The March Challenge!

[Kaez]

Read the Discussion Thread for a full summary of how the competition works and ask any questions you might have:

awritersrecluse.proboards.com/index.cgi?action=display&board=rb&thread=4187


Post your entries in this thread. Post any discussion or questions in the above thread.

Rules:

• Must be prose. Recommended to be between above 500 words and below 1,500 words.
  
• Must be based around the round's topic.
  
• Must be in before the deadline, which shall be stated at the start of each round.
  

Grading guidelines:

Spelling & Grammar - /2
Ease of Read - /3
Use of Topic - /5
Entertainment - /7
Quality - /8

Total -- /25

LEADERBOARD

[/SIZE]
1st: Zovo - 78
2nd: Reffy - 62
3rd: Injin - 57
4th: James - 55
5th: Silver - 47
6th: Allya - 13




ROUND WINNERS[/SIZE]
Round One: James & Zovo[/center]

ROUND ONE

[/SIZE]
Topic: AWE
Deadline: 11:59pm US-EST 7th March[/center]

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

“My armour is the Armour of Contempt,
For that is all that Sigmar teaches me to feel.
Mine is a hatred of the Heretic,
It is the heretic that spreads only lies against the glory of Sigmar.
Mine is the contempt for the Mutant,
It is the mutant who pollutes the purity of man.
Mine is the armour to withstand the Daemon,
It is the Daemon who shall ruin the weak.
Mine is the Armour of Contempt,
May Sigmar bless me.”

As he breathed these words, his scarred and beaten armour began to glow white hot with holy fires. A scowl of disgust was on his face as he waded through the morass of viscera and corpses, beleaguered men looking upon the figure that moved amongst him. Breath caught in throats as a mixture of wonderment and fear passed through the ranks of friend and foe.

“I am the Hammer of Sigmar!
I am the slayer of the Daemon!
I am the butcher of the Mutant!
I am the nightmare of the Heretic!
Through the strength of my arm may Sigmar’s will be done!”

The hammer of the priest began to glow with the same fire as his armour, wisps of flame and embers trailing from the hammer head. The men of the Empire began to rally around Father Decemus, blades slashing and guns firing, pikes stabbing and clubs smashing. The minions of Chaos broke against their shields and died upon their blades. Defiance was written upon faces pale with rage and fear; hoarse and primal screams leaving throats raw with emotion.

“Sigmar’s Will keep me unbowed!
I shall not bend nor falter before the minions of Chaos!
I shall not break at the first sight of fear!
For I am a Warrior Priest of Sigmar!
I am filled with His Unbending Righteousness!”

His eyes burned bright, and the men cheered and chorused his prayers as they pushed back the mutated forces. No longer was the stench of fear strong upon the men of the Empire, it was the mongrel horde that cowered. The hammer of Father Decemus was held high, a beacon for more survivors to rally around. Men of all ranks and all walks of life gathered about the massive man: a Reiksguard stood shoulder to shoulder with a butcher; a Bright Wizard with a burning blade set forth a deadly assault with a Witch Hunter by his side.

“To me, rally to me Sons of Sigmar! Forward, for the Empire!” There was a wordless cheer as the warrior priest charged forward, through the ranks of men. He was head and shoulders above the tallest of men, a paragon of righteous defiance, and a target of enmity and loathing.

His arms, as they swung his burning hammer, were corded with muscle and as big around as a normal man’s thigh. When the mighty head of his hammer slammed into the chest of a Chaos Marauder, flesh and bone were pulped into so much red paste. He allowed himself a smile as he surged forward with the charge, they would shatter the line and send the cravens to flight.

But those hopes were shattered. It appeared in an explosion of flame and shadow, with the stench of clotted blood on the air. Honest man and foul monster were sent tumbling, dying as they shattered bones and rolled like rag dolls. Father Decemus weathered the storm, hammer leveled and a roar of defiance on his lips. What he stared down was a terror that was ancient when time began. It was a monster formed of the wrath of humanity, the nightmares of murderers and the desire of conquerors. A cold fear gripped those men who survived the appearance of the fiend. It was a formless terror that left the lungs frozen and the heart tight in the chests of these poor souls who gazed upon its awful visage.

A hulk of muscle and sinew, skin glistening wetly in the apocalyptic not-light it had spawned. It was a bloodthirster, a greater daemon of the Blood God Khorne. A pitted and scarred axe of brass was gripped in one massive talon, while a whip of black fire was coiled around its cloven hooves. Great wings spread from its back, its gigantic horned skull leaning forward to roar into the face of the Warrior Priest.

“Little mortal, the flesh of your pathetic Man-God tasted sweet upon my Master’s Tongue. His skull was suitably placed at the bottom of the Skull Throne… enjoy these thoughts as you die!”

The ugly axe came crashing down toward the still form of Father Decemus, the priest’s burning gaze unflinching as his hammer swung around in an arc to shatter the axe in a single blow. Molten shards of brass vanishing into so much smoke, the sudden shattering caused the daemon to reel backwards. Shock registered in those immortal orbs of hatred, the eyes of the demon wide.

“It is the craven who uses lies to shake the strength of a true man! It is the lying fiend who summons forth the nightmares of a simple conjuror to break a noble warrior!” Father Decemus strode forward, the glow of Sigmar’s wrath intensifying around him. Men raised their eyes, watching as this pillar of righteous fire strode toward a cringing daemon. The ice within their lungs melted, their voices crying out in prayers to Sigmar. Their hearts were loosened, pounding in their chests with a mixture of hope and fear, fear that not even this priest, this man who walked as a living god, would be enough.

The whip lashed out and was caught by the bare fist of the priest, fire licking at bare flesh, searing him to his soul, yet Decemus held on. “It is the might of Sigmar that courses through my veins!” his voice was like thunder, “It is the blessings of the Man-God that allows me to stand before you, that strikes fear into the heart of the depraved!

“Return to the hell from whence you came!” Decemus roared, pulling with all his strength, bringing the daemon tumbling toward him and the head of his hammer. The skull of the bloodthirster was shattered in a single blow; the face of Decemus was frozen into a snarl of loathing as flecks of the vitriolic blood splattered bare flesh. The greater daemon burned away with a wordless scream of hatred and the foul smell of brimstone. Only ash was left as testament to its appearance on this world; ash and the fear that still thundered through the veins of all but the staunch priest who had stared ancient death in the face and cried his defiance.

Decemus still stood, glaring down at the ash that even now began to blow away upon the winds. A golden warmth rose behind him as the sun broke across the horizon. His entire left hand and arm, that which had gripped the whip of the daemon, was seared into blackened bone. A low, ragged breath left Decemus’ lips, his eyes watching as men left cover to stand around the warrior priest. Their faces were slack as emotion warred on their faces. None stood behind the mighty priest, all watching as the light shone around him, recapturing that wonderful moment when he stood wreathed in the fires of Sigmar’s anger.

Decemus fell to his knees. Gasps of fear left the men, thinking the poison of the daemon’s black fire had done its work. But then, through the cracked lips of the mighty man, they heard the soft prayer. As one, the men fell to their knees, shaking voices raised in prayer. Their words quivered with raw emotion, tears spilling down faces splattered with grime. They had lived!

“Glory be to Sigmar,
For it is He who gives strength in the Darkness,
It is Sigmar that banishes Old Night with the glorious Dawn.
Glory be to Sigmar,
He who founded the Empire and forged Man into a Righteous Weapon,
It is He who shall lead us at the End Time in the final war against Chaos.
Glory be to Sigmar.”

With the aid of the soldiers, Father Decemus rose to his feet once more, and turned his eyes to face the brilliant dawn. The men looked upon the sunrise, the light shining on wet faces. It was quietly agreed upon that this was the most glorious sight in the world to every last man.

[Allya]

They were like gods once. Their steps thundered as their polished skin glinted in the haze of chaos. They were more than men, more than machine. A perfect marriage of thought, will, and deed, they moved through this world with a purpose and grace unlike anything we’d ever seen before. These were the bringers of peace, our shepherds into a new dawn of civilization. Their faith was unquestioned, their strength unrivaled. They would end the Godswar that had raged for ninety cycles. They would crush The Red Star of the three-faced god and show his people the truth and consequence of their false worship. For why else would Azun bless us with such power?

We had gone through many turns by the time metal steps first shook the ground. The Red Star, once a small faction of fringe believers and fools, had organized and militarized. They said the Hand of Azun held all and would not open for them. They said the Eyes of Azun did not see them and did not cry for their pain. They said the Ears of Azun did not hear them and did not answer their call for equal treatment under the law. And they were right. We were unmoving, blind, and deaf to the needs of The Red Star so they resolved to prick our fingers, pluck our eyes, and fill our ears with the cries of Azun’s children. The Red Star burned with our indifference and sought to turn the fires back to source.

At first Azun’s children felt little of the Godswar. Whispers were spread of this battle or that, but our gleaming cities hummed as they always had. Honors were sung on each Sabbath for The Hammers of Azun but our songs made no mention of death and war; only the glories of our knights crossed our lips and slipped into the collective consciousness. We were blissful in our antiseptic ignorance while The Red Star’s black flies buzzed just out of our periphery.

But soon the count grew too high to cover with songs of valor. The name of kin who had died in the Godswar touched every common person’s tongue until there arose from the gleaming cities a great roar of purpose. From this purpose the gods were borne. The best Hammers were chosen and gilded in the new metal; a new weapon for a new age. The impact was immediate. The Red Star became a dying ember, crushed under metal heels, and life in the cities of Azun went back to normal for a time.

But not for those who had been forever changed, those who had been chosen. What the Eyes of Azun did not see was that the Gilded Hammers were lost without their purpose. More than men, they were at first set apart and treated as heroes. But the years grew longer than the memory of Azun’s children and soon the Gilded Hammers became discarded tools. Outcasts from those they had protected, they brooded in the shadows of the centuries.

Perhaps, had we remembered, we wouldn’t have been so surprised when the Hammers struck.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

"… And then there's the offer from the United States, Sir. They're expecting an answer this afternoon …"

Newton wasn't paying attention to his financial advisor, Kenny. It had been a bad idea to invite him for lunch because the musty, old bugger hadn't shut up about work. Newton thought the guy would eventually ease up and possibly grow a personality but that seemed impossible. Even now the suit-clad man with glasses slipping down his sharp nose was neck deep in e-Mails Newton had hoped to leave behind at the office.

No, his attention was elsewhere. Every day he came to the same café for lunch and ordered the same bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich with diet coke. He'd sit out front under one of the patio heaters and observe. "What do you suppose she's making?" He asked moving the empty plate away, obviously deep in thought.

The sentence stopped Kenny, dead. "Sorry, who?"

"Her." Newton pointed her out with a nod of his head. His carefully crafted blonde locks never fell out of place.

Kenny looked. Across the busy road, on a rusting old bench, which was covered in graffiti and chewing gum, sat an old weathered woman. Around the woman were bags and pieces of string and trolleys full of junk. She was hunched over a few items in her lap. From where Newton sat she looked like a snail that carried it's rubbish coloured home around on it's back and just as fragile. Her beady little eyes would only flick up once or twice every ten minutes from whatever it was she was working on. Grey, thinning hair barely covered her head. The clothes she wore, underneath the layer of grime and muck, had more holes than Swiss cheese. Her arthritic knuckles moved about in her skin like about a bunch of stones in an old stocking.

"The woman?" Kenny asked, not sure where this was leading and if it had anything to do with the deal back at the office.

"Yeah. What do you suppose she does?"

"She's homeless, from the looks of it. Probably doesn't have a penny to her name. Doubtlessly an addict. It's likely she begs, borrows, and steals to get by. The police ought to move her on from that spot." Kenny, the voice of reason and stupidity at the same time.

"Probably … and yet," Newton picked up his coke and took a long gulp. More traffic moved across their view until the traffic lights turned red again. "And yet, she seems pretty happy. Content, if you will."

Kenny said nothing. His eyes struggled to be away from his e-Mails, darting back every few seconds; his lips pursed together in effort.

"Life must be so interesting at that level. Do you know, Kenny? I've never been like that. My parents gave me money. Relatives died and gave me more money. I've even made lots of money. I've probably experienced more than ten million-billion things in my short life … but I've never experienced that." This time he did point, moving his hand away from the cool coke and drips on the table.

"Far as I can see, Sir-"

"Newton, please, or even Newt. I know the lads at the office use it behind my back." He fluffed away the formalities with a wave of a hand. Still his eyes were focused on the woman on the bench. Every day he watched her. She wasn't attractive and probably not a clever woman either but she was interesting in an unusual way. He'd never approached her and didn't know her name. Few people approached her and those that did were often in passing. Newton often wondered if she had any friends? Surely the woman had a family somewhere? She was somebody's daughter.

"Newt-on. In my opinion, it's far better to have money and not be at that level." He'd never managed to sound so pompous before. It shocked Newton enough to garner a sharp glance, which Kenny noticed.

"I've worked hard, all of my life, and I've never smiled like that." Somebody had approached the woman. She was holding up something to the other person, who seemed to take it in exchange for a few pennies. "What am I doing wrong? What gives her that kind of happiness? Look at her. Despite being really down on her luck, she's the happiest person in the world. She's amazing." Newton paused, slightly shocked at the words coming out of his mouth. He knew it was the truth though. "She is amazing. I don't know if I could smile like that in her situation."

Kenny just looked on. For a second, Newton hoped he saw a flash of recognition in the other man's eyes. Maybe on some level he'd gotten through to the financial warrior. Maybe not. It didn't matter. This lunch would be the same as every other lunch and maybe eventually he'd approach the old woman and buy whatever she's making. Maybe the things she made would make him smile like that as well.

[Injin]

Ganyllede, Malnoxis System – 2735 CE, Century of the Needle
It had been a normal day up until this moment. Sure, normal days generally comprise of me watching helplessly from the monitor as the Magna Marsian Empire besieged our once great planet, as hundreds of soldiers at a time died within moments of each other on the plains of bodies that had been deposited there by earlier battles, but never did I expect the Marsians to send in…That. They absconded with me as I could only watch from the great distance allowed by their foul technology.

It’s large metal frame burst into view, rupturing the hulls of every ship in the vicinity, even its allies. The rusted red of the battlefield far below suddenly turned beige as all of the corpses of the slain were unceremoniously tossed into the atmosphere, or crushed by the gravity exuded from the vessel’s shell. Its shining metal armor burned its image into the eyes of all who were still alive to see it, as it was the only thing that most of them could see. It didn’t even need to open fire before the grand capital of my home, my ward, my duty, was destroyed just by the very nature of the beast disguised in a shell of adamantine metal. Its next move, just as destructive to my heart as the last, destroyed what was left of my homeland in a blaze of magma and liquid metal seeping from the core of the dying world. There was no longer a Ganyllede, no longer a home for my people. They died because of the creation of this monstrous entity hiding behind the cover of non-sentience.

We were about to surrender, they knew we could not last another month, but they sent the beast anyways. Even after it had turned my bastion into a sea of molten mercury and death, it rubbed the salt into my wounds. Its grand hull opened itself and began to feast on the body of its victim, drinking up the minerals it forced to the surface, as if it was a vampire drinking the blood of its latest victim. As it repeated the dreaded process over and over, I could only retch on my captors in disgust as the tears from eyes fell no more. My eyes had shed so much that my skin had become inundated with the broken promises I gave to those I cared for, loved, cherished. All of that was gone. Everything I had ever loved and cherished was gone, and if I had surrendered when offered, they would have survived this purge.
The broken glass of my heart continued to reverberate through my core, as continued my raucous cries and flowing enzymes filled the room with a cry so terrible that even the hardest men who had personally ordered the deaths of thousands were forced to turn away.

The shattered dreams I had held dear died on Ganyllede. There was no longer anyone to share them with, so what did it matter? I was the last of a proud and noble people, whose only crime was to want my people to have a fair amount of representation. My people died, but not as they lived. They lived as free people, they died as prey. There was nothing inspiring about the way they died, nothing honorable about their deaths. Instead they died with the world they had always had as their home, a land so beautiful that the moment any sadness erupted from a single person, it was immediately silenced by the grandeur of the landscape, of the people. I continued to convulse with agony as my world was consumed by the monstrosity created in the nebulae of hell, the only place I can still imagine such a mechanical demon rose from.

As the demon finished its eldritch meal, it shot off to its origin plane of hell. Not a thing of Ganyllede remained and to this day I cannot think of my home, my land, my country without loosing the tears of a people damned to an eternity of emptiness in the void. They are all dead, and there can be no heaven for them. They were eaten by the devil himself, in the guise of a shell of pure void metal. When I am finally allowed to die by those damned creatures in the shell of man known as the Marsians, I will join them. There can be no heaven for a man who lives beyond his people. There is no heaven for the damned.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

Uch’Ulani was right. Nya’Koro couldn’t help but think it as he clawed his way skyward. The ridge slopes were steep and becragged with knife-edged stones that jabbed and cut at exposed flesh and heavy boulders lying await in loose soil to plummet to the valley floor at the slightest provocation. Koro had watched a dozen of his people succumb to this fate already, and yet they still climbed. Men, carrying hunting tools or empty pails with which to catch rainwater, a few even with small animals borne aloft in ramshackle cages; women carried children and clothing, children carried fear and wonder. A whole village followed their Nya toward the Uch’Naatal risking both life and limb because Uch’Ulani was right.

Koro wrapped a strong arm around the twisted trunk of a windblown acacia, lending his other hand in aid to a struggling group of villagers following his lead, thorns bit into his flesh. He pulled them upward and forward, greeting each by name, smiling despite his exhaustion and pointing them toward a less perilous path up the rockface. Time was precious, expedience of the greatest import.

He looked down, far down to the beach below where miniature people of the Kun’Taoli village hunted and pecked among the exposed coral. The sea had departed, Kun had exposed her breast and her children fed. But Uch’Ulani was right; Koro was sure of it.

A moon ago, N’Ya, the great giant on whose belly his people lived the behemoth who dreamt beneath the waves, had stirred. The trees had shaken dropping hard to reach fruits, a new spring had openned north of the village bringing fresh water, and the sea had retreated then as it had now. Men and women rushed out onto the reef as the waters fled in fear of their presence. In short time the blazing sun had dried the coral, forced into stillness to sea creatures which had flopped upon the rocks and gasped for air. He noted the absence of sea birds. Those scavengers which spent their days shifting and picking through the debris brought by the restless ocean, they should have pounced upon such a gift. But the birds did not come. Koro’s people had collected fish and crab, mussels and clams, food enough to feed the village for many days; a great celebration was held in the night. Few were awake when the sea returned.

Nya’Koro watched the sea for several days following the event. Disquiet in his soul he consulted Uch’Ulani; she who read the winds could often forsee events to come and glean unexpected wisdom from those events passed. Koro’s father had relied heavily on Ulani’s words when he was Nya, but she was old and her ways were eldrich and fearful. Koro, like many in the village, didn’t understand the ancient custom and so he often spurned her words and kept his distance.

With a nervous heart Koro approached he hut. Palm thatch rustled in the breeze and chimes constructed on hollowed shells clattered at his arrival. She bid him enter and he did, hesitantly. Uch’Ulani smiled at him warmly showing her toothless grin. She gestured for him to sit while she kindled a small fire between them. Her stringy, grey hair was pulled into a tight knot at the crown of her head, her flesh was coconut brown and tanned like leather. She wore a simple skirt of palm fronds tied at the waist and a necklace of sea shells. Her breasts were bare a sagged into her cross-legged lap when she leaned forward to breath life into the fledgling blaze. Koro glanced about the interior of the structure, unable and unwillingly to be comfortable in the old woman’s presence.

When the tiny fire was secured and a pungent smoke began to fill the chamber she finally spoke. Her voice came forth with surprising clarity and seemed to dance to the tune conducted by the light in her eyes. For the briefest moment she did not appear anceint at all, but young and full of life. “You wish to know why N’Ya trembles.”

Koro inhaled sharply. He shouldn’t have been surprised, her ability to know was why he had come. He nodded dumbly in response.

Ulani gestured to the small flame burning between them, her Ka. Koro leaned forward attentively, as though he would see his answer therein. He stared into the blaze, eyes wide until the heat forced him to blink. When he openned his eyes, Uch’Ulani had her hand placed, palm downward, onto the fire; smothering it into the sandy floor. She did not flinch from the pain, though her eyes were closed as if in deep meditation. Her hand free hand ventured to the string of shells about her neck, selected one and raised it to her lips. She blew, ever so lightly, and it seemed to Koro that the only sound in the world at that moment was the single delicate note drifting from her lips to his ears and away on the wind.

Her eyes openned slowly. She raised her hand from the fire and gazed intently into the lingering tendril of smoke snaking upward in curls and whorls before escaping through the thatched roof. Koro thought he heard her gasp.

“What is it!?” He surprised himself at the intensity of his reaction and immediately felt embarassed for having broken the moment. Until he had spoken, he was sure that note had still hung in the air.

She did not chastize him but spoke frankly, “N’Ya stirs. He shall stir again. His sleep is not restful. He dreams . . .”

“What does that mean?” He interupted. He remembered the sea birds; or rather their absence. It gave him a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. “What of Kun?”

Kun was the sea, N’Ya’s mother and lover; she held her child in sleep so that her other children, Koro’s people, had a place to call home. Kunal, N’Ya’s stomach, the island which Koro’s tribe the Nya’Koloti called home with the neighboring Kun’Taoli people. To the west lay the islands of Tanat, his shoulder, and Ka’Kalati, the mountain peak which was his nose. Both islands, as well as several more to the north and east were home to the Kun’Taoli people. The Taolis were seafarers, driving their small boats from island to island, promoting trade between tribes which might never meet. They were often born at sea, and believed meeting their end in Kun’s embrace to be the greatest of honors.

Ulani replied quietly, “Kun shall flee, as before, for her lover frightens her when he dreams of Ka. But she will return, to pull him back into her arms, deeper into sleep. She fears he will wake.” Koro thought he could make sense of that. He had seen, the day following the last tremor, marks where the sea had risen far above the waterline and receded again to normal levels before morning.

He left the Ulani’s hut, shaken by the revelation, but in the following days he put it behind him and continued life as normal.

A month later the earth shook again, violently. Koro sprang from his sleep, dumbfounded. It took him some moments before he understood what has wakened him. When he finally did, Koro rushed into the villages. His people, still unnerved by the force of the quake, did not know what to make of their Nya running about raving. He shouted order hither and thither instructing his people to move to high ground; to Uch’Naatal the plateau high above the village. Most were in shock and in no mood to argue; his had been a good reign, this Nya cared about his people, loved his people, knew each of them by name and toiled along side them. If he was so upset, they would not argue. Most packed a few items and headed into the forests to the paths toward cliffs.

Koro was pleased with his people’s mobility. Uch’Ulani, herself, led the march and few, despite their prejudice, refused to follow. The Nya rushed to the neighboring Kun’Taoli village to warn them of the danger. Cresting the ridge he found them already lined up at the waterline with tools for gathering Kun’s bounty. They were waiting for the sea to recede. Koro rushed in among them, shouting warnings and dire prophecy. Those Taoli who didn’t ignore him treated him as though he were mad; they had nothing to fear of Kun. Defeated, Nya’Koro returned to his people to guide them up the perilous path to Uch’Naatal, despair in his heart.

From the edge of the ridge, Koro helped the last of his people to safety and settled himself on the grassy plain atop Uch’Naatal. A steady wind rolled the tall, dry grasses of the flatlands for miles. He had considered moving his people to the plateau several times, but had encountered the same hardships. Rain was scarce in the highlands. The sea brought heavy clouds which dropped their weight at the base of the cliffs spawning great, flourishing jungle forests before climbing above Uch’Naatal. Also absent were trees, few if any grew atop to plateau, making shelter from the blazing sun a rarity. As a result, food was difficult to come by, and the Kun’Taoli’s reluctance to climb simply made it easier to stay near the beach. Now Koro waited, and watched; his people could not stay up here for long.

It was not long after reaching the summit that the sea returned. The Kun’Taoli retreated to their beaches hastily and counted their harvest. Koro unsettle himself and began to make like he was ready to move back down. The low-hanging sun stopped him; the journey would be treacherous at night. His people could manage one evening above the canopy of their forest home; among the company of stars. Koro was awed by his fortune when half an hour later the sea once more fled the shores.

The Kun’Taoli counted it a blessing and Koro could hear the cheers rising from their village even from his high vantage point. He watched points of light dance across the reef as the Kun’Taoli lit torches and hunted by night. The glow of their village celebration lit up the night.

Sometime later, Koro was awakened by cries and the roar of what sounded like wind the likes of which he had never heard. The ground beneath him vibrated and he could hear above it all Uch’Ulani’s shells. She was praying in her way. All of the torches went out.

Morning came.

Koro stood at the edge of the ridge, peering down at the beach far below. Uch’Ulani approached, but words would not come. He expected destruction; he expected the ruins of homes, uprooted trees, stones and bodies in disarray. He expected chaos. What he saw was far worse.

Nothing.

The beach was pristine. White sands glittered in the morning light. The forest trees which remained stood as though they had always been so lonely; the morning mist radiating joyfully in the early light. Crabs scuttled across the sand and shorebirds picked and prodded among them. Of his village and that of the Kun’Taoli, there was no sign; even the terrain upon which it had stood was different. Perfectly different.

Koro tried to tell himself that they weren’t his people, that his people were safe, and that Kun had simply chosen her favored to be with her. But the magnitude overwhelmed him. Surrounded by his people; the people he loved, the people he saved, the people of whom he knew each by name; Nya’Koro wept.

[Kaez]

Silver:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 3/7
Quality - 5/8

Total -- 14/25

I really dislike when fantasy stories start in the middle of a battle scene. As someone who's read a ton of fantasy, in my experience, battle scenes are awesome not because swords and guts are awesome, but because battles are -important-. They have meaning attached to them. And when you start a story with one, without the preface that explains that meaning, the reader has no real reason to -care-.

The piece lacked personality to me. I don't know any of the characters. I don't know what they feel or think. I don't know why they're fighting or how they came to fight here. I don't know anything about what's going on. If I knew less about Warhammer, I wouldn't even be able to imagine or picture half of them.

From a technical perspective, it was fine. But it left me feeling dry. Going, "Hey, cool story, bro." I had no reason to become emotionally invested. It didn't -do- anything for me.




James:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 7/8

Total -- 19/25

The word choice in this was really spectacular. I literally read the entire thing in a British accent in my head. I didn't try to, I didn't think about it. It just happened and that was nice. Tommy's a wonderful character. Even if characters like Mummy and Daddy got very brief roles, the reader gets a taste of their personalities from them. They feel alive and real.

There was a grammatical mistake or a typo or something, but whatever it was didn't bother the story at all; it didn't necessitate a pause or confusion or anything. I just really enjoyed the tone that this piece captured and the consistency with which it did so. My most significant complaint is just the use of topic. While I really like that this was creative and unexpected -- and I hope you keep that up -- I just frankly -didn't get- 'awe' out of this. 2/5 is for the distinct possibility of someone else seeing it where I don't, basically.




Allya:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 0/5
Entertainment - 3/7
Quality - 5/8

Total -- 13/25

First things first: I gave you a 0/5 on use of topic just because it wasn't an original piece written for the competition. I wanted to count and include it, but I felt like I -had- to penalize it for that sake. Other than that, it's a little on the short side -- and I don't mean that in a relative way. I mean I feel like there was a lot of potential for a fuller, more in-depth, more interesting, fleshed out, and engrossing story here. You've got what seems like the back cover of a book instead of the book itself.

It's got a good, epic feel to it and it hints at symbolism and the language is pretty solid. But it just leaves one feeling cheated. It doesn't feel finished or whole.




Reffy:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 1/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 3/8

Total -- 12/25

Well, from a technical perspective, it was solid. And that's not a thing that could be said about your pieces one upon a time, so that's nice. What really threw me off of this piece was the dialogue. It felt -very- fake to me. The explanation of the woman was exaggerated and unnecessary and... nobody speaks that way. -Nobody speaks that way-. The way those two conversed isn't the way anyone actually does, and since the dialogue was really, like, half of the piece... that was pretty detrimental to me. The other half, the message, the, I think, intended 'awe', felt pretty forced as well. It didn't have emotionally descriptive words, and tried to convey it through dialogue instead, but that... didn't work so well for me.

This one needed a foundation in relating to the characters and feeling what they feel. And I just couldn't get that out of it.




Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 3/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 4/8

Total -- 17/25

I enjoyed this. From a technical perspective, it was pretty much perfect. I really enjoyed the use of metaphors throughout. When it became simile ("as if a vampire...") it wasn't as good, but when it stuck to being metaphorical, I enjoyed it. The beast disguised as a machine, engulfing and devouring. I enjoyed that a lot. And even if the narrative wasn't perfectly done and had some repetition ('my home, my ward, my duty' followed by 'my home, my land, my country', and the beast-guised-in-metal metaphor done twice in a row), it had some emotional conviction to it, which has pretty much been my main complaint of the other stories I've read here. And with a topic like 'awe', emotional conviction's important.

In general, I enjoyed it. Far from perfect, but good.




Zovo:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 19/25

I really enjoyed this. It easily topped the pack in terms of entertainment and quality scores, and blew everything else away in use of topic. Entertaining characters, entertaining plot, entertaining culture. The writing was good, the descriptions were good. The ending, in particular, I really enjoyed. Not really a whole lot to criticize here. I feel like the score doesn't seem to reflect the lack of criticism, but I stand by both facts. The story's not blowing my mind or winning the Nobel prize, but it was solid all around. Not perfect, but good enough where specific improvements would be difficult to go into. The biggest complaint is several typos and grammatical mistakes that gave me a bit of pause at times.

Otherwise, good work.

Round One Scorecard

[/b]
1st: James - 19
1st: Zovo - 19
3rd: Injin - 17
4th: Silver - 14
5th: Allya - 13
6th: Reffy - 12


Round One Winners are James and Zovo![/center][/size]

Round Two
Topic: MOON
Deadline: 11:59pm -- 11th March

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Her eyes turned skyward, her hands smoothing her gown as the light of the moon shone upon her. Lips tilted upward, crinkling her face in the lines of age, “Time for my work to begin.” Her voice held the music of the southern lands as she rose fluidly, gown billowing around her steps to give the illusion of floating. Long fingers, cold from the drafty walls, combed back the silver shining silver of her hair, long locks resting gently on back and shoulders.

Her reflection in the mirror made her pause; her green, doe-like eyes staring back at the pale and ancient reflection that greeted her. Fingertips traced lines down her cheek and chin, to wrinkled neck and sagging chest. Her smile never diminished as she turned away from the hag and made her way out from her room, gliding down the steps of her tower.

Other women and young girls gathered around, following after their ancient mistress. Each wore a gown that was a mirror to the others: that of a luxurious blue trimmed in gold and silver. Heavy chains were wrapped about their necks, chains that signified they were yet still students despite the many ages that were gathered, from withered crones to girls who had not even had their first bleed.

Amylissa, though, was the only one without a chain. She was, in her tower, the only one who was a teacher rather than a student. Yet it was on this night, this glorious night, in which she would teach those who had been with her the longest their last spell. The only spell they would need to be free of their chains.

She stepped through the open door of the tower, bare feet immediately greeted by cold, dewy grass. An ocean of dark emerald that shone in the bright gaze of the moon which hung heavy and low in the sky, a great silver eye that looked upon the slumbering world. The cool night air was filled with the harmony of birdsong and crickets, each crying together in a natural harmony that was too often missed by those who did not care to hear.

Yet it was this chorus that filled Amylissa’s soul each night, which soothed her to sleep when the sun rose in the east. Her light step carried the old woman to a table of smooth marble, intricately wrought with symbols both arcane and divine. She stood there, for a time, silently, basking in the night-song, only the excited breath of her students being the most alien of sounds. Amylissa turned in the spot, her back to both moon and table, silhouetted by the silvery light.

“We are gathered here this night, the Holiest Night of Mother, to commence the graduation of those who have sat at my feet to learn their Path. It is the Mother who guides us in our arts, be they in healing or in war, in the divine or the arcane. It is the Mother who holds the path for all, even those too blind to see such. But you, my wonderful Daughters, you are here because you heard the call of the Mother, because you wish to learn your true path.

“And so, you shall. This night, you all shall learn the closely guarded secret of the Mother, that which gives reason why her cult has persisted for so long despite those who would oppose it.” There was sharp hissing from the gathered crowd, the loudest of them bearing the Sunburst Brand, the mark of the so-called Saviors.

Amylissa held her hands up for quiet, “Yes, my Daughters… yes, I know we have all suffered in recent times, more thoroughly than any time before. But know this, the Mother is watching and waiting, she waits for her Daughters and her Sons to be strong enough to challenge those who follow their false-deity of war and hardship. This is why she sees fit to have granted us such a gift,” she lowered one arm, turning the other to gesture toward two large men in armor as black as coal.

“Bring forth the heretics,” her words were steel, sharp and cold. The guardians bowed and moved off, silent despite the heavy armor they wore.

It wasn’t until moments later they returned, a gaggle of men in tarnished gilt armor being forced forward. The one in the lead marched stoically forward, his own armor having been stripped, save for his smallclothes. Upon his chest was an ugly, infected brand depicting all stages of the moon. As the line was brought to a halt, he spat at the feet of Amylissa. “Demonic Whore, you may profane my body but my soul shall not be taken by your black arts!” his voice was a rough, hoarse cry, his throat raw from thirst.

Amylissa favored him with a cold smile, “Here, my daughters, is one of the Grand Crusaders of Amen’Ta-ha, a true devotee to his false deity. No doubt he has placed the Brand on many of those who did not bend knee to the Tyrant God.” The ice in her eyes never left the face of the man who glowered back at her, “The first step in appeasing the Mother and beginning the spell is the blood of a strong man.”

The Grand Crusader was released from his shackles, though he was far too weak to fight his way from the massive hands of the Blackguards. He was forced over to the table, and chained once more to its surface. “Just as the Mother can turn red from the blood of her mourning, so too can she bed fed by this elixir by those who harm her children,” Amylissa’s voice was soft as she spoke, a curved blade appearing in her hand.

With deft care, she drove the tip into the brand, carving into the flesh the same symbols that had been seared there. To the credit of the prisoner, no cry of pain was heard, no plea for mercy. His chest ran red, his blood reflected darkly in the silver light of the moon as it pooled into the symbols of the table. Amylissa stood above him, drops of blood splattering against his face as she tilted her head back and began her chant.

“Mother, Eye of the Night and True Goddess, look favorably upon I, Your most loyal of servants. Hear my words as I cry unto You that which I need to spread Your word and bring Your children to You. With the blood of the Tyrant flowing freely, give unto me the youth I need. Give unto me the strength I need. Give unto me life!”

The moonlight focused solely on Amylissa, driving all others into shadow. Only now did the Grand Crusader scream. Now as his life was drained away, as soon nothing more than red dust remained of the noble warrior. Yet no eyes witnessed his death, the death of this man whose name no longer mattered. No, all gazes were upon Amylissa, standing bathed in the light of the Mother. Silvery hair turned into gold, wrinkled flesh becoming smooth, sagging chest once more pert and full.

As the light once more spread out to encompass the wide world, Amylissa stood young and hale with no sign of age upon her flesh. Her usually shimmering eyes burned like green fire as she offered the blade to the most ancient of those who would pass on from Daughters to Mothers. Throughout all the sacrifices it was only the cold light of the moon which saw each death, hidden in the shadows.

[Injin]

It was a quiet and balmy day that the oddly suited aliens arrived. Their shuttle, while quaint and primitive had somehow been able to bring them from Aerth to Luna without too many problems. We knew they were from Aerth because of their silly flag, which displayed the configuration most commonly used on the Aerth continent of Aemerica. Our suits had been configured so that they would be unable to see us, unless they had heat sensors aboard their vessel. They were not yet at that point technologically, at least this much we believed. We watched as the first of them, whose radio name seemed to be Kneel Armstrong or some garbage sounding name, proclaim this as one step for man, and a large jump for mankind or some related drivel. These Aerthlings were quite proud that they had made it to Luna. So proud in fact that they planted their flag and didn't come back until the later events that unfolded. Why would they need to? They had already been here, and they didn’t like repeating accomplishments unless it meant something new.

We waited years for them to return though, and although they never did, they stoked our curiosity. Who were these beings, calling themselves Humans? The elders of our colony spoke of a time when Aerth had been even more primitive, even lacking a complete knowledge of their own planet. While at the time it seemed odd that they had not yet escaped the boundaries of their Seed Planet, I understand now why. They are a short lived species, who measure accomplishments in generational period of around 10 or so Aerth Cycles. Despite the fact I was already 3241 cycles of age based on this measurement, I was still young, if you count our original home of Aedem Primars’ cycles in the same manner. I did not know what the elders were planning. Not until they struck.

The war was fierce, and it took several decades to finish. We were shocked at the ferocity and numbers that the Aerthlings would throw at us. This war was the fiercest our people had ever fought. It was around 12 earth cycles ago that one side began to defeat the other much more frequently. The Aerthlings evolved their methods and quickly adapted to our strategies. They suddenly seemed much more aware of our technology and ambush our supply ships, even though their existence hadn’t even been noticed by the humans even a cycle before. We were finally thrown off of Aerth after the battle of Meggiddoh, during which all of the elders, excepting myself, as I had been elevated to as a reward for my battle prowess, were slain, and I led my people back to Luna. We had lost communications days before, but that was during a flare of Sol, so we assumed it was simply a glitch of some sort. We were wrong.

They had overrun the cities of Luna and had annihilated all who lived. There was no mercy given by the humans. They destroyed everything. Fleeing with the remainder of my people, we quickly flew back to the main settlements on Aedem Secunda. We did not realize the full magnitude of the defeat then. The humans followed our fleeing fleet to Aedem Secunda, its bright sands scorched into glass as the humans used our own weapons against us. We had long ago gotten over the common strife of hatred among ourselves, so to defend against our own weapons was unthinkable then. We were naïve and foolish. We believed that due to our technological and cultural superiority that the war would be easily won, and that the humans would simply bow to our superior fire power and be vanquished, as so many before them had. We learned at Aedem Secunda that this was a foolish notion that such thoughts lead to the foolish invasion in the first place.

At what the humans call Olympus Mons, we learned the finality and anger of the human race. Our information library there was ransacked and looted, and once they had what they needed, they glassed it all. They destroyed cultural relics long passed down eons ago, before even my father’s father had been born. Art created by our greatest inventors and artists were vaporized in rage at our folly. Our ancestor’s work was destroyed. All of it. We had not thought that any people would destroy culture, no matter how uncivilized. Surely they understood the value? No. They understood. That is why they destroyed it. That is why they are still hunting us down. That is why our race is doomed unless you allow us to settle in your space.

We were arrogant. We were ruthless. We are sorry. They are not. They will be in time. But for now, they are not sorry and I understand why.

[James]

“Laura? Laura, is that you?”

Hardly believing her eyes, Selena rushed over to the petite brunette that was walking down the aisle of yoghurts, cheese and other slightly refrigerated things. At one point in primary school, the two girls could almost pass as twins. Towered over by the other students they had clung together during the scary days of maths equations and lunch-time bullies. Selena had nearly begged her mother to allow her to go to the state school down the road instead of facing the prospect of going to school without her best friend.

Laura turned upon her feet, her eyes wide as a grin exploded across her face. “Selena? What are you doing here? Teresa said you were in Exeter!”

“Well, I am,” Selena said, her own smile flashing back at the girl in front of her. “But I come back once a month. It’s easy to skip the occasional lecture to make sure I get back home.”

The usual dance of questions, small-talk and gossip began within the somewhat chilly aisle at Tesco. It hadn’t been the strangest place Selena had engaged in the verbal tango. There was the time where she and her old biology teacher had spoken about what university was like while in line for the toilet on a speeding train. Selena knew, if you left a small town in search for riches and glory within the largely unhallowed halls of Exeter University, you could expect an interrogation five times a day upon arriving home. Depending on the person, she didn’t really mind that much.

“Hey,” Laura said, spinning away from the dance. “There’s a little party tonight; it’s not much, but you should come along.”

“I wish I could but I’ve promised Tera that I’ll see her tonight,” Selena answered.

Shaking her head, Laura reached for a pack of varying levels of vanilla yoghurts. “So your life still revolves around Teresa? Some things don’t change, do they?”

“Well, she is the main reason why I come back.”

“Her drinking’s got worse, you know?” Laura asked, dropping the yoghurts into her trolley. Selena couldn’t help but cast a glance over its other cellmates: fresh vegetables and fruits, cranberry juice, pasta. Laura’s diet was clearly improving from her school’s days.

“I know,” Selena grimaced. “I think I alter the river of booze depending how close I am to her.”

A clicking sound escaping her lips, Laura swung the trolley around. “I need to get going, but if you’re in the area later; stop by. Everyone will love to see you again.”

Nodding, Selena said her goodbyes and carried on through the aisles of Tesco. She thought about going to Laura’s party as freshly baked bread attempted to ensnare her with their delightful aromas. It would be nice to see everyone again. Teresa wouldn’t see it that way, though. She would consider it as some sort of slight against her. To avoid Tera completely would be even worst. Selena easily pictured the girl’s slumped over form, several beer bottles near by. Regardless of how much she might want to party, Selena found herself being drawn back towards Teresa and her home. It was inescapable.

Within half an hour, Selena was killing the tiny engine of her car and walking up the pathway to Teresa’s house. The clouds that had blocked away the sun for the entire day were still standing resolute, carpeting the sleepy town in blankness. Carrying a bag bulging with fresh food, Selena knocked lightly upon the front door. Raised voices filtered through the small gaps between wood and brick, curses rapidly plugging the air. There was the pounding of feet upon floorboards and then the door swung open.

“Mr Victus,” Selena said, not taking a step back. Teresa’s father took up most of the doorway, his wide frame threatening to lodge itself in the opening. “I’m here to see Tera.”

“Yeah I know but she’s busy now, come back later,” sniffed Mr Victus, swinging the door shut. Even from the front step, Selena could hear Tera’s sobbing from upstairs.

Jabbing her foot forward, the door bounced off the end of Selena’s shoe as she kept her eyes upon Teresa’s father. “Can I ask what she’s busy with?”

“No,” Mr Victus said, evidently ignoring the polite smile on Selena’s face as he pushed at the door and slammed it shut.

Selena sighed as she ran her free hand through her hair. Tera hadn’t been busy in three years, which meant that her father was still adamant in trying to keep them apart. Redoubling her grip upon the shopping bag, Selena padded across the long grass and slipped through the dying garden gate. It hung by a single rusty hinge, weeds already beginning to wrap their fingers around the bottom of the wood. The garden path was slowly losing its battle to the growing grass, disappearing under the bombardment. Checking to see that the curtains were drawn with a quick glance, Selena walked brazenly into the middle of the garden.

“Tera, Tera?” Selena called, hoping that her voice would carry through the open window.

In a second, an unruly mass of black hair emerged from between the curtains. “Selena!” Tera hissed excitedly, her pale face beaming with excitement. The rivers of tears were still visible upon her cheeks.

“Let me in,” Selena said, gesturing to the door in front of her. Earning a nod in reply, she waited in the cold as Tera disappeared from the window.

Foot tapping against the grass impatiently, Selena considered whether she could just take Tera away from the house. If Tera’s father caught her sneaking Selena in then hell would break loose. Perhaps she could use the opportunity to convince Tera to go with her to Laura’s party. Trying to choose the right words within her head, rehearsing ever possible conversation, Selena stumbled backwards as Mr Victus appeared from the garden door.

“I’m half-minded to call the police, Selena,” Mr Victus growled, walking out onto the grass. Tera was behind him, her eyes wide and appearing ready to bolt with every step. “I’ve had enough of your busy bodying around.”

“I just want to see her. I’ve brought some food for both of you,” Selena said, holding the bag out in front of her.

Blood surged to Tera’s father face, his veins bulging as he reached forward and snatched the bag from Selena’s hand. With a swing of his arm he flung the vegetables and fruit across the lawn. “We don’t need your charity! I provide everything my girl needs! I give her money, food, shelter. You don’t. I provide!”

The tears began to slide down Tera’s face as her father bellowed in the back garden of their home and Selena did the only thing that made sense to her. She ran at the man in front of her, despite his size, and barrelled him to the ground in an almighty thud. Untangling herself from the mass of flesh, she rushed to Teresa and wrapped her arms around the sobbing girl. Wetness flooding her shoulder as Tera cried against her, Selena’s hand ran up and down her back.

“Come on, let’s go,” Selena whispered hurriedly.

“I can’t, I can’t,” Tera whined into Selena’s shoulder.

Pushing the girl back a step, Selena stood still with her arms outstretched so as to completely block Tera’s view of her father. “You can. He doesn’t control you. Look at him, really look at him. He’s horrible; he’s not your saviour. You can go.”

Wobbling slightly upon her legs, Teresa slowly began to nod and Selena seized her chance. Grabbing Tera’s cold, small hand, Selena dragged the girl with her as they sprinted from the garden. She had no idea how long she could eclipse the towering image of Teresa’s father, but if she could drag Tera away for long enough then there was hope left. As Mr Victus’ swearing floated on the wind, the moon began to break through the canopy of clouds. Teresa’s hand still wrapped tightly in her own, Selena raced towards car.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Late Moon entry ... sorry

SPOILER: Click to show

"You mean to tell me that there's something pulling the moon to Earth?"

Joe knew it sounded ludicrous but that was what every report proved. It was all right there in the maths and the strange tides the news blathered about. Awkwardly he shifted the phone against his ear and shoulder to a move comfortable position. "Yes," he coughed.

"Look, Joe, maybe you need to take a few days off? Relax a little. Perhaps you've been up at the observatory for too long now?" Ricky sounded tired.

Joe pushed on, valiantly, ignoring the holiday suggestions from his old friend. This was business and a lot of bad news. "You got the report I sent you. You have to see it, right? The maths adds up. You're a clever guy, Ricky. Work it out."

"This isn't some kind of Science Fiction B-movie, Joe. The inertia wouldn't allow it." He snapped. "Maybe some day it could happen but not now."

Joe could just imagine Ricky now, behind his desk with people queuing up down the corridor and around the corner. On the table would be several old, and thoroughly cold, mugs of coffee with stains on the side. He would have failed to upgrade his desk and join the 21st century; still owning the white (although grey now) larger monitor and tower system, complete with chunky keyboard and grubby mouse.

Every day Ricky would slouch to office and sink into his worn chair and process all variety of reports and statistics, like the moon doing strange things, colourful objects in the sky, and, of course, little green men. After seeing so many blatantly stupid reports Ricky had come to believe that everybody had wild and crazy imaginations. Over the years, and while his brown hair turned white and his waist-line had expanded, he'd barely found more than five percent of the reports and statistics to be true, and usually those could be debunked by real facts.

"The moon cannot simply crash into the Earth. It isn't possible at the moment and it certainly wouldn't happen at the speed you're suggesting." That was it. End of conversation as far as Ricky was concerned. "Get a holiday, Joe. Say hi to the missus."

"Yeah, will do," came Joe's automatic reply in a defeated and dull tone. Silently, as the phone connection died and was replaced by a monotonous tone, he wondered what had happened to the childhood friendship they had once shared. More importantly, he also wondered what he should do with his theory and fears, which if correct gave Earth one full month to prepare for the worst.

[ASGetty ((Zovo))]

(Round Two)

He dreamed of a living firmament. All about him, pin-pricks of light drifted and swayed on unearthly breezes. He floated, lazily, on warm currents that hugged his body and carried deeper into fantasy. Before him stars coalesced into shimmering clouds and dispersed at his approach to wind in swirls and spirals in his periphery. Blues and deeper blues intermingled bringing with them the great leviathans of the deep who, in turn, brought with them their primordial song.

Manau smiled despite himself. He had seen this place before from the fringe; never had he been allowed entry. Once, long ago, a good-natured wager between himself and his brothers, which could swim the deepest, had gotten out of hand. Manau was proud and boastful. He could easily win this game, but he desired to make a point of it.

Pushing his way into the depths beyond the reefs he swam into the darkness. Beyond the diving birds which speared the waters in their search for food, beyond the other boys he kicked. Beyond the sights and sounds of the world above he pushed himself deeper than he had ever ventured, and still he reached. Down, ever deeper he swam, to where the burning sun could no longer penetrate, until the weight of that world, that immaculate world surrounding, crushed against his body. His lungs yearned for breath taking hints of water from the corners of his mouth and fear gripped him as lights appeared before his eyes. Starbursts of color danced in his vision as blackness slowly crept upon him. That’s when he saw her, shimmering in the deep amidst swarms of luminescent fishes and beasts the like he’d never seen. Her body is delicate and thin, and her skin glimmers with abalone iridescence. She is Talua; freed from her midnight prison, at home in the depths, she is perfectly foreign and perfectly desirable. He loved her.

It is there that Manau’s body betrayed him. Though his eyes remained fixed on his vision, his arms clawed for the surface; his legs, kicking against all good sense, ignored his speed of ascent. He was pulled from the reef barely conscious by his brothers, each cursing him for his foolish behavior. His vision had earned him many days of agony while his body paid for his trespass into the world of darkness. As soon as he was capable, though, Manau tried once more; such was the pull of his vision. Such was his love for Talua. His people, the people of Kun, worried for him. They said he was mad chasing the moon beneath the waves; they feared he would bring about his own demise. Never again, though, could she be seen except in her nighttime wanderings across the sky.

In dreams, though, she lurked. In his dreams he could travel her underwater realm, and see her in all her glory. He could chase her to the farthest reaches darkest depths; though he still could never quite reach her. His heart ached, and this night was no different.

Manau drifted ever deeper, carried along by a chill current slinking along the sea floor. There spidery creatures crawled amongst green and red forests, and giant shellfish smiled their taunting smiles bearing fist-sized pearls on their fleshy tongues. In the distance Talua glowed, and Manau followed. He chased her through cities coral where eel heads darted and flicked out from windows to snatch up passing fishes. He chased her through forests of kelp and over yawning chasms and, eventually, into the mouth of a deep sea cavern.

“There!” He thought to himself, “I have her. She will be mine, and I shall be blissful until the end of my days.”

Manau entered the cavern, guided only by his fingertips against the slime-slick wall and the glow of Talua ahead. He swam carefully, afraid to spook her in the event he caught her unawares. Their relationship was a strange one; though he chased her often and though her constant teasing had a playful quality, she never seemed to notice his presence. A fact Manau both abhorred and relished, for if she noticed him it made him feel insignificant, thought to it meant she wasn’t fleeing away from him, merely fleeing.

He crept closer until he reached a corner, around which drifted a few strands of her silvery hair. Manau extended his arm to touch her. Finally! His heart sang with anticipation.

Something rocked him, shook him from his fantasy. Manau clung desperately to the dream, reached just to brush the hair with his fingertips, but something jerked him from the cave forcefully. He felt body being thrashed helplessly against the rock walls, bludgeoning the air from his body. He could feel something on his leg dragging him across the sea floor slicing his flesh with shells and stones; he felt his lungs take in water. Manau cried out as he stared into the squid’s unblinking eye . . .

He awoke then. Alone, unmolested, Manau lay on the floor of his canoe and gazed up at the stars in the night sky. He took a deep breath, his heart still raced. He had had the dream so many times, though never had it ended as such, something had awakened him. He sat up and surveyed his surroundings. In all directions he saw nothing but stars down to the horizon, and their dancing reflections on the open sea beneath. To the south he saw Talua, wavering on the water; looking up he saw her half-lidded eye shining down upon him. He sighed.

Manau took note of the stars and Talua’s place in the night sky. Too low. He must have drifted into the rilib, the main swell pushing north through the islands, though even that shouldn’t have taken him so far. Not this time of year. He checked the wind and noted nothing peculiar. He made a scoop with his hand and took a few drinks from the rain pail.

Perhaps something had dragged him off course, he wondered. He reached the side of the canoe to where his fishing lines were tethered. He pulled in all lines along with their meager catch, some of which were barely larger than the bait which had lured them; one was half eaten by the denizens of the sea. A small price to pay for sleeping with bait in the water. Manau removed the hooks and placed his catch in a small mesh bag at the foot of the vessel.

The small boat shifted suddenly as though bumped, though there was no sound of impact. Manau’s heart skipped a beat, his limbs quivered both from chill and fear. Motionless, but for his shaking, Manau watched the waters around him for movement. Long minutes passed, nothing jumped out at him; figuratively or actually.

Manau calmed himself and lay face-down in the belly of his craft. He closed his eye warily, as though the dream would be waiting for him. Placing his ear against the hull he tried to clear his head, tried to concentrate on the sea beneath him.

Again his mind filled with images of swirling currents and undersea breezes drifting to and fro, pulling and pushing. He concentrated on the rocking of his boat, the gentle roll and sweep of the sea swell and called to memory the charts he had learned. He raised his head and once more examined the stars; he was not lost.

Manau waited, and waited.

Finally it came again; the canoe rocked improperly. The variation was slight, but Manau knew it immediately. It was enough to have caught him off guard and make him believe the craft had been bumped. It was enough to rouse his highly trained sense and wake him from blissful slumber. It was enough to inspire fear.

Something was wrong with the sea.

He reached for his paddle and with a few strong strokes turned his canoe toward home. It would take several days to complete the journey, which was no matter. Manau had baitfish, reserve water, rain on the horizon and years of experience. Manau was proud and boastful; he could win this game as well.

He looked to Talua apologetically, what mischief was this mistress of tides up to?

[Kaez]

Silver:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 3/7
Quality - 4/8

Total -- 12/25

The most important rule in storytelling is making the reader -care-. This story almost entirely lacked emotions because it almost entirely lacked -characters-. Yes, I know some names of some people, and I have a very, very vague idea of who they are. But I don't know what they think or feel about anything. And to sustain a story without the thoughts or feelings of characters -- a nearly impossible feat -- the descriptions have to be incredible and poetic and they weren't.

It was matter-of-factly. It didn't make the reader -care-. Focus on your characters and their dialogues. Even a relatively poor story, if it can make the reader care about the protagonist and find him believable, will be a success. Look at House. Every episode of that show has basically the -same plot-. But that doesn't matter. The character is the focus and the character is interesting and realistic.



Injin:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 2/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 3/8

Total -- 13/25

I mean, it's not great. You know it's not great and you're not pleased with that. But I really don't understand why you didn't fix it up. Because the strongest thing this story has going for it is really the concept. The idea you had driving the whole thing was an interesting one, I just don't think you presented it in the best way. You ended up working it into something interesting and I actually rather liked the ending, but it had -way- more potential than it was given. It became too much of a history and not enough of a story. But the fact that you recognize that is enough. Your next one will be better, I'm sure of it. Be patient with your stories. Give them thought and time and consideration. Don't be afraid to rewrite and revise and edit.



James:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 4/7
Quality - 6/8

Total -- 18/25

Symbolism for the win. Really enjoyed the use of the topic. Outside of that, though, I felt like this really wasn't the best thing you've ever written. You've done better dialogue, you've done better descriptions, you've done better emotions. I mean, it was definitely solid on all fronts and I don't really have any -complaints-, but there was definitely room for improvement in pretty much every direction -- improvement that I know you to be entirely capable of. So while it was definitely good, I think it was a ways away from great.



Reffy:

Spelling & Grammar - 2/2
Ease of Read - 3/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 5/7
Quality - 4/8

Total -- 18/25

My initial reaction after reading the last line was, "That was a weird kind of awesome." I think that reaction came from basically two things: 1) I have no idea if Joe is nuts or not and I -like- that I have no idea. 2) There's some subtle symbolism with the situation going on with the moon and the relationship between the two guys that might not have even been intentional but is nevertheless a really interesting underlying tone to the story.

All that said, the tone of the story didn't really match up with the aforementioned things that I enjoyed about it, the dialogue could have definitely been better, and the whole story could've been fleshed out with some descriptions to be a little less flash-esque, but it worked as it was and I liked it quite a bit.



Zovo:

Spelling & Grammar - 1/2
Ease of Read - 2/3
Use of Topic - 4/5
Entertainment - 6/7
Quality - 7/8

Total -- 20/25

Hell yes. Loved the use of the topic, loved the descriptions, loved the word choice, loved the whole plot that was unfolding. If you take away the grammatical slip ups that bogged the reading at a couple of points, this would be a 22 -- which basically just means it was a single point away from the ideal score on quality, entertainment, and use of topic.

The fact that this carried on a theme from last week's just added to how much I enjoyed it. I have no complaints. I hope you keep it up. The best story of the competition thusfar.

Round Two Scorecard

[/size]
1st - Zovo - 20
2nd - James - 18
2nd - Reffy - 18
4th - Injin - 13
5th - Silver - 12


The Round Two Winner is Zovo![/size]
[/center]

Round Three
Topic: WORKADAY
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 16th March

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Captain Crusader sighed as he stood on the street, staring in boredom at Doktor Wer as the man delivered yet another monologue. The mind of the hero drifting off to surround him with dreams of a normal life, of a desk job that lasted from nine-to-five and allowed him to just be a regular human. But no, his job was saving Megacity from the likes of Doktor Wer, the Human Rat and Lady Seductive.

“… und zat iz vhy you vill lose!” Doktor Wer shrieked, his hands manipulating the arms of his fifty-foot tall robot to point a finger-mounted-death-ray at Captain Crusader, “Because good iz stinky und weak! Now die, Kaptain Krusader!” The death ray fired, bathing Captain Crusader in its red light, disintegrating all it touched in hot, scientific death.

As the ray beam faded, Captain Crusader still stood, hovering above the massive crater formed around him with arms crossed over his broad, rippling chest. He continued to fix Doktor Wer with a bored stare, though really he was still off in his mind. He blinked a few times when he realized the villain’s voice had stopped, and glanced down at the crater and the smoking ray gun pointed at his face.

“You’re immune to death rayz?!” Doktor Wer shrieked, staring in disbelief at the still intact Captain Crusader.

“Huh? Oh… yeah, I’m kind of immune to everything…” he muttered. Captain Crusader pulled back the sleeve of his super suit from his glove, looking at his atomic super watch. “Look, I kind of have a lunch appointment that I’m already late for. You’ve already gone through your monologue, do you mind if we skip the witty banter?”

Doktor Wer let out a wordless shriek, his twenty fingers flying over the controls of his robot. “DIE! DIE! DIE!” multiple lasers, missiles, guns, cannons, ray beams, torpedoes, everything and anything that he had built into his robot arced out toward the hovering hero.

As the smoke cleared, Captain Crusader stood in the midst of the devastation, a frown on his perfectly heroic lower face. “Oh come on! Do you know who has to clean this mess up? Me! I do! Ever since The Governator was beaten in the election by Short Change!” his fists clenched at his sides. “I really, really did not need this today! I mean, it’s every day with this! If it’s not you in a giant robot, or with a giant ray gun, it’s the Human Rat overflowing the sewers! Or Lady Seductive flashing passersby and making them into a mind-wiped army of sex-craving lunatics!” He closed his eyes, massaging his temples, “Then I have to fill out paperwork with the DSH… I have to pay dues to the fucking Union. To top it all off, I spilled super coffee all over my lap this morning! Do you know how much super coffee burns?!”

Doktor Wer grew quiet, everything did as all eyes turned to stare at Captain Crusader. The hero still was going off on the various problems with his job, marching across the air and moving his arms and hands expressively with his words.

He paused in his rant, taking a deep breath, before calmly beginning to peel off the various pieces of his costume. “I… I quit, I quit. I’m not going to spend my life in this mind-numbing job of beating up every person in a crazy outfit, or every person who saw an animal or something too late when they activated their teleporter. Enjoy yourselves on this hamster wheel you call life, I’m out.”

Captain Crusader turned on his heel in nothing more than his tightie-whities and flew off.

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Backpack complete with lunch and reading material slung over one shoulder, you set off for work. Today's weather forecast is rain and possible sleet so you've decided to wear the large blue macintosh that covers most of your bottom. It's Wednesday; the famously so-called "Hump Day" because once you're over the hump of the week it's downhill all the way to the weekend; except it doesn't feel like that and it never does, which you feel is a pity.

With a nudge the front door swings open revealing horizontal rain, murderous clouds, and whopping great puddles you'll need to avoid meticulously. Some how, staring out at this scene, you knew today was going to be a bad day. You knew from the first irritating and ear-bursting "Bleep" from the dreaded alarm on your phone. That moment drags as you hesitate to leave the dry and safe. Reluctantly and with hood hoisted you dash out into the rain, absent-mindedly worrying about the eventual hat-hair and all of the things today holds.

The rain is quick to soak into the bottoms of your trouser-legs as you slosh through the streets and gutters. It'll have to be a stop in the toilets once you get to work so you can use the hand-dryer in order to regain any kind of comfort and professional decency. It doesn't take you long to get to the train station and then it's a mortal combat with the throng of people doing exactly the same thing as you, wringing out their clothes and not paying attention; probably thinking exactly the same things as well. You'd never imagined grown-up life to be like this: dull and monotonous. Day in, day out. When did you become just a cog in the machine? Or had you been one all of your life without realising? What happened to the childhood joy you once experienced for everything including but not limited to rain?

With your thoughts dulled and as far away as possible from reality, you join the crowded train. The carriages bounce as it pulls away from the station. There's only standing room but you feel that's okay because you only need to go a few stops. The confined areas stinks of wet clothes, mud and much, and finally sweat. Your eyes are drawn and eventually transfixed on the rain as it crashes and tumbles down the windows. Everyone else does the same, unwilling to make conversation or even eye contact. You get off the train with another wave of people. It's all the same. You'd have recognised the faces, if you'd taken the time to look, but you don't because what's the point.

The office block is just around the corner. It's the same colour as the rumbling clouds. You don't take the time to look. The cubic-farm awaits along with the warm and the dry. You're probably the first to arrive, as usual. The extra time gained gives you time to read and get comfortable.

The stairs fly-by in a flash – impatiently taken two at a time. Key at the ready, in cold, wet fingers, you approach the door; it's open already. Curiosity forces you to pause, holding the door open with your shoulder, backpack lolling to one side. You're always the first here except this time you're not? "Hello?"

No answer.

It's a big office. Maybe that somebody popped out for a second? You head over to your desk. Your eyes might as well be closed, you've done this often enough. A couple of button-presses later and the computer wheezes to life. Backpack is pushed under the desk; left to soak the carpet. Finally you look around while you wait for the computer; daily routine satisfied. Another computer is already on. A glance tells you that Outlook Office has been started and a Word Document. Eyes shift. The clock tells you that there's enough time for a toilet break (for the hand-dryer duty) and at least a few pages of the book. Leaving the computer still booting (you whine internally, bloody slow computers) you head off.

The lights are on in the toilet as well. The somebody else must have come this way too. There's a page of A4 stuck to the mirror. You ignore it – probably just the cleaner moaning again. One of the stalls is occupied. Something else catches your eye as you turn to enter a stall. You look down. There's a lot of red. The cleaner spilled something? You don't see a "Wet Floor" sign. You're no certified doctor but that's definitely blood, you realise.

Your heart starts to race as soon as you realise that's actually blood. It's like you've finally fully woken up. The routine is gone. Uncomfortably you move away. The note on the mirror catches your eye again. It's Bill Wersley's goodbye. You knew of him from the idle office chatter but never got the chance to speak with him. Panic thunders in your ears. Every millimetre of skin seems to vibrate with energy. The fight or flee response rattles through your body.

The need to act takes hold. The stall door opens after a few kicks. You didn't know your own strength.

It is Bill Wersley. He's on the floor, head comforted against the toilet seat and arms outstretched. His wrists are slashed. A knife rests near one of his hands. You check his pulse; it's gone. You're shaking. He's gone, you realise

How much earlier than you did he get here, you wonder, taking a ghastly step back. You wonder if you could have done anything. Reality shifts to a new world as the shock settles deep within. Today, you knew, was not going to be a good day. Numb you rifle through your pocket to find your phone. "Hello emergency services. What department do you need?"

"Police …" you barely notice the words leaving your lips. Not every day you see a dead body. Certainly not on a normal work day.