Fez_The_Kid
06-30-14, 08:54 AM
Delete this thread, please.
Winds wailed over the shack, ever so madly. Blizzards obscured the sky, and visibility did not extend beyond feet. Frost, an airborne and malicious element of nature, had caused more casualties than war ever did in Salvar. It pummeled into the timber walls, then dropped to rejoin it’s fallen compeers. The roof was coated by verglas. Pine trees crawled the landscape, with snow instead of leaf, it had been that way that it turned objectionable.
Those who inhabited Salvar interpreted nature like no other. They savvied the truth, seized it and exploited it. One would ask how would harsh winter be exploited? Simply, by learning to survive when others are nipped to their death. They studied the essence of mother nature, and learned one lesson: never turn a back on mother nature.
Lest it will swallow its wrongdoers whole, like a sea serpent closing its jaws shut around its unlucky prey.
Inside the cabin, fire grew and illuminated the chamber. Gloom and tapers fused to succor composure, and mitigation. Next to the hearth, was a davenport, with ornaments spruced neatly, that it may have outclassed even a chemist’s laboratory. On the surface, lay a book, unsealed as a male hand leafed through it’s pages.
Notes spread out next to the book, and an ink vial, a quill anchored in it’s contents.
The hand paused, then flatly slid over a page and rested on the desktop.
“Poisons and Shadows,” a masculine voice read. “Interesting..”
Despite the reader’s interest, he turned the book’s cover and sealed it shut; before returning it to it’s former position. This wasn’t his only book, he had dozen others occupying the shelves, and some were even more absorbing.
The man pushed back against the chair, and it creaked, protesting against its new position. He surveyed his house attentively, then sighed once his eyes met the frigid outdoors. The book had kept him diligent, he had virtually forgotten about his country’s disheartening condition. He withdrew his glasses, and ran his hand through his hair restlessly.
“What now, you shambling muttonhead?” he called to himself, plainly disappointed in his tone.
Yet before he could converse with himself further, a knock on the door captured his attention, and he glared at the door briefly. He rose to his feet and went for the knob, but his hand stopped reluctantly. Guests at his home were rare, very rare, indeed. Who would have been out during such a wild weather?
A messenger, no other.
He twisted the knob and tugged it.
Nothing.
It was merely the biting frost that stood at his door, and was not polite enough to ask for its harsh entrance. Yet once he was about to close the door shut, his eye caught a glimpse of something through the small fissure between the closing door and its frame. He pulled back the door immediately, and stared down.
“Well… shite.”
Winds wailed over the shack, ever so madly. Blizzards obscured the sky, and visibility did not extend beyond feet. Frost, an airborne and malicious element of nature, had caused more casualties than war ever did in Salvar. It pummeled into the timber walls, then dropped to rejoin it’s fallen compeers. The roof was coated by verglas. Pine trees crawled the landscape, with snow instead of leaf, it had been that way that it turned objectionable.
Those who inhabited Salvar interpreted nature like no other. They savvied the truth, seized it and exploited it. One would ask how would harsh winter be exploited? Simply, by learning to survive when others are nipped to their death. They studied the essence of mother nature, and learned one lesson: never turn a back on mother nature.
Lest it will swallow its wrongdoers whole, like a sea serpent closing its jaws shut around its unlucky prey.
Inside the cabin, fire grew and illuminated the chamber. Gloom and tapers fused to succor composure, and mitigation. Next to the hearth, was a davenport, with ornaments spruced neatly, that it may have outclassed even a chemist’s laboratory. On the surface, lay a book, unsealed as a male hand leafed through it’s pages.
Notes spread out next to the book, and an ink vial, a quill anchored in it’s contents.
The hand paused, then flatly slid over a page and rested on the desktop.
“Poisons and Shadows,” a masculine voice read. “Interesting..”
Despite the reader’s interest, he turned the book’s cover and sealed it shut; before returning it to it’s former position. This wasn’t his only book, he had dozen others occupying the shelves, and some were even more absorbing.
The man pushed back against the chair, and it creaked, protesting against its new position. He surveyed his house attentively, then sighed once his eyes met the frigid outdoors. The book had kept him diligent, he had virtually forgotten about his country’s disheartening condition. He withdrew his glasses, and ran his hand through his hair restlessly.
“What now, you shambling muttonhead?” he called to himself, plainly disappointed in his tone.
Yet before he could converse with himself further, a knock on the door captured his attention, and he glared at the door briefly. He rose to his feet and went for the knob, but his hand stopped reluctantly. Guests at his home were rare, very rare, indeed. Who would have been out during such a wild weather?
A messenger, no other.
He twisted the knob and tugged it.
Nothing.
It was merely the biting frost that stood at his door, and was not polite enough to ask for its harsh entrance. Yet once he was about to close the door shut, his eye caught a glimpse of something through the small fissure between the closing door and its frame. He pulled back the door immediately, and stared down.
“Well… shite.”