Monday, July 4, 2011

The story continues

It's been a while, but here's the next installment! Action! Adventure! Excitment! Woo!

The Adventures of Tristan Shadow: Strider
Tristan stalked out of the dingy hallway leading to Fiona’s dressing room. He pushed his way through the crowded Air Dale’s and made his way out into Digmoore Station. Tristan paused just outside the wooden doors, and took the envelope out of his pocket. He looked at the smudgy scribbling, and then tossed it away with a sigh.
Tristan was just pressing the button to call the lift, when he heard footsteps behind him for the second time that evening.
Tristan spun around brandishing a walking stick with an eagle’s head at its top, and cried “Freeze!” There was a streak of golden light, and a loud thud as the spell hit its target. A young woman with long black hair let out a groan as she hit the tiled floor. As she picked herself up and dusted herself off Tristan approached her cautiously. “Who are you?” he asked, walking stick held at the ready. The young woman brushed her hair out of her eyes and placed her hands on her hips, “My name is Daphne Strider. I’m a reporter for the Chronicle.” Tristan eyed her suspiciously. “Why are you following me?” “I was in Mr. Burt’s when you asked about Wind,” she explained, “I was just following a lead. I thought it might make a good story!” Tristan remained still, he wasn’t convinced by her story. He had been fooled by the press gambit before. Sensing his apprehension the young woman reached into the pocket of her deep purple coat, causing Tristan to raise his cane defensively. She quickly withdrew her hand. “I only wanted to show you my press card!” she exclaimed exasperatedly. Tristan stepped forward and reached his hand into her pocket. He pulled out a square of stiff parchment with a picture of the same young woman grinning toothily pasted on it. Tristan inspected it closely but could find no fault. He lowered his cane and handed her back the card. “Okay,” he said, turned around abruptly and pressed the button which brought the lift clattering up. “Hey!” shouted the young woman and she trotted forward, her black hair swinging behind her.
She clambered into the lift just as the golden grate slid closed behind her. “What about my story?” she prodded. Tristan sighed, “Look, this is nobody’s business but my own. And I prefer not to have nosy reporters tagging along and asking too many questions.” She opened her mouth to protest, but then the grate slid open with a clang and Tristan strode out into the night. She rushed after him, and was brought to an abrupt halt, for he had stopped dead just a few feet away. His cane was held tensely in his right hand. She looked over his shoulder. There were half a dozen life sized wooden men without faces, slowly steadily marching towards them. “Bartleby’s beard!” She whispered. Tristan stepped forward. “I’ll distract them, get out of here!” With a flash of golden light Tristan waved his cane over his head and a shower of sparks rained down on the wooden men. Tristan looked desperately around, but he had barely even slowed the monsters’ approach. Then suddenly he caught a glimpse of black hair out of the corner of his eye. “Pulsus ventus.” Suddenly a great wind rose around him, and Tristan had to plant his feet to keep from being swept away. There was a thundering CRACK and lightning hit the ground directly in front of the wooden men, causing them to fracture into millions of splinters, before Tristan’s eyes. He turned and looked at the girl, who was just slipping a thin birch rod back into her pocket. She looked up at him, brushed her hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand, and smiled. “What did you say your name was?” “Daphne Strider.” “Follow me,” Tristan said, and they ran down the nearest side street.

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