Fate's Hymn
  • Reads 1,535
  • Votes 4
  • Parts 51
  • Time 9h 27m
  • Reads 1,535
  • Votes 4
  • Parts 51
  • Time 9h 27m
Ongoing, First published Sep 04, 2019
Mature
Book 1 of the Revised Fate Series

Exandria, a world full of monsters, magic, and epic heroes. Threats are constantly lurking under the surface and the world is about to be hit with another one. Twenty years before, the adventuring group known as Vox Machina locked away an evil god known as Vecna. Now, Tharizdun, an ancient destroyer god, is rising. A new group needs to rise to the occasion, and stop it. However something else is manipulating everything from behind the scenes. Nobody just knows quite what.

      Adran Stormwind is a half-elf from a small town outside of Westruun. His mother sent him to Syngorn, along with his twin sister Leila, when they were young. Adran and Leila came back a few years later to find their mother dead. They spent the next several years traveling and surviving. They ran across old friends and new friends, but their life changed one day when Adran met a little halfling in a bar.

      Adran always knew that he wasn't cut out for this. After all, if he couldn't protect his mother, how could he stop a god? But he was chosen for this mission, by his heroes no less. What he didn't know was that Tharizdun was just the beginning.
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The Rose and the Sinbound

10 parts Ongoing Mature

Rhosyn's Journal Entry: I find myself turning to ink and parchment as if words can fortify the brittle pieces of my heart. There is something in the rhythm of verse, in the gentle pulse of poetry, that soothes the ache no court's promises can touch. "In shadows deep where secrets lie, A rose blooms still, beneath cold sky. Her thorns are sharp, her petals frail, Against the storm, her courage pale." Do I write of myself, or of some other creature trapped in a story not her own? Sometimes it feels as though I am the shadow and the rose both, caught between a world that demands obedience and a heart that refuses to yield. How bitter it is to dream of freedom while knowing my wings are clipped, bound by alliances that do not care for the scars they leave behind. "A crown of thorns, a silken mask, A future bound in hollowed glass. Yet hope persists, a trembling flame, Defiant still, against the pain." Hope. A foolish word. A fragile thing that clings to the edges of my soul, like a candle flickering in the winds. I write these lines as though hope is a friend, but truly, it's a ghost-a haunting I cannot rid myself of. In the quiet hours of dawn, it murmurs, stirs, and breathes life back into me. It is a torment and a salvation, this hope. "One step, one breath, one whispered plea, Against the night, she will not flee. In silence kept, her song unfolds, A tale unwritten yet, untold." Perhaps there is a power in words, in laying bare the fragile threads that hold me together. To write is to bleed without consequence, to free myself, if only for a moment, from the binds of the court. And so, I keep writing.