Post by FewRevelations on Feb 28, 2008 23:15:21 GMT -5
[glow=red,2,300]Storm of Destiny[/glow]
A woman with deeply grey-streaked dark hair stood at the bow of the ship, Windracer. Her extremely tanned hands gripped the cherry-wood railing, and her blue eyes stared at the ominously raging waters as they broke around the fishing boat. Most of the waves were topped off by whitecaps as they raced each other to the distant shoreline. And, looking back to the tail end of the ship, one could see the fearsome black clouds speeding steadily in the same direction, a humungous, gyrating wall of water following behind them obediently. The strong winds whipped the woman’s scarlet skirts out behind her, and tugged at her purple bodice playfully. The leather band with the feather and beads that she wore as a bracelet spun out behind her wrist. She breathed deeply.
Her strength as Windfinder was needed greatly, so she moved from her temporary place of rest and raised her hands, staring at the sails and the silvery lines of wind that were invisible to all others. Drawing from inner strength, she grabbed at a few of those shimmering threads and shoved them at the crisp, white sails. A few moments before, the sails had been battered by winds from all sides, but now they billowed out in the direction of land. But it still wasn’t enough strength or speed to outrace the storm. Eamon held her spell steadily while she tried to think of something that could save them from the watery grave that steadily sped toward them. She grabbed more of the silvery strands of wind until all the silvery threads in the surrounding two miles was shoved at the sails.
And yet still the storm was creeping closer.
Eamon was glad she had decided to leave Tallanvor, her familiar, a pelican, at home. He never would have lived through this, with the immense amount of wind raging around. She thanked the gods silently that she was out of range for mental contact with the fishing bird.
Thinking on her feet, Eamon stared at the tangled wall of silver threads, contemplating. A prod here, a tug there, and soon several hundred strands came loose. Using a large amount of her strength, Eamon wheeled the barrage of wind around so it blasted into the sails of Windracer. And that wind pummeled the sails with such strength that the masts let out a loud warning groan. Eamon tried to shave off some of the threads, but they had become entangled, so it was all or nothing when it came to using the wind she had gathered.
With a loud sound of splintering wood, ripping cloth, and snapping ropes, the massive poles that made up the masts broke and began to fall upon the deck.
Eamon let the harnessed and now useless wind escape back to the storm stolidly. She stared up at one of the toppling masts, realizing it was going to fall right upon her. She tried to move, to leap to safety, but found her feet rooted to the spot, and her body paralyzed from pure fear. Suddenly, with a loud crashing sound caused by the fully toppled mast, the Windfinder found her nose on the deck. She turned her head and found Damodred had rushed and tackled her, shoving her out of the way of a crushing doom. She rose shakily, helping her husband to his feet.
He had short cropped chestnut colored hair, steadily going grey and balding. His brightly colored silk shirt and breeches denoted his position as Captain on the ship, and, by choice, he went nose-ringless (unlike so many other ship captains). His denim-colored eyes stared into her golden-brown eyes. “You alright?” he asked her in his gruff voice.
“Yes, I believe so,” she replied, standing after he did so and proffered his hand to help her up. She brushed her skirts into order, only to have the unruly wind muss them up seconds later. “Although I fear now that we are doomed, since the masts have broken.”
“Can you not move the water and push the ship toward shore?” Damodred asked, biting his lip.
Eamon shook her head. “It will not work without wind and sails,” she told him. “Controlling the Twins is a very precise art and certain elements can put everything into a state of extreme disorder.”
“It’s is alright, you did everything you could,” Damodred told her, “but what matters is that we shall be spending our lasts moments together.” Eamon just nodded as Damodred put his arm around her waist in a protective manner.
The storm was only ten miles off, now. The spinning tower was steadily building itself larger and gaining speed as it approached.
Many sailors stopped trying to fix anything, recognizing they were doomed, and ran to be with friends or family for their last few moments. Eamon turned toward Damodred and placed her hand on his chest, his arm moving up to wrap around her shoulders.
A thought occurred to Eamon. All the sailors on board, all the passengers, and even her husband, they would all die today, and it was her fault. All her fault. She began to sob into Damodred’s shirt, realizing how much blood would be on her hands after today, even though she would be dead as well. Damodred rubbed her shoulder reassuringly for a moment, watching the storm approach.
Six miles.
Five.
“I’m sorry, Damodred,” Eamon sobbed.
Damodred took Eamon by the shoulders and held her out at arm’s length, then cupped her face in his hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for, no regrets. Everything you could do, you did. And I am very proud of you.”
The storm was now only one mile from Windracer.
Damodred wiped away Eamon’s tears with his thumbs. “I love you, and always will, Shade of My Heart,” he told her. He leaned toward her just far enough for their lips to meet in one final, sweet kiss that would be remembered forever.
The storm hit.
The air was filled with screams of agony to curl your tongue and curdle your blood. The spinning liquid tower was not soft, no. It felt like being pummeled by a hundred daggers, all at once. No, a hundred thousand! Eamon and Damodred clung to each other, both knowing it to be their final embrace. Suddenly, the safety of the wooden deck was ripped from beneath their feet, and they plunged into the icy, raging ocean.
Eamon opened her eyes. She was quite a ways under the water, at least twenty feet below the surface. Using the sophisticated techniques of a professional swimmer, she began to swim frantically toward the distant surface. Her heavy skirts weighed her down and tried to drag her under, but she kicked laboriously, breaking the surface at the end of her breath and gasping for air. All around her seemed to be a wall of water, but it was completely calm where she was treading water. She swam over to a few boards to hold herself afloat. I seemed like she was in a giant eye.
The eye of the storm of destiny.
“DAMODRED!” she called, her voice barely audible over the sound of the howling winds. She looked around but saw nothing but for some wreckage. None of it was from Windracer, so she assumed the ship had simply sunk as a whole. But no sign of Damodred. Wait. Had that been movement? Eamon swam over to it quickly.
There, lying on his back on a large piece of wood, was Damodred. Everything was the same, but for his bloodstained clothes and a rounded off end of a banister from some unknown ship, which had impaled his stomach. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Eamon carefully clambered up onto the small raft-like area Damodred was sprawled out on. She slid over to him slowly, her already sopping face becoming wetter with tears. She laid her face down upon his chest gently. His heart fluttered faintly. Looking down upon his face for what the Windfinder knew would be the last time, she brushed a few soaked locks of hair out of his bedraggled face.
Damodred coughed, his entire body writhing in the motion and hacking up blood. His eyes fluttered open. Looking at his wife, he opened his mouth. Eamon stuck her ear close to his mouth, a few tears falling onto his neck. “Eamon,” he whispered, on the edge of hearing. “Eamon, I will--” He coughed again. “I will always-- love you!”
“I love you too! I always will!” Eamon cried frantically, hoping he heard.
A quiet breath passed between Damodred’s lips. His eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly, and his body became still. Eamon threw her face upon his chest and sobbed.
~~~
“Eamon. Eamon Valda du Martyn! Rise!” An unknown voice came to Eamon as she cried, not caring if the next wall of storm killed her or drowned her.
Eamon sat there, slowly beginning to control her crying. She sat up after a moment and looked around. Everything was white, and silent. Before her stood two people: a stunningly beautiful woman with silver hair and creamy skin, and a muscular man with a long silver beard and like hair. Wavriln and Arquol. The Twins. The goddess of water and god of air. Whatever you called them, they were divine beings, and not to be taken lightly.
“I said rise!” commanded Wavriln, as Arquol raised his hand. Eamon felt herself standing, though forcefully. Wavriln walked forward, continuing. “You have been a good subject throughout your life, a good Windfinder. But we are not ready to give you to our Uncle. Not yet.” She spoke of the Dark One, lord of the Underworld.
Arquol stepped forward as well. “You shall return to yourself in safety. We expect you to follow whatever instructions we send. You leave with a mark of proof.”
The twins stepped forward in unison, each putting a hand on one of Eamon’s shoulders. Together they said, “Go forth with out blessing. Live. Love. And learn from past mistakes.” They faded and were gone
~~~
Eamon awoke, finding herself in the bedroom that Damodred and she had shared before… she couldn’t make herself admit it. Not him. Not Damodred. He couldn’t be-- couldn’t be dead! She fell upon the bed, sobbing. Never again would she use magic. It had caused so many deaths already. Her magic would never harm another person.
Never.
A woman with deeply grey-streaked dark hair stood at the bow of the ship, Windracer. Her extremely tanned hands gripped the cherry-wood railing, and her blue eyes stared at the ominously raging waters as they broke around the fishing boat. Most of the waves were topped off by whitecaps as they raced each other to the distant shoreline. And, looking back to the tail end of the ship, one could see the fearsome black clouds speeding steadily in the same direction, a humungous, gyrating wall of water following behind them obediently. The strong winds whipped the woman’s scarlet skirts out behind her, and tugged at her purple bodice playfully. The leather band with the feather and beads that she wore as a bracelet spun out behind her wrist. She breathed deeply.
Her strength as Windfinder was needed greatly, so she moved from her temporary place of rest and raised her hands, staring at the sails and the silvery lines of wind that were invisible to all others. Drawing from inner strength, she grabbed at a few of those shimmering threads and shoved them at the crisp, white sails. A few moments before, the sails had been battered by winds from all sides, but now they billowed out in the direction of land. But it still wasn’t enough strength or speed to outrace the storm. Eamon held her spell steadily while she tried to think of something that could save them from the watery grave that steadily sped toward them. She grabbed more of the silvery strands of wind until all the silvery threads in the surrounding two miles was shoved at the sails.
And yet still the storm was creeping closer.
Eamon was glad she had decided to leave Tallanvor, her familiar, a pelican, at home. He never would have lived through this, with the immense amount of wind raging around. She thanked the gods silently that she was out of range for mental contact with the fishing bird.
Thinking on her feet, Eamon stared at the tangled wall of silver threads, contemplating. A prod here, a tug there, and soon several hundred strands came loose. Using a large amount of her strength, Eamon wheeled the barrage of wind around so it blasted into the sails of Windracer. And that wind pummeled the sails with such strength that the masts let out a loud warning groan. Eamon tried to shave off some of the threads, but they had become entangled, so it was all or nothing when it came to using the wind she had gathered.
With a loud sound of splintering wood, ripping cloth, and snapping ropes, the massive poles that made up the masts broke and began to fall upon the deck.
Eamon let the harnessed and now useless wind escape back to the storm stolidly. She stared up at one of the toppling masts, realizing it was going to fall right upon her. She tried to move, to leap to safety, but found her feet rooted to the spot, and her body paralyzed from pure fear. Suddenly, with a loud crashing sound caused by the fully toppled mast, the Windfinder found her nose on the deck. She turned her head and found Damodred had rushed and tackled her, shoving her out of the way of a crushing doom. She rose shakily, helping her husband to his feet.
He had short cropped chestnut colored hair, steadily going grey and balding. His brightly colored silk shirt and breeches denoted his position as Captain on the ship, and, by choice, he went nose-ringless (unlike so many other ship captains). His denim-colored eyes stared into her golden-brown eyes. “You alright?” he asked her in his gruff voice.
“Yes, I believe so,” she replied, standing after he did so and proffered his hand to help her up. She brushed her skirts into order, only to have the unruly wind muss them up seconds later. “Although I fear now that we are doomed, since the masts have broken.”
“Can you not move the water and push the ship toward shore?” Damodred asked, biting his lip.
Eamon shook her head. “It will not work without wind and sails,” she told him. “Controlling the Twins is a very precise art and certain elements can put everything into a state of extreme disorder.”
“It’s is alright, you did everything you could,” Damodred told her, “but what matters is that we shall be spending our lasts moments together.” Eamon just nodded as Damodred put his arm around her waist in a protective manner.
The storm was only ten miles off, now. The spinning tower was steadily building itself larger and gaining speed as it approached.
Many sailors stopped trying to fix anything, recognizing they were doomed, and ran to be with friends or family for their last few moments. Eamon turned toward Damodred and placed her hand on his chest, his arm moving up to wrap around her shoulders.
A thought occurred to Eamon. All the sailors on board, all the passengers, and even her husband, they would all die today, and it was her fault. All her fault. She began to sob into Damodred’s shirt, realizing how much blood would be on her hands after today, even though she would be dead as well. Damodred rubbed her shoulder reassuringly for a moment, watching the storm approach.
Six miles.
Five.
“I’m sorry, Damodred,” Eamon sobbed.
Damodred took Eamon by the shoulders and held her out at arm’s length, then cupped her face in his hands. “You have nothing to be sorry for, no regrets. Everything you could do, you did. And I am very proud of you.”
The storm was now only one mile from Windracer.
Damodred wiped away Eamon’s tears with his thumbs. “I love you, and always will, Shade of My Heart,” he told her. He leaned toward her just far enough for their lips to meet in one final, sweet kiss that would be remembered forever.
The storm hit.
The air was filled with screams of agony to curl your tongue and curdle your blood. The spinning liquid tower was not soft, no. It felt like being pummeled by a hundred daggers, all at once. No, a hundred thousand! Eamon and Damodred clung to each other, both knowing it to be their final embrace. Suddenly, the safety of the wooden deck was ripped from beneath their feet, and they plunged into the icy, raging ocean.
Eamon opened her eyes. She was quite a ways under the water, at least twenty feet below the surface. Using the sophisticated techniques of a professional swimmer, she began to swim frantically toward the distant surface. Her heavy skirts weighed her down and tried to drag her under, but she kicked laboriously, breaking the surface at the end of her breath and gasping for air. All around her seemed to be a wall of water, but it was completely calm where she was treading water. She swam over to a few boards to hold herself afloat. I seemed like she was in a giant eye.
The eye of the storm of destiny.
“DAMODRED!” she called, her voice barely audible over the sound of the howling winds. She looked around but saw nothing but for some wreckage. None of it was from Windracer, so she assumed the ship had simply sunk as a whole. But no sign of Damodred. Wait. Had that been movement? Eamon swam over to it quickly.
There, lying on his back on a large piece of wood, was Damodred. Everything was the same, but for his bloodstained clothes and a rounded off end of a banister from some unknown ship, which had impaled his stomach. His breath came in ragged gasps.
Eamon carefully clambered up onto the small raft-like area Damodred was sprawled out on. She slid over to him slowly, her already sopping face becoming wetter with tears. She laid her face down upon his chest gently. His heart fluttered faintly. Looking down upon his face for what the Windfinder knew would be the last time, she brushed a few soaked locks of hair out of his bedraggled face.
Damodred coughed, his entire body writhing in the motion and hacking up blood. His eyes fluttered open. Looking at his wife, he opened his mouth. Eamon stuck her ear close to his mouth, a few tears falling onto his neck. “Eamon,” he whispered, on the edge of hearing. “Eamon, I will--” He coughed again. “I will always-- love you!”
“I love you too! I always will!” Eamon cried frantically, hoping he heard.
A quiet breath passed between Damodred’s lips. His eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly, and his body became still. Eamon threw her face upon his chest and sobbed.
~~~
“Eamon. Eamon Valda du Martyn! Rise!” An unknown voice came to Eamon as she cried, not caring if the next wall of storm killed her or drowned her.
Eamon sat there, slowly beginning to control her crying. She sat up after a moment and looked around. Everything was white, and silent. Before her stood two people: a stunningly beautiful woman with silver hair and creamy skin, and a muscular man with a long silver beard and like hair. Wavriln and Arquol. The Twins. The goddess of water and god of air. Whatever you called them, they were divine beings, and not to be taken lightly.
“I said rise!” commanded Wavriln, as Arquol raised his hand. Eamon felt herself standing, though forcefully. Wavriln walked forward, continuing. “You have been a good subject throughout your life, a good Windfinder. But we are not ready to give you to our Uncle. Not yet.” She spoke of the Dark One, lord of the Underworld.
Arquol stepped forward as well. “You shall return to yourself in safety. We expect you to follow whatever instructions we send. You leave with a mark of proof.”
The twins stepped forward in unison, each putting a hand on one of Eamon’s shoulders. Together they said, “Go forth with out blessing. Live. Love. And learn from past mistakes.” They faded and were gone
~~~
Eamon awoke, finding herself in the bedroom that Damodred and she had shared before… she couldn’t make herself admit it. Not him. Not Damodred. He couldn’t be-- couldn’t be dead! She fell upon the bed, sobbing. Never again would she use magic. It had caused so many deaths already. Her magic would never harm another person.
Never.
