Korektoj

Once again I found myself trying to improve my English writing skill by using Robert E. Howard’s work.

I just want to make clear that the following is just an exercise in which I took Howard’s tales and narrated them from my perspective, inventing very little .

I would really love to receive any feedback you can give me, guys  thanks for reading my exercise!

eyes and the half pale colour of her skin.

Conan got up now reinvigorated...

Entering the Hall of Whispers- Part One Heimdul suddenly found himself into a strange place.

He remembered a soft sound, something cold entering his stomach and nothing more.

No memories of Conan and of his last fight, for dying make people confused and puzzled perhaps more than coming to life.

Though he had no consciousness of being dead.

The area was boundless.

A strange mist impregnated everything, covering Heimdul with a transparent cloak.

A gentle wind began to rise in the quietness of the mist.

A hand made of fume, graceful and delicate suddenly materialized itself from the mist and began to caress the red-haired warrior.

He didn’t find it strange nor was he suspicious and abandoning himself to that lovely touch, he remembered of a long time before.

And then he became part of a vivid vision: his wife Vania was holding him to her breast with the whole warm of his body.

She had disappeared from his life, taken away, dragged into the oblivion by a monstrous terror which had no name.

No other woman could ever take her place and Heimdul had his heart shrivelled ever since.

All of a sudden the hand made of mist stopped cuddling him and the vision disappeared.

Heimdul felt cold again.

Before dissolving itself in that sea of undefined mist, the hand pointed an entrance nearby that was now lighted in the general mist.

Heimdul moved toward the entrance, looking troubled and deeply missing the warm of that vision he had, that dream of which he would have liked not to wake up from.

A huge wooden gate blocked the passage: something like a mysterious writing of an ancient language was on the top of it.

“Gibberish!” Exclaimed Heimdul concerning himself about the strange writing.

Pushing the massive gate in front of him with all the strength of his arms, he stepped into a large hall, a bare and desert place.

A stink of death impregnated the air.

In the distance Heimdul saw a white, pale figure arrogantly seating upon a throne made of oaken wood at the top of a small flight of stairs.

The figure seemed awaken and yet motionless, with deep grey eyes of the same colour of a northern landscape like as if he carried the soul of the north in himself.

The ferocious cold biting of the winter was portrayed in his expression.

His face, gaunt, clearly contorted, discoloured nearly as white as milk was travelled by a profound line of ice and putrid human flesh altogether mixed as if a dreadful plague coming directly from Ymir’s hell had caught him.

His appearance showed nothing more than a dusty carcass eternally doomed, but his halo on the other hand suggested that he was an echo of a past glory, now grown tired of his throne like the echo that gets more and more feeble as it goes on, loosing itself in the mountains.

He had a sword very close to his right hand, in a black scabbard that was posed on a special construction made purposefully in order to hold the ancient sword, which seemed to have fallen into misery the same exact way of its owner.

The whole body of the Skeleton figure was covered with an armour made of steel which nonetheless showed several bones.

Upon his troubled head an ice crown took place: slowly melting the ice was descending on what remained of his hair, making him look once again fallen and doomed to a ultimate destruction through a humiliating process like when the snow melts in the coming of summer.

Blind and paradoxically still able to see through his eyes , that skeleton king seemed to have lost even the smallest form of humanity.

Gone as well as probably the heart warming feeling people call love.

No, there was no room left in that undefined doomed creature, fully travelled by furrows of ice as if he was an entity of a mysterious nature, a revolting fallen emperor sitting upon an unhandy throne.