Posted on January 18, 2011


The first draft of the first few pages of a fantasy story about Oberon, Puck, and a world in danger

“Puck is dead”

The rumor rushed like floodwater through the sprawling elven palace, spreading silence in its wake, as people froze, grew silent with shock, grief, or fear.

“Puck is dead”

It made its way through the endless halls and corridors to the giant throne room a heart of the palace. Where it broke against a massive ebony figure that sat, terrifyingly still, in a gigantic throne of tortuously sculpted basalt.
Draped in dark and glittering finery, a great cloak all about him, black fur about the collar and studded with constellations diamonds against a black velvet emptiness. It sat like a statue, staring at the ground. Its face pitch black, frozen, golden eyes focused on nothing.

And a single tear, glittering like a star, rolled down the ebony cheek and shattered on the floor.

The sound of running feet, loud in the hastily vacated halls. As they reached the giant open doors of the throne room they slowed to a walk then faltered nervously. A messenger, dressed in rough outdoor gear, nervously stepped into the throne room, and knelt upon the jeweled floor.

The figure does not move.

With a shaking voice the messenger addressed the throne

“Sire… Size, Puck… Puck is dead”

The lips moved, ever so slightly, whispering
“I know.”

The messanger did not hear, uncertain what to do, young and uncertain of protocol.
“Lord Oberon?”

And the figure exploded. Rising from the throne in a storm of rushing clock, an a wall of sound and fury


The force of fury hurled the messanger from the throne room.
The dark and terrible figure strode to the doors, addressed those who cowered in the great hall.


Turning his back upon the hall, great cloak wrapped around him he strode away from the doors which slammed behind him with a thunderclap. Elves scurried about nervously in the great hall as peal of thunder from the storm gathering above the palace shook the high stained glass window. Rain started to fall, a patter quickly rising into a roar, and within it all a primeval cry of grief and rage.

Oberon stood upon the soaked pinnacle of stone that jutted from the cliff into which the palace was built. Wind lashed his long matted hair and the rain mixed with his tears: were his tears. Of course he has known. Not from that pathetic messenger. Not from the castle rumor. He had know the instant it had happened, felt a thousand swords pierce his heart.
And Oberon screamed again that terrible scream, and mourned his only friend.

Posted in: creative