Post by Farrah on Dec 28, 2007 11:56:01 GMT -5
I read back over the old one, and realized there were a ton of hazy points. I revised it in order to turn in for an exam this year, so I hope there aren't too many things you guys can pick on. BUT PLEASE: if you do see something that you find hazy or unclear or incorrect or ANYTHING THAT NEEDS TO BE CHANGED IN YOUR OPINION, DON"T HESITATE! Everyone seems to be very quiet about their opions around my stories, and I think it's because they're afraid they'll hurt my feelings or something. I don't care. Please make that known. You'll hurt my feelings much more if you don't tell me what to fix than if you do. I welcome critiques.
Here 'tis:
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the frantic beating of an anxious heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
Frozen shards were lifted by the wind, dancing, twirling, volleyed into the countenance of the lone figure scaling the near-vertical slope. She winced, but her fiery green opts still probed the icy expanse.
Earlier those same eyes were spectators of an execution.
Seath, being the eldest surviving child, had inherited the coveted title of pack leader after the death of his father, as was tradition. The wise wolf had been a just ruler. The full loyalty and respect of every member of the Thlaylis pack had been maintained without compromise until his demise just three days before. According to the ancient practice, Ulric was next in line. Tala had other ideas.
She hungered for power, just as she had forever thirsted for blood. Leadership flowed through her veins. The longing could not be silenced.
Thus, she devised a plan.
A mercenary was hired from a distant land in secret. Conan: unafraid to split flesh from bone or tear arteries for pleasure. All were his enemies yet none were his enemies. Infamy rendered him unchallenged.
Age-old customs dictated that on the third night following a former leader’s passing, the next recipient of divine right of a Dragga must journey to the peak of the sacred mountain, Narok. Myth told of the chosen becoming one with the mountain as the gods recognized their new power.
Ulric’s time was tonight.
Tala had waited gleefully on an overhang as her brother traveled steadily upward, climbing sheer cliffs and slick drops. Conan waited hidden as planned. She could barely contain her joyful anticipation.
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the oppressive beating of an excited heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
The following events passed swiftly though they now replayed slowly through her mind: the large muscular wolf’s sinews uncoiling as he flew from behind the rocky outcrop; the surprised yelp of the victim quickly replaced by a shriek of anguish; her struggling brother being overtaken as he and his attacker disappeared from view behind a protruding boulder; the telltale smear of blood which was rapidly being disguised by falling snow; the satisfying silence.
A grin was etched deeply into Tala’s face as she now neared the zenith of Narok. The beloved Ulric had been overcome; she was victorious. Her ears resounded with legends of the great Tala who reigned in the tragic death of her brother whose life had been sadly extinguished by an unfortunate fall. Her features radiated pervasive glee as she thought of all the mourning packmates who would gladly accept her as a savior in dark times. None would oppose but a corpse now concealed in an ivory crypt befitting his inherited crown.
The pinnacle was now in sight. Each step took a hundred years as she drew closer to destiny.
She arrived.
Tala’s eyelids closed as she resounded a triumphant howl announcing her enemy’s downfall and her glorious triumph. When she contentedly reopened them, a dark shape was materializing out of the cacophonous symphony of death, lunging at her throat.
Tala choked out one last word as drops of her own blood spattered her vision dribbling from Ulric’s drenched maw: how.
“Everything you have done against me was to my advantage in the unraveling of your dissention. Conan enlisted under my command before yours; he was key in the invention of my moral end. Your futile plans were nothing but fragments of a fantasy undone before it was imagined. It is your defeat that marks this day. Whenever elders and seers recount the tale of the traitorous Tala, all will recall the final words Ulric the Great spoke after he smote his adversary upon the mountain.”
He gazed deeper into the clouding eyes of his sister, then finished. “The end.”
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the dwindling beating of a dying heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
“The end.”
Here 'tis:
Traitors
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the frantic beating of an anxious heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
Frozen shards were lifted by the wind, dancing, twirling, volleyed into the countenance of the lone figure scaling the near-vertical slope. She winced, but her fiery green opts still probed the icy expanse.
Earlier those same eyes were spectators of an execution.
Seath, being the eldest surviving child, had inherited the coveted title of pack leader after the death of his father, as was tradition. The wise wolf had been a just ruler. The full loyalty and respect of every member of the Thlaylis pack had been maintained without compromise until his demise just three days before. According to the ancient practice, Ulric was next in line. Tala had other ideas.
She hungered for power, just as she had forever thirsted for blood. Leadership flowed through her veins. The longing could not be silenced.
Thus, she devised a plan.
A mercenary was hired from a distant land in secret. Conan: unafraid to split flesh from bone or tear arteries for pleasure. All were his enemies yet none were his enemies. Infamy rendered him unchallenged.
Age-old customs dictated that on the third night following a former leader’s passing, the next recipient of divine right of a Dragga must journey to the peak of the sacred mountain, Narok. Myth told of the chosen becoming one with the mountain as the gods recognized their new power.
Ulric’s time was tonight.
Tala had waited gleefully on an overhang as her brother traveled steadily upward, climbing sheer cliffs and slick drops. Conan waited hidden as planned. She could barely contain her joyful anticipation.
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the oppressive beating of an excited heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
The following events passed swiftly though they now replayed slowly through her mind: the large muscular wolf’s sinews uncoiling as he flew from behind the rocky outcrop; the surprised yelp of the victim quickly replaced by a shriek of anguish; her struggling brother being overtaken as he and his attacker disappeared from view behind a protruding boulder; the telltale smear of blood which was rapidly being disguised by falling snow; the satisfying silence.
A grin was etched deeply into Tala’s face as she now neared the zenith of Narok. The beloved Ulric had been overcome; she was victorious. Her ears resounded with legends of the great Tala who reigned in the tragic death of her brother whose life had been sadly extinguished by an unfortunate fall. Her features radiated pervasive glee as she thought of all the mourning packmates who would gladly accept her as a savior in dark times. None would oppose but a corpse now concealed in an ivory crypt befitting his inherited crown.
The pinnacle was now in sight. Each step took a hundred years as she drew closer to destiny.
She arrived.
Tala’s eyelids closed as she resounded a triumphant howl announcing her enemy’s downfall and her glorious triumph. When she contentedly reopened them, a dark shape was materializing out of the cacophonous symphony of death, lunging at her throat.
Tala choked out one last word as drops of her own blood spattered her vision dribbling from Ulric’s drenched maw: how.
“Everything you have done against me was to my advantage in the unraveling of your dissention. Conan enlisted under my command before yours; he was key in the invention of my moral end. Your futile plans were nothing but fragments of a fantasy undone before it was imagined. It is your defeat that marks this day. Whenever elders and seers recount the tale of the traitorous Tala, all will recall the final words Ulric the Great spoke after he smote his adversary upon the mountain.”
He gazed deeper into the clouding eyes of his sister, then finished. “The end.”
The only sounds were the wind whistling over the jagged mountains covered in packed snow and scraggly evergreens and the dwindling beating of a dying heart. Her heart. Tala’s heart.
“The end.”
= New Message 
= No New Message