"The Messenger" genre: Film Music
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	(8.12.02) wowa. OK people.. of all my tracks.. This is the one you should download for sure. The song features the Beautiful voice of Miss Lindsay Anne Klemm and propels you souring through an epic adventure of darkness and power.
	MP3.com CD: Blinding Arena - buy it! Credits: justin r. durban - vocals: lindsayanne klemm
	Story Behind the Song (8.12.02) wowa. OK people.. of all my tracks.. This is the one you should download for sure. The song features the Beautiful voice of Miss Lindsay Anne Klemm and propels you souring through an epic adventure of darkness and power. Rolling, pounding drums, mixed with angelics voices, raising to a climax that may possibly blow your speakers :) ending with a adiago of voices and strings. Feel free to email Lindsay about the track! She loves to get feedback as well! www.mp3.com/lindsay_anne_klemm Here's what the talented writer Justin Adkins wrote about "The Messenger" while listening: But as the Reading Rainbow guy used to say... "But don't take our word for it" The torches were the only light that lit the blood stained sand around the camp. Even the fires that burned away the blue fabric of the tents were squelched by the chief's honor guards. They stood like towering statues around a single spot in the middle of smoldering ruins. They eyed him carefully, watching every step he took and every breath he drew. They must have wondered how he managed to survive the attack. Surrounded by mumbling priests whose robes were blackened by the soot on the desert floor and the blood of the dead whose souls they tried to guide to the heavens in the moments after the short spurred battle. He gasps when he sees the dying man with the long white beard laying with blood stained fingers on ragged blankets. His chest heaves up and down painfully, gurgled breaths wheezing between his dry lips. His eyes stare emptily into the stars. The young warrior spots the stinger in the chief's side, wedged tightly between his ribs. The tunic around the deadly black arrow is burned away and the flesh is blistered around the wound inflicted by the acid laced steel tip. By now the poison has corrupted his blood, burning the life out of his body. With a heavy heart, the young warrior kneels at the chief's side and awaits his bidding. With trembling fingers, the chief pulls the young man closer to his mouth, whispering his last command into anxious, nervous ears. It is a request. It is a need for the help of the fastest knight in his army. A message must be delivered to the waiting chiefs in the borderlands beyond the painted walls of the desert. The word must be sent that the dark armies are coming. That the age of forever night is rising once more. The cold wind carrying the warriors of darkness and shadow, of anything but good and light will be at his heels. The warrior stares into lifeless eyes as the chief sinks back to the blanket and agrees to the task. He follows the empty gaze of his leader toward the stars and takes a deep breath before a moment of prayer. Before the drums of the priests marking the chief's passing into heaven pierce the silence hanging over the sands, the warrior tears over the desert on his hoarse. The swift steed rockets across the dunes with little spurring by the messenger, seeming to sense the urgency hanging on the young man's heart and mind. They both keep theireyes and attention focused on the distant horizon where the scattered canyons lay and the borderlands wait; thus they don't see the figures moving along the tops of the dunes. They don't see the darkness moving unnaturally as hungry shadows stalk like hunters behind them until it is too late. The sun breaks open the melting horizon behind the messenger, illuminating his sand blasted and faded burgundy cloak and dirt stained white tunic in a glow of golden fire and brimstone that pushes back the stars and night. His hoarse trots along peacefully. His pace has slowed. He doesn't sense the chill in the air, nor feel the danger behind him until something rings in his ears. A light buzzing that turns into a sudden whine. Then the steel tip glistens in the sun light in the corner of his eye. The narrow black missile seems to heat the air as it races past his head and skips across the sand. He looks over his shoulder. The horizon is gone, hidden behind the mountain of black cloaked warriors with swords drawn and stingers nocked in tight stringed bows of ebony and crimson. With a frightened start the messenger spurs his hoarse, launching the heavy animal into a full gallop. The thunder of a hundred hooves racing side by side behind him rumbles like festival drums. Their tempo becomes faster and faster as he rides his hoarse harder and harder, spurring it through the thinning sand quicker and quicker. But the the thunder never ceases. They match his gait step for step. The air rings with a flight of a dozen stingers. He ducks and draws his steed left, then right, dodging the ebony missiles of bitter death that strike at the earth with blood thirsty vengence. Sand turns to rock and the thunder and rumble of hooves echoes deafeningly. The end of the cliff lays ahead, but the messenger keeps riding. Faster and faster. Harder and harder. More and more arrows fly. He can smell the acid on the steel tips. He can hear the breath of each warrior, feel the searing heat from their lungs on his breath. He can feel their sun reflecting off their blood stained swords. Closer and closer the edge comes. The sound of their chase resonates on the canyon walls. The messenger lets the salty strings of sweat cascade down his face, holding the reins of his hoarse with both hands. His mind plotted what to do. The foul taste of death haunted the edges of his senses as the edge of the cliff become visible. His chest heaves in and out heavily, rapidly. He doesn't know what to do. He is at the end. His hoarse screams, the steel tip of a stinger plunging deep into its side. The messenger looks over his shoulder. The wall of blackness is nearly on top of him. Black cloaks trail far behind the monsterous hunters. His hoarse screams again and again, two more of the deadly arrow piercing its hide. Its legs begin to weaken, its pace slowing. He could feel its blood boiling as the poison burned its way through thin veins. Swords glinted in the corners of his eyes. The edge of the cliff hovered in the air above the canyon floor in front of him. He closes his eyes, feeling his steed slow even more. Then, suddenly, as if by a miracle, the echoing call of a canyon hawk filled the air, drowing out the heart pounding thunder of his pursuers. The messenger opened his eyes, knowing what he had to do. He could see the shadow of the monsterous bird who's wings spanned meters in each direction against the canyon wall. He pushed his hoarse foward, drawing the last of its strength. The wind froze around him, howling against the serrated edge of a sword as swept through the air toward his neck. The messenger closed his eyes, ducking forward. The heavy drums reached their climax as the hunters hovered over him. He could feel them against his skin. But it all disappeared. His steed rolled forward off the orange and brown rock, falling lifeless into the warm air between the rocky towers. The messeger let himself free of the reins and saddle as the massive satin eagled bird glided under him, pulling him along the rest of his journey. He glanced back at the cliff edge only once, smiling with delight. Smiling with the knowledge that victory would not go to the death wrapped fingers of the shadow armies. Smiling, as he would fulfill the last wish of his father. copyright 2002 - JustinAAdkins@aol.com

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