I probably shouldn't
Aug. 31st, 2006 06:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrThe plan with Stone Rose is what I did with BB - to finish at least half of it before I start posting. I liked that a lot.
But I can still harass you (esp since I still haven't finished the due chaps for Sandstorm.
So here's the Prologue rough.
And I guess tonight I'd better find an icon for this story.
The tavern was overcrowded with people, choking him with the stench of sweating flesh, cheap perfume, and cheaper alcohol. He sipped his ale in distaste and watched as more people crowded inside, making an already intolerable place sheer torture.
Someone stepped close to his table, looming over him with an air of purpose. He didn’t look up immediately, instead took his time finishing his watered-down drink. When he finally decided to pay attention to the figure patiently standing beside him, he faltered, caught himself gawking like a country boy visiting the city for the first time – and he’d not been that for more years than he liked to count. “You’re Cortez?”
“Is that a problem?”
He finally recovered, shaking himself and administering a stern, silent reprimand. Still…this did not match what he’d been told. “Not what I was expecting.”
“You’re a fool for having expectations of a stranger,” Cortez said coolly. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”
Nodding, the man threw some coins down and they made their way out of the tavern and into the crisp autumn night. He pulled a thin cigarette from a battered tin case and lit it carefully in the torch by the front door before they slunk off down the street.
High above a fat moon shone down with unusual brilliance; bright enough the harvesters could see to finish working their field. Here in the city, however, the light was broken by buildings and lamps, lending an eerie feeling to the atmosphere.
Cortez finally stopped behind an abandoned store – the sign hanging over the door said it had once been a hat shop. “So what can I do for you?”
“You’ll do anything?”
“I’m no assassin. Nor do I torture. Nothing of that sort. But otherwise? Depends on the price,” Cortez responded, voice still cool.
The man chuckled softly. Sour smoke from his cigarette filled the space between them, tasting especially foul against the chill autumn air. Winter was not far off. Above them the moonlight was suddenly devoured by clouds, throwing everything into darkness. Everything was still, relatively silent – just late enough for everyone to be in the taverns but not yet stumbling home. “Oh, you’ll like the price,” the man said, and whispered a number.
Cortez gave no reaction. “What’s the job?”
Still keeping his voice whisper-soft, the words only just audible to Cortez, the man explained the job he wanted done, the glowing end of his cigarette moving rapidly in the dark as his hands moved with his words.
“That explains the price,” Cortez said dryly when he finished. “Tell me what I need to know.”
The man finished his cigarette and stamped it out in the dirt. He reached into his coat and pulled out a leather pouch. It clinked as he handed it over. He withdrew another, smaller, pouch. “Fifteen percent for the down payment. All the information we were able to gather. Where to meet us.”
“Why not do the job yourselves?” Cortez asked, voice somewhere between contempt and amusement.
“We’re paying you to do it,” the man hissed. “That’s all you need to know. Lastly – you’ve got two months, understand? If you screw up…”
“I won’t,” Cortez said sharply, and tucked the pouches away. “Pleasure doing business. See you in two months – with the rest of my money.”
The man chuckled again, as if he were having a grand joke at everyone else’s expense. “In two months, aye.” Turning on his heel, the man vanished back the way they’d come.
Sighing softly, Cortez followed after him but back on the street turned the opposite way. “Fidel is going to kill me.”
First fell the Storm Dragons, betrayed by one they trusted, their power broken, Sealed away.
In the opportunity created by the raging storms, the people of Pozhar overthrew Zhar Ptitka and vowed that never again would they need a god.
Across the chaotic seas the people of Piedre trembled in fear, huddled together in their homes while the world shook beneath them and storms raged above them, certain that their god had finally let loose the full fury of his terrible powers but unable to understand why.
Many days passed, the people growing more fearful and panicked as it seemed the destruction would continue on forever.
Then, one day, it simply stopped. The skies cleared, the oceans calmed, the land stilled.
Creeping from their shelters, the people ventured out into the world that was at once both familiar and strange. The landscape had changed – where there had been green was only stone, and where had been water was only earth, what once had been barren rock was now fertile land.
Gradually the people of Piedre realized that their god was nowhere to be found. Priests said his presence had vanished…that it seemed their god was dead.
Why, the people wondered, would their god rain destruction down upon them only to die himself?
For many days they searched in vain for some clue as to their god’s demise. On the verge of giving up, they at last lighted upon a secluded temple, one they had never seen before, hidden high and deep in the mountains. There, to their horror, the people did indeed find the body of their god – still and unmoving, unchanged, as though he were carved from stone…
His deadly eyes uncovered, a shattered mirror beside him, the people soon realized their fearsome Basilisk had killed himself.
The priests, upon seeing this, declared their god was not the cause of the destruction – indeed, it was clear he had sacrificed himself to save them. Still others said the Basilisk was indeed the enemy, and that someone else must have tricked him into gazing upon his own terrible reflection.
For days the arguments continued unabated, but at last the priests insisted that good or bad – a god was a god and should so be honored. If he had saved them, then of course he should be honored. If he had turned against them, then perhaps the honor would soothe the remnants of his anger.
To this, all agreed, and so they made preparations to bury their fallen god with full honor, filling the temple with all manner of tribute, placing him carefully in the center of the room upon an altar.
Placed into his hands was the only other object found in the empty room, lying between the dead Basilisk and the shattered mirror – a single, perfect rose, carved from some strange stone. It brought tears to the eyes of those who gazed upon on it, and all agreed it was the most beautiful thing to ever exist. With great reluctance they left it with the Basilisk, fearful of what might happen should they take it.
Their god buried, the people departed to rebuild their homes and lives. Over time the temple was forgotten, its location lost, its existence turned to legend…
Many generations later, a child was born into the royal family. He had dark grey hair, alabaster skin, and eyes that seemed to stop a person in their tracks. The one day,, not long after the child’s fourteenth birthday, he looked into a servant’s eyes and the man immediately fell dead to the floor. Two more men died before anyone realized what was happening and had the young boy’s eyes bound.
Every few generations a Stone Prince is born into the royal family, mortal reincarnations of the Basilisk of Piedre, awaiting the day when he might once more reclaim his power as the god of stone, the god of death and destruction.
But I can still harass you (esp since I still haven't finished the due chaps for Sandstorm.
So here's the Prologue rough.
And I guess tonight I'd better find an icon for this story.
Stone Rose
Hair the color of slate, skin like marble, deadly eyes hidden from sight, the beautiful and terrible Basilisk.
~The Book of the Dead
Prologue
Hair the color of slate, skin like marble, deadly eyes hidden from sight, the beautiful and terrible Basilisk.
~The Book of the Dead
Prologue
The tavern was overcrowded with people, choking him with the stench of sweating flesh, cheap perfume, and cheaper alcohol. He sipped his ale in distaste and watched as more people crowded inside, making an already intolerable place sheer torture.
Someone stepped close to his table, looming over him with an air of purpose. He didn’t look up immediately, instead took his time finishing his watered-down drink. When he finally decided to pay attention to the figure patiently standing beside him, he faltered, caught himself gawking like a country boy visiting the city for the first time – and he’d not been that for more years than he liked to count. “You’re Cortez?”
“Is that a problem?”
He finally recovered, shaking himself and administering a stern, silent reprimand. Still…this did not match what he’d been told. “Not what I was expecting.”
“You’re a fool for having expectations of a stranger,” Cortez said coolly. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”
Nodding, the man threw some coins down and they made their way out of the tavern and into the crisp autumn night. He pulled a thin cigarette from a battered tin case and lit it carefully in the torch by the front door before they slunk off down the street.
High above a fat moon shone down with unusual brilliance; bright enough the harvesters could see to finish working their field. Here in the city, however, the light was broken by buildings and lamps, lending an eerie feeling to the atmosphere.
Cortez finally stopped behind an abandoned store – the sign hanging over the door said it had once been a hat shop. “So what can I do for you?”
“You’ll do anything?”
“I’m no assassin. Nor do I torture. Nothing of that sort. But otherwise? Depends on the price,” Cortez responded, voice still cool.
The man chuckled softly. Sour smoke from his cigarette filled the space between them, tasting especially foul against the chill autumn air. Winter was not far off. Above them the moonlight was suddenly devoured by clouds, throwing everything into darkness. Everything was still, relatively silent – just late enough for everyone to be in the taverns but not yet stumbling home. “Oh, you’ll like the price,” the man said, and whispered a number.
Cortez gave no reaction. “What’s the job?”
Still keeping his voice whisper-soft, the words only just audible to Cortez, the man explained the job he wanted done, the glowing end of his cigarette moving rapidly in the dark as his hands moved with his words.
“That explains the price,” Cortez said dryly when he finished. “Tell me what I need to know.”
The man finished his cigarette and stamped it out in the dirt. He reached into his coat and pulled out a leather pouch. It clinked as he handed it over. He withdrew another, smaller, pouch. “Fifteen percent for the down payment. All the information we were able to gather. Where to meet us.”
“Why not do the job yourselves?” Cortez asked, voice somewhere between contempt and amusement.
“We’re paying you to do it,” the man hissed. “That’s all you need to know. Lastly – you’ve got two months, understand? If you screw up…”
“I won’t,” Cortez said sharply, and tucked the pouches away. “Pleasure doing business. See you in two months – with the rest of my money.”
The man chuckled again, as if he were having a grand joke at everyone else’s expense. “In two months, aye.” Turning on his heel, the man vanished back the way they’d come.
Sighing softly, Cortez followed after him but back on the street turned the opposite way. “Fidel is going to kill me.”
First fell the Storm Dragons, betrayed by one they trusted, their power broken, Sealed away.
In the opportunity created by the raging storms, the people of Pozhar overthrew Zhar Ptitka and vowed that never again would they need a god.
Across the chaotic seas the people of Piedre trembled in fear, huddled together in their homes while the world shook beneath them and storms raged above them, certain that their god had finally let loose the full fury of his terrible powers but unable to understand why.
Many days passed, the people growing more fearful and panicked as it seemed the destruction would continue on forever.
Then, one day, it simply stopped. The skies cleared, the oceans calmed, the land stilled.
Creeping from their shelters, the people ventured out into the world that was at once both familiar and strange. The landscape had changed – where there had been green was only stone, and where had been water was only earth, what once had been barren rock was now fertile land.
Gradually the people of Piedre realized that their god was nowhere to be found. Priests said his presence had vanished…that it seemed their god was dead.
Why, the people wondered, would their god rain destruction down upon them only to die himself?
For many days they searched in vain for some clue as to their god’s demise. On the verge of giving up, they at last lighted upon a secluded temple, one they had never seen before, hidden high and deep in the mountains. There, to their horror, the people did indeed find the body of their god – still and unmoving, unchanged, as though he were carved from stone…
His deadly eyes uncovered, a shattered mirror beside him, the people soon realized their fearsome Basilisk had killed himself.
The priests, upon seeing this, declared their god was not the cause of the destruction – indeed, it was clear he had sacrificed himself to save them. Still others said the Basilisk was indeed the enemy, and that someone else must have tricked him into gazing upon his own terrible reflection.
For days the arguments continued unabated, but at last the priests insisted that good or bad – a god was a god and should so be honored. If he had saved them, then of course he should be honored. If he had turned against them, then perhaps the honor would soothe the remnants of his anger.
To this, all agreed, and so they made preparations to bury their fallen god with full honor, filling the temple with all manner of tribute, placing him carefully in the center of the room upon an altar.
Placed into his hands was the only other object found in the empty room, lying between the dead Basilisk and the shattered mirror – a single, perfect rose, carved from some strange stone. It brought tears to the eyes of those who gazed upon on it, and all agreed it was the most beautiful thing to ever exist. With great reluctance they left it with the Basilisk, fearful of what might happen should they take it.
Their god buried, the people departed to rebuild their homes and lives. Over time the temple was forgotten, its location lost, its existence turned to legend…
Many generations later, a child was born into the royal family. He had dark grey hair, alabaster skin, and eyes that seemed to stop a person in their tracks. The one day,, not long after the child’s fourteenth birthday, he looked into a servant’s eyes and the man immediately fell dead to the floor. Two more men died before anyone realized what was happening and had the young boy’s eyes bound.
Every few generations a Stone Prince is born into the royal family, mortal reincarnations of the Basilisk of Piedre, awaiting the day when he might once more reclaim his power as the god of stone, the god of death and destruction.
