Having become more interested in novel writing, I'm going to start putting bits and pieces of what I have on here; totally would love feedback on everything from grammar to plot! Today, I've got a piece to be read to mood music, to be found here.
It works best if read slowly, like the narration of a scene, but should set the mood regardless.
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When we first betrayed Aldstёr, we could not have fathomed the destruction that we would bring upon the mortal world. Our prince agreed to sell his lifeblood for the knowledge that the silver dragon promised, and no sooner had he accepted this dark pact, then we knew reality would be forever shifted for the worst.
There was a large crack, like the whip of a sky-god that split the sky, and through that fissure poured billowing smoke that, before it was upon us, caused our eyes to cry in pain. While we could hardly breathe, the elderly and young ones died around us. As we dropped to our knees to bid our loved ones farewell, we realized that the nightmare had only just begun.
Through the clouds of smoke flew the wyrms – not silver and grand like our perfidious charlatan, but black and rotting, as though death itself had taken on a form. And were the stench and their piercing screams not enough, from their gullets poured forth fountains of fire – liquid death that splashed across the ground, making rivers and canyons from their intense heat. From the silver dragon’s mouth came the death of our souls, and from the wyrms’ – the death of our world. Both were consumed by our folly.
Our people scattered, hunted by these monsters that ruled the sky. They seemed able to sense us, no matter how far we ran or how cleverly we hid. Even those who attempted to conceal themselves through their magik arts were instantly found out; we heard their last cries for mercy, and we all knew that none would be given.
The sky is utterly black, save where columns of fire drop toward the ground, showing that another one of my brothers has been found by the wyrms. Our great tower has fallen, our cities are burned, and we have become vagabonds in this world. As I write this, I expect soon to die. All my comrades have succumbed to hunger, thirst, or fire, and I fear that I am not far to follow.
How could we have done this? In what arrogance did we think we knew better than our molder Himself? In what pride did we flirt with the idea that we could contain an enemy that had felled arch-champions? But the worst is not our arrogance – but the pain that we have caused our Father.
Oh, that we had perished before we could utter the words of the pact! I saw Aldstёr’s face when we agreed. The pain that engulfed him who had never known it – we were his pride, his joy, his love, and we scorned him. To mourn or regret what we have done is not enough; we have hurt him, and what crime is more deserving of the terrible death that is inevitable?
Even my tears are not long for this world, as I see them evaporate from this page. We are undone, and it is only our own doing. The fire is waiting for us all, and we who could not contain one dragon cannot hope to cope well with their master.
I see one coming.