Why Didn't We Start In A Tavern?

So, I’m being a little lazy today. This is something I wrote for my current creative writing project Why Didn’t We Start In A Tavern?. It’s not the first scene, but it’s my favorite scene thus far. I always like baddies like this. Lol.

Ryan

3-18-14

The air in the cave was unlike any else there had ever been. It was eons old swirling in and over itself for all eternity.

Infinity.

A pair of snakes, one eating the other locked in a great loop.

This was how the air thought of itself. It thought it would never change, though that everything about the cave, the paths to and from it, and the clefts that gave it shape and form would never change.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

Some say that the face of death changes with every tick and tock from a clock. The face of death in this cave was pale, white sunken flesh near to translucent and with eyes as solid orbs of cerulean. The face of death had a crack, twisted and broken for a mouth. It was screaming obscenities that even the wind couldn’t hear. Its hair was frozen in thin strands, sticking out in every direction, and the ears were curved and pointed like the cruel tip of a scimitar.

The wind had known this face for eternity. It had always been down here in the depths of the cave: always and forever since the goddess Gaia gave birth to the bastard face of death. Lady Celita, she who is the moon made flesh, ave this face a kiss, a crescent on its brow and made it sleep forever more.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

A hand that had never known the warmth of life flexed inside the ice. The fingers bent and what had once been solid broke free.

The cave and the wind trembled then, as the face of death and the body attached to it moved. First the hands, curling into fists, then the biceps bulging, muscles contracting, and the arms came free. They moved through the ice, were one with the ice, as if it were water, and the fists slammed out through the thin pane of ice and rock.

The wall split, and rock and ice flew like shrapnel, cutting ribbons through the air that thought nothing would change. The hands and arms worked back and forth, clearing the path as it sent rock after countless rock through the air. The wind cried and moaned in pain, but couldn’t stop what came next.

The face of death came free from the ice, and it filled its lungs for the first time since birth. The face of death inhaled, savoring the little joy of killing all that remained of the air that thought things would never change.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

The face of death was free from the wall and from the ice. It stretched and flexed and learned how to use parts of itself it never knew it had. The face of death turned to face the void it had been trapped in and there hid his armor. It was frosted full plate mail, made from an alchemical mixture of black ice and black iron. There was a shirt of chainmail made from the same material, each of the links fashioned to look like hail stones. This the face put on first, then each of the great plates of shaped ice and metal. The face had no need for aid, as the suit knew its master and responded to the call. It smiled as it pulled the gloves and gauntlet tight and at long last drew its helm from the ice.

The helm was a masterpiece, ice and metal shaped into a great polar bears head with a crown of ice sickles rising from the peak. The snout came down to cover the face’s cracked mouth and nose, the bear’s teeth cutting into its flesh. The face of death smiled, relishing in the pain. And, it took one last item from the ice.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

This item was massive with a long rod of adimantium and coiled mithril, spiraling up in a hellish dance till it met the head of the sledge. This was the heart of all ice. It was blacker than coal with a cold that sapped the strength from what air remained. This heart had been mined from the depths of Niefelheim, and fashioned into a weapon fit for the gods.

The face smiled as it caressed the heart of ice with a lover’s touch. The depths captured within the ice gave a start as the ancient magics worked this way and that. The face’s smile grew wider. It turned to the side, swung the great sledge back with all its might, and drove the great hammer back into the void it came from. The world cracked.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

Water swirled behind the ice in a great tornado as a hole was rent in the die of existence. The face of death pulled back and swung again. And, again. And, again.

Things change.

The army was there, standing ten thousand and more strong behind the void, behind the face of death. Long have they awaited this moment. Long have the ice elves kept their hatred burning in their frozen souls. They had been denied the earth, denied the air, and the light of the sun.

Now, they would deprive all things of life.

Things change.

It’s the way of things.

It’s the way of the ice elves.