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Your Writing > Cassandra's Dreamworld

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message 1: by Isabella (new)

Isabella | 11 comments Mod
This thread is going to be where I post my own writing for anyone who wants to read it. I write ya fantasy, and I'm obsessed with dragons, unicorns, elves, fairies, and knights. This is just a warning in case you don't like that kind of stuff.

You are in no way under any obligation to read what I post, but if you do read it, I'd love to hear what you think. Feel free to speak your mind; I won't be offended.


message 2: by Isabella (new)

Isabella | 11 comments Mod
This is an exerpt from a book I'm writing, which I haven't named yet.

In ages past, the draconian races ruled the mortals of Arkyla, crushing any who opposed them with talon and flame. The humans could not stand against them; they were the first in chains. My people, those gifted with the long life and sorcery of the elves without being bound by Nature’s laws, fought the draconians for decades. . . but we, too, fell. In the end, all but the fey were brought before the dragon king to be either shackled or slaughtered to sate their bloodlust. Nature’s children did what they always did when threatened. They hid. They watched. They laughed. They survived.
Those who served the draconians well were privileged—or, as privileged as one could be while wearing bonds. The dragonspawn were what we called the draconians’ pets, the loyal watchdogs who sold their souls for a warm bed at their masters’ feet. We hated the dragonspawn even more fiercely than those they served, for they were once our kin, and they helped keep us beneath the dragon king’s heel. There are no words for the agony they suffered at the draconians’ fall. For fall they did, after three thousand years of living in their lofty roosts we built for them. Nothing lasts forever. Not even the immortals.
There were hardly any humans left by the time one of my people, a Nevvine, rose up against the dragon king and destroyed him. What few there were scattered, fleeing the mountains that had caged them for centuries, spreading across Arkyla like insects, creating their homes of wood and stone wherever they could. My people remained in the mountains, too enthralled by the magic that beat within the fiery mountains to follow our cousins. We lived in the roosts of our departed masters for a time, until we could build new homes with the magic we were once again learning to control after centuries of misuse.
Life grew from the ashes of the draconians’ flames, gold and scarlet in the realm we had reclaimed, green and palest blue to suit the humans beyond our borders. The feylands remained closed to us, but a glimpse of an elf or sprite or nymph was infrequently caught in our kingdom as it heightened in size and power. They became a myth to the humans, becoming the fairy tails we scoff and scorn.
Centuries passed in peace, while we relearned our heritage and the humans riddled the greenlands with their cities. The elves, the most common of the fey, entered our land once for eight days, to form a pact with our beloved king, a treaty to allow them passage into our mystical realm. They departed then, but we now hear them years later, laughing and singing and spinning riddles just beyond our sight. We are not alone in our mountain refuge—we know they are there somewhere—but perhaps that isn’t such a bad thing. If the draconians ever return, perhaps, this time, the elves will choose to protect our land, if not our lives. We do not call them friends, but neither do we call them enemies or fables.

Sayren Palespring, 5281



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