EpicGamers

Far away from the citadel, away from the daerils that lazed in the burning sun and ran sweaty hands over their weapons, through the perilous pass through the mountains, were several fields: verdurous grass and tawny crops that rippled and shimmered in the cool wind. A river from the mountains sloshed past the fields, descending into the valley and sprinkling the nearby vegetation with white specks. There was a waterfall, and beyond it a secluded cave, of which housed the skeleton of a giant monstrosity. The sound of the river was accompanied by the chirping of crickets and soft whoosh of the crops being cut and falling into piles. The strand

Saranthia had once been great, prosperous, thriving. He cursed himself again. He'd known some in Drem's Maw who had longed for the immortality that only the Deathless possessed. When he'd been Siris - not Ausar, not a Deathless with a forgotten history - he had always fought for his life. Now it no longer mattered; he could be reborn countless times, and each time, though he had to endure the Dark Thoughts, he felt practically no different. These fragments of his memory, depicting the rejoicing mortals - they had known their lives were going to end, but it didn't matter for them either. They lived their lives to the maximum. That's what he ha

Siris lifted his sword, and bellowed. The daeril in front bristled angrily. Then he sliced downward, aiming to split its skull, but missed by an inch as it skirted away. Then it retaliated with a lightning-fast swipe; he barely managed to haul his shield up in time to catch the blow. - The cat did not look happy, Isa mused. Its black fur stood on end, and its pupils had become slits. The young boy was swatting at it with a rolled-up newspaper, clad in cardboard from head to toe, and occasionally hid behind his make-shift shield as if to block an attack. Behind the thin T shape Siris had cut out in his 'helmet', she saw his fierce expression

Water trickled from the edge of the roof, splashing onto the end of his beak. He tilted his head up to gaze at the beautiful, white-streaked, azure sky, and smiled beneath the mask. Today the wind was cold and biting, but the warm sunlight that cascaded from above banished the goosebumps away. Spring was coming. He loved Saranthia in spring: the multitude of vibrantly-coloured flowers bursting out of their frosty coats; the melodious sound of exotic birds singing to accompany the new streams shimmering and gurgling; the moist, crisp taste of the air that filtered through the pin-prick holes in his crow mask. The more he thought about it, the

Ausar awoke with a deep gasp. It was the uncontrolled gasp of one who had been without breath for too long. The gasp of the dead returning to life. A gut feeling told him he had to stop getting wasted. He lifted his head off the seat and rubbed his face vigorously. What had happened? His head was pounding relentlessly, feeling as though someone had shoved a broken glass bottle into the side of it. His mouth was dry and tasted of vomit. His hands were clammy. Sighing exasperatedly, he rolled his shoulders and neck, an ache already developing. He tried to remember what had happened last night, and failed. The table next to him was surprisingl

Siris despised betrayal: the feeling of fury and isolation, dense yet hollow, weighed down on his chest. He was cold in his armour, playing with the pommel of his sword, staring at the God King still lying on the dark ground. Saving the world? He shook his head. No, he had abandoned it, fallen for the Worker's trap. He'd guessed, of course. He'd guessed that Ausar had been the one to originally confine the Worker of Secrets in the Vault of Tears - the overpowering agitation and distrust that had arisen whenever he had spoken to him warned him so. Yet he felt like a fool - oh the irony, he thought, still gazing at Raidriar - for ignoring it an