This was my first attempt at writing some sort of fiction, I made it some months ago… I think the story is an awful cliche, but would anyone say I have the least ability to keep writing something better? I’ll abandon the weak story but I’m looking forward to writing more of other stuff… any cheerings? :moogle:
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btw english is not my native language and i’ve learnt it by myself so bare with my mistakes 
CHAPTER I - The Better Blood
Part 1: The Forgotten Grounds
The rain had just stopped when he could finally lift his head and check how much was left to walk. Up there the magnificent tree stood above him, tempting his mind to ignore his body weakness and move on. It was impossible to tell how much he had slept, for the sky could not be seen in this place, but he was sure it was not enough to heal his wounds. Surprised he was though, to recognize the shape of an old man through the bushes. How could it be another human was in this place, and such a weak one? He never learnt to not judge others by their look, yet he was climbing the holy trail.
The old, pale man approached the now prideful lad and couldn’t help but ask what he could possibly be trying to achieve in the forgotten lands - “This place concerneth thou not. What is that thy weak soul expecteth to find up here?”, said the broody silhouette.
“I’m climbing to the top of the forbidden path, for I want to conquer its greatness! To the top shall I accend, and you’re not the one who’ll stop me!”, the old man got as an arrogant reply.
“Ha ha ha. I see you’re from Zeenetland. Or perhaps the brooch on your mantle is the property of a dead man?”
“I could slain you as easy as a leaf if so I wished, old man! You should tame your tongue and keep it from mistaking a Royal Zeenetian Warlord for a mere thief!”
“I have no intent to stop you, Royal Fool. Nor can you stop me. But my mind tickles wondering why you’re taking such dangerous route.”
“Out of my way, I must move on!”
“If that’s your desire. But remember, a great path can’t make you a great man. You see the Tree on the top? It’s ageless, as you may know, and has grown so tall no one dreams to see its highest leaves. But now answer me, warrior, has it grown so tall so that it could rule over the other creatures, or is it just standing closer to the lightning that shall be its doom?”
Before he could think on the meaning of the words, the fog thickened and the shade seemed to vanish. He couldn’t care less, for he had lost much time already. He was usually more receptive and friendly, a beloved friend in his homeland, but up here he wasn’t safe while trusting on kindness or hospitality. The gryphons were still watching his back.
+++
He stood up and walked over to the track, and looked to see if anything or anyone else was there. Nothing. He looked up to the sky, as if he didn’t yet know the mist would be eternally there; perhaps his heart was claiming for a short refresh on the now estranged sunlight.
He walked over to a small stream and took a drink; a small sip was enough to know the water was rotten. The taste of death, the smell, the feeling, it filled the woods. Yet it was all holy. Fortunately he was able to stock water from the last rain. He couldn’t miss the chance: who knows when that forgotten land would be again blessed by pure water?
Was it his tired soul or his incapcity to think in such critical times, he couldn’t put the wizard’s words together again. And why should he believe anyone now? The greatness was in this path, and it could only lead to make of him a better man. Or so he did hope.
Either too tired or too brave to think on the recent happenings, his feet moved faster and faster uphill. When did he get so careless?
The complete ausence of time, friendly voices and warmth made his life a nest for insanity. Wasn’t for the sacred vision of the endless tree, his body would lie among the many beast corpses on the woods. The vision was anesthesiating: it felt like power, penetrating his soul like a sharp arrow of light. It emanated the respect every noble man seeks, but only he was about to achieve. About? Only words to fool a walking dead, for the distance never seemed to grow shorter.
Though he was alive, a walking dead is what he felt like. Hadn’t he slayed many undead monsters in his life, he wouldn’t know the difference between him and a zombie. His limbs were more mechanized and more filled with pain at each yard left behind. Surprised was he to see the strength growing into him when the gryphons tried a comeback.
From the ofuscated skies came the song of flapping wings once more; they wouldn’t let him alone. Bravery lead his hand to the sword, and he calmly awaited for the beasts to land and growl onto him. Every time he was in danger he strangely felt more alive than ever… the gryphons’s presance managed to give him the peace of knowing he was not alone, even though his companions were enemies.
The gryphons didn’t try an attack this time; idiots would be they, if after seeing the warrior carries the Grizal Blade with him, would still try to represent a menace. This time, they came as a warning. Both stood blocking his path, blocking whatever was lying ahead. Would the beasts be worrying about his future, or protecting some hidden treasure; he didn’t question, but saved his sword’s edge for more dangerous foes and crossed the trail between the winged lions, somehow knowing they would not attack.
A bridge, over a red river, was awaiting him, and so solid was the stone of its structure that he couldn’t understand the odd danger present in there. As soon as he stepped on the bridge the animals howled in a loud morbid noise and flew back to their nest downhill. Loneliness once again stroke the warrior’s heart, and once again he was a walking dead.
The living defunct found a small shrine on the other margin of the river, and harshly translating the Nibelung inscriptions he read “Blood… trial… gates”
“What is this”, thought he, “a lost shrine in a lost wood. Seems like the third great trial, but how come I’ve not conquered the first two?!”
The third trial, had his friend clairvoyant foresaw, would be a test for his blood and the purity of his heart. He was not certain if it was the right place, but it so looked like it.
Not giving time for a second thought, he carefully grabbed his knife and slashed his arm open. His bloody splurted on the small pedestal, and he quickly used the cicatrizating powder to prevent himself from fainting and becoming food for some unknown predator. The blood touched the stone, and blood wasn’t it anymore, for it turned blue, as if privated from the abundant air in the shrine. The blue liquid dripped slowly on a metal plate, and the warrior waited patiently. At last the liquid became as pure water, and a deafening sound was heard across the woods.
The gates had opened. But the warrior would not reach them, for his body was laying on the ground, unconsciouss.
Part 2: The Better Blood
When he finally awoke, he was surprised to see the shrine was gone, and so was the river, and the bridge. It couldn’t be the same place anymore.
“Where in this land am I now?”, he thought out loud.
“In the same place you were before closing your eyes, warrior”, replied the old man.
“You again! What have you done to me?”
“As before, my intention is not to interrupt your selfish quest. If I wanted to stop you, you wouldn’t have entered the woods in first place.”
“Selfish quest? You’ve insulted me once by calling me a thief, and I see you insist on understimating me. You know nothing about my quest to judge me mindlessly.”
"Oh it seems your pride is your weak point. But beware, I know more about you than yourself. In this woods I can see clearly through the souls of all living things. You were once a great warrior but ever since you’ve entered this place you have let your soul to be dragged by darkness.
“If you’re so wise, old man, tell me then, why is it this place feels so dark and the air is so heavy? The water running over the cold earth is either red as fire or dark as ebon, either way too rot to drink. I thought it was supposed to be a holy place?”]
“And that’s what it is. The water isn’t pure because it’s reflecting your soul. It will be pure when you are”
“Ah, I’m not pure you say. I take it you don’t know my blood opened the gates to the last trail before I passed out?”
“The gates did open, but not for you, arrogant one. Your blood was not the key for the last trail, nor could possibly be the blood of most mortal man. The gates opened for the Golden Dragon has awaken from his sleep once again, warned by the Gryphons who guard the woods. They did sense a tormented soul, the energy of one who has lost his path in life when all he was doing was trying to find it.
I would not be here, wasting my time, if I didn’t have the least respect for you. I hardly believe you’ll ever leave these woods again, but if you must die here, at least redeem your soul. You’ve profanated many living beings on this forest, and you should be claiming for forgiveness at this very moment. You don’t even respect the grass you’re standing on, how’d you expect the land to respect you and give you clear tasteful water?”
“My mind is turmoiled more and more, with every breath I take on this place. A dragon is my least fear at this moment, I’d be more afraid to know I’ve come here for nothing. How could I open the gates to the last trail?”
“Fool, you need a better blood, for you can’t feed the woods with yours”
“A better blood? How am I supposed to make sense of that? The only blood I got is my own! Or perhaps I should use yours instead?”
The warrior lays his right hand on his sword, and grins to the wizard, who ignores him: "To find what you seek, don’t look anywhere, for it’s something only you can create. The blood won’t come from you, or by you. When you deserve, it’ll be yours.
The warrios gazes stunned as the old man vanishes in a crimsom cloud, realizing the mist was lighter, and he could now see the sorcery kept hidden from him last time.