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What I was talking about on Monday
^^ Still rough, b/c Sammikins has been busy and I never got around to harassing Ki-chan (who, I think, is busy as well)
And I wanted to have one more chapter done, but I'm on vacation all of next week and this is on the list so for now just the prologue.
I've attempted this story on three different occasions and never liked anything. As per usual, I was missing something and it finally came to me.
As much as I love my Storm Dragons, I have to confess here that the Phoenix and the Firebird were always my favorite mythical creatures. Sammie will attest.
The young woman trembled.
She stood before an altar. It came to just above her waist, carved from black marble, inlaid with gold and silver forming intricate, scrolling artwork all around the edge. The precious few to have ever seen it never felt less than awe. Once, when the occasional visitor was not uncommon, some suggested the scrollwork was not simple design, but words that none but a god could understand.
The rest of the room was just as dark and beautiful, made entirely from that same black marble, all of it covered with that elaborate scrollwork. It looked like a spell come to life.
A heavy feeling lingered, created by centuries of existence and the taint of magic far older. It smelled like fire, ash and smoke. As beautiful as the room was, it was also hot – but not in such a way that anyone inside it was left gasping for breath and dripping sweat. It was hot, but no one who entered suffered the effects of the heat.
The girl at the altar was pretty. A peasant girl , from a humble farm to the far south of the country. She had fair hair and sun-darkened skin, freckles across her cheeks and nose. Work-roughed hands fisted in a simple green homespun dress. Pretty but ultimately rather ordinary.
Except for her eyes. They burned as gold as the sun at midday, then seemed to shift to a rich yellow-orange, almost to red before shifting again to gold. Seven days ago, when they’d found her in a small market two hours from her family’s farm, her eyes had been blue.
She was oblivious to the splendor around her. When she had first been led into the room it had briefly stolen her interest, but her attention now was solely for the man before her.
High Priest Dym.
“I don’t want to die,” she said, eyes wide as she looked at him. She bit her lip to hold back whatever else she might say. She had already begged, already pleaded. Her family had said they loved as she bid them goodbye, and she had said she loved them too.
“No,” High Priest Dym said. “I’d imagine not.” His voice was cool, but not in an unkind way. It was more like a voice that couldn’t help but be cool. His skin was pale, a strange contrast to the dark marble room. Short hair cut close to his head, leaving his green eyes stark and bright. “All will be well, zolotka, I promise you. There is no need to fear.”
“I know,” she whispered, gold eyes locked to his green. She bit her lip, leaving marks, then sighed softly and finally spoke. “Will I be forgotten?”
High Priest Dym shook his head. “Never. Those who are loved are never forgotten.” The words felt unfinished, like there was something more than should have been added. But the High Priest said nothing more.
She smoothed her dress and then clasped her hands modestly in front of her.
The High Priest smiled, but it was full of sadness rather than joy. He reached out and caught a stray curl in his long, thin finger and tucked it behind her ear, then cupped her cheek. His hand was cool against her hot skin. “Forgive my impertinence, Eminence,” he murmured softly as he bent down and kissed her, briefly, softly. The girl gasped but didn’t full away, and when he pulled away her trembling had stilled. “Go in peace, burn bright…” Like his earlier words, the prayer felt unfinished. Incomplete.
He lifted his other hand and pressed gently against the space just above her breast.
Another gasp, slightly of pain, mostly of wonder, as the magic of the fire feather pressed to her skin flooded her body, consumed her. A last soft sigh, and the light in the gold eyes died.
High Priest Dym caught her as she crumpled and lifted her to the altar, laying her gently down.
For a second, all was still.
Then the body on the altar burst into flame. The fire consumed it rapidly. In second there was nothing but ashes left. Throughout the burning, High Priest Dym stood impassively. His eyes, a bright, clear green, turned dark while he watched.
Somewhere, as if very far away, the cry of a bird sounded. Sad. Angry. Lost. Then silence.
The ashes shifted, stirred, and the room grew unbearably hot for a single moment. There, in the center of the altar, resting on a bed of ashes, was a fire feather. It was long, the length of High Priest Dym’s hand, and ranged in color from deep red at the base to fine gold at the tip.
High Priest Dym delicately lifted the fire feather from the ashes and hid it within the depths of his robes. Then he fanned his right hand out on the ashes. His green eyes grew bright, and they seemed to shimmer as he spoke. The words were old, forgotten by nearly all.
Show me the next.
The Sacred Storm Bringers were the first to fall, and were by treachery Sealed. For days the winds and waters raged out of control, causing destruction across the five worlds.
Amidst the chaos wrought by the fall of the Sacred Storm Bringers, the people of Pozhar saw their own chance. Dissatisfied with their own proud and arrogant Firebird, envious of all he had and was, they attacked when he was most vulnerable – nothing but ashes, waiting to be reborn with the dawn. This happened only once a year, and last only through the dark hours of the night.
One man stood in their way, one man refused to betray Zhar Ptitka, the Firebird of Phozar. Brutally the people killed him, as much from fear as contempt. They left him dead in the Antechamber and broke into the Chamber of Night.
The Firebird was nothing but Ashes awaiting resurrection. But merely scattering those ashes would not be enough to destroy the firebird. A God of Resurrection and Reincarnation, killing him was an impossible feat. Instead traitorous priests cast a spell, sending the ashes out to be reborn apart, separating the soul of Zhar Ptitka into a 1000 pieces.
When the spell was cast the angry people turned on the priests. They killed every last one, and burned the temple down as they left. Across the country, priests and those who would not rescind their devotion to Zhar Ptitka were slain.
No one who might know the key to resurrecting the Firebird was left alive. Magic was outlawed except where it was needed to administer justice and ensure that the new laws were not broken.
So the people of Pozhar moved on, free at last of their arrogant god.
But they lived in fear.
So the new leaders devised a way to seek the truth of the matter; to see if they were truly safe from the god they had betrayed. Pozhar became a country of prophesy, and the first prophecy to come of their efforts brought their every fear to life:
Deadly magic will destroy and wake the Sacred Firebird who in vengeance will bathe Pozhar in deadly flame and thus reclaim dominion over fire.
Terrified, the people frantically sought a way to prevent their terrible fate. New priests were made, old magic resurrected, and at last a plan was devised.
They could not kill the Firebird. But they could kill the pieces. The ashes, the soul, of the Firebird had been broken into a thousand pieces. Those pieces could be found and finally destroyed, with no chance of rebirth. This would free Pozhar of his control once and for all.
Finding the first was the hardest, but each piece killed pointed to another. Over years and decades and centuries, the people of Pozhar hunted down the pieces of the Firebird. These pieces, these people, came to be known as Candidates, for each in theory had the potential to become the Firebird. All they lacked was power, and Pozhar saw to it they never had that power.
The Candidates were killed, one by one, as Pozhar struggled to avoid the fate spelled out in prophecy.
Then one day the clear skies suddenly blackened with storm clouds. Thunder and lightning made the earth tremble, and rain poured down so that people at first feared they would drown.
In the hearts of those who knew what thesStorm really meant, drowning was not what concerned them. The terrific Storm was the first part of the Sacred Prophecy – it hailed the return of the Sacred Storm Bringers of Kundou. The first part of the prophecy had come to pass.
If the remaining Candidates were not soon found and killed, the second part of the Sacred Prophecy would come to pass. Pozhar would burn.
And I wanted to have one more chapter done, but I'm on vacation all of next week and this is on the list so for now just the prologue.
I've attempted this story on three different occasions and never liked anything. As per usual, I was missing something and it finally came to me.
As much as I love my Storm Dragons, I have to confess here that the Phoenix and the Firebird were always my favorite mythical creatures. Sammie will attest.
Burning Bright
Prologue
Black clouds will fill the sky, and rain will cover the world, and the Sacred Storm Bringers will once more claim dominion over the oceans and sky.
~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 1, Summary
Deadly magic will destroy and wake the Sacred Firebird who in vengeance will bathe Pozhar in deadly flame and thus reclaim dominion over fire.
~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 2, Summary
Prologue
Black clouds will fill the sky, and rain will cover the world, and the Sacred Storm Bringers will once more claim dominion over the oceans and sky.
~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 1, Summary
Deadly magic will destroy and wake the Sacred Firebird who in vengeance will bathe Pozhar in deadly flame and thus reclaim dominion over fire.
~Sacred Prophecy of the Lost Gods, Section 2, Summary
The young woman trembled.
She stood before an altar. It came to just above her waist, carved from black marble, inlaid with gold and silver forming intricate, scrolling artwork all around the edge. The precious few to have ever seen it never felt less than awe. Once, when the occasional visitor was not uncommon, some suggested the scrollwork was not simple design, but words that none but a god could understand.
The rest of the room was just as dark and beautiful, made entirely from that same black marble, all of it covered with that elaborate scrollwork. It looked like a spell come to life.
A heavy feeling lingered, created by centuries of existence and the taint of magic far older. It smelled like fire, ash and smoke. As beautiful as the room was, it was also hot – but not in such a way that anyone inside it was left gasping for breath and dripping sweat. It was hot, but no one who entered suffered the effects of the heat.
The girl at the altar was pretty. A peasant girl , from a humble farm to the far south of the country. She had fair hair and sun-darkened skin, freckles across her cheeks and nose. Work-roughed hands fisted in a simple green homespun dress. Pretty but ultimately rather ordinary.
Except for her eyes. They burned as gold as the sun at midday, then seemed to shift to a rich yellow-orange, almost to red before shifting again to gold. Seven days ago, when they’d found her in a small market two hours from her family’s farm, her eyes had been blue.
She was oblivious to the splendor around her. When she had first been led into the room it had briefly stolen her interest, but her attention now was solely for the man before her.
High Priest Dym.
“I don’t want to die,” she said, eyes wide as she looked at him. She bit her lip to hold back whatever else she might say. She had already begged, already pleaded. Her family had said they loved as she bid them goodbye, and she had said she loved them too.
“No,” High Priest Dym said. “I’d imagine not.” His voice was cool, but not in an unkind way. It was more like a voice that couldn’t help but be cool. His skin was pale, a strange contrast to the dark marble room. Short hair cut close to his head, leaving his green eyes stark and bright. “All will be well, zolotka, I promise you. There is no need to fear.”
“I know,” she whispered, gold eyes locked to his green. She bit her lip, leaving marks, then sighed softly and finally spoke. “Will I be forgotten?”
High Priest Dym shook his head. “Never. Those who are loved are never forgotten.” The words felt unfinished, like there was something more than should have been added. But the High Priest said nothing more.
She smoothed her dress and then clasped her hands modestly in front of her.
The High Priest smiled, but it was full of sadness rather than joy. He reached out and caught a stray curl in his long, thin finger and tucked it behind her ear, then cupped her cheek. His hand was cool against her hot skin. “Forgive my impertinence, Eminence,” he murmured softly as he bent down and kissed her, briefly, softly. The girl gasped but didn’t full away, and when he pulled away her trembling had stilled. “Go in peace, burn bright…” Like his earlier words, the prayer felt unfinished. Incomplete.
He lifted his other hand and pressed gently against the space just above her breast.
Another gasp, slightly of pain, mostly of wonder, as the magic of the fire feather pressed to her skin flooded her body, consumed her. A last soft sigh, and the light in the gold eyes died.
High Priest Dym caught her as she crumpled and lifted her to the altar, laying her gently down.
For a second, all was still.
Then the body on the altar burst into flame. The fire consumed it rapidly. In second there was nothing but ashes left. Throughout the burning, High Priest Dym stood impassively. His eyes, a bright, clear green, turned dark while he watched.
Somewhere, as if very far away, the cry of a bird sounded. Sad. Angry. Lost. Then silence.
The ashes shifted, stirred, and the room grew unbearably hot for a single moment. There, in the center of the altar, resting on a bed of ashes, was a fire feather. It was long, the length of High Priest Dym’s hand, and ranged in color from deep red at the base to fine gold at the tip.
High Priest Dym delicately lifted the fire feather from the ashes and hid it within the depths of his robes. Then he fanned his right hand out on the ashes. His green eyes grew bright, and they seemed to shimmer as he spoke. The words were old, forgotten by nearly all.
Show me the next.
The Sacred Storm Bringers were the first to fall, and were by treachery Sealed. For days the winds and waters raged out of control, causing destruction across the five worlds.
Amidst the chaos wrought by the fall of the Sacred Storm Bringers, the people of Pozhar saw their own chance. Dissatisfied with their own proud and arrogant Firebird, envious of all he had and was, they attacked when he was most vulnerable – nothing but ashes, waiting to be reborn with the dawn. This happened only once a year, and last only through the dark hours of the night.
One man stood in their way, one man refused to betray Zhar Ptitka, the Firebird of Phozar. Brutally the people killed him, as much from fear as contempt. They left him dead in the Antechamber and broke into the Chamber of Night.
The Firebird was nothing but Ashes awaiting resurrection. But merely scattering those ashes would not be enough to destroy the firebird. A God of Resurrection and Reincarnation, killing him was an impossible feat. Instead traitorous priests cast a spell, sending the ashes out to be reborn apart, separating the soul of Zhar Ptitka into a 1000 pieces.
When the spell was cast the angry people turned on the priests. They killed every last one, and burned the temple down as they left. Across the country, priests and those who would not rescind their devotion to Zhar Ptitka were slain.
No one who might know the key to resurrecting the Firebird was left alive. Magic was outlawed except where it was needed to administer justice and ensure that the new laws were not broken.
So the people of Pozhar moved on, free at last of their arrogant god.
But they lived in fear.
So the new leaders devised a way to seek the truth of the matter; to see if they were truly safe from the god they had betrayed. Pozhar became a country of prophesy, and the first prophecy to come of their efforts brought their every fear to life:
Terrified, the people frantically sought a way to prevent their terrible fate. New priests were made, old magic resurrected, and at last a plan was devised.
They could not kill the Firebird. But they could kill the pieces. The ashes, the soul, of the Firebird had been broken into a thousand pieces. Those pieces could be found and finally destroyed, with no chance of rebirth. This would free Pozhar of his control once and for all.
Finding the first was the hardest, but each piece killed pointed to another. Over years and decades and centuries, the people of Pozhar hunted down the pieces of the Firebird. These pieces, these people, came to be known as Candidates, for each in theory had the potential to become the Firebird. All they lacked was power, and Pozhar saw to it they never had that power.
The Candidates were killed, one by one, as Pozhar struggled to avoid the fate spelled out in prophecy.
Then one day the clear skies suddenly blackened with storm clouds. Thunder and lightning made the earth tremble, and rain poured down so that people at first feared they would drown.
In the hearts of those who knew what thesStorm really meant, drowning was not what concerned them. The terrific Storm was the first part of the Sacred Prophecy – it hailed the return of the Sacred Storm Bringers of Kundou. The first part of the prophecy had come to pass.
If the remaining Candidates were not soon found and killed, the second part of the Sacred Prophecy would come to pass. Pozhar would burn.
SQUEEE!
you need to stop writing things, because it will come to a point that I just won't let you sleep.
Re: SQUEEE!
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Ahh, the people of Pozhar, accusing the Firebird of arrogance when truly they were the arrogant ones thinking they could kill it.
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*is too incoherent from squee to properly enunciate how wonderful this is*
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*whistles innocently*
(So, technically it is all over for the month... but you have a built-in support group already... heh.)
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I think that would kill me. I barely made 100,000 in a month, and this story is going to be close to that. But dude, what a challenge.
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....
EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!
:jumps up and down:
THIS JUST MADE MY LIFE!!!!!!!
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wondering
1)if the firebird was really arrogant and thus warranted being overthrown, or was that just propaganda.
2)the incompleteness of the spellwords... like to break the completion of the cycle and prevent resurrection??
3) one man = high priest Dym (somehow) ?
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^___^
1)He really was an arrogant bastard. Not so bad he should have been killed, but he was something of a jerk. It's not wholly propoganda, sadly.
2)More like he's not supposed to say them. High Priest Dym is a very pale, damn near transparent, imitation of what a High Priest was when the Firebird still lived. He says them out of guilt, sort of. he believes in what he's doing, but it's still not fun killing people.
3)That bit was mostly meant just to make clear how brutal the people were being. Never quite got it to come out right.
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<<<3333
*mad, mad fangirling*
*flying tackle glomps* You rock the world. You just do and I was sooooooo happy to see this! *bounces* I love how you shape these prophecies, and I love that the people of Pohzar are scrambling so madly to try and stop what they've predicted will happen.
;_; But, but, the poor peasant girl...(I did love the way that scene played out though. So cool! You know, in a human sacrifice kind of way. ^_^;;)
*twirls you about* You're amazing. You really are. ^________________^