Post by RedsandRoyals on Sept 27, 2013 0:57:46 GMT -5
Since it's been 10 hours since anyone posted on the forum (shame on all of you and your lack of posting), I figured I'd put up some stuff I just banged out tonight. These are one short short stories, partially inspired by what Req is doing with his thread. There will be four or five of these eventually, but I figured I'd post one of the two current WiPs to see if anyone has any feedback. And yes, these are technically related to 40k, if only slightly.
The flower was called Syác Thracì, “Gift of Divinity” in the old tongue. By any measure, it was strikingly beautiful. Large, tapered white petals with stains of striking blue, which opened in a swirl to reveal a delicate pink center. All of this was framed by a small circlet of green, resting gently on the water’s surface. Once, in the mountains, Gavril had stumbled upon a lake that’s surface was entirely cloaked in them. He liked to think that’s what Sihìr, the land after death, would look like.
Down here though, in the lowlands, seeing the flowers were a rarity. It usually only grew at high altitudes, and often didn’t survive the journey from the Lácorìc mountains back to the city. Those rare specimens that did were often given to the priesthood, to curry the favor of the Gods. According to the legend that gave the flower its name, each blossom contained the tiniest fragment of the essence of the Gods; their wisdom, their beauty, their strength and immortality. By inhaling the smoke of burning Syác Thracì, one could supposedly capture this divine essence for themselves, if only for a little while. No one knew how much truth there was to that, though. Burning the flower, if you were not a member of the priesthood, was sacrilege of the highest order, a crime almost unthinkable to any true citizen.
But here? In the depths of the temple? He could smell the heady aroma that seeped down from the dozens of bronze censers overhead, each of them overflowing with slowly smoldering Syác Thracì petals. Occasionally, one of them would drift down from the censors, landing on surface of the knee-deep water to hiss gently for a moment before sinking to the marble floor. More Syác Thracì blossoms, dozens of them, drifted gently on the water’s surface, firelight dancing across their soft white petals. Each of the four stone pillars in the room had three small shelves that ringed them, each of which held a handful of candles. It was the room’s only illumination. Ahead of him, a small set of stairs rose out of the water, leading to a large silver door, partially obscured by nearly opaque curtains the color of sapphires.
Gavril shifted uncomfortably. The grandeur of this chamber made him uneasy, and he was starting to feel lightheaded due to inhaling the scent of the burning flower petals. His vision threatened to swim out of focus from time to time, and rolling waves of nausea suddenly washed over him every few minutes. He was in full armor too, sans his helmet, and the water that covered the floor had seeped in through the gaps in the plate and soaked the padding beneath. His legs were asleep too, and shifting position always brought about the painful prickling of returning circulation to his feet and calves. He had been kneeling for the better part of forty minutes, waiting in silence. Did she even know he was out here? Was it some kind of test of his patience, or of his will? It didn’t matter; he would continue to wait for her. He didn’t really have a choice.
As it turned out, he did not have to wait much longer. After a few more minutes, the silver doors swung noiselessly inward, and a great haze of smoke billowed out of the chamber beyond. Gavril’s head swam as it engulfed him. More Syác Thracì smoke, much more. It was almost enough to make him wretch. How could she tolerate having her skin practically soaked with it like that? An acquired immunity, perhaps? Or was she simply used to it? Gavril didn’t have much time to consider the question, though. The sight of her, appearing from the cloud at the top of the stairs, chased all idle speculation from his mind.
Part two tonight or tomorrow, and probably all of the other WiP too.
The Mynehan
The flower was called Syác Thracì, “Gift of Divinity” in the old tongue. By any measure, it was strikingly beautiful. Large, tapered white petals with stains of striking blue, which opened in a swirl to reveal a delicate pink center. All of this was framed by a small circlet of green, resting gently on the water’s surface. Once, in the mountains, Gavril had stumbled upon a lake that’s surface was entirely cloaked in them. He liked to think that’s what Sihìr, the land after death, would look like.
Down here though, in the lowlands, seeing the flowers were a rarity. It usually only grew at high altitudes, and often didn’t survive the journey from the Lácorìc mountains back to the city. Those rare specimens that did were often given to the priesthood, to curry the favor of the Gods. According to the legend that gave the flower its name, each blossom contained the tiniest fragment of the essence of the Gods; their wisdom, their beauty, their strength and immortality. By inhaling the smoke of burning Syác Thracì, one could supposedly capture this divine essence for themselves, if only for a little while. No one knew how much truth there was to that, though. Burning the flower, if you were not a member of the priesthood, was sacrilege of the highest order, a crime almost unthinkable to any true citizen.
But here? In the depths of the temple? He could smell the heady aroma that seeped down from the dozens of bronze censers overhead, each of them overflowing with slowly smoldering Syác Thracì petals. Occasionally, one of them would drift down from the censors, landing on surface of the knee-deep water to hiss gently for a moment before sinking to the marble floor. More Syác Thracì blossoms, dozens of them, drifted gently on the water’s surface, firelight dancing across their soft white petals. Each of the four stone pillars in the room had three small shelves that ringed them, each of which held a handful of candles. It was the room’s only illumination. Ahead of him, a small set of stairs rose out of the water, leading to a large silver door, partially obscured by nearly opaque curtains the color of sapphires.
Gavril shifted uncomfortably. The grandeur of this chamber made him uneasy, and he was starting to feel lightheaded due to inhaling the scent of the burning flower petals. His vision threatened to swim out of focus from time to time, and rolling waves of nausea suddenly washed over him every few minutes. He was in full armor too, sans his helmet, and the water that covered the floor had seeped in through the gaps in the plate and soaked the padding beneath. His legs were asleep too, and shifting position always brought about the painful prickling of returning circulation to his feet and calves. He had been kneeling for the better part of forty minutes, waiting in silence. Did she even know he was out here? Was it some kind of test of his patience, or of his will? It didn’t matter; he would continue to wait for her. He didn’t really have a choice.
As it turned out, he did not have to wait much longer. After a few more minutes, the silver doors swung noiselessly inward, and a great haze of smoke billowed out of the chamber beyond. Gavril’s head swam as it engulfed him. More Syác Thracì smoke, much more. It was almost enough to make him wretch. How could she tolerate having her skin practically soaked with it like that? An acquired immunity, perhaps? Or was she simply used to it? Gavril didn’t have much time to consider the question, though. The sight of her, appearing from the cloud at the top of the stairs, chased all idle speculation from his mind.
Part two tonight or tomorrow, and probably all of the other WiP too.