Dimension Runner

[Ghost]

Rules: Standard

Purpose: I'm writing a story I wish to eventually turn into a book and i want ideas, story wise, with where i want the whole thing to go.

Setting: the world of Alden, different races do exist, but for the sake of simplicity if you prefer to be a pony, yoshi, or what ever, as long as you can fit into the story and it makes some sense. (No "i'm a pony and I give the bad guy cake" in the heat of battle)

Races:

Humans: blah standard. all around with skills since some blood is mingled.

Galvite: Galvites don't particularly carry a talent for magic, but can wield potent elemental skills, mostly dealing with transference of energy (namely electricity, light, fire, etc). they have markings on there bodies that they are born with, ranging from simple, symmetrical birth marks (if there is an L mark on the left side of the face, there is a similar mark on the right), to complex markings similar to tribal tattoos. They are identical to humans

Armost: Immaterial beings made of sentient ether. They share a close connection to the earth through the life-stream, the source of life. Since they don't have physical bodies, they inhabit husks of cloth and metal for bodies. Because of their close association to the earth, they have access to skills based along the forms of matter (ice, earth, wind, water, etc). Some can bend the life-stream to their will and use potent magics

Ferals: devolved elves, basically elves reduced back to a tribal state. fast, agile, and strong but can be naive to other people's tech and politics but can use magics if they can learn them.

STORY!!!

"Oh what dark dreams I have had of late," the Great Cowl said as he held his hand on his face mask, "I thought for a moment... We were still at war..." His body was wrapped in thick cloth, making the tall entity look like it simply sprouted out of the ground. His shoulders were haunched and his head held low. No features made it out from behind the round mask and under the deepness of his hood.

His colleague, a female that looked nearly identical, save for the fact that she had a softer flow and form than the old man and did not hold her head so low. "What did you see last night?" she asked, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her voice was soft and had the flow of a gentle breeze.

"Him... Sardis," the Great Cowl shivered at the name, it held a distaste in his mouth, assuming he had one, "I have dreamt for several nights now of that day when--" His voice trailed off as if the thought fell away from his mind.

"You mustn’t blame yourself, sir." the woman said, her mask expressing a face of concern.

His mask furled into a look of despair as he crossed his arms behind his back. "Oh but I do, my dear. If I had not acted so hastily that day, that day so long ago, perhaps the book might not have fallen into the wrong hands and the sword might have been placed in the right ones."

She lowered her head and looked out of the window of the library, saying nothing.

"Perhaps," he said, his mask squinting as he looked at the land below the mountain the library sat on, "Perhaps it's a sign of things to come.”

“What do you mean, sir?” she asked looking back at him, head tilted to the side just slightly.

“Can you feel it?” he asked, not moving, “I can. The life-stream is waning.”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“Ever since that day, it has been slowly disappearing. The fields are not as fertile as they used to be. Life is less plentiful. Even our own people are starting to live shorter lives. I can feel my own link to the stream fading. But…” he held an unusually long silence that it was almost uncomfortable for the woman to wait for the coming words, “But… It is strange, that one part of the dream was different from the war…”

The woman’s mask showed a mixture of confusion and consern.

The Great Cowl turned away from the window and walked, or more like floated, out of the sandstone chamber, the hems of his robe sucking down onto the floor as if he were a tree rooted to the ground.

“I could swear that the child I saw was… different. Perhaps… there is hope yet for us. Or maybe I am an old fool, hoping in vain for what will never come. But I thought I saw,” he stopped and looked towards the ceiling, “Thunder.” He paused for a moment, as if searching for the words of a long lost thought or memory. “‘The First shall be held aloft by a Son of Thunder.’”

The mermaid let her fingers fall gently through his hair. The boy was rapt with her elfin features. Her skin was a pale pink, the scales barely noticeable. Her long, crimson hair flowed over her shoulders and down her front. The boy laid there, half asleep, as she caressed him. Her face pulled close to his, her eyes fixated on his. She whispered to him, “Ian… Ian…”

“Ian… Ian. Ian!” the voice grew slowly from a sensually silky siren song to a gruff and growling voice of man.

Ian looked up and saw that the siren’s face was now replaced with the visage of an iron clad helmet with searing, burning eyes, glaring at him from within the helm. Heat roiling from the mouth guard sent the smell of coal and cinders into his face. Ian leapt back in shock as far as he could, considering that he had been laying on his back. It didn’t help.

“Woah!” he yelled at the image, still terrified out of his mind.

The face jumped back as well, revealing a massive suit of armor supporting the “fire breathing” helmet.

“You’re an ugly mermaid!” Ian shouted as loud as he could.

The eyes alone showed a look of confusion at the absurd, and quite awkward, words that just came from the boy’s mouth. The armored man stared at him for only a moment before saying, “Boy, what in the hell are you talking about!? I expect you to be down at the market early to get that damned ore, and I find you here sleeping like a stable boy!”

The armored man shot a quick hand at the blankets that Ian was still wrapped in and pulled them, and Ian, to the ground.

“I have fifteen more of those damn swords I need to finish by the end of the month and the sooner I get that iron, the sooner you can get back to dreaming of ugly mermaids! Do you understand me?” the tone was similar to that of a sailor: hot, salty, and bad tempered.

Ian just nodded like a rattle in a toddler’s hand.

“Good.” the armored man nodded once at the bewildered child on the floor as he left the room with great, metallic stomps, “I put seventy gold pieces in a bag for the ore, do not forget it, boy, or you’ll be out of dinner for a week.”

“Yes, sir!” Ian saluted as the iron giant walked down the hallway, swearing to himself the whole way. Once he was, presumably, out of earshot, Ian sighed, “Cranky old tin can…”

“I HEARD THAT!” a shout came from downstairs. A shiver went down Ian’s spine like an ice cold drip of water.