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Golden Field, Scarlet Desert, another Short Story. (Complete


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Title: Golden Field Scarlet Desert

Rating: PG.

Rated for: Blood, gore, violence.

Critique level: [CRITIQUE ENCOURAGED]

 

Please note that this isn't the revision to RAID, it's just another story about Vikings and the like. RAID is currently being fixed up, and I can assure you, I'll have revised part of RAID up by next Friday. Maybe I'll even make it longer?

 

Fields of gold like hair lay atop the head of the Earth. Grain stalks like the many yellow follicles that so adorned the crown, jewels strung amidst this crest, and yet, men lay claim to it. Just as they lay claim to the sea underneath the cliffs of this royal jewel. And soon they will lay claim to the sky above in the days that lay in wait. But for now, the Dominion of Man is as incomplete as it is contested.

 

Two armies walk forth on the opposite sides of the shining sea of dreams, twin ravens meet, one of ebon night and the other of ivory stars. Brothers of the North, fighting for land. For each to extend their empires as far as they can. Who shall win? None can say. For the Norns are the only ones who can see what lies beyond the vaulted keeps of destiny.

 

A breath. A sign of reprieve in a landscape full of emotion. The hatred in their eyes, the fear in their minds. The cruel unknown that is akin to absolute terror locked in their arms and legs. Here, there is no answer, yet many questions. Many doors, but no keys.

 

A movement. Sword in morning air, blade to beckon to the sky above as the shield of gray and sleet move forth to eclipse the ever watchful eye that is the sun. As if the sky itself were to put it's own hands to block it's vision, so that it might not look upon the carnage and massacre that is to unfold. And yet as the visage of the sky is veiled, tears draw down from the heavens overhead. To weep for those who are to pass, and those who have already passed.

 

A yell. This is the whip that spurs the Dogs of War to charge forward. The two ravens fly towards eachother, their talons bared, the armies before them smashing into one another like two rivers meeting in a flood.

 

Walls of wood and metal rise above to bulwark the teeth of the monster that is death. Yet these walls, born of mortal things, buckle and submit to the shadow of oblivion. Limbs leave their owners as they are forced, the rain cannot delude the memories and lives that flow away as the ground beneath them is soaked with the tears of the gods and the excrement of war.

 

A blade pushed into a gut, a roar of triumph so gleeful that Death takes note and silences it. Hacking off the chords that once were played by the fingers of life. Falling to the floor, a head, a broken instrument soon smashed beneath the mailed currents of the ignorant rivers made of the men of the Earth. Cyclones and whirlpools of entrails float throughout this glorious assembly of destiny. Yet the sins of the past would not wash into the sea, for the rivers dried up ever slowly as waters of flesh turned to sand of gore. This place was a lake of dying thoughts, emotions, once unheard of, now exploded into vast orgies of shouts and death throes so laced with tears that were not seen by the arrogant eyes of men and ravens. Fits of sorrow that were accompanied by cries of frustration that lit up the sky and roared across the lands were still ignored by the assembled armies of pride and greed that lurked below the curtain of denial and depression. For now, no longer were there rivers of flesh, but instead a desert who's dirt was naught but blood.

 

One raven kneels to another, a scowl upon his face. And as he is taken back to the cities and walls, the desert sits there, claiming the land once unmolested. And as the raven is stripped naked and dragged through the streets, the desert degrades and mocks the grain that would give so many life. A crimson perversion of golden salvation, another prisoner to lurk in the fortress of the void of all things. One raven is beheaded and the other takes his crown. Believing his control spans over all. And yet, the only true conqueror of the fields of gold, is the desert of scarlet amnesia, where all is consumed by the void.

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I definately like your choice of present tense for this... well, it's not a series of short stories, but in a way it is... yeah. Vikings! Always a good choice.

 

Also, removed the duplicate thread for you.

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Just when I thought it was over, I watched Tiana kick Almira in the head, effectively putting her out of her misery. I did not expect that.
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Vikingzzzz rockzzzzzz.

 

Metaphors work well for you, but perhaps you could expand on them? Like:

 

And as the raven is stripped naked and dragged through the streets,

 

you could go on a bit about "once gorgeous plumage" or something like that.

 

Nice read!

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Darsha Assant turned dark at 2734 posts.

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Thanks for deleting my duplicate Tiana. And thanks for your feedback!

 

Aye! I'll have to take the metaphors into one account, especially if I'm going to be writing a chapter story, which will also be versed around Vikings, though it will be entirely set in a fictional setting, and will actually integrate parts of the Norse culture as well. (No, not all Norsemen were Vikings) Meaning it's not going to be on Earth, and I'll even get into more fictional creatures, such as dragons, Orcs, Trolls, and the like. Maybe even a few custom-made races, eh?

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  • 1 year later...

The metaphors were rampant.

 

You have a lot of sentence fragments, that sort of made it hard for me to follow, but that might not not necessarily be a bad thing over all. It's your call with that. I liked your description, especially when things got musical. "A blade pushed into a gut, a roar of triumph so gleeful that Death takes note and silences it. Hacking off the chords that once were played by the fingers of life. Falling to the floor, a head, a broken instrument soon smashed beneath the mailed currents of the ignorant rivers made of the men of the Earth. Cyclones and whirlpools of entrails float throughout this glorious assembly of destiny." That was great. Then, you got into a water thing, which I also liked. My only criticism was that there were so many metaphors that you might want to trim them back, just because it felt like it was a homework assignment for a creative writing class where the teacher told you to stuff as many metaphors in as possible. There were some typos too, but nothing that a decent beta reader couldn't find in minimal time. But, all in all, it didn't suck.

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[Associate of the Illinois Mafia since November 2002.]

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