Guardian

What is one, lowly peasant boy in a world of implacable Kings and scheming, murderous Nobles?


One with a destiny beyond imagining.


Young Braen is a simple shepherd, like his father, and his before him. Nothing ever changes in the village of Stonesthrow, save for the turning of the seasons.

But when death finds him, the young man quickly learns that 'the end' is not so clear-cut.

At least, not for those granted the gift of immortality.

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Author's note

(Some of the names and terms I've outright invented (which is most of them) might be confusing as far as their proper pronunciation goes, so here will be a (likely) ever-expanding list to aid you, dear reader, with just that!)

Braen - Bray-en (Celtic inspired)

Rion - Rye-on (Celtic inspired)

Meira - Meer-a

Patras - Pah-trahs (Mediterranean inspired)

Kleonic Marathon - Klee-oh-nik Marath-on (Kleon is derived from the Greek word 'Kleos' which means 'glorious'. 'Marathon' was the site of a famous battle during the Greco-Persian wars.

Urik - Your-ik (Anglo-Saxon inspired)

Obfuscationist - Ob-few-scay-shun-ist (Obviously not a 'real' word, but it damn well should be!)
AA

7. Chapter 7

Braen awoke to pitch darkness.

 

He was lying on his back, that much he could tell, but when he tried to move his arms, he found to his horror that he was completely surrounded by a hard, coarse substance, and the youth realized in a sudden, terrible moment that he was buried alive.

 

Panic took hold, and he began wildly thrashing about, trying to move his upper body enough to break through to the surface, but to no avail.

 

'N-no!' he gasped, quickly running out of air. 'Don't. want. to-die!'

 

Braen's head was swimming, and he knew that any second he was going to faint, never to awaken again.

 

Scrape.

 

Scrape.

 

Scrape.

 

Hazilly, the dying Lad's mind thought he heard the telltale sounds of digging, but he quickly dismissed them as hallucinations.

 

'Hold, Boy! Tis not yet your time!'

 

Though his aching mind felt on the verge of explosion, Braen recognized something in the heavily muffled voice.

 

Scrape.

 

Scrape.

 

As if by a miracle, the cool of the night air fell upon him, and the Youth drank it in as would a man dying of thirst.

 

Powerful arms pulled him up out of the grave, and he proceeded to fall on all fours, beset by racking coughs as he spat wads of dirt out on the ground. 

 

After dry-heaving a few times, Braen looked to his rescuer before he collapsed from exhaustion.

 

'Death is not your destiny this day' said Davin, as he fell into darkness once more.

 

______________________________________________________________________

 

'No' said the faux Priest as he carried the limp form over his shoulder. 'Death is not yet your destiny. But the lives of others will one day be in your hands, and I pray that your judgment will be both sound and fair, young Guardian'

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