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Thread: Silver Lock in the Snow

  1. #1
    Daeari Dae314's Avatar
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    Icon11 Silver Lock in the Snow

    I was consumed by the desire to write a short story this afternoon so I wrote one. *WARNING*It's quite a boring read*WARNING*. But read it if you feel like you want to read something a bit different. It's got some *extremely* loose connections to MS (so I wouldn't feel bad posting it here).

    Till starry sky be stared no more,
    Till life once gone begin again,
    Till sun shatter on earthly floor,
    The silver lock will time constrain.

    Snow, it is true that snow falls this time every year, but it never fails to dazzle my old eyes to look upon the great white canopy over the land. It is a white colored darkly in my eyes this year. As I look out of my meager treetop dwelling into the vast white fields I recall the tidings of war that managed to reach even my old ears here in the deep of the forest. I imagine the fields of another land run deep red by the sharp edge of hatred and greed. “Oh foolish Kings,” thought I, “what have you to gain with those deep red stained hands but a crimson prize.” But I tarry too long. Had I stayed meandering with my own daydreams I would surely have shortly run out of day with which to dream, and I may well have slipped, unknowingly, back into the slumbering dream I was enjoying only minutes earlier.

    In a snap I am up, dressed, and clean, and with a step I exit my dark room to enter my green lit study. Ah, but here I cannot resist the temptation to distract myself just an instant. The morning sun rains down through my thin, translucent window of leaves, protected from the fangs of winter by the virtue of my magic, like a spotlight following the dancing, spinning, twirling dust as it flows across the open air for my book’s enjoyment—and enjoy it they must for row upon rows upon shelves upon walls of books linger above where I stand watching the show without a sound. Large volumes, small articles, old books, emerald tomes, red novels, and black essays are all silently observing the dance of the dust contemplating knowledge at once gained, stored, and given. Though they do not speak—they talk. Just as the walls of wood—though they do not listen—hear. The knowledge of the ages is collected here under one wooden canopy which is my dearest study. I have largely memorized every bit of knowledge contained within this room, but the temptation to partake of their teaching once again consumes my heart. My mind reminds me though of the losses which will accompany a morning spent joyously in my study and a moment later I am gone, leaving my books to enjoy the dust’s dance.

    Now outside in the grey world, where wind blows cold and the eyes of society may turn to gaze upon those who are weak and weary, I observe my plain old gnarled hut coaxed from the branches of my plain old gnarled tree. My study takes up the greater part of the construction with my sleeping quarters only in the top corner of the smallest side. It is the most logical arrangement for one who values his books more than his general wellbeing. The outer walls are adorned quite simply with just a short, wooden door in the front and a single round, leafy window overlooking my study. Nothing about it has changed since I last looked upon it. The walls still need straightening, the roof still needs bending, the windows still need rounding, the colors still need lightening, the door still needs hinging, and the whole thing is still generally a mess. Yet, it would not do for one of my disposition to hurry to fix that which is not yet in disrepair, and so it is with the utmost contentedness that I leave my dwelling this morning—secure in the knowledge that, despite its many shortcomings, my place of dwelling is the perfect abode for me.

    I step down to the spotted forest floor, sprinkled with the night’s snow, disturbing not a single snowflake or fallen leaf with my descent. I am hurried by my long musings and leave toward town with only the whisper of the winter air stirring in my wake. Still, it is not within the scope of my character to dash hurriedly through such a place as where I live, and soon I slow to feel the majestic forest around me. Trees stretch up to grasp at the sky but are bound by their unrelenting grip on the earth; light dances about me with the wind flickering in and out with the movement of the branches in a great morning ballad. The day watch is sleepily awakening while the guardians of the night slip off to rest. The whole forest is at once asleep and awake while the animals coordinate the change in shift from peaceful winter night to peaceful winter day. I move along with abated but persistent haste leaving the forest behind me just as it was before me.

    The shadows grow thinner as the edge of the forest draws closer, but in a pocket of darkness off the edge of my path a sparkle steals my attention. All haste gone now, with deliberate focus, I approach the offending sparkle swiftly and gingerly. Nestled between the greying roots of a small, young tree without much care taken in its concealment—it is buried beneath a neat mound of snow—I find the object which I allowed to stall my journey: a small metal loop. Had the light not been playing precisely over that small protrusion as I passed I may have never seen the small shaded nest, and I would have continued unaware of this curious oddity. Perhaps past light had not before dared to dart across this small protrusion and I, for many days or many years, have simply passed it till this morning when a bit of light fancied a journey over this small spot. I relieve the snow of its unnatural guest and examine it in the palm of my hand. The loop I had seen protruding from the neat little mound of snow belongs to the top of an intricate, silver, circular lock. It is not a lock which I am in any way familiar with which is surprising given my many hours of study in all areas of life. Curious, I examine the lock further. The loop appears to be made of a metal I have not before encountered—it reflects the soft light of the morning sun as though a star were embedded within its silver frame. Pure light is seen to rebound from the silver surface as though it were completely unwanted and scorned. Below the loop is the body of the lock—it is home to a great number of intricate, flowing etches that seem to highlight four very detailed rose petals surrounding what I can only assume is the key hole. The designs at one moment reflect the scales of an ancient dragon guarding a noble treasure, at another the hard lines of a knight’s armor ready to repel any attacking force, yet at another the many curves of a tangle of thick vines impossible to unravel, and still at another moment the design appears to depict a mighty, thick, flawless, impregnable castle wall which none shall pass. The beautifully etched design, whatever it appears to depict, seems to always defend the rose petals at its center surrounding a key hole shaped like an eight pointed star. The lock appears to stare at me through that black gaping hole like an ever morphing eye. It stares endlessly past my flesh, past my mind, past my soul, past my spirit, past my existence, and into the very essence of what I am, the one defining element which defines my entire self within the universe. It stares at that point as an expert marksman stares at his target, ready to pierce through that essential element and destroy my entire existence within the universe. Disturbed at the intensity of the stare, I turn the lock over and observe the smooth featureless underside. Behind the intricate, insidious frontal design is a flawless, flat, perfectly reflective silver back plate. No warnings here, no threats of nonexistence, just a secure confidence that nothing can ever be done to this side of the lock that will ever get it open. Pure undaunted confidence that requires no design to read, no printed text to convey, just a smooth, flat, blank, silver plate. In amazement and intense concentration I continue to examine the lock for hours. I pause after a while to look again in the snow where I found the lock to see if the key may have been buried with it but to no avail. I try in vain all the many charms, enchantments, spells, and incantations that I know to try and open the lock for many hours. My errands lay forgotten in the deep recesses of my mind, and I simply stand and examine the lock till night begins to fall.

    Awakened from my trance by the steady loss of daylight, I briefly consider taking the lock with me, but in the draining sunlight and waxing moonlight I see that the lock is meant to be where it was found. Perhaps it is someone’s great treasure which they had to hide for one reason or another, or perhaps it is a special gift from one lover to their partner to seal their life together. Whatever the case may be, I leave the lock in its resting place just the way it was found and return home in much the same manner as I left. Once in my study I take to reading and rereading any knowledge I can find regarding locks. My exhaustive search yields no new information—I already knew that it would be so from the moment I set my eyes on the silver lock in the snow. It was a lock such that I have never read or heard of—it is completely unique in its construction—it is unparalleled in all of human history. A distant clamor of frantic voices in my mind arises and begs me to seek the lock again. I set out once more from my gnarled home to the place where I found the lock—it is still there buried beneath the snow where I had found it and left it. Once again I pry the lock from the snow’s jealous grip and cradle it within the palm of my hand. Looking into the star shaped key hole once again, I feel the familiar sensation of being targeted, but this time I do not become shy and look away—I do not turn the lock over to escape the hunter’s gaze. I receive the lock’s ominous glare with the acceptance I would afford to one equal to myself. I allow the lock to explore the essence of my existence and invite it to join me. I can feel the hesitation of a defender faced with one who calls themself an ally—it is a hesitation expressed by one unsure of what to believe. Without warning the lock plunges into my being and opens itself up to my essence. I am drowned with intense longing for purpose and fulfillment. I am enveloped by the longing of a tool which is made so perfectly for one task yet is not allowed to perform it, the hunger and thirst for a life well spent brought on by a hundred thousand years of uselessness, and the pain of rejection from thousands of years fighting entropy and decay to just once be used for the task which it was made. As the lock’s feelings of despair and loneness flood my being so too my entire being floods itself into the lock—my virtues, my failures, my interests, my hatred, my thoughts, and my emotions—everything flows into the lock’s conscious. We harmonize. What have I done with my life that is worthy of anything that I have built up for? What have I done that would be worthy of the accomplishments that I have achieved? I have trained magicians for a millennium but have not yet made for myself a purpose. I found myself to be just as unfulfilled and hungry as the lock. The more we share with each other the closer we seem to become—I feel my essence molding itself slowly to fit with the lock. Soon, I feel the completion of my transformation, and, like a key to a lock, my essence plunges itself into the keyhole perfectly and turns. There is a click.

    Snow, just like yesterday there is snow, but this time I am lying on it. The lock is gone—there is no need for it to be here anymore—its purpose in this realm was accomplished. I clench my hand and push myself up. It snowed again during the night, but this time the scene appears bright to my old eyes. There is a new passion within my soul. A driving force that pushes me to find my purpose just as the lock, now unlocked, may now find its purpose. I look in the direction of the field and feel the distant clouds of war looming ever closer. This is where I must go—I must go to war, but not with hands and heart stained deep red with the crimson thoughts of greed and animosity. I must go with a soul of silver like the silver lock buried beneath the snow—I must go with a soul bent on finding meaning within the madness, hope within the despair, and if none exists then it shall be made as a crimson prize by these hands stained deep red. Perhaps then my crimson prize may be held by future hands of silver and turn it into gold.


  2. #2

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    Wow you have a massive vocab.
    You were so descriptive everything was so clear and detailed in my head.

    (I read this on Notepad. There was no way I was going to read that massive wall of pink :P)
    viva la nagato yuki

  3. #3
    Daeari Dae314's Avatar
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    Icon11

    lol nia turn on dark theme and my text looks a lot better


  4. #4
    We're in a heap o'trouble Tesiqurasa's Avatar
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    I like your unconventional uses of some verbs. " ...observe my plain old gnarled hut coaxed from the branches of my plain old gnarled tree."

    A critique:
    Some descriptions seem to trail off (though I'm guessing that was your intent to some degree). Some of the seemingly purposeful redundancies work well (like the above mentioned), but others get lost in the text.


    Spoiler!



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