Introduction: This will be broken down into chapters - each post will contain a chapter. Most likely, there won't be a prologue, nor an epilogue. This is to work like a novel, except for those parts. This is a work of fiction, and is purely my own work. Claiming my work as your own, or copying my work is against the rules of both Menewsha, and the general internet. Please respect that, and limit yourself to merely reading my work, or linking to it for either reference or referral, if you so choose.

Thank you,
Brandon Desiderio

Note: Comments are allowed at any time - I am not too obsessive that I must have all of my chapters aligned or whatever else. Comment, stay and chat if you like, or simply lurk and read my work. It's purely your choice.

[The following post will begin our story... It'll be incomplete, most likely, but feel free to read it as you please.]

Chapter One

Sylum awoke to the unforeseen clank of pots and pans, his body immediately jerking into an upright sitting position; a wave of cold surged through his body as the realization of the weather conditions once more agitated his mind. It was the dead of winter - a time of year when warmth and comfort were scarce, and so were the birds. Everything from the magnificent falcon to the irksome, chirping sparrow. Not one remained, or so it always seemed; surely, a lark here or there had been left behind, and was undoubtedly experiencing the fright of their life...

But, truly, who could tell? Who would be able to calculate the number of birds that chose to stay, or even were forced to stay - by a relative, enemy, or even intuition? Nobody, and that's what crushed Sylum. He had always been fascinated by the strange creatures, always pausing during his daily activities to watch one of the hawks defy the common laws of gravity, which was most surely their forte.

Clearing his throat, Sylum descended from the stiff sheets of his bed, his frozen toes coming forcefully coming in contact with the cold stone floor. A sudden draft took him by surprise, making his thin frame shiver in aggravation. His hair was a tangly mess of ginger curls, always barricading an unobscured view of the world through his beautifully hazel eyes. The curls alone were his weakness, his handicap; of course, he would never surrender them, no matter how unruly they became. Not a word of hypocrisy regarding how knights would never wear their hair so long from Sylum's older brother would convince him otherwise. Surely, if there never was a knight with such hair, it wouldn't hurt for one to come into existance...?

Not that Sylum's chances at becoming a knight were very high to begin with. Noble blood or good connections always were a requirement for such a standing in society. Sylum had neither, and had a long lineage of butchers behind him to assure the fact that there was no hope for him. But, he would not succumb to that fact alone; he would persist, and make something of himself. Even if that meant deceit, betrayal - whatever you would brand it as. He wouldn't merely become the butcher he didn't want to become. Sylum would forge his own path, and by his hope alone, he would achieve it.

You write?!?!
Write some more please?
Oh and "hypocrisy" isn't the right word that you're trying to use there, I think.