+- Save-Point (https://www.save-point.org)
+-- Forum: Creativity Section (https://www.save-point.org/forum-65.html)
+--- Forum: Literature Section (https://www.save-point.org/forum-72.html)
+--- Thread: The Last Words (/thread-7439.html)
The Last Words - Vickarius - 03-11-2019
That small piece of text is very loosely based on my upcoming project (if it is ever to be finished), and I post it here hoping to inspire others with it.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Last Words
On the uppermost section of a building, two men were standing, one in front of the other. Their weapons were both pointing to the sky.
All around the scene, a torrential downpour was provoking a menagerie of noises, rendering almost any other sound useless. But what would someone be doing under such a stormy sky? Perhaps one of those men was a guard, and the other, a thief? Maybe it was a sparring session between fencing students? Or a fight started by a duped lover, angry towards the one who took away his girlfriend?
The two pitiful scraps of being were already soaking wet. One of them, dressed in red clothes, ran a hand through his auburn hair, as if troubled by a thought. His hand ended up holding one of the pitch black horns that adorned his head. No doubt - the guy was a demon. His dark eyes never left his opponent's, that stood just across from him. This one was clad in a greyish armor, a medium-sized cloak flowing down his back, and he stood with an elegant posture. With his brownish hair flowing in all directions, he didn't seem imposing, nor fazed.
"You don't give up, do you?", said the demon, scratching the top of his head.
"No, and you won't either."
"Such a sad predicament..."
The light-armored man shuffled his feet, feeling uncomfortable. "We should cut it out. From the very beginning, we walked down the path that led us here. You made your decisions, while I struggled to fix the damage you caused. But I'm not in your shadow anymore."
"But... if we would always walk down this path, why bother struggling at all?", spoke the redhead, walking sideways from the another man and looking far away, to the horizon. "I made some bad choices, but it really doesn't matter. You already know me and also, that I could never have chosen another path. In the end, I am no more than a beast, driven by instinct."
The swordsman lowered his weapon and looked down, saying aloud: "That's another dilemma. If you are evil, what explains your existence, at all? Why be born evil to die evil, while all the time retaining a conscience? That makes no sense!"
Slowly, the sky calmed down, and the rain gave way to a drizzle.
Now, both men could talk without the need to shout. The red clothed figure retorted, averting his eyes from the landscape, and looking at the cloaked man: "Our current predicament makes much less sense. We're here because that woman predicted that you would face me in battle. On the exact instant that I discovered it, I resorted to my cunning and resources to prevent it from happening, to no avail. You became more and more obsessed to stop me, and just look where we are now! But what would happen if I didn't listen to her? The results probably would be the same! It's futile, all of it."
The brown-haired man positioned himself at the demon's side, and started to search for answers in the somber sky (or perhaps, into himself). "How can someone make the right choice? We do not know for sure the full consequences of our acts. Also, it's impossible to choose anything without being influenced by someone or something: a thought, an emotion, a mood, our past actions, other people's input, our actual conditions etc."
"But, at the same time, we can't simply avoid making a choice, because it's already a choice in itself." The demon talked to the skies. "Our imagination is what plagues us, in the end, because it makes us hope, or even believe, that things could be different. Heck, with the power of imagination, we could even be friends!"
"But we're not friends", said the light-armored man, looking gloomily at the weapon in his hands.
"No, we are not", replied the demon, the shadow of a smile crossing his face for a second.
With this, the pair walked again to the center of the arena and, after two brief gestures of acknowledgement, the ultimate fight started.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!
RE: The Last Words - Vickarius - 04-03-2019
Hello again. That one isn't a sequel to the first piece of the history written above. If anything, it's more like another memory, also forgotten in the distant past.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Lost Words
Lost.
Utterly and completely lost.
How many times did he walk down these plains, grasslands, forests, roads, mountains, deserts? Sometimes in joyful company, sometimes in awful company, sometimes only by himself - and his trustworthy sword, of course.
Oh, no, he wasn't lost because he didn't know why was he walking around. He did know very well his way around many, many places. However young he may still be, he already traveled the entire globe... And even places beyond it. Beyond the very fabric of reality.
No, his lostness wasn't about directions. Nor was it about the known or the unknown. The question that gnawed at his soul was about the meaning of the entirety of his journeys.
Why does he has to finish a quest if, in the end, he will just have to start another? Why must he raise his sword against his enemies - flesh and blood just like himself - only waiting for the next one to arrive?
He is tired. He already gave so much of himself to a cause he now doesn't even know if is possible to accomplish. For the sake of the artifact, he lost almost all the money he conquered. He lost his equipment. His physical strength. His honor. His health. His family. His friends. His sanity. Himself.
He can't even yell at someone. There is no one here besides himself, and even if there was a being crazy enough to visit, or return to this horrid place, he simply can't speak. His mouth and throat are both dry and sore. He doesn't remember the last time he drank water. Pure, crystal, real water.
Coming here was an error. He isn't in danger - not from the outside, at least. But the empty and dusty church doesn't offer even a solace for his anguish. Here, sitting on the bench by the altar to the gods of old, he bows his head, desperately searching for an answer, praying for a damn clue about the meaning of his confusing life.
And he doesn't know if they can give him the answer he yearns for.
He doesn't even know if there is an answer, to begin with.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!
RE: The Last Words - Vickarius - 04-10-2019
Hello once more. Here goes another story, this time a little more action-y than the previous ones, I guess.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Fast Words
In the open day, there were two figures running down a street. However, it wasn't a friendly jog; if anything, it was a chasing.
The first man, clothed in some dark garments, was running like his very life depended on it. His short tunic and cape swayed, following his movement pattern, and his hood threatened to fall back, pushed by the wind. Althought he wasn't strong, one could see his athletic muscles highlighted by something that looked like a bodysuit.
"Stop!"
The pursuer was a mage; this, however, could only be deduced from the way his hands acquired a distinct effulgence, from time to time. He wasn't wearing the clothes of a spellcaster (notably the trademark pointed hat, so famous on this country). Thankfully he wasn't wearing long clothes (one could barely walk on them, what about running?); his orange thin tunic and pitch-black pants were fit for the pursuit, his red hair cascading in the air behind him.
"You'll never catch me, bastard!"
The pair was running non-stop: from street to street, alley to alley, none dared to interrupt them. The unfortunate ones that occasionally got in the way were brutally shoved aside, without apologies or the like. The truth is, both men were completely immersed on the simple act of escaping/chasing. So, between the crowd staring, the coldness of the air, the tiredness of the body, the occasional volley of firebolts from the mage, and the sense of the urgency in the soul, both were in a strange kind of trance.
"Can't keep up? I can go all day like this!"
"When I get my hands on you..."
In any case, it was a really strange situation to be in. At this rate, one would already start to think about what the passersby were thinking to themselves. Were those two men playing catch? Was it a theft case? A grudge that escalated into violence? The aftermath of a bad prank?
"A tortoise would be quicker, ya know."
"Shut up!"
Did they even know at all why they were running?
"Did your mom teach you how to run?"
"I'm only behind you because I tripped over yours!"
The race doesn't stop. Likewise, the two men don't show the slightest trace of withdrawal. The first one even started to laugh. He clearly enjoys messing with his pursuer, being always one step ahead. The second one smiles, tirelessly waiting for a slip of the hooded one, watching for a haphazardly motion that will betray the fugitive. Nevertheless, such a mistake is never made.
"Come on, slug! I'm starting to think I'll have to teach you!"
"Moron. I'll see you try with a smoking head!"
And yet, amidst the living kaleidoscope of colors, faces, breezes, flooring, walls, explosions, emotions and thoughts, they can't help but discover a bizarre feeling... something akin to a fellowship, a sense of camaraderie, even. Only if they would stop...
But they won't.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!
RE: The Last Words - Vickarius - 04-15-2019
Welcome again. This time, the narrative is a kind of a "chill down" situation, also in the past.
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Fair Words
The feeling of warmth did spread out from the flames nearby.
Laughter. Joy. Small talk.
The team was celebrating its victory over the last enemy: a winged creature roughly ten feet tall, with a fiendish and sinister aspect. The brave heroes barely escaped alive, but at least they could find some peace now.
So, to say, the party did party - with each member either chatting or eating or drinking or playing music - all around a medium-sized bonfire. Above it, a huge piece of meat on a stick was rotating slightly, oozing its oily juices into the fire. Its movement was supervised by the team's alchemist: an ever-lonely white-haired slender man with a bucket hat, who was the only human being that could possibly be a cook in the whole group - at least, the only one with the skill to turn almost anything into something... Well, palatable.
"T'was a good hunt today, don't you think?"
The alchemist looked up to see the archer, a tanned brunette with a beaming smile, and a confidence well above the average. "It would seem so, judging by this meat's scent", replied the white-haired man.
"Three rabbits and now this veal... And the brat said he didn't think our people would be famished. Ha! Nobody says no to food, that's what I always say", boasted the girl, glaring across the crowd at the swordsman - who was looking at the moon - and sat herself next to the 'cook'. This one, amused, looked to her with a smile between closed lips, and after two or three seconds, replied: "Well, don't you ever get frightened? Even to me, this opponent was scarier than a lot of the little devils we're already accostumed to".
She returned his gaze and answered: "Well, I'm just a human. For a moment, I really thought we were damned, and t'was when I launched forward a barrage of arrows, and the big boy didn't even flinch." (This made the alchemist think swiftly to himself that 'big boy' was a way too cute name to that thing). "Your rain of bombs was more effective, I know, but I made a nice score flingin' that last poisoned arrow up his arse!" - the last part of the speech was almost a shout, and was also accompanied by a frantic wavering of the girl's arms.
The white-haired man did suppress his laughter almost successfuly, but after a inquiring gaze from the brunette, started to talk again: "Oh, sorry, it's just that I find your expansive behavior to be amusing. Please don't take offense... But, since the topic arose, have you always been like that?".
"I used to be a little more quiet when I was a little girl", said the archer, starting to oversee the meat. "However, I was always an imaginative person. So, for every time I did suppress my fantasies, I suffered a lot afterwards. And t'was all 'cause of the fear. Fear of other people's rejection." She played with the ashes around the bonfire, then started again: "Then, as I grew up, I started to notice this pattern, and after a 'helluva' effort, now I'm able to say whatev'r I want", she finished with an ear-to-ear smile.
The alchemist was taken aback by this sudden confession, and couldn't help but express his admiration: "Well, I got to say you've done a really good job. It seems really easy to talk to you now", he said, looking at her face. "On the other hand, I ain't sure if I could ever do something like that. I was ever a lonely man, you know, always by myself. I don't see myself having your flippancy, as to say, but you surely amaze me with your easiness and security, and your self-esteem".
"Be careful, man, don't drool on the fire", she said, snickering and standing up. "And the meat's already charrin', look out", she said as she walked away, leaving behind a very much worried alchemist. Indeed, a smell of burnt meat was now slowly discernible.
The alchemist turned over the veal and looked to the departing archer, his eyes unnecessarily but uncontrolably lingering a bit on her hips and buttocks, before bowing his head and saying to himself:
"To each its own, I guess".
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!
RE: The Last Words - Vickarius - 04-23-2019
Welcome again. Let's breath unto you a little of the murky present, shall we?
I'm sorry for any spelling errors you may encounter.
The Void Words
Here he is.Floating. Endlessly floating.
There's nothing to see here... nothing to hear, nothing to smell, nothing to taste, nothing to touch.
Yet, here he is... That is, if he can still be called "he", to begin with, judging by his own present state. However, even in this perpetual 'middle' state, always being something between half-asleep, half-awake, half-dead, half-alive - he can feel himself, or a fragment of himself.
What he should be called now? A mind? A soul? A spirit? A conscience? Not that it matters much, since no one could know about his conceptualizations. There's no one else here to hear about his thoughts, or his 'inner' turmoil (if there's even an 'in' or 'out' aspect, since he can't feel his own body). Hell, he wouldn't even be able to express his distress, if he wished to!
What definition would best describe his actual condition? Perhaps a total whiteness... Formless and devoid of any stain or blemish, and without almost anything else.
Yet, here he is. Or, better say...
They are.
The only other thing he is able to feel, besides himself, is a 'presence'. No matter how faint it may be, it's there. And the fact that it's there doesn't let his conscience slip, or shut himself forever on the void, quite as if it was a rope he has been holding, to avoid plunging into an abyss of nothingness. By comparison between his 'self' and the 'other' one, he can keep track of his memories and remind himself who he is, what he has done, why he's here - in short, his very own history and identity.
He was sealed alongside his own arch-nemesis, in an act of selfishness, to keep it from destroying everything. Now, ironically, its presence is the only thing that separates him from the immeasurable solitude.
While their relationship didn't change, their battle was definitely stalled, if it would ever resume. Even now, he doesn't want to call upon his enemy - not that he could, anyway. But, even then, he can't help but feel that his opponent's presence reaches to him, almost as if it's calling in a silenced utterance. Albeit still (and probably forever) enemies, both can find something akin to comfort in their mutual fate, a solace born of the mutual context in which they now exist in.
He knows that, for his actions, the world rests in peace. He, on the contrary, doesn't.
Yet, here he is. Here, 'it' also is.
And so, he does reminisce.
Thank you for reading, and feel free to comment or post any positive criticism, if you wish!