Tuesday, August 7, 2007

Fides Amicita
There were once to brothers. They both had a common about them. They both had dragons, and trained them thouroughly, for they knew that, eventually, they would be rectruited in battles.

The youngest, more impatient brother trained his dragon with the old laws, and was harsh and his dragon was extremely irritable.

Whereas the older, more wise brother, taught his dragon with the knew laws, and his dragon shared unspeakable bonds.

And a time came when rider and dragon were mature, and were recruited. The brothers fought together, and very close. In the middle of one of their battles, they faced a powerful rider, whom knocked both riders off their dragons. The older brother's dragon caught him up on his flank and landed safetly, but, the younger brother's dragon, whom so loathed him, flew off, not looking back to his falling master.
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Sunday, August 5, 2007

Mucro ex Glacies quod Mucro ex Incendia
Two men, both of same loins, stand in a chamber. Before them stands their two blades, one glacial, one zealous in heat.

Anger spills from each brother, as blood from their wounds. They stare into either's eyes, only to fly into battle once more. Pernicious rage runs through their veins as swords collide and bodies dance their dance till death. The zealous twin swings his blade high and the brother parries the blow. This death sparring continues, until both brothers, drenched in sweat, resume their locked stare.
The Frozen twin looks down, and is amazed, his sword is but a hilt in his angry gaze! His brothers stays lit, and he melted away...

Then he knew were his icy sword went, as the stone cold pain of death overcomes him, and the chilly reaper gathers his soul.

A story told by Massimmi, a bard in my village. The second of my stories, that you shall pillage.
A tale of zeal and those without, you know the story, with not a single doubt. I always thought it funny when Massimmi picked up a stick and fought the air as if it were a madman!
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Orbis Obscurum
A hunter crouches low beside a tree, fresh kill and arrow departed in front of him, in the sweet meloncholy beauty of the moonlit image. The crunching of sticks echoes through the blood stenched air. What is that? An object of unsurpassable bueaty passes in the shadows, mesmerizing the orc aside his kill. The orc, being so awed by such an image, investigates. As he passes into the shadows, and leaves the pair of blood lovers behind...

... he returns, a glowing orb, producing only as much light as void, lie in his palm, glistening.
The orc gathers his kill, but, as darkness touches light, the struggle begins. The orb passes under the moonbeam, and in catalytical rage at his enemy existing in his world, the light dissapears. In darkness, there is a battle, and the unfortunate orc dies. Darkness passes, and as natures ways always true, the power of light vanquishes that of dark, leaving the dead orc atop his kill to anyone who is tempted, a message.

Thus is the first of the tales of the spirit and bard in my land, of only that which is cold and hard.
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