War Of The Words
Morgan Peppermill stood upon a cliff overlooking a sandy beach, and faced the monsters.
A sea wind whipped through his brown, clerical robes. The short paige-boy haircut on his right side, contrasted heavily with the meter-long braids of Hannabaugh on his left side. Beads, imbued with powerful spells, were woven into the braids.
Like all Clerics of Hannabaugh, Morgan wore the mystic symbol of his god, Wym’Belthaehn, who graced His clerics with powers over the earth, sea, and winds. At a sprightly 37-seasons old, Morgan boasted the 14th Demarcation in the Order. An unprecedented accomplishment for one so young. His affinity for the elements insured his rapid rise to the 20th Demarcation sooner than most. Those who reached it often must surround themselves with a temporal-reduction field at the age of 92-seasons. A handy tool for resisting the effects of aging, but a nuisance when it came to using the toilet.
Beside him stood Penfold, his Chronicler, present to describe Morgan’s battle with the beasts for posterity. He opened his stack of lambskins and began to write as the leader of the creatures approached.
The largest of the 119 strong Thalassan Army, his eight crab legs bit into sand. His armored Sea Slug torso thrust out of his crab-like carapace and rose up three meters above the stinging sands. On his left arm, his claw grew enormous, simultaneously crushing claw and bludgeoning hammer. His right claw was thin and edged like a Great Sword. His head, and six eyes upon stalks, emerged from a giant Conch Shell, grimacing with malevolence.
“Who dares stand before ME?” boomed Empergonsheighlon.
This was IT, Morgan’s BIG moment. His words would stand for a thousand years. It was critical that his voice boom with confidence. He must speak with both poetry and power. The battle cries of future warriors would use his words. He would speak in tones that danced through the ages, defining the very existence of emerging civilizations.
Morgan said, “Yeah, so…I’m the guardian here. And…well, you…”
Empergonsheighlon roared with laughter. “Pitiful child! You are new at this game. How can you alone stop my mighty army?”
“Ah, well. There’s me and…” He pointed at the crumbling ruins of a distant castle. “…that castle.” As he spoke, a raven alighted on the last standing tower. It crumbled to rubble beneath the insignificant weight of a 1kg bird.
Empergonsheighlon’s laughter roared like the sea through compressed eons. “Puny Human! My army shall crush yours beneath our claws. By the powers of Icalamoon’s Tentacles the seas will dominate the lands with our indomitable will! We shall…”
This went on for a rather long time. Morgan noted that Penfold’s knees looked a tad shaky. He extracted a pair of folding camp stools from his pack, sat on one, and placed another beneath Penfold. He sat with sat with relief.
“Thanks most awfully, sir,” said Penfold. He kept on writing, recording every word of Empergonsheighlon as the monster droned on.
“You can listen, talk, and write at once?” said Morgan.
“Oh yes. Every Chronicler of the 5th Demarcation or higher can.” He pulled out a sandwich and began to eat as he wrote and talked.
“Your knights shall be clipped in twain! Your women will swell with the progeny of our passions! Your cities will…” pontificated Empergonsheighlon.
“He’s rather good at this,” noted Morgan.
“Oh yes,” said Penfold. “He’s defeating you quite handily at this juncture.”
“He hasn’t done anything!”
“In the histories, this is how battles are won.”
Morgan snorted, and noted the position of the sun. He addressed his foe. “I say, good fellow. Could we just skip to the fighting part? I’m scheduled to sanctify Mrs. Portney’s sage garden in the afternoon.”
“Infant of the Fighting Arts! You cannot hope to exceed the wisdom of Battling Words…”
“Yeah,” muttered Morgan. He raised his hand and fluttered his fingers. Stones arose from the distant crumbling castle, each weighing several tons. Tens, then hundreds of stones arose into the air. They flew across until they hovered above the invading sea monsters.
“Any last words?” sighed an impatient Morgan.
“Woe to YOU who come to me…”
Morgan groaned, “Whatever.”
He flicked his hand.
Future generations would speak of “a ton of bricks.” Morgan released 1,417 tons of bricks upon the enemy. They disappeared into a soupy, amorphous pulp as multi-ton blocks ground them into the sand.
Penfold sighed. “About time!” He stretched his fingers. “I was developing writer’s cramp!”
Morgan shrugged. “Awfully long-winded for a sea creature isn’t he?”
Thalassa is the Greek word for the sea. It is also the name of the primordial sea goddess: http://www.theoi.com/Protogenos/Thalassa.html
This week at Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750, the word prompt is, “Guardian.” The media prompt is a picture above of Giant’s Causeway in Northern Ireland. It’s a great pic from Rosario Fiore. Look here for more stories based upon the prompts. http://www.grammarghoulpress.com/gg-writing-challenge-25/