The Long Tale No. 8 - The Mountain's Children

The mountain stood, impressive and foreboding among its children. The foothills rolled among the grasses, a flowing river of peaks and troughs. But the mountain stood, distant and unreachable, spiking into the sky. The man had climbed it once, long ago, and stood atop its great shoulders, gazing upon the world. And, what he could see were the ups and downs of the mountains' children; a reflection of his journey to the top, misted with cloud and time. But, yet, there was another mountain in the distance and another challenge to climb. And many foothills to cross to get there. 

The Long Tale No. 7 - The Stream

The water trickled, slowly, down the stream, bubbling over pebbles and through tiny cracks and crevices. Sunlight dappled the water and made it gleam like liquid mercury. Droplets flew from the gently lapping waves and formed yet more ripples on the flowing surface. Clouds of the purest white were reflected deep in the water's being and made the sky and stream seem one and the same. A leaf glided down from the branch of an oak and tentatively touched upon the liquid. The man leant down and retrieved this blemish from the water. And, so, the stream trickled ever on. 

The Long Tale No. 6 - Questions

A whisper could be heard upon the wind. A tale of meaning. An uttered word here and there. Secrets. The man pondered the meaning of this story as the wind rolled past. Questions, always questions! Never answers and never completion. Just an endless cycle. What, where, who, when, how, why? Nobody really knew the answer to these questions and not many really cared. And, yet, still they were asked. Perhaps it was the question as to what they were and why they were asked and by who, when, and how that was the real questions. A question with no answer.

The Long Tale No. 5 - The Music of War

The clang of swords could be heard for miles, the man noted. The music of war was both monstrous and beautiful. Two dancers, moving to the beat of their fury. Each slice a note, each block a beat. A chorus of pain silenced only by the call of victory and the shriek of defeat. For neither could exist alone or apart. As, even if the pen became mightier than the sword, or the men fell to their own destruction, either death or diplomacy wins and the other loses. This is the true music of war. An endless cry of futility.

The Long Tale No. 4 - A Home

The house stood, resolute, on the top of the hill. With smashed windows, missing bricks and half a roof, it certainly had seen better days. But as the man explored the ruins, he began to see its story unfurl before him. A lone dwarf had built it from the ground as a storage for gold. A thief had hid out among the rooms as the mob tore past. A family of elves has made a home here and lived for many years. Finally, a terrible storm had come and the house had defied it. Always resolute and always a home. 

The Long Tale No. 3 - Nature's Beauty

The golden sun shone bright in the azure sky as a small wisp of a cloud drifted, leisurely, along. Flowers of all kinds bloomed in the rich soil of the land and their marvelous odors pervaded the air. The man breathed deeply and lay his head against the blanket of grass. Leaves rustled nearby as a great oak entered a conversation with the wind and very soon all sorts of life could be heard. Bees were buzzing, birds were chirping and a fairy hummed lightly to herself. Nature herself appeared to be smiling at this scene and all was well.

The Long Tale No. 2 - Ever Onwards

The small bird flew, silently, over the rolling hills. It was heading, ever onwards, towards the rising light of the moon. The air was still and clear giving the night a sterile quality and, yet, the feel of the place was that of a calm before the storm. The man below shivered as the bird flew overhead, caressing the sky with each tiny movement of its wings. The moon, risen to its throne, shone and illuminated the tiny black bird, a speck amongst the vast sky. And ever onwards this bird flew, into the night. Ever onwards, for ever more. 

The Long Tale No. 1 - Unopened Stories

The book sat, closed, on the desk. But, while its words were hidden, its knowledge poured from within. This book knew wonders. All it needed was for someone to read them. To tell them. To believe in them. Oh, the adventures it had had! The things it had seen and heard and done and known and loved! But now it was closed and alone, for the pencil no longer scribed and the man no longer imagined. The reason may have been unclear, enshrouded in secrets as it was. But it has to be questioned. To be read again. Will you?

The Long Tale - The Beginning

Hello there, readers of this strange and rather lackluster Chronicle.

Once

Another old story for you today - hope you enjoy! P.S. sorry for the delay in posting, things have been very busy...