Really. I'm serious. I'm quite good. 

ok. So lets talk posting samples. 

[hider=::The Book of Dev’ra’si::]
The forest was a ghastly sight. The silver beams of the moon reflected off the formless cloud of night’s fog, bathing everything in a ghostly light. The skeletal forms of trees, lighter shadows outlined by the night’s light, stand a stoic, harsh back drop as three men walk slowly in procession, one bound at wrist and ankles with a heavy rope. The bound man was without anything that could be defined as clothing except a dirty shirt tied around his waist to fall over the more sensitive parts of him. Broad chest and arms were caked with dirt and sweat. The others were adorned with tarnished silver armor, bent and battered from days of conflict, blood stained and jagged, to give testament to the most recent of battles. Both armored men carried long swords in hand, tips lowered to the floor , nearly dragging with their weariness. Their shoulders drew heavy, and the dampness of dew weighed down upon their heavy, winter cloaks. Slowly they walk, three heads bowed to the transitory mists as though detached from the world around. Upon aged armor, the white lion of a long fallen kingdom stands boldly etched, as it did in the days of its splendor. 

Slowly, the procession stops. A swift, firm kick to the back of the bound man drops his knees from beneath him, and he crashed down to the floor without sound. Mud and fallen leaves catch to his body as he attempts to stand, only to be shoved down once again. His struggle in inaudible, as are the words passing through the lips of the knight Templar standing before him, sword drawn. An argument, heated by the contort of faces, the edge to their eyes hardening. Still silence remains, as though the forest is but a spectator of a past crime, brought to this place, to this present, by the fog and the grace of a silver moon. The people dance within the fog, as though moving images upon a silver screen, without color, without sound. Shades of gray in outlines of shadow, as though bits of a memory, treasures and forgotten, given to the mist to . 

The three struggle, two to their duty and one for his life. In the end, it is the numbers that win out over the need for self-preservation, and the lone man is again born back to his knees. In defeat, his eyes cast up, defiance in his glaze, as he looks upon the face of his executioner. Eyes alive with the brilliance of light’s dying, as he bares his throat, steadies his breath to ready himself for the stroke. The long sword drew away… 

[i]Watcher, please, [/i] 

The sword’s blade came to throat, to tick away at the skin in taunt, drawing forward a drop of crimson blood, which shorn true as the first burst of color on the brilliance , ghastly canvas of the mist. A terrible laugh, muted by distance and time… echoing a whisper through the mind of Locke, with head held high. He tensed as the long sword drew back, knowing that the arm sought the appropriate distance to gain speed and strength to rend his head from his shoulders, punish him for a betrayal he was powerless to prevent. 

[i]I don’t wish to die, [/i] the voice echoed in an urgent, pleading tone. [i]light help me, I couldn’t help it. They were killing her…[/i]

The wind picked up, whistling through the trees now, quickly. Massive oaks shivered under its force, the forest itself alive with a shriek as the wind passed through tiny spaces between dense brush and thick leaves. The fog shimmered, as through a wave ripped through it, before it began to swirl. It came together, the skeletal fog shining with the light of the risen full moon. The voice shrieked again, a single utterance, a command born from the other side of the fog, brilliant and clear, as the silvery images once again returned, playing upon the rippled surface of a circular vortex of night’s fog. 

The sword stroke fell, and all was silent again. 

It is hours that the body lies still, unmoved. The men have gone, the knights seen through the mirror having fulfilled the task duty and honor required of them, and the disgraced lay, not with head severed, but intact, contrary to the magiced illusion that has been created as memory for the honorable knights. An illusion cast, and the valiant prisoner struck by a magical sleep, and then with hands of fate, the vortex of fog spreads the ground again, covering the dampened leaves of the Black Wood, depositing the body of the prisoner before the slippered feet of a black robed woman. Beside him she knees, and with fingertips gentle, wipes away the hair from the brow of his head, looking upon his strong face and firm set jaw in admiration. 

Upon the leaves, and the dust he awoke. 

Golden sun streaks through the limbs of live oaks, spreading their massive branches towards one another, their leaves cutting the sun into ribbons that cascade towards the leaf strewn floor beneath. The sun was bright to his awakening eyes, and by its intensity and warmth, Locke wondered just how he had managed to sleep so far into the day. It was a common thing for him, to wonder of time and place upon first waking, the place was obvious to him, the forest of his death, beneath the golden caspare trees of the Northern Forest, the time… 

He pause a moment, sitting up, looking upon the squat, massive trees before him. Caspar trees were well known for their narrow trunks, reaching as though to touch the heavens, like fingertips from the earthen floor below. Often growing more than 30 times the height of a man, but no more wider around than two men hand to hand… Locke gripped the earth beneath his fingertips, pulled the dirt and dried leaves from the floor, and brought then fisted hand up to his nose. The scent of the earth, the decaying odor of the leaves, this did not smell as home did. The floor was covered with round nuts, whereas Caspar trees spread as fledling trees off a single, large root system, all belonging to one mother tree. 

Curious, Locke rose up from the dirt, brushing leaf and soil from his bare legs as he did, looking over himself, finding the loin cloth, the only dignity afforded him on the day of his execution, soiled from dirt and dew. No crimson of blood marked his body, nor clothing. No sign of struggle, to explain his escape from a dedicated and talented execution squad, and no sign of injury to tell that the task had been completed, however flawed the result may be. Observation only brought question, and a quick scan of the world around shows that nobody remains to answer the most curious of questions rolling around in his muddled mind: how is it he lives. 

“Hello,” he called, a loud voice to echo through the trees. He was quickly coming to the conclusion that whatever had happened to him, the story would not be his this day, and he found himself in the precarious situation of being lost within a forest, with no idea of where he was, or how to get out. The call went unanswered, as he had expected it, and his eyes scanned the skies, seeing only small breaks in the canopy above to allow the streams of light to enter, to illuminate the world beneath branch and leaf, without givng much more than recollection of one’s surroundings. Everything was dim, darkly lit, unless standing in the direct path of a ray of light, in which bright circles formed upon the floor. Grass was sparse, as most was thick braided weeds or thorn bushes. He randomly selected a direction, putting his feet forward one after another with no real inclination of where to roam. His ears listened for sounds to help him locate himself: a passing wagon, the whistle of a wind, even the trickle of a brook, but the forest was eerily silent. No click of crickets, or scurrying of rodents. The trees showed no sign of life either, no birds flew amongst their branches, which lay still from lack of squirrel or other small animal. 

For nearly an hour he walked, as straight and steadfast as he could manage, before coming to a stop, looking up at the canopy above once again. He was thirsty, and his stomach felt like a whole in the center of him. They hadn’t decided food was necessary for him before his execution, and on the trip into the Golden wood, he had been afforded little water, except what was needed to keep up his strength so they didn’t have to haul him bodily through the forest to kill him. Easier to kill a man on his feet, than to have to drag him. The heat of the day was beginning to press through the trees, and he was thankful for the dense foliage, through it provided much in the way of shade, it was beginning to trap heat in with the humidity it maintained. He watched for water on his journey, but found little. Now his lips were parched, his thirst becoming painful. 

He was lost, and it was too quiet. 
[/hider]

that's the opening for a fantasy version of the storyline. See. I can write. I can! 

sorta....