This has terms from DnD. This is fantasy, an ddo keep an open mind when you read this. This is chapter one of a book I am working on. Thank you. Also, this is under revision. Any suggestions would be appreciated.
Layer two, the Underdark:
Through the shallow wall of the northern-tier, passing many Tangent guards, and orgies of drow. A lone, dark-skinned female moved casually, with the deadly silence, granted by a rare mental power. Covered in a dull metoplasmic pulse, of a light crimson aura, that is not recognized as a normal pattern, formed by magic, or alignment, but psionic or mental prowess. This power is unknown to the common being, making it where most could not detect if their mind, or body was being attacked, until it was far too late.
Using such power to hide in plain sight, or at least the cold comfort of the shadows, welding only a blade known too all of the underdark as a brutal whip, or a vicious, painfully thin slashing weapon. A weapon the drow had tortured her with, along with several of their acid coated daggers, chains still connected to four limbs from when she has escaped, broke free, or used a certain aspect of her power to dislodge. This weapon is known as the Whip Blade.
Bonded chains would clank softly as they were dragged, but would not be heard, even by the drow's sensitive, or extensive hearing capability. Ethereal plane was used, thus reality was a figment, and nothing within it stood in the path of this illusive drey.
Quickly, this female escaped the compound, and crept up to a location now occupied by a male high elf, who seemed to be peering out of the doorway. His distraction was the perfect means to sneak up out of the blackened whole of her mind's creation. Whip blade in hand, moving with such poise, such deliberate ease and lack of noise. That is, except for light clanks of chain meeting with the floor. Some things just could not be helped.
This female was wearing stolen black web armor like the one worn by this pale elf, and an arsenal of 'weapons'. Most of hers were unseen. Pupil-less depths narrowed on Consitil's back, focusing on his every action.
An emotionless, cold voice penetrated the male's ears. "Turn slowly. Scream not at all, for you are in a place that would love to hear your cries. I will be happy to end you, before they torture you . . . If you so much as take one step out of my wishes. Running will only get you pain. Speak something other than I want to know, will only get you more pain . . . "As this female spoke, a razor-sharp blade was drawn and aimed for his spine, poking inward for him to feel her intent. Her fluid movements and a deadly warning within her voice. Nervous that she was also in the same, if not worse predicament as he at this very moment. "Turn . . . " The last warning.
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Consitil studied the door. Shrouded within a black cloak he took from the war-priest, loving how good it felt against his body. He had always felt good in the ebony darkness that offered in the color black. Pale hands traced the air above the door as he tried to figure something out. He bowed his head within the drawn hood, eyes focused on the ground, feeling quite angry at all of this. Clenching his fists in an effort to restrain, before an explosion of anger would cause his body rear back, and punch the wall. Wanting to release all of his rage. Ears twitched as they were filled with the clanking of metal. He did not turn, just kept looking at the ground. Hearing a voice. Quickly it was identified as a female. A very blunt and powerful female, by the way she spoke.
Consitil arranged his face immediately, putting on the mask of indifference. Stone cold eyes of emotionless void. His lips parted, ready to speak the words of magic that were already swarming in his mind. Turning slowly, his hands coming out of the cloak to show they carried nothing. All the weaponry he had was in the form of torture devices in the two bags fashioned in pouches, dangling off of his right hip. Facing this female, he opened his eyes, lavender fires showing nothingness. Inward he was blanching, her skin was ashen! Taking a good look at her for a moment, finding her to be another drow. Unable to discern much else, other than what she was wearing, and what she appeared to look like, and of course, what weaponry she carried.
Realizing in that same moment, all of the death magic swept away. He could not use his magic to protect himself, or as his offense, because he didn't have his spell components! Lavender eyes narrowed slightly, but he remained silent. She had said that saying anything she did not ask for would result in pain. Consitil was not into pain. Not at all, so instead he chose to watch her, and wait.
Let the whip-blade's tip drag along the surface of Consitil's form as it turned, cutting delicate strings in that war priest's cloak. The hood drawn, thus she didn't know if it were friend or foe, truly. The hate raged within, waiting to unleash upon a supposed war priest, but the blooded bodies on the floor suggested the drow was killed. This male was one that could accomplish such a feat. A renegade drow perhaps? Wasn't that a charming thought?
Slowly, she eased up the cutting efforts, the second Consitil's eyes were 'flaming' examples of lavender boring down upon her. Those were not the eyes of a drow, usually. A thin, white brow threatened to rise, until the female quickly gained thought. Naked was this man of arms.
A twisted smile formed, as the whip blade was moved with just the mere flick of the left wrist, moved up into the female's center mass. A defensive move, just incase the pale elf tried anything. Any slice left or right would find his flesh.
Whip blades were used as subduel smack downs, as well as razor sharp contra to mix in poisons of such lethal or paralyzing effects, that most knew them, tried to avoid contact with them at all costs.
A sort of nod, one acknowledging the thing before her, followed by words. "You're not drow . . . " The voice let on, as nostrils flared in the rage of her hate. "They have you in a room of Torture...Three lie dead on the floor. I can only commend such efforts against my foes!"
If Consitil would truly look at the features this female possessed, he would note she was much taller than the dark elves. She possessed white eyes, with absolutely no promise of pupils, only the odd wavering of her psionic power that kept constant, and long, ghostly white hair.
Casually, those very eyes narrowed, shifting over his form. Much taller he was, than any drow. The hood. One swift snap of her wrist, that whip blade came at that fabric covering his features with an audible crack-snap of metallic resonance, followed by the delivery of an under sided jab-thrust, thrust. All in efforts to remove that very hood from his face, and nearly meet up with the flesh of his right cheek. There was no attempt for him to be injured, yet.
Once Consitil was un-shrouded, the female dropped down the blade to the male's stomach. Stepping forth until he would almost feel the fear of what could happen if she took one more step. Pain. The typical, emotionless facade replaced all curious features. "What fool willingly comes into the Underdark?"She was unwilling to show him an actual care.
I applaude and commend the atmosphere and raw emotion embedded in the writing. Concepts are good. The setting is alien yet believable. Style flows well. Writer has a good voice. The only weakness lies in the first section: it reads more like a story synopsis than a story: too much is explained from the narrator's point of view. In fact, the narrator is too strong, too present in the writing. This keeps the reader from bonding with the female character as closely as possible. Readers follow her at a distance instead of being allowed intimate access to who she really is. Also, by overexplaining her...a lot of the mystery (the hook) is lost that you could have used to intrigue the reader. Sometimes less is more. Still, there's a lot of good material here to work with, a lot of potential. It will be interesting to see what you do with this in time.
Lord Belmundus – The Omnibus One is a compilation of Books 1 through 5 of The Adventures of Lord Belmundus, a remarkable tale of other worlds, strange customs, beauty and warfare; and, in its grips, lands a young celebrity, who has the chaps to play
In 2000, Todd Cheney set out to write a complete fantasy series. Now, almost five years later, his goal is accomplished. The Soulstone will bring to conclusion the story began in The Seventh Circle.
Buried for a thousand years under the sea,
Layer two, the Underdark:
