D
Darg
Guest
A Quick Sample
Hey people- I'm writing yet another story, one with nothing to do with fable, so that's why I'm sticking it here. I just though I'd put the first bit here for people to sample and see if it makes any kind of sense... trust me, I expand on it later in the section I didn't place, but anywho, take a look:
Silence, like many things is not always what it seems. To some, it is merely the absence of noise, a hole in the continuing stream of sound, but it could also be defined as the death of spirit, when the soul too, is quiet. Devoid are the corridors of the mind and body, but there is no silence as empty as the silence of death. Here, where our story first unfolds, there is sometimes silence, but it will very soon know the perturbing quiet that follows death. Whenever the wind would blow through the dead, gnarled trees of Grotto Point, there was a howling sound, a chorus of hollow voices echoing around through the dark canopy of intertwining branches, circling around to eventually fade away. Still, long after it had sounded, it could still be heard below in the bowels of the place, where the darkness was thickest and where the howling was only a low, deep rasp. A stagnant cover of fog hovered always above the ground, an eerie occurrence that had been the deterrence of many a hurried runner, who in panic, had failed to notice the underlying network of tangled roots, tripped and fallen… many would never get up again.
The runners, as they were called, were fugitives. Men and women who had escaped from their place of detainment, Grotto Point Prison, had made their hurried way through the maze that was the woods, some of them never surviving their attempt. It had been notorious as the trap and final act of torture for those who had escaped the prison. At night, it was impassable by any means, and it was a saying amongst the prisoners that any man who was a night runner was also a dead runner. But the fact still remained that it was far easier to attempt an escape at night, but it was one matter to be running through Grotto Point, but another to be pursued by the prison’s ruthless guards. The place harbored a regiment of mercenaries, all expertly trained and expertly armed. Each was taught through their training to kill without remorse, to take lives without taking the responsibility that came with. Without consequences, they did whatever they wanted and it was pointless to challenge their authority for fear of death... or worse. None questioned them and all feared them.
As if it wasn’t bad enough, the guards, the guns and the treacherous route of escape, there was the matter of pursuit, where runners were chased by the daunting, unrelenting dogs, vicious and savage enough to tear the strongest of men to pieces. Often, if an inmate had been unruly or angered one of the guards personally, they would be placed in the prison yard alone, the guards watching from the surrounding platform above for sake of amusement, while the prisoner was forced to run screaming from half a dozen of the bloodthirsty canines. If they by some miracle reached the wall and climbed the ladder to the ramparts above, they would be spared and nothing more would be said of the matter. If they did not make it, as usually was the case, none dared to ask. Many times, the coarse, cruel laughter of the spectating guards could be heard down in the cell blocks below the ground level, a sign that they had lost another inmate. And afterwards, there would be silence, the silence that follows death, but unlike a simple quiet, the death silence never fades. It lingers, a louder sound than any noise could ever make.
That's all for now, but if people like it, I may post the rest of the story in a continuing thread.
Hey people- I'm writing yet another story, one with nothing to do with fable, so that's why I'm sticking it here. I just though I'd put the first bit here for people to sample and see if it makes any kind of sense... trust me, I expand on it later in the section I didn't place, but anywho, take a look:
Silence, like many things is not always what it seems. To some, it is merely the absence of noise, a hole in the continuing stream of sound, but it could also be defined as the death of spirit, when the soul too, is quiet. Devoid are the corridors of the mind and body, but there is no silence as empty as the silence of death. Here, where our story first unfolds, there is sometimes silence, but it will very soon know the perturbing quiet that follows death. Whenever the wind would blow through the dead, gnarled trees of Grotto Point, there was a howling sound, a chorus of hollow voices echoing around through the dark canopy of intertwining branches, circling around to eventually fade away. Still, long after it had sounded, it could still be heard below in the bowels of the place, where the darkness was thickest and where the howling was only a low, deep rasp. A stagnant cover of fog hovered always above the ground, an eerie occurrence that had been the deterrence of many a hurried runner, who in panic, had failed to notice the underlying network of tangled roots, tripped and fallen… many would never get up again.
The runners, as they were called, were fugitives. Men and women who had escaped from their place of detainment, Grotto Point Prison, had made their hurried way through the maze that was the woods, some of them never surviving their attempt. It had been notorious as the trap and final act of torture for those who had escaped the prison. At night, it was impassable by any means, and it was a saying amongst the prisoners that any man who was a night runner was also a dead runner. But the fact still remained that it was far easier to attempt an escape at night, but it was one matter to be running through Grotto Point, but another to be pursued by the prison’s ruthless guards. The place harbored a regiment of mercenaries, all expertly trained and expertly armed. Each was taught through their training to kill without remorse, to take lives without taking the responsibility that came with. Without consequences, they did whatever they wanted and it was pointless to challenge their authority for fear of death... or worse. None questioned them and all feared them.
As if it wasn’t bad enough, the guards, the guns and the treacherous route of escape, there was the matter of pursuit, where runners were chased by the daunting, unrelenting dogs, vicious and savage enough to tear the strongest of men to pieces. Often, if an inmate had been unruly or angered one of the guards personally, they would be placed in the prison yard alone, the guards watching from the surrounding platform above for sake of amusement, while the prisoner was forced to run screaming from half a dozen of the bloodthirsty canines. If they by some miracle reached the wall and climbed the ladder to the ramparts above, they would be spared and nothing more would be said of the matter. If they did not make it, as usually was the case, none dared to ask. Many times, the coarse, cruel laughter of the spectating guards could be heard down in the cell blocks below the ground level, a sign that they had lost another inmate. And afterwards, there would be silence, the silence that follows death, but unlike a simple quiet, the death silence never fades. It lingers, a louder sound than any noise could ever make.
That's all for now, but if people like it, I may post the rest of the story in a continuing thread.