Dorren awoke to the sensation of the iron manacles digging into his wrists.
His muddled thoughts came into sharp focus with the flash-memories of the terrible beating he had suffered. The clanking of the chains against the stone wall behind him caused by his bodyís feeble trashing, brought him out of his torments and into the real world. A world of damp, chill air and hard, cold stone.
With his gathering awareness came a symphony aches, the chorus to the memories. His wrists were burning from having been rubbed raw by the iron clasps holding him.
But the real pain came from his shoulders, and Dorren soon figured out why when he tried to stand...his feet barely touched the dirty stone floor.
There would be no relief from the pain in his shoulders, it seemed. Not until they came for him. And when they did, he knew (or suspected), there would certainly not be any relief, his true suffering would only be beginning.
He had heard the screams of those who had been taken away, they all had.
It seemed as if every night the Sarrians tried to let their evil ruler hear the screams of Asheldians, like some sick lullaby. And tonight, Dorrens voice would be added to the song of sorrow that had replaced that of the chirping hoppers and whistling star-bugs. A reminder to the people that their suffering was inescapable, even in sleep.
The coolness of the air told him that night had quite fallen, but that wasnít the reason for the darkness. When Dorren tried to open his eyes, he found them sealed shut. Well, actually, one was sealed shut (by he knew not what), and the other seemed to be swollen beyond the point of opening.
If he had any thoughts of escape, the further thought of stumbling around blinded trying to do so didnít herald much chance of success. Not that he could get loose of the iron cuffs holding him, anyway. He wondered how long he had been here, as well as where 'here' was.
Maybe that part he could figure out..
The thick, solidly built stone walls told him that he was somewhere in the old palace. All of the homes and shops that were made of stone of made of a softer, more sculptural stone dug from local quarries, the old palace had been built of imported stone. Imported from he knew not where, but its hardness and coloring were unmatched in any areas of Asheland.
When he was younger and growing up in the palace, he had heard of an old, unused part of the castle that had once held a dungeon, but had been closed for many years. The damp, closed-in feel of the place certainly fit the imagined dungeon in the bowels of the fortress that had frightened youngsters into eating their paar-root when he was a child. It had worked on him, too.
But in all of his explorations, he never did go into the abandoned area. Perhaps those stories held sway longer into life than he thought.
Either way, it FELT like a dungeon to Dorren, and for him, it was. The smell was another thing that added to the illusion he had of his surroundings. It stank.
Once he noticed the smell, he couldnít understand how he hadnít reacted to it right away. It was the smell of rot and decay, of old dirt. And something else.
Something that gave immediate rise to the bile in his stomach, which he fought unsuccessfully.
Wrenching on himself because he could not avoid it, had the positive effect of overpowering the smell that had caused it, and for that Dorren was thankful.
The smell called up memories he hoped to never revisit. Memories of being recruited to join in the search for a missing hunter...
For 8 days they searched the woods and fields Mossir, a local farmer, was known to frequent when hunting, but had found no sign of him.
On the 9th day, when all seemed about willing to give him up for lost, or runaway (he had 14 children), Dorrens group came across a small cave and decided to check inside. The horrible stench that greeted them a few yards in foretold a grisly tale.
The huntersí body lay at the back of the cave. It appeared to have been dragged in by some scavenger or predator, and gnawed upon. The bloated, discolored remains had large chunks of flesh missing from its limbs, the bones stained pink from dried blood.
Their mission was to find and recover the body for proper ritual so they grabbed ahold to what rags of clothing they could and began to slowly drag the remains to the cave entrance. As they tried to cross over a patch of rocks in their path, the torso of the hunter slipped from their small hands onto the sharp rock edges below.
It seemed to Dorren that the body just exploded; popping like a bubble and showering him and the others with disgusting fluids.
The stench of decaying flesh can never be mistaken, once sampled, and THAT was what Dorren smelled now.
In Dorrens mind, inside his prison made of darkness, wet, cold, iron, and stone... the remains of rotting human corpses now littered the floor of his imagination.
With the surge of strength lent from panic that all living creatures get when sensing a place of doom, Dorren heaved himself against the wall and struggled to break his chains..or his wrists..to escape- to survive. But all his efforts won him were fresh reminders of the torment he had endured so far, as his battered body slapped uselessly against the stone behind him. The ebbing tide of panic-driven energy gave way to new exhaustion, and fresh despair.
Dorren no longer cared about the pain he was in, it was only temporary. Either the Sarrian would come to torture him, or they would come to kill him.
That was it.
That was the rest of his life- languishing in agony awaiting torture and death. His senses flooded with the smell of death and the maddening echoes of the prison he now envisioned to be closed in on him. Squeezing the foul, stale air into his nostrels, and filling with blood.
His blood. His screams. His death.
Every morning before the sun fully rises, the sacrifices are made to honor King Varrel, as well as to ready the overseers, to sharpen their cruelty anew for the new day. That was what usually woke him, the screams of the sacrificed.
This day, his would be one of the screams filled the night air. Only to be silenced forever with the dawn.
A low, defeated moan came from Dorren as he fully accepted his fate. His last few hours of life, spent hanging from an iron ring high up on a damp, stone wall, with no hope of rescue or escape, awaiting an hour before the sun when he is to be sacrificed to the glory of a villain, and the amusement of his henchmen. Dorrens soft sobs echoed eerily off of the old stone walls surrounding him...
What exactly is the purpose of you posting all these sections of you story? If it is because you think it is fantastic and absolutely NEED the world to see it, then please - stop!
It is nowhere near ready for anyone to read and enjoy, and it is far too much for us to plough through and critique for you, because there are SO MANY mistakes! Tense changes, punctuation errors, grammar errors. Your vocabulary is flawed and you often use the wrong word.
Also, your writing is not "emerging" in front of our eyes. You are TELLING everything like a news report. Creative writing should allow the picture to bloom in the reader's mind.
Just my two cents. Feel free to ignore it. But please use these forums to learn and try to take criticism as a helping hand, for that it what it is. Believe me.
This needs a lot of polishing and you also need to stand back from it a bit - and NEVER, EVER, fall in love with your own words! That is literary suicide.