Creative Writing Wednesday: “The Epic Legend of Damien Fell”, Part 1

Posted: June 13, 2012 in Creative Writing Wednesday, The Epic Legend of Damien Fell
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Hey guys. Happy Creative Writing Wednesday.

It was always my intention to branch out Creative Writing Wednesday to include more that just my writing. I mean, Axolotl Ceviche will always be my place for committing sudden, random, violent acts of creativity. But this summer, I’m actually handing the reins over to a guest writer– a reader of Axolotl Ceviche, who contacted me this May about maybe having his work published here.

Now, I was told by this guest writer that he prefers to remain anonymous. He claims that this is because he doesn’t want “all you plageristic [sic] assholes stealing my awesome ideas”. So I agreed to his request, and therefore this summer, we’re going to read this… work. As far as I can tell, it’s an epic fantasy novella that’s being serialized in twelve parts, and it’s going to be put up weekly on Axolotl Ceviche for your entertainment as part of Creative Writing Wednesday.

In any case, it’s nice to take a break from writing for a little while. The request for this serialization came at a perfect time, too: I’d run out of my own writing to put up here. So I’m going to be spending the summer creating a “buffer”, so that I can still put random bullshit up on my lame blog to entertain you. Like a monkey. Who dances.

With that in mind, here’s the first part of The Epic Legend of Damien Fell!

~ Ian

 

The Epic Legend of Damien Fell

Chapter One: Shadows And Blood

Night had fallen over the land of Evershyria, blanketing all the kingdom in its inky-black darkness. The shadows lay over the city of Kar’ae’thaluun like a drunken hobo in an alley, and in their depths, death lurked. For no city in all of the dark aelfynn lands was as dangerous as Kar’ae’thaluun. For in the night, assassins lurked……..

But no assassin in the world was as deadly, as badass, or as totally rad as Damien Fell.

Look at him, walking down the street, as coolly confident as an experienced courtisanne with a perfect pair of tits. He is dressed all in black: from his black leather boots to his swirling black mystic cape. His eyes smolder like the embers of a forest fire: dark and enraged, they are completely black, with no pupils: just small red stars deep within them, burning with anger and hate for the world. At his side is the mystical broadsword Stormshadow, five feet long and carved from blood-forged obsidian, and  on his back the wood aelfynn longbow Forestsong, most legendary of bows from the Forgotten Age. Also on his hips are two pistols, the only ones in the whole world of Evershyria: for Damien Fell invented them when he was in Assassin School and used them to murder his mathemancy teacher, who was a total douchebag (and seriously, who the hell teaches numbers in an assassin school? The teachre’s existance was a crime that Damien Fell needed to correct.). His face is handsome, and a manly rugged dusting of stubble covers his cheeks and chin. He moves like a tiger, like a water strider, like a leaf on the widn. He is the master of death, and death follows on his heels like a dog with big nasty teeth.

As he passes down the streets of Kar’ae’thaluun, as silently and invisibly as an autumn wind, everyone on the street stops and stares after him. “Is that Damien Fell?” they ask. “Could this possibly be the most deadliest assassin in all of Evershyria? I thought he was just a legend!”

“I heard that he is the bastard son of an angelic knight and a demonic succubus, and from this mixed union comes the struggle between good and evil that rages within his very soul,” says a wood-aelfynn prostitute, as a drunken dark aelf fingers her ass in an al-fresco tavern.

“I heard that he mastered the art of Darke Magycke at the age of twelve, after which he was expelled from the Arcane Academy for summoning a hellgate into our world,” a dark-aelf apprentice mage says, his eyes wide with awe and fear.

“I heard that he is the inventor of six different martial arts, and can kill a man in seventy-six different ways with nothing but his bare hands,” a Dwarvyn mercenary in plate armor says.

“I heard that he is the greatest lover in history, and he leaves women satisfied eternally, that he shares a bed with a new woman every night, and they flock to him all the time,” a beautiful dark-aelfynn noblewoman, with long white hair and a perfect pair of luscious breasts says breathlessly, her sheath honeying at the sight of him.

For there are a thousand and one stories about Damien Fell, the most unspeakably radical and badass warrior to ever walk the earth in the Age of Blood in Evershyria.

AND ALL OF THEM ARE TRUE.

***********************************

Damien Fell paid no heed to the whispers of passerbies on the street around him. He simply walked onward, his mind filled with nothing but shadow and blood, intent on his destination on the far side of the city.

He passed swiftly and silently down the main street of the city, the Way of the Serpent Queen. Reaching the Plaza of High-Aelfynn Blood Long-Ago Shed, he turned onto the narrower Scorpion Boulevard, which wound up and down the massive, womb-like cavern where the city lay. He stared up art the high towers of the dark-aelfynn Highlords, carved into the stone of billion-year old staglamites in the center of the cavern, their unearthly green lights shining out in the near-pitch darkness. Turning onto a narrow alleyway that had no name, he ducked through a maze of warren-like tunnels that stunk of refuse and long-dead corpses. The Slave Quarters, where the Shadow Aelves, the broken refuse of the long-dead civilization of High Aelves, made its home. Enslaved long ago and converted into brain washed, piteous creatures, the Slave Quarters were filled with the broken-down wretches whose labors kept the foul Dark Aelfynn nation in their state of riches.

Damien Fell found his destination: a ram-shackle tavern on the banks of the River of Flowing Fire in the heart of the Slave Quarters. The Bat and Spider. This was where he needed to look.

Opening the front door of the tavern (little more than a tentflap), Damien Fell stepped inside.

Immediately the tavern fell hushed as Fell stepped into the room. The denizens of this low-life wateringhole were mainly Shadow Aelves, many of them out of their minds on various liquor and drugs. But there were a selection of other types: a brass-jointed Ticktock Man, one of the fabled race of mechanicle men from the faraway continent of Shah Domaddh; a clumsy-footed human from the Northlands, in the city of Kar’ae’thaluun on some sort of business; a hulking orc, green-skinned and pig-nosed, dressed in filthy leathers; and several of the Crab Men, the anthropomorphic crustaceanoids that lived in the swomps and mires outside of Tamyryyn in the torrid jungles of Karshamyr.

And there was one more……… a good looking-middle aged man, seated cross-legged in the corner, his mouth puffing on a hookah filled with the mind-numbing lotus petals from the exotic fleshpots of Guujj.

If you looked under his flowing hooded robe, you might be able to discern that he had a small pair of horns, and a medium-sized tail.

Fell strode up to the man, crossing his arms. His black pupilless eyes blazed with defiance.

“You led me on quite a chase, Drako Blackthorne,” Fell said.

Blackthorne smirked up at Fell from his cross-legged position. “I needed to make sure that you were willing enough to hear my information.”

“I’m always willing to talk, cambion,” said Fell. “Especially when I know that you know what you know.”

The half-demon’s teeth spread wide. Fell could see that his teeth were yellowed, and filed into sharp sharklike points.

“Did you bring me what I requested?” Blackthorne said, extending a modeled red-and-white hand.

“I did,” said Damien Fell, and he pulled something from his pocket— a majestic emerald, the size of an orc’s left testical, glowing with an inner light.

“Ah, yes…………..” Blackthorne said, trailing off significantly. “The Emerald of Shanahalamalabad. Fabled jewel of the ancient East……. this is truly a powerful artifact.

“So tell me what you know,” said Damien Fell.

“Please, Fell, do try to be social. Why don’t you sit down and have a puff or two of lotus?”

“I don’t think I will,” said Fell. “For I knew from the moment I walked into the room that your hookah was poisoned.”

The look of genial effervescence left Blackthorne’s face, and he scowled. “How did you know?” he asked.

“I smelled it,” replied Fell. “With my nose.”

“Well in that case,” said the cambion, reaching a hand into his wand, “I shall have to resort to force.” And he pulled out a wand…

But quicker than could be detected with the naked eye, one of Damien Fell’s legendary pistols was pointed directly at his forehead.

“Say one word of your spell and you’re dead,” Damien Fell snapped.

“You’re quicker than I’d imagined,” Blackthorne said.

“Haven’t you heard the stories?” asked Fell.

“I don’t pay any attention to stories,” said the cambion, lips pursing in a furrowed-brow sneer. “The man who trusts in stories couldn’t see reality if it snuck up behind him, climbed onto its head and laid its eggs in his hair.”

“Tell me what I want to know or you’re dead,” said Fell menacingly.

“My master wouldn’t like it,” said Blackthorne.

“Your master can go back to Hell where he belongs,” grunted Fell.

“Very well,” Blackthorne said resignedly. “The Conclave meets next full moon at the Fiendfang, where we plan to sacrifice the Princess Amberella in the name of our… urk!

A throwing knife had just embedded itself with pinpoint-accuracy in the cambion’s eyeball. He fell dead instantly.

Damien fell wheeled, and saw a woman dressed all in black running through the doorflap and out into the night……………

Fell gave chase.

He burst out of the door and crashed into the crouded streets of the Slave District of Kar’ae’thaluun, colliding with a gaggle of Crab Men as they passed him. Knocking one of the CrabMen over, he watched with wide utterly-black eyes as the woman in black leapt from the street to the roof of one of the hovels in a single bound. Fell climbed up after her, reacing end over end, scrambling up to the roof, just in time to see the woman in black practically flying as she leapt over a narrow alley.

“Shit!” exclaimed the half-demon assassin, drawing his pistols. Everyone in the street below gaped as he drew the weapon, for fell was legend, even among these poor wretches, slaves of the dark-aelves, and his pistols were even more almost as legendary as he was.

BANG! BANG! BANG! Three shots echoed through the cavern of Kar’ae’thaluun, as Damien Fell blasted away with his pistols, three shots that zoomed past the woman in black as she flew through the air. As Fell watched, the bullets seemed to fly in super-slow motion, and he watched as the woman in black dodged the bullets in midair, twisting and contourting her lithe body into strange shapes to avoid the sharp sting of the gunshots.

NO!!!!” shouted Fell as the woman landed on the far side of the alley.

He leapt after her, and as he flew he drew his sword Stormshadow, as dark and unyeilding as the human soul yet as quick and light to carry as a jungle cat. As he flew, his dark eyes burned with inhumane rage, and he spoke a mystical word of command.

DROWSERYF!” screamed Damien Fell.

Stormshadow burst into flames.

The woman in black drew her own weapon, a long slender chain that looked to be made of some strange kind of silvery aelfynn-forged metal that moved through her hands like milk. Fell fought her, swinging the flaming black-and-read Stormshadow through the air, carving burning arcs of fire in front of the woman in black—- yet somehow she dodged the deadly assault that Damien Fell put forth, moving as softly and intangibly as a shadow.

“Nine Hells!” screeched Damien Fell. “You are nearly my equal in combat! Who are you?! Who is your master!?”

But the woman in black said nothing.

She simply fought.

As the battle went on, Damien fell weakened, becomming slow and sluggish as he fought, and his muscles slackened. Ocassionally the aelfynn chain that the woman in black fought with bit him on the cheek, in the arm, stinging him and drawing blood until Damien Fell got so angry that he screamed, “ENOUGH!!!!!

Bringing his sword into a defensive posture, Fell cried in a voice like the rage of a titan, “TSIFENOTS!

A huge fist made of pure jetblack stone flew from Fell’s out stretched hand, and struck the woman in black in the head.

She flew over the side, and fell down towards the oozing molten red stone of the River of Flowing Fire. Fell rushed to the side in order to see the death of the woman.

But just before the woman in black touched the surface of the lava……

……….she vanished in a puff of smoke.

There was a noise like a thunderclap, the sound of dispaced air rushing in to fill the void left by the woman in black as she dissapeared.

“Demonfire!” exclaimed Damien Fell. “She has some knowledge of Shadouwe Magycke, I’d swear it. I’ll neevr find her now. She’s gone— and I don’t know where.”

A look of iron hard-determination fell over Fell’s face. “But that does’nt matter,” he said, “for I have to journey to the Fiendfang in order to save the life of Princess Amberella………”

…..and here a hard, badass look of determination came into Fell’s eyes.

…….and murder every last motherfucker who gets in my way.

END CHAPTER 1

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Comments
  1. Blake says:

    “I smelled it,” replied Fell. “With my nose.”

    Shadouwe Magycke

    Classic. This stuff will hold me over nicely until your buffer, Sir Ian.

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