Missives of a Maddened Monk: Taste of Power

By W.D. Phillips

After numerous adventures with the dark elf sorcerer and observing the darkening presence stirring within him, the monk returned to Hryn, the coastal city. Within the tower that overlooked the sea, he ruminates over what could have gone wrong. What misstep led this ambitious youth toward heinous acts of violence and murder after his first taste of the magic? Did its allure pull him ever toward shadowed reaches of his soul? Did it promise greater possibilities that his mind did not yet understand? His disappearance provided much anxiety for the monk. Did he overcome its invading negative presence or succumb to its empty promises?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fulton Books, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798887318639

Book preview

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

About the Author

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Missives of a Maddened Monk

Taste of Power

W.D. Phillips II

Copyright © 2023 W.D Phillips

All rights reserved

First Edition

Fulton Books

Meadville, PA

Published by Fulton Books 2023

ISBN 979-8-88731-862-2 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88731-863-9 (digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Chapter 1

What is there in a story? Is it acts of valor and heroism, undying love and devotion, tragedy and adversity? Throughout the ages, acts such as these shape and balance our world and lives. They sculpt the realities around us and create paths to our prospective destinies, all the while molding us into the people we were meant to eventually become. For better or worse, such things can create empathic and loving people or turn those same people in a monstrous cacophony of turmoil that leads to a loathsome life. Things such as anger and fear, for example, guide the hands into motions of anger, despair, and sadness. Can such a person, guided by these darker attributes, dismiss those shadowy companions to allow the sunlight to cascade upon their souls and lighten a more benevolent path, or will they simply stumble and retch through existence, chasing a dream that will never be? Such lives end in much heartache. For the sacrifices required are self-destructive, and more so to those unfortunate persons who are entangled in the lives of those people.

I am one of three of those unfortunate enough to be entangled with Darkthorn. Hailing from the Vlanderock family of the Sylvan Forest, a lower-caste citizen during the Age Dawn, he was a charismatic and talented wizard born of innate talents. However, when we first met, I knew him to be the most ambitious and intelligent person I ever knew. We met several years after he left his ancestral home. It was speculated among the rest of us that he may have been cast from the light and deemed a dark elf by his brethren, but none of us questioned him. We only knew him to be courageous, intelligent, and resourceful. I often pray to the Lord of Light why I couldn't see just how dark his soul truly was, but I'm often left with more questions that leave me bereft of energy and with a depression that hangs heavily.

His tale is one of sadness and many trials of hardship. It is no small wonder that his life veered to the side of shadow. He revealed his story to me before his latest venture after our completion of Emperor Arideth's campaign. We talked long into the night and through the next day, poring over every detail in stark clarity. He took me down the paths his destiny led him before meeting us. His friends. I use that term quite loosely, for all of us sensed the power that shrouded him, and it made us suspicious and distrustful. Maybe if one of us would have come forward and offered a loving hand, his path would have taken him down a different road. Could a loving bond of friendship satiate such a hunger for power? Would I, as close a companion he had, been able to grip his grasping hand and pull him from the blackened waters? Or did his previous choices solidify his course?

As I sit here and pen our adventures, I look for any clue as to where his road may take him so we gain the possibility of gleaning a clue to his whereabouts. I fear his ambitions may end our world and destroy the very fabric of creation, and we are short on time. With Darkthorn missing these last two years, darker rumblings from the east, and his tower sealed to any and all attempts at divining or entry, I grow uneasy. Perhaps in penning my thoughts, I may stumble upon a memory. Some clue as to what his intent may be. It is in these recollections that I turn my attentions to his origins. To that small Sylvan village that rimmed the outskirts of the Fae forest.

*****

It would be many years before the Second Gods' War. Before the great Hya used his vast power to burn through the heart of Ughthk, driving her and her evil demonic hordes back to the beyond.

This was the Age of the Dawn.

Extreme and vast advances in magic and science were being brought to the fore of reality. Dreams were becoming reality as the peoples of the world reached their stars. One such boy, a youth at just five decades on Nyr, in Briardeep didn't feel those sentiments. His family were traditionally scouts, raised from birth to serve as border watches for King Korain. However, this particular youth was born ill. His illness crippled his legs so that his gait wouldn't allow him to run. He used to watch the children play and dance at the celebrations, angry and remorseful at their play. The anger grew and festered as the years passed. Eventually the frustration gave way to a creative spark. The boy began to diagram sheaths that would attach to his legs. The sheaths would act as artificial joints to aid in the movement and stability of his legs. With the aid of the village smith, the boy's design worked in such a manner that it caught the village wizard's attention.

Quil-Kalas observed the determination of the boy. The resourcefulness and innovation of the youth impressed him even more than his own apprentices. Does the boy have the talent? Does he possess the ability to make the magic work? The answers to these questions would take time, and centuries are fleeting to an elf.

*****

The years passed as the seasons turned and summer faded into autumn.

Life went on as it always had and always would in the minds of the elves. Khala-Thon had to adjust his braces this year. He had a growth spurt this sixtieth winter. The apparatus he designed was improved upon these last few months. He had stumbled upon a better way to heat raw materials to such a temperature that was difficult to accomplish without the use of magic.

Kala-Thon found that a mixture of differing metals heated in this manner was highly pliable yet maintained a durability that even armor envied.

He didn't receive envy from the other youth in his village. As younger people generally are, they tormented Kala-Thon, calling him spindle bird and other creative and degrading names, trying to entice him into torment.

The names hurt him almost as badly as the stones they threw at him. He would run from the tormentors, his inventions enabling him to run faster than his peers. His expedited pace almost always led him to the river, where he would stay and gaze at the moons as they crested the forest. He feared his home as well. His mother died at childbirth, and his father disapproved of the weakness he saw in his only son, who was not able to honor his family traditions and carry on the legacy of guarding the borders from the Arthenian emperors and ogre raiders. Kala-Shorn thought beating the toughness into his son would give him the strength required to carry on the tradition. It was to no avail. No matter how severe the beatings he got, Kala-Thon would glare at his father with daggers made of ice in his eyes. Kala-Shorn sometimes wondered if his son would ever retaliate, but the young man stayed frail. So the beatings increased.

As he gazed across the river, watching the rays of the moons and stars dance enticingly across the smooth waters, his mind remained active on the actions of his father. Luckily, this recent patrol would have him at the borders for some time. This would allow Kala-Thon some fleeting months of peace. Quil-Kalas had approached him earlier this evening about beginning potential arcane studies. This surprised Kala-Thon, for it was known that only those of royal birth were allowed the higher knowledge of the arcane. None in his family has ever expressed the talent.

What kind of doors could be flung far and wide for the young elf with that kind of knowledge and, dare I say, power? No one would ever touch me again! I will incinerate all who would harm me and keep me from my goals! By all the pantheon of gods—Light, Grey, and Shadow—and on my mother's grave, I swear!

Kala-Thon's mind screamed this proclamation. Although the Sylvan Forest, whose beauty was of legend, remained tranquil, a slight shudder ran through the trees. Unbeknownst to Kala-Thon, that shudder was the hand of a god slapping his shoulder and choosing his chosen. The god of magic smiled a dark smile that spread across his face. He felt the latent power pulse as a volcano builds pressure. What a force he will become. What a weapon in the coming battle. The god answered his unspoken prayer. Power was awakened inside the young elf—a power that had the god fully understood what kind of power was awakened, the god would have stayed his hand. As Kala-Thon walked back to his little hovel, his body tingled with static, and he knew that someone heard his plea. That someone had granted his request and saw his potential. As he walked the clear pathways through the gardens from the river, his excitement increased and anticipation mounted, for tomorrow his studies began. Tomorrow, his life would begin to change forever.

*****

One could not ask for a more glorious end of summer morning. The flowers and trees gave their accustomed fragrance and shade that enticed one to venture out under their green canopy. This year's harvest will be grand.

Elven mages went about casting their nature magic and forming the landscape to match the needs of the Sylvan people. They went about their day sculpting each plant, bush, shrub, and tree; forming every leaf, twig, fruit, and flower to match the mood of the people and cater to their needs. They even worked their magic on vines and climbing plants, encasing houses and dwellings in an armor of wood that also decorated their living areas with flowers and produced such an aroma that the scenery and smells relaxed every visitor with the botanical beauty. Many of the flowers and plants that surround the Fae nation are crafted and created by those of the Garden Sect. Most species within the nation of Fae are magically created and bred with the naturally growing plants that are indigenous to the area. Over the centuries, the Sylvan elves perfected their craft; and because of their belief of them being the favored of the gods, they went about their work with zeal and an air of god-inspired importance.

The sky shone down on the structures and growing things with an eye of approval, as if the gods blessed all that they gazed upon and the sky smiled in response. The clear blue of the morning summer sky and slight breeze that danced through the trees and playfully tousled the elves' hair as they went about their daily business. Birds sang their respective songs gleefully and noisily through the trees' canopies and the cloudless sky, creating a cacophony of music and song. Bees and other bugs went about their own personal business in their normal regularity and fussy ways.

The stream that surrounds the small village added to the song of serenity that made a more tranquil contrast to the busy bees and the gaily singing birds. The trickling sounds, along with the other natural noises and song, created such an ambiance that the environment soothed the darkest of moods and calmed the most tumultuous of souls.

Yet as Kala-Thon opened his eyes to view this world instead of his world of dreams, and he was both saddened and mildly enraged.

Here I am again. In a world of pain. Where my legs barely work. Where I am loathed and reviled by my peers and family. I hear the songs of nature outside my door and am repulsed by it. What a gossamer curtain to draw over the eyes to hide or cover up the darkness that lie within the souls of these insignificant people. These tormentors. These people that walk haughtily about, raising their respective noses and chins so far into the air I'm surprised they can't smell Hya's backside. The gods' chosen. Ha! If the gods did care, why would they allow all actions to be just from their chosen people? Actions of avarice, pride, and wrath happen behind those shuttered windows and locked doors. The elves never let on or acknowledge such behavior. They simply turn their eyes from it. Someday, they will be shown their faults. Someday, I will show them.

These dark musings played many a scenario through Kala-Thon's mind as he slowly began to rise from his bed. Gazing around his well-organized room, Kala-Thon spied his clothing laid upon his dresser against the opposite wall and under the window that provided a serene view of the outlying spring that surrounds the village of Briarwood. The novitiate white robes were given to him the previous day by Quil-Kalas after the mage approached him to inquire if the young man had interest in magical studies. The wizened old mage had folded the soft white fabric and wrapped it with a fine golden ribbon that sparkled in the golden sun. Kala-Thon gazed at the robe in wonderment, completely ecstatic as he rose to his feet and walked reverently toward the dresser. Nervously and anxiously, his mind wondered at the possibilities his world would yield after donning those glaringly white robes. As he approached the dresser, his hand trembled slightly as he reached out to stroke the soft robe, and his soul tingled with the anticipation of the power that would be gained. Power over people. Power for himself. Power to be feared. His mind reeled as he undressed from his nightclothes allowing his lithe body to bask in the sunlight. The sun's rays gleamed from the reflection of his leg braces. Sending cascading dancing lights over his sparsely decorated room. The rug that covered the floor depicted a scene of a moonlit night where only the moon of silver is depicted, for acknowledging the other two would be just one step into darkness—so most elves believed.

The reflected lights seemed to make the stars sewn into the rug dance like the sprites did gaily upon the water on summer nights. His small room was enough for him, however. He enjoyed the trees' canopy for a roof and the sunlight and starlight as his chandeliers. For him, the world was his home and not this small one built to stay hidden on the outskirts of a village that reviled him.

He unwrapped the golden strand from the folded robe and slipped it on over his head. The looseness and freedom of the garment was unlike anything he'd ever known. His lineage was foresters, part of a low caste of people who were never allowed to rise above any rank higher than that of a servant. He gazed at the robe he wore and smiled a broad smile that began pure then slowly turned sinister. That will soon change, pronounced Kala-Thon as he clenched both fists into a white-knuckled grip that rapidly drained the blood from them. I will teach him, who is to be reviled, and they will be next, he swore, referring to his father and his village tormentors.

He knelt down and grabbed his travel boots. As he strapped them on, a knock came at his door. Who could it be at this hour? The sun has barely crested the horizon, and I know I am not late for my appointment with the mage. Surely, all in the village know my father is on patrol? Perhaps the gods have blessed me with another gift? Perhaps Kala-Shorn was killed on his patrol, mused Kala-Thon.

Turning from his view from the window, he turned to exit his room and enter the living room of the two-bedroom home. The house was clean yet scantily furnished. It was decorated in traditional elfin fashion of using natural plants and other flowering plants that surround the rose quartz ceilings making a myriad of colors flood the walls and floor beneath it. He traversed the fifteen-foot distance and answered the door.

Who is it? asked Kala-Thon while peering from the window and observing his visitor.

The person on the opposite side of the door was the assistant of Kala-Shorn's field commander, Kinan. Kinan was a nervous little man who was always particular about his appearance and who always attended to every minute detail of every task given him. Although small in stature, he was well muscled and a fine soldier. His marksman abilities were astounding, and his skill with the blade was among the better of the regime. It is Kinan, Thon. I have word that your father was extended two months on his patrol. I am not at liberty to give any further information.

Kala-Thon took this information as it was given. He was used to these types of messages. He was always relieved to hear them—relieved and worried all at once. For the longer Kala-Shorn was away, the drunker he got while home. Then the fighting started.

Thank you, Kinan. I wish you well, and Hya walk with you; the last remark was made automatically, like an automaton robotically moving through its programmed responses. The words almost came out in a hiss. Not with any malice toward the god per se, but with a vehemence toward his father's beliefs.

Kala-Thon watched Kinan walk down the wooded path toward the main road and Briarwood Village proper. This would allow more time for him to gain more knowledge. More power. He unlatched the door and stepped out of his house and into the warm summer day. It being so early, no one was walking the thoroughfares and visiting the shops. The rose quartz walkways absorbed the early morning sun and warmed them for early travelers, while cooling them throughout the day to ensure comfort to its travelers. Kala-Thon enjoyed this walk so far. Quil-Thalas's tower was in the middle of town proper. He brought the community a sense of protection and was loved by all in the village. His disposition matched the weather of Briarwood yet maintained a wisdom that belied his youthful disposition. The cool breeze fanned his long dark hair out his face in waves of feathery blackness reminiscent of the feathers of a raven. The warmth of the sun and freedom of movement from his newly donned robes put an extra spring in his step. He would enjoy this. This would allow him a viable excuse to separate himself from all his tormentors, all the while gaining power. The very prospect of that gain made his thoughts run giddy and sent shivers all throughout his body in youthful anticipation and excitement. Glorious grandeur filled his soul with uplifting and joyous feelings.

They came in such a wave that his brain barely registered the tower that was plainly in view at the end of the road, a simple structure with granite material and a thatched roof with many windows. Of course, calling the three-story structure a tower graced the building with an upgrade. It was out of respect and a running joke started by its current master that it be called a title. Quil thought it humorous the council gave him a tower. It