Rain

I am no stranger to writing, nor to roleplaying, but I have never actually mustered the courage to write something by myself, something of my own. Still, during the past few days I've felt inspired, inspired to try my luck, as it were and for once, I feel confident enough to post something which is the product of my own heart and mind. It's far from perfect, I'll wager, so critiques, advice and all that are certainly welcome. Based on what the feedback is, I'll correct and improve upon stuff in the next chapters. The chapters themselves will vary in length and scope, but they'll all follow the same story. I'll post links to the other chapters when they come, so feel free to comment at will. All of the below is subject to change.

The world is not what's important here, the characters and their development is. I'm working with a blank slate, filling it as I go along. I've been reading "A Song of Ice and Fire" recently, so I've drawn inspiration from there, I won't point out the elements, but for anyone who's read at least the first book will know 'em right away. The ideas that I'll try to send across are my own however, so I'm the one who should receive the praise (or flames ) for them

And now, without further ado, I present the very first part, the prologue.

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It was raining.

It always seemed to rain up here in the North. Not like the soft, refreshing rain of the South. No. This rain was different. It was cold and heavy. It ignored the thick furs and armour as it seeped into your skin, into your bones, into your very soul. The air was damp and cold, the night - pitch black. The wind wailed and screamed, as it passed through the old towers and battlements, ruins of a time older than memory.

Being on guard duty this time of night did not make things easier. If anything, the weather was even worse up here, on the Wall - the cold bit deeper and the winds wept fiercer. Fran was huddled near one of the braziers that burned to keep the men of the Guard warm during the long nights. Despite the thick clothes, despite the armour over them and despite yet another layer of furs over it, the cold could not be kept out. Even the thick, black cloak scarcely seemed to make a difference. A black scarf covered his mouth, his nose and most of his face; the half-helm with a nasal guard covered the other part of the head. Only his eyes, two dots of silver, were unprotected. In his gloved hand, a long, iron-tipped spear, was firmly gripped; the left hand was held over the brazier.

The silver dots went left and right, surveying the area in front of them. A killing field some seven hundred meters stretched out, Fran knew that this was the same all along the Wall. Beyond the emptiness began the forest, deep and foreboding. It did not begin gradually, tree by tree, bush by bush; no. It was a line of green - bright and dark and all the hues in between, that ran parallel to the great Wall. And Fran knew, he knew that what the Wall was to Man, the forest was to them. Who "them" were was another matter, shrouded in myths and legends. And indeed, the people who remembered those times were less than a score. The times when the snows raged and wolves howled, when the men beyond the Wall emerged from the depths of their forest...but that was many summers ago. However, the threat was always present and while in the South, men's memory grew weak and dim, the Guard remembered. And watched. As they had done for ages, ever patrolling, ever ready.

Gazing into the sea of green, Fran could make out individual trees. The one over there was an oak, the one next to it a pine, the other was a chestnut. And it went on and on, ever deeper, fir and walnut, ash and yew and many other kinds he knew not. And as always, he wondered what lay beyond. Was there even a beyond? Or was the forest endless? A green abyss of twisting passages and monstrous inhabitants. Despite all his years on the Wall, these thoughts always haunted him when he looked beyond it. Thirteen summers he had been here, half of his life he had spent guarding this piece of stone and mortar. And for what? From what? He sighed as he reminded himself that he had to check the eighth tower, as he did every night.

The rain continued, it poured cold and hard and merciless. The black clouds seldom receded from this forsaken place - it simply rained, day after day, night after night, month after month, year after year....as it had been since the dawn of Man. Everything was wet and muddy, the buildings damp and mouldy. The old structures stood forlorn amidst the grey landscape, forgotten, unwanted...but needed. The rain was the worst of it, as it made the air damp and buildings mouldy, so did it with the mind. Thoughts seemed to be covered in moss, emotions were stained, the people grew forlorn and grim as the buildings around them. But such was the price to pay. They all knew that.

The towers were positioned a thousand meters apart, each one kept vigil over its part of the Wall. So had the builders of old decided. Fran reminded himself this, as was his custom, upon leaving the safety and warmth of the fifth tower. The towers were counted based on their distance from the Gatehouse, the first was the nearest, then the second and so forth. This was used for both sides of the Wall, which spanned as far as the eye could see both east and west. Fran himself did not know how many towers were there, he doubted anyone did; not even old Imdar. The silver-eyed man had traveled as far as the twentieth tower, he did not make that trip often, from it (for once, it had been a clear monring, free of rain) he could discern four or mayhap five more, in the distance. The others, mostly the older Guardsmen, claimed that they had seen the fiftieth, the sixtieth. But in the past ten summers or so, this part of the Guard had not traveled father than the twenty-fifth.

Thirteen summers, though in truth - they could not be called such. The word autumn was more suited, but that was old wives tales, nothing more. Or was it? That thought almost startled him, it had been a long time since Fran had concerned himself with anything other than his routine. The gazing into the forest, the sigh as he reminded himself about the tower, those were merely custom. Indeed, during his first summer he did want to know the answers, as all boys did, but as he became a man of the Guard, he could no longer allow himself such boyish notions. And yet, it seemed that the nature here had not changed, for the autumns in the legends were just the same. Cold, wet...expect for the trees. The trees did not grow golden, they remained fresh and green. Always. Thirteen summers. Had it really been so long?

The rain was treacherous. It eroded the soul as it did with the cold, grey stones of the Wall. It rotted the heart as it did with the old planks of the buildings. Men would come here eager, smiling and after a few months, they were changed. Their faces grew dark and grim, their moods became sombre, their outlook on life macabre. Faces of mothers, fathers, brothers and sisters, friends...they faded away, washed away by the endless wall of water.

And Fran wondered. What really was the Wall? Was it the blocks of stone he was patrolling, the green on the horizon or the very rain itself? For the rain acted like a wall, sturdier than any other. For it marked the borders between light and dark, hope and despair. Fran was on the darker side. He came here a boy, he had not even known the touch of a woman. It was not because of some fool's dreams or hunger for glory, it was not his choice, he did not want. But he had to. For Frandor was a bastard, one of many, high-born, but a bastard nonetheless. It was not his choice, it had never been. The moment he left his mother's womb, all choices had already been made for him. Doors were barred, opportunities vanished. And even though his lord father had treated him with respect, raised him as one of his own, the others knew. He was well-liked by his brothers and sisters. But they knew. He had earned the respect of his father's sworn swords and knights. But they knew as well. His skill at arms could earn him a high place in court. But they too knew. It seemed as if all the world knew of Frandor and his heritage. And no matter what he did, he could never go far. When his lord father had passed on, Fran's eldest half-brother would inherit the castle and lands and men would bow to him and call him lord. His other brothers would become his bannerman and have holds of their own. His sisters would be married off to noble lords and brave knights and have sons and daughters of their own. But not Fran. He was forever marked as a baseborn, as a bastard. The most he could hope for was becoming one of his brothers' sworn men or a sellsword. As the years passed, he might even become a master-at-arms in some lesser castle. But no more. He knew that even as a child and he cried, oh how he cried. "It's not fair!" - he wept every night, but who cared? And when he was almost a man grown, he had decided to go North. To the Wall, where men of every walk of life were welcomed. Where he would become a sworn brother, blood-bound, of the Guard. And here he was.

Lost in such thoughts, the journey to the eight tower was somewhat quicker than usual. His feet, clad in heavy leather boots, squelched as he walked on the rain-soaked blocks of stone. He opened the heavy wooden door, reinforced with iron, which, as always, creaked menacingly. Fran walked inside and took a quick look around. Nothing had changed, it was the same as it had been on his first patrol thirteen summers ago. As it had been for the past hundred summers, he thought. The square tower was, for the most part, empty. On either side was a door, near each door - a brazier. There was nothing else, save for a set of stairs that let to the upper levels. Once, when the towers were properly manned, there had been tables, chairs, beds, racks of swords and armour stands. But it was all gone now. It had been gone even before old Imdar was called Imdar the Young, which was many, many summers ago. He let the spear rest by the wall and warmed his now-free hands by the lit brazier. The fire was still burning, but it was slowly dying. He took a few logs placed nearby and fed them to the fiery tongues. He had done the same in the other towers he had passed. And on the morrow, another brother would do the same. His gloves were wet, as were the hands underneath them, but he dared not take them off. He knew better than that. He had to be ever vigilant. Fran crossed the room and threw logs into the other brazier as well, after which he set his eyes on the stairs.

With a torch in hand, he slowly made his way upwards. The second level was empty, as always. The third as well. The fourth held nothing of note, save for a ladder that led to a hatch. Fran climbed it and opened the rotten piece of wood, he reminded himself to tell the "Master Repairer" about it. The title was, in fact, Master Builder, but since nothing had been built for the past century, the men joked that the master needed only to repair. He climbed to the top and, before he even got out, was already under the rain. He looked around, not hoping to find or see anything, but he had to do it. In this he was prized, for the men of his House were renowned for their keen sight. He spent a good five or so minutes looking left and right, up and down and was ready to head back down, when something drew his attention. At the corner of his eye, there was movement. Or was there? Perhaps it was simply another droplet? A trick of the sight, from the long minutes staring into nothingness? It was far away, maybe he just imagined it? He sighed, he knew full well that his eyes were without fault, something had happened there. "There" was the ninth tower, the movement had come from its highest window, the fourth one. He quickly returned into the tower, ran down the stairs and found himself by the brazier again. Fran had almost no memory of how he got here, the last minute was a blur. The warmth of the fire helped him steel himself and allowed the Guardsman to think.

Every tenth tower on the Wall was bigger and, even in these times, boasted a permanent garrison. The men stationed there were charged with keeping the fires going in the next nine towers and the one before theirs. At least for the patrolled sections of the Wall. The ninth tower was normally not Fran's concern, but when the danger, real or not, was nearby he had to investigate. He picked up his spear, fastened his scarf and walked to the other side of the tower. After one last moment of doubt, he opened it wide and walked out into the rain. He hurried to the distant shape, towering above its surroundings, his footsteps were wide and energetic. The chainmail beneath clanked with each step, the cloak waved wildly blown by the wind, the rain poured on his face, but he continued. Before long, he stood in front of the heavy wooden door. It was closed, which warranted a sigh of relief. He opened it and peeked inside. There was nothing amiss, the brazier burned, the logs were where they were supposed to be. He entered.

Like all the others, the tower was damp and empty. He let the spear rest on the wall, almost two meters of wood would be of little use in a confined space such as this. He looked around , this side of the tower was untouched. But then Fran's silver-grey eyes noticed something he did not see the first time. The other door was open, just barely, it seemed that someone who was in a hurry forgot to close it. He walked to the other side of the tower and took a closer look. That is when he noticed the footsteps. Normally, there should only be one pair - the ones of the brother who lit the braziers. But he could make out three here and it seemed that someone had been dragged. He glanced back to the other door, suddenly feeling uneasy. Apart from the puddle his clothes had left and the spear by the wall, there was nothing else. He then turned towards the stairs leading up and his heart jumped. At one point the water ended and it was replaced by another liquid. The sight of it, even though not unfamiliar, chilled him to the bone, the fear biting deeper than the cold ever could.

Blood.

It was not a few drops or a pool, no. It was a long trail of blood that led to the stairs and, from what Fran saw, continued upwards. Once it dawned on him what this all meant, he drew his longsword in an instant. The steel in his hand made him feel bolder. With his free hand, he picked up a torch positioned above the brazier and lit it. Armed with metal and flame, the Guardsman slowly began walking up the steps. The blood continued, past the stairs, past the second floor. The red trail led him to the third level. And then, the fourth. So his eyes had been true after all. To his surprise, the door was closed. Each level had one, but only the uppermost, the hatches, were closed, the rest remained opened, so that the brothers did not have to fumble in the dark. This sent yet another chill down Fran's back. He thought of turning back, but he could not. Would not. He felt compelled to go on. He tried the door, it was unbarred, which made him feel even more alarmed. After a deep breath, he swung it wide open. The sight within was not a pleasant one.

It seemed as if the blood was everywhere, on the floor, on the walls, on the clothes and weapons. Besides Fran, two other men were in the room. Two other brothers. The first, slender as glass, Fran knew him well, it was Darion a close friend. The other was short and stocky, with a coarse black beard, he stank of sweat even amidst the stench of blood. Darion was severely injured, it seemed that his stomach had been cut open. The short one had tried to dress his wounds as best he could, but there was no doubt that the man would die if proper help was not given. Fran approached, sword still in hand and torch raised high. He towered above the two of them, being some two meters tall. All the men of his House were tall and lean, with elongated faces and melancholic smiles. The one with the beard looked up, studying him for a moment, before he spoke:

"Hail, brother" - he said in a gruff baritone

Fran simply nodded. Darion looked up and recognized his comrade.

"Fran!" - he coughed, blood dripping from his mouth - "Gods be..good, 'bout fecking time."

They had been friends since childhood, since they both found themselves at the Wall. It had not been what they expected, him a highborn bastard and Darion a bard's son. The others were mostly smallfolk, dirty and mean. Rapers, thieves, murderers, "the blue-bloods have no place here" they said. The two boys had to stick together during their first summer on the Wall. Fran taught Darion how to handle a sword and Darion repaid by teaching him a thing or two about the harp. The musician was a poor fighter despite his training, he was always a bit tender, Fran could not deny that. Neither could Darion, but had his uses. He was quick of foot and while men with keen sight, like Fran, were needed to man the Wall, men like Darion became rangers. They were then tasked with patrolling the wilderness, once they had made frequent forays beyond the Wall, but nowadays, they busied themselves with the forests south of it. Fran's heart was gladdened to see his old friend, he missed his intelligent japes and tall-tales. He smiled and asked, in his deep voice:

"Darion. You always were a fool. How did you end up like this?" - he sighed.

The other man coughed. "I...plucked the wrong...string" - he tried to laugh, but instead spilled yet more blood on the floor.

Another sigh.

"You'll...you'll...fix it..right..?" - asked Darion, trying to form a smile - "Just like... old times, when...old...Minar nearly cut off my...arm..."

"I'll make it right." - Frandor said, his fingers grasped the hilt firmly.

"Good, we need to get him outta here and soon..." - spoke the bearded one.

"We shall, out of this damp tower. Away from the Wall, away from the rain, somewhere nice and warm..."

"Aye and...some o' that...sweet, dark...ale...be good...eh?" - Darion added jovially

Fran smiled, the iconic smile of his House. A sad smile, as if its bearer had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Melancholic, regrets of past and future sins. He then plunged his longsword straight into Darion's heart, before the bard could even scream.

"Rest now, brother."

The other man was taken aback, this was not what he had expected. He reached for his scabbard, an instinct, for it was empty. Failing that, he drew a crooked dagger from his belt.

"Drop it." - said Fran, the smile gone, his gaze cold as ice - "Did you think I wouldn't know? He was my friend, I knew where he went."

"You must understand brother! We had no choice!" - the other said, dagger still in hand.

"Silence! I am not your brother, not any longer!"

"The beasts...we were beset...what could we do?"

"The Captain of the Guard will hear your tale, craven. You went beyond the Wall, there is only one way for a real brother, a real man to return from there."

"We *had* to, dammit! There was no way, we are only men -"

"No" - Fran cut him short - "You are...were, sworn men of the Guard. We know no fear, we give no ground. We stand vigil, when all others sleep. We remember, when all others forget. And we stay to fight, when all others flee. For we are the Guard and have sworn our oaths and they bind us to serve, even beyond death."

For, indeed, this was the Guard and it was no place for cravens.

No thoughts/opinions/flames/critiques then? Oh come now, it can't be that bad...right?

I will read it right now, and give you my thoughts

Edit: I like it a lot. The descriptions were great. I was able to picture perfectly the cold, dark wall and the guardsman standing on it. While at first the description of the rain and cold seemed to be getting repetitive, as the story continues it is certainly justified. My only problem is the ending (as it currently is). I would love to know what is out there, and I am a bit confused as to what just happened. Is he slaying his friends because they fled after venturing out beyond the wall, rather than standing their ground and dying? I'm not sure exactly what they were at fault for.

You should certainly add more! I love the setting, and how you described it so thoroughly

First off, thanks for the feedback!

I'll definitely fix those grammar mistakes on the morrow (it's almost 1 am over here, am tired). To my shame, that morning spelling mistake eluded me, something which I very rarely allow. As for "moldy", that is American-English, I use British-English hence "mouldy". Just as the case with honor/honour for example. Unless there's some rule I'm not aware of?

The repetitive part in the beginning is on purpose, I was testing to see how far I could stretch it. I'll cut back on it next time around. The idea is that every day it's the same, rain and long patrols and yet more rain. Every day, every week etc.

The vague end is, again, on purpose. I wanted to leave the reader in a confused state, but maybe it just came into wrong light. I'll try harder next time, when I deal with such "er what?!" moments. The idea is that the Guard is a pretty one-way brotherhood. You join, but you do not leave...alive. The men that go out on patrols beyond the Wall, must return through the Gate. Which is the only way in...unless you've got something to hide. I'll elaborate in the next chapter.

Again, thanks for the feedback. I'll take the criticism to heart