Welcome, folks, to the first Lithium Chloride Fic of 2011!
Here's your picture, and as the time is now 1200 hours CST, you have until 2359 CST to get your writing in. Take this image, and make it something new and different. Good luck!
Here's your picture, and as the time is now 1200 hours CST, you have until 2359 CST to get your writing in. Take this image, and make it something new and different. Good luck!
Deep in the heart of the mountains, something nameless, something old long before the gods of this age overthrew their predecessors, something that bathed in darkness and drank the pale moonlight stirred.
It was a guardian, of sorts, created and set to guard the gates to the North by masters whose bones had long since been turned to dust.
It stirred, disturbed from its slumber by a scent it had not tasted on the air in an age. The scent reminded the guardian of crushing bones, rich, dark blood, and wet ripping of flesh rent in fine, dripping strips.
As it contemplated these things which gave it pleasure, it roiled from the depths of the crumbling shrine that was its home. Some instinct, some timeless command branded deep into its mind, caused it to leave its warm den, taste the moonlight in the air, and feel the soothing darkness of the night on its skin once more.
What was that scent, it wondered, even as it glided over the boulders and sharp shale. So tantalizingly familiar and yet elusive. The scent became stronger as the rocky walls of the mountains gave way to deadened trees, until at last, it was maddeningly close. Unnatural, fabricated light shone on its visage and it shuddered in disgust. But with the rays of wan light came remembrance and it laughed in triumph.
Only a Man would carry a pale imitation of the Sun in its hands.
Yes, a Man. So delightful to ripàtearà crunchrendmutilatestretchgnawù!
The guardian threw its bulk forward, both heads shrieking with delight and laughter. It was made to take pleasure in its work, after all.
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Shay cursed himself for a fool.
He spewed forth the vilest blasphemies upon himself, damned every root and rock that sought to trip his feet to the endless, screaming Pit, and even, in his anger and fear, dared to damn the gods themselves for his misfortune and what was surely going to be a wretched, painful death.
What had possessed him to try for the Pass of Hiltentop in the hopes of cutting short his way home? What mad fancy spurred him to scoff at what he had thought were old tales meant to frighten children into obeying their parents?
ôGo to bed or the Eyeless will eat you!ö
ôListen to your father or the White Ones will come!ö
ôMind your lessons, else IÆll tell Them on you!ö
The cold mountain air burned his throat, his breathing harsh and ragged. How far had he run? Which direction was safety? How close were his pursuers? Terror clouded his mind and blinded him to the answers to the questions that reeled through his thoughts. Only dimly did he feel the claws of his familiar, Chik, furrowing into his shoulders as he stumbled, drunk with fear, amongst the trees and rock strewn soil of the mountainside. Though the night was cold, sweat poured from his brow and trickled down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades. Lantern held as high as he dared, he fled through the darkness, trusting in his fleetness of foot to carry him down the mountain safely and to his home, not 20 scant miles from where he trod. No thought did he give to the sword on his back or the knives in his belt. No man could draw steel against Pit spawn and live.
The men of FullerÆs Vale were a hardy folk, having lived in the forests below the mountains for generations. There was little traffic to their small home nestled in the Fangs of the World, but those who visited always marveled at the menÆs skill at woodcraft, their eerie connection with the beasts of the forest, and their ability to run nearly a whole day at a horseÆs fastest pace without tiring overmuch. Some said they owed these strange attributes to their dim past as guardians of the northern reaches. Long ago, it was said, the men of FullerÆs Vale was not merely a small community of families, but an outpost, or maybe even a fortress, charged to defend the Free Lands by kings and kingdoms long since faded from memory, from the things that crept from the howling north, over the Fangs of the World.
Most, like Shay himself, merely shrugged and went on about their lives, unconcerned with the ramblings of foreign scholars and more than a few of their own elders. He had grown up hearing the stories of the monsters that came under the cover of darkness and snow, but he had long since put away such childish things. He had been a Woodsman, a keeper of the ValeÆs peace and protecting the denizens of the woods from the poachers that crept into their woods, for nigh on 13 years upon the completion of his apprenticeship when he crested manhood at 15 years of age. He was proud of his work and prouder still to serve his people. But in all of his years as a Woodsman, never had he seen the marks of anything more dangerous than a pack of wolves or black bear. The White Ones were naught but fairy tales. Or so he had believed.
O kings and men and teachers wise
Wear clover rings and fireflies
And stay home safely in their beds
And do not climb the mountainsides!
For there the Eyeless ones do sleep
Awaken them and you shall weep
And a bloody harvest reap.
Shrieks and throaty wails split the night like a ripe fruit and ShayÆs heart tried to claw its way from his ribcage. He could hear the beast slithering over the rocks and roots of the forest floor, trees groaning and snapping as it mindlessly uprooted the forest in pursuit of him.
Fool! Pit spawn! Godsbedamned idiot!
Shay raged at himself as he ran, alternating from raining abuse on whatever came to mind to whispering fervent prayers to his peopleÆs gods, the gods of the vales, streams, and forests to save him and shelter him. Never again would he laugh at old Tinyo and his childrenÆs tales of monsters and boogeymen. Never again would he so blithely dismiss the warnings handed down as tales and nursery rhymes among his people.
Chik chittered madly in terror, echoing that of his masterÆs, but Shay could not spare even a moment to calm his friend. If he did not keep runningàhis breath hitched and he dared not complete that thought. Fresh terror lent his tired feet renewed strength and he ran, no root nor stone nor branch able to impede him.
He ran for what seemed like hours, through acres of dead forest and still streams, past faceless statues and smooth stones, ætween canyons that wound like snakes down the side of the mountain, and past the distant figure of the Broken Bridge of Kilzulad, the last King of the Free Lands to extend his rule to the Fangs. He ran until his heart was sore, his lungs were aflame, and all the world was naught but a blur of lantern light and darkness. At long last, he could run no more. He flung himself to his hands and knees at the broken base of some great tree.
Chik lost his grip and fell the short distance from his masterÆs shoulder to the ground, where he regained his equilibrium and face Shay, chattering and clicking quietly in concern. For a few long minutes, Shay knelt in the dirt, gasping like a fish out of water and dimly aware of his surroundings. At last, he regained his wind and rocked back on his heels, shuddering. He cocked his ears to the wind and listened for any sound that might betray his pursuer to him.
No branches snapped. No rocks grated. No laughter floated in the night.
After a short while, he sighed deeply, and the fear trickled slowly from his frame. He had escaped, thank the good gods. He stood up shakily, still slightly winded, and hoisted his lantern high, squinting into the darkness. Home was a ways yet. If he hurried, he could be home an hour afore dawn.
ôCome, Chik.ö He murmured softly, snapping his fingers. ôThe Vale must be warned and the Woodsmen mustered. What havoc could that cursed Pit spawn wreak upon our home æless we stop it?ö
Filled with new determination, he stepped forward, Chik already scrambling up his pants leg to his accustomed perch on ShayÆs shoulder.
He stepped forward once and cold, piping laughter grated in his ear.
ôYou should not have climbed my mountain, manling. Run! RUN! RUUUUUNNNAAAHAHAHREEEEEE!!ö
A white, serpent-like limb struck his hand and his lantern went spinning into the forest. He caught a glimpse of two enormous heads and teeth that glistened wetly in the flickering lantern light before all was plunged into darkness.
The mountainside was still.