![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_gneechMost of the changes are near the beginning. The original can be read here. Still trying to come up with a "Part 2." ;) I doubt I need to say this, but just in case: copyright ©2002 by me, all rights reserved, etc. :)
# # #
The land was flat, packed, and red, for miles in all directions. A large collection of dark stone monoliths loomed up out of the desert, twenty feet high, set into a tight pattern and given a "ceiling" of capstones. There were passages between the stones, a maze of both covered and uncovered paths, laid out according to mathematical formulae known only to the builders, now long dead.
They were old, almost as old as the desert itself, with a dark history of blood and massacre and sorcery that was older even than they were. The boruchs, desert nomads who lived on the outskirts of Khaldunish lands to the south, wouldn't come here; they said the wind carried the howls of the dead who lay under the stones.
The lone rider who did approach the stones studied them slowly, carefully, etching every detail into his memory with his elongated, turquoise eyes. There had been writing and pictographs on the stones once, but the sun had long since bleached them into obscurity. What ancient lore was left in this place, was inside.
The rider was elvish, covered in a vast black cloak and enormously wide-brimmed floppy black hat to keep the punishing sun off of his pale flesh. His name was Soloman, and he was a hunter of the dark.
He directed his black thoroughbred into the shade of the setting sun, and dismounted painfully. The horse, like all of her breed, was a terrible choice for a long journey -- but there had been many times in Soloman's life when speed of escape far outweighed comfort. She snorted and stomped a bit; she was sweating, and so was Soloman. He took off his hat and brushed long black strands of hair from his face and behind his long ears, leaving them matted against his skull.
There was nothing to build a fire from, other than the small supply of kindling Soloman had brought himself; nor was there food. They were so far removed from the dwellings of man that it was all Soloman could do to ensure that he and the horse had adequate water. He had some leathery, over-spiced dried meat from the Khaldunish nomads, but since gnawing on them made him thirsty, Soloman decided that it would be better to go hungry.
As the flatland darkened around him, he led the horse a distance away from the stones and built his fire. The boruchs were prone to superstition, reading every sway of grass as a portent, every odd desert cloud as the writing of a god, and every dark shape against the stars as a devil sent to steal someone's soul away; that they believed the dead walked at these stones was only natural for them.
But Soloman knew well that in this place, they could very well be right, and he made every precaution. Not so much for his own sake -- he was confident in his blade Lightseeker -- but rather for his horse. She was strong, and vibrant, a blazing beacon of life that would be irresistable to the hungry dead of the desert, should there be any. Most things of the night, while attracted to the fire, would not enter the pool of light it made. Around the fire and the horse both, he further drew a rune-marked circle, chanting low under his voice in the First Tongue as he did so.
It made the horse snort and stomp uncomfortably, but she did not stray; Soloman had to give the boruchs credit. They trained their horses well.
By the time the camp was made, the sun was gone, leaving only stars upon stars, all staring down at Soloman and his horse ... and the stones. His tiny fire, being the only light in a hundred miles seemed to burn twice as bright. Soloman forced himself not to look at it, to keep his eyes attuned to the dark. Instead, he sat cross-legged with his back to the flames, staring up at the stones, with Lightseeker across his knees, the elvish runes on its blade shining ever-so-slightly blue under the stars.
Here, Soloman waited. He would begin his task at dawn -- assuming nothing happened before then.
-The Gneech
PS: Comments welcome!
The land was flat, packed, and red, for miles in all directions. A large collection of dark stone monoliths loomed up out of the desert, twenty feet high, set into a tight pattern and given a "ceiling" of capstones. There were passages between the stones, a maze of both covered and uncovered paths, laid out according to mathematical formulae known only to the builders, now long dead.
They were old, almost as old as the desert itself, with a dark history of blood and massacre and sorcery that was older even than they were. The boruchs, desert nomads who lived on the outskirts of Khaldunish lands to the south, wouldn't come here; they said the wind carried the howls of the dead who lay under the stones.
The lone rider who did approach the stones studied them slowly, carefully, etching every detail into his memory with his elongated, turquoise eyes. There had been writing and pictographs on the stones once, but the sun had long since bleached them into obscurity. What ancient lore was left in this place, was inside.
The rider was elvish, covered in a vast black cloak and enormously wide-brimmed floppy black hat to keep the punishing sun off of his pale flesh. His name was Soloman, and he was a hunter of the dark.
He directed his black thoroughbred into the shade of the setting sun, and dismounted painfully. The horse, like all of her breed, was a terrible choice for a long journey -- but there had been many times in Soloman's life when speed of escape far outweighed comfort. She snorted and stomped a bit; she was sweating, and so was Soloman. He took off his hat and brushed long black strands of hair from his face and behind his long ears, leaving them matted against his skull.
There was nothing to build a fire from, other than the small supply of kindling Soloman had brought himself; nor was there food. They were so far removed from the dwellings of man that it was all Soloman could do to ensure that he and the horse had adequate water. He had some leathery, over-spiced dried meat from the Khaldunish nomads, but since gnawing on them made him thirsty, Soloman decided that it would be better to go hungry.
As the flatland darkened around him, he led the horse a distance away from the stones and built his fire. The boruchs were prone to superstition, reading every sway of grass as a portent, every odd desert cloud as the writing of a god, and every dark shape against the stars as a devil sent to steal someone's soul away; that they believed the dead walked at these stones was only natural for them.
But Soloman knew well that in this place, they could very well be right, and he made every precaution. Not so much for his own sake -- he was confident in his blade Lightseeker -- but rather for his horse. She was strong, and vibrant, a blazing beacon of life that would be irresistable to the hungry dead of the desert, should there be any. Most things of the night, while attracted to the fire, would not enter the pool of light it made. Around the fire and the horse both, he further drew a rune-marked circle, chanting low under his voice in the First Tongue as he did so.
It made the horse snort and stomp uncomfortably, but she did not stray; Soloman had to give the boruchs credit. They trained their horses well.
By the time the camp was made, the sun was gone, leaving only stars upon stars, all staring down at Soloman and his horse ... and the stones. His tiny fire, being the only light in a hundred miles seemed to burn twice as bright. Soloman forced himself not to look at it, to keep his eyes attuned to the dark. Instead, he sat cross-legged with his back to the flames, staring up at the stones, with Lightseeker across his knees, the elvish runes on its blade shining ever-so-slightly blue under the stars.
Here, Soloman waited. He would begin his task at dawn -- assuming nothing happened before then.
-The Gneech
PS: Comments welcome!
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re: Edits, part 1
Date: 2002-09-09 07:19 pm (UTC)BTW, this might interest you; I don't know if you read my other post today, regarding city name changes, but you might enjoy this comparison (http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=the_gneech&itemid=121498&view=878234#t878234) between an early draft of my setting, and the "default world" of the Fantasy Hero roleplaying system. Some of the resemblances are very striking, and ten years later I'm still puzzling over how it happened. There's only one degree of separation between myself and the designer of that world -- namely a high school friend of mine who is also a friend of the designer -- but that friend never encountered my setting (I developed it in college). -TG
Re: Edits, part 1
Date: 2002-09-09 07:28 pm (UTC)I suspect, but don't have enough background to assert, that the world of fantasy world-building is relatively small, and has a finite number of highly respected influences such as Tolkein and Howard. As a result, a fair amount of coincidental "this sounds good" results might be expectable, as your "training" regarding what sounds good probably had a fair degree of overlap.
Nevertheless, the result surprised you, and you tend to give such notions careful consideration. So I'm prepared to sit firmly in the "really neat coincidence" camp and try not to be blinded by the fire. ;)
===|==============/ Level Head
Re: Edits, part 1
The island, of course, sticks out. ;)
The rest of the details seem, to this untrained observer, to be within the envelope of "reasonably likely" given not just the areas that societies tend to find attractive, but the notions that storytellers have about the areas that societies would find attractive.
But there is one towering counterexample -- or so it seems. :o
Geographically, such a tower (ignoring the "Look at the size of that thing!" effect) could develop as the central core of lava in certain types of volcanic mountain building. After time, erosion removes the softer outer areas and leaves the lava column in the center. Devils Tower is a famous example of this.
Perhaps getting a supercopter to move your tower to the center of a nearby ancient crater might get you comfortably away from that spike in the comparison graphs. ;)
===|=================/ Level Head