Ieh'son, the Monk
Three nations battle for control of the Eastern Lands. The magocracy Bedune, the republic Sehi-Sarah, and the dictatorship of Delim-Tarlith each vie for control of the resource-filled lands at the Four Rivers near each of their borders. But in the Frozen Lands far to the North, a fair-skinned and blue haired child is born. Branded as a heretic and bad omen, his family is killed and the child abandoned. Picked up by a caravan of monks from the Blue Phoenix monastery in Bedune, the child is brought back from the brink of death. Soon, the tides of war envelope the young Monk Ieh'son, and the corruption of an ancient evil is revealed to be much deeper than anyone could have imagined. Now, the fight to save the world is on, and every race has a stake in their own salvation.
Fantasy Fiction, by Blu
Excerpts in compelling, original worlds you can read in a few minutes.
Thursday, July 4
Wednesday, August 14
“Return“
He always hated the rain.
Hard, cold drops pelted the elf warrior as he rode through Ashenvale forest. He could feel the drops penetrating his armor, soaking into the tough leather shirt below the chain mail. Warforged Elfish armor could turn most any blade, but was functionally useless during a rainstorm. He tugged at the cloak strung loosely around his shoulders and whispered softly to Shieshna, his Saber mount, to pick up the pace. Without acknowledging his rider, Shieshna lurched forward suddenly, just as the rain began to come down harder.
Hard, cold drops pelted the elf warrior as he rode through Ashenvale forest. He could feel the drops penetrating his armor, soaking into the tough leather shirt below the chain mail. Warforged Elfish armor could turn most any blade, but was functionally useless during a rainstorm. He tugged at the cloak strung loosely around his shoulders and whispered softly to Shieshna, his Saber mount, to pick up the pace. Without acknowledging his rider, Shieshna lurched forward suddenly, just as the rain began to come down harder.
Tuesday, July 9
"It Must End Somewhere."
Dozens of demons, humans, and elves lay dead around him while the screams from the dying echo in his ears. Blood from many wounds pool near his feet as a clawed hand weakly reaches out. His sword comes down once, silencing the demon. But then it comes down again, and again. The hunter doesn't remember screaming, but he's certain that he is. Some time later, a voice pierces through the red fog of rage;
"Dameon."
He stops. The Demon Hunter, the Wandering Black, Dameon. He forces his eyes to focus. The red haze finally recedes. He is holding his sword, the only gift his mother provided to him that he did not want. The ring imbued with ancient magic dangles loosely on the handle. He can barely remember her face.
"It's over, Dameon. It's finally," Syl is interrupted when the sword comes within an inch of his face, embedding itself deeply in a rock behind the mage.
"NO!" Dameon screams, smearing blook-soaked hands across his face, "it's NEVER over! This hate lives inside me," the broken hunter stumbles as he tries to walk, landing on his knees. Tears from his own eyes, stained with dirt and gore, fall over the top of a human face staring up at him with lifelessly.
"It's never over, not for me," he sobs. For a moment longer than he would like to admit, Syl feels pity for the creature in front of him. His inner turmoil, rage, and confusion would eventually consume him, and it would make every waking moment agony an eternal agony. With a heavy sigh, Syl turns and grabs the hilt of the sword.
"There might be a way," Syl says, pain in his voice as he pulls against the rock. It seems to split itself open with a small wave of the mage's hand, "for you to tame this hatred. But the cost would be steep, and your soul may not survive." He turns and holds the sword out to his battle partner and friend.
"I'll do anything," Dameon coughs, pulling himself up and taking his sword. Suddenly noticing the pain in his side, he glances down to see his trenchcoat covered in his own blood, "anything to make this pain ebb, if only for a day. It must end somewhere, old friend." The last word was almost pleading to Syl's ears.
"Then we must travel north, to the Ancient Council," Syl says, staring at his own hands, "I need to see an old friend myself."
"Dameon."
He stops. The Demon Hunter, the Wandering Black, Dameon. He forces his eyes to focus. The red haze finally recedes. He is holding his sword, the only gift his mother provided to him that he did not want. The ring imbued with ancient magic dangles loosely on the handle. He can barely remember her face.
"It's over, Dameon. It's finally," Syl is interrupted when the sword comes within an inch of his face, embedding itself deeply in a rock behind the mage.
"NO!" Dameon screams, smearing blook-soaked hands across his face, "it's NEVER over! This hate lives inside me," the broken hunter stumbles as he tries to walk, landing on his knees. Tears from his own eyes, stained with dirt and gore, fall over the top of a human face staring up at him with lifelessly.
"It's never over, not for me," he sobs. For a moment longer than he would like to admit, Syl feels pity for the creature in front of him. His inner turmoil, rage, and confusion would eventually consume him, and it would make every waking moment agony an eternal agony. With a heavy sigh, Syl turns and grabs the hilt of the sword.
"There might be a way," Syl says, pain in his voice as he pulls against the rock. It seems to split itself open with a small wave of the mage's hand, "for you to tame this hatred. But the cost would be steep, and your soul may not survive." He turns and holds the sword out to his battle partner and friend.
"I'll do anything," Dameon coughs, pulling himself up and taking his sword. Suddenly noticing the pain in his side, he glances down to see his trenchcoat covered in his own blood, "anything to make this pain ebb, if only for a day. It must end somewhere, old friend." The last word was almost pleading to Syl's ears.
"Then we must travel north, to the Ancient Council," Syl says, staring at his own hands, "I need to see an old friend myself."
Saturday, March 31
A Contest
This harsh land knows no ways save punishment. Sourwheat, the only crap that grows here that counts for food, produces thorns so thick they must be cut off with a machete before harvesting. Large holes dug a hundred feet or more in the ground provide the only ready source of water, and gangs war for control daily. This hell hole denies living, yet there are those that still stay. Where else could they go? The Lawless Lands are like their names describe; a dry, arid haven for those with little to lose save their own life.
In the end, it’s the filth that call this place home who defines it. Everyday, a struggle to survive. Every day, a fight. The ones who simply don’t have the will to put one foot in front of the other are thrown to the wolves. Even the survivors are thrown to the wolves as well, to see which of them will manage to bat away the savage beasts. Some scholars would look back on this land in the far future and ponder why others didn’t see what was so obvious to them. The Revolution against the Magistrate could only have begun there. To unite the warring clans, to bring down the walls of the castle from within and without, would have required a willpower greater than any fat, elitist slob sitting on a silk cushion. It would require someone who knew the hell of war would still be less than the hell of complacency, and was willing to wade through both to find a ray of hope. Someone whose struggles hardened her to the core, and steeled her against the realities of living.
My “father” was a terrible man. As a gladiator who made his way killing other people, his heart eventually broke and his mind with it. His last fight was a test of his brutality and skill, and he passed with flying colors. His boon was any animal, wealth, or person he could see in front of him. Having fought for over an hour and with blood on every ounce of his body, it must have been difficult for the poor bastard to see anything. But he made a choice, and was bound to it.
My father won me in a contest.
Thursday, April 6
"Journals" - New Facebook Shorts!
Note from Blu: As part of an on-going effort to get more "likes" and visibility to my Facebook page, I've decided to post small content shorts I've tentatively titles "Journals." These Journals present a snippet of thoughts, emotions, and stories from the three main characters featured on this blog, blufantasyfiction.com
The first will be coming tomorrow (Friday, April 7th, 2017) around 8:00 AM EST. Weekly updates will be sprinkled between larger posts at blufantasyfiction. Be sure to check my FB page around then! If you like it, give me the thumbs please! You'll find the link below:
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