Taed vs. Ali vs. Drall

[James]

And here we go, the second round of the AWR Cup. This time you have two topics. You have a genre that the story must be set in and a perspective that it must be written in. If you have any questions, just ask them in the discussion thread.

Topic: Political Thriller
Perspective: Third Person Limited
Deadline: Saturday - 16/1

GOOD LUCK!

[The Timeless One]

Political Thriller

Ku’lon stared at his friend incredulously. “You…you found them?”

The two were in a dark, unused hallway of the castle. Ku’lon, a general in the Penillian army, and As’hal, High Wizard and old friend of Ku’lon’s, had been meeting like this for a few months now. None were more exciting than this particular meeting, however.

As’hal nodded. “Near the Galadian border. There wasn’t much to work with. Their bodies seemed to have been stripped clean, but their minds were mostly intact. It took a lot of piecing together, but eventually I completed the puzzle.”

“You found out who they worked for?”

“Yes. And believe me, I was shocked myself when I realized the truth.”

“Tell me! If you know the name of the traitor, we can stop him before he goes after the king!”

As’hal was silent for a few moments, and then sighed. He looked up at Ku’lon. “Ta’shan. It’s Ta’shan.”

Ku’lon’s simply stared. What? He couldn’t believe it. Ta’shan? The king’s most trusted advisor? No, that couldn’t be right…the two were practically best friends. They got along so well…and Ta’shan was a kind-hearted man…

When he regained the ability to speak, the first words out of his mouth were, “I don’t believe it. I…I can’t…”

“I know it’s hard, my friend, and believe me, I doubted the evidence for a long time before finally coming to terms with the truth. He is the traitor. And he must be dealt with.”

“But how? What are we to do? Inform the king? I’m still having trouble believing this, and there’s no one I trust more than you! Imagine how Ka’ralar would react!”

“There is a way,” As’hal said, a guilty look coming over his face. “I’m sorry for even thinking of this, but it’s the only way to save the king…”

“If you have an idea, I should at least hear it.”

The wizard sighed. “Very well…”

***

How did it come to this?

It had been five days since As’hal had told him the insane plot he had in mind. He had heard of the expression “fight fire with fire”, but he didn’t think that it really applied to this situation. Going up to the king seemed inviting at this point…But As’hal was a wizard. One of the gifted lorekeepers of the land. He had obviously looked at the other options before even thinking about this one.

Ku’lon sighed. As the wizard had impressed upon him, this was a matter of the utmost secrecy. All Ku’lon had to worry about was tiring Ta’shan. As’hal would handle the rest.

Ku’lon had grown fond of the wizard, and he trusted him. They had been working side by side for quite a long time, so naturally the two had become good friends.

The highest-ranking general of Penillia and the High Wizard of the Council of Shapes had met ten years earlier when the last king, Ka’salar the Blessed, had ordered the two to lead the defence against the kingdom’s enemy, the Nation of Galadan. They were charged with stopping a superior force in the mountain passes east of Penillia. They held out for five days like a single, sturdy rock against an overwhelming tide and prevailed. This gave Ka’salar time to organize a counterattack. It would be his last act as king, as he perished in the battle. His son, Ka’ralar, was crowned king a few days later and, instead of pressing the attack, looked for ways to create peace between the two nations. He succeeded, an accomplishment Ku’lon and As’hal had always met with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it was both impressive and relieving that the new king had managed to create peace between the two nations, and that there would be no further bloodshed. On the other hand, as any good general knew, once you had gained the upper hand, you made the enemy beg for peace. As’hal was uneasy as well. He had lived many generations, and had seen the worst of the Galadians. He knew that they couldn’t be trusted for long.

The unnatural peace that had settled over the land didn’t last long. Evidently, others were of the same mind as Ku’lon and As’hal but had decided to take it a step further. Ka’ralar’s family had been targeted, and people feared he would be next. His wife had already perished three years ago when she out hunting with her husband. An expert marksman had shot her in the heart, and she died instantly. The royal guard had chased the assassin deep into the woods, but when they found him, the deed had already been done; he was propped up against a tree, with a knife stuck in his chest. It had generally been assumed at that time that he had killed himself, and that the incident, while tragic, would not happen again.

However, the assassinations didn’t end there. Ka’ralar’s only son was ambushed on a diplomatic mission to Galadan six months earlier by men of his own bodyguard. According to the only survivor loyal to the king, as they were about a day’s out, about half the bodyguards suddenly turned their swords on the prince. The first stroke cut down the prince’s horse; the second, its rider. The loyalists fought as hard as they could to avenge the fallen prince, but to no avail. The survivor said he had been checked for signs of life, but apparently the murderers didn’t notice he had lived and proceeded to run off towards the prince’s intended destination. Many believed that they had been Galadians sent by their king as a sign of aggression towards the Penillians, but it was later discovered that they had been born and raised in Penillia. These men hadn’t been heard from until five days ago, when Ku’lon listened to As’hal retell what he had learned from their bodies.

At this point, rumours began to spread. People suspected the two assassinations were connected. The king had asked Ku’lon and As’hal to sort out the problem and discover the traitor before he could target the king himself. And since the king had no siblings, if he perished the rule of Penillia would go either to one of his cousins, who lived in far off Elassarath and had decided to live their lives as simple farmers, or Ku’lon, the highest ranking general. As Penillian Law decreed, Ku’lon would then be named Regent Lord for a maximum period of one year. If in that year no heir or relatives stood up to claim the throne, the Regent Lord would be crowned king, and a new dynasty would begin.

Ku’lon desperately wished that would never happen. He had no wish to take the throne. Thankfully, they had Ta’shan now. The traitor had been revealed at last. Hopefully As’hal had everything under control. He still didn’t feel right killing Ta’shan this way, even if he was a traitor.

“He’s coming now,” whispered As’hal, shifting as he leaned on his staff. “Are you ready?”

Ku’lon nodded.

“Remember, don’t kill him yet,” the wizard reminded him. “We need to interrogate him. I want to know who else was in on his scheme.”

“Right, because I was eager to spill his blood,” Ku’lon said sarcastically.

As’hal sighed. “I know this seems wrong, my friend, but it’s the only way.”

“So you say. That does not mean I have to like it.”

“Neither do I. Come on, get ready.”

Ku’lon gripped the hilt of the large sword at his hip. He and As’hal were kneeling behind a clump of bushes, watching the clearing before them with anticipation. Finally, a figure in black robes emerged from the trees. He carried a sword, and looked around nervously. Ku’lon turned to the wizard.

“What does he think he’s here for?” he asked his friend. As’hal dismissed the question.

“It doesn’t matter. Go on. No one else is nearby, no one will hear.”

This was it, then. Ku’lon vaguely wondered if he would be considered a traitor himself for such a crime. But, as As’hal said, it was the only way. He trusted his judgement, even if he didn’t like it. He got up, pulled out his sword, and ran towards Ta’shan as fast as he could.

Since his back was turned, it took Ta’shan a second longer to see the attack coming and prepare for it. He tried to ready his weapon, but Ku’lon got there first. He swung his sword and sent the traitor’s weapon flying. He brought one of his fists up from his sword and punched Ta’shan in the face. The advisor fell to the ground and raised his hands above his head to protect himself. It was man’s first instinct when physical pain was imminent to protect the head. It was also a futile gesture at this point. Ku’lon pointed his sword against the traitor’s neck.

“You’re going to answer a few questions for my friend, traitor,” Ku’lon threatened him.

“He can’t help you, Ku’lon.” The general turned his head.

“What do you mean, As’hal? This is the traitor. You said he’d have information regarding the others.”

“I know,” As’hal said, walking into the clearing, a smirk growing across his face. “I lied.”

Ku’lon felt a chill run up his spine. What? What did he mean? He tried to face him, but didn’t want to turn his back to Ta’shan. And so he asked, rather stupidly, “What do you mean?”

As’hal raised his staff, and Ta’shan hovered in the air, his arms coming together in front of him, as if bound by invisible chains. Ku’lon turned around and pointed his sword now at his old friend. “Explain yourself.”

As’hal smiled. “I will. Though the term is rather crude and I hate to use it, you have been betrayed.”

This couldn’t be. “You…you’re the traitor?” As’hal nodded.

“Indeed I am.”

Ku’lon couldn’t help what he did next. He cried out in rage and charged the wizard. As’hal smiled and in one swift move brought his staff up to deflect the blade. Somehow, most likely by magic, the deflection caused Ku’lon to lose his balance as his sword seemed to bounce off the wizard’s weapon. Quicker then he thought As’hal could move, his old friend took the opportunity presented to him and swung his staff, catching Ku’lon in the chest. The general flailed and hit the hard ground beneath him, losing his sword in the process. Before Ku’lon could defend himself, As’hal smacked him with his staff again, this time in the face. Blood began to form in his mouth. His old friend, the man he had grown to trust more then anyone else was beating him over and over again, mercilessly. Finally, Ku’lon felt himself rise in the air and chains clamping over his arms and legs.

“Why…why did you do it…” Ku’lon managed. He never knew As’hal carried that kind of power. He felt weak…horribly weak. And betrayed.

“You know why, Ku’lon. Ka’ralar is leading our great nation into ruin. I plan to prevent it.”

“By assassination? Betrayal? Have you…have you lost your mind?”

“Lost it?” As’hal seemed amused. “But, my dear friend, how would you know I’ve ever lost it? I was always like this. I have been responsible for numerous assassinations over the centuries. Assassinations that changed the course of the world. You are not the first, nor the last friend I have betrayed. Whenever the world needed changing, I was there to change it. The kings of Galadan, Penillia, Zaut, Elassarath…they all reign because I want them to reign. And I have found Penillia’s new king unsatisfying.

“That assassin who killed himself after slaying the queen? He was mine. Those traitorous guards? Mine. I have developed a talent my brothers and sisters of the Circle of Shapes could not. I am a mind controller. I control anyone I please. The man hovering a few paces behind you? He came here because I ordered him to. He had no idea where he was going, he just felt this sudden urge to travel miles to arrive in the middle of nowhere by my will.”

“What is your plan, then? To control me, to make me kill the king?”

“You? Gods, no. I have uses for you. No, he will be the one to kill Ka’ralar.” As’hal pointed at Ta’shan, who was watching the conversation with a dull gaze. “You will be the one to unmask him. You will then become Regent Lord of Penillia for a year, as law decrees. Once that year is up and no heir or relative claims the throne, you will be made into a fully-realized king. My king. You will rule Penillia as I command. You will continue the war against the Galadians and end their nation. I hope you’ve enjoyed your life up until now, Ku’lon. It will no longer belong to you in a few moments.”

Ku’lon stared at the wizard with hate in his eyes. He tried to struggle against the chains, but he found his will and strength had been sapped from him. He was helpless as As’hal raised his staff towards him and spoke words that he would never remember.

“Farewell, old friend.”

***

It had been all too simple.

As As’hal walked back with Ku’lon towards Penillia, he thought about how easy it had been this time. The men of this land grew weaker with each generation. Soon, he wouldn’t even need his considerable power to best these fools.

He had been called a mastermind. A deceiver. A traitor. These names pleased him greatly. He would continue his work until his dying breath, which he doubted would ever come. A hidden shadow was hard to find, and even more difficult to squash. He had been playing these games for a long, long time. It had become second nature to him, now.

And so much the better. At an earlier stage in his life, he would have felt sorry for Ku’lon. But he had destroyed such childish thoughts long ago.

With patience and cunning, he would become master of the world. And only he would ever know of it.

That was his only regret.

[AEShenhav (Ali)]

Pawn takes King

With the stage set, the execution was almost too easy. A single pull is all it took. Like the tread of a loose cloth or the single push to start an avalanche. This time, it was the pull of a trigger.

Blam!

The shot rang out with resonance and a beautiful sight it was! A thousand people all ducked in one motion in survival as the unlucky man on stage crumpled behind the podium just as the back of his head was haloed in a sickening red mist. Red lips parted in a smile that portrayed the mind's gratification. So much planning, so many months, or had it been years? At last, this was a smile that a thousand years couldn't bare to forget.

"That's it Des, we need to move. Now."

It was too bad such a smile needed to wear a frown this moment. "You're right Mel," Desiree's voice was her usual, flat and emotionless. She was mildly surprised that her excitement didn't dribble into it. "Set the distraction. Tell Harris it is time."

Desiree's partner immediately started clicking his tongue into a radio nearby while he ran a had through his sandy hair. It was code of course, the group's own brand meant to sound like nothing more than a little disturbance over the radio but able to issue simple commands. Oh the feds'll probably crack it later, but they'll be long gone by then.

Not bothering to pack the rifle that cost more than a fair share of the operation's budget, Des slid her gloved hand along it's surface one last time in apology and turned her vivid emerald eyes to Mel who'd stopped giving orders and was already waiting for her with fingers interlocked.

"After you princess," he mused with a panicked sort of humor.

Without a word, Desiree stepped gently into his threaded hands and climbed up his body. With an easy thrust, Mel heaved her lightly up to a recently made hole in the roof. Once through, Des counted to five and pulled hard on a rope attached to a pulley system. Mel levitated through the opening like David Blaine, but much better looking. Too bad he ruined it with a grim expression. He retrieved a hidden duffel bag and produced more rope from it.

They both now crawled to the edge of the building and peered down at the chaos below carefully. The feds would be all over them in a matter of minutes and this was the only part of the escape plan that succeeded or not based on chance. Harris' subtle little distraction would help that chance, but if they were going to get caught, now was going to be it. The feds only needed to look up.

They waited. Des allowed herself to smile again as they did and even more broadly as the pair of conspirators watched the small army enter the building next to theirs. They were dangerously close to finding their targets, but still off by enough to allow the pair to give them the slip.

It was a brilliant plan orchestrated by Desiree alone. The time, the building, the escape, even the creation of the damn communication code was hers. Above all, the man at the podium had to die and she was the person to make that happen. Damn safty, she wanted to be the one who pulled the trigger, badly. It was simply a matter of fact that she'd do it and no one else. Being the assassin that changed the world felt pretty damn good, even if that world would never know her name.

"Now" Des hissed and the two dropped off the side off the building. Not only was this the hairiest part of the whole operation, it was also the most painful. Des had broken a few ribs while practicing the first time and her foot on another one. There was just no safe way to jump off a twelve story building quickly without the danger. She held her breath with set teeth as she waited for the rope to become taut.

It snapped painfully hard as the custom harness dug in to load bearing places on her body. Instantly bringing her knife to the rope, she cut trough cleanly and fell another five feet on her back. Ignoring the wind that was no longer in her lungs, Desiree lunged into the open basement doors with Mel at her heels like a faithful puppy. Good boy. They closed the doors behind them and heard them latch with finality. No going back that way now.

Breathing hard, Mel fell to the floor beside Des and waited to catch his breath just as she was. The pain that now pounding at her midsection was instantly recognizable.

"You okay?" Mel asked in a ghost's whisper once her got his breath back.

"Broken ribs," she answered mildly as if she were making a simple statement that didn't matter whatsoever. "You?"

"Again? Damn that sucks. Sprained my foot and I think I have a broken hand."

"You'll manage. Time to get up." Desiree winced as she rose to her feet but made no indication of the pain. Mel unzipped the bag and threw her the new clothes. She quickly undressed without a care for the man in the room who also did that same. They were both professionals and both adults. Through the whole time they'd known each other, they had not slept together or even tried. The mission was far more important than sex.

Desiree replaced her black stealthy coat and skin tight leggings with an eye catching green dress and strappy shoes. She pulled her brilliant red curls from their bindings behind her head and shrugged on a thin long sleeve to cover her shoulders. The pain was unbearable at the time and even though Mel had acted like he may have tried to help her, he didn't. She would not have liked that and he knew it.

"Ready?" Des asked stoically to the man now dressed in a white t-shirt and well fitting jeans.

"Lets go," he said, giving her his arm and looking though a mask of determination. Desiree took it, and hugged him close, ready to put on her best expression of bewilderment. The pair wound themselves through the tunnels that connected through the buried toes of several buildings before reaching their destination. The old steps creaked under their weight but provided them easy access to the first floor of the shoddy apartment building above.

Immediately she knew something was wrong. It wasn't the empty building nor the soundless streets thatf first gave it away. It was something more than that that Desiree felt first. The air was thick with anticipation. That was what she first felt followed by the others. She tensed and tried to pull back on Mel's arm but it was too late. The events that transpired passed by in a blur of single frame pictures and sounds.

First there was a dozen men with guns pointed at them. Then the shouting.

"Get the fuck down now!"

"I said get down!"

"He's got a gun! Fire! FIRE!"

Blam! Blam! Blam!

Warmth splattered across Desire's face as she stood rooted to the spot in a trance. She tasted copper on her slightly split lips. More shouting. Indistinguishable. Hands bring bound with frigid metal. Knees buckling and falling painfully to the floor.

"Fucking terrorist bitch!"

Darkness fell over her eyes with an instant and painful sting to the head.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Slowly, a pale glow began to show in front of her eyelids. It took her some time and effort, but Desiree finally sat up. She could feel cloth tighten around her abdomen and scratchy sheets underneath. Once her eyes settled on the small room of concrete, everything became sharply focused. Mel was dead and she was captured. She sat motionless for a long time, her mind barely working up thoughts.

Then she smiled that smile from earlier. Broad, joyful and triumphant. She could have cried with happiness but the tears never came. She wondered why for a faint second but quickly stopped caring. Nothing mattered but for one thing. He was dead. The man behind the podium. The man of power, of charisma, of wealth, of cruelty. The shining toothed devil was dead.

Desiree could have reveled in that state of mind forever, content with her deeds. Only when a man entered the room did the smile fade to shock. It was Harris! What the Hell was he doing here?

He didn't say a word to her shocked expression as he hoisted her to her feet and escorted her out. The man who'd helped train and scheme with her and Mel was in a brown suit, his gray hair cut down to a short combable cut looked so strange from the usual long hippie hair he wore the time she knew him.

"What?" she finally stammered the question on her lips. "Why did you─"

"Shut up Des, you're smarter than that," he cut her off in an emotionless voice.

Indeed she was. Obviously he was a cop or a fed or CIA or something, but what she was going to ask was why he let her shoot the man behind the podium; one of the men he probably worked for. The escort lasted all of two minutes before Harris had pushed her into a vacant room with a giant mirror and pushed her down in an uncomfortable plastic chair. He took the one opposite the table and looked at her.

Then he smiled, toothily and with a strange emotion tinted underneath. Des just smiled right back.

"You've done a bang up job missy," he spoke like a man with a secret. Des didn't care. The man behind the podium was dead. "Secretary Dunnel was killed by an assassin's bullet at ten hundred hours today. That was seven hours ago."

"I know," Desiree said flatly. "I shot him."

Harris studied her a moment with his hand at his chin. "What I always wondered during our little fun and games exercises and preparation was this. Why would you, Desiree Dunnel, want to kill your own father so much?"

Des didn't flinch or even breath. Her face only turned to an icy glower as she remained silent.

"Oh I knew you were his daughter from day one. Funny how faking your own death never seems to work very well. Even one fitting your glorious intellect has it's faults. Such as not actually dying. That's always a problem."

"I killed him," she began slowly. "Because he's a murderous coward that hides behind the bodies of forgotten dead to further his own filthy desires!" Her voice broke with passion on the last few words and tears of hatred bubbled to the surface.

"Ah yes, he certainly had been more than a problem since his new position had given him some leniency. Really a shame that the administration just brushed it all under the rug. Too bad they don't even know half of what he did and didn't want to. The American people thank, Desiree Dunnel. Cleaning up after your father's mess was noble."

Des only stared at him with eyes threatening to either buble over with tears or kill him on the spot.

"But it's more than that, isn't it?" Her heart skipped a beat. "He named you Desiree out of those desires, didn't he? In fact, more than once, you were his desire. His Desiree..." Harris' voice trailed off.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she asked coldly, a rage building beneath. She blinked and a small stream of salty tears flowed down her cheek. "Want me to say that he raped me? That when I was a little girl, I was afraid to go to bed because all too often I'd wake up with him there? Is that what you want? Do you get off on that, you sick fuck?!" She shouted the last question with a sneer that even Lucifer himself couldn't replicate.

Harris only shrugged. "I'm just trying to get a feel for your chances."

"Get a feel? Poor choice of words asshole."

"It's really too bad. I'd much rather give you a medal instead of the death penalty. I'm really hoping you'll only get life. You're a good kid despite your hatred." He got up and turned toward the door.

"Wait!" Desiree called to him. "If you wanted me to kill him, why didn't you help me? Give me funds and help me complete the deed without getting caught. Why betray me?"

Harris sighed and looked at her sympathetically. "He's a prominent figure and the American people need faith in their government. They won't know his deeds and you'll be given up as the evil assassin who shot him. If the perpetrator got away free, then there's no justice."

Desiree's heart sunk in defeat, tears now flowing like a leaky bathtub.

"Also," Harris said, pulling a crucifix from beneath his shirt. "Every evil deed has a consequence. You must accept yours gracefully. Even a necessary evil cannot go unpunished. Still, take comfort in knowing that your actions have changed what could have been a very messy time in our history."

With those words still ringing in her ears, Harris left. Desiree sat for a long time, not thinking; not speaking; not anything. The man who'd made her life a living hell was dead. That was all the mattered. Even still, there was a part of her that felt disappointment and bitterness that even revenge couldn't quench. For all her intellect, her scheming and planning, she turned out to be a pawn with delusions of being a queen.

[Matteo ((Taed))]

The African veldt baked under the heat of a midday sun. Long stalks of golden grass were the only landmark for miles, swaying like a living ocean in the breeze. A few megalotragus could be seen in the distance, trotting along unconcernedly, but the fat warthogs, snuffling in the nearby mud patch, were of far greater interest to Zug and his tribe.

The stocky little half-men crouched low in the groundcover, effectively hiding them from the already disinterested warthogs. Zug, a veritable giant among his people at over five feet, clutched a crude spear closely and inched forward with slow, smooth movements. He was the leader of a great tribe: over a hundred of the better-fed protohumans in the area. To keep such a large group fed, their hunts had to be frequent and successful. To ensure that success, Zug had to be strong and he had to be smart.

A flicker of movement came from off to his left and Zug turned his head to see another protohuman, Nog, advancing quickly to come parallel with Zug’s place at the head of the pack. Nog was a problem, a rival. Zug knew this in the most basic, ill-defined sense, for he had nothing but the barest rudiments of thought with which to reason. His role as alpha-male imparted him with an instinctive knowledge that defiance like this could not be tolerated.

Demonstrating unprecedented self-control, Zug withheld the usual display of screaming and arm shaking that would be used to greet a challenger. Instead, he bared his teeth and let out a low growl in Nog’s direction, just loud enough to be noticed, but not so much as to frighten the wallowing warthogs.

Nog spared a glance in Zug’s direction and, for a moment, against all rules of primitive decorum, he held his leader’s gaze. Zug felt a roiling tempest of animal rage begin to stir in him but, thankfully, Nog quickly broke off the challenging stare and receded back into the pack. Zug snorted derisively and put the incident out of his mind (an easy task, for his species possessed a decidedly simple mind).

Drawing himself up right to the lip of the muddy quagmire, Zug rose up on his elbows to catch sight of the second group of protohumans directly across from him. Splitting the hunting pack into two groups had been a tremendous innovation and a fine example of Zug’s comparative brilliance. He could see, just barely, that the others were also in position and that the attack was ready to commence.

Zug turned his attention back to the warthogs. There was a great big fat one only a short distance in front of him and Zug decided that this would be the one he would attack. Gripping his spear tightly, Zug vaulted out of the grass and slid down the short slope into the mud. He rushed forward, mud sucking at his bare feet, closing the gap before any knowledge of his approach could trickle through into the warthog’s dense brain. The muddy pig raised its head in quizzical alarm just as Zug rammed his spear into its throat.

The others let out mad whoops and yelps as they followed their leader into the fray. Bone clubs smashed and stone daggers slashed and the warthogs finally recognized that everything was not status quo. They began to stampede away and Zug’s hunters didn’t bother to chase them. Already four warthogs, more than enough to feed the tribe, lay dead in the mud, their blood running in complex rivulets and adding a splash of colour to the murky puddles.

The hunters knew what to do next. They grabbed onto the heavy carcasses and began the arduous task of dragging them back to the caves where the rest of the tribe waited. It was not so many centuries ago that the hunters would eat their fill right here on the plain, only bringing back scraps to feed the women and the very old or very young. But the protohumans had mastered fire now and all meals happened back at the caves.

It was a long trek back, and the sun was beginning to set by the time the hunters returned triumphantly home, dragging their prizes behind them. The other protohumans began to emerge from the caves and make their way down to stoke the everburning fires. Zug recognized his mate among the women but there were no tender words or loving glances exchanged. He simply dumped three hundred pounds of stinking warthog at her feet and together they began sawing away at it to separate meat from bone.

By the time the meal began the sun was fully set but the protohumans paid it no heed. Their bright fires conquered the imposing spectre of night, giving them many more productive hours in a day. Zug was about to take the first bite of the sweet pork, as was his right, when he saw that same flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Nog was there again, edging forward and sniffing covetously at the heap of bloody meat.

This time there were was no need to be reserved and Zug decided, in his primitive way, that the problem had to be dealt with. He had no words with which to voice his feelings—with which to admonish Nog for his presumption—so he resorted to the time-honoured method of screaming deafeningly and raining blows upon the smaller foe. Nog cringed away and let out whimpering shrieks of fear but Zug did not let up until his own bloodlust was satisfied. He left Nog in a fetal ball, cradling swollen flesh and bruised pride.

Zug returned to his meal, breathing heavily, and the other protohumans soon joined him. Nog would eat last, it was naturally understood, after all the choice morsels had been devoured. Zug ate well and returned to his cave that night in a state of contentment, his enemies vanquished and his hunger satiated. He slept the sleep of the unchallenged dictator and woke with the dawn to begin a new day.

****************

It was yet another in a long string of hot, dry, African days. Zug and his band of merry not-quite-men were once more prowling across the plains, spears and clubs in hand. Zug was just about as happy as it was physically possible for him to be. His belly was full, he wasn’t being threatened with imminent death, and his mate had just born him a son (although his pleasure at this was derived from the fact that he could mate with her once more, as he had no cognitive grasp of the father-son relationship).

He cast an appraising eye back over the others and a slight disquiet fell over his good mood. Nog was back there with his little group. They couldn’t really be called a gang because they lacked the language necessary to formalize their alliance. It was more that they were connected in the same unspoken manner that the entire tribe was bound to Zug. It wasn’t official in any sense, of course—open rebellion would be met quickly with death or banishment—but the five or six protohumans in the group definitely seemed to follow Nog almost as obediently as they followed Zug.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. Zug didn’t even truly understand why it made him uneasy, as the situation didn’t fit into the rather limited scope of what his instinct told him to do. The group continued on across the plains, eyes peeled for signs of a possible meal. It was quite a lovely day. The sky was bright blue with only a few puffy white clouds in it (which is, contrary to popular assertion, far more attractive than the rather dull monotony of a cloudless sky) and a lush swath of green trees ahead of them quite nicely accented the burnished gold of the grass.

There was not much wildlife about. Nothing that posed a threat or that could be hunted, that is. There were a few giraffes nibbling away at the trees and a herd of antelope off to the east (the skittish creatures were harmless but far too quick to waste the effort of attacking). It was with great surprise, therefore, that Zug and the others were sent scattering by the bloodcurdling roar of a sabre-toothed tiger. It seemed to come from nowhere and was just suddenly in the midst of them. Its lustrous coat was the same golden colour as the grass (no doubt accounting for its stealthy approach) and the two huge, oversized incisors glinted menacingly.

One of the protohumans was down already, felled by the great cat’s claws, but the others were recovering quite quickly, all things considered. Zug retrieved his spear and charged in with a mighty roar of his own. The protohumans fanned out into a wide circle, hemming the tiger in and preventing it from facing all its attackers at once. They darted in, uncertainly but with great effect, harrying the far more deadly beast with superior tactics. Claws and teeth were fended off by wood and bone, offering yet another advantage.

There were casualties, of course. One of Nog’s group charged in overzealously and slashed at the tiger with his spear, drawing blood but opening himself up to a lightning-fast attack. Powerful jaws closed on his chest and he was shaken like a rag doll, his neck snapping audibly. Another jumped forward with his bone club, hoping to crush the beast’s skull, but was left eviscerated and screaming by a single swipe of a paw. Gradually, though, the tiger was weakening. More and more wounds appeared on its flanks and it began to move in quick, panicked jerks—its cries becoming plaintive in their intensity as it realized its mistake.

Zug sensed an opportunity and moved in warily for the killing blow. The tiger whirled to face him just as he rammed the spear into it. It collapsed to the ground, writhing in its death throes, and Zug leaned his weight on the spear, driving it deeper. Suddenly, a vicious twist of the big cat’s body snapped Zug’s spear and he toppled down upon it. Hot pain slashed across his back as razor claws drew shallow furrows through his flesh. He quickly leapt backwards, away from the deadly scything limbs and was helped back to his feet by a few of his fellows.

The tiger died soon, its blood spilled out on the dusty ground, and the protohumans licked their wounds and prepared to begin the long march back to the caves. Zug was contorted, trying to get a glimpse of his injuries, when something made him turn around. Nog was standing there, backed by his little group (now one man smaller). Zug could tell by the menace in Nog’s eyes that this was to be a challenge—a usurpation of the proverbial throne. Nog smelled weakness in his social better and was fully prepared to act on it.

There was a moment where the only sound was the rustling of the grass and the distant trumpeting of an elephant, and then Zug was moving. He hadn’t gotten to be the leader of a great tribe merely by chance, after all, and he knew how this was done. His fists connected with Nog before the smaller man could react and Nog’s supporter’s backed away, their fragile loyalty momentarily broken by this display of ferocity.

Nog fought back, pounding away at the wounds on Zug’s back. He couldn’t get a good angle for his strike, though, and the pain that washed through Zug was merely agonizing, not debilitating. Zug smashed his fist—heftier and less dexterous than the hands of his future descendents—into Nog’s hairy face and sent his opponent crashing to the ground. He smashed his fists against his chest, ignoring the twinges of pain this caused, and roared his victory to the heavens.

He turned to the rest of the tribe and they supplicated themselves accordingly, showing without a doubt that Zug was their leader. Nog’s followers bent lowest of all, desperate to win back his favor. He began to swagger away, replete in his success. A warm feeling approximating pride filled him. That he could win a challenge even in his wounded state was a clear indicator of his supremacy. Something was amiss, though …

Zug realized slowly that he had stopped moving; something was stopping him. And the warm feeling that seeped through him wasn’t pride anymore. He looked down and saw the bloody tip of a stone spearhead protruding from his bare chest. It receded back in and suddenly his full weight came down on legs that could no longer support him. He rolled as he fell and landed on his back, already losing the feeling in his extremities. He could see a circle of his tribesman standing curiously around him, framing a patch of clear blue sky. Nog stood out most prominently, the bloody spear that had stolen Zug’s life held in one hand.

As the edges of his vision began to dim and the last dregs of strength drained out of him, Zug was actually greeted with a measure of peace. This was, after all, the way that things worked. Power was there to be taken. His sight became a long, narrow tunnel and all he could see now was Nog’s impassive face. Then even that was gone and the tribe had a new leader. Zug’s body lay still in the long grass and the hunters headed for home.

[Kaez]

Drall
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 6/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 11/15

Total: 37/50

Well, first of all, kudos for not a single significant grammatical mistake and no spelling mistakes that I caught. The ease of read... well, the ease of read and use of topic both lose points based on the same thing: the last section. The last section is no longer in the same perspective as the rest of the story, which kind of collapses the 'third limited' topic.

Otherwise, the story was pretty entertaining, if not filled with a lot of "information". The only real problem that I can point out is the whole Villain Explains His Evil Plot cliche. There's just no need for it -- and it doesn't make sense for a successful villain to do it. I think there was a more creative way to show us how that all went down.

The quality of the writing was impressive. Not filled with details, but very vivd nonetheless. It kept me interested and intrigued all along. Well done.



Ali
Spelling & Grammar - 3/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 10/15

Total: 35/50

First things first: More typos than were necessary. Even a quick once-over would have caught most of them. They hindered the ease of read by a bit, honestly.

The use of the topic wasn't -utterly- creative, at least at its core it wasn't, but you fleshed it out into something pretty interesting with the backstories of the characters. On entertainment value, it was good. Some description choices were odd, the David Blaine one being the first example that comes to mind, but otherwise I was quite interested the whole way through.

The writing quality, in following up with the note on descriptions, wasn't bad. Dialogue was a bit rough at places, and things were detailed that didn't seem needed to be (lots of visuals, -LOTS- of visuals) while other things (like any residual pain she might have felt when waking up and being forced to walk?) seemed completely left in the dust. Still, I was entertained by it, but it had spots where touching up was in order.



Taed
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 10/10
Entertainment - 13/15
Quality - 12/15

Total: 45/50

I caught a -single- spelling error and no grammatical mistakes, and considering it wasn't broken by even dialogue, it all flowed wonderfully.

The use of the topic was pretty much as creative as anyone could hope for a political thriller -- because it sincerely was a political thriller, yet in the most unpolitical environment one can readily imagine. So big kudos on real creativity with that.

It was thoroughly entertaining, I cared sincerely what was going on from the start. I'm not entirely sure why -- it lacked your usual descriptive prowess save at the beginning and at the end, but something about that might have let it read smoothly, not burdened by any excess detail. Simplistic in a very good sort of way. Still, some more details wouldn't have hurt anything, and referencing to his future descendants and other things along that line didn't help immersion much -- they kept me a bit detached from it.

Other than those small things though, really good stuff, here.

[The Drall]

I actually debated the whole Villain Explains Plot thing. I didn't really know how else to explain it, to be honest.

And about the changing of perspectives...I thought that when you put asterixes, or you showed clearly you were changing perspectives, it didn't count as third omni. I guess it does, now that I think about it though. I assumed that I couldn't change perspectives WHILE on one character, but I guess it applied to the entire story.

[Kaez]

I'm not exactly sure about the perspective deal either, but I'm pretty sure that it would be considered third omni. It's what one of the people in the third omni topic did for their third omni, even.

But in any case, it definitely threw me off.

[The Timeless One]

Sorry about that, then.

It seems I overestimated myself way too much. I definitely need to be more aware of the extent of my writing capabilities.

Anyways, good job Taed!

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Jan 20, 2010 18:54:44 GMT -5 The Timeless One said:

It seems I overestimated myself way too much. I definitely need to be more aware of the extent of my writing capabilities.

Disagree!

Only way you get better at anything is practice. There is no such thing as overestimation when it comes to writing/arts/painting. Challenges and out-of-comfort-zone work is good for growth. Everybody here has done bloomin' awesome with the topics they have been given.

Do not let your self-esteem pull you down!

[The Timeless One]

Oh, I agree, and I think that going up against both Ali AND Taed made me write the best story I've ever written, and I do think I've gotten better...

I just thought it'd be better then it is. But hey, one judge, right? And besides, each time I write something here I get a lot of helpful advice. Hopefully when next Cup comes around I'll be twice as good as now.

I feel like that for every story too, though. I always have an amazing idea in my mind and it comes out a lot shittier then expected. C'est la vie.

[Kaez]

Jan 20, 2010 18:54:44 GMT -5 The Timeless One said:

Sorry about that, then.

It seems I overestimated myself way too much. I definitely need to be more aware of the extent of my writing capabilities.

Anyways, good job Taed!

... dude.

A)) I'm only one of three judges. This match isn't over by any stretch of the imagination.

B)) Your piece was really good. The third best score I gave out, I think. And, if you look at my scores compared to Agro's and Zovo's in the last round, I give out the harshest numbers.

C)) This probably is the best thing I've ever read of yours. Don't say, "Oh, the best thing I've ever written isn't even good." I gave you higher points than Ali.

Taed's piece was just, I thought, top-notch. My second favorite of anything I've ever read of his.

[The Timeless One]

Jan 20, 2010 19:09:53 GMT -5 Kaez said:

Jan 20, 2010 18:54:44 GMT -5 The Timeless One said:

Sorry about that, then.

It seems I overestimated myself way too much. I definitely need to be more aware of the extent of my writing capabilities.

Anyways, good job Taed!

... dude.

A)) I'm only one of three judges. This match isn't over by any stretch of the imagination.

B)) Your piece was really good. The third best score I gave out, I think. And, if you look at my scores compared to Agro's and Zovo's in the last round, I give out the harshest numbers.

1)) I suppose. Usually the judges in anything, whether these competitions or my debates in english class, say roughly the same, but I've seen occaisons where it isn't. I guess I'm just in a bad mood.

2)) I...thanks. Thanks a lot

3)) See 2.

[Matteo ((Taed))]

Jan 20, 2010 18:34:08 GMT -5 Kaez said:

I'm not exactly sure about the perspective deal either, but I'm pretty sure that it would be considered third omni. It's what one of the people in the third omni topic did for their third omni, even.

But in any case, it definitely threw me off.

I thought that you could still switch between characters when there's a chapter break or something. Limited just means you can only know one at a time, so you can't show two characters' thoughts in the same paragraph or something. I might be wrong, though.

[Kaez]

Jan 20, 2010 19:29:32 GMT -5 Matteo ((Taed)) said:

Jan 20, 2010 18:34:08 GMT -5 Kaez said:

I'm not exactly sure about the perspective deal either, but I'm pretty sure that it would be considered third omni. It's what one of the people in the third omni topic did for their third omni, even.

But in any case, it definitely threw me off.

I thought that you could still switch between characters when there's a chapter break or something. Limited just means you can only know one at a time, so you can't show two characters' thoughts in the same paragraph or something. I might be wrong, though.

I'm not entirely sure, honestly. That's entirely feasible. But even if that's true, it ends up being just... unnecessary to even do that switch at the end. It just didn't feel right.

[The Timeless One]

Meh, it felt right to me at the time, but we do have different opinions, so we'll leave it at that.