I WON!!

I'm absolutely ecstatic to announce that my story won best drama in the Image Narrative Mini Contest that went with the Frazetta Art Contest over at Daz 3D.

The objective was to choose one of the images submitted to the Frazetta Art Contest and write a short story inspired by that image. I, of course, chose one of Kachinadoll's. So here is the image and my winning tale...

The wyverns’ squawking cries reverberated across the burning skies, as the sulphurous mist descended upon Raekan, the realm of the dead. Fallan Quoren dropped to one knee, breathless, at the edge of the Lake of Fire, quickly scooping up handfuls of warm water to splash his tired face.

He could feel its buzzing energy tingling across his cheeks and racing up to his temples, attempting to claim his mind and bind his will to the forces of Darkness. But Quoren was far too strong. The former god sealed his thoughts and shook off its power, sending the crackling energy falling to fade back into the water without its intended victim. Many lost souls had been shattered to madness in this vile place, stolen from the Light.

Resting on his sword, Quoren paused to catch his breath and watch the flying serpents he had mercilessly just fought off tumble head over tail, near broken, in mid flight, slowly disappearing into the smouldering horizon. Maldek will have to do much better than that to bring me back to the depths of Haelan, he thought, rubbing his sore muscles and inspecting his skin for wounds. Wyverns might be able to easily capture and carry off mortal warriors, but not a Fallan – not this Fallan anyway, he mused quietly.

Quoren knew the Daimon Lord would start searching for him again soon. But he had to come here to Raekan. The Lake of Fire was the only thing that could take his dark offering and destroy it.

Just then, the rising spectral moon crested above the jagged peaks of Bone Island, sending its light to glint off of the metal object by his side.

“And he’s not going to get his claws on this either.” He reached out to rest a hand on his war prize, dragging it protectively closer to his body through the sand before standing up. “Raekmut,” he whispered solemnly – Fallan Wodan’s war helmet. Imbued with secret power and technology from the dark realms of the underworld, Wodan used it to unleash terror, death and suffering upon the peoples of Taqqara at will.

None thought it possible to remove such a treasure from the Fallan of Wrath, the God of War. None could stand and face Wodan in combat and survive, let alone win.

…Quoren could, and he did.

Victory over his brother hadn’t come easy though. Quoren had chosen his moment of attack carefully, luring the unsuspecting daimon-god into a false sense of security. As the Fallan of Lust, Quoren had seduced Wodan with vain promises and erotic offerings, swearing, in fact, that he could bring his lost love, Pashan, to him willingly. The God of War had greedily agreed to their meeting.

When Wodan had arrived at their designated location, however, he found no revelry in his honour, no tables heavy set with a gluttonous feast, no slaves to slake his lecherous hunger, no terrified sacrifices ready for his mighty sword… and no beautiful Pashan waiting with open arms. Nothing but hoary seeker spheres and dust whirls stirred in the deserted Temple of Maeldekan in Sonsali. The temple mount stood eerily silent, save for a cold wind, moaning mournfully through the barren trees.

“Quoren!” Wodan bellowed, his voice an angry roar, blasting the gossamer webs, glistening like shuddering ghosts under Iah’s pale moonlight.

Quoren watched silently as his brother’s rage boiled up under his heaving chest. Wodan’s enormous pride lay wounded, seeking only vengeance to assuage its hurt. Still as the many crumbling statues populating the desolate temple, Quoren stood behind a massive carved pillar, waiting.

“Where are you?” Wodan demanded with another growl, surveying the ruins through the thermal lens in his helmet. “Come out and face me, coward!” Just then he heard the crunch of gravel shuffling underfoot and turned quickly to catch the white hot form of his brother Fallan in the small viewfinder over his right eye.

“I am here, brother,” Quoren said calmly, stepping into full view under the silvery rays of the moon.

“What is the purpose of this trickery, liar?” Wodan settled into battle stance, clutching his fierce blade before him. He wore only a sneer to welcome his brother.

“I want peace, Lord Wodan,” Quoren answered, gripping his own sword at the ready, the smooth deep timbre of his voice a testament to his iron resolve.

Fallan Wodan shook his head with a snarling laugh. “Peace! What good is peace, brother?” He narrowed his eyes and looked his rival up and down. “Peace doesn’t bring the smell of fear, the taste of blood, or the thrill of victory. It doesn’t bring control! You know that Fallan Quoren.”

The pair began to circle slowly, staring each other down.

“I don’t want control, Wodan. Not anymore,” said Quoren, clenching his jaw. “We can end this and take back Taqqara from the Daimons, together.”

“Take back Taqqara,” Wodan huffed. “You are a Fallan, Quoren. You are a Daimon now!” With a fearsome howl Wodan pitched forward stabbing and slicing at Quoren. In feverish berserker frenzy, he beat his brother to the ground, nearly impaling him through the ribs.

Deflecting the Fallan of Wrath’s strikes, Quoren kicked the large daimon-god off of him and rolled away, jumping to his feet. Twisting and turning to meet each blow, the Fallan of Lust employed evasive manoeuvres as they clashed in a battle dance around the ruined temple.

They had fought viciously, Quoren remembered, as the scene played out in his mind with vivid imagery. Wodan’s eyes had glowed bright red, full of bloodlust, while trying to kill him. But the God of War had forgotten that it was Quoren who had trained with him every day, when Wodan had been the God of Strength and Protection on the side of Light. So Quoren knew his combat style well, and was the only one who could ever possibly defeat him.

Turning the grimy helmet over in his hands, examining it carefully now, the former God of Life and Fertility recalled how he had managed to deftly strike his brother below the jaw line to knock his helmet off, sending it flying from the daimon-god’s head.

Caught in a sudden confused stupor with its evil influence removed, Wodan had dropped his sword, then teetered and stumbled before Quoren, falling onto his steady blade.

“No!” he had cried, pulling his sword from his brother’s gut.

Wodan fell with a deathly thud at Quoren’s feet, gasping as his blood came gurgling up his gullet.

“Wodan, no!” Throwing himself to his knees by his brother’s side, Quoren lifted Wodan’s heavy shoulders to cradle him in his arms. As his body grew cold, Wodan’s red eyes faded to soft brown before turning lifeless, like empty glass orbs. Seized with grief, sobs welled up through Quoren’s chest as he crushed his brother to him, and then spoke an arcane incantation through broken choking words.

The mist-shrouded veil to Haedan, the heavens of Taqqara, opened near them with a blaze of shimmering golden light, as two serene goddesses emerged. Stepping gingerly forward, they looked down upon their fallen brothers with deep compassion. Anticipating this dreadful outcome, Quoren had arranged their help before contacting Wodan, fearing that either he or Wodan, or both, would succumb to this fate.

As Quoren now stood before the fiery lake and disarmed the many deadly features on Wodan’s war helmet, he remembered how Tiela and Sayanna had taken Wodan back into their tranquil realm. Before closing the portal, they each bid Quoren much love and gratitude for this tremendous task he had undertaken to reunite the gods and save their world. But he needed them, all of them, if he was to succeed.

Wodan would sleep now, safe in Haedan while the goddesses work on mending him, body and soul, he thought. With Wodan restored to the path of Light, Quoren would have a strong and reliable ally to help defeat the daimonic forces controlling Taqqara, the world they had been sworn to guard.

“Get better, brother,” he murmured, “and I will return you this.” The sword in his hand was not his own. This was Wodan’s blade, Lifsavior – the same sword he had used in ancient times to protect their people. Now it was tainted, stained with the unholy blood of eons of war.

Closing his eyes, Quoren summoned the cosmic forces connected to the Light from deep within himself and let it flow through his hands. As the primeval energy surged forth to cleanse Wodan’s great blade, the feeling of strength and hope flooded Quoren’s senses and he knew they could take back Taqqara. “The gods of old will be one again,” he spoke proudly in his ancient tongue, admiring the splendid craftsmanship of the renowned blade.

When he finished, the holographic moon peaked in the heavy caustic sky of Raekan. The all-seeing skull of the Daimon Lord, Maldek, appeared glowing through its surface, searching the land below. Suddenly landing its hollow gaze upon Quoren, its eerie low siren call tore through the air in alarm, sending the daimon hordes to track down the rogue Fallan.

“You will not win,” he shouted up at it, standing firm. “We are yours no more.” Raising Wodan’s gleaming sword at the projected watcher, Quoren yelled in stark defiance. “We will be free!”

Then with a roaring cry, he hurled the loathsome helmet that had held Lord Wodan captive to evil for so long into the burning lake. Landing with a deep plunk, the plasma fires ignited with a whoosh all around it to immediately consume the helmet. Pulling it into the searing waters’ depths, Darkness reclaimed its wicked gift.

Enjoy!
Quoren

http://passiontales.ning.com