NEXT: https://scratch.mit.edu/projects/1120904975 Hymn of Creation: A hymn was sang beneath the stars. And the world came to be. A story was written in papyrus. The book of Kuzaer. (Unfortunately the rest of Walk The Sea, when i am finished, will only be on scratch for 2 weeks, then i will take it down.) Chapter 1 A salty breath of nothingness. The salty taste of the ocean, but isnt the sea the freedom we ever longed for? This isn't that freedom. It's too peaceful to be free. The dry sea. The flat salt plains outstretched. The small peaks, remains of what were islands. Is this what we wanted? The sadness still lingers in the air. Sadness that our lighthouse has seen. I place my hand on the bare rock of the lighthouse. “Brother!” I hear a voice shout behind me. It's Kieffiv. “I hear you” I responded, barely looking back at my sister. “Kivari is calling for you!” She Replied. This time I looked. Kieffiv was right beyond the edge of the cliff. Probably on a small ridge, messing around. Looking for lost seashells, Throughout all the years, when you picked up a shell, you still heard the sea. Wave upon wave, whistling in your ears. I had a seashell too. It was my father’s. He said that he once brought it to a wizard from places far away, and that wizard kept the music of the seashell. That after long years, the sound of the waves still remains. Every seashell tells a unique story. I started down the rock on which the lighthouse was on. Careful not to slip or fall. When the sea had water in it, the steps would lead to sea level. They still did. But the ground now is several hundred feet below the last step. The steps have been carved into rock and curve their way around the rock. After that, I need to rely on nature's steps. Pieces of giant oysters sticking out of the crag and bones of leviathans. Stepping on these ancient relics, I descended down the rock. Only to a certain point, where my brother was waiting for me. His brown hair is a shaggy mess over his head. But his blue eyes stood out in the giant mop of hair. He was sweating and Stood there tired. And in the corner of his mouth was a pipe, like always, except not lit.
(continuation of chapter 1, chapter 1 above) “Kuzaar! Glad you came!” He Puffed. “We have a visitor today.” “That's rare.” I mumbled. “I guess I have to hoist one of these back breaking crates up?” “Exactly” My brother said. “I shall take the visitors' items.” I picked up one of the crates. Immediately the weight started killing my arms. I started turning red, I knew it. But I kept on going, up the exact way I came. “How much did we make this trade?” I asked. Hopefully. “10 gold pieces. I picked some new leaves for my smoking too.” He replied. “That's enough for a dragon ! We can build him a stable with the Remaining!” I shouted. Instantly the joy overwhelmed the heaviness of the crates and I started moving faster. “Dragons are 50 Gold, and a stable, that's 60! Do you have 60 gold?” He asked. “I've been saving, remember?” I said hopefully. “Maybe, we'll see.” He replied with a sigh. Picking up the crates,”I think our donkey is enough.” “If we get a dragon we don't have to haul these stuff up the stairs, we can just fly the dragon up.” “Expensive.” He said. And I silenced myself. Thinking about the guest, Who was he. Who wanted to come to a peaceful lighthouse. Peace. Came the word again. They strive for it. They search for it. It’s what my dad set off for, he was looking for true peace, not lighthouse peace. He journeyed over oceans and seas. He walked through kingdoms. And hiked up mountains. He fought off ghouls and goblins. I set the crates at the steps of the porch. Turning around to go down the steps again. Meet the guest, I enjoy company, especially when you are this lonely. The guest was a traveler. Though his business was unknown. For who was traveling east towards us, after all, the adventure is all lands but east. He was a tall man. With a scar across his face. He was bearded, just like dwarves that my father told me in his stories. He has seen many things. Battles, Dragons, and adventure. On his hip was a sword, of elvish make, long and elegant, its sheath so smooth the gloomy sun reflected off of it. “Traveler from places far, o’ what brings you here to our humble home.” I asked. Waiting for an answer. “I search for peace.” He answered, “Just like a man I knew, he lived in this lighthouse long ago, smoking long pipes and letting the smoke travel and wind through the valleys.” “My father is long gone,” my brother responded. “Search for him, we cannot, it is in vain for a year a man could have traveled more than I can follow.” “Are you so sure?” He asked before walking in and greeting my grandmother. Who seemed to remember him quite well and immediately requested he take a seat and they talk. My grandmother sat on the opposite side of the table, and she started smoking her corncob pipe. The smoke drifted out the window elegantly. I heard them speak. In elvish tongue, the tongue of huraasjh, how I longed to learn the tongue. I sighed. I closed the doors and sat on the porch facing my brother. He lit his small pipe too. Blowing smoke rings up in the air. I saw him move his fingers nervously, and I knew something was happening. He could understand some huraasjh. I watched as he shifted his straw hat and faced the sun. Setting in the west. “Brother, someday, you will take me to the town of Karatonia.” I said. “Yes, very soon.” He said and looked forward in his everlasting gaze. Something was out there waiting to be discovered. I Stood up and walked towards the small garden we had, my sister sat there looking at some worms. I faced the horizon and wondered. What lies beyond deserts like these. I was soon to know. Sooner than expected. (Writing by me)
