I'm not very confident with my grammar and writing style and I'd just like to have some opinions on whether or not the stuff below is somewhat understandable. I've written numerous essays (University student atm...) but never any stories.
Prologue:
It was early morning at the library; the first of November. Xander stood at the center of the room, a broadsword he borrowed from the library cage in his hands, dressed in the leather breeches, boots, and white tunic he wore the night before he automatically shifted to a balanced sword stance. He stood there for a few moments, breathing evenly, the sword in his hands seemingly weightless. He slowly blinked and swung; the sword started to sing.
HeÆd like to think that Halloween didnÆt change him. But it did. He usually didnÆt wear leather breeches and boots. He detested wearing floppy white shirts. He certainly didnÆt know how to wield a sword like it was a part of his body.
He certainly didnÆt usually have an ethereal voice whispering in his head. It called him, by name, smoothly talking to him, calmly whispering to him; addressing him like a parent would a child. It was strangely comforting.
XanderÆs parents didnÆt care about him. He knew that since he was a kid. Jessie and Willow, he liked to think they were his family. His brother and sister. That they were the only ones he truly needed.
æAlexanderÆ, it whispered. æAlexander, come to me.Æ
æYou can hear, AlexanderÆ, the voice continued. æAll my children can hear me.Æ
His sword swings and movement didnÆt stop, didnÆt break. The rapid, instinctive, movement, and the strain that accompanied it, blocked out his thoughts. If any of the gang couldÆve seen him now; they wouldÆve been shocked. Not even Buffy, the slayer, could achieve the same skill that he was showing at that moment.
It was a forceful, instinctive, a sword style that only few in the world knew; one that even fewer practiced.
Only the chosen knew it.
He continued to swing the sword; half-remembered, mostly unconscious, memories guided him. His body, as it was, was unfit and unprepared for the grueling task the style demanded of him. He continued though, it helpedà helped him block it out.
It blocked out the voice.
But he could still feel it.
æYou feel it do you not? The Power I have given you.Æ
He could feel it. The Power.
Frigid power started to envelop him; within him, around him, around his blade. Blood. It was linked to blood; like all strong, and dark, magicks were. It required his blood, their blood, anyoneÆs blood. He felt it inside him, churning, increasing his strength, speed and stamina. It felt good.
AnàUnholyàfeeling. But goodàso very good.
More and more of the power started to flow within and around him. Anyone near the library wouldÆve felt it; anyone within wouldÆve seen it. A maelstrom of power; coalescing on Xander.
Visions started to come to him. Xander saw visions of battle, blood and glory. A frozen, barren, and rocky wasteland welcomed him. He saw an army.
His Army. The Unholy powerÆs army.
He saw an armor, its armor, his armor. His face behind a demonic metallic guard. The voiceÆs shadow around him, a part of him.
The Voice was getting stronger.
æChildàCome to your master!Æ
He broke. He didnÆt want the power, didnÆt need it. But it was there; beneath the surface, on the surface. Churning within his mind and body.
The Voice of the Lich King.
He swung the sword down, breaking a library table.
æOh my word!Æ exclaimed a voice behind him. Xander turned and saw Giles standing at the library entrance, mouth agape.
æGilesàÆ Xander whispered. He turned to library table he swung at, seeing it broken and covered in frost. æIàI need your helpÆ
Chapter One: (WIP)
It took a month after Halloween to accept the obvious.
Something was wrong with Xander.
This was the conclusion that the Queen of Sunnydale High, Cordelia Chase, came to upon noticing the lack of verbal warfare between social outcast and herself. Indeed, the changes in Alexander Harris were immediately noticeable after the events that occurred on October 31st. Even the supernaturally blind students of Sunnydale High School noticed the differences in the teenager. For one, his usual garb of blindness inducing Hawaiian t-shirts were absent; replaced by a more somber ensemble. Staring at the boy walking down the hallway she noticed that he worse blue denim jeans, a simple grey t-shirt, and an opened black, long sleeved, polo. While this wouldnÆt have been a telling sign to anyone else, it was the equivalent of a police siren when associated with Xander Harris.
He simple never wore anything like that.
Cordelia, throwing thoughts of status aside, contemplated approaching the unpopular teen to interrogated the reason for his change in wardrobe and nearly acted upon it when the boy in question suddenly lifted his head from the book in hands û another strange occurrence û and stop the curvaceous woman dead in her tracks.
She saw bright blue eyes and froze.
ôCordelia,ö he whispered.
It only last for a second, but it was enough quench the May QueenÆs curiosity. She didnÆt know what it was that made her forget her intentions. It mightÆve been his eyes; formerly dark brown in color, his were now a bright, dimly glowing, blue. The sharp gaze of the fashion-inclined woman instantaneously surmised that they were real and not a pair of contact lenses û an impossible prospect. It also mightÆve been his voice; while she couldnÆt find the proper words to describe Xander HarrisÆ usual tone, the somewhat hollow and echoing quality of the single sentence he spoke chilled her. It sounded cold and dead, for the lack of the better word. Lastly, it also mightÆve been the way he looked at her: frigid and calculating. It wasnÆt that his gaze implied that he thought she was beneath him; whereas his previous expression was filled that of a jesterÆs warmth, this one was apathetic û like he didnÆt care about her and he sure as hell didnÆt think much of their relationship. It was also Machiavellian, reminding her of the look on her grandfatherÆs mug when faced with a decision that would ultimately leave him with an outfoxed opponent and a truck-full of money.
Later on, long after school was over, she would realize that all three factors contributed to her aborted interrogation. She would then remember the brief image that brought it altogether, a spectral shadow; an ethereal cloak that seemed to envelop the young man, giving him a cold and terrifying aura that would keep her awake for the rest of the night.
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Tell me what you think... Should I write more before judgment can be passed?
Prologue:
It was early morning at the library; the first of November. Xander stood at the center of the room, a broadsword he borrowed from the library cage in his hands, dressed in the leather breeches, boots, and white tunic he wore the night before he automatically shifted to a balanced sword stance. He stood there for a few moments, breathing evenly, the sword in his hands seemingly weightless. He slowly blinked and swung; the sword started to sing.
HeÆd like to think that Halloween didnÆt change him. But it did. He usually didnÆt wear leather breeches and boots. He detested wearing floppy white shirts. He certainly didnÆt know how to wield a sword like it was a part of his body.
He certainly didnÆt usually have an ethereal voice whispering in his head. It called him, by name, smoothly talking to him, calmly whispering to him; addressing him like a parent would a child. It was strangely comforting.
XanderÆs parents didnÆt care about him. He knew that since he was a kid. Jessie and Willow, he liked to think they were his family. His brother and sister. That they were the only ones he truly needed.
æAlexanderÆ, it whispered. æAlexander, come to me.Æ
æYou can hear, AlexanderÆ, the voice continued. æAll my children can hear me.Æ
His sword swings and movement didnÆt stop, didnÆt break. The rapid, instinctive, movement, and the strain that accompanied it, blocked out his thoughts. If any of the gang couldÆve seen him now; they wouldÆve been shocked. Not even Buffy, the slayer, could achieve the same skill that he was showing at that moment.
It was a forceful, instinctive, a sword style that only few in the world knew; one that even fewer practiced.
Only the chosen knew it.
He continued to swing the sword; half-remembered, mostly unconscious, memories guided him. His body, as it was, was unfit and unprepared for the grueling task the style demanded of him. He continued though, it helpedà helped him block it out.
It blocked out the voice.
But he could still feel it.
æYou feel it do you not? The Power I have given you.Æ
He could feel it. The Power.
Frigid power started to envelop him; within him, around him, around his blade. Blood. It was linked to blood; like all strong, and dark, magicks were. It required his blood, their blood, anyoneÆs blood. He felt it inside him, churning, increasing his strength, speed and stamina. It felt good.
AnàUnholyàfeeling. But goodàso very good.
More and more of the power started to flow within and around him. Anyone near the library wouldÆve felt it; anyone within wouldÆve seen it. A maelstrom of power; coalescing on Xander.
Visions started to come to him. Xander saw visions of battle, blood and glory. A frozen, barren, and rocky wasteland welcomed him. He saw an army.
His Army. The Unholy powerÆs army.
He saw an armor, its armor, his armor. His face behind a demonic metallic guard. The voiceÆs shadow around him, a part of him.
The Voice was getting stronger.
æChildàCome to your master!Æ
He broke. He didnÆt want the power, didnÆt need it. But it was there; beneath the surface, on the surface. Churning within his mind and body.
The Voice of the Lich King.
He swung the sword down, breaking a library table.
æOh my word!Æ exclaimed a voice behind him. Xander turned and saw Giles standing at the library entrance, mouth agape.
æGilesàÆ Xander whispered. He turned to library table he swung at, seeing it broken and covered in frost. æIàI need your helpÆ
Chapter One: (WIP)
It took a month after Halloween to accept the obvious.
Something was wrong with Xander.
This was the conclusion that the Queen of Sunnydale High, Cordelia Chase, came to upon noticing the lack of verbal warfare between social outcast and herself. Indeed, the changes in Alexander Harris were immediately noticeable after the events that occurred on October 31st. Even the supernaturally blind students of Sunnydale High School noticed the differences in the teenager. For one, his usual garb of blindness inducing Hawaiian t-shirts were absent; replaced by a more somber ensemble. Staring at the boy walking down the hallway she noticed that he worse blue denim jeans, a simple grey t-shirt, and an opened black, long sleeved, polo. While this wouldnÆt have been a telling sign to anyone else, it was the equivalent of a police siren when associated with Xander Harris.
He simple never wore anything like that.
Cordelia, throwing thoughts of status aside, contemplated approaching the unpopular teen to interrogated the reason for his change in wardrobe and nearly acted upon it when the boy in question suddenly lifted his head from the book in hands û another strange occurrence û and stop the curvaceous woman dead in her tracks.
She saw bright blue eyes and froze.
ôCordelia,ö he whispered.
It only last for a second, but it was enough quench the May QueenÆs curiosity. She didnÆt know what it was that made her forget her intentions. It mightÆve been his eyes; formerly dark brown in color, his were now a bright, dimly glowing, blue. The sharp gaze of the fashion-inclined woman instantaneously surmised that they were real and not a pair of contact lenses û an impossible prospect. It also mightÆve been his voice; while she couldnÆt find the proper words to describe Xander HarrisÆ usual tone, the somewhat hollow and echoing quality of the single sentence he spoke chilled her. It sounded cold and dead, for the lack of the better word. Lastly, it also mightÆve been the way he looked at her: frigid and calculating. It wasnÆt that his gaze implied that he thought she was beneath him; whereas his previous expression was filled that of a jesterÆs warmth, this one was apathetic û like he didnÆt care about her and he sure as hell didnÆt think much of their relationship. It was also Machiavellian, reminding her of the look on her grandfatherÆs mug when faced with a decision that would ultimately leave him with an outfoxed opponent and a truck-full of money.
Later on, long after school was over, she would realize that all three factors contributed to her aborted interrogation. She would then remember the brief image that brought it altogether, a spectral shadow; an ethereal cloak that seemed to envelop the young man, giving him a cold and terrifying aura that would keep her awake for the rest of the night.
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Tell me what you think... Should I write more before judgment can be passed?
