Additions

I added my Blog Maxim today, couldn't be happier with it. I also added a poll asking what sorts of characters people like. I'll use the results to decide which characters my readers will be seeing the most of, if I get high results for Sultry and Seductive, or Vicious and Wild, for example, people will be seeing plenty of that psycho in the barn.

Explanation

All right, here's how it works. Every now and then I'm gonna paste a chunk of my novel right here in the hopes that any, many or all of my fans will read it and give me some constructive criticism.
If you're one of the few (3) people to have actually read my work, feel free to suggest parts that I should post in order to get more criticism on them.
Thanks, Damos

Prologue (Finale)

With a mighty cry Kalo flung out his hands, and a dragon made of lightning and thunder leapt from his fingertips, maw opening wide to devour Tundra, the Barbarian King. With a wild, gyrating motion a giant wolf made of ice and frozen wind left Tundra’s body, and the two apparitions clashed together, dragon and wolf, roars mingling as claws of sapphire and fangs of frost tore at ethereal flesh. Jagged bolts scoured and blackened the stone floors of the great arched hall, charring the rich carpets even as the blizzard froze the air, and great shards of ice built up, lancing up from the ground and hanging from the rafters, turning the throne room to ice. Thunder rumbled and shockwaves shattered the formations, and frozen shards fell, scattering to the corners of the room, impaling the fighting soldiers on the ground. The air turned to crystal mist; the scorched stone was rent and cracked, until finally the wrath of the elementals was flung out the great stained glass window behind the throne, and the storms left the chamber, and continued their battle in the blizzard and rain outside.


Even as the raging elementals left them, Kalo had his sword in his hand and charged his nemesis, a mad challenge bursting from his throat. The Barbarian king hefted his own massive axe and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

Kalo’s blade struck the haft of Tundra’s axe, and the two circled one another.

“It’s here at last, Tundra. I’ve waited too long for this day, today you die.”

“You’re just another victim of mine, boy. One of many, and you’re no stronger than the others. As my people say among the ice lands of the north, En eldsvodi brenna skær, ís endast sól. ”

“Enough talk,” Kalo snarled. His sword came up and struck sparks on Tundra’s armoured gauntlet. The barbarian brought his axe around, trimming a few strands of hair from the top of Kalo’s head. The young warrior dropped to the ground and kicked Tundra’s legs out from under him, and the heavy barbarian fell to the ground. On his feet first, Kalo tried to finish the murderer off, but the barbarian blocked the attack with his gauntlet again. Rolling to the side Tundra rose to his feet and brought the haft of his axe around, Kalo parried the attack, but then had to leap back to avoid the axe head from shedding light on his insides. Before he could recover Tundra kicked at him, catching him in the stomach. Kalo doubled over, gasping for air, and Tundra brought up the haft of his weapon, crashing it into the warrior’s chin. Kalo hit the ground, his sword skittering away. Lifting his boot high, Tundra brought it down hard, and pain burst in the young warrior’s sword arm, accompanied by the sound of splintered bone…

Web of Lies

Leyt nodded finally, and Torral turned back to the path. Moments before he stepped onto the ledge, however, Kara’s Heart Sight came back, and she saw the sickly purple of malice in the man’s heart.


“It’s a trap!” Desmon shouted from the back of the line. He barrelled past the soldiers and shoved Kalo to the ground. Torral was facing the rest of them instantly, and flung silver strands at the air above the companion’s heads. Tugging down on them, a great silver net fell down upon the small army, entangling their limbs and binding their weapons in their sheaths. Everyone except Dalaran.

The Koren slashed at Torral savagely, but the old man leaped high over the blow, and disappeared into the shadows of the ceiling.

Leyt roared treason at Torral, but the voice in the ceiling didn’t respond to those, in fact he didn’t respond at all. A voice called out from the darkened corner of the cavern.

“It was foolish of you to come here, Leyt, you and your pathetic band of would-be heroes.”

From out of the shadows, followed by a band of barbarian warriors, came Lord Aphria, an empty crossbow in his hand.

“I thought that the boy would be the greatest threat to his Majesty, considering that fool lad Astrean intended for him to be the assassin. You’re lucky, boy,” he called to Kalo, “That that old fool thought you worth protecting.”

Kalo jerked his head around, and was faced with Desmon’s eyes, the light in them dying. He had a crossbow bolt sticking out of his head, and when he smiled blood leaked from between his lips.

“Sorry, son,” he managed to rasp, “I couldn’t let Brigid down; I couldn’t let her son die like that.”

“Desmon, you fool,” Kalo said softly, but the old campaigner didn’t hear him.

“You’ll die now, traitor,” Dalaran growled, “You and Torral.”

“Quite a threat, Koren,” called a mocking voice from the ceiling, “Very scary. Mayhap you still have a chance to try my fruit,” the voice broke off in maniacal laughter, followed by a chant.

“Itsy bitsy spider, climbed into a fool man’s bed,” the creature laughed in a gruff man’s voice, followed by a sliding sound, as of something slipping down a rope, Dalaran stepped back, eyes focused on the unseen creature in the dark, his sword at the ready, “Itsy bitsy spider, bit off the fool man’s head!” the creature snarled in a melodious, sensuous voice, and the creature appeared from the darkness. It still looked like Torral, hanging from a silver thread, but then the skin paled and went grey, the creature gave a violent twist, and the man’s skin flaked and split; and he appeared to struggle with himself, his skin bulging like a paper bag being struck from the inside. From its back two long, segmented arms split out, tearing the skin, and from the front two more burst like worms from inside his belly. The face tore down the middle and two huge fangs jutted out, followed by a pair of long palps that moved this way and that, smelling the air currents.

The legs reached up and grasped the loose skin around the creature’s head, and tugged down, tearing the skin away, and, emerging from the discarded skin of Lord Torral, a monster remained, a creature that was like some horrible half human half spider. The most terrifying thing about her, though, was how darkly beautiful she was, contrasted against her horrors. Her hair was long and silver white, rippling in unseen breezes and the terrible fangs jutted from a far too human, far too beautiful face, and though four monstrous spider’s legs came from her back and sides, she still had two arms and two legs that were completely human. And there was nothing monstrous at all about her bosom.

First piece of Sample Writing

In one of the far flung barns of the town of Aiden’s Shadow, light could be seen glowing from beneath the doors and from the cracks between the planks of wood that made up the walls. Every now and again, the light would flicker and suddenly die. Soon after, the glow would return bit by bit as though it were being emitted from candles being lit one by one.


Inside, as the dark haired girl scurried back and forth like a rich man’s maid, busy lighting candles, the second occupant of the otherwise empty barn stood still as a statue, eyes closed, her brow furrowing in intense concentration and preparation. The young woman, no more than twenty, held herself with a quiet confidence, sure of her power in that room. She stood tall, her shoulder length platinum blonde hair unmoving in the stuffy, windless barn.

When the last candle was lit, she opened her eyes, jade green irises glinting in the flickering light of almost two dozen candles spaced evenly around her in a circle at uneven heights. The young woman paid no attention to the girl who had lit the candles; she seldom took notice of her younger sister except when she wanted something from the girl. What she did pay attention to was the five feet of twisted wood in her hands, topped with a savagely curved blade, gleaming evilly like tarnished silver in the flickering, pale candlelight. A common farmer’s scythe, the woman had sharpened the blade passionately till it could slice the wicks off candles; if she moved fast enough she could do it without snuffing the flame. It made a fine weapon, and one people feared as a symbol of Death; it was this weapon that had earned the young woman the nickname they chanted at the Contest, The Reaper’s Daughter.

She gripped the haft with both hands comfortably, caressing the rough wood like a lover, positioning the blade away from her towards the first candle. A slight gust of wind suddenly blew it out. Glaring, the young woman turned to her sister in the corner.

The younger girl swallowed fearfully at the angry look and hurriedly relit the candle with a single lighted taper, the instant the candle began to burn merrily she moved back into the shadows, well out of range of her older sister’s scythe blade. She had seen her sister do amazing things with that common farmer’s tool; amazing, terrible things.

The woman began to rock on her feet, testing her balance on the uneven ground, building up the spring in her step. The girl watched in awe and trepidation as the woman moved like liquid steel, shapely, yet with a strength and ruthless confidence that was frightening.

With a shriek she woman leapt, her scythe blade spinning seemingly out of control, too fast for the girl’s eyes to follow no matter how hard she tried; her sister became a whirling cyclone of wood, steel, pale gold hair and white flesh.

One by one the candles flickered suddenly and died. Some of them fell to the ground, the wicks chopped off and the flame extinguished before they hit the dry hay. Others faded suddenly as the breeze from the passing steel blew out their flame.

One by one the steel flashed and candles faded. Like a whirlwind of terrible speed and strength the scythe blade spun, its blade here, then over there, the woman warrior’s steps in perfect tandem with the flashing steel, making sure that the blade found its target, no matter where it was. Behind her, beside her, above her, below her, it didn’t matter; she was a cyclone of savagery, a merchant of mayhem, a deliverer of death.

With a final cry, the blade of the scythe was driven into a solid chopping block, the blade sinking deep into the wood hardened by decades of use.

The woman’s chest heaved as she gasped for air after the exertion. The whole episode had lasted a matter of seconds, and she could feel that she had pushed herself to the next level, if only she could remain there until the tournament began eight days from today.

I’ve come this far, she said to herself defiantly, this year I’m not going to fall behind in the third rank, I’ll make it to the top, I’ll make it to the top if I have to slice off Abe’s arms to do it!

She grinned at the thought, imagining that bitch Maranda’s face if her precious Abe came home from the tournament permanently maimed, it would be priceless, she reflected coldly, I’m going to make the fantasy a reality!

Straightening up, the blonde woman turned to her younger sister, and there was no love or affection in her icy green eyes,

“Clean up here, Mae.” Was all she said, as though she were speaking to a servant rather than a girl of her own flesh and blood whom she had been raised alongside, a girl she was meant to cherish and love.

Maella quickly and fearfully obeyed her older sister’s orders, collecting the candles scattered across the barn floor. She placed them in a trunk by the door, ready for tomorrow night when her sister would need them again. It was the same every night, and had been ever since her sister was fourteen; Mae had been ten when her freedom was taken from her.

Mae had been bullied and pushed around by her older sister her whole life, so it wasn’t really a surprise when she was put to work helping her sister to train, practicing her killing skills with the scythe. There was no doubt in Mae’s mind about what kind of a person her sister was: dispassionate, vindictive, and self centred. She always got what she wanted, no matter what anyone else said or tried to do about it. She was popular with the boys of the village only because she didn’t give a damn about the rules and expectancies of society, was always quick to convince the cute ones to run off with her for a few hours of time alone, especially if any of the other girls liked him. She wasn’t popular with the girls because of this, but she bullied and pushed them all until she had a circle of flunkies, if not friends.

Mae hated her older sister, knew her parents had no control over her, knew that she, Mae, would be beaten if she let slip even a hint of the kinds of things her sister got up to to their parents. All she could do was pray for the day her sister would leave home, and maybe at last she would be free of her.

Once the barn was tidy again, she used her taper to light a small oil lamp she kept by the door and left the barn, returning to their house, and the room she shared with the monstrous woman she called sister.

First Entry

Well I made a blog, kudos Damos. I'm Damian, an apprentice writer from Brisbane, Australia. I have a Bachelor's Degree in Creative Writing with minors in Communication and Australian Culture, I studied for three years at The University of the Sunshine Coast and one year at Queensland University of Technology.
My specialty is what I like to call Deep Fantasy, a combination of Tolkein-style High Fantasy and Reilly-grade action. This blog exists for a single reason, and that is to spread my work across the net and gain a much needed fanbase.