Writing Trisal's Burning

[Losing Faith]

The city of Trisal was a marvel of human architecture. From a distance, it sparkled a silvery blue. It mocked the skies; blending in with the surroundings of the beautiful continent it had befriended so very long ago. The people were just as wondrous as the city. Their skin was a dark hue, making the sun shimmer and dance across their lithe, graceful figures. Their hair was a stark contrast; blazing white. Their eyes were a swirling, glacial green. They regarded all others with a cold, distant demeanor. Just as their city did. In the Days of Dreams, the city of Trisal and her people...they were the most beautiful things in all the world.

And it was all gone one day. Turned to ashes; ashes that floated on the wind. Ashes that sadly spoke their parting to Trisal and her home of mountianous trees. The Days of Dreams had perished in the flame; exterminated in the raging inferno that birthed the Age of Nightmares. The Age that brought the human species to the brink of extinction. Battles screamed throughout time. Roared day and night; month and year. The wars were vicious. Continuous. Strange creatures poured down from the sky, rose up from the bowels of the Earth.

There were Angels. There were Demons. The Sidhe ventured out, spears in hand. The Ancients were there. Thousands of fabled races fell upon the Earth; tearing into it as if they were starving beasts. Men died. They died horribly. Burning alive in fires that weren't truly fire. Children were pierced by unseen knives. Women were torn apart from the inside; their stillborn infants the vessels for vicious creatures come from the abyss.

Man was obliterated; his home the battlefield of gods. Hope was forgotten, a word that no longer had any depth. It was a word used by fanatic generals whom dared humans to run from their caves and fight the monsters of old and new.

But no man could fight these things! No man could fight them...they were the stuff of legend. The things so awesome, so awesome that mothers told stories of them to frighten naughty children into sleep. Battling for survival? Feh. That was ridiculous. There was no battle now. There was running. Running forever.

No man could stand against things that took the bodies of young ones born dead and lived through them....it was impossible. Impossible. Trisal was burnt to the ground. Hope was shallow. Chaos was breathed in daily.

And, in the ash, there lay a child with 'Destiny' written upon his flesh.

His eyes were wide.

His soul scarred.

[Epsilon]

Trisal's Burning is great too, Buddy list time. Your a good writer...Ever try writing a book before? If your we're to ever write a book on your thoughts, I'd buy like 5 copyes of it.

[Losing Faith]

((Thank you for your comments, Ruby. I appreciate them. :) ))

None knew his name. They only knew that he came from the City of Ashes. The 'Burning Place'. The place the Demons had struck at first in their apocalyptical war. He was a pale boy; skin of ivory character. His hair was a flaming black. His eyes; they were empty. He seemed mute. Many that met him believed him daft.

They did not know him well enough.

He spent his years roaming; caring not for the war. Wounded in battles, scarred by the hell fire carried by the Demons and beasts he met with sword and spear, the boy learned to fight through trial and error. By the time he hit nineteen, he had earned a name. A name among warriors, but, a name none the less. His blades and fists crushed through the life of all enemies that stood before him. He fought like a devil; swift death to any foe.

His name was Mercy.

And, his soul was cold.

Who better, then, to play the hero in our little drama of life and death?

[Losing Faith]

They spoke in whispers of the man placed in the corner, his dark clothing draped around him in quiet ripples. The shallow green of his eyes was distant. His eyes took them in. Took everything around him in. But, had no concern for the things of man. Those eyes, so long ago, had seen people twisted to death, gnawed upon as they scrambled to escape. Those eyes had not been a part of the armageddon. They had simply seen it's completely unbridled wrath.

While the young man sat there, staring off into space, the whispers became fiercer. They had heard of men that served the Dark Ones in their silent war. Their silent war...that seemed deafen all those that lived in it's path. They had [I]seen[/I] the blazing rumors of such servants. The ruined homes of people that did not suspect every man that seemed a little cold in their eyes.

The moved for him. And, by the end of the night, their families would fend for themselves. Their bodies were left in the street, stripped of any valuables he could use. He left the place, just as he left all places before. And, behind him, came a force many could not look at. It called itself 'Hunira'. A man's body. A beastly , cold disposition. It consumed all that had seen the one with the silent eyes. It needed to know more of him. It hunted him. It needed him.

Soon, Hunira, the first lieutenant of Mriakal herself, would have the one called Mercy. He was the key, She said. The grain of sand that would tip the scales in their favor. But, he could easily fight for the other side. It was [B]vital[/B] that Hunira find him.

Lest he suffer the punishment sent out by Mriakal. The Goddess of Destruction.

[Epsilon]

I'm still reading this, each time you update it always gets better!!!

[Losing Faith]

His hands twisted over his head, making his spear into a whirlwind of bladed fury. Mercy's crushing blows had already dropped five of the beasts that had attacked this small encampment of men. He didn't know these people. He didn't care about these people. But, the dead often have stories to tell. And, if there was anything Mercy cared for, that thing was stories.

His skill would not turn the tide of battle, but, it would certainly even the number of living and dead. A fanged, drooling face flew at him, followed by three more. Their claws were tipped with a poison that caused the blood to burn as if it boiled; their jowls were hooked with vicious, tearing teeth. His spear severed one head, then twisted to stab into a chest. The spraying blood splattered into his eyes and he ripped forward, his sword cleaving into the last two with the expertise he had practiced for his entire life.

Their wired muscles fell apart just as a man's would. He pushed on, ripping his way to the front of the battle. Ripping into enemies. His movements inspired they starved villagers, and they screamed ahead, slamming into their attackers. They enveloped them, crashing with pitchforks, sickles, and make-shift blades against bred warriors. The demon things were driven back. To the forest, at least, and they broke off from the humans regrouping. Preparing for the next day.

Preparing for reinforcements. From Hunira himself.