorrow boy.” and let the door swing closed inches from Michael’s face.