Hell flames

(Gah! Fuck the strange line-breaks. This is just a draft anyway.)



Red petals, flickering, burning, fell slowly from the sky. Ascronos stood in the great garden of his dreams,

shrouded in a cloud of falling petals. They kissed and caressed his hair, settling upon his head, they skimmed silky

smooth along the length of his drawn steel. There was no snow here, thought Ascoronos, no cold draghts to bite

though your armour, to freeze your bones, to turn the childrens' faces to ice. Back home in Asgaroth, the snow fell

thick and fast, all year round with no rebate, no mercy and with the fury of an angered god. Here it snowed fire.

Red flames on burning petals, consuming, charring and turning them to ashes. Fumes spread across the garden, vapours

that shrouded the earth, wreathed tendrils of smoke around his armoured feet. They did not touch him, they skirted

along the bare steel that shod his feet. A broken breeze blew through his hair, his long silver-grey locks drifting

gently, shimmering in the light of a full moon that shone through the canopy of dark trees in which he stood

embowered. It was a place of savage beauty, haunted by ghosts of Ascronos' mind, shaped by hopes, dreams and fears

only he could know or understand. Sheltered as he was in the dark garden where the thin grey trees hid him from

view, he could not help but think about the past.

They had him in chains in Zarabusa. Locked and hidden deep in a valley. Within the prison of Din-a-Zar, a place so

dreary that life within it passed in an endless blur of bleakness. They smashed his citadel, burnt his books, stole

his secrets and all the knowledge he had acquired after years of sheltered study. Then they bound him in chains and

threw him into the darkest corner of Din-a-Zar. To what good? Thought Ascronos, there in that garden as the petals

turned from red to withered black. They would not use it, they could not. They would not understand. Dark Magic they

called it, the ignorant fools. Men, they hate what they fear, they fear what they cannot understand. He had the

secrets of life within his grasp. He stood on the brink of a discovery. A revelation that would change the world and

those who lived in it, whether they liked it or not. But one bitterly cold night as the candles in his study

guttered down to dregs and the yellow light spilled shakily upon his ancient books of lore, they came for him. From

his window he could see them down below, pools of lights spilling from where they stood huddled, holding up flaming

brands and shouting for his blood. Their breath formed in clouds of white but their voices were loud and angry.

The plague, they said, was his doing. Black Magic that emenated from his tower, controlled by him. Puny fools, he

had thought. What cared he for their mortal trappings, their day to day goings and comings, their homely woes and

joys, when immortality itself beckoned to him from the shadows of his study, fumed and spread its delicious odour as

he wore the hours away, bent over his jars of bubbling potions. But at last, just as he glimpsed the distant light,

just as it all began to fall into place, they came for him. The cursed plague had done him in. The same plague that

mutilated his servants and left him the sole inhabitant of his castle. He remembered their sickly faces, as they

came to him, begging for leave to go home to their families. Sire, my children are dying, the one with the festering

face has begged. Disgusted, he had turned them all out. Ascronos Hell does not deal with the pestilent miseries of

the crass. Rats, of course it was the rats. He had known it all along. He had long ago taken such precautions with

himself so as not to be bothered by the diseases of village whores. 'Magics', as the ignorant calld it, potions he

had brewed for himself, which he could not nor would not be bothered to produce for the masses. He had come so far

down the path of his secret studies that some of these cures could have effect only on himself, because he was not

like the others. When the villagers had found him years ago, an infant bundled in silver cloth, with a burning star

branded upon his forehead, they had known he would not be like the others. But now, those 'others' stood with

firebrands at his doorstep, and he could do nothing.

He could do nothing. It was a thought that drove him mad, in his days of imprisonment. When he escaped, it was not

a question of course, he would make sure they could never touch him again. He would rise, great and powerful beyond

the scope or thought of the little. He would draw to himself, like minds from all the lands. Those of remarkable

vision and intellect, those fit to rule and conquor, even protect the miserable masses they reigned over. He would

have an army. An army such as the realms had never seen. So that he never had to run again, never flee in haste from

his own domain, sought after by those who could never understand the gleaming truths within it. But there, that

night, the wind rapping the verse of his doom, etching patterns of cold demise in lines of ice upon his window pane,

while the rabble smote their crude contructs of war upon his shivering castle doors, fleeing was all the choice he

had left. Escape was the only possibility. But as he fled down the passages of his citadel, they cornered him. They

smashed the wooden doors and flooded in from all sides, their shouts bounding off the walls as they trapped him and

clapped him in chains. Then came the long and hard journey to Din-a-Zar. They put him in a cage. A cage, like a wild

animal. Him, Ascronos Hell, the greatest mind in all the realms trapped like a beast in a snare, helpless. They

threw him in the dungeons, if so they could be called. Cold and dingy spaces closed in by icy stone, where the few

beams of sunlight that filtered through seemed to die, to wither like the petals that fell all around him, to fade

to grey before they touched his lined and dusty face. Most died of cold there, the others went insane. Ascronos

lived. Lived, fought and dreamed within this icy tomb. For he knew that one day the shackles would break and he

would rise, greater than before. And the world would know the anger of Ascronos Hell.

Ascronos arose from a dream within his dream, into the forest where he took shelter when his mind lost hope, there

in his icy cell. Still, the pathetic petals of red burned and withered around him, as would the fools who confined

him. The ones who had him in chains, the ones who burnt his books, his life, his home. All but his dreams. His

dreams still shone dimly around him, ensnared as they were by tendrils of doubt, much as this forest was shrouded in

half formed mist. A great tide of anger rose within Ascronos as he thought of the woe they had worked upon him and

the vengeance that he would wreak, merciless and cruel when he broke through the fetters of this mortal prison. He

held up his sword in the moonlight. A withered petal petal, once red, now burnt to cinders, drifted down, settled

upon its edge and turned at once to blood. A drop of fresh dark blood gleamed upon his sword. It slid down the

lenght of the sword and dripped down to the shrouded misty earth below. All at once, every petal in the air, every

burnt or burning sheaf of red that twirled in the air around him turned to blood. It rained blood upon the bare head

of Ascronos Hell, drenching him, soaking him and satiating the burning hatred within him, quenching the carnal

craving for retribution that had buried itself in his breast like an arrown and had seeped its acid into his veins.

The trees around him began to shake in a hideous agony. They writhed like trapped beasts that saw their death

rushing at them but could do nothing. They split and exploded into a thousand splinters of wood, burning as they did

so, scattering Hell's fury into the world of his dream. The mist that had calmly wrapped its fingers around his feet

swirled in mad wrath, as if stirred by an angered demon. The demon was within him, him that stood calm in the midst

of chaos, his anger burning, scarring, destroying the outer world. It shone through his frenzied eyes, it fed the

flames that consumed the forest, it turned the petals to blood.

At last it was all over. The remnants of the once calm forest shivered in the aftermath of their creator's fury. The

drops of blood dripped off the ends of Ascronos Hell's hair. They trickled down the edge of his blade. This dream-

world that kept him sane would vanish and he would rise again, greater than before. And the world would know the

anger of Ascronos Hell.

And the prophets spoke of rain. And the coming of him that would bleed the earth, so that the rain fell red and painted the faces of the children. Woe be to the fathers of the hatred for the flames of Hell would burn them.

Palazin's Rescue

This is a random chapter, about a random character. I haven't quite decided what to do with him yet.


"When Palazin awoke, he found that he was lying still, while evening grew heavy upon the Forest of Zanthion. The woods bore the scars of the battle just concluded. Embers and burning leaves, glowing fiercely red, fell from the trees above, drifting lazily through the air like snow. All around him, they drifted and fell. Burnt and burning leaves, scars of a battle of flame and fire. In the growing dark between the dense trees, fireflies burned peacefully with a soft green light, as though no battle had taken place, in that very spot, a few hours ago. As though no screams of dying men had echoed amidst those very trees, as though no blood had dampened the warm earth above which they danced, spreading thier soft green glow. The hum of forest life, the chatter of unkown creatures, slowly filled the air again, but the nauseating odour of death still hung ponderously over the woods. "The Lord of Wyrd", Palazin recollected from his readings of Zanthian lore, "cares not for the fate of man, looks not upon his doings as would a doting father, but with the gaze of the one who only sees and knows, but cannot change."

The smell of burnt wood, of burnt clothes and flesh, seemed more sharp then ever, as Palazin lay upon the damp grass, in the earthy, living heart of the forest. He was lost in slow thought. He pondered on how Life goes on. Though cities fall, though empires crumble to the dust and memories of granduer fade to nothingness, the fabric upon which the rulers trace their will, outlasts them. There he lay, unable to move, unable to do more than think, and watch as his life faded away, with the blue glow of twilight in the east. Blood drained from his body, flowed away from a hundred small wounds, strokes of swords against his skin. His head felt heavy and numb. He had fallen to a blow on his skull, his helm lay shattered by his side. He closed his eyes, and whispered to himself in his native tongue, words of peace and solace. Visions of home and hearth swam before his eyes. The warm fireside in the cold and damp court of Acousticon, where he made his home, where he had lived as a boy before recruitment to the Iron Wolves. The tales his father told him as a boy, remembered clearly still, as though they were painted in myriad hues beneath his eyelids. Tales of the days of yore, when war was a distant whisper on the lips of aged warriors, when peace was the way of the world, and the spires of Zanthia stretched endlessly to the heavens above, in a glorious procalaimation of the collective strength of the races. He saw men and women, clad in fashions now unknown, pacing streets lined with stone and courts inlaid richly with gold. The visions of the Golden Age swam before him, and in the warm glow of dreams, he fell slowly into a deep trance-like sleep.

He did not know how long it was, before something stirred him again. Indeed he knew not, if that gentle tinkling noise was part of his utopian dream, or some reminder of reality intruding upon his final slumber. Slowly it grew louder. A gentle noise like that on a rivulet flowing in green summer wood, echoing gently in the eaves of the forest. Palazin opened his eyes. It was dark now. He felt weak. Weaker than he had ever felt in his life. A light came from where the sound issued. He turned his eyes and saw a robed figure, slight and sure of foot, carrying a dimly burning lamp, walking amongst the dead on the battlefield. From her feet, burdened with ornaments of silver, came the gentle tinkling sound. It was like music to the weary ears of Palazin. With a shudder, he realized that the girl, for girl it was, must surely be a priestess from the nearby camp of Zanthians, the village of Shadoweve. Shadoweve was the very same rebel camp his band of Iron Wolves had endeavoured to destroy. They were trading in stones with King Calashan's foe, Ascronos. Stones mined from land that was now under Calashan's annex.

Had he been able to move, Palazin would have killed her. Driven his blade through her and found a way to escape into neutral territory. But as he was, he could not do any such thing. He knew that the Clan of the Leaf, the priests of Zanthia, did not distinguish between friend and foe, when offering healing. It was their custom to send aid to the battlefield, to help whoever they could. If Palazin did not recieve healing soon, he would not live. He called out to her, as loudly as he could in his weakened state. He knew not the language of the mountain folk, but she would know the cry of a dying man. With a start, the woman turned towards him, and came running to his side, bells tinkling in agitation as she ran. She knelt by his side and gazed into his face.

She was young, he realized. Not yet out of her growing years. Youthful caprice played with the serious studied look of a learned, if young, priestess, upon the features of her face. In the shadows, Palazin saw that she was beautiful, and regal, and that her eyes burnt fierce and green, like the fireflies that danced all around them. She looked worriedly at his careworn face, with the disdain inherant in the eyes of all peaceful folk when they look upon those they consider responsible for all the havoc and bloodshed in the world. She spoke gently in words he did not understand, though he felt more at ease when he heard them. The language of Zanthia is musical and soothing to the ear. She laid slender fingers upon his forehead and spoke something to herself under her breath. Palazin saw that her fingertips were glowing gently and were growing warm upon his forehead. Then, gradually, he felt a deep peace draw heavily around his mind, like a curtain being slowly lowered. He drifted into heavy sleep once more.."

The Ruby of the Fallen: Book I: The Council of Necros

*NOTE: THIS IS A SYNOPSIS ONLY. Excuse the horribly colloquial language, it was written in a hurry.

Intro to the Races: The story is set in a world inhabited by three races- the Zanthians, the Porthas and a humanoid race. For convenience lets call them the Humans. Also there are 2 elusive races- The Elders and The Rhylle, of which no one knows. OK. So there's two big continents- Zarabusa and Krakarn, seperated by an ocean. The continent of Zarabusa is inhabited by the Zanthians and the Porthas, who co-exist peaceably. The continent of Krakarn is inhabited by the Humanoids. Unknown to the three races, on the fringes of Krakarn, there exists a fourth race of 'Elders', wize and ancient as the hills. Deep deep underground, also unknown, live the creatures called 'The Rhylle'. The Zanthians are a war loving race. They are physically well endowed, with strong bodies, but are not as intelligent as the Porthas. Zanthians make great warriors and look sort of like the character "Asgaroth" in the video game "Soul Calibur"...The porthas are acutely intelligent and are scheming and wily by nature. No simmilarity to elves btw, they aren't effeminite and rather than having long blonde hair, they are usually bald. The humans are well..like humans. As for the Elders and Rhylle, i'll come to that later.

BOOK 1:- So this is the situation in the year 1200, the Zanthians and the Porthas decide to unite their nations under one unified government, ruled by a council called "The Council of Necros". It's composed of both Porthas and Zanthians, and i headed by the mysterious and powerfull Ascronos. For a while, the council functions smoothly.... Soon, however, the council members grow hungry for absolute power. Under the scheming military genius of Ascronos, they devise a brilliant plan. The council starts to follow a divide and rule policy. They start sowing the seeds of war between the erstwhile peaceful Porthas and Zanthians. They whisper lies in the years of nobles and leaders. Eventually, Zanthians and Porthas are brought to the brink of war by mutual distrust. The allies fall apart. (Sort of like the USA and Russia after WW2). The war is begun when the council fakes it's own collapse.(1230) Each nation believes the other is guilty for causing the collapse. (It is to be noted though, that all this while, the Council has been planning this. The council is actually united. They fake their own collapse so that a war begins. When both Nations are sufficiently weakened by the war, the Council plans to take control and establish a dictatorship.) This plan works for some time. Eventually though, the people of the two nations realize the duplicity of the council. The council is found to be the cause of the war. The Council flee across the ocean to the other continent of Krakarn. To escape justice, they spend many years in hiding in the human country on Krakarn. These were years of metamorphosis for Ascronos. He learns much and gains evil (excuse the cliche) powers. He adopts the name Ascronos Hell. Eventually the Council spread their lies amongst the humans and convinced them to wage war against against the Zanthians and the Porthas. A new war begins.(1300 approx) Humans under the Council VS Zanthians and Porthas. The might of the Zanthians and the Porthas is too much for the humans, who, though superior in numbers, are no match for the combined might of the Zarabusan nations. It seems likely the Council will lose. Ascronos Hell realizes something must be done fast.....

END BOOK 1