Garrett

So... I don't know if I like this one. But it was very helpful in getting to know my brand new character, Garrett the Unmarked, so I thought I would share.

I looked up the line. It stretched forth, all the way to the doors of the temple, where it disappeared. I was second to last in the line, with a kid from the outer farms being the only one behind me. There were about twenty of us total, although it seemed like more, as every youth had an entourage of family and friends surrounding them. Well, most every youth.
I was alone, but that didn't bother me too much. The people of Greenedge, the small farming community that I had grown up in, did their best to forget that I existed; just as my family had done when they left me here.
I could remember the night when it had happened, twelve years ago. My family had been returning home from a meeting of my father's that had taken place in Camarid. It was late in the evening, and I had fallen asleep to the gentle rocking of the coach in which we rode. At some point, I was woken by my father's large, scarred hand on my shoulder. Bleary eyed, I looked up and he quietly growled for me to get out of the coach. As I got out, I turned to look at my older brother and sister, still asleep in the carriage. My father, a hard man, roughly grabbed my shoulder and turned me away from my siblings, steering me towards a signpost. It was then that I noticed my surroundings. The full moon lit up a small village that stood in the foothills of a rocky mountain range. I stood at the far edge of this village, next to the one large road that led into it. As my father and I reached the sign, I could read that the name of the town was Greenedge. I had never heard of my soon-to-be home before. My father, taking advantage of my sleepy state, quickly and roughly grabbed my arms and wrapped them around the wooden post, using some rough twine to fasten them in place. At this harsh and unexpected movement, I began to cry. My father knelt down in front of me, grabbed my face and turned it so that I had to look directly at him.
"I do this for the good of our family," he spat. "With you, we were looked down on. They called us cursed and devil-callers. But I will not have my name blighted because of a son I never wished to have. If I had my way, you would have been dead before you uttered your first whimpering cry, but your mother wouldn't let you die, nor will she still. And as such, I leave you here to make a life of your own. But know this: if I ever so much as here your name mentioned again, I will not hesitate to find you and kill you."
With that, my father had left me, alone in the night, in a town I would never be welcomed into, a town I could never call home. I had sobbed as the coach disappeared onto a distant road, calling my siblings' names, but soon I had stopped, knowing my cried would not be answered. It had not taken long before I had distanced myself from those emotions, vowing to myself never to cry again.
"Hey, Curseborn! What do you think you're doing here?" It was the voice of Tumat, the stable master, that snapped me out of my memories. "Do you really need a mark from the Creator? If you ask me, I think he already gave you one."
I turn to look at Tumat, raising my hand to touch the place where an eye should be. Instead of an eye, my hand meets scar tissue: the scar tissue that covers most of the left side of my face.
The line to the temple had finally almost disappeared, but I wished that it would have moved faster. I wasn't sure I could handle the tormenting today. Today was the day of Feldmark. The day when each seventeen-year-old in the village would be taken before the Tagunatus shrine to receive a mark from Apollinoth, the Creator, revealing to them the nature of their lineage. Only the Heathen, those who deny the Creator, live their lives without a knowledge of their spiritual ancestry.
"Garrett, I am talking to you," Tumat hissed as he stepped closer to me, "and I expect you to answer my question. Why are you here?"
I straighten my back and look Tumat in the eye. "I am here to receive my Feldmark. To find out which line my spirit is descended from."
"You already have your mark, Curseborn, right there on your blighting face. And that mark tells you exactly where your spirit comes from - The Black Pit! Your spirit is not descended from some noble line, no. If you ask me, I say your spirit isn't a spirit at all."
I take a step closer, so my face is now inches away from Tumat's, and spit on his shoes. "What are you saying, Tumat?"
Tumat reaches out and grabs the front of my shirt. "I'm saying that you are a blighting shadow, boy. I'm saying that your face is proof of it. Proof that you shouldn't even exist!"
With that, Tumat shoves me away, so that I stumble back and land on the ground. He then chuckles and struts away. I stand back up quickly, preparing to go after him, when the farm boy behind me in line grabs my arm.
"He's not worth it," the boy, says, "anyway, it's your turn."
I rip my arm out of the kid's grasp, glaring at him. But despite my resentment at being stopped, I know he is right. Tumat isn't worth it, and I can prove him wrong faster by entering the temple rather than fighting.
I turn, looking at the symbol of the Creator, a large winged sword, that is etched over the entry and step into the building.

By the way... the picture is of Garrett a few years later, when he is bearded, but the scar is pretty much the same.

I Will Defend

A while back I posted a poem called You're Coming Home - A Song of Death. I liked the poem, but when I read over it, I realized it could be improved... a lot. So I started reworking it. By the time I was done, it was barely recognizable. It really is a completely different poem now. So, I decided to share it with the world. It is titled "I Will Defend."

At home I heard the rumors of war

but on those matters I thought nothing more

Until the day when I was called to the fight

To brave the trials of both day and night.

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade placed at my side.

I will defend – my home

I was leaving with honor and heart held high

for my days of glory were coming nigh

till my wife waved me off, tears in her eyes

I could not ignore my child's hungry cries.

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, I hold by my side.

I will defend – my love

My days at war began to grow long

but still no battle songs had I sung

I began to grow weary of marching each day

wishing I was back in my home by the bay

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, unwelcome beside,

I will defend – my joy

I planned on leaving, deserting the group

I packed my things, leaving my troop

but signs of true battle began to show

and into the fight, I chose to go

To fight for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade flashed out from my side

I will defend – my friends

The snow was crimson with the blood of our dead.

The earth did drink on that which was shed.

My deeds had been wrought, my works were done,

My life was fading with the setting sun.

To die for king, country, pride,

a gleaming blade, red at my side

I will defend – my honor

With my dying breaths I wrote a note

to be delivered and give my family hope.

For I would die for that which was right:

I had returned, and joined the fight.

To live for king, country, pride,

thoughts of my family, resting inside

I will defend

Liam Cadarch (This is the Beginning)

So, this is just an introduction to the main character of my new favorite story. I have spent a lot of time getting ready for the initial draft and I should begin posting actual (rough) chapters within a few weeks.

 The legend of the Coldfrost tells the story of the fourth War of the Sword and the rise of the all-King. It tells a story filled with kings, queens, wars, magic, sorrows, and joy. The legend, although told from many points of view, revolves mainly around a seventeen-year-old farmhand named Liam Cadarch. Now, before such a story can be written or told, one must understand just who this farmhand is.

Liam Cadarch was born on the 27^th of Andeas in the year 1315 CM in Camarid, the mountainous capital city of the country Gellion. He was born to Tepheus and Ellin Cadarch. Tepheus worked as a city guard and Ellin spent her spare time doing needlework. The family lived happily for the first four years of Liam's life, until Tepheus had a fatal run in with dark magic practitioners. Tepheus, as a member of the city guard, had gone investigating cultist activities in the caves near Camarid. While in these caves, he was unknowingly marked as he attempted to open a cursed door. The curse targeted him as the next prey for a nearby evil, the Wanderer. That night, when Tepheus returned home, the Wanderer followed.

The next morning a close friend of Tepheus's, Jonathan Aexa, stopped by the Cadarch home on his journey back to his farm. Upon entering the home, he found both Tepheus and Ellin slain. He then buried his friends, gathered what remaining belongings he could, and took Liam with him back to his mountainside farm.

It was at the Greenedge farmlands, about seven miles south-west of Camarid, that Liam was raised by Jonathan and his wife, Salla, alongside their own son, Artimedor. It was hear that he learned hard-work, increasing in both stature and strength. Because of his traumatic experience in his early life, he found it hard to confide in others on an emotional level, only ever becoming close to Artimedor, his adopted brother, and Evlynn, a neighboring farm-girl.

As he grew, he found great interest in the pursuit of knowledge: an interest which was shared with Evlynn. They began by reading books and eventually by meeting with scholars during visits to Camarid. It was on Liam's first such trip, a celebration of his eleventh birthday, that he received his first musical instrument, a wooden flute. Receiving this instrument marked the beginning of his interest in the art of creating music.

Between working on the farm and learning, Liam had little time for leisure, but when such a day would come when Liam was left to his own devices he would almost always be found alone, deep in the foothills of the white mountains. Here he would spend the long hours reading, playing his flute, or pondering deep things.

When Liam reached the age of fifteen, a Dayrunner war party attacked some homes near the Aexa farm. This reawakened Liam to his memories and planted a seed of unrest deep in his heart. This seed grew slowly, taking up more of his thoughts with each passing day. Finally, two months before his seventeenth birthday and with the help of Evlynn, he had formulated a plan; they would both, upon him reaching the age of seventeen, leave the farms on which they were raised and seek entry into the Scholar's Guild. Liam thirsted for change, and he saw this plan as the opportunity to begin making something of himself.

The legend of the Coldfrost begins at this point, two months before Liam's coming of age, months away from the fourth war, and at the beginning of a new era in the histories of Gildora.

Teaser

This is just the first few paragraphs of my second take on the Ezekiel Tyrus, stuff I was writing a while back, now titled Winterdom. It isn't much, but I really like where the ideas are going. You can probably expect more of it again, and probably in a more chronological format, unlike before. So, I mean, I will actually be posting it chapter by chapter, page by page, with a few other stories thrown in here and there. Anyway, enjoy:

There wasn't much to celebrate in those days; the royal family was failing, no word came from the peoples of the west, and Gildora seemed to have been thrown into a frigid twilight. Even the small village of Palfer's Hedge had been suffering from the darkness that had spread over the land, a darkness that hadn't been seen since the end of the Great Ages. Stories passed through the farming town of an evil growing in the lands to the north, bringing a deep cold to those dwelling in Camarid. But still the people of Palfer's Hedge celebrated. The yearly Festival of Plenty Harvest, or the Cathe Festival, as it was more commonly known, was in full throng, the fair-fields filled with vendors, tents, and attractions; bringing all those who dwelt in the nearby farms to the village. Even in this time of growing darkness, the humble farm-folk of Gildora still found time to give thanks for their harvest.

“The snows are gettin' stronger in the north,” the gruff innkeeper grumbled as he stroked his short, scraggly beard. “I hear there's a blizzard been blowing in Camarid, hasn't stopped for two weeks.”

“What do you know, Tarren?” a patron jeered from across the counter, “Nobody's been down from Camarid in the last two weeks, so no one could have told ya.”

“Nobody's been down from anywhere in the last two weeks,” a lanky blond joked from the corner of the room. A few chuckles ran across the crowd, but they were quieted when Tarren glared across the room.

“There's been one in the last two weeks, a travelin' merchant came off the Camarid road jus' last night. He's a quiet one, don't say much, but he knows stuff. He an' I got into a conversation of sorts when he got here, looking for a place to stay. 'The winds are blowing in the north,' he says 'Nobody is going to be passing through there this festival.' So I asked him how he did it, bravin' the storm. He just laughed and took to his room. I've not seen 'im since.”

The Winds Begin to Rise

This is not a very happy story... but don't worry. It gets a lot happier after this ;)

 The door slammed behind me as I stumbled into the rain. I looked back to see the the shutters close and hear the lock bolt closed. “Hey!” I screamed as I pounded on the dark wood, “I want my money! How am I supposed to survive on this?”

I slumped against the door. “I can't live on this...” I looked down at the twenty dollar bill in my hand. A stupid twenty when I had been promised fifty. A sob racked my body. How was I supposed to support my mother with so little? I was only twelve but I had been scraping by, making just enough money to pay for food for the two of us. All the extra money that I earned I put into my college fund; a jar that I kept in our home, hidden from my mother.

I dreamed of one day doing something with my life, something important. But for now I was stuck in the homeless slums of Miami, working low paying jobs for whoever would hire just to keep my mother and I alive. My father, who should have been providing for us, had left us when I was seven, leaving to join the Revolution. He said he left to bring us a better life, but after he left we never heard from him again, not even after the Revolution was brought down and things returned to the way they had always been.

A siren began to wail somewhere in the distance, echoing down the empty street. I stood up, hoping the rain would hide my tear streaked face and began the long walk home. This part of Miami was poor, one of the poorest places in the world. And Miami's law enforcement seemed to always turn a blind eye to this part of the city, making it one of the main crime hubs in the area. The major gang, led by a crime lord named Winter, held a heavy hand over the area.

I heard a gunshot come from somewhere nearby, probably about a street over. Screams erupted from the area. I cringed, but other than that I ignored it. Gunshots were common, daily sounds around here. I don't think there was a day in the last few years that I hadn't heard at least one. I had only ever made one real friend in my life and he and his family had been killed by the gang in a brutal murder. I hadn't made any friends after that. I didn't want to. I was afraid of losing people that I loved.

I finally reached my home, a rusty beat up bus in a dark alleyway. The bus was covered in the debris of a fallen building, so only the door was really noticeable. I could see a light coming from under the door and knew my mother must be home. I walked up to the opening and pried the door open with a crowbar that I always kept with me. As I walked in I looked at the floor. It was covered in bottles, beer bottles.

I knew something was wrong; we didn't have enough money to buy beer. Where did my mom get these? I took a step toward the back of the bus and saw my mother, curled in the corner sleeping. Surrounding her were about twenty drained bottles and a jar, my jar. The jar was empty, all the money that I had spent the last two years saving was gone. I heard myself yelling, screaming at my mother. As she woke up she was crying and holding her head. I didn't care. I was too distraught to care. In my rage I threw the jar at the wall, glass scattering everywhere, cutting a deep gash into my right hand. I screamed some more and ran out of the home, back into the rain, with tears streaming down my cheeks again.

I ran and ran, not knowing where I was going. I just ran. It didn't matter to me where I was going, just that I was going somewhere. I was tired of being stuck in these slums, tired of having to provide for a useless drunkard mother, tired of trying so hard without getting anything back. I ran back the way I had come, onto the street where the gunshot had sounded from. I saw, as I ran, the body of the victim lying alone on the street. This place was horrible. How could I ever amount to anything when I had started out here? Time began to blur as I ran, until I lost track altogether of when and where I was.

Finally, I stopped. My rage dying down, having been completely depleted. I was exhausted. I had used up all the energy I had, running and crying. It was dark; night had fallen. Suddenly, a horrible stench filled my nose. As the odor filled my senses I realized where I was. I had run straight to a corner of the neighborhood that was known as Pelvel's Canal; it was the worst possible place on earth. Pelvel's Canal was the gang's killing grounds, an empty canal littered with rotting bodies. People who came here didn't come back, ever. I turned around, facing back the way I had come. Standing in the alley that led to the canal was a large dark figure. Fear and anguish filled my soul. I was already exhausted and my body couldn't handle any more. I felt myself losing hold of my mind, fear taking place of sanity. My eyes started darkening and my head hit the ground as I lost all consciousness.

Nicholas

-- Just so you know, if you haven't met Daman yet, you can read about him in the post before this one: Daman Slade --

Daman walked up to the luminous screen; its dark glow filling the room with a eerie and shadowless light. He reached out and let his thumb rest on a large button. It was time he learned the truth about that boy: who he was, what he could do. The one thing that Daman could not bear was the inability to understand a person, their motives and feelings. The boy Nicholas was unlike anyone Daman had ever encountered; and he wanted to know why.

The screen beeped as a message ran across the display. This was his one chance of understanding what the boy could do, by looking back and viewing those things that he had pushed down and hidden. Daman waited a few seconds, staring at the screen, deciding if he was really going to do this. He closed his eyes, nodded to himself, and pressed the button.

“-Memory Replay activated - please select memory to review-”

…

“-file “Nicholas-thebeginning.mem” chosen – please wait while the memory loads-”

…

…

…

“-file loaded – initiating Memory Replay sequence-”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“Daddy, why are we hiding? I thought those men were your friends. Why are they chasing us?”

The subway station is dark and lifeless. The few people present looked only at the ground, taking no time to notice their surroundings; New Dirsha is a rough part of town, the crime rates are high and at times like these, when the sun had gone down, it was unwise to wait too long in any one place.

“Daddy, why does my head keep hurting?”

No one pays any attention to the two figures in the shadowed corner; one older, with graying hair and a scruffy look, one young, no more than five years. They are shrouded in the darkness. Even the boy's voice, echoing through the station, is ignored by the ears of the commuters. None have the time, money, or compassion to give aid to the father and son.

“Daddy... can we go home? I'm tired and I hungry.”

“No! Nicholas, we cant go home! You don't understand what's at stake here!”

The boy, Nicholas, begins to cry.

“No, Nicholas, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. I... I'm just under a lot of stress right now. Please, Nicholas, please stop crying.”

Sniffling, with tears in his large brown eyes, Nicholas begins to speak, “I don't want to run anymore. I miss mommy and Annie. Can't we go home and see them?”

“We can't go back, Nicholas. We can't ever go back.” A tear streak appears on the man's grimy face. “Mommy and Annie are gone. We don't have a home anymore.”

The man looks up, glances over his surroundings and looks back to his son's watery eyes.

“Nicholas, do you remember that day when I took you with me to the Lab?”

“Yes”

“What do you remember? What did we do?”

“I... watched the fishies in the big tank and I ate lunch in your office. And you took me to the big white room with the lights.”

“Yes, Nicholas, and I am sorry I did. I had been working on a big project at work for a long time, but my boss wouldn't let me test my machine on anyone. It was dangerous. But then I brought you and decided to test the machine with you while no one else was there. Do you remember how you used to wear glasses?”

“Yes, but after I went with you I didn't need to anymore.”

“You're right. That is what the machine was supposed to do. It helps fix people that don't work anymore. But I wasn't supposed to use it on you, Nicholas. And I hadn't tested it enough yet.”

“But isn't it good? Cuz now I don't need glasses.”

“Well, Nicholas. The machine kept on working after it had fixed you. It tried fixing parts of you that weren't broken. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't. It made you change. That's why you have your headaches and why we are running; because I wasn't patient and I did things that I wasn't supposed to do.”

“Is that why I can still see the lights when I close my eyes; the lights from the room?”

“Yes, the lights are still there. They live inside you, always trying to fix you and make you better, changing you.”

A man in a dark suit walks into the station. He is tall with a dark complexion, a large jagged scar running down his left cheek. He turns, seeing Nicholas and his father in the corner. He looks down at his watch and begins to walk in their direction.

Nicholas' father speaks, “No, Gregor, you don't understand. You can't do this.”

“No, Doctor, I think it is you who doesn't understand.” The man's hand reaches into his coat.

Nicholas' father senses what might be coming and moves to put himself between Gregor and his son. Behind him, Nicholas suddenly spasms, falling down to sit on the ground.

“Daddy, the lights are getting brighter. My head hurts. The lights are hurting me.”

Gregor's hand moves out from his pocket. He is holding a gun, a long black pistol. A shot sounds, echoing through the station. People begin to scream. Nicholas' father groans and falls to the ground. People rush by, trying to get away from the danger as quickly as possible.

“Daddy! The lights hurt. They hurt!” Nicholas is curled up in the corner, eyes tightly closed, clawing at his head. He has skin and blood under his fingernails; his own skin and blood. “Stop them from hurting me!”

Gregor reaches the boy and bends down to grab is arm. As his hand closes around the skinny arm Nicholas' stops crying and clawing.

“Daddy, help me...”

Nicholas' eyes snap open and a green light bursts forth from them, filling the subway. He is completely stiff, not a muscle in is body is moving. Gregor relinquishes his grip on Nicholas' arm and backs away. The light grows, now emanating from all of Nicholas, his eyes, mouth, even his skin, becoming brighter than a summer noon-day sun, and still growing.

Gregor shouts, “Whats going o-” Suddenly, he is thrown across the station by an unseen force, smashing against the wall violently before falling to the floor.

The light grows, filled with pain and rage.

“Daddy... please.”

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – 

“- Memory reading complete – shutdown process activated”

Daman backed away from the machine, his hands shaking. Trying to process everything that he had seen. He stood still for a few seconds before finally getting control of himself. He started to move towards the door of the room but stopped suddenly as his mind caught a hold of another presence in the room.

“What were you doing in my memories, Slade?”

Daman turned to find the source of the voice and saw the present day Nicholas, standing in the corner with tight fists by his side.

Daman Slade

As Daman entered the room, he began to take in his surroundings. The room was small, housing only six people, including himself, and a few pieces of furniture. There were three girls in the room, two of which seemed to be twins. The twins, who looked to be about seventeen years of age, were both blond, and from Daman's quick assessment of them, they seemed to act the part as well. The other girl, who was reaching her early years of adulthood, had bright, almost unnatural red hair and heat seemed to be emanating from around her. From what Daman could assess, she seemed to be intelligent, but highly volatile, listening to her emotions first and reason later. A sign of weakness from Daman's view.

The most surprising of the attendees to this 'meeting' was a young boy in a bright green jacket. The boy looked to be about eleven or twelve, not quite having reached the teen ages yet, but everything about the boy besides his appearance seemed to suggest otherwise. His entire essence seemed to be comprised entirely of intelligence. Before Daman could take a closer look at the boy, he noticed something else that demanded his attention; the room seemed to be filled with a strange sort of darkness. Although the room was well lit, shadows were flickering in places where shadows should not logically be placed.

The center of this phenomenon was around the man who Daman immediately recognized as Geth de'Erebos, shrouded in his unnatural shadows. Dark shapes moved on the floor and walls around him. He was standing at the end of the room behind a large ornate desk, which, by the carvings, Daman recognized to be hand-crafted by a carpenter from some part of the Northwood.

Daman began to asses the man, trying to acquire every detail that he could about him in as little time as possible. Geth had dark, near black, hair containing silver streaks above the ears: Geth must be beginning to feel the influence of his age. His face was strong; he had a powerful chin, a broad nose, and a thin mouth: the face of a politician and a leader. Geth wasn't tall, but strongly built, a low center of gravity: he could hold his own, physically. The shadows around Geth's face shifted and Daman got a view of his eyes; deep set, dark grey. They seemed to be surveying Daman in the same way that Daman was surveying him. The eyes showed intelligence and wisdom, but also apathy, lack of emotion. Daman was looking forward to find what had caused that in a man with as righteous a cause as Geth had.

Daman closed his eyes and let his mind begin to open. He immediately located Geth's presence and moved in on it. He wasn't surprised when he was met with opposition. Geth had been trained to block out the attacks of a psychic. He was a politician, and for a politician, your mind is your way of life. Daman felt around the wall, looking for weak points. The wall was strange, not a form that Daman had ever encountered before, not even very strong. It seemed to be more geared towards keeping something in, rather than keeping something out. After a few seconds, his mind caught hold of a chink in the wall. Daman sent all his energy at the flaw and within moments he broke through. As he entered Geth's mind, darkness closed in on his consciousness. Overwhelming waves of black power rushed into Daman's mind. He immediately released his grip on Geth's mind and retreated back into his own, eyes shooting open, grasping for a hold on reality. When he became aware of his surroundings he found himself staring into Geth's cold, dark eyes. The essence of this man seemed to fill the room around Daman, almost crushing him. Geth blinked, and the shadow's of his imprisoned memories seemed to flash across his eyes. Finally, Geth looked away, turning to focus on the other members of the meeting and the overwhelming feeling vanished.

“I would like you all to welcome into our presence Daman Slade, a criminal, a psychic, and the newest member of our revolution.”

Geth de'Erebos and Apollo Kiran

The blight spreads over this land, consuming all it comes in contact with; the white oblivion that swallows all freedom and choice. And the people, they welcome it, they praise it. They give all they have to usher in their own swift destruction. It rides in, waving its pure banner, lighter than the clouds it seems to be made from. Its standard is raised by more and more deceived masses.

Why don't they see it as I do? I was once esteemed by them, the citizens of the Drystan Isles. I was a leader. But, when I tried to reveal to them that they were mistaken, that their hero was corrupt, they turned against me, afraid of what I am, of what I can do.

I, Geth de'Erebos, have been given a blessing and a curse. I have been given the power to control the darkness that embodies their fears. The shadows that I command I use only to protect my people, but still they fear what I do. Their deepest nature compels them to hate the black night. It is this nature that blinds them. They look to the light, willing to ignore his flaws, the flaws that will be their destruction.

My former friend and business partner, Apollo Kiran, political leader and head of the Lumi, is the light that blinds them. In our youth, we had plans; plans that could save the Drystan Isles from its rampant crime. But, before our plans could be initiated, the day came when the Drystan Isles were thrown into a state of utter turmoil. Soon after, I discovered my curse—the darkness, but Kiran discovered a curse of his own. He had received a light—a cursed light. His light brought him pride.

After the turmoil in the Drystan Isles had settled, Kiran proposed a new plan. He proposed that our gifts had set us above others, set us in a position to rule them. I disagreed. We were given our powers to help the people around us. Being chosen to wield this light and darkness was a sign that we were meant to protect and empower those people that Kiran has deemed 'lesser.'

In the beginning, I failed to speak out against Kiran. He had stood by me for as long as I could remember, I was afraid of losing my lifelong friend. Things began to get out of hand. Kiran began amassing followers. He continued to pressure me to join him. Finally, I spoke out against him. An argument ensued and from that argument stemmed a conflict. It was that day that the world learned of our curses; the day light and darkness clashed for all to see. In the end, I was overpowered by Kiran. As he stood over me, I saw the horrible light burning in his eyes and knew that he had lost himself to his own power. As all the light in the world fell upon me I used the last of my energy to escape.

When I awoke, the world had changed. Kiran knew I had escaped and had convinced the world that I was the scourge that would destroy the Drystan Isles, not he. Due to his deceit, the world had turned to him as a savior, when all he could bring them was destruction.

And now I wait, biding my time and growing in power. Kiran, or the Light, as they call him now, must be stopped. My greatest fear is that I will not be able to stop him, for as quickly as my power is growing, his is increasing faster.

But I have found a weapon that he has no knowledge of. I found more who are like us; more who were given opportunities and gifts by the catastrophe that none seem to remember anymore. I have begun to gather them together, those beacons in a dying world; those candles that shine out in the night. I have started a movement that can only end in war. I am gathering the Flames.

It's Been a While...

I haven't posted on my blog for... quite some time now. I think it's because I just don't have time anymore. I spend all my time working and going to school and when I'm not doing that I am hanging out. That doesn't leave a lot of time for my blog. Anyway, onto the next Ezekiel Tyrus. Just so you know, it is super cheesy, I was just going for sensory detail, not plot development.

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.

HI

So this blog post is being done my none other than a Mr. Andrew Miles. While Tyler is vacuuming. Hopefully he doesn't notice. This is quite hillarious actually. I could say a lot of stuff about this man that the world at large doesn't know........ oh the facts that I could tell..................
Oh well, I'll will give him the respect he deserves, and not tell everyone about a certain Christmas present. Teehee! Now what? What am I supposed to put here anyway? I can play an ocarina.

You're Coming Home - A Song of Death

Pillars of smoke rose into the grey twilight from many areas of the fields. Too many pillars to count with only your eyes. The scent of burning flesh bombarded every surviving man. The survivors were searching the fields for every last body. None should, or would, be left for the carrion eating crows. Body of friend and foe alike were tossed into the blazing infernos, their ashes lighting the dark blue sky. As the corpses were gathered others attended to those who had been wounded in the medic camp. One wounded and dying soldier began to chant in a raspy but powerful voice.

"The sky is crimson

with the blood of our dead.

The earth doth shudder

for that which was shed."

The wounded man coughed; a red spew appearing on his torn jacket. He regained as much of his composure as he could muster and continued with other voices joining in his mournful song.

"For death is calling,

calling from our graves.

The black mists whisper;

for us, it craves."

A thin stream of blood began to run from the man's mouth. He took a deep breath. His voice began again, but was drowned out by the mass of other voices rising from all parts of the fields.

"The dark hand, grasping,

pulls me close.

And to me utters, 

'you're coming home,'"

The man let out his dying breath, his last song still upon his lips. All the men on the fields were now singing; finishing the hallowed tune that he would never complete.

"'Back to that brightness

from whence we came,

back to the luster

where all is same.'"

The Fruits of my Thought

So, in my many ideas that I have had, a few specific characters continue to show up in my stories. These characters are essences, not actual named figures, but they all seem to play a part in my ideas. The main three usually show up as follows: Tyrus, Dark, and Storm. They may not always come under the same name, but the emotional sides of the characters are always present.

Tyrus:
Tyrus is most commonly seen in the form of Ezekiel Tyrus, whom you have all met twice. He always shows up as a kid of noble birth who ends up losing everything to some unstoppable and evil force. He then swears his revenge and goes on a super long quest to regain that which is his (this may be his dignity, home, or woman). He always does things in the name of goodness and is your everyday awesome protagonist. He has appeared under the names of Max, D.C., and the ever famous Ezekiel Tyrus.

Dark:
Dark is a bit of a change from the oh so average Tyrus. He takes on a bit of a different approach to goodness. Dark is always characterized by possessing some horrible power that he uses for good. The only problem being that the people he is trying to save hate his guts. He usually has a small band of a few followers and he always fights against "the light." That may sound bad, but in these stories the light is always a oppressive leader who uses the innate goodness of light to make himself look like a good guy when really he is a crazy evil guy who is trying to destroy stuff. Dark's stories are also characterized by bittersweet endings. He usually ends up a martyr for his cause. Dark has only appeared in stories under the name Dark.

Storm:
Storm cannot accurately be described as a protagonist. He is completely rouge. He is characterized by his genius nature and, if power is involved, a distinct taste for lightning. The character of Storm is based around mechanics. He builds machines of grand and epic nature that are usually extremely far-fetched. He fights for what he wants and to survive in his ever changing surroundings. Storm has shown up in stories under the names Storm, Randall (as the antagonist to Dark), and even D.C. (also like Tyrus).

Well, they are only a few of the ideas I have, but more will be posted. If you want to hear any of the stories about these guys, just contact me. I will gladly post some on the blog.

The Hobbit

It had to be posted... It just had to be.

I must watch this movie.

Too bad it comes out in... a year. :P

Anyway, if ever you feel the need to watch Alvin and the Chipmucks: Chipwrecked. My advice to you is to find a better movie. You won't miss out on much if you don't watch it.

The Story of a Vacationer

I may be the most happiestest man in the world. :D This vacation, in the beginning, was going to be a time where I worked, partied, and did homework. Then the unspeakably awesome happened. I got most of work of for the vacation. I just need to remember to do my homework. That will be the hard part. My teachers were a bit crazy this year and I have to do a giant art project and two English papers. I will survive, of course, but it is still homework. Anyway, in the meantime, I will enjoy my life to the fullest of its potential: sitting around, sleeping in, staying up late, partying like a boss, and all the other stuff that comes with vacations. Plus I am listening to extremely loud Celtic music. Nothing beats extremely loud Celtic music.

Today is a weird day. It is Christmas Eve, but I'm not feeling it. I have been delivering treats and stuff for the last few days, trying to get into the Christmas Spirit, but the feeling isn't coming. It will probably come next week. At new years. That'll be my luck. :) Wait, whats this? My Celtic music just became Japanese Traditional. Just as good, in my opinion. Their harp work is boss. Am I the only one who has ever wanted to learn how to play the harp. That would be awesome. Along with the ocarina. :) Maybe someday.

Today is so relaxing. I actually took some time to clean today. I haven't even had time to clean in a while. This relaxing day will end soon, of course. No Christmas Eve is ever a safe day at my house. They always end up with movies, extended family, and a few off color jokes (that and the extended family are a bundled package, you can't get one without the other).

Andrew is coming down next week. That will be a party. Hopefully someday soon I can return to PG and party there, but that will have to wait.

Anyway, I must return to the madness.

Mini Wheats

I have recently conducted an experiment. It went like this.

• Problem:
• I didn't know the average number of frosted mini wheats in my average sized bowl.
• Hypothesis:
• There were probably about 45
• Experimental Data:
• Day 1 - 57 mini wheats
• Day 2 - 60 mini wheats
• Day 3 - 58 mini wheats
• Conclusion: 
• There are approximately 58 point something mini wheats in my average sized bowl. I underestimated how many possible mini wheats could fit into my bowl.

Ezekiel Tyrus: Origins

The honor guard marched through the city, heading up a somber procession. The march that everyone knew would come, but dreaded with all of their hearts. The citizens stood to either side of the street with heads bowed. Mothers hushed their lively children as the cheerless parade neared. Some, looking from windows, turned their heads away, trying not to let their anger and disappointment show. The only sound came as deep thrums from the heart of the colossal drums. The smells of the city: smoke, herbs, and dust took on a more dank and musky form.

One tear streaked and dirty face burst out of the street-side crowd and planted herself in front of the procession. The man at the head of the procession, Crios A'Tuana, the Heruin Grand-Master's Head enforcer of law, stalked slowly towards the girl, letting out a low chuckle. His laugh rose to hysteria as he took hold of her grimy shoulders and thrust her from the street and continued the march.

Ezekiel Tyrus Kingson crouched on the rooftop overlooking the march. His hands hovered over the handles of his swords. His father's kingdom had been taken by these men. He had to do something about it. The Grand-Master was a tyrannical dictator. Tyrus did not want life under that kind of being to be the fate of his people. A'Tuana wouldn't expect an attack from a kingdom that he had just taken over.

Tyrus stood, drawing his slightly curved blades. The sun glinted off of his silver chest plate. A'Tuana caught sight of the boy on the roof. His eyes widened with surprise and recognition. Tyrus raised his right hand above his head and shouted.

"For the true king of the Anamaer!"

Soldiers emerged from every shadow and crevice; soldiers wearing the red capes of the Anamear guard. A'Tuana surveyed the situation. He looked to Tyrus and spoke.

"You win, Tyrus. Of course you win. That is the way we meant it to happen."

A'Tuana's words came with a shiver to Tyrus. What did they mean? Why was he supposed to win?

A'Tuana began to laugh again.

The Unusually Usual Run of Things

Vacations

I just went on vacation. Or at least it felt that way. I had three days in a row off. That can't be natural. Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, all off. I worked today, but it was easy. No one wants to eat ice cream when it is negative ninety-eight... or somewhere around there. It was great fun.

I am still on the brink of deciding not to save up to go to Europe. Please send feedback on this. Should I go or not?

Snowmen

So, recently I spent some time building a snowman. This snowman (Joe) was created by my family and the Jordans. He was really awesome. We made him at the ball park, but moved him to the side of the road when we were done with him. He wasn't very big, but via proportionistic magic, we made him seem big (he had a big heart).

Journalism


I have been assigned to write a story about the holidays... That is a pretty broad subject, if you ask me. How do I find a specific angle on a story in that mess of ideas? I will figure it out. But I also have to come up with an idea for the truck bust (large graphic spread over the center two pages of a newspaper) that will house my story. A holiday truck bust........ Meh.

Enya, of Course :)

Just so you know... I'm still listening to Enya. Christmas Enya. :)


Ezekiel Tyrus


More on him soon. Stayed tuned for the next chapter in the Ezekiel Tyrus saga, Ezekiel Tyrus: Origins.

Tyler, to the Post-Mobile! DA-NUH!

I haven't posted in a while, and I have little time so this will be quick, and newsy. :)

1. I lost my wallet. If you find it, please return to me with all money intact.

2. I almost bought the Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, but I lost my wallet. :P

3. I don't seem to be working quite as much anymore.

4. I is low on moneys... :P

5. Life is good. (as always)

So there I was...

I was walking through the parking lot. Every space was occupied. Cars were spilling onto the streets, parked in the most unnatural spots. I ducked under the yellow tape and walked through the doors. I had never seen so many people in one place before. I mean, come on, this is Sanpete. It feels like there are about fifty people living in the entire valley. Anyway, I made my way through the crowds, looking for people I knew. Everyone was crowded around the plastic covered products as though they were pure gold. After I found my group, we placed ourselves strategically throughout the building in an effort to gain the advantage. When the time came, the world seemed to end. Plastic was ripped, hands were flying, and there was nothing I could do but reach in and grab what I could. The place was a madhouse. Death was imminent, but I managed to shoulder my way out of the beastly crowd. I made my way to my chariot (cart) and rode through the crowd towards the lines. The wait was near unbearable, for I had to do it twice, but I had fun. :)

Ice cream o' the day:

Graham crackers made into ice cream... that's all there is to say. :)

Epic (and short) Celebration Post

You guys made it past 200 page views! That is way cool! So i give you this link to celebrate.

http://you-win-the-internet.com/?n=Dedicated%20Reader