Fan fiction:The Tale of the Fall of Levid
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The Tale of the Fall of Levid
By Madrik Rimesorrow
The Tale of the Fall of Levid is true. The events it recounts occurred
not in this time, but in another. Thus, only fragments of the complete
Tale have been pieced together. It is this, the partial Tale that I
lay down before you.
The Tale, as such, is told from the eyes of Madrik, polarising scholars, bards, and others with regard to the unusual perspective the Tale is told through. Did Madrik himself record it? Or did a scribe later, bidden or not, write it thus?
In the pursuit of trying to maintain the original essence of the Tale, some liberties with the English language have been taken.
But now, enough with trivialities. Follows now the known part of
The Tale of the Fall of Levid
Modern Tale scholars have deemed this part: "The Prelude"
There is only snow here, pure and white.
It blinds one's eyes as 'tis so bright.
As far as sight, there be only snow.
It spreads to the horizon as far as I go.
My morale is low, but I must trudge on,
Sleep beckons; I must not yawn.
And there I see the carrion-crow.
I ready my bow and mount an arrow.
I let loose the bolt, it pierces his hide.
Stone-dead forever, he falls on his side.
I go to him and turn him about,
Trying to find anything to clear my doubt.
Then, on his neck, I find a sign.
A spoked wheel with a straight-drawn line.
Abruptly, from the snow stride five men.
They stride in vigil, it seems from the glen.
There is a den nearby; I step into the cave.
Deep from within comes a rant and a rave.
"Save me!", I say, "My life is in danger.
I am being followed by a quintet of a ranger."
"Who are you stranger? And what be your cause?
Tell me now or just there do you pause."
"Hearken, wise man! I bode no trouble.
I am tired and weary and being hunted through the rubble."
Moments later, I hear him from the walls,
"Follow the passage and you will enter some halls.
Stay in the halls. I will meet you there."
I am in doubt, but go out, I wouldn't dare.
I let out a sigh and be on my way.
I take one last look at the outside grey.
If and when new fragments are recovered, they shall be made
readable, and thereafter displayed.
Tale scholars have dubbed this: "The Quest"
Torches line the passageway.
In the distance, I hear an ice-wolf bay.
I have traveled a lot in this labyrinth,
Longer than the Isthmus that connects Corinth.
Just as I question, "Is this a fruitless task?",
I see a door, before I can ask.
Behind the door, I know not what lies.
Something vile, for I hear hostile cries.
I push open the door. It seems a celebration.
"Who be ye?", asks a man without salutation.
"I am Madrik, of a distant land.
Where there is snow which ensconses sand."
"Welcome, Madrik. I am Restel.
You may not know, but I have been through Hell.
Those men that you saw in the snow outside,
Do the command of Levid abide.
The vilest soul that ever was there.
He dwells and stirs farnorth in his lair."
"What is his cause?", I ask Restel.
He wishes to bring all below his spell.
He wants to establish darkness eternal,
Seeking to do this be means infernal.
But he does the voice of a demon heed,
Who consumes worlds along with his creed."
Then through the door enters and old man,
Maybe the one, who helped me when I ran.
"Hail, wise-man! What is your call?"
"My true name, stranger, you could never recall.
Suffice to say, Mashin is my name.
I seek to preserve this world from the flame.
Dear stranger, still your name has not been told.
Tell me now, for you seem to be bold."
"My name is Madrik and I've already said,
The reason for my arrival and the cause of dread.
Why this celebration, is what I ask you.
Making merry, when Terror is in view."
"We are gathered here in pomp and show,
For the dangers ahead, we do not know.
We prepare by day and leave my night,
Till the glacial land does lay in our sight.
The region has a sanctum called Frosthrone.
We can reach there before the dawn has grown."
I listen to all this with a cold stare.
Undertake this task, I wonder how they dare?
"We set foot now on a perilous way.
So you may come or you may stay."
This, to me, says friend Restel.
"We leave by the stroke of the sixth bell."
After much time, Restel shouts,
"End your merry and quell your bouts.
We leave with pride and return with glory.
With victory in the winds to sing our story.
In this frigid land of death and pain,
Our deeds be written in blood, never to wane."
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