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You are here: Home --> Forum Home --> Creativity Forum --> Personal Creations --> Awakening - Part I
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    Messages in Awakening - Part I
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1514 Posts

Awakening - Part I

This is a little sneak peak of a continuing story that I intend to write and post online. The story is heavily based on the Scion RPG from White Wolf, and the main characters are some I have had in my head for some time.
Awakening is going to be 6 part arc, at least; the first five introduce the main characters as they find out who they really are, and the last part will focus on them joining forces.

When you are reading, consider the following: I am not a native speaker in English, and even if the text is grammatically correct and without spelling errors, I do not expect the whole thing, specially dialogues, to sound right in the first try. I aim to correct this.
Second, this is the first time anyone reads this, except for myself. No one has read this over to help me correct things that might need correcting. In the future, I will always have someone read this over before putting it online.
Finally, this is probably the last time I will post one of these here. I do not aim at keeping my stories free of vulgar language and such language is not allowed on the forum. It just so happen, this is rather vulgar-free.

Now, sit back, get comfortable, because this might take a while. By all means, give feedback once you've read this. Would you like to read more? Does it need to be shorter? Longer? What needs to be fixed? I post this here to get feedback and I don't see the point if I don't get any.


He woke up in a bath of sweats again this morning, just before his alarm started playing some happy music on the radio. He breathed heavily while remembering that it was all just a bad dream. His name was Duncan Patricks and every night for the last month he’d been having the same kind of dream. There was a battle and the whole city of San Francisco was in ruins. On top of the ruins, he could see himself standing with a sword and a shield, but no armor and covered in war-paint. He looked older, stronger, and far more serious, but he could see that this was himself. From the city came monsters and giants, and for the rest of the dream he would battle them and slay them. Then he would wake up.
This morning was no different and he ran his fingers through his sweaty red hair. He couldn’t remember when he went to sleep, but he remembered that it had not been his intention to. He was too afraid to sleep really and he always woke up tired as hell. He looked at the alarm. Few more minutes before he had to get ready for work. He got out of bed and went for a coffee in the kitchen.
When he got in there and started making the coffee, the phone began to ring. Who would be nuts enough to call at this hour, he thought.
“Hello?” Duncan said to the phone when he answered.
“Morning, Duncey,” said the elderly voice of a woman on the other end, “and happy birthday, baby.”
“Jesus, mom,” Duncan replied. “Why are you up so early? You should be resting.”
“Can’t a mother call her only son on his 22nd birthday?” his mom said. “And where are your manners, Duncey? I thought I had raised a gentleman.”
“Sorry, mom,” he said and took a breath. “Thanks for the best wishes, but could you please not call me Duncey.”
“Now, boy,” she said with a serious voice, but a humoring undertone, “I have stopped calling you Duncey in public. I think that’s enough progress for...” She paused and coughed couple of times. Duncan always hated that sound. “...this decade,” she continued.
“Alright, mom,” Duncan said. “Listen, I’ve got to get to work in a moment. You have to get some rest, alright? I’m going to talk to your doctor today about your treatment.”
“That hack,” said his mom angrily. “It still amazes me that this so called doctor ever got potty-trained.”
Duncan smiled. “Get some rest, mom,” he said. “I’ll see you later today, OK?”
“OK,” she replied. “I’ll get some rest, but you have to do something for me instead or we won’t have a deal.”
“What is it?”
“You have to get yourself a lady friend.”
“Goodbye, mom,” he said and hung up with a smile.
Duncan travelled from his home to his work by the city bus. He didn’t like being behind the wheel but he enjoyed the drive. He enjoyed the wandering thoughts in his head while the bus drove past this building or that one, and he sometimes started wondering who his travel companions were. These wandering thoughts sometimes turned into fantasies, daydreams of doing something important, something greater than going over numbers at the company.
Today, his thoughts wandered towards his mother and her cancer. The doctors said they couldn’t do much now, but a new treatment was being developed. For the last few days, he had been wondering whether or not he should allow the doctors to use this experimental treatment on his mother. Usually, his mother should be making the decision, but for some odd reason she didn’t want to decide. She wanted to make him do the deciding for her. He had not decided yet. There was a slight risk that the treatment would kill her, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to take that risk.
His thoughts continued on this vein, but were interrupted. Duncan only caught a glimpse at it. Something big jumped out of the shadows of the alley and rammed the bus out onto the middle of the street. Cars came crashing in and soon the street was completely blocked. Duncan felt his heart pounding and his head hurting, but no one seemed badly injured. Suddenly, the window which he sat by shattered and a hand as big as his head grabbed the back of his jacket. The hand pulled him out of the bus and threw him down upon the asphalt. As he laid on the street, a deep and disturbing voice spoke to him.
“Greetings, son of the Balor-slayer.”
Duncan turned around and before him, standing as tall as the bus itself, was man with rippling muscles, dark grey skin, deep black eyes, and the most hideous visage that Duncan had ever laid his eyes on. He might have resembled a human being, but his skin looked as if it was half-way through the process of decomposing. His nose was flat and his brows were deep, his teeth were dark and yellow and his head was completely bold.
“Fight me, slayer-son,” the giant said, his voice deep and thundering, enough to scare Duncan to his bones. Duncan did not wish to fight a monster, so he stood up and started running, which only angered the giant. “I said FIGHT!”
The giant swung his trunk-like arms and knocked Duncan off his feet and onto a car. Duncan stood up again and tried to run off again. The giant flipped the car by which Duncan stood and grabbed him by the left arm.
“You are clearly not your father’s son,” the giant said with glee as he lifted Duncan up. He grabbed him then by his left shoulder and started pulling his arm asunder. With a twist, the giant shattered Duncan’s forearm and ripped his arm in two. He fell down to the ground and could not move because of the pain.
“Remember the name Falgor,” the giant said with a smile while standing over Duncan, “so that you tell your ancestors who killed you.”
Duncan tried to reach out and drag himself away from this giant, but suddenly grabbed onto something quite different. He stabbed it into Falgor’s right eye and the giant foe fell back. While Falgor covered his wound, Duncan looked upon the weapon that he had been given. It was a sword of purest metal and crafted to perfection. With but a look, he could see that the sword was incredibly sharp and would be able to cut through bone as easily as it would cut through skin.
“This is my gift to you, my son.” The voice seemed to come from the sword itself and echoed inside Duncan’s head. “Use it wisely and bravely.”
Somehow, Duncan managed to get up on his feet and saw that Falgor was still screaming in pain. He decided not to wait for the giant to attack him, but to charge this enemy head on. He charged forward, right into the left palm of Falgor who held him away at arm’s length.
“You will pay for this, son of the Balor-slayer,” said Falgor through the teeth of his clenched jaw. Duncan, however, did not hesitate but struck Falgor’s arm that held him and sliced it in two just below the elbow. As his arm fell to the ground and Duncan was released, Falgor howled in agony, then ran back into the shadowed alley from which he came.
Duncan watched the alley for a moment. He could feel his newfound strength dwindling and it became harder for him to remain on his two feet. He knew that he could not go in after Falgor, or else be beaten. For a moment he stood, until he could hear the sirens of an ambulance approaching, then he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

In the deep, dark caverns of the earth, horrifying cries of pain echoed. In the cold caverns, Falgor bled as he walked, and where his blood touched the stone evil fungus would later grow. Falgor cried over the pain of losing his eye and hand, and any beast who would hear this cry would hide in terror.
“Mother!” he cried, “Mother!”
Falgor came into a large opening in the caverns, a large cave that is beyond the reach of our world. “Mother!” he cried yet again, and again, until Cethlenn would answer.
From the darkest corner of the cave came a woman, her skin as white as chalk and bruised from frost-bite. The hag stood tall and stared with her grey eyes at her wounded child.
“My child,” she said with a voice that frightened even Falgor, “why are you in pain.”
“The son of the Balor-slayer...” Falgor said, only to hesitate in continuing.
“A mere mortal wounds the great Falgor?” Cethlenn said as angry as it was mocking.
“He was no mere mortal, mother,” Falgor said, “and not even the chosen of the gods could wound me.”
“Do not defend yourself, Falgor.” Her voice shook Falgor to the center of his bones. “A human child has wounded you and sent you running back to your dark caves. Nothing you will say will redeem yourself.”
“He wielded a gift from his godfather,” Falgor whimpered, “a sharp enough blade that a mortal could cut my skin.”
Cethlenn looked away from her failed child. This was not what she had expected, that this particular mortal would have a god’s favor.
“If the gods will give him gifts,” she said, “then I shall grant you boons as well. I will give you back your hand, as dead stone, and a weapon that will rival this god sword. You will fight him again, my son, and you will have the revenge of your father.”
Falgor smiled with his crooked teeth. “It is my vow, to kill the godson of Nuada, slayer of Balor, my father.”

When Duncan woke up he was already at the hospital. He was in a one-bed room, like he was some celebrity with special treatment. The sun was shining outside and the room was so bright. He didn’t feel any pain but did feel an itch in his left arm. He began scratching it when he suddenly remembered it had been torn off. He quickly looked at his arm. He could have sworn it was his own arm, if it was not made from pure silver from his fingertips to where it had been torn off. The weirdest thing was that he could move his fingers and his wrist just like a normal arm. In all aspects, this silver replica worked exactly like a normal arm should.
The door opened and a doctor walked in. The doctor was an older man, with completely white hair, beard and mustache. He did not look like an overly joyous man, but he smiled politely when he saw Duncan was awake.
“So how are you feeling, Mr. Patricks,” he said as he came closer to Duncan’s bed.
“To be honest,” Duncan said with hesitation, “I’m a little freaked out.”
“That’s understandable; you just had your first run-in with a fomorian.”
“A what?” Duncan was confused, but the doctor seemed both serious and rather calm about the whole thing.
“How’s the prosthetic limb working out for you?” the doctor asked.
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Duncan, still confused.
“Your new arm,” replied the doctor.
“Listen, I want some answers. Why do I have a silvered hand and what the hell was that thing that attacked the bus?”
“Well,” said the doctor a bit shocked. “I’d say you are not entirely oblivious to the events that just happened. At least you don’t think you are dreaming.”
Of course, thought Duncan. Why didn’t he think of it earlier? This must be a dream. The bus must have been in an accident and he was knocked out. But he somehow wouldn’t believe it. Somehow, he knew this was all real. And this doctor knew what happened.
“I have an arm made out of silver,” Duncan said calmly. “Seriously, what’s going on? Who are you and what have you done to me?”
The doctor sat down by Duncan’s bed and looked him in the eye. Despite looking rather old already, Duncan could see that the doctor was much older than he realized.
“My name,” said the doctor, “is Dian Cécht. I know your great grandfather, Nuada. You are a direct descendant of the first king of the Túatha De Danann, the gods of Ireland. Your grandfather, who you are named after, was Duncan O’Patrick, first of the O’Patricks to come to America from Ireland, and also the son of Nuada. When your grandfather came to America, he changed his family name to Patricks, a name you still carry.”
Duncan looked at the doctor, completely speechless by this unbelievable story. It was too much for him. “You’re joking,” he said to the doctor.
“I never joke,” Dian Cécht replied. “You have the blood of gods in your veins. When you picked up that sword that blood became... shall we say, active.”
“So, what? I’m like a demi-god or something?”
“More like something.”
“Oh, yeah? I’d like to see some proof.”
“I’ll give you three,” replied the doctor. “First of all, your godlike heritage is what kept you alive after your fight with the fomorian. Second, I just made a silver hand and attached it to your elbow. Third, for the past month you’ve been having weird dreams, haven’t you?”
Duncan looked at Dian Cécht with a surprise. How did he know about the dreams? He hadn’t told anybody about them. After a slight hesitation, Duncan nodded.
“Not everyone has these dreams before their awakening,” Dian Cécht continued, “but I have suspected that you might for some time now. You have a strong connection to Fate; you can see glimpses of things yet to come.”
“What, you mean like a prophecy?”
“Exactly like. This skill can help you, if you learn how to control it. It will serve you well in the coming battles.”
Duncan was shaken from his thoughts that his dreams might become real by the revelation of a coming battle. “Wait, battles? What battles?”
“A war is coming,” Dian Cécht said with a straight face, “and you will fight in it.”
“What? No. I’m an accountant, not a warrior.”
“You’ll excuse if I have to be a bit clichéd, but war is in your blood. You must have felt it when you battled that fomorian. If you were no warrior, you would not have been able to take a hold on your godfather’s gift. You must accept it. War is as much a part of you as it is a part of all of us.”
“I won’t fight,” Duncan said and crossed his arms. “Nothing you will say can convince me.”
Dian Cécht sighed and stood up. He knew he wouldn’t be able to convince Duncan to take up a sword against anything. “Very well,” he said and walked to the door. “The sword is yours. Nuada gave it to you for a reason and I can’t take it from you, so I advice you keep it close by at all times. Even if you won’t come to the fight, the fight will come to you. Such is the way of Fate. You are free to go whenever you like.”
Dian Cécht opened the door and walked out. Duncan was weirded out by all this talk about gods and beasts, and Fate was just the weirdest of it all. What did it have to do with anything? He didn’t believe in Fate. He got out of bed, for the second time this day, and got dressed. His green eyes glanced at a desk that was in the room and on top of it laid his sword, safely within its scabbard. The scabbard was made of fine, sturdy wood and decorated with grafted silver. Some words were carved into the silver: Caladbolg. Duncan couldn’t really understand what it meant, but decided to leave it be. He didn’t want to be a warrior.
Just as he was walking out of the room, he felt something pulling at him. He instantly knew it was the sword. For some odd reason, despite having decided otherwise, he could not bear to leave without it. He knew he would soon have to use it.

Posted on 2010-05-21 at 11:16:43.

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