Don't mind the ugly cover art. Anyways this is my small book series I'm gonna be making, hopefully. I don't really have a big developed plot for it but here's the first chapter anyways, enjoy! ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Moth. There’s a moth on the tree. I lie on the forest floor, staring at the yellow leaved forest. My head throbs with an aching,screaming pain. My face is covered in dirt. I slowly get up, clutching my forehead with my left hand. On my other hand, there’s a sword. The blade is warm, a pale brass that resembles silver. I can’t think, my mind is in a scramble. The hilt is mahogany wood, waxed and bringing the warm color out. But it’s not the blade that’s my focus on the sword. It’s the centerpiece of the hilt. Crimson swirls within, swerving with the gravity around it. It’s in the shape of a gemstone. At first glance, it looks like cheap glass with a cheap red liquid inside. But as I look closed, my fingers pressing against the gem, I realize it's quartz. I’m not exactly sure how I remember it’s quartz, or what's quartz. I can’t remember anything at all. My name. What is my name? I scramble to find something, a clue, yet I stand in autumn (or is it summer?) woods, looking for a clue. I reach into my back instinctively, and my hands connect to something wooden and cold. Pulling it out with what strength exists within me, I hold it in my hands, in front of my own two eyes. It’s a scabbard. How do I remember what's a scabbard? That’s a question that I don’t have the patience nor time to answer right now. There's something carved out in the mahogany. Lines. Curves. Letters. I make it out, and it reads Lepi. My name is Lepi. My head throbs once more like a thunderclap, and I scream. I don’t know what is happening. I can’t remember anything up to this point, and I shove the sword into the scabbard. Is there any place I can hoist it upon my back? Strap, there's a strap attached to the scabbard. I just noticed that. I place it on my back, as I take my first steps into the unknown. The moth flutters away. The yellow trees seem to go on and on forever, with no way out. I hear something, asides the gentle chirping of the birds that don’t appear to notice my dilemma, or the occasional chattering of forest creatures, or the rustles and crackles of a deer stepping on a dead leaf. It’s the gentle lapping of a stream. I gaze upon my distorted reflection in the stream's water, touching my cheek like it’s a foreign runic that remains a mystery, which it is. I slam my hands into the water, and pull up the water with my cupped hands, and I greedily drink from my hands. As I look up, I see a town. Perhaps I can find answers there. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
