Young Writers Society

Jennya wrote:Smoke like an octopuses tendrils caressed the distant powder peaks.

Jennya wrote:Her head swimming in a cess pool of mixed emotions

“Welcome brothers to this Brilliant day! This glorious, glorious day”
Eyes gazing into the dark endless sky past the eternal forests and into the snow capped mountains. This sounds weird. Maybe something like ‘Eyes gazed into the dark, endless sky, past the eternal forests and into the snowcapped mountains.’“Today we celebrate! We celebrate victory! We celebrate GLORY”
Her lips parted but no sound came out, it was so beautiful yet so terrible, if only…
“We drink to sweat, blood and guts, to all that is ugly and all that is terrible!”
They would leave, their dirty comma greedy hands destroying all that lay in their paths.
“Today we stay! We stand here in triumph over those who get in our way”
Someday they would fall off the broken tower they had created with the bones of her people.
“Today we climb to new heights over the bones of the scum that call themselves Elves”
The demons that call themselves men…
“We are the gods that call our selves men!”
She would die to bring them down…
“And I will die to bring our enemies down!”
She closed the curtains…
He raised his glass…
If only she weren’t one of them…
If only he weren’t one of them…
There was not much Arthmael would die for, not for his country, not for his voracious father, not for his vain mother, not even for his little brother. Once there was a time he would have died for glory, for the thrill of the fight, for the blood on his hands, the sound of death in his ears but now it had grown old, become monotonous, boring. Sir Arthmael Von Uradel; a prince in all but name, the elf bane, the mighty warrior of Agador, was grow tired of glory, tired of death. He laughed, taking a swig of the rich liquor, wiskey whiskey from the isles, he had already drunk enough to kill a small child but his dirty blood keep kept him alive, kept his senses strong and his blade sharp. A comrade slapped him on the back, uttering congratulations but they feel of death ears. They had against all odds fought and killed the Rathbourne dragon, no men lost, thanks to his 'leadership'.
It took a three day trek into the snow capped mountains to kill the dragon. Three days better spent in his mountain retreat, three days better spent in the warmth of his labyrinthine grand library. For what? So a small town could clear some land? To build another shopping strip, another shrine to his fathers greed. To obtain some silly elfin trinket? He emptied his goblet, slamming it down on the wood. Time would come, the time would come, someday and they would all pay.
***
She glazed though the slither of light between half closed velvet drapes looking out into the star studded night, the moon peaking over a blanket of deep blue I love the descriptions in this sentence. Smoke like an octopuses tendrils caressed the distant powder peaks. Something terrible had happened; she could feel it deep within her bones, echoing across her soul. Her temples throbbed, what ever it was it was bad, if not terrible, death I don‘t see how ‘death‘ fits in this sentence. Maybe if it was ‘whatever is was, it was a bad, if not terrible death‘ . She could feel a dark presence, a ghost of the future. It reached out, sending daggers into her soul. Who was it? But nothing came, nothing ever did, this was the limit of her weak clairvoyant powers, maybe a semicolon here blurry visions and ruined dreams. She frowned in frustration, period or semicolon she was nothing compared to her sisters, but then again nobody was.
She paced her room, her head still throbbing with a steady beat of pain. Maybe the fresh air would help. She pushed aside the drapes and swung opened the cracked glass window, a testament, like the rest of the ruined castle to her bloodline's tainted blood. She pressed her hand against the cold stone, her feet clambering on the mossy rock. She could feel the wind rippling in her hair, the forest flies buzzing, the owls hooting, the sweet rustle of leaves cast away by the cruel wind. But the smell, the acid of the smoke choking, the smell of burning flesh…
Dragon flesh… There where thirteen dragons calling the Rathbourne Ranges home, only one of which living within range of the humans, only one old enough, weak enough to fall in under the hands of those strangers. Worry flooded into her heart, something terrible had happened. She could see it now, floating in the fabrics of time, deep within the past, the fight, the blood and the fall. She jumped back into her room, her eyes brimming with tears. Her head swimming in a cess pool cesspool of mixed emotions, sadness tinged with anger. She had to go, go and see for herself. Surely her sisters would not notice if she was away for an hour or two?