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1 May 2010, 01:32 AM
A/N: Well, this is written in a...different way, I suppose. Some of the
'Pieces' are really short but they'll get longer as I go along. I'd appreciate crits. and
“Live by the sword – Die by the sword.”
For the land of Thrae, it is the Way of life.
The Sword is a Warrior’s being.
It is their soul.
“And his soul was forever lost.”
He felt the power call him.
Draw him near.
He could taste it on his tongue.
It was his to take.
All he needed to do was hand over the Sword…
“Darkness was his companion.”
The power was his.
It was undivided.
The darkness shrouded, and not a glimmer of light could be seen. His breathing echoed
loudly in the emptiness.
But he did not feel fear.
For he was fear.
He was the blood that spilled;
The wind that howled.
The chill in your bones.
The darkness moved with him; through him.
It moved him.
“His name would be forever engraved in History.”
Children would sit, huddled among the fire that the Storyteller had lit. His long, crooked
nose would cast shadows and his hand flittered like birds as his spoke of the birth of the
Faustian. The children shiver in the moonlight and the Storyteller smiles as he warns
“Never sell your soul – for none know the price.”
But it was just story to behold, so the children thought.
As children reached their teens, the Swords that befit their souls were handed to them in
a glorious ceremony. Many will defend the land from the Faustian and they will be praised
by the People for their heroics.
Then there are those who will seek Faust and retrieve his Sword – for either glory, or
for other reasons of their own.
“So a new story will be written.”
1 May 2010, 01:34 AM
They look upon me with something akin to sick curiosity and terror.
I cannot see them though; not with this blindfold or with these scars.
However, I can feel their fear seeping from their pores and I live for it. I can hear the
curses from their lips and I pursue it. I can taste their disgust in the air and I feed on
I am a rumour.
I am an outcast.
I am Adawolf Flint and I am a Faustian.
Cling onto your lost hope, pathetic Warrior.
Imagine dear reader, if you will, the Grove.
There are multitudes of trees, each one varying in shape and colour but they all tower
impossibly tall, clawing at the sky. The canopy is abundant and the sun trickles through,
warming everything its beam touches. Lush grass lean upwards, swaying and brushing against
each other in an intimate dance. There is a scent, hinting at vanilla and jasmine. Amidst
it is something like the spice of cinnamon and it is coming from the purely white flora
that appears to have the faces of beautiful women. The branches are thick and wide enough
to fit at least four grown men. Hanging from those branches are dark, snake-like vines
that curl daintily around one’s shoulders.
“Welcome to my world,” a sing-song voice says in all nonchalance as he stands alone.
There he is, a boy of no more than eighteen. He looks as if he butchered his hair; it is
roughly cut and falls over jaunty shoulders like a dirt waterfall. His clothing is made of
leather and various metals; mostly gold and bronze. But he is not of nobility. It is the
boy’s eyes however, that are curious. They cannot be seen beneath the blood red cloth
wrapped around his head but there are scars: two, long vertical lines that stop mid-cheek.
“Please, do not fear me.”
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