There once was...

[Sweetcherrie]

Edited May 14, 2006 by Sweetcherrie

[Ayshela]

could we get a little detail about the photo, please?

pleeeeeeeeeeeeease?

(don't MAKE me sic Kaitlyn on you! LOL)

((For that matter, NightFae offered for begging "duty" and she's SUCH a whiner when she wants to be! ROFL))

[Zepheri]

Does it have to be a short story or can it be a piece of a possible longer story, like a short scene?

[Sweetcherrie]

Zepheri: The story can be anything the picture inspires you to

 

Ayshela: What sort of detail would you like about the photo?

[Zepheri]

[Removed by Zepheri's Request]

[Savage Dragon]

the Guardians, as they were called, had been a part of the village for longer than 5 generations. The shinning silver stone statues were given credit for much of the good fortune that had befallen the village since their creation. And for good reason, the village had not been touched by famine, plague, or war for more than 5 generations, unheard of for that time. Since they were first placed on the shore of our sea and given blessing by our tribes holiest man, they had been held with the highest honor.

 

some say too much honor

 

the decision came to recast the Guardians. their silver "skin" had been dulled and marred by time and to honor all the good fortune they had brought to the village, they were to be recast with gold. this decision was met with great praise by the village, how wise of the leaders to grant the Guardians a new golden skin. Surely the villages good fortune would last another 10 generations. the legend of the Guardians would never be forgotten

 

but their purpose already had

 

the Guardians, who had been created by the tribes holiest man, had been given the power of the tribes God to protect the village, but not just from destruction from without, but also corruption from within. In their haste to glorify the Guardians, the villagers had forgotten their own God who had given the Guardians the power to protect the village.

 

but he had not forgotten them

 

on the day that the new Guardians were to be unveiled, the village wise men told another blessing. they asked that the golden Guardians watch over their village and protect them from famine, plague and war. they asked for long lives for their parents, their wives, and their children. they asked their God for nothing. When the final blessing had been given and the last prayer spoken, the Guardians were uncovered and the village was horrified to find that their golden "skin" had turned blood red.

 

in the distance a ship could be seen approaching

 

-----------------------------------------------

 

great story Zepheri, sometimes a story doesn't have to have all the details to feel complete. im loving your story just the way it is

[Zepheri]

Savage Dragon, I like your short story. I was a little confused at some parts, but I re-read it and was no longer confused. I think I got confused becuase you reused words for different things and i couldn't tell what from what. All and all I like the story, and would also like to see it to be a much longer story. I would like to know everything that happened.

[Savage Dragon]

actually i noticed my story could almost be used as a prelude to your story, though i didn't really intend it to....

 

what words did i use again that made you confused???

[Zepheri]

actually i noticed my story could almost be used as a prelude to your story, though i didn't really intend it to....

what words did i use again that made you confused???

You repeated the word "Guardians" to much. At first I couldn't keep wicth type of Guardian went with who and who was bad/good...but i got it in the end. So no worries.

[Sweetcherrie]

*bounces in to see how it goes with the story telling*

 

Woah! These are good!

 

*blinks* and indeed, they almost could've gone into one story

 

Aleaha: I picked the story up from the internet, the image is about all I can give you. I think the islands are from somewhere Asian, but even that I'm not sure off. Sorry =/ (Don't sic Kaitlyn on me...please )

Edited May 16, 2006 by Sweetcherrie

[Zepheri]

I like this; it gives me something different to write about, to practice. I had fun writing it. Perhaps I can continue with this? What do you guys think? I would like to know if I did well on my first try and if I should continue doing exercises like this.

[Wyvern]

"Well, I thought it was an excccellent yarn, Zepheri." Wyvern steps from behind Savage Dragon and winks to the Nighten Princess. "A little light on the almost dragonic propaganda, perhaps, but there'sss always next time."

 

Wyvern grins and nods to Savage Dragon, then slithers his way past Sweetcherrie as she continues to explain things to Alaeha. The overgrown lizard comes to a halt as he arrives next to Ayshela, who stares down at the designs of the Assembly Room rug in silence. Wyvern nudges her twice with an elbow, then clears his throat of a few ashes and strikes a toothy grin.

 

"Well, while Sweetcherrie is busy explaining the origins of the picture to Alaeha, I thought I'd give you a little background for it." Wyvern grabs Ayshela by the shoulders and turns her in the direction of the picture, squaring his claws in front of her face as an additional frame. "Lemme tell you a ssstory about this picture. It is not actually a photo, but a watercolor painting, crafted centuries ago in the Kingdom of Quilvadoria. When King Quilvador heard of the "bloody guardians" incident that occured in a village of the rival kingdom of Dehrufia, he thought it was simply too cool to not be put into art. He summoned the finest artists in all of Quilvadoria and requested a seven-pannel comic strip detailing the massacre of the village, along with some inceasingly bloody pics of guardian statues. Unfortunately, the artistic pannel found themselves a little short on canvases... after all, something had to be used for the sails of those last vessels, and resources were running low."

 

Ayshela rolls her eyes to the ceiling as Wyvern continues.

 

"So, the artists ended up presenting this single-pannel silent comic to King Quilvador. His majesty was naturally a little upset at the lack of gore, but his nerves calmed to a non-beheading state when the artists showed him the punchline of the painting. If you stare at the canvas with a highpower telescope, you'll sssee that the ship in the background is a Quilvadorian cruiseliner. King Quilvador stands on top of this cruise vessel, pointing at the bloody guardian statue and laughing his head off. The details are all immaculately done, and the purple frame of the picture was supposedly added as a symbol of Quilvadorian pride... though, truth be told, it seems more likely that it was done to clash with the purple wallpaper in King Quilvador's palace."

 

Wyvern pauses for a moment, then glances in both directions and whispers in Ayshela's ear.

 

"Sssome say that the artists got their revenge against King Quilvador's impossible demands through the painting. They say that, if you magnify the whiskers of the statue a thousand times, you can make out a small etching that reads 'I use the same hair stylist as King Quilvador.'"

 

Wyvern snickers, then removes his claws from in front of Ayshela's face and grins.

 

"No need to tip me for relaying the information, by the way." Wyvern leans towards Ayshela and twiddles his claws. "No no, really, I'd never ask for a tip for that sort of thing. A tip would really be too kind of you, so no need to worry about tipping me with a tip, if ya get my drift?"

 

;-)

[Zepheri]

[Removed by Zepheri's Request]

[yochva]

Here's my entry - I think it mightb e a bit different than the rest!

 

)X(X)X(

 

You. You are a stranger to these lands, these wasted lands of mist and ice. You have no history in this place, and are lost in the timeless fogs and endless waters. But no matter. You are here, and so am I, and the next ferry will not be along for a great while, so I think there's time for a tale.

 

I was not always a wooden figurehead; once I was a proud dragon, king of the mountains you see yonder and all the land beyond called the Top of the World. And yet, man has come, as it ever does, and created for itself a life unfitted to the music, rhythms and patterns of my world. That is why you feel uncomfortable as you do, in the damp and wet of this crown of the world.

 

Ah, I see you are unused to being read so easily. Fear not, it is simply hundreds of years of experience come to bear on a race too young to know better. But I digress, and insult. I apologize. My story began as that of any other. I was young and brash, and I felt I could face down the humans who invaded my kingdom. It was a terrible battle of wills and armies, and many needless lives were lost. As I said, I was young; yet I had already seen more centuries than you can imagine – and my elders, millennia. I should have known better. We should have known better.

 

For all our knowledge and strength, we had never met with magic.

 

The humans had magic. They had witches, mages, hedge-wizards, you name it they had it. And we had no defense. We were decimated for generations, hunted and chased, until we began to build immunity to the Power these human wielded. For three hundred years we hid from them, secluding ourselves in the mountains and caverns that riddle this land, breeding and scheming, and begrudging them our rightful home and rule.

 

You need not be feared, even now – how can I harm you in this useless form? No movement, save that where the captain takes me, and no power save that which was built into me.

 

At last, three hundred years after the end of the millennium-long War, we burst from our mountain strongholds to face our great enemies… and found ourselves to be nearly forgotten, creatures of legend only. Well, no matter, it made our conquest of your cities and towns that much easier, because you weren't expecting us. But, to our dismay, your mages and magic had grown stronger and better in the intervening centuries. Whereas before they had been using bolts of lightning to accomplish the smallest task – incapable of the smallest finesse – now they could use a static spark to knock down the largest building. We weren't prepared to fight technique; we were expecting to blast you out of the water and back to whence you came.

 

We fled again, but this time your mages followed us and murdered our eggs, those precious burdens of life that so often died on their own. And those that did not escape or were killed were captured, in body and finally in soul. Which is how I came to be here, trapped in this wooden mockery of a body, cruelly forced to stare unblinkingly at my ancestral and rightful home, the lands I once ruled with my mate at my side and a clutch every score of decades.

 

Ah, but I see your ferry is shortly to arrive; the mists part to reveal it on its set course. My tale is done – you have no need to cower. Stay, and face a rendition of the War. Leave, and never think of it again.

 

 

~~~~~~~~

 

Francis watched from the mouth of the figure as the lone tourist climbed hastily aboard the ferry, chuckling silently to himself. The ferry would go and return in no less than five hours, probably more – more than enough time for him to refresh himself and snatch a nap. He slithered backwards and dropped down out of the hidden entry in the bottom of the hollow statue, glancing up and patting the carved form affectionately. Heh, tourists were so gullible. Dragons were things of legend only, not anything to be afeared of. His own grandfather had carved this one actually.

 

Laughing to himself again, he trotted back to the staffhouse, more than ready for some hot cocoa to remove the chill from his bones. Tourists! Pah!

[Zadown]

The steep, green shores of the Zchala Isles rose from the misty, aquamarine sea in front of him, just as he remembered them. He almost closed his eyes, let his fingers dip into the warm water, breathed in the scent of the sea and that of the approaching land, the warm breeze tugging feebly at the thinnest strands of his grey hair.

 

The world is better if you can't see it properly, if through almost closed eyelids you see misty forms only...

 

He sighed and sat up straighter, lifted his fingers back to the boat. He brushed the wooden carvings with absent fascination and glanced downwards, into the clear but deep sea, pondered if there were any of those seadragons that had acted as the model for the ship's shape around.

 

Most likely they are gone. They had a bond with the locals, and now...

 

The thought broke, vanished into similiar mist in his mind as swirled around him in the physical reality. He shrugged and let himself drift into a state of relaxed nothingness, something he rarely allowed himself to do. Sea was almost calm, the boat gliding over it with little effort, the small waves making soothing noises as they caressed the wooden hull. No dreams, now, but memories drifted from the deepest cellars of his old mind, showed distorted pictures ravaged by age: the five tribal blacksmiths, the masters of that particular art, hammering the blade he was carrying even now, blow by blow. Their effort to give him a maiden as a gift, the difficulty in finding a balance between amusement and denial, the long tables full of food, the sheer number of people. A blind woodworker working on his throne for several years. Big moon rising from beyond the isles when he was on a large boat heading towards them, warriors singing all around him, the night smelling of sweat and blood and beer and tar, a rare smile on his face that nobody could see in the dark.

 

"A god ... o' war."

 

The Dreamer grinned after muttering those words to himself, his eyes shining white in the deepening fog. The boat made a screeching sound as it hit the rocky shore with abrupt clumsiness after the peaceful journey over the sea, and the planewalker frowned at the ghost of a ferryman out of reflex, no matter how futile it was. In this fog the ghost was almost invisible. It was merely a darker patch of swirling mist, its black eyes expressionless. The Dreamer stood up just as sun leaped from behind the isles, puncturing the mist with lances of light, and the ferryman vanished, leaving behind only his long oar.

 

"Just in time, ya?"

 

A wry smile scrambled the scars adorning his mauled face. He leaped clumsily over the edge, then directed his gaze upwards, towards the peak of the island, while his hands removed the scabbard from his back.

 

"I think ye belong here, tarnish'd blade. I'll loan ye 'gain if there'll be more orc gods t' slay."

 

He could feel the presence of the dead but not what they thought of him, if anything. He shrugged to the invisible spirits and started climbing, towards his own tomb.

[Patrick]

A chill wind blew ripples along the surface of the sea, yet shiny beads of sweat glistened on the bare backs of the men. Strong, heavyset men sitting next to their oars, rowing. One man, wearing the upper part of the skull of an ox on his head rhythmically beat on a sheepskin drum. The added weight and pull of the captured Viking longboat floating on the rope behind the ship just added to the rowers' misery. Their speed had been cut to a mere fifth of what it was normally and the seven-mile trip across the strait was taking much longer than usual.

 

The evening's feast and the dance afterwards might be missed. The thought was on everyone's mind. A great victory had been won against the Nordic invaders and not one of those on board the ship wanted to miss the night's festivities. But the great chief had ordered for the longboat to be towed back and tow they did. The glistening rays of the setting sun reflecting on the wave tops gave renewed vigour to the men, who redoubled their efforts. The willingness of the men was reflected in the drumming increasing its pace.

 

Land was already in sight, yet the currents were treacherous and strong in these parts, which the Vikings had experienced to their great loss. Piloting the ship with curt commands the great chief was the one who ordered the drummer to slow or increase his speed. Many Indian tribes had united in the battle and many would feast together, their decade-long enmities to fight against the common enemy.

 

The women of the tribe greeted their men on the shore, but before they could be reunited the enemy ship had to be pulled in, next to the shore. Heavy hands pulled on the rope and slowly the vessel was tugged onto the beach. The chief having disappeared shortly after landing reappeared carrying a burning torch in one hand and incense in the other. The tribe's shaman, standing up from in front of his drums knew what he had to do.

 

He took the incense from the chief and climbed the railing of the longboat with surprising agility. The men and women watched silently as the shaman made offerings to the various gods of the tribe, who had aided them in their fight. The captive Norse warriors had been tied to the mast of the longboat and warriors of the tribe had watched over them. Chanting loudly in his native tongue the shaman blessed the spirits of the soon to depart blond-haired seamen, wishing them speed on their journey to the eternal hunting grounds.

 

He suddenly fell silent and with careful, measured movements poured the incense at the feet of the struggling warriors. The torch was handed up and flames sprang up.

 

Long did the longboat burn, the flames cleansing these waters of the last remnants of the would-be invaders. The screams of the sacrificial victims were drowned out by the sounds of the festivities on the shore.

[WrenWind]

TreeDragon

 

 

No one quite knew what to do with her at 12 she was and enigma she never played with the other children in the village. She did her chores happily and quickly then she would wander off into the woods. She talked to the trees. She talked to the animals and the sky. Being odd was nothing new to Ada even her existence was odd she didn't look like anyone in the village she had no real parents. She had been brought up by the elders of the community. Ten years ago she had toddled into the village and sat down in Ganf's lap while he was preparing a cleansing fire for meditation. Ada look up at him and smiled and promptly fell asleep

 

Ada was tired she had been working on the project for so long she all most didn't remember doing anything else. To her the boat was a living thing. From the time she had seen the tree in the forest 3 kl from the village she knew it was the perfect one.

 

They had one year to plan , design and build the boats for the ceremony. It was to be a joining of communities. Strengthening of ties between them through marriage . All of the those ready to marry would try to find a partner with the Marnan's.

 

The Marnan's lived on the opposite side of the great lake between two mountains protecting the only way into their village. it was the perfect place, a protected bay with a rich delta to cultivate an harvest. A prosperous village with time for accomplished art and crafts. Ada's village was also accomplished with art and craft but each village had different specialties and merging then communities would benefit both.

 

The tree began to talk to her the moment she stepped under it's shade. She sat down to listen ans she talked and told the great tree about the ceremony and the voyage across the lake. The tree listened and though it a worthy cause. The great tree offered to be transformed. Ada ran home stopping only once to catch her breath the barreled full speed into the villiage square bowling Ganf over in the process. "I found it! I found it! Come!" Ada ran back out of town heading back to the base of the tree where she sat down and fell asleep waiting for the Elders to waddle out to her. They agreed that it was the perfect tree and sent Ada to get help to bring the giant tree down and back to the village. It took two weeks of back breaking work but they go it to the beach.

 

Any one from out side of Ada's village would have found it very strange to watch as she ordered the men and craftspeople around. Everything had to be perfect. She supervised the hollowing and the basic shaping of the boat. Each step carefully done with reverence for the tree. After months of work the boat was ready for the final touches and the rest of the villagers we asked to stay away until Ada deemed her work done. She lived on the beach. Rarely did she talk to anyone. Only Ganf, who brought her food and tried to convince her that she needed to sleep at least a little evey day. She looked more and more like a ghost her skin never seeming to tan even though she was in the sun every day. She lost weight. Her cheeks and eyes seem to rest in deep hollows but the boat had to be finished. On occasion she would cover up all but a small piece of it and then ask this crafts-person or that to come and help her. when then had done what she wanted she sent them off with a hug and thanks.

 

It was finished. Ada finally sat down picked up her plate of food and for the first time in ages actually tasted the food. She looked over her work and smiled. It was perfect. every line every carves shape. The tree's soul radiated out from the magnificent ceremonial boat as a dragon in flight. Everyone came down to the beach and marveled at her work . Ganf came down followed by the other elders and the blessed the boat and celebrated the tree/dragon thanking it for it's sacrifice.

 

Ada stood on the shore and watched the boat spirit away the 6 young soon to be newlyweds. TreeDragon flew across the water beginning his new life also. Ada laid down on the sand and fell asleep. Ganf carefully picked her up and took her home tucked her in her bed and kissed her forehead. Well done my miracle daughter! Well done!

[Gyrfalcon]

William stared morosely over the dragon-carved bow at the strange land ahead, steep cliffs coming straight down to the sea that crashed impotently against their stern granite faces. Behind the battered ship, the storm grumbled and growled, but sending a strong wind that filled the Stormrider's tattered sails, as if admiration of the appropriately named ship's resilience in the face of it's fury.

 

Taking his eyes from the land they approached, William picked up the thick iron needle and began to mend the secondary sails, hoping that they could make landfall before another storm caught them on the open sea and finished what the first started.

 

Hours later, he watched with a small amount of pride as the second sail was raised, his stitches holding fast and allowing the sail to boom in time with the gusts of wind. The Stormrider picked up speed and then a shout was heard from the splintered crow's nest above. "Land ho, bay in sight!"

 

A ragged cheer rose from the crew, William's voice among them. A bay, as long as it wasn't protected by a reef, would provide shelter from storms while they repaired their ship and give them the opportunity to take on fresh water and food from hunting. For the first time in a week, the crew of the Stormrider looked hopefully to the horizon and worked harder to bail water from the hold and raise another sail, hoping to beat the growing storm on the horizon.

 

William stood in the bow and watched the entrance to the bay grow wider, hands clutching the bow rail as the ship surged through the water, throwing a stinging spray of mist across his face and he grinned, feeling the salt on his cheeks crack. This was when he felt most alive, the wind blowing his hair back, the bow of the ship splitting the waves, even limping as she was, and the heady feel of freedom.

 

"Entrance in sight! No sign of reefs yet!" the man in the crow's nest shouted hopefully, straining to stare into the water, looking for the ripples of submerged rocks or coral that would finish what the storm had started. At their backs, the black clouds rumbled ominously, and the wind grew stronger. Drawing strength from the water, the storm was returning, raging and filled with power.

 

At least half the crew cast glances at the storm approaching, and neither the captain nor the first mate had to say anything as they tried to bail faster, adjusting the sail minutely to catch the most power from the wind. The bow of the Stormrider cut through the waves more cleanly as the crew struggled to bring her into the harbor before the storm struck.

 

William's world became a blur of buckets, take bucket, pour it over the side. Hand empty bucket to the second line, take bucket, pour it over the side, hand bucket to the second line...

 

"Triton protect us! A waterspout! A waterspout directly aft!" the lookout screamed, and the crew cursed, their rhythm faltering as they stared aft at the inky finger of destruction touch the water from the clouds, watching the spray rise impossibly high as it slashed through the growing waves, closing on their suddenly insignificant ship.

 

"Helm! Hard to port!" the captain ordered, and the crewman spun the wheel quickly, the still-graceful ship heeling over, racing at cross-angle to the approaching waterspout - and straight towards the bay.

 

"Bail you searats! Bail, your lives depend on it!" the second mate snarled, and again buckets streamed back and forth, the desperation of the men driving them to work faster, past exhaustion and the burning of muscles, past the minor pain of splinters in calloused hands. Desperately, work crews raised tattered sails, letting their remains catch what wind they could, and the Stormdancer moved faster, cutting through waves, the battered masts creaking in the driving wind, pulling the ship away from its doom.

 

And then, suddenly, the waves were gentle, the granite arms of the bay encircling them like a mother welcoming her son home. Cheering, they slapped each other's shoulders, and then looked aft and gasped as they watched the water spout pass by the entrance to the bay, lashing at the granite cliffs with impotent fury.

 

"Alright you mangy rats! Get to work! We'll moor the ship close to the shore and get some sleep and some hot food for once." The captain said decisively, and the crew cheered, relief and the comparative luxuries of warm food and sleeping in the gentle swells of the bay raising their spirits immensely.

 

William wiped his forehead with the back of his arm as he secured the windlass before grinning and heading below. Even Cook's cooking smelled good after long days and nights of hardtack and dried biscuits, salted beef and hard cheese. As he passed by the rail, he stopped and looked at the shore and the bay, his eyes narrowed in thought. It would take a lot of doing, but... it might be worth putting in a port here. The bay was a natural harbor, it wouldn't take much work to make it ready. Maybe even a shipyard, if the trees were any good for masts. His eyes grew dreamy as he looked at the shoreline, seeing ghostly buildings, and there, the docks... and there, the shipyard, a ship majestically sliding down the ways to splash into the harbor water, ready for final fitting...

 

A hand slapped on his shoulder "William! If you want to eat, you'd better get down there!"

 

Grinning and shaking his head to clear the last phantoms from it, he hurried down below. Maybe someday he'd come back and help build a town in this pretty bay, but for now, he was young and the world was fresh and new. They'd repair the Stormdancer and sail to their destination, and on from there, with new sights every day.

[Sweetcherrie]

aaaaaand with that, I would like to suggest closing this activity

 

Thank you to the people who have written and posted their stories in this. I really enjoyed reading them

 

Oh, and if someone feels inspired by the picture, please feel free to post your story still, just closing it for the Carnival

 

Inspiration is always good