Fantasy
Djinn
“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.” The unfamiliar voice surprises Mona away from the campfire’s hypnotic flames that dance before her. She’s sure that she had been alone in her camp just a heartbeat ago. She spent an hour walking into the forest from the road to ensure her fire wouldn’t be seen from the path. Yet now, as Mona’s amber eyes stare across the fire, she finds a pair of silver ones staring back at her. They belong to a young man with slightly pointed ears, who smiles warmly from atop a downed log. Mona is unsure when the stranger approached her but demands he leave her be as she scans the forest for any companions in tow. “Many people have made speculations on why the creatures have selected the Valley,” continues the young man. “Ranging from a lack of hunters in the area, much more plentiful food, or even better conditions to raise their offspring. Yet I’m sure every person who lives near the Valley would be surprised to find out the truth.
By Gino Balara 4 years ago in Fiction
Edelweiss
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Thousands of years ago the gods created it as a place to hide their treasures. They weren’t really gods, but rather master manipulators of other dimensions. Thieves, who stole from the multiverse realms and enslaved their peoples. In the mountains high above was the gateway to these other places. The Valley below held a grid carved into the basin. This living map, which was visible only from above and undetectable to its inhabitants, led the way to the treasure trove. Slaves were brought there to work the land and unknowingly guard the horde. With no memory of enslavement, they innocently worshipped these thieves as gods. Brainwashed to believe they were being protected from wild beasts living in the mountains, they made weekly sacrifices at the foot of the mountain to the South. Superstition and mystery prevented the farmers from exploring beyond the limits of the Valley. It was enough for them to live within its confines, which was a lush patchwork of green pastures covering its floor. Shepherds lazily watched their flocks from beneath apple trees that clung to stone hedges dividing up the land. It was truly idyllic. Botham, a shepherd’s son living on the North side of the Valley, didn’t recognize its beauty, nor the people’s superstitious ways. He was sombre and hateful as a child, who only grew more morose with age. Everyone has a choice when it comes to light or darkness. Each path brings its own allure. When darkness came to him with its seductive power, Botham took hold of it with both hands. He began the destruction of this paradise, bringing more than just dragons to this realm.
By Sherry Ryan4 years ago in Fiction
The Darksmoke Tales
Prologue: Day Zero “There weren’t always dragons in the Valley,” Aimen said that every time they got in our way. Unfortunately, I am reminding myself of that as I can literally feel the weight of their presence on me, I tried to calm myself as two of them restrained me by the neck and arms respectively. Fighting them would only work if I could get away, but sadly there was no escaping from them in the upper town square.
By Anthony Tufano4 years ago in Fiction
The Wyrm in the Valley
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. When the world was young, knowing no strife or war, life ran rampant amongst the grassy plains and through the dense swaths of forest that made up the Valley, a natural formation that stretched for a thousand miles in every direction. Serene beasts grazed the fields with birds soaring high above them in their domain of blue sky. The trees grew tall and strong, with trunks stronger than steel and boughs so long with leaves so green, they outstretched far and wide, coming together to form one large canopy. But with the growing of the canopy came the Darkness.
By Kyle Gardner4 years ago in Fiction
I Know You'd Do The Same For Me
There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Well, at least not before the Rapture. Yes, that Rapture... the one from everyone's favorite Holy Book... the one where the Son of God was supposed to return to this decaying corpse of a rock we call Earth and spare the ones who were first in line for Sunday's communion wine. The earnest few, the zealots and repentant sinners, the homunculi who blindly followed the dulcet tones of their area code's loudest megalomanic clad in the purest, most recently bleached clerical vestments. Be it a desire to rectify a past wrong or to reinforce the staunchness of their beliefs, they were told over and over again that they were chosen for a greater purpose. Each hymn (sung poorly or not) added that much more protection to their Armor of God. Each genuflection and properly executed sequence of bows and utterances of "Amen" was a combat drill for the demons they hoped they'd never see. They called themselves an Army of God, but in the pageantry of their shared worship, they neglected one extremely critical detail:
By Sean Currlin4 years ago in Fiction
Legends of Pyrryesia
“There weren't always dragons in the Valley”. The old gentleman was depicted as he crept toward the younger man seated at the grand table, enjoying the warmth of the fire and the cack of the fireplace as it spat embers out of wood sparks. Catching him off guard, the young man, gaze now fixated on the old man rather than the bountiful well-earned feast that laid before him. He made himself confutable alongside other commoners of the west. the soldiers who fought the wars and the bandits that eagerly preyed on the weak. “They never ruled our lands” continued the old man as he inserted himself between the heroes and bounty hunters after collocating a drink for himself and the young man. Sitting down with a weighted sigh he continued “they never ruled the infinite skies above, nor our hellish seascapes and the unforgiving ocean depths, even though they are scarce.
By zachery dyer4 years ago in Fiction
Homecoming Dance
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Leastwise, there certainly weren’t any of the fire breathing, fly around the sky on leathery wings, stealing sheep and treasure kind. The only dragons seen in Booneville were the crepe paper and chicken wire kind following the high school marching band down Story Street each year in the annual homecoming parade. Yes, somehow, in this small, Midwestern town, located in a swath of the state largely settled by Scandinavians in the 19th century, the school’s booster club opted not for the Vikings, but chose a mythological beast as the school mascot. The Reindeer would have been a more appropriate name considering the school colors are red and green. That, and the fact the football team had shown scant ferocity against their cow town rivals in recent years.
By M. Michael TRARP4 years ago in Fiction
Conclave of the Rose
A Knight stepped out of his hastily erected pavilion. Clad in several layers of chain mail, most of his upper body was covered and his small arms rustled around on the inside of his sleeves. His reptilian head was bared for all to see and his sleek tail trailed along behind him making it much easier to move through the mud. The armour was custom-made for him by the famous Ortuka blacksmith, Bekkta, as a gift for his ordination many years ago. Much had happened since then and only this armour remained to remind him of his past status and position among his peers. He noticed a stake set poorly and placed at a wrong angle causing the sides of the tent to sag inwards. That would have to be addressed later. He looked up as a figure moved steadily closer through the mist.
By Justa King4 years ago in Fiction
Serpent’s Song
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. - - Some began hearing whispers on the wind. Some caught a chronic shiver. Some had nightmares of ash raining down from the heavens. Most though, felt a rhythmic thumping in the very walls they lived within. It was as if the ground had a song to hum to all those that dwelled in Adysh.
By Carissa Rabelo4 years ago in Fiction
