A Visual Skirmish
A Visual Skirmish
It is undoubtedly the coldest day in history. The air swirls with snow like it is a maelstrom from deep within the icy waters of the northern sea. The air was thin, and with every breath it seems like it would be harder to breath. The exception to this is that rage, greed, malice, blood-thirst and a hunger for unlimited power fuels me. A most hated advisory standing between me and my final goal. One would want to say this was a match of good and evil but with the emotions and dark desired motives, one would only find nefarious sinister reasoning behind either of our endeavors.
"Our eyes have separate mechanisms that gather the light, important and novel image, focus it precisely, pinpoint it in space, and follow it" (Ackerman 229). This was indeed the correct way to describe what happened when I saw the creature emerge from underground. I found myself within a cold barren waste land; rocky crags, high mountain peaks, and wide open planes filled with nothing, but seeming to never stop. The non stop snow made these mountains appear to be over a never ending height and the planes to be of a never ending distance. It had only taken seconds to realize this. Out of all these geographical images, none of them stood out as much as the being standing in front of me. It stood out as a bright star stands out in a cloudless night.
The being was hideous. It was a creation of demons, and the product of a fallen hero. He was once tall, strong, and proud. His amber eyes were said to be a sigil to the glorious destiny that laid the road before him. Now they were blinded, covered with dark fel cloth from some other world. His body was no longer that of man. Rather, it was twisted and warped. His once smooth, handsome face was scared with smoldering horns, twisting and turning out of his forehead. His charming hair had become coarse, like that of a corpse. His feet had become wrecked and morphed into sharp-pointed talons, like ones you would expect to see on a bird of prey. In his hands he wielded two glaives, stained dark with blood, signs of a demon hunter that he was, now engulfed by what he once hated. But by far his most horrific transformation was that of his black webbed wings. They were not that of an angel - bright, warm and full of promise; but of a demon - rough, scaled, dark, and cold. This is what now remains of the once great man, Illidan Stormrage.
From what my eyes are telling the reader, they may imagine only someone with pure intentions could stand against a beast such as this. In actuality, I can sympathize well with this monstrosity. I was once a handsome prince. Dark skinned, blonde haired, and bright eyed. A true natural at law, becoming a paladin of the light at the young age of seven-teen. My armor gleamed with bright light and was coated with silver and gold, royal colors to reflect my noble disposition. Corruption set its sight on me and soon claimed me as my own. My glorious kingdom had fallen under a plague of undead and in order to save it, I had it culled. "Your father ruled this land for seventy years, and you've ground it to dust in a matter of days,"(Uther the Lightbringer"). This was how my beloved mentor described my choices of exterminating an entire infected city.
I fell to the power of this scourge. I joined this armory of the undead willing. I slew my mentor, my father, and my close friends; rulers of neighboring nations. I transformed into a prodigal Lich; neither alive or dead. I had control over hordes of those who had fallen. I wielded a demonic sword that gave me such power, sleek and shining, imbued with dark energy from beyond the grave. I did not fully understand what had taken me to this point. I destroyed the kingdoms that I had set out to save and become what I had once loathed. The sword spoke to me. Its glistening blade whispered into my cold dark head. It told me the source of unlimited power would be found within a frozen throne on the icy northern continent.
That is why Arthas Menethil stands here now, covered in blood of friend and family. His plate mail blackened, darkened with the blood of friends and family. A once strong heart no longer beats to keep him alive, but rather his will, a will as solid as iron. A will fueled by greed. He traveled with nothing but the shining bright rune blade. His corpse like body could not feel any of the extreme cold around. The maelstrom of snow did nothing to him. His vision was set. He wanted power and so did the twisted demon in front of him. Both, once handsome, noble, gallant men, now corrupted with what they once hunted down. One, a ruler of the living dead, the other a demon lord.
They had challenged their metal in combat once before. With steel clashing and the flash of metal shining through the air like shooting stars, these men found themselves at a stale mate. Before, neither of them could best the other. It was as though fate had written a book that assigned them each equal wins and losses, and against each other was no exception. This time they both wished to rewrite the book. They both hoped that with each strike, each magic word uttered, and each blow the other would wear more than they.
With silent agreement they began. Illidan, with his behometh wings flapping through the air rose into the snowy sky. He flew towards Arthas, both his glaives shining through the snowy air. Arthas' blade did not let him down, catching both of Illidan's glaives. He easily knocked them away as if he was sweeping the floor with a broom. Illidan found himself off guard with both of his monstrous arms in the air. Arthas took this time to strike, lifting his sword into the air as if it was as light as a feather, he moved at lightening speeds. He then jumped into the air, slashing his blade furiously through the air, flashing so bright as to blind you. It cut through Illidans chest like a knife through butter. His blood melted through the snow all the way to the barren rocky ground beneath it, staining whatever it reached. The battle was over for finally and Arthas had began to claim his prize.
He ascended up the frozen stairs in front of him to a citadel of ice. The stair case of ice was surrounded with a deep chasm as black as night and appearing to have no bottom. The room was encased with a high ceiling of ice. As he neared the top of the ice stairs, he saw the prize he was finally searching for, a frozen throne. On top sat a dignified skeleton armored in black plate mail, and encased in ice. The sword whispered to him again and told him to break the ice that lay in front of his eyes. It said that the remains that sit in front of him is its physical body. Lifting the blade one last time Arthas cut threw the ice and a spinning gust of energy flew out. It encompassed his body and became one with him. The swords soul merged with him and the two became one. From that day forward, Arthas lay in wait on his throne, claiming the frozen north as his own, waiting for someone to challenge his might, or maybe waiting to make the rest of the world his own.
Works Cited
Ackerman, Diane. A Natural History of the Senses. 1. New York: Random House,
1990.
"Uther the Lightbringer." Wowwiki. 2009. 30 01 2009 <http://www.wowwiki.com/
Uther_the_Lightbringer>.
Reasoning
My essay has gone through three revisions so far and still leaves the audience with the same question; “Where is this going?”. The idea for this essay wasn’t to tell a story, or explain a definition, nor was it to compare to things. To put it best, I wanted this essay to come out to be in the descriptive genre. My main idea when I sat down to write this paper was to describe a picture of a famous scene in a book/video game. In my final draft I attached the picture to give the reader a better idea of what I am talking about, but I waited to put it at the end to let the reader see if what they visualized from my words actually matched the picture attached. I believe my paper is in the descriptive genre because it meets the main criteria for the genre, being very descriptive. By the end of the first paragraph alone I have used over twenty different adjectives, and many more follow in the proceeding paragraph. My paper also has narrative characteristics and it would be wrong for me to deny that. The story is told through the eyes of one of the characters in the picture. The character describes the story threw his eyes. This being said the genre would be best defined as a descriptive narrative.
