Broken Vows: Widomaker’s Return

Broken Vow: Widowmaker’s Return (BLOVEL, continued…)

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on April 3, 2011
Posted in: Broken Vows: Widomaker's Return, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , , . 3 comments

Welcome to the second installment of my new BLOVEL, Broken Vow: Widowmaker’s Return. In the first installment I introduced Demorra, the story’s antagonist. Today, I present the story’s protagonist, Widowmaker. As always, I encourage your feedback.

He had broken his vow.

Five in all, armed men with ill intentions, lay bleeding and dying, casting pooling crimson shadows across the snow blanketing the King’s Road – and he wept. As surely as his hand, and sword, had pierced their flesh, his tears and heart now grieved for their souls.

Once known simply as “Widowmaker”, he had sold his sword to those seeking justice, revenge, and in many instances – murder. For lords and ladies, beggars and bandits, coin was coin and a life was an easy thing to buy, and for Widowmaker, an even easier thing to take. But Widowmaker was dead now, or at least buried, and for the first time in nearly a decade the darkness and pain from that life began to bubble to the surface. It burned as he swallowed it down.

His steely-eyed gaze swept the trees, searching for movement – searching for others. Sensing no one, he wiped the flat of his blade across his chest, leaving a smear of blood and gore on his gray traveling cloak and turned his attention to the carriage and the muffled sobs coming from inside. It was the sobbing that had initially drawn his attention, and, in turn, his sword.

He approached slowly, his footsteps soft as the falling snow. Three more bodies, unmoving and bloodied, littered the ground near the carriage. The horses, two if he read the tracks correctly, had bolted in the struggle.

The carriage door was open, nearly ripped from its hinge. Holding the sword loosely at his side, muscles coiled like a spring ready to launch, he peered inside. Lying amongst the cushions, dressed in silks the color of honey, he found the source of the sobbing. And, with tears falling from her eyes, she found his gaze.

“I beg of you, sir – have mercy.” The sobs intensified as she clasped her hands at her bosom.

He looked again into the trees, unsure. What had he done? What was he doing? He turned his attention again to the young woman. The sword felt heavy in his hand, like an anchor, and he released his hold on it. It fell to the ground at his feet, and then he fell to his knees.

“Mercy,” he whispered as tears came to his eyes.

He had broken his vow.

A Blovel Idea: I’m letting you decide whether the story is novel-worthy

Posted by R.A. Evans writes... on March 26, 2011
Posted in: Broken Vows: Widomaker's Return, R.A.'s Writings. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 6 comments

I write a lot. I even find myself taking breaks from my writing by – you guessed it – writing something else. Lately that something else has been a project of the fantasy genre. I’ve never written fantasy, although I grew up reading it. I guess somewhere along the way my thinking, and thus writing, took a left turn into the horror realm and never returned – until now.

Can a write fantasy? I have completely no idea but I’m willing to give it a try. And just to make things interesting I’m putting the future of this project into the hands of those who frequent this blog. I’m launching this as a BLOVEL in the form of  weekly posts and your feedback will determine how far the project goes.

So without further delay, I present for your reading pleasure the prologue to my new BLOVEL -

Broken Vow: Widowmaker’s Return

The sun began its slow climb – breaking the horizon over the wind-swept desert with a flash of color and near blinding light. A solitary figure stood upon the crest of a tall dune, wrapped from head to foot in flowing robes the color of death, his unblinking gaze fixed on the rising sun. From deep within the darkened hood two yellow orbs reflected the sun’s rays.

“Beautiful,” the figure thought aloud. This was a scene replayed each morning as he greeted the rising sun with a mixture of both deep regret and fear. Sunlight was lethal and it took every ounce of concentration and strength he could muster to stand atop the dune and stare death in its glowing eye. But he did so, each morning, without fail. This monumental effort a constant reminder of the life he had lived – and lost. But mostly, the sun’s rays fueled his anger and rage at the world and at those in particular who had transformed him some four centuries before into a creature of unquenchable thirst and unmatched anger and violence.

Standing atop what had once been the Sun Palace, a sparkling structure of crystal and magic built into the cliffs and waterfalls that once served as the Westland’s seat of power, his thoughts turned to his beloved. For the briefest of moments her scent filled his nostrils – an aroma of rose petals and scented oils. It was quickly replaced, however, with the smell of burning flesh. He raised his hands and looked on in shock and fascination as the skin from his fingers began to smolder and peel away. Thrusting his hands deep into the folds of his robe, he cleared his mind of all thoughts and again concentrated on the rippling colors spilling over the sand towards him.

Beads of sweat began to pour down his face and sting his eyes. From deep within his chest the heat of a hundred suns spread throughout his body – yet still he stared across the horizon into the dawn of a new day. Finally, lowering his gaze, Demorra called upon the winds and with a heavy sigh stepped into a swirling wall of sand and disappeared. The distant howl of jackals echoed across the desert as the winds slowly subsided.