The first attempt since about 6th grade, and I'm only giving a bit of it.
Not sure if it's worth continuing
TITLE: The Dying Land
Story:
The forest had an eerie, unsettling quality to it. The trees were mangled and they gave off the impression that something that was once flesh and bone had been twisted in the most unnatural ways and transformed to wood and leaves. Vines hung from the branches like veins on the deceased.
The forest emitted a darkness that did not entirely blind the onlooker, but rather cast a shadow over the area. Any who may have entered the forest seemingly lost all color until they were a mixture of greys and blacks.
In a small clearing there lay a creature. It had skin as black as charcoal, and flickered, its proportions dancing like a flame. It had ears that were extended past its head and looked sharp enough to be used as knives. Its blood red eyes stared emptily into space, and its lips were shriveled up to reveal pointed teeth that kept its mouth in an everlasting smile.
Beside this dead creature was a living one, similar, yet more human in appearance, the creature had recently plucked an arrow out of the torso of the deceased, and read a note on the parchment attached to it.
WELCOME TO WOODHEWN FOREST—Holland
The figure, who wore grey clothes that clung limp on his shoulders, where were also adorned with a priceless fur coat, read the note with shaking hands. His brow furrowed and he growled in anger. “I have had enough of this messages,” he said through a clenched jaw, “For weeks you have killed my Kratol—threatened my life! Dammit, I know the name of my own forest!”
his shouts sent birds flying off in the distance, most notably the caw of a raven. “The Darklands are dying,” he hissed, “Don’t ask me why—I don’t know why, but the Kratol have to branch out. We have to survive.”
The figure heard the snap of a twig underfoot and her pivoted sharply and turned around to meet his enemy.
The enemy proved to be a humanoid figure, embellished in a black cloak that hid most of his features, and a hood that masked his face. A sword was grasped in his right hand, which hung at his side. “I know of your problems in the Darklands, Caliga,” said the enemy, “I know that the Darklands are dying. Misuse of magic, no doubt.”
He tilted his head to one side, “But you wish to branch out to survive? We both know how the Kratol reproduce. We know how the shadow-beings survive. We both know they infect the living like the parasites they are.” His fingers adjusted on the hilt of his blade. A cutlass, Caliga observed.
Caliga, angered by the comment of this enemy, withdrew a sword of his own. Long, slender and curved in appearance, it was also strong enough to both lacerate and gut and opponent. “So you’re Holland,” said Caliga, and he saw Holland’s lips curve upwards.
“Your actions are endangering Vanthia,” Holland said, “None of us want that. I must admit you are lucky. Had I decided to bring my crossbow, you would be dead on the ground which you stand upon.”
Now it was Caliga’s turn to smile, “I like to think otherwise,” he said, and he sidestepped, and Holland mirrored his actions.
“Do you always begin this way?” Holland inquired.
“No, I just like to have a bit of fun before I kill, you know?”
“Oh, I know all too well,” said Holland, “It’s not often I get to kill the ruler of the Darklands. Now, please go on about this problem with death you’re having…”
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