Here is the final version of Lord Blademaster Patriarch NightHawk Falconis. There will be a slightly higher-quality picture of this up at my Elfwood gallery whenever the moderators get around to processing it. For now, this will have to do unless I post it on DeviantArt. As usual, thieves will be caught, imprisoned, and hung by the neck until dead.* * * * *
Here it is again, the little snippet from my book, "Rose Prophecy." This work is Copyright 2005 Jeff Wilcox. Enjoy!
Tonight the rose's dark red petals enclosed him safely within their velvet warmth. The forest was deep and dangerous, but he was safe in the petals of the rose, protected from all harm.
He would have been content to lie there forever, but the rose would not allow it. Slowly its petals opened, and he looked out into the night. The black trees loomed overhead, all but blocking the light of the moon, and the only substantial light came from the rose itself, dampened though it was by a thin layer of blood near the edges of the huge petals.
Then something glimmered in the air before him, and he squinted, even his keen eyes unable to discern what it was. It shone like steel in the night, a silvery glow not unlike that of his eyes.
Then he saw that it was indeed steel; in fact it was his sword, twirling gently in the air, so close, yet so distant, until it spun around so the hilt pointed toward him, and suddenly it was touching his fingers, as real and lifelike as it could possibly be. The familiar leather wrappings were comfortable in his hand, and the little silver falcon on its chain dangled right in front of his nose, chiming merrily as light played about its shape. But then the sword was yanked from his hand and spun around in the air, the point aimed straight at his heart.
With dread, NightHawk watched as time slowed down, as it always does when one is in dire peril: the sword rushed forward, driving its point deep into his chest, farther and farther, until the hilt touched his breast, the cold metal a surreal feeling against the stark sensation of death. He tried to scream, but only blood poured from his mouth, dripping down onto the hilt, where it disappeared. The blue glow that emanated from his chest shone brighter as the runes soaked in his blood.
Then he woke with a start, but the nightmare was not finished. His room was the same, but his chest felt rather odd. Looking down, he saw the sword, embedded up to the hilt, protruding from his chest, and he tried to shout again, but once more nothing but red lifeblood poured from his mouth and collected on the hilt of the sword.
But he did not die, and that was something that a tiny corner of his mind found rather interesting. The sword was in his chest, but he felt only a coldness, instead of the searing pain he had felt in the dream.
That was washed away as he watched in terror as the blood on the hilt shifted, gathering itself together into one large drop almost at the blade. Then it began to form, but somehow NightHawk Falconis already knew what would happen. Petals, red and dark, coalesced into existence from the blood that writhed like a dying beast on the hilt of the blade. He watched as the flower snaked a stalk down the handle, wrapping once about the black leather as leaves sprouted on either side of the hiltguard, uncurling and opening their green surfaces to the world.
Then Falconis gasped as the blade began to slide out of his chest. It was not the sensation of a sword being removed; rather it felt like it was entering, only backwards, for when the first flange on the blade passed through him it did not leave a bloody mess behind. Then he felt the rest of the sword sliding ever so slowly out of his chest, and he gasped blood, which still ran down to be absorbed by the sword.
Finally the second flange passed through his chest, and the sword came out with a pop, to hang in the air before him. His chest was unmarked, and the blood that should have run into his bed was not there. But he did not notice that, for he was still under his own sword's spell.
The blade rotated so that the flat faced Falconis horizontally, and the runes seemed to shift, spelling something different than what had long ago been inscribed upon the edge of the blade.
NightHawk Falconis read aloud, though he did not know it:
"On the day that I die, Rose shall cry.
Threads of fate bind the black dragon and the white bird of night.
Together, into darkness shall they descend,
But the Feathered shall one day soar back to the heavens,
Where eternal rest shall embrace him.
Let the black Fires of Rayge consume the souls of those who strive
To bring doom upon their kindred.
The storm of black feathers shall be unceasing."
NightHawk Falconis fell back on his bed as the spell released him. The sword clattered noisily to the floor, though that did not bother Falconis, who had drifted off into a peaceful sleep.
It was not until late afternoon the next day that NightHawk Falconis found himself conscious again. In fact, he wasn't sure whether he was awake or still asleep, as the transition had been so smooth. He lay on his bed with his hands covering his chest where the sword had exited without a trace. He felt oddly weak, as though he had been drained of all his energy.
Slowly he sat up, and his vision swam momentarily until his heart could push enough blood to his head for him to see straight. But then he almost wished he had not gotten up.
There, on the floor, lay his sword, its blue runes all but dormant, the fires barely flickering inside their confines. But that was not what concerned him, for there, on the hilt of the sword, it rested. Growing from the pommel and winding its way around the handle was a stalk with many sharp thorns. From that sprouted two more stalks around the central one, and these two led to leaves in the area of the hiltguard. But his eye was immediately drawn to the rose, red as his own blood the night before, that bloomed on the hilt just below the blade.
Falconis was too stunned to say anything, but nine words suddenly came to him, and he spoke them aloud. "On the day that I die, Rose shall cry."
Upon his utterance of, "Rose," the sword seemed to quiver on the floor, and Falconis picked it up.
"Rose?" he asked. From the sword emanated a feeling--power, caution, anger, hate, love, friendship, concern, passion--and he was once more overwhelmed and almost dropped the sword to the ground, but the assault suddenly stopped and was replaced by one of remorse. "Rose?" he asked again, and received a warm feeling in return.
NightHawk Falconis smiled darkly. Today would be a good day.
“Thou seest, Falconis,” Drakoch cackled between attacks, “Had I but rid myself of thee on that day, one hundred seventeen years ago, everything would have been perfect! There would have been nobody to oppose me. Malsheni would be in ruins now. It was genius!” He ducked under another lightning-fast swing of Falconis’ sword, backpedaling.
Falconis was on him again in an instant, giving no quarter. “It was madness,” he growled in argument.
“Ah, but are not all geniuses mad?”
“Perhaps,” Falconis grunted as their blades slammed together, “but clearly, not all mad are geniuses!” He shoved his hated foe away and lashed out with his foot, catching Drakoch’s armor over his belly. The black-haired elf stumbled back but caught himself before Falconis could take advantage of his opening. They leaped at each other, and the battle resumed in a flurry of sparks and flashing blades.
Greetings, weary travelers, and welcome to my domain. You may call me NightHawk Falconis or Jeff Wilcox at your pleasure. While I used to enjoy pseudonyms, publishing a book (which has my real name on it) makes that practice pointless. But I don't mind being called nicknames other than "Jeff" (the meaning of my name does NOT fit me), such as NightHawk, Riven, Lord and Master, Butthead, etc. You get the idea.
You will notice, if reading this entry in its entirety, that I use correct grammar, capital letters, and various means of punctuation in order to express myself to the fullest extent. I expect anyone addressing me to take the same pains to be understood, or you may simply be ignored. You have been warned. I will also not tolerate slander or an overabundance of sexual remarks--unless I already know you. You know who you are :P
In any case, I am a college graduate from Shippensburg University, with a major in English and a concentration in writing. I was once an avid RPer in the wikis; of late, however, I've taken to more private, two- or three-player RPs, if I choose to role-play at all, because they are more manageable and tend to have a friendlier and more personal atmosphere.
Aside from that, I do utilize much of my time writing; in the wikis is where I practice my skills at the art of literature, trying out new characters, personalities, and themes, and then in novels is where I ply my trade. As of yet I am unpublished; my father and I are currently editing my first, polished piece, titled, "Rose Prophecy," starring Yours Truly, NightHawk Falconis. Though he is a lot colder in the book ^^ Ah, and for those of you who know that I don't roleplay as NightHawk here but don't know why: at one point in our RPs, NightHawk Falconis bit the dust. It was actually a conscious decision of mine, because he had undergone too many changes for me to enjoy anymore; his personality had changed too often for my liking. So I killed him, and now I roleplay as other characters, like Xanadikellerothondriatalnarimiadar Desondarimesevrite, his half-brother, Vadri'tarel Ondelliosaru, the mysterious and brooding Riven, and the ever dryly humorous Rumazzen.
When I'm not writing, I play lots of D&D (3.5) and the occasional video game (I'm an RPG fan, and a lot of RPGs started sucking since about halfway through the PS2's lifespan). I think I spend more time playing D&D than not. The last character I played was an elven blademaster named Kaiyr, who made it all the way to level 25 without ever needing a cleric to stuff his soul back into his body. Our group sailed across the planes and through the Nine Hells on our planeshifting ship, and we emerged victorious from that in time to prevent the world's dragons from subjugating the other races. Then, at the end, our characters grew so great in power that other forces decided to exalt us, granting us divinity. My current character is a 4'7" elven girl who climbs trees with astonishing speed and then launches arrows down upon the heads of her unsuspecting enemies. Her best friend is a half-orc psychic warrior who is also a scholar, named Edward Alexander Nostradamus Maximilian AEtheran III.
"... Rose shall cry."
PS - my first novel, Rose Prophecy has been published by iUniverse and is available at the Barnes & Noble website, under the title, "Rose Prophecy." No-brainer, that one, huh? :D For a direct link, visit Rose Prophecy.
My second novel, The Warlord's Sons, is in the process of being considered and then repeatedly rejected by many multitudes of publishers. For a sneak peek, visit my website: http://www.wilcoxfiction.com
Sayel: "Why don't you see? Why won't you join me, instead of struggling futilely against my power?"
Wild: "Why is your mother a whore?" (a pause)
Wild's player: "That's a taunt."
Me: "Ooh, that's a burn."
Wild's player: "No. You killed thirty-six innocent elven children. THAT's a burn."
Me: "I give up. I poop on her chest. Does she wake up?"
Dingo: "No... and you're evil."
"I don't think people and these 'carbon emissions' are what's causing global warming and making the icecaps melt. I think there are volcanos under there making that ice melt." -a dear person who shall remain anonymous