here's a rough preliminary draft of the beginning of a new post-apocalyptic tale.
I may post the whole thing if there's any interest.
Amid the festering jungles of the region called T’winz squatted the sprawling, mirror plated edifice the locals called The Maul of Aamric. Amid the tottering, ancient ruins littering the jungle, it alone remained pristine, clean and glittering. The locals shunned the place, for those bold or foolish enough to go there were never heard from again. Yet still, there remained some deep seated urge in the human psyche to seek the place out, spurred on by rumours of fabulous treasures and magnificent wonders left by the Ancients. It was such rumours that drew Bault of Y’konn and Mualla of the Iforne’ hence.
Mualla stood boldly before the towering,crystalline gate of the Maul, fists planted on mahogany-hued hips. She threw back her wild, ebon curls and sneered, baring strong white teeth that bad been filed to wicked points.
“Bah! It looks like no maul I have seen. Just another ostentatious temple. Your Ancients were a vain lot.”
“They are no more ‘my’ Ancients than they are yours.” grumbled Bault as he mopped his russet brow.
Bault was a compact, sinewy man, his reddish hued flesh, hair, and beard branded him a scion of far flung Y’kon were the semi-civilized, city dwelling Red Men contended with pale, silver haired barbarians from further north. His slouch hat and resplendent purple blouse were tattered and sweat stained, and his blue and yellow striped hose and highly polished black boots were spattered with mud and filth. The heavy falchion in his fist was sticky with sap and other plant-juices. He was sodden with sweat and pockmarked with inflamed insect bites.He glanced at his companion with a mixture of annoyance and admiration.
“You seem untroubled by this horrid climate.”
Mualla shrugged her sinewy shoulders in reply. She did not perspire greatly, nor did the swarms of blood sucking pests take any interest in her. Even her unshod feet were devoid of injury after the long march through the riot of vegetation. Her golden, almond-shaped eyes flashed with amusement.
“You live too luxuriously, magician! A little hardship will forge you into a real man!”
Mualla did not speak from ignorance. For generations her people had lived in isolation on the brutal, demon haunted isles of Iforne’, where life was a constant struggle against the elements, privation, and the depredations of both one’s fellow man and horrors from the outer dark. Rarely did the people of Iforne’ venture to the mainland, but when they did it was often to wreak bloody havoc upon all they encountered. Spilling out of ebon warships on the backs of Terror Birds, pillaging, burning, and slaying. They were regarded with near supernatural dread.
Mualla did not come to pillage, her reasons for leaving her savage home and wandering the earth were her own, and hateful to her. She spoke of them rarely and Bault did not pry for details
Elaborate esoteric designs, sacred to the serpent god Yig, were delicately carved upon Mualla’s face, neck, and shoulders. The foamy mass of her ebon hair was bound in a rude turban of red silk. She went naked save for an elaborate harness of leather, copper and shell that supported a wickedly recurved scimitar.
“I lack your fiber.” muttered Bault. “I trust you will nursemaid me through the rest of this fiasco.”
“Of course, sweetmeat, I will allow no harm to befall my pet. Now, how do we gain entrance?”
“We would be ill-advised to force our way in through the main gate. We will have to walk the circumference of the structure and seek a less obvious entrance.”
“So be it! Let’s be off.”
“Perhaps a breather, and a bite of food first.”
“You ate a whole chugg mite this morning, how can you be hungry?”
“Humor me.”
“Very well.”
Bault dug in his rucksack for another chugg mite while Mualla paced impatiently, eyes scanning the jungle and the massive building.
“I like it not.” hissed Mualla. “There is a strange smell about the place, and a vibration that sets my teeth on edge.”
“It’s the arts of the Ancients.” mumbled Bault behind a mouthful of roasted arachnid. “The odor and vibrations are no doubt spawned by the same instrumentality that keeps the building so pristine. The wonders that await inside will boggle the mind, by Visking!”
“Your love for the wonders of the Ancients will be your downfall, Y’konian. It is said it was their foolishness that shattered the word, and unleashed the Old Things upon us.”
“It is also said they lived long, in comfort and safety, engaging in sublime pleasures and devoting their intellects to discovery and art. That appeals to me more than squatting in a jungle gnawing on insectoid vermin.”
Mualla sneered and glared at Bault.
“Comfort is a trap, and safety is gained and retained on the edge of a blade.”
She drew her scimitar with a flourish.
“For example, while you were gorging and pontificating, I was making note of the vibration that grows stronger, the low hum that grows louder and the shifting of the trees yonder.”
Bault turned his gaze to the direction Mualla indicated. A disturbance in the jungle foliage was moving closer to them. The Y’Konian groaned and leap to his feet, fumbling again in his rucksack. Mualla laughed musically.
“Yes magician! Pull out a pretty little bauble that will lay low whatever emerges from those trees… Behold!”
What emerged was a large box-like mechanism, painted with irregular patterns in shades of green that blended with the jungle foliage. It trundled along on bands of steel links that churned the turf beneath it. From its top and sides depended numerous dull metal arms ending in a variety of pincers, blades, and tubes. It emitted a low hum that churned the bowels and blurred the vision. Set in the front of the automaton was a brightly glowing red orb. Mualla tensed for swift action.
“One of your ancient wonders?”
“A servitor of the Ancients.” replied Bault. “Perhaps it will ignore us and go about some mundane task.”
Suddenly, the red light shining from the orb concentrated into a single bright beam and focused upon the two wanderers. A high grating voice issued from the machine, squawking in the unfathomable jargon of the ancients.
“The Mall is closed to the public. Trespassers are to be restrained and taken to the security office. Do not resist. The Mall is closed to the public. Trespassers are to be restrained and taken to the security office. Do not resist.”
The machine trundled forward, reaching out with two pincers, and aiming a tube toward the pair, which began belching a noxious purple smoke.
“Breathe not the purple mist!” shouted Bault. “Flee beyond its reach!”
“Flee? Yig take me ere I flee before a pile of scrap!”
Ignoring Bault’s protests, she charged the oncoming terror.