I'm heavily influenced by film just as much as reading. Here to get some of the ideas I've got floating around in my head on paper. If I can entertain people with my stories, situations, and characters then all the better.
Chapter 3: Better Off Dead
Jarek Blackwell and Einar Greyfellow sit atop a snowy hill, watching the old farmer’s cabin burning in the frozen glade below. Sunlight filters, through the dense trees behind them, flowing down into the clearing. White smoke belches out of the cabin’s open back door. The last songs of the dying drift away eerily into the new day. Listening intently, Jarek knows with iron certainty that none of the screams he hears belong to his father.
Chapter 2: The Incident at Farmer Krum's Cabin
Time slows to a crawl as Kannan tightens his grip on Dawnbringer’s hilt. Closing both eyes, his heart thundering like a raging winter storm, he readies himself for the impending battle. The sword’s circular pommel stone flares momentarily with bright light. Soon after, the great sword’s blade sings softly as it slowly unsheathes from its scabbard. Heat radiates through Kannan’s body as the blue runes engraved in the sword ignite with an azure glow, enveloping the sharp edges of the blade in a spectral pale aura. Kannan experiences a heightened clarity of thought, a sudden rush of strength, and his mind is flooded with ancient knowledge of countless battles as the spell-forged sword becomes an extension of himself.
Chapter 1: The Journey Through Frostgrave Forest
Surrounded by sloping hillsides and sharp ravines, a company of travelers trudge ever forward through the vast and mysterious Frostgrave Forest. The mountainous horizon slowly swallows the sun drenching the frozen valley in a sea of orange twilight. The last rays of sunlight drip through the waving tree branches of the forest, reflecting off of the snow-covered ground, and washing the mountain woodlands in a sea of liquid gold. Dense underbrush partially conceals the path along the base of the foothills. A long-faced man, with shoulder length brown hair, kneels down, staring intently at the ground, he traces his gloved index finger across the surface of the snow.
The Guardian of Firestone Mountain
“There weren’t always dragons in the valley,” sighs Baird as he makes his way up the treacherous slope of Firestone Mountain. Scattered throughout the mountainous terrain and crumbling cliffs are large thickets of thorny brambles. There is little to eat and even less to drink in the frozen wasteland of the northern valley. From time to time, Baird’s heavy black cloak snags on the brambles as he and the rest of his retinue try to make their way through the thorny thickets. He is a tall, bearded man with coarse red hair that falls in neat braids down to his shoulders. Sigils for the god of death dot his eyebrows and heretical marks of the gods of chaos adorn his cheeks. “A long time ago, the mad tyrant King Narzheel brought dragons across the western seas from uncharted lands at the edge of the world,” states Baird, nearly losing his footing on a rough patch of snow, “Narzheel used dark magic and forbidden alchemy to control the dragons and twist lesser creatures into his instruments of war.” Faint torchlight illuminates the unrelenting landscape during the day, and it was nearly impossible to see much of anything in the blackness of night. A thick mist envelopes the surrounding countryside, so the small group of travelers hold torches to light their way through the oppressive gloom.