Prologue P1: Ruins in Ladrian Forest
Bryne Village at the foothills of Mount Ladrian
A large, majestic mountain stood tall, reaching high up into the firmament piercing the clouds. As the forest that draped across it from the middle of the mountain to its foothills started to come alive with the singing of birds, and the far reaching calls of other wildlife. At the very edge of the forest a long, meandering river that flowed calmly during this summer morn could be seen snaking out from the forest. leading to a large village nestled among the foothills of Mount Ladrian.
Early in the morning as the sun starts to rise dying the horizon in hues of purple, gold, and red the village of Bryne could be seen waking from its slumber. As farmers could be seen getting up to tend to their fields, the
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Alice! It’s time to get up! Come eat your breakfast. I need the both of you to go tend to your chores afterwards.” [Mother]
“I am awake Mum, it’s El who is still laying in bed with his pillow over his head.” [Alice]
Moving my pillow to the side so I could glare at her, I watched my twin sister role her light grey eyes at me as she tidied up her clothes to look as presentable as possible in her summer wear. With a pale blue ribbon tying her long, wavy, chestnut hair up into a ponytail. A white blouse and a matching pale blue skirt that reached halfway down her shins with light leather boots that went to just below her knees.
“I’m just taking a moment before I get up! (It’s not like my chores are going to run away. Although if they did. I’d probably be sent running after them anyways…) [Elsarius]
“Stop you’re grumbling and get to it then! Your father will be back from hunting around midday with the others with whatever they’ve caught. And all your chores need to be done as you’re both old enough now to learn how to hunt from him. [Mother]
“The both of us!? Does that mean I’m not going to have to learn how to sew and cook anymore!?”
The dress Agnes borrowed from her friend Rose to go dancing in was beaded to the waist. It was a wonderful silvery blue colour and had a layered skirt with a high neck and low back. It went down to her knees and she wore silk stockings with it. The description of the dress was very accurate to how a dancing dress would have looked like in the late
Elise hastily rushed to her tent to tend her father, named Jarvan, because of a horrendous wound that was made from a plasma bullet. The wound was turned into a hole in the skin after the plasma instantly evaporated. It took several hours to stop the bleeding using a cloth. As Elise’s father was resting, she went to find some valuables that might have been with the dead body that she had killed. Unfortunately, the body was gone and she came back empty handed. As soon as Elise came back, my father and I talked about the missing body and the ways we can leave this foul planet.
By noon they had begun to climb toward the gap in the mountains. Riding up through the lavender or soapweed, under the Animas peaks. The shadow of an eagle that had set forth from the line of riders below and they looked up to mark it where it rode in that brittle blue and faultless void. In the evening they came out to upon a mesa that overlooked all the country to the north... The crumpled butcher paper mountains lay in sharp shadowfold under the long blue dusk and in the middle distance the glazed bed of a dry lake lay shimmering like the mare imbrium. (168)
A., Jr. “Peter Taylor and the Walled Gardens.” Journal of the Short Story in English 9 (Fall 1987): 65-72. Heldrich, Philip. The. “Collision and Revision in Peter Taylor’s ‘The Old Forest’.” Southern Quarterly: A Journal of the Arts in the South 38.2 (Winter 2000): 48-53.
“When my twin sister was seventeen, she decided for reasons of girlish vanity to dye her hair with a silver-blondish streak which rose from her forehead and swept in undulating waves through the heavy blackness of her own natural hair. Later, tiring of the effect, she attempted
Dani and I stand in the sun waiting for the “men” to catch up. The view was worth Quill’s whining and navigating through the snow. The breeze catches in the bright green and gold of new Aspen leaves whispering around the lake. The Pine trees scent the air and bask in the sun to steal its warmth from the forest below. The trees are a dark canopy along our path permitting only a few patches of the raised finely mulched trail to a beam or two of sun. Framed like a photo three pencil lead gray peaks rise above a lower sweeping curve of pines. They look close enough to walk over the ridge and touch them. Boulders precariously cling to the side of the mountains. The perfect deep blue early summer sky is the perfect backdrop.
for the reader of the town and residents of this town on a normal summer morning.
Wales has long been known as a country of myth and magic. She hides her secrets in her hollow hills. Pen Y Bryn, The Princes’ Tower is the latest treasure that has come to light and one of the most fascinating. In 1992 Kathryn and Brian Pritchard Gibson bought what they believed to be a thirty-six acre chicken farm with a 17th century Elizabethan manor house and it has changed their lives dramatically. The stone manor and out buildings are nestled against a forested hill in Snowdonia. It is just north of Bangor above the shores of Abergwyngregyn, ‘the mouth of the white shell river’ overlooking the Menai Straights with the mountains forming a protective backdrop behind. Kathryn Gibson says, The locals, it seems, have always called the house Twr Llewelyn, or Llewelyn’s Tower. They told us that’s where the princes lived and that below it there’s a Roman settlement and a bronze age fort. When asked how they came by this knowledge they always answered, "Nain (Grandmother) told me." It was only the academics who ignored this local lore that had been handed down for centuries.
Keeva The woods are beautiful this time of year. Trees barren of their summer leaves now covered with ice and snow. Snow covered landscapes that glimmer in the Winter sun. At times as blinding as they are beautiful.
It’s 10:30am and Janice, Alex’s mother, receives a phone call. “Hi Janice, this is Mrs. Smith calling with regards to Alex. Yes, he isn’t having a good day. He has been very disruptive this morning. We tried calling down Alex’s older sister to calm him down, and to talk to him, but he wouldn’t calm down. Would you please come and get him?”
I slowly trudged up the road towards the farm. The country road was dusty, and quiet except for the occasional passing vehicle. Only the clear, burbling sound of a wren’s birdsong sporadically broke the boredom. A faded sign flapped lethargically against the gate. On it, a big black and white cow stood over the words “Bent Rail Farm”. The sign needed fresh paint, and one of its hinges was broken. Suddenly, the distant roar of an engine shattered the stillness of that Friday afternoon. Big tires speeding over gravel pelted small stones in all directions. The truck stopped in front of the red-brick farmhouse with the green door and shutters. It was the large milking truck that stopped by every Friday afternoon. I leisurely passed by fields of corn, wheat, barley, and strawberries. The fields stretched from the gradient hills to the snowy mountains. The blasting wind blew like a bellowing blizzard. A river cut through the hilly panorama. The river ubiquitously flowed from tranquil to tempestuous water. Raging river rapids rushed recklessly into rocks ricocheting and rebounding relentlessly through this rigorous river. Leaves danced with the wind as I looked around the valley. The sun was trapped by smoky, and soggy clouds.
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.
Because the summer residence of the monks of Waltham once stood there, the local villagers thought that the spirits of monks rang those bells and watched over the forest. I lingered there for a while, listening to the gentle sound of a stream as it flowed over the corks nearby. I also listened to the bells, but the bells did not ring for me. Maybe it was because I was an outsider. & nbsp;... ... middle of paper ... ...& nbsp; After my brief rest, I spotted a ridge covered in brilliant purple heather.
As he was now wide awake, Robert thought he ought to get dressed and go downstairs, which he did. Downstairs, Roberts mum and seven younger sisters had already started eating their breakfast, infact they were already on their second helping and running out of cereal. "You know what happens when you lay in on the weekend, don't you." noted Michelle, Robert's eldest sister, before putting another spoon full of sugar puffs in her mouth. "I know, I know" replied Robert "any-way what's left.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.