Nano - Chapter One, bit one.
Nov. 6th, 2005 09:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
order_of_chaosSo, nano. Wordcountwise, I'm not even remotely on track for it,
at about 2500 - but it's still a personal record in the time it's
taken, certainly my longest ever origific, and either first or second
(probably second) longest counting fanfics. Long+me are barely beginning to
work together. And it's fun, and even if I don't make the 50,000,
I'll still keep at it. I have my very own universe, after all.
Cast in this part:
Kitron: Jack Davenport/Commodore Muse.
Inariel: Dumbledore/Gandalf-oid.
I've written more than this, but there's gaps all through it.
Chapter One – The Oracle
There was an unwritten rule somewhere which said that wisdom – in particular, wise old men with prophecies and pretensions to omniscience – must be found at the tops of mountains, and that no, you couldn’t send a messenger to ask your questions for you. You had to climb.
Occasionally, in the pauses between shaking snow out of his hair and resuming climbing, Kitron wondered how much wisdom could be attributed to someone who chose to live at the top of a mountain as bleakly unforgiving as this one. It was unfortunate that the prophecies of Inariel the first had proved to be invariably useful and often vital to the wellbeing of whichever kingdom they applied to. And anything that would aid his kingdom, he would do.
Eyes fixed on the jagged silhouette of the Oracle’s Tower, the Warlord didn’t pay much attention to the sunset – gold edging on to blue-green and then black – but if he had, he would have thought it beautiful.
***
The Tower was smooth green-black on the outside, the interior brighter in green and white veined marble, and tall enough that the second floor could easily conceal a warm and comfortable dwelling place above the echoing first floor, without detracting from the echoes.
Existing, due to a mix of sorcery and insanity, at the very peak of the mountain, Inariel’s home belonged to no-one but itself, and the wizard who lived in it was probably the only one who recognised the fact.
It was the centre point of three kingdoms – of ice, of gold, and of fire – which were all theoretically at war with one another, and, at the moment, it was not exactly fought over by all three. Not exactly fought over, because blizzard battered mountains were not the most convenient place for warfare – the soldiers froze, and nothing was resolved except for food preservation, which – because of the cold – was excellent.
Historically, the Gold Kingdom and the Ice Kingdom mainly fought only each other, on nice, flat plains divided by a river; while the Fire Country simmered and built up strength to attack maybe once in a long lifetime. There were mountains, more mountains, in the way – jagged ones that ran down from the Oracle’s Mountain to split the world in half – and as there were few enough travellers willing to risk certain death trying to cross them, the Fire Country remained mostly a mystery; a tale with which to scare children.
That said, every now and then someone was crazy enough, desperate enough, or just plain stubborn enough to seek a prophecy. The ones that weren’t meant to make it didn’t. The ones that were meant to… were the purpose for which the Oracle had been created, and for which Inariel – now Inariel the third – guarded it.
***
The door – it was large and black and designed to creak – creaked open, and someone slipped inside, closing it quickly after him to shut out the noise of the storm. The Oracle regarded his visitor silently.
He didn’t look evil. Young for a king – even a Warlord – with his light brown hair plastered to his face by the snow-filled wind. Inariel wondered for a moment if his visions had perhaps been mistaken – though they never had been before – but then the man straightened, looking right through him with eyes of frozen grey-green ice. The snow clinging to him didn’t so much melt in the warmth as flinch away from him, as if recognising its master’s dismissal. Inariel shivered. This, then, was the Dark Lord of this time; the Warlord of the Ice Kingdom.
“You are Inariel?” Kitron’s voice was as coldly indifferent as the blizzard that still buffeted the outside of the Tower, and he was smiling.
The Oracle thought of wolves, and then of destiny, death and tears. “I am,” he acknowledged peacefully. He knew well enough that this young man was here to kill him. It didn’t matter – he was teacher, guide and guardian. He was here to stand watch over the world and make sure that its heroes had the information necessary to prevent it from going up in smoke. If that involved hanging around to give the Warlord the scroll containing the prophecy and getting killed while he was at it, then… that was a – not small, but acceptable – price to pay. “Welcome, Kitron-Warlord. I have been waiting for you.”
Kitron nodded. “Of course you have. So show me what I came to see, and I will leave.”
***
It looked much like every other crystal ball he’d seen in his lifetime, except that at first glance, this one appeared to be perfectly transparent. It glittered and swirled, and he could see the black stone of the far wall though it. By the time he reached it, it was opaque, almost as if frosted from the inside out. His breath misted its surface, then cleared slowly as he continued to gaze into its smoky depths. Impatiently, he stepped closer, hands tightening as if to knock the ball from its pedestal…
And fell.
***
Cast in this part:
Kitron: Jack Davenport/Commodore Muse.
Inariel: Dumbledore/Gandalf-oid.
I've written more than this, but there's gaps all through it.
Chapter One – The Oracle
There was an unwritten rule somewhere which said that wisdom – in particular, wise old men with prophecies and pretensions to omniscience – must be found at the tops of mountains, and that no, you couldn’t send a messenger to ask your questions for you. You had to climb.
Occasionally, in the pauses between shaking snow out of his hair and resuming climbing, Kitron wondered how much wisdom could be attributed to someone who chose to live at the top of a mountain as bleakly unforgiving as this one. It was unfortunate that the prophecies of Inariel the first had proved to be invariably useful and often vital to the wellbeing of whichever kingdom they applied to. And anything that would aid his kingdom, he would do.
Eyes fixed on the jagged silhouette of the Oracle’s Tower, the Warlord didn’t pay much attention to the sunset – gold edging on to blue-green and then black – but if he had, he would have thought it beautiful.
***
The Tower was smooth green-black on the outside, the interior brighter in green and white veined marble, and tall enough that the second floor could easily conceal a warm and comfortable dwelling place above the echoing first floor, without detracting from the echoes.
Existing, due to a mix of sorcery and insanity, at the very peak of the mountain, Inariel’s home belonged to no-one but itself, and the wizard who lived in it was probably the only one who recognised the fact.
It was the centre point of three kingdoms – of ice, of gold, and of fire – which were all theoretically at war with one another, and, at the moment, it was not exactly fought over by all three. Not exactly fought over, because blizzard battered mountains were not the most convenient place for warfare – the soldiers froze, and nothing was resolved except for food preservation, which – because of the cold – was excellent.
Historically, the Gold Kingdom and the Ice Kingdom mainly fought only each other, on nice, flat plains divided by a river; while the Fire Country simmered and built up strength to attack maybe once in a long lifetime. There were mountains, more mountains, in the way – jagged ones that ran down from the Oracle’s Mountain to split the world in half – and as there were few enough travellers willing to risk certain death trying to cross them, the Fire Country remained mostly a mystery; a tale with which to scare children.
That said, every now and then someone was crazy enough, desperate enough, or just plain stubborn enough to seek a prophecy. The ones that weren’t meant to make it didn’t. The ones that were meant to… were the purpose for which the Oracle had been created, and for which Inariel – now Inariel the third – guarded it.
***
The door – it was large and black and designed to creak – creaked open, and someone slipped inside, closing it quickly after him to shut out the noise of the storm. The Oracle regarded his visitor silently.
He didn’t look evil. Young for a king – even a Warlord – with his light brown hair plastered to his face by the snow-filled wind. Inariel wondered for a moment if his visions had perhaps been mistaken – though they never had been before – but then the man straightened, looking right through him with eyes of frozen grey-green ice. The snow clinging to him didn’t so much melt in the warmth as flinch away from him, as if recognising its master’s dismissal. Inariel shivered. This, then, was the Dark Lord of this time; the Warlord of the Ice Kingdom.
“You are Inariel?” Kitron’s voice was as coldly indifferent as the blizzard that still buffeted the outside of the Tower, and he was smiling.
The Oracle thought of wolves, and then of destiny, death and tears. “I am,” he acknowledged peacefully. He knew well enough that this young man was here to kill him. It didn’t matter – he was teacher, guide and guardian. He was here to stand watch over the world and make sure that its heroes had the information necessary to prevent it from going up in smoke. If that involved hanging around to give the Warlord the scroll containing the prophecy and getting killed while he was at it, then… that was a – not small, but acceptable – price to pay. “Welcome, Kitron-Warlord. I have been waiting for you.”
Kitron nodded. “Of course you have. So show me what I came to see, and I will leave.”
***
It looked much like every other crystal ball he’d seen in his lifetime, except that at first glance, this one appeared to be perfectly transparent. It glittered and swirled, and he could see the black stone of the far wall though it. By the time he reached it, it was opaque, almost as if frosted from the inside out. His breath misted its surface, then cleared slowly as he continued to gaze into its smoky depths. Impatiently, he stepped closer, hands tightening as if to knock the ball from its pedestal…
And fell.
***
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no subject
Date: 2005-11-06 03:00 am (UTC)I demand more, lest you feel the wrath of my Pokey Stick of "When are you posting moooooooooooooore?" Whining.
But seriously. Much, much love.