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Topics - D. Ein

Pages: 1
1
Writer's Guild / QAI's end
« on: October 16, 2011, 05:23:39 PM »
High in the Andean Alps, a tribe of peaceful shepherds once happened upon an ancient obelisk, etched all over with spine-chilling symbols. Strange things happened around this dark structure: cattle and horses would avoid it, bleating as though in pain when approaching it; men experienced a placeless dread, and, if enough time is spent by the obelisk, the dread boiled over into maddening rage. The shepherds would worship this obelisk and it would feed on their positive emotion, growing more voracious by the day. In a few years, when its fruit did ripen, the thousand-year stone would crack and release upon the world the demon known as Abodahon.

He stood ten feet tall, crowned with a flowing mane of white hair. Into his naked chest was carved a single pentagram. His hands of steel, bearing countless inscriptions in demontongue and gems the colour of fresh blood, were ready to throttle the soulless hell-machines of QAI, Quantum Artificial Intelligence - the awful child of mankind's pride.

Leaving QAI's human slaves dead and its machines broken in his rain-filled footsteps, the demon erased city after city in rage. After Production City G56 was reduced to a million graves, QAI finally noticed the golemesque abomination, and sent a sizeable part of its army after it. The army could do nothing to stop Abodahon's scrolls of blackened magic, but they held him in place for long enough for QAI to aim the High Orbit Nullifier at the demon's general location.

The Nullifier struck like ten thousand lightnings all at once. A white pillar of purifying fire turned earth to glass a hundred kilometers in every direction. QAI's sentries watched as Mother Earth tore its hellish womb open and swallowed what was left of Abodahon - a maimed carcass split in half by the sheer force of the device. All would be quiet for another twenty years.

In a parallel universe, a young ambitious necromancer calling himself Kronos proved to be a nuisance to the nearby farmers. They would tolerate the occasional half-rotted cow shambling out of his cave and then stinking up the villages, but the joke was taken too far when the farmers' decades-old grandmothers started showing up at their doorsteps. Armed with torches and spears, the villagers besieged Kronos' foul cave, forcing him on the run and out of the farmlands. But not before he invoked a plague of locusts upon their fields as a going-away present.

Struggling to survive, Kronos was lucky when he found another cave entrance. In a domino of fortunate events, he discovered that the cave was, in fact, an ancient burial ground guarded by the living dead. Being hailed as their master, he strode into the cave as if he owned the place, and soon found the single most life-changing item in his life: the eldritch lore, the book with pages made of skin, the tome of the damned, the masterpiece of Mad Arab Abdul Alhazred -- the forbidden Necronomicon.

The plasmatic verse scabbed over the ancient flesh with a mixture of both ink and blood would surely drive a simple man mad with but a glimpse, but Kronos learned its dark secrets gradually and carefully. It were only a decade before he was able to raise entire cemeteries at a distance of many miles. His empire of evil grew, swallowing lesser tribes and kingdoms whole. And yet, despite having crushed most of his world's human population, the same restraint that allowed him to read the Necronomicon without losing his mind made sure that the power did not get to his head. But there soon came a moment when the leather-bound archive of black magic could teach him nothing more. Now an insatiable thirst for more power chipped away at his sanity, and the vile necromantic rituals performed over the years drained his body of colour and vitality.

Perhaps that is why, when one day he found a note scrawled in blood affixed to one of the many bones on his Skull Throne, instead of investigating, he heeded its advice without reservation. The note spoke to him of untold power and unspeakable destruction, along with instructions on how to achieve it. So, in one day, he rounded up ten thousand virgins from all across his lands, tattooed their flesh black in daemonic names, and ordered his priests to set the sacrificial blades in motion.

The virgin blood boiled as Kronos stepped his desiccated foot into it and contorted in waves as he waded further to the centre of the cistern. Upon fully submerging the necromancer, the blood vaporized in a flare, leaving the cavern in a dazed silence. Only a single silhouette walked through the evanescent mist.

He was twelve-feet tall; skeletal and leather-bound wings spread outwards making the figure even larger than his already huge stature made him. His left arm was metallic, with inset gems the colour of fresh blood, and his white hair reached down to his shoulders. A metal crown with two uneven horns rested upon his head.

"WE ARE BECOME ABODOS!", he bellowed. "BRINGER OF DEATH, DESTROYER OF LIFE!"

His wings tearing the air apart, he smashed through the top of the cavern and erupted from the mountaintop in which the cavern sat. But the world was no longer his own: brown splotches of villages became great metal spires stretching out of the sky; beasts and men were replaced by stone which spoke and moved; great birds of iron zoomed through the clouds, and Abodos knew that somewhere even beyond the clouds and the blueness of the skies, a mechanical eye was trained on him and watching his every move.

In that very moment, a wind of lead blew, bullets thirsting to pierce his daemonic hide. Feeble human slaves operated scorching rays of blood and diamond which carved channels into his skin. The metal birds screeched through the sky, unleashing burning wasps which buzzed right at him and turned into raging fireballs when they reached him. And amidst this howling chaos, a thundering voice resounded through the air, booming and shivering with might: "Submit to the authority of QAI or be nullified."

And he became aware then that although he was in Abodahon's world, he was no longer Kronos nor Abodahon; he was something much more.

Legs like colossal pillars threw him into the sky, piercing him through one of QAI's metal birds. Whirring shells sliced the air around him, and flak shrapnel eviscerated his wings - only for them to grow back a moment later. A tentacle that was as if made of rising water snatched him out of the sky, throwing him downward. Just as what was once Kronos lusted for power, QAI lusted for information - and it had to take a closer look.

A giant machine which seemed less a coherent being and more a swarming hive of metal tendrils ambushed him from a metal cave and attacked him, trying to hold him; its super-sensitive measuring devices scanned every inch of the demon. But in mere instants, he broke free of the mechanoid's grasp, and roared into the sky, shaking the very clouds.

Right away, thousands of QAI's enslaved human warriors keeled over, dropping their weapons. Their bones crunched and moved by their own volition inside their still conscious bodies. Twisting masses of sinew and skin, their very skeletons transformed them from the inside, weaving living flesh into grotesque abominations. Like locusts, they arose into the sky, suffocating daylight from the doomed earth beneath. Some grew around their weapons, and those which manned turrets now churned their metal and took the large-calibre weapons with them, firing at the concrete sepulchres around them. Only a small swarm of abominations was required to tear apart the tendril-bot. But not before the dying mechanism relayed its gathered information to the watchful eye in the sky.

Once again, Abodos rose into the air, spearheading the hellborne army behind him. In minutes, he flew over one of the machine cities, where heartless robots force-bred humans to make more slaves which would not drain the power grid. He bellowed in the sky, and the buildings shattered and cracked as abominations seeped and poured out of the newly made holes, joining his swarm. Automated chaingun turrets vomited fire and lead at the sky, only to be torn into ribbons in moments. From hundreds of miles away, from the sky, different machines threw beams of burning light at his flock, but they too only lasted while outside his reach.

Travelling seven days, the brood of abominations erased all in its path and grew as it did, whether it be machines or humans. Corrupted guns drew blood; jury-rigged high-power lasers ignited oil and gasoline. But in the early morning of the eighth day, Abodos witnessed something else he has never seen: a vertical machine-city, extending into the sky like a needle. Lightnings jumped from electrode to electrode, each the size of an elephant; waves of heat so intense that birds cooked mid-flight rippled through the air from enormous radiators. And at the very top, almost out of eye's reach, were three letters: QAI.

But just as he was about to direct his night-children to tear apart the machine's mind, he sensed a movement. Far in the sky, from that elusive eye spying his rampage; the smallest of glimmers at first, but then a streaking white line, like a tear-drop from the gods. The line grew longer and its head grew into a small dot, then larger, then larger still until it was the size of a coin. And just as he realized that it was a falling object, the object smashed into the vast field between himself and the city of machines, knocking abominations out of the sky and making him reel and shield his eyes from the flying debris.

From the rubble and smoke walked out a contraption Satan himself would see only in a traumatic nightmare. Standing on four spider-like legs, it was twice the size of Abodos. Its trunk was wider at the top and tapered forward, making it look similar to a bear about to leap at an unsuspecting target, and four robotic tentacles writhed around its midsection. From its head radiated long spikes in a crown-like fashion, circling a large glowing glass eye that watched him for so long. Unlike all other machines, which were gray and white, this one was black and red. Abodos could only smile in anticipation as he waved his metal hand forward.

The swarm of abominations fell towards the machine, screaming like rabid animals, wind whistling through jutting-out bones. Lasers and guns were fired, spikes and scythes were homed in on the robotic guardian in front of them. Their numbers blocked out the sun. But the Guardian was ready.

It tilted its crowned head forward, so that it looked like a spread-open hand anticipating the abominations. Lightnings licked the rays of the crown, and it began rotating, faster and faster. A high-pitched whine filled the air from inside of the machine signifying capacitors being charged and power matrices adjusting their calculations. The crown spun now so fast that it seemed only a blur, lit alight with lightnings. The Guardian bent its legs, as if preparing for a jump, then suddenly straightened them out.

At that precise moment, the crown stopped to a dead stand-still, and the lightnings surged forward at the undead torrent of abominations. Like a filter, it expanded into a cloud of electrified gas, and swept through the flock's ranks. The air filled with the smell and sound of sizzling flesh, and abominations rained from the sky. Abodos, taken by surprise, became engulfed in the electrical cloud, and blown backwards, carried along with the burning wave of destruction until it finally dissipated many kilometers in the sky.

Stripped of his army and wounded, the demon roared in pain and threw himself down at the Guardian, gauntlet aimed right at it. But the machine was quicker: it intercepted him with one of its tentacles and threw him into the ground, using his own power against him. When the demon attempted to right himself, the machine charged another devastating attack and unleashed the cerulean wave just as Abodos straightened out. The wave caught him at his back, knocking him over and dragging him along the ground for ten kilometers. As soon as it stopped, the Guardian landed right next to him, its portable rocket engines flickering and dying out.

With great effort, the demon stood up again. His body was striped with long scars and massive burns smoked with charred skin. Blood stained his torn ceremonial robe. Through the tear, the robot scanned a body that was not one, but two; the left side was pale and wiry, and the right side was mighty and decorated with half a pentagram. A huge stitch right down from the neck joined the two halves. The demon's head dropped forward, and his hair obscured his eyes. Moments later, his gauntlet got far too heavy for him, and he dropped on his knees, then fell forward.

The Guardian approached cautiously, but when it was only meters away, raygun aimed at Abodos' head, the demon suddenly rose his fists and smashed them on the ground, making it tremble. His great body rose up, bent forward and slouching, like a gorilla. The cooked abominations moved as if by magnetism towards Abodos, coalescing into a fleshy mass around him. The mass boiled and squirmed, some awful transmogrification taking place inside. It quickly swelled in size and stretched like a leather egg. The Guardian's raygun had no effect on its tough hide, so the machine fired its rocket engines and landed several kilometers back, preparing its engine of destruction for another electric assault.

After swelling to the size of a large mansion, the egg finally burst from the top, vile liquid surging forward. The creature inside - lean like a lion, muscular like a bear, and with a head like a coyote, but with a boar's tusks - crawled out, then got up on its four legs and shook off the remaining slime. Abodos' second form was covered with both brown fur and diamond-hard scales, and its name was Kronodahon.

The savage horror pounded its front legs on the ground like a bull, and charged with a rumbling growl. But the Guardian anticipated this, and was already charging its crown with impatient lightning, humming and whirring. As the beast was only a kilometer away from it, it unleashed the potent devastation in a single concentrated orb, straight at Kronodahon. The charging demon was too huge to dodge the attack, and so the ball of light met the creature head-on. But the beast rammed right through it, the electric flows trickling down the sides of its belly. The Guardian immediately released its rocket engines, but it couldn't get high enough fast enough - Kronodahon leaped into the air and smashed over the hapless robot, immediately tearing its titanium gut open, triggering fountains of oil and sparks which violently interacted with each other, letting loose a roaring inferno. The heat set fire to the beast's fur and melted its scales, revealing skin scratched with glowing wards, which flickered off one by one. The hungry fire melted the beast's tough hide, and streams of fat flowed down and mixed with the oil, igniting and feeding the chain reaction. Eventually, Abodos' animalistic outer shell completely withered away, leaving only the winged demon behind. By that time, the flames calmed and died out, leaving only little bonfires whispering at the wind around crackling electrical parts.

Abodos tore the Guardian's head-section off, which still zapped and crackled. Even though it was only a machine, he could see a millennium of hatred, torment and frustration in its whiteless eye. The crown cracked, some mechanisms grinded within it, and the Guardian stated to charge one final attack. And then, at the same time, something happened to the sky again.

It was as if a hunter was gutting his prey. The blue of the sky parted in half, revealing a starry blackness. Tearing the hole in the shape of a giant eye, the light in the centre was its pupil, growing and brightening. At first, Abodos thought it to be the Guardian's twin, but then something made him realize: this was no machine. In fact, the High Orbit Great Burning Nullifier turned its eye of destruction right at him.

As the pillar of purity rushed towards the ground, the Guardian continued to pour power into its main cannon, going into critical over-charge. When Abodos saw this, he tore the Guardian's eye off and thrust it at the sky as it released its wave of killing static.

The two powers clashed in mid-air, creating an explosion that swept the clouds off the sky. But the black scar healed, and the Nullifier began its weeks-long cycle of recharging. By this time it was old technology, and its colossal power output was matched exactly by the Guardian's desperation strike. Abodos stood amidst the destruction, badly wounded but full of strength, and he looked up at the gleaming tower labeled QAI in the sky.

"You may now provide reasons for your continued existence," the machine's voice resounded through the air. Abodos said nothing, and lifted his metal gauntlet into the air.

"Your attack cannot succeed, creature. My hull is impenetrable. My armies are inexhaustible." Abodos extended his begauntleted arm in front of him, holding it with his other hand as it began to vibrate and little wisps of black energy trailed off its surface like smoke.

"Because there is no chance of success for you and it is only a matter of time until my armies reach this place, perhaps we could negotiate a cease-fire." The heavy gauntlet trembled and glowed with power, and the air around it shimmered as if over a hot rock on a summer day.

"My machines have finished fencing off an area for you. It has plenty of grazing-ground for a lifeform like you. I even threw some people in because of my boundless generosity." Abodos lowered the gauntlet, and began walking towards the building with a scowl on his face.

"You are walking in the wrong direction, lifeform. The reservation is behind you, not in front. Just go there and we'll live in peace. We won't have to try to kill each other or even talk if we don't feel like it." Abodos increased his speed, breaking into a run first, then spreading his wings and soaring high into the sky.

"CEASE YOUR ATTACK, CREATURE. DO NOT MAKE ME WISH TO PROLONG YOUR INEVITABLE DEATH." After reaching a critical height, the demon sharply turned downward, and cast himself towards the gleaming tower far on the ground. A vortex of wind formed around him, and his gauntlet, extended in front of him, heated to become red-hot. Abodos roared in anticipation, his speed continuing to increase.

"YOU WILL REGRET THI--"

When the blow connected with the endless walls of QAI's cranium, the Dark God of Balance In The Multiverse had no choice but to channel the excess destructive power sideways, completely wiping out two adjacent universes. The metal shell liquefied, then turned to vapour the next moment, and then simply blinked out of existence. The continent on which it was housed now boasted a massive crater in its centre. Seismic shockwaves rippled through the planet and rode around it five times over. Men's heads exploded and machines' circuits shorted out in a thousand-mile radius. The QAI was no more.

And although men cheered when they saw their electric overlords crumble and the walls around them fall from the destructive earthquake, it was only in a few moments that they saw the great shadow standing before them, blocking out the sun -- the great shadow with spread wings like an ancient, desiccated bat, its red eyes narrowed in glee for the upcoming feast and reign of blackness.

2
Writer's Guild / Untitled
« on: November 18, 2009, 03:34:25 PM »
I hate calling a story "untitled" because it seems pretentious, but I'm still drawing a blank on a title after half an hour... Well, anyway, this is a Submachine-inspired piece (you do not have to know what it is to read it, though). Enjoy.
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Jan 19
There is a bit of a difficulty I had to overcome when writing these - my body is weighed down by my right arm now. Sort of like when I went to school with my one-strap bag, I tended to bend sideways when not carrying the bag on my shoulder. After the trip - nowadays - it's the other way around.
The handyman came today. ("Handy"man!) Soon they're going to have to remove my eye too, because of that wind from the crack above my bed. Well, I'm not standing for that. He patched it up nicely (He asked why and I told him that it's because of the wind. He didn't ask anything else.), but I guess I'll have to wait until tonight to see if the wind is still coming. If simply filling the hole with junk helped, I wouldn't call him.

Jan 20
It'll hold for now.

Jan 24
My mother visited today! She brought me food (which is great). I can't really shop anymore, so I told her thank you for being considerate. She didn't really reply, though. I also showed her the patched hole, but then she left. Mother doesn't like hearing about the wind (terrible! I'm her son! Does she not care if they will have to cut my eye out?). She thinks I'm making it up, because the air vent that the wind was leaking from was bricked up when I first complained. Anyway, we had tea and talked about things. I told her that I knew I'll have another arm soon. She started crying and left.

Jan 25

Jan 30
Dr. Murphy came to visit when I said that I grew a new arm. He brought my old arm to show me, because evidently, he did not believe me. It was all shriveled. Too bad I couldn't show him the arm I grew, because it's invisible, but it looks way better than the shriveled old one. I said that my new arm hurts sometimes, and he relaxed and said something about a phantom limb. I said that that's convenient, that the ruined car phantom must have given me one of his own limbs to cover for my removed one, because I have good karma. He laughed and said good joke and then went back to the hospital.

Feb 25
I skipped a lot of pages because I was busy learning how to use my karma arm. Now I'm a real master at it. The wind from the crack is the key - if I put my arm along its stream and then bend my pinky so it's cutting the stream in half, strange things happen. The wind rips like cloth, and inside the rip is a little cave. I can climb into it, but so far, I found nothing interesting. It's a cave with a blue glowing river flowing, and there are dogs baying from it (well I call them dogs but they aren't really dogs). They walk on three legs and make loud water noises when swimming close to the surface. I think I will take one as a pet sometime.

Mar 2
If I close my right eye in the cave, everything becomes dark. I noticed because as I was fishing out a dog from the river, it splashed water at me. The water didn't really hit me, because it went through me. It only touched my karma arm and my right eye. I closed it from instinct when the splash went up at me, and I couldn't see anything with my left eye open.

Mar 11
Brisk doesn't want to eat anything. When mother came by yesterday, I showed her Brisk and asked her to bring him some doggy food. She started crying and left. Brisk is getting thin after nine days.

Mar 12
Although she left suddenly yesterday, when I woke up today, I found that she did bring doggy food, after all. I tried to get Brisk to eat it. He still didn't like it. She also left a note on the bag. It said that they will be transferring me to the Victoria Sanatorium. I didn't really know what that was, but I didn't want to be transferred. That house probably doesn't have the wind.
Brisk doesn't want to eat anything. When I tried to get him to eat the doggy food, I pet him. My normal arm went right through him of course but my karma arm didn't. He turned from the food then and nibbled on my arm. Then he bit off my index finger. He liked it a lot and he was much thicker and more solid than in the past week. That's okay. It didn't hurt and I only needed my pinky anyway.

Mar 25
More unimportant things happened. Men sometimes came in and took things from the house. When they came in, light also came in. I don't like light anymore. Brisk told me (I think it was him, or it may have been the cat. Probably the cat, because Brisk whispers and bays, he doesn't talk.) that once the last bit of thing is gone from the house, they will run out of things to take and take me to the other house without the wind.

Apr 1
They took me to the sanatorium. It's sad and lonely here. There's white walls and all sorts of horrible elephants and ghosts.
Caught you! April Fools'! I would say those things if I were insane. No, they will come for me in four days, on Monday. But by then, I will be gone. The cat asked me to come back to the cave, because they'll show me how to dive in the river. Also, Brisk will have something to eat. I'm running out of fingers.

Apr 5
If I could draw, I would draw the looks on the men's faces when they saw me disappear into the karma rip. Because I did not hold the rip open with my pinky, it closed right after me, and I was in the cave. Brisk left and jumped into the river, swimming away into a hole into where it drained. The cat was nowhere to be seen, but just after I looked around for him, I found that the water from the river vanished. It's late now, though. I will sleep and go into the tunnels tomorrow.

Apr 6
I spent the better part of the day dodging the cats' stingers and the dogs' claws. I fed them a little bit of my karma hand, but they liked it too much. The tunnels go nowhere. They are in circles. I don't go hungry, and I never get tired, and I don't know why, and I don't know why I don't go anywhere. When I dipped my pinky into the river, the karma rip opened back to my house, but the river is gone now, and I can't find it. Everything is so blue and

Apr 11
kram arm gone
dogs baying
mother forgiv me

3
Writer's Guild / Cave Warriors!
« on: November 04, 2009, 03:52:45 PM »
The crisp autumn air filled my lungs, generating a most pleasant sensation - rather perfect for waking up to. Ah, the blessed sun! Whatever would we all do without ye, the shiner of light! In my morning daze, I found myself lucky to behold the great fire in the sky right above Urgug's palm. The thrice-cursed palm! And by what decree does the vile Ugrug hold claim to it? One of these mornings, if the brightest eye of all wakes me early and I find it obstructed by the palm of the villainous Ugrug, a duel shall most certainly take place! The consequence of which, naturally, shall be the downing of the vexatious tree.

But - lo - behind the morning's sand upon the orbs of mine eyes, I had at last spied the noble Maklud coming back from the hunt.

"UUUUUURRRrrrr---GAAAAAAAH!" the seemingly successful huntsman proclaimed in triumph. "Maklud club mothmoth!"

The most exaggerated of claims! Maklud, a man whose nobility is second only to his strength, would still be hardly a challenge for the wicked mothmoth. Yet, I dimly recall his father Urara succeeding in this boastful feat... could he be speaking the truth?

"Mothmoth see," I sharply retorted in disbelief. "Mothmoth big?"

"Huu huu huu," Maklud chuckled urbanely. "Maklud no club mothmoth. Mothmoth big. Buba dummy!"

My word! Hardly can I ever recall an occasion at which I would have warranted my being played for jest in this way! The rage of a thousand mothmoths burned with the ferocity of a thousand suns in my chest, pouring out all at once!

"RAAAAAGH!" I execrated, pounding my breast in anger. "Buba Maklud angry!"

"Maklud no want angry! Eee! Sorr!" Maklud uttered apologetically. Truly, wherce another man may have challenged the offender, Maklud's diplomatic skills took over. Instead of dueling, he merely chose to apologize. An honourable man, indeed!

"Buba forgive," I gave in, sighing in exasperation. How could a gentleman ever stay mad at another gentleman? In retrospect, the situation indeed was rather amusing. "Huu huu. Maklud trick Buba. Buba dummy. Maklud smart!"

"Men kill Awu sleep!" The voice of the fair Awu rang true through our spacious cave. By the mothmoth's tusks! The volume of mine and Maklud's conversing must have roused the beautiful Awu from her dreams. O, how could gentlemen ever allow such a dreadful thing to befall a lady?!

"It he," Maklud pointed out with conviction. "I hunt. I bring toothtooth."

Though crestfallen by betrayal, I could do naught but agree. Had I not overreacted as I have, Awu's volumptious body would still rest peacefully upon those softest mothmoth furs Maklud and I had foraged in our hunts together. In all the rudeness of such a gesture, I could not force myself to break contact with Awu.The eye-enchanting layers of life-preserving fat! The artistically feminine drooped breasts! The arousingly chaotic mangled hair!..

"RAAAAAGH!" The curvaceous Awu's roar filled my entire being from top to bottom, as water may a jug plant. "Buba voice make Awu pee bed!"

The proverbial mothmoth's tusk had pierced my heart through and through as I came to comprehend the horrid news. A villain am I, for no other man could ever make a maid spill forth the contents of her bladder with his voice. Nay... this cannot be... could I be walking the Left Hand Path with Urgug in hand?!

"Uuuuuuuuuu! Bad Buba! Bad Buba!" I repeated this terrifyingly true mantra while forcibly contacting my head with the cave wall in a fit of noble masochism. "Sorr!"

"Who sorr?"

The new, booming voice may nearly have shook the foundations of the cave. It cannot be! The wicked croaking of the terrible Urgug!



Tune in next week for another exciting episode of Cave Warriors!
*theme song*




______
Done purely for fun. :P

4
Writer's Guild / Apex
« on: October 06, 2009, 01:13:51 PM »
In tiny pathways ranked by blades of grass, amongst the heavy wet branches, there crawled an Ant, foraging for food. Thought the Ant to herself, "I am but an ant. I am naught before these great green pillars, and I struggle to make way through the vast forests of felled Trees and foliage. Yet, despite living as a mere ant, I am lord among Aphids." Thence came a loud croak, and the Ant ceased her thoughts, escaping the ominous sound.

Upon a pile of leaves, there sat a rock; and upon the rock there sat a bloated brown Bullfrog, bathing in the sunlight. Thought the Bullfrog to himself, "I am but a bullfrog. I am naught before the Rain, whose absence is my doom, and whose presence is my paradise. Yet, be a bullfrog as I might, I am terror amongst Ants." Thence a jagged shadow slid over the fields, and the Bullfrog hurriedly fled beneath a bush.

And in between the forests and the sky, there soared a proud Aegle, seeking sustenance for her young. Thought the Aegle to herself, "I am the Aegle, master of my domain, above all - no Tree shall impede my way, and no Rain shall wash away my nest. My augury spells death for all that is beneath. Yet, just like my prey respects me, I must respect my prey; for without them, how would my young ever survive?" Thence a bullet cut short the Aegle's musings, and the raptor fell limply to the ground.

In a forest clearing there stood a Man, beholding the Aegle descend from the skies. Thought the Man to itself, "I am Man, and what was that Aegle thinking, soaring so haughtily above all, as if it is the master? No Tree shall impede my way either, for I hold a hatchet; and no Rain shall leave uncorrupted, for I poison the air." Thence another bullet cut short the Man's musings, and it fell before a fellow Man.

----

Inb4 "it's spelled Eagle" or "Aegle is a Greek deity". It is supposed to be an eagle, and it's spelled that way for a reason. =P

5
Writer's Guild / The Terrible Tree
« on: September 08, 2009, 06:11:52 PM »
Last post-apocalyptic piece, I swear to god. =P

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No sound flies through the scorched wasteland; even the wind that drives forth the lonely cloud-streaks of the metal sky makes hardly a noise as it sweeps up small clouds of dust. Savage shadows wait in frozen rage behind the slumped and collapsed skeletons of buildings, each more menacing than the last, all hiding from the old, impotent sun. Yet the lord of these lies by the delta of the black river, where the water never foams - it starvedly lashes out from beneath crooked roots, which keep shackled to the earth the last reminder of life: a warped, aged, terrible tree.

A lone symbol adorns the ancient bark, faintly reminiscent of a pentagram, yet with many more lines. They come together in vicious points, run together in unnaturally straight lines, fatten and fast without warning; not truly sketched, but rather traced against a bladed weapon. Five circular burns crown the points of the wicked sigil, and a great black halo of soot spreads outward with flame-like protrusions. None are aware of the existence of the symbol - for even those that enter the barren never make it to its dead heart, whereat grapples the earth the terrible tree.

The whole world fell to its knees at the nameless cataclysm. Despite the many years of recovery, none dare settle even the outskirts the thousand-mile circle on the east cost of the great continent. And, for an event so great, none know how the apocalypse occurred - perhaps the two skeletons by the tree (the ones clutching a metal-bound, though badly burned, book) know what lead up to it, and the ones several hundred miles away know what it looked like, but none have witnessed the entire event - none save for the terrible tree.

6
Writer's Guild / Arkford Sleepidemic!
« on: August 11, 2009, 08:10:37 PM »
Arkford was an industrial town, no doubt about it. Below the noxious fog enveloping the town, one could sometimes see older brick smokestacks judgmentally pointing at the sky (though their age mattered little to the inhabitants, for smoky spirits of human progress still arose from their sooted tops), their parent factories with vents for windows, and, on a lucky and very bright day, the toxic rainbow sparkle of the river Ark. Two hundred thousand souls toiled here, eighty per cent working in one of the town's plants, and less than two per cent unemployed.

One day ('twould be improper to say "one sunny day" in the manner of most story beginnings, as most every day bathed the city in a dim orange glow regardless of Sol's intensity), the Chemist awoke late, and only thanks to the bellowing of an early tanker from the ports did he rouse from his dream at all. He dreamed of a desert - his childhood fascination, what with its weird cacti and vicious scorpions and Arabian caravans and all - wherein he had been a soldier ant fighting brave battles with his brethren against their eternal enemy, the Desert Anting Gnat. And he had just lost half of his brothers to the beast when, through his dream, he heard the whistle of the morning commuter train. So odd, so out of place appeared the sound, that he immediately realized: he must be dreaming!

Wasting little time on excitement, he recalled that there was still the matter of the villainous Anting Gnat threatening the hive. A shadow of a thought later, he had grown himself to ten times his size, and easily snapped the insect in half, throwing the little corpse into a puddle. The slain ant army awoke from their deathly rest, and sang a song of war to the Chemist as he grew butterfly wings and took to the skies. Had it not been for the roar of the fog horn shattering the blissed illusion to pieces, he would spend the rest of the day in bed, exercising his newfound powers.

But now, the mundane world called back for him. His early morning ritual was short - a quick splash of water unto the face, a short fight for superiority with the work clothes, and a customary re-incantation of the Periodic Table. Donning his overcoat and flushing sleep away with half a cup of yesterday's coffee, he dove into the busy morning crowd.

The Chemist knew that this specific Friday will painfully mark itself in the otherwise bland week, hardly distinguishable from all the others. In addition to doing his normal work of brewing and mixing various chemical concoctions for the industry giant BOSS AND SONS CO., as well as engaging in his slightly less normal hobby of imbibing minute samples thereof, he knew that in the murky depths of his laboratory, a hideous toad of paperwork slouching upon his desk had to be disposed of (though what he did not know - and this question tormented him with the persistence and ferocity of a mediaeval witch hunter - was whether the Desert Anting Gnat indeed existed outside of his dreams).

As usual, the plump Secretary chattered with the phone about "the kids these days" and "the weather these days" and "the kids' music these days", paying nil regard to the rather sizeable crowd of would-be workers clumping in the hallway. When the grumbling clearance-machine vomited up a clearance-certificate, she'd hiss once or twice at the congregation, allowing one or two people to slip by (the number of luck-struck slippers-by was therefore directly and mathematically correlated to the number of hisses). Impressively, she managed this without pausing her conversation with the plastic tube.

After a half an hour of glaring at the evil clearance-contraption which worked exactly 12.582 times slower than the manufacturers promised (and an additional 2.041 times slower when it was the Chemist's turn to receive his certificate, as it held a personal vendetta against him for the time he dared to call it a "damned slow thing"), he did his first duty of inspecting, and then imbibing samples of, the various chemical formulae he set to simmer overnight. Ah, the Quadroxophlegmoderatine could use some Tritric Acid, his tongue complained, for that characteristic zest which only the Tritric can provide. The Chemist's stomach, on the other hand, lauded the mix with an abnormal bubbling. Hilarity involving excessive flatulence and subsequently very awkward peer auditory testing rapidly ensued.

Almost all of the other mixes, including the normally temporary-blindness-inducing Vadrogen Hemidrasconide, performed exactly as designed (an occasion that is odd in itself). The sole exception proclaimed itself to be Serum 208 - an insignificant solution ordered by a client of BOSS AND SONS CO. for the removal of a particularly nasty ketchup stain. Shortly after its union with his stomach acid, the Chemist heard - or thought he heard - a vivid snapping noise; a noise which could, with a more fluid sense of metaphor, be likened to the clash of a large bird's beak. Quickly inspecting his belly for any holes that are not supposed to be there, he came to the conclusion that the sound originated from his mind. Considering all of the effects of variable violence that his concoctions caused in the past, the Chemist dismissed this one as "slightly odd" and forgot about it. He sighed at the lack of more mixes to imbibe, and went to do battle with the paperwork that usurped his rightful place at his desk.

Unfortunately for the Chemist, the paper turned out to be a formidable foe. Somewhere by the middle, while reviewing Article 552, Section Four, Subsection VI, Paragraph iii, Subparagraph e) of the BOSS AND SONS CO.'s Chemicals Charter (Thricely Abridged Edition), Sleep's dark mist stealthily enveloped him. The transition from reading about Xenomatrezine's reactions in Cadron Trimusculated water to sinking hardened mandibles into the Desert Anting Gnat's segmented leg went smoother than a baby sliding down a warm butter mound.

Alas, this time, the Gnat brought a buzzing army of two other Gnats along with him, and swiftly took the battle to the hive itself. The Chemist fought bravely, but to no avail: the hairy probosci sucked up his brothers by the hundreds, and it seemed as though he too shall fall (or, rather, rise) a victim the ants' nemesis. The powerful vortex caught him, and he felt himself rising from the ground. And then, he heard the snap of some powerful bird's beak.

Immediately recognizing the snap from before, he realized his dream-state, and turned himself into the dreaded Desert Anting Gnat Eater - a curious combination of an ant, an eagle, and a bear. The Anting Gnats ceased to be a problem in two swoops of his great paws, and his resurrected ant brothers once again sang a song of war to him as he rode his enormous wings to the skies. This time, it was the sheer excitement that woke him up.

Wasting no time, he left the half-defeated paper pile to lick its wounds and scheme desk domination, and went straight to the elevator to the highest floor of the building. Clutching Serum 208 in his hand, the Chemist knocked at the BOSS's office. Telling the other plump Secretary that it was a matter of making millions and he didn't care that the BOSS was in an executive meeting and what did she mean when she said she'll call security, he handed her the vial to give to the BOSS after the meeting. Although he felt somewhat defeated by this turn of events, plump Secretaries had an admirable sense of duty - the vial will end up in BOSS's hands, one way or another. After comforting himself in this way, he returned to his desk, and resumed warring with the Thricely Abridged Chemicals Charter until the end of the day (and, subsequently, the work week).

Coming back to work from the weekend suddenly didn't seem as bad as it did on the Sunday, when the Chemist realized that he already worked through all of the papers and that he'd have the day to mix his solutions. On the other hand, even this prospect excited him less than usual - he spent most of the weekend sleeping and living out his phantasies in his dreams, aided by the Serum 208. The dreams offered a world where Braloxymodane perfectly mixed with Dodaceframate without any green explosions, and where he could travel to the desert without ever leaving his home. The only thing that 208's magic couldn't afford him was an extra holiday; work awaited.

He saw the banner a mile away, hanging at the very top of the BOSS AND SONS CO.'s building: "Drink 'Dreamsnap': Only two bird-snaps away from your wildest dreams!" The Chemist found the message of the banner very difficult to misinterpret. The BOSS seems to have taken the solution, experienced its extraordinary effects, and set up a manufacturing empire over the weekend! Victory was on Chemist's side this day, but nothing could prepare him for what awaited him inside the building.

The Clearance-Machine, forgetting all of their past rivalry, let the Chemist in first. Even the perpetually phone-glued Secretary stopped talking and stared at him in amazement as he strode through the doors, eager to avoid curious glances from his coworkers. The BOSS himself met the Chemist, and showed him to his new office: a great, sparkling-white laboratory with more vials, tubes, Bunsen burners, vats with questionable bubbling liquid, lab coats, and ant farms than he had ever seen in his life. On the far side of the lab, a churning conveyor produced an endless stream of brightly packaged Dreamsnap bottles with sloshing pink liquid inside. These found themselves in boxes after a multi-armed metallic conglomeration packed them, and sent them on their way to an awaiting fleet of trucks, ready to deliver the revolutionary drink to every Arkford store.

The next few months may as well have been a dream for the Chemist: the laboratory did everything he wanted it to and more. The last time he touched paper faded quickly in his memory, partly for his joy of the new equipment, and partly because of that curious incident with Vardrogen Trioxite. When he came home, he too drank Dreamsnap, and visited worlds that no tribal shaman smoking the sacred star-grass could ever envision. The rest of Arkford also enjoyed their nights in no way they expected, all thanks to the Serum 208-enriched Dreamsnap drink. The Taxi Driver became the Formula One Racer; the Slashfic Writing Fan launched to fame as the Celebrated Author; the Secretary, now the Princess, swooned at the young Prince; the SONS each succeeded the BOSS, and the BOSS descended to the level of a simple-minded, jungle-dwelling Savage: the one coveted existence that his money could not buy.

And so, incredibly, this story comes to the day the Chemist was no more. Everything started normally: he woke up at about an hour past noon, and complained at the bright light shining through his window for waking him up so early. He pulled himself out of his bed with the effort of an ant trying to drag a rock behind it, and shambled to the bathroom. There, he simmered in the shower for a good half an hour before getting out to dress and put the kettle on the stove for his fresh coffee. The poster of the Periodic Table lay in the corner of his living-room, covered with dust. After reading a mundane fiction book he picked up the other week, he left the house - it was about three in the afternoon.

Though people usually did get up at around this time, the only action in the streets were impressive tumbleweed races. The Chemist walked to work now - the trains stopped running when there weren't enough people to carry (and the train crews stopped showing up). Overall, the town didn't quite look deserted - there was too little garbage to be seen anywhere, as there was no one outside to litter. Every street flaunted faded Dreamsnap banners, dimly reflecting the pink shimmering of the river Ark. Pink, the Chemist thought. Odd. This inconsistency did not bother him for long, however - a grand day was planned today in the lab, now almost entirely conquered to producing massive amounts of the (at first) innocent Serum 208. He entered the empty front hall of the BOSS AND SONS CO. building, paying no heed to the weakly complaining clearance-machine as he passed the front doors on his way to the laboratory.

Inside, he was greeted by a crowd of people. A crowd, he found himself exclaiming quietly. It was a long time since he had seen so many people in one place. What do you mean, he asked, why does it matter that the town died? The world of dreams is a better one than the real world. The crowd didn't want to listen to him, though - they already disposed of all Dreamsnap by dumping it into the river, and the Chemist followed, to be fed to the fishes. Unfortunately, there were no fish left to eat him - they all soundly dreamed of angling fishermen.

7
Writer's Guild / Yr Aran
« on: July 23, 2009, 09:01:53 AM »
There is a meadow on Yr Aran, a meadow which may only be found by taking one too many wrong turns off the Watkin path. I first heard of this place from a good friend of mine; a friend of a friend, I suppose, since Lou has previously never been there himself. The fancier rumours say those who find it do so in a fashion different from the last person. I never felt inclined to believe this, although our voyage through the cave before finding the meadow never came up in any of the legends either of us heard about the place. The qualities prescribed to the meadow vary greatly, from cursing one's dreams to demonic possession. You would have known of this place as Leuad Chlun.

Yr Aran's dirty white slopes exerted an unexplainable force of attraction on me from the first time I saw them while visiting my aunt in Wales. The idyllic lakesides dotted with beautifully restored Welsh huts and enclaved by the lush grasslands stood in stark contrast to the malformed, hunchbacked peak of the Aran. A perpetual cloud shadows the place, as if God wished to hide the blasphemous crest forever from His sight. In this way, I suppose, my infatuation with the mountain could be compared to one's instinctually curious ogling of an invalid; it only grew when I heard of the curses and secrets that the Aran's treacherous slopes kept. As if to urge me, fate threw a particularly boring succession of weeks my way, tiring me with the prosaics of everyday life. Finally, when Yr Aran surfaced in a conversation and Lou mentioned Leuad Chlun, I knew: I must ascend the shadowed peak.

At some point or another, perhaps infected with my obsession of the mountain (or perhaps sick of Arkford's oily smog and smothering crowds), Lou asked me an odd question: "Are you sure you want to know what's there?" The answer should have been obvious. I already told him that I will be going to Rhyd Ddu, the village nearest to the Aran; having heard me re-iterate this, he asked to come along.

Naturally, I had no problems with this: my trip was not one of spiritual edification nor self-enlightenment, but rather of curiosity. While I doubted being bored there as it was, having my best friend come along did not seem at all to be an impedement. A good thing, even, as his parents left for two weeks to the Dominican, allowing us to make liberal use of their van.

The several hours' drive felt like an instant to me. Wales had a certain kind of rustic beauty about it - a rarity in the civilized world - beholding which enchanted me. Even Lou, whom I always knew to be a bookworm entombed in his flat, hardly kept his eyes on the road. The occasional house rarely intruded the green vistas of great forests and grassy fields, and there were few cars to be seen at any point during the trip. Only edge-bitten pavement marked with vanishing paint told us that this place had ever endured the visit of man.

We arrived as the final rays of the sun took leave. The Betws-y-coed - the hotel where I had reserved a room - proved to be a tourist-hardened place, with few of its hosts' speech seasoned with the local accent. After spending the evening at the bar and listening to the locals' ineffective pleas at changing our destination to one of the friendlier mountains, we decided to retire for the night. It was already designed that our ascent will take place during the evening, but the exhaustion from the trip made itself known at the first step into the hotel.

The next day we spent browsing the inanities at the local tourist shops. It seems that their content grew more and more insipid (and less and less locally manufactured, in favour of Indonesia and China) as we went north in the direction of Snowdon, Aran's tourist-infested parent mountain. The scruffiest of these establishments had, to its credit, a curious plaque installed: "Grwydryn, aros ennyd; ystyra ryfeddol waith Duw a'th daith fer ar y ddaear hon." - "Wanderer, wait a moment; consider God's wondrous work and your short journey on this earth." Upon reading the translation, the atheist Lou just smiled.

It was nearing dusk when we set foot on the Watkin path - the closest of the two that passed near Yr Aran. We found no paths on the map, and extracted little information from the locals about the cursed mound other than to stay away from it. Only by bribing the town drunkard with Lou's emergency supply of whiskey (the chap had a bit of a tooth for alcohol himself) did we find out that one could detour from the Watkin trail through a sparse patch of wood to find oneself at Aran.

The ascent proved uneventful, yet specific in its character: contrary to laws of physics, the atmosphere appeared to thicken as we climbed. Similarly, the snow lay in a uniform sheet of dust-sized, silken snowflakes at first, but at a higher altitude, we only found mangy chunks of snow and dirt strewn about the path. Winds wailed woefully every step of the way up, and louder near the summit. We quickly arrived at the point where standing anywhere near the edge threatened a fall of such a distance that merely thinking of the number sent shivers down my spine. But, as it happened, respite let itself be known in the form of the fateful cave.

An unusual place for such a geological formation, I thought, but the biting chill brought about by the all-penetrating winds ensured that this inconsistency did not bother me at the time. Agreement was unspoken; both of us dragged ourselves into the inky blackness of the cave without saying anything. Winds blew here, too - but not like outside. Here, a lukewarm breeze seemed to be coming from the bowels of the mountain. We debated going deeper at first, but a flash followed by a pounding thunder quickly reinforced the favour for the idea.

A few years ago, I traveled to Kentucky to see the famous Mammoth Cave system. Of course, this doesn't automatically make me the expert on caves, but it gave me enough of an idea of the concept to know that this cave on the Aran could not be natural. There were no stalactites or stalagmites; no familiar layers of limestone; no tiny crevices too small to climb through. I would be more correct in saying that it looked like it was burned through the rock - the dry walls appeared to have been molten at some point. Studying their texture and structure proved difficult for the lack of light, but this situation remedied itself as we neared the steeply ascending end of the passage. The light above shone brightly, creating weird patterns on the walls, which inexplicably glistened with moisture near the exit. All my interest to the walls vanished in favour of reaching the other end. Grasping at the edges and feeling grass beneath my palm, I pulled myself up, and helped Lou.

In a striking contrast to the outside, this place we emerged at remained completely stormless and snowless. We stood upon a circular, fairly elevated rock platform, surrounded by green trees in every direction. Trees, as far as the eye can see (to our discredit, this was not very far: after all, we left late, and reached this place at right around night-time), of which we saw no trace during the conquest of the Aran's unwelcoming slope. Seven stone pillars with curious inscriptions on them surrounded us. Yet even these faded in importance as we raised our heads skyward.

The moon appeared to take up a quarter of the sky right above us. So large, so vivid, so detailed was Earth's companion, that we could see the cracks in the larger crater walls. Breathless, we stood in silence, intently studying the great sphere. So stunning was the sight that I barely noticed a soft pale glow emanating from the strange, unreadable glyphs inscribed in the stone of the pillars around us.

It was the purity and the atmosphere of it all - a feeling of infinity, stranded upon an island in the green arboreal ocean with only the giant Moon for a companion - but more importantly, a lack of desire to go back to the windy, stormy, and snowy Aran - that contributed to our decision to spend the night there. I propped myself against one of the obelisks, whose sigil-light I dismissed as reflective dust craftily deposited in the etched fissures making up the writing, and spied Lou contemplatively viewing the infinity of the forest. I wanted to inquire as to what fascinated him so, but the heavy gaze of the moon hypnotized me, and I swiftly slipped into a dreamless bliss.

In retrospect, even after wrongly dismissing the nature of the glowing stone monoliths, I should have known that something was wrong. We reached a world which could not exist, and waved it off as a remote possibility. All of this dawned upon me as I woke up - alone - near the featureless wall on the familiar Aranian snow, whereat we stumbled upon the cave the day prior. No lightnings slashed the sky, no perpetual cloud hung above me like a dark omen, and no dirty snow rolled about, being replaced by the delicate white veil we saw only at the bottom of the mountain. Gradually, I found feeling of my limbs, still asleep due to the awkward pose in which I woke up. I slowly arose, shielding myself from the blinding rays of the sun by a barely-obeying arm.

A group of rock-climbers made themselves known, coming out from the same direction from which we came originally. Noticing me, one of them said something to the group, whereupon they stopped and sent over a delegate.

"You alright there, chap? You look like you'd a-spent the night here. The Aran gets angry at sleepers, it does; gets cold enough to freeze the balls off the brass monkey when the moon rises."

Tourists? At the cursed Aran? The warmth of movement must've finally thawed my neurons, for I just then began to grasp the gravity of the situation. At length, I told them of our journey into Leuad Chlun and asked them whether they caught sight of a tall blonde man during the course of their ascent. They stared at me with mixed looks of fascination, fear, and caution, as if beholding an escaped madman.

"It's alright, bud," another one said to me after telling me he hadn't seen Lou. "You two stayed at Betws-y-coed, you say? Let's get you back there."

During our descent, I overheard them discussing the recent trend of "hitting up the Mary J" in celebration of reaching a mountain peak by teenagers. Despite the cold dagger of dread in my gut and the knut of the insulting drug accusation whipping away at my ego, I resolved to keep my silence. Whatever remained of my reasoning told me not to further worsen the situation with ramblings they would be unlikely to believe in any case.

The Watkin path swiftly took us down to Rhyd Ddu. As we trekked the streets inundated with tourists, I regained my composure somewhat, and started a discussion of Prime Minister Wentworth's recent victory. My companions, whose appearance hinted at Hindu roots, quickly picked up the conversation and particularly praised the new liberal immigration laws. I loosely kept track of the resulting stream of appreciative chatter, and made sure to nod and grunt at the right places.

At last, I saw the hotel. Waving goodbye to my supposed rescuers and yelling apologies for disrupting their vacation, I turned to the door. The blade of anxiety eased off when I saw Lou's van. I entered the front hall, and asked the receptionist of his arrival.

"Mr. Louis Christian Pfer? There is no one in our book by that name. I'm sorry, sir," she said after a pause. "You must have confused him with someone else. You arrived here yesterday, and you were alone. Your car is still in the driveway."

The words struck me like a cannonball. Saying no more, I charged upstairs to our suite. The door was locked; I rattled the knob in futility until remembering of a key in the back pocket of my jeans. Shaking hands did little to aid my frantic attempts to fit the key into the hole. I stopped for a second, inhaled a breastful of air, and let it out with quaking lungs. The key went in easier this time, and I swung the door open.

My things lay undisturbed, and the other half of the room was empty. Only a piece of paper lay on Lou's bed.

"Grwydryn, aros ennyd; ystyra ryfeddol waith Duw a'th daith fer ar y ddaear hon." Beneath: "Wanderer, wait a moment; consider God's wondrous work and your short journey on this earth."

Two perpendicular lines struck out the word "God", and below that, there was a correction.

"MY.

Enjoy yourself.

Lou C. Pfer"

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

Bit of an exercise with this: I used a real location in this story.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yr_Aran

8
Writer's Guild / The Meadow
« on: June 29, 2009, 10:09:34 AM »
Flash fiction time!!!

I'm actually quite happy with this piece.

--- --- ---

The sun's rays shone through the leafy canopies of the trees surrounding the meadow, producing dancing shadows in the wavering sea of flowers. Pollen and loose petals gracefully sailed in the air, their performance scored by a chorus of singing forest birds. This peaceful sanctuary teemed with life - a ferret scurried into his hole, and a huntress fox pawed the ground there in defeat. Butterflies fluttered in contest with the petals, cheered on by the wind. A playful fawn hopped to the meadow, and trotted right to a partially grassed mound - the grass was especially delicious there. Pieces of burnt and twisted metal stuck out from the curious mound - the grave site of some forgotten machine - and the metal glistened with the morning dew. Once, a long time ago, there was war here.

The birds' voices momentarily drowned in the roaring of a fleet of black helicopters passing overhead. Strange helicopters - thin as dragonflies, with twin lateral rotors, and two yellow eyes pitched in a wicked leer. Gunfire from somewhere to the side of the meadow borne an eruption of green foliage into the air - some shots aimed up at the helicopters, others across the meadow. The fawn fell down with several bullet holes in its side, and the fox ran off into the forest. Heavy metal boots crushed the grass and the flowers, and soon, a platoon of ten or twelve armoured men stood in the meadow, listening to the barking of their commanding officer.

A strange gust of wind blew leaves from the trees, and a cloud of red vapours settled in the meadow. The soldiers frantically fumbled with their helmets, pulling on gas masks and shutting their visors. Those that did not react in time fell to the ground, blood-streaked foam seeping from their helmets, arms flailing in spasms, bodies writhing. More shots sounded as the soldiers killed their own men to spare them from the agonizing yet prolonged death. However, it seemed that the enemy knew of this procedure - they laced the poison with flammable gas.

The sun's rays shone through the crooked skeletons of the trees surrounding what was once a meadow, producing ghastly shadows on the blackened earth. Ash and dust clouded the air in dead silence. This bald mound seemed devoid of any life - the charred muzzle of the ferret stuck out from the ground, caked with hardened froth. Dead bugs littered the ground. The half-burnt carcass of a fawn lay plastered against the metal - a machine ruined but alive with the spirit of war - and the metal glistened with blood. Once, a few minutes ago, there was peace here.

9
Writer's Guild / Fibers
« on: June 24, 2009, 11:18:10 AM »
A considerable distance had already been made from home when Micafor 5371 discovered the unnatural hill. The convex slope began suddenly, without a dividing region between the green vegetation and the hill's alien-looking fibrous wall. Of course, 5371's first reaction was to avoid this strange place - the breeze wafted a smell of alcohols and other chemicals toward her from the hill - but there would be problems at home if she came back from the expedition this early. Lying was out of the question; the Lady always knew all. A detour did not look like a possible alternative, either - 5371 could not see the end of the hill, which disappeared far away into the green foliage. Seems she had to go over it, after all.

She touched the bulging wall to probe the strength of the strands composing it, discovering that the whole thing vibrated ever so slightly. Despite this, the fibers turned out to be plenty strong to support her small frame's ascent to the top. The scents of the chemical cocktail turned from mildly annoying to near-dazing, and still growing in potency as she approached the summit - though she found something oddly fascinating about the smell. At last, throwing her hand over the edge, she pulled herself up to the top.

If a picture is indeed worth a thousand words, then this scene found a thousand pictures lacking expression. An endless plain spread before 5371, and upon it, a great multi-coloured monstrosity crawled back and forth. Its size defied all description, dwarfing the grandest Blackball trees two-fold in height and hundred-fold in girth. Its three limbs stood stationary when not crawling, with the exception of the fourth one - this one ran back and forth on the plain. The rogue limb ended in a curious appendage, its bottom teeming with the same fibers as the hillock's wall. Its movements matched the vibrations permeating the hill and the plain. The smothering vapour did something to her senses, wrapping the whole scene in a veil of dizzied mystery.

The spectacle made 5371 deaf to her senses, and only the desperate cries of pain from her feet rescued her from her trance. She looked down in a jarred motion, finding herself stooping in sand-coloured tubes - like the hill fibers, but many times thicker. Between those, little pools of acidic chemicals winked at her in the sun. She violently shook her legs to get the burning liquid off her, noticing only at the last moment a great engulfing shadow darken the world around her. Fearing the worst, she looked up.

The monstrosity, so distant seconds ago, now hung right over her. Its front limb rested some distance away, and the strangely fibered one came crashing down right next to her. A cascade of the corrosive fluid erupted from the semi-transparent labyrinth of fibers from the appendage. She tried to run then; a moot effort, for a wind stronger than any other blasted her right off the plain.

Opening her eyes, she found herself in a familiar area, a walking distance from home. Her leg was broken, but with effort, she could still move. Now there was no shame in coming back - for having lived through this ordeal, she had the chance to warn the Lady about the dangers of that area, hopefully making her reconsider sending any more scouts there. Unfortunately, 5371 would later discover that even that effort was moot: the scouts returning from the area next day reported nothing unusual but bent grass around the place where the plain used to be. The monstrosity and the mysterious hill-plain were never to be seen again.

________________________________________________________________________________


I don't understand, why do I always get stuck doing the crappy chores? First it's the dishes, then it's the dinner, and now I have to clean the damn carpet as well? I have a job, just like my parents, so why should I be doing this while they're watching King of Queens over in the living room?

Now, to make matters worse, a stupid ant crawled on the carpet. If that thing gets lost in the fabric and dies, I'm sure its ant buddies will come back to eat its corpse or whatever, I don't know. I've had enough ants in the house. Slamming the brush next to it in exasperation, I blew the insect off into the grass. Feh... better take the carpet somewhere else before even more ants come to get drunk off the smell of the cleaning agent.

--- --- ---

Wrote this on Sunday, after brushing my kitchen carpet (which still stinks, by the way). I saw an ant crawl over the areas which I already covered with the cleaning stuff, and the idea of stooping in acid kind of came to me. As a disclaimer, the second part wasn't really written from my point of view: I don't take a hostile attitude to performing household chores. I wanted the guy to sound like a stereotypical bitchy teenager. =)

10
Writer's Guild / Ash
« on: June 15, 2009, 09:31:23 PM »
My latest attempt at writing.

--- --- ---

The shambler gently rocked, almost lulling me to sleep, but the knowledge of my arrival to the cliff town-outpost of Spondekai kept me stark awake. Besides, I would hate to miss passing over the flaming rivers of Gwely's resident volcano, although most folk say that a mere web of orange-red streaks is only interesting to see once. But something else attracted me to these flows; the knowledge of how far away they are, perhaps, or the barely perceptible pulse they give off, as if from a living creature.

The whine of a badly-oiled hatch behind me heralded a visitor. It seems that I am not alone in my fancy to see Gwely's lava streams, after all.

"It's a good day to spend outside," I engaged the conversation. "Isn't it? I think it was yesterday's Edna VI eruption that stirred the ash against its normal course. "

"Don't remind me," my guest replied. The safety rails groaned in undeserved protest as he propped his small frame against them, taking position beside me. "I made the mistake of going out up-wind once. Even though it was just for a minute, it took me a week to get the smell of sulfur out of my hair."

We stood in silence for a few minutes, watching the insectoid legs of the shambler dive in and out of the bleak ocean of volcanic ash. And there they were - faint, but definitely occurring pulses in the lava's flow. Not unlike veins around a gray, withered heart, I mused.

After a sudden woeful groan from one of the legs, a violent tremor shook the shambler. Hearing the rattling of the machine's gears disengaging themselves from the main flywheel, I fastened my grip on the railing to brace for the upcoming stop. The shambler came to a halt, and rested in contemplative silence for a few seconds before resuming its course.

"Similar problems occurred the last time I traveled through here," I said. "The land below is irregular. Considering what's down there, it really is a wonder that they don't do that more often. Did you read what--"

The distant roar of a fog horn momentarily drowned my voice and the mechanical clashing of the driving apparatus beneath. The dark form emerging from the impenetrable wall of ash ahead soon adopted the shape of another shambler from Spondekai. I could not discern the glowing ring of its generator turbine on the front; the tame winds appeared to lack the strength that the great propeller needed, leaving the machine to depend on its flywheel alone. After catching the sound of the fog horn, our shambler drifted to the side, allowing the larger one to pass by. It's incredible how these machines operated with a degree of intelligence without any sort of pilot. Maybe the world would be different if we knew how they worked.

"Did you read," I continued, "what the expedition to the surface found down there, beneath the ash?"

"Nothing," he answered. "An acquaintance of mine was on the team, he told me before it was even in the papers. Just rocks, fissures, and plains. We've tried looking for them everywhere, and the closest thing anyone has ever found - aside from the shamblers and the hollowed out mountains, of course - are a dozen or such of useless trinkets, each capable of fitting in the palm of your hand."

He paused.

"He didn't say very much, which, if you knew my acquaintance, is rather odd of him - especially since this is the first time anyone has gone to the surface in the last three hundred cycles."

"Maybe there wasn't much to say," I suggested.

"Or maybe he didn't want to talk about it. I don't suppose I can blame him. To know that someone could have built these machines without leaving more of a trace than the mountain reservoirs..."

"...and all those are good for is the fish," I chuckled.

My companion appreciated the joke, and we were quick to make the discovery of mutual interest in grotto fishing. The conversation quickly steered to a discussion of whether Mount Vorbhodsen or Mount Svirkaide yielded the most sizeable catch.

________________________________________________________________________________


The warmth of the nearby lava stream kept him safe from the cold hands of the wasteland. Its bubbling granted a relief from the monotonous, homogenous din of the ashen wind. He has seen it happen before: people went deaf from hearing nothing but ash, and blind from seeing nothing but ash. They turned into senseless, mindless husks clinging to a dying seed of life. Fitting, he thought, for people to waste away just like the cities they built to shelter themselves.

A sound came from the wasteland behind him - the faint but unmistakable crash of a Walking Thing's three-fingered foot, followed by other, advancing crashes. The Thing will be here shortly. Maybe it will open up another building, like it did some time ago. Maybe it will just pass through without incident, like every day after that time. The dead structures built by forgotten hands crumbled away as inevitably as anything else - it was just a matter of waiting long enough.

Of course, as soon as the metal appendages of the Walking Thing came close enough for others to hear, the zealots woke up. Just one voice, then two, then three, then more. "All hail the walking god!" People screaming, howling like animals, throwing rocks at the Thing's legs. He wondered sometimes if that kind of adoration was appreciated by any self-respecting god. "Give unto us, Walking Thing!"

He could hear the crashing as if it was right above his head. No point in looking up; the Walking Thing was thus named for a reason - the ash prevented seeing any of its part, except the three pairs of thin stalks with three fingers on each. Then came the new sound that truly caught his interest, warranting him to raise his head - an abrasive squeal, and the dull thunks of falling concrete.

The Thing stepped on an ancient collapsed building, previously sealed by its own rubble. A large part of its front wall shattered into a hail of airborne stone. The Walking Thing paused, its leg standing upon its self-made altar, as if saying, "Look at me! Look at me! I gave unto you, as you asked!" Some zealots writhed on the ground in extasy, while others tried to climb the Thing's leg to be thrown off later or to reach whatever zealot heaven there is - either way, never to be seen again.

As the Thing walked away, he waited for all the other people to finish gathering their supplies - there was no rush, he knew of a hidden basement vault with much well-preserved food - and then came to gather his own. Furniture, dishes, strange things whose name and function were unknown to him - all barely disturbed. Some things sparkled with the glow of the nearby lava river - but he held no interest for those. His wonder was much more humble.

And there they were - two brown rectangular objects, the top one of which crumbled to dust as he touched it. He instinctively drew his hand back in a flinch, but the one beneath it looked sturdier. Hiding it underneath his dust-cloak, he quickly left the building and returned to his hideaway before the lava river.

This one was much different from the rest - instead of the neat black symbols he was so used to, these were hastily scrawled and poorly understandable. Still - his father taught him how to read the neat ones, so maybe he will learn how to read these, as well. Maybe they, too, will speak to him of a world with so many colours.

11
Writer's Guild / Re-written posts
« on: June 12, 2009, 10:12:38 PM »
Some of you may have heard me raving about Lovecraft, so I tried a little exercise. I found an old post of mine (REALLY old, don't mind the horrid writing) on the Dark Age Legends RP, and re-wrote it trying to stay as close as possible to a style similar to that of the great writer H. P. Lovecraft. Well, here it is. :D

------------------------------------   ------------------------------------   ------------------------------------  
ORIGINAL

Several hours passed. Armand finally found the sorcerer's hut, hidden deep in the forest next to Asgarnia. He carefully knocked on the door.

-"Who disturbes me? Show yourself, intruder!"

The door burst open, with no one behind it. Armand walked in, and just then he saw the Lilithian.

De Sade was sitting in a large armchair facing a hot fire. He was completely hidden by the chair, save for his hands, which were resting on the chair's armrests. From the look of the hands, de Sade had green leathery skin.

-"Archmage de Sade, the Sovereignty needs one last service. There is another Twilight Warrior, and he is wrecking all sorts of trouble in Asgarnia, a city we recently took over."

The sorcerer sighed heavily.

-"Again I am summoned to show insects the way to perfection."

De Sade finally stood up, and Armand nearly sat down. This guy didn't need magic to kill, his looks did the job perfectly. The Lilithian was dressed in black robes streaked with dark green lines, with a hood covering an inhuman face. His skin was very tight on his head, baring his teeth and giving it an overall appearance of a green skull. Though the eye sockets were there, the eyes were nowhere to be seen. The sorcerer also had a pair of small scaly wings, not large enough to be of any use. However, they seemed to have been cut from their original size.

De Sade seemed to look directly at Armand, and he felt a chilling cold creeping over his insides.

-"The Twilight Warrior is Alex. Barely enough for a decent challenge. Tell me, would a dragon swat a fly just because he could?"

Armand did not find the strength to answer.

-"Think about that. But now, the wind sings a strange melody... Someone is approaching."

The Archmage, nearly hovering over the ground, left the hut. Armand did not come up with anything more original nor useful other than to follow.

De Sade was right. There was a rebel walking through the forest. He did not appear to have sighted either de Sade, Armand, or the hut. Finally, Armand found strength within him to speak.

-"A-a-a-archmage, that there is a - a rebel, from the city we are occupying..."

-"His lesson today will be pain."

De Sade extended a razor-sharp talon towards the rebel, and the Asgarnian cringed, then fell down. There was a visible black pentagram on the ground around him, and it appeared to be drawing the rebel to it. Finally, the movements stilled.

-"But... but you didn't give him a chance! He didn't even see you!"

-"Sometimes, it is best preferable not to hear the serpent's rattle, young one. Now, Alex, was it?"

------------------------------------   ------------------------------------   ------------------------------------  
REVISION

Your brow raises in a mildly surprised, yet mandatorily stoic manner as I slowly tear the third and final hopeful's application papers in half. A warranted expression; forcedly retching regurgitated praise at the Warlock's parlour-worthy demonstration, the other judges leave me the sole voice of dissent at this badly executed jest of an election. Some audaciously argue me to be a derelict relic of a past age, citing my thus-termed "unreachable" expectations as a result of senile dementia. Instead of fruitlessly attacking my yet age-unwarped mind, they should read about - nay, they should remember, for he is studied in all military schools - de Sade, the Lilithian Archmage. I had met him once, a long time ago. Had the other judges, they too would condemn this pathetic exercise in sardonic nepotism wallowing in the miry puddle of undeserved commendations.

Many years back, long before I had even planned on running the rat race of military promotions, I served as a humble scout to the human war machine of then-Sovereign Kronos. Much of the continent fell swiftly to his unstoppable armies' hell-march, plowing through the reinforced stone walls of feudal city-states with little meaningful resistance. The technocracy of Asgarnia, a haven built by brilliant scientific minds and exiled military leaders, was one of the very few exceptions that refused to submit to the tyranny of the Sovereign. His living-and-undead legions rolled over it like a river would over an insignificant rock... but holding it proved to be a wholly different story, mainly due its protection by Alex - the Twilight Warrior. Faced with continuous defeats by this aggravatingly resilient foe, my commanding officer Damien Roth ordered me to recruit the aid of de Sade.

It has been explained to me that de Sade was but a well-chosen monicker - his true name utterable only by his kin, the magical reptile-men of Lilith. Fueled by a volatile cocktail of curiosity and fear for seeing a member of such a race, I sought the retired Archmage's dwelling in the tenebrous forests near Asgarnia. There was - I remember it clearly - a bitter rain that day, and the rest of that week, as if to make up for the droughts of yestermonth. As I ventured deeper into the forest, I made note of a subtle blight afflicting the trees. The arboreal plague progressively worsened with the depth of my penetration into the defiled heart of the woods. Distant ululations and deep bayings reached me through the incessant hammering of the rain on my helmet; this forest long ago found itself weaved into the local legendry as a lair of many unspeakable monsters. At times I fancied a shadow brushing just out of my sight, leaving behind a hostile aroma in the air and the dissipating sounds of fleshy wings flapping away and snapping the diseased branches. My knees weakened with each step in the grasping wet earth and my body shook with periodic tremors of anxiety; I grappled the hilt of my loaded speargun with white-knuckled terror. Mysterious encounters and curious sensations increased in frequency and vividity (though none came out to confront me), until the trees I passed degenerated to nothing more than gnarled skeletons clawing at the skies. At last the gray cloud-filtered sunlight dimly illuminated the place not meant to be beheld by human eyes: the shabby hermitage of the Archmage.

With an unsure posture, I approached the wind-rattled hut through legion of untended weeds. Furtive eyes spied me from beneath the cover of a makeshift cattle pen, and a strange thing for which I knew no name briefly slithered between the crude rock foundations of the shanty. As I reached for the door, the oppressive black serpent of Fear coiled about my throat. However, I knew that the proverbial serpent would grow infinitely bigger if I had returned to Roth without news of a successful alliance with de Sade; strengthening my resolve, I pushed the run-down door open.

A world of black arts revealed itself to me inside the deceptively small home. Wild-eyed, I observed wicked diagrams twisting on the floor and tattooing the walls; graveures of unspeakably violent scenes resting in a corner-laid stack; masses of ageless tomes collecting dust in an equally ancient bookcase. This unholy sanctuary was illuminated by the flickering glow of a wood fire on the other end of the room, the soft light of which was obscured by an imposing, though decrepit, leather armchair.

"Who..."

It was barely even speech - the sound was akin to some horrid abomination sucking air, as if awakening from an eternal sleep. A skeletal hand I did not note being there earlier slid off the rest, producing a sickening cracking of bone as it moved. I tried to reply, only to find Fear tightening its circles. What came out instead of my voice was an inane gasp.

"Speak, Sovereignty lackey."

His voice changed to a deep timbre boring into the core of my heart. Another tip gracefully shared with me prior to my trek was that the Archmage was not known for neither patience, nor calming an induced anger.

"Armand... Scout with the Sovereignty, Archmage," I finally managed to force out of myself. "The Sovereignty needs one last ser--"

"Alexander, the Twilight Warrior," the voice interrupted me. "Yes... I know of him... but he is not enough for anything in the semblance of a challenge. Would a dragon swat a fly just because he could?"

"Archmage, please! The Sovereignty needs you! Lord Damien hims--"

A sound which I can liken only to what a land-walking aspect of a whale would produce while breathing filled the room, shaking the various small vials and containers with questionable grasses and mushrooms.

"Roth..." The thunderous inhalation ceased. "It is strange to see him sacrifice his face before me for a worm like Alexander.... very well. I shall come to his aid."

More ear-grating sound of bone followed as I watched the hooded figure rise out of the armchair. His robes, themselves black as night, ran with faintly phosphorescent lines in similar forms to those of the wall-charted diagrams. The robes were sleeveless, giving them the appearance of a great hooded apron. True to his race's designation as magic reptile-men, his brownish-green skin occasionally sparked with an iridescent discharge to nearby objects. And then he turned to me.

My war-tempered eyes have seen much, but o, that monstrosity was branded into the gray matter of my brain for the rest of my life. His face - if I may brag to call it such - consisted of a queerly elongated human skull with a veil of green skin. I could see no eyes; only a swallowing darkness in the sockets. The lack of lips bared his teeth, giving him a perpetual morbid grin. Two opposing keratin growths protruded from his chin, much like the fierce talons twitching in agitation on his hands. Behind his back quivered what were once webbed wings, bearing terrible section scars of a devilish tool. Unable to stomach the blasphemous sight, I weakly fell upon my knee. He approached me, bones cracking at every step, rattling my sanity on its hinges.

"The winds of the aether sing an... inculpating melody," he hissed. I dared to look up - the blackness of his eye sockets were pointed right at me. I felt my heart miss a beat, and the glow of the fire somehow darkened in my eyes. "Do they not teach stealth in the Sovereignty? You were followed."

With a creak but without a touch, the door swung. Indeed, there was one Asgarnian wandering near where I first entered, looking for me, fruitlessly. My body had exhausted its fuel for surprises, I think - I had only the strength to blink when the Asgarnian's glance met that of mine, to no effect. He continued hounding the area with dumb determination.

"The ability of a human to know its surroundings does not come without great sacrifice. The human relies heavily on its eyes, and the eye is the easiest organ to beguile."

One matter that I found myself contemplating was the manner of the soldier - why does the fool not advance into a hiding place as obvious as this hut? The Asgarnian did not leave me time to linger for an answer; as he passed yet another time by the forest clearing, I spied a strange machine, obstructed in an unfortunate way by the tall weeds. Just then, the Asgarnian picked something off the ground and affixed it to the thing, which, at that event, began to glow with a sinister violet luminescence.

What happened then proved me wrong with my estimation of the limits to which my mind could be surprised. I was utterly stupefied when, after a clap not unlike the thunder, the machine produced a glowing portal before the hermitage. The Sovereignty was always aware of Asgarnia's technological prowess, but this shattered every previous limit that was discovered about their scientific might. Soldiers... tens of soldiers gathered in front of the meager shanty, paying no heed to the rain or the twisted trees. They followed me here, and I allowed them to discover de Sade. But while bending light around oneself (and even a building) is something that every Archmage knows, this point is where similarities between the Lilithian's genius and the Warlock's amateur cease.

While I was contemplating the greatest last words a man may utter before being savagely torn apart by angry rebels, de Sade kept himself busy with, at a glance, inanely waving his talon in the air before him. Before I could inquire about his sanity, the talon dredged a trail in the very fabric of existence before him - a glowing green diagram (not dissimilar to those he had charted in his home) lit up, following the imagined trail, sparking, like a fuse. Seemingly satisfied, he eased his talon down, allowing the trail to mark itself. In the meantime, the soldiers continued to amass. Upon reaching a number of about two hundred, the portal flared a moribund flash - the cloak failed - and every speargun was aimed at the Lilithian.

This is where the details get blurry. If I recall correctly, I heard the result of a nervous soldier's early twitch - the singing of a single spear in flight. But even if I am right, the spear reached neither me nor de Sade. For once the diagram reached a satisfactory level of complexity (which happened, likely not by means of coincidence, right after the portal flash), the Lilithian spread his hands outward. And then there was light.

A light brighter than all I have seen. A light of a thousand suns, spreading across all the world, flooding every place where the darkness once lurked. A light which, despite my best attempts to shield myself with the metal of my gauntlet, still burnt with the same brilliance. Perhaps there was sound, too - but if there was, it was too loud to hear.

When I awoke, I awoke to a clear sky. Not a trace of rain. No puddle anywhere. Not much of anything anywhere, truth be told. A grand field of glass stretched before me - with the forest bordering at a precise angle, allowing for a conic shape culminating at the hermitage - to the place where the field's edge met the horizon. With but one spell, cast in moments relative to its destructive potency, de Sade not only took care of the attacking troops - he also obliterated their gathering reinforcements far behind the portal. Far - ten kilometers away. Yes, you raise your brow to the right moment this time.

What became of de Sade later I cannot pretend to know. The Asgarnian situation was dealt with rather instantly, as Alex's protection became moot after almost half of the capable population of the city-state was gone. The Lilithian Archmage did not allow himself to be found again. Many things I held true about the world and its limits were shattered on that day, but the greatest part of this tale is right now: de Sade was not the most powerful of his kind, and, in fact, many others like himself still live in Lilith. So - if the Sovereignty's military wishes to restore itself to its former glory by appointing a new Archmage - we should look beyond our own horizons.

12
Writer's Guild / Blood frame
« on: June 05, 2009, 06:29:18 PM »
Part 1

"There are twenty-five... no, five more have crossbows," Wing murmured off the top of the cliff. "Beautiful positioning, excellent form, but they are surrounding the village single-file - probably because of their smaller numbers. I doubt they'll be any problem, seeing as we've got a hundred men in the bush."

"They don’t need any more people," Gwen replied.

Wing looked up. Gwen was very close to the edge of the edge of the cliff, right next to him. The high winds combed her hair, but she stood firm, resting her cane in front of her.

"I suppose you're right," Wing said after a pause, and looked back down to the forest. "Aside from probably two or three Naturals there, the natives are defenceless against the better-equipped and much more skilled bandits."

He paused again. Despite having quite a bit of experience, he had trouble telling where the bandits were. Only the occasional gleam of a blade in the moonlight gave them away. Noticing the crossbow wielders was pure luck - a gust of wind happened to blow the village's ritual fires toward Wing, and he could faintly make out five silhouettes perched in the canopies of the trees against the glow of the flames.

"Wing," Gwen said, backing away from the edge of the cliff. The winds were getting rougher. "Tell me what kinds of Naturals are in that village."

"Yes, one minute," Wing answered, wondering as to the purpose of the question. If anyone of interest was down there, they would definitely appear in the Sovereignty's registry. Given that all maps available to him merely acknowledge the village's existence without giving any more information, everything pointed to the fact that this was just another tribal settlement.

He reached into his robe for the inner breast pocket, producing a pair of metal-framed lens. The lens, porous with many capillaries, had a syringe-like glass capsule attached with a split transparent tube. A dark red liquid shimmered inside the capsule. Securing the lens to the scout's circlet Wing wore on his head, he slowly sank the syringe's piston inward.

At first, the world became segmented into many pieces - much like looking into a broken mirror on a black surface - as the capillaries filled with the liquid from the capsule. The liquid didn't even completely fill the capillaries when the outer edges of the lens began to blur out of existence. Before long, all that was left of the lens was the metal frame. The flames in the middle of the village vanished, and the moon was reduced to no more than a pale grey shadow on the sky. Instead, the world bathed in a uniform red mist.

Right away, Wing's previous guess proved itself to be correct. There were three auras - black clouds with streaks of red - located in a triangle around the place where the now-invisible fire burned.

"Let's see..." Wing mumbled while scanning the village. "There are three. The one farthest away from me... looks solid... earth? No... jagged edges, pronounced vertices. That one is ice-based. The one across the first one - they are sitting in a triangle around the ritual fire - is all over the place, swirling... unmistakably, flame-powered... explains the fire. The leader, maybe?... Interesting combination... I'd think... wouldn't get along... block. That's the last one, walls and blocks, very regular and symmetric... seen it before, but..."

"Like Eva's?"

Wing slapped his head in feigned exasperation.

"Ah, how could I forget? Yes, that's exactly where I saw it. So, in the end, we have a fire Natural, an ice Natural, and a force Natural. None of them are particularly powerful - the fire one might stand his ground against one of our Artificers, but the other ones aren't even worth mentioning. Explains why this place is barely noted on the map. Even then, considering there's about to be a raid on it, we might have to erase it completely."

"In that case," Gwen said, turning around. "We are leaving."

With a small sigh, Wing stood up and dusted himself off. She's doing the right thing, from a commander's point of view. There's no need to sacrifice any more troops - the Sovereignty's military is already spread thin between defending against Zhottite invasions and smaller organized raids from the natives. He took off the lens and carefully pulled the piston from the capsule out as far as it could go. The lens became visible again as the liquid retreated from the capillaries and back into the syringe. After putting the apparatus away, he approached Gwen.

"Do you--?"

"No, I’m fine." Gwen's tone was uncharacteristically casual. "It seems we will not draw swords tonight. I can handle myself."

"Very well," Wing said.

They walked in silence toward the wall of trees at the top of the hill. The Chopped Mound, they called this place; reasonably so, considering that it was really only half a hill. From one side, it looked like a normal mound, but from the forest, it appeared to be an inaccessible cliff. Some Sovereignty philosophers devoted time to discovering how the Chopped Mound came to be, but none were successful.

"General, if I may ask," Wing interrupted the relative silence, which was previously only broken by Gwen's cane tapping the ground in front of her. For the last few minutes, he wore a concerned expression. "Were you a scout before your… capture?"

"I began my career at the Sovereignty as a scout, yes. You were wondering how I knew Eva's aura." She replied, and then stopped, turning her head to Wing. "Why?"

“It’s probably nothing, but I thought I saw the ice Natural’s aura sparkling a little.”

“Sparkling?”

“Yes.” Wing paid attention to Gwen’s expression – or, at least, what he could see of it from behind her blindfold-mask. She didn’t look very bothered. “I think something might be wrong with my Donovan Glass, but I thought I saw small strands jumping off the ice Natural and vanishing in the air. But they were not strands in the sense that they were nearly one-dimensional – no, they were not like that; rather, they had volume. Almost like fibres of some kind actually.”

“Fibres,” Gwen repeated with a tone of concern. “It would be best if you looked down there again. But this time, do it from a different place.”

After returning to the edge and setting up the Donovan Glass, Wing carefully strafed sideways, while looking at the source of the sparks. It wasn’t long until he stood back up and returned to Gwen.
“I’m not sure if you were looking for this, General,” he said. “I couldn’t identify it. I’ve never seen anything like it before. The fibres – it’s an aura. A bandit’s aura.”

Part 2

Pound, crash, pound, crash. It sounded like the dillies were making noise just for the sheer fun of it. No sense of notes, no harmony, no pace, no anything. Of course, to expect coherent music from savages is like to request an operatic choir from pigs. Personally, I think we're doing them a favour by putting them out of their misery. Getting paid handsomely for the three dilly Naturals doesn't hurt either, although I would've debated with myself coming here if we were only being paid for this. Fortunately, this particular dilly village is nice and stocked up with supplies. Beats overpaying those Zhottite gluttons for food - they're always too happy to take back the gold they paid us.

"Ein - we're ready," I heard Hannibal's hoarse whisper right next to me. "The crossbows are high, the swords are low, the stabbers are close. We counted fifty-two dillies, most jumping, smashing rocks, and hooing around the bonfire."

I looked into the center of the village. Just as Hannibal said - bunch of dillies were dancing around the fire in the middle, with three sitting cross-legged closer to the flames than the rest. There were whitestone lines on the ground, connecting the three. Bet dillies felt real proud of themselves when they figured out how to use whitestone to paint their weak excuse for art, the cliff overhead showing most of their expositions. Birds, horses, hummingbirds…

The three important-looking dillies in the middle, it seemed, were the Naturals. That one - the one with the blue ribbon on his fat arm - that'll be the first one that I'll put to sleep. As the Zhotts told me, there was a fire, ice, and force Natural here. The ice one would be the hardest to take down, seeing as few blades cut through those frost shields of theirs. Once he's unconscious, he won't matter; the other two will probably panic and show me a nice display of fireworks, giving me a pretty good idea as to what they can do.

"Have two crossbows aim at two Naturals - the two that aren't that one in front of us. If they start, hit the lower body only, do not kill them under any circumstances," I whispered back. "I'll get the fat one. The stabbers will pick off the out-wanderers, two crossbows can take down the dillies right next to my fatty. The last crossbow should watch anyone that sees me and put them down. The swords will only move if the dillies are expanding from the village. As soon as I bag my dilly, tell all lows to get down to the ground, and all highs to hold on to the branches."

I saw a nod from Hannibal with the corner of my eye, and began closing in on the ice Natural. The portly savage was smashing stone-headed clubs on a drum in front of him, as were the other two. Seemed really into it, too. That's good - his attention was low, and he shouldn't give the wire much trouble when it's on him. The fire hid the Naturals from each other's fields of view. Using the flames to my advantage, I crept along the walls of a wooden hut closer to him, while preparing the green-coloured wire. This was the best purchase I made from the Zhotts - I have never regretted a single silver I spent on it, not once (although I refuse to call it by their name. It's quite rude).

Without coming out from my cover too far, I tossed the Green - tied into a lasso loop - right in between two dillies passing by the Natural. The loop successfully landed on the Natural's neck. He certainly noticed the instrument of his quickly approaching coma, but didn't give it much thought - just brushed it off his neck, likely thinking it an artefact of the surrounding flora. But the loose wire stayed secure on his throat. I carefully fed the wire forward a little bit, to get it low to the ground - wouldn't want a dilly tripping on it and alerting everyone around him. Now that it was out of the way, I made my way back to the bush, favourably noting that several out-wandering dillies were already suffering from a mild case of capital dismemberment in the tall grass. Good work, stabbers. Very good.

Having placed myself more or less out of sight, I returned to my previous hideout in the forest. Hannibal was already back, grinning at me.

"They didn't start," he said. "And the crossbows, with all their trigger-happy fingers, managed not to shoot a dilly anyway. I'd imagine you already saw the fine works of Groth and Rudd generously painting the ground red, eh?"

"Everyone is a part of the team," I replied. "Everyone knows what they're doing. This is good. Now, if you don't mind..."

"Of course," Hannibal said and grabbed on to the Green. We nodded thrice in unison, counting down - and, with an eye-popping effort, pulled the wire.

The force of the snapping Green sent us flying into the bush, but we were too far away - and drowned out by the noise of the drums - for anyone to notice. The Natural forcefully fell backwards, knocking his drum on his head, struggling to get the loop of Green off his throat. After gagging for a few seconds, he stilled - just in time for other dillies to arrive. As he stopped resisting, the Green loosened up and fell off. If we dared to drag a Natural's corpse to the Zhotts, I think our partnership could be effectively considered over (and that’s putting it lightly – what I mean when I say that is “heads will roll”).

A few dillies tried to wake the Natural up - to no avail, of course. Loss of consciousness by asphyxiation doesn't wear off this quickly. Some of the women cried. The other Naturals also gathered around their fallen comrade.

“What say you, gentlemen?” I addressed Hannibal as well as Rudd, who just came back. His dagger was positively glistening with fresh blood. “We’ll take down one more Natural, and I’m pretty sure we can rush them. Otherwise, the dillies are going to start worrying about those over there.” I nodded toward the corpses in the grass.

“I’m in,” Rudd was the first to reply. “A little hungry, too. I’d almost go as far as to suggest rushing them now, but seeing as they’re all alert (especially the Naturals), I wouldn’t risk it.”

“Then it’s decided,” I announced. “I’m going to bag the force user, and we can charge them.”

For the most part, it was actually quite easy to tell which Naturals had what power just by looking at them – in fact, one could make conclusions even if one has never encountered that kind of Natural before. Ice users carried much extra weight to protect themselves from cold; their ability to conjure frost shields around them effectively killed any reason to dodge projectiles. Even a fireball rarely punched through a well-powered ice wall. Fire casters were rather like one of the two Naturals carrying the third one to a medicine hut – lanky for efficient blood cooling as well as tanned for flare protection, and quite muscular to dodge well: although packing a strong punch, they couldn’t defend themselves with their power alone. Seeing as they’re Naturals – people who are born with and who die with their ability and their ability alone – they have a lifetime to adapt to their gift.

Unfortunately, the dillies smartened up. They stopped their inane ritual – maybe because they finally figured that ten of them were missing, or maybe because they couldn’t continue banging their drums without the third Natural. Didn’t look like it was the former, as they all headed back to their huts, with the majority of them going to the medicine hut to attend to the fainted chubby. I used the opportunity to retrieve my loop of Green and reattach it to the rest of the spool. Meanwhile… the force Natural. It was the one that was not lanky; a woman, unsurprisingly. About three quarters of force users belonged to the fairer sex.

It was only another five minutes when she and the other Natural left the healing hut. They said something to each other before parting ways; being dillies, probably something about appeasing their hummingbird god by sacrificing dragonflies – you know, their chief competitor size-wise. Really, what kind of culture worships something like a hummingbird? Why do they even need Naturals in the first place?

Sneaking around and behind the huts, I quickly passed the Natural. It would be unwise to let her enter her house – if she had a trace of a brain, she would likely close off the doorway with a fraction of her power. Fraction as it may be, it was plenty enough to stop a normal man (or a normal weapon) from entering. Finding a nice spot in the shadow, I waited for her to come closer.

I didn’t have to wait too long. Her hut was in front of the one I was hiding in, the door facing me. Just as she turned her back at me, I threw a well-aimed rock at the back of her head. Letting out somewhat of a yelp, the dilly fell over. Maybe I need to stuff her deeper into the hut; make it look like she hurt herself. No one should know that I’m –

In retrospect, it was really good that I stayed close to the ground. If I did not, I would be a talking torso right now, for at that moment in time, a great sickle of flames swept right over me. Half of the force Natural’s shanty was gone; the other was burning. My hair got caught in the turbulence and was also set aflame. Although quite embarrassing, sticking my head into the nearest puddle of filth was better than being bald. Damn… how did he see me?

The booming gibberish of the fire Natural smoked the dillies from their meagre residences like a torch in a beehive. The dillies swarmed me with a surprising nimbleness. I was the focal point of a good twenty very pointy spears. The fire Natural – whom I took to be the tribe leader – began barking something at me. I didn’t really catch most of it, because… well, because the serpent began to wake up.

Here I was, shaking, dripping with a semi-liquid concoction of water, feces, and earth. And to think that my bleached hair so beautifully stood out moments ago. Maybe that’s why he saw me? I don’t really remember the rest of my train of thought. Motions started to blur, and I felt my blades slide out of their sheath. He was about halfway awake when I heard the Serpent’s Horn roll over the canopies of the trees and crawl up the great cliff overhead. The rest of the band noticed me and my state, I guess. Good Hannibal. Good boy, so very good. The horn just pushed me further into oblivion, and the last thing I remember – a little while after losing memory of my sight – is inhuman howling, likely coming out of my own chest.

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