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Verbal Landscapes.
So, I do write short stories, but mostly I end up disliking most of the story, except for the descriptions of the land my characters live in. Or walk through. Or maybe just jog past. Meh.
Anyway, here's a re-make of one I wrote simply to describe something I actually saw. *The sky would have been black, if not for the enormous number of stars spread across the sky, as if some celestial painter had dipped a brush in pure starlight. A few clouds spread across the heavens, momentarily dimming the liquid silver moonlight that poured across the land. Even though I stood atop a hill, many taller hills surrounded me, each wrapped in a dense blanket of trees, showing only in the jagged outline they pushed into the night sky. A thick fog drifted through the spaces between the hills, curling around the trees and spilling across the scattered meadows. I knelt on the grass, looking for a comfortable place to rest while I watched the last moments of night. Everything was colored in blue and silver, a beautiful war between the resting world and the beaming moon. The moon drifted lower in the sky, seeking shelter before the sun would rise. The infinite blue began to lighten as the sun neared it's awaited appearance. The birds fell silent and even the smallest insect seemed to hold it's breath. Ever so slowly, the Great Artist turned his world, bathing the sky in the blue-steel of pre-dawn. I caught my breath and the edge of the world began to catch flame. The few clouds began to blaze, and the fog fought for the darkest shadows, trying to maintain itself in the face of the coming dawn. So gradually as to be imperceptible, the flames at the edge of the world spread across the horizon, lighting the rest of the sky to a lighter, but still deep blue. The steel was chased from the heavens and the moon sought her rest, too slowly. A moment. A single, breathless moment when the Earth itself fell quiet. No living thing moved in the forest, and the wind fell still. Then the thinnest razor edge of gold pierced the horizon, shedding molten gold across the lands. All at once the birds took up their song, and the insects went into a frenzy of life. The fog recoiled at the morning light burned into it, and the moon fled ever further to the opposite horizon. I turned and looked away from the rising sun, watching the golden light burn across the sleeping woods. Looking back to the dawn, I flinched and covered my eyes and the sun triumphantly lifted itself free of the earth, taking full command of the heavens once more.* Somehow, even all of this doesn't really seem to do it justice, but I began to run out of words. I can't really think of anything else to do to describe that morning, but it still seems to fall short of my memory. Such are the limitations of the language, though. Meh. |
You're such a twip! Writing so elegantly and then downgrading your writing like you're new at this or something. It's sickening. How many times do I have to emphasize the quality of your writing. *shakes fist in air* While the rest of us struggle to write decently, you moan and groan about your horribly magnificent writing. If you would just stick to it you would be fine!
P.S. If you ever take my cookie dough spoon again....I swear you are going to seriously regret it. |
Uhhhhhh, hmmm. cookie dough is good. yeah.
So, on that note. . . um, it was good cookie dough! Anyway, as soon as I find some of my other landscapes, or make more, I will post those for peoples peruse-ment. Maybe even amusement. Or something. SQUIRREL THE MAN STRIKES AGAIN!!!! |
A lone figure stood looking down from his vantage point, high on a hill, a large book in one hand and a crystal-tipped staff in the other. The ancient remains of a stone wall dotted the perimeter of the hill, standing testament to some lost kingdom. Drevin stood in a gap in this wall, surveying the low valley before him. Recent scorch-marks bore silent witness to Drevins deep regrets. Never had he been a violent person, but always he was forced into places to do violence. Again he had no choice. He looked off to the west, where mountains rose forcibly to pierce the heavens. Beyond the purpled mountains was the tower Drevin called home, and would much prefer to be at than this sad ruin. A tall and old forest stood untouched, together with the ruin, proof that humanity had once overstepped it's bounds. But humanity had needed to overstep once more. And Drevin had been there. He looked back to the valley, where the remains of a thousand campfires lay hidden amoung the burned corpses of thousand upon thousand of the worst the mountains had to offer. And Drevin had been there.
But this was on his way home. And Drevin had forest and mountains all around him. He looked to the east, to carnage lay hidden in the pristine snow-caps. The forest to the east looked no different that that to the west, but to Drevin they had a sinister cast to the shadows. The mountains looked somehow threatening, despite the giants that now lay deathly still, never to rise against humanity and threaten its safety. Drevin had been there, too. And Drevin was weary. In all his years, he had companions to support him, but he had out lasted them all and their reputation had followed him. And now was his alone. He sat down and just let his mind absorb the scenery. On all sides of his little hill, snow-capped mountains soared skyward, and dense forest cascaded down into this valley. As the sun began to set, couds settled onto the mountain peaks, became fog and rolled in to the valley. Those clouds that did not descend caught fire in the deepening gloom. The moon rose full and glorious, battling the falling sun for supreamacy. At last, the sun slipped below the horizon, leaving the moon to wash the fog-filled valley in silver, making the shadows stand in sharp contrast. Drevin felt a presence behind him and turned. A faint golden glow shone from the figure now standing behind him, a figure he had never seen before, but new as well as his own. His god had heard his pain. Drevin smiled softly, years erased in a moment of contentment. A lone wolf loped through a valley cloaked in fog, the moon-light reflecting off the walls of a long forgotten ruin. A golden glow shone briefly from behind the walls, and the wolf paused. The scent of recent occupation mingled with the scent of ash, and the wolf could not restrain her curiousity. As she entered the ruin, she saw no sign that anyone was here. She tilted her head to one side, and let her tongue loll out. As she turned to leave her eyes fell upon a book, full of its owners scent, laying abandoned beside a crystal-tipped staff. Filled with a sudden sense of sadness, the wolf lifted her head and howled a mournful farewell at the perfectly round moon. |
Ok, so that last one was kinda depressing, kinda not. Drevin is a character I've had floating around the edges of some of my D&D stuff, never actually making it into a campaigne. This has kinda put the idea into my head to actually write the story of Drevin Warmarked. He's kinda one of those reluctant hero types, and one of his associates is named Ithrion Greyheart, another powerful spell caster. Actually that's backwards. Drevin is one of Ithrions associates, but Ithrion's not the focus of my current writings. I know it probably seems arrogant to make/write mostly about powerful characters, but they all pretty much have a history behind them. Neither Drevin or Ithrion are fully developed, but that's because it's a bit difficult to come up with several centuries of story to explain characters of such power.
Long tale short(ish) is that Drevin began his journey as a precotious apprentice wizard. By the age of 14-15-ish he has already learned all the basics of becoming a wizard. At this point, his homeland is invaded by various undesirables, and he is called to help in the war. During his stint in the army, he spends much of his time training with the warmages he must work with, and learns much of their style of magic. Upon returning to his preferred life of study, he sees inconsistencies between the two styles and strives to combine them in some complimentary fashion. At this point, his kingdom is once again at war, this time with an agressive neighboring kingdom. He is drafted again, having made something of a name for himself in the previous war. This time he works to combine all his wizardly knowledge, and the ingrained powers of a warmage, to devestating effect. The further trials of Drevin lead him to assume the name of Warmarked, and he continues as a reluctant, though effective, war-wizard. These trials are still somewhat under construction. :) |
Ok, so I don't know if anyone has seen this page yet or not, and that's OK. I'm really just using this as motivation to get back into my writting. I kinda let it drop off what with work, a wedding to plan, and mostly i had just lost interest. But I'm starting a new thread for Drevin Warmarked. I plan to write his story, though it's odd having started writting about him at the end of his mortal existance. Hmm, oh well. The thread is going to have his name in the title, so if you want to see it, you can find it. If I want to leave this thread as what it's supposed to be, I really can't include anything more about Drevin. I really want this to be a world decription post(hence the title Verbal Landscapes) that anyone is free to post in. So. . . feel free to put any feedback, or even landscapes of your own, here. You just won't be seeing anything more about Drevin.
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I stand at the edge of the bluff, looking down at the ever-changing, never-changing, lights below. I look up to see the ever-changing, never-changing lights above. They are nearly lost to the marching self-desire of humanity. I look to the east, waiting to see if the sun will rise again, and see the evidence of mankind, climbing the rolling hillsides. I look to the west and see the evidence of mankind reaching to the stars, it seems, to drown them out. To the north lay the sprawling evidence of mankind stretching across the land, laying claim to what is not theirs. To the south lay more of the unending lights of humanities flood. I am trapped. I must hide in the green of what they build, and call natural. I must slink through the trees they allow to survive. They never think that even trees may dream of more than mere survival.
But for now, I stand on the bluff and howl my defiance to the unlistening moon. I howl my fears to the unfeeling stars. I howl my sadness to the fading heavens. I howl and am drowned out by the pressing domination of those who call themselves our protectors. I howl until my throat grows rough, and my lungs burn with effort. Then I pace across the man-made nature to find the unsullied lands of my dreams. I hide, shadow to shadow, following them to the land of my heart. The sun will rise, I decide, because that is the proof that man does not control everything, cannot control everything. And when the moon rises full again, I will come and howl once more. I will howl in rememberance and in hope. And the sun will rise once again. |
I'm noticing that my writing is tending towards the depressed. This is odd to me, but it's so easy to write. I find that it flows beautifully. Maybe i'm just stressed out, or maybe I just tend to depressing writings. I don't know.
Something I'd like to try, if anyone ever posts here. I used to do of one-word starts. I'd take a random descriptive word, like silent or sticky(not so good with colors, but i've done those too) and write out whatever came to mind. A kind of stream-of-consiousness about something that fits the original descritor I started with. It was kinda fun, and usually turned out interesting, or at least wierd. But I don't like choosing my own words, so if people could just throw in a word they would like to see a scene for, I'll do what I can with it. |
An example of above writing idea:
*Grey. Cool mist wrapped around my legs as I stood lost amoung the trees. The world was nearly the same no matter where I looked. It didn't help that I was surrounded by birch trees, their white bark blending into the foggy background. No birds sang, and no bugs chirruped. The earth was muffled under a heavy blanket of thick white-ish cloud. Despair welled up inside as I realized I could not find my way anywhere in this. A moment of comfort, as I realize I don't have to. I scavange a few sticks, mostly dry, from the ground. A thickette off to one side provides the possibility of dry wood for kindling. I am prepared, with matches in my coat and a small notepad in my pocket. I light a small fire, and feed bits of wood into it. A small bit at a time I build my small bubble of light agains the grey. A small bubble of hope in the muffling mist. And I wait. The fog cannot last forever. A wry smile touches my lips. I have plenty of wood for the fire, to feed this bubble of hope and light. I will wait, and I will be safe again.* A whole scene can develope from a single descriptive word, and it's fun seeing where the scene will go. |
Yay! I have a shirt now! No more running around in my boxers! Well, I'm still in my boxers, haven't gotten rid of those. . . but that's not all I'm wearing anymore!! YAY!
Ok, that was random. . . |
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