Am I quite insane? With the Seraph still under work, not to mention an upcoming birthday, I dare to start another project? I must be out of my goddamn mind! Well, you know what? I am out of my mind, and have been for some time. This will be all in a first draft sense, and if it is well accepted, I will revise it and post it in a finished form. With that, I give you chapter one of Corrupted Powers.
For a summer night, it was unnaturally dark. Shades normally spotted with little trouble slunk in the black night, noticed only by those sharp of gaze and fast of wit. Within this shrouded plain a man rode. His horse, a pure white mare, rode swiftly foreward, but not without struggle; for every few steps it would lose it's footing, coming close to collapse more then once. It's rider seemed unaffected by it's beast's pain. He was clad in flowing black robes, his long black hair flowing behind. His face was dark and grim, his eyes empty vessels of hate. Under his dark cloak he wore heavy armor, though it was hard to spot. Upon his waist was a weathered scabbard, holding a long blade. The hilt of the blade was inscribed with many cruel symbols, spelling words known by few of the world, and spoken by less.
As he neared his target, the castle town of Numeroth, his steed collapsed, throwing it's rider away. Through some strange fate, the man landed upon his feet, seemingly no worse for wear. He eyed the fallen horse with blank eyes, but his body eminated rage. He unsheathed his sword, revealing a jet black blade. The runes upon the cold iron put to shame those of the hilt; their's were of a purpose, though few now live who know it. He approached the horse, raising the sword upward, and plunging it deep into it's skull. The mare bucked horribly, flailing it's legs upwards and outwards. But when mortality should have taken hold, where the horse should have fallen still, it continued to struggle; the dark blade was hard at work. After a minute, the horse gave it's final shudder, before dropping still.
The man drew the sword from the steed's head in a swift jerk. He inspected the dark blade carefully, checking for damage. Where dark red blood should be was nothingness; the only sign of change were the runes, which now glew in a dark blue light. The soul of the horse had been harvested, added to the power of it's master. It was but a drop in the sea, but a drop can make the difference between a shower and a storm. Sheathing the blade, he walked slowly towards Numeroth, his face wearing a slight smile.
It is not bad at all. I have read it over a few times. It looks like a promising beginning.
good. I'd be intrested in more.. :)