Everything was red. The sky was crimson, the ground stained with the blood; even he was covered in blood. Some of it was his, some of it was not. He did not care any longer. Darkness threatened to engulf him. It would be so easy, to just lie down, and give up, and die under this red sky.

The darkness swept over him for a brief second, and he remembered.
His memories were muddled and dim. He had made a promise to someone. A castle, a barracks, lightning. His name… Haelas?

The clash of cold steel around him was muted, and time seemed to flow sluggishly. Men were dying around him, falling like leaves from a tree, being carved through as easily as butter. Some began to run, trying to escape their inevitable doom.

He was kneeling; he held something in his hand. His sword. A man stood in front of him. The man was raising his weapon, preparing to strike.

This isn’t the end. I told you. I still have something to do.

A raging torrent of ice and fire flowed through him. Faster than the eye could follow, he parried the blow effortlessly and followed up with a riposte, killing the man. Men were still running past him in the courtyard, their eyes wide with fear and pain. He moved forward against the enemy, inching foward step by step. His blade moved lightning-fast, killing a man with each blow. Haelas became a whirlwind of death, lunging, parrying, thrusting, counter-parrying, and riposting. His sword seemed to have a life of its own, leaping forward in his hand. He waded into the thickest part of the battle, fighting his way to the standard planted in the ground. A small island of the castle’s defenders still fought on here.

Here I will stand. Here I will fight. I can't die, not yet.

Dreams of the morrow hath the shattered soul
Pride is lost
Wings stripped away, the end is nigh.

Dark clouds hovered in the shimmering moonlight. The winds stopped their melancholic howls, before changing direction. Their black and white banners fluttered in the air, their silence punctuated by their deep breathing. The war machines creaked in the distance, the horses silent with fear.

The time is right.

He walked out into the silence.
He smiled.

His black and white armour glistened in the moonlight, this sword noisily clacked against his thigh. His presence was made known. He wanted it made known. A group of men approached him, all dressed the same way as him. Their black armour glowed, light reflecting off their trimmed white sides. Their dragon-shaped helmets tucked under each arm, their white cloaks dancing in the wind.

"Are we ready?" He simply asked

"Yes, sir. The war machines are tuned to their highest standard. The men are eager to fight." One of his subordinates told him.

He simply nodded, and clipped on his helmet, and walked to his mare. He whispered something into its ear, then jumped up upon its back.

He drew his sword, stared at its engravings and prayed a short prayer.

A prayer for those who were going to feel his wrath

And he began to signal the others

He needed no speech. His army needed no orders.

He trotted to the front of the formations, soon accompanied by the men he was with a few moments ago.

Soon these poor bastards would pay.
Pay for the destuction of their cities.
Pay for the killing of their man.
Pay for ever setting foot into their soil
Pay for the life of dearest Alicia

Alicia...

He smiled. The thought of her made him smile. Smile upon her dead and ravaged body. Smile upon the dismembered body parts of her assailents.

He rose his sword

They rose theirs

And the attack began.

Since I'm an admin (apparently so)

So I've decided

Hiatus.

For us to go drink tea, smoke, chit chat, and have a good game of polo

Got to love the polo

Tally-ho!

Also for people to sort out what in Azul is happening

Frankly I have no clue

Go on Bertha, you can do it

I've have noticed repeated comments in the cbox, stuff like 'Editor pwnz dornel' or 'ownz dornelz'. This isn't very constructive feedback now... Since most of you (my so called critics) like Chris' version, I'm going to change my writing style a bit (No, I am definitly not going to do it shakespearen style). I will accomplish this by pumping my works full of descriptive stuff, which I'm semi/moderatly-good at. I know the characters don't have much depth, and the whole thing is a bit empty right now, I'll be working on that.

Expect this

Guys, please. This is only like a draft written by a 14/15 year old student (in Sec 3). Don't take it like it's a book by some experienced writer like J.K. Rowling, etc. You all 'know' that I haven't had much experience in writing stories.

To Chris: Are we ever going to see anything up here? xD. I remember you were working on something last time, how about putting it here? =). My friends seem to be digging what you write, so why don't you take the front wheel for a while, while I lay back for a bit?

The sky was dark and brooding. Billowing, mumbling (The clouds are dark, but not mumbling.) clouds covered the meek, timid (Hmm, meek/timid sun?) sun. Jars (Jars… so who’s pouring the rain?) of rain poured down from the dulled (Dulled is nice) skies, drenching the battlements to a slick, slippery sheen (The battlements are made out of weather-worn stone, not shiny metal). Trees bent their stressed trucks, bowing down to the might and fury (I like the might and fury part) of the heavens above. And it was cold…so very cold.,

A lone (He’s not alone, this isn’t one man vs. hordes of enemies coming against the wall.) Silhouette (Nice term, Haelas is but a shadow against the might and fury of the heavens above) stood, cowering yet strong (Cowering yet strong? A bit confusing there) against the fierceness of the storm. The once-peaceful grasslands and forests he had always gazed upon were now perceivably sinister and menacing. (I like this sentence, but he’s a recruit. But maybes he’s lived in the region? I’m going to make his background a bit more flexible) He shivered as his breath fogged in spasmodic wisps out in front of him.

When would it finally begin?From far away, lightning split the sky with a piercing crack. (I think that the way you put it is less exaggerated than mine.) Truly, Fate is a lady of cruel drama. Such scenery, like the snarl of a panther before its kill, an iron frame for the miserable picture of death! It is as certain as it can be: Fate, that lady of cruel drama, looks me through her icy pupils today. (Okay, the whole fate thing feels a bit strange/confusing. Chris, just how much Shakespeare have you been reading? xD)He closed his eyes to remember, and the skies, the storm, and the cold disappeared for a single, precious moment.
As twilight set on (Don’t want it to be night yet, it’s the last few hours of day, before the night comes. -> Last few hours of light before Darkness), the raging nimbus quieted to a fairylike pitter-patter of tiny raindrops, little pieces of nature’s love (Nature is being cruel, not loving. Unless you mean love in a cruel way.) .

The setting sun blushed (Blushed doesn’t seem to be the exact word I need here.) crimson beyond the soot-tinted clouds, warming the dear earth with the little heat it had before plunging into a deep sleep.The barracks were a silent symphony (Mm, silent symphony. I like that.) of restless souls, each man a voice within a dismal choir (Good, adds on to the ‘Silent Symphony’. But a symphony can’t be silent if the men have a voice in a dismal choir). Some kneeled in desperate (Not really desperate, but rather pleading? They would pray desperately on the verge of death maybe? But they aren’t there yet.) prayer to their preferred deity, while others closed their eyes and lay on their bunks in a pensive (Pensive, nice word.) silence.

In all their pain (Pain?) and anxiousness, few minds moved from their thoughts to a particular corner near the Western wall (Western wall? Perhaps the ‘Western side of the barracks.’), where a dark-haired man quietly sat alone in at a plain wooden table. This man was a new recruit, and he gazed down at his sword in silence, perhaps still pondering the ways of Lady Fate and the cruel drama she had placed him in (Hmm, the Fate thing again. What cruel drama is he in?). Eventually, however, his thoughts were interrupted by another soldier, who came by and sat next (Across the table, not next to) to the new recruit.This man was older (Luck or skill for how long he has survived?) than what the new recruit had seen of most of the barracks, but was nonetheless in perfect fighting condition. Tightly packed sinew wrapped his arms, and long sword-fingers (Sword fingers?) casually played around with a beige sash, held to his waist by a war belt of solid steel (Not too sure about a steel belt, don’t want to make this sound too exotic here.’).

Two shoulders moved up and down with each breath, giving the impression of pebbles (One usually has the impression that pebbles are small, maybe fist sized? Anyway, it doesn’t give a good mental image if you compare the shoulders to his tightly packed arms) bobbing up and down in water. Scars ran down the length of his face: one trimmed his left ear, crawling down his beard-line to his chin; one sliced his right cheek in a vicious diagonal; and a third one raced its way from the right side of his thin lips up the center of his face to the peak of his pulled-back hair, as though someone had attempted to cut his face in half.But despite all of this, the new recruit was drawn to this soldier’s eyes.

Never before had he seen such a strong aura of solemnity in someone: hard as the hardest stone (I like this, the aura, maybe a different word? Hard as chipped stone?, yet accepting the cheerless truth of war, pain, and death.) It was easy to tell that the battles this man had fought in numbered to which one could not count; it was also easy to tell this was someone who was to be respected. (Respected is right, due to his experience.)

WRITING FODDER #1: Why does the guy's (third) scar run from bottom to top instead of top to bottom? apparently your antagonist has quite the unique fighting style... (Well, haven’t really decided the antagonist. The veteran may have had an epic fight though. But that’s not my story.) ‘Mind if I take a seat, lad?’ he asked. The younger man made no reply. The veteran sat down and sighed. He reached for the sheathed sword on the table, checking for a sign of prohibition from the recruit, but was greeted with the same silence as before. Picking it up, he turned it over in his hand. What may this be? It is just a sword, simple and stout (Not sure what kind of sword I want it to be. Don’t want it to be stout though. Maybe a broadsword?), yet it has been shined and sharpened with care and commitment, a man’s only hope in the bleak, bloody course that is the war we all know well (V. Good, reinforces the man’s acceptance of war). He twisted the sword, flashing it in a broad circle, before aiming a stab diagonally at the ground. With a flick of the wrist, the sword flew in the air, and the veteran grabbed its linen-wrapped sheath, using it to catch the sword just before it struck the wooden table beneath (The veteran has skill and experience, but try to be a bit more realistic. He’s not a sword master). Apparently satisfied, the veteran set the sword back on the table. ‘A weapon for winners.’ Seeing no expression in his converser’s (I think you have the right idea here, using the ‘The recruit said’/’The veteran said’ is a bit boring after a while) face, he sighed once more. ‘Friend, I know you not, but I can tell you this is the hour when death will strike.

Those who live will be few, and those who do not will be many. Friend, you may stare down at this wood wordlessly, but your hush is of no use, for the fist of the enemy bears down upon us as we speak, and with them comes the Reaper’s own scythe. Be prepared, Friend! (Not all of my characters are going to be philosophical. Some of them will be bland and blunt, others more thoughtful. Allows room for character development.)’ The younger man looked up. Tearless circles of dark hazelnut (I like black better xD) examined he whom had just spoken, and a broad steel-armoured (Haelas isn’t buff) chest rose to take in air.

‘Yes, sir, this I have known. (How does he know? Who told him?)’ He replied in a confident, quiet voice.The veteran scratched his un(lol, ‘un’)scarred cheek as he cocked his head in mild curiosity (Yes, the veteran should be curious.). ‘You’re not worried? Hah!’ He leaned forward a little to speak, ‘Those who have courage walk strong amongst men, but those who are foolish are destroyed by them (This is awesome stuff =P). Be wise, and, again, be prepared (No need to push the point).”

The recruit showed a flicker of a thoughtful smile, ‘Am I foolish (He has courage, but he’s nervous/scared of the coming battle?)? My mind and soul were as a rabbit in the presence of an adder; only that which causes fear can end it. But what must come must come indeed! Fate has chosen for me to live and die by the edge of a blade, and soon my name will be carved away from the mists (You can carve names in mist?) of time, to be forgotten by men of generations to come.

Despite such, I look forward to my end (He's not masochistic); fear of it (Fear is correct. Everyone is scared of death at first. Haelas has accepted that he is a dead man, sooner or later. This part is a bit complex though.) has caused me much pain.’ Yet there is still one last deed I must do…The veteran grinned, ‘I sit in the presence of a man who is ready to die! Such cases are rare. Him who is ready to die, does he have a name? Perhaps it is polite for myself to begin, although fate too will soon carve my own away from the mists of time. The men call me Sharkeye.’ The recruit sat back, still eyeing the older soldier from across the table. ‘Well met, Sharkeye! It is nice to meet you indeed. I’m …’ the recruit’s eyes glistened (He’s not crying, just thinking) for a moment as he reached through his mind’s depths for his name. ‘Haelas. Yes, that’s right. In time, I guess, I will see you in Hades’(Don’t think I’m going to use Greek gods or any Gods from Earth's history. =not nonfiction) own sanctuary.’ Haelas let out a humorless, forced laugh.

‘Aye lad, I guess I’ll be seeing you then, sooner or later.’ The veteran stood up and left the bare (Not so bare as to be empty) room in a chuckle.Soon the horn sounded, the final measures of the song that is life(A bit emo ay?). Haelas stopped outside into the grassy courtyard, and looked up to the sky, dark clouds gathering again to restart its vicious tempest. So, it has begun. The beginning of my end, as Fate herself has decided. Let my song finish beautifully. (He isn’t a musician, and the the song part is a bit strange) Haelas closed his eyes, and remembered (Going through all those thoughts one more time? Once is prob enough.) once more before walking onwards.

Okay Chris, thanks again for all the work you put in. You have some good points here and there, and I’ll see what I can do to edit them in, without deviating from my writing style. I’d like to make you an author of this blog, so contact me when you get back from your interim to Thailand. Try not to put in so much Shakespeare next time. This is meant to be kind of modern, if you can catch my drift. Feel free to post in the Cbox as well. Hope to see more comments from you.

-Rydaven