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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!
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Uncomfy Horses...
This seems like a non-sequitur unless this was one of those times. It doesn't say, and therefore still suggests that the horse was or may have been a bad choice. And with the dramatic-revelation pause implied by the dash, there should be a more obvious connection. >>
As far as the horse being a bad choice, I pretty much took that to mean that yes, the horse is highly uncomfortable to ride for long periods of time, but that he's willing to overlook that for the benefit of her speed in case it should ever be needed, since it *had* been needed in the past.
Mur