The Night - Original Writing

Before me loomed the old observatory which would be our home for the next year. Its walls were an expanse of red brick stacked on red brick, contrasting the two white front doors and the white domed tower. It sat atop Henrick Cliff with large fields sloping down from the front of the house. The tower could be seen rising from the back of the house, with the cliffs edge and sea beyond that. The observatory looked like a forgotten castle, waiting for the next rulers to occupy it.

Rainsford had hardly tumbled to the ground when the pack took up the cry again. “Nerve, nerve, nerve!” he panted, as he dashed along. A blue gap showed between the trees dead ahead. Ever nearer drew the hounds. Rainsford forced himself on toward that gap. He reached it. It was the shore of the sea. Across a cove he could see the gloomy gray stone of the château. Twenty feet below him the sea rumbled and hissed. Rainsford hesitated. He heard the hounds. Rainsford threw himself off the tall cliff. The wind rushing past his face and threw his hair, he had a split second on just peace flying down the cliff preparing to hit the water. The water crashed around Rainsford swallowing him whole, as he started to swim to shore he heard a mysterious yet familiar voice.

Rion calmed from his night terror easily, and he and Percival went back to sleep. When morning arrived, Rion shot out of bed with a grin, full of his typical energy. He had no memory of his tears and screaming the previous night, which was just as well; the boy deserved peace after all the heartache he had weathered.

Now, beneath a holy moonlight, I peer up at the monstrosity before me. A rambling wreck of Ashlar masonry infested and crawling with creeper vines. The gabled roof is worn and tattered from age, the various copulas sag, their pitched hoods waning beneath the weight of forest debris, and to the north—the tower, a grand columned spire jutting above the canopy of trees. It is there where the legend and my birthright began. In the circular garret room where Sire Astor—the first of our tainted bloodline—found the bedamned tome, where he dabbled in alchemical concoctions, summoned the Elders in their native tongue, where he invoked the deplorable curse of the Damned. He too, began his journey into madness at the age of twenty-first; thus, his obligations and sacrifices trickled down the family-tree and through the most masculine of

Out of curiosity, the group quickly turned to see what invaded their home and upon entering the courtyard, they came face to face with an unusual cylindrical structure that appeared to have been burned. Attached to the scorched construct was a tiny harness, the Royal Army examined the two items, but were unable to get any answers. As they were investigating, another BOOM appeared in the Inner Bailey in, which caused the Army to pause and rush eastward. Ser Vaden and seras Vasilisa, Katherin, and Memphis remained from the original group to observe the heated object taking up the center of the courtyard.

Fire leaped from the dragon's jaws. He circled … the trees by the shore shone like copper and

The former darkness had been replaced by a pale yellow bloom sun and a cotton candy blue sky, with no trace of the twisting fog. It was as if the battle had never occurred. The castle rubble was now a photo-perfect backdrop, boasting soaring white spires, ornate turrets, a royal-blue rooftop, and mullioned stained glass windows. Surrounding the edifice were animal-shaped yaw hedges and a deep, broad moat filled with lotus flowers and twenty-foot-long purple crocodiles. A drawbridge lay across water.

When he could no longer see nor sense the sailing vessel’s presence, Merlin turned his back to the sea. For the first time in a long time, he was uncertain where he would bed for the night. Tintagel’s stone fortress loomed foreboding in front of him, casting a dark shadow over the land,

It looked like the sun had given up on trying to break through the iron curtain of clouds that it decided to lounge behind them. As we nervously walked towards the battle of our lives, the castle silhouetted behind us like someone faintly saying goodbye. The narrow barren streets were scattered with muculent mud and broken decomposed parts of the castle lay beside it reminding us that danger was slowly approaching. The street was a skeleton, stripped of its flesh. All that remains was the broken parts of the concrete structure. Quiet and derelict. The street was a river of the rusted burnt charcoal like concrete parts of the castle. Perhaps years back this street was immersed in pools of yellow light from the assaulted street lamps. Walking past the street lamps made the scent of burnt smoke go inside me like a barren soul. The street lamps were concealing us and we were inferior to the street lamps. The street lamps were covering us with darkness reminding us of the danger ahead of

It was the evening of that fateful day. The deep rasping calls of the ravens can be heard as they hovered above the creaking trees. A menacing voice penetrated through the hollowness of the forest. It was close enough to unnerve the young boy. The mist that wouldn't rise lifted itself as he glanced back quickly and hastily began to run out of fear. As he ran, he would stumble and look back in hesitation only to tear his gaze away, scampering onward again. A fiery light flared its path in front of him, calling him forwards. He ran to it, collapsing in front of unfamiliar figures.

“Castle? What do you mean cas...?” Then, he saw it. But, it wasn’t a castle, it was the Proctor’s private residence and below it sat Darkos, its buildings gleaming in the sun's brilliant light.

And as he voiced the charm he summoned the last of his strength. He thought nothing of the blades and battle and the warfare that he knew. He drew on some deeper part of his mind that was waking, though he did not want to admit it, and from his inner self a fire sprang. It leaped from him into Aranloth’s staff, and there it burned, hot as the sun, before it rushed out in a stream from its

A naive child, standing tall against the deepening colors of an approaching sunset, felt the shudders of air through his skin. Vibrations erupted through the rusted metal and ancient wooden boards, leaving him to inhale the smoky wind as the beast arrived. A squeaking groan traveled its way up his skeletal figure as the booming became louder, headlights already in view from afar. He planted his feet sturdy between two boards, his usual routine. With his arms upstretched to the ever changing hues of the city’s ceiling, he screamed out-- a battle cry of frustration and sadness, mixing with stress and happiness all in one feeling. Words could not begin to cover the trials he must have gone through that week. The army of wheels charged against the ground beams covering more ground by the

Satan closed the door to the dungeon behind him, ignoring the incessant, pleading screams of his youngest son. He walked with cold, calculated steps up the stairs to the less truthful, upper floors of the castle. Such a stunning palace, the epitome of beauty amongst the red wastes of his realm. Within the walls of the palace not a single speck of red could be found. Not one single flower, or fabric, or smudge of dirt. Even Iblis, the king of fire, who loved the color so, was not allowed it. Even his flames had been beaten into submission until they only burned a bright orange and a low yellow.

The air rippled in front of us. A circular entry appeared—a swirling gate of golden noise like a caged animal incensed, seething, rattling for its supper—and Queen Arianna and Zander spun toward the sound. I stuck my hand into the portal, my fingers appeared in the landscape beyond, casting shadows on the grass next to their silhouettes. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to plunge. But instead of leaping, I was blasted back—thrown head over heels—and landed in a heap on the marble floor. Black smoke poured from the shrinking crack in the cosmos and the whole castle filled with a smell like rotten eggs.