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Warning: PG-13. Or so I'd say. Keep off children's minds!
Chapter One.
Warning: PG-13. Or so I'd say. Keep off children's minds!
Chapter One.
Spoiler:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bW4u-qW-bSQ
Dozens of tranquil, or otherwise, forests past, with most natural wildlife, and lively, there stood a wall, humongous and impressive, connecting two lines of great mountains with a man-made one, tall and thick. And at its base, thousands and millions of dead, inanimate bodies and bits of corpses, and fleshy machinations, black and red blood still dripping from their spikes, armor, weapons and bones scattered everywhere, forming a silent and dead, mysterious and horrific background, emanating a horrid stench that'd wrinkle any nose, be it a beast's or a humanoid's of any kind, of death and the old, but, strangely, modified fumes of the Scourge, as well as fresh and old gunpowder alike.
Thousands of heroes and soldiers, beasts of war and burden, have walked these lands, now blighted, in the past, and dozens died, only to now lay, once again, on the cold ground and bloodied grass, after having been killed, perhaps, for the tenth time in the entire Third War and its post-time.
Yet after all these attempts, the battered wall was still standing strong and tall, so very far from being defeated, as a bastion of both a recently unheard of nation, and a signal that there is still undying living hope. And its top, it was forever filled with gunmen, day and night, protecting it from aerial assaults, as well as playing the role of watch towers, from where rain of bullets often run down at every assault. Clad in light mail, covered by leather and cloth the color of dirt, yet not dirty, most of them tall and large and with steady shoulders, resting their rifles on them. And from under their quite large, mail military hats, their narrowed and steady eyes scoured the land. Between the riflemen, some other men were stationed, dressed in light leather and with unprotected heads. They were all sitting down in between the gaps of the top of the wall, even longer guns stationed, their eyes set into scopes, their entire figures unmoving. They were snipers, put there to look further and spot incoming threats. Furthermore, in between the steady mass of men, stood others, way more imposing and seemingly more tall and muscular, even though many were either rather skinny, or burly and fat, but important nonetheless, as their ornate clothing of a dark blue, and their ranks, which were pinned on their shoulders, said.
While this was a mighty sight, beyond the wall, even though the forests so far were dark and blighted, "scourged" both, the woods past were equally dark, but not diseased, but natural and enigmatic, while the plains were great, open and marvelous, yet still shadowy and mysterious. And the mountains, to the right, tall and strong, thick and pointy, dark coloration still. It seemed that this entire land was surrounded by mist, its recent story hidden, its entire nature cryptic.
And deep in the large landscape, in this foggy painting, there was a clear form of a city, its width impressive, figuring four parts of a giant circle. And past dozens of streets, narrow or large, past bridges, right in the very middle, a mighty church, a cathedral of dark stone, its peak reaching the clouds and piercing them alike a needle.
"Again?! Ye'd think he would've learned by now, or at least he'd have grown up!", a loud voice could be heard in the cold air of the Greymane Court. In one of the noble houses, two men were arguing. One, wearing one of these black top hats and a monocle, caught between his left cheek and furrowed brown brow. His mustache, curbed downwards, as he was frowning at the other man. "Why're ye yellin' at me?! It's nae my fault yer son can't stop running to the woods in the middle of the bloody night, sire.", he answered with a loud voice in the beginning, then with a calm one, his very last word great and insubordinate, his face stern and clear. The well dressed man put his hands, once pointed at the other, behind his back, as he went to a windows, looking up through it. His stature was great and tall, yet skinny, dressed in a full black set of tuxedo. "He is nae my son, Graeme.", he, astonishingly calm, clearly stated. "And he knows it. He never liked me, nae once.", he continued, almost mechanically, a pint of disappointment in his voice. "Yet his father was yer friend, and it was in his will for ye tae take care o' his son.", the one named Graeme said. He was a tall and strong man, as most of the men in the kingdom, with a large hat in his hand, brown and clearly old, as well as his clothes. Made more practical than for looks, he looked ever more mighty and mysterious, his black long hair only helping his demeanor, his deep green eyes able to catch your attention at any time. "Daniel, please, ye have tae. He wus yer friend, Rodock wus.", he continued, trying to pacify the other. "Ye don't have tae remind me, Graeme. Rodock wus a fool, but-". Daniel's words were interrupted, as a clashing sound tumbled into the room. And the tall door, it was now open. The two men looked at each other, then, at the same time, at the door, a light creeping inside, before it flickered only once, but stood alight. They approached and slightly pushed the door open, only to see another door open, brooms and a bucket on the wooden floor. "We will have tae continue this another time, Graeme. 'Tis almost morning, and I reckon ye have tae return tae yer duties.", the nobleman said with a low tone. "True words, sire. Very well, I will find my own way out.", he answered, follow by a bow of his head, his hat still gripped with loose fingers, now taken over to cover his chest.
Closing the door, his head slightly turned just enough for the corner of his eye to look inside as he put the hat upon his head, at the nobleman in the middle of the large room, barely lit, whom had his hands once again behind his back, looking down at the floor with an obscure look. A sigh left the ranger as he turned his head towards the street. Descending the three steps in front of the house, he looked up, his eyes glistering with the light of the moon, just before it was engulfed by the veil of clouds. A drop of rain impacted with his hat, followed by another one, and another, and another. "'Tis gonna rain. Sad, I had hoped to go into the Blackwald t'day.", he said to himself, another sigh escaping his lips. "Yep, ye're right. Ye should hurry home.", a voice calmly said. The ranger looked towards the direction of the unknown man. "Hold yer pistol, ranger, I have nae quarrel with ye.", the voice continued, exactly as Graeme was ready to grip one of his guns, tied on his belt. The man came out of the shadows from the corner of the very house Graeme left just now, revealing what seemed to be a young noble, tall and athletic, dressed in a gray, discolored tuxedo, a monocle upon his right eye, a beret trying to hide his clearly bald head. As soon as he has left the shadow, he took a bow, his hand onto his stomach, the other revealing his bald head as he removed his hat and pointed it at Graeme, as well as his blond mustache, beard and long hair. He was in his twenties or so, yet his body stature said otherwise. "Who're y-?". Graeme asked without hesitation, but was interrupted. "They call me 'Grunt'. My pleasure tae finally meet ye, sir Woodpeck. I've always admired ye; I thought ye should know."
"And who're ye, really?", Graeme inquired. "Bodyguard of sire Dawnlight's, and his family. Ye don't know me, o' course. I've got a simple job of engineer, barely known. Ye'd be surprised, though, by my prowess in battle.", the man answered with a very plain tone, alike there was absolutely nothing to hide. "Mhm. May we never fight, then, for I do not know how it will end up.", Graeme said, a smirk upon his face, at which the slender man answered with a simple goodbye. "Farewell, sir Woodpeck. Careful on yer way home.", he said, before departing back in the shadows, the glint of his monocle disappearing the very last.
Graeme blinked, his eyes narrowed, not believing how his trained eyes could lose a man in the dark of a mere alley. Finally sticking his left hand in his pocket, he turned towards the street he's set his course upon and began walking with careful steps, only some of them leaving a tap as his boots hit the wet tiles. Clearly stiff and tense, he walked, past the bridge and out the city, letting out two roads out of one, bifurcated. Taking the left one, Graeme walked past a lake and near the darkest forest any gilnean has ever seen, and more mysterious and scary, almost from a novel meant to frighten unruly children. It was down the hill, and the ground was barely visible through the foliage of leaves. Yet Graeme could not take the corner of his eye off it. He turned his relaxed walk into another stiff and quiet one, his right arm along his stature, ready to unsheathe his pistol as fast as possible, the other hand holding his hat. If the air in the city was humid and wet, but only somewhat annoying, and quiet but for the random rummaging of mice, cats and stray dogs, the road near the forest was completely silent, not a single whisper present, only the sound made by the cruel, cold wind that cut to the bone with no mercy being able to be heard.
The road went silently down the hill, ever reaching to the margins of the dark forest, as the brown man was walking, as if passing through shadows. And finally, the road took a turn, and houses were before, with pointy roofs and gothic, of dark wood. It was silent, but beautiful, alike a dark maiden. Graeme walked in the village center, where a great, leaf-free tree, dark alike the surroundings, its barren and large form similar to the trees in he forest next to the road, not far away from this village either, but way smaller.
Graeme enlarged his furry nostrils, as he inhaled a great amount of air, walking on the tiles in the center, towards a house. "Aah, Stormglen.", he told himself, exhaling alike a sigh, in a whisper, as he slowly slid his key into the door's knob and slowly opened it, so it barely let a sound. Shuffling in, he removed his vest, followed by his hat, and put them both on a wooden form of a tall tree, with great and spread branches, two of them already covered by a lady hat and a feminine vest, both of light colors. Walking on his toes, he approached the large fireplace, which was barely lit. Throwing two pieces of wood with a minimum of noise, he sunk into a large chair of wool and cloth, covered by a brown mane of a great bear, and his expression immediately turned and sunk from a cautious one, to one of deep thinking and sadness, his brows furrowed, but eyes not angered. "Poor child.", his lips let out, barely murmured and whispered. "He didn't deserve it.". Only little he stayed on the comfortable chair, that he raised and turned towards a wooden table, in a corner, ornate bottles and glasses carefully placed on it in a most silent and beautiful, interesting sigh. He uncorked a slim bottle with a round bottom, and let a red liquid run down its throat into a glass, turning it into a bloody nuance in the barely lit room. The light was dim, and Graeme was dragging a tall chair near the table, upon which he afterwards sat into. Carefully freeing up space before him, he opened a drawer, and sunk his hand inside, deep. Immediately, an unnatural click was heard, and Graeme's hand backed up. He had opened a secret compartment under the opened drawer, and a book is what his hand placed upon the table, covered in red cloth and tied with a black leather band, which he opened just after the drawer was closed again.
The pages were beautifully written, in a certain way and language, bolded and exquisite. He passed through many pages, until his eyes set themselves onto a single one, unimportant in looks, but its content vital.
Dozens of tranquil, or otherwise, forests past, with most natural wildlife, and lively, there stood a wall, humongous and impressive, connecting two lines of great mountains with a man-made one, tall and thick. And at its base, thousands and millions of dead, inanimate bodies and bits of corpses, and fleshy machinations, black and red blood still dripping from their spikes, armor, weapons and bones scattered everywhere, forming a silent and dead, mysterious and horrific background, emanating a horrid stench that'd wrinkle any nose, be it a beast's or a humanoid's of any kind, of death and the old, but, strangely, modified fumes of the Scourge, as well as fresh and old gunpowder alike.
Thousands of heroes and soldiers, beasts of war and burden, have walked these lands, now blighted, in the past, and dozens died, only to now lay, once again, on the cold ground and bloodied grass, after having been killed, perhaps, for the tenth time in the entire Third War and its post-time.
Yet after all these attempts, the battered wall was still standing strong and tall, so very far from being defeated, as a bastion of both a recently unheard of nation, and a signal that there is still undying living hope. And its top, it was forever filled with gunmen, day and night, protecting it from aerial assaults, as well as playing the role of watch towers, from where rain of bullets often run down at every assault. Clad in light mail, covered by leather and cloth the color of dirt, yet not dirty, most of them tall and large and with steady shoulders, resting their rifles on them. And from under their quite large, mail military hats, their narrowed and steady eyes scoured the land. Between the riflemen, some other men were stationed, dressed in light leather and with unprotected heads. They were all sitting down in between the gaps of the top of the wall, even longer guns stationed, their eyes set into scopes, their entire figures unmoving. They were snipers, put there to look further and spot incoming threats. Furthermore, in between the steady mass of men, stood others, way more imposing and seemingly more tall and muscular, even though many were either rather skinny, or burly and fat, but important nonetheless, as their ornate clothing of a dark blue, and their ranks, which were pinned on their shoulders, said.
While this was a mighty sight, beyond the wall, even though the forests so far were dark and blighted, "scourged" both, the woods past were equally dark, but not diseased, but natural and enigmatic, while the plains were great, open and marvelous, yet still shadowy and mysterious. And the mountains, to the right, tall and strong, thick and pointy, dark coloration still. It seemed that this entire land was surrounded by mist, its recent story hidden, its entire nature cryptic.
And deep in the large landscape, in this foggy painting, there was a clear form of a city, its width impressive, figuring four parts of a giant circle. And past dozens of streets, narrow or large, past bridges, right in the very middle, a mighty church, a cathedral of dark stone, its peak reaching the clouds and piercing them alike a needle.
"Again?! Ye'd think he would've learned by now, or at least he'd have grown up!", a loud voice could be heard in the cold air of the Greymane Court. In one of the noble houses, two men were arguing. One, wearing one of these black top hats and a monocle, caught between his left cheek and furrowed brown brow. His mustache, curbed downwards, as he was frowning at the other man. "Why're ye yellin' at me?! It's nae my fault yer son can't stop running to the woods in the middle of the bloody night, sire.", he answered with a loud voice in the beginning, then with a calm one, his very last word great and insubordinate, his face stern and clear. The well dressed man put his hands, once pointed at the other, behind his back, as he went to a windows, looking up through it. His stature was great and tall, yet skinny, dressed in a full black set of tuxedo. "He is nae my son, Graeme.", he, astonishingly calm, clearly stated. "And he knows it. He never liked me, nae once.", he continued, almost mechanically, a pint of disappointment in his voice. "Yet his father was yer friend, and it was in his will for ye tae take care o' his son.", the one named Graeme said. He was a tall and strong man, as most of the men in the kingdom, with a large hat in his hand, brown and clearly old, as well as his clothes. Made more practical than for looks, he looked ever more mighty and mysterious, his black long hair only helping his demeanor, his deep green eyes able to catch your attention at any time. "Daniel, please, ye have tae. He wus yer friend, Rodock wus.", he continued, trying to pacify the other. "Ye don't have tae remind me, Graeme. Rodock wus a fool, but-". Daniel's words were interrupted, as a clashing sound tumbled into the room. And the tall door, it was now open. The two men looked at each other, then, at the same time, at the door, a light creeping inside, before it flickered only once, but stood alight. They approached and slightly pushed the door open, only to see another door open, brooms and a bucket on the wooden floor. "We will have tae continue this another time, Graeme. 'Tis almost morning, and I reckon ye have tae return tae yer duties.", the nobleman said with a low tone. "True words, sire. Very well, I will find my own way out.", he answered, follow by a bow of his head, his hat still gripped with loose fingers, now taken over to cover his chest.
Closing the door, his head slightly turned just enough for the corner of his eye to look inside as he put the hat upon his head, at the nobleman in the middle of the large room, barely lit, whom had his hands once again behind his back, looking down at the floor with an obscure look. A sigh left the ranger as he turned his head towards the street. Descending the three steps in front of the house, he looked up, his eyes glistering with the light of the moon, just before it was engulfed by the veil of clouds. A drop of rain impacted with his hat, followed by another one, and another, and another. "'Tis gonna rain. Sad, I had hoped to go into the Blackwald t'day.", he said to himself, another sigh escaping his lips. "Yep, ye're right. Ye should hurry home.", a voice calmly said. The ranger looked towards the direction of the unknown man. "Hold yer pistol, ranger, I have nae quarrel with ye.", the voice continued, exactly as Graeme was ready to grip one of his guns, tied on his belt. The man came out of the shadows from the corner of the very house Graeme left just now, revealing what seemed to be a young noble, tall and athletic, dressed in a gray, discolored tuxedo, a monocle upon his right eye, a beret trying to hide his clearly bald head. As soon as he has left the shadow, he took a bow, his hand onto his stomach, the other revealing his bald head as he removed his hat and pointed it at Graeme, as well as his blond mustache, beard and long hair. He was in his twenties or so, yet his body stature said otherwise. "Who're y-?". Graeme asked without hesitation, but was interrupted. "They call me 'Grunt'. My pleasure tae finally meet ye, sir Woodpeck. I've always admired ye; I thought ye should know."
"And who're ye, really?", Graeme inquired. "Bodyguard of sire Dawnlight's, and his family. Ye don't know me, o' course. I've got a simple job of engineer, barely known. Ye'd be surprised, though, by my prowess in battle.", the man answered with a very plain tone, alike there was absolutely nothing to hide. "Mhm. May we never fight, then, for I do not know how it will end up.", Graeme said, a smirk upon his face, at which the slender man answered with a simple goodbye. "Farewell, sir Woodpeck. Careful on yer way home.", he said, before departing back in the shadows, the glint of his monocle disappearing the very last.
Graeme blinked, his eyes narrowed, not believing how his trained eyes could lose a man in the dark of a mere alley. Finally sticking his left hand in his pocket, he turned towards the street he's set his course upon and began walking with careful steps, only some of them leaving a tap as his boots hit the wet tiles. Clearly stiff and tense, he walked, past the bridge and out the city, letting out two roads out of one, bifurcated. Taking the left one, Graeme walked past a lake and near the darkest forest any gilnean has ever seen, and more mysterious and scary, almost from a novel meant to frighten unruly children. It was down the hill, and the ground was barely visible through the foliage of leaves. Yet Graeme could not take the corner of his eye off it. He turned his relaxed walk into another stiff and quiet one, his right arm along his stature, ready to unsheathe his pistol as fast as possible, the other hand holding his hat. If the air in the city was humid and wet, but only somewhat annoying, and quiet but for the random rummaging of mice, cats and stray dogs, the road near the forest was completely silent, not a single whisper present, only the sound made by the cruel, cold wind that cut to the bone with no mercy being able to be heard.
The road went silently down the hill, ever reaching to the margins of the dark forest, as the brown man was walking, as if passing through shadows. And finally, the road took a turn, and houses were before, with pointy roofs and gothic, of dark wood. It was silent, but beautiful, alike a dark maiden. Graeme walked in the village center, where a great, leaf-free tree, dark alike the surroundings, its barren and large form similar to the trees in he forest next to the road, not far away from this village either, but way smaller.
Graeme enlarged his furry nostrils, as he inhaled a great amount of air, walking on the tiles in the center, towards a house. "Aah, Stormglen.", he told himself, exhaling alike a sigh, in a whisper, as he slowly slid his key into the door's knob and slowly opened it, so it barely let a sound. Shuffling in, he removed his vest, followed by his hat, and put them both on a wooden form of a tall tree, with great and spread branches, two of them already covered by a lady hat and a feminine vest, both of light colors. Walking on his toes, he approached the large fireplace, which was barely lit. Throwing two pieces of wood with a minimum of noise, he sunk into a large chair of wool and cloth, covered by a brown mane of a great bear, and his expression immediately turned and sunk from a cautious one, to one of deep thinking and sadness, his brows furrowed, but eyes not angered. "Poor child.", his lips let out, barely murmured and whispered. "He didn't deserve it.". Only little he stayed on the comfortable chair, that he raised and turned towards a wooden table, in a corner, ornate bottles and glasses carefully placed on it in a most silent and beautiful, interesting sigh. He uncorked a slim bottle with a round bottom, and let a red liquid run down its throat into a glass, turning it into a bloody nuance in the barely lit room. The light was dim, and Graeme was dragging a tall chair near the table, upon which he afterwards sat into. Carefully freeing up space before him, he opened a drawer, and sunk his hand inside, deep. Immediately, an unnatural click was heard, and Graeme's hand backed up. He had opened a secret compartment under the opened drawer, and a book is what his hand placed upon the table, covered in red cloth and tied with a black leather band, which he opened just after the drawer was closed again.
The pages were beautifully written, in a certain way and language, bolded and exquisite. He passed through many pages, until his eyes set themselves onto a single one, unimportant in looks, but its content vital.