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[sid] => 64940
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Mark
[time] => 2004-09-23 20:29:59
[hometext] => Long story I wrote a while ago. Please try to read it all. I would appreciate comments.
[bodytext] => The laughter stops, The merriment freezes. The Dark closes in The moment seizes. All things go black, Light is what they lack. All is Dark and unknown, No way to escape are they shown. The time has passed since light shone. People start to weep and moan. "The Scourge is upon us! Run!" they cry. Yet to no avail, all seem to be doomed to die. The Scourge, the Evil, the Dark, All are apt names of The Mark. A force yet unknown, yet its power Seems to be limitless as a lightning shower. No visible form, not a bear, not a storm. Not a magician, not an apparition. No material bounds, no sounds. All is dark, gloomy, and mysterious, Making the sparce defenders furious. Until one boy, scarcely the age of eleven, Bravely walks to the center of the men, And says, calmly, yet powerfully, "We must not be afraid, look and see" Holding out his hand, he shows them a carved blade. Not just an ordinary blade, 'tis the weapon that stayed Goslen the Brave against Argon the Bane In the days of old, the Blade of Purain. Its power is in the hilt, The horn of a Unicorn, taken without guilt. A gift from the King of all Beasts, Yauri, of Swift Feet, To Goslen, for the rescue of Yauri's son, The colt, whose name was Daryon. Goslen took the horn to Greswild the Smith Who forged Goslen a weapon with the horn as its pith. Beautiful to behold, with a blade of crystal, Though it can tell the time since it was made Far, far off in that distant forest glade. The men all reach for the Purain, But the boy says "We must be sane, Only one pure of heart May the blade and its Guardian part. This was my curse, to guard the Purain Until the one whose heart is pure came. It has been yet two thousand years since I was cursed Yet still no one can bear it, though I was first. You see, I took the Blade, not knowing its rule I meant to steal it... I was but a fool. So the power of the blade keeps me forever young, Until the one chosen to bear it has come. What I have seen! Entire cities, desolate, dark The dead no where to be seen. Shadows everywhere lurk. I am protected by the Blade, being its Guardian. Oh how I wish to die! Life is but a curse for me now. For a man is appointed to once to die, But mine has been delayed. I regret it so!" The men step back, stunned, for they had believed It to be just faery tales, legends, never truthfully received. " Are any of us pure in heart?" they ask amongst Themselves. Their survival does not depend on the strongest. Then out of the fog, steps a young man, the age of Twenty- three, who says, "I will do it for my love". He kneels on one knee, holding out his palms, His hands smelling of healing balms. The Guardian places Purain into his hands. Immediately again flow Time's sands. The Guardian calmly dies, to Heaven his soul rises. Norath, the son of Bergen, the Healer. But the calm before the storm is nearly over, The Dark puts out its ethereal feeler. Norath, the Pure of Heart, strides fearlessly through The murky depths of the Dark, but what to? The Dark has already corrupted a few townsfolks minds, Filling them with the desire to kill, leaving inhibitions behind But still Norath walks, not slowly, yet not fast Being cautious is not easy when love one hast In danger of death, life ebbing at half-mast. She fell ill one year ago today, Nothing to cure her his father did say. But he would stand at her side every free minute. And if there was anything she needed, he would do it. Her name was Lauraine, a name fit for a goddess. She was still beautiful though plagued with illness. They were to be wedded in but a few months. Though in the past year she had not walked once. Her words fresh in his mind, doubling his resolve, "Come back to me safe, Norath, my love". He would do it for her! He would Argon slaughter! Bloodlust rising in his eyes, Images of death pestering him like flies. The Darkness seems to be getting thicker... Entangling, snarling like wicker. Hark! What is that he spies? Could it be? No, upon closer inspection it is but an old bent tree. He walks past it peering into the mist. When into his back, collides a massive fist. He sprawls on the ground, nearly losing Purain, But healers are hardy, and he gets up again. He beholds Argon the Bane, in his true form, A sorceror, clothed in a robe like unto a storm. A staff in his hand, made of a Dragon's spine, With a huge black jewel set into the topmost tine. His face, like an angel's radiates light from within, But the light is fake, the light is an illusion. Argon is a shapeshifter, the oldest and most learned. He once was an apprentice, but power he yearned. He studied the Black Arts, followed the Dark. And when he had learned, he made The Mark. A cloud of black, made purely of magic, The Mark would corrupt one's mind in a way most tragic. The citizens of the unfortunate town, Would start to kill, and bring each other down. Then when most were dead, Argon would come, Consuming the bodies, killing the remaining sum. For each body he ate, he would gain more Light, When he had mastered the Light, and the Dark too, Then he would rule the world by fright. Norath, however, none of this knew, And just wanted to kill Argon, for he was evil. He drew Purain, which was in his belt, And immediate terror from Argon felt, Argon vividly remembered the blade, Cutting and slicing his flesh without aid. But he had killed Goslen in the end, For Goslen had risen, his wife to defend. And through that his doom was sealed, For Argon corrupted Goslen's wife, who dealed The death-blow to Goslen, he with honor died. Though Argon was nearly killed, He slowly healed, his time he bided. His near-death experience gave him knowledge of it, Gave him a weapon, a means to overcome it. He no longer feared any living thing, Only Purain, the blade worthy of a king. So for two thousand years, he studied the Arts. Growing in power, corrupting his hard heart. Until one day, during his book exhumation, He found a book of Black incantations. He spied one particular one, near the end Looking as though it were scribbled by hand. "Pater ex sinister" was the title, full of odd symbols. He feared nothing, and as he thought it might Make him stronger, harder to fight. He went through the ritual with nary a mistake But as soon as he completed it... A power his heart proceeded to take. Pure Black magic exuded from that hole, The Mark was born, corrupting his soul. Norath knew it would get gory, But didnt mind sharing his story. "My wife to be is ill" he said. "And she will in a years time be dead". "I can heal her completely" replied Argon. For a moment Norath's resolve wavered, But then he said "LIES, BEGONE!!!" "They are not lies, my son, not lies at all, I can make it like she was never ill at all. Just think, you can have your wife back As healthy as if she nothing lacked. You can spend the rest of your life together, In a cottage, away, amidst the field and heather. Raising children, loving each other forever." "And how would you make this possible for me?" "Simple, my boy, merely step aside and let me be free". Norath had been quite shaken before, But now even more with promise of love evermore. He would do the hardest thing he would ever do. He would choose to fight, and Lauraine he would lose. "I believe none of your lies!" he vengefully cries. And lunges forth, Purain in his hand And suddenly feels like he is running through sand. Another spell, directed for his head, Gleams bright blue as it passes just overhead. Argon changes into a wolf, with teeth of steel And charges, snarling, at Norath. The Bane bites him on the left arm, it will never heal. Adding pain to hate, Norath stabs wildly, filled with wrath. But his attacks the wolf is able to easily evade Bilking, dodging, eluding the deadly blade. Bleeding steadily, Norath's strength begins to fade. Still he would not give up until Argon lay slayed. Again Argon changes, this time into a ball of fire. Burning to the touch, it resembles his ire. The only thing to do is to run, Yet Norath stumbles frequently, without the sun. Without any light, besides that of his foe, He runs, runs, devoid of any way to go. And then he stops, his strength played out. "You played a well-matched yet uneven bout" Argon scornfully remarks behind him. Already Norath feels his lights begin to dim. Yet though he is dying, he feels stronger, He is filled with strength, can hold it no longer. The Blade's secret is now unveiled. He is full of strength, of light, of power. He cannot fail now, and lo! a rainshower! It nearly extinguishes Argon's new form, The Bane is nearly put out by a mere storm. Back to a sorceror he changes, angry now. But Norath plunges Purain deep inside Argon, a fatal wound. "AAAHHGHH, I HATE YOU", He cries, "But I will make you pay with your LIFE!" He casts a malicious spell, hitting Norath. Their cries of pain and agony coincide. Once, twice, thrice Norath strikes. Now the Blade is shining brilliantly, with glory And at the same instant they black out. When Norath wakes, he is filled with worry. How is Lauraine, did she survive he wonders with doubt. The Black is gone, Argon's body lies dead. Norath reaches down and takes the staff by his head. He then walks slowly to town, wondering what he will find. His arm bears a symbol, bringing the Black Arts to mind. It strangely enough feels perfectly fine, As if it had had healing time. The rest of his body burns like fire, and aches are abundant Though if he survived and not his Lauraine, life would be quite redundant. As he reaches his town, he notices that no one is out It seems as though no one at all is up and about. He runs straight to Lauraine's house, Where to his inexplicable joy and immense gladness, He finds her alive, his spirits nothing can douse. He inquires of his family, to hear of their plight And is told that his family perished the previous night. He walks out of town, for four nights and three days Grieving, for his family had passed through death's haze. He then cared for the love of his life, Lauraine, Until in the grave, for two years she had lain. He never got over the loss of his wife, Never stopped grieving for the missing piece of his life. Until one day, the townsfolk found him missing. And called and called, as though he were listening. But before he left, he taught an apprentice, A young girl by the name of Ryentis. She excelled in the art, as though skilled already, And though eager, always steady. He only told her that he was going away That he was never coming back any day. He left soundlessly, with Argon's staff stowed safely in his pack. To live far away amid the tall grass, in a wooden shack. Living on memories, dwelling on the past. Not taking anything too fast. Away from human company, Lost in his sad memories. Alone. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 147 [topic] => 31 [informant] => luna_mica [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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