TwinStorm Writes Words!

[TwinStorm He/Him]

So, as many people on the Shard, I like to write. Shocking, I know. Anyways, I thought I would share a few of my stories and maybe even sometimes drawings and poems.

I wrote this six months ago and decided to share it, but have not edited it so it's kinda bad. Enjoy!

Spoiler

Donavan gasped in pain as he stared at the dagger in his gut. So it had come to this. His own lieutenant Jalda had betrayed him. He was surrounded in a sea of enemies, a lonely tower standing against the waves. 

“Trust no one.” The words of his old mentor Lucien had drummed them into his head, and yet he never realized how true they were. Lucien had died in the end to a crossbow bolt through his neck. And so would he.

Eyes swimming, blood flowing from his chest, he collapsed onto the desk. He would not die. Vengeance, he thought, remember their treachery and why you were betrayed. Remember vengeance. 

Yet he could not. He needed strength. He needed connection to the Source. Once he had held that power and lost it in a foolish gamble. 

He looked at the vase on the shelf, his secret weapon. He seized the ink bottle with shaking hands, hurling it at the shelf. He had done a similar thing years ago, blinding would-be assassins by throwing the bottle at their head. 

His aim was true and the vase shattered, releasing a light mist held inside. Instantly he heard a thousand voices, echoing in a grand chorus, resounding together as if in an orchestra.

The power… It has come… Release me!…The blind man walks wisely… The greatest fear…It comes…A dead man…A shattered vase…Dead man… Death comes…Crashing horns…Crossroads…It comes… On and on it went, an endless chorus of despair and hope. He screamed and pounded his head against the rug.

Then, suddenly, silence. He gasped and looked around. He was glowing with white fire. He grinned, rolling over and looking at his chest. His wound had sealed. No mark.

He felt like laughing. It worked. He had tossed the dice and rolled a dragon. Now, he held the Power once more and vengeance would come. Towards his conspiring officers and his enemies.

 

Les Ten was quite happy. He had killed Donavan. Jalda had done the deed, sure, but he had planned and ordered the strike. Now he was in control. He sat around the table with two other officers, Kelfon and Resaine, throwing dice. 

He groaned as he tossed a sickle, a three and a two, but nothing could shake his mood. Resaine grinned at him, he had thrown a boar, two fours. He was also involved with the attempt, he had brought Jalda on.

Suddenly a chill ran down his spine. He shifted and turned trying to shake the sense of unease. Then a voice spoke in his ears. Three dead men throwing dice…Vengeance, marked in fire and blood, comes…

Kelfon looked mildly uncomfortable, but Resaine froze as he seized the crowns he had won. Had they felt it? No, it could not be. It had been a stressful and taxing day with the risk of death by hanging. Everything was fine. He could sit back and relax.

Kelfon grabbed and tossed them. They landed on the table with a clatter, showing a skull, two ones rolled by the losing player. The worst roll in the game. For the superstitious, it was a sign that death was coming. 

He grabbed the dice before Kelfon could react and hurriedly threw it. A five and a two, a flame. He groaned and smacked his palm against the table. Surely, it meant nothing. Then he heard a door open.

That must’ve been Jalda coming back after killing Donavan, he thought, but gripped his knife, looking around nervously. Resaine and Kelfon also glanced toward the door that led to Donavan’s chamber.

The floor rattled and Les Ten fell out of his chair in shock. An earthquake? No. It had to do with the whispers. Les Ten gave one final glance around the room at the disturbed officers, and bolted out of the room, heading for the stairs. 

He slammed the door behind him, locking it, rushing down the stairs. Behind him, he heard screams, weapons being drawn, and silence… dead silence. The door above him rattled. Les Ten had only one more flight of stairs till he reached the main level. 

He rounded the last bend, triumphant in his escape and came face to face with Donavan himself, clutching a bloody blood, with white fire all around him. 

He screamed, hurling his knife desperately, but Donavan deflected it, eyes set on Les Ten. He attempted to go back up the stairs, but Donavan seized his ankle with inhuman strength, dragging him back down.

Les Ten whimpered, pleaded and screamed, fighting desperately. He bit, kicked, scratched and clawed, to no avail. Donavan raised the blade and sent it crashing down.

 

Donavan admired Les Ten’s corpse, satisfied. The white fire around him winked out, the power draining from him, but the officers were dead. He spat on the body, for good measure, before leisurely strolling up the stairs. The coup was over, and Donavan remained in command. He could live another day.

 

More stuff in the future (hopefully...)!

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

Cooooooooooooool

[TwinStorm He/Him]

 

This is the first part of one of my TLT character's backstory, Perseus. It was easier to write and less complicated than Cricket's, which I'm holding back on for now. 

Enjoy! (@Ookla the nostealnamepls this might interest you.)

Spoiler

Ragnarok, Skavi shelters, 3496 of the Skavi Enslavement

Perseus lay on the ground, whimpering. The revenants had taken Aarvon. He was going to fight in their pointless war to appease them. They loved watching people die in wars. Now he was the oldest man in the family left, after Father had been taken two years ago.

 They had dragged him away, kicking and screaming. When Perseus had tried to stop them, they had knocked him down with their spear butt, cursing and spitting on him.

Now he would have to work the fields, for twelve hours a day or more, as the revenants beat him. He would become like his Father, thin and gaunt. It was a horrible fate for a twelve year old.  

Perseus tried to stay calm, as the revenants got further away and Aarvon’s screams grew fainter. Mother and Sata would need him. He needed to be strong, for them.

Perseus got to his feet, looking around. He needed to tell Sela, before he was forced to work. Sela, one of his few friends.

He ran down the path towards Sela’s shelter, feet pounding against the rock, running desperately. Sela would know what to do. She always did.

He arrived in front of Sela’s small shelter, his sudden arrival drawing attention. But less so than the sight that awaited him. He stared in horror, at the splattered blood and the small corpse of a girl. 

Perseus gasped. Not… not Sela! First Aarvon, now Sela? How much more would he take? He was Perseus, a Skavi boy, not some Avenger, like myths of old, who came out of the Skavi to slaughter shades and revenants and try to kill Hades himself. They always failed.

Sela was dead. Dead, forever. In the Fields of Blood, a warrior died until the next morning. This death was permanent. 

Sela’s mother came outside, wiping tears from her eye as she saw Perseus kneeling over Sela’s corpse. “Perse.” she said, her nickname for him. “Perse, I’m so sorry.” She said, taking him by the hand. “I heard what happened to Aarvon and now Sela—” she broke down in tears.

Perseus looked up and gently hugged her. Sela was gone. He couldn’t believe it.

Hours later, he returned to his mother’s grieving homestead, received his food, and went to sleep. The next day, he went to the fields.

 

Ragnarok, The Acheros Chasm, Year 3471 of the Skavi Enslavement

 

Perseus was fourteen, having served two years in the fields, and stood at the precipice of a chasm. 

Sela’s mother had moved in, with no living relatives. Perseus’ own mother had begun working, collecting gear from fallen warriors on the Fields of Blood, for most of the day. He suspected she did it to see if his father and brother were okay.

He looked over the edge, noting the depth and the river of lava below. It was the Acheros River, river of death. Even touching it would kill him. It was a long fall. 

The gorge itself was steep, so a tumble would send it directly into the river. One short step, and he would be over the edge. Skavi workers came here every week, most to commit suicide, some who were desperate enough to try and loot the washed-up bodies.

The shades, who guarded the workers, had seen him leave, and had mocked him, asking if he would be back that night. Perseus himself didn’t know the answer.

“Don’t jump in, my friend.” said a voice from behind, startling Perseus, who whirled and confronted him.

“What do you want?” he asked, aggressively.

The stranger backed up slightly. He was physically massive, with a hood over his face, that did not cover a brown beard. He had a staff, but did not look dangerous in the least. “Whoa, whoa, there, friend! I am no threat to you in the least.”

“Who are you?” asked Perseus, still on guard. One did not trust strangers in Ragnarok. 

“I’m Mestiv, a… wanderer of sorts.”

Perseus frowned, lowering his guard slightly. “What is your job?” he asked. “What do the demons force you to do?”

Mestiv laughed, a deep belly laugh and threw back his hood. “The demons’ control over Ragnarok is not as complete as they’d make you think, friend. Some Skavi walk free, as shocking as it seems.”

“But—but—” Perseus had never heard of such a thing, a free Skavi. “Don’t they come after you.”

“Occasionally.” Mestiv admitted. “They’ve learned better. I take care of them.” he said, touching something at his side, which Perseus realized to his disbelief, was a sword.

An armed, free Skavi. That could mean only one thing, the rebellion.

The Skavi rebellion had been around for a very long time, but was small and could’ve been easily crushed, if only the revenants could find them. They hid in caves far to the west.

“A—blade.” Perseus gasped. “That could get you killed by the revenants.”

“Didn’t you listen? They’re scared of me.” 

“But they’re strong and quick and—” gasped Perseus.

“And they don’t know one bloody end of the sword from another. They’re power is their reputation, and their strength. I could beat any of them in a proper duel.”

Perseus started. This man was a warrior. A man who was not afraid of the demons.”Who—who taught you?” he gasped.

Mestiv frowned. “An idealistic fool. Why do you want to know?” Before Perseus responded, he took a step back, as if realizing something. “Ashes, no. No, no, no, no!”

“What?” asked Perseus.

Mestiv came forward, a strange glint in his eye and seized Perseus by the shoulders, shaking him. “Who did you lose? Tell me!” 

Perseus struggled backwards, gasping. “Everybody.” he finally gasped. “Everybody!”

Mestiv turned around. “You need to go. Before you try for revenge. Come, come with me to the Sixth Wall, but whatever they say, do not trust them. They will try and make you an Avenger. Don’t listen.”

“An—an Avenger?” Perseus asked, uncertainly. Avengers were myths, legendary Skavi who rose up to overthrow the demons, but invariably failed and were executed in horrible ways. The last had come eight years ago, but was beheaded by Surtur, himself.

Mestiv cursed, looking over his shoulder. “The revenants are coming. Listen boy, I’m staying back to kill the revenants, but you, run. Get past the chasms and head west. Go by night. In three days time, you’ll be at the Sixth Wall, where I hopefully will be waiting for you. Run, boy, run!”

Perseus looked in horror, and saw revenants, some twenty of them, heading straight for them. He saw Mestiv draw his blade, shining steel. He turned, and ran. 

Ran for his life. He found an old footbridge, the only one over the chasm, and sprinted over it. Behind him, he heard shouts and screams. But he ran. Ran till the screams faded, and ran till he collapsed.

 

[TwinStorm He/Him]

Next part of Perseus' backstory

Spoiler

Ragnarok, the Sixth Wall of Vengeance, Year 3471 of the Skavi Enslavement

Perseus wheezed for breath on the ground. Three days after he had left Mestiv, and he had arrived. The Sixth Wall, a base of the rebellion. It was a nondescript place, a jagged land full of cracks and chasms, but here, on the side of a cliff, was a massive circular stone door, inscribed with ancient Skavi runes, describing the Fall into Ragnarok.

As he got up slowly, he heard a voice from behind. “You move, you die.” a man, dressed in all black, with an arrow pointing towards his head.

“I’m not a demon!” Perseus shouted, covering his head.

The man eyed him. “Faceless can look like a Skavi and, besides, there are plenty of Skavi traitors around.” he said, spitting. “Might as well bring him to the questioners.”

“Velter, no!” came another voice. “He’s thirteen, for the sky’s sake! He’s not a spy, and he’d be a mighty dumb demon to try and come to the front gate!”
“Fourteen.” muttered Perseus, from the ground. 

Velter grumbled. “He ought to go to the questioners.”

“And he will, after some sleep!” came the second man again.

“Ashes!” cursed the Velter. “Well, Jav, when he slaughters half the fortress in our sleep, I’ll have your head on my wall.”

“If he is a Faceless, I think I know who he’s killing first.” observed Jav.

“Mestiv told me to come here!” Perseus shouted, desperate. 

They both froze. “Mestiv?” Jav asked. “You’ve seen Mestiv. He wouldn’t have sent us a recruit, unless—” he froze. “You’re to be an Avenger.” he said, a strange glimmer in his eye.

Velter laughed. “We haven’t seen Mestiv in six years! Who knows if he’s truly alive?”

“He is.” said Perseus resolutely. “He saved me from shades and revenants and told me to come here, the Sixth Wall.

“Strange story for a Faceless.” observed Jav.

“Or a brilliant one.” muttered Velter, but he subsided.

Other men had started to surround them, most clad in black tunics or trousers, occasionally with a hood. All were armed, with swords, daggers, bows, spears. They were all warriors, hardened, all wary of him. These were people who suffered and never wanted to do so again. 

“Bring him to the Council.” said a third voice and everything went black.

 

Ragnarok, Council Chamber of the Sixth Wall, Year 3741 of the Skavi Enslavement

When Perseus awoke, he was in a large cavern, with stalagmites and stalactites all around, with twenty thrones in a circular formation surrounding a massive table. He got up and saw only a few men in the distant chambers. 

He walked to the center table, where there was a giant map of the Northlands of Ragnarok west of the Sea of Flames. The Sixth Wall was marked on a map, as were other rebellion shelters, and key fortresses held by the demons.

As he studied, somebody clasped his shoulder. “So you’re the new kid, huh. The one, sent by ol’ Mestiv, who everybody was fussing around with?”

He turned to see a tall man with shaggy hair that hung like a curtain and a beard, clad in dark colors. He had a sword. 

“Me—Mestiv?” he said, hesitantly.

The man gave a laugh. “Everybody always thinks I’m my brother. He’s the famous one, sure, but he don’t know nothing about swords.”

“But, he beat the revenants!” Perseus said.

“Revenants ain’t warriors, I can tell you that, boy. If you want a real challenge, try Faceless. Now those are hard to kill.”

“Wait.” Perseus said, frowning. “You’re Mestiv’s brother?”

The man gave a laugh. “Of course I am. I’m Zavel.”

“I’m Perseus.” he said, extending a hand in the traditional Skavi greeting. “Do you know how to fight?”

“Better than anybody else in the rebellion, I reckon, though a few of my students could probably beat my old sack of bones.” he laughed. “What do you know of the blade?” 

“Me? I don’t know anything!” said Perseus, backing away. It was still hard to fathom an armed Skavi, to say nothing of asking him to fight.

“Let’s change that, shall we?” Zavel said, tossing him his blade. Perseus caught it awkwardly. “Your stance is all wrong, you know. But that can be fixed later. Strike me.”
“Strike you?” Perseus said incredulously. “But—but you’re unarmed!”

Zavel shrugged. “Strike me.” 

Perseus looked down at the blade. “I don’t think I should—”

“Strike me.” Zavel commanded. “Now.”

Perseus shrugged and tried an overhead strike. Zavel caught the blade in his bare hands, twisting it and knocking it out of Perseus’ hands. 

“Again.” he ordered, tossing the blade back.

Perseus struck again, this time a thrust, but was blocked every time. Again and again Zavel ordered him to strike, to no avail. Sweat poured down Perseus’ back by the time Zavel was through with him, and he collapsed against the table, exhausted.

“A couple of years, and we’ll make a swordsman of you yet.” Zavel noted, barely winded.

“Is it all this hard?” wheezed Perseus from the table. 

“Always.” Zavel said. “Just because I can take six warriors doesn’t mean it gets easier.”

Before Perseus could respond, twenty men filed into the room, each taking a position behind a seat. One of them came forward, a tall dark man with an imperious gaze. Zavel retreated to the corner of the room.

“Perseus of the Skavi.” he intoned. “You have come to the Sixth Wall of Vengeance seeking refuge and claiming to be sent by Mestiv Skarsvelt. Do you confirm this?”

“Yes.” said Perseus, shaking slightly. 

“Then you declare yourself not to be one of the traitors to the Skavi, a demon in disguise?”
“I do.” he replied.

“And what is your intention in coming here, besides refure?”
“I… don’t know.”

“The judge frowned slightly. “You came to the Sixth Wall of Vengeance seeking refuge, and refuge only? And Mestiv sent you?”
“Yes.”

“He only sends those who are Intended.” he said, frowning slightly. 

“Intended? For what?” asked Perseus.

“To Avenge.” replied the man cryptically. The council erupted immediately, arguing whether he should take the position or not, leaving Perseus confused in the din. 

Then he felt a sudden resolve, a burning anger against the demons. Skavi were dying and these people were arguing over these little masters.

He spoke quietly. “I will Avenge.” Nobody quieted, for they could not hear him, but Perseus spoke again. “I will Avenge!” he shouted. They quieted. “I will Avenge!”

The man got up. “You will become an Avenger, then?”

“I will,” said Perseus. “Though I do not know how, I will. I need training.”

“Of course.” replied the man, his attitude towards him changed. He seemed less imperious, and more gracious, more allowing, almost like he was below him.

Zavel stepped out of the shadows. “Mastrell, I will train him in the sword.”

Perseus smiled at him. “I’d be honored.”

Mastrell smiled, then, shockingly, bowed. “Hail, Avenger of the Skavi.” he said. There was a moment’s hesitation, then the rest stood and bowed. “Hail, Avenger of the Skavi!” they said in unison. “Hail, Avenger of the Skavi! Hail, Perseus, Avenger of the Skavi!”

He backed up, astonished and embarrassed, as Mastrell offered him the sword that had belonged to the last Avenger, and crowned him with laurel wreaths. It was like he had already won the war.

From that day on, Perseus was no longer a boy. He was a man.

 

 

[TwinStorm He/Him]

I wanted to do a random writing project so I decided to outline a novel using tropes from Haly's Crowdpleaser project (with her permission, ofc) and then I just randomly wrote an intro using a magic system I was working on, but I really liked it. It was fun, cuz I tried to be as poetic as possible and kinda channel that Name of the Wind vibe.

It's kinda short, but I really like it as an intro to the world and to the mc

Spoiler

Gather around me, children, and you shall hear a tale of the ancient past. A tale of a time when men strove against each other, and the world wept for what they did. A tale of when our paradise crumbled and shattered, for men knew the Songs then, the Songs of wind, stone, and fire, and made the earth weep as they clashed.

In time, the world forgot the sound of the Ancient Music, and the ruin caused by their mistakes. Yet, they heeded the warnings in the fireside tales, and grew up in deadly fear of the Music of paradise.

Yet strife came once, for it is never far from the hearts of men, and war came upon the world, terrible conflicts, yet they seemed soft in the face of the Fall of Paradise.

Mankind had left the Songs, but they were not forgotten by all. What once was the pride of an entire people became dusty tunes in a traveling minstrel’s mind.

Yet some remembered the tales, and learned the Songs, whether through their father’s father, or the passing minstrel. They were feared, and hated, and thus drove to extinction. All save one. 

One who knew the Songs, knew of the ancient past. One who hated war, after seeing its effects. One who fled for their life. All because they had learned the Songs of wind, stone and flame.

This man, called monster, savior, prince, lover, was known by many names. But all, in the end, knew him by one. Kevren. 

 

The man walked down the dusty road, whistling a tune. One that made the wild winds stir, and chatter excitedly, at what this could mean, for they had not heard the ancient Songs in millenia. 

It was a song that made the very stones awake, from long sleep, and wonder if their old masters had indeed returned. 

It was a song that made the fires in the distant hearths flare, for they knew their time to burn and run free must come again. For the ancient Songs had been sung.

It was a song of beauty, of terror, of glory, of triumph, and of death. It was the song of Creation itself.

 

[Through the Living Wrath he/him]

10 hours ago, Ookla the Irreplaceable said:

I wanted to do a random writing project so I decided to outline a novel using tropes from Haly's Crowdpleaser project (with her permission, ofc) and then I just randomly wrote an intro using a magic system I was working on, but I really liked it. It was fun, cuz I tried to be as poetic as possible and kinda channel that Name of the Wind vibe.

It's kinda short, but I really like it as an intro to the world and to the mc

  Hide contents

Gather around me, children, and you shall hear a tale of the ancient past. A tale of a time when men strove against each other, and the world wept for what they did. A tale of when our paradise crumbled and shattered, for men knew the Songs then, the Songs of wind, stone, and fire, and made the earth weep as they clashed.

In time, the world forgot the sound of the Ancient Music, and the ruin caused by their mistakes. Yet, they heeded the warnings in the fireside tales, and grew up in deadly fear of the Music of paradise.

Yet strife came once, for it is never far from the hearts of men, and war came upon the world, terrible conflicts, yet they seemed soft in the face of the Fall of Paradise.

Mankind had left the Songs, but they were not forgotten by all. What once was the pride of an entire people became dusty tunes in a traveling minstrel’s mind.

Yet some remembered the tales, and learned the Songs, whether through their father’s father, or the passing minstrel. They were feared, and hated, and thus drove to extinction. All save one. 

One who knew the Songs, knew of the ancient past. One who hated war, after seeing its effects. One who fled for their life. All because they had learned the Songs of wind, stone and flame.

This man, called monster, savior, prince, lover, was known by many names. But all, in the end, knew him by one. Kevren. 

 

The man walked down the dusty road, whistling a tune. One that made the wild winds stir, and chatter excitedly, at what this could mean, for they had not heard the ancient Songs in millenia. 

It was a song that made the very stones awake, from long sleep, and wonder if their old masters had indeed returned. 

It was a song that made the fires in the distant hearths flare, for they knew their time to burn and run free must come again. For the ancient Songs had been sung.

It was a song of beauty, of terror, of glory, of triumph, and of death. It was the song of Creation itself.

 

Cool. I luv it.

[TwinStorm He/Him]

1 minute ago, SpiritOfWrath said:

Cool. I luv it.

Thanks!