Rune Spell (Original Story)

[Dreamer Resurrected]

Since it seems to be spreading through some of the members already, I figured I might as well post it here. I have a prologue and four chapters written already, so I'll post a chapter and wait for a response or two before posting another. I give you fair warning: after the prologue, all chapters will be loooong.

Summary: The stories speak of a legendary tale weaver, hidden the mountains. One who remembers the Lost Ages, nay, lived them. The last story to tell is the story of a mythic life, of a forgotten time. The myths we know of are about to be retold.

Warnings: Violence, Implied Rape, Murder, and [extremely] Vague Nudity (more might be added as the story progresses)

[Dreamer Resurrected]

Prologue: The Thread of a Story

“You wish to hear my story, young one? Pft. Nonsense.”

The young man sitting on the cushion was startled. The storyteller in the mountains was a legend, a forgotten one, yes, but a legend still. It was said that the cloaked one could tell a mesmerizing story without moment’s notice, and would not hesitate upon a request. This was apparently not so. “Why not?” he asked softly, as not to jar the sleeping woman on his lap.

“Bah,” was his answer to his question, as he was handed a cup of herbal tea and a blanket to cover his girlfriend with. Most would think it enough to grant the lost couple shelter, but a story of their savior’s life? Any other type of story would have suited the story weaver fine, but one’s life was a story that a story teller found no art in. It required no imagination, no thread. Upon further pressuring, this was the remedy the boy was given.

“You’re mad.”

The storyteller blinked once, before laughing out loud, a response that seemed to anger the boy. A smile formed on the loom-like lips, as the weaver caught the boy’s glare. “I beg your pardon? You asked, and your question laid to rest. How is that so mad?”

“Imagination is the key to life. How can one’s life not require such a key?”

The legend looked at him, carefully considering his words. “You are a philosopher, boy; you know it not. Very well, I will tell you my story.”

The college student leaned forward, excitement lightening his eyes. “You will?”

“Aye, I will. It is far past time for me to tell this tale. I’m old, boy, very old. Fate will grant me my peace soon enough.”

“You hardly seem any older than me.”

The cloaked one let out a bark of laughter. “In appearance, yes. I stopped ageing when I was a few years shorter than you. But I am old enough to remember the Lost Ages…you know of them, I would suppose?”

“Yes, the time when elves and dwarfs lived among us, and dragons ruled the skies. It is a fabled time, meant for faerie tales, and bedtime stories. You say it truly existed?”

A nod. “The stories you know of now are far exaggerated, in all likelihood. I hope, upon my completion of this tale, that you and that woman in you lap may perhaps set them right.

“This story is my story, boy. I will start before I stopped my growing, so that the journey’s point is not ruined, nor will the whole point of me telling this. An epic journey to discover lost secrets, and of the love I held for someone who saw me not or my past, but my present self, a story of redemption. It is not a story for the faint of heart, nor for those with a mind that refuses to accept things that may seem extraordinary. It is the truth, my truth. To disregard that is to say I lived a lie.

“I did not see it at first, but you are an extraordinary one yourself. I’m placing my trust in you to accept this burden.”

He swallowed. “I accept, but I am no more extraordinary than the wind that blows outside. From the way you speak of this tale, perhaps I am not suited to hear it.”

“Again, you speak of nonsense. A story teller dreams of one such as you to pass a legacy onto.”

Brown eyes stared across the fire to meet the ageless. “And why is that?”

“Because, young one, the true thread of a story is not the imagination of the speaker, but the one who listens to them.”

[Dreamer Resurrected]

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"Now, what do those faerie stories of yours begin with?" the weaver asked the air, as though trying to remember something long forgotten.

"Once upon a time?" he quipped gently.

"Ah, yes. That's it."

Tanned hands reached for a small bowl of powder to the side of the small fire. The student relaxed a little, stroking the chestnut hair of the young woman that lay across him. The midnight blue dust sprinkled over the flames caused them to shoot up a short puff of sparkling smoke, like a small patch of the night sky.

The teller's eyes closed, lost in memory. "Once upon a time..."
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Chapter I

"Innocence Imagined"

It’s dark. Not surprising; the sun has set.It has been replaced with the moon of this world, full tonight. I look up at it and frown. Beautiful as it is, it does not suit my purpose. Though I despise my nightly activities with a vengeance, the punishment for not playing my part is far worse than actually doing it. I think.

I hurry through the bad part of the city. My business is on the other side of town, not with these lower-class demons. I glance up again. I do not carry a watch on me when I work. The meaningless new contraption serves me no purpose; it is inaccurate most of the time. The stars are more trustworthy, at least for me. I have little time left to do what I came for, and every second I waste costs me --- physically and psychologically.

Those lower class demons glare at me as I pass by. To them, I am dinner, a few extra gold and silver coins, or perhaps entertainment for the night. They wish to attack me, I can sense it. My extraordinary aura and the weapons I carry on my backare enough to hold them at bay. They don’t know what they’re dealing with. Or who, for that matter.

The shops become finer, the streets cleaner. The demons that live here are more civilized and somewhat more cultured, higher classed. My work is to be executed here tonight. I know exactly where I’m going, having been to this particular city several times already. The brave that ventured out earlier were now hurrying home, paying me no mind. I am no threat to them; to them I am a lone traveler, a foolish traveler with no knowledge of local events. How wrong they are.

I know why they fear the darkness. Reports of a silent threat were abundant, rumors and whispers of a silent specter bounced around between the gossips of the town. A merciless killer stalked their streets at night, leaving no trace of an identity. All the murderer would leave behind is a fresh corpse, instantly killed with one attack, and a single, bloodied white rose…the call-sign of a well-known assassin.

I am nothing to those that hurry past me. I do not appear as a threat to them. The only weapons visible on my persona are a strapped to my back: a simple bow, a quiver of arrows, and a sheathed sword, though many more are hidden on me. Those that hurry past me should learn that appearances are deceiving.

I am not the innocent they see me as. All our kind have killed before; it is in our very nature. But they see me as one who is a fighter only when I need to be. They do not see me as the bringer of death. The blood of thousands unwillingly stains my hands. I am the assassin they fear. I am the one they know as the “White Rose.”

I am a mere child in any count of years. As I’ve said before, I do not appear to be a threat to even the weakest of the demons. But I am stronger than most that pass me. I have been trained for years in the deadly arts. White Rose is only one of the many names I have been dubbed. I am also known as the Silent Specter, the Rose Archer, the Shadow’s Curse, and my personal favorite, the Damned Monstrosity, among many others.

A single arrow is my preferred weapon of choice. I can hide my energy from my targets; catch them off guard. If for some strange reason they still manage to sense my presence, my unusual aura will only confuse them. I’m normally faster than my targets, able to seemingly disappear at will. My targets normally die before they see my face, and those that are lucky enough to don’t live long enough to utter any sound of surprise that would usually be expressed when faced with me as their assassin. No trace of my true identity has ever been found. I am skilled enough in this despicable art that even Intelligence knows nothing about me. I am a whispered legend in the underground; there is little proof of my very existence. No one but my immediate superior knows my name, my race, my age, or even my sex. No one but my superior knows the truth behind my past.

I arrive at my target’s residence. I know not what this man has done to deserve the fate I shall bring him tonight. What I do know is that I am under strict orders to end his life. I pull up my mask, throw on my hood, and secure the gossamer black cloth that covers my eyes, making sure that I can still see, but that no one sees more than the outline of my eyes. I always wear it in public, or a pair of tinted spectacles, to keep people from staring at my strange eyes. I silently un-strap my bow and select an arrow out of my leather quiver, securing it on my slender black bow. My ears pick up a soft noise. I look up. My target is male with green hair and pale skin, a strange visage not unlike that one may recall from ancient lore. It is part of his daily routine to walk around the corner at night and head towards a popular night spot in this area. It is my job to make sure he doesn’t make it to the door.

He suspects nothing of my presence. This is good, but I still conceal my energy. I run along the roof tops, crouching low. He turns the corner. I jump to roof across the street, landing with a faint thump. I kneel down, ready to fire. My eyes close as I take a deep breath. A child’s wailing scream and a vision of a blood-covered room enter my mind. I opened my eyes quickly as a drop of sweat runs down my face. My target is in position, I mustn’t think of such things now.

With one breath, I release my arrow. Instinctively, I reach to grab the white rose tucked behind my ear, only to stop short as I realize my target is smarter than thought. He caught my arrow before it hit him. I freeze as he looks straight at my shadowed figure. With one fluid motion, I pull out another arrow, load my bow, and fire. This catches my target off guard and my aim is true. He falls, my arrow directly centered between his eyes, his hand still clutching my first arrow.

I jump down, landing cat-like next to him. I have only a minute or two before we will be discovered. I remove the rose from behind my ear. The white rose is my call-sign, my way of telling people who I am, the imagined innocent. I set the rose in the small puddle of blood that is forming under his head and gently uncurl the fingers that grasp my failed arrow and remove the fatal one. I shudder slightly as I notice his violet eyes are staring blankly at me. Before I stand to leave, I brush his dead eyes closed and make a sign of forgiveness, similar to what the ones they call Christians do, muttering a prayer in my native language.

There are shouts close to me now. I quickly survey the area, making sure my identity remains hidden. I pull one of my “disappearing” acts. By the time the locals reach my victim, I will be outside city limits. My ears pick up the sound of someone’s shout.

“The White Rose has struck again!”

[Kisit]

Very intriguing story Dreamer! Can't wait to read more!

[Dreamer Resurrected]

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“So you…you were…”

“Aye. I’ve done many things in my life that I’m not proud of. I’m sure everyone has.”

“Are you still an assassin?”

“That depends on your definition, boy.”

The remark worried him. For all he knew, he could be sitting in front of his executioner. He swallowed, observing the storyteller. The weaver seemed not to notice his discomfort, instead closing the strange eyes, lost in thought. When the teller spoke again,the legendary voice was still calm and even, but had a…tone to it that made his heart heavy.

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Chapter II

“Wishes Tainted”

A glare welcomes me. “Is he dead?”

“Yes.” I try not to roll my eyes. If I say anything else, I would pay dearly. But I answered truthfully, and correctly, so I have little to fear.

“Good.” Eyes darker than my own pierce my soul as he stares at me. I remain unfazed; it has happened far too many times to fear them now. Our eyes remain locked for some amount of time before he gets up and walks toward me. I close my eyes, knowing what his face said, and anticipating the actions he meant to take. Again, it has happened far too many times, no matter how I wish it not.

I hate him. But I cannot fight him. The irony of it all amuses me, that the most skilled assassin cannot beat him. But in all honesty, he trained me. He can fight me, and win. He has before. His kind are far stronger than me, they always have been. Weakness. It is sickening to know that I am taken advantage of because I cannot beat him.

Warm, moist air against my throat causes me to stiffen slightly, as his arms fold under my chest. He holds me from behind, and I’d honestly rather have it that way. It keeps me from having to see the look on his face, even when my eyes are closed. My mind screams for a guard to interrupt, but I know it’ll never happen. His orders are law around here; when he says stay away, people stay away, especially when it comes to his chambers, where I’m forced to meet him. My gut twists as his lips touch the nape of my neck, knowing what he plans to do next. I wish I could fight back. My mind instinctively tells me to run, and yells at me when I don’t. When all I do is close my eyes and silently wish for it to end as I stand still.

Random thoughts, irrelevant thoughts cross my mind as his lips go up my throat and to my ear. I try to pull away, though why I ever thought I could is beyond me. He grabs my arms, and twists them painfully behind my back holding them in place with one hand as his other caresses my cheek. I don’t even wince. I can’t anymore.

“Please…stop…” The words come out uncontrollably. I brace myself for the punishment. Soon enough, he twists me around and forces me to face him. The anger in the empty eyes is enough to cause anyone to turn and flee. I wish I could.

A painful slap across the face is my punishment, hard enough to send me flying across the room if my arms hadn’t been held in his own grip. Again, I don’t even wince. He lets go of me, pushing me back onto the bed. “You will show me the respect I deserve, woman!” He spits at me.

An assassin I may be, but I am unfortunately gifted with a woman’s delicacy, and being young doesn’t help. It hurts, but I don’t let my emotionless mask slip, as I pull myself up. He pushes me back down, and leans over me. I should have realized the slap was only part of the punishment…

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The teller stopped for a moment, eyes closed. The boy sitting across the fire stared, eyes wide as he held the girl in his lap a little tighter. She made a small noise of discomfort in her sleep, but he ignored it.

“He…he didn’t…” The sentence faded, an unasked question hanging in the air. He couldn’t complete such a thought.

“Aye, boy, he did…” Crystalline eyes never opened, as the weaver lapsed back into memory.

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I sit in my own chambers now, battered and bruised. My throat’s raw, I couldn’t help but wretch after my “punishment”. At times like these, I want nothing but to curl up and die. Instead, however, I shift myself into an impervious position ---drawing my knees to my chest and burying my head in my arms. It is only then that I sob, wondering why I was cursed to this life.

I sob for the family I watch die in front of me, the familiar houses and shops burned to the ground. I sob for the little girl kidnapped by the very man who murdered her childhood, and forced into this life. I sob for the assassin who never wanted her job, the young woman who lost her innocence. I can only wish, dream, that perhaps I can tear myself from the life I live now. Maybe even find someone who’ll care. But I know; I’ll always know, that no one will love someone like me. My wishes are tainted with false hope, as I’ve been tainted. Such tainted wishes are foolish, not for someone like me. Not for me.

The sun wakes me every afternoon. I want to lay here, just bask in its warmth. Forget the night before and the tears I cried for it. Sobbing is for the weak, not a trained killer. I wobble slightly as I stand, the room is spinning. I blame a small lack of blood and make my way across the room. A short, trance-like meditation ought to heal the wounds and replenish the blood I’ve lost.

Most would think the guards learn their lesson after the first few times of snapping me out of my trance. I do not make for a content person after waking up, and I’m even less of one once I’ve been brought out of mediation. Most would think that the guards would want to keep me happy, even though they know not who I really am. But, alas, they are too thick headed to realize that if I can give a couple of them black eyes the first time, I could do it again.

He stumbles back a bit. I feel sorry for having done such a thing, but it’s a reflex I adapted many years ago. I don’t like having a hand in front of my face when I open my eyes. I hastily apologize, and tie my training robe tighter as I walk out of the room. Down the hall, second door on my right. I could walk here in my sleep. I don’t even have to knock on the door, before I’m called in.

He sits on the bed again. Disgusted thoughts glimmer in my mind, as I see that he has yet to clean up the mess from the morning night. He doesn’t appear to care, and tosses me a scroll. Easily, I catch it in my hand, and unfurl it.

“Your next assignment.”

I figured as much. I don’t even need to ask why I’m thrown a piece of parchment any more. Yet, for some odd reason, he feels the need to remind me. I’m sure he does it to imprint on me how much control he has over me.

My eyes widen as the scrolls contents are revealed to me. This isn’t just any assignment.

“It’s suicide; impossible…no one could pull this off,” I tell him, my eyes narrowed.

“Are you questioning me?!” Despite myself, I swallow. Hard. Nothing good ever comes out of that tone. Normally, it means I spend the next hour cleaning blood off the floors…and not always my own.

“No, sir.” My voice is clear, but barely a whisper. I hang my head in shame. Weakness. And I walk out the door, feeling his eyes on my back.

Back in the safety of my quarters, I look at the scroll again. Even I couldn’t kill this man. Another assassin, more skilled than myself…no, never. His reputation far exceeds my own; his skills are nearly unmatched. I highly doubt even the man who handed me this scroll, the one who trained me, could do such a thing. My eyes narrow---he’s setting me up for failure, to get what he wants: me.

A soft sigh escapes my lips. Between a rock, and a hard place, I am. No escape. I could refuse to kill my target, and find an innocent dead by this time tomorrow, or I could attempt to kill, and be killed in the process. Or I could live, somehow, and deal with my punishment…

My thoughts drift back to this morning; the tears, the pain, the overall feeling of hopelessness. My fist closes tightly around the thin papyrus, crinkling and tearing at it, as my mind settles on one thing… ‘I’m through with this.’

My dreams may not be enough, and my wishes might be tainted with false hope, but my future has yet to be made. I’ll make my own destiny.

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“I don’t quite understand…the entire situation seemed hopeless…how…?”

The storyteller sighed. “I had hoped…but I suppose it wasn’t expected…” The boy blinked.

“Words aren’t always enough, boy,” she said softly. “Sometimes you need to be there…”

He stared at her. “Be there?”

“Wake the woman in your arms, boy.”

He did as asked, and the girl looked between the two curiously. “Devin…what…?” The boy called Devin shook his head.

“I’ll explain later, Lynet.”

“Okay…I guess…”

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