Echo of the Wind-Prologue

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic

Chapter 1 (v.1) - Prologue

Submitted: February 04, 2008

Reads: 247

Comments: 1

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Submitted: February 04, 2008



Seven tall figures walked the empty hallways. The sunlight beamed through the upper stain-glass windows. Paled light crept down onto the cobbled stone floor, colouring the figures in a multitude of hues. Long white robes lined with the finest of silver, billowed out behind the seven strange people as their footsteps echoed along the cold, stony walls.
A large, oaken door barred the way at the end of the long hallway. Brightly threaded tapestries flared on the walls, giving a sharp contrast to the monochromatic stone that lay behind them. Twin pillars stood bold as brass, flanking the heavy door, like stone sentinels, unmoving and unyielding.One of the figures reached out and pushed the door open, its black hinges groaned in protest. Unnatural strength alone could move the door, and as the wood screeched along the stone floor, the calm air shattered.
The cobbled floor melted seamlessly into marble tiles, the hard features on the hall softened into tranquility. Golden light snaked out across the walls, like a spider’s web, basking the circular room in pale radiance. The tall, vaulted roof of the tower room stretched so high that even the brightest of sunlight could not penetrate the fathomless darkness. Thick, long windows stood behind seven short stands that stood at the tips of a seven pointed star that was depicted in black tiles on the floor. A carved hole in the centre of each stand indicated that they once held something, but were now partially obscured by vines that twisted their way up. Age had turned the room somewhat wild, the smell of magic oozed out of every pore in the tower walls, it’s tantalizingly elusive art, created life from barren stone. The vines coated a second pair of pillars and the pearly white flower sprung out along the wood like tears and bloomed in majesty. Filing into the tower, the seven cloaked people took their respective places.
Around the necks of the figures, hung a silver chain. The links were very thin, but were also very strong, skillfully crafted so that rust could not settle there. Each of these chains sported a different coloured stone that appeared to be but a shard of a much more regal whole. Just as each figure slotted their stone fragment, the world outside grew dark. Icy blasts of wind threatened to break the glass of the windows. Once bleached white clouds darkened and filled the sky, veiling the sun from view. Waves from the ocean opposite, crashed against the slick rocks and lightning streaked across the sky.
And then, the seven figures began to hum an eerie tune. Despite the thunder booming and crashing outside, the seven harmonizing voices crescendoed. Their warbling soon turned into a prophecy like song.The words emerged from the solid tune and were lifted out through the glass to the world beyond. It traveled on the blustering wind and was carried to all the neighbouring lands and the four corners of the world. Every man, woman and child stopped their daily activities to hear the resonant voices.
In the silent, growing darkness
What is looming ‘bove us all?
In the shrouded mist of Fate
Are we all doomed to fall?
From the Heavens, angels weep
Down on Earth the creatures flee
Though the Moon forever rises
The Golden Sun so longs to sleep
Through the Ages shadows consume
Leaving us with nought but fear
Yet there is Hope still lying inside
Hearts of Nine who’ll make it clear
On and on the song seemed to travel, over every hill and dale, through every valley and down every river. The raging storm didn’t dampen the voices of the prophetic figures, and they sang out louder than ever.
When they stopped, all of time seemed to stop as well. The surreal silence was deafening and painful to hear. The strange seven then removed their stones from the stands and briskly filed from the room.
The heavy oaken door slammed shut with a silent click. Back along the stone hallway, back through the stain-glass room the seven continued until they reached the front doors of their island sanctuary. Out onto the damp grass they strode, robes getting slightly muddy, but appearance did not matter now.The sight to be seen was both wondrous and horrific. The waves were held in mid cresting, the lightning hung suspended in the dark sky and the thick sheets of rain stood still. In fact, everything was still.
But that was where the blanket of silence was lifted. A sudden shockwave of sound erupted from the watery depths under the island. Tendrils of what looked like ink seeped through the sapphire water. The earth shook, tree’s rattled, but the seven figures were ostensibly oblivious to the falling world. They stood tall and proud as the Earth folded in on itself, the seven stones glowed in the semi-darkness.
As the land pushed and pulled, the people felt nothing as the time freezing spell held them. Each was partially transfixed by the song which was still echoing in their ears, and partially by the awe that fell about them like mist. The final notes of the song lingered even after the world, the Seven Prophets and the stones were swallowed by the shadows.
Time edged by and the world was reborn. Life began again, filling the empty world with green grass and beautiful forests. Tall mountains and their snowy peaks clawed their way out of the ground and stretched far into the clouds. Strange peoples and creatures sprung from golden flowers and populated the Earth once more.
Memory is a powerful thing. The Earth never forgets those who walked its skin and each person leaves an imprint on the world no matter how miniscule. Stones bear the marks of civilization long before written texts and their eternally open eyes watch the future become the past.The wind carries every voice every spoken by any spirit that once inhabited the Earth, and delivers it to the ears of those who care to listen.
The Seven Prophets faded away until they were nothing more than a tale that parents told their children. This tale was accompanied by another. Legend says that far away, in the middle of Lake Heripah, there is an island. On that island is a cave where you can hear a strange song in an unknown language, ricocheting off the walls. Deep in the cave there is a room with seven stands, each bearing a hollow slot. Seven stones, which now lay dormant in the hands of unidentified people, fit those seven slots.

© Copyright 2018 Rowena Sirecrofte. All rights reserved.


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