Raid (Revised) Complete)

[Osku]

Title: Raid (Revised)

Rating: PG-13

Rated for: Violence.

Critique level: [CRITIQUE ENCOURAGED]

 

Here's my second draft guys. Fixed my tense halfway through the story as well as included some more carnage in there. Hope you all like it.

 

Told you I'd have it up by Friday!

 

The morning fog is dense before the long, wooden head of the ship. Carved in the fierce, polygonal shape of a dragon. It plows through the ice in the water like a serpent, the sea is rough and choppy, as if protesting the ship itself. The gales from the lands of the frozen sun blow hard and sharp. It cuts as a blade through the armor of even the most seasoned of the men aboard the mahogany beast. Under normal conditions, they would be nothing more than pirates, raiders, marauders of the tides. But not on upon this day. The mist and the men have become as one, fused together to form creatures of the most obscure structure. Indeed, even their weapons seemed to have been forged in the very depths of Hel and Niflheim. The teeth of their axes and swords glint so brightly in the day, under this stone-tinted sky. As if sunlight had broken through, and, by chance, touched the tips of these weapons.

 

Yet the sky above remained naught but gray. Devoid of any of sign of the Rapid Traveler, as the Giant have come to say.

 

Their shields, already attached to their bearer's arms, sat like a waiting barrier of frost-laden wood. Ready to destroy any hopes of attacking and killing what lay behind their protective bodies.

 

Amidst this, the ocean and boat become silent for a time. With naught but the sounds of sails flapping in the wind to comfort the edgy minds of the men aboard. The black raven so clearly etched in the fabric upon the white appendages of the mast, it's wings seemed to move in the face of the cold morning breeze. As if the raven were flying.

 

All is as oblivion. But suddenly --

 

--A noise.

 

A man stands and walks to the front of the winged vessel, his mail hauberk is gray and dull, like that of frozen iron. His helmet, the same texture. It covers his bright blonde hair that drapes so freely over his pale yet rough skin, not unlike that of cold, tempered steel. His rugged chin is etched with hints of snow in it, giving it a glared, white, tint, like the mane of a snow giant. At his side, an eldritch broadsword, etched with the language of his forefathers. But in his hands, a bow. Black as ebony, yet light as a feather, forged surely out of some kind of wood, yet it is etched with carvings that one can only guess as to what they may mean.

 

He picks up the bow and draws an arrow, nocking it in the celebrated weapon. His eyes, as blue and clear as the waters in the hot springs, pierces the cloak the mist has set over he and his brethren's vision. Nothing can stand before his gaze. For this is the look of a man who has stood within the mist itself and become as one with it, so many times, that the mist is as much a part of him as he is a part of the mist.

 

Like a statue upon the Isle of Rhodes in the lands near sacred and blessed Miklagaard, he suddenly freezes. His eyes and mind probe the abysmal iron veil for an opening. At first, nothing. But then...

 

..A flash of color. A green tint in the wall of floating metal.

 

A glimpse of life. A man, old as the warrior's broadsword, sits fishing. Oblivious to the fate that was to come to him. Unarmed and unaware, there would be no Valhalla for him. Only the cold and lonely comfort of a dishonorable death in the bowels of Hel.

 

A sound. Like that of twine being picked.

 

A shriek. A scream of wood as it soars through the air.

 

A hit. A death. A soul leaves this life for the next.

 

The man has only seconds, he tries to scream, but he cannot. This arrow that is lodged inside of his neck prevents himself from doing so.

 

The old man dies in a storm of frustration and utter surprisal that goes unheard of. He is as a small ripple in a large ocean. Unnoticed. Uncared for.

 

And as his body falls upon the sand of the beach he fished upon, the ground consumed his blood. Letting it sink inside it's ravenous yellow maw that extended around the entire island, in a vain attempt trying to consume it. The forest green that lay beyond the reach of the yellow so very taunting to it's efforts.

 

And yet, this was only a small procession in the grand parade of madness and insanity that was to come marching forth to this place. Bearing the banners of discord and chaos under the guise of helmets and shirts of small leaves of steel.

 

Wooden brown clashes with sparkling yellow as the ship lands upon the beachhead. Like fleas leaping from the back of a great furred beast, the vandals descend from the rails of the ship and charge up the hill towards the town that lay sleeping in the green meadow before them. Their grunts and snorts filled the air, letting off hot steam into the cold morning breeze. As if to taint this temple of tranquility with their presence.

 

The town lay ever-sleeping still, in the early hours of the twilight.

 

Like an undefended fortress that sat with it's gates unbarred and unlocked. The town sat there. Wandering in the everlasting void of 'maybes' and 'possibles' that so swam in that great white chasm.

 

The warriors storm into the village like dogs unleashed. Their throwing axes and knives tossed like stones through the windows, their armored feet smashing the poor workmanship of the town's many doors.

 

People awake, and soon, the town of slumber and everlasting midnight peace is now an orchestra of fear and insanity.

 

Men try in vain to protect their families and neighbors, but all is as in vain. Weak Celtic iron like butter to the hot knives of the cold Nordic steel that so destroys them. Blades untested by weak, knock-kneed men are nothing compared to axes that have earned places in the sagas of the Norns. Wielded by heroes of the old times. The times before the Christ-god. The time of Heroes.

 

Wills are shattered, as are bones. Fools with arms of flesh are riveted with wooden shrapnel as they raise their vessels of vain guardianship to defend themselves. But to no avail. Their beloved, poorly made driftwood shields explode like wooden grenades, and go through necks, eyeballs, and vital organs. Many choke to death. Others die blind. Others bleed to death.

 

Some die while blind, choking, and bleeding.

 

Inexperienced fighters are beheaded in battle, some survive with missing arms or legs, they crawl away but are trampled beneath the cold, cold, feet of their oppressors. Ever to wallow in their despicable deaths in the annals of the afterlife.

 

Those that bathe so in hopeless sorrow attempt to hide under beds and in closets, seeking shelter from the inevitable fate that has so prostrated itself before them all. Pursuers of foreign winds drag the reluctant from their homes like tentacles of a great beast that will not be denied it's sustenance. For it has come too far now. Too far now to be stopped. Too far now to cease.

 

In the streets, the blood of men flows like a river, in them, the drowning victims that could never accept their fate. These are the wounded and the old. These are the fighters of the truth. These are the deniers.

 

These are the heroes.

 

Too weak too work or too strong to be wives, they drown in the mistakes of their others, they drown in the weaknesses of their brothers and sisters. It is not their fault, but that of others.

 

They shall not live to see their shame.

 

Their last moments of eyesight are filled with the fires of destruction as they lay upon the cobbled streets looking up at the sky, the embers and ashes gives it a color of that of Niflheim's deepest chambers. The heavens above seemingly populated with the faces of demons and tormentors and villains, as they cackle and delight in the misfortune of those below them. As if they had died a death not worth dying.

 

Yet it is not with delight that they laugh, but rather, with envy. For no soul as black as theirs could ever truly fight for something that they believed in, and said that it was 'good', or 'just'. No. Nothing but damnation for them. Eternal damnation. Infinite dishonor.

 

And as the town and the weak burn under the fires of hatred and loathing brought upon by those native to Frozen Shores so distant, the creatures of the mist load their prizes upon the great, raven-winged beast with shackles and lines of rope. Some resisting, some uncaring. Some being beaten, some fleeing, only to drop to their knees moments later, the end of their life lodged in their back.

 

The wings of the Raven begin to stir, and it's belly is rewarded with the conquest of war here. Empty when it came to shore, now full with the souls of the dead and the beaten. The lost and the damned. The forsaken fools who did not have the honor to die honorably, now are sitting in quiet shame and contemplation. Unbeknown to them of fate, be it good or evil, that awaits them upon the icy shingles of the roof of the world. And even as they sail towards their new homes, back into the depths of the mist, back beyond the transparent iron wall, away from the choppy and unwelcoming waters, they will talk, and they will say, in their dreary, hope-robbed voices..

 

..that in the end, it was all just another...

 

...Raid.

[Jidai Geki]

Initial impressions: it's far, far too flowery. Sometimes less is more, and when every adjective is accompanied by an attendant simile waxing lyrical on the description of said adjective, it becomes disjointed, convoluted and difficult to read. In fact, some of the similes, like this:

 

Their shields, already attached to their bearer's arms, sat like a waiting barrier of frost-laden wood

 

are redundant. Presumably the shields are already a barrier of frost-laden wood, so describing them as being like this is superfluous.

 

In general, I would say almost everything is a tad over-described, and detracts from, rather than helps to paint, the picture of your story.

 

Also, multiple instances of "it's" in place of "its" (the possessive form has no apostrophe).

 

There was another part which was actually quite funny, but I suspect unintentionally so:

 

Their beloved, poorly made driftwood shields explode like wooden grenades, and go through necks, eyeballs, and vital organs. Many choke to death. Others die blind. Others bleed to death.

 

Some die while blind, choking, and bleeding.

 

That part, and I don't mean this in a belittling or mocking way, worked great as comedy, but if it's a serious tone you're going for, then this sort of disrupts that.

 

Is this a standalone piece, or will there be more to follow?

[Osku]

 

Is this a standalone piece, or will there be more to follow?

 

I intended it to be a standalone piece, but I think I'm going to try a few more times on revising this story.