Last time we got a little bit of a history lesson, a background to The Strife which is going to be important to remember later on. Feel free to go and read it again; and if this is your first forray into Story Sunday, do check the prologue out, because we’re continuing this week with a time skip, and a letter from a dying man.
Happy Sunday reading, and see you next week!
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After a long dry spell, I’ve decided to dip my toe back into some creative writing. And how fortuitous, it’s Inktober! The good folks over at Kugali Media have been kind enough to come up with prompts for those of us on the Mother Continent who need a little inspiration. So, for this month’s Sunday installations, I’ll be using selected prompts for the week and trying to bring them to life!
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In the endless and violent chaos whose ravenous emptiness continually spawned and destroyed things both terrible and innocent, survival for a short time was all that could be hoped for. Creatures without form battled and consumed each other, feeding the universe’s perpetual wastes. However, in this chaotic time, two dared to wrest their souls from the clutches of eternity.
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“what is your name?” he asked, patient and unscathing. “my own is Ronin”
she flittered in the wind, neither here nor there, her eyes washed clean of colour. but she remembered this one… “you are-” she began, then fell silent as the memory slipped beyond her careless grasp.
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Qast awoke with a rasping breath, clawing at her hair. Her eyes narrowed and darted about the room as her hands deftly reached for two of the daggers she kept concealed about her bed. The darkness offered no sound and she could sense no presence in it except that of her sleeping sister, and yet she felt invaded. The faint whispering which had woken her came again, crawling to the fore of her mind and scratching at her defences. As her heart slowed she realised she knew this presence. She put her daggers back in their places then began the process of calming herself and opening her mind. A voice crackled into clarity.
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Rilashul’s body had been beautiful, if she remembered correctly, and if Mellin was to be trusted. She had memories; in so much as she could have them, of dark caramel skin and of soft, woolly curls which hung tightly about her face.
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perhaps, when all is said and done, you will still call us monsters. perhaps not. but seeing that i am the final calamity, how shall you survive long enough to condemn me?
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“Girl!” Zhara’s voice rang out of the window and to the garden, shrill and aged. He coughed from the effort and thumped weakly at his chest. The girl who’d been tending to the fruit trees turned her head towards the small cottage and smiled, waving before wiping her hands on the sides of her clothes and making her way to the porch door. She brushed her feet vigorously on the worn sack which served as a welcoming mat before entering the kitchen.
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Faril settled in his reading room, lighting the lamp which stood on the desk. He shuffled papers about to make room for the small book which sat nestled in one of the inner pockets of his robe then placed it reverently in the newly cleared space. The diary radiated an ancient power which he knew kept it from crumbling to dust. The librarian smiled grimly at his handiwork and opened the cover carefully. As the light from his lamp spread across the first page, words wrote themselves slowly, the familiar script bringing a stinging sensation to his eyes.
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Rena crouched behind the row of garden bushes which lined Faril’s quarters, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. She hardly noticed the chill which had entered her bones, nor the painful cramping in her arms and legs from holding still so long. The librarian’s reading room was now empty, save for the book, which still gave off an other-worldly glow. Her mind struggled to process what had just happened, half of it rejecting it as delusion and the other shuddering at the implications.
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