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Parsalane de Prey, a man with an unmistakable name, born in Tulipsa, a seahorseshaped isle northwest of Blushgold. When only nineteen he ventured into U-grilla, the feared-and-revered underearth labyrinth beyond the Eshpell Portis … and he never returned. Parsalane, young outcast, what became of you?
Gazing into the amber of my fire I eventually see you, clothed in rags, stumbling along a narrow, flambeau-lit passage. I focus in on your tortured brow and peer deep into your muddled eyes … I see fragments, vague visions of what has transpired since you left Tulipsa’s phantom shores. I see misty details of your missing days.
There was an albino beast, and a young female clad in fur. Nmin – (was that her name?) Over time dark designs grew in your mind: festering, polluting, poisonous ideas. I see you tethering the white creature to a pillar. I see you kicking it. It yelps, squeals. You abandoned it. Then, near the tickling waters of a fountain, I see the loom of your crooked silhouette rapt in salacious intent, bent on assaulting the Amazonian girl. She resists. She is stronger than you expect. You fought her. She had strange powers. Varicolor’d light mantled her body as she called exotic names. But you conquer’d, loved her in selfish lust, then slay’d her broken shell with your corkscrew spear, and you roasted her copse using that spear as if on a spit, and you feasted upon her tender flesh. You were famished, and the quarry was ripe.
In the sparks of my magical blaze I see an old dusty book: The Wishwill of Zaladin the Bloodfree. You found it in a concealed vault behind a black wall adorn’d with golden crescents and a cyclopean eye. Twas pen’d by the hand of a madman, a freak. It told of countless darkling delights: torture, cannibalism, erotic murder. How you loved that book. You read it over and over. You absorb’d its muscular style in a state of blithe euphoria. It spoke to you. You adored it. The cinnabar tome became your guide in the shadows of U-grilla’s treacherous web: an imaginary friend, your only friend, your last friend.
Yet two adventurers came your way, bedeck’d in lavish raiment: they were cordial, noble, their faces tattoo’d with Mehndi patterns: they travel’d beside you. One of them saved your life when a boggard sprung from a hidden fissure. But Parsalane, you betrayed them. You lured them into a devious trap. You maim’d them with your helical spear. You tortured them with various Zaladinian devices. And when they could fight your sadism no more, you consumed their flesh like a ravenous wolf. Raw.
And I see a large wooden door, circular and heavy. It opens, introducing a deep pit. I see you descending into a frosty murk. A veil attempts to blindfold my seeing, but the vision of a hooded foe comes through: a form with guile and skill superior to yours. In the frantic melee the acrobatic stranger severs your hands with a fanning blade and spews venom into your eyes. (O the howls of pain!) It leaves you for dead, taking with it your precious spear. But you survived Parsalane, you lived.
And so to now, and there you are, struggling along that narrow tunnel: no fingers to feel your way: your eyes seeing void . . . Parsalane de Prey, the man with the unmistakable name, hopelessly lost in U-grilla’s maze, clothed in the doom rags of a damn’d fate. The shadows are closing in. Nightmare creatures lurk ahead, coil’d, hungry, primed for the pounce. As I see your tragic form in the amber flames, I know you end is near.
Prey.
Gazing into the amber of my fire I eventually see you, clothed in rags, stumbling along a narrow, flambeau-lit passage. I focus in on your tortured brow and peer deep into your muddled eyes … I see fragments, vague visions of what has transpired since you left Tulipsa’s phantom shores. I see misty details of your missing days.
There was an albino beast, and a young female clad in fur. Nmin – (was that her name?) Over time dark designs grew in your mind: festering, polluting, poisonous ideas. I see you tethering the white creature to a pillar. I see you kicking it. It yelps, squeals. You abandoned it. Then, near the tickling waters of a fountain, I see the loom of your crooked silhouette rapt in salacious intent, bent on assaulting the Amazonian girl. She resists. She is stronger than you expect. You fought her. She had strange powers. Varicolor’d light mantled her body as she called exotic names. But you conquer’d, loved her in selfish lust, then slay’d her broken shell with your corkscrew spear, and you roasted her copse using that spear as if on a spit, and you feasted upon her tender flesh. You were famished, and the quarry was ripe.
In the sparks of my magical blaze I see an old dusty book: The Wishwill of Zaladin the Bloodfree. You found it in a concealed vault behind a black wall adorn’d with golden crescents and a cyclopean eye. Twas pen’d by the hand of a madman, a freak. It told of countless darkling delights: torture, cannibalism, erotic murder. How you loved that book. You read it over and over. You absorb’d its muscular style in a state of blithe euphoria. It spoke to you. You adored it. The cinnabar tome became your guide in the shadows of U-grilla’s treacherous web: an imaginary friend, your only friend, your last friend.
Yet two adventurers came your way, bedeck’d in lavish raiment: they were cordial, noble, their faces tattoo’d with Mehndi patterns: they travel’d beside you. One of them saved your life when a boggard sprung from a hidden fissure. But Parsalane, you betrayed them. You lured them into a devious trap. You maim’d them with your helical spear. You tortured them with various Zaladinian devices. And when they could fight your sadism no more, you consumed their flesh like a ravenous wolf. Raw.
And I see a large wooden door, circular and heavy. It opens, introducing a deep pit. I see you descending into a frosty murk. A veil attempts to blindfold my seeing, but the vision of a hooded foe comes through: a form with guile and skill superior to yours. In the frantic melee the acrobatic stranger severs your hands with a fanning blade and spews venom into your eyes. (O the howls of pain!) It leaves you for dead, taking with it your precious spear. But you survived Parsalane, you lived.
And so to now, and there you are, struggling along that narrow tunnel: no fingers to feel your way: your eyes seeing void . . . Parsalane de Prey, the man with the unmistakable name, hopelessly lost in U-grilla’s maze, clothed in the doom rags of a damn’d fate. The shadows are closing in. Nightmare creatures lurk ahead, coil’d, hungry, primed for the pounce. As I see your tragic form in the amber flames, I know you end is near.
Prey.
Black Glove wrote:
> Ineedsleep wrote:
> Wonderously dark yet flows like liquid gold - as always :)
>
> I could retire on that comment.
Please don't.
Wonderfully disturbing as always.
> Ineedsleep wrote:
> Wonderously dark yet flows like liquid gold - as always :)
>
> I could retire on that comment.
Please don't.
Wonderfully disturbing as always.
Damn, this competition is getting really difficult to judge. That was excellent, love the use of...archaic language, would you say?
It was written so well that I could picture every scene in my mind, despite the innovative ideas of the piece, and despite the fact you told a story based over many years in the space of a few paragraphs. Hard-hitting, but I think it needed to be.
Tres bien.
It was written so well that I could picture every scene in my mind, despite the innovative ideas of the piece, and despite the fact you told a story based over many years in the space of a few paragraphs. Hard-hitting, but I think it needed to be.
Tres bien.
Ineedsleep wrote:
> Wonderously dark yet flows like liquid gold - as always :)
I could retire on that comment.
> Wonderously dark yet flows like liquid gold - as always :)
I could retire on that comment.
Wonderously dark yet flows like liquid gold - as always :)
Excellent, loved that loads. Gotta have a bit of the 'Glove every SSC.
I thought I'd go for a dark mystical-medieval feel for this one. When writing it I thought it was a little over the top, but reading it back, it seems okay. Thanks for commenting.
Awesome. I've been reading quite a few of your stories via that wonderful little sticky thread of ineedsleep's (seeing as I'm relatively new to the whole SSC game), and they always show more imagination that anyone else. This one's no different. Loved it.
Parsalane de Prey, a man with an unmistakable name, born in Tulipsa, a seahorseshaped isle northwest of Blushgold. When only nineteen he ventured into U-grilla, the feared-and-revered underearth labyrinth beyond the Eshpell Portis … and he never returned. Parsalane, young outcast, what became of you?
Gazing into the amber of my fire I eventually see you, clothed in rags, stumbling along a narrow, flambeau-lit passage. I focus in on your tortured brow and peer deep into your muddled eyes … I see fragments, vague visions of what has transpired since you left Tulipsa’s phantom shores. I see misty details of your missing days.
There was an albino beast, and a young female clad in fur. Nmin – (was that her name?) Over time dark designs grew in your mind: festering, polluting, poisonous ideas. I see you tethering the white creature to a pillar. I see you kicking it. It yelps, squeals. You abandoned it. Then, near the tickling waters of a fountain, I see the loom of your crooked silhouette rapt in salacious intent, bent on assaulting the Amazonian girl. She resists. She is stronger than you expect. You fought her. She had strange powers. Varicolor’d light mantled her body as she called exotic names. But you conquer’d, loved her in selfish lust, then slay’d her broken shell with your corkscrew spear, and you roasted her copse using that spear as if on a spit, and you feasted upon her tender flesh. You were famished, and the quarry was ripe.
In the sparks of my magical blaze I see an old dusty book: The Wishwill of Zaladin the Bloodfree. You found it in a concealed vault behind a black wall adorn’d with golden crescents and a cyclopean eye. Twas pen’d by the hand of a madman, a freak. It told of countless darkling delights: torture, cannibalism, erotic murder. How you loved that book. You read it over and over. You absorb’d its muscular style in a state of blithe euphoria. It spoke to you. You adored it. The cinnabar tome became your guide in the shadows of U-grilla’s treacherous web: an imaginary friend, your only friend, your last friend.
Yet two adventurers came your way, bedeck’d in lavish raiment: they were cordial, noble, their faces tattoo’d with Mehndi patterns: they travel’d beside you. One of them saved your life when a boggard sprung from a hidden fissure. But Parsalane, you betrayed them. You lured them into a devious trap. You maim’d them with your helical spear. You tortured them with various Zaladinian devices. And when they could fight your sadism no more, you consumed their flesh like a ravenous wolf. Raw.
And I see a large wooden door, circular and heavy. It opens, introducing a deep pit. I see you descending into a frosty murk. A veil attempts to blindfold my seeing, but the vision of a hooded foe comes through: a form with guile and skill superior to yours. In the frantic melee the acrobatic stranger severs your hands with a fanning blade and spews venom into your eyes. (O the howls of pain!) It leaves you for dead, taking with it your precious spear. But you survived Parsalane, you lived.
And so to now, and there you are, struggling along that narrow tunnel: no fingers to feel your way: your eyes seeing void . . . Parsalane de Prey, the man with the unmistakable name, hopelessly lost in U-grilla’s maze, clothed in the doom rags of a damn’d fate. The shadows are closing in. Nightmare creatures lurk ahead, coil’d, hungry, primed for the pounce. As I see your tragic form in the amber flames, I know you end is near.
Prey.
Gazing into the amber of my fire I eventually see you, clothed in rags, stumbling along a narrow, flambeau-lit passage. I focus in on your tortured brow and peer deep into your muddled eyes … I see fragments, vague visions of what has transpired since you left Tulipsa’s phantom shores. I see misty details of your missing days.
There was an albino beast, and a young female clad in fur. Nmin – (was that her name?) Over time dark designs grew in your mind: festering, polluting, poisonous ideas. I see you tethering the white creature to a pillar. I see you kicking it. It yelps, squeals. You abandoned it. Then, near the tickling waters of a fountain, I see the loom of your crooked silhouette rapt in salacious intent, bent on assaulting the Amazonian girl. She resists. She is stronger than you expect. You fought her. She had strange powers. Varicolor’d light mantled her body as she called exotic names. But you conquer’d, loved her in selfish lust, then slay’d her broken shell with your corkscrew spear, and you roasted her copse using that spear as if on a spit, and you feasted upon her tender flesh. You were famished, and the quarry was ripe.
In the sparks of my magical blaze I see an old dusty book: The Wishwill of Zaladin the Bloodfree. You found it in a concealed vault behind a black wall adorn’d with golden crescents and a cyclopean eye. Twas pen’d by the hand of a madman, a freak. It told of countless darkling delights: torture, cannibalism, erotic murder. How you loved that book. You read it over and over. You absorb’d its muscular style in a state of blithe euphoria. It spoke to you. You adored it. The cinnabar tome became your guide in the shadows of U-grilla’s treacherous web: an imaginary friend, your only friend, your last friend.
Yet two adventurers came your way, bedeck’d in lavish raiment: they were cordial, noble, their faces tattoo’d with Mehndi patterns: they travel’d beside you. One of them saved your life when a boggard sprung from a hidden fissure. But Parsalane, you betrayed them. You lured them into a devious trap. You maim’d them with your helical spear. You tortured them with various Zaladinian devices. And when they could fight your sadism no more, you consumed their flesh like a ravenous wolf. Raw.
And I see a large wooden door, circular and heavy. It opens, introducing a deep pit. I see you descending into a frosty murk. A veil attempts to blindfold my seeing, but the vision of a hooded foe comes through: a form with guile and skill superior to yours. In the frantic melee the acrobatic stranger severs your hands with a fanning blade and spews venom into your eyes. (O the howls of pain!) It leaves you for dead, taking with it your precious spear. But you survived Parsalane, you lived.
And so to now, and there you are, struggling along that narrow tunnel: no fingers to feel your way: your eyes seeing void . . . Parsalane de Prey, the man with the unmistakable name, hopelessly lost in U-grilla’s maze, clothed in the doom rags of a damn’d fate. The shadows are closing in. Nightmare creatures lurk ahead, coil’d, hungry, primed for the pounce. As I see your tragic form in the amber flames, I know you end is near.
Prey.