the beginning of a book from a good friend of mine
Hey guys. I have found a story that my best friend wrote a while ago. Well, he hasn't finished yet but I was thinking that maybe some of you could read it and tell me what you think of his work. I was going to print the replies and show them to him. Well....oh yeah, It's pretty long so don't get mad at me for it. I'm just trying to boost a friend's confidence.
Once, a long time ago, when the world was ruled by men and mages, and the stones still sang to the mortals of the world named Oia, life was hindered by nothing. In that time, the jovial ways of the Dwarven kind, and their kin, the Gnomeesh, were not suppressed by evil ways, and the Loralian were still free from the bonds of slavery to dark masters. The Elves, High and Forestkin, were not sealed away from the world in beautiful forests and secluded steppes, and the Dorian were still among the humans. That time was once called the Age of Mortals and the Majestic. It is now long past.
In these days, a great terror grips the world of Oia, a terror so vile, so disgusting as to make even the most holy tremble in their wakes. It is called Guaran in the tongues of men, but its name is best said in the dark language of its own making. In the days ahead and the days before, the powers of Guaran will be and have been growing far past that of those who oppose it. The time of war is upon all the races wether they confront it or not. The time of war is now. Guaran has gathered its warriors to the South Helm and the East Way, covering the land they control with a cloud of impenetrable darkness.
This is the Third Age of Oia, following the Age of Harmony. It is called the Age of War. It is said in the halls of the Dorian there is written a story of the Seven Ages of Oia. Each day, the writing changes; each day, the story becomes more clear. Some of the Dorian have devoted their lives to the study of the hall. It is the great work of the Dorian named Torl. His power was once so great that it was thought that he could make the very stones of the earth fly to do his bidding. He built the Great Halls with his own sweat and blood, casting the great spell to create the Five Halls of Twist, the places where magic could be taught and the songs of the stones could be heard once more. In the ending of the casting, he was found missing, and it is said that he spent his very essence to provide for his fellow Dorians.
The truth is hardest to grasp. Even the greatest scholars of men, and the wisest of all Dorians could not see the truth then, in the building of the Halls. And now that they have not seen the truth, they cannot undo what was done. For the Dark power of Guaran is rising, and none alone can hold it back. This, is the Age, of War.
Being of the Age of War, the Third Age of the Great World Oia
Scribed By the Pen of Alex Hoffman
Concerning The World of Oia, and it's Inhabitants;
The world of Oia, the ancient gift, is cast into four separate lots, each a nation of great repute and size. To the north lies Balmar Guild, the home of the Dwarven Nation and the Gnomeesh Nation. To the south lies the great swampland of South Helm, a place of wondrous beauty and deception. It is the homeland of the High Elves, though they do not live in the swamp. To the west lies Dra'‡‚, land of the Dorian and of the Lorilian. To the last, South Helm with its great cities Meina and Gorla, is a place of Humans, easily swayed by those with higher motives.
Together, these peoples create the World Oia. Together, they will help destroy it.
On a single horse back road on a path through the hard and narrow, a small mule walked upon dusty pebbles and gently kicked up the dry earth, creating a small cloud of dust behind it. Its rider was a tall man, tall enough to stand against most and say he was their equal, but not tall enough to be a giant. His long, grey beard conveyed a sense of wisdom, yet it was not combed down to perfection. It's long strands stuck out in odd directions at certain places, giving a quirky look to an otherwise normal face. His eyes where a deep blue, piercing through the shade of his red bent hat. It's wide brim covered his long hair, which came down to his mid-back, covering the robes he was wearing with a sheet of white. Between his teeth was a small wooden pipe, filled with the leaves of the granitine plant found in the forest of Kila. His weathered and wrinkled hands rested on a worn leather saddle, one that was made to last, not to impress. A small leather bag hung around his neck, filled with small gems and crushed leaves. A small scar flitted across his nose and down to his cheek, and its red color stood out from his otherwise brown skin. Wrinkles hinged at his eyes and mouth, and across his forehead. He was aging to be sure. Most people were these days.
His mule, upon who he was sitting, was affectionately named Mary. Mary trod forward into the hilly horizon, with little eagerness. To either side of the two were great trees, taller than the Walls of Gorla. The path between the forest was not often traveled, and weeds grew in between cracks in the dirt, defying the people who had built the road. Long shadows covered the trees, and fell to the ground as if they were solid. As the mule walked forward through the forest, a flight of small birds took to the air, making the sound of beating wings echo between the trees. The dark foliage was host to many small animals, but that was not what bothered Mary. The old mule's ears were cocked, as if she were agitated by some odd sound or thing. The old man looked around and into the great forest, and saw the eyes in the shadows of the trees many paces away. He was not afraid of them, but he was getting worried. The eyes had been following him for a week now, and they were always where he didn't want to be seen. Their crystalline gaze held the wizard in place, and an eerie light was given off by them. Puffing on his pipe, the old man averted his gaze. It went to the top of the upcoming hill, where a man and a woman were digging a rather long hole. By the size of the box beside them, the old man guessed they were burying a child. The old man gazed at the pair, and was saddened by the tears running down the man's cheek. The man's clothes distinguished him as a Plainsman, a nomad who wandered the country of South Helm. He held his wife close to him, and then with her help, lowered the coffin into the hole. Using his shovel, the man began to fill the hole once more. The pile of earth beside the hole slowly fell back in it's rightful place. The woman, sobbing uncontrollably, dropped a single red rose into the hole, which was followed quickly by a large tear. The old wizard looked forward, and said quietly, as if to no-one and to the world, "No father should ever have to bury his own." Mary snorted, as if in agreement, and the old man nodded, and pulled his pale red robes around him. "Come, Mary. See in the distance?", the old man said to his steed as he pointed into the upcoming opening of the forest. "In that distance is a stable with your name, and a hearty helping of oats and a nice carrot for you too eat. Let us make haste. I do not care to be watched any longer." After saying this to his trusty mule, who would obviously love some oats and a carrot, the old man mumbled a few words, and took a small blue pebble from his small leather bag. Slowly, the old man began humming a tuneless little song. His voice sounded like a calm river, pulling everything around him into it, until the calm river became a raging torrent. It seemed to suck the focus of the world from itself, and refocused it on his mule. The pebble, clutched in a wrinkled hand, began to glow with a brilliant light. As the mule galloped off at break-neck speed, some could say they heard the not-so-pleasant sound of cursing in the woods.
He was Dorian. His race had long past into the realms of magic, teaching the humans and Dwarves the ways of stone. In the First Age, Dorian peoples walked throughout the world and taught all who would learn about the songs of the stones. His Dorian lineage showed through quite clearly. His skin was darker than most humans, and his eyes were the dark blue only a Dorian could have. His hands were covered in runes, marks of the magic he had mastered. Lastly, his pointed ears drove his ancestry to the bone. He was very Dorian. He had often been stopped at small taverns and local inns, with people asking for petty favors and small tricks. Most common peoples never would now the great power of magic. To them it was just illusions and making coins come from someone's ear. He was an elder. That much was apparent by his age. Scars on his face showed many conflicts, and a slight limp confirmed what his face hinted at. At his side strapped to his saddle was a walking stick, adorned with a large granite rock at the top. The rock was smoothed down, and chipped into an almost perfect sphere. The chips of the rock were embedded into the light hickory wood, and followed the lines of the wood. It was not an ordinary walking staff, to be sure. No one carried that much granite without having serious reason to do so. Granite was too temperamental to be commonplace.
Mary slowed her pace after an hour, making the trip she and the elder would take many hours shorter. Soon after the old mage had cast the spell, the trees had gone into clearing, and stumps replaced the mighty oaks and cedars that were in the old forest. The wizard stared at the stumps at he flew by. The Ancients would not be pleased that their kin had been killed. Who needed that many trees? He wondered. The old man ruffled the brown hair between Mary's ears as she slowed down, panting with exhaustion. "Mary, I think you're the only woman that will ever put up with my stunts. How does two carrots sound?" The old man laughed at the loud braying the mule put out.
His laughter was short lived.
Up ahead of him was the answer to his question. Before his eyes was a rather hastily constructed wooden wall. Made of quickly chopped trees and thick rope, it went as far west and east as his eye could see. The large massive trunks gave no sign of ability to breach it. The wall, although wooden, was immensely strong. Holes in the wood, old homes for owls and squirrels had been filled with clay, and mortar had been caked into the spaces between individual trees. As the path diverged, a small outpost, made of more refined wood consisting of a watch tower, a large metal gate, and a small patrol barred the way through the wall. The other path turned as it neared the wall, and went further east before turning back to the forest. Guarding the outpost was a group of men, each of them wearing the armor and bearing the shield of the Meina Guard. The old man frowned. Meina was where he had hoped to go. Why had the Guard come this far away from their city? As he approached the guards, he pulled in on Mary's reigns, and came to a halt. The largest of the men looked at him and said, "No persons are allowed to go past this point. The city of Meina has been infested with a plague of unknown origin, and a quarantine is in effect. You may not pass." A frown passed the brow of the old man, but it disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. "I must pass, young guard." said the old man. "You can not hold me back. I must go through. Move out of the way." The soldier stiffened, and looked at his men. "We have our orders, kind sir. You can not pass." the guard said. "If you try to pass, we will have to detain you. If you struggle, we have orders to kill you. Please, go another way." The old man looked at the guard's eyes for a second, and seemed to think for a moment. The old man reached out his hand for his staff. He grasped the smooth wood with gnarled fingers, and lifted it above his head. "I am sorry, sir guard, but I MUST PASS!" the old man's quiet voice lifted into a furious yell. The guards rushed to take the staff away from the old wizard, but their efforts were in vain. He had already began his spell when they reached Mary. "Isomasa mostam fo timpo, yd Isamasmoksa entstoppa!"he said, which means "I am master of time, and I shall make it stop!" Light swirled from the granite sphere at the top of the staff, and for a moment, time stood still. The old man clucked at Mary, who , unperturbed, walked past the guards. Then he looked back at the men as he rode past on his mule, and saw them standing in time, frozen in place.
"Always a flare for the dramatic, eh Ketilo?" said a voice ahead of the old man. He turned and looked forward, and saw a young man wearing grey robes walking towards him. In front of him he held a staff, cut from shale, and made for more than walking. He carried it in front of him as he struggled to walk, as if he was pushing against a raging torrent, or a heavy wind. "Who are you to call me an intruder?" asked the old man. "I am Wislaes, Timewalker, and you have invaded my home."The young mage replied. " I can see you from here, and from a million miles away. I am the ruler of time. What right do you have to meddle with what you don't understand?" the young man said, and stopped walking long enough to catch his breath.
The old man sighed. Humans could be so.... predictable. He got off of Mary and took his stave with him. "Whoever you are, Wislaes, Timewalker, you have not made a home anywhere. " the old man said. "I am not an intruder, and I do not appreciate your rudeness. Maybe a superior should teach you a lesson?" the old man asked himself. He looked at the younger mage for a second. He noticed that the boy leaned heavily on the staff he was carrying. "So it is the magic of ancients that brings you here, little child. Go back to your school and learn a few more tricks! Itoska!" the old man shouted his last word, and pointed at the young mage's staff. The shale began to rattle, and immediately, the young man began to struggle to hold the powerful artifact. "Let go, young mage, and you will be trapped in time like those guards back there." shouted the old wizard over the noise of the staff. " Struggle, and your precious toy will shatter like the stone it is made of!" shouted the old mage, as the shale staff began to shake more violently. "No! I will never let go!" shouted the Timewalker. "To late." said the old man. In his hand, he held the shale staff. "Ihidosa." he said, and the staff disappeared from his hand. He looked back at the mage who had assaulted him. He was frozen in motion, trying to grip something that wasn't there. The old man frowned. Who would teach a youngster to use such a powerful artifact such as this? Why had he misused it so? How had a still-in-school apprentice interfered with his time warp? This was very troubling indeed, even more so than the eyes that had been following him.
The old man looked toward his steed. "Come Mary. Do not worry about these lightweights. I suppose they shall wake in a few hours. Onward to Menia!" he cried as he jumped upon his horse, who, with a startled bray, began to gallop forward to the town. The old man chuckled. He would make it to the city by nightfall.
Capt. over and out!