I’ve written in 1st- and 3rd-person perspective multiple times. In fact, I think that’s all I ever thought I would write. Turns out I may be wrong.
On deviantART, I took the “Writing Challenge for you” by ~dragonwarsro. Essentially, it’s a bit of a tag-you’re-it system, and her writing was just so beautiful that I couldn’t pass it up. I love doing writing collabs like this. It makes me want to roleplay again.
Once you click for more, I’ll have to give you some pointers as to how you should read it. I suggest you read Dragonwarsro’s part before you read my addition since she’s the one who began it, and I’m just adding on to it. Otherwise, if you’re feeling adventurous or something, jump right in. I don’t mind.
Your hands tighten with Winter’s frostbite. You clasp them multiple times, remembering you had lost something.
You remember the book you dropped in the snow — the only thing you are carrying with you besides the tattered clothes on your back and the sack over your shoulder.
You walk back to the book, pick it up, and leaf through it slowly. The pictures of the various animals and places bring a small smile to the corner of your lips. Soon you reach the bookmark-ed page — the page, which tells of a large crystal that takes away the magic of the person who touches it.
The page has been the only thing that has promised you salvation.
You close the book. The crystal is here somewhere. You know it; you just need to travel farther.
Your hunger lashes at you once again. You grimace as you place a hand on your stomach. You look down at the gravestones. One catches your eye. Near it is an offering in a wooden basket covered by a purple cloth. Could it be food? You walk over to it, and uncover it with your popping hand.
A loaf of bread. As you take it in your hands, your mouth waters. You look around. No on else is here. You are about to tear it, but you look at the tombstone. “Adelin Cornwell III. A loving husband, father, and priest.”
You feel ashamed. You do not wish to steal from a dead man’s hands — let alone a priest. Yet you are hungry. You lay a hand on the tombstone, trying to look into the dead man’s heart. You hope that he was once a generous man and that he would have let you taken part of the bread as you tear off half of the large, seeded loaf. As you bite down, you note that it is hard, old, and cold from the winter, yet still retains its taste.
As you eat that which resembles yourself, you remember why you’re here.
You remember that you are the son that no one — not even your mother or your neighbors — ever wanted. You remember the looks they all gave you the words, they forced down your ears, the words they made you say — made you choke on. You remember them as the cold wind scrapes your skin.
You are the son of a wizard whom you do not know what happened to. And in this land, a wizard brings nothing but death and suffering. Perhaps he went on to find another woman to cause grief and misery upon her children. Or perhaps he died at the hands of the very same ignorance that plagues you now.
All you wanted was to leave, but not for same reason your father might have done — whatever it may have been. And so you did, in the early morn, as all the beasts who haunted you lay fast asleep. In this land, there is nothing for you. The only thing that allows you to believe otherwise you is the book you bought from a stranger who came in to town.
You hear the crow again. You feel ashamed once more. You pack away the bread for later. You press on, the snow and dry leaves crunching beneath your feet. There is nothing here for you — nothing but graves, bones, snow, and dead leaves. Death is all around. There is only a sliver of hope to end your suffering.
Or so you thought.
(Author’s Note: Expect a lot of fantasy from me; that’s my forte.)
Writing Challenge by Dragonwarsro by Kaleiyah-P is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.
Based on a work at dragonwarsro.deviantart.com.