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Fantasy Writers

Stories and Fantasies

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  • #116753
    Crazywriter
    @crazywriter

    Thanks!

    #116777
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    Nice stories, Crazywriter and Mischievous Thwapling! I loved them. 🙂

    "Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

    #116788
    Mischievous Thwapling
    @mischievous-thwapling

    Thanks! 😀

    If your dreams turn to dust... vacuum.
    ~Author Unknown

    #116789
    Mischievous Thwapling
    @mischievous-thwapling

    @joelle-stone and @wingiby-iggiby

    Speaking of which, are you guys going to post the next chapters in your stories soon? No rush, I get how chaotic life can be; I just really love them!! 😉

    If your dreams turn to dust... vacuum.
    ~Author Unknown

    #116794
    Wingiby Iggiby
    @wingiby-iggiby

    @mischievous-thwapling

    Thank you! I’m actually writing a folk story for my book that’s farther into the book where I haven’t gotten yet, if that makes sense; and I’ll post part of it right now! And thanks for understanding 😉 I’m so glad you want to hear it!

     

    I light the arrow, pull the bow,
    Shoot that fire right through my soul.

    #116799
    Wingiby Iggiby
    @wingiby-iggiby

    (so this is set in the future of my book, so y’all don’t know Fenwick, but you don’t really have to to enjoy the story.)

     

    FENWICK’S TALE — THE WANING DAWN

    Fenwick settled himself between the roots of the lichen covered tree. He grinned his gappy grin, and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he clasped his hands and rocked back and forth on his haunches. “Well,” he said in his raspy voice. “What is it you wish for me to tell you?”

    A dozen children sat in a half-circle around him on the soft, mossy floor of the swamp. Vines hung from the black trees, and little dots of sunlight danced on their heads. Bright pink flowers waved their petals, and the exotic birds chirped happily. Despite its many dangers, the Savarti Swamps were beautiful.

    One little girl named Ermentine raised her small, rosy hand and said, “tell us the one about the pretty princess and the nasty goblins.” A couple of the other girls nodded their heads, but the boys shook theirs.

    “Nah!” cried one. “That’s for sissies. Tell us about the island of treasure and the pirates and Long John Silver — and all the killing and death!”

    “No! We heard that last week!” argued another. “How about the one with flying starships and laser swords — and lots of killing and death!”

    The other children turned to look at him in disgust. “Hank,” Posie, a serious little girl said, “we have heard that a dozen times and have gotten space-sick. We are all ready for something new. Mr. Fenwick, DO you have something new — without a whole lot of killing and death?”

    “Killing and death is what makes a story good,” Hank muttered to himself.

    Fenwick looked the small crowd over and rubbed his bristly chin. He cleared his throat and looked up at the thick canopy. Andette glanced at Nadia, but the girl only smiled. “Just wait,” she said. “They do this every time.”

    Andette watched the children. They all waited patiently, even Lark. Again she was reminded of how he was still just a child. The boy was scratching his armpit, and the monkey beside him was doing the same. Andette rolled her eyes, and Fenwick cleared his throat again. He smiled at the children.

    “How about a tale about Davion Rocha-pal?”

    The response from the children was not what Andette expected. They groaned and shook their curly heads. “No!” they said. “We have heard all the tales of his that there are to tell.” Andette again looked at Nadia questionaly.

    “Davion Rocha-pal is our native folk-hero,” the girl said. “Almost all the old stories are about him, and the children think they know all there is to know about Davion. But Fenwick seems to always have another story up his sleeve. Listen.”

    The spry old man bobbed his head and clapped his hands. “Silence, I say! Quiet!” The children stopped their bickering, and sheepishly looked down at their feet. “Have you ever heard the tale of The Waning Dawn? I doubt you have.”

    The children shook their heads, and so did the monkey. “Then,” Fenwick continued, “I had best tell you.” He cleared his throat for the hundredth time, but when he spoke his voice was as clear as crystals and as smooth as running water. It was beautiful and seemed to hang in the air. It was an amazing transformation, and Andette had to check herself to make sure Fenwick was actually the man speaking.

    “Long ago, as we all know, the world was quite new and fresh. Rondona was a quiet land, and Venedor was unknown to us; we doubted there ever was another land across the sea. Auboron was just a quaint little village, unlike the bustling and crowded city it is now . But us in the Savarti Swamps were as productive as ever, and Davion Rocha-pal ruled us wisely. His cloak of swamp leaves and his crown of twisted black trees made him look magnificent indeed. Before the rise of Auboron, and its king, Davion was the greatest of the tribe-leaders.

    “There was great Hawkwing of the Mohacai {Mo-ha (as in ha ha!) kay} Plains Indians; Charton {Shar-tan (rhyming with baton)} the leader of the woodsmen of the Sleepy Wood; Hadai-Uhfer {Hay-day  U-fer} of the villages; and the dreaded Mont-Killdor of the brutish savages of the Lethal Mounts, a man and tribe feared by all. But above these was Davion Rocha-pal {Row-cha (as in cha cha!) pal (as in friend, my pal)}, and we were quite safe — as we have always been.

    “Other territories are dangerous and deadly, but our Savarti {Sa-var-tee} Swamps beat them all. The Sleepy Wood is a living trap, but if you know a few things you can survive. The plains are quite docile except for the occasional windstorms and rampaging herds of Halmacks. The villages are by far the safest. The Lethal Mounts are cold and stormy; you have to be very tough to survive these — but by far the Swamps are the worst. With brawn you can brave the Mounts, but it’s with wits that you brave the Swamps, and less men come by common sense than might–”

    “Sir!” Hank exclaimed. “This is boring. You start all of Davion’s tales this way. Couldn’t you just skip it?”

    Fenwick glared at Hank until the boy seemed to shrink into the moss. Then he looked all of the children over sternly. “I tell you this every time because you seem to forget things easily. Our history is important, and without learning anything about it we are doomed to repeat it. So I try to pound it into your young brains for your’s and mankind’s own good. Now shut up.”

    No sound was heard except the whisper of the wind in the boughs and the faint trickle of running water. Fenwick began again.

    “As I was saying, ours was the greatest tribe at the time, and even now I can’t help but to think it is. Those fierce woodsmen of the Sleepy Wood seem to have become timid with time, and Auboron, why it’s overrun with Mongrels! The Mohacai have vanished from the plains and traveled to the Far Outreaches to escape THE ONE; but I have a feeling that he will be chasing them sooner or later. And the Savages of the Lethal Mounts — now those, they are a mystery. Where they have gone, I do not know.”

    The children yawned and nodded sullenly, but Andette had perked up. She watched Fenwick intently. He blinked rapidly, as if to clear away a mist in his eyes. Andette had a feeling the old fellow knew more than he was telling. Andette made a mental note to ask him about it later.

    “But there we were, the Natives of the Savarti Swamps, and Davion Rocha-pal our chief. This tale I’m telling you has to do with The Waning Dawn. Now, we all know what a waning dawn is, do we not?”

    Fenwick paused, and when no one said anything, he said, “do we not?”

    The children jumped, but it was Lark who spoke up. “A waning dawn is, uh, just when the sun casts its last rays over the earth. It’s waning ‘cause it’s goin’ away ever so slowly.”

    Fenwick nodded. “Ayha. That’s right. And the waning dawn’s rays are the most bee-u-ti-ful of all. Right purty they are. Now, that’s one type. But there’s another. And that’s the waning dawn songbird. This ain’t one of your usual parakeets. It’s a magical bird, shimmery and soft, though it’s rarely seen, and for that matter, rarely heard. But when you do hear it, ahh. It’s the loveliest sound you’ll ever hear.

    “Tis’ like a bubbling brook on a hot summer day; the wind whistling through the trees; the surf against the beach; the lunette played on a spring evening when the fire-flies are flirting; like pie on an autumn afternoon; like all of life’s wonderful things, anything goodness could ever offer us. This little bird’s music makes you remember all the beautiful things that ever happened to you in your life.

    “Now, have you ever heard of a Siren? No? Well, she is an evil creature of the deep. I hate to bring her up, but I’m using her as a comparison. This Siren sings an enchanting song that lures unsuspecting sailors to the depths of the ocean, where they drown. I don’t know what her use for them is, but it mustn’t be good. However, she’s just a myth,” he added when he saw the distressed looks on the children’s faces.

    “Anyhow, this waning dawn bird is much like that, except that it isn’t evil. One who hears it is drawn to its source, and it leads you to your fate — good or bad; but mark my words, you are only drawn to the fate you deserve. The bird is not evil. Now, Davion often went for early morning walks before his busy days full of settling disputes, working the crops, and hunting dangerous beasts began. He started before the sun had even peeked over the horizon, and it was his favorite thing to walk through the swamp and see it come to life. He would sit on a little knoll that gave him a view above the trees, and there he would watch the sun rise and hear the birds twitter.

    “But one morning, things went a little differently.” Here, Fenwick paused. He flicked a piece of food out of his teeth, and leaned back on the tree. The children watched him intently, patiently waiting. But Andette looked at Nadia. “Why did he stop?” she asked. Nadia laughed.

    “To see if he has their attention. Fenwick’s stories may start out slow, but even his most boring ones always amount to something.”

    Andette nodded and turned her attention back to the grizzled old man, who’s eyes were twinkling. Obviously, he knew he had a good tale.

    I light the arrow, pull the bow,
    Shoot that fire right through my soul.

    #116835
    Mischievous Thwapling
    @mischievous-thwapling

    @wingiby-iggiby

    Wow! That was great!!! I loved it! I love how you slipped in that funny bit about Lark; it was hilarious! And I can’t wait until you post more!

    If your dreams turn to dust... vacuum.
    ~Author Unknown

    #116842
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    @wingiby-iggiby

    Really good job! I’m curious how Lark and Andette fell in with Fenwick, and who Nadia is. And where’s Archie!!! I feel like you gave me a teaser and am now starting the story, so now I have to piece all the pieces together. 😛 Well done!

    "Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

    #116843
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    Ok, here’s the first part. I don’t know how often I’ll be able to post; my life’s suddenly busy nowadays. 🙂

     

    The Untitled Tale 
    Part I

    It was the hushed moment before dawn. The eastern sky was beginning to glow with the promise of a magnificent sunrise, and all the earth’s creatures had hushed to watch the golden orb ascend to peek over the horizon. Even the breeze had stilled, as if to give the breaking dawn center stage.

    The only thing outside not asleep or watching the sun was a boy. He was dressed in plain, brown peasant’s trousers, a cream colored tunic with a brown belt, leather boots, and a swirling brown cloak. A satchel’s strap laid across his left shoulder and crossed his chest. Across the other shoulder, the thicker strap of a leather quiver rested. The quiver was well stocked with arrows and a stout yew bow. A sword, in a brilliant silver scabbard, repeatedly slapped the boy’s left thigh. He reached down and rested his hand on the hilt, applying a little pressure so as to keep the scabbard firm and reduce the noise it made.

    He had just exited one of a palace’s side doors, and was descending a series of stone steps into a gleaming courtyard. A fountain bubbled joyfully in the center, and green bushes and plants decorated every corner and the sides of the walls surrounding the courtyard. Nothing was in the middle except the fountain, giving ample room for gatherings of people or for festivities.

    The boy crossed the courtyard quickly, his shaggy brown hair falling into his hazel-green eyes from time to time. He swiped it away with his right hand. The irritated gesture indicated that he’d done this many times. His left hand, still resting on the sword’s hilt, tightened slightly as he reached the iron gates. His soft boots made no sound on the stone ground.

    He risked a glance about, and saw a servant girl cross the courtyard. When she reached the fountain, she paused for a moment, staring up in awe at the eastern sky. The boy quickly melted into the shadows of the stone arch surrounding the gates, and held his breath until the girl tore her gaze from the ever-brightening sky and entered another door in the palace wall.

    Breathing a sigh of relief, the boy cautiously undid the latch for the gates and pushed one side open. It squeaked noisily, and he grimaced, quickly slipping outside and into the shadows of the arch on the other side. After a pause, during which he watched the palace for any sign that someone had heard the squeal, he shut the gate again, lifting it slightly so as to ease the tension on the hinges. It closed much more quietly, but still protested in soft tones.

    The boy let out his breath in relief for the second time, and for the first time turned his gaze to the sky. It lightened ever quicker, as if in anticipation for the breathtaking moment the sun actually poked its sleepy head over the distant mountains.

    The boy managed to force his eyes from the sky, much as the servant girl had, and quickly and quietly made his way along the wide road to the city, keeping on the outside edge and pulling the hood of his cloak up, hiding his face. Very few people were out and about in the city. A few people muttered “G’mornin’”s, but most ignored the shadowy figure or averted their eyes and hurried on. Every moment, more bleary-eyed shopkeepers emerged from their homes, stretched, and yawned.

    Eventually the boy reached the outskirts of the city and entered the open country. He let his hood fall from his head, for now that the sun was up the land warmed quickly and he hated the hood. He moved quicker now, and with less precaution, until he reached the edge of a forest.

    The boy looked around, searching for someone, then dropped to his knees and drank from a creek. Come, he whispered with his heart. I am ready. I am here. Come.

    Just then, the almost perfect quietness was broken by the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath, and of clothing swishing as someone directly behind the boy readied himself for a slice.

    Instantly the boy dropped lower to the ground, simultaneously yanking his own bright sword from his scabbard and raising it above his head, flat of the blade steadied on his shoulder, acting as a sort of armor. He jerked his head away as his attacker’s sword fell, but the force of the blow wasn’t as powerful as the boy had expected. He slid his sword from his attacker’s and whirled to his feet, facing his enemy squarely with fire burning in his eyes.

    "Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

    #116878
    Mischievous Thwapling
    @mischievous-thwapling

    @joelle-stone

    Even though I’ve already read this, it was still really fun to reread!! Nice, Kinnan! I love your descriptions. 😀

    If your dreams turn to dust... vacuum.
    ~Author Unknown

    #117494
    Wingiby Iggiby
    @wingiby-iggiby

    @mischievous-thwapling


    @joelle-stone

    Thank you so much! I’m so glad you liked it 😉 And I’m afraid answers will have to wait — if I ever finish this book 😛

    Kinnan: LOVE the descriptions, you make everything so vivid and real. Please post more soon! I know I’m rather late, but I finally made it back to this topic, lol.

    I light the arrow, pull the bow,
    Shoot that fire right through my soul.

    #117495
    Wingiby Iggiby
    @wingiby-iggiby

    FENWICK’S TALE CONTINUED

    (If you have any advice, please tell me! 😀 I hope it isn’t too long)

     

    “Davion crested the knoll a few minutes before sunrise. He stood there, his robe billowing behind him and his hair whipping in the breeze — he had long brown hair, past his shoulders. It was then that he heard it. A soft, trilling sound. And immediately the swamp changed. It danced a million colors and sang a hundred songs. Davion felt like he was in a dream. And as if in a dream, he instinctively turned toward the source of the sound.

    “Davion walked through the swamp, down a path and then through some briars until he came to a large tree, very much like this one,” here Fenwick patted the rough bark of the black tree’s trunk. “Davion looked high into its boughs, and what he saw drew his breath short.

    “Perched on a narrow branch was a small but brilliant bird, no bigger than your hand. Her feathers were of the pale colors of sunrise, and it had a tail longer than its body. Tiny claws gripped the twig as she sang her sweet song with all the gusto of a small flute.

    “Davion watched in awe while the sun crept toward the horizon. At last, when the great golden orb had ascended into the sky and burst it’s last rays over the earth, the bird disappeared with the dawn in a haze of pastel colors. Davion was still staring at the branch where it had landed when he blinked out of his daze a few minutes later.

    “He hurried back to the settlement, contemplating what he had seen. The next morning when he went for his walk, he heard the song. He followed it to the same tree, where the bird then disappeared. Two more mornings it happened this way until the fifth, when Davion sat on the knoll and heard no song. He was worried, and wondered if something had happened to the little bird. So he went to see Onogin-Togo, the old wise man of the village.

    “Onogin-Togo {Ono-gin (rhymes with bin) Togo} lived in the boughs of a mass of giant black trees, and a rope ladder was the only way to access it. His tree house was just a mile from the settlement, but through lots of briars so that not many came to visit. Davion called up to him, asking if he may see him; but there was no answer. Davion began to wonder if perhaps Onogin-Togo wasn’t home, when he heard a loud snore. So Davion scaled the trunk of a large black tree and crept up to the sleeping hermit.

    “Let me just say that Onogin was quite surprised, and after a few minutes of sorting out who was who, why Davion was in his tree-palace and what his business was, and why he smelled of green onions — Davion didn’t take that to nicely — Onogin was able to give him the information he needed; but he couldn’t answer all of his questions.

    “This is, in short, what Onogin said (thought it may not be very short):

    “‘Well, young chief. You seek the music of the Bird of the Waning Dawn. A fool’s quest if I dare say so myself, for no one has ever actually caught the winged creature.’

    “But Davion cut him off. ‘I have no wish to capture it, rather to see where it brings me. I have heard that it leads you to your fate.’

    “Onogin snorted. ‘Fate indeed! I suppose it does, but sometimes not the fate you desire. Many have found it much more productive to keep away from its enchanting trills, for those who go after it are sometimes not to be found — and if they are, they are usually quite dead. Only a few have come back alive, and they adamantly suggest you don’t try it.’

    “But Davion was not deterred. Like all who have heard the Bird of the Waning Dawn’s cry, he could not be swayed. The lilting tune still lingered in his mind, and it held him to his purpose. ‘Onogin, tell me, please! I must find it. I will go whether or not you help me, so if you want me to have at least a good chance, tell me.’

    “Davion started to climb down the rope ladder, but Onogin grasped his wrist. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘And I will tell you.’ So Davion situated himself back in the tree (or trees, he couldn’t tell if it was one giant tree or several smaller ones) to listen to what the hermit had to say.

    “‘You will need to pack provisions for a long journey,’ Onogin began. ‘You had best start sooner rather than later, and if you could be ready by tomorrow morning I should think that would be quite suitable. When starting out tomorrow before dawn, for goodness’ sake, don’t go back to the knoll! Go to the tree, where you last saw the cursed bird! It should have occurred to such a developed mind as yours that it was trying to lead you there and beyond.

    “‘So go to the tree, and when you hear its song, follow it to wherever it leads you. Then camp there or wander about, I don’t care. But in the morning you shall hear it again, so follow and repeat. That’s all you gotta do till it leads you to your gruesome death. There. Any questions?’

    “Davion rubbed his beard. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Do you have any idea as to where it might be leading me?’

    “‘How should I know?’ Replied the sour hermit.

    “‘You are a wise-man.’

    “‘Just because I live by myself and for myself doesn’t mean I sit here pondering visions — which I rarely have — all day. I eat, and sleep, and forage, and make art–’ Onogin gestured to the many parchments stuck to tree trunks in his home. They were covered with charcoal drawings, which were actually quite good. Davion was impressed, but he still wanted to know more. However, the hermit wasn’t about to give him any more details, and escorted the young chief down the ladder.

    “‘And if you come back,’ Onogin said as Davion walked toward the village, ‘be sure to visit and tell me about your many pains and sufferings. It would make a good story.’ Davion promised, and once home began to make preparations.

    “Since he was the chief, it didn’t take very long to pack a lot of good food and some extra clothes. Davion loaded these onto his horse — there are very few of these beasts in the Swamps, but as I said, he was the chief — and prepared to make out very early next morning.

    “Well, morning came soon enough, and he mounted his steed and set out for the tree. He rode up the knoll, then crossed the path to the woody perennial plant. There, when the sun just started to peek above the horizon, he heard the Waning Dawn’s song. Lilting and haunting, subtle and strong, it drew him breathless through the swamp.

    “The song ended on a smooth note, and faded as with the bird. Davion did not actually see the warbler, but he knew when he stopped at the edge of the swamp, where the black trees merge into the tall grass of the Mohacai plains, that it had led him there. He was wondering if he should keep going farther into the plains, or just camp there for the day, when five Indians, in full war apparel, surrounded him.

    “They sat on paint ponies, splotched brown and black and tan. They had blue and red circles painted around their eyes, and their nostrils flared. The Indians’ own marks matched their mounts, and indeed, their nostrils flared. The Indians wore nothing but loin-clothes, but their skin had become a canvas for intricate painted designs. Their long black hair was braided down their backs, or it was shaved close to their heads. They held spears and bows with poisoned arrows.”

    Fenwick paused, looking his small audience over intently. The children leaned forward expectantly, and Andette heard one boy mutter, “now it’s getting to a good part. I wonder if they’ll scalp ‘im. I sure hope so.”

    As if on cue, Fenwick said, “They had belts of scalps — many scalps: red, blond, black, brown, you name it, they had it — and the leader of the posse had two dozen — two dozen! — scalps on his belt. His name was Shrieking Eagle, and he was one of the fiercest of the Mohacais. He sat tall on his black and white pony, and stared at Davion with his narrowed eyes. Davion, it must be said, couldn’t help but feel small, even though he was a chief and this man but a skilled warrior. Anyhow, the Indians surrounded Davion and held their spears at the ready.

    “Davion had no clue as to why they were acting so hostile; for usually the Indians and the Swampers were on friendly terms. Something must have happened, but Davion knew not what. As far as he could comprehend, the Swampers had not molested the Indians in any way. Shrieking Eagle spoke — and let it be known that while they spoke a different language, they were fluent in others.

    “‘We are taking you to The Great Chief Hawkwing.’ This was a very short explanation, but Davion knew not to question it. He was a great warrior himself, but with five poisoned arrows pointed at him, it was best not to retaliate. So Davion’s choice of staying or going was decided for him, and escorted by the Indian Warriors, he was led to the settlement of the Mohacai Indians.

    “The tall green grass brushed at their ankles as they rode, and the bright blue sky was dotted with clouds. The sky was not often to be seen from the swamp. After an hour they came upon a large Indian settlement in the tall grass. There were several encampments, but this was the home of the Chief.

    “Torn huts sat in small circles around bon-fires, and small children ran to and fro with their dogs to fetch wood or tools. Ponies were staked and grazed among the wild-flowers, and some mustangs were in corrals. Squaws stirred pots over fires or patched up their dwellings, which had apparently just been destroyed. And the men: they were painting their bodies and throwing spears at targets and sharpening knives and dipping arrows in kurns of poison — except for a half-dozen, who were digging out ditches as long and wide as a man.

    “As they rode through the village, people stopped and stared quite openly, and Davion realized the children stared in fear and the women in worry. The men were just outright cold. And the dogs didn’t even bark.

    “When they came to the middle of the settlement, there was a large bark long-house; much longer than the Great Hall in the Palace Hybern, but a tad narrower. Growing from its roof was the prairie grass, as if the long-house had just risen out of the ground. The braves gestured for Davion to dismount, then they flanked him tightly on either side and pushed aside a wide and long-haired animal skin — a Halmack hide.

    “The long-house was dark, for there were no windows; the only light came from a large fire in the middle and a hole in the roof for the smoke. Davion had to blink before his eyes could focus, and when they did, he saw about a hundred Indian Semi-Chiefs sitting against the walls. They all turned their solemn eyes toward him and the Warriors.

    “But Davion held his head high, and carried himself with a great Chiefly grace that made known to these lessers his position. When they reached the back of the long-house, Shrieking Eagle bowed with his face to the ground, as did the other four warriors. It was a sign of respect for Chief Hawkwing — who sat before them on a giant bark throne. Almost all the Indians had a feather in their hair, but Hawkwing; he must have had a thousand. His head-piece trailed onto the floor and around his throne, the red and grey feathers glinting from the light of the fire. On his bare chest was a silver circle embedded with a garnet, and it was framed with animal bones.

    “His eyes were black and piercing, and they stared at Davion; but not in anger. In respect. He knew Davion was an equal, and he was prepared to listen to the other great chief. Davion, on the other hand, wanted to know why he had been so humiliatingly treated. He bowed his head to the other chief, who did the same to him. Then, he spoke with a low tone.

    “‘I ask why I have been treated as a common criminal. I know it is not usual for a chief to travel on his own, but still; I am one. What have I done, or my people, to deserve this?’

    “Hawkwing gestured to Shrieking Eagle and his braves, who backed away from Davion and sat cross-legged on the floor. Then the chief spoke in a husky voice that was tainted with sorrow.

    “‘I did not wish to offend the Chief of the Savarti Swamps, yet–’ Hawkwing sent an icy glare in the direction of Shrieking Eagle, who looked down at the floor– ‘it has happened. I apologize on behalf of my braves, and I hope you will accept my apology. I know that you have been treated unfairly, and I assure you that it will not happen again. But I understand their caution, and I will explain why. I am sure Shrieking Eagle did not tell you; for he was under the strictest of guidelines.’

    ‘Only a week ago we were caught up in a skirmish with Mont-Killdor and his mongrels. Those fiendish brutes terrorized our camps, killing all in their paths. They did not declare war like honorable men and give us time to prepare — they swirled down from the mountains. Indeed, we knew not of their madness. They descended on the plains like a whirlwind, and although my warriors fought bravely, we were unprepared. We are devastated and sorrowful, and many of our men are dead. You can see why we have reason to be extra warry. We did not know if you were in league with these beasts.

    “‘I want to trust you, but I am not sure if I can. We must be beyond careful. However, I will provide you with a meal and safe passage through our plains.’

    “Hawkwing’s face was creased with worry as he spoke. Davion was disconcerted. He knew a mere skirmish, however terrible, was not enough to disturb the Great Hawkwing so.

    “‘O Great One,’ he began. ‘I understand your sorrow and your caution. But, may I ask; what is it that worries you? Surely Mont-Killdor is not as fearsome as that.’

    “Hawkwing closed his eyes, and when he opened them they were only slits. He took a deep breath and seemed to consider the other Chief before him, who was now sitting — one of the servants had brought him a wonderful bark chair appropriate for his position. Hawkwing’s voice trembled slightly when he spoke.

    “‘My daughter — my princess — Singing-Sparrow, has been captured by Mont-Killdor and his fiendish brutes. She is being held for ransom — if we do not surrender and give ourselves over to his power, she will be killed.’

    “Hawkwing lowered his gaze, and Davion too bowed his head. He had once met the pretty Singing-Sparrow. She had comforted her people when the Halmack disease swept through the tribes. It was transmitted by the meat and milk of the furry beasts; however, by the time that had been found out, many of the Indians had died. But Singing-Sparrow sang for her people and sewed them warm clothes with her own hands.

    “‘I know she would rather die than send the Mohacai into slavery,’ Hawkwing said, ‘but I cannot give up my daughter so easily. However, I also have to think for the good of the rest of my people.’

    Hawkwing’s eyes were glistening, and he had a catch in his throat. Davion stood, and Hawkwing after him.

    “‘As a fellow chief, Great One,’ said Davion. ‘When I end my journeys, I shall rouse my countrymen and we shall fight on your side. Your daughter is a jewel in this world, and she shall be recovered. You have my word as a friend.’

    “Davion took out of his belt a knife — while the Indians had not unarmed him, they had kept a close eye on him, and now they stood alert — and made a slit on each of his fingers and across his palm. With a steady eye, Hawkwing drew out his own weapon, and did the same. Then they pressed their hands together till the blood ran into the cuts and down their wrists.

    “They were now sealed together by blood for life — if one betrayed the other, he would be pursued till the ends of the earth for his deeds. Hawkwing could not help but trust him now, and they sat on the woven mats to smoke the pipe of peace and to eat to their hearts’ contents — although both their hearts were troubled.

    “There was the warrior’s war dance around the glowing fire, and the chanting and singing of battle. The Indians paid their respects to the Swamp Chief, and Davion forgave Shrieking Eagle — who became a good friend of his. That night Davion slept in one of the Indian Chief’s own rooms, and in the morning they made sure that he had as much supplies as he would need for his journey.

    “Hawkwing asked Davion once what his quest was, but he only alluded to it, saying, ‘my travels I must not make known, even to you, brother. But I will say this: the bird of the dawn awaits me.’

    “Davion, in the early dawn, had woken from his sleep by some strange pretense, and had wandered a little ways from the camp. There he had suddenly heard the Bird of the Waning Dawn. He was torn: he wanted to follow it then and now, but he couldn’t just take leave of the Indians after their kindness without saying goodbye. So he returned again, but didn’t say anything about it.

    “And with that he set off across the plains with a small band of warriors sent to escort him and to make sure he did not run into trouble on their territory.

    I light the arrow, pull the bow,
    Shoot that fire right through my soul.

    #117509
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    Ooh, well done Wingiby!! That was really good. 🙂

    I did notice that you called the Bird of the Waning Dawn a “she” and an “it”. You might choose one or the other. 🙂

    Also, I noticed that you said that the Indians had spears and bows with poisoned arrows. You said that the Indians readied their spears, then a few sentences later Davion had poisoned arrows pointed at his heart. 🙂

    Anywho, I’m hooked! Bird f the Waning Dawn, a guy with a cool name that I recognize ( 😛 ), and an Indian princess in need of rescue. Cool!

    "Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

    #117511
    Joelle Stone
    @joelle-stone

    So, I’m really busy these days you guys. I’m not going to be able to post on here a lot. I’ll come back, but for now I’m on hold. Keep it up, though!! 🙂

    "Lacho calad! Drego morn!"

    #117512
    Wingiby Iggiby
    @wingiby-iggiby

    @joelle-stone

    Thank you! And I’m glad you caught those things — I would never have noticed, ’cause ya know, it’s me 😛

    And yes! Davion just seemed to work for me!

    And I understand the busy! Don’t worry ’bout it. 😉

    I light the arrow, pull the bow,
    Shoot that fire right through my soul.

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