Mars Rising (Writing Contest, Character History 3rd place)

Discussion in 'The Salty Dog Tavern' started by Pirul, Mar 24, 2017.

  1. Pirul

    Pirul Well-Known Member
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    That fateful cool morning, George woke up and instinctively knew he had smashed his shovel into Mount Kendall for the last time. He had mined the same mountain every day for the past 12 years, ever since his master had ripped him away from his family when he was 14 years old. He had not aged gracefully, and looked much older than his 26 years. Fortunately, for as weathered as his face was, his body had never suffered a significant injury. On the contrary, he possessed the strength only people who have had the most intense physical work could have.

    As he splashed water on his face and head, he tempered his spirit. He had never harmed a living creature in his life, which made this day even the more momentous. As he gathered his belongings, he remembered his sister, and why he was about to throw his life, as he knew it, away.

    As he got to the mining camp and caught sight of his master. He was handing out shovels to all his miners, like he always did. He kept a strict inventory of who he gave a shovel to, and how much ore that slave brought back. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance.

    As his turned neared to collect his first shovel of the day, George gripped the small makeshift knife he had forged out of the metal shavings of the shovels he had destroyed mining this wretched mountain. His grip was strong, but his skin was weathered enough that the knife didn’t draw blood as it dug into his callous hand.

    As soon as he was within arm’s length of his master, George swung fast and decisively for his throat. He knew he had to make a devastating enough injury to this villain in one swift move to prevent him from calling out to his murderous guards. What George hadn’t realized was the gore associated with taking another man’s life. As blood spurted from his master’s throat, drowning any possible sound he could have let out, George’s survival instinct kicked in. He scurried through the few slaves that had witnessed his act and were paralyzed with fear, and ran as fast as he could for the bridge that lay just west of the mountain. He had heard the forest on the other side of the bridge might just be thick enough to help him disappear.

    As he was jumping off the bridge that crossed Kendall River, and heading into the thick woods he could hear the faint sound of thundering hooves behind him. He knew the assassins, whose names had to be written in blood, were coming fast after him.

    As he ran deeper into the woods George suddenly felt as if he had run into an invisible wall. His wits were about him, but he was not able to move any of his extremities. A strange force was holding him mid-stride, almost suspended in the air. From behind a tree, a man, not much younger than himself emerged calmly drawing a halberd. He was dressed in black and silver, and was riding a formidable steed.
    “You are in quite a hurry it seems,” the man said.
    “They’re after me. Help!” George mustered from under his tired breath.
    “Who and why are they after you? We do not take kindly to villainous folk around this parts.”
    “The guards. The Mount Kendall Red Guards.”

    Those words were enough to stir something inside this stranger. “Vas Rel Por” his voice thundered, and with that, a blue moon gate appeared. Out of the moon gate rushed three fearsome looking individuals, wearing the same black and silver the stranger wore. “Stay here, and stay quiet,” the man told George. George had no option but to oblige when he realized himself surrounded. Just as he was regaining mobility, one by one the four men recited the same three syllables: “An Lor Xen”. And like that, they vanished into thin air.

    George wasn’t sure of what was happening around him, and although he could not see them, he could still feel the presence of the four men. He knew the Red Guards were master trackers, and they would be bearing down on him any second now as he could hear the hoof beats getting louder. And yet he felt something in the words of the stranger that compelled him to obey. Stay here, and stay quiet.

    As the two guards came thundering towards George, crushing bushes, and tearing saplings from the ground, he suddenly heard four thundering voices behind him: “In Por Ylem” “Vas Ort Flam” “Corp Por” “Kal Vas Flam”. The flashes of light were like nothing George had ever seen. The oranges, reds, blues, and finally the engulfing flame knocked him back a step. As soon as his eyes adjusted, he could see the body of one of the Red Guards laying on the forest ground not more than a stone’s throw from him. The four men had all wielded their halberds or long spears and were rushing toward the other Red Guard. After a brief exchange, which was too fast for George to follow, it all suddenly stopped. The second Red Guard had also fallen.

    The stranger who he had first encountered walked toward him, dismounted, and offered George his horse. “My name is Elisud. Welcome to Windmere. You’re safe here.” “I…I have never rode before,” George replied. “Looks like there’s a lot to teach you then. What is your name?” “George.” “Well George, I think we better find you a more suitable name if you have the Red Guards after you.” “I don’t know, I have always been George, I wouldn’t know what else to call myself.” ”Where are you from, George?” “I am not sure. I was taken very young from the City of Paladins, but my father always kept saying we came from a city called Olympus. That we come from another planet. That we’re descendants of Owen K. Garriott. I was too young to remember.” “Olympus, huh? Owen Garriott? Mars. We shall call you Mars.”
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