This is my first story written on the forum. This post is a product of sleep deprivation, boredom and a pinch of curiosity about the other sub-forums (I usually hang around the science forum).
Prologue
It was a nice day out side. The birds were singing on the trees and a little boy was deeply immersed into a book that he'd been reading for the past so-and-so days. Peculiar things books are. They are almost like portals into another world. A fragment of the human imagination.
Imagination. With it we are capable of many things. Both good and bad. It is what allows us to think. To be sentient. To dream.
Part I (The begining) (in progress)
Chapter One
He had gained his consciousness on a sandy beach. The sun was rising - it was early morning. Further back into the mass of land that he had seemly just 'woke up' on, there was a beautiful land scape. Tall mountains soared above the clouds while a forest at the base teemed with a sense of romantic adventure and discovery. East of the mountain range there was a valley with a natural overpass that lead to a great expanse of green rolling hills. To the west, the mountains where encrusted with an ancient frost and the range extending into that direction was dotted with tall pillars of ice.
Not having even the slightest clue of his purpose other than the primal instinct to survive, the young man looked around to figure out how he was going to survive this strange land.
Shelter. He needed shelter. Building a grandiose one was out of the question, but perhaps it was a project for a later time. He needed a simple one. Gathering what materials he could, he constructed a simple shack of wood. Within the humble abode, he had built a simple work bench. With what little splinters of wood gathered from the trees he had left, he had fashioned a simple and hardly effective pickaxe.
The question of food also had to be answered. The man noticed that as he walked around the area, large groups of animals roamed the area.
His primal instinct took over. Instead of systematically separating weak game, he had simply charged in, and bludgeoned the nearest beast to death.
With his bases covered he headed back to his hut of wood and waited for the next day. The sun fell and gave rise to the moon. Creatures of the night began their routine - looking for unsuspecting prey.
The man had survived his first night.
Chapter 2
The sun had risen over his makeshift home. The nocturnal hunters had retreated into the relative safety of the underground(This place was far from safe for our protagonist).
He had a shelter he could call home and was well fed for the next few days. But what happens when he ran out of food? He could just smack an animal to death as he needed food, but sometimes the energy needed to kill one out weighed the benefit of eating it would bring.
He needed to farm. Scraping a few more splinters of wood off of a tree he pieced together what seemed like a hoe. He then moved some earth to the shoreline and tilled it so he could plant a crop. But he was missing something - a crop to plant
A sense of frustration and hopelessness swamped the man. Not bothering to pick himself up he dragged his new tool through the dirt as it was useless. Or so he thought. In dragging the hoe through the dirt he had unearthed seeds - ones that he could plant, harvest and consume.
He ran back to his tilled plot of land and started seeding it. One by one the seeds were packed into the dirt. Now he had to wait.
He needed a way of passing time while doing something productive and of benefit to him. He remembered the pickaxe he had made. Running back to his shack he grabbed the pick, plotted an area of which he would dig out and started striking the stone with all of his might. It was pain staking work, but at the end of the day, he had a new stone pick, one that would not break so easily, a stone furnace and extra materials such as coal to power the furnace and make torches and extra stone which he used to improve his living conditions.
That day his camp had become firmly rooted into the ground of which it stood. Later that night a smoke had risen over the other side of mountains. The man had no idea what it was nor did he care for the time being. He was going to live and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 3
Upon waking within his newly reinforced home, he had wondered if there were other like him trying to survive. Perhaps they all have a common goal to work towards. Going back to the previous night, he remembered the smoke in the sky. It had come from the other side of the mountains he was surrounded by.
Pushing the thoughts aside he set about his established routine. Eat, mine and sleep. After downing his meal he set out to his pit mine. He found nothing but stone for a while with the occasional vein of coal. It was then late into the day when he had stumbled across a vein of iron. He chipped away at the iron. Not really knowing what it was, he tasted the ore that he had found. The new found iron tasted like blood. It had dent marks from the pickaxe strikes. He knew it wasn't stone as it didn't shatter when he hit it. He decided to throw the ore into a fire pit that he used to roast the animals he killed. About a half hour later the stone had transformed into a pool of molten metal. Not knowing what to do he let the substance cool - he wasn't about to take risks.
After the metal had cooled, he put out the fire and removed the now solid slab of iron. It was shiny and the rock that existed with the ore was burned off or floated into a position where it can easily be removed. It was hard yet it had a certain amount of give to it. It was much harder than the stone he had used to craft his stone pick. That much he was certain.
Once again his primal instinct took over. He crafted a sword out of this material. It had a razor sharp edge and easily cleaved through the tanned leather hanging from the side of his home. He had also made a pick out of the remaining iron.
It was late into the night. He needed rest. Once again he looked beyond the mountains for one last time before he headed into his home for the evening, no smoke. It was a faint light. Perhaps he wasn't alone.
Prologue
Imagination. With it we are capable of many things. Both good and bad. It is what allows us to think. To be sentient. To dream.
Part I (The begining) (in progress)
Not having even the slightest clue of his purpose other than the primal instinct to survive, the young man looked around to figure out how he was going to survive this strange land.
Shelter. He needed shelter. Building a grandiose one was out of the question, but perhaps it was a project for a later time. He needed a simple one. Gathering what materials he could, he constructed a simple shack of wood. Within the humble abode, he had built a simple work bench. With what little splinters of wood gathered from the trees he had left, he had fashioned a simple and hardly effective pickaxe.
The question of food also had to be answered. The man noticed that as he walked around the area, large groups of animals roamed the area.
His primal instinct took over. Instead of systematically separating weak game, he had simply charged in, and bludgeoned the nearest beast to death.
With his bases covered he headed back to his hut of wood and waited for the next day. The sun fell and gave rise to the moon. Creatures of the night began their routine - looking for unsuspecting prey.
The man had survived his first night.
Chapter 2
He had a shelter he could call home and was well fed for the next few days. But what happens when he ran out of food? He could just smack an animal to death as he needed food, but sometimes the energy needed to kill one out weighed the benefit of eating it would bring.
He needed to farm. Scraping a few more splinters of wood off of a tree he pieced together what seemed like a hoe. He then moved some earth to the shoreline and tilled it so he could plant a crop. But he was missing something - a crop to plant
A sense of frustration and hopelessness swamped the man. Not bothering to pick himself up he dragged his new tool through the dirt as it was useless. Or so he thought. In dragging the hoe through the dirt he had unearthed seeds - ones that he could plant, harvest and consume.
He ran back to his tilled plot of land and started seeding it. One by one the seeds were packed into the dirt. Now he had to wait.
He needed a way of passing time while doing something productive and of benefit to him. He remembered the pickaxe he had made. Running back to his shack he grabbed the pick, plotted an area of which he would dig out and started striking the stone with all of his might. It was pain staking work, but at the end of the day, he had a new stone pick, one that would not break so easily, a stone furnace and extra materials such as coal to power the furnace and make torches and extra stone which he used to improve his living conditions.
That day his camp had become firmly rooted into the ground of which it stood. Later that night a smoke had risen over the other side of mountains. The man had no idea what it was nor did he care for the time being. He was going to live and that was all that mattered.
Chapter 3
Pushing the thoughts aside he set about his established routine. Eat, mine and sleep. After downing his meal he set out to his pit mine. He found nothing but stone for a while with the occasional vein of coal. It was then late into the day when he had stumbled across a vein of iron. He chipped away at the iron. Not really knowing what it was, he tasted the ore that he had found. The new found iron tasted like blood. It had dent marks from the pickaxe strikes. He knew it wasn't stone as it didn't shatter when he hit it. He decided to throw the ore into a fire pit that he used to roast the animals he killed. About a half hour later the stone had transformed into a pool of molten metal. Not knowing what to do he let the substance cool - he wasn't about to take risks.
After the metal had cooled, he put out the fire and removed the now solid slab of iron. It was shiny and the rock that existed with the ore was burned off or floated into a position where it can easily be removed. It was hard yet it had a certain amount of give to it. It was much harder than the stone he had used to craft his stone pick. That much he was certain.
Once again his primal instinct took over. He crafted a sword out of this material. It had a razor sharp edge and easily cleaved through the tanned leather hanging from the side of his home. He had also made a pick out of the remaining iron.
It was late into the night. He needed rest. Once again he looked beyond the mountains for one last time before he headed into his home for the evening, no smoke. It was a faint light. Perhaps he wasn't alone.
More to come soon!