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TwinStorm

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  1. TwinStorm
    The High Priest lay on the cobblestones, feeling the heat of the flames licking the wall, feeling the weight smoldering vestments settle on him, the burden of tradition chaining him down. 
    "Please . . . spare this temple."
    No answer. The fire began to burn the tapestries, and the heat became unbearable. Blood and ash had mixed, and were indistinguishable. The Dreamsmith had been right. The false prophet had been correct. The doom was upon them.
    "Doom?" 
    The High Priest jerked upwards, startled by the voice. Arrogant, mocking. But a voice nonetheless.
    "Spare the temple." he whispered once more, not caring who spoke.
    There was a rich laugh, and a man strode through the flames. He was tall, with an arrogant face, and a golden helmet. He wore a cloak the color of the sky before the storm, and he wore a Blade at his side. 
    The Priest sighed in relief. A servant of Plot, to be sure. None other would carry such a Blade, one as strong as Crusade.
    "Please, help me . . . Plot sent you . . . Help me."
    The man laughed again. "I suppose Plot did send me. My name is Atreides. And I can help you in what you seek."
    The High Priest's heart hammered in his chest. His prayer had been answered. Plot still remained. "Thank . . . thank you." he coughed, hacking up blood."
    "I do demand a price, however." Atreides responded, his arrogant gaze drifting toward Zealot.
    "Wha . . . what do you wish for?" the High Priest asked, a knot of fear settling in his stomach. Surely Plot would not take back his gift. Surely not.
    "That Blade." Atreides gestured. "Zealot. For the temple."
    Silence. For a moment, silence took the room, only broken by the crackling of flame.
    This Temple was as old as the wind itself. It had seen war and famine, and now it was falling. The Blade . . . it was his most prized possession. His duty. But he had a duty to the Temple as well.
    He sighed. 
    "Very well." he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Spare the Temple."
    Atreides nodded. "Surrender it to me."
    The High Priest sighed. Zealot. he commanded. Serve Atreides. You are released from my service.
    The Blade vanished from his side. Atreides' face split in a triumphant smile, as the Blade appeared in his right hand, glowing with red light.
    "I thank you, High Priest of Plot. Your temple will be spared. You, however . . ."
    The High Priest realized too late what was happening. In one fell movement Atreides had seized him by the throat and hoisted him up, his black glove in a deathly chokehold.
    "I will keep my vow." he whispered, his mouth inches from the Priest's face, spitting his words. "This Blade will be invaluable to my Crusade. As for you . . . you have served your purpose.
    The Priest coughed, trying to resist, but the strength seemed to have left his bones. He had no more power. Atreides tightened his grip, and the Priest felt his breath leave his lungs. All he could do was look into the eyes of Atreides, startling blue. There was nothing in them but hatred.
    "Join your shattered god, old fool." he smiled, and hurled him against the wall.
    The High Priest slammed into the stone, and felt the wall shatter beneath his weight. It had taken too much today, and Atreides' strength was beyond any mortal's. 
    The wall groaned, and Atreides smiled one last time, raising a mocking salute. "I hope you realize, High Priest, that no god remains in the Thread. Except me."
    Cracks formed in the wall as Atreides raised Zealot. "One final gift. A quick death. For your service."
    He slammed Zealot into the stone. Fracture lines raced from the where the Blade had made contact and the entire room seemed to sink.
    "You . . . traitor." The Priest muttered, his words slow in coming. His vision was tinged in red, and the darkness was closer than ever.
    Atreides nodded, and vanished in a cloud of ash and smoke. The room seemed to shift once more. The cliffside is collapsing, some rational part of the Priest's brain thought sluggishly.
    He blacked out for a moment, startled back into reality by free fall. Around him, rubble, ancient history, hurtled toward the ground hundreds of feet below. He lost consciousness again, and all he remembered was pain.
    Pain. No pain matched his. Physical pain, but also the pain of failure. Everything had fallen thanks to him. Now he would die . . . 
    He sunk into the darkness once more.
    Then, faintly . . . he opened his eyes. He was still alive, laying, broken among the wreck. Barely alive. 
  2. TwinStorm
    The High Priest of Plot staggered through the temple, bleeding. The end had truly come, just as the Dreamsmith had warned him. Demons had come from the sky, thousands of them, attacking the cliffside temple. The withergeists had returned to the Thread once more.
    He gasped, clutching his side and slumping against the wall. The temple was burning . . . Blades above, he needed to get to the reliquary . . . 
    He had fought them off, the withergeists, but at great cost. The western wing of the temple had entirely collapsed, and the atrium was burning. It had taken all the powers of Zealot to drive them off.
    Now, he was dying, and the temple of Plot himself, was burning. And it was his fault. He swore. For 4000 pages this temple had stood, and after it was entrusted into his care, it finally fell. The history in the these crumbling walls, the holiness . . . 
    He gasped in pain again. The withergeists would return soon, to raze the temple, after his death. There was no way around it. The protections in place had been entirely destroyed, and the citadel guards wiped out. Only he remained, and his end was near.
    He fell to the ground, cursing. Zealot clanged against the hard stones, the blade glowing with dull fire. He had wielded it faithfully for years and years, and it had served him well. But he could do more. It could not save his life.
    The pain seared his leg now. The withergeists . . . they had slashed and scratched him, cutting him upon, shredding his vestments. He was losing blood faster than before.
    He sighed, closing his eyes, feeling the cool stones underneath. "Please . . ." he whispered, weakly. "Spare me. Spare the temple. Let any power aid me."
     
  3. TwinStorm
    (Ignore the Harry Potter stuff) 
     

    this is his hair style

      (these last three resemble him most, at least in the face. The last one looks most like him.)
     these are images I've found online that resemble Cricket, just trying to gather references
     
  4. TwinStorm

    Review 1: The Silmarillion

    By TwinStorm,


    Book Reviews
    TwinStorm's Book Reviews #1: The Silmarillion by JRR Tolkien
    To start this off, the Silmarillion is the mythology, the groundwork for his vast legendarium, that spans Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit. It is a collection of Tolkien's tales of the First Age, specifically the feud between Morgoth and the Elves, and the War of the Jewels. It was published after Tolkien's death by his son, Christopher.
    The Silmarillion is not a standard book, more of a history of a mythology, a collection of tales, rather than a novel. It does not suffer from this, as some books might (for instance, the Stormlight Archive could not be a history, it needs a novel format), it tales the story of an entire age in one novel, showcasing the arc of the Eldar and the Edain (the elves and men), as well as certain heroes. Now, one of the most popular criticisms of Tolkien (that the lines of black and white are drawn too clearly, no shade of gray, no tragedy) are completely blown away by this novel. Turin Turambar, in particular, disproves all these, leading a tragic life full of darkness.
    As for the novel itself, Tolkien creates a convincing image of a history, with many events and tragedies throughout the story, but with a few exceptions, such as Beren and Luthien and Turin, it feels impersonal. The characters are not connected to you, they are merely there. And unfortunately for it, the novel is quite simply unfinished. The end is climactic, but not well described and unfinished, being pieced together from notes by the editor. It feels as if it is a notebook of a history, not complete.
    Now, don't get me wrong, this book is one of my favorites ever. I love the characters, the storyline, the tragedy, the suffering, and the very real depicition of greed and what comes after. It seems very real, like the natural order of events if something like this ever happened. It's rooted in history and folklore, and the inspirations truly create a beautful masterpiece.
    Final Rating: 8.5/10
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