(Hassus' eventyrserie) Cold Mountain

Skrevet 09-01-2011 18:39 - Redigeret 05-10-2012 09:06

[i]Hey N-clubbers

Jeg skriver en eventyrserie for sjov som jeg tænkte jeg lige så godt også kunne smide herind. Den hedder Cold Mountain og består af en række meget små kapitler. Jeg startede med at skrive den på dansk for så at oversætte til engelsk for en ven og nu er jeg i stedet gået over til kun at fokusere på den engelske. Derfor vil der være en række danske kapitler i starten af tråden og ikke senere hen.
God fornøjelse
- Hassus[/i]

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For overblikkets skyld er her en lille opsamling af trådens indhold:

- Samtlige kapitler af Cold Mountain kan findes samlet på linket, HER.
Alle kapitlerne i linket er på engelsk. De danske udgaver af kapitlerne 1-12 kan findes i begyndelsen af tråden.

- Min Flipnote teaser til serien:
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- MdM's musikalske fortolkning af kapitel 6:


- Oni Nick's komiske videofortolkning af kapitel 10:

#46 - Skrevet 02-10-2012 12:00

Det er vist rigtigt. Jeg har en online-ven der lige har udgivet noget han har skrevet i sin fritid. Ved ikke rigtigt om det er det jeg vil, men vil da ikke afskrive det

#47 - Skrevet 05-11-2012 15:55

XXI
Camping on a cliff

I have got to get back up. There is something I am missing. My father is still ill and alone and my brother has left this world while leaving me with great responsibilities. I have to find some way around the clouds even though my foot feels like it has been roasted on a fire. If I just stay in the grass I could be allowing the death of my father - which brings me to…

…My second idea
The grass is nourished by some kind of moist surface. If I find a way to dig down deep enough I should be able to appear somewhere below the clouds.
My plan
The sword was already stuck in the ground when I first came here. It might work as a shovel. If not, I will just use the blade to cut cubes from the ground. I can remove them with my hands and throw them off the edge until I am deep enough to make my way through the mountain side with the clouds afloat above my head.
…My outcome
Not possible. I have pierced the ground as deep as I could, leaving pores across the entire mountain top. There seems to be an impenetrable rock surface just below the dirt. However I did stumble upon something strange: Around the hole where the tip of the sword had been planted when I came here a massive web of grassroots had gathered in abnormally large and heavy structures. It better be a special sword, is all I will say. Regarding the plan I can not even reach the same level as the clouds by digging down like this. Speaking of clouds…

…My third idea
A breach might appear in the clouds around the mountain at some point. Earlier I saw a few breaches form a bit further out. If so getting down and back to the town will be a small feat.
My plan
To wait - that is the problem. All time spent here is time without attendance to Senior.
…My outcome
I don't like this plan though it might be all I have. It is impossible to force a breach by pushing air onto the nearest clouds which I have tried with my jackets. It seems like this would almost be like trying to dig a hole in a pool of water. The hole keeps filling up. There is no point to it. I will have to wait instead. By the way…

…My fourth idea
I wonder where the bottle of Flaming Truth is. I have not seen it since I drank from it. If there is still some left I could carry out…
…My plan…
…to get down the same way I got up. Burning through the cloud like that seemed to work. Unfortunately…
…My outcome…
…is that the bottle and all traces of the red stuff are gone. My first thought was that I somehow had dropped it while jumping up the mountain side, but one look at my burned glove tells it all. The bottle had melted from the intense heat that surrounded me as I jumped up the mountain. In other words the plan is useless.

There must be another way.
There must
There must
There must

When the night comes he falls asleep in the soft grass with the stars watching him from a great distance. They are in awe of his spirit. However on the cloud-surrounded island his only companion remains a mystical sword that slowly seems to cause weird root formations underground.

Will the elevated castaway return home in time to attend his father?

Read the next chapter..

#48 - Skrevet 27-12-2012 21:57 - Redigeret 27-12-2012 22:04

XXII
Boulders blocking

...fragmented faces…echoes of voices… then a moment of slippery cohesiveness as he experiences seeing and being himself in one single moment… he is desperate to help and his father is in need but his service is rejected with an assertive hand… Senior's palm is blocking his intentions like a wall… each finger telling him to stop… himself, his father, everyone and everything knows… he is not cut out for this level of responsibility… one sad… simple… untouchable… eternal… truth.

As an escape from the warm embrace of accepted inadequacy he jolts himself out of the dream. No matter what, he cannot bring himself to give up. He imagines his father in bed appearing on the perfect blue sky above him. For a brief moment he ponders how clearly Senior would appear if he could do what the ArtTrotters did. Then he jolts once more this time into a sitting position

The break from stillness exposes a pain in his shoulder which however dwindles compared to his scattered foot pain. Ripples on the ground surface gently portray the rough and twisted roots underneath. Tonight he and the sword will rest on separate sides of the mountain top. Then again… He should not be investing time preparing for another night in this forsaken prison. If all goes well this will be his final day in captivity.

He stares at the ground. The sword seems to be attracting the root structures at a very rapid speed. If he harvested them daily he could make a small mountain of his own. Perhaps he could build some kind of structure from them that could be used for an escape.

A bridge perhaps… A bridge to where? What a moronic idea.

His own inner resources are running dry. He is just a young kid. He needs a person to lean on. What would his brother have done if death had not taken him? As children one day Senior did not return home from town for several days. Being the oldest son Junior took charge of himself and his young little brother. He even fed the sheep. When Senior returned he had tears in his eyes and his breath stank. Back then he did not understand why. Now it is obvious. Among other curses Soul Soothing will lead to a breath like that.

He remembers young Junior cooking for him the best he could. Junior would then ration the food until Senior came back - such a brave little boy.

There is still a stuffed bag of rations left. How many days could it potentially last? He opens it and takes a couple of pieces of meat preparing to line up whatever rations are left from the beautifully knitted life saver. His mother had made it before her death. She was good at knitting. There are many proofs of that back at home. The carefully crafted patterns have a calming effect on him. In one way or another he likes to think that Milena is aiding him from beyond the grave...

A sudden scream then halts his mind.
Starts a scene! Leaves one behind…

A bird claw pierces through the bag. It is then out of reach. He watches how the bird struggles with the weight of the food. Bread and meat tumble out from the bag like luscious drops from a generous cloud. He stares in disbelief while his hand slowly rises towards his face – steady with purpose but drained of hope. One more stone - one more giant rock added to the pile that already burdens his powerless shoulders.

He is no longer merely doing time… he has a death sentence. The palm is blocking his vision… blinding him from the situation… each finger telling him to stop…

#49 - Skrevet 29-12-2012 20:00 - Redigeret 29-12-2012 20:03

Det er ikke altid lige sjovt at skrive de her kapitler. Der er noget sadomasochisme over det. Får mere og mere ondt af hovedkarakteren med hans mange tragedier og er nødt til at prøve at sætte mig i hans sted så det tynger også mig en smule. Jeg håber på lysere tider for ham, men vil til gengæld ikke springe over hvor gærdet er lavest og kan heller ikke feje de sidste 20 kapitlers tragedier under gulvtæppet - det må vel gå som det går

#50 - Skrevet 25-02-2013 13:14

XXIII
Volcano view

The shadows of the winter are growing darker. Nothing can escape their cold embrace. No source of light is more powerful than the sun and the same goes for shadows. Lives are balancing on the sharp edge of the dire circumstances. There is much at stake for the young man.

But he is a foolish young man. He is blinded by inexperience and the soft skin on his shoulders. There are no voices in his ear telling him what to do. He has spent his life adapting to a now unobtainable position in the company of his brother and father. He is in the new position of having nothing while everything is expected from him.

The tower on which he stands is weak and unfinished. The view is clouded by his expectations. Truth and fiction together in one big blur. He does not see where one ends and the other begins. For this confusion there are consequences.

He makes a decision based on the big blur. It is wrong, he knows, but he makes it. The son of Ian Senior decides to shut his eyes. Soon the food vanishes. He shuts them again - this time harder. All seems lost to him. All becomes fiction. This he can control.

Except that it starts to control him instead. Soon it consumes all of his time and mind. Like a man-made flame it breathes the air he should be breathing and yet he keeps staring. He gets happier, but deep down he knows that he is not seeing clearly. He knows that what he is doing is a crime against his nature. But as time passes so does this knowledge. Visions of his father get covered in excuses which morph into laziness. Meanwhile the flame in front of him keeps growing, sucking the breath out of his mouth.

As it sucks he turns weaker and as he stares he turns stranger. His body starts changing so he covers it in more fiction: An easy smile in return of continued descent. Soon he falls into memories of the ArtTrotters and their madness. He reviews their madness from a new descended point of view.

Had he been more careful he would have saved his final food with eyes on his future well-being. Now instead he feels an immense hunger. His last resource is his fiction so that is what he holds on to though mostly the fiction holds on to him. He remembers the word “Pinad” and soon a bowl of hot soup floats before him. His pale and weak hands reach out to touch it only to have the bowl vanish in a dark cloud of smoke.

ArtTrotters – before he ran from them, now he runs towards them.