This is the intro to a new book I'm planning on writing. First, yes, it is wordy ... its supposed to be, its a prologue. If it looks familiar, it was my intro post
I'd like any comments or opinions on what I may need to tweak/fix.
A dark mist rolls into the room, roiling and twisting like fire in space - slithering along the walls and ceiling until the lights of the bar are but pinpricks of luminescence. A flash of light bursts from the darkness, blinding you for a second. You notice the mist writhing as if it were in pain, retreating back into the darkness from whence it came. As it recedes, you start to make out a form standing in the opening in stark contrast to the light surrounding it. The light envelops the form like spectral wings, protecting the figure from the darkness and driving it further from the recesses of the room, and your mind. Your senses return and you realize you have been talking to the candle illuminating your table.
You notice the stranger close in and take the empty bench across from you. He sits at 6 foot, bristling with muscles. Horns the size of your legs sprout from his noble head, stradling his face like support beams. A large silver ring hangs, suspended from his nose, laced with intricate carvings of ivy and leaves entwined and folded together into celtic knotwork. Large black spots mar an otherwise pristine white hide; tough and leathery, yet firm and somewhat comforting. He wears no shirt, instead preferring to let the warm summer air bathe his skin and face while roaming wild in the grasslands. His tattered black breaches hang from his waist and hug his thick legs like stray strands of thread clinging to the trunk of an oak, thrashed by the wind in a huricane. Hooves terminate his legs; dark like obsidion but shining in the light like smooth glass.
He buys you a drink, and as you stare into his dark blue eyes, you hear his name reverberate in your bones. "Mortuest" he whispers, "call me Mortuest."
As you sit there, stunned, he not so much stands as pushes the floor further down. The ease at which he moves his bulk is startling, but what stands out is a gleaming claymore strapped to his back with white silk ropes linked together with golden rings. As you watch him fade back through the doorway, you think you catch a glimpse of tattoos in the shape of angels wings behind the massive weapon. An instant later, the flash, the darkness, and then the drone of people around you, chattering and yapping as if nothing had happened.
Was it a dream? Is your sanity fading? You start losing details about your brief encounter, and soon, the only memory left is the fresh mug of root beer sitting in front of you. As you sip the frothy brew you wonder who that stranger was, and, more importantly, what he wants with you?
