Herald of Corellon

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Umm...yeah, this is the time I am putting any of my work here, please respond, and ask if you all want more.
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The wind swept the leaves into a small, violent tornado, whipping the wooden doors of the ageing cabin. Creaking, the rotting foundations of the shack, slowly but surely gave way through the years of rain and snow. The straw thatched roof, now molded, shifted with the wind, back and forth, back and forth. Glass covered the bare dirt ground was standing in a land of gold. The aging sentinels loomed all around, many of them now nests housing familiar and unfamiliar families. The desolate, strangled cry of an owl regularly pierced the air, giving voice to the sentinels, and playing on the fears of men. Every now and then, the trees will resume a dance, so familiar to man yet different every time. Shadows danced upon the walls of the desolate house, creating a cruel, dark mockery of the land of light. The door hung ajar through they years of disuse, now an opening, a mouth one may say, ready to swallow those who ventures near the abandoned cabin. The walls of the cabin were green and slick with moss, inviting even more beasts to board within the shack.

However, every day, visitors came to the empty lodge, but not in a form we see every day, no, the visitors are of Sylvanus, beings of nature, form homes within the ancient furniture and rotting walls. The dust within the house gathered day by day, swirling at the slight beckoning of the winds, dancing and leaping, finding new nesting places.

Just beyond the offensive light, a lone figure stood within the shadows. A sharp glint reflected of the dirty brown cloak. A hood covered his gaunt face, a simple ensemble of a shirt and breeches that shifted with his every step. His movements seemed spasmodic and uncoordinated, as if he had been starved for the past week. His eyes shone of a corrupted and murderous madness. A quiet clink sounded with every move, his hands, covered in heavy leather gloves seemed to grasp wildly at the air at his side.

The being, a ghost if you will, hobbled and limped inch-by-inch, closer, ever closer towards the cabin. The lone figure walked past the black flames tat licked ever at his heels. The closer he got to the cabin, the more he could smell the must air of its tenants and the rotting wood. He stopped. Standing at the edge of the clearing he looked longingly at the strange abode.

He started to turn away, and broke into a fast sprint towards the hungry portal. A few wisps of smoke emerged from the heavy coat. The wraith screamed, his eyes cursing he abominable light. Just five more steps. Four. Three. Two. One. He lunged through the door, and rolled on the floor. Screaming, kicking and cursing at things that never was. The figure calmed and laid on his back, the dust settling after his charade. Birds flew overhead, in circles, then returning to their nests. A rat scurried around, not for from his left arm, quickly he snapped hand and slapped it against the wooden panels, the rat retreated quickly into the looming shadows. The ghost growled in rage and slowly propped himself up. He glanced around the room, letting his bloodshot eyes fall upon the door.

What more of the damnable light shines through? He thought. He placed his hands palms on the ground and tried to push himself up, falling over, he swore and slowly clawed his way to the door. A flare took him full blast, wincing he pushed at the door.

Stuck. He thought to himself. He snapped his feet out and placed his soles on the wooden door. He pushed, straining every muscle in his leg, but slowly, the hinges creaked and groaned in complaint, and finally the portal was sealed. He flipped over and started to crawl back, he spied a lone corpse of a rat, and it was recently dead, but that still brought a cold smile to his gaunt face. The wraith clawed himself over to the body, gently he picked it up, and bit into it. Although the corpse was fresh, the blood had been stagnant for a while.

Stuck. He thought, but soon he was overcome by sheer pleasure of being able to feel blood upon his tongue once again. He dropped the rat, letting himself feel the nourishing elixir to course through his veins. Revitalizing. He stood up shakily, his knees buckling beneath him, but he was able to maintain balance.

He looked around taking in his surroundings. An antique cabinet lay to one side, many of its shelves, opened, and housing beasts of many kinds. To the left lay a simple dressing table, he stumbled over and placed his trembling hands on the counter for support. He looked up straight into a mirror, and seeing nothing. The ghost screamed, and slammed the palm of his hand upon the mirror, shattering the remains, still he continued, he slapped and kicked at the table, creating crater like dents upon the surface. Still he continued, until nothing remained within him to hit it again, except of the single burning memory. He twisted away, and collapsed in a heap on the floor, picking himself up he eyed the cabinet suspiciously. Limping over he peered into the top shelf, a his emanated, and he felt a burning pain emerge from his pallid hand. He looked closely at the nest, to see a family of opossums. Grinning to himself, he thrust his hand out and clenched it around the large rodent. Ignoring the thrashing and squealing, he quickly bit into the rodent’s body, tasting the sweet taste of blood. Stagnant blood.

He did not drop the disgusting creature immediately but savored the taste. The rodent landed upon the wooden panels and scurried off into the darkness. How could a living creature have stagnant blood? He looked down again at his hand, which slowly was regaining color, from a pale skull white, to tanned leathery skin.

He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, outside the house, in the abominable light. A slim figure sprinted across the window. The ghost licked his lips, and followed the figure it was unusually fast. That would provide a fun hunt.

He ran towards the door, and spun around to cast a daring gaze out of the window, a fiery explosion subsided in the distance. Soon, very soon. The vampire waited a few more minutes, feeling the icy tendrils of the shadow spread. He licked his lips again, and threw his entire body against the ageing door. And angry protest emanated, and bounced around the far-from-empty cabin.

He stumbled out the shack, into the ever-majestic wilderness. Although, many smells, sights, and sounds sprang at him altogether. The stink of dried blood and charred flesh gagged the nostrils of the figure; an expression of confusion crossed his face just at the moment a heavy object slammed against his chest. He turned to duck back into the house, but he never made it. A heavy, leather-clad hand, lifted him up by the cloak hood, and flung him against a tree, like the vampire was nothing but air. The sound of crunching leaves and twigs followed the broken body. The sound stopped, but all the vampire could see was a tall imposing figure standing figure before him, and another slumped against a tree to his right. He shifted next it, hoping to gain aid from it, he didn’t care how it would help him, as long as it ridded him of his tormentor. He collapsed weakly on top of the body, his strength mysteriously sapped. He looked up and saw his end. The body was charred and blackened, all but the head, which was covered in pure white wax, which seemed to give out a warm beckoning light. And he knew the futility of his resistance; he shuddered as the heat was crawled down his bald scalp, and covering his gaunt cheeks, the wax obstructed his view and scalded him. Despite the searing heat from assaulting his eyes, he felt strangely at piece. Soon his head was covered with the wax, his body jerked and twisted in his death spasms. And he felt a warm light consuming him, and consume him it did.

The figure stood over him, a twisted grin scrawled across his face, as he watched a heavenly fire erupt from the candle he held, and cover the vampires body, incinerating it instantly. He blew out the large white candle, and placed it in a specially made pouch. He pulled out a small black book from another of the many pouches on his belt, and opened it. He quickly whispered a prayer to his patron, and held up a wooden symbol of Corellon that seemed to come from nowhere. Even the tainted and corrupted deserved a proper sending.

He sighed as he stepped away from his grim work. His boots made heavy crunching noises as he stepped on the dried leaves, which were as abundant as the stars. He twisted away from the two defiled corpses, mockeries of the living. Walking up to the ash door, he pulled out an old leather drinking flask from his heavily pocketed trench coat, he pulled off the stopper, and with quick flick of his wrist, he sent a quick spray of the crystal clear liquid upon the door, and turned away. Replacing the stopper to its rightful place, he pocketed the flask and strode away.

He had not walked to deep into the woods before he felt a strange presence following him, he did not know who or where this stranger was, just that they were there. Pawing the hilt of his longsword under his cloak, the elf spun round and searched the looming guardians of the forest. Yet his elven eyes saw nothing, except for the forest’s inhabitants. He turned back to the path ahead, and was soon greeted by a glimmering arrowhead, its sheen dulled by a coat of ash. Before he knew it, the elf was soon met with ten more dulled arrowheads. Yet the elf could not see who or what threatened him.

“Corellon save me,” he breathed in elvish. Upon hearing the phrase the arrows quavered for a second, and were soon pointed straight back at him. Pulling back the hood on his gray traveler’s cloak, he showed his probable captors his elven heritage. Again the arrows quavered, and again they fixed themselves. He smiled to himself. He reached for his holy symbol, but as he reached in, the strings got tighter, drawing the arrows back even more. He whipped the symbol out, holding it by a leather string; he caught a leaders bow stave pulling him forward to meet the cold steel of his longsword. In a fluid motion, he spun around dragging the dead body with him, which was soon covered in black fetched arrows. Letting go of his holy symbol, he swung the corpse at the remaining archers, spinning full circle, and driving his blade into another archer arm. Leaning to his right, he whipped out a throwing blade with practiced ease, and caught another archer in the throat. The archer fell to his knees gurgling and mewing pitifully as his calloused hands clawed the air. The knife glowed a bright red, as it erupted in a fiery explosion, the flames licked and eagerly consumed the near by plant life and the remaining warriors. Noticing the time to take his leave, he started running, his cloak billowing behind him, and the longsword still gripped tightly in his hand. His heavy boots thudded softly with the simple dirt path as the fires died. Soon, nothing remained of the battle except for the lingering stench of charred flesh, and a wooden symbol of Corellon Larethian, patron of the elves.

 

I'm not really sure whats going on, but I enjoyed it! Looking forward to your next part.

 

I'm with Morningstar. Write more!

Oh and Morningstar, I'm planning on restarting 'The story of the Stave' very soon! (after my exams)

 

Looks pretty fine so far, but there are a few grammatical/spellling errors.