The Ides of March Challenge!

[James]

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?board=chall&action=display&thread=4446

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

LEADERBOARD

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ROUND WINNERS

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ROUND ONE

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Topic: MASK
Restriction: Setting: Your story must be set on a farm.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 23rd February[/center]

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

The sun sank beneath the horizon. The lights within the house winked out one by one. Night descended across the farm, a darkness broken only by the pure light of moon and stars. The animals, feigning sleep, slowly stood – not on fours as most did in day but upright and stately. They walked from their pens and shed the disguises they wore in day. Fur and flesh sloughed and shifted, feathers were plucked and replaced. Where once stood a gathering of farm animals now strode a regal march of fey-beings garbed in earthly gowns of the animals they wore.

From the woods at the furthest edge of the farm were they joined by a second crowd, in wilder garb than their more civilized cousins. In thick fur gowns and tight bark suits did they stride from the hallow glades, moving quickly to embrace old friends and lovers. As they laughed and hugged, kissed and cried, were they joined by the last of their party.

From the clouds above and the earth below did descend and rise the guests of honor. Swathed in fire and water, wearing diamond and air did Oberon rise from the earth with his court. The great King was resplendent in the finery of his dress, and outshone only by the figure which descended from the heavens above. Clad in starlight, darkness and cloud did Titania drop – her maidens flocking around her to giggle and titter at the sight of their lady’s husband and his court of earthly fey.

They had appeared on opposite sides of the farm, and their forms gave light to the darkness. A light mortals were blind to see, and from the light spectral musicians appeared and began a loud and frivolous song that mortals were deaf to hear. The king and his queen hurried across the ground to embrace, their fevered steps causing the tempo to increase until they locked hands and swirled about the massive acreage.

The other fey left space open for their lordly masters, clasping hands and waists to dance and laugh at the fevered pace of song. Eyes of unblemished colour glistened with excitement beneath the masks of fox and fowl, wolf and water, of cloud and cow. But none could compare to the masks worn by Titania and Oberon. On the lord’s brow rested a mask of pure flame, writhing and crackling in varying hues of red and blue, or gold and green. And opposite the king was his queen, her face hidden behind glistening starlight and shifting clouds, with storm clouds and lightning that danced and flickered across her eyes.

The ghostly musicians were joined in their chorus as sprites drifted from the boughs and night birds flitted to roost about the farm, the new arrivals adding their voices to the harmonics of the otherworldly orchestra. More spirits appeared, adding to their grand song that rang through the land of the farm.

Time, that mortal concept, meant nothing to the fey as they cavorted and caterwauled. The music changed as the night wore on, in the youth of twilight it was fast and merry – but began to slow and grow solemn. As night began to shift towards dawn the orchestra played its last song. Near all the fey had vanished from whence they came, save for the noble Oberon, the beautiful Titania, and the animals of the farm. Shadowy wraiths blossomed in the eaves of the farm. The dour reapers gliding about to the slow pace of the musicians until one by one the phantoms began to fade.

The fey returned to their pens, shifting back into the animal masks they wore during the day while Oberon sank beneath the earth and Titania rose into the heavens as the cock crowed to awaken the farmer and his family.

The mask ball had ended for the season – and the fey of wood, hearth, heaven and earth could only wait until the next gala two seasons hence.

[Sekot]

“Silence exists where men dare not sleep in places that gods forsook. Beware those that do not speak, for they are tellers of lies.”

He looked upon the wall that was covered with them. An array of them nine wide and nine deep. Each held upon its surface a unique marking denoting the people who laid claim upon it. They were pieces of history that stretched ages into the past. Ghoulish and impish, clownish and childlike, they were contorted into a multiplicity of expressions. But, they all bared one basic similarity: their facial structure. They were all the same face. An ageless being existing through centuries.

Slouched over in his wooden chair, he gazed upon each mask in turn. His swollen eyes ached, rimmed red from hours of crying. He had just finally fallen quiet, that uneasy peace that follows a series of sobs when one wonders if any more will come. He wondered, briefly, if he could try each on in turn and assume a different persona. Maybe magic of some sort still existed within them like in the stories grand-mama used to tell him.

He sniffed and dragged his body upright. Placing his head in his hands, he rubbed at his eyes and took in a deep breath. The heavy sigh that followed was a weight lifted off of his shoulders.

“They have come from the heavens the darkness the heavenly hell and they have laid claim upon us. We are distraught but adamant. Stand with us or die with us the time has come.”

The house creaked. Warm, sticky wind seeped in through the cracks in the walls. Time had not been kind to this little house. The windows rattled in their sills, the thin panes of glass barely enough to keep back the weather. He lowered his hands but kept his eyes shut. He listened the whistling of the wind and the creaking of the pipes. He opened his eyes and stared into a particular mask.

The last mask upon the wall. It was carved out of iron. The mouth was wide, splayed in a smile where the edges were frayed. The eyes were opaque circles that stretched from ear to ear only to nearly meet in the center above the crooked nose. Prominent cheek bones and a large forehead. The “flesh” of the mask was an alabaster white with red and black circles widening like ripples across its surface.

It was forbidden to touch them. That was the rule. A rule with its only enforcers long gone from the pathetic little home on the hill. He refused to look outside the window, he could see enough upon the wall. Red and white and yellow light flickered wildly upon it, casting odd shadows across the myriad faces. They were speaking, in their silent way, to one another. Their chatter had grown incessant over the last two hours. It had grown loud. He chewed on his lip, his fingers tapping out of nervous agitation. It was overpowering, the urge to peer outside.

A gust of wind blew against the house, and within he could smell the scent of ash. He searched the wall for answers but was always dragged back to the last mask. The thick belt of his mother taught him to be fearful of this wall, to never ever touch it.

“The Emperor wore no clothes but we had missed it somehow. We failed to peer carefully into the void and merely stuck our heads within it and were encapsulated amongst infinity. Driven insane we have provided our own cataclysmic redemption so bathe with us in the fire of the silent day.”

The voice that came from the radio was the only constant.

“It is anger it is fear that drives us and we are not quite as silent as we readily appear so listen to our scream. Foolish boy pray to your gods that we come quickly for the storm is violent and we are fury we are murder. We are devouring.”

Forbidden had little meaning anymore. The voice had drilled itself into his skull, had banged around within, and had rested in the dark places of his conscious thoughts. The radio itself sat behind him on the sole piece of furniture besides his chair. A worn and broken desk that held upon it layers of fine dust. Lines were drawn where insects had crawled across its surface. The radio’s face glowed golden, dimmed and brightened at regular intervals. The soft crackle of static hung in the air like an oppressive fog.

Slowly he pushed himself up onto his feet, rising to his full height. The muscles in his legs tingled and ached after having slept for so long. A burst of light exploded through the glass, illuminating the entirety of the wall and scattering the shadows for just a moment. One loud, final peal of laughter before they fell back to their mindless chatter.

He hesitated, his fingers twitched as they stretched outward. The iron mask appeared to hum in its position, to shake and tremble. “Do it.”

Did he imagine it?

“Take it.”

That was not the voice from the radio.

“No other way.”

He grabbed it, felt the cold metal in his sweaty palm. It was light, lighter than it should be. It came off the wall so easily. He was afraid to drop it, that it might shatter into oblivion if he did.

“We approach we clamor upon the walls be wary. That cold wind is our advancing breath our warning the walls are caving in the breach was made. Beating of the drums beating of the hearts beating of the time tick tick tock you are ours. Give in give up there is no turning back.”

It had made itself known over the clamoring of the static. The entire wall had begun to rattle. The glass of the windows and the wood of the walls all gently shook where they sat. With a quiet click, the radio shut itself off and there was suddenly silence. Beware of the silence he remembered. Always beware.

He placed the mask back upon the wall, for what reason he was none too sure. He had done a terrible thing. Atonement just lay outside the door. He was the only steady object in the room, the only non-trembling artifact. He was a dusty old rock and the tides of the world had finally caught up. He moved to the door, the single door. He lifted the latches and released the bolts. He grappled with the handle, a part of him unwilling to budge.


“Turn back, turn back. You need us.”

The masks had spoken. Their voices were odd. A whisper spoken from the other end of a corridor and a yell from beside his ear. They were desperate. They looked so old, so worn in the casted light. Their laughter was weak and feeble, fragile and manic. Vicious smiles were painted upon their faces.

He opened the door and stepped outside. Just before he closed it behind him, he heard them crack. The house itself collapsed, fell inward peacefully and without alarm. It was the final remnant of his past. The final card had yet to be played, but it was near. The air outside was crisp and cool. From his vantage point upon the hill he could see the city burning beyond. Trees ruptured into pillars of flame. Columns of fire consumed entire structures until they brought it all down.

Above the stars sang quietly. He smiled to himself, rubbed his nose, and waited.

“We come for the boy upon the hill who had promised himself the world. We come for time for hilarity. We come for you. Beware the silent words and silent thoughts they are the liar tellers. You are a lie a boy made up from the world itself. We are your soul.”

It rose. Out of nowhere it coalesced. Its body spun, four arms with multiple articulating joints orbited with it. It floated above the thick, damp grass and appeared to eat it for a track of decay followed. And upon that body was a thick, ropy neck made of steel. He looked on as the neck extended itself, as the whole apparatus came to a halt a few feet in front of him. He looked into the green eyes of the human face that sat upon the neck, the fleshy face that mocked his own with an exaggerated frown. “You see us for what we really are you see us you see. I can hear your heart beat I can taste your sweat. What do you say to me?”

He was uncertain whether it was speaking his language or if he knew what it was saying.

“We know your thoughts what are you what am I? We are your salvation your retribution your repentance we are you you are us.”

It did not stop speaking. It just droned on and on.

He raised the weapon he held in his hand.

“We are more than you a thousand of you you run in fear you hide we find you we hunt you. Weakness foolishness you are lost. You lose.”

With his index finger he pressed on the surface of the orb. It beeped.

It taunted him. It hovered before him but made no move to attack him.

“Foolish. Weak. Useless. We win.”

The orb beeped again.

Together they were wrapped in a white light. The fleshy face was torn away, revealing a patchwork of metal parts that moved in the approximation of a smile. Together they evaporated, consumed upon the hill.

[Injin]

It was that time of year again. The harvest for the Fall had finally been picked to completion, the fields bare for the winter. It was that time of year, that special time of year, when the Harlequin Fair would come to town. Led each year by the charismatic Thomas Taylor, Esquire, the traveling troupe of performers would always pick the town of New Phoenix as their stop, a grand place to stop as any.

Then again, thought Erik, what other town this far south was already done with their harvest? Erik sighed as he finished clearing the weeds from the thoroughfare, the main road that led into town. New Phoenix wasn’t exactly the best place in the Guardonian Lands, but it was where he’d grown up. Sure he’d lived in the capital for a few years as well, but that had been an attempt by his father to garner some support for expanding the city charter to include a seat in the Chamber of Cities. He had failed, sadly, and once more New Phoenix with considered little more than a southern farm city, as it always had been since its founding one hundred and fifty years ago.

He hadn’t realized, he mulled over, or that it was the anniversary at the same time these…Harlequiners or whatever the proper term for them was, arrived each year. His father had told him that they came to town each year and he supposed it was good for everyone involved if they kept coming back. Hell, according to the records he’d perused in his spare time when he was off from writing writs and decrees for his father, the Harlequin Fair had been coming to town almost as long as there had been a town here. His family had been in charge all along the way.

Being the mayor’s son did have its benefits, such as a relatively comfortable life, but there were obvious draw backs. Such as being forced to clean the road with his younger siblings so that the traveling circus could actually, as his father put it, “Trod upon clean and happy ground”. His father did have a way with words…if only he’d inherited that from him. No, the only thing he’d gotten from his father was just his overall intellect.

They never really got along either, Erik hated that. His father always seemed to lord over him, even when he was doing small things. Maybe it was that Mr. Ezera Phoen wanted his son to succeed at everything, which was goddamned impossible. The gods knew that he tried hell he prayed to Lorya that he’d be successful at school, but that had gotten him nowhere. Lorya failed him just like Erik had failed the entrance exam. Oh how his father had celebrated when his younger brother, Ezera Junior passed the test. How…elated. Erik had cried for the first time since he was twelve that day…the day his father stopped paying positive attention to him. He was a failure.

Nonetheless…he was just…done. Done with doing what his father said, done with sweeping this road, done with feeling defeated all the time. So he failed once, he had done well for himself otherwise. So his father thought he was only worth paperwork dealing? Fine. He’d leave this town with the Harlequin Fair. He had already packed his things and put them in a secluded rotted out log, so when it was time he would be ready to go. Erik was sure that the circus needed people who were good with the quill, and he was going to make a good impression.

Hours later the Fair had finally arrived, with the wagons circled around the town square. Erik had never really understood why they called it a square; the damned area was more trapezoidal in shape, especially if they considered the Town Hall and the Gaol. Erik simply walked over to the fire pit, constructed as it always was in the dead center of the weirdly shaped town center. In front of the fire sat a man, who Erik recognized immediately. It was the Harlequin himself, strumming his lute lightly as he sat in front of the roaring, but contained, blaze. The performer noted his arrival by ending his refrain and looking right at Erik, the mask on his face barely concealing what lay behind it. It wasn’t that the mask was small, but it seemed to be molded into the face, as if made especially for the Harlequin.

The masked man looked at Erik and finally spoke, breaking the silence that had fallen upon the area around the fire, “Good Ser Erik Phoen, so nice to see you again.”

It was only weird to him how the clownish man seemed to always recognize him from a glance, even with the mask covering most of his vision, “Ser Harlequin, so nice to you as well. I take it your journey here from wherever the Fair is based wasn’t too bad?”

The Harlequin chuckled a bit, somehow louder than the cacophony outside of the circle, “Well, well, it was quite the journey as always. We lost Old Phillip this time. Poor Chap’s heart couldn’t take it.”

Erik blinked a few times, “What’s a Chap?”

The colorfully dressed man covered his mouth’s hole, concealing almost a laugh that seemed to come from nowhere, “A Chap is that kind of monkey that walks on two feet, riding the dogs around the fair. Phillip was twenty, poor Chap was about to get his big break. We deal with losses, but his children refused to work today.”

He had to stop himself from laughing, this story seeming to be too much for him, “Ha-ha, really? I could’ve sworn Chap meant a friend or acquaintance, especially when the word Old was attached.”

The jester-like figure put a single finger in front of his mouth, the grin eerily detailed as the fire illuminated him fully, a living backdrop to the lithe performer’s body, “Now, now, who’s been reading the book I lent you? The one about ancient terminology? No, my boy, I do indeed mean the monkeys. I call all of them chaps, and when they need to be beaten into working I hit them with Chapsticks.”

Unable to contain the laughter this time, Erik laughed heartily, the Storytelling man in front of him really did enjoy making these…puns he called them. The Harlequin was not only a showman, performer, and story teller; he was also a collector of ancient books, mostly ones hardy enough to have lasted through the Great Rising. Erik resumed his questioning, “So does that mean you’d like a new traveling companion? I’ve been meaning to leave this town for a while now, so what do you say?”

The Harlequin grinned, as he always did, and responded, “Well my boy, I’d be delighted to have you along. I take it your father isn’t in the know regarding your plan, as usual when it comes to the non-town related functions?"

Erik scratched the back of his head, “You got me dead to rights on that, Harle. Are you still okay with it?”

The fancily clad jester nodded, “You are beyond the age of self-emancipation, Erik, and as such is your decision. I’d be delighted. You shall be my apprentice, if that’s alright.”

Taken aback, Erik was shocked, “B-but I’m no good at instruments or performance. Just writing only, Harle”

Harlequin grinned, somehow visibly beneath his mask, “You think I meant at my visible profession? No my boy, I already have a jester in training. You shall be a Scribe of great Import. Far more important than this village, that is what you shall become under me.”

Grinning from ear to ear, Erik put his hand out the shake hands with him, “It’s a deal. Shake on it?”

The Harlequin put his hand out as well, the sharp tips at the end of each finger pricking into Erik’s skin, “Indeed.” The two of them shook on it, and as if to prove a point the fire behind him went out.

It was indeed that time of year again. The time that foolish children made deals they didn’t understand, no matter how old they were. Scribes are important, as they bring into our knowledge all things that written word can convey. Erik didn’t know this, but he was now bound to the circus, such as all performers there were. He would never leave, only returning to New Phoenix once a year. Oddly enough, he never seemed to age, although beneath the new veneer he wore he did. Appearances, after all were deceiving, especially when they were costumed.

As he grew older, he never regretted his decision, despite many moments of emotional and physical hardship. The raising of New Phoenix ten years later while he was in Tuscanse was devastating. Nonetheless, this was the task he had taken…a liking to was now far more important, and in time he would be proven right in his escape from a cycle of disappointment. That, however, is a tale for another time…A Tale of Masks.

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

The Good Man's Good Beginning

You hold me in your hands, as you examine every marking carved in my face. Your low-born farmer vocabulary makes you incapable of describing the object you found, digging a ditch early in the morning for you father. You are amazed by me, by the craftsmanship that must’ve gone into building me. You look around the field, making sure there is no chance of someone interrupting you.

Satisfied, you return your gaze to me. Living on a farm in the West, you have never seen a mask like me. Despite your limited schooling and natural stupidity something, perhaps instinct, tells you that I am older than you can imagine.

“What you got there little brother?” A voice asks you from behind. Shocked you turn and see your older brother, Jeb, standing there.
“I’ll admit,” He says, a condescending tone in his voice. “I’m surprised you dug this whole big hole yourself. Pa’ll be pleased for sure.” You do not answer him, hoping that he’ll go away, and leave you alone with me, your precious find.
“So let me ask you again,” he says, jumping into the whole with you. “What. Do. You. HAVE!” With that last word he lashes out at you with a quick punch, knocking you to the ground, causing you to drop me. You scream out, needing to grasp me. But your brother has already grabbed me, fondled me with his filthy hands. He stares in my face, amazed by me, as you were. But he has no right to hold me.

“What a strange looking mask,” he says, “Bet some storekeeper in Gilead will give me five dollars for it.” He wants to sell me. He wants to throw me away like some measly last minute gift.

You don’t like that, do you? You need me, you need to hold me.

You want to wear me. You need to wear me. You’ll do anything for that won’t you. You’ll hurt people for that.

You’ll kill people for that.

Silently, you grab the shovel you used to dig the hole. You clasp it firmly in both hands, hesitating. Every sane sense in your body screams at you that this is wrong. They tell you not to do this. But like a good little drone, you know…
…the only will that matters, is mine.

You scream like a banshee and swing the shovel towards your brother’s head. He just barely turns around to see it coming right at his face. You see and hear the shovel make contact as it cracks his skull open. You are sure that he is dead or at least incapable of moving.

You decide to continue to beat him anyway. For five minutes you do nothing but continually beat Jeb. He probably died by the fifth or fourth swing. You don’t care, because he tried to take me from you. Finally, you cease your senseless marauding, appeased that the bruised and bloodied body before you is dead. You then drop the shovel, and rush to me. I had fallen next to Jeb, on the side farthest from you. You stroke me, happy to touch me again. But now another urge hums in your simply mind, greater than the need to hold me.

“Wear me.” That simple request beats in your puny human brain. Something inside you tells you not to, that I am evil.
“Do not listen to your limited human conscience,” I urge you even further, “Wear me, and let my endless knowledge and power fill your soul.”

Images fill your mind as I show you limited aspects of the knowledge I possess. You see thirteen glass orbs, a red cloaked being sitting on a throne of skulls, cities in flames, and a tower, which rises with no end in sight.
“Wear me, and together we will rule the multiverse together.” Your eyes wander over a marking in between my eyes. A red eye.
“WEAR ME!” Slowly, but surely, you lift me to your face, and put me in place. Then you scream in agony, as my power fills you, and corrupts you. Then, as soon as it began, it stops. You are on your hands and knees, breathing.


“What is your motto, John Farson?” I ask your mind. You laugh, quite evilly I should mention. Finally, you reach by your brother’s corpse, pull the knife he carries out of its place on his belt, and stand. You climb out of the hole you dug and observe the fields around you. In the distance you see the great city of Gilead, and your mind fills with a hate never felt before. But then your eyes fall on the shack your family calls home. Your grip tightens on your brother’s knife, as your new directive finally settles in your mind.

“All…hail…the Crimson King.”

“Indeed John, what a Good Man.” I cackle in your, no longer simple, mind.


All Hail the Crimson King. All hail Me.

[Deleted]

Faceless

Glass clinking. Footsteps. He awoke immediately, though if anyone had been watching him sleep in the early morning darkness, they might be surprised to know he had even been asleep at all. Sleep, on the rare occasion when it did decide to take him, was lighter than a feather for the man.

He lay awake, clenching and unclenching his fist, listening to the intruder make noise in the farmhouse kitchen below. One assailant. Small. Loud. Stupid. He arose from the bed, and surveyed his wife momentarily. She, unlike him, would require a 10 on the Richter to be awoken before morning. He smiled down at her, and brushed the hair from her eyes with his scarred, hairy knuckle. Is this what affection feels like?

---

Chicago, 5 years earlier

The stench of blood, sweat, fear, and feces crept into my nose. I shivered. I wasn't afraid, certainly not of him. I was afraid of what he had done, what they would look like.

A schoolbus full of children goes missing, and that madman, the Iron Maiden, was responsible. I clenched and unclenched my fists as I crawled through the ventilation system of the old, condemned warehouse.

I was the Dark Man, and this crazed lunatic thought himself my "nemesis." Like this was some sort of fucking game. I slackened my jaw when I noticed I had been gritting my teeth. I'd break those pearly whites someday, if a thug didn't do it first.

The news programme still haunted me as I crawled ever closer to Iron Maiden, and whatever abbatoir he had created... "The Dark Man has created these villains. Iron Maiden, the Spectre. These are sick, sick men and women, and Dark Man, with his brazen vigilante thuggery, has awoken a psychosis in these mentally-ill individuals."

I scoffed at the memory, at the weak-willed beta male who couldn't even rouse himself to defend his city, his people. These fools and cowards hadn't looked evil in the face, not like I had. In the Balkans, in Afghanistan, and now here... They expected me to kill, the good soldier, and then when my mission wasn't completed, suddenly I'm the villain?

Focus, Ed I chided myself. I couldn't worry about that doctor on the news now. I needed my wits to face Maiden...

---

His footsteps were like the tiniest of snowflakes landing on cashmere. He wouldn't be heard unless he wanted to be. Like a ghost. The darkness of the farm house was his veil. And it would be the burial shroud of the invader. He found himself relishing in the prospect of a fight. It had been so long...

Formless as the shadow, he began to descend the stairs. The first set faded behind him, into shadow, and he stood on the landing. Light emanated from the kitchen. Amateur he smouldered derisively. This will be fuckin' cake...

---

The cackle of Iron Maiden echoed off the warehouse. "Hee hee hee hoo hoo hoo! I am waiting, Dark Man!" He giggled like a child.

Child.

Children...

I looked down from my vantage point in the rafters, my cape draped over me. Maiden must have driven the bus into the warehouse, through the large, rolling metal bay doors. He stood on some sort of red fabric, with trash and debris littered haphazardly around him.

Snake-like, I slithered down the rafters onto the catwalk. My feet, even in my combat boots, barely making a sound. Certainly not a sound that Maiden would be aware of, with his incessant laughter. "Pokey, pokey, slice, slice, gouge, gouge! Where are you, my tall, dark hero?" He cackled like a jackal.

Having enough of his blather, I leapt from the catwalk with a whoosh. My palm caught him in the back of the head, and my body crashed against his. I slammed him, hard, into the red carpet. I heard teeth shatter.

"Where are the children?!" I growled in my gravelly tone. I immediately wished I hadn't asked.

We were not on a red carpet, after all...

---

The intruder rifled through the cupboards, and the man prepared to end him. Perhaps he'd shatter his collarbone with a single blow, and then pummel him into the tiles for violating the sanctity of this home. You messed with the wrong farmer today, scumbag.... He wasn't going to let anyone harm his wife or daughter...

---

The catwalk. I should have stayed on the catwalk.... I should have never jumped down into this butchery... On the catwalk, this was still a red carpet, and those were still just industrial garbage strewn about.

Down here, in the real world, things were different. I straddled a dazed Iron Maiden, though I was the one stunned. He had murdered, had killed. Terrorism and executions were prominent on his resume. He had been a vile and wicked man since I had first encountered him.

But this...

Crimson blood, semi-coagulated on the floor, dripped and oozed down the myriad drainages that lined the floor. Tiny limbs and organs were strewn about, and glassy-eyed, small heads stare -

No, don't look at them...

"WHAT. HAVE. YOU. DONE!" I growled, flipping Maiden over. His black make-up was gone, now only a scarlet visage of hatred and evil faced me now.

He smiled, his yellowed teeth bared. "Hee hee heee! I made them better! They've ascended! Just as I have. Just as you will tonight, Dark Man!" He puckered his lips and kissed the air.

I punched his face. My polymer weave gloves had titanium knuckles grafted into them. Maiden had felt these fists before.

"Ah, yes! Punish me, Darks! You don't know how long I've craved that sting! Make me feel alive, Darks!"

Against my better judgement, I slammed his face again. And again. And again.

And again.

"Ah! Yes! YES! The torture. It's just too much! The line between pain and pleasure! Walk it with me, Darks! Walk it with me, Edgar!"

I stopped. "How do you know my..."

He grinned. Oh, God, that grin. His teeth littered the ground around us, sinking into the thick, congealing blood of innocents that we lay on. His eyes were purple, and his nose had been shattered, either by my tackle or one of my blows... Blood poured from it, his tepid, reptilian plasma merging with the blood of pure children....

"I had to know your name, if I was going to take the right bus..." He coughed, more blood - I was sick to death of the stuff - spewing from his broken maw and misting my exposed chin.

Brow furrowed beneath my mask, I glared down at him. "The right bus... I don't understand...."

He cackled again, and it rebounded off the decrepit abbatoir. "Why, your sister! Don't worry, I saved Marissa for last...[/i] His eyes, for the first time, left mine and gazed behind me.

I rose to my feet and spun around, cape swirling behind me.

I saw her.

"No.... No! NO! NO!" Her body, naked but still intact, swung from a hook. My youngest sister, the youngest of eight children. But, no, not only a sister... A daughter... I had been her legal guardian since I was 18... Everything I had done in the army, as a mercenary, and then a vigilante... I had done for her. To give her the life she deserved.... And now...

I crawled back on top of Maiden, and punched him again and again.

"Ooooh, yes! The rage! Let it out! Let it all out! Tonight, you will ascend. You will break your one rule!"

I stopped for a moment to look at my handiwork. "Yes. I will."

I continued to pummel him again and again. And, as always, at first he liked it.... But then.

"Arghfh! Darks! Ok! Stop! Stop! Stop!" he began to sob, and for once he didn't sound like Maiden... Just a scared, insane man... "That's enou-ghfdfdf... Plea-gluhk... Please! Oh God! Mommy, please! Please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry Mommy, I'm sorry God! Oh please, stop stop stop stop stop stop stop!"

His face caved in, and brain matter splattered on the floor, and I kept punching....

I awoke some hours later, covered in... I don't even want to think about it. I lay there, curled in the fetal position, next to Maiden's still frame.

---

The man turned the corner, and prepared to splatter the invader's brains all over the linoleum. He clenched his fist, turned the corner into the kitchen, and prepared to kill.

His final thought before entering the kitchen was a warehouse full of dead children, and one dead man without a face...

"I firsty, Daddy," said Emma, his 4-year-old daughter. Then she saw the fist, and took in a sharp breath and backed away. Tears welled in her eyes. "I sorry, Daddy, but I was firsty"

I looked at my fist in disbelief. I was going to kill her.

I fell to my feet, and then curled up into the fetal position. I recalled the news reports when I had stood down as Dark Man. They had found the body of Maiden, and it had been pretty clearly connected to me...

Most agreed with what I had done. Most wanted me to come back.

"Dark Man has hung up his cape and mask," said the buxom news reporter.

No he hasn't, I thought as I sobbed on the floor, and Emma held me with concern in her tiny, chubby arms and confusion in her little blue eyes. He's wearing it now. He's wearing it every day... His wife and daughter see the mask, and think they know him... Think they love him....


Only one man saw beneath the mask... Only one. And he has never left my side.

And as I gazed up at my constant companion, the Faceless Ghost of Iron Maiden, he smiled. And laughed.

And so did I.

[Jackal]

THE BOAR AVENGER

" Daddy, where are you going? "

" ..Will? What are you doing here? "

" I heard Mommy say goodbye, and she's crying really loud now. Where are you going? When will you be back? "

" Will, my boy, ah... alright, son. You like stories, right? "

" Uh huh.. why? "

" Well, sit yourself down by that haystack and let Daddy tell you one. "

" Oh, okay! "

" Alright, alright.. ready? "

" Yup!"

" Okay, let's see... once upon a time, there was this...superhero. "

" Oh wow! A superhero story? "

" Yes, my boy! A fantastic superhero, too! You see, he was once a regular pig like you and me, living in a regular barn like this one. It was different, though! The barn had evil animals who ruled the other animals with an iron fist, and beat up those they didn't like! "

" They sound really mean!"

" They were! And the pig was nice and kind, and told them to stop, but they laughed and beat him up, too. One night, he saw a shooting star. He looked at the star and closed his eyes for a wish. He wished that he would be able to help his friends and stop the bad guys. "

" And then? "

" And when he opened his eyes, he saw a fairy. The fairy asked him ' Do you really want to be able to help your friends? ' and he said 'Yes, I do! ' She said she could bless him, but there would be a price later. But he said ' No matter what it is, I want to help my friends and stop the bad guys! ' And so,she swished her wand this way and that, and poof! The pig had special powers! "

" Wow! What kind of powers? "

" Well, the pig was really strong and fast and he could jump really high! And he was tough like stone, too! But the fairy said ' Okay, wait, before you stop the bad guys, I need to tell you something. You can't tell anyone about your powers, and when you use them, no one must know who you are! This must be a secret! ' He asked her how he could do that, and she smiled and said ' Easy! Like this! ' She swished her wand again, and poof! He had a costume with a cloak and mask! "

" Wow! What did it look like? "

" Well, let's see. The costume had some prickly spikes to poke at bad guys that came too near, and was all red. The spikes were brown, though. And uh..the cloak was bright red and very long! And the mask? Well.. the mask covered his whole face except his eyes and mouth, and had tusks around it! It was brown, like the spikes."

" That sounds AWESOME! "

" He thought so too! He told the fairy ' Wow, this is amazing! ' And she agreed, but reminded him never to tell the secret until she said it was okay to! Of course, he agreed. But then he needed a superhero name, because he couldn't tell everyone he was a pig. "

" Superpig? "

" No, son, there's already a Superpig, remember? He needed a new name of his own. So he thought to himself for a while and decided that from then on, he would be.. The Boar Avenger! "

" Wow.. that's so cool! "

" Exactly! So with that, he was ready, and flew off to fight the bad guys. He wanted something of a dramatic entrance, though, so the first thing he did was fly to the barn's entrance and then march straight to the bad animals. At first, the villains were confused. They asked ' Who are you? ' And the pig replied ' I am the pig that will defeat you if you fight me! I am the hero of goodness and truth! I am.. the Boar Avenger! ' "

" Whoa.. "

" But the bad guys just looked at him and laughed! The big bad guy, a wicked horse, said ' You fool, you want to defeat us? We'll just have to make an example of you, you little clown!' And so they went to fight him. All the evil animals were bigger than him, and so they thought they could beat him up like they did to him earlier, but to their surprise, their hooves and claws and beaks and horns did nothing to him! Using his super strength, he whopped them with a BAM! A POW! SOCK! WHAM! And they were thrown to the ground, defeated. They groaned with pain as he dusted off his hooves. He turned to them and pointed to the door. ' Run, evil villains! Run away , or if you return to your evil ways, I will beat you once more! ' And they needed no more prompting - they turned and ran for their lives! And the animals of the barn cheered him, declaring ' Hip hip hooray for the Boar Avenger! Our savior! Our hero! ' "

" Wow! So the bad guys were all defeated? "

" The bad guys in that barn, and the Boar Avenger knew it. He stayed only for a while, but told his friends he was needed elsewhere. He wanted to bring justice not only to the barn, but the rest of the animals in the world. They agreed that he should, so with a nod and a smile he went off into the sky to fight for justice.

And that he did! Everywhere he went, scouring the skies, he swooped in to animals in trouble, saving lost sheep, beating up bad guys, even helping to put out several fires! And the animals cheered him on as they did before, and he was very happy, knowing that he was bringing goodness back to the world.

One day, he was flying around when he heard a distress call from a terrified pig. He knew he would have to help, and so he swooped down. There she was, the pig, being cornered by a wicked wolf about to eat her! But he would have none of that, and with a POW sent that wolf flying aaalll the way to the sky! He turned to the pig, telling her that she was now safe, but as he looked at her, his heart pounded. For she was the most beautiful pig lady he had ever seen, and he told her. She blushed, and then said ' My hero, you.. you're the most handsome pig I've seen, too. ' And on that day, as they took a walk to the lake, they fell in love. "

" Awww.. that's really sweet! "

" It was! And he was so blissfully happy for a while, but then the fairy came to him, reminding him that there was good to still do. He felt torn, but realized that he couldn't abandon his duty, so he told the pig lady that he would be back, explaining what he had to do. She nodded and let him go, but both were sad to do so. Still, he was back soon enough, defeating evil across the world.
But evil would not stand idle, and one day, the wicked tongues began to wag and talk of how to handle our hero. One said ' We should beat him up with bigger bad guys! ' Another said ' We should throw him with a catapult into the sky! ' And yet one more said ' We should set him on fire! '

The biggest bad guy of them all, who called himself the Dark Horse, simply shook his head. ' He's too strong for the biggest of our animals. He would fly back from the sky. And he would fly into a lake if he was set on fire! All of you are fools! No.. but I've heard something better. I propose that we attack him where he is weakest.. his heart. '

' But' , said the other villains, ' we cannot hit his heart! He is too tough! '
' You fool!' said the horse, ' We don't attack him, we attack what he loves! His girlfriend! ' And so, the evil animals gathered to find the pig that he loved. They kidnapped her and took her to a secret location, and told him to come or else they would kill her. And he came, walking right into their trap! "

" Oh no! "

" The Dark Horse rubbed his hooves in glee as he saw our hero. He said ' Hero, this is our offer. You will give up your powers, and we will release your love. If not, we will kill her. ' The Boar Avenger was once again torn and confused. He knew he could not save her in time, but also that if the evil animals took his powers, they would surely kill him. After a long while, he decided to agree.. but only if they put her somewhere safe, next to the door. They agreed, and he called the fairy. He said ' I wish to save my love, and to do that, I will give up my powers. '

The fairy agreed, and the Boar Avenger suddenly found himself an ordinary boar, without powers. The Dark Horse laughed and said ' You fool! Now that you have no powers, we will kill you AND your loved one! You are an idiot! ' But just then, the ground rumbled, and out from the forests poured the many animals he had saved! They said ' YOU are the fool, evil one! The Boar Avenger has spread good to the world, and now the good are stronger than the evil! The Boar Avenger has defeated you already and you do not know! ' The Dark Horse laughed, but as he counted, he realized it was true. His evil villains were much less than the good animals around him.

He looked to his villains, telling them to fight the good animals. But they were all cowards. Evil, you see, tends to be selfish. And selfish people would not fight a fight that they would surely lose! They all surrendered, leaving only the Dark Horse alone and without allies. But he was angry and tried to attack the powerless Boar Avenger! Yet, he was himself too slow, as the good animals rushed on him and killed the wicked horse!

The animals looked at him and his love, and said ' Do not worry, Boar Avenger. While you no longer have your powers, you have saved us, and in gratitude, we will continue your fight. Good will always be stronger than evil! We will continue your fight! ' And with that, he bowed to them gratefully. For now, without his powers, he had no need to fight, and he could take the hand of his love and live happily in a farm for the rest of his days. "

" Wow..that's an awesome story! "

" It didn't end just yet, though! One night, while the pig was sleeping, the fairy came unto him and said ' Boar Avenger, there is one last thing I need you to do. Fairyland now needs your help! Evil fairies are attacking us! ' He agreed, on condition that he could return to his family. But the fairy shook her head with sadness. ' I'm afraid that if you help us.. you cannot come back. Giving you powers in Fairyland would be the only way you can help us, and once you have powers there, the magic won't let you return. '

The pig was, once again, confused, but realized that he was still a fighter for the sake of good, and he could never ignore this unharmed, especially after what the fairy did for him and for all animalkind. He told his wife, and said that he would embark on a journey for.. for good. She was of course, sad, much as he was , but- but they knew he had to go. "

" Dad..? Are - are you crying? "

" Y-yes, son, for you see.. I - am the Boar Avenger. I - I have to go. I will be very sad to leave both you and your mother behind, but I have to fight for good. "

" Dad..? Really? But..I.."

" Will, you must be strong. You must take care of your mother, the most beautiful pig in the world, for me. You must always be good and always be kind. And you must never be a coward. Never give up. You must be a hero, son. For me. "

" D..al..alright, Dad. I mean,Boar Avenger. "

" Dad works. I'm proud to have you as my son, Will. "

" You.. you'll defeat the bad fairies, right, Dad? "

" Good always triumphs over evil, son. Always. Now.. right now, your mother needs someone beside her. Go be her hero, Will. "

" I.. I will, Dad. You're the best Dad ever. "

" And you're the best son a superhero could ever have. "

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

Harold blinked as he leveled his gun between the pig's eyes. That was the calmest he'd seen of any of those he'd slaughtered, as if it had said its pig prayers or something. Or was it somehow trying to hide it was scared to damn bits in defiance? He spat to the side, thinking he'd better not try to confuse himself with whatever the pigs were thinking.

" Well, Hammy, I guess you know how it's gotta go. " He watched as it seemed to squeal something quietly to himself while he pulled the trigger.

WHAM! SOCK! POW!

BAM

[Lilam]

It was a beautiful night to die. A distended moon cast sheets of pale gossamer on the endless cornfield, providing just enough light to show Anna how hopelessly lost she was. Every broken gasp of breath added fuel to the fire to her lungs and her trembling legs were more of a hindrance than help as she fought her way through towering stalks of corn, but the shouting voices in her wake kept her on her path of desperate escape. Despite having gotten a good head start, they were closing in on her, unleashing a silent deluge on a face that fought to contain the devastation.

Stars so bright and clear, like broken glass on asphalt, congregated to bear witness to Anna’s inevitable death and carry her final prayers to the dark oblivion above. A shot pierced the air and every drop of blood bled out of Anna’s face as she smothered the scream fighting its way up her throat. She increased her speed, sure that every leafy stalk that brushed her was a hand that would snatch her off into the night. They were so close now, their pursuit even outpacing the bloated moon and watchful stars that followed her every move with morbid persistence.

A glimpse of white darting through the thick maze of corn caught Anna off guard, the hesitation in her mind causing confusion in her legs. She miss-stepped and gravity took the opportunity to pull her down with a vengeance. Sobbing when her constricted lungs would allow, Anna scrambled to her feet only to find a ghost directly impeding her path. A face as white as bleached bones and completely devoid of features hovered over her, staring at her from empty sockets of unfathomable darkness. As the apparition glided closer, Anna could make out his body as it parted from the surrounding shadows. He moved into the moonlight and Anna could see him clearly; not a ghost, but a man in a white mask dressed in a black cloak. Frozen on her knees and trapped in that dark gaze, Anna looked up at him and mouthed only two words, praying that her eyes and expression would convey them far better than her voice.

Help me!

While the masked man gave no outward indication of acknowledgement, he answered in a voice like muted thunder.

“Helping you means that three men will die. Is your life truly worth the loss of three?”

Terror and hope replaced blood and oxygen as Anna found her soul set upon a scale and its worth weighed and measured. The smooth and colorless mask revealed no judgment, no condemnation to her as she nodded once though her quivering lips moved silently in prayer or protest. Her three pursuers crashed through the corn stalks behind her and Anna screamed until the lack of air in her lungs made her lightheaded. She felt more than actually saw the masked man slip past her, a faint whisper of death chilling her skin in his wake.

Anna turned and scuttled backwards, feeling a blinding need to watch the execution of her request. He was shadows and moonlight in motion, graceful and fluid in his savagery. His appearance was that of a ghost but he fought like a hellspawned beast, ending three lives with bare fists and raw power. When he was done, he stood, slowly, and lifted his face to the sky, drenching his mask in a downpour of moonbeams. Anna didn’t look at the bodies cooling in the dirt, but at the man who had killed by the nod of her head and at the hands that took life yet held hers safe from harm.

Silence intruded upon the space between them, but the man in the mask approached Anna regardless, stopping just in front of her. Without a word, he outstretched a hand. Swallowed up in the depths of his gaze, Anna looked up into the empty mask so starkly white and saw only the face of a savior. Her hand reached for his before she consciously made the move. She expected his hands to be cold but his palms were warm as they encompassed her own. Helping Anna to her feet, he led them deeper into the labyrinth of corn, unerringly confident in his path. When finally the corn field came to an abrupt end and Anna stepped beyond its oppressive presence, she took a deep breath, inhaling as if she had been suddenly brought back to life.

An abandoned farm that had seen better days was what welcomed them past the corn, having only a dilapidated barn, a rickety farmhouse and some rusted farm machinery to offer. Hand still firmly connected with hers, the masked man pulled them towards the house and Anna shuffled behind without complaint, eyes locked on his billowing cloak and the warm junction where their flesh linked. The porch creaked and moaned but held under their weight as the man dragged the screen door open for Anna, although it was already partly off its hinges, and indicated for her to enter first. She was reluctant to let go of his hand so, seeing her hesitation, her silent savior stepped through the doorframe instead and guided her in as he eased the door shut behind them. It was as they were heading towards what once would have passed as a living room that Anna saw the blood steadily trickling into the man’s opposite hand, leaving a trail of dark stains on the dusty wood floors.

“You’re hurt,” she croaked, her voice still a little raw and weak.

The man didn’t reply but he did release her hand this time, gesturing briefly to a threadbare sofa before disappearing past the kitchen and down an unlit hallway. Anna sat as comfortably as she could, taking the opportunity to look over her own person for injuries. There were a few scratches from when she fell, but otherwise she was unscathed. The sound of old pipes squealing and rummaging in cabinets had her sitting on the edge of the sofa, struck by a sudden jolt of fear at the masked man’s absence. He returned moments later much to her relief, carrying a small first aid box. Settling at the other end of the sofa, he began rolling up his sleeve. Gathering what little courage she could scrap up, Anna moved closer and removed the first aid box from his lap.

An unreadable face seemed to study her, that penetrating gaze like dark gravity sinking into her skin. Squirming in the prolonged silence and the intensity of his stare, Anna fumbled for words as she focused on cleaning the blood coating his arm. The gash wasn’t very deep but it looked painful enough. It took her a minute of silent ministrations to realize that he had been grazed by a bullet, as she couldn’t recall the other men carrying any other weapons nor did she actually remember seeing the masked man get injured. She thought back to the single gunshot she had heard in the cornfield and there was an overwhelming wave of guilt that followed, now certain that he had been shot at only because they had mistaken him for her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, struggling to put up a good fight against the burning behind her eyes. “You were shot at because of me.”

Anna sniffed but held her composure, keeping her hands steady as she began to wrap the bandage around his arm.

“I was driving down the road back there and I hit a big pothole. I tried to swerve in time, but the tire blew out so I pulled over. I don’t have a spare so then I tried to call someone to come get me, but I couldn’t get a signal. Bad coverage I guess. I got out and was trying to find a signal but those men suddenly appeared out of the woods across the street from me. I saw one of them had a gun so I ran into the corn field. I thought—”
She had to blink several times and bite her lip before she could continue.

“I thought I was going to die. You really saved my life.”

Thick layers of muscle tensed beneath Anna’s fingers as the masked man stiffened in his seat.

“I killed three men,” he murmured, the rumbling of his voice muffled behind the mask. “I wouldn’t call that saving anyone.”

Finished with the bandage, Anna let her touch linger on his arm, comforted by his strength and warmth.

“No, I don’t see it that way. You’re a hero. I owe you my life.”

It was a shame she couldn’t see his face, unable to accurately measure the breadth of his pain. She had nothing to offer him except reassurance and her sincere gratitude. But the subject at hand seemed to be depressing him, so she switched topics.

“I am curious though,” she admitted with a shadow of a smile. “Who exactly are you?”

The man tilted his head closer to her, forcing the entirety of the blank mask in her field of vision.

“I don’t know. If your lips give me a name and your eyes give me a face, then that is who I will be.”

Anna was expecting a cryptic, mysterious response of some sort, so while she wasn’t put off, she wasn’t deterred either.

“Even without the mask, I wouldn’t know who you are. So why bother with it?”

This time there was a pause before the man replied and when he spoke it was so soft that Anna had to strain to hear him.

“… It may not be my own, but this is my face. What I wear beneath is the mask.”

An eruption of goosebumps spread across both arms and Anna suddenly realized she was cold. For a split second, Anna thought she saw the mask ripple, like heat waves off hot pavement, but she dismissed it as the moonlight and shadows playing tricks on her eyes.

“Would you like to see my mask?” he asked, so very soft it was more breath than actual words.

Some primal instinct in Anna’s brain was urging her to run, but even as she shook her head the man in the mask had a grip on one of her hands. It didn’t hurt but the grip was strong and coaxing as he lifted her hand to the white mask. Her stomach clenched into a tight bundle of fist-sized knots as her fingers touched the mask, warm with life and seeming to pulse like flesh beneath her hand. In one swift move, the man lifted the featureless mask. Beneath he had eyes, ears and a nose, nothing out of the ordinary, if not particularly bland and plain. But it wasn’t quite right. His smiled but it didn’t quite belong, like a puzzle piece that almost fit but no amount of rearranging and force would make it fit where it didn’t go. His expressions were stiff and awkward, normal but somehow wrong.

There were no feelings in them, Anna realized, unable to snatch her hand or her eyes away. His eyes and expressions were empty and cold, a poor mimicry of emotion. It was a sloppy human mask for the monster who pretended to be a man. So, so slowly he pulled his face back down over the mask and Anna saw him for what he truly was. Three men died trying to save her from a monster and she bid him to take their lives. The blank mask rippled and all illusions were broken. Anna stared but only the face of Death stared back.

“You’ve seen mine,” he crooned over Anna’s crying, cradling her warm, soft face in his hands. “Now let me see yours.”

Anna’s neck snapped in a symphony of crunches and splintering bones. Although he had murdered many, many times, hers perhaps would be the loveliest death mask of all.

[James]

<reserved for judging>

[James]

ROUND TWO

[/SIZE]
Topic: RULES
Restriction: Your protagonist must be female.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 29th February[/center]

[Sekot]

The monks had lined the passage. Dressed in thick black wool with heads covered, they bowed at the waist in silent reverence. They were silent watchers, silent participants in the soon to be explosive dance. No sound emanated from them, no breath or rustle of fabric. And in their silence, their presence was most imposing. Her heels clicked once as she took a step, the echo ricocheting throughout the massive hall. She hesitated, deafened and frightened.

The blue-gold marble extended across the floor. Polished to a spotless sheen it was like ice crafted from space. The swirls etched into its surface fashioned themselves into constellations and entire galaxies. The countless monks were mirrored in its surface, doubling them into infinity. She felt their eyeless stares seeping into her, from within the impenetrableness of their hoods she felt their stare.

Pairs of pillars erupted from the ground to rise up and up toward the faraway ceiling. They spun around one another, never meeting in a spiral helix. Upon their surface was written words and phrases that had been long forgotten. They stretched around one another and up the pillars until any semblance of breakage between one word and another was lost in the intricate, calligraphic webbing.

Windows lined the entirety of the hall from floor to ceiling. Their panes were crystal, as clear as reality itself. But through these windows no light came. Outside this hall was nothing. No stars glittered within the sky, the gods themselves had fled the space. She took another step and the echo was sent ringing. Her eyes were transfixed upon the end of the line, where the watchers ended and the termination began.

Raised higher than the floor by several feet was a throne. Behind it was not a window but a star. A star complete with a set of satellites that slowly orbited around it. The star itself churned within, black and blue-white spilled across its surface and radiated outward. It too spun upon an axis, rotating around and around. Held so delicately in place it appeared as if it would explode at any moment, as if it would fall out of its precarious position and set the world ablaze. And framed within that light was that throne.

Made of black iron it stood apart. Opaque and cruel, yet elegant and natural. The light of the star seemed to dance around it. When it hit its surface, the two glittered and shone as if the throne itself were lined with diamonds. As she neared it, she could begin to make out the designs and patterns that were placed upon it much like the writing in the pillars. Profane etchings, scribbles and markings adorned its pristine surface. It was as if the chair was alive and it was speaking to her. It was screaming at her. Yelling at her and throwing obscenities at her. And it was done in the most beautiful voice she could imagine.

She came closer and closer, she could feel the presence increasing. The pressure weighed upon her, bent her shoulders inward and forced her knees to bend more and more. It was a struggle to keep her head raised, to keep her eyes fixed upon that throne that loomed ever higher. Its shadow was cast upon the floor and within it were the stars that should have been outside. They twinkled and shown in their captivity, coming together in ways that differed from the mimicry in the marble.

The moment she crossed the line into the shadow, the pressure intensified. She bit her lip and balled her fists, her nails digging into the flesh of her palms. Her body began to shake as she struggled for each step. Closer and closer she came, climbing the invisible mountain, and more pronounced her bow became. The star judged her from its vantage point of the hall, it watched her silently as it spun and she had to shield her eyes away from its terrifying awefullness.

“My child,” the voice spoke and its sound rang through the room like church bells. It was sung by a choir.

She could not look up, the speaker was hidden to her. She stopped finally at the end of the steps, now reduced to a crawl. Within the shadow of the throne she could see her reflection and her reflection could see her. The eyes of a traveler, chestnut hair cut short and a face lined with wear. Her lips were pursed into a thin line as she struggled even at this point to keep as upright as possible. She refused to bow any more.

“My child,” the voice spoke again. Forced reassurance was at the forefront, but hidden just within was a profound emptiness. A vastness to it that lacked any human quality. “You have come to me.”

The monks had gone, disappeared into the corners where they would remain unseen. But still she could feel their watching, feel them about her. She trembled, shivers rising and falling across her spine. “You have returned to me.”

His voice sounded within her and about her. Confused, she struggled to reconcile the distorted perception. Was he before her or behind her? Was this a dream in her mind or something real?

“After your many years of falling and never finding purchase upon ground, you have found yourself in the only place that would catch you.”

She wanted to respond, to say something but her mouth would not move.

“There is…an order to the world. A set of rules we must follow. And you, daughter of mine, were born in chaos and that is all you know.”

Patronizing. This was no father of hers.

“All that you have sown you will not be able to reap, and that is a tragedy. However, you are here now and that is all that matters. Children of gods should not walk amongst the mortals, after all.”

He was there in his bed, wrapped amongst the sheets. His body was covered in sweat, beads of it rolled down his chest and soaked the mattress. He twisted and turned, screaming incomprehensibly. She struggled to grab his hand, to hold it tight but he would only wrench it away. He cursed her name, spoke profanities and sang a hymn of damnation. It was as much his requiem as hers.

“You will only bring harm to those you thought you loved. But, I assure you, you know nothing of true love. I will show you, my child, all that you need.”

Buried in a black coffin in black earth under a black sky. Dressed in black and holding black scriptures. She watched from afar, her red dress fluttering in the wind that stole their words and hid them from her. So be it, she would say her own silent prayer. The words came freely, from someplace within her that she could not recognize.

“Come, rise, and show me your face, Daughter of Chaos.”

The coffin moved. It shook and rocked in its place. It cracked open and a skeletal hand protruded from within it. The lid slowly felt to the side, just enough so that a bare head could rise out. They screamed and held one another. She smiled. She felt the bitter taste of spite fill her mouth and she spat it out. He rose up to his full height, shambled out and stood upon solid earth.

She lifted her head, just enough to look into the depths of the throne. Those words written there were as much for her as they were for the one who sat upon it. There was no one. Nothing but a voice. She smiled the same smile, felt the familiar taste of spite swim across her tongue. Licking her lips she began to laugh.

“I know your thoughts, and I know your plans. They will not work here, this is my domain and you are my guest.”

Lightning snapped across the panes of glass. It forked and grasped at the windows in an effort to wrench them out. “Do not strain yourself! I am impenetrable.”

Her heart drummed out a song of fury. Her blood ran cold through her veins and her muscles bunched into tight cords. “You invited me in, such as I was, and you expected a caged bird.”

The star ceased its spinning and so did its satellites. Even so the churning within picked up speed. It grew brighter, so bright that the pillars faded that the words written upon them were erased in the light. But the throne itself protected her as she knelt within its shadow. The words upon its surface did not fade, were not erased.

“Stop. Stop this! You foolish girl! I am god! I am order itself and I will have you reigned in! Stop this now, you cannot disobey! No one can disobey!”

His words rang loud, were echoed by the equally invisible choir that ceased any pretense of formality and began to scream as loudly as they could.

“Daughter of Chaos, you called me. So we do reap what we sow.”

There was a crack in the surface of the star for the churning and the broiling had gotten to be too much. Lightning snapped again and the windows cracked. The stars fled the shadow, were released into the cosmos where they fled in terrified joy.

“You took him, and I took him back.”

His words had fallen into gibberish. All she could hear was his shouting and the crumbling of the walls of the hall. Those monks watched silently, not moving to step in for their master. They had known all along. They had come to witness his fall.

She rose to her full height, raising her chin in arrogance. Her smile was wicked and her eyes danced. She mounted the steps one by one, her booted feet clicking sharply against the marble. She brushed the dirt from her clothing, she straightened her jacket, and she stopped just before the throne. Tracing her fingers across the hardened surface, she closed her eyes and listened to what the words were saying.

She held him close, even as his last few breaths were being choked out of him. She whispered in his ear even as he screamed at her.

Gently she lowered herself into the chair, her hands gripping the rests. The walls crumbled about her. The star behind her exploded in a brilliant array of lights and screaming sounds. Fire rushed around her but it could not touch her. The last bits of impotent fury that were left within it were wrenched outside, were taken by the forks of lightning that snapped and tangled around themselves. The fire was stolen into the sky where the stars waited, ready.

[Jackal]

" What's the matter, nerd? Not so brave now are ya? "

Sam winced as he was shoved back into the teacher's desk, hard. Tim was strong, really strong, and big - that's why he was the class bully, that's why he had picked on everyone, including Grace from the next class during recess,and that's why nobody reported on him. But Sam had to. It was just the right thing to do, and he hated to see Grace cry. Plus it was kind of funny watching Tim getting scolded by the teachers.

It wasn't so funny now, though, when Tim was snarling at him, with the gang around him. He tried to fight back his tears, but the bruises were getting really painful.

" Awwww, what's the matter, little girl? You're just a little girly aren't you, Sammy boy? Or should I call you Samantha? " The boys around Tim laughed, making mean faces at Sam. " You know what we do with loud-mouthed girls around here, don't you? "

" You know what we do with loudmouths round these parts, doncha? "

That line was used by most thugs from his favorite book series. Charlotte Brown: Ace Detective. She was clever, cool, and she knew her way around thugs, especially if they were all gathered , cracking their fists as they prepared to beat her up.



" We don't like snitches round these parts. "

It had to be in a classroom. Charlotte hated classrooms - they reminded her of the days when a bigger man would yell at her to wake up of her dreams, and then come down on her with a hard wooden ruler. And now she was surrounded by men who were probably bigger than her old teacher, but things always seemed bigger as a kid. Just like him, they had a mean, angry look on their faces.

" You've been a naughty little girl. We gotta teach you a lesson or two, see? Shut that smart mouth of yours for a bit. "

Backed in a corner, nowhere to run. She'd have to fight her way out of this: out of three guys twice her weight with faces only a mother could love, led by Tim McArgee, head honcho of the local gang. The bruises on her back told her they weren't intending to just give her a lecture and send her off to detention.
" You got anything to say? You sure had plenty ta say back at the station, you little bitch. "

Her mind raced, trying to think of how to handle these guys. She had a list, didn't she? Not the groceries - well, sorta like the groceries, except instead of lettuce and cheese and milk, she'd made some ideas on how to take them down. Was just a bit more difficult with that aching back, but -

Rule # 1 - Assess the situation first.

Classroom, duh. Big guys had her in a corner. Heavy-built, looks like they could take a punch or two, no weapons except their fists, smelled like week-old halibut. Behind her, the teacher's desk, scattered with some paperweights, pens, a book, and a couple of those rulers they'd use to punish the naughty kids. Chair and then chalkboard behind that getup. Maybe stuff in the drawers, but she didn't have the keys. Behind the guys, hell lot of chairs and tables. Place had no one else except her and the goons - convenient.

She heard the crack of their fists as big Tim walked forward. " Thought so. "

Rule # 2 - Big guys, big punches.

In retrospect, that rule seemed pretty irrelevant. Why was it there in the first place? As she moved to dodge the first blow, it occurred to her that perhaps it was there to remind her that they'd hurt. A lot. She turned to avoid the second blow and realized that the big hits came slower. None of which was very useful.

Rule # 3 - Small faces , small spaces.

Right, right. Small meant agile. Agile, and able to fit into spaces the thugs would have problems with. She slipped under the table, and Tim's big fist came crashing into the woodwork. Tough guy, but the wood was tougher. Good quality oak, that. But as he stumbled back, crying out, she saw the other two guys spring into action. No time to admire the craftmanship. What's next?

Rule # 4 - Take anything and use it.

Charlotte wasn't really all that tough, so mostly anything she could pick up would be tougher. She grabbed at the table and threw the first thing she could at the thug. Okay, the papers weren't a good idea. Still, it distracted him, and had him swiping at empty air, lunging forward into the chair.

Rule # 5 - Balance is everything.

Big didn't always mean clumsier, but the thugs were awkward, kind of like bears trying to dance. She kicked the chair to push that one thug off balance, and he slumped forward over it. Just in reach for a good knock, but again, she wasn't sure how hard she could hit him. But there was always the book.
Heavy, hard-cover - probably a teacher's guide. About to teach a guy some manners. She slammed the thing straight on his noggin and he yelled, flailing. There wasn't time for a second swing, though - his friend had come behind the chair and lunged for her.

She dropped the book, and went for something a little easier to handle and a whole lot more satisfying. Thwack! went the ruler, a good hard slap to his cheek knocking him off balance, and a quick sidestep made sure he missed her and went straight for a nice patch of concrete floor instead.

" You damn rat! "

Tim was back up, and mighty pissed. Charlotte still had good use of that ruler, and even the big guy smarted from getting his swinging arms lashed by the wood. Right now she was pretty glad she took fencing lesons for the past five or so summers. She was also glad she didn't take horse riding: a bad back would be more trouble than it's worth right about now.

Rule # 6 - Always be aware of your surroundings.

Surroundings, right. She was backing up to the windows, and he was still coming towards her. She'd have to change direction soon, maybe use the cupboard for leverage - maybe try to avoid the arm that grabbed around her neck. She tried to duck, but she'd noticed it too late - he held her in a half-choke as he yelled at Tim. " Oi! Get her now! "

She couldn't swing properly now that she was gasping for breath, and Tim knew that. The big guy was cracking his fist and drawing it back for a real big whopper. She'd have to act fast. Would be kind of awkward to hit the thug's arm with her ruler, but there were other targets, ruler or not -

Rule # 7 - Screw the rules.

'Below the belt', as the saying went, was usually considered an unfair move, but this wasn't fair for her anyway. The thug behind her quickly realized his folly at not restraining her arm, and as his eyes went wide, his arm went loose, and she slipped out. Just in time for that solid uppercut to connect and throw him back to the cupboard. Damn, all that broken glass couldn't possibly be cheap, but then again, neither would his medical bills. Besides, it had been his idea to -

Whoops, no time for thinking. Tim had recovered quickly from his misdirected punch - definitely more so than the guy who took the slug - and was turning around for round 2. Charlotte dashed forward as quickly as she could behind the chair, pushing it back in the hopes that it would slow down her pursuers while she headed for the classroom exit. Five meters, three... her heart pounded like a percussionist on acid as she tried to ignore the yells getting louder and louder behind her. Just a few more strides and -

" WHAT'S GOING ON AROUND HERE? "

Charlotte blinked, nearly skidding to a halt on her heels. The booming voice came from right in front of her, and she knew who it was before he turned the corner - the big, looming man that somehow managed to be nearly twice as tall as big Tim and the lugs. John Law. She kept wondering where the hell he always was when the fight was starting. His steel gaze quickly made sense of the situation in a not-so-favorable way for Charlotte, and most likely the rest.

" All of you! My office. NOW. "

Charlotte looked back at the others. The defiance had gone out of them, and even Tim knew better than to defy the big man. He was the law around these parts, never around when trouble begins, but always there when it ends. And nobody got away easy with him around.

Well, so much for the rules. [/i][/color]

[Injin]

Sekot
Spelling & Grammar -4 /5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 10/15
Quality - 13/15
Total - 39/50

Well I guess we are starting my journey into recordville with this. I can say for a fact that this was an interesting piece, the writing definitely coming from a place you wouldn’t expect from the topic. However, I noticed a few spelling errors here or there. The use of topic was a tad unorthodox, but it did fit with the rules. I couldn’t help but be a little confused though. Who was she trying to avenge, why was she there in the first place? She is a child of Chaos, but I’m just seeing outright rebellion. I guess I am nitpicking at the distinction, but that’s how I feel. Great job though, Sekot.

Addendum: After re-reviewing the work, the score has been changed. My apologies for misreading it before. Things were slightly clearer once I reread it again, and I apologize for messing up before.

Jackal
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 11/15
Quality - 14/15
Total - 42/50

Jackal, what can I say? This whole piece surprised me given your earlier reticence to put it in. While at times the way that the characters spoke was jarring, Charlotte’s internal monologue was brilliant. I really enjoyed this piece, although perhaps there were times while I read it when things seemed a tad off. The bullies seemed alright, but the ending was a bit abrupt. I like ending lines a lot though, so that helps you. God, I might be giving you a higher grade than James might, but I really liked this work. Great job on winning the round.

WINNER: JACKAL

[Injin]

ROUND THREE

[/SIZE]
Topic: ORCHESTRA
Restriction: Setting: Mars
Deadline: 11:59 PM PST March 7[/center]

((I'm expanding the deadlines a bit to get perhaps more people available. Plus, I'll have my review for the two up tomorrow, when I am fully awake))

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Eyes that saw all times, from the distant past before Man to the far flung future long after Man had perished, closed and turned inwards. Cocidius, Horus, Khorne, Ares… all of these names and more were attributed to him. But of these names only one did he love for its power – Mars. Only now, in the quiet of his mind, could he enjoy the symphony of his orchestra.

The conductors stepped forward with their batons held aloft like swords. Their glares crossed a thousand yards, the rival conductors locking eyes without ever seeing their counterpart. With a violent slash the first orchestral piece began. A flight of flutes cut through the air with a skirling of whistles, accompanied by the sharp strings of the violins as they strummed furiously to keep pace with the unending barrage of notes. Deeper woodwinds split the skies with their lower hum, oboes and clarinets joining to pierce the other musicians with their harmony and add a tinkling of splattering triangles to the symphony of death.

The first conductor grinned, his baton slicing through the air and directing the assault of his flutes and violins to plunge into and scatter the enemy who could only return with a meager quartet in response. Now was the chance for the conductor to bolster the allegro of flutes and strings with the deep brass and horns of an adagio. A symphonic clatter arose from the pit of his lines as horns trumpeted in unison, crying their victory to the sky as a low and stately accompaniment of tuba and baritone joined the brash trumpet and French horn.

As the first pit reached the second, the adagio slowed even more until it became an adagissimo, the swaggering brass musicians confident in their victory and mocking their counterparts on high with the slow pace of their step. They were not prepared for the prestissimo of the deep brass that erupted from the gates of the enemy orchestral pit. Tuba and baritone cut down trumpet and horn, the great scything wheels of one tuba slicing through the legs of an opposite baritone to send it screaming to the ground where it was soon crushed into a few pathetic notes.

Now it was the second conductor’s turn to grin in triumph, his baton slicing through the air to be punctuated by an allegro of hidden flutes and strings as well as the deep, pounding doom of percussion loosing their heavy loads into the air to crash amongst the first conductor’s depleted pit, crumpling his flutes and strings in a single volley of musical domination.

Joining the charge of the deep brass was the second conductor’s own horns. A raucous skirling of music unleashed in a single vengeful note that scythed into the franticly fleeing figures of the First. Many of the First turned, music notes blaring in discordant harmony as they clashed with their opposites of the Second, once again the triangles added their soft and sorrowful tinkling as they fell to the ground.

The conductor of the First glared contempt as his troops began to withdraw around him, a few of the baritones waiting nervously with his steed. It was with grudging admiration that he turned his back on his formidable opponent, promising softly to himself that this would be the man’s one and only victory. As the First fled, the Second let out a muted allegrezza at their triumph, before turning to look on the fields of the orchestral duel.

Horns lay crushed and crumpled around them, and a low affanato began to play as they moved amongst the fallen. The mournful music brought tears to the eyes of the conductor as he slowly placed his baton away within its sheathe and rested his hands upon the battlements of the pit. That it should come to this, to two who had loved each other as brothers now as bitter foes, brought him much sorrow as the affanato slowly finished on its last, doleful note.

It was as the piece ended and Mars opened his eyes that he could enjoy the conflicting emotions fully. Tears of molten steel etched lines across sculpted cheeks of brass, even as a bloody smile of locked shields spread across his lips. He so loved the orchestra of his thoughts.