By Will D (100 Story Building)
Varni woke to the noise of a small bird’s call and the warmth of the morning sun. He was confused, he couldn’t think straight. The last thing he saw was black. The past was faint and hard to remember. The only thing he could reminisce about was wars, feuding and darkness but it was blurry. The sun beamed into his eyes. The grass warmed his body. A shadow of a man in a hood laid still in front of him. He tried to stand but his energy was drained and he dropped unconscious again.
Suddenly he woke up. His head was spinning. Instead of being outside on the grass, he was in a soft bed. Half of his body was aching in agony. He slowly unwrapped a dirty cloth from his arm. It revealed a dark red skin which looked as if it had been burnt multiple times. He lifted his arm towards the injured body part. The pain grew the more he touched it.
He let out a large groan. His veins were black and they bulged out of his arm. He raised his hand up onto his head and stepped out of the bed. The floorboards creaked as his feet touched the ground. His black hair and bright captivating eyes glowed in the sun.
He wore an old, worn tunic and scruffy pants made from dirty material. The room that surrounded him was clean but small. A light whistling sound echoed its way around the house. He traced the sound into a larger room.
A hooded figure stood, shaded over a table lathered in gems and old pieces of paper covered in old runes and what looks to be ancient language. The man rose from his chair and then spoke.
‘You’re awake! I’ve been waiting.’ Varni shook in shock. The man slowly revealed his face and it was old and wrinkled.
The room was filled with ancient looking artefacts covered in an ancient language. The room gave off the aroma of wax and herbs, various candles were scattered around and pots and pans nailed to the walls.
‘I am Ragan, the eldest of Myre.’
He stumbled over to the kettle and poured dark green liquid into a whittled cup. ‘Sagefall tea?’ Ragan questioned. He drizzled a grounded green herb over it.
The smell intrigued Varni. He shook his head. Ragan took a small sip and walked towards his desk. Varni stepped outside. The gentle winds blew across the small town, the sun beamed down on the soft grass holding small cottages. The sound of rustling crops was soft and subtle with a trickling creek inhabited by creatures. The creatures were huge and their wings flapped forming dark hurricanes.
The sky was blue but the distant sky was red, swarming with black clouds. A flashback suddenly filled Varni’s brain. Images of darkness and light feuding over land, forging the world into chaos and one being in the middle of it.
‘What is that?’ Varni questioned. Ragan span and pointed. Varni was stunned. He tried to remember more but it was too faint.
‘That’s why you are here!’ The sentence left Varni confused and worried.
Ragan walked down from the isolated shack towards a small town. Varni stumbled down the hill following the mysterious man. His gut told him not to trust the shady man but he had no choice.
Varni was startled. As he walked through the town, shivers went down his spine. The houses were set alight, blazing with ghoulish red flames. Large scaffolding covered in townsfolk in sweaty farmers outfits surrounded the decayed houses. The ground was rough against Varni’s feet. Each stone jabbing into his skin.
Everyone stopped and stared at Varni in astonishment as if he was royalty. A river trickled through the town filled with a slick dark liquid. They walked over a wooden bridge lined with steel, bits of the bridge crumbled as their feet touched the ground, dirt mixing with murky water. The dirt and stones gradually converted into soggy, moist grass.
In the not so far distance a large house stood on wetlands supported by beams. The amount of townsfolk died out the closer they got to the building, as if it was haunted.
‘This is your past.’ Ragan spoke. They ambled up a scratched staircase leaning on the house. ‘This is the Hall of Heroes, the story of the past, told by the primary sources of Avlon.’
Varni stopped and questioned. ‘As in Avlon the continent?’ Ragan nodded and responded. ‘Avlon is the very ground you step on now.’
Faint memories started to become more clear. They walked into the house. It was dusty and worn out. Colourful painting lined the centre of the walls. Varni viewed them with deep thought. The paintings were filled with war and battles, the exact thing he remembered when seeing the darkness.
A being surrounded by darkness and red clouds with one person stopping him. The person was small and familiar but his face was blurred and he remained unidentified. The person was holding a glowing sword, vibrantly glowing with yellow light. Ragan stumbled to the end of the hallway. His legs looked scratched and worn out.
Ragan stopped and stared. Varni tried to look past his large hooded body but all he saw was a white pedestal. Ragan turned and stumbled over towards Varni with a sword settled in his hands. It was the glowing weapon from the paintings but was chipped, dented and pure silver. Why isn’t it glowing? He thought. Ragan handed the blade to Varni, the contact of the handle and his fingertips immediately caused the sword to shine. The reflection of the glowing yellow twinkled in Varni’s pupils. Then Ragan spoke.
‘What do you know about the Battle of Avlon?’
Varni shook his head grasping onto the intriguing broadsword and trying to remember about the faint and blurry past.
Ragan glanced up and announced. ‘Let me tell you the truth about the past.’
