NCS Napier
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New chapters every week :)
Stories (17/0)
The Ancients
Sixteen: Varlmorg knew he had to return to Pochreka but couldn’t tear himself from his chambers. It was immensely comfortable lounging in the nude, or at least as close as he could get, with that bandage always wrapped tight around his midriff. He was surrounded by his turtle doves of naked men and women who had spent the whole morning entertaining him with tales of adventures from their ordinary lives.
By NCS Napier3 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Fifteen: The wind rushed past Flint as he soared through the sky, the dotted forest so far below the canopy had turned to rolling waves of never-ending darkness. It felt incredible to be lighter than air. To soar through the sky with speed and precision. To be all-powerful. The expansive horizon loomed in the distance, the open forest directly in front stretching for a hundred gallops to the world's end. To his left, the High Mountains pierced through the dark clouds that rolled over their peaks, obscuring the ground from view with its torrential rain that fell in swirling sheets. To his right, nothing but the sand stretched further than any could realistically venture. A paradise turned wasteland.
By NCS Napier3 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Thirteen: Gavriil’s frayed boot sunk deep into the endless mud, flooding it with filth that entered the many holes in the worn-out leather. He didn’t mind. It had been happening all day, and he was used to having semi-frozen feet. Besides, he was too busy searching for tracks that hadn’t been washed away by the unusual summer rain.
By NCS Napier3 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Fourteen: Ksana stared at the hordes of colourful foods that lined the outer edges of the Mountain Throne Spire, her mouth dripping at the tantalising prospects before her. She counted fifteen types of meat, twenty-four bowls of salad, eighteen different fruits, sixteen types of vegetables, both roasted and not, piles of flat, risen, and twisted bread that came with dipping sauces that were yellow, pink, green, white, orange, and even a purple one, ten desserts that ranged from tarts to cake, all smelling sweeter than anything she’d had the fortune of tasting, and four whole tables dedicated to a different assortment of gemör, ale, and wine, of which she knew nothing about. It was more food than she had eaten in her fourteen winters combined, with more flavours and spices in one mouthful than she would experience over the rest of her life.
By NCS Napier3 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Twelve: Yanik’s knee buckled as she stepped over a hole, barely managing to keep her feet as she stumbled forward. She rubbed her swollen eyes that longed for the comfort of rest, their fatigue so great that shadows had begun to take form, rushing at her only to vanish into nothing more than a nearby fern or rustling sapling.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Eleven: Erramore anxiously played with the purple snood wrapped around her wrist as she whipped her head around, searching for her daughter. Every member of the palace was lined up on the stairs in front of the Mountain Throne Spire, facing the Royal Square emptied of the commoners. Every member except for Ana and Tarok. Erramore peered down each of the four roads that sloped away from the square towards the Capital bridges, relieved to see them empty. She knew Ana would be playing with her swords and cursed herself for not visiting her chambers that morning to guarantee this very thing didn’t happen.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Ten: Jakob huddled closer to the crackling fire, trying hard to warm his icy hands that clung to a liquor bottle. His body wasn’t coping well with the boiling days and freezing nights, which added to the annoyance of lugging around layers of clothing. He’d grown somewhat tired of putting on and taking off furs. At least the sweltering heat kept the forest dry and the campfires easy to start. As long as Veteemä didn’t send her rain, which was becoming harder to predict, he would have the warmth of the fire.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Eight: A scream echoed through the forest jolting Flint awake. Unsure of whether it was a dream or reality, he instinctively reached for his daggers. Disappointment strangled his heart when he couldn’t find them; the previous day's proceedings flooded back into his memory and filled him with despair. That woman – Yanik, had ruined his life in one fell swoop. She had tainted his beautiful den, taken Volk’s affection with her fake friendship, and stolen his beloved daggers. Somehow, all felt calm. The scream must have been in his head.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Five: Ana groaned as she inspected the map in front of her. She was sick of looking at the same dull image that was seared into her memory many moons ago. Yet here she was, sixteen tomorrow, still staring at the names of different families and cities, wanting nothing more than to jump out the first-story window. She knew exactly how to do it. First, she would curl into a ball and smash through the stained glass, then roll as she hit the ground and spring up into a sprint, before the guards knew what was happening, she would be out into the streets and off on an incredible adventure, fighting criminals, slaying monsters, helping commoners milk their cows or look after their horses or give them advice on what to wear, she didn’t know what ordinary people did… but she’d do it all.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Four: Flint plunged his hand into the raging river filled to the brim with the melted snow that ran down from the High Mountains. It wouldn’t burst its banks today, but more rain would almost certainly push it over the edge. It had been relentless this year, even as they moved into the hotter months. He had to remain cautious.
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
The Ancients
Three: Yarganov paced up and down the Talutaja’s hallway of Pochreka. He had always hated coming here. He could never avoid the eyes of the various Talutajas who went before, judging him from their portraits. This time was worst of all. They followed him wherever he went, laughing at his failures. Varlmorg would not be laughing. “I must find the Elixir,” Yarganov repeatedly murmured, his mind trapped in a loop. “I must find the Elixir.”
By NCS Napier4 months ago in Fiction
