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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 1, 2012 17:14:54 GMT -5
You've seen it before but just in case: awritersrecluse.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=rb&action=display&thread=4188There will be a series of challenges for you this month (roughly four each over one week). Each one will be slightly different from the usual challenge and hopefully fun! The timings will be GMT but I'm not going to watch the clock. Entries are still allow until I post up scores and reviews and update the scoreboard. All entries will be posted in this thread. If you want to discuss, open up a discussion thread and we'll use that. Rules: - Can be poerty or prose and any length.
- Must be based around the round's topic.
- (If applicable) Must follow any extra rule the challenge specifies. (I.e. timed, POV, etc.)
Grading guidelines:
Creativity - /5 Spelling and Grammar - /5 Entertainment - /5 Quality - /5
Total -- /20 LEADERBOARD [/SIZE]
1st: Silva 71 2nd: Allya 70 3rd: Mac 56
4th: Croswynd 18 5th: Taed and James 17 6th: Woeful 14TOPIC:You have one week - ending next Tuesday night (8th May). The topic is: [/center]
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Allya
Senior Scribe
My Little Monster!
Posts: 2,271
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Post by Allya on May 3, 2012 8:47:21 GMT -5
Que Sera
When the Ides of Rosen sang their knell When the sky was painted black When silver wings from heaven fell When the earth welcomed them back When our blue waters turned to dust When our green turned sallow brown When our plowshares went to rust When our towers tumbled down Here we gathered, you and I To build them up again We used our hands to shield our eyes To the blinding work of men Knowing in our heart of hearts As we construct the frame once more That we are doomed before we start What will be has been before
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Post by Matteo ((Taed)) on May 3, 2012 19:07:36 GMT -5
Anwar Vladivostok knelt down, surveying the damage. It was definitely a broken axle. The shaft was bent out of shape, and he could see grease sliding slowly towards the V-shaped deformity, where it periodically dripped into a small puddle on the dry earth. Anwar straightened and, in the manner of all homespun men pondering what to do next, he removed his hat and stared at the horizon, one hand hooked in a belt loop, the other scratching the scruffy beard on his chin. A wind blew across the plains, rustling through the scrub grass and the ring of hair on Anwar's balding head. It carried a faint smell of ozone and motor oil. Anwar knelt down again and paid closer attention to the wheels--wheels which were now stationary for the first time in months. Already there were thin silvery roots growing up out of the soil and coiling around the iron spokes. In another hour the men would have to start cutting back larger shoots or else risk losing the lower level. Within a day it wouldn't matter what they did; the Rollhome would be completely overrun. The Coral was particularly bad in this region. In the distance Anwar could see natural rock mesas mined out into spindly towers, their surfaces covered in random girders and smokestacks like so many barnacles. Anwar would normally never have risked bringing the Rollhome this far out, but pressure from the other families had become impossible to ignore. Times had been hard, and the potential profits of this journey had been commensurate with the danger. They had prepared fastidiously for any emergency before leaving Rollport, but the Coral tended to make a mockery of such plans. A virulent strain had accidentally made it on board through decontamination, and had grown into the repair supplies. Every spare part that Anwar's people had brought with them had been absorbed into the clockwork insanity they'd found growing in the cargo hold. They'd been forced to dump everything by the roadside and trust luck to keep them from breaking down before they made it back to port. Anwar walked out a short way so that he could see to the top of the Rollhome's rickety stack of wood and paper walls. Ten stories up, Randon and Niels Congar were preparing to take the second Lifter out. The balloon of the first aircraft was already a white speck on the horizon. They would search in opposite directions and with luck they might find another Rollhome willing to lend aid before it was too late. Hell, at this point Anwar was almost desperate enough to suggest they try searching a Coral Factoryhive. Those weird, lonely structures never built the same thing twice, and it was common to find useful salvage inside, provided you were willing to take the risk. The Congars had finished their preparations and Anwar watched as they clambered into the Lifter and cast off the mooring lines. Copper Sulfate impurities in the kerosene burners caused the hot-air balloon's flames to glow blue-green. Such contaminations were common; Coral often pollinated heavy metals into the most unusual places. As the Lifter struggled for altitude and began to putter lethargically away, a sudden radiance shone down through the roiling clouds. Anwar shielded his eyes as a hole punched through the smogbank, and a Combine scout ship came dropping down balanced on three spears of fusion flame. Grass whipped wildly about, and the Lifter nearly capsized under the tremendous downdraft. The scout ship pivoted about and touched down on several stubby legs a short distance away. The craft was dense and sleek, its silver skin heavy with ablative armour. The airborne Coral would get into most any electronic device given enough time, but this ship looked specially designed to resist it for at least a few hours until it could return safely to orbit. A thick rectangular block of the armour peeled down and became a ramp. Two men walked out of the darkness within and made a beeline towards Anwar and the Rollhome. The first man was tall and lithe, with dark hair and an eyepatch; he was clearly the leader. The second was even taller, and bulging with muscle and scar tissue; a bodyguard. Both wore the blue and orange, military-cut uniforms of Herman-Leister Combine. The smaller man strode up to Anwar, while the bodyguard stayed a few paces back where he could cover the entire height of the Rollhome with the projectile weapon he carried. At this distance, Anwar could see that what he had taken for scars were actually Coral Tumors. Tiny tracks of diminutive machinery spiderwebbed their way across the big man's skin. Little circuit-board lines crept across his bare hands, and half-formed gears the size of pennies protruded in a ridge from his spine. A cluster of vacuum tubes were growing like a goiter from the side of his neck; they would have to be removed by a surgeon before they got much bigger. "Anwar Vladivostok?" asked the thin man. He wore an ornate pistol at his hip but it looked mostly decorative. The big megacorps stood on ceremony almost as much as the Polis States. "You're the chief shareholder on this Rollhome?" he continued. "Yes," Anwar replied. "You actually couldn't have come at a better time. Our main axel has--" "This region is now under official quarantine. Coral progression has exceeded Category 6 and kinetic bombardment has been authorized. You are to return to Rollport immediately." Anwar slowly ran through his hazy remembrance of the company handbook. Category 6 Coral progression was-- "That's radiological development, isn't it?" Anwar said with a start. "The Coral is building nukes?" The thin man puffed out an exasperated breath. The lower edge of his eyepatch fluttered slightly in the breeze. "Herman-Leister Combine supports the consensus that Coral activities are random and unmotivated, as a result of their corrupted program architecture. Anything resembling a weapon produced by Coral fabrication is coincidental, and does not represent a deliberate threat. Suppression of Coral constructs above Category 4 (that is, constructs containing volatile materials or massing above 1000 tons) is an act of public safety, not an act of war, either preemptive or retaliatory. "In accordance with Combine mandate H7F3-4, you are to discontinue mining and salvage operations in this sector and return to your registered port of harbor at once." Anwar glowered at the company man. "That's what I've been trying to tell you. Our main axel has broken and the replacements were lost. We can't 'return' anywhere." The man referred to a small personal computer--it was coated in a thin layer of anti-Coral lamination, but it still wouldn't last more than an hour in the open air like this. "Your Rollhome carries 6 families, correct? 21 people? My vessel can evacuate you immediately, provided you each carry no more than 10 kilograms in personal effects." Anwar crossed his arms and spread his feet belligerently. "You notice we don't call it a Roll office. This is our home. We're not leaving. Either you can help us get moving again or you can explain to your bosses why there were still registered civilians in the zone when you started bombing from orbit." The thin man sighed again. He looked more exasperated than angry. "I am authorized to use force, if necessary. My vessel is equipped with non-lethal ordinance." Anwar leaned in slightly. "Friend, you're talking to people who voluntarily live on a planet where feral nanotech viruses eat anything that stands still for more than five minutes, and turn everything more complicated than a lightswitch into airborne cancer. I think your friend over there can agree that we're not the sort who go down without a fight," he nodded at the tumor-riddled strongman, who actually grunted in some semblance of agreement. The thin man frowned at Anwar for a short while, then punched something into his little computer. "I've requisitioned a repair kit. It will be delivered via orbital drop in 23 minutes. Do try to be more careful next time, the company can't be rescuing you contractors every time a little trouble crops up," he began to walk back towards his ship. "And get the hell back to Rollport before we drop a bomb on your head!" A few moments later the spacecraft thrummed to life and rose up on its fusion jets. It disappeared through the low clouds as quickly as it had come. The Congar's Lifter had been circling during the whole exchange, and Anwar now waved it to return to the Rollhome. They'd have to let the other balloon catch them up, as it was now too far away to signal. All in all not too bad for a day's work, Anwar thought. Their claim was about to get blasted into dust, but at least they wouldn't be around to join it. And the Rollhome would be moving again before the Coral could get a firm hold. Not bad at all. Anwar clambered up the rickety wooden staircase--stomping on a few thin silvery fronds as he went--and went to tell the other families the good news.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on May 5, 2012 18:49:42 GMT -5
The only recovered excerpts from the journal of Harold Parley
June 15th, 1887
The president arrived in his zeppelin yesterday to inaugurate the first ever moving apartments. It’s top-heavy, goes about two miles an hour, and takes ten fellows at the wheel to turn the damn thing, but it’s mobile alright. I don’t envy who gets to live in it, though. Doctor Sullivan insists that this type of housing isn’t just low-income housing, but I don’t buy that hogwash. The whole main design of the thing is based on moving as many people as possible at once without taking too much care of them. To me, I think it’s meant to get workers at a spot, do a big job, and skedaddle before the spot gets much attention. I hear talk there was one they were making to go into the mines – looked sleeker, and had these stubby legs on it, but I’ll be damned if that thing fits into a mine shaft. They tell me it’s going to get special holes to go into, and go a million miles into the earth. Hell, they’d come out in China if they did that - most of the workers are from there, so maybe that’s the plan? Dump them through back home? Still, the apartments got the a-okay, somehow. Got two hundred rooms in it; probably more cozy in that underwater boat Mr. Pinkerton made with how small these things are. Look more like closets with cots in them. The crew don’t do much better, either. Bunch of radio towers up top falling all over the place (I damn near killed myself trying to get the gyros situated up there!) – we might end up eavesdropping on angels they’re so high up. The zeppelin is still hanging around. President wants to get pictures of the monster in motion, so he got some fellow from over in France to bring a super fast picture-taking camera that runs them by like flipping a book. Tomorrow’s when we send her on her maiden voyage. I ain’t going to miss that!
June 16th, 1887 We forgot to give it brakes. Sixty of us who worked on railroads, and we forgot the goddamn brakes. It was like a super slow parade, all the folks waving and cheering at the thing grinding along slower than you can walk. Two fellows seemed to be racing each other to get photographs of it. Got me a copy of the loser’s, I guess. Name was Raymond, and he was all cussing and hollering at the other fellow, Daniel. Guess he kept getting in Ray’s shot. Still, their pictures were all confiscated, so I’m glad I got mine firsthand. These apartments went all the way from Arizona to Nevada without breaking stride, and ended up crashing into a cliff wall. That was the only thing that stopped it – it ran out of coal before it saw New Mexico, but Sullivan says the inertia of the thing was ridiculous. Twelve folk died on it – rooms are all caved in and crushed and made quite a bloody mess. I’m including a little thanks to the Lord for not being part of the clean up crew these next few days. Next week I’m set to working on that sleek-looking mining machine. I have to say, I’m a bit scared of it.
June 30th, 1887
I’m still not sure what really happened, but I feel obliged to write about, even if just to tell someone who’ll believe me. No person I met would, so here I am with a bottle of hooch and my diary. The gossip was right, all right – there was a mineshaft in Oregon built just for this underground-apartment contraption. That cave must’ve been a hundred feet wide and then was added another hundred feet, and tall as the Tower of Babel. And this monster fit in snug as a bug. My friend Elijah went to college, so he got the inside word on what this thing was meant for. He tells me that this machine is meant to be able to live underground – I ask him what for, but he doesn’t say. Only says that it can bring five hundred people under the earth and keep them alive there for as long as they need. It’s got food growing in it, plumbing, water cleaning doohickeys… I bet folk who went trying to find the North Pole didn’t have this much stuff with them. So I was in this thing an hour later. I guess I can call it like being in a zeppelin, or a factory floor, only three times as big. There’re rivets as big as two men in some places, and I-beams that make the bridges in New York look like tinker toys. Down we went, seemingly forever. Easily three hours before we finally stopped – and I honestly don’t know how it stopped to begin with. I think I know now, though.
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Post by JMDavis ((Silver)) on May 5, 2012 20:38:16 GMT -5
Lord Inquisitor Thaxxus came to a halt before the swaying tower. The corpses of man and xenos dangled from cords. The rusted metal walls were stained even darker shades of brown from the blood that had flowed from the mutilated dead.
The bodies of Eldar and the Adepta Sororitas were the worst. Thaxxus looked on with only the slightest tightening of his mouth. While most of the dead had the eight-pointed star carved into their naked flesh, it was the slender Eldar and the Sisters of Battle who had the symbol of Slaanesh marring their bodies. “Prepare the tower for burning, I do not need to know what happened to them before they died,” he turned his back on the structure, striding across the desert world as his team went to work.
Gorgritz unlimbered the hose for his flamer, the massive ork stomping forward and igniting the flame at the nozzle. On either side, Artellus and Lilanieth stepped forward to add to the blaze, psychic fire joining with the intense heat of the flamer to set the metal and flesh alight. Even within the ship he could feel the heat of the flames, smell the stench of burning flesh and melting metal.
Turning from the ramp and moving to the second level of the xenos ship brought Thaxxus to the bridge, where scattered reports and half-glimpsed visions littered the room. The inquisitor took his customary seat in the captain’s throne, and began leafing through the reports once more to refresh himself on the evil he was chasing. Images of the main fugitives were the most prevalent and clear:
“Samaeus the Adonisian – wanted for the rape and defilement of no less than eighteen Preceptories of the Adepta Sororitas as well as the corruption of thirteen Canonesses. Samaeus the Adonisian is notable for the serpentine lower half of his body, his third eye which will beguile and enslave any who so look upon him, and his horribly torn and scarred skin which continually weeps blood. He is the only member of the Emperor’s Children who does not wear pink and black power armour, his blood having stained the ceramite a dark brown. Samaeus the Adonisian is considered threat level Beta. Should Samaeus the Adonisian be confronted, the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition advise immediate termination with no attempt at capture and containment.
“Sendrubal Valaer – wanted for the raiding of frontier settlements of the Imperium, enslavement of citizens of the Imperium and crimes committed in the name of the Chaos god Slaanesh. Known for his cruelty and wanton passions, Sendrubal Valaer has often been seen allying with the Emperor’s Children. Sendrubal Valaer is considered a threat level Gamma. Threat level increases to an Alpha if one is caught unawares. Should Sendrubal Valaer be confronted, the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition advise termination if necessary; otherwise it is by the wish of the Ordo Xenos that Sendrubal Valaer be subdued and returned for questioning.
“Melden Nor – wanted for tech-heresy of the highest degree - innovation. For combining the holy technologies of Mankind with the corrupt technologies of xenos races as well as the Daemonic psycho-sorcery of the Chaos god Tzeentch. Melden Nor has normally been spotted alone, though has as of recent reports become a tech-sorcerer in the service of Sendrubal Valaer, driving the technology of the Dark Eldar Prince to new heights through the tech-heresy of his god. Melden Nor is considered both threat level Alpha Plus and threat level Gamma by the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition. Should Melden Nor be confronted it is advised by the Adeptus Mechanicus that he be immediately terminated, the Holy Orders of the Emperor’s Inquisition second this advisory.”
The droning voice ended with a clipped tone, causing Thaxxus to turn his head and regard the large being behind him. Magos Explorator Valdan had long since given up the last of his humanity. Having lived for over three-hundred galactic standard years the Magos had achieved the full glory of Machine-hood. The vox set within the Magos’ throat hummed before its speech continued. “Final reports on the movement of these fugitives have them in our current sector, though on what planet it is unconfirmed.” “I’m afraid we’ve confirmed it, Magos. Chrissen took the smaller ship out of the hold to scout out much of the planet. It seems after our last run-in with the heretics and their xenos allies their ships were too damaged to continue. Why Melden Nor could not use his tech-sorcery, we do not know. But their ships were found crashed about the landscape, many bodies smoldering near the wrecks.” Thaxxus settled back on the throne, pursing his lips and steepling his fingers, “Though why they were in this sector to begin with we may not know.”
“It is possible they were seeking more followers and slaves. Searching my mem-banks produces many reports on the tech-heresies of Melden Nor. Considering the Forge Worlds which have been raided, and that this planet was chosen above others to crash on it is my belief Melden Nor seeks to create a Titan, a warped version that makes use of xenos, daemonic and human sciences.”
“Magos, they crashed on this planet. There was no planning to it,” Thaxxus reminded softly. He sometimes worried that there were fraying circuits within the cogitator of Valdan.
“Incorrect. Despite the heresies of the Dark Mechanicus their calculations are similar to that of those who walk in the glow of the Machine-God. Melden Nor had the ships revealed at just this moment, they would crash and it would appear as if victory was assured – which worked well for him as the Imperial Navy broke off once the last of the ships had been shot down. We, of course, knew better.”
Thaxxus frowned deeply, his eyebrows coming downward to beetle over his eyes. Oily locks of long blonde hair fell about him, casting a frame about the pale face of the Lord Inquisitor. “To what end? We broke their backs in space, and I doubt either Sendrubal or Samaeus has a ship large enough to transport a Titan. Not to mention the lack of workers…”
“We di’n’t scan fer life formz, m’lord,” Gorgritz shouldered his way into the bridge. The looming ork stank of promethium and fire, its green skin blackened by soot and ash. The ork scratched at one of his metallic fangs, a thick fingernail causing rust to flake off. “Or en’gy sigz. Might be dat they’re in hidin’.”
Thaxxus looked up, scratching his chin and nodding. “Magos, be so kind as to perform the scans for us? I want life readings, energy readings, everything. Gorgritz, go and tell Artellus and Lilanieth that I want them doing a secondary search, reaching into the Warp and scrying for any signs of Chaos activity. They are to bring whatever they find to me immediately, even if it’s a minor presence.”
“Aye, m’lord,” the ork gave a rough salute and stomped out. The deep voice bellowed out and barking orders to the human and Eldar psykers.
Magos Explorator Valdan hesitated, a flash of humanity, “Lord Inquisitor, if we should find something we cannot hope to handle?”
Thaxxus looked to the Magos quietly, “Then we do all we can to warn the Imperium and stop it. If that means flying this ship right down the throat of a Daemon Prince, I’d gladly do it.”
The Magos nodded, ever so slightly, and turned. The heavy, metallic feet clanking on the surface of the xenos ship as it went to begin scanning the world for what they sought.
Thaxxus hoped beyond hope that the Magos would return and report no life signs, save for Chrissen and the ship’s crew. Hoped for no energy signatures save that of the Magos and the ship. But when Valdan spoke from the scan terminal, Thaxxus’ hopes sank. “Multiple life signs of one thousand two-hundred eighty-six. No. Nine-hundred eighty-six, eight-hundred eighty-six, seven, six, five, four, three… two-hundred eighty-six life signatures remaining. Searching for energy – by the Omnissiah,” the vox could not convey emotions, not that the Magos had any. But there was something to the monotonous drone. “A large energy signature, larger than this ship – Imperator Titan at first reading, or lesser Titans grouped together.”
The Magos had been right in that, Melden Nor was building a Titan. Still. “Then we have our target, we’ll need to destroy the Titan before it becomes fully operational. Lock in coordinates and prepare for take-off Mag-GAAAAAAH!” Thaxxus let loose a horrible cry as a psychic scream reverberated through his head and drove him to his knees. Blood gushed from nose, eyes and ears as it pounded at his skull.
His eyes opened after a few moments, the Magos and Gorgritz leaning over him. “M’lord?” the ork rumbled, when Thaxxus’ eyes tracked over to the huge creature the ork exhaled a rancid sigh of relief. “T’ought youz died like da other.”
“Other?” Thaxxus murmured softly.
“Artellus… he’s dead, my lord,” the voice was whisper thin and wracked with pain. A figure so pale as to be almost translucent staggered onto the bridge. Her own skin marred by now drying blood. Lilanieth’s eyes sparkled with tears, both crimson and clear. “We… we found the source of energy, my lord.” She drew in a shuddering breath that turned into a short sob, “A burning eye… a single fiery eye that was all that was hatred. It loomed into eternity, and looked out upon the universe with contempt. The red Cyclops… Magnus. Magnus.” She kept repeating the name as she fell to her knees, still sobbing and shuddering.
Now it made sense - Magnus the Red reborn into a Titan.
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Post by James on May 5, 2012 22:56:17 GMT -5
Cormac Silas consulted his map again. He couldn’t believe that his prowess at map reading had left him so dramatically since becoming a senator. Meanwhile, the sign that hung precariously in front of the building in front of him seemed adamant that he was in the right place. Yet, Cormac found himself shaking his head, thinking that the dusty road and parched fields couldn’t be his destination. The sign, though, was refusing to budge. It was stubbornly declaring itself right.
Welcome to the Port of Amsterdam
Folding his map, he dropped it within the depths of his pocket as Cormac walked towards the only building that wasn’t miles away on the horizon. It looked ridiculous. Unlike the sleek skyscrapers of New York that made the view of his apartment back home, the building was shabbily made. Cormac was possessed with the notion that it was as if a child with a particularly shaking hand had built it with toys building blocks. Putting one block on top of another without care or concern for whether the whole thing would tumble to the floor when they added the next one. Lines of ropes were wrapped around the foundations, leading to old fishing ships, resting tiredly against the dusty ground. Cormac had never seen anything so bizarre.
He carefully pushed the door open. He didn’t want to bring down the entire building by swinging it open with force. An empty room stood in front of him, devoid of furniture or humans, except from a haggard old man behind a single uneven table. His skin was as brown and cracked as the dusty ground outside and Cormac wasn’t sure what creaked more, the man as he smiled or the table as it wobbled in front of him.
“Hello, sir,” Cormac said, bowing deeply. “I’m wondering if Edwin Van Vaart is here?”
“American?” the man growled good-naturedly. “Long way from home, especially to come to Amsterdam. Aye, we got a Edwin Van Vaart here, he’ll be on the top floor.”
Thanking the man, Cormac moved towards the stairs when he noticed that the man had risen from his seat. “I’m sure I can find my own way, sir. I don’t mean to trouble you.”
“Nonsense, the stairs are the most interesting and challenging task of my days,” the man said, limping to his side. Cormac tried to ignore the wooden peg that stood where a leg of flesh should have waited.
Together the pair made their way awkwardly up the narrow staircases that ran through the centre of the misshapen building. Every once in a while they would enter a room with glass walls showing off the desolate countryside and chairs filled with even worse looking men. Some were young and some were old. All were weathered and calloused. Women moved between them, wearing clothes that would make Cormac’s wife mutter about indecency and the decline of society. People laughed and sang and roared as Cormac and the one-legged man disappeared back into the stairwell.
“Can I ask a question?” Cormac ventured, his voice breaking through the lump in his throat. The man growled his permission. “Where is the sea? I mean, this is a port, right? And I see all those boats and sailors, but I’ve been walking through dusty fields from the airport for ages and I haven’t seen a drop of water.”
“Sea? There’s been no sea here for decades.”
“What do you mean?” Cormac said, staring at the man beside him. He had clearly lost his mind as well as his leg.
The man didn’t reply, instead tightly taking hold of Cormac’s arm and swinging him around to face one of the glass walls. In front of him, spreading sideways far out of sight, stood the long metallic vessel that he had walked beside for several miles. Atop it, men scurried like ants, rushing back and forth across the deck as flying vessels launched themselves into the air from it. He had heard rumours of these technological marvels, which would one day reach American shores. They could house thousands of blimps, planes and other flying things while also powering them as well with some unknown source.
“This thing landed here fifty years ago,” the man said, pointing at the juggernaut beside them. “Planted its legs into the coast, the sea slapping angrily against it for the salt knew what was about to happen. It hosed the sea from the earth, storing the water in its vast, stretching belly. Then the flying things use the water for fuel, burning it for power. It burned all it could store and then sucked the water some more. And then burnt it again. And sucked some more until there was nothing left.”
“Burn the water?” Cormac repeated, barely able to restrain his eyes from rolling. “That’s ludicrous.”
The man stayed silent as he walked, except the dull thud of his wooden peg striking the ground. Sniffing the air, Cormac tried to smell the alcohol that would surely be on the man’s breath. He couldn’t smell the stench of whisky or rum, but it didn’t mean there wasn’t any. Excusing himself with a word, Cormac left the drunkard on the stairs, rushing up to the final floor where he found Edwin Van Vaart facing the glass walls with a bottle of beer clutched in his hand.
“Edwin,” Cormac said, greeting him with a smile. “What on earth are you doing here with this bunch of drunks and whores? You won’t believe the story that wooden-legged man has been telling me.”
Edwin Van Vaart turned slowly, his grey eyes oddly lifeless as Cormac stared into them. “Cormac,” he said, pointing towards a seat within the room. “Tell me about your sail over here; it’s been so long since I’ve experienced the sea. It’s been so long since I’ve ridden that watery mistress to glory and battle.”
“I didn’t sail…”
“- you flew, yes, I know,” Edwin interrupted. “No one sails anymore. And why? Because they do not want the people to know.”
“Know what?”
An answer did not greet Cormac’s question, Edwin moving slowly away from the glass to drop into a chair beside him. All around the room were antiques of a bygone age, muskets and fishing nets mounted upon the wall in some glorious tribute to a people that no longer existed. Glass chinked against each other, Cormac looking down to see his former friend pouring him a drink. The brown liquor filled the glass with ease, threatening to overflow as Edwin chose to fill it to the brim. Some things never change.
“When you harness radio frequencies in a specific way,” Edwin said. “It destabilises the hydrogen that helps make up the composition of water. It makes it more prone to react. Indeed, it makes it possible to even burn salt water. Of course, such a thing would make a remarkable source of fuel. In fact, it would be so remarkable that people would rush to build grand structures that had the capacity to extract and store large quantities of salt water to use for fuel. These structures would sit all along the coast of entire countries, sucking the ocean dry for a new source of energy. Soon, even America might allow them upon their shores.”
“Edwin?” Cormac muttered with his mouth slightly agape. Again, he sniffed for the smell of excessive alcohol. However, his former friend’s words had been so steady and commanding, the tell tale sign of slurring as invisible as the sea that should have been around them.
“What do they not want the people to know?” Edwin repeated. “That our greed shall be the end of the sea. That it will be sucked dry until nothing is left. But you must know, and you must let others. I’ve collected my records and evidence of our plight in Amsterdam. Take it back to America and stop this seashore of hell.”
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Post by Deleted on May 7, 2012 20:06:02 GMT -5
As always, it was the strengthening smell of smoke and pollution that roused me from my slumber. It was the stench of fumes from furnaces rising in a black cloud holding not just the remains of metal and ore, but bodies as well. It was ever present in the city, but even out here it shrouded the sky with its sinister clutches, worming its way into the soil, filling and poisoning everything it touched.
The steady thumping of rain against the wood of the vessel and its oiled balloon beat in my ears, audible even from the insides of the ship. I lay there for a few minutes, imagining from the stories I had been told of the feel of it on my skin, cool and pure. The truth of it was less appealing - acid rain that could irritate the skin and even leave pockmarks in the clothing everyone wore when going outside. There would be no frolicking in the storm’s showers as humanity had in the past – now it was only a reminder of how far everything had fallen. Grimacing against the thought of getting out of my warm sheets, I curled up, wanting to sleep and dream of green fields, the steady vibration of the ship a pleasant lullaby.
The pounding thunk of a meaty fist against the door to my cabin disabused me of that notion. “Sam, wake up! We’ve arrived and I’ve no desire to be in this mechanical deathtrap any longer than I need to be.”
Groaning, I sat up with my tousled hair tumbling down my shoulders, grease and grime causing it to shine in the low light of the lantern hanging on a nearby wall. I picked at my hair, rubbing it between my fingers and leaving a disgusting trail of slime on my skin. What once had been a soft red was now a ruddy burgundy and I debated chopping it all off for good. It was nothing but trouble, especially on journeys like this where bathing was a luxury rather than a necessity.
“Samantha?” the grizzled voice asked exasperatedly, still muffled by the door.
I sighed; Daenzil would never allow it. The old dwarf hated the sight of shorn hair, so common these days, because it spoke of defeat. It spoke of submission to the world the races had destroyed, rather than an attempt to fight it to their last breath. Pursing my lips, I flipped the strand over my shoulder, grabbing a leather thong and putting it up in a pony tail. That, at least, Daenzil didn’t mind as much.
The door opened then, my companion glancing in with curious annoyance in his old eyes. He snorted when he saw me sitting there, tying my hair up, and walked into the small room with a disapproving look on his bearded face. “Still in bed, are ya girl? By the Seven, you’ve gotten lazy on this trip. C’mon, up, up, up.”
“Give me a second, will you? And get out, I need to change,” I growled back at him.
“Bah, nothin’ I haven’t seen before or won’t again, lass,” he started, his dismissal stalling as I glared at him. “Fine, fine, I’ll git. But I’ll be comin’ back in here in five minutes whether or not you’ve got your leathers on.”
The dwarf left, pulling the door closed behind him. Rolling my eyes, I hopped out of bed and made toward the sack I kept with me at all times. A few moments later, I was back in my normal attire –brown leather breeches, a tough belt around my waist with various components for spells, and a laced up blouse lined with sheepskin. Gloves and boots followed and finally a single dagger on my hip completed the ensemble.
I opened the door with my pack slung over my shoulder to see Daenzil leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed across his barrel chest. “’Bout time you got outta there, Sam. C’mon, outside an’ freedom from this death trap’s waitin’ this way.”
The dwarf jerked a thumb to his right and started walking down the dim hallway. I closed the door behind me out of habit and followed him, taking in the two longswords on Daenzil’s back. Frowning, I turned a corner after him into the main hold of the ship, noticing a few crewmen lounging around while others began unpacking barrels and other cargo for the landing.
“Where’d you get that new sword?” I asked.
Daenzil glanced back at me, confused for a moment before his eyes found the wired hilt of the weapon in question. “Ah, glad you noticed. Picked it up after playing dice with one of the crewmembers. Humans always have terrible luck when playing ‘gainst a dwarf. ‘Tis a nice piece of steel, truth be told - even has a little enchantment on it. But enough o’ that, let’s get on deck and off of this blasted boat.”
Shaking my head ruefully at the foolhardiness that would cause one of the crew to gamble with my friend, I followed Daenzil up the flight of stairs set in the middle of the hold. The first thing I noticed as I ascended to the outside was the wind. It was blowing in from the east, sending my hair swirling around in the stiff breeze and howling like a banshee. But that wasn’t the only sound that was assaulting my eardrums.
Massive turbines on either side of the ship hummed with power, their blades slicing through the air with the ease of a sharp axe through unarmored flesh. I could feel the ever present vibration as the mechanics watched over the steam-belching power source below, always one step ahead of catastrophic failure. A shudder ran through the ship as if in response to my thoughts, sending me stumbling to the side, but I could already see it wasn’t the prelude to a fiery death. We had finally arrived.
“Where are we anyway?” I yelled over the engines and stared at the towering building we had pulled up beside. It looked like someone had stacked house after house atop one another haphazardly, lightning rods and flags bending in the wind at its peak like an ant’s antennae. “You never told me the destination.”
Daenzil opened his mouth to fill me in when a man lithely descended from the wheelhouse of the zeppelin. “Brazen’s the name of this fine establishment, my dear. Good place to pick up supplies and always in need of a few adventurers like you and your,” he eyed the dwarf distastefully, “…associate.”
I scowled at the captain’s words and privately felt a bit of revulsion working through my stomach at his use of ‘my dear’. “Thank you, Captain Kris, for the information and the ride. I believe we’ve already paid you to take us here, so we’ll be off. If you don’t mind.”
The annoying smirk the man wore didn’t fall, but I could tell he was offended anyway. It was the way his eyes had flashed at the last bit of added sarcasm. “But of course. If you ever need another ride-.”
“We’ll look for you first,” Daenzil assured the man before gesturing at me. “Off we go, Sam. I’m sure the captain has more import’nt business to take care of than looking after the two o’ us. Thank ye again for the transport, Cap’n.”
The smile on the man’s face dropped into a scowl that matched mine as we walked off his ship to the rickety wooden gangway it was attached to. Daenzil glanced over the side and cursed, muttering under his breath and walking directly in the center of the plank. I smiled at his behavior, quickly morphing it into a frown as rain began to pelt my head now that we were out from under the zeppelin’s balloon.
I pulled my hood up while my companion remained bareheaded. His hardy, dwarven constitution was enough to protect him from the acidic water droplets. I envied him that sometimes, but being human had its advantages. Like height, I thought with a wry amusement.
We continued toward the burgeoning mass of buildings with a leisurely step, the short dock that extended high above the ground buttressed by wooden beams sheathed in metal. A massive lift with crates and barrels tied down on it was just lowering itself toward the ground far below. Thankfully there was an awning the closer we got to the town’s proper, but I kept my hood up regardless. It was a fine bulwark against the chilling wind. A few workers and traders prowled the deck as another zeppelin began to cast off, seething toward the newest arrivals. Unfortunately, that also meant us.
“Ah, fair lady, if I could have a moment of your time, I have wonderful deals for anything you could desire, jewels to swords, herbs to spell components!” a particularly quick dwarf said from underneath a flamboyant hat and glasses. I smiled politely and shook my head, but he was far from deterred. “What of you, fellow dwarf? Perhaps you’d enjoy the latest oils and whetstones for your mighty swords?”
Daenzil let out a boisterous laugh at that. “No need for that, I’m afraid. Stocked up at our last destination. Still, maybe you can help us.”
The merchant bowed, his wet beard bobbing with his speech. “Finzel Brackenbit will do whatever he can to serve a worthy dwarf such as yourself.”
“Enough of the pleasantries,” I said impatiently, already tired of the scraping and bowing. “We need to find a man named Ashcroft. Do you know the name?”
“A—ashcroft?” the dwarf stuttered, suddenly taken aback. “As in Blain Ashcroft?” I grinned with feral intensity. “You know him, then?”
Finzel glanced away, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them on his doublet. “I may know of this…individual, my lady, but--.”
“If you’re askin’ for coin, trader, we’ve got enough to pay for the information,” Daenzil interrupted coldly, his speech less polite. The dwarf was like a dog on the scent now, all business, a trait I admired about my companion.
“Yes, well, this particular information will cost at least one gold piece,” the merchant said pompously, now that he had something we wanted. “And not a copper less.”
I shared a glance with Daenzil, the dwarf smirking behind his beard. Putting on my coldest smile, I turned back to Finzel and held up a hand in front of him. A small pinprick of fire started up just above my palm, swirling in the wind. It shifted and grew into a disc-like shape, spinning in place. Finally, I closed my palm with a suddenness that caused the merchant to jump.
When I opened my hand again, a single silver piece glowed on top of my glove, hissing in the rain. “I like silver, Brackenbit. Do you know why that is?”
“N—no, my la—lady,” Finzel stuttered, his eyes as wide as a dinner plate behind those silly looking glasses.
“Because when you heat it up like I just did, it gets extremely, extremely hot.” I floated it off my palm and toward the dwarf, who trembled as it stopped before his nose. “Yet it still maintains its shape, even so. It will melt eventually, of course, but it takes much more time than gold. That would make it somewhat superior to gold in a way, wouldn’t you say?”
I let the silver piece drop to his beard, where it began to singe the hairs there. Finzel shrunk away from the contact into the boxes behind him, tripping and landing on his rump. I grinned and winked at him, grabbing the coin out of the air and flipping it with a flick of my thumb. It landed on the dwarf’s lap, eliciting a yelp.
“Oh, don’t be such a coward. It’s perfectly cool, just like any other coin. But that is my final offer, worthy dwarf,” I continued sarcastically. “Now where is Ashcroft?”
The merchant gulped and glanced down at the coin, picking it up gingerly in his hand. Seemingly satisfied that it wasn’t going to burn his fingers, it disappeared into the folds of his doublet with practiced ease. I smirked and offered a hand to help him up, but he shook his head and stood under his own power.
“Ser Ashcroft is visiting the local Viscount in an inn several stories down,” Finzel started, his tone clipped and business-like. “You may find him in the Horse’s Bride.”
Daenzil snorted. “The names you humans come up with.”
“Quickly, how many men does he have with him?” I asked with a snap of my fingers, ignoring my companion.
The dwarf furrowed his brows. “Why, he came alone and in a great hurry. I can now see why.”
“Spare us your guesses,” I said distractedly, tapping a finger against my lips. Ashcroft had come alone, but he was still meeting with the Viscount. As a knight, he had the prestige to do so, but in an inn with such a seedy name? That didn’t sound like Ashcroft, which had to mean it wasn’t his first choice. “This Viscount. What can you tell me about him?”
Now the dwarf’s expression became thoughtful. “Well, I suppose I would be able to tell you more if I had another silver piece, but I really don’t think I can remember anything right now, what with the fright you’ve given me. It’s all slipped my mind!”
Sneering disgustedly at the greedy merchant, I nodded to Daenzil. “He’s not going to offer us anything of value. Let’s go.”
“Aye,” my companion agreed, saluting the other dwarf. “Oh, and if we run into any trouble you decided not to tell us about, countryman, we’ll be back. You have my oath on that.”
“Good fortune to you, then,” Finzel called out to them as they walked away.
“You always manage to find me the best people everywhere we go, don’t you?” I murmured when we were out of earshot.
Daenzil chuckled and wiped his balding head free of rain. “You’re a magnet for them, lass, I’d say. Never had any trouble coming here before.”
I yawned, glancing out over the brown fields of sickly grass that covered the hills around the massive settlement like the hide of a dead animal. A twinge of sadness pierced my heart at how used to the sight I was. Fortunately, the view was swallowed up by the wooden walls of Brazen. The siren call of the wind slowly leveled off and was overtaken by the buzz of conversation of a busy town. People, both men and dwarves, wandered together in groups of twos and threes, all dressed in the drab browns and grays that was depressingly similar to the outside world.
The interior of the place was far more impressive than the outside, I had to admit, with his variable interior lighting and massive cogs and wheels belching steam for no apparent reason. I suspected it probably had to do with the cargo lift I had seen earlier, but there were other sights competing for my attention. A large, central pillar took up a good chunk of the middle of the small plaza, around which were situated various storefronts with anything from old fashioned swords to the newest versions of the clockwork guns that were beginning to become so popular.
I passed a store filled with the latter, my reflection looking back at me in the glass pane. My greasy hair was the first thing that caught my eye, but I steadfastly ignored it, peering at one of the pistols on display. I didn’t know how the weapons worked, but they did manage to impress me with their variety of moving parts, upgrades, and scopes. It was almost completely alien to me, since I’d grown up with blunderbuss’ and single shot rifles.
“You can window shop later, Sam. We’ve got a shamed knight to capture,” Daenzil whispered lightly from my side. I glanced down at him, nodding and heading toward one of the stairwells to my right. A brightly lit orb of light was attached to the wall above the stairs, bathing the steps in a sterile, white glow. I furrowed my eyes at the device, wondering if it was magic, like the will o’ the wisps I could summon on command, or some kind of new technology.
Before I could examine it any closer, someone bumped into me from behind, almost knocking me down the stairs. I yelped, reaching out and grabbing for the rail to my right, adrenaline racing through me from the near fall.
“Bloah!” Daenzil exclaimed from beside me as a shape flew down the stairs like a wraith. “What the--! Me pipe!”
I glanced over to see the dwarf patting his belt where the beloved pipe had been, the string holding it cut. One look down to my belt and I knew I was also missing something – my dagger. “That blasted little thief! Daen’, I’m running ahead!”
“Get the buggar for me!” Daenzil’s voice followed me down the stairs as I took them two at a time, not entirely surefooted. Still, I managed not to fall or break anything, hitting the next floor running after the shadowy form.
“Come back here! Thief! Stop him!” I called out uselessly, diving into the crowd of people after the lithe rogue. Cries of surprise rang up as I slammed into first a dwarf and careening into a group of women, my own agility not up to the task of darting into the gaps between the crowd. I sent an apology over my shoulder after righting myself, the crowd parting itself quickly as I gave chase.
I dashed across the small courtyard that looked identical to the one above, the thief making his way around the giant wooden pillar in an effort to throw me off. I growled at that, already beginning to feel a stitch in my side from the short run. While I was in enough shape to cast spells for ten minutes straight, physical exertion like this I was less prepared for. Still, I wouldn’t let that stop me. Grimacing against the pain, I dug in and followed the thief as he ran into one of the stores.
More cries of objection rang out in the busy air, patrons diving out of the way as I elbowed my way through the store. I heard a crash behind me. Probably one of the racks of fancy jackets.
“Oops,” I muttered, slowly catching up to my target. The clothing the thief was wearing was soot-stained like my own, but there was a thin sheen of gleaming grease on it as well. Probably to help him blend into the low lit areas of this place. I was determined not to give him that option as the wall at the end of the store came up.
Suddenly the thief stopped in place, turned to his right and ran up the wall, grabbing onto a window ledge and pulling himself through it. I gritted my teeth at the sight. That wasn’t fair! Narrowing my eyes, I came to a decision – break the wall down.
I whispered the incantation to myself, moving my hands in the correct patterns, well aware of the time I was taking. Still, one missed syllable would mean I’d have to start over. I was shouting by the time I finished, pushing both my hands forward in front of me. A wave of visible mist rushed forward, slamming into the wall and ripping it apart in a thunderous explosion of splinters and magic miasma.
The wave of nausea swept over me just as suddenly, my gorge rising in my throat. I lifted a hand to my mouth, willing myself not to throw up, and moved forward in a deliberate pace. It was a room, I saw, its only access most likely the window in the wall that I had just demolished. I looked around warily, curses flying behind me from the angry manager, light from the store illuminating the tiny space.
I furrowed my brows as I looked around, noticing nothing but a small, overturned bench and a broken chair. Stepping forward, my boot encountered something uneven. I looked down to see a corner of the floorboard tilting up, my eyes following the thin line of a square.
“A trap door. Of course,” I groaned, raising a palm to my forehead.
“Who’s going to pay for this?” a man’s angry voice said from behind me. I twisted around to see a heavyset human with a tiny mustache jiggling on his ugly face. Pay for wha-- Oh, right. The wall. I rolled my eyes.
Before I could speak, Daenzil appeared, huffing and puffing. “Did ya get ‘im?”
I shook my head and pointed at the thief’s escape hatch. “No, he got away through this.”
“What about me pipe?” he grunted, taking a deep breath.
Pursing my lips, I looked around the room. Nothing but the shattered remains of the wall and- wait. I kneeled down next to the trap door and grabbed two shattered halves of my friend’s treasure. “Found it.”
“Well, what’re ya waitin’ for, give it here!” Daenzil said eagerly.
I stood up and dropped it into the dwarf’s begging palms, accompanied by a stuttering gasp and a wealth of dwarven curses. With one problem dealt with, I turned my attention to the irate, red-faced man.
“I can fix this,” I said slowly, well aware I could be arrested for my deed. “Just give me a few seconds, alright?”
“I have already given you many, many seconds while you chattered away with your dwarf!” the manager exploded, raising his hands in the air and visibly forcing down his anger. The ruddy flush that had been creeping up his neck receded with a few short breaths. “Replace my wall, witch, or I will have you hanged. The Viscount’s favorite shop cannot be seen to have a giant hole in it, or it’ll be my head as well as yours.”
Nodding my thanks, I turned back to the wall and began casting the spell.
*****
“He broke me pipe,” Daenzil muttered again.
I narrowed my eyes, walking beside the dwarf with a new black eye and a bruise on my jaw. The manager had hit me twice before I could recover from my spell after fixing his wall. Obviously not all his anger was as under control as it had previously seen. Still, I had just wiped the blood from my lip and walked out – revenge wasn’t part of the code sorceresses lived by. Down that road led corruption and death – mine or my keeper’s, but eventually mine either way.
“He broke me pipe!” the dwarf uttered, louder this time.
“I heard you the first time,” I growled around my split lip. It briefly flared up with pain, forcing a grimace on my face that just made it worse. “I’ll buy you a new one when we get back to the castle.”
Daenzil quieted down after that, seemingly mollified. I sighed with relief and took another step, wondering where we were now. Brazen was a confusing mess of varied stories once the top two layers were bypassed. It seemed like every hallway ended up on the opposite side of the structure, with alleyways leading to housing and seedy storefronts.
“It was such a good pipe…”
I closed my eyes, trying to swallow the irritation creeping into my throat, and stopped in the middle of the corridor. “Enough about your pipe. We need to figure out where this tavern is before Blain manages to get away. I wouldn’t doubt it if he’s already heard we’re here.”
The dwarf looked up at me speculatively. “Your little display back there certainly didn’t help. And it probably broke my pipe, too.”
“Daen’, focus. Mad knight. Left his comrades to die. Kill or capture orders. Tavern,” I said through clenched teeth.
“Bah, don’t worry, we’re heading in the right direction. Like I said before, I’ve been here a time or two,” Daenzil waved my words away with a cavalier air. “Now, if I remember right, the tavern should be one floor below us…” he glanced at his feet, “and a little to the east. Besides, Ashcroft has nowhere else to go but down and the only thing further down is the ground, where we can see him for miles.”
I scowled at him, but saw his point. Still, I couldn’t help but point out a flaw in his plan. “And what if he finds some kind of secret hatch like the one our thief disappeared down? Speaking of which, you owe me a knife when we get back to the castle.”
“Take things one at a time, girl. If he gets away, we’ll just go after him like before and keep doing that until we nab the big rat.”
“Fine. We’ll do it your way,” I grumbled, following the dwarf as he unerringly made his way toward our goal.
The noise of the tavern was audible even from the outside. Its one wooden door was open, spilling out light and the raucous hubbub of its patrons.
Smoke drifted heavily from the threshold and I wrinkled my nose with disgust. Daenzil just breathed in deeply and let out an appreciative sigh.
"Smell of a tavern never gets old, 'specially after a long journey," the old dwarf muttered as we drew closer. "I could do with a good leg o' lamb."
The aroma of cooked food coming from the doorway caused my stomach to growl, but I viciously ignored it - time enough to eat after we captured our prey. "We're here for Ashcroft, Daen'."
My keeper squinted up at me, stopping in front of the doorway. "Got a plan up in that little red head o' yours, by any chance?"
I threw a wry grin back at him. "I was thinking we could just walk in and start tearing up the place."
Daenzil's eyes turned to slits. "Mayhaps I should do the talking, then. Follow my lead, girl. The Viscount might be able to help us keep this nice and civil."
"A viscount in a seedy tavern wouldn't be the first person I'd trust with being honorable," I muttered under my breath, but followed my companion into the Horse's Bride regardless.
The sign creaked as I walked under it, drawing my attention to a crude rendition of a bride with the head of a horse, veil and all. I snorted amusedly, agreeing with Daenzil's sentiment earlier; humans really did create interesting mascots for their taverns.
As soon as I walked in, another batch of smoke blew into my face. I coughed loudly, futilely waving the miasma away and drew a few glances from nearby tables. Leering gazes from a dozen different men and women followed my companion and I, though more of them were paying Daenzil's dual scabbard the most attention.
I took that opportunity to scout out possible threats, picking out the ones with obvious weapons and those with tell-tale bulges in their clothing with a practiced eye. A flick of my fingers and a muttered spell revealed more, minor enchantments glowing a soft red and a couple of major magic sources near the back of the room. I immediately canceled the spell, but I could already feel a probing return passing over me. There were other magi here, one unpleasantly more powerful than I from what I gathered during my cursory inspection.
"Daen', back of the room. Two sorcerers," I whispered casually.
"Aye, I see them. They've been staring at us since we passed the bar. Your work, I take it?"
I glared at the dwarf's back ineffectively. "Do you see Ashcroft?"
A shake of his head brought on a sense of failure, but I refused to give in to it. "No, I don't. But that doesn't mean he isn't here. Keep an eye out while I talk to the Viscount. I imagine our illustrious host is the one lounging between those two magi with a girl in his lap."
I followed my keeper's gaze, a sense of apprehension roiling through my stomach like a snake as the more powerful of the two magic users caught my eye. He was bald and wore unassuming brown robes, but the aura he carried about him bespoke of confidence in his superiority. I shifted my gaze uneasily to the lord, apprehension giving way to surprise.
The Viscount of Brazen was completely different from how I had originally pictured him. His body was not a corpulent mass, but a fit one, defined muscles visible even underneath his plainwoven brown shirt and breeches. Like his magi, he held himself confidently, though unlike the other the Viscount had a full head of brown hair. The wench in his lap was running her hand through its short locks and whispering into his ear, as plainly dressed as her lord.
Chainmail and plated armor sat by the seat on the small platform, while a massive polearm leaned against the back of the chair within arm's reach. I had no doubt that the man could wield the weapon superbly even with the heavy armor, judging by his demeanor. A cold feeling of fear shot through me; I was glad Daen' had come up with the plan this time.
We stopped before the cleared space in front of the platform, Daenzil patiently waiting while they looked us over. I fidgeted beside him, uncomfortable under their gazes. At least the rest of the tavern remained talkative instead of staring at us. A small smile tugged at the Viscount's mouth after a few moments and he nodded for the dwarf to speak.
Daenzil cleared his throat before complying. "Evenin', Viscount o' Brazen. Warden Daenzil, happy to be under your roof once more, though I'm afraid I've a bit of a bone to pick with you over your urchins and thieves."
I winced at my companion's manner, wondering if it was indeed wise for him to do all the talking. His gruffness was fine back at the castle with the degree of familiarity between him and our lord, but that didn't mean it was correct everywhere else. I waited for the Viscount's face to grow red and his magi to burn us to a crisp, but the man surprised me once again.
The Viscount chuckled, sending his wench away with a pinch. "You speak plainly, Warden, which means you have indeed visited my house in the past. I welcome you, though I daresay I have little authority over how well you keep safe your belongings. Now, what business have you with me?"
Fighting to keep my startlement from showing, I glanced about the tavern to search for our prey, Daen's voice loud even over the buzz of conversation. "My charge and I are searching for someone - a former knight by the name of Blain Ashcroft. We have received information that he was meeting here in this tavern with you, Viscount, no doubt to seek your sanctuary or help fleeing my lord's justice."
I looked back just in time to see the Viscount's eyes dart toward his left, toward the wall nearby. Following the man's gaze with interest, I stared at the seemingly bare, wooden wall. It was nothing out of the ordinary, but then again if there was the seam of a hidden door I wouldn't be able to see it from this distance. Unless...
"Who gave you this information, dwarf?" The Viscount's voice was gruff.
I flicked my fingers again, muttering another spell under my breath.
"A merchant called Finzel Brackenbit, also a dwarf, who we met at the zeppelin landing. Nervous fellow, he was, but he seemed to be telling the truth as he saw it."
Before I could finish casting, I felt a pressure against my temples, my lips freezing in place. Fury rose in my breast as I fought against the pressure, the spell only a couple of words from being complete. My gaze fell on the less powerful of the Viscount's sorcerers, who was smirking at me with his fingers tapping a counterspell against his robes.
“Robert.”
I glared back at the trumped up magician and pushed back against him, his eyes widening. After a few seconds, I had succeeded in throwing his counterspell off. Now it was my turn to smirk at him, though I refrained from adding the needle of ice I so longed to drive into his hand. Still, that didn’t stop me from sending him an image of it into his mind.
“Robert!” the Viscount’s voice rang out, the tavern instantly silenced. All eyes looked to us, drawn by their lord’s yell. “Enough of your games with the witch. Find me this Finzel and bring him to me.”
The weakling stumbled over his tongue. “A—a—at once, m—my lord. I apologize, my lord.”
“I don’t want your apologies. I want that dwarf. Begone.” The lord of Brazen glanced back over the tavern, his eyes glittering dangerously, and waved for the conversations to resume. They did, swiftly. “Now, Warden, let us talk about your accusations. Ashcroft is a legally endowed knight, with all that implies. I hope you have more than your word to show as proof of his—ah, I see you are ahead of me.”
Daenzil was holding a letter in one of his gloved hands. “Aye, Viscount. I’ve been around long enough to know how to speed these discourses along. We’re all busy beings, after all.”
The older scorcerer stepped off the platform and took the letter, floating it to his liege on a puff of air. I rolled my eyes at the theatrics.
“Thank you, Bartimaeus,” the Viscount said bemusedly, tearing open the letter with the dagger sheathed at his waist. He pulled out the parchment that lay within and unfolded it, beginning to read, muttering under his breath. I watched his face for any more signs that he knew where our quarry was, but there were no more furtive looks or a sudden reddening of the face.
Moments later, he was done, letting the letter and the hand holding it drop into his lap with a sigh. “I see. A coward, then. Bartimaeus, if you please, remove our guest from-.”
None of us were going to find out where from Ashcroft was supposed to be, because at that moment, he was right behind the Viscount. I started to shout a warning, but it died in my throat, my eyes widening as I realized what had happened.
A foot of steel was jutting out of the Viscount’s chest, blood soaking into the brown material and sliding off of the blade. The cruelly grinning face of my prey leaned down to whisper something into the lord’s ear, whose eyes flicked toward the elder sorcerer, then at me. I caught the warning just in time. With a quick flick of my hand, I erected a shield around me, streams of ice and snow flurrying around it like water meeting a stone. Screams lit the air of the tavern as the jagged crystals sliced into its occupants. I winced at the sound, but I couldn’t worry about it now. The bald man was beginning to cast another spell, his hands moving quickly and precisely, a stream of arcane words falling from his lips.
I recognized the spell at the last instant, but there was no time to cast the counter spell. Instead, I dove to the right just as a ball of green flame charred the air I had just occupied. I hit a chair on my way down, its wooden frame slamming into my side as I tumbled, my breath knocked out of me. I lay there for a few moments, stunned, bits of glass and ale raining down on me as the table flipped over my body on a artificial wind.
Knowing I was a few seconds away from turning into yet another victim of a corrupted mage, I threw the chair I had landed on in the general direction of my attacker. A grunt of pain came from the sorcerer, music to my ears. With a few seconds at most bought with my sudden offense, I rolled to my hands and knees, taking quick stock of the battlefield.
Daenzil was trading blows with Ashcroft on the platform, the knight’s bloodied sword sending droplets flying with every impact. I dismissed my keeper for now; he could take care of himself. I, on the other hand, had to come up with a plan to deal with someone older and much more powerful than me. My hand grabbed for my belt, pulling out a bit of glittering dust and letting it fall out in front of me. A shimmer appeared, then a fully realized copy of myself ran forward, full tilt.
Unfortunately, that didn’t seem to buy me much more time than the chair had. Before I could even decide what to do next, my copy disappeared in a haze of black smoke. I hadn’t even seen what spell the other had casted. Not good. With nothing else coming to mind, I ran further to my right, jumping over an overturned chair and slipping on a bowl of mashed potatoes. I skidded a meter, slamming into the bar and stopped my forward motion. A sheet of icecicles blew past me, centimeters from my nose. I flinched away, dropping into a crouch, wishing fervently for the dagger that’d been stolen from me.
Now in a compromisingly embarrassing position to die in, I opted for offense. My hands moved through the well practiced motions, a flick of my fingers here and a sign made there, and sent a wave of air flying toward my assailant. Moving quickly, I stood up, sending a ball of fire streaking right after it, followed by a slicing sheet of ice.
To my awe, the sorcerer deflected both the air wave and the fireball, sending them careening into the far wall behind him. The ice, he just stopped dead, watching calmly as it fell to the ground and cracked. We stood there for a second, staring at each other. I instantly spotted the ribbon of blood threading its way down Bartimaeus’ forehead and into his left eye, a possible advantage.
The pause didn’t last for long, though. A cloud of green gas drifted toward me at high speeds, melting everything it touched. I didn’t recognize the spell he used to cast it, so I evaded it by leaping behind the bar on my right. Running, diving, jumping – all of it was becoming a regular occurrence for me in this fight. I was getting angry, both at the skill and poise with which my adversary casted and my own inability to do anything.
I ducked, noticing a slight shimmer in the air coming at me from the side. The hardened air whisked over me, catching my hair in the breeze, and stopped with a crashing thump in the bottle-laden wall. Glass and cheap whiskey cascaded over me like a torrential downpour; I guess I was getting that shower after all.
Acting quickly, my hand found one of the undamaged bottles, while the other began casting a one-handed spell I’d learned during my first year with magic. A light appeared in the bottle, that of a flame sucking greedily on the alcohol within, the pressure inside of it increasing exponentially. I stood and threw the spirits directly at the sorcerer, its arc catching Bartimaeus’ attention long enough for his next spell to go awry.
Even so, the effect of his spell caught my left side. Numbing coldness took hold of my arm, rendering it little more than a useless club – one I couldn’t even use as such. A second later, my improvised weapon exploded, showering my target in burning liquid that quickly caught on his robes.
A scream erupted from the man, the first sound I’d heard from him since the fight began. I watched with a perverse satisfaction as he jumped around in agony, batting at the flames, but I knew I should finish him off. Just as I began to send a lethal shard of ice at him, the sorcerer disappeared in a flash of light, leaving his clothes to burn. I blinked, my words trailing off in my shock. Teleportation! He had just teleported!
I glanced behind me, sure he was about to pounce with revenge foremost on his mind, but there was nothing but the messy remains of the bar. Then the sound of steel crashing against steel caught my attention. Daenzil!
The two combatants were both battered, the dwarf’s old sword no longer in his hands and the shiny new one he’d picked up on the ship replacing it. Rents in my keeper’s leather armor shone darkly with blood in the lantern light, but Daenzil was giving as good as he got.
Ashcroft’s chainmail armor was sliced in several places from well placed blows and the visor on his helmet knock half off. It hung from the side of his face, impairing is view and distracting him with the unfamiliar weight distribution. I wasn’t surprised the man hadn’t managed to take the helm off with the speed he was being engaged.
Their swordwork ebbed and flowed across the platform, both of them breathing heavily. Daenzil was beginning to gain the upper hand, but if my suspicions were correct, that was about to change. An instant later, I saw my fears were well founded.
A blast of light interrupted the battle, a wave of pure force throwing my keeper into the wall behind him. Bartimaeus stood in the center of the platform, stark naked and burns bubbling on his face and hands. His shoulders were heaving with the amount of magic he had been using, as well as the pain of his injuries. Even so, the fact that he had been cool headed enough to cast a teleportation spell while being burnt alive was shocking.
Knowing what was coming next, I vaulted over the table, throwing a quick couple of fireballs one-handed directly at the two on the platform. The elder sorcerer blocked both of them, sending them back toward me with his own added power in them. I cursed, diving into a roll that took me under their fiery paths, the heat assailing me through my leathers.
When I stood up out of my roll, they were gone. A stream of curses left my lips as I stared at the spot they had been. Nothing but the Viscount’s remains and scorched wood stood as evidence the two were ever here.
“Damn it!” I yelled at the devastation around me. The sound of struggle came from my right, my companion’s plight suddenly returning to my mind. “Daen’!”
I ran toward the dwarf to see him try to free himself from the middle of a shattered table. It must have buckled under the force of his impact, a tangle of chair legs and food on top of him. “Oh, don’t mind me here, girl, just a bloody dwarf who can’t get up.”
The anger and bitterness in his tone brought a smile of relief to my face. Yes, Ashcroft had escaped, but at least we had both survived. I swiftly untangled him from his trap, pulling him to his feet with more than a little difficulty. Now that the battle had finished, the adrenaline in my system had ebbed, leaving me shaky and tired from my rapid fire magic use. I doubted I could even conjure up a will o’ wisp. Even so, I had to tend to my frozen arm.
“Ashcroft escaped, did he?” Daenzil said after picking up his sword and replacing it in the scabbard across his back.
I nodded, falling into one of the few unbroken chairs to begin my healing. “Teleported out by that bald sorcerer.”
The dwarf glanced behind me, his eyes tingeing with sadness. “Ah, the Viscount’s beyond our ken, too, I see. Damnable knight. Didn’t think he’d have it in him to kill a lord.”
“Daen’, he left his own men to die. He’s obviously insane,” I argued with exasperation, swiping a strand of hair behind my ear that had fallen out of the leather thong and began to mend the cuts on the dwarf's body.“Now we have to find him, again, and deal with his pet mage.”
“Corrupted sorcerer, you mean,” my keeper’s voice hardened. I looked up from the last of my healing to see a glint of hatred in his eyes. “It’s my duty to keep this land free of ‘em. It’s thanks to them the world’s as bad off as it is!”
“Daenzil--,” I started, not wanting to dredge up old memories for the dwarf. He shook it off and moved to leave. “Let’s get to work, Sam. Teleportation spells don’t travel very far with two people.”
I pursed my lips and stood, following the dwarf out of the tavern. “What about the Viscount? And Brazen?”
The old dwarf glanced up at me with a scowl. “New one’ll be picked soon enough and we don’t want to be caught in that crossfire. Brazen will still stand at the end of it, if leaning a little more precariously that it already is.”
“Alright,” I said, thinking of buying one of those clockwork pistols as a little surprise for Blain Ashcroft and the burnt mage. “Off we go.”
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 8, 2012 18:00:14 GMT -5
Reviews: Allya: Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 4/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 18/20 Ooooh! Very thoughtful and poetic at the same time. I don't know if there is much I can say. There were only two sentences that did feel a little chunky/clunky ("To the blinding work of men" & "What will be has been before") like it could have used some punctuation, to ease it, perhaps? I'm not sure exactly what? I know you were worried about the beat but I don't think you needed to worry at all. The repetition at the beginning set it rather comfortably and didn't drag it down – as most repetition does. It has a very whimsical and dystopia fairy-tale feel to it. As for creativity and use of the picture, I think you summed it up very sufficiently. I almost wished for a bit more but leaving the reader wanting more is a difficult thing to get right. Woeful:Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 3/5 Entertainment - 3/5 Quality - 3/5 Total -- 14/20 I feel like the first paragraph could probably have been spaced out more? With less information and more detail so we can grasp the character first. I loved your descriptions much later on though and only wish you could have done that from the start. Unfortunately I did knock off a few points on spelling and grammar. The story would have read smoother with another check-through from you. Just minor stuff, like missing punctuation or a word. Also, you used "Colin did this" and "Colin did that" – don't be afraid to deviate from that path a little. That said: I LOVED how you involved the picture and actually just made it a picture to begin with. I totally didn't see the rest coming and the seduction and finally interrogation. I like that you left me wondering what the big deal with the picture was. I knew there was something strange with the woman and you portrayed the right amount of weirdness in her to make it feel slightly awkward. Brilliant idea. I think you just need to work on how you present the idea. Taed:Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 5/5 Entertainment - 3/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 17/20 Hate to point it out but you started the first three paragraphs with his name. It was slightly distracting. I loved the descriptions though. Immediately I was drawn in despite the afore mentioned and in the dusty setting. Clockwork insanity? Growing clockwork? Nanobots Love it! "As the Lifter struggled for altitude and began to putter lethargically away, a sudden radiance shone down through the roiling clouds. Anwar shielded his eyes as a hole punched through the smogbank, and a Combine scout ship came dropping down balanced on three spears of fusion flame. Grass whipped wildly about, and the Lifter nearly capsized under the tremendous downdraft. The scout ship pivoted about and touched down on several stubby legs a short distance away."Wishing you'd put a bit more into this paragraph in particular. I'm not sure why but it just felt very lacking in something. There wasn't enough description and just happenings. It got better after this paragraph which is strange? I don't know if you gave us enough to go on? I loved the idea but it kinda went nowhere? The military were all big talk and ended up just helping. You gave us a planet and a wonderful idea but nothing happened. Setting amazing; happenings normal. Most people don't want to read about normals on such an amazing planet. That said, your portrayal of the picture was down to the very grains of dust and sand! You got everything in there. Mac:Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 5/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 5/5 Total -- 20/20 Ooh? Interesting! Journal excerpts. Full marks on doing something different for creativity and for risking first-person although it's usually the most fun perspective for me to write in. I loved where you took it as well. The diary read very easily and I'll admit to a small chuckle about the brakes and the dark humour involved. I don't think you over-did it which is always a worry. For something you weren't necessarily pleased with, I think it turned out pretty damned good! Intrigued about the ending. I want to know what happened. There was just enough of a story in there for me to fill in the gaps sufficiently and really enjoy it and still want more. Silva:Creativity - 1/5 Spelling and Grammar - 5/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 15/20 Heh. WH40K again? You should submit these things to a website-wotsit like Croswynd did. You'd probably win … something for them. Opening paragraph: hooked. Got to admit it, of the little I know about WH40K, you are able to walk-eat-and-breathe-it. I read several bits out to Chris and he agrees. You're up there with the best of them. You even got the feeling and the hierarchy and insanity just right. Thaxxus' utter belief in doing the right thing and tracking down the corrupt was spot-on. Brilliant … however, where's the picture? I loved the story but I didn't see the picture. Unfortunately this is where I had to deduct a lot of points. The topic was the picture and it'd appear that you didn't use it – unless I missed it? There is a faint connection between the mechanical objects in the picture and a massive titan but not enough that I can call it. Sorry, Silva. James:Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 5/5 Entertainment - 3/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 17/20 Brilliant opening, as usual. You set the scene well, good sir, and also clued us into the character we're following smoothly. The descriptions as Cormac continued up the stairs about the men and the women and the indecencies continued the setting extremely well. There was a hiccup in one sentence. I don't feel like it's enough to slap you for it so I won't but it did mess up the sentence. Definitely an interesting idea. I would have appreciated Edwin a bit more if he'd been bitter or upset. I appreciate that you might have been trying to shade him in a depressed light or just a shell of a ghost but he didn't pop or stick like a character should. If you'd given him some more emotion I might have been more invested in what he had to say. I'm not saying all characters should be immediately likeable or bouncy but feel he could have been snide about it or lurched angrily about stopping the menace before it reached American shores. Something … more. Very enjoyable setting, I could easily see the picture in the story, and great premise of using sea-water for fuel. I don't know about the ending though and mostly because of Edwin. Croswynd:Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 4/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 18/20 Another first-person perspective. Interesting! A few really small grammatical errors throughout the story. You'd probably benefit from reading it out loud. Mostly changing tense on certain words. It reads like a book though which you should take as a massive compliment. I settled right down into it and if it weren't for the fact that there was no page turning I might have been fooled that it was in print. The dwarf might have been a little cliché, and sometimes there's nothing wrong with a completely clichéd character, but it was a little heavy. The accent was good but it was very cookie cutter. That said, it's hard not to fall in love with a clichéd dwarf character. I'd check your pacing on the chase scene. Your sentences didn't really reflect the speedier pace which made it difficult to get totally engaged in the thrill of the chase. I'm not entirely sure why you spaced out the paragraphs as you did on the part where they entered the tavern. It felt a little redundant and like you rushed it. I see where you used the picture and how but I'm not sure about the story and the picture. Whereas most (Silva) stories clearly fit the picture, yours doesn't. I didn't remove any points for this as it's just an interesting note and final thought at the end of your story. Heh >.> Mashed potatoes ...End of round:
1st: Mac 20 2nd: Croswynd and Allya 18 3rd: Taed and James 17 4th: Silva 15 5th Woeful 14
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 8, 2012 18:01:18 GMT -5
New Topic:
Dimmu Borgir: Gateways
... it doesn't have to be the entire song and I do not need to know the exact portion. It is more an embodiment of the song or the feeling you get from it. Good luck and please remember to have fun!
FYI: There are no new additions to the rules for this topic!
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on May 10, 2012 1:12:58 GMT -5
You have heard it said that the ancient king, Kerakeled, has failed in his blasphemous experimentation, but I tell you, he is victorious. His almost wrathful defiance to nature damned the days of the old Soldrael kingdom, and it has indeed sunk deep into the sands and has nurtured his black seeds.
It is difficult to say where it began; some say it was his education at the Wizard’s College, but every lord in the world is a magister, are they not? I find this unsatisfactory an answer. Perhaps it was his stillborn daughter that imbued him with a fascination toward the matter of the soul? As a king of those days in the long war against the Nephilim and their allies from Uuldreth, death was abundant in all families – his heart was steely and his mind clear as he and the elves of Faleras and Sethamni put flight to the wastelanders of the far south.
I rather put it to you that it began with the end of that terrible early war. The Nephilim had just enlisted the aid of the Orcs from Når-Gorkath, and their black blood slaked the white sand of Indak-aakr. Being the grisly monstrosities that they are, the Orcs had adorned their battle standard with the rotted guts of their fallen opponents. As a just lord, Kerakeled ordered the damned thing burned separately from the fallen men and elves, leaving the Orcs as a feast for the desert-dogs and crows.
It was just before this pyre of disgust that he discovered a gem wrapped among the blasted standard. My ancestor, Ardeshir, wrote of this moment, an excerpt carefully held by my family.
“The king spied a jewel that did not shimmer or shine with light, nor did it refract any image seen through it. It was black and lifeless, like the eyes of a doll, but with ever-greater lacking. There was not even the charm of potency about it – it was almost like crystallized hunger, so utterly deep that it remembered not what to consume, but that it must.”
As an adept sorceror, the king collected the rock as booty. Here, I propose, was the beginning of the trouble. You no doubt know of the mighty battle at the gates of Kacranauh, so many songs have been sung of the ordeal: the charge of lances into the alabaster flesh of the Nephilim, the arrows that rained from the earthen ramparts for days on end, and the final victory of single combat betwixt Kerakeled and the tyrant, Algresh-Da. I speak of his return in victory to al-Kafr Qema, after the celebration of his rallying triumph and the rites of the dead.
Kerakeled studied the gem alongside many scholars, culminating in but little information. It was only recognized as being a stone utilized by many Orc shaman, and only when ordered by the archon. It was theorized to be the ‘shadow crystals’ mentioned in the texts of some destroyed Orc Avakasht. Such translations were deemed too absurd to be literal, but this jewel could be nothing else.
An extensive search through the College’s library opened their discoveries to me: “A shadow crystal is, in effect, a fragment of the frozen void; older than the Vathrezan demons, the Mezkar, even the Sjerrakh themselves – it is an overflow of sorts from their domain, all created, as they were, by the mindless pulsing and corrupting influence of Shaeghak, the primordial evil. These crystals might be considered ‘residue’ of this elemental madness, and as such should be consecrated at least three hundred and thirty one times.” The tragic king was not privy to this knowledge.
As such, he began to study the effects of the thing, and experiment therewith. The resulting catastrophes speak for themselves, given the aforementioned information: the lightning-filled sandstorms, the rabid crows dripping with disease, the pandemic of demonic possession, to say nothing of the walking dead! It is ever the fortune of my family that Ardeshir had sailed to Garazinsk that year, even if to sate his appetite for feasting and wenching at the famous Springtime carnivals of that land.
A lesser known fact of this disastrous year was the withdrawal of dragons from the region. I have found that the dragons had not retreated from Soldrael, but were in fact bound there – captured by mercenaries and hunters employed by the mad Kerakeled. It is said among the Orcs that these shadow crystals were the key to demonic ascension, though it has not been discovered how (some scholars argue not even by the Orcs themselves). With the pursuit of dragons, I conclude likewise what many of you have thereupon reading this thither: Kerakeled longed to become a dragon himself.
What lunacy was imbued in him to make this seem reasonable? Why dragon, of all beings, who they themselves claim to suffer most due to their confused nature of beast, thinker, and demigod? Why not aspire to the realm of Valassi to walk with the gods, or descend deep like the Orcs into the demon-land of Daamorthoris? The madness defies any sort of mortal initiative, thus confirming evermore this gem as truly being of the same stuff as the Sjerrakh and Shaeghak.
The knife of the Thirteen cut deep indeed, and eventually the lamest of the slaves could sense the loss of their king - I assert that they were his killers, but not his murderers.
It was ten months ago – seven thousand years after Kerakeled’s cadaver was sealed in his tomb – that the undead began to reappear in great force, as you’ll recall. A collection of sellswords, knights, and wizards were able to infiltrate the tomb, finding the king in a state of quasi-draconic slumber, bedecked in funeral garments and flesh rotted: he was being, for lack of a better term, regrown as a dragon.
The group emptied the tomb of life, natural and unnatural, but had awoken the king early. A regiment was sent to combat the abomination, and yes, it was fallen before great harm could be done. Blessed be the Vaalmas!
But the point of all this information we know, my lords, is this: where is the body of Kerakeled now?
((A little background on this story: based on a DnD dungeon I made for my group about a year ago, "The Tomb of Kerakeled." Takes place in my own constructed fantasy setting, so any references will likely seem either nonsensical or irrelevant.))
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Allya
Senior Scribe
My Little Monster!
Posts: 2,271
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Post by Allya on May 10, 2012 13:49:36 GMT -5
The Medium is the Massage
Let the din of life surround us Pull us in, apart and ground us A chorus when the lost have found us Sing it then; your voice resounds us As we begin the end confounds us Seeping in to fill around us Breathing sin lest heaven drown us And in the spin the glow astound us It’s only when our words expound us Can the medium unbound us Assail the din, lest it redound us And claim the win for those who’d crown us As we reach toward futures passed
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Post by JMDavis ((Silver)) on May 11, 2012 4:17:06 GMT -5
The wyrms shrieked and wheeled in the sky. The dragons were horrible, skeletal things of onyx and emerald, of jet and jade. Ragged wings bore the corpse-like monstrosities through the gloaming. Upon their backs were sat great thrones forged of black iron and cruel vines, barbed with thorns. And seated on these monstrosities of magic were the riders – the Reaver Princes as men called them. The vile Wraiths, elves twisted by dark sorceries into crueler monstrosities than the beasts they rode.
Yet it was not the Princes, racing through the air and taunting the defenders below that concerned the northmen upon their walls but the seething army of darkness beneath their fastnesses. An entire army of the Wraiths cried for the blood of men, dark necromancy being woven in the air and hurled to break against the divinely blessed stones – cruel arrows barbed and poisoned hissed through the darkness, seeking soft flesh. It was an army that had not been seen since a time long-forgotten to the memories of Man.
Brondulf Felslayer, King of Iron and Ice stood upon the ramparts. Large hands, callused and gnarled were rested upon the crenellations. Eyes the color of the storm above looked down upon the tempest below. The hilt of a greatsword peeked out from behind a mantle of black fur. The blade was well over six feet long, made for a man larger than even the eight foot tall king. Skadvaldur was its name, a name that was old when men were young and the dwarves and elves ruled the world.
He growled through the thick beard that covered his face before letting loose a glob of phlegm down into the ranks below. He turned from the sight, the pelt he wore swirling with him as he strode away from the army that threatened his walls. Another of his northmen was being carried to the priests to be returned to the stones and ice. The saddest part was it was barely a scratch that had done for the brave man. “Cravens… they assault the walls as if they had balls, but cower behind their poisons and sorceries! I wonder what they would do if they even managed to breach the walls!”
“Fight with poisoned blades and ensorcelled armor most like. Even their beasts breathe noxious fumes and spit acid with each pass.” The speaker grinned; he was an oddity from the rest of the northmen in that he was not of the north. A swarthy man surrounded by the fair, with dark hair and bright green eyes. Renald Vish’Zul, a Knight-Errant of Flamewatch and the Sapphire Knight. The young man lived up to his name, wearing steel armor of a deep blue, and of an odd appearance to almost look as if it were a gemstone in truth.
“You would know much of ensorcelled armor, eh magus?” One of the northerners spoke, there was only bitter cold in his voice and look as he regarded Renald. The word maleficarum had spread like wildfire through the lands when the wandering knight arrived in Northpeak, and it had yet to die.
To the wizard’s credit, Renald just gave the man a tight smile and said softly, “That I would. I would especially know how to combat such things should they gain the wall. I and the northern priests would be your only hope at that point, and they only to combat the assaults by the sorcerers amongst the Wraiths.”
The northman glared, spat, and looked once more down upon the surging ranks below. Renald shook his head, turning to look once more at Brondulf, “I doubt they will gain the walls, though. Their Reavers came closest, and all that did for them was kill three of their dragons and their riders.” The wizard-turned-knight gestured to the black sea beyond the walls, “This is a flex of their muscles, once they might have threatened the lands beyond the Wastes – but that is an age when the Great Men walked the world and did the deeds of heroes. Now, well, Your Grace has nothing to fear.”
“Be that as it may, I would sooner err on the side of caution then sit back and laugh at an invading army. Now, I need you to-.”
Brondulf’s words were lost in an explosion that rocked the very earth, it was not until the last vestiges of the rumbling cataclysm began to die that the groaning and roaring of crashing rock could be heard – along with the feeble screams of men wounded and dying. All at once the dark ocean poured into the streets of Kaltheim – Wraiths screeching and crying out in their horrible language soon clashed with reeling northmen, and made short work of the dazed warriors.
It was red slaughter on the ground below. Kaltheim would fall, and then the kingdoms of men would be broken. The screaming, the dying – none of it did Brondulf and Renald hear. The two were staggering to their feet, the entire world silent except for a piercing noise in their ears. The king and knight ripped weapons free of sheathes. Skadvaldur was clutched in the massive hands of the king, the mighty northman giving a wordless bellow as he leapt from the walls to crash into the press below. His arms reaped a bloody harvest as Skadvaldur carved through armor, flesh and bone as if it were butter. No blood would stay on the blade, droplets and ribbons of crimson sliding from the metal as it carved the air. The sword shimmered as it hacked and killed, changing in hue and tone from one moment to the next, rippling and reflecting like a prism in the light.
Renald was with him soon enough, the young knight guarding the king with his curved sirrash and his shimmering shield. It was slowly that their hearing began to return to them, that they could hear the sounds in the world around them. They could hear the sounds of slaughter replaced by the sounds of battle.
Hear the howling of wolves.
Great shapes raced into view, the winter months had come and the beasts had shed their mottled fur for the pristine white of snow. The winter wolves let loose furious sounds as they sprang and brought down the invading elves. Fangs and claws like steel ripping through flesh. Massive weights crushing screaming frightened Wraiths beneath paws. Men raced behind the massive beasts. Axes and swords clutched in hand as the fresh defenders of the north clashed with the elves.
“Stand fast men of the north! Fight for the glory of Magnus!”Above the press, seated in one of the hide saddles of the largest winter wolf yet seen was the owner of the voice. Grand Hierophant Reier Vance, Prophet of Wodan and Lord-General of the Faith glowered down upon the shrieking elves. Strong hands sent his massive warhammer falling to crush the skull of one Wraith within its helm.
All around him northmen rushed to stem the tide. The flow of battle sent the elves reeling as the larger, stronger northmen began their defense. It seemed as if days had passed, but it was a matter of moments before Brondulf and Renald were being carried along by the charging northerners. Soon, the rush of invaders had been pushed back into the Wastes beyond. A wall of flesh and steel barred their entrance to the city.
Brondulf staggered away from the defense, leaning against a bloodstained wall behind him to suck in great and greedy breaths of air. He was now feeling his pains. A burning in his blood as if a fever had hold of him. His vision was greying, hazed and drunken as he looked on a world that was slowly losing color.
There was a sound, distant yet clear. The sound of metal striking cobbles as a blade fell from hand. Daft fool, dropping his blade at this moment? Brondulf never let Skadvaldur leave his hand, except to return it to the worn sheathe across his back. The king pushed himself from the wall, staggered, and then fell to the ground. He lay there, on the blood-slicked cobbles, staring without seeing as men rushed to his fallen form. Bloody cravens, he thought of the elves as his heart began to slow. Bloody cravens and their bloody poisons, was all that he had time to think as the last breath rattled from his chest.
And so passed Brondulf Felslayer, King of Iron and Ice.
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 16, 2012 1:49:54 GMT -5
Reviews: MacCreativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 4/5 Entertainment - 4/5 Quality - 4/5 Total -- 17/20 I immediately nestled into the story like it was a comfy blanket. The informal style was easy to get on with and it made the connection simple. It was also a great hook. You read because you wanted find out. Some of your sentences were a little difficult to understand and required reading twice. It wasn't what you said in the sentence but more the arrangement of the words. My major complaint was the info-dump of stuff and back story and not much else. I liked the cliffhanger but was it enough? You definitely got the right feel and moodiness though. The music was the perfect backdrop to the story. It read like a narrator (or relative of the hero) at the beginning of an epic film. AllyaCreativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 5/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 5/5 Total -- 20/20 I tried just straight up reading this and found I did so too fast. I had to start again and actually read it out loud to find the right pace. Just an interesting point and not knocking any points off. I think it should be a compliment, in fact, to have some poetry that requires speaking it. I really liked the structure as well. The pacing and the rhythm (once I read it out loud) were brilliant and spot on. I like how exhilarating it was too. It was easy to get swept up in the moment of it. To be drowned in life. To do everything. The bit about the end was clever. This poem really sticks with you and I think it summed up the pace of the song and the darkness. Silva
Creativity - 5/5 Spelling and Grammar - 4/5 Entertainment - 5/5 Quality - 5/5 Total -- 19/20 Very easy introduction to jump on to. You got the moodiness of the song right from the get-go. It was deliciously evil and somehow we were on the good side – huzzah! I loved Renald Vish'Zul and his willingness for game. All the way through you gave us great descriptions [tasty, tasty descriptions!] that were easily followed and not over-blown. Check your punctuation though. There were a few places that might have benefited from a full stop rather than a comma (or another comma in one noticeable place). Nothing massive – just made me skip a beat reading it. Only complaint, the sudden transitition in to wolves and the talk about winter. Did we time jump, no, still in the same scene. Were you just describing the wolves? It could have been smoother and still kept the pace. Awesome ending. End of round:
1st: Allya 20 2nd: Silva 19 3rd: Mac 17
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Post by Jenny (Reffy) on May 16, 2012 1:53:42 GMT -5
New Topic: GrimeFYI: There are no new additions to the rules for this topic! Just one simple word for old time sakes.[/center]
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Post by JMDavis ((Silver)) on May 17, 2012 16:42:37 GMT -5
Eyes of the deepest green turned upward as the sky flickered and shifted. The light blue of day stuttering as panels shifted, light and color to turn into the dark, bruised violet of night. A few panels were out of order, sparking and shorting out to beam down patches of blinding white light. The filth and corrosion of the surface had already begun to eat its way in. Rust and grime covered much of the panels – along with other, fouler substances.
Dennis frowned slightly; he could even see the corruption slowly oozing its way between cracks and being caught in the glow of the broken panels. A plague had already begun to infect the squalid Uppercity, which killed more and more people each day - or did worse to them.
Too many of the skyrises had turned into quarantine zones. Each level of the multi-story buildings filled with the diseased dead – those who were released from their agony and those who continued to walk. The man turned his eyes away, his gloved hands moving to turn the collar of his coat up to hide his face. He bowed his head and started back on his way down the streets – empty as night fell except for those with Extended Privileges, legal or otherwise.
This was the worst time to be about, when the Knights marched from their barracks to patrol the streets. A visible shudder passed through him, a pain flaring in his chest as he remembered his last encounter with a patrol. Three dead, one seriously injured the headlines had read:
‘Four individuals believed to be involved in a terrorist plot were valiantly stopped today by the efforts of Knight-Sergeant Jerrold and Brother-Knight Alexander. The four were a family unit, two children ages fifteen and thirteen, a mother aged thirty-seven and a father aged thirty-eight. Knight-Sergeant Jerrold was reported as saying: “It’s a shame when these monsters bring their kids in on the act. I only wish we could have done more to avert the deaths caused. Though I’m sure the compliance chip placed within the father, and the knowledge that the glorious Underlords were protected is enough consolation for the city.” The father was initially to be remanded into Knight custody; instead he has been taken to the Apothecarium for treatment and to be assured of future compliance.’
Dennis pressed a hand to his chest as he walked, remembering how much more it had hurt when the chip shorted out. The burn wound was still there where plastic and metal and seared into flesh and bone. Of course, he still registered as being compliant, which gave him free roam of the city at all hours – it gave him almost complete freedom.
But then again, it had cost him too much. He stepped over a corpse as he continued on his path through the twisting streets of New Albion. Though it was bloated and smelled of sickeningly sweet putrefaction – it would not be collected until the following new cycle next month. Maggots already wormed their way through the veins and flesh, and black muck poured from the bullet wounds in its chest. He could not help but glance over it, Mafia. The word sprung to his mind immediately, it would have had to be them. Not even the most corrupt of Knights left their kills unglorified to rot in the streets.
Not to mention, Knights never used guns.
His scuffed shoes kicked and shuffled across the stained and dirty sidewalk. Garbage reached near as high as some of the skyrises on the street, now that the Cleaners had been decommissioned as a needless expenditure. Of course, living amongst the rotting debris of the city was far safer than the skyrises – made testament by the animals he saw crawling amongst the bags. No songbirds trilled their songs, the smog had choked them. No crow, nor vulture nor raven soared amongst the rusting sky – the hideous birds were near flightless now.
They were a delicacy, though. These carrion raptors and the vile rats, the feral dogs and feral cats were the only food available to those who made spent their life in the Trash Towns – save for those who preferred the sweetest of meats. The alleyways were a warzone, a geopolitical climate unto themselves that only obeyed the law of the Underlords when a patrol made an appearance. Warlords, cannibalistic tribes, mutants – all of these eked out a living behind the black and white walls of oozing plastic.
But these did not concern a normal person – the freaks never ventured out, nor did the regular civilians venture in. Superstition ruled the filthy rabble of the peasantry on both sides of the garbage walls. Dennis ignored one bulging wall that would soon fall, his ratty boots stepping in a puddle of mingled fluids – none of which he wanted to dwell upon.
He followed the meandering sidewalk, turning and turning until his feet carried him into a murky taproom. A singer in a sequined gown of red stood, hugging the microphone to his fake breasts as he crooned out a melody in his altered voice. The band behind played slow and sad to match the lyrics of loss and better times. No one so much as spared a look at the tall man walking amongst them – to them he was another lost soul trying to find a home at the bottom of a bottle.
Dennis made sure it would look like that, he took no particular path through the loosely spread tables. Wandering through amongst the patrons with seemingly no destination in mind. His steps brought him to the bar where thin beer was poured into a dusty glass by an uncaring tender. Then once more he was wandering until he came to a rest in a rickety chair at a dark corner of the room. Dennis took a sip of his drink, the dust and grit had thickened the beer at the least. He set the tasteless drink down, “You look like hell.” The words were raspy and choked, followed by a hacking splutter that sent blood and sputum onto the pitted surface of the iron table. A bony hand wiped the dribbling disease from the speaker’s lips, thick veins black with corruption standing against pale flesh like ugly onyx worms. Terence raised his glass, full of his ‘medicine’ to take a long swallow of the burning liquid. The man fell into another coughing fit, though this time had the grace to cover his mouth. Though, even doing this, he just ended up wiping away the bloody phlegm onto his worn pants and shirt.
“The Pox-Bearer telling me I look like hell? God save me, I must look terrible,” Though the words were said with joviality there was no smile on Dennis’ lips.
“God? Heh… Heh… God. If there was a God do you think he’d suffer these Domes to stand?” Terence went into a smaller fit of coughing, shaking his head and taking a swallow of the hard liquor he was so fond of. “Though there might be, considering I'm still alive… what brings you here, boy? I know you didn’t come just to get insulted by me.”
Dennis gave a small nod, leaning on the table, mindful not to let any part of his clothing touch the festering blood and spittle on the surface. “I need a pass to the Underworld,” those words sent his companion into a spluttering fit of hacking-laughter.
“Gun and rope not work for you, eh? Heh heh… pray to that God of yours, boy… he might be nice enough to send you on a one-way pass.” The man smiled a smile of green teeth and swollen purple gums, of cracked and bleeding lips with open sores. Rheumy eyes wept constant tears of thick pus, “Passes below don’t come cheap, no matter how much I like you I can’t be giving them up for free now.”
“Bless your flinty-heart, I didn’t know Bricklayer’s Disease got to you too,” despite his words, Dennis reached a pale hand into a pocket on his trench coat to produce one of the most valuable items on the surface. A fat, juicy orange fit to bursting from its skin. “It’s ripe; no rot to it… more than enough for a pass, no?”
Terence stared at the fruit in silence, eyes wide with a look of reverence one would reserve for a miracle. The Pox-Bearer ran a white and pasty tongue over his bleeding lips; he reached a quivering hand out toward the orange as if afraid it might vanish at any moment. Yellow nails, black at the base, touched the skin ever so lightly and produced a gasp of abject wonderment. “J-Just one pass? You sure that’s all you need?” he liked the boy; he never wanted to cheat him.
Dennis nodded, “Let’s just say in this case you’re my God and I need that one-way pass.”
Terence looked up sharply, “One-way?”
Now did Dennis’ face crack into a smile, a sad and pained smile. “When you set off to kill High Underlord Karen, Knight-Commander of New Albion one does not expect to come back.”
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