((OoC: I apologize for the wait. I hope you enjoy this, my first non-poetic writing in at least a month.
))
It was cold. And in a way, through a fever unable to be done away with, through a warmth inside the sickest of grins, it was warm. It was not worth the observation, really, marching through the serenity and finding a sort of inner peace in the light-hearted chill of the air. All around, there hung an atmosphere that was not unlike heaven in its own way… An air of frozen desires, frozen lives, a thick, cloudy mist that bleached the air white, an eternity of cold and the sound of morbid bells ringing across… But now he was observing too much again. And he did not want to steep himself in his observation, not in his “poetry.”
Mentrios, born James Longhand, was a writer whose engrossing love of the art brought him into his own universes in a most bizarre manner. In a way, he was able to become his creations, to feel their essence and… Emulate them. But by “in a way”, it is meant that James simply imitated his characters. He was so very fond of his own work. Even though it was a fatal attraction that sapped his sanity, as Mentrios, the “godelf of fire”, he found a new meaning to prose. He filed his teeth sharp, he dyed his hair white, he wore glasses with such a tint of black that his eyes were rendered invisible… And he carried with him a sword. This blade was not a plaything, which he did not yet know… But then he knew only that he had bought it to go along with his “new body.”
He was a rich young novelist… At 24, he had written the “Saga of Twenty-Five Craftsmen”, a tale of sword and sorcery hailed by critics as the next Lord of the Rings, in the sense that it “reinvented fantasy and innovated it”. It lasted for years, the saga finally running dry (and into the hands of other authors) at age 35. He wrote other things, of course, but for some reason, he could never recapture the magic. In a way, this drove him insane… But at that point, he tried to control his slowly weakening mind and turned to observational poetry. When even that, his prime achievement, was largely ignored because of his “One-Hit Wonder” status, he finally lost it.
It must be noted that James never really decided to “become one with” his characters from the “Saga of Twenty-Five Craftsmen.” He became characters from his underrated works. Specifically Mentrios, the villain of the short story “Twice Into the Flame and Thrice Into the Blizzard.” It was his favorite of all his works… But in a poll, it became apparent that this was his the lest favorite among fans. Not that it mattered; to most, it would not be too much of a blow. To an unstable, overconfident man like James, it was everything. It blew him away to see his life’s best works thrown into the dust for everyone to ignore so they could stare blankly at his commercial success, a “saga of reinvention” that he himself did not even like.
And thus, he traveled here. Though in reality it was called the Fortress of Frozen Ruin, it was to him the layer of ice dominated by Mentrios’s archrival Kunoly. And he was there to his half-blood brother, to reclaim his title as elfking of Fire and Ice.
He walked through the halls as a man who had attended countless gyms to boost his physique, his height being a meager 5’10, but even so, his muscularity making up for it. He wore fancily embroidered robes, bearing “elf tongue runeliths”, a creation of his that built a sort of whimsy in his heart whenever he though about it. He wore a black cape over rich golden silk, a sort of war-flag for the godelf. And on his head he wore braded red strings of “firegrass”, which was only red paint mixed into common grass… But he could not be told this. This was his crown of flame.
Amid previously described facial features, there was also a hooked nose, scars from what was likely acne, and an incredibly ashen complexion likely self-induced to fit his character even more. He walked calmly in his ridiculous garb across the ice, his filed teeth formed into the “sickest of grins.” Now he was observing again, breaking character to form more poetry. He would have to write it down later, he would say to himself, then he would snap back out of reality and remind himself that he hated poetry. He reminded himself that he loved fire, but he loved ice. He reminded himself of his brother, the traitor-elf. And he reminded himself of the critics who shunned his finest work, calling it a waste of effort, that those who truly wished to delve into his worlds should check his better writings…
“WHERE ART THOU, KUNOLY!” He held up his imported blade, a sword of black steel, which in itself was unusual, as well as a golden hilt that was literally a foot-and-a-half long snake, laying erect, with the blade of the odd weapon as a tongue of sorts. The end of the blade was forked, the double-edged weapon forming a pair of perfect curves, then breaking at the tip into two points. It was called Maji’tar, or “Mist-Snake” in his runeliths, and it was a blade passed down for generations among the elfkings of fire and ice.
Again, the blade was more than it seemed, but poor James was unaware.
“Show thyself to thine kindred! Be thee wroth? For it is I that shall vanquish thee!”
James had never had a knack for dialogue in his writing. Even so, he had not known of what his words had done. He had not aimed, in any way, to summon the opponent he was now calling… But even so, he believed it was Kunoly. And he was there to vanquish Kunoly.
He stepped further in, noticing the craftsmanship behind the walls and the textures of this palace of ice. Such beauty could only be fully seen through pure eyes, and he wished his own eyes were pure. He loved it all, he was inspired by it, but knew he would never be able to write anything about it. No. He would never return, he was “trapped” inside Mentrios. That was how he described it, not really as the schizophrenia he seemed to suffer or the detachment from reality and fantasy, but as a mystic spell cast on him. That was how he wanted to know it. He did not wish to remind himself of his own insanity.
“KUNOLY!” he called, with a mighty voice he forced. He was proud of that, and likely would always be.
It was a few minutes before he felt it. The feeling of being watched.
So there was someone there…
And he knew exactly what to say.
“Ah, there dost thy wretched carcass lie! Face me like a man, brother, half-blood, die like an elf-king, that I may regain mine title.”
And he meant every syllable of it.
