Post by Cali on Oct 13, 2010 20:56:17 GMT 1
After watching a YouTube Let's Play of Nintendo's 1987 flawed gem, Zelda II: The Adventures of Link, I immediately had the urge to write something in its universe. Sort of a somewhat darker incarnation of the Zelda franchise, where another Link lives in a world slowly being tainted by sorcery and black magic.
Other inspirations include Conan, Mad Max, Yojimbo, Hexen, The Road, and other works.
Tell me what you all think. I'm kind of wondering if I can take this farther.
___________
I
In the early days of the Dark Age of Sorcery
Once more, once more again
Link, the crusader of time
The ageless arbiter
Was once again reincarnated
To maintain peace upon the realm
No matter how dire the need
Reluctant this incarnate was
Feeling eternally cursed, yet not blessed
To walk amongst a damnable wasteland
To endure a maelstrom of decay
To the southwest
Always to the southwest
A shallow trench formed as the grains of sand were parted by the hooves of the horse, as well as the half dead man being yanked along the desert. He had been stripped of apparel and was screaming as his mortal coil neared the status of a lifeless husk. The skin on his back and a section of his collar was raw and skinless, and a trail of dark red began to form upon the light brown causeway.
From atop the edge of a dune that curved up toward the east, a pair of boots were planted, the outer fur caked with flakes of sand. Inside them stood a man at the closer edge of adulthood, possibly nineteen or in his early twenties. His face looked as if had been chiseled to resemble an ancient imperial prince, and he carried a shock of platinum blonde hair that reached just past his dagger shaped ears. He was clad in the green threads of a forester, including a peasant’s cap with matching color.
At his back was a military grade traveler’s pack, along with a finely painted metal shield that bore the colors and religious insignia of the land of Hyrule to the North. On his belt he carried small empty jars, as well as a jewel encrusted canteen. Far on the edge of his left hip, a thin dagger, a bodkin he carried with him. This was not his only method of attack, as dangling to his backpack was a bow made mostly of a mystical yew, the quiver attached to his right thigh.
His brow adjusted to the evening western horizon as the man was carried along it. There the man cried his last, his voice too hoarse and weak to bellow in pain any longer. A second man on horseback followed behind them, this one dressed in purple and white desert clothing as was the one in front, who happened to be grinning and snickering under his face shroud.
“Alright, he’s had enough!” The thug to the rear shouted in between his steed’s gallops, his voice alone enough to tinder the impression that he was very much in charge, and the kid atop the dune suspected that he had more underlings than were currently present in this stick of the Ern desert. Both riders heaved the reins of their mares, the rearmost dismounted once his mount had skidded to a full halt. His robes whipped to his side from the wind, the dust carrying to the north. He reached under his desert clothing, producing a curved and thick scimitar, glimmering with silver laden novelty. He knelt on one knee and mashed it’s edge through the dying man’s neck, severing his miserable head and causing it to roll away from his body, unraveling a trail of crimson along the way.
The eyebrows of the kid from the dune atoll contorted into moonlike crecents. The ripened youth was no stranger to wanton actions of destructive and negative violence, but below the green tunic and under a scarred chest, was a beating heart, pumping blood to his mental matter that sustained his conscience. Thuggish actions to express dominance and power, not akin to boneheaded masculinity were not rare in the land he was from. His desire for peace and good spat him off the dune's edge and atop the desert floor toward the two men surrounding the battered and freshly dead decapitated corpse.
The dismounted man in purple had retrieved the head that tumbled away in the sand, ready to get back on his uneasy ride. His hazel eyes met the kid as he numbered no more than a few yards away from him, and his desert boots skidded to a stop, a gaze colder than that of the severed head that he clutched by a lock of hair. The second rider had spotted the green clad before his superior, but uttered not a word of it, a three and a half fingered hand upon a stone hilted sword that hibernated within its scabbard. The boots of the kid stopped, one foot in front of the other, his shoulders and body in a wary, crooked stance in the presence of the two desert riders.
The group eyed one another past a sixty second mark, the leader being the first to reach into his hip pocket, a small handful of sapphire colored rupees glistening within an outreached hand. "I'm not sure if you saw what it was you think you saw." His mouth twisted into a spidery smirk, his jet black goatee contorting to look like the jaws of some macabre creature. "This bastard was assaulted by hackcrows, was he not?"
The youth lifted his arms chest length, grasping the crusts of the straps of his pack and pulling them apart. The backpack slid off his shoulders and hit the ground with a dusty thud, its contents rattling in non rythmitic dissonance. The bandit leader cocked his head to his right, and flipping a shorthanded nod to his underling. "Time to make your bones, Ayesuc. Run him through, if you please."
Ayesuc, the second rider's hands jittered in anticipation, the tremors making his mount anxious as it expressed this emotion through a series of hoof beats than rotated the way it faced. He finally nodded, turned his head to the right and spat into the sand. His previously scarred and mangled hand tore out a vintage cutlass, his heels clicking into the sides of his mare which took off in the direction of the kid in green.
It was hardly a reasonable distance between the thugs in purple robes and the young man, though it was made quite evident that the former wanted to rub out the latter's presence as quickly as possible. Efficiency however, was not in their favor, at least not against these unforecasted odds. With remarkable and seemingly inconcievable skill, the scraggly youth slid his blade out of its scabbard. His fingers hiked down below the hand guard to the very tip of the bodkin like the legs of an insect. As the rider drew nearer, they both craned their arms back ready to strike a blow.
The kid had dived out of the way, landing and sprawling into the sand. The bodkin had left his fingertips just before his evasive action, and following it was a white hot jeering scream of Ayesuc, whom had dared to try and attack him. The leader had only just mounted upon his own horse and looked upon the scene. Ayesuc, somehow barely managing to struggle through vehement pain that he had never knew before, yanked upon the reins of his horse into one direction and back into the opposite direction, as if fleeing. The bodkin had sank through his left cheek, two thirds of the path from it making contact with its guarded hilt. The blade itself had barred his tongue down, keeping him from communicating even less coherently than he would have beforehand.
The one in charge glared at the green clad, who had only just now climbed to his feet. Their gaze met one another, fire bouncing back within his pupil like a crazed and trapped gerbil. His neck and head trembled, and he let out a masculine scream that rivaled that of his underling. The horse under him bucked in fear, whinnying in crescendo with the other two humans.
The youth readied his bow, his killing finger grasping the feathered end of one of the arrows at his thigh. Once the thug leader's lungs ran airless, he whipped his reins and sped after his partner. He had made his wordless vow to find him again and kill him, but letting Ayesuc succumb to his wound, or wander off into the desert blinded by agony was not something he desired to result. Their horses kicked dust behind them, shrouded their form in clouds of brown. The green clad sighed, accumulating his belongings and proceeding into the desired direction. He had lost his bodkin, leaving him with merely the killing utensils of a common archer. Not entirely a loss, as archery tackle was something he was quite distinguished in the use of.
His feet made more tracks upon the Ern, the sun finally setting. The air began to cool considerably, and orange and red dots of light summoned themselves in a concentrated point on the horizon. The trading hamlet of Herkiso, his destination, and possibly that of his attackers.
Other inspirations include Conan, Mad Max, Yojimbo, Hexen, The Road, and other works.
Tell me what you all think. I'm kind of wondering if I can take this farther.
___________
I
In the early days of the Dark Age of Sorcery
Once more, once more again
Link, the crusader of time
The ageless arbiter
Was once again reincarnated
To maintain peace upon the realm
No matter how dire the need
Reluctant this incarnate was
Feeling eternally cursed, yet not blessed
To walk amongst a damnable wasteland
To endure a maelstrom of decay
To the southwest
Always to the southwest
A shallow trench formed as the grains of sand were parted by the hooves of the horse, as well as the half dead man being yanked along the desert. He had been stripped of apparel and was screaming as his mortal coil neared the status of a lifeless husk. The skin on his back and a section of his collar was raw and skinless, and a trail of dark red began to form upon the light brown causeway.
From atop the edge of a dune that curved up toward the east, a pair of boots were planted, the outer fur caked with flakes of sand. Inside them stood a man at the closer edge of adulthood, possibly nineteen or in his early twenties. His face looked as if had been chiseled to resemble an ancient imperial prince, and he carried a shock of platinum blonde hair that reached just past his dagger shaped ears. He was clad in the green threads of a forester, including a peasant’s cap with matching color.
At his back was a military grade traveler’s pack, along with a finely painted metal shield that bore the colors and religious insignia of the land of Hyrule to the North. On his belt he carried small empty jars, as well as a jewel encrusted canteen. Far on the edge of his left hip, a thin dagger, a bodkin he carried with him. This was not his only method of attack, as dangling to his backpack was a bow made mostly of a mystical yew, the quiver attached to his right thigh.
His brow adjusted to the evening western horizon as the man was carried along it. There the man cried his last, his voice too hoarse and weak to bellow in pain any longer. A second man on horseback followed behind them, this one dressed in purple and white desert clothing as was the one in front, who happened to be grinning and snickering under his face shroud.
“Alright, he’s had enough!” The thug to the rear shouted in between his steed’s gallops, his voice alone enough to tinder the impression that he was very much in charge, and the kid atop the dune suspected that he had more underlings than were currently present in this stick of the Ern desert. Both riders heaved the reins of their mares, the rearmost dismounted once his mount had skidded to a full halt. His robes whipped to his side from the wind, the dust carrying to the north. He reached under his desert clothing, producing a curved and thick scimitar, glimmering with silver laden novelty. He knelt on one knee and mashed it’s edge through the dying man’s neck, severing his miserable head and causing it to roll away from his body, unraveling a trail of crimson along the way.
The eyebrows of the kid from the dune atoll contorted into moonlike crecents. The ripened youth was no stranger to wanton actions of destructive and negative violence, but below the green tunic and under a scarred chest, was a beating heart, pumping blood to his mental matter that sustained his conscience. Thuggish actions to express dominance and power, not akin to boneheaded masculinity were not rare in the land he was from. His desire for peace and good spat him off the dune's edge and atop the desert floor toward the two men surrounding the battered and freshly dead decapitated corpse.
The dismounted man in purple had retrieved the head that tumbled away in the sand, ready to get back on his uneasy ride. His hazel eyes met the kid as he numbered no more than a few yards away from him, and his desert boots skidded to a stop, a gaze colder than that of the severed head that he clutched by a lock of hair. The second rider had spotted the green clad before his superior, but uttered not a word of it, a three and a half fingered hand upon a stone hilted sword that hibernated within its scabbard. The boots of the kid stopped, one foot in front of the other, his shoulders and body in a wary, crooked stance in the presence of the two desert riders.
The group eyed one another past a sixty second mark, the leader being the first to reach into his hip pocket, a small handful of sapphire colored rupees glistening within an outreached hand. "I'm not sure if you saw what it was you think you saw." His mouth twisted into a spidery smirk, his jet black goatee contorting to look like the jaws of some macabre creature. "This bastard was assaulted by hackcrows, was he not?"
The youth lifted his arms chest length, grasping the crusts of the straps of his pack and pulling them apart. The backpack slid off his shoulders and hit the ground with a dusty thud, its contents rattling in non rythmitic dissonance. The bandit leader cocked his head to his right, and flipping a shorthanded nod to his underling. "Time to make your bones, Ayesuc. Run him through, if you please."
Ayesuc, the second rider's hands jittered in anticipation, the tremors making his mount anxious as it expressed this emotion through a series of hoof beats than rotated the way it faced. He finally nodded, turned his head to the right and spat into the sand. His previously scarred and mangled hand tore out a vintage cutlass, his heels clicking into the sides of his mare which took off in the direction of the kid in green.
It was hardly a reasonable distance between the thugs in purple robes and the young man, though it was made quite evident that the former wanted to rub out the latter's presence as quickly as possible. Efficiency however, was not in their favor, at least not against these unforecasted odds. With remarkable and seemingly inconcievable skill, the scraggly youth slid his blade out of its scabbard. His fingers hiked down below the hand guard to the very tip of the bodkin like the legs of an insect. As the rider drew nearer, they both craned their arms back ready to strike a blow.
The kid had dived out of the way, landing and sprawling into the sand. The bodkin had left his fingertips just before his evasive action, and following it was a white hot jeering scream of Ayesuc, whom had dared to try and attack him. The leader had only just mounted upon his own horse and looked upon the scene. Ayesuc, somehow barely managing to struggle through vehement pain that he had never knew before, yanked upon the reins of his horse into one direction and back into the opposite direction, as if fleeing. The bodkin had sank through his left cheek, two thirds of the path from it making contact with its guarded hilt. The blade itself had barred his tongue down, keeping him from communicating even less coherently than he would have beforehand.
The one in charge glared at the green clad, who had only just now climbed to his feet. Their gaze met one another, fire bouncing back within his pupil like a crazed and trapped gerbil. His neck and head trembled, and he let out a masculine scream that rivaled that of his underling. The horse under him bucked in fear, whinnying in crescendo with the other two humans.
The youth readied his bow, his killing finger grasping the feathered end of one of the arrows at his thigh. Once the thug leader's lungs ran airless, he whipped his reins and sped after his partner. He had made his wordless vow to find him again and kill him, but letting Ayesuc succumb to his wound, or wander off into the desert blinded by agony was not something he desired to result. Their horses kicked dust behind them, shrouded their form in clouds of brown. The green clad sighed, accumulating his belongings and proceeding into the desired direction. He had lost his bodkin, leaving him with merely the killing utensils of a common archer. Not entirely a loss, as archery tackle was something he was quite distinguished in the use of.
His feet made more tracks upon the Ern, the sun finally setting. The air began to cool considerably, and orange and red dots of light summoned themselves in a concentrated point on the horizon. The trading hamlet of Herkiso, his destination, and possibly that of his attackers.