The Cloud-Capped Towers

[Lorem Ipsum]

This is my novel about angels and other less heard-of mythical creatures, and their battle to protect their Assessor, the person who is so said to come down upon Judgement day and cast all miscreants into the fires of Hell (yes, this is based on Christian legend, but it isn't just one massive bible story).
An idea of the hierarchy used

I'll post the first couple of chapters, then wait until people comment until I post the remainder (I've done eight so far).

Prologue

It was dark. The cool night-air was crisp against the pale, waxy skin of the Controller. His white wings shimmered gently in the moonlight, which was just peeking in through a small glass square in the wall. He looked around with his jet black eyes, waiting for a sudden thud of shifting books, as a new one was formed and sorted. Flicking back his blond hair, he breathed deeply, getting ready to absorb the certain pain of childbirth.

He sighed the same morose sigh that he had sighed every night for the past fifty-three years he had been Controller. His vitality seemed to be an endless struggle, checking that books had been rightfully created, checking that every new child was named. All of this for a Messiah that would seemingly never come!

A groan, and the Controller knew that the birth had taken place. An inkling of an idea formed in his head, and he suddenly understood the life of the newborn. This was the curse of the Controller: knowing every living thing’s life and destiny, knowing their every thought and fear. Standing on the brink of everything, watching lives unfold exactly as predicted.

Shaking his head out of the mist of pain, the Controller walked down a long aisle of shelves, all laden with heavy and archaic books. Searching for the newborn’s name was not easy, what with hundreds of thousands of books to look through. But yet, there was the book, named with the child’s angelic name. Picking out the thin book marked ‘Soldehr’, he flicked open the first page, and checked the declaration. She was an elven girl, born to a simple family in Ab-Montr. Pity, he thought, as he foresaw the ultimate death of this girl.

Sighing, he replaced the book, the Controller returned to the very back of the library, taking his seat in the battered leather chair that he had sat in for what seemed like eternity. It was relaxing, to sit down after a bout of pain, yet soon it became very boring, with nothing to do but wait and hope. Hope that the Assessor would come someday soon.

Resting his head against the side of the seat, the Controller shut his eyes, reflecting silently for five minutes, before dropping off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

It was the pain that woke him. He had been sleeping for four hours, by the look of the sunlight. He rubbed his arm as it pounded with anger, as if there was an angry demon trying to tear itself out. It was the pain of a new life, the pain of a new child being born. He could tell that in an instant; there was nothing in the sterile, isolated place that could harm him other than that.

Yet this pain was pain like no other that he had ever experienced before. It was like somebody was ripping his heart from his chest. The Controller slid out of his chair, onto the floor, where he clutched at the blue carpeted floor, as if he were trying to cling onto the world.

He could hardly believe the incredible amounts of pain that were coursing through ever fibre of his body. Without thinking about it, he began groping at his own flesh, trying to rip his body apart to keep himself from this agony. His arms were now crying tears of blood, gashes across his face from where his fingernails had dug into his skin.

His skin refused to stop aching; it was as if an inferno had been set alight in his flesh, every lick of the flames causing him even more harm. He could not stop this pain, that was apparent, but what was causing it was the nagging question that took up the rest of his mind.

Attempting to use his voice for the first time in years, he found it hoarse and rough, yet still, he screamed for his life in mangled tones. He used what Clodhrian he could remember to try and shout to the outside world, but deep down, he knew that nobody could hear him.

He was going to die, he knew it. It was a gut feeling that he sometimes felt when lives below the Great Cloud flickered out. Yet this time, he could feel his own life dying like fading candlelight.

The Controller writhed his way down to the great oaken doors that hailed the entrance to the library, hoping that the doors would open to let him out. But the pain was beginning to die away now, the child had nearly been born. He was fading away, at Death’s door. And then, the inferno stopped. And he realised.

His face wide with shock, the Controller read the boy’s life, confirming what he had already suspected. The realisation came like a rush of blood to the head, and it was bittersweet. He was still begging for his release under his breath in Clodhrian, and the Library was resisting.

The Controller stopped thinking, stopped muttering, and lay there, looking up at the great domed ceiling. He felt the air against his skin, the ground against the feathered wings that he wore, and finally told himself that his time had come. But then, just as he thought it all over, a creak.

The great doors of the Library were opening slowly and steadily. A silhouette was standing there in the moonlight, clothes rippling gently in the breeze. It was a young angel by the look of his height, and he had apparently just been granted his wings, which shimmered with golden lustre.

The new angel walked into the Library, breathing in its scent, and unaware of the dying Controller on the floor. The angel was clearer now, with only the half-light of the spacious room, instead of the glare of the moon atop the Great Cloud. The youngster flicked his brown hair back, in the same manner that the Controller would do every so often, and stared at the dying angel on the floor.

“My name is Mordrenr,” he whispered ethereally, only just loud enough for the Controller to hear. “You are dying. I am your successor.”

The Controller looked up at Mordrenr, with wonder in his eyes.

“You were chosen for this post?” he asked in a cracked voice.

Mordrenr inclined his head towards the golden wings that he wore on his back.

“Is it not obvious?” he replied.

“Then take my memories and my thoughts, and the previous Controllers’ memories and thoughts, and serve your duty.”

The Controller raised his head and stared into the eyes of Mordrenr. Everything that he knew was being poured into the mind of the young angel, who was drinking it in with a sincere look on his face. After two minutes, the process was complete.

“Thank you,” muttered Mordrenr, even sounding more knowing and old. “Rest in peace, knowing that you have passed your title to a worthy successor.”

He started to walk off, amongst the dusty aisles of books and shelves. But a gasping sound from behind him made Mordrenr turn around.

The former Controller was looking up at him, while clutching his throbbing chest. He breathed deeply, and said his ultimate words.

“He lives. The Assessor. He has been born.”

His final breath rasped in his lungs, and as he snatched at his failing heart, his head fell limp, and the Controller was dead.

The words echoed in Mordrenr’s head, as he stalked off to the very back of the library.

He lives. The Assessor. He has been born.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

I - A Simple Life

Cysagh arose groggily, looking around bleary eyed in the half-light for his shirt. He stumbled time and time again, wading through the assorted things that littered the ground.

When at last he had found it, Cysagh stripped his pyjama top off over his somewhat messy brown hair, and pulled his fading blue shirt over his wiry torso. The shirt was old and getting smaller, but it was good enough for a day’s work in the mill.

He darted through the house warily, and out of the open front door; where his father had most probably exited half an hour ago.

It was cool outside, the morning air gently nibbling at his bare arms. The sun was peeking from between two hills, which lit everything with a blinding glare. There were light, feathery clouds scattered amongst the brilliant blue sky, but bringing no threat to the glorious day that was promising to unfold.

The streets of Épyren were empty but for a few early market sellers, and young children playing games of Chase in the alleyways. Cysagh walked briskly, so as to avoid lateness by engaging in conversation and committing himself to chatter. He quickly came to the end of the road, and climbing a steep, muddy hill, was in the long, dark shadow of the Épyren mill.

The main room was big and spacious, with only the huge grindstone taking up any room in the centre. Underfoot, the familiar sound of creaking floorboards echoed as Cysagh walked over to the spiral staircase.

He climbed the eighty-three steps, taking care not to touch the splintered and rough banister. Cysagh reached the top, and ventured into a small side room, where the mill’s manager was waiting for him.

“Cysagh,” he began, in a deep rumbling tone. The light caught his bale face as he turned towards Cysagh in the cramped doorway.

“I’ve plenty of work for you today. Get it all done and you won’t have to return tomorrow, unless an emergency happens.”

Cysagh smiled at the prospect. He barely ever got days off; he would devote this scarcity to scavenging and treasure hunting.

“Firstly, you’ll need to load some corn into the grinder down there, and then start grinding away. Paleum should be here soon, he’ll take over after you. Then, go harvest some of the ripe ears, and haul them inside. Report back to me later, and then you’re done for the day. Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Cysagh said obediently, with determination in his voice. He immediately dropped the three bags of grain from outside the office down to the bottom floor, and then jogged down the stairs himself. Loading the bags into the basin, he ran over to the stone lever, and started to coerce it into moving.

It was back breaking work, for sure. Getting the long, wooden handle to work was one thing, it was another to grind for an hour or two. Yet Cysagh was not feeling the pain as he normally would. He was already planning his route through the forest, and thinking about where some good treasure troves would be found.

Time seemed to fly past, and it was only when the sun was so hot on the back of his head that it was causing him a slight headache when he realised that he had been at the grindstone for nigh on two hours now. Wiping the layer of sweat from his brow, Cysagh suddenly realised that Paleum was standing there in the doorway.

“How long have you been watching me for?” asked Cysagh jokingly.

“Only ten minutes. It was rather amusing to watch you mumble to yourself, oblivious to the fact that I had already got here,” responded Paleum, with a chuckle at the end of the sentence.

“Alright then. Here you go, it’s nearly done. I take it that the Boss has told you what to do?”

Paleum nodded in an answer, and took the now sweaty lever from Cysagh. With a brutish push, Paleum was away, working his stocky upper body as he pushed the grindstone around at a steady pace.

Cysagh stared absentmindedly into space for a minute, before walking out of the open back door into the corn fields. He felt as if he was boiling in his skin, the sun was so hot.

The corn was perfectly ripe, yellow and plump inside the rough and papery casing. It was a simple job of picking the ears off of their stems, although made hundreds of times more difficult in the sweltering heat.

His arms and legs laboured though, and in automatic motion, he picked a quarter of the field. Finally calling it a day as the sun began to fall from its position at the top of the heavens, he hauled two sacks of corn inside, and lay them down next to the doorway.

Paleum was still working away at the grindstone as Cysagh walked in. He could hear a grunt coming from the labouring man, but not unkindly, he quickly walked up the staircase so as to be dismissed for the rest of the day.

Cysagh’s boss grinned when he saw Cysagh, and immediately read his mind.

“Go on,” said the man. “Go out and do what it is that you do on a free afternoon.”

Cysagh smiled, and inclined his head, before scampering down the stairs exuberantly. He pushed open the wooden door at the front to find that the shadow of the mill had shortened slightly; it was early afternoon. He decided then and there that he would venture into Ab-Foretya, and see what he could find around the Old Oak. He should be back in time for a long rest.

Attempting to walk down the now bustling High Street, he got stuck between a crowd leaving at the crossroads. With no choice but to go with the crowd, he carried on and walked down the cobbled path.

He had never really been down this alleyway before, and it was strange. There were houses scattered down the street, often with big gaps in between, and there was the odd shop. But one place in particular drew Cysagh’s eye. It was a house, and it was painted bright purple. Drapes were hanging off of the balcony, and the doorframe, with sequins and beads lining the cloth.

Using a gap in the crowd to get away, Cysagh trotted into the shop, pulling back the drapes as he entered. Panting from the effort of breaking away, he bent over, hands on his knees, and stared at the floor. The pungent smell of burning incense caught his senses, and looking up, he could see that the air was palpable with some heavy, purple mist.

Glass balls of varying shapes and sizes were hanging from the ceiling, and dusty cobwebs seemed to be in every corner of the room. Shelves upon shelves of dusty old books seemed to line the walls and take away the majority of the space in this particular room.

Cysagh shut the door behind him, and looked cautiously into a different room.

A silhouette of a woman could be made out amongst the perfumed mist, and she appeared to be dancing to an inaudible song. She suddenly stopped, and seemed to notice that somebody had entered the door.

The woman skipped over into the room where Cysagh stood, and let a broad grin stretch across her face as she saw him.

The woman who stood before Cysagh was a short, slim woman, with mousey brown hair. Most of it was tied up in braids, and she wore seemingly hundreds of shawls and neck scarves, making her seem like somebody dressed up for winter. Her eyes were dark brown, and her face was pale, but full.

She gazed up at him with odd, protuberant eyes, before waiting a second and bursting into laughter. She giggled and she giggled, tears in her eyes, before looking once more at Cysagh, and stopping abruptly. Clearing her throat, she began to speak.

“Good day,” she said in a high-pitched, sing-song voice. “My name is Sarah.”
She hovered around him for a few seconds, measuring him in her head. She was an inch shorter than Cysagh, and had to look up at him. Yet while moving around him speedily, she tripped over his foot, and lost part of her mania.

“Ow, ow…” she muttered, checking that her knee was not bleeding. Cysagh bent down, and took a look at what had happened.

“Only a graze,” he returned, smiling.

Sarah grimaced, and stood up again, her face restored to its previous look, as if she was about to burst into laughter at any time whatsoever. Yet her face seemed to falter, the wide grin turning into discontent frown.

“Gah, drat this,” she said, dropping the height and strangeness of her voice. “Anyway. My name is Sarah, that’s real. I’m a fortune-teller, but not the type that you hear about in your stupid fairy-stories. Now, as a matter of fact, to tell a fortune correctly, you have to drink a precise amount of hemlock mixed with rose petals. It shows you your own future, without it being pried in by me or anybody else.”

She frowned at the thought, and bit her lip, staring at one of the dusty crystal balls stacked on a shelf. When she looked up, she saw Cysagh alarmed. “Don’t be worried! It’s not dangerous, and I’m not forcing it on you!”

He faltered for a moment, and then started making up an excuse. “I… I would, but I don’t have any money on me at the moment…”

“Oh, don’t worry about that!” exclaimed Sarah. “You helped me when I fell I guess. Have a gaze into your future for free!”

She smiled, seeming to think that Cysagh had agreed. She shoved past him over to a shelf where bottles in different glass containers were stacked. She took off a dark purple one as well as a bright green one. Picking out three rose petals from the green vase, she poured a few drops of liquid from the purple container into the remainder of the contents of the green. Swilling it around for a few seconds, she grinned again, looking at the swirling mixture.

Sarah proffered the bottle to Cysagh, who tentatively grasped it and brought it closer to his mouth.

“Oh, no, no! Don’t drink it yet! Sit down, so if the potion is slightly too strong you won’t faint to the ground,” chimed the fortune-teller.

She pulled out a dusty, wooden chair, which Cysagh slumped down into. Then, glaring at the bottle as if it was some enemy which had just beaten him, he took the draught from it, the rose petals sticking to his front teeth as he swallowed.

Everything seemed very still and silent for a second, and then it started. A searing pain in his stomach, and the room was reeling around him in nauseating motion. Everything seemed to dissolve in the thick purple cloud that was hanging in the room, and pink lanterns popped up from nowhere. He was hallucinating; there was no doubt about that. But was he looking into his own future? Somehow, Cysagh believed every word of what Sarah had said, and began to be very afraid. Cold racked his limbs and he watched the lights fold out and become pictures, moving pictures of different events. He suddenly realised that this was his future; he was watching his own life unfold.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

II – The Future

The trance was the most surreal thing that Cysagh had ever been part of in his life. The events playing out were tinted a misty purple in the peripheral vision, not dissimilar to the heavy perfume in Sarah’s fortune telling shop. He rubbed his eyes, trying to get rid of it, when suddenly everything went black, momentarily. A flash of bright white light, and something was happening, more vivid than anything he had seen in this trance before.

Two massive oaken doors were towering in front of him, engraved with images of what appeared to be seraphim and assorted other angelic beings. He was flanked by two massive ionic pillars, the marble shining brilliantly white in the sunlight. There were angels engraved into the front of these as well, making the place look majestic and important.

Cysagh stepped forwards, onto the very front porch of this massive building, and stretched out his hand to try and open the doors. They were as thick as he first thought, proving them impossible to open with a mere push. Even after putting his back against the doors and putting all his effort and body weight into a shove, the doors refused to budge.

Cysagh was tired now, and as he slouched down against the immovable wooden doors, he began to wonder why he was here anyway. Was this his stupid future? Constantly trying to open the doors to something?

It was then that he heard it; a deep voice that was booming above all other noises in the vicinity. It seemed to lack any quality that would have made its speaker’s emotions recognisable, but was far from monotonous.

“Our prophets were correct. You have come to us, and now we must begin.”

Cysagh was lifted to his feet by the air around him, or so it felt like, and began to walk without thinking towards where the voice was coming from. The building where he had been just a few minutes ago had all but disappeared in the distance behind him, and a huge cluster of constructions in a similar style were drawing closer with every step he took.

The voice suddenly cut in, and Cysagh stopped walking, only then perceiving that his feet were incredibly tired.

“You are now standing in the glory of the Angelic capital,” it said. “Welcome to the city of Ab-Clodhr.”

Cysagh looked around. He was standing in a seemingly deserted street, with two huge white structures flanking him on both sides. In each direction he looked, ionic pillars engraved with similar artwork to that of where he had first been seemed to look back at him, a stranger in their midst. To the north, however, it was different. A citadel, constructed out of the same white stone, but coated with gold at the tip of its spire, towered over the entire area, as if keeping the city under its authority. Cysagh gazed up at it, marvelling at how anybody could create such a huge structure.

“I see you admire the artwork of our people,” said the voice, making Cysagh jump. But the voice was no longer a voice, but a person, standing next to him. A person with wings, and a golden sash around his white robes had materialised in the space adjacent to him, his handsome, pale face staring at the citadel in front of them, a wisp of a smile painted on it. “This was the final fruit of our revolution. When the monarchy was overthrown, the Archangels built this to symbolise all that was good about the Great Cloud and its people. The oppression and the segregation of the people was over the day that we finished the citadel, the day that angels claimed freedom.”

Cysagh turned slowly, a look of inquisition on his face.

“You... you’re angels?” he asked, almost amazed to be standing in the presence of one.

“Certainly,” the stranger replied, turning to face him and motioning to the wings that hung folded behind his back. “A rare and elusive sight nowadays to you, I daresay, after the fall from grace with the elves and rulers of your race. But that is a story for another day. I am here to warn you. Warn you that if ever there was a danger to any race of this world, then it would be now.” The angel returned his vision to the citadel, in thought. “We... well, as much as we know; the angels do not know how this will manifest itself. This threat is completely new; we are completely in the dark about everything that will happen in your or my future. But one thing is for certain. The threat is real and it is coming.”

“But then, why do you need me?” responded Cysagh, puzzled at the angel’s speech.

“That is a more difficult question to answer. To begin, however, you must realise something. We are currently in the future, so when you return to the present, I will have no recollection of this conversation, and likely will never have it again because we have already had it now. It is therefore imperative that you remember this. You are the most important person that has ever existed and will ever exist. It was foretold by our greatest prophet of all time, Mordrenr, before he disappeared fifteen years ago. He was visited in the night and your image was scarred into his mind. He proceeded to paint it in the Hall of Prediction, and ordered never to remove it until you were found and told.”

“He saw my face?” Cysagh interjected.

“Patience!” muttered the angel irately. “You obviously don’t understand our culture. We do not see faces in our prophecies, we see personalities, people, dates, times, and most importantly qualities. But we sum it up with one symbol, one word in Ancient Clodhrian. That is what was described in Clodhrian in the Hall of Prediction, and that’s how we know that it is you, you who were created as our salvation, that he foresaw. And now must come me telling you what he saw.”

The angel motioned to the citadel in front of them, and Cysagh instinctively knew that they were going inside. Now allowed to use his free will, he walked with the angel through the giant arches that marked the entrance, and into the atrium.

The atrium was as ornate as anything else Cysagh had seen upon the Great Cloud, and cast in the same white marble. The room was buzzing with noise; the angelic government workers were discussing things animatedly, while people paying their taxes and claiming their pay at counters at the far end of the room were negotiating better deals. A massive fountain stood central in the room; with its centrepiece being a huge marble angel, spouting water from its outstretched hands and halo hanging above its head. There was a golden plaque below it, which presumably described who it was, but this was written in Clodhrian, of which Cysagh understood nothing.

The pair continued through the hall, not uttering a word to each other as they spiralled around the fountain that had so fascinated Cysagh. Weaving their way through crowds of people, they finally reached a staircase, where they began their ascent. There seemed to be thousands of white steps, all presumably leading up to the very top of the building.

As they rose, the amount of people being inside the citadel seemed to thin continuously, until when at last they reached their destination, the hallway was completely empty. The architects had obviously neglected this side of the building, as instead of the shining white marble adorning the walls; it was a grey, crumbly stone that formed the walls, floors and ceilings. Cobwebs had tangled their way across the ceiling, giving the place a very old look. The angel suddenly stepped forwards, and touched one part of the wall, which seemed completely bare.

He muttered something rapidly in Clodhrian, and a door, thick and wooden appeared directly in front of him.

“Is this another one of your magical closed doors that you angels love?” asked Cysagh mockingly. The angel snapped round his head, and raised an eyebrow at him.

“What are you talking about? All doors open, that’s the way that it goes,” he responded, a look of puzzlement on his face.

“Not always,” said Cysagh. “Where you took me from; the building with the pillars, those doors didn’t open.”

“Ah,” replied the angel, comprehension dawning on him. “That was the Unknown Room. It is one of the most important buildings on top of the Great Cloud. Legend says that people’s lives are created and destroyed in that place, and that only particular people can go in there. Nobody knows for certain though. But now, this is the Hall of Prediction, where I promised I would show you your destiny.”

The angel opened the door, showing the way into what appeared to be a dusty, old library. The bookcases were made of deeply coloured mahogany, the books all seeming to be bound with a dappled red covering. All over the walls were symbols, painted in differing colours to each other, some looking ancient, and some looking reasonably recent.

“So this is the Hall of Prediction?” asked Cysagh.

“That is correct,” replied the angel. “This is where the prophets eternalise their predictions.”

“It’s not the most... impressive room I’d have imagined,” said Cysagh. “I thought it would be a bit more grand and pompous than... a medium sized library.” The angel looked outraged at Cysagh’s musings.

“This is exactly the attitude that caused the schism between your and my peoples. Surely you realise that it’s not how grand it looks, it’s how important? This room was one of the first built in the citadel, built solely for the purpose of the prophet Anoragh to get information on things happening in the future of our society. The room is vitally important, however doddery it seems. Now, the prophecy was on this wall over here...”

The angel walked over to a wall at the far side of the room, where there was a splattering of green paint vaguely formed into a shape. It stood out completely from the grey wall, and it was obviously put there for a reason.

“Now,” said the angel. “Listen to me as I translate this prophecy from its symbolic form. You must, must pay attention to me: this is your future, and it cannot be changed.”

He stepped forwards, and started studying the symbol. For five minutes there was complete silence, and then he finished, satisfied with his translation. He cleared his throat, and began.
“For all those who are born and who will die
A message clear as crystal; I don’t lie.
Underneath the lunar light at fullest glare;
This month will come a child of power rare.
In him the power to watch and see in truth,
In him the light to judge the dutiful and couth;
In him the strength to wait and help the poor,
In him the drive to dissipate furore.
When war breaks out his task is to assess
Then judge each living being coming to confess”

The angel paused for a minute, letting Cysagh take the information in. Then, he began to explain what the text meant.
“That was the prophecy exactly as Mordrenr had seen it. It clearly refers to you, as described by the text. You were born under the only visible full moon fifteen years ago, all others were obscured by the very cloud we are standing on. Now, as far as the records say, there were only three children born that evening. One died shortly afterwards, and one was elven.”

“But,” said Cysagh, struggling to understand, “Surely that means that it’s not me for certain?”

“That’s where you’re incorrect. The prophecy was written in your own language, not Elfish or Clodhrian. Therefore it is specifically referring to a human child, born fifteen years ago under a full moon. Now, the rest we can only say is going to happen in the future. But these qualities will arise, and it will become apparent to yourself and the angelic philosophers that you will be the one to save us.” He stopped for a moment, and looked out from one of the windows. It appeared as if something was troubling him. “The last two lines escape my grasp, however. It refers to the war which will break out. But does this mean that it will be greater and harder than previous wars because somebody must judge every soldier? There is one thing I can definitely glean from it though. When you leave this Cloud, it will not be for the final time. You will return sometime during the war, and you will listen to the confessions of every living, thinking being above or below it. Then you will judge. And that is all.”

Cysagh stood for a moment, reflecting on the gravity of his situation. Why was it him, a fifteen year old boy, who would have to take up this important role? And if it was the future, surely things could happen to prevent it?
“How do you know the war will happen at all? There’s no prophecy about that, is there?” he asked.

The angel rubbed his eyes, and then looked down at Cysagh with a weary smile on his face.
“My dear boy,” he said. “Surely you realise? The fact that you were born confirms the prophecy I just read to you, which clearly mentions war? You won’t just be the judge of the battle, you will be the cause!”

Cysagh stepped backwards, shocked to the core. His face illustrated this emotion completely. But as he was about to respond, the world in front of him shuddered slightly, and began to blur. He blinked once or twice, to try and get rid of the contortion. Just as he began to wonder what had happened, however, he blacked out, and the next thing he knew was the thick, scented air of a particular fortune teller’s shop, and the sight of a short, bespectacled woman peering down on him.

“You were out rather longer than I had expected, dear,” she muttered, almost questioningly.

“Uh, yeah, I guess I was...” replied Cysagh, still recovering from his experience of the future. “Listen, thanks. I will pay you back someday, I promise, but I need to go and get back. My, uh, family will be wondering where I am...”

And with that, he dizzily got to his feet, and tottered out of the door, back into the streets of Épyren.

--

Remember, I will post a few more chapters if I get comments. Also, sorry about the indentation. I did that while writing in Word, and I'll see to double spacing it out.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

There you go, all double spaced out. I really would appreciate some crits.

 

[candle]

So far, I have only read the prologue, and I must say I'm not too terribly impressed. First you have characters called the Controller (who doesn't seem to be doing any controlling) and the Assessor, who is mentioned as a messiah character. Then you start introducing other characters with names that are damn near impossible to pronounce.

I do understand the fact that the above statements may be a little bit too judgmental having not read the other two chapters, but this is just my first impression of the story. It seems rather jumbled and convoluted already, and that's just your prologue!

Also, from a more grammatical and readability standpoint, go back and rewrite your first scene. You are using words like "he" and "his" too much, and "He sighed the same morose sigh that he had sighed every night for the past fifty-three years he had been Controller." is just way too repetitive. A better way to write that sentence would be, "He sighed again, just as he had done every night for the past fifty-three years."

BTW, what's the point of the Controller knowing what every one's lives will be like if they are already recorded in a book?

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

I have to say, this is why I was apprehensive about posting only the first few chapters; these were written months ago, and my writing technique as absolutely developed since then; especially when I was in a flow of writing a good solid half a chapter at a time, instead of blocky paragraphs. However, I thought that if I posted all eight at once, nobody would read, as it was too long.

But to answer your questions; I do think that it was a bit judgmental just to read the prologue and judge the entire story on that; as I said above, the later chapters are far, far better, but again, as explained above, I haven't posted them. But I agree, it does desperately need rewriting, as it is rather jumbled.

Also, I personally think that if you find it difficult to read the names, then you should really try harder to read them; they're not particularly difficult to pronounce. But for your benefit, the pronounciations that I imagine that you find the most difficult:
Mordrenr: maw-DREN-uh
Cysagh: SAI-sag

The reason why Cysagh in particular is more difficult to pronounce is because Cysag just looked wrong when I was first considering names.

Your thing about grammar and readability, and especially the sentence example; I disagree entirely. That particular sentence was deliberately put in there to allow the reader to infer the Controller's emotional view of his post, showing that he disliked it. The shortening and, to be frank, dumbing down of sentences is not something I wish to do.

OK. The Controller thing. I know it doesn't look like he's not doing much controlling, but now isn't the main segment of the book for him. It is literally introducing the idea of the character, and the idea of the main storyline. His backstory, and the story of the post is gradually revealed nearing the end. The thing about books is incredibly symbolic, as is the thing about the Controller also knowing what everybody's lives are going to be like, but again, this plays a major, major part in the end. I can't emphasise enough the importance of the books and the Controller's knowledge; he is almost the Cassandra character. Cysagh and the Controller have a vital part in each others' lives; that's all I'm going to say for now.

But, thank you very much for the comment, I really do appreciate it, even if it was a post full of criticism. I will now post the next two chapters, if only to prove that (from my point of view anyway) the writing quality increases massively after the first couple of chapters.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

III – Awakening

Darkness. Oh, the darkness! The darkness engulfed him, whatever he was, like blackened water drowning its victim. And then there was light. Bright white light that punctured the iron grip of the darkness like a spear piercing flesh. And oh, how bright it was. He revelled momentarily in the light before the darkness, the black, endless darkness swallowed the white up. Forever. And ever.

* * *

Vision. It came as a shock to him, the creature that dwelled in the darkness. He could see through the black. But what good was that? He could only see more darkness, more of the abyss that had suddenly spat him out. The darkness refused to end. But he could see. That much he knew.

* * *

Feeling. He was surrounded, by something definite and formed. But when he looked around with his purple eyes, he saw nothing that was solid. Only the black that had haunted him and so terrified him. The eternal black that so refused to go away. But he could feel. That much he knew.

* * *

Sound. He could hear the darkness, he could hear its pitiful moan and haunting tune that sang to his newly formed ears. He looked around and outstretched his fingers, or were they fingers? But he couldn’t see the source, he couldn’t touch it. The darkness was playing games with him now. But he could hear. That much he knew.

* * *

Taste. He opened his newly formed mouth, and tentatively put forward his slightly forked tongue. He could taste the tang of the darkness, the overwhelming metallic insipidity of pure black, the force which was imprisoning him so torturously. He could see his dark imprisonment; he could feel its boundaries and could hear its lament. And he could taste its evil. What it was, he couldn’t ponder. But he could taste. That much he knew.

* * *

Scent. He drew inwards with his nostrils, and could smell the darkness. It was like nothing he had ever felt before. It smelt of nothing. It smelt simply of evil, the evil that had kept him bound inside his eternal prison of darkness. He couldn’t think as to why. But he could smell. That much he knew.

* * *

Emotion. Thought. Intelligence. His head was filled with emotion, he could hear himself speak, he was like a child, a child who was so afraid of the darkness, but he couldn’t help that; it was primal inside him, every thought he had was crossed with one of fear and petrifying wonder. And then came the calm. His mind stopped fearing and worrying. He rationalised, and all that he felt was anger. Pure, red anger that filled him completely, and made his insides ache with it. Why he was angry, he did not realise. But he was. That much he knew.

* * *

And then he remembered. He remembered the face, that face so wise and knowing, that face so old that hid so much behind the sparkling blue eyes and the perfect features, that face that lauded so much over his people. Then he remembered the fury, the utter fury that that face had shown towards him, the fury that had inspired it and its body to use those wings and destroy his soul. And then his own anger returned. His own incomprehensible fury at that face, oh that face!

* * *

Words. Words that turned into actions. The actions that ultimately channelled his hate into something, something useful. His arms punched through the darkness, the dark chains that bound him. His wings, now blackened by the darkness, expanded suddenly, breaking the walls of his living cell. He broke through everything , shattering every remaining bit of the impenetrable blackness that had once held him. He had been exiled, and now they would pay. That much he knew.

* * *

Freedom. He stood up to full height and stretched his wings. The anger had been stopped momentarily while breaking to liberty, but it had returned in floods. He leapt into the sky and flew, flew in a great, swooping circle, rejoicing at his new ability to do what he liked. Finally he remembered the final piece of information. And then he spoke.

“I,” he said hoarsely, speaking for the first time since he could remember. “I am Seldrenr, and I am the downfall of the angels. That I promise myself.”

He touched down, the anger inside him rejoicing at his promise. The citadel would fall. It must.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

IV – The Voice of Reason

What frightened Cysagh the most wasn’t the vision he’d just seen, it was the content of the vision. How could he be important? He was just a fifteen year old miller who’d never been further than the perimeter of the village; a fifteen year old miller that had done nothing to anger anybody as majorly as had been described by the angel ever! So how could he possibly cause this conflict, this bloodbath that had been promised to happen?

His head was still swimming in thought when he reached the front door of his own house. He strode in, the effect of the potion now having worn off. On the kitchen table that greeted him was a candle burning zealously, and a note written in his father’s untidy scrawl.
You were late home, so your mother and I went on ahead.
We’ll see you in the Ram’s Rump later.
- Dad

With a pang of guilt, he remembered that he had promised to meet his parents for dinner in the tavern after finishing up. Trying and failing to push all thoughts of the day out of his head, he rushed to his room and changed into something more suitable for a dinner down at the Ram’s Rump. Ten minutes later, and he was wearing a different blue shirt and a brown jumper that his mother had made him, and was walking quickly out the door, back down the path he had only walked a short while ago.

In floods, the memory of the prophecy came back to him. It scared Cysagh to think that they had predicted four qualities that he hadn’t even discovered himself; it made him wonder whether any of his thoughts or emotions were private to the angels and their prophets. And then there was the war. The war that would rip apart life as he knew it, pit each man against each other. The war that scared everybody, even if nobody knew what was going to happen. He realised that this was what they sometimes called the fear of the unknown. And in this unknown, it would supposedly be him, Cysagh the fifteen year old miller who would be the calm in the storm.

He was lost in his own imagination and thought all the way back to the centre of Épyren, and only stopped worrying when he saw the familiar, time tarnished sign of the Ram’s Rump. Drunken singing and joyous music could be heard coming from inside; it was the pinnacle of the village’s community inside this place. It made Cysagh feel at home to be standing outside the battered green door, with its round pane of glass giving a sight into the main bar. It was this that he was looking through, trying to locate his parents when the barmaid saw him gawping. She rushed over from behind a couple of huge men and opened the door. A look of mock annoyance was etched onto her face.

“What are you doing, gawping from outside like this? People will begin to wonder whether you need to go down to the funny farm soon!” she said in an agitated tone. The hard expression soon broke, and she was grinning, trying to hold back a giggling fit. The sight made Cysagh grin.

“You alright, Angela?” he asked, the girl in front of him having given up the fight against the giggles.

She stopped laughing to engage in conversation.

“Oh, we can talk inside; it’s freezing out here!” she said, and skipped inside, Cysagh closely trailing her.

The first thing that Cysagh felt when walking into the tavern was the heavy smell of beer mixed with pipe smoke hitting his nose. It made him splutter to start with, but getting used to it, just made him feel relaxed and at ease; he was amongst friends. Angela grabbed his arm and pulled him around into an alcove, where nobody had seemed to settle.
She grinned at him, and then started to gabble.

“Yes, I’m fine, thanks. But where were you? Your parents started to worry after, what, thirty minutes of you being late? To tell the truth, I was worried, I mean, you promised them that you’d meet them here! But no, you take two hours and we were just thinking of—“

“Stop talking,” whispered Cysagh, amused at Angela’s monologue. “I... I had to do something on the way back, and it took longer than it should have done. No, don’t look at me like that! I had to do it! But anyway, where are my parents. I’d better relieve them of their anxiety.”

Angela gave him one last puzzled stare, then led him over to where his parents were sat, talking to each other agitatedly. She coughed loudly, and when their faces looked up at her, she pointed to Cysagh.

“I found this one on the street,” she said jokingly, then darted off before the turbulence began.

Cysagh’s mother breathed a sigh of relief, before standing up to her not very substantial height. This seemed to be the signal for his father to bury his face in his hands and look up at Cysagh with an apologetic look. His mother’s hazel eyes stared at him for a minute, then started berating him in a deliberately poisonous undertone.

“If you ever do your disappearing act again, you’ll be for the high jump, young man. Your father and I were extremely worried about you, weren’t we?”

Although she had asked the question, she still was looking icily at Cysagh, which allowed his father to do a comical shake of the head. He had to try and stop himself laughing and seriously reply.

“I promise I won’t wander off again, really,” he said, not really making eye contact as he went to sit down. “So, what did you two do today?” he asked, changing the subject very quickly.

“Don’t get me started,” replied his mother, which was the sign of a very long speech, often a monologue, on how somebody down at the shop had managed to break four needles in two hours, which, apparently, was a feat that no woman could achieve. Cysagh’s mother was a seamstress, one of the best sewers in Épyren, and took pleasure in creating fine garments and selling them for high prices. She couldn’t do this often, though, because at her shop, it was only the poorer people who came in, as the higher aristocracy never came through the area, it was so off the beaten track. She swept the mousy brown hair out of her blue eyes and began to recount the gripping story of that day’s work.

Half an hour later, and his mother had finished the same mundane tale that was told around the dinner table every day. His father had one eyebrow raised, and then finally sensing the story was over, lifted his bald head from the table and drained his glass.

“Be a dear, Greta,” he said in his deep, gruff voice, “and fetch me another beer? I’m dying for something to drink.”

Cysagh’s mother stood up, took the glass from the table and walked across to the bar, where she requested a drink from the bartender. While she was gone, Cysagh’s father breathed a feigned sigh of relief.

“I love your mother, son, but she doesn’t half go on sometimes, does she?” he joked, causing him and his son to laugh simultaneously. “I’d tell you about my day, but it wouldn’t match up to the exciting adventures of your mother, would it?”

Cysagh grinned at the joke, and shook his head in agreement. He had just opened his mouth to start speaking when his father started talking again.

“Cysagh,” he said, lowering his voice. “I know you weren’t ‘just doing something’. You’ve never been a great liar. If you promise me that you weren’t doing anything... stupid, then this goes no further, OK?”

“Stupid?” asked Cysagh, curious as to his father’s change of subject.

“You know what I mean; rash, idiotic. Like, I don’t know, spending all of your money on one thing, getting into a fight or something.”

“But, I wasn’t—“

“No. None of it. Like I said, just promise me that you weren’t being stupid.”

“OK,” said Cysagh, defeated. “I wasn’t being stupid, whatever you mean by that.”

“I think you do,” replied his father mysteriously, and got up to go and help his wife.

It was then that it started. From the far side of the tavern, there was a great roar, a drunken roar that had obviously just arisen from a disagreement between two locals. The normal din that flowed through the pub quieted down to listen to the argument take place. It was the two farmers from the southern outskirts of Épyren that had been the source of the noise. Anybody in the village would have recognised their completely bald heads and slightly heavier accent than the normal Western dialect.

“If I’d have wanted your advice, I’d have asked for it, you imbecile!” said one of them, the shorter and slightly fatter man.

“I just thought you could have done with a bit of help!” replied the other, slightly defensively.

“Me, need help from a scumbag like you? Why don’t you just run off and tend the pile of cow dung that your place lies on!”

“That ‘pile of cow dung’ was inherited from my grandfather, and he inherited it from his! Don’t you dare bring me into this mess; I’m not the one who’s struggling to keep his land fertile!”

“Well at least I’ve got a decent family and wife. Yours looks like the runt of the litter, if you know what I mean,” said the short man. It was then he noticed the eyes of the entire tavern gazing at him in horror and repulsion. “Yeah, get a good look at the argument, that’s all you really want, isn’t it?”

But what he didn’t notice was the taller and stronger farmer whose wife he had just insulted bearing down on him, with his teeth bared and a look of sheer anger upon his face.

“What did you just call my wife?” he hissed with utter contempt in his eyes.

“I just called her the runt of the litter,” replied the other farmer, enjoying winding up his rival. But barely after he had said the last word, he was ducking for cover as a frenzy of wild punches was aimed at his face.

The accent of the two made their yelling completely untranslatable as they continued to brawl each other, some of the rowdier villagers egging them on as they tumbled through the tavern. The noise was deafening now that the fight had almost elevated to its peak. Cysagh watched, bemused at the fact that the evening had now pretty much been ruined by his lateness and the semi-drunken brawling taking place. He stood up, and walked over to where a growing crowd was now gathering.

He saw the two men aiming punches at each other on the floor, and felt absolutely no pity for them. But just as he was about to walk away, something clicked inside his head. Why shouldn’t he try to stop the fight? The voice of reason didn’t have to come from an adult, did it?

“Stop this nonsense,” he said, firmly, but not loudly. He was staring at the men on the floor, who appeared not to have listened. Raising his voice slightly, he tried again. “Stop it, now. You’re really going to hurt each other.”

It was as if it happened by magic. Everything went gradually silent once more, and the gaze was now fixed on Cysagh. It made him falter a bit, but nevertheless, he continued.

“That fight there, that was pointless. Would any of you have gotten hurt if you had just walked away?” he said, looking at the taller farmer whose name he didn’t know. “If you’d have left, the situation would have cooled down, and your ‘rival’ would have been left to look like an idiot. Now it’s you who’s looking stupid. Just think about that.”

And with that final quip, he walked back to where his mother and father were sitting; who were looking shocked at their son’s sudden display of diplomacy.

“When did you learn to do that?” asked his mother, wonder painted onto her face.

“What your mother said,” concurred his father, an eyebrow raised.

“To be honest, I don’t know. It just seemed to... flow out,” replied Cysagh, amazed at himself.

“Come on, let’s leave, before anything else happens,” said his father, getting up and putting on his jacket. Cysagh and his mother nodded in agreement, and trying to avoid any other occurrence that evening, they slipped out of the tavern, talking to each other on the moonlit path back to their house.

* * *

The angel was tired, and the darkness outside was combated only by a candle alight in the Hall of Prediction. The dim glow was illuminating a book that the same angel was poring over, studying every occurrence in the life of the particular person he was watching.

Then suddenly, new words formed on the page he was reading. It seemed to be a line from a poem that he had heard before, but could not put his finger on it. He read the line over and over again, until he remembered. And the realisation made him slightly taken aback. It was part of a prophecy, but not just any prophecy.

He read the line again, his mind exalting the fact that the angels were one step closer to their saviour, and despairing at the fact that the world was one more step closer to war.

In him the drive to dissipate furore.

--

And that's it for now. Again thanks, darkfire, I hope this makes more of an impression than the Prologue did.

 

[candle]

On the pronunciation of names, I had a harder time reading them and I seriously thought Mordrenr was mohr-drehn-err, and Cysagh was see-sag or cih-sag (perhaps this is just because I'm American and we speak English differently here). Y is an interesting letter in that it is sometimes a consonant and sometimes a vowel, and it can produce either a long E, long I or a short I sound.

Also, seriously, that one sentence really seems out of place and does not fit with what I get as the Controller's character. It fits more of a child-like or a Kruppe or Tehol Bedict (both from Steven Erickson's Malazan Book of the Fallen saga) character. If you really want to debate it, show that passage to your English/Lit teacher and see what they think of it.

 

[Lorem Ipsum]

Ignore this post; I forgot that I hadn't posted the chapters inbetween here.