Post by Danny Murphy on May 17, 2012 17:26:27 GMT -5
Okay a little information. This is my rough draft of my next story. So it's almost like an outline rather as more will be added and edited once the whole story is finished and done. The story was slightly built off of Irish mythology as there are many creatures such as the Banshees and other Irish faeries that play major roles. It is about a second subspecies of humans who have coincided along with them since the beginning. They are the Elementals or Elementalists. They have the ability to control certain elements though they all can control each element some what they are each most powerful with their own unless they train for a very long time as throughout the whole story there is only one person who achieves this and it took him hundreds of years. The elements I have already are Water (Very Common), Beast Calling (Common), Fire (Very Rare), Music (Semi-common), Nature (Uncommon), Light (Rare), Darkness (slightly rare), Air (Very Common), Speed (Uncommon), Earth (Common), Strength (Common), Reflex (Uncommon), Charm (Rare), Radiation (Very Rare), Energy (Very Common), Psi (Rare), and Lightning (Only one lightning elemental has ever been known). Some of them are of the sacred irish bloodline (O'Neill, O'Connor, O'Brady, Kavanagh, and O'Brien though because of inter family breeding it's hard to keep track and many other names of circled into the bunch though not all of each family is of the sacred bloodline. A couple others for example that have been known to host a few of the sacred irish family bloodlines are the McCarthys', The McCarthy's, and the McKay's.) If they are of the Irish Bloodline and they are unsafe or can no longer be looked after by their families, Isabelle brings them to the Camp of Banshee. At age ten all elementals go away to school for eight years (Not year round they go home for summer and if they want Easter and Christmas) to learn all about the history of the elementals, how to control their elemental powers, the faerie world, and everything else I'm not going to mention to not give away spoilers. But it follows the main character who is wanted badly by the bad guys of course but what i love is that there are more like three sides and all the characters, even background ones, a very three dimensional but it takes a bit to build up to parts were it's truly shown just how three dimensional.
Chapter 1
The Boy Under The Bed
All hope seemed to fade from that room . . . All light seemed to leave the world . . . all the good in the world disappeared in a burst of black flames. . . everything that the little six year old hiding under the bed that he thought mattered dissolved before him. A cold laughter echoed the room as the man clad in black mounted his steed as it snorted dark blue flames and its dark blood red eyes stared at the ashes that were left of Thomas McKay.
The boy under the bed felt like crying or screaming for his daddy to come back . . . but that wasn’t going to happen. His father had told him to keep quite until the woman came. The woman named Isabelle. He was to put his faith into a total stranger but it was what his father had told him to do and he always did what he was told. Tears strolled down his cheeks as his lips quivered. He wanted to look away from the whole thing but he couldn’t for some reason. His dark, deep set, hazel eyes were glued to the scene. He watched as his world crumbled before him.
In what seemed like a flash the man charge his horse at the glass window at the other end of the apartment and it shattered into millions of pieces just as the boys dreams had been shattered moments ago when his father told him to hide under the bed. With all the strength the boy could muster he crawled out from under the bed as he looked in horror at his father’s ashes. Tears filled his eyes as they solitarily strolled down his cheeks and dropped to the floor on the man’s ashes that were black and crisp. He was gone. He was really gone. His father wasn’t there but the boy was mature. He often understood things other children didn’t. He understood his father was gone.
“D-daddy,” he stutteringly choked questioningly? But there was no answer. The boy dropped to his and put his hands into the ashes. “Daddy,” he bellowed tearfully as the ashes fell through whatever cracks they could find between his hands!
The room was in devastation, but not as much as the boy. The aqua shaded lamp that served well throughout the years as a night light was shattered on the ground. Blood was spattered on the floor and walls and seemed to cry out with him. A deep wailing cry filled the air as a lament to his father’s death. He had sacrificed himself to protect his only son. The disoriented little six year old looked around with his dark hazel eyes for the sound but it wasn’t coming from anywhere in particular . . . it seemed as if the sound was in his head. He sniffled his nose as he tried to stop the tears thinking of what his dad would’ve said had he cried. The wailing suddenly stopped and the boy quickly turned rising to his feet towards the window the man had rushed out of with the horse. He walked up to it looking down fifteen stories to the streets of Brooklyn with gritted teeth as he withheld his tears in his retinas. The only sounds that filled the night were the distance thunder and the clattering of rain.
“I wouldn’t stand so close to the edge” a female voice said and the boy turned scared taking a step back and almost falling out the window. He caught his balance and stepped forward making sure he wasn’t too close to the woman or the window.
“W-who are you” the boy asked stuttering from fear which he hid from his face the best he could?
“I am Isabelle” the woman stated, “I am a blind Seer.”
“A-a what” he inquired scared of what it might be?
“A seer,” she stated holding no emotion as if she were a talking book stating a fact from within, “I can see the future, but at a price. I am blind in the mortal sense . . . . However I have been around a very long time and I will be here for a much longer time.”
The boy didn’t understand what all this meant as all that seemed to matter to him were the ashes in between them. He still didn’t understand all this talk. He was six and nothing more. Nothing more than a six year old boy who was now orphaned. Then it hit him. His father had told him to wait for Isabelle. That he had to go with Isabelle. His father had emphasized it more than anything other than the fact that he loved him and to not get out from under the bed or make a sound. But what if it was a lie? What if the man who killed his father had sent her there to trick him?
“Why are you here” the boy asked hesitantly?
“I’ve come to take you with me” the woman said plainly in her plain ghostly voice that held no emotion or meaning. The voice scared the boy a bit. It was ghostly and different from the brooklyn accents he was used to. It was different from the foreign accents he would often hear. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, even on the television though he rarely watched it. The boy examined the woman wondering why she would take him away. She was wearing a startling white cloak tied around the waist with a light brown rope embedded with shamrocks all around except the middle which consisted of a four leaf clover. It was a beautiful hand woven outfit and it looked amazing. It even seemed to glow or radiate purity and the color white.
“If you’re blind how’d you know where I was standing” the boy pointed out confused?
The woman chuckled and replied “When you’ve been around as long as I have you find ways to feel movements through vibrations in the ground and floor boards.” The woman’s upper face was covered by the white hood attached to her cloak.
“Are you like an Angel” the boy asked as he took a few steps closer and saw how angelic she looked with her pearl white face, heart shaped upper lip, and pearl white cloak.
“No” she replied her lip curving crookedly to the side in a smile; they were dark red, “Just a blind seer.”
“Where are you taking me” the boy asked? The trust of the young is always gained easily. They are foolish with where they put their trust. They didn’t know about the world, but the boy had just gotten a taste of what evil lurked in the world behind closed doors.
“Back to Ireland” she said revealing her natural thick Irish accent which the boy had only heard from his father before. Though yet it was thicker than his father and different from his fathers. The boy himself had a light Brooklyn accent, though his father had a slightly thick Irish accent that the boy never understood why he had it. He was young and ignorant and innocent. But sometimes ignorance is bliss.
“I . . . I’m not from . . . Ireland,” the boy said wide-eyed, “I’ve never been there.”
“I know,” Isabelle said removing her hood to reveal he blank silver eyes and her silk smooth black hair, “But your ancestors were.”
“Why do I have to go to Ireland” he asked scared still, he didn’t know how much he could trust this woman and her eyes unnerved him a bit. They seemed foreboding as if to warn someone off. They had a slight glow to them and seemed blank like her voice when she wasn’t speaking in her real accent.“And what’s an ancestor,” the boy added?
“It is there you will fulfill your destiny young one,” she responded staring straight at him even though she couldn’t really see, “An ancestor are the people who lived before you but are related to you. Your father, your fathers father, and all the fathers so on are your ancestors. Along with anyone else that might’ve been in your family.”
“Destiny . . .” he said confused, “What destiny? I’m not special.”
“My child . . . you are more special than you can possibly imagine,” she said showing the emotion of sympathy in her voice for the first time before catching herself and going back to her bland, plain voice, “As for your destiny . . . perhaps a story for another time . . . For now Ireland is the only safe place for you . . . yet it is also the most dangerous.”
It was quiet for several minutes before she spoke again. She was strange. But was slightly like his father. She seemed to hide his emotions much like his father did.
“Unless you’d rather stay here and wait for the Black Rider to return” she said invoking the fear inside him again. It showed in his eyes this time, not that Isabelle could see.
“No” he gulped down his fear sniffling a bit as he wiped his eyes with his arm, “I’ll go . . . I-I don’t want the bad m-man to get me.”
“Then take my hand young one and hold on tightly,” she said with caution and caring in her voice, “No matter what do not let go.”
“Wait” the little boy said and he pulled a large brown suitcase from under the bed and opened it. Then he bobbled over to the dresser and opened draws and began to pull out articles of clothing including some of his dads clothes and putting them into the brown suitcase in a heap. He remembered to pack much like his father had done for him. His father had always taught him about responsibility and had told him, though he never understood, that one day he wouldn’t be there and he’d have to do the things he did. His father had known the day would come. His father knew he was going to be targeted. To be killed. The boy locked the suitcase and pulled it over with all of his might to Isabelle with both hands and held it on the ground with one hand like a businessman.
“Are you ready now” she asked as the boy starred at the ashes on the ground? It was all that was left of his father.
“Can I take them,” he said indicating the ashes?
“No,” she said though her voice strained the word, “They would know I was here. And that you were here. Listen i know you don’t understand but it would be best if no one knew you with me or even existed. You are in danger which is why I must take you to the most safe place possible.”
The boy took one last look at his desecrated home as he stood next to Isabelle holding tightly to her forearm and starred down at his father’s ashes as a tear fell from his eye splattering on the ground but before it could reach the creaking board floor of his apartment he was over three thousand miles away, across the ocean, in a foreign land he did not know. . . Ireland. He appeared in the grassy area of a mountain-like trail overlooking what seemed to be a gypsy camp below, although not many were there. Only four or five caravans were there and no city was in view. He could see grassy plains as far as the eye can see and potatoes scoured the fields around the Gypsy Camp. He could see caves and forests and sparkling water all around. The air was fresher and cooler than that of Brooklyn’s and he sucked it in never knowing something so beautiful as the sun rolled high in the mid-morning sky. It was six am back in Brooklyn but it was six am in Ireland. His mouth gaped open as he saw the beauty of the landscape and he rubbed his eyes as if it were a dream. It was raining in Brooklyn, but shining in Ireland . . . just as the young boy felt inside. Torn between feelings.
“Welcome,” Isabelle began as she lifted up her arms showing him the small camp, “To the Camp of Banshee.”
Chapter 1
The Boy Under The Bed
All hope seemed to fade from that room . . . All light seemed to leave the world . . . all the good in the world disappeared in a burst of black flames. . . everything that the little six year old hiding under the bed that he thought mattered dissolved before him. A cold laughter echoed the room as the man clad in black mounted his steed as it snorted dark blue flames and its dark blood red eyes stared at the ashes that were left of Thomas McKay.
The boy under the bed felt like crying or screaming for his daddy to come back . . . but that wasn’t going to happen. His father had told him to keep quite until the woman came. The woman named Isabelle. He was to put his faith into a total stranger but it was what his father had told him to do and he always did what he was told. Tears strolled down his cheeks as his lips quivered. He wanted to look away from the whole thing but he couldn’t for some reason. His dark, deep set, hazel eyes were glued to the scene. He watched as his world crumbled before him.
In what seemed like a flash the man charge his horse at the glass window at the other end of the apartment and it shattered into millions of pieces just as the boys dreams had been shattered moments ago when his father told him to hide under the bed. With all the strength the boy could muster he crawled out from under the bed as he looked in horror at his father’s ashes. Tears filled his eyes as they solitarily strolled down his cheeks and dropped to the floor on the man’s ashes that were black and crisp. He was gone. He was really gone. His father wasn’t there but the boy was mature. He often understood things other children didn’t. He understood his father was gone.
“D-daddy,” he stutteringly choked questioningly? But there was no answer. The boy dropped to his and put his hands into the ashes. “Daddy,” he bellowed tearfully as the ashes fell through whatever cracks they could find between his hands!
The room was in devastation, but not as much as the boy. The aqua shaded lamp that served well throughout the years as a night light was shattered on the ground. Blood was spattered on the floor and walls and seemed to cry out with him. A deep wailing cry filled the air as a lament to his father’s death. He had sacrificed himself to protect his only son. The disoriented little six year old looked around with his dark hazel eyes for the sound but it wasn’t coming from anywhere in particular . . . it seemed as if the sound was in his head. He sniffled his nose as he tried to stop the tears thinking of what his dad would’ve said had he cried. The wailing suddenly stopped and the boy quickly turned rising to his feet towards the window the man had rushed out of with the horse. He walked up to it looking down fifteen stories to the streets of Brooklyn with gritted teeth as he withheld his tears in his retinas. The only sounds that filled the night were the distance thunder and the clattering of rain.
“I wouldn’t stand so close to the edge” a female voice said and the boy turned scared taking a step back and almost falling out the window. He caught his balance and stepped forward making sure he wasn’t too close to the woman or the window.
“W-who are you” the boy asked stuttering from fear which he hid from his face the best he could?
“I am Isabelle” the woman stated, “I am a blind Seer.”
“A-a what” he inquired scared of what it might be?
“A seer,” she stated holding no emotion as if she were a talking book stating a fact from within, “I can see the future, but at a price. I am blind in the mortal sense . . . . However I have been around a very long time and I will be here for a much longer time.”
The boy didn’t understand what all this meant as all that seemed to matter to him were the ashes in between them. He still didn’t understand all this talk. He was six and nothing more. Nothing more than a six year old boy who was now orphaned. Then it hit him. His father had told him to wait for Isabelle. That he had to go with Isabelle. His father had emphasized it more than anything other than the fact that he loved him and to not get out from under the bed or make a sound. But what if it was a lie? What if the man who killed his father had sent her there to trick him?
“Why are you here” the boy asked hesitantly?
“I’ve come to take you with me” the woman said plainly in her plain ghostly voice that held no emotion or meaning. The voice scared the boy a bit. It was ghostly and different from the brooklyn accents he was used to. It was different from the foreign accents he would often hear. It was like nothing he had ever heard before, even on the television though he rarely watched it. The boy examined the woman wondering why she would take him away. She was wearing a startling white cloak tied around the waist with a light brown rope embedded with shamrocks all around except the middle which consisted of a four leaf clover. It was a beautiful hand woven outfit and it looked amazing. It even seemed to glow or radiate purity and the color white.
“If you’re blind how’d you know where I was standing” the boy pointed out confused?
The woman chuckled and replied “When you’ve been around as long as I have you find ways to feel movements through vibrations in the ground and floor boards.” The woman’s upper face was covered by the white hood attached to her cloak.
“Are you like an Angel” the boy asked as he took a few steps closer and saw how angelic she looked with her pearl white face, heart shaped upper lip, and pearl white cloak.
“No” she replied her lip curving crookedly to the side in a smile; they were dark red, “Just a blind seer.”
“Where are you taking me” the boy asked? The trust of the young is always gained easily. They are foolish with where they put their trust. They didn’t know about the world, but the boy had just gotten a taste of what evil lurked in the world behind closed doors.
“Back to Ireland” she said revealing her natural thick Irish accent which the boy had only heard from his father before. Though yet it was thicker than his father and different from his fathers. The boy himself had a light Brooklyn accent, though his father had a slightly thick Irish accent that the boy never understood why he had it. He was young and ignorant and innocent. But sometimes ignorance is bliss.
“I . . . I’m not from . . . Ireland,” the boy said wide-eyed, “I’ve never been there.”
“I know,” Isabelle said removing her hood to reveal he blank silver eyes and her silk smooth black hair, “But your ancestors were.”
“Why do I have to go to Ireland” he asked scared still, he didn’t know how much he could trust this woman and her eyes unnerved him a bit. They seemed foreboding as if to warn someone off. They had a slight glow to them and seemed blank like her voice when she wasn’t speaking in her real accent.“And what’s an ancestor,” the boy added?
“It is there you will fulfill your destiny young one,” she responded staring straight at him even though she couldn’t really see, “An ancestor are the people who lived before you but are related to you. Your father, your fathers father, and all the fathers so on are your ancestors. Along with anyone else that might’ve been in your family.”
“Destiny . . .” he said confused, “What destiny? I’m not special.”
“My child . . . you are more special than you can possibly imagine,” she said showing the emotion of sympathy in her voice for the first time before catching herself and going back to her bland, plain voice, “As for your destiny . . . perhaps a story for another time . . . For now Ireland is the only safe place for you . . . yet it is also the most dangerous.”
It was quiet for several minutes before she spoke again. She was strange. But was slightly like his father. She seemed to hide his emotions much like his father did.
“Unless you’d rather stay here and wait for the Black Rider to return” she said invoking the fear inside him again. It showed in his eyes this time, not that Isabelle could see.
“No” he gulped down his fear sniffling a bit as he wiped his eyes with his arm, “I’ll go . . . I-I don’t want the bad m-man to get me.”
“Then take my hand young one and hold on tightly,” she said with caution and caring in her voice, “No matter what do not let go.”
“Wait” the little boy said and he pulled a large brown suitcase from under the bed and opened it. Then he bobbled over to the dresser and opened draws and began to pull out articles of clothing including some of his dads clothes and putting them into the brown suitcase in a heap. He remembered to pack much like his father had done for him. His father had always taught him about responsibility and had told him, though he never understood, that one day he wouldn’t be there and he’d have to do the things he did. His father had known the day would come. His father knew he was going to be targeted. To be killed. The boy locked the suitcase and pulled it over with all of his might to Isabelle with both hands and held it on the ground with one hand like a businessman.
“Are you ready now” she asked as the boy starred at the ashes on the ground? It was all that was left of his father.
“Can I take them,” he said indicating the ashes?
“No,” she said though her voice strained the word, “They would know I was here. And that you were here. Listen i know you don’t understand but it would be best if no one knew you with me or even existed. You are in danger which is why I must take you to the most safe place possible.”
The boy took one last look at his desecrated home as he stood next to Isabelle holding tightly to her forearm and starred down at his father’s ashes as a tear fell from his eye splattering on the ground but before it could reach the creaking board floor of his apartment he was over three thousand miles away, across the ocean, in a foreign land he did not know. . . Ireland. He appeared in the grassy area of a mountain-like trail overlooking what seemed to be a gypsy camp below, although not many were there. Only four or five caravans were there and no city was in view. He could see grassy plains as far as the eye can see and potatoes scoured the fields around the Gypsy Camp. He could see caves and forests and sparkling water all around. The air was fresher and cooler than that of Brooklyn’s and he sucked it in never knowing something so beautiful as the sun rolled high in the mid-morning sky. It was six am back in Brooklyn but it was six am in Ireland. His mouth gaped open as he saw the beauty of the landscape and he rubbed his eyes as if it were a dream. It was raining in Brooklyn, but shining in Ireland . . . just as the young boy felt inside. Torn between feelings.
“Welcome,” Isabelle began as she lifted up her arms showing him the small camp, “To the Camp of Banshee.”
