So....this is a story I am writing, it isn't really Zelda related, but I think it should be okay...so yeah, I will put it here unless I am told to take it off.
PROLOGUE
The noon sun cast its bright glare over a small settlement seated on the bank of the river Learian. The village consisted hundreds of simple shale houses lining the Learian's wavy path, along with a few floating platforms for fishing. These were the commoners houses, and the house in which our protagonist, or should I say protagonists, live. However, we will get back to that later, that is of little relation to what I shall be telling you. Now, these houses were arranged in two rows, so a wide road, elegantly ornamented with the many of the finest stalls imaginable, and served as the main source of supplies and food for the common folk. Near the center of the 'Market Street", as it was called, the path widened into an immense village square. Lining the sides of the square were the houses of the rich, and the posh stalls in the center contained only the finest in silks and blacksmiths. Now, being next to the Learian gave this town, called Vali-ur, very fertile soil, so it isn't surprising that there were farmhouses spread all over the plains to the north, and great enclosures filled with happy livestock, and slaughter houses filled with not-so-happy livestock. To the west were the Gareth Mountains, and on the other side of the river were the Gol'darin Mountains. These peaks provided the herbalists in town with most of the supplies they needed, and their streams were tributaries to the Learian. To the south was the Aire Forest, which was the home to many strange creatures seen nowhere else, some friendly, some dangerous. Vali-ur was a town well known for its produce, fishing, and livestock, but their proudest accomplishment was not a matter of trade, but rather a statement of power. Behind the town square, nestled in the corner of the Gareth Mountains and the Aire forest, was a gigantic building, larger than any of the rich homes like those in the square. This building was none other than the Glade Academy of the Art of War. In it, the most promising young strategists, fighters, and rangers were instructed by none other than Minol Glade, the hero of the Gareth campaign, which lead to the settlers' defeat of the Fire Brigade, a merciless group of looters who had traveled the continent, gaining power and losing enemies. Glade himself had struck the final blow, a crossbow shot from 5000 yards between the shoulder blades of their commander as he fled from an ambush. Nothing had been seen or heard of the Brigade since then. He was, however, injured when one of the celebrating soldiers threw his javelin in the air in triumph. The weapon tore a gash down Glade's right arm and ripped out the tissue, leaving it too weak for battle. Since then, he has started the academy, which just so happens to be the location of three young teenagers, each exceptionally skilled in his role, and each unknowingly fated to play an important role in the story I am about to impart to you.
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FIRST CHAPTER
The gentle breeze blew lazily northward, swirling around and caressing the body of a twelve year old boy, lifting his dark blonde mop top to reveal the light blue headband underneath. Ripples spread through his blue tunic with a yellow vertical line down each arm. One of his eyes was closed, while the other clear sapphire that was his right eye sighted along the shaft on an arrow notched on his bowstring. He released the end of the shaft, and the arrow struck true, passing through the center of three plump red fruit. Before it hit the ground he yanked on a string which he had tied to the arrow, bringing the food along with it. He pulled one of and rubbed it on his shirt before tossing it to his friends on the wall.
"Nice one, Colt." Said the person on the left as he caught the fruit, his face covered in sweat. "I should have chosen archery. You don't have to carry any heavy equipment, you're away from the fight... why the hell did I choose fencing?"
The other one smirked as he accepted his treat. "Quit bawling, Marcus, I remember you said archery was for cowards. Whatever happened to the glory of combat?"
"It melted away in my fencing suit, along with about fifteen pounds. Come on Kris, surely you have some regrets about choosing to deal in swords?" Marcus grumbled, staring unpleasantly at the hole in his snack where the arrow had been.
Kris was already half done with his fruit, and looked disdainfully at Marcus' whole one. "Actually, I don't regret choosing the sword. It's the weapon my father chose and my father's father... and I am named after a blade after all, and so were my father and grandfather."
Colt sat down next to his friends after cleaning the apple mush off his arrow. "You know Kris; I'm sensing a massive lack of creativity in your family."
Marcus tentatively took a small bite. "You...are sure this is in no way infected with anything? It looks a little brown inside to me..."
Colt sighed and hung his head. "That's because you haven't eaten it."
"But remember last time? I got sick then!"
"That's because you ate the stem, oh paranoid one."
Suddenly Kris doubled over choking. As Colt pounded him on the back, Marcus yelled in a somewhat triumphant tone, "I told you it wasn't safe!"
Kris gave one last cough and a small piece of paper came out of his mouth. He picked it up and blushed, even though his face was so red you couldn't tell. "It's fine... I forgot to take the sticker off the apple, that's all."
"Hey, you lazy bums get in here or I'll have Jared stick his javelin in yer rear!
"And I'd do it too!
"Of course you would, Jared. Good boy."
Marcus sighed as he bent over and put his fencing mask back on. "Well, guess we got to go. I'm going to dive in the Learian if it gets any hotter."
"I'm gonna throw you in if you don't stop complaining!"
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That is all for now...I have two more chapters but I will wait for comment...don't want to make you read too much...
I like it!!!! You already know this, though.
well yeah, you read it on Gaia.
It was good.
I know someone called Gareth...
CHAPTER 2
Ten minutes later the trio stood inside the Academy. The inside of the building seemed even larger than the outside, and Kris was sure it had some kind of enlarging enchantment set on it by a Lathydian Mystik, one of the few surviving races still strong in the ways of magic. There were mats laid all over the floor, with a mirror along one wall. Along the other wall were rows of suspending sandbags, along with several straw dummies, each filled with cuts and holes, kept intact only by pitch and a stack of hay bales in the corner for repairs. On the far side were double doors, which led into Kris' favorite room- the strategy center. There they were instructed in how to best handle any situation of war- whether they were winning or not. This knowledge and skill was vital to anybody wishing to lead a unit.
All the students snapped to attention as Glade walked into the Academy, mumbling under his breath.
"I swear, the next runt to play the ol' get-a-moron-to-lean-against-the-sappy-tree trick is gunna spend the next moon cycle cleanin' the latrines...with r'tongue...Poor Garand had a perfectly good set of britches ripped apert..." He cleared his throat and continued in a booming voice, which seemed to contradict his body. He was short and compact, yet every square inch of his body, with the exception of his right arm, bulged with muscle and sinew. He smoothed his bright orange beard as he gave his instructions. "Awright! T'day the archers are on the range, future off'cers in the strategy room, fencers in here, as fer the rest of ye...who wants to play a good ol' game of Blaylock?"
A tumultuous cheer leapt from the throats of the pupils, with the exception of the strategists, fencers, and archers, who hung their heads. As Marcus looked up he noticed a little smirk playing on Colt's face.
Glade gave a small snort before continuing. "Okay then, we'll have that on the archery range too." As he looked upon the distraught faces of his pupils, he couldn't help a small smile flicker across his face. He quickly returned to his gruff composure as he continued his briefing. "What's the matter, 'aving second thoughts? Awright then, Volund will just lead you in combat trainin' today out be'ind the Academy."
A tall man in his thirties stepped forward from his position beside Glade. He had a wiry build, light red hair set askew on his head, and hard blue eyes. He wore a baggy, ripped tunic that hung off him, giving the appearance of a homeless man wrapped in whatever rags he could find. He had a heavy stone mace corded around his wrist, and he was well known for his skill in wielding it. "Okay, kids, after me."
As half the class filed out after him, quite a few young women glanced at Marcus and smiled. He smiled back, and they would gather in groups, giggling and boasting to their friends about their success until the more impatient students pushed them through the door. Marcus was used to such treatment. His short, black hair was spiked in front, and his brown eyes, prominent facial features, and well-tanned, lean body made him the village heartthrob.
Glade called them to attention, and the swordsmen each positioned themselves by a sandbag and straw dummy, weapons drawn. Marcus strapped on his heavy torso pad and crammed his head into the mask, then drew his long, thin rapier from his belt.
Glade was pacing the floor impatiently, talking under his breath. "Goshdangit, how in tarnation could she be this late, she was s'posed to be 'ere on hour ago...I'm too old for this..."
Without warning, a silver flash shot through the open door, and a dummy at the end of the hall next to Marcus was suddenly beheaded. The head in question was pinned to the wall by a dirk, which was still quivering and emitting a low thrumming sound. Everybody turned to look for a second, and when they turned back, there was a woman standing behind Glade, though he didn't seem to notice. Marcus smiled as he recognized her as Sierra, the village champion when it came to swordplay as well as wordplay. She was wearing a blue skintight full body suit, with a bright yellow tunic over it and leather sandals. She had a katana slung over each shoulder, short blonde hair and clear green eyes.
Glade went into a tirade over the incident, hopping up and down, pointing at the suspended head and turning so red you couldn't tell where his beard started. "Awright, which wunna yew threw that? Fess up now and I'll go easy on ye, but if you don't, I'll find out anyways, and then you'll wish you were the dummy!" Behind him, Sierra repeated every movement, lip synching perfectly and matching the expressions. All the pupils burst out, and Marcus could tell this would be one hell of a lesson.
J J J J J
Kris sat on a long, curving bench along with the other officers in training, gazing intently upon the table in front of them, where small tokens were being moved into position by the master strategist, Uther. He had flowing black hair hanging over an ornately sewn brown robe, had a long oaken pacing stick tucked under his left arm, and had a rather weak, slim body structure. However, what he lacked in fighting ability he made up for well with his cunning mind.
He was showing the students the finer points of the pincer movement, describing when it should be used, how to proportion troops into the attack, and how to time it. Kris hung on every word, constantly brushing his messy brown hair out of his brown eyes. He was short for his age, so he had a hard time seeing the whole board, but he had a good idea of what was going on from what he could see and what Uther said.
This went on for about a half hour, and by the end most of the students were simply staring, but had their attentions elsewhere. Uther looked up from the board when he was done, and his brow furrowed when he saw the sleeping students. "Okay then, I think it's time for a quiz on today's lesson." The students who weren't paying attention didn't hear him, and just kept staring forward, while those who were groaned.
Uther pointed at each of those who groaned, and said a simple, "you pass" and when he got to a sleeping one he sat beside them, leaned over and whispered, "God this is boring, how long does this nut job rattle on for?" The student would look at him and give his answer, then realize whom he was talking to just in time to brace for the pacing stick smacked across their shins.
J J J J J