Fanfic!

So given that none of us has posted a lot in the last few weeks, I'm going to start posting that Skorne Fanfic I wrote last November scene by scene (thanks for the idea Michael)!  I have about 10,000 or so words written right now, which is like, a fifth of a book.  Who knows, maybe I'll even finish it on the blog.

The point is, if there's less than a post a week from Caleb, Michael and me, I'll add something besides my current theorymachine obsession, and post a scene.

Anyway, to show you all that I am serious, here is the prologue.  Enjoy!

Prologue

                The old skorne might have been sleeping.  His right eye was closed, his lips parted as he breathed in and out with slow regularity.  His stern shoulders and the harsh lines of his face were slack in intense relaxation.  Only his hands betrayed him, his long, bony fingers twisting and tugging among the gold braid on his sleeves.  And the crystal orb where his left eye had once been glittered slightly, giving an impression of distant, alien awareness, like the gaze of a snake.

                The skorne knelt in a rectangular room of dark stone.  Ornate weapons rested in alcoves along the walls.  Long tendrils of incense smoke rose from a burner at the skorne’s knees, disappearing into the shadowy haze of the ceiling.  He faced an obsidian statue of an armored skorne, its stone blade held before it in a ceremonial guard position.  Beneath the statue’s helmet, its carved eyes gleamed back at him.

                They were alone in the room.  Neither servant nor master would dare enter while they communed.

                Finally, the old skorne shuddered, and opened his eye.  He chanted an oath of fealty in archaic harvaati.  His voice was parched, but he croaked it out in full.  He ground out the incense, and bowed low, pressing his hands and brow to the floor.  As he did, the air in the room seemed to clear, and the shadows to withdraw.  The glitter in the statue’s eyes retreated, drawing away from the present world and its concerns.

                “Far be it from me to doubt your wisdom, exalted one” said the skorne.  “Disaster comes.”

                He said it aloud.  His mind was still too raw to hold words on its own just yet.  And he needed to hear a living voice.

                “And your namesake must survive.  The lady’s youngest.  But how will you fare, I wonder?  And how much help will you be to him?”

                This last was barely a murmur, and when he said it, the old skorne frowned.  The spirits of the ancestors did not give of themselves easily, and the eldest, like Vorkaas, risked madness and destruction when they did.  What came next would take all his skill, and all his cunning.

                The old skorne’s mind was his own again at last.  He went to the door, and pulled the bell cord to let the other servants know they could enter again.  They lacked the protection afforded by his caste, and if they failed to clean the shrine, they would be killed.  This duty discharged, the old skorne hurried out, his hands fretting at his sleeves.  There was much for him to do, and little time.

 If you have any comments or suggestions, feel free to post them!