Imriçanâth - The Prologue

Apparently, I had one more story fragment lying around the place. This is another piece written within the Twelve Worlds Universe. I had a rather long story planned out for this one. I might get around to writing it one day. Probably not though. Enjoy.

Lightning illuminated the evening sky as the cloaked man waited patiently in the shadows of the Column of Miziah. Around him people hurried to and from the large white marble tower that housed the ruling Council of Arbesian Mages, for tonight the Archmage had called an emergency sitting of the council. Rumours flew about the reason for the session, many believed that Arbes’ long lasting peace with the United Kingdoms of Thasemer had come to an end, and that Thasemer was even now marching on the mainland city of Lunnisar. Others postulated that the Archmage was finally going to challenge Lord Ossine and lay charges of corruption. Few considered what would turn out to be the real reason as even possible. Such a calamity had been unheard of in several centuries, and even the longest living of the so-called Immortals could not remember the last time it had happened. Besides, the precautions and the plans that were in place meant that it was impossible. It could not happen again.

The waiting man was unconcerned by the reason for the session. He was far more concerned that the amulet he wore, a gift from a powerful patron, would not protect him from some of the most powerful magical security systems on the planet. He was even more concerned by the weather. It was the middle of winter. The island should have been snowed in for weeks now. He had yet to see a single snowflake, just lightning and torrential rain. It was the lightning that he was concerned by, it made the prospect of scaling the column that much trickier. The rain would make the smooth column surface even slipperier, but he was confident his newly acquired climbing pads, purchased at great cost from a Tenan black marketeer, were more than up to the task. No, what he was worried about was that an unusually dutiful guard would still be alert in the storm that should soon start, and that the lightning would mark his passage on the column before he could reach the relative safety of its peak. Drawing his cloak about him, he sank further into the shadows, resolving to concentrate on the task at hand and not worry about events outside his control.

Thunder pealed and abruptly a torrent of rain filled the air, people cursed their ill luck and rushed for the cover of nearby doorways and the city’s extensive archways. The dim blue glow of the magical strands that carried the electricity supply of the city flickered and arced before plunging the core of the city into darkness. The sound of the rain intensified as people tried to find their way through the unlit darkness of the city core, the dark clouded night sky offering no light. The first sounds of hail striking the tiled rooves and cobblestone roadways permeated the night, causing children and adults alike to seek the safety and comfort of loved ones. Only the deafening roar of thunder interrupted the sound of the hail and rain as the storm intensified from the expected harsh storm of winter into a storm of terrifying ferocity abuzz with energy that betrayed its unnatural origins. Cursing the stinging of the hail, the patient man started to climb the smooth column, slowly at first and then with growing confidence as the pads worked as well in practice as the alien merchant had said they would. After nearly an hour of climbing the man had reached the top of the column, he had planned to rest before he crossed over to the roof of the council chambers but the hail was increasing in size and he was eager to be freed of its bite. Quietly and carefully, he pulled his crossbow from his pack and loaded the grappling hook. After a few moments of aiming he squeezed the trigger, propelling the rope and hook into the side of the chambers with a thud that was overwhelmed by the forceful screaming of the storm. Securing the rope to the peak of the column, he gingerly tested its strength before grabbing the rope with both hands. He slowly, and against rising panic and fear, pulled himself off the safety of the column, dangling beneath the rope. Swinging himself back and forth, he swung his legs onto the rope, entwining them around it as he started to inch his way across to the council chambers. Progress was bitterly slow and arduous, the hail and the strain of carrying his own weight two hundred metres above the hard stone ground combined to make the journey torturous. He paused for a moment at the two-thirds mark to clear his head and wipe the sweat and rain from his eyes. Tilting his head back, he sought to check how much further he had to go, the distance seeming impossibly further than he had already endured. Suddenly, pain tore through his left shoulder as a hailstone the size of a golf ball shattered and cut into his flesh and muscle. Screaming in agony, he lost his hold on the rope, and swung downwards, dangling from his legs. His legs protested against the strain as he desperately tried to swing back and gain a handhold. Once, twice he nearly got there, a third time he unthinkingly reached out with his left hand and again his screams were drowned out by the fury of the storm. Again and again he tried, his mind consumed by no thought but to get a grip on the rope and avoid the grisly and hard death that awaited him below. After what seemed an eternity he managed to regain his precarious perch on the rope, and with agonising slowness and excruciating pain he restarted his journey to the other side. He had travelled no more than a scant few feet when, with a sickening rush he felt the rope go slack as it tore away from the column. Eyes widening in panic and horror, he swung towards the marble wall of the chambers oblivious to the sting of the hail and the agony of his shoulder. With a sharp crack, he smacked into the wall. Pain consumed him as his head swum from the force of the impact, barely conscious he struggled through the haze of pain and disorientation to hold on to the rope. Looking up he saw the roof of the chambers only a precious few metres away. Through pure force of will he started to pull himself up the rope, his left shoulder protesting with excruciating agony with every heave on the rope, much as his stomach threatened to empty its contents. After much effort and more pain than the man had ever believed one could live through, he pulled himself onto the roof of the chambers, rolling onto his back and thanking lady luck that he had survived he slipped into unconsciousness.

He had no idea how long he had been out for, but the rain and hail still stung his body and the city remained eerily dark. Thankful that he had not been injured enough to remain unconscious for the night, he felt around for the rope and started to pull it up onto the roof. He spared a brief moment to examine the end of the rope. A pause that would prove to save his life, as with terrifying clarity he realised the rope had been severed. A flash of lightning revealed an ill-timed movement by his pursuer, and the man threw himself sideways as a bullet tore through the space he had occupied. Not waiting to see what his pursuer did next, the man ran in a crouch towards his target. Abandoning stealth, he reached the famous crystal roof of the voting chamber, where the council had assembled to hear the Archmage speak. Hurriedly he pulled his pack off his back, enduring the stabs of pain that came from his left shoulder. Reaching inside he discovered with horror that the glasscutter had fallen out when he was dangling from the rope. Only the explosives remained. A brief moment of hesitancy passed through the man, before he resolved to complete the mission and destroy the symbols of the magic that he hated more than he loved his own life. Determined, he strapped the pack back on and set the timer. Standing, he took a small step backwards and then threw himself at the crystal roof. Pain shot through his body as he crashed into the crystal, and for a moment he thought it would not break, but then he heard a slow creaking sound resonate through the crystal beneath him. With a resounding crack, the crystal shattered and he started to fall the stories to the floor beneath him. Hundreds of eyes turned upwards as the sound of the storm suddenly penetrated the sanctity of the voting chamber. The Archmage paused in his speech as he looked upwards, his face contorting into one of horror as a shard of the falling crystal roof sliced through his exposed neck, releasing a fountain of blood and draining the life of the Archmage. Pandemonium erupted as a hundred mages fled for the doors, whilst a hundred more hurriedly cast powerful spells of protection and shielding. In the midst of the chaos and panic, the man went unnoticed. He hurtled into the floor, forcing the air out of him as his ribs were cracked and broken. He lay there in a growing pool of his own blood, slowly mingling with the indistinguishable blood of the Archmage. Blood from a thousand cuts covered his body, and his mind watched with a detached and curious manner as he tried to decipher why the room was so chaotic. As he slipped into his final, deep sleep a loud, deep, resonating explosion tore through the room wreaking havoc and destruction on everything in its path. Moments later, with a deceptively quiet and discreet crack, the building started to collapse inwards...

The Road Less Travelled

I'm really not entirely certain what is compelling me to post every piece of fiction and poetry I've ever written (well, the ones that I still have copies of and that don't make me want to puke halfway through the first line at least). Anyways, here's a poem I apparently wrote at some point. I think it is strong evidence as to why I should stick to prose, essays, and technical writings...


Fiery knife,
Story o’my life.
A heartbeat away,
From going astray.
Into the wood,
Where it could.
Up the hill,
Looking for a pill.
Where the magic,
Stops the tragic.
Where the load,
Meets the road.
And the mad,
Meet the glad.

Up the hill,
To find the pill.
Search to the end,
Without the mend.
There is no magic,
To stop that tragic.
There is a road,
With a load.
A load to bear,
And still be fair.
To make the choice,
And to rejoice.
To take the path,
And to laugh.

Fiery knife,
Story o’my life.

Untitled

In the ruins of the once proud and majestic city of New Avalon sat a child.
Admist the desolated landscape torn by death and decay sat a small child her
head buried between her knees.
In the burnt out ruins of a family's home, admist the burnt bodies of a young
family sat a small child her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked
back and forth.
Admist the stench of death, next to the starved, radiation poisoned body of a
young man sat a small child her head buried between her knees as she gently
rocked back and forth. And she wept.

Admist the ruins of the once proud and majestic city of New Avalon a child wept.
In the desolated landscape torn by death and decay a small child, her head
between her knees, wept.
Admist the burnt out ruins of a family's home, next to the burnt bodies of a
young family a small child, her head between her knees as she gently rocked back
and forth, wept.
In the stench of death, admist the starved, radiation poisoned corpses of young
men a small child, her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked back
and forth, wept. And she wept tears of blood.

She wept. She wept for the dead. She wept for the land. She wept for the city.
She wept for the living. She wept tears of blood.

But mainly, she just wept.


Amongst the grand structures of the great city of Futuna stood a man.
Admist the silent streets and howling winds in a city filled with guilt stood a
young man with a haggard face.
On the majestic, curving streets of a guilt-ridden city, amongst the shocked
people, stood a young man with a haggard face and aged eyes.
Admist the sullen victors of a long war, in a city that did not celebrate the
victory of a long war stood a young man with a haggard face and aged eyes. And a
tear ran down his face.

In the grand structures of the great city of Futuna a tear ran down the face of
a man.
Amongst the silent streets and howling wind of a city filled with guilt a tear
ran down the face of a young man with a haggard face.
Admist the majestic, curving streets of a guilt-ridden city, with the shocked
people, a tear ran down the face of a young man with a haggard face and aged
eyes.
Amongst the sullen victors of a long war, admist a city that did not celebrate
the victory of a long war a tear ran down the face of a young man with a haggard
face and aged eyes. And his tear was blood.

The tear ran down his face. The tear ran for the living. The tear ran for the
city. The tear ran for the land. The tear ran for the dead.

But mainly, the tear just ran.


The man stood and the child sat.
The young man with the haggard face stood and the small child sat, her head
buried between her knees.
The young man with the haggard face and aged eyes stood and the small child sat,
her head buried between her knees as she gently rocked back and forth.

The two looked at each other. Their eyes locked and pain shined from them. The
man slowly, sadly, painfully shook his head. Slowly, tears brimming in her eyes,
painfully the small child nodded her head. The man opened his mouth to speak.
Stopped. And closed his mouth. The small child slowly, understandingly,
painfully nodded her head.

The small child sat her head between her knees as she gently rocked back and
forth and the young man with the haggard face and aged eyes stood.
The small child sat her head between her knees and the young man with the
haggard face stood.
The child sat and the man stood.


The dead laid. The dying died. The living wept. The ground shook in sorrow and
heaved with pain. But the world spun and circled it's sun. And the universe
carried on without a care.


Yet a man stood and a child sat. And He stood and She sat in sorrow. And She sat
and He stood in pain. And He stood and She sat for all eternity. In sorrow and
in pain and in guilt He stood and She sat. Always.

Wanderer I: Nowhere, Everywhere

The darkness was all encompassing. Peacefulness washed through Xavier. Despite the pervading blackness, despite the unique sensation of weightlessness, Xavier felt truly at peace for perhaps the first time in his life. He wasn’t sure where he was, or how it was possible, but somehow it felt right. Everything was slow, relaxed, simple, and unworrying. As thoughts placidly wound their way through his mind it occurred to him that he should be disconcerted, if not outright terrified by his current situation. Total darkness, floating weightless in a complete void. There was no light, yet he could see himself without difficulty. His mind thought he should be confused and disconcerted, but all he felt was safe, peaceful, and relaxed. He tried to remember how he got here, but he drew nothing but blank memories. He was Xavier, but he didn’t know who that was. He had a family. They loved him, yet he couldn’t remember their faces or their names. He knew he lived somewhere, but he remembered neither where it was nor what it was like. He knew he had a life, somewhere, but he had no recollection of anything but floating in the void. Slowly, as he contemplated the weirdness of the situation he recalled a memory. Distant, yet vivid, surreal and objective, like an observer watching a masterful movie. There was wetness on his face, and a distant feeling of pain in his cheek. He reached and felt sticky wetness, where he touched was painful yet muted, as if a far greater pain overwhelmed it. He looked at his fingers and saw blood. He felt as though he should be frightened, but he felt peace and calm, as though he was merely an observer in someone else’s conscience aware that all around him was an illusion.

The darkness seemed to lessen. Slowly receding, like the gradual lifting of layers of a veil, unhurriedly revealing the image beneath. The scene slowly resolved itself. A city, draped in the yellow and brown light of a heavy hanging moon, its face the picture of a mourning father. The city was dark, shrouded in mist and misery. The view rolled back. Rising from the outskirts of the city, overlooking the sterile sky rises and fetid parklands, were lush hills, tainted in darkness. Xavier sensed, rather than saw, the man standing on the edge of the hill, peering out over the city. The scene solidified further, and Xavier became aware of the falling rain, the biting chill of the wind, and the ill-boding stench. It was like no odour he had encountered, vile and repugnant, it seemed almost to be the essence of an evil death and decay. The wind howled, reverberating through the entirety of his essence. A detached, disembodied sense of fear, overshadowing pain, and despair flooded through Xavier. Stark clarity struck him as the man stepped forwards. Time slowed, the instant it took the figure to step off the ledge grew to an eternity. Realisation spread through Xavier. The figure, the man about to hurl himself to his demise was Xavier. He remembered standing there, he remembered casually stepping off the ledge, and the bittersweet rush of falling to the rocky river below. Dissonant waves of cacophonous terror and silent calm ricocheted through his intangible essence. His mind reeled with confusion, disbelief, and wonderment. Blackness consumed Xavier as his meagre mortal mind failed to cope with the overwhelming enormity of his transformed existence.

Wanderer: Prologue

The giant yellow and brown face of the moon stared down over the cheerless, bitter city with the wretched, despondent look of a wounded father, as oppressive rain beat mercilessly down on Xavier. His waterlogged hair, matted with bloodied mud, whipped across his wounded face in the driving wind, each stroke bringing pain that played a perfect counterpoint to the anguish that tortured his mind. His glistening eyes betrayed his joyless heart, as his gaze reached out from the hillside, forlornly searching the hazy cityscape. His mind tumbled. Over and over. The images flashed past. Every time they played out as they had the time before, and every time he felt the anguish, the horror, the helplessness. Every time he remembered the poignant stench of her wounds, every time he saw the lifeless look in her eyes, eyes that seemed to call out to him to save her, to blame him. Disjointed and chaotic they came at him, never in order, always mocking, always casting blame, with harrowing accuracy the thoughts and memories battered him. He fought to forget, to escape the baleful weight of his tragic action. Wordlessly he screamed to the heavens. Screamed for whatever worthless god inhabited the heavens to undo the past, to take his life in her place. His mind tumbled, his thoughts raced. Again the memories played, incoherent yet with vivid clarity. He watched, helpless, as he sped down the slippery hill. He saw the headlights of the truck. The lights blinding him. The feeling as his car ploughed into the tree. The agonising sensation as the car spun about the tree, the horrid sound of buckling metal, the searing stings from the countless shards of glass. Again and again the memories came. The sharp crack from his ribs, the excruciating pain that shot through his abdomen, the terror he heard in Sophie’s final scream. Incessantly the memories repeated. The slippery corner, the blinding light, the screeching metal, her dying cry. Bitter tears ran freely down his face, mixing with the mud and the blood. Turning and lifting his eyes from the view down the hillside, he saw the signs of damage on that fateful tree. The memories cleared. So little remained to mark the spot. Mere days had passed. He had lost count of the number. The hospital, the funeral, her brother’s baleful hatred, the constant ache in his stomach. He could never forget, never forgive, never be forgiven. The city just cleaned up, nature simply regrew. Nothing cared. The memory of the onrushing tree through the rain soaked windscreen flashed through his mind. The terrified look of surprise on her face. The images crashed into him again, like waves relentlessly beating the shore. They wore him down until he was numb to the world. All he felt, all he experienced, all he knew was sullen pain. Bitter pangs stabbed through his gut, the agony and anxiety overwhelmed him. His mind reeled, lamenting its actions, lamenting its loss. As if stepping on to a train, Xavier casually stepped off the side of the hill, unnoticed by man and forgotten by nature. As he plummeted downwards, towards the engorged river and its unpitying rocks, the memories played one final time.

Fragments IV: The Village Slaughter

The young boy peered through the branches of the bush he was hiding in. He could see naught but smoke until a harsh, piercing breeze tore through the clearing and the smoke was dragged along with it, revealing the burning remnants of his village. As he watched one of the black clad raiders that his mother had told him to run and hide from, dragged a screaming woman from a blazing hut. He couldn’t recognise the woman from this distance from her features but as her screams tore through the air, he recognised her as the mother of his closest friend, Jakob. She was struggling with the raider, kicking and screaming for help. He pulled her along by the hair as she lashed out with her feet. One of her kicks connected with his knee and he stumbled, nearly falling. As she broke free of his grip he tore a chunk of her bright red hair from her head, causing her to unleash a howl of utter agony. She started running towards the forest, heading towards where Michael hid. She had taken a scant five steps when she was thrown forward and to the right by the impact of an arrow on the left side and towards the middle of her back. She hit the ground and stayed there. Michael willed her to stand and keep running, she didn’t move. She wasn’t even screaming anymore. The radier who had been dragging her walked to where she laid and knelt down near her. He rolled her onto her back, snapping the protruding arrow and looked her over.
“She’s dead. You killed my catch.”
The archer replied shortly, “She was hardly your catch, she was getting away.”
“I would’ve caught up to her soon enough. You’ve ruined her now”
“She’s still warm, you can use her once”
The raidier glanced in the direction of the archer, as he considered the archer’s idea. Perhaps it wasn’t so bad an idea; she certainly had been a beautiful catch.
Michael was still watching, tears streaming down his face, as the soldier raped the lifeless corpse of Jakob’s mother.


Michael stayed hidden long after he had seen the raiders mount their brutal warhorses and ride off. It had been dark for several hours when he crept from the bush he was hiding in and started searching for others in the gloom of the new moon through the thin layer of clouds. He found his father near the smouldering ruins of their shack, his head was lying on the ground several feet from his body and he had a series of deep slashes to his chest and belly. His sword was still held tight in his hands. Michael turned and vomited until he could no longer vomit, tears rolling down his face. He stumbled around the village searching for his mother and Jakob. He searched the village without success and headed towards the small clearing by the creek to see if they were hiding there. There he found his mother She was tied to pegs in the ground, naked, with numerous cuts, bruises and slashes on her. She wasn’t breathing. Michael’s knees gave way and he sank to the ground, the tears streaming down his face faster now as he began to sob loudly.


He was still crumpled there, unmoving, when the knights rode into the clearing the next morning. The captain dismounted and cautiously approached him, not wanting to scare him. The other knights also dismounted and set about searching the clearing. The captain looked at the boy, he appeared to be eight, or maybe ten. He was a slim boy but he looked as if he would fill out substantially. He removed his gauntlets and placed them in his belt, as he knelt next to the boy, the boy was trying to cry, but had long ago ran out of tears. The captain placed his large, warm hand gently on the boy’s shoulder, comforting him.
“What’s your name boy?” the captain quietly inquired.
The boy did not respond at first and the captain was about to ask again when the boy stammered his reply “M-Michael, My Lord”.
“Is this your mother?”
“Y-yes, M-My Lord”
The knight nodded his head gravely in sympathy as he pulled his water canteen from his belt and offered it to Michael. Numbly, Michael clasped the flask and drank deeply. For the first time, he looked up at the captain, staring into the captain’s caring blue eyes. He thanked him for the water and sat there, numb to the world until the captain asked him where to bury his mother. At this Michael burst into tears again, stammering out over several minutes that his mother had always loved swimming in the creek and lying on its bank, so it should be there that she was buried. The captain ordered two of his men to dig the grave as he set about undoing the bonds holding the boy’s mother.


The Captain escorted Michael back to the knight’s fortress. There he ordered a novice to take Michael to the kitchen and provide him with a meal and to then organise a bed for Michael for the night. The novice introduced himself to Michael as Tyson as he led the apprehensive boy to the keep’s kitchen. There Michael ate several helpings of a hearty venison stew. Michael was provided a hard, utilitarian but relatively comfortable bed in Tyson’s quarters. A fellow novice had occupied the bed until a week earlier when he had died raising the alarm as marauders, agents of Chaos with no care but for battle and the destruction of all, attacked the fortress.

The following morning, the captain asked Michael if he would tell him about what he had seen at the village, after a large breakfast of warm porridge. Michael told him what he had seen and the captain became enraged with the disgusting acts the boy had been forced to witness by the raiding marauders. The captain vowed to Michael that those responsible would be hunted down and sent to Sigmar to receive judgement for their atrocities. Michael begged to be allowed to accompany him, the captain steadfastly refused this wish. He led his forces out the next day, leaving less than half of the garrison to guard the fortress. Tyson was ordered to ensure that Michael did not attempt to join the knights who hunted the marauders. The hunters returned nearly two moons later, their mission complete and the captain’s vow fulfilled. Michael had remained in the fortress the entire time and was now determined to become a knight himself, so he could rid the world of the threat of the marauders. At first the captain refused, but after Michael’s fifth request, he relented, saying that he would vouch for Michael’s petition to join when he was two summers older. Satisfied with this Michael asked if he could remain within the keep in exchange for working within the keep. The Captain allowed him to do so, making him a stable hand.

Fragments III: Sweetest Sadness

The sweetest sadness consumed the young man as he sat incapable of speech. The light of the room belied the darkness of the night and the deep melancholy within his soul. He sat and he pondered, as great men have been wont to do. He pondered on the vastness of existence, and of the infinitesimal life he would lead. A brief moment lying between two eternities, engulfed in a vast and desolate nothingness. He pondered the slow pounding in his chest and the ease with which it could be silenced. That it could be stilled as though one were but extinguishing a candle, a mere indistinguishable one amongst millions. His thoughts were the deepest black. His slow breathing and calm demeanour belied the inner anguish, a pain that coursed through his veins, through his life, through his very existence. Inescapable torment consumed his very essence. He sighed. It was not a loud sound yet it seemed, for but the briefest moment, to fill the room. The air swirled and for that moment the room seemed to have life. His chest heaved with the sigh, not a sudden movement nor a violent movement and yet, had there been one there to observe they would have been shocked by the enormity of it, infinitesimal in motion and yet all-consuming to the room. It was the man’s first movement in a seeming eternity, an eternity that stretched back further than he could remember and that had been but an instant in arriving. His downward cast face pointed his stare at the floor just beyond his outstretched feet, a stare that never went anywhere. His eyes where open but they did not see, they merely looked. His mind saw bleak emptiness and naught but the sweetest sadness.

A noise broke his reverie. Outside, in the cold and swirling mist a falling branch struck the ground. The crack of the branch resonated throughout the still night, the snaps of the twigs rattled in harsh counterpoint. The man’s head snapped up, a violent and jarring motion, his now-alert eyes swivelling in the direction of the sound. His body tensed, prepared to leap to action. He let himself relax as he heard no other sounds through the chill of the winter’s night. Bitterly he shook his head. He was angry. Angry that he had fallen into such careless and useless melancholy and angry that he had been jolted from its enthralling sweetness. He discarded the notion of returning to its alluring embrace, knowing that it would be but a hollow after-taste of its former agony. He sighed again and stood, folding his dark grey cloak about himself to ward against the icy air.