dimmy52
04-24-2005, 10:43 PM
Hey everyone. I have been posting in the 'World's Finest' board for a while now, and for those who go and visit, you may know my fanfic in progress 'The Raven and The Crow'. Anyway, I decided to have a shot at writing an original story. Anyway, here goes...
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Two thousand, three hundred and sixty one years ago, a legend was born. This young man would take the reins of his father’s crumbling empire at the tender age of twenty, and he would progress to become the greatest military strategist in the history of man-kind. History tells us of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed young man who fought with ruthlessness and deadly efficiency, of a man who would stop at nothing in achieving his goal. History also tells us of a benevolent man, wise beyond his years, who would help any soul he could in their time of need. History also tells us of a homosexual, or of a bisexual, a problem drinker, a wife-beater and many countless other depictions of the one who is recognized as Alexander The Great. One fact, however, is certain. He passed away due to reasons unknown, before his time as a military general was over. Now, his final resting place is unknown to all, but a select few who wish to keep such knowledge to themselves, for fear of desecration of the holy, or perhaps unholy, tomb of Alexander. Or so the story goes…
The night’s breeze was thick with fog as it rolled in over the distant Persian mountains, sinister in its presence. The fog blanketed the nearby camp, smothering its occupants and restricting their work. Many of the occupants were unaffected, however, as they had already laid their tools to rest along with their bodies and nodded off to dreams of their home and of the various minstrels that would be waiting and willing when they returned. A steady
“Tap, Tap” was heard as it pierced the damp air like an arrow. The perpetrator of the noise was naught but a man in his fifties, with receding grey hair and facial features that were polluted with crow’s feet and pockmarks. They mingled with one another to give the appearance of a man who knew so much, yet hungered for more. A pair of spectacles lay on his distinguished face, almost as old as the crooked nose it rested upon. He seemed oblivious to the lack of movement and the absence of sound, and beads of sweat had formed on his elongated forehead, furrowed and wrinkled in concentration. He was focused on his work, and he didn’t bother to stop and have a rest. Ever so slightly, he tapped his chisel with his hammer, creating a rhythm that evoked subconsciously; memories of a life lived long ago. The archaeologist buried these memories before they had a chance to impede on the work he has strived so far to achieve. He was enthralled in a world of his own, working to a tune of his own, a tune that had no words.
The delicate clay shell of the item the archaeologist was inspecting slowly crumbled, succumbing to the delicate taps of his chisel. The flakes of brown, speckled dirt fell through his calloused fingers, coming to rest in a small pyramid underneath his trembling hand. With increasing trepidation, the wizened archaeologist lifted his closed fist towards his spectacled eyes, his heart racing and creating a tune of its own. His fingers unfurled, and laying in the palm of his wrinkled hand was a gold medallion.
It was roughly circular in shape, with a foreign design on its face. With his other hand, the archaeologist turned the medallion on to its other side, examining it for anything that he may have missed. Seeing nothing of importance, he quickly pocketed it and stood up, his feet sliding on the loose dirt that he had been digging through only seconds before. With elation in his heart he almost skipped back to his tent, humming to a song once thought forgotten in his mind.
As he neared his tent, however, his ageing ears picked up a depressing melody, originating from the darkness and fog that enveloped the camp. He had never heard the song before, and it seemed foreign. Much like the design on his medallion. The archaeologist looked towards what he believed was the source of the melody, then back to his awfully appealing tent. With a sigh of resignation, he slowly walked into the darkness, following the noise.
He stumbled through the darkness, his arms extended in front of him in a desperate attempt to stop himself running into boulders on the plains of the Persian Gulf. With every stubbed toe, the archaeologist cursed himself at not bringing a torch. As he staggered blindly, the sorrowful melody that he had pursued when he left the camp had grown into mournful wailing and screaming. The archaeologist looked back to the campsite, which was now just a glow of soft yellow on the darkened horizon, and decided to return back. He had heard enough, he surmised, so he began his trek back to his tent.
Many steps and bruises later, he entered the outer perimeter of the camp. However, something was not right. As he surveyed his surroundings, he saw what only could be described as a battlefield. Tents lay ripped and slashed on the ground, with lanterns strewn all over, shattered. The one thing that frightened the old archaeologist the most, however, was the amount of blood that littered the area. It was all over the slashed tents, the broken lanterns and the upturned tables. His face drained of blood and turned white as he realized what had happened. With a cry of horror, he ran. He ran through the fog, through the darkness, tripping over large stones and rocks that littered his immediate path. All the while he had one hand in his pocket, making sure that he never lost the medallion he had spent so many years to find.
After running for what seemed hours, the archaeologist lowered his ageing body to the cold dirt below, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from exhaustion and fear. Ever so slowly, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into a restless sleep, fearing the horrors that lurked in the dark.
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There you have it, the prologue. Hope you enjoyed, please review!
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Two thousand, three hundred and sixty one years ago, a legend was born. This young man would take the reins of his father’s crumbling empire at the tender age of twenty, and he would progress to become the greatest military strategist in the history of man-kind. History tells us of a blonde-haired, blue-eyed young man who fought with ruthlessness and deadly efficiency, of a man who would stop at nothing in achieving his goal. History also tells us of a benevolent man, wise beyond his years, who would help any soul he could in their time of need. History also tells us of a homosexual, or of a bisexual, a problem drinker, a wife-beater and many countless other depictions of the one who is recognized as Alexander The Great. One fact, however, is certain. He passed away due to reasons unknown, before his time as a military general was over. Now, his final resting place is unknown to all, but a select few who wish to keep such knowledge to themselves, for fear of desecration of the holy, or perhaps unholy, tomb of Alexander. Or so the story goes…
The night’s breeze was thick with fog as it rolled in over the distant Persian mountains, sinister in its presence. The fog blanketed the nearby camp, smothering its occupants and restricting their work. Many of the occupants were unaffected, however, as they had already laid their tools to rest along with their bodies and nodded off to dreams of their home and of the various minstrels that would be waiting and willing when they returned. A steady
“Tap, Tap” was heard as it pierced the damp air like an arrow. The perpetrator of the noise was naught but a man in his fifties, with receding grey hair and facial features that were polluted with crow’s feet and pockmarks. They mingled with one another to give the appearance of a man who knew so much, yet hungered for more. A pair of spectacles lay on his distinguished face, almost as old as the crooked nose it rested upon. He seemed oblivious to the lack of movement and the absence of sound, and beads of sweat had formed on his elongated forehead, furrowed and wrinkled in concentration. He was focused on his work, and he didn’t bother to stop and have a rest. Ever so slightly, he tapped his chisel with his hammer, creating a rhythm that evoked subconsciously; memories of a life lived long ago. The archaeologist buried these memories before they had a chance to impede on the work he has strived so far to achieve. He was enthralled in a world of his own, working to a tune of his own, a tune that had no words.
The delicate clay shell of the item the archaeologist was inspecting slowly crumbled, succumbing to the delicate taps of his chisel. The flakes of brown, speckled dirt fell through his calloused fingers, coming to rest in a small pyramid underneath his trembling hand. With increasing trepidation, the wizened archaeologist lifted his closed fist towards his spectacled eyes, his heart racing and creating a tune of its own. His fingers unfurled, and laying in the palm of his wrinkled hand was a gold medallion.
It was roughly circular in shape, with a foreign design on its face. With his other hand, the archaeologist turned the medallion on to its other side, examining it for anything that he may have missed. Seeing nothing of importance, he quickly pocketed it and stood up, his feet sliding on the loose dirt that he had been digging through only seconds before. With elation in his heart he almost skipped back to his tent, humming to a song once thought forgotten in his mind.
As he neared his tent, however, his ageing ears picked up a depressing melody, originating from the darkness and fog that enveloped the camp. He had never heard the song before, and it seemed foreign. Much like the design on his medallion. The archaeologist looked towards what he believed was the source of the melody, then back to his awfully appealing tent. With a sigh of resignation, he slowly walked into the darkness, following the noise.
He stumbled through the darkness, his arms extended in front of him in a desperate attempt to stop himself running into boulders on the plains of the Persian Gulf. With every stubbed toe, the archaeologist cursed himself at not bringing a torch. As he staggered blindly, the sorrowful melody that he had pursued when he left the camp had grown into mournful wailing and screaming. The archaeologist looked back to the campsite, which was now just a glow of soft yellow on the darkened horizon, and decided to return back. He had heard enough, he surmised, so he began his trek back to his tent.
Many steps and bruises later, he entered the outer perimeter of the camp. However, something was not right. As he surveyed his surroundings, he saw what only could be described as a battlefield. Tents lay ripped and slashed on the ground, with lanterns strewn all over, shattered. The one thing that frightened the old archaeologist the most, however, was the amount of blood that littered the area. It was all over the slashed tents, the broken lanterns and the upturned tables. His face drained of blood and turned white as he realized what had happened. With a cry of horror, he ran. He ran through the fog, through the darkness, tripping over large stones and rocks that littered his immediate path. All the while he had one hand in his pocket, making sure that he never lost the medallion he had spent so many years to find.
After running for what seemed hours, the archaeologist lowered his ageing body to the cold dirt below, his heart pounding and his chest heaving from exhaustion and fear. Ever so slowly, his eyelids grew heavy and he fell into a restless sleep, fearing the horrors that lurked in the dark.
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There you have it, the prologue. Hope you enjoyed, please review!