Update on my wrists...and a special treat for y'all!

Went to the doctor's office...and they think it's carpal tunnel syndrome :(

So now I have a bunch of hand exercises to do, in addition to my back exercises.

And because of a bunch of things (wrists, schoolwork, life in general) I'm going to take a small break from Blogger. Not TOO long of one, but a decent one.

But to keep y'all from rioting over my absence (yeah, right), I'll let you read exclusive material...the prologue of Sarea complete with commentary!

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The stormy sea surges under the moonless sky; wild waves beating on black rocks, spray flying into the night. Somewhere out in the ocean, a sea nixie sings her haunting song to the hidden stars. Crashing, swirling, black water surrounds the Castle of Dolgotha—Castle of the Skull—as it stands on it’s peninsula, in stony pride, above the waves. “Let them try to reach my towers,” the castle seems to say. “Let them try to wear my stone down—I am not worried. They are too weak.”

The ring of horse hooves now sounds as a roan mare gallops in full flung speed down the rocky strip of land attaching Dolgotha to the mainland of Sarea. Her mount, only just older than a lad, dashes the salty spray from his face and urges the mare onward. With a reluctant snort, the mare picks up even more speed, her hooves flying.

Oh, Dolly, I should be riding you in a friendly race against the other lads in the village, the lad thinks to his horse, Dolly, as he leans over her neck. How did we come to be messengers to a Sorcerer and his King?

Dolly speeds on despite her master’s thoughts.

At last, they reach the drawbridge of Dolgotha. The castle has no moat; the ocean serves as a barrier. The lad reigns the mare in and stares a moment at the cold, unwelcoming stone walls. “Thee art lucky, Dolly,” he says under his breath. “A warm bran awaits thee, but I am the one who has to bring ill news to King Baashil.”

He shivers. Hasn’t he, just like any other peasant in Sarea, heard of their tyrant king’s cruelty? Did not he once have a father before Baashil’s dark army swept in and left orphans and widows?

The portcullis opens just long enough for the messenger to trot inside before snapping back closed, barely missing Dolly’s rump. It is like a hungry dragon’s mouth we have fallen into, the lad tells himself, finding some comfort in poetic similes. And it has snapped shut on us.

Patting Dolly’s sweat-speckled neck, the messenger enjoys feeling her coarse, healthy mane run over his fingers. Well aware that this might be the last time he sees his loyal mare, he gives her a farewell rub. Baashil is slowly crushing the once-rich kingdom of Sarea in his grip of iron, and nothing stands to overrule the tyrant king if he chooses to execute the helpless messenger.

A stable boy walks up to the messenger, silently holding out his hand for Dolly’s reins. His gray, downcast eyes meet the messengers for one moment, and then the boy turns away to lead Dolly to a watering trough. The two—the messenger of the king, and the stable boy—have more in common than a first glance reveals. They are both nameless to the one who has say over whether they live or die, powerless in the impending shadow of their Tyrant King.

The messenger stares around the courtyard, taking in the bleakness. He can still faintly hear the ocean’s roar as it batters the rocks, and the dark sky is the courtyard ceiling.

From out of a shadowy, stone doorway in the courtyard wall a servant appears. A long, thin man, with an equally long and thin nose. A gleam of cold indifference, placed there by the countless seasons of barely surviving, is in his flinty eye as he turns his head toward the messenger.

“His Highness awaits thee, messenger.” The servant whirls sharply on his heel and marches across the courtyard, expecting the boy to follow. He does, but slowly, reluctant to face the king.

The servant leads the messenger across the stone court and through two pillars at the very end. Now they are in a shadowy, dim hallway, lit only by torches giving off a flickering, red glow.

They come to double doors, engraved with odd lines and carvings in their stone. Ancient runes, the messenger boy realizes, the sense of novelty still not lost on him even in a terrifying moment. Magic, maybe?

The servant clears his throat. Apologetically, the messenger gives him a small smile, hoping to get a positive response.

His face remaining as cold and stony as ever, the servant opens the double doors with a sweeping, almost dramatic, movement. He ushers the young messenger into the room, and then the doors snap shut behind him.

The messenger is in the very heart of the ‘dragon’, now.

He glances around him for a long moment, half horrified and half curious. The room—Baashil’s throne room—is as dim as the hall. The walls and floor are, once again, made of cold stone, with no carpeting or tapestry except one solitary hanging behind Baashil’s throne. There are many small alcoves carved into the walls which contain white bowls with candles stuck inside them. A closer glance reveals that the white bowls are actually skulls. Almost the trademark of the Tyrant King.

And on the throne, at the end of the hall-like room, is Baashil himself. The Tyrant King reclines on a black, imposing, tall throne, looking very comfortable. Strangely slanted, red-gleaming eyes look into the messenger’s petrified green ones until the messenger dropped to the floor, pressing his forehead on the cold stone in a bow.

He finally dares to stand, peeping around him at his surroundings for a moment. For the first time he notices the line of noblemen—Baashil’s courtiers or cronies; whichever word would be correct—behind the ebony throne. They are all staring blankly ahead like statues. Only when one twitches does the messenger know that they are living.

Like a magnet, the lad’s eyes are drawn once again to the dark throne and the Tyrant King, and he remembers his message. Hastily trying to make up for wasted time, he stammers.

“G—greetings, O King, may you—you live forever! Thy humble ser—servant, the Sorcerer Alydur, brings you a message, Ruler of the Mighty Seas. Er…”

He fades off as the red eyes bore into his own once more, trembling in case he has just made a fatal mistake. After a lengthy pause, the messenger lad regains his tongue.

“Ah…the—there has been a discovery, Sire. Alydur has looked into the Crystal Ball, and has seen that trouble is brewing in the kingdom. There is a stirring of the Magic, and…”

The lad freezes as the dark voice of Baashil breaks into his sentence like a smooth knife. “The Elashae are on the rise is what you are trying to say, are you not?”

Now the messenger is darting his eyes to the ceiling, the floor, the skull lamps—anywhere but those red eyes. His answer is unspoken but obvious.

“And Sorcerer Alydur nor any of the others have made any attempts to stop this uprising?”

The lad senses a swell beginning in Baashil’s words, like the swell of a destructive ocean before it breaks into fury. Miserably, he nods.

To his surprise, the Tyrant King is not angry, or at least on the surface. He makes a low noise in his throat that could have been an animalistic snarl.

“They are but Sorcerers; what else could I have expected from such humans as they?” He almost seems to be reassuring the frightened messenger as well as talking to himself.

The messenger begins to have hopes that he might ride away from Dolgotha after all. Daring to raise his head, his eyes inch up to Baashil’s face.

Suddenly, the Tyrant King stands, teeth bared. The messenger realizes that they are pointed as he slowly begins to back away. Is our king even a human? he wonders with fear.

“Tell Sorcerer Alydur,” Baashil is almost panting now, the effort to control himself almost beyond his ability. The noblemen gathered in the shadows know that their king is itching to leap on the hapless messenger and sink his teeth into the lad’s soft neck. One of the courtiers’ hands moves to the sword mounted on his hip and glances at one of his companions.

Baashil continues, his taunt fingers clenched into fists. “Tell Sorcerer Alydur that I expect him to have the Elashae in his dungeons, tortured and awaiting execution, by first moon of autumn. If not…if not, I shall give him and the others the fate that was in store for them.”

The messenger bows and then flees the throne room as fast as possible without committing a royal faux de pas. He rushes into the courtyard, flings himself on the waiting Dolly, and gallops through the grinding portcullis and into the night.

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Yes, it's written in present tense. I was experimenting.

Well, that's a bit short for a commentary. Oops.

Tell me what you think of the story!

I shall return!

Izori