> To anyone giving this story a go, This is my first time writing a story on my own accord, and my writing and grammar skills may be a bit rough around the edges, so any feedback, no matter how harsh will be extremely beneficial for me. Doing this as a hobby, so no clear cut schedule, however I can guarantee their will be at least 1 chapter a week. Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy!
“I'll be downstairs carving,” said Marlow, gently clutching his wood carving knife in one hand, with a woodblock in the other. His mother slowly lifted her head from her newspaper and gave a slow nod, wiping her tears with a handkerchief. Compared to when she had first received the news of his illness, she had significantly mellowed out, slowly coming to terms with his imminent death.
Marlow activated the rune on the basement door, locking it behind him before carefully walking down the steps to the basement. He took a second between each, pausing when the rotting wood creaked. Reaching the bottom of the steps he quickened his pace, walking towards the furniture in the center of the room.
He hauled the chairs off the rug and placed them in the corner of the room, before returning and dragging the weighty oak table away. Taking a second to catch his breath he returned, lifting the rug and giving it a quick shake. A cloud of dust blew off the rug and hit him in the face, provoking a powerful cough. He tossed the rug into the corner with the other furniture, and kneeled down, grabbing the tattered leather-bound book that earlier lay under the rug. He flipped through the journal before reaching a page in the middle and stopping.
‘Activation time - setting the activation time of a rune is one of the essential steps to creating a functioning rune. Many rune architects I've met undervalue this step, opting for instant activation, however, I have found altering the activation time of a rune can be extremely useful, whether it be to hide the presence of a rune until it is needed, or to activate 2 related runes in quick succession. To control the activation time you will have to create a symbol in your mind to represent 4 time periods, a second, a minute, an hour, and a day. It is important you have a very strict and set idea of these time periods, as not having a clear enough picture can cause inconsistent activation times. As for the symbol for these time periods, this is entirely up to personal preference, however, I recommend a simple symbol, as activation time will be one of the key components of many runes. Additionally, this will give less margin for error.’
Marlow closed the book and placed it on the floor. He drew a heavy breath before lifting up his shirt, the cold air pricking at his skin. Picking up the woodblock, he brought it in front of himself, the marked side facing him. He hesitantly grabbed his wood carving knife and moved it towards his chest. He slowly observed the large sophisticated rune upon his chest, looking for a good location to carve the activation time. Despite only carving extremely shallowly into his chest, it had left a very noticeable scar. He glanced at the diagram he had carved upon the woodblock checking for any inconsistencies. After a quick check, he once again started moving the knife, carving three small horizontal lines right above the rune.
He winced as a small amount of blood trickled down from the wounds. Compared to the pain he experienced when he had carved the Ferstedan, a mythical rebirthing bird into his skin, it was a fairly small amount of pain. The rune he had carved into his chest was a rune his grandfather had created, a spirit possession rune that drew a dying soul into a body. According to his grandfather on page 83 of his journal, it was a failed experiment, with little use.
It was a rune his grandfather had created when he was still a rookie rune architect. It caused quite an uproar when instead of reviving a Juwelen war hero, he had brought back an enemy soldier. Following the event, he had tried several more iterations of the rune with questionable results. The final iteration he had created at least guaranteed that only a human could possess the body the rune was carved on, however further trials were discontinued, due to the ethical issues of the matter. The entry was then followed by an extremely long passage concerning the morality and ethics of experimentation with living souls.
He moved onto the second rune, rolling up his leg sleeve. The second rune was a simple translation spell, one of the first spells learned by rune architects; this was extremely important in the case that his body was possessed by a foreigner. Marlow once again shallowly carved three horizontal lines into his leg. He wiped the blood up with the hem of his pants and took out the final object needed for the ritual. A cockroach corpse, a soul transferal rune delicately carved onto its carapace. He lightly set it on the table, careful not to damage any of its limbs or vital organs, after all, he had no idea how long he would be stuck within its body.
He took a few deep breaths, “I’m ready”. He slid the book across the floor back into its original position, throwing the rug over it and placing the chairs and table back on. Finally, he took a seat, the basement back in its original setup
He took a moment to compose himself and concentrate his mind before activating the rune. Focusing hard, he activated all 3 runes. His soul was quickly transported into the cockroach corpse, and he was left watching his empty body. He involuntarily closed his eyes as his head toppled, thudding hard against the wooden table. He skittered across the table a few times, still trying to adapt to the nauseous feeling of being in a body a hundredth his size. A moment passed, before his original body once again became animated, groggily getting up and looking around the room.
“Where the hell am I?”
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Franceth sat in the back of the war wagon, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of his Wyvern scale armour. Never in his life had he been more uncomfortable. “I’d rather be reading in the library right now,” he thought. the bumpy trail causing his loose-fitting helmet to knock against the sides of his head.
Lifting his visor he peered at the other men and women sitting in the carriage. They all wore the standard army gear. White T-shirts, double-layered Plenkot lamb wool, spider silk pants, and goat leather boots. In the midst of the group, he stuck out like a sore thumb, looking more like a court jester than an almighty hero.
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“Frankie, you in there buddy?” The muscular man to his left asked, rapping sharply against his helmet.
Franceth broke out of his trance, turning his attention toward the man. “Huh?”
“We’ve been trying to get to you for the last minute” called out a ratty-looking woman near the back of the cart.
“What’s the deal?” he asked, shifting his glance between the two.
“Cart’s stuck, think it’s mud again.”
Franceth groaned, slowly getting up from the rough wooden seat, crouching slightly, to avoid sticking his head through the roof of the carriage. Walking down the middle of the carriage, he adjusted his helmet, pulling his visor down in front of his eyes. He hopped out of the cart, his boots sinking into the deep mud. wading through it, he let out a loud gag, as some of it sunk through the gaps in his armour.
Reaching the front of the cart, he sighed. The wheels of the cart had sunk deep into the mud, the only reason he was able to find them being the small curved bump poking through the top of the mud. He lightly stroked the head of the donkey drawing the court, its head tilted upwards to avoid the mud that had gotten up to its belly. “It's alright buddy” he whispered, continuing to stroke its hair. The donkey let out a loud bray, not used to having its legs restrained to such a degree.
“Wheels are stuck” he signalled, walking back towards the entrance of the cart. Several people had already jumped out, expecting the result.
“Looks like we’re gonna have to walk. Mike and Lucy, you stay and watch the cart.” Franceth stood at the back of the group, watching the muscular man as he gave orders, pointing each person to their designated role.
Franceth’s father had chosen him to be the commander of the rescue mission, however, he had absolutely no military experience, and talking was not one of his strongest suits so he was quite glad when somebody had decided to take over.
He rejoined the rest of the group as they started walking toward the mission location. They had been tasked with rescuing a squadron of battlemages who had been attacked along the border, however, the only information they had been provided with was the location the soldiers had last been spotted.
“How you doing Frankie?” asked the Muscular man, as he threw an arm around Franceth’s shoulder. Franceth shrugged as they continued trudging forward, having reached a shallower pool of mud.
“I don’t know why they sent me out here,” said Frankie, squinting his eyes. “I have absolutely no fighting experience, I don’t even know basic attack magic.”
“thought a royal like you would get the best military and magic training?” the muscular man asked, wiping a streak of mud off his lip.
“My father thinks interacting with other people is gonna do more harm than good. He thinks that I’m ‘Damien’s Chosen’ and I will receive my 'powers' when I'm ready.”
“Damien?... you mean that god of war the Kriestark worshiped 200 years ago?” the man chortled, “I’m sure you already know this, but that's a load of donkey shit.”
“Yeah I know, but what can I do, it's either follow his religious scheme, or get sent away to Kriesta as an ambassador, and we all know how that turned out for the last guy.” The man gave him a quick sympathetic look, before continuing to march through the mud.
“Hang on.” Franceth turned around, reaching his hand into the mud. After a bit of fumbling, he pulled a feather out of the mud. He held it up in the air, and ran two fingers down the side, pulling off as much mud as possible. “It's a midnight bird feather.”
“I thought birds avoided the rain” asked a woman near the back of the group.
“They do. Midnight birds shouldn’t even be out at day.” Franceth confirmed, deep in thought. Then, realization dawned on him. “Beastmen” he cried, but he was far too late. Two loud splashes sounded behind him, followed by a shrill scream. He spun around, two bodies already starting to sink into the mud. A large shadow flew over his head, the flapping of wings drowning out all nearby sound.
“I’ll hold em back, get to the carriage” yelled the muscular man, as he wrestled with a beastman, talons gripped tightly on his arm. Franceth, to no avail, tried running, the thick mud slowing him considerably. He ducked down, head sinking into the mud as a beastman swooped at him. He felt a warm sensation, as the beastman's talons scraped against his scalp, digging into his skin.
He turned his head toward the others. The muscular man had been effortlessly picked up and was being dragged away, talons gripped tightly around his heels, the man thrashing about as he was carried further into the clouds. All Franceth could do was powerlessly stare, as the man whose name he didn’t even know was taken, probably to be consumed within the next day or two. His thoughts were cut short as he was tackled into the mud.
He stared at the beastman - or beast woman in this case as his back hit something solid underneath the mud. It moved its face uncomfortably close and gave two sniffs. “Royal,” it muttered, disgust thick in its voice. Similar to the muscular man which had been taken, it reached down and grabbed him by his heels, lifting him into the air. He closed his eyes, a cold wind blowing violently against his face. His thoughts suddenly turned to how unfair this situation was. “You couldn’t have picked a more unfavourable situation for my first fight. He thought back to the words of the muscular man he had been pleasantly chatting with minutes ago. “A fitting death for a so-called chosen one, drenched in mud, helplessly hanging from his legs. Thanks a lot god of war.”
He was brought back to reality by the sound of an explosion, followed by a shrill screech from above. He opened his eyes and saw a blur of mages below him. He, however, was much more focused on the fact that he was plunging through the air faster than a Waterskipper in a whirlpool. He screamed in agony as his body hit a tree, his arm partially torn off by a tree branch. His body plummeted to the ground and landed in the mud. His whole body felt numb, as the blood flowed freely from his arm, the mud under him mixing with his crimson blood. His vision slowly blurred, and the loud chattering around him slowly turned to incoherent mumble. “I don’t think I'm the chosen one”
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He groaned as he woke up. “my head is killing me”. He lifted his head off the table, avoiding the pool of drool that had formed under his face. He got out of the chair he was sitting in and explored the grimy basement, coming upon a wall covered in strange markings, and fit with a makeshift calendar carved into a large piece of bark, marking out each day of the season. He could have sworn that 5 minutes ago he was bleeding to death in a pool of mud.
“Where the hell am I.”