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by Sesik
Rated: 18+ · Other · Fantasy · #1986704
A man has traveled into the Darkness to find strength to challenge a conqueror.
I wrote this in a total of twenty minutes. I'm not saying that to avoid criticism (I would like for any reviews to be as harsh on the language/grammar as they are on the story), it's just a habit of mine to clarify. I've been depressed as of late (MDD), and this is the first story that managed escape the confines of my suppressed imagination and transfer itself into a textual form.

This is, I hope, a preview of a much, much longer work. The story is that of a warrior displaced after his kingdom falls ventures into a place in the world known as The Dark - a place where the sun dare not rise for fear of never leaving. Legends in this world talk of immeasurable power that can be attained should one manage to brave the treachery that awaits him. It's not a simple "he gets in, gets power, saves the kingdom" type story - no, I have much, much more planned for it, and I expect it to be a Fantasy - Psychologically mind-fucking - Tragic - Action/Adventure story.

I just want any sort of reviews I can get - I want harsh grammar critiques as well as any gripes you have with the formatting/pacing. As of now, this little passage has no place in the story. In the end it may be the first chapter or even the last, but as of now it merely is.

         Up against a wall, in the middle of the darkness, a man sat. He had long since drowned out the ominous whispers that traveled with the faint wind. He struggled to move, and no longer found trying worthwhile, and so he sat like a stone.

         The armor he wore was dented, cracked - broken beyond repair from an arduous journey, one which was surely at its culmination. His hands lay on the floor, palms facing upwards. In one, the hilt of a blade long worn from combat extended, trapped in thorny brambles that had overgrown in the short time the man had been there. In the other, a parchment; It’s letters long faded and in a language foreign.

         The whispering crept closer and closer to the man, the voices of spirits of those that had perished before his time in this place. And as assuredly as the sun would not show in that place, he would too join them. No one escaped this place.

         Everyone arrived for a reason; so had the man. And as everyone had joined the voices; so too would the man.

         The whispers were dangerously close - enough to begin wrapping their fingers around his face. The man stirred from his mental slumber, his fingers instinctively grasping the hilt of the blade; the mere task as onerous as any of the other perils he had faced. He let out a low, raspy cough.

         His eyelids danced open in visible panic as the voices tried to take him.

         The voices didn’t concern him, no. Surprising was what he did find significant, as through the darkness - through the fingers of the dark that had surely clouded his vision, and for the first time in his journey - he noticed me.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1986704-The-Dark