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The return of Terror

Discussion in 'Fan Fiction' started by Zarniwoop, Jun 29, 2008.

  1. Zarniwoop

    Zarniwoop IncGamers Member

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    The return of Terror

    I wrote this in response to a post on the normal forums about how they will work out his return. One thing led to another. I hope you like it.




    The Worldstone shattered at Tyreal's blow. Our only hope to stop Baal's mad plans. It's power was as of the Gods, but even that mysterious structure was imperfect and not intended to be ripped from the hidden seals it was meant to protect. A crack in the void. An imaginary imperfection in the seal buried far below the great keep in a place men cannot imagine. All might have been well but for our inability to conquer fear. Destruction can be repaired. Hatred passes as quickly as friendship. But fear... Fear lives with us like a soft blanket. It drives us forward. And it holds us back. Just the memory of Diablo was strong enough to find that trembling thread in the impenetrable and return to the realm, without corporeal form, pulled back by the whispered tales of those unable to forget. He enters alone. Not a true mind or being. Just the dust of terror. The whispered myth in the wind. Slowly, as the feel of him in the air lingers, his mindless, formless power grows.

    Time passes. The years roll on... until.....

    An old man walks slowly through the woods without knowing why. He has walked through hill, swamp, and mountain for weeks. His emaciated body is done for this world. His final thought is to remember... his last conscious effort is to push the memory away with his heart pounding and bile in his mouth. He remembers the sense of terror that washed over him as he sat up in his bed, the dream clinging to him like a tangible miasma. He remembers the terror that clamped onto him forever and then sunk into his bones. He remembers the hint of anguish at being forever lost in an empty place. And a terrifying taint of anger. A wrath that poured determination into him so strongly that it was like a physical blow. And a desire for revenge. Until all the world burns. He knows he lives only because of the power of the dream that will not end. And will not forgive.

    He reaches the forgotten graveyard in the wreck of a village not even the forest will touch. Rain has barely softened the char on timbers that litter the grounds. The only thing standing is a small sign that hangs over a branch. Blown by the wind or by force he knows and cares not. If he could have read, it would have held just one word for him. Tristram.

    Without knowing how, he finds a place in the midst of a collection of what were once markers of the dead. And with his bare hands he digs.... Clink.... He stops and immediately grabs his head at a spike of wrath that he may have damaged the treasure he seeks. His eyes begin to roll into his shrunken sockets but his back stiffens with a strength never intended for his frail, awkward limbs.

    With the care of a mother handling a babe, he exhumes the skeletal remains with a light touch. Over hours he lays the body out, not a shard of bone or a finger out of place. His limbs fall to his side. His head lolling to one side. It is almost done. Even fear cannot drive him much longer. He stands. Without a change in expression he stabs his stiffened fingers into his own chest. They retract without a stumble with his own beating heart. With empty eyes, he opens his mouth and words never heard by any mortal race grate into the blackness. And his heart burns. With the last word, his form blackens and crumbles to dust, the heart falling with a thump onto the shattered bones of the unknown. They explode, shattering the night with a flash that is gone to quickly to have been real.

    The forest almost seems to hold it's breath.

    Without warning the trees bend nearly double, almost whimpering in the wall of wind that carries... something scabrous. With a flash that punctures the very earth, lightning consumes the shallow grave and most of the remaining hints that a town once stood here. With a sound like all the sorrow and suffering since the dawn of days the storm stops and the clouds disperse. A form rises from the ground. Haltingly. Then with increasing smoothness. It's head is down. It stands thus for many minutes. With inhuman speed the figure leaps to the top of the crumbling, stone wall and screams with a voice like knives being dragged over granite coated in tears. The howl goes on for what seems an age. Horrible beyond words. The woods seem to wilt.

    At last it ends. And Lysandus the betrayed stands tall in the shadows of the town that once claimed him and nearly all the world. But, he remembers nothing of such things. All he knows is that his master is gone. He seems to listen. Motionless. His eyes come alight with the fires of hell. He strides purposely into the night. He stops once, at the wreckage of a cathedral. The voice of hopelessness rends the night.

    "The Lord of Terror will walk again".
     
    Last edited: Jun 29, 2008
  2. Zarniwoop

    Zarniwoop IncGamers Member

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    Re: The return of Terror

    I wasn't happy with a few words, and a few twists of phrase. So I have updated to the one below.

    I realize that most here post epic stories that are wonderful. I just really liked this one, so I'm unable to leave it be.
     
  3. Zarniwoop

    Zarniwoop IncGamers Member

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    Re: The return of Terror

    The Worldstone shattered at Tyreal's titanic blow. Our only hope to stop the demon Baal's mad plans. It's power was as of the Gods, but even that mysterious structure was imperfect and not intended to be ripped from the hidden seals it was meant to protect. A crack forms in the void. An imaginary imperfection in the seal buried far below the remains of the great keep in a place men cannot imagine. All might have been well but for our inability to conquer fear. Destruction can be repaired. Hatred passes as quickly as friendship. But fear... Fear lives with us like a soft blanket we clutch to ourselves in the darkness. It drives us forward, while it enslaves us. Just the memory of Diablo was strong enough to find that trembling thread in the impenetrable and return to the realm, without corporeal form, pulled back by the whispered tales of those unable to forget. He enters alone. Not a true mind or being. Just the dust of terror. The whispered myth in the shadows. Slowly, as the feel of him in the air lingers, his mindless, formless power grows.

    Time passes. The years roll on... until.....

    An old man walks slowly through the woods without knowing why. He has walked through hill, swamp, and mountain for weeks. His emaciated body is done for this world. His final thought is to try to remember how he came to be here. His last conscious effort is to push the memory away with his heart pounding and bile in his mouth. He remembers the sense of terror that washed over him as he sat up in his bed, the dream clinging to him like a tangible miasma. He remembers the terror that clamped onto him forever and then sank into his bones. He remembers the hint of anguish at being forever lost in an empty place, and a terrifying taint of anger. A wrath that poured determination into him so strongly that it was like a physical blow. And he remembers a desire for revenge until all the world burns. He knows he lives only because of the power of the dream that will not end, and will not forgive.

    He comes to a forgotten graveyard in a wreck of a village not even the forest will touch. Rain has barely softened the char on timbers that litter the grounds. The only thing standing is a small sign that hangs over a branch. Blown by the wind or by force he knows and cares not. If he could have read, it would have held just one word for him. Tristram. Without knowing how, he finds a place in the midst of a collection of what were once markers of the dead. And with his bare hands he digs.... Clink.... He stops and immediately grabs his head at a spike of wrath that he may have damaged the treasure he seeks. His eyes begin to roll into his shrunken sockets but his back stiffens with a strength never intended for his frail, awkward limbs.

    With the care of a mother handling a babe, he exhumes the skeletal remains with a light touch. Over hours he lays the body out, not a shard of bone or a finger out of place. His limbs hang limply. His head lolls to one side and never moves again. It is almost done. Even fear cannot drive him much longer. He stands. Without a change in expression he stabs his stiffened fingers into his own chest. With an inhuman strength and indifference his hands pull forth his own heart, sending gore arcing into the night. With empty eyes, he opens his mouth and words never heard by any mortal race grate into the blackness. His heart begins to burn with black fire. As the last word rasps over his lifeless tongue, his form blackens and crumbles to dust, the heart falling with the sounds of doom onto the shattered bones of the unknown. They explode, shattering the night with a flash that is gone to quickly to have been real.

    The forest almost seems to hold it's breath.

    Without warning the trees bend nearly double, almost whimpering in the wall of wind that carries something scabrous. With a flash that punctures the very earth, lightning consumes the shallow grave and most of the remaining hints that a town once stood here. With a sound like all the sorrow and suffering since the dawn of days the storm stops and the clouds disperse. A gigantic skeletal form rises haltingly from the ground, first like a puppet, then with increasing smoothness. It's head is down. It stands thus for many minutes. With inhuman speed the figure leaps to the top of the crumbling, stone wall and screams with a voice like knives being dragged over granite coated in tears. The howl goes on for what seems an age. Horrible beyond words. The woods seem to wilt.

    At last it ends as Lysandus appears to freeze in uncertainty. He heavy skull moves back and forth as if posessed. His great hands convulse turning the stones of the wall to pebbles. Then Lysandus the betrayed stands tall in the shadows of the town that once claimed him and nearly all the world. But, he remembers nothing of such things now. All he knows is that his master is gone. He seems to listen. Motionless. His eyes come alight with the fires of hell. He strides purposely into the night. He stops once, at the wreckage of a cathedral. The voice of hopelessness rends the night.

    "The Lord of Terror will walk again".
     
    Last edited: Jun 29, 2008
  4. Zarniwoop

    Zarniwoop IncGamers Member

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    Re: The return of Terror

    I was hoping for at least a "my God, could you have packed another cliche in there?"

    I guess it's only for story length fiction?

    Am I in the ballpark of readable assuming I cut out the over the top?

    It's choppy by intent. It's a narrative when I read it.
     
  5. RevenantsKnight

    RevenantsKnight IncGamers Member

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    Re: The return of Terror

    Welcome to the Fan Fiction Forum, Zarniwoop. Pieces of any length are welcome here, though as you might have noticed, this place is a little slow these days. It’s been only recently that I’ve had a chance to do something about that.

    On your piece: it is over the top, but not ridiculously dramatic, and while that’s hit-or-miss, I can be partial to a little theatrics myself, so there are some phrasings in that vein that I liked, most so in the first paragraph. After that, there’s a lot of vivid, easily imaginable description, though it didn’t grip me as the opening did and its recognized choppiness does get in the way a little, probably because it reads more like a report of events than a narrative at that point. I think the main thing that keeps me from easily hearing this as a narrative is the way you present the description and detail; you lay it all out like a list of “He did X, he did Y, he did Z,†and while that’s clear, it doesn’t sound much like what someone would say when telling a story. This is indeed subjective, and I don’t claim to be an authority on this, but I might try to cut out some of the smaller actions and details that could be assumed, as well as vary the sentence structures a bit (which you do to some degree, but there are still list-like clumps of the same thing repeated, such as in the second and fifth full paragraphs.) I’m also not sure who “Lysandus†is, so the ending lost meaning to me. Am I just being thick?

    All that said, though, I think you’re very much in the ballpark of readable, as you put it; as I said, there are some phrasings and imagery here that look decent to me. I made it through, after all. Thanks for posting!
     

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