codgod9

Lol TY.

WRONG: (probably) because you don't know what other sports there have been or will be. Also: that is an opinion. \ Water is wet.

0/10; never seen you before :thumbsup:

You get a shot gun fired in your face.

619 :ohnoes:

Banned for being a member on 13th October.

{BUMP}

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Sacred land meaning the land their going to take over, although battlefield is a good interpretation. The "sacred land" bit is explained in the story, the beginning of which is posted. {See below} I know, it was a bit rushed.

TY. I wasn't sure if it was as good, but evidently I was wrong. Lol. Thank-you, keep posting! :P

Please take the time to post your thoughts etc. having read the story; it's long but, I hope, worth reading. Thank-you.

I've posted a new poem, from the sequel. Enjoy!

It's a good strong idea, but the writing style could be improved. The story is also a bit cliche... I don't know if you agree, but that's my opinion. It's good though! :P

A good start.... Keep going! =D>

This is the start of "Rise of The Nakluk," the second in the (possible) trilogy concerning the fantasy kingdom of Rastor. This is the beginning of the second story, as the beginning of the first is in storage. Because of this, I will breifly outline the neccesary events of the previous story. The rightful king was deposed by his brother, and killed, along with his wife. Due to the manserveant, the child, however, escaped. The story concerns his fight for the throne. In the process, both the manservant, Razack, and his love, Esta, are killed. The poems written in the thread "'If only...' and 'Look at Me Now (Bitter Reflections)'" reflect Earuth's feelings about this. The rightful heir, Earuth, later called Baruk, willingly gives up his throne to set up a democratic government. This is very long, I know, compared to what is usally on forums. Please endeavour to read it to the end and post your comments afterwards. Thank-you. Rise of The Nakluk, Part Two in the Tales of Rastor: Prologue: An Insignificant Start: The old man awoke, terrified. He had seen something that he had only ever read about. He knew he must act. He knew he must start straightaway. Climbing out of his bed and into the warm summerÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s night, he began his preparations, his plans. The NÃÆÃâÃâäkluk come. * * * * The village was in uproar. Like an ant heap, it teemed with busy activity, each participant knowing exactly what they should do; what they should be doing. There was only one person in the whole fishing community not assigned to work was Taros, a simple child, who as a babe had had his intelligence knocked from him by a rock to the head. No-one minded that he wasnÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢t working; every knew and everyone understood. And so Taros took the opportunity to walk along the beach, for once empty from children gambolling and playing. The beach was his favourite place, especially when he could walk along it alone and in peace from the noisy children. Searching for shells, the shingle squelching gently between his toes, was TarosÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ idea of heaven, and he was quite content with this, despite his impending manhood. Intent on the soft, dark sand beneath him; light blue eyes - like all the villagerÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s - scanning and checking for any shell, any object that looked interesting enough to merit closer inspection. Taros continued slowly along the long sweeping beach of the cove. He knew that not so far away, everyone, even the fishermen, would be working hard gutting and smoking the seasonÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s fish - stored in brine - ready to be stored for the winter. He knew that the whole area would be engulfed by the dark wood-smoke seeping from under the smoking hutsÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ walls and through the almost shoddily built doors. Since the death of the last of the NÃÆÃâÃâäkoths, the traditional woodsmenÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s family, those with skill with the axe and the saw had become highly prized. That was three generations ago, and there were no skilled woodcutters in the village any more, so Taros preferred the clean air of the beach, tainted only by the spray and the salt given by the sea. Taros longed to feel the sea beneath his feet as he rode the waves in one of the little fishing skiffs, to help pull in the catch, to be like the strong-armed fishermen so honoured in the village. No-one knew, no-one suspected; he had never said anything, preferring to keep quiet rather than face their consternation and their disapproving faces as they saw his weedy frame attempt to haul in the catch. He knew he could do it, however, he knew that deep down inside him was the ability; he only needed the chance, and the strength. Instead he contented himself with searching for pretty objects. He didnÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢t mind, but felt it would be nice, just once, to have the chance. Sighing, Taros craned his neck to the heavens, and wished. He did not wish to any god; The DeceiverÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s farcical religion had died out soon after he was deposed, and it had hardly reached this outlying village to the north anyway. He turned his eyes once more to the sand, and deep in thought, continued to plod along the beach; he had no need to return at least until night- fall. And so he was when he stumbled on the figure, lying on his back on the sand, where the water had deposited it by the high-tide line. Taros could see the sea lapping at the figureÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s sandaled feet as he regarded it critically. It looked human, but he had never seen such dark hair, such a dark complexion in his life. The tide was coming in fast; the water already lapping around the manÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s ankles. Making a swift decision, Taros dragged his prize up the beach, out of the claws of the encroaching water. There he made a more detailed inspection. The manÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢s eyes were lidded and his expression one of calm, as though he were asleep. His dark hair fell in a halo about him, so that he looked like some kind of dark angel. Taros gingerly reached down, and prodded firmly into the stomach. To TarosÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ satisfaction this provoked a strong coughing, and the man sitting up to empty the watery contents of his stomach over the sand; a sacrilege in TarosÃÆââââ¬Å¡Ã¬Ã¢ââ¬Å¾Ã¢ view, but he was prepared to make exceptions for queer things. Suddenly, the eye-lids flicked upwards, revealing dark eyes, black against the light blue of the RÃÆÃâÃâästorians. For the warrior, the first impression he had was of light. The soft light of the end of autumn, warm and cosy in the late afternoon; the bright light reflecting off the sea. He groaned, and thought of home. A home he could never return to. Disgraced as he was, even if there was a way, there never be a place for him in the rigid society of the NÃÆÃâÃâäkluk. His eyes perambulating upwards he saw another pair of eyes. They were blue. Shocked, the man started. Blue. That meant he was not on the NÃÆÃâÃâäklukian coast. Not even anywhere near. Blue meant the raiding lands. He knew he had been dumped in the wide ocean, but he had not expected the lords of the sea to manipulate the seas and the skies to bring him here. He sat up. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What do you think? Post here! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Enjoy this? Try the poems written for the previous story at: http://forum.tip.it/viewtopic.php?p=3663522#3663522