Witness Of The End

[Landwaster]

Ok, might as well throw something into the mix. No claims to quality, write this when I was about 21ish (yonks ago), its meant to be the opening chapter to a whole huges eries that I fancifully believed I would write one day. I got all the background history, cartography, lingy thingy done, and got this chapter drafted and started the next, but that was as far as it goes. It about 4300 words, hope that's not too long for this forum.

I noticed the grammar ain't too crash hot (starting sentences with 'And' fort instance) and its a bit over-descriptive, a bit slow, but otherwise it holds up pretty reasonably as a stand-alone amateur document.

Ok, from within the cocoon of cotton wool I've just spun for myself, here comes 'Witness Of The End' :


WITNESS OF THE END

Once that he had awoken, he knew that it was unusually early for his arousal on this dawning. He could sense that the yellow orb of the sun still strove to cast a grapple-hold on the far horizon. It was an immensely disturbing proportion of his senses, as his clear-blue eyes had never yet beheld the sun, nor sun-given light.

Nevertheless, he was reassured by the rough stone roof above him that he had not moved throughout the night, he had remained in his quarter. Searching eyes were answered by the stone-and-straw bunk, the rock-worked desk, the many written scripts upon it. He was a student, and this was his work and his home, it was his own world. In all his twenty-seven years of life, his study and leisure, only one other person had shown a presence. There were creatures, unspeakable inhabitants of the fathoms below, but only his tutor resembled the student. And Shana his teacher was the largest external instigator in his development. She had taught him every single portion of knowledge he possessed. She had tested his strength, his constitution, his resolution. Shana also gave him an unnatural instinct of motherhood, of parentage and recreation, a vague feeling which frightened him.

For the present, though, all that flowed freely in his mind was the seeking to learn the reason for his early arousal. It felt like the solution to a cryptic puzzle, where the answer was so embarassingly simple that it was the easiest to overlook. And yet he soon understood what it was, only because the feat happened again.

Another bright flash of light screamed noiselessly at him from the doorless threshhold of his quarter. There were tints of many shades in the spectrum, although the brightening of the doorway lasted for less than a fraction of a second. But the prevailing, lingering hue was red, and this sight ruffled the student, caused him to wonder what purpose had invoked Shana to entail healthy blood in an incantation. Swiftly, he fell from his low bunk and onned rag-like coverings for his feet. The the student slipped out into the short hall which led to the studial in which he had performed so many times before.

The student had never experienced danger before, although Shana had not been slackened in enlightening him of the inevitable prospect. He could associate the threat now with the forebodings of what might present itself in the studial. And because of this he was wary, warding off multiple insistencies forced at him by a confused mind. Another flash of light threw back the dim gloom, and he shivered.

Turning a corner hesitantly, the student entered the studial.

Consistently the first feature that the room withheld was its immense size. The far wall was sixty feet away, while the sides of the studial were at least twice as distant. They were all of the same, rough stone which had constituted the room in which he slept, but in the studial the floor had been worn smooth by a million footsteps. The roof was not incredibly high, but it had a signifcant dome eroded into its centre. The entire hall was draped from wall to wall with old, untended tapestries of earlier hints to light and laughter. Only four wooden torches lit the room, as they were largely reinforced by the warm, cheery fire which burnt unrestricted except for the limit of its fuel in the centre of the studial.
Yet none of these more pleasant features of the hall sprang amongst that which he noticed. The student’s full attention was drawn without fault to the fiery scene in the centre of the studial, on the far side of the open blaze. Amid the frenzied and confused smoke of the fire, he could plainly see Shana. She was facing erectly away from him, as though she were warming her back by the flames, and still relentlessly guarding the only other entrance from the possibility of encroachment from an unknown third party. Her form was unmoving, and yet writhing streams of dazzling light pulsed about her as if in presentation for a judging. He made no move toward her even as the rays of light began to fail, grow weak and slowly dissipate. As the illumination faded, Shana seemed to slump a little, as though she had bearly survived a deadly ordeal of staying power.

The removal of the additional lighting cleared the students view through the smoke a little, the display no longer held enough strength to reflect and shine off the mist, or to cause it to seem opaque. And then he could see more clearly, past Shana and towards the threshhold on the far side of the room.

Just inside the doorway stood a man.

The figure was surprisingly large, possibly seven feet tall, and yet such height caused little to reduce the incomprehensibility of his breadth. The visitor was heftily musceld, and disturbingly solid. His arms hung loosely beside him, seemingly exhausted through his exertion. His chest heaved uneasily, but the strong calves which burdened his weight flexed steadily. From the moment the student’s eyes first descried the figure, the feeling emitted was obvious.

He was evil.

The student’s eyes wavered uncertainly, as though watching the visitor would betray his own presence, gift him with an instinct that his form was being surveyed. But simultaneously, a millenium of thoughts deluged his beholding mind. What was the purpose of this newcomer? Who was he? Had he harmed Shana?

The last of his questions was promptly answered in a sudden swerve of the tutors slack form, as Shana seemed to sense the presence of her pupil, and turned to face him. Then her true crisis was published for his beholding.

Her face was drawn taut, seemingly in anguish at the outcome of her battle. The teacher’s eyes possessed a glazed, inward-peering look of defeat. Her entire form shivered with unsteadiness on her feet, and her stance was far from defiant. Even as the pupil watched, Shana’s head bowed, as though she were too ashamed of loss to meet his gaze. And she was lacerated from shoulder to ankle with short fine cuts that gleamed redly in the firelight. As her breast heaved in fatigue, blood regularly seeped through the rent remains of her clothing.

In a slow arc of movement that caused the student’s comprehension to believe that the passing of time had been strung out, Shana gradually toppled into the blazing fire. Swiftly her attire submitted to the swamping of eager and impatient flames, and as her wearied flesh commenced to suffer a charred, inevitable fate, the tutor found enough strength and air to rend the comparative silence of the room with a long-winded scream of agony. By the time her breath failed her, Shana had burnt to death.

Then the studial returned grievingly to its previous and more accustomed quiet. But peace could gather no foothold in the evil-encrusted aura of the room’s entrance.

Although the student may have wished he could dismiss the visitor and cause of Shana’s death with a gesture, the man remained, and now that it was seen what hew could be capable of, the student shivered at the thought of challenging the intruder himself. He had never had the opportunity to test his own strength and skill in battle, for Shana had dared not risk either his or her best proportions of well-being. They had been vulnerable enough for the twenty-seven years of his confused life. For the first few years he was too weak to defend himself even from the tiny creatures that were scattered around the recesses of the studial and the corridors; the furry, four-legged animals which Shana had named for him Wervers. So in those prime eight or nine years she had always slept by his side, in the loving and caring manner of a parent, of his mother.

Mother. He could not guess why that thought terrified him. It connected vividly with his earliest memories of life, of fire and dark chanting. But he could not discern what relation those horrible nighmares bore to his parentage. It may have been something which he had heard in those moments, something that lay beyond his recall.

And now he was mentally preparing himself for an inevitable conflict with this intruder. His heart leapt hurried bounds of trepidation as the revealing gaze swept his senses out of contention for any confrontation. Blinding light, a blaze which held nothing in common with the actual occurrences in the studial around him, held him entranced within himself, obscured his vision. Even when his vision eventually cleared, after long moments of confusion, the scene before him reeled uncontrollably around his head. Only when he controlled his sight to focus on the doorway once more, did he notice that it was empty.

The man now stood directly in between him and fire.

Instantly, the student reeled backward to escape the threat of proximity to the invader. Retreating back so that he was within the threshhold that led to his and Shana’s quarters, he was able to scrutinise the tall form before him. Now it became obvious that he as well had not escaped the frenzy of the battle unscathed. The savage cuts in the shape of a cross marked his chest, like the insignia on an invisible breastplate. Blood dripped thickly from the scores, and congealed in rivulets down the length of his half-naked body. His arms were badly scorched, but blue light blazed dimly around them, flickering around his wrists in streams and visibly healing his injured limbs as the student watched. The line running deeply above his brows signified age, yet his strength could not have suited one of any age but his prime. No human could have looked that healthy if he was older than forty. No human.

Possibilites flared at the student as if they were a visual surprise or illusion. He had no idea how to go about defending himself if he did not know the likely nature of the assault, or the essential ingredients of the attacker. He wondered what race the intruder hailed from, and what he could perform in the way of combat. Then he noticed that the massive killer held an idol in his hand.

It was pulsing as though it were a living being.

A living being. Perhaps some lifeform within the guise of the idol was controlling the corpse of a dead man, or a realistic model of a man. The idol represented two vicious serpents entwined together and rearing their skulls against each other, struggling in a finite battle. The intruder grappled it with little affection, and drew a step closer to the student.

"Halt!" He had no intention to confront the intruder so blatently, but vague reflexes commanded him. "You may not approach."

His voice wavered unsteadily, engulfed by unwanted fear, but the intruder stretched his piercing gaze straight at him, and did not continue his stride. Yes the student’s sudden feeling of hope was smashed apart in a word.

"Oh!" The intruder perused sarcastically, bearing in his contemptuous voice little respect for the denial posed. "But of course I may. You are unable to prevent me." He slowly, tortuously, took another step towards the student, stopping within four feet of him. In his poorly concealed flight, the unwilling host was not surprised that the hulk spoke his language, unaccentuated. Of more import, he struggled to recall a strain of lore he had been taught by Shana. It was no good. His mind was as featureless as a desert. Elusive fragments of an incantation flitted behind his eyes, but he failed to grasp them.

"Arlon ... Arlon," He could not complete the rite. And his attempts felt like a fatal mistake, as the intruder grinned slightly at his grappling for power.

How could it be so difficult to practice what he was taught?

"Arlon ..." No! he could not reach it. But another possibility slipped into his memory, potent and complete. He shivered at his plight.

"Du Kanna Mea Vaar!" Nothing happened, but the intruder winced as though he had been struck. Then blood seeped from a new slash in his waist, near one side.

Pain struck at the student before the killer stumbled backward. He realised that the attacker had struck him to the ground, although he had had no notion of the conduct during its occurrance. But confidence began to flow from him, because the wound he had inflctied was similar to that which Shana had caused, although less accurate and less powerful in his unaccustomed weakness. Shana was wise, a Prophet, and the student knew he was using the correct power, as she had used it.

Shana had failed with it.

In those few moments, the massive intruder regained his imposing stature, and strived to conceal a genuine wonder with mock surprise. But the student caught the true reaction despite the stiflement, and began to contemplate the question of the murderer’s hesitance.

"How could ... you are but a man. How ... ?" The intruder’s slight astonishment held no meaning for him. It only meant the hope of survival. Then the enquiries were suddenly directed at him, and an answer seemed irrefusable, compulsory.

"I cannot grasp your knowledge of lore, while you appear not to be a Prophet. In the name of the Isle, you cannot be a Prophet. Shana my prey had not the time or knowledge, and she was indeed the last of her ignorant race."

Each word struck him like a cudgel-blow. Not to be. Cannot be. The last. It was impossible, unacceptable, that he was not of the same kind as Shana. His earliest memories of existence portrayed shrouded visions of a parental closeness. Yet there were also disturbing features on which he could impale no finger in that recall of the past. Something unnatural, separable, inhumane. And the attacker had also implied that Shana was the last Prophet. The last. If that was so, he had witnessed the extermination, the extinction, of the only humanoid race that had ever stood before his eyes. Except for this intruder. This killer.

This killer now advanced another step towards him, forcing him to struggle upright, regain a posture suitable for defending himself adequately, if there was ever any hope of life.

But there was an unconcealed change in the tone of the intruder’s voice as he began to speak once more, as though he had realised that there was little need to harm the student. The idol in his right hand glowed and throbbed with something that resembled hunger, repressed desire.

"You are indeed a stark discrepancy to my expectations. Shana my prey was assured by my Master to be alone." Master. How could such a powerful, commanding being be of a servile nature. The sight of his ‘Master’ would have to be totally unbearable. "Tell me, how became it that you so exist in this unworthy realm of obsolescence? You are dressed in the manner of the Prophets, but of that race you cannot be. Where is your true home?"

The student did not want to reveal anything about himself, some cold inner voice warned that such explanations would result in grievous loss. In the stead of a reply, he remained as silent as a grave, gazing with a sudden flicker of understanding at the serpentine figure of the idol. He recognised those creatures.

The intruder was displeased by his refusal to answer. Taking another step forward, he confronted the student with his feet firmly planted and folded his huge arms over his chest. In his right hand, the idol seemed to fade into a home of inexistence, as though it cared not for presence when its wielding was not required. The student stared at the empty fist.

"I require you to answer!" The intruder’s rasp roughened slightly more. But then he noticed his captive'’ interest in his hand. "Ha! The illusion of my idol amazes you? Its comprehension is indeed above the reach of your puny mind. Behold the Erelin."

Once more he opened his arms towards the student, and instantly the idol materialised to take shape within his fist. For a moment, as the object transformed from nothingness to the serpentine bodies he could see, the creatures had seemed to have been moving, squirming in attempts at asphyxiating each other. But now they were still, and yet the idol in its whole seemed to be alive in the hand of the wielder.

The student had beheld these animals before, they were creatures which resided deep in the roots of the rock he and Shana had occupied, where the stone was moist and pools of stagnant water filled the tunnels at every dip. They were Erelin, serpents believed to hold powers beyond - far beyond - mortal understanding. Yet the Prophets had attempted once to grasp those powers, Shana had related tales to him of such contention. But they could do nothing with these beings from which they could benefit, and therefore work concerning those powers was abandoned. The Erelin survived in the pools deep in the Earth, striving for the means to bring their law into the open, and expand upon that knowledge they bore, that territory they ruled.

He could not conceive an answer for the question uppermost in his mind now: who could have comprehended the serpents enough to have moulded their power into this idol? There was no way he, of his limited strength and knowledge, could endure the assault of such power. With the extreme of resources he could muster, the student feinted a bodily attack on the wielder of the Erelin and fled the studial.

He was unable to escape the heavy pad of pursuing soles, the sound struck him like a premonition of this doom. Nevertheless, he ran on, oblivious to his own fatigue. Where the passage split at an intersection, where his own quarter lay to the left, the student continued forward, towards Shana’s quarter. He passed the store-rooms and their silent, gaping open doorways, appearing irregularly on both is left and his right. He had never travelled past these stores before, but now he ran unhalting past new openings. He guessed these as Shana’s libraries, her breweries, and other various workplaces

But the intruder was less than ten paces behind him, and he did not risk the moment it would take to glance into any of these. Yet in less than a moment a new thought, a novel dread of anger, struck him uncalled. He did not know where in this corridor lay Shana’s quarter, and he had consequently assumed that it was placed at the far end. But now he realised that to lead the attacker to this room may promise only further dangers, as many treasured possessions of the Prophet were to be found in her quarter. Only a fool would lead a killer directly to them.

At the next side doorway the student veered right. He found himself against all chance and hope in Shana’s quarter. Even before he could view the contents of the room, a voice bellowed behind him. Stepping forward into the room and turning, the student faced the intruder once more.

"So1! You are unerring to lead me to the Prophet’s chamber. No doubt there are bounties here of which even my Master would know nought. They shall be seen."

The student instinctively glanced around the quarter, searching for objects which might need to be protected from the intruder’s grasp. But any items of major value were hidden behind sturdy wooden doors to cabinets, and only a sheet of parchment was exposed, on the stone desk beside Shana’s straw pallet. Without hesitation, the intruder brushed past him, a triumphant glint in his eyes. Without a word, the killer snatched up the parchment, and silently scanned the script.

"There can be no sense in a language I fail to understand. Here." He shouted, thrusting the parchment at the student. "Explain to me what message this conveys. The ink is still fresh."

The student accepted the parchment willingly, eager to move it from the grasp of the killer. Examining the page, he recognised the Prophetal script in which it was written. He began to read the writing, and then paused to glare at the intruder for a second. "You wished to know who I could be. Here is your answer."

"’I sense that the final time has come for me, and that on this day the race of Prophets will come to an end. For I discovered at the dawning the meaning of my title. I have been named Shana, and yet an underlying namesake was the loom for the weaving of such a word. Shana can be translated in the Prophetal dialogue of High Prophet Falem, as The Last Prophet.’"

"’And as this premonition was realised for me, for I know it will become true, so shall, in the one blow, come true the Prophecy of my student. In the second year of his upbringing, after the creation, I endured a dream of horror. From that I gave my charge his name. For all who deem the knowledge worthy of remembrance, the student was named Tolimar ,’" - the student halted to catch his breath as he realised why that title had been given unto him - "‘Witness Of The End.’"

Tolimar the student glanced upward, lifted his head high to sneer like an immortal at the intruder. But the killer had vanished.

[Landwaster]

Feeling rich and lonely

1000WG$ to the first person who'll offer an appraisal.

[aTOMiC]

Impressive work, Land. A thoughtful and complex plot has been exposed here. Your writing style is formal but was navigable once I became accustomed to it. I have to confess that I’m very intrigued by the story. This is but a taste. Where is the meal? I encourage you to re visit this story. I for one would like to know more. The Tolimar character’s potential is interesting in the same manner as Neo, Luke Skywalker and of course TC. I enjoyed this very much.

[Landwaster]

Umm *jogs memory* they are inside Mountainfall, where the Prophets resided. Prophets made each other, sort of alchemy stuff. Shana was the last, but (can't remember reason) she made a human instead of a Prophet (Tolimar).

Then he's meant to go off and fight bad guys like the intruder (Kanil, one of the Anure, who were corrupted Cammesis of the Cirnan Desert).

It goes on and on

(Note "Tolimar", bastardisation of "Toliman", alternate name of bright southern star Alpha Centauri. I was an astronomy kid)

All my background is in storage, one day I'll fill you in on a bit more.

[aTOMiC]

Prophets made each other, sort of alchemy stuff. Shana was the last...

I kind of promised myself I wouldn't do things like this but this comment raises the old question which came first the chicken or the egg?
Who made the first prophet? Did the first prophet spring into being due to an act of cosmic destiny? Why am I beginning to sound like Skyweir?

[Landwaster]

All life on Marut commenced with Planetpass. The Prophetal alchemy is simply a natural form of procreation that we don't see here in the real world. It's evolution crossed with Forbidden Planet.