Young Writers Society

Basically what the title implies-I'll be posting my free-writes and story fragments; and I suppose any other piece of writing, that perhaps don't deserve to waste space as seperate entities.

I'll start it off with a recent piece (maybe a month old), that takes place in a 18th-19th century time-frame. Enjoy:

The Search for a Common Tongue

"There has been a search for a common tongue since the beginnings of modern politics," reflected the minister, "Ever since the first embassies were opened in the five nations constituting the 'Common Alliance'. But to no avail. For nations seperately worked on the task, and thus the language would be too similar to the national one that it could not be called a 'common tongue'. Other attempts mashed words of the five languages together-those would become too confusing. However, finally, there is underway a project to construct a common language, which does not favour one tongue over the other, nor is misinterpretated. It shall be undertaken by equal numbered teams of linguists, and other men of study, from all five nations together." The minister paused to allow the assembly before him to excitedly chatter about the revelation before continuing again, "So, without further ado, here is Direktor Znanje. Director of the University of Morskigrad, professor of the linguistics department, and head of the team of the Slavic Confederation, who shall be speaking on behalf of the project. Direktor?"
A bespectacled man in a tweed jacket arose from his chair in the front row of the assembly. He walked with a casual, yet irregular, stride, and had a shy grin on his face. After shaking hands with Minister_______, who went and took his own seat in the front row, he began, "Well hello." He was greeted by most of the assembly, enthusiastic as to what this professor, this linguist, had to say about the project on the 'common tongue'. He stood there for a moment, then continued, "I'm sorry," he chuckled, "You see I'm not one for crowds. Well, when the attention is attentively on me, that is. A class is different, if you will, as there is little to no attention to the professor, let alone attentitivness at all!" There was a ripple of laughter amongst the assembly-this man was unlike the conventional uncomprehensible, stern, and rather drab men of study that usually lectured the assembly of Allied Nations on some point.
"I'll begin then." Direktor Znanje's hands found his pockets, and entered them. "This project, to create a common tongue for the everyday use between two or more folk of the five constituting nations of the 'Common Alliance', shall be a difficult one. However, there is a difference from this attempt, and yes I call it an attempt, and previous ones. This attempt shall be worked on co-operatively, and simultaneously, by all five nations. A team from each nation has been selected to work on the project. Each team consists of twenty-one intellectuals, and is headed by one selected by his nation, who in turn selects the rest of the team.
"The teams are made up of mostly linguists and historians-why historians? There is a theory, that at one point in time, in the now quite distant past, there was indeed a common tongue in use in the approximate area that covers the five nations of the 'C.A.'. Linguists and historians have worked cooperatively in deciphering clues that has led them to believe in this theory more and more. For one, there are archaelogical finds that predate any known history, which are similar, and yet are found far apart from each other. Second, there is the fact that there are some words and sounds in each of the five nations that relate to each other, no matter how chopped up by its nation's tongue it is. These being main indicators, amongst others. So, and you may have guessed it by now, but this project, in essence, is an attempt at reviving this ancient tongue for the use of the modern common tongue of the 'C.A.'

Er, critique, if you will (this and other works). But I understand there are plenty of grammatical mistakes. Not to mention the wording in some places is, perhaps, a little plain and unorthodox. Don't worry-it's how I write when I just put an idea down. I could go back and refine it, yes. I'm just giving all of you the heads up that I understand.

Seems like a great literal story-board - springboard for a short story.

A bespectacled man in a tweed jacket arose from his chair in the front row of the assembly. He walked with a casual, yet irregular, stride, and had a shy grin on his face. After shaking hands with Minister_______, who went and took his own seat in the front row, he began,

Somewhat irregular like the tweed-jacketed man's stride in rhythm - but it fits neatly between dialogue. It reminds me of GK Chesterton, good of course. The imression is immediate. ^_^

As a free-write, I would suggest the paragraphs of dialoge be broken up still. Bloody hard to read it, you know. --''

Modern tower of Babel, struck me so at first - and languages and origins are always the questions of stories and dreams; you could take it who-knows what direction. ^_^

Ah, thanks and thanks P. Imp! It may get somewhere, I'm busy with some other projects at the moment however. My intrest in linguistics permeats, and indeed inspired this work. Direktor Znanje being modelled, somewhat, on myself.

Poor Imp wrote:Modern tower of Babel, struck me so at first - and languages and origins are always the questions of stories and dreams; you could take it who-knows what direction. ^_^

Hah, yes indeed, but not based on it. The split of languages have more logical reasons ^_~

I'll post another soon.

So, having marshalled his full force and sending summons to the allies of the North, the Nordic King rode to the field of battle: the Ivory Plains, where in days agone was fought many a battle, and the greatest of them all that Arkhel himself partook in. 'Twas a great depression in the earth, where once stood a lake [The Silver Lake]. Now it was a valley-said once to be green and fair, but long frozen over and so re-named the Ivory Plains for its ever-coverance in snow. Here did the host of the King ride to, and in the valley made camp.

Something I found on the computer. It's a fragment of the history of my story. It's part of the history telling how the tribes of the North were united under one banner by this 'hero', and established the line of ruling heirs to the throne-crucial.

A fragment of history predating this piece, and indeed telling of the time in which Arkhel himself was on Earth, which I found lying around.

And the Host of Light was composed of the Free Folk; those who elluded the Dark Lord's arm and his fetters of enchantment and deceit; who were not his subservient thralls. They never fought in open battle, but harried him in secrecy, and this made him wroth. But now he was smiling, for all the Free Folk had come together and would meet him in open battle; and he would have only to pluck but one thorn and the Greylands would be his. So he marshalled his black horde before his feet, and never before, and but once more at the Very End, have all the twisted and malignant creatures, evil beasts, dwellers of black pits and dark woods, vile hearts, horrors and nightmares of unimaginability come together under one banner. Indeed the whole of the North was choked under a living darkness; a festering disease upon the land. The stars did not shine there, despite their effort. He himself stayed in his fortress of rock, iron and darkness, and left himself with little defense, thinking should he be assailed while the host was away or somehow broken (which he did not even give a thought too) it would be more than enough, coupled with his own powers. The Black Horde dwarfed the Host of Light, though one thing he did not reckon: He who led it. And He was a star from the heavens, who came down in response the cries of suffering resonating throughout the Greylands, and piercing the firmament. There, were songs of glory usually trumpet throughout its vast expanse, the cries of anguish of the world below had brought those songs into discord, and the harmony was broken. He marshalled the Free Folk together, and kindled the flame of hope within their hearts; and led them now with the light that defied the Ancient Dark from the start in the high heavens.

And here is a piece unrelated to my 'grande myth'. I wrote it one day in religion class last year;I was bored, and we were talking about heaven:

"His Empire is ringed by a towering wall, reaching limitless into the sky. The one gate barring entrance to it is wrought of gold and mithril, and is guarded by St. Peter who is arrayed in chainéd silver 'neath a flowing robe of samite. Behind those walls is the Kingdom of God; a splendorous land with temples of marble and fountains of silver, lush valleys that stretch for leaugues in every direction, and who's emerald grass is refreshed by crystalline dew every morning. In the midst of that land of abundance and deathlesness, made from every material, is a great structure, and it is the House of God. Like unto Babel, were it finished, in height, and like an unbroken chain of mountains in length and breadth..."

(Excuse the long title, but this free-write was supposed to encompass all that is in it. Unfortunately my writing broke off at the overthrow part, and so at a later time I began finishing the rest. Truth be told, actually, I'm not even done it yet...)

The Tale of the First Battle, Overthrow of the Dark Lord, Rising of the Sun and Moon; and the Prophesising of the Second Battle and Final Battle, the End, and the New Beginning

In the beginning days when darkness reigned, and the light of the stars was dimmed; the greatest of the Holy Order fallen, the people cried out to the heavens, and so to the stars which ever defied the Eternal Night. When their voices went hoarse, and their hope nearly spent, a light came down. It was the brightest star, whom the people of the Earth named Arkhel, Aurvandil, Danjel, Anjeo, and many names beside.
He was bright to look upon, and yet the silver light which emenated from him was soothing and able to be withstood by even the weakest of eyes, save those whose hearts are dark and full of malice. Yet none could suffer to look upon his eyes which shone forth a golden light, more radiant and unlike the chilly sheen of the stars; and indeed the raiment which he himself was clad in. This light, it was supposed, was the True light, hidden neath his starry shroud.
Yet afore his starry splendour could be fully surmised he took on earthly raiment, so that the light found therein may only glow forth dully as if behind a veil. Thence were armaments made ready for him: a silver hauberk cunningly linked; a visored helm, so to keep back the fiery light that shone forth from his eyes, atop which was the Holy Symbol. A mighty and craftily wrought sword, engraved from point to hilt with spells and wards to keep evil at bay, was presented to him.
He assembled a mighty host of all those free peoples who defied the Shadow-Lord, and whos' hearts were pure and true. In them he set a flame, so that even in the darkness it would guide them, and which no shadow without could douse. So that Holy Army, arrayed in silver gleaming and white reflecting, and being led by their hearts and the Holy Star of High Heaven who's Earthly name is Arkhel, amongst others, set forth to the Plain of Battle (later to become the Ivory Plains), as it was called, and there awaited for the Black Horde to arrive. And so they did. With them came a dark cloud which blotted out the stars completely, and the Host of Light would have wavered had they not the Flame lit within their bosoms. So the battle was begun, and the echoes of it resound still throughout the field in which it took place.
The frontlines of the charging Tides of Night scattered and were stunned as Arkhel lifted his visor letting shine forth the light of his eyes. Thence in that moment of their dissaray He sprang forth as a ray of light, and his league followed. Great and terrible was the battle that ensued.
The armies of darkness were finally, and utterly shattered. Only some few creatures fled in wild madness into dark holes, forgotten caves, and deep in remote woods which later became places of horror. These remnants would later breed the evils that would resurface many years later Men had come into the world. Many of the Host of Light, as it was called in later time, won immortality through songs and tales recounting their deeds in that battle, which are all but lost and which only the wisest of the wise amongst the oldest of the old now remember.
The Host, led by Arkhel, marched to the fortress of Night, built on the confines of the Eternal Night. There He sounded his horn of white and silver, and challenged the Black Lord to come out. When the challenge was met with silence, Aurvandil cast off his armour and earthly raiment and His light shone forth in terrible glory. The dark plume about the fortress was dissolved, and as if in response the stars blazed forth more gloriously than ever before. In those thousand points of light (as it was called by those who looked at the sky in awe) the fortress seemed to waver, as if not built by black stone and iron, bu from the very darkness itself, and it crumbled then and there. Arkhel alone went forth into the ruin, and clomb down into the deepest and darkest recesses of Earth as it seemed. There he found the Dark Lord, cowering behind a veil of the darkest kind his failing magic could weave, but to no avail. The light of Arkhel dissolved it and the Dark Lord was on his knees quavering before Him. He pleaded for mercy, again to no avail. He was bound in fetters of light, conjured by Arkhel his enemy of old. Arkhel dragged him on his face up those subteranean steps, and the echoe of each footfall emmanated throughout the world beneath, so that the enemies of Light named them thereafter the Footsteps of Doom. And so the Dark One was brought forth, bound, to the feet of the Host of Light, and they and jeered and mocked and spat on him; and their sneers, which he bore forever, chilled his black heart, so that he could never know forgiveness while the World lasted.
He was swung by Arkhel on that chain seven times, and finally let to fly on the seventh swing and was borne to the utmost North, where it is forever winter, now and forever. A girdle was laid about that realm, which he claimed for his own; and no boats were suffered to enter the chill waters about it, filled with frozen hills and harsh winds.

Morskigrad

In Morskigrad by the sea,
City fair by azure waters,
Where once dwelt a happy sea-folk free,
Amidst its gleaming white towers:

There is a great, doleful building
Of blackened marble and grimed panes,
Which feels no life but the wind's flittingl
Whose hearths lay host to no more flames.

(And) In that sullen, somber hall,
Graven long ago in cold stone,
The Guardians of old stand tall
Forever lifeless and alone.

Stern and proud they blindly gaze
Between high marble pillars,
But all is in a darkened haze-
No flick'ring wicks or burning briars.

So there it sits amidst that mourning city,
As a doting king doth on his beauteous throne:
A broken heart shown no pity;
A mighty animal stripped to the bone.

In Morskigrad by the sea,
City bare by churning waters,
Where dwell those evil men in glee
Amidst its crumbled white towers.