Sunday, August 5, 2007

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.