Untitled - Ezekiel Tyrus
The nearest city, Northpoint, was
about a day's walk away. Most of the men had frostbite. Well, those
who hadn't already died from the cold. Another day of walking would
mean the end of this fool quest. But they had come so close. They
could not stop, not now. They taken this journey north, farther north
than any had ever gone before, past the end of the world and into the
worlds that lie beyond. They had braved terrors that the average man
would rather have died than face. Now they were going to be beaten by
none other than the cold. The frosty air had already claimed more
lives than any of the other trials had.
Tyrus shivered as he calculated. In
the present conditions only a small handful of men could possibly
survive to see the journey's end. Only the strongest, fastest, and
most durable would see their families again. Tyrus knew he was not
one of those men. Being the age of eighteen, he was not as physically
mature as most of the men and had less of a chance of survival.
A large pass of jagged rocks loomed
ahead, but the glow of a city could be seen distantly through the
daggers. Tyrus wanted, more than anything, to make it through the
pass alive. The possibility of a supply post on the other end was
enough to give him the strength to press on. As he trudged through
the snow, his foot caught on an unseen obstacle in the snow. He
gasped as the ground rushed towards his face. He flailed his arms,
trying to catch himself on something. As he hit the snow a sharp pain
pierced his skull. He could feel the cold of the snow around his
face, but a warm stream of blood flowed forth from a new-found gash
that made it's way across his forehead. He tried to stay focused, but
could feel his mind slipping. A slow frost crept across his
consciousness and he lost grasp of reality.
He was standing on a hill looking into
a wide orange gorge. A flag flew above him. The symbol of the bronze
falcon taking flight across the banner. The gorge was massive,
looming over Tyrus; two grand walls of fiery stone rising from the
plains in blazing glory.
Filling the rocky canyon floor between
the two enormous walls of stone waited a band of soldiers with a flag
raised above their heads. The flag depicted a black boar, marking
them as followers of (dictator's name here.) The band consisted of
about fifty men, all clad in dark armor with weapons drawn and senses
sharp. At the head of the band stood none other than Crios A'Tuana.
A'Tuana shouted something that Tyrus
could not hear and the band began to charge towards Tyrus's hill.
Tyrus, being vastly outnumbered, turned to look for a way of escape
but saw that he was backed against a third massive wall of red stone.
Tyrus looked around, frantically searching for any means of escape or
safety.
Tyrus looked to the base of the wall
of stone and saw something glint that he had not noticed in his
madness before. He walked closer and beheld that it was a sword,
protruding from the base of the monolithic wall. The sword was of
masterful workmanship, forged after the manner of the blades of the
long dead ancient lords. In the hilt was encrusted a large red jewel
that seemed to have it's own ethereal glow to it.
As the band of dark soldiers grew
nearer Tyrus grasped the handle of the intricate blade and felt a
small spark of power flash through his arm. Tyrus turned, still
holding the hilt of the embedded blade and looked at the running
A'Tuana.
A'Tuana stopped just a few yards in
front of Tyrus. “Your time has finally come, fool boy. You could
not evade our grasp forever. And now, with you out of the way, we
will finally seize control of that which is ours!”
Tyrus looked A'Tuana in the eye and
grinned, pulling the sword free of the stone. A bright light filled
the area, the band looked to see the silhouette of Tyrus, wreathed in
fiery glory.
Tyrus woke up to find himself lying in
the snow.
