Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Chapter 2: The Hunt and the History Lesson

Prince Sorrin rode up the hill with his shoulder length auburn hair flowing behind him and his hunting spear ready. Occasionally he would bend low to the ground to find what he was looking for. Boars run light, and this one was no exception. It seemed that though the ground was wet and soft, the hoof prints were becoming more difficult to make out.

He laughed softly to himself when he thought of the other hunters searching in vain in the woods for the animal that he was about to claim as his own. He fingered his trumpet hanging at his side and then stopped. No, he wouldn’t signal the others. He would bring it in himself.

His happy thoughts were short-lived, for when he arrived at the peak of the hill, he saw one of his father’s sows grazing contentedly at the grass. He dismounted from his horse, and picked up a small rock.

"What are you doing here?" he said, tossing it at the pig. "Go back home and stop ruining the hunt!"

He was suddenly aware of someone behind him. "Talking to animals now, are we, young Prince?" laughed a voice.

Sorrin turned and saw his manservant, Sordoin. "It’s not like that, Sordoin," he said. "I thought I was chasing a boar."

"Well then, it’s a good thing you know the difference between a boar and your father’s best sow," said Sordoin, still laughing under his breath. "You might have killed her and brought her to the dinner table all proud and victorious-like."

Sorrin said nothing, but turned and looked toward the west, where the sun was about to set behind the tall hills, casting a long shadow across the valley. Stories of this place filled his mind and he forgot all about the hunt.

"What is the name of this hill again?" he asked Sordoin.

"Mass Rin," said Sordoin gravely. "The Hill of War. Here, long ago, a great battle was fought between our ancestor, Saor, and the Rasnonim. There was ever a enmity between the Rasnonim and us Saorlings."

Sorrin nodded and looked west at a mountain, shining blue above the green hills.

"And that is the mountain where Saor is buried?" he asked.

"No one knows for certain," replied Sordoin. "Saor died right after the battle, and it is said that he was either buried there or he was set in a boat and sent down the Nar River, after the fashion of the Ancient Kings."

"And what became of his sword, the Sarilan?"

"It was given to Horanas, the Annwyn king of Linaar, for saving Saor’s son Raliminan, who is your grandfather."

Just then, a horn sounded. Sorrin slapped his forehead. "The boar!" he cried. "The others must have found it." Then, wheeling his tall bay around, he galloped off to find them.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Okay, yer prolly wondering why I'm not doing Forty Fathoms below anymore. I can sum it up in three words: LACK OF INSPIRATION. Yeah, I'm just not in a piratey mood anymore. So, I'm returning to Middengarne! Here's the first chapter:

Chapter 1: The Whisperer

The moon was just rising, and it’s mournful face gazed down on Noran-Mir, the Tower of Hands. No face looked over the battlements, and there were no sentries at the gate, for this was the celebration of Minarasin Eve, when no one need fear danger. Even the wind seemed to blow gentler than usual for autumn Within the walls of the Tower, the people feasted and danced.

A tall, thin person stood just outside of the surrounding woods, staring at the Tower with hatred in his eyes. Then he turned and strode into the wood.

The path he took was one that many people would have avoided; it was believed to be a haunt for wraiths and ghosts. But for this man, whose name was Imira, this path led to something that would change everything forever.

He was met by two Dokkalim, each with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. The Dokkalim resembled Humans, except they were taller and much more stronger. The Dokkalim stopped Imira.

"Simiror," they said in unison.

"Simira," Imira gave the countersign. The Dokkalim let him pass.

Imira walked into the camp, and went straight to a tent that was set up in the center close by a great fire. He lifted the heavy canvas flaps and entered. Inside there was only a table with a plate of half-eaten food on it, and a cot in the corner. On this cot lay Mornan, the Annwyn prince of Linaar.

"Stand up, filth!" shouted Imira.

Mornan obeyed, but slowly. He stood still and smiled. "Lovely evening for a walk, eh Imira? Did you enjoy the sight of the great Tower of Hands lit by the autumn moon?" He tucked a strand of stray hair behind his ear as he noted the slight look of surprise on Imira’s ugly face.

"So you’ve been following me again have you?" questioned Imira after a while. "You must remember something, Mornan. You are a prisoner in my hands. It is time you acted like one."

"I guess, then, that you should set more than one guard outside the tent." retorted Mornan.

Imira frowned, but then he smiled scornfully. "I have some news for you," he said. Mornan braced himself for what was sure to come. "Our troops," continued Imira, "Have taken all the ships in Linan Nor. The Tower of Faces will fall, just as the Tower of Hands will. But there is a quandary," Imira paused, and then continued.

"Your brother, Naramir, has escaped, along with a very valuable weapon. With this weapon, he might, just might, be able to resist us. But luckily, we have something to bargain with." he pointed at Mornan. "Something very dear to him."

Mornan let this all sink in. Then he said defiantly, "My brother will never give you the Sarilan."

"Ah," Imira raised his eyebrows, "You know the sword. Then you will also remember that Sarilan has a brother, forged on the same day, in the same forge. Surely you know it’s name."

Mornan nodded. "Rimastan, the Whisperer."

Imira smiled. "Yes, the Whisperer," he said, throwing his cloak back, and drawing a sword from his belt. It was long and thin, almost delicate looking, but Mornan knew that it could hack through the thickest armor.

Mornan gazed at the ancient blade that was still gleaming as if it was new. For a moment he thought of all the battles that Rimastan had fought: the Battle at Mass Rin, at Noran Rimana, and the Scourge of the Frontier.

He thought of all the kings of old that wielded it. There was Mornsinil, and his son Sinana. Even Dorr, brother of Saor, used it against the Dokkalim at Mass Rin. And now it was in the hands of the enemy.

All of a sudden, time stopped. Mornan’s senses dulled a little. He was no longer standing in the tent. He was on a wide plain. It was raining, and there was no sunlight anywhere. He noticed two people were fighting before him. He looked closer.

One of them he recognized as Imira, and the other was a boy, no older than seventeen, with auburn hair and the fair skin of the Huwyn people. His armor was that of the Saorlings, and his shield bore the markings of the family of Dain. He was wielding the sword Sarilan. The boy and Imira fought hard, each bringing the other within inches of death.

Imira and the boy stood apart for a moment to catch their breath. The boy said something to Imira, but Mornan could not understand what he said. Imira gave an angry shout and leapt at the boy. Sarilan and Rimastan met in a flash, and the blade of Rimastan was shattered.

Mornan came out of the vision smiling. Imira watched his face with uncertainty mixed with fear. He knew that when Mornan’s eyes were half closed he was seeing a vision, which the Annwyn people are renown for. "You will fall," Mornan said slowly, as if savoring each syllable, "Oh yes, you will surely fall. The strength of Sinainon Lor is on our side."

Imira struck Mornan across the face with the back of his hand. "Don’t you say that Name again," he snarled. He then turned on his heel and stomped out of the tent.

"Hisarasin!" he called. A great Dokkalim came out from a group around the campfire and grunted a salute. "Hisarasin," said Imira, "is all ready for the attack?"

"All is ready," said Hisarasin, "The troops are assembled just outside the woods, as you ordered."

"Then," said Imira, "Remember your allegiance to Rastoran, the Maker of Shadows, the great Snake of Shades. Order the advance."

"Yes, master," said the Dokkalim. He drew his great scimitar and blew a great blast on his horn that he carried at his side.

A shout went up among the Dokkalim troops. The siege on Noran- Mir, the Tower of Hands, had begun.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Jules here.

Okay, we all agreed it would be fantasy, and we tried to come up with a plot via PMs, but obviously it didn't work.   So here's what's gonna happen.

We all give an idea for a small part of the plot.  e.g:

      "a boy loses his favorite teddy bear, and this guy comes and finds it."

Okay, I know that was stupid, but you get the idea.  I'm looking for something way more cooler than that. 

Oh yeah, and because it's fantasy y'all can come up with some races or countries, and stuff like that.  Just please NO ELVES! ! !  Make up something original.  Let's not write a copy of LoTR or Eragon.   There are already too many of those out there.

Okay, you've read it, now comment and tell us your ideas!

P.S:

Corduroy pillows are making headlines.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Sence only five ppl (including me) said they wanted to do the group story, and five votes were cast, I'm assuming that everyone has voted. 

And the winner is *drumroll*:

Time to vote for the genre!
Selection		Votes
High Fantasy (like LOTR and Eragon)	40%	2
Fantasy (like anything from Narnia to Peter Pan)	60%	3
Historical Fantasy (like Pirates of the Carribean)	0%	0
Historical Fiction	0%	0
Absurdist (like Lemony Snikett's books)	0%	0
Mystery	0%	0
Or something totally unexpected!	0%	0

Fantasy!!  Okay, if you still wat to do this, comment and say so.  I still need to figure out a way that we can all come up with a plot together. . . If you have any ideas, please tell me. 

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

Hi, fellow Inklings!  This is Jules speaking.  I had an idea.  What if the Inklings wrote a story as a group? 

Here's how I thought we'd do it:

We would choose the genre of the story by voting. Then we would set to work on the characters and the story-plot. . . nothing too long or complicated.

Then we choose one Inkling member to write the first draft of the first chapter, and he/she PMs it on to the next person, who adds whatever he/she wants. They can only take something away with the previous person's permission.

After it goes through all the members, and everyone approves it, we post it. And then on to the next chapter.

I told Lewis about this, and she thought it was a good idea.  If you want to participate, PM me or comment.

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

I wrote this when I was studying about Medeival guilds.  The assignment was to write a short story about a guild using some facts I had learned. 

"But, surely, Master Otto," cried the old man pitifully, "Thou art an influential man in your guild! Wilt thou persuade them to lower the prices? Sixpence and three pounds for a candle? It’s outrageous!"

Giles looked up from his candle molds and sighed. His uncle Otto was trying to convince this old man that there was no way to lower the prices set by the guild officers.

"I’m sorry," said Otto, "but there’s nothing to be done about it. However, I will appeal to the guild and ask them if it is possible to lower the price a little."

The old man’s shoulders sagged, but he nodded his head and continued with his purchase. After he left, Giles sighed again. How his uncle planned to get the guild to lower the prices on candles, he hadn’t the slightest idea. There were many other candle makers in the guild that wanted to raise the prices even higher. It was getting so bad that many of the townsfolk stopped buying candles altogether.

Uncle Otto heard Giles sighing and nodded his head. "Today, I am calling an emergency meeting of the candle makers guild. Go you now to deliver the message to Master Giovanni Valenti. I will send Ben to spread the word to all the brethren." Guild members called each other brethren.

Giles laid down his half finished work, put on his gold and scarlet cloak, which was the livery of the Candle Makers Guild and started out. Giovanni Valenti was the chairman of the candle makers guild. Lately, Valenti had taken ill with a fever and had not been able to attend the meetings, but his spokesman, Benedetto de Sora was there to preside over them in his place. It was also de Sora’s idea to raise the prices.

When he was halfway down the road, Giles heard a commotion coming from the marketplace. He hurried over to see what was going on. A group of people were gathered around a cart of fruit that had been overturned, and all the fruit was dumped into the mud. An angry man was trying to put it upright, but the cart proved too heavy for him.

"You," he shouted to another man, who Giles noticed was wearing a red and black cloak, which meant he was a shoe maker, "You ‘ave no business goin’ aroun’ and dumpin’ me goods into the street!"

"When it comes to that," replied the shoemaker cooly, "You have no business selling fruit in town, without paying a toll. You are a distraction to our customers."

"Seems a body carn’t do nothin’ without you merchants demandin’ a toll," said the man. But then he sullenly fished in one of the many pockets sewn onto his ragged tunic and brought out some copper coins. " ‘eres your toll." He said, throwing the coins in the mud. Then he turned his attention to his cart. Giles turned and walked away.

When Giles reached Valenti’s house, he paused briefly to gape at the towering building. Standing at the corner of town, and taller than any other house, one could see it from anywhere in or around town.

He walked up to the large oaken doors and lifted and let fall the iron knocker. A resounding thud echoed, but no one came to answer. He knocked again, but still nobody came to the door. It seemed that no one was home, so Giles turned to leave. But a noise from inside caught his attention, and he stopped.

He walked quickly back up to the door and entered. The house seemed empty at first, but Giles thought he heard someone talking upstairs. He slowly ascended the staircase, and followed the voice to a slightly opened door. He raised his hand to knock, but then he dropped it to his side. He put his ear to the door and listened. This is what he heard.

"De Sora, I refuse to be thus detained any longer! Release me, and I will give you whatever it is you desire."

"Do you think me so foolish as to do that? You would go telling everyone about me. But be still, I want to hear what this man, who has not revealed his face even to me, has to say. Who are you, and why do you go about with your face covered in a black hood?"

Then a strange, deep voice said, "Call me Phillip. My face is covered for I wish none to see it. I came to you, for I know your story well. It is my business to know. You are searching for something. The thing you search for is revenge, revenge against Loffred de Anagni. You long for his demise, and it is just within your grasp now. I can bring about his ruin."

Here, Giles stifled a gasp, and sent a silent prayer to St. James, the patron saint of the candle maker’s guild. Loffred de Anagni was the mayor of the town, who, it was said, expelled de Sora from the town council, thus taking away from him many privileges. Giles felt that something bad was afoot.

"H-how do you plan to do that?" said de Sora after a moment.

Phillip laughed. "Mine is the way of the hunting cat, of the spider that waits patiently in its web until its prey is caught in the invisible traps the spider sets, the way of the serpent by the pathway that sits until some careless passer-by steps near, and then snaps out with its fangs. That is how."

Giles hadn’t noticed that he was leaning on the door a little, but all of a sudden he fell into the room. "What is this!?!" screamed de Sora.

Giles barely had time to recover himself and run out of the room again before Phillip and de Sora were after him. He went down the stairs two at a time and fairly flew out the door. He bumped into a man on the front steps, and to his relief he saw that it was the sheriff. "What’s the matter, boy?" the sheriff asked.

"de Sora . . . hooded man . . . danger," he managed to gasp. But when he saw that the sheriff didn’t understand, he pointed inside and said, "Help Giovanni."

The sheriff drew his short sword and entered. Presently there was the sound of a scuffle, and the sheriff emerged holding Phillip by the collar of his cloak and de Sora in front with the sword pointed at his back. Giovanni Valenti was right behind them.

"It’s a good thing I happened by," said the sheriff. Then he nodded to Phillip. "We’ve been trying to catch him for a long time."

"Aye," said Giovanni, "And we’ll have no more nonsense about raising the prices on candles, right de Sora? You are officially no longer a member of the guild. Now," he said to Giles, "Tell your uncle that I am well, and everything will return to normal as soon as possible. I say, it was a piece of luck that brought you here wasn’t it?"

Giles nodded and turned to leave. Phillip caught his eye for a split second, and Giles shuddered. He was glad that Phillip was caught.

Uncle Otto was glad at the news. "Finally," he said, "No more complaining customers."

Yeah, I know. . . terrible ending.  Anyway, please tell me whatcha think!

Jules Verne

Posted in Posted by Jules Verne

The great Hagia Sophia was finished. The great church that seemed to hang from heaven itself on a golden chain, whose domes resting on pillars gave it an airy, grand appearance, was finally finished Word spread excitedly from house to house.

The wives and mothers of the workmen bragged proudly, each one insisting that their husband or son set the last stone or carved the most beautiful window or set the altar in place. But what everyone was most excited about was the first public opening. The day of the opening everyone in Constantinople was flocking to the Hagia Sophia. In the midst of all this, one person tried to get ahead of all the others. It was me.

My name is Justin the Baker’s Apprentice. I am eighteen years old. In my younger years, I aspired to become a mason, but an accident left me with a crippled right hand and a broken dream. It had seemed that there was nothing left for me in the world, except the dough and the hot oven of my uncle’s bakery.

From childhood I had often dreamed of setting chisel and hammer to white marble and creating something beautiful that would last forever, but instead I found myself baking balls of dough that would be snatched up by the fat, greedy hands of some rich man and disappear in a single moment. A whole days work wasted. My uncle didn’t see it that way, though. He took great pride in his baked goods.

At last I arrived at the steps leading up to the church. I stood there a while studying the workmanship of the steps. It was excellent, without a flaw. Suddenly there was a noise in front of me. The great doors were turning on their hinges. It was then that I noticed that I was in front of the crowd and for a moment I had a sickening feeling of being exposed in the presence of such a great thing as this. Everyone but me fell quiet and stepped back a little as if a monster would come out of those gaping doors.

Then everyone heard it. It was faint. It was strong. It was haunting. It was beautiful. It was strange. It was amazing. Soon everyone was singing the song of praise along with the choir. Everyone was marching in time up the stairs. I ran up. The hugeness and beauty of the place hit me like a wave. I was so stunned I almost fell over. I at once recognized the types of stone used throughout the building. There was porphyry from Egypt, green marble from Thessaly, black stone from the Bosporus region, and yellow stone from Syria.

The light coming in from the windows high in the rim of the dome shone down on beautiful mosaic floors. Icons of the Christ and the Holy Mother decorated almost every inch of the walls. Scenes from the Bible were also depicted in mosaic. Walking forward a little, I found myself in the Vestibule of the Warriors where the Emperor’s bodyguards waited while he prayed.

Then turning left I passed under a picture of Mary with the Emperors and entered into the west gallery. I didn’t stop there. I went into the sanctuary. I was overawed. The sanctuary was bigger than I had even dared to imagine. The great dome overhead was covered with Icons and other religious paintings. On the far side was the apse with a picture of the Virgin with the Child.

Then, with a sinking heart, I heard my aunt’s voice.

"Justin!" she called, looking around her in a awed way. Then she spied me. "Justin," she hissed in my ear, "This is the third time you sneaked out today. You can come and gawk another day, but your uncle needs you. There is a very wealthy man at the shop with a large order. Be off now!" And with that she turned me around and gave me a stout kick from behind.

I obediently exited that marvelous place, but I had no doubt that she had been lying just to have an excuse to come and see herself. But I knew that I would never forget that first glimpse of the inside of the great Hagia Sophia.

 Like it?  Hate it?  Please comment and tell me. 

Jules Verne (Storyteller)