Legend of Zelda: The Seafarer

Cysts fissured and fractured as the harsh friction of the leather rope viciously bit the weathered skin of the seafarer's palms. He hauled on regardless, heaving the simple wooden rowing boat further onto the shore, leaving the undulating, cool, turquoise waves and instead hearing the hot, white sand crunch under his weary feet. He longed to go back to the sea, longed to feel the water under him, to know his home. The brutal sun beat down mercilessly, searing his tanned and taught bare back, but the seafarer knew this sensation well now, and it meant little to him. In a way, it comforted him. Enduring reminded him that he was alive.

There was not a cloud in the sky as the whiplash figure managed to station the boat on the shore. Instead, the sun gazed out from clear skies on the endless seas, without the slightest whisper to disturb their calm, gently lapping the shore of the island.The island itself was infected with an oozing sort of silence, that seemed to fill empty spaces, dulling any sound but the lapping of the waves. No birds seemed to inhabit the vast, tropical reaches, no animal seemed to prowl the forest floor.

The seafarer stared into the depths of the forest, almost willing to stare back, to view him the way he viewed it. Instead, it simply let him in, let his gaze wander over each mossy tree trunk, as if unwilling to let him go. He entertained the hopeful notion that perhaps this island contained some type of fruit, or root, or any other such edible thing. His body didn't complain, stated no grievances at the fact it hadn't received sustenance in at least three days, which he was proud of, but he knew it would require food eventually.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his sea-scarred hand, swatting aside a few stray brown hairs that covered his field of vision, and began to approach the thin line where lush forest and stark shore met, in large, loping strides that made economical usage of his dwindling reserves of energy. The seafarer made a stark figure – tall and thin, lean muscles clearly visible under the skin, working with the oiled practice of a machine. His features were sharp. A hawk-like nose. Thin eyebrows. An angled chin, scars and cuts attesting to having shaved with a dulled blade. Amazing grey eyes that swallowed every facet of light that passed their way, creating a beautiful and dangerous gaze. His head was framed by haphazardly cut short brown hair, with only the shortest fringe. His whole body looked a product of the sea and sand, shaped by the environment for which it had struggled with for so long.

A few tattered remnants of white cloth around his structured shoulders was all that remained of the seafarer's shirt, but a battered pair of breeches that must once have been brown, but had since been bleached a strange colourless tan by the sun covered his lower body. Strapped thoughtfully round the trousers was a beautiful fierce black leather belt, a polished bronze buckle holding in in place. On the left side of the belt, a thin leather sheath, the body curved in shape, the mouth consisting of carefully treated sandalwood, and the tip of smooth, flawless iron.

Resting in the sheath was one of the few things that the seafarer lived for. Being a seafarer was about the ocean, and your sword. As he entered into the dusky shade of the leaf-covered, light-speckled forest floor, the seafarer fondled the hilt of the blade, comforting his oldest, most faithful friend. It was a marvel of smithery, a centered sabre – a Karabela sabre by build, unsullied steel that was a perfect mirror the surroundings, tapering, like a whip, to a single fine, curved point. The handle counter-balanced the weight of the blade well enough that no pommel stood atop the metal hilt, which was wrapped by a cured shark-skin grip. The cross guard was slim yet sturdy, and unmarred by dents and nicks despite the conflicts to numerous to count.

The message and moral of the sabre was so deeply bound to him integrally that his left hand would leap to the hilt and draw it in one swift, fluid motion, instinctive. The sword was a part of him, just as the sea was. Such is the being of a seafarer. He no longer knew if there were any others of his kind still remaining. The Farsea had been so unkind to them. Perhaps in the Great Sea, or in other such places they lived on. But here? He suspected that the lord had delt with them, as the lord would most likely eventually deal with him, but he couldn't admit it, accept it.

He had been tracking the lord through the Farsea for nigh on a year now, with little effect. It was like a twisted, barbaric game. The equilibrium of the seafarers and the deadthought had been broken by the lord, whom he now pursued through the Farsea. He had no true idea where his quarry was heading, but the seafarer would follow the lord until the day one of them died. The Farsea was endless, limitless, anyway. It progressed from the western edges of the Great Sea, to the infinite. Each island was further apart than the last, more remote than the last, more barren than the last. The lord would eventually be able to flee no further, and the seafarer would meet him.

Flee was perhaps the wrong word. The seafarer knew that the lord was instead leading him, like a marionette in the clutches of a sinister puppeteer, to the destination of his choosing, but he no longer cared enough. All he wanted was to encounter the lord, and try his best. No, try better than his best. What other purpose could he have?

The forest was still, and cool, the leafy branches stretching out, lightly holding him, soothing his tired muscles. He knew the lord had been there, just knew, in the same way he knew he was alive. His soul navigated better than any compass, tasting its surroundings for the taint of the lord. He was slowly growing closer, and closer, his quarry no more than a week ahead. Restock on food, dig up some food, and move on, as he had always done. Perhaps the next island would have company, be they human, Hylian, Goron, or any such creature possessed of wit. The seafarer doubted it, though. The last vestiges and fringes of civilizations passed long ago. These islands were empty, even of the basest animals.

Eventually, the seafarer moved on.

I'll make this brief- I am utterly amazing at your ability to write an entire chapter of nothing but description and narration. Will we perhaps be seeing any sort of inner monologue/dialogue later on, though? While I think it's great that you can write a chapter without either, I find having a small bit of monologue/dialogue breaks up the chapter somewhat better.

Either way, I think this is a great start! :3

A humble oaken ship lay languishing in the ocean, the square rigged sail of the lonely mast drooping and empty in the deathly still air. It was the build of ship known as a cog, a flat-bottomed vessel where the keel was straight, and the strake curved only slightly on its journey from stern to stern. The hull was shut, and no oars protruded from it to propel the cog onwards. Instead, it and its motley crew were now at the mercy of the wind to send them onwards.

On the deck, a young woman of around seventeen years paced the deck, hands clasped behind her back. Her short blonde hair was tied in a shape not unlike a conch shell behind her head, keeping her face clear. Her sapphire eyes seemed vacant, as though she had withdrawn herself from the current events. Her ears were noticeably pointed. Suddenly, she stopped her pacing, and threw off the sleeveless blue jacket that must have been sweltering under the sharp sun to the deck, revealing a white T-shirt that hung tight to her lean and curved body. She then resumed pacing, her short breeches moving back and forth.

Watching her with sea-blue eyes from the shaded area of the deck blocked from the sun by the sails was a young man, of around the same age. Slight, prickly stubble attested to the fact he had tried to shave, but hadn't managed to achieve an entirely clean visage. His hair was short and wavy, and blonde, but a much dirtier, browner blonde than that of the young woman. Much of his hair was concealed anyway, underneath a green elven hat. Like the young woman, his ears also reached to a point. He wore a white under shirt that was covered by a green cloth tunic, and strapped around his waist was the strap of sheath which rested across his back. In the sheath was a nicked and dented arming sword, used for one-handed combat. It wasn't of great quality or standard.

As the woman turned to begin another circuit of the deck, the green-clad one suddenly spoke.

“Come on, Tetra. Can you please stop pacing now? It's getting on my nerves.”

“Well, what am I supposed to do?” Tetra snapped back angrily. “The blasted wind won't stir! We aren't getting anywhere!”

“Whoa, calm it!” he replied, stretching out his arms and yawning. “There's nothing we can do, so we may as well enjoy the sun and sea like this while it lasts.”

“It's lasted four days! I've had about enough lasting as I can take, Link.” Tetra glared frostily, then resumed her pacing.

Link walked over to her and hugged her affectionately, making her smile briefly despite herself. She pretended to be displeased for a few brief moments, before relenting, and letting his arms engulf her.

“I know, it's been a while. I want to get back to Outset and see Aryll just as much as you do. She's my sister, after all. But when the weather's like this, there isn't anything we can do to speed things up. If there were, then Mako would have thought of them by now.”

“I suppose...” Tetra admitted.

“Now, the crew are in the cool below decks playing dice. Shall we go join them?”

“What, so I can beat you all like I did the last few times?”

“I let you win those!” said Link with mock horror.

“Haha, get real, Linky boy!” Tetra laughed, and ran down into the hold.

Link leant over and picked up her blue jacket, gently brushing it down, before following her, glad to leave the desolate glare of the sun, that bit into the skin with vicious urgency.



oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oO o_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_ oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo_oOo



Niko downed the remainder of his beer in a single gulp, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, before placing his pint mug back on the wooden table. After quickly readjusting his blue bandana, he went on with the highly embellished and no doubt completely untrue tale of how he, the great Niko, had managed to seduce the most beautiful woman Arn Island had ever seen, to anyone who seemed to be even vaguely listening out of the five other pirates.

“...and she ran her fingers through my hair,” continued Niko, running his own, slightly greasy, fingers through his dirty blonde hair, as if acting skill could manage to cover the unlikeliness of the tale, “looked into my deep blue eyes, and said that she would be mine forever. Then, just at that moment, -”

“Shut it, Niko. We've heard this story a thousand times, and it never gets any better.” grunted Gonzo grumpily, before adding: “What would a pretty woman be wanting with a half pint like you, anyway?”

“Aww, I was just getting to the good bit, man, 'cause next, she-” Niko muttered, trying to salvage his dignity, well aware he was not much taller than half Gonzo's height. Gonzo did make a rather impressive figure, tall and built like a bull, muscles clear on every limb, a crimson bandana covering his short brown hair.

“T'aint true, anyway. After all, all the women on Arn Island look like they're descended from Moblins.” laughed Senza, shattering any hopes Niko had that his story may have continued. “Now, if you want to hear a story 'bout some purty damn fine women, I have a story – no, an epic! It all started back in the summer of -”

Unable to stand the thought that someone could put his story-telling abilities to shame, Niko interrupted, appealing to the other three men, Mako, Zuko, and Nudge “Can't we just play Dutchman?”

Nudge, as usual, said nothing. It was always hard to tell what Nudge thought. He was a gentle giant, of sorts, slightly taller than Gonzo, and even more muscled, yet quiet and peaceable. He only ever spoke in great amount to Tetra, whom he would have long and detailed conversations with. Most people would be fortunate to get more than two quiet sentences, instead usually receiving either a shake or nod of his head, which was framed by long, black hair.

Mako shifted the bridge of his glasses, scratched his bald head, and nodded. Mako was similarly silent, but in a very different way to Nudge. Mako was the obvious brains of the ship, and loved to tinker with various mechanical artifices, to the point where he often seemed to be in his own world, enveloped in a tide of inspiration. His small build held enough ideas fort at least three or four of the slow-witted Gonzo.

Zuko also just nodded, for, like Nudge and Mako, was yet another quiet inhabitant of the ship, and yet again, for another reason. Zuko was practical and precise, never using two words were one would do, prefering brevity in his speech. He was slightly taller than Mako and Niko, but nowhere close to Gonzo, Senza, and Nudge. His face was lightly freckled, and lit by large green eyes, clear and sharp, perfect for his duty as look-out – he could see things on the horizon long before any of the other pirates could. Impressive brown sideburns covered the edges of his face.

Senza shrugged, not really minding whether his story was curtailed, and scratched his thick black beard. “Well, go get the dice then, Niko, m' boy.” he said in his deep, sonorous voice. Senza was the talker, possessing a beautiful chocolatey voice, that made you want to agree with everything he spoke. Unlike the other pirates, who were all somewhat sunburnt due to the unusual weather of late, Senza's darker skin meant he was coping fine, and accordingly he was in a much better mood than the rest of the crew, who had been a tad tense recently.

Niko clambered down from his bar stool, and began rummaging through the crates and barrels that littered the floor of the hold, until he found a pair of dice, and a large pouch of chips, buried under a pair of Gonzo's underwear, which he removed distastefully. The dice were the standard kind used on the Great Sea – black-pipped die with the exception of four and one, which were red. The one pip was also much larger than the others. He then scurried back to his seat, and placed the dice on the table, dealing eleven chips to each person.

“Who's going to be the Dutchman first?” he asked anxiously.

“Might as well be you, Niko.” muttered Gonzo, obviously still in a bad mood, but making an effort to be good-natured.

“Okay then, place your bets!” Niko said excitedly, replacing his chips back into the bag.

Senza called his bet first, and went for the risky bet, paying Niko two chips and calling: “Twilight Twelve.”

Gonzo called next, betting lower than Senza but still in the risky area, paying Niko two chips and calling: “Nayru's Nine.”

Mako went third, again with two chips, however taking the middle ground by calling: “Safe Seven.”

Zuko made his move fourth, after some consideration, and took the safe route by paying one chip and calling: “Easy Six.”

Nudge went last, paying one chip, and going it safe by calling: “Farore's Five.”

Niko rolled the dice, or rather, threw them somewhat eagerly, every eye watching them dance along the table, before finally coming to a rest. There was a brief pause, then five of the pirates burst out laughing, and one gave a dismayed groan, staring morosely at the dice, both of which showed a single red dot.

“Ha, unlucky, Niko. Snake Eyes.” laughed Senza. “That would make me the Dutchman, and put all our chips in the jackpot. Unfortunately, you only have one chip now, my boy.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the picture. I'm out. I'm gonna go get another pint of beer...” moped Niko, gloomily picking up his mug, and heading towards the beer barrels.

Senza placed all the paid chips into the centre of the table. “Place your bets, boys.”

“Din's Dice.” Gonzo, two chips paid.

“Yo'leven.” Mako, two chips paid.

“Easy Eight.” Zuko, two chips paid.

“Fever Four.” Nudge, one chip paid.

Senza rolled the dice onto the table with a neat flick of his hands, sending them spinning around in neat circles. Eventually, they slowed and stopped. Again, there was a round of laughter from the majority of the pirates, while Senza looked down put, for again, the dice displayed the mocking sight of a double one.

“Snake Eyes, Senza. Now I'm the Dutchman, and you are out.” Gonzo yawned, placing the chips with the others already in jackpot, and grabbing the dice. “Call your bets.”

“Yo'leven.” Mako repeated, two chips paid.

“Farore's Five.” Zuko, one chip paid.

“Three Man.” Nudge, one chip paid.

Gonzo chucked the dice into the air, and watched them bounce onto the table. There was a stunned moment of silence, and a brief giggle from Mako, then a roar of outrage from Gonzo. The now familiar sight of a one and one, two red eyes staring up from the dice, greeted them.

“That can't be right.” Gonzo exclaimed, picking up the dice, and hurling them once more. The dice scuttled across the floor, eventually stopping to show the red eyes, still facing upwards. He quickly picked the dice up, and rolled them again, to no avail. Still, the double one. “These dice are phoney, I'm damn sure of it.”

Having said that, he ran over to the other drawers, and began searching through the miscellaneous clutter until he found a new pair of dice.

“Right, let's continue as we were.” He then proceeded to throw the dice, and once again...

Snake Eyes.

Another roll. The crew began to feel the faintest hint that something wasn't right, a slight change in the atmosphere, a lengthening of the shadows, a cold touch on the back of the neck.

Snake Eyes.

One last time.

Snake Eyes.

Noes! A cliffhanger!

Cliffhanger aside, though, this is still very awesome and very detailed. One thing I would like to point out, though, are adverbs. I noticed in Link and Tetra's conversation that you used several. While it doesn't detract too much from the overall story, I like to limit my use of them as much as possible. Granted, I could see the necessity in one or two of the adverbs (suddenly, briefly), try and limit their use as much as possible. (When Tetra glared at Link "frostily", I had this image in my mind of Tetra shooting ice beams out of her eyes. ;D )

Aside from that, awesome job. :3

It's not my natural style, as you may have guessed. I'm experimenting with the visual impact of the story, by making everything seem incredibly crisp and clear cut. It's meant to have a vivid quality - you know those dreams that seem so real, so tangible, you could almost reach out and hold them? That's what I will be trying to do with this, specifically parts involving the seafarer.

You sir, are an extremely good writer!

Noes! A cliffhanger!

And a cliffhanger causes people to keep reading btw Every good story has a cliffhanger about every 2 or 3 chapters, if not more.

Originally Posted by SixaxiS

You sir, are an extremely good writer!


And a cliffhanger causes people to keep reading btw Every good story has a cliffhanger about every 2 or 3 chapters, if not more.

I know. I use them often in my own work, you know.

And Crabbers, I think it's really good that you're trying something different. I have simply found that using adverbs sparingly tends to make everything sound better. It was a tip I picked up in Stephen King's "On Writing: Memoirs of the Craft". Adverbs aside, though, do continue.

Ironicly, it's King's style I was trying to replicate - specifically that of the Gunslinger, where everything is vivid sharp. The later books fall somewhat more into that style of more ordinary stories (although of extremely high calibre) due to the introduction of more characters (part of the reason I felt the Wizard and the Glass was the weakest book in the series), but the Gunslinger is like a dream.

Violent nausea attacked Aryll, as she juddered into wakefulness. An immediate, pulsating sensation that all was not right attacked her senses, and she fell out of her bed, before throwing up onto the floor, colours and contrasts kaleidoscoping in and out of focus. Everything seemed familiar – her small, wooden and cozy bed, the comforting pictures on the walls, the smell of home. And yet, still that twisted sense of wrongness. She shut her eyes, opened them, and screamed. The room now smelt of rotting, decaying, fleshy matter, as though something had died here long ago. The pictures showed hideous, twisted faces, people with hands clasped to their faces, emitting unearthly screams. In the wooden bed, golden locks scattered and brown eyes vacant, limbs askew, lay her body, drenched in a pool of blood, that was slowly spreading, seeping along the floor, enveloping the room. Aryll was terrified to her very core now, and scrambled away from the blood, running to the door, jerking the handle, but dear Nayru, it was locked! She was helpless and could do naught but watch as the blood oozed towards her, and began worming its way into her skin, melting and sizzling the flesh, leaving only bone displayed, as she collapsed to the floor, a lifeless skeleton.

And then, Aryll woke up, juddering into wakefullness. An immediate, pulsating sensation that all was not right attacked her senses, and she fell out of her bed, before throwing up onto the floor, colours and contrasts kaleidoscoping in and out of focus. Everything seemed familiar – her small, wooden and cozy bed, the comforting pictures on the walls, the smell of home. And yet, still that twisted sense of wrongness. She shut her eyes, opened them, and screamed. The room now smelt of rotting, decaying, fleshy matter, as though something had died here long ago. The pictures showed hideous, twisted faces, people with hands clasped to their faces, emitting unearthly screams. In the wooden bed, golden locks scattered and brown eyes vacant, limbs askew, lay her body, drenched in a pool of blood, that was slowly spreading, seeping along the floor, enveloping the room. Aryll was terrified to her very core now, and scrambled away from the blood, running to the door, jerking the handle, but dear Nayru, it was locked! She was helpless and could do naught but watch as the blood oozed towards her, and began worming its way into her skin, melting and sizzling the flesh, leaving only bone displayed, as she collapsed to the floor, a lifeless skeleton.

And then, Aryll woke up, collapsing to the floor, her forehead drenched in sweat. Was this real, or some twisted nightmare? She warily closed her eyes, desperate to have escaped the awful, vivid visions, before slowly opening them. All was as usual, and no sign of the tormented dreams. She gave a shaky laugh, before opening the door, and stumbling downstairs, glad to be away from her room. The house was new, built by the other inhabitants of Outset Island for the Hero, Link. Who also happened to be her brother. But now, only she and her grandmother lived here.

Everything seemed warm and thankfully familiar downstairs. A wooden table formed the centrepiece of the room, with four chairs around it. There were some neatly folded clothes on one of the chairs, that seemed to be freshly ironed, presumably courtesy of Grandma. Aryll stripped out of her nightwear, and put on her favourite dress, made of green-dyed linen. Her stuttering heart finally calmed, the abject terror gone. She realised that she was now rather hungry, and ran to the cupboard to see if there was anything there. Unfortunately, it was bare.

Aryll went to the door in order to find Grandma, but then hesitated. After a few moments thought, she ran back and rummaged around in a large drawer, until she found what she was looking for – a basic metal sword, more a workman's tool than an item of great precision. The Evil One had kidnapped her in his demonic attempt to regain his former power, four years ago, and in bitter memory of the event, she had started training in the art of swordsmanship (or, as she liked to think of it, swordswomanship) with Orca, the island's master weaponsman. After all, she couldn't always count on Link to save her. Besides, the simple blade comforted her somehow. It was reassuringly heavy in her hand, and felt nice against her hip when she sheathed it.

All this done to her satisfaction, she ran outside in order to find Grandma, and therefore very probably get a meal, just the sort of thing a hungry fourteen year old girl needs. Outset Island was remarkably beautiful in the summer, and especially so with this unusual good weather of late. The air was heady with the sweet scent flowers, and the waves lapped the sandy shores of the beach. Oddly, no-one seemed to be out. Aryll presumed they must be inside in the cool.

She ran round to the vegetable garden at the back of the house, and was relieved to find Grandma there. Grandma gave no sign of Aryll's approach, and simply continued to stare at the rows of vegetables in the furrowed earth.

“Grandma, is there any food? I'm starving, and there's nothing in the cupboard.” Aryll asked plaintively.

Her grandmother murmured something softly, that Aryll didn't catch.

“Sorry?”

“Isn't this nice?” Her grandmother repeated, slightly louder, but still in a soft, hushed voice.

“Uh... what?”

“Isn't this nice, Aryll? Isn't this nice?” Her grandmother began rocking back and forth slightly in her chair.

“I suppose so...” Aryll responded, a sinking feeling occuring in the pit of her stomach. “Grandma, are you feeling alright?”

“Isn't this nice, Aryll?” Suddenly, her grandma's head snapped round, and Aryll could quite clearly see her eyes were unfocused and drifting, the pupils twitching spasmodically. Aryll whimpered and stepped back, her hand flying to the hilt of the sword. The sweet scent on the breeze slowly sweetened even more into a sickly, bitter, vile smell.

“No. No, this isn't nice at all!” Aryll shouted defiantly, every muscle in her body hyper-alert, ready for flight.

Her grandma cocked her head to one side sinisterly, a slight trickle of drool transforming her normally gentle features into a seemingly hag-like visage.

“Isn't this nice?” Grandma repeatedly firmly, an undertone of menace sounding. “Isn't. This. Nice!”

The beautiful sun slowly began to fade, shadows lengthened, and everything assumed a tone of red as the sun changed from a golden sphere to a vile crimson globe, transforming the skies, the clouds streaks of menacing black. The smell became an intoxicating, putrid nausea, and Aryll realised with a terrifying shudder it was the smell from her dreams, the smell of a corpse.

“Isn't this nice, Aryll? Isn't it nice? Isn't it? Nice, Aryll, nice! It is! Isn't it? Aryll, is, isn't, nice, isn't!? Aryll! Aryll! Aryll!” Her grandma shrieked in a steadily high-pitched voice, cracked and harsh. “Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll...”

Aryll screamed as the old woman suddenly grabbed her, holding with an iron grip, her hands bony talons. She jerked free, and ran, ran, but the old woman followed, running like a dog with great leaps and bounds using her legs and arms, chasing Aryll, still screaming Aryll's name again and again and again like some sort of dirge-call! She herded Aryll, preventing her best attempts to flee, forcing her towards the beach.

“...Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll, Aryll...”

There was only one route left, the Outset Pier. Aryll fled to the edge, teetering on the side of the wooden planks, as far away from her Grandma – no, this monster – as possible. The water, morphed by the demonic appearance of the sun, was a deep, foreboding purple. Aryll drew her sword, but stopped. This demon was still her Grandma, or had her Grandma's form at least. She couldn't do it. Instead, she closed her eyes, and waited for the forth-coming end.

Moments passed. Nothing happened. Aryll risked a look, opening one eye a slit. The old woman was just standing at the beachside edge of the pier, as if waiting for something. Which, of course, she was. Aryll heard the sound of oars creaking in their riggers first, and turned to see a small rowing boat approach the pier. There was a man-like shape in it, and next to him, a smaller hooded figure. Neither of the two appeared to be rowing the boat, but instead, it rowed itself, propelling itself onwards through the waters.

Aryll somehow knew They has caused this. Without knowing the how of it, or the why of it, she knew that this was the lord and his child, and this knowledge terrified her to her core. She closed her eyes once more, and lept into the waters, sinking like a stone.

This is fantastic, great job using the gunslinger as a type of reference to the style that you want to portray. I was sweating in my seat after the first paragraph! It might just be me or maybe im impatient, however this lord and his child seem too elusive.....though it seems the next part will unravel this mystery... so keep it up!

Hello.

I...

I'm not quite sure how I should begin this.

I think I'll start at the start, and end at the end, as is customary. I may have a start of an ending, or the ending of start, partway through, depending on my mood. Who knows, it may even involve the passing of the end of the beginning of the middle's conclusionary introduction.

Now I'm just time-wasting. I'm sorry, it's difficult for me to understand, let alone come to terms with.

I'll be blunt with you: I'm dead.

Or at least, I think I'm dead. It's hard to tell. I had always pictured death as something final, you know? The end of everything. Which leaves me somewhat puzzled as to how I am experiencing what's currently happening here.

Ah, look. I've already broken my aim by starting at the end. This is no good at all.

Anyway.

I'm not entirely sure how it all happened. All of a sudden, cold, brutal sea-water began to slowly fill the chamber, and I couldn't get out. He'd tricked me, unfortunately. I suppose I must have drowned, although I have no recollection of doing so – probably because I'd become unconscious due to hypothermia.

Where was I? Oh, yes, start of the start.

Once upon a time...

Eh, cliche.

I'm sure I'm more talkative dead than I ever was in life. Really opens your outlooks on life, being dead, you know? What am I talking about, of course you wouldn't.

There was a boy once, and he lived in Lon Lon Ranch. Careless, happy child. He was one of those kids that would probably never really grow up, the happy ones, always with a smile on their face. He was reserved, perhaps, and prefered the company of the horses to that of people, but then, horses don't lie, cheat, or steal.

It's awfully cold here. It's odd though, because while you are aware it is cold, it doesn't seem to discomfort you. Probably because there is nothing left to discomfort. There are so many of us here now. Many I once considered enemies. But, I can't seem to hate any more. There's someone I once loved, too. But, I can't seem to love any more. Death has robbed me of everything except my thoughts. Now I have all the time to think in the world.

The trouble with death is that it tends to go on forever.

The boy had a mother, a loving mother.

I think my mother is here, too. Well, she would be. All the dead are, these days. Death stops the connections, though. She's no more my mother now than I am who I was. If that makes sense. I suppose my father must be here, if that is the case. I never knew who he was, though, and I have no desire to see him. I don't really have any desires now.

She was one of the first to die. The pig-things, armed with their hideous glaives, cut her down. Brutal. They cared not for her corpse, stepping over it without a second thought. All they wanted was to kill the horses, all of them. No cavalry to defend Hyrule this time. The boy hid. Small boys generally do. There was a crate, of a boy-ish size. The boy went in the crate. He watched.

The world forced that boy to grow up, really. I don't think he wanted to, and I don't think he was truly able to, but he had no choice. There was a sword, and there was girl, and there was the pig-king. What else would he have done?

Shame about the sword, really. That's where it all went wrong. It's all very well having the magical, mystical power sword of infinity plus one, but if it doesn't work, you can't do much. They realised that, I think, and sent a gift. Or a curse. Whichever it was. I think they must have a sense of humour, if nothing else.

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

It wasn't really his fault. He did try his best, the odds were just stacked against him due to circumstances outside his control, and best just wasn't good enough. He'd probably do better if given a second chance. Then again, so would most people.

I'd say that I'd wish for a second chance, but I don't, really. That was that.

I'm not sure what we're here for, but we are, stretching as far as the eye can see.

We are the dead.

I think there may have been something before this, but after life. An afterlife? No. There isn't an afterlife. This is no life. Only life is life, really.

The boy watched his world come to ruins. Lon Lon Ranch was burnt to the ground, as it happened. Castle Town was shattered and razed by the pig-king's forces. The Gerudo were the first to fall to the pig-king's troops. The fire dragon killed the Goronkind, and the Zora... well, the boy never saw what happened to them.

This place does have a boundary somewhere, though. I hear whispered rumours, rippling.

There's a beach, somewhere, too.

I have to say, I'm impressed!

Bad: The dream sequences are a bit odd and confusing, as is the very first passage, but I'm sure it'll wrap up later. Sometimes you want to toe the line between infodumping and being so mysterious your reader gets bored, and I know that's very difficult to do. (I tend to fall on the other side of the line, myself.)

Good: You're an excellent writer. Though a bit rushed in some places, this is a very nice piece of work, and I really like it. My favorite scene was the one with the dice; it's very onimous, and sea folk tend to be the superstitious type, so I kind of wished I could get more on their reaction to the dice, but it was an excellent cliffhanger; that was the scene that made me keep reading rather than looking for something else. I think since this is fanfiction, the bits with Link, Tetra and the pirates appealed more to me (and perhaps other readers) because I was more familiar with them and I knew what was going on.

TLDR: Great stuff! You're very good with description and suspense. Try slowing down the pace just a tad and giving us a little more info to work with - right now all we know is that Something Bad's going down, but we don't know why or how or who's doing it.

Looking forward to seeing more!