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MuseMart » Forum: The Writing Room - Recent Topics http://www.musemart.com/ MuseMart » Forum: The Writing Room - Recent Topics en Thu, 09 Sep 2010 19:06:02 +0000 Janus on "Equilibrium Sphere" http://www.musemart.com/topic/equilibrium-sphere#post-1109 Sun, 21 Sep 2008 03:35:06 +0000 Janus 1109@http://www.musemart.com/ This is a story I've been kicking around a bit in my head. I don't know how to end it, although I have a very strong idea written out for where I -want- it to head and how I'd like the characters to develop... I don't know if I'll even have time to really write it, but I thought I'd just jot down what I could of it. If anyone would like to offer advice as/if it continues lemme know... or heck if you wanna help write it :p. The basic premise is there's a man who lost his job as an archeologist for a particular, galactic-renoun museum. He was one of the best, but due to his outspoken disagreement with new government policies he was fired four years before the story begins. After that, he <li>joined the cast of Firefly</li> began to freelance as an archeologist, and ended up with his own small ship and a steady stream of clients. He has a regular crew that he works with (a mechanic, a pilot, and a lawyer who handles the paperwork for the archeologist's 'digging' and selling of the things he finds [plus is his off-again-on-again love interest]) and then some people he calls in from time to time as their talents are required (a contract demolitions man, some historian friends, etc.). There has been tension on the ship for the last two months because the archeologist rescued a Gladiator from a Maevoid Battle Arena Ship. He rescued the young man as part of a job that turned out to be more interesting than he'd bargained for, and the Gladiator attached his loyalties completely to the archaeologist. It turns out that the Gladiator's also an untrained, but relatively powerful, "Bender" (basically 'Bending' is like the Force) however the only thing he can do is create energy blasts, and he's only recently learned how to do it at will instead of randomly. The Gladiator turned out to be the property of a private collector for whom the archaeologist had done some work in the past, and the collector is not very pleased to find his Gladiator running around free when he calls the archaeologist in to ask about some new work. Pitying the Gladiator, the archaeologist agrees to take on a very dangerous, challenging retrieval in return for only a tiny fee, and for the freedom of the Gladiator. The rest of the crew doesn't like the Gladiator very much, so this causes quite a bit of tension since this job will barely pay for the cost of running it and will mean turning down another, far more lucrative job. That's where the story begins. Gumshoe on "Attempted Writing" http://www.musemart.com/topic/attempted-writing#post-97 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:20:00 +0000 Gumshoe 97@http://www.musemart.com/ Here's a new story I'm working on. Tell me what you think of it thus far... Consciousness returned slowly, quietly, like a bearer of bad news who doesn't want to deliver. The first thing I heard was the steady beating of rain on an already wet ground, the frenzied tap-dance of falling water. I was soaking wet, but that wasn't what was getting my attention. It was the pain... pain like a migraine headache that had spread through my entire body. Some spots were worse than others. Some were better, though at this point my definition of "better" meant I couldn't feel them at all. I tried to remember what was going on, where I was. Why I was lying in the mud and the rain feeling like somebody's human piÃ±ata. I drew a perfect blank and decided to start at the beginning, with the easy stuff. Who was I? When that came up blank I knew I was in deep shit. Not that lying in the mud feeling like I'd been repeatedly run over by a truck hadn't clued me in, this just made certain I knew how deep the shit really was. I still had my eyes closed. I hadn't opened them because I didn't want to see if I looked like I felt. Common sense spoke up just then, and made me realize I couldnâ€™t shut out reality forever... it was time to face the music. I found myself looking up into dark, heavy clouds that were leaking raindrops like tears at a funeral service. It might have been my funeral, except I wasn't dead. I only felt like I should be. Staring up into that bleak, dreary sky didn't do much to lighten my mood. I let my head roll sideways, figuring I might find something more pleasant to look at. No such luck. A gun was clenched tightly in my right hand, it's baleful red indicator blinking the sinister warning that I was out of ammunition, out of options, out of time. My finger was still in the trigger guard. For a while, the gun and that damn blinking light was all I could see. My eyes didn't want to focus on anything else. I couldn't blame them, really. The whole scene was just gonna get worse with every move I made. Eventually my eyes and I came to an agreement, and the rest of the world swam into view. The storm continued into the far horizon, shafts of sunlight breaking through at intervals to illuminate things I couldn't see. Off in the distance was a city, bleak and dreary as the troubled sky. Towering skyscrapers disappeared into the clouds, dreary granite monoliths that could've done duty as gravestones for a giant. It almost seemed as if the city was nothing more than an extension of the storm. Or maybe it was the other way around. I thought about that for a little while, hoping the sight would dredge up a memory or two. Eventually I looked away, found my other hand. It was empty, and for good reason. The fingers were crooked and gnarled, as if I was an old man racked with arthritis. Having them broken like that must have been pretty painful. Suddenly, not remembering didn't seem like such a bad thing after all. I forced myself to look away, not dwell on it. There was no cityscape to be seen on this side. There was something much more interesting instead. I was looking side-on at a black van, its headlights sending shafts of light into the murky gloom of the rainstorm. The engine was idling, adding a soft hum to the sound of the rain. There was a body crumpled near the front tire, pose suggesting that if the guy wasn't dead already he'd wish he was when he woke up. I figured I'd better get up, check things out. That was a mistake. I woke up the same as last time, rain drumming down on my face. It was a little softer now, more a heavy mist than a shower. At least this time I remembered blacking out, and what had happened before I had. I tried sitting up again, much more slowly this time. The pain in my side told me it wasn't just my fingers that were broken. Whatever it was, it wasn't life threatening. If it had been, I wouldn't have woken up this time. I frowned as much as I could without hurting myself. How long had I been out? I narrowed my eyes, gazed up at the troubled sky. There was less light than there had been when I'd first woken up. I figured it was late evening, getting on towards night. The city in the distance was starting to glow, a soft ambience of life belying it's earlier appearance. Another thought struck me. How many times had I passed out and woken up again without any memory of it? How long had I been out here in the rain and the mud? I added those to the rapidly growing stack of unanswered questions and concentrated on standing up. Slowly and carefully, of course. Good thing, too. I couldn't feel one of my legs. I thought it was broken, but the series of neat little holes in my pant leg said otherwise. I'd been shot... with flechettes, looked like. Theyâ€™d gone in one side and out the other, right through the muscle. A few had sliced right through the bone. That was gonna be a bitch to fix. At least the wounds had stopped bleeding. One less thing to worry about. I tested my balance, found I could keep my feet as long as I moved with an awkward shamble. I kept the gun clenched tightly in my right hand. Without any memories to fall back on, it provided a fragile sense of security. It'd been with me before I blacked out, was the only thread I had to tie me to who I was. And, in all likelihood, it had saved my life. I hobbled over to the van, saw a second corpse laying near the open back doors. He'd taken a hit to the head, close range. Hard to tell if it'd been flechettes or a bullet, not that it mattered. Dead was dead. He was, and I wasn't. Not yet, anyway. A look inside the back of the van revealed some blood stained ropes, plastic sheets, and two pairs of gloves. There was a hammer in there, too. My left hand ached at the sight of it. I quickly looked away, pushing any thought of it from my mind. I could worry about all that later. Right now, I had to get out of here. Somebody might come looking for the two corpses, and I didn't want to be around when they arrived. I hobbled over and painfully knelt beside the body near the front of the van. Turned out the guy had a gun with him. It fired flechettes. Apparently fair was fair, though. The stiff had taken a burst of the same right in the chest. Some of the razor sharp little darts were still stuck in the side of the van, sparkling clean thanks to the rain. I slowly raised the gun I held, noted it's ammunition. It didn't take me long to come up with a theory about what had happened. It was a pretty ugly theory, but it was all I had. I checked the stiff over for ammunition, found an extra clip and shoved it into the pocket of the trenchcoat I was wearing. It paid to be prepared. I closed the rear doors and climbed into the drivers seat. Luckily I still remembered how to drive. I headed for the city... there was nowhere else I could've gone. I needed medical attention and I needed answers. Iâ€™d find both of them there. The night wore on hot and heavy as I drove, and the rain didn't do anything but make it worse. The van's wipers moved rhythmically across the glass, clearing it for a few seconds at a time before a thousand kamikaze raindrops reached their final destination. I found the road a little while after leaving the field where I'd woken up. Following it wasn't too hard, even with the storm doing it's best to get me lost. I shifted my foot, heard it squelch in a puddle of what I knew was more than water. The metallic tang of blood was filling the air, and I could already feel the life draining out of me, feel the cold chill of death closing in despite the warmth of the night. The wounds in my leg must've opened up again. I couldn't stop to apply a tourniquet. If I stopped driving, I might pass out and bleed to death. My only hope was to reach the city, find some sort of hospital before unconciousness took me once again. Hell, I didn't even have to do that much. All I had to do was find somebody who gave enough of a damn to call for help when I collapsed in front of them and bled all over the street. That shouldn't be too hard, not even on a night like this. Despite the gloom and dark caused by the storm the city would be alive. Shops would be open. People with umbrellas would be running errands on the rain-slicked sidewalks. At least, that's how I pictured it. Guess I had a pretty good imagination. Thunder rumbled as the van's headlights played across the beat up sign that marked the city limits. Whatever the city's name was, it had been worn off into obscurity some time ago. Fitting. I didn't catch the population or elevation. Didn't matter. Some part of my mind told me somebody in that city hadn't taken much of a liking to me. It told me they might not be too happy if I showed up again, alive and kicking and with the blood of two men on my hands. I told that part of my mind to shut the hell up unless it had something constructive to say. Time passed, and I barely noticed. It could have been hours, or it could have been minutes. The constant drumming of rain and my inability to see much past the road made it hard to tell. I barely saw the buildings I passed as I made my way into the city limits. They were short and squat, but with a big footprint. Industrial, probably. Warehouses and manufacturing plants. Further in, they started to get taller. Up ahead, skyscrapers began to lose their tops in the clouds. They gave me the unpleasant image of people in over their heads, unable to get out of whatever they'd gotten into. I realized my vision was starting to blur as I nearly hit a parked car. I forced my eyes to focus again, jerking mechanically back into the road. I was losing it, starting to succumb to shock and bloodloss. Time to stop driving and start looking for help. I turned the van up onto the side of the street, tires jumping the curb and planting themselves on the sidewalk. People might have shouted in alarm or anger. I made sure the empty pistol was tucked securely into my waistband, and stumbled out into the rain. The world swam in front of me, even though my feet were planted. I took a step forward, nearly lost my balance, and caught myself with my wounded leg. It wasn't so much pain as it was my leg giving up and throwing in the towel. It had had enough, and wanted me to get the message. I slammed against the hood of the still running van, fingers trying to grip the slippery wet metal. I slid down onto the street, onto my knees. Leaned against the front tire for support like I was praying to it and hoped like hell somebody called in an ambulance. I took a moment to catch my breath, a lungfull of warm engine air, and then hauled myself up onto my feet. Get up, damn you! Had to get to my feet.... Keep moving! Find help! Stay alive! Using the hood for support I edged my way over onto the sidewalk. I couldn't tell if there was anybody around. I had tunnel vision now, and there were big dark spots floating around. There was something in front of me, though... a big, bright neon sign that I couldn't read because I couldn't focus on the letters. There were flashing lights, and noiseâ€¦ most of it drowned out by the running of the engine. Neon lights... something clicked in my mind, told me the sign was just what I wanted. Neon signs meant bars, clubs, strip joints, casinos... places where there would be people. I left the support of the van and lurched towards the sign, hands outstretched like some sort of zombie that had seen its next meal, its next chance for continued existence. I got in one good lurching step before gravity stepped in and showed me who was boss. After the beating I'd taken, I figured hitting the sidewalk with my face wasn't the worst thing I could do. Still, it hurt like hell. I thought I heard footsteps, voices, but couldn't make any of it seem real. I thought I smelled perfume, and then it all went black. Gumshoe on "Trying a different approach to writing" http://www.musemart.com/topic/trying-a-different-approach-to-writing#post-822 Tue, 08 Apr 2008 19:57:25 +0000 Gumshoe 822@http://www.musemart.com/ So, I've come up with a different way of trying to write a story. Instead of writing the whole thing out start to finish, in a straight line, I'm going to jump around a bit. <img src="http://www.musemart.com/my-plugins/bb-smilies/default/icon_dance.gif" title=":tonydance:" class="bb_smilies" /> No, not that kind of jumping. I think I'm going to write a bunch of scenes, vignettes that will give me a chance to flesh out the world and put bits of story into place without tying me down to a linear storyline. I can then piece them together and fill in any gaps there may be. Hopefully it'll work. Whenever I come up with one I think I'll post it here, for criticism and general consideration. Gumshoe on "Need inspiration" http://www.musemart.com/topic/need-inspiration#post-753 Mon, 11 Feb 2008 23:34:12 +0000 Gumshoe 753@http://www.musemart.com/ So, I want to start writing something again. Problem is, I'm not sure what. I've got any number of projects started, but I can't bring myself to try and finish them. Likewise, trying to think up new ideas is getting me nowhere at the moment. Usually I have too many ideas floating around, but for some reason lately I don't seem to have any at all. I need some inspiration, or something. Anybody got anything they want to throw my way? A writing prompt could be good, but I'll take anything that might get the mental wheels turning. Gumshoe on "National Novel Writing Month" http://www.musemart.com/topic/national-novel-writing-month#post-494 Thu, 01 Nov 2007 12:43:20 +0000 Gumshoe 494@http://www.musemart.com/ It's that time of year again, time for NanoWriMo - National Novel Writing Month. Last year my efforts petered out pretty quickly. This time I'm going to try actually finishing something and getting those 50,000 words. I'll post my efforts here, at least to start with. Anybody else who feels like giving it a go (Gaite!), feel free to do likewise. <img src="http://www.musemart.com/my-plugins/bb-smilies/default/icon_smile.gif" title=":)" class="bb_smilies" /> AshiraKitai on "Randomness" http://www.musemart.com/topic/randomness#post-430 Sun, 07 Oct 2007 17:53:29 +0000 AshiraKitai 430@http://www.musemart.com/ Faith so pure, without a doubt. Belief in something, encompassing the universe. Belief so strong, that it must be truth. But what is truth without fact? How do we know that something is all encompassing? I want to believe. With the proof of technology, it's hard. With the proof of war, I can't. With nature in its purest form, untouched by Man, I can. Gumshoe on "Semi-regular(ish) Writing Prompt" http://www.musemart.com/topic/semi-regularish-writing-prompt#post-237 Wed, 18 Jul 2007 13:44:17 +0000 Gumshoe 237@http://www.musemart.com/ Ok, for anybody who's interested I think I'll start a somewhat regular writing prompt. I'll give you a little something to start with (known as The Prompt), and you take it from there. The Prompt could be a short paragraph, a setting, a character, etc. The idea is to write a short story out of it, though there's no word or character requirement. No restrictions - it can be any genre, any theme, so long as it involves The Prompt. When it's finished, post it here in this thread for feedback and general criticism. Now I'm not one for deadlines, but the ubiquitous "they" seem to think deadlines help. Though, really, screw them. You know, the "they" them. Every two weeks or so (possibly longer) I'll put up a new Prompt. You may, if you wish, consider the posting of the new Prompt to be your deadline. You can, however, use any of the previous prompts as the basis for your writing, though this is considered to be in bad taste and generally frowned upon by the masses. And is it just me, or does "prompt" just get funnier sounding the more you say it? Prompt. Anyway, look for your first official Semi-regular Writing Prompt on Friday the 20th. RelFexive on "Muse Me Up!" http://www.musemart.com/topic/muse-me-up#post-164 Wed, 11 Jul 2007 16:43:16 +0000 RelFexive 164@http://www.musemart.com/ So... here's the idea. Suggest me a story. Sketch me a plot, give me a short concept paragraph, hand me some characters, outline a situation, hit me with a setting idea, throw me a title. Go with one, several or all of the above. I'll pick one (or have one forced on me by consensus :wink:) and give it a try, see if I can get my writing hat on straight again. Someone <img src="http://www.musemart.com/my-plugins/bb-smilies/default/icon_wink.gif" title=":wink:" class="bb_smilies" /> suggested I force myself to get back in the mood again, so this here's the plan. Unleash the hordes! RelFexive on "Reaver Attack! Challenge" http://www.musemart.com/topic/reaver-attack-challenge#post-163 Wed, 11 Jul 2007 16:34:52 +0000 RelFexive 163@http://www.musemart.com/ This was a writing challenge at Universalâ€™s official Serenity site, back in September 2005. I thought I might as well post it here for critique purposes. Might well convince me to write something new... <img src="http://www.musemart.com/my-plugins/bb-smilies/default/icon_wink.gif" title=":wink:" class="bb_smilies" /> ___________ "You are the only journalist who has witnessed the first documented Reaver attack in the history of the â€˜verse. What was once considered only a campfire story is now indisputably real. File a dispatch on what you have seen and what the implications of the confirmed existence of Reavers have for the future." -----*----- REAVER HIT NOT MYTH by Marcus Li, reporter for The Antenna, Arielâ€™s leading Cortex newscast No one will want to believe this story. I know I would not, if I were reading this from the safety of my home in Ariel City. I know our brave soldiers, sitting in their barracks rooms out in the worlds of our great Alliance, will scoff and mock these words as they do with every other rumour. But what I saw was also seen by those upstanding citizens of the Core that survived, and by the soldiers that fought to protect them. And by the many dead, who were killed or gave their lives so that we might live to tell the tale. It was the third week visiting the Border World holdings of Lord Richmond. I had been invited to accompany him on his tour as part of his campaign for election to the Governorâ€™s staff, and no doubt many of those accessing this will have read my earlier, funnier reports, especially the one regarding his bodyguard, Quigley. In light of recent events, I wish I had been kinder to that courageous man. The final stop on the world of Lucia was a small factory that Lord Richmond had acquired in a particularly shrewd financial manoeuvre from one of his rivals several years before. Richmond had just finished interviewing the foreman, an employee he had not met before that day, when an alarm started to ring loudly through the factory. To say that the manâ€™s face went pale barely describes the fear I saw in his face. The simple ringing of a bell was enough to make the foreman utterly terrified. When he was asked what the problem was, he uttered one simple word. â€œReavers!â€ Like any sensible person would, we laughed this pronouncement, but allowed ourselves to be hurried out of his tiny office and towards the double doors at the entrance to the factory. We thought we were merely humouring the man, but all around us workers were downing tools and running as if their lives depended on it. Some picked up weapons, mostly knives and larger tools like crowbars; some even had firearms. How the safety regulations for this factory allowed such things to be kept in a place of work was beyond me. Perhaps the place was too backward for such things. Little did I know that it was for reasons of safety of another form entirely. Richmond sent his secretary, Janice, ahead to get his aircar ready. But no sooner had she turned the corner of the factory than we heard the sound of her screams, her voice raised in terror and then pain. I could only imagine what was happening to her, though later I would see at close range the exact horrors that were being inflicted on the denizens of the factory township. Then... her attackers came around the corner. I had envisioned many possible assailants terrible enough to make use of the Reaver Myth to make their task easier. Bandits, pirates, Independents still fighting their failed war of aggression, all of them wearing the mask of a fiend from bedtime stories all across the worlds to strike fear into their victims. Nothing prepared me for the reality, that what I was seeing was no mask, no masquerade. Men covered in the red stain of the blood of their victims, their faces cut and scarred and twisted by whatever darkness within drove them, their bodies swathed in the leathery material that they were famous for. They were not actors, or uncivilised men playing a part for effect. They were like death in human form, they WERE death. They were Reavers. I could not move, so stunned I was by the sight of these creatures out of nightmare. I think Lord Richmond was as frozen as I. Only Quigley, reliable Quigley, had the presence of mind enough to pull us away as some of the factory workers stepped forward to contest the invasion of their world. Shots were fired as the bodyguard dragged us towards the gates of the compound. I did not see those men again. By the time we had passed through the gates, Lord Richmond and I had regained enough presence of mind to move under our own power, stumbling down the main road towards the landing field where Richmondâ€™s transport awaited us. Safety was only six hundred metres away. Between us and safety lay a vision of Hell almost impossible to describe. Three ships hung over the centre of town, ugly things that looked as if they had been rescued from a junk heap. From them dropped people â€“ Reavers â€“ on ropes, landing amongst the screaming townsfolk like jungle cats on a flock of waterfowl. Around us people ran or were set upon by the disfigured raiders. We could hear shots here and there as the populace sought to repel the attack. We saw few bodies, and to begin with I could not understand why. Those we did see looked as if they had been brutally butchered, slain by vicious hands and hacked into pieces, limbs and vital parts missing. Only as we moved on did I come to realise that the reason we had seen so few bodies was that the Reavers were taking them away with them. A small group of men backed out of the nearby drinking house, wielding an assortment of hand weapons with varying degrees of proficiency. The slowest were cut down by the Reavers at the front of the gang they were fighting with. A family were dragged into an alley close by, the children yelling shrilly as the bogymen they had never really believed in devoured their father before their eyes. Then, striding into the centre of the madness, a squad of Alliance soldiers. I had never been so happy to see armed men before. They could have sprung up from the ground and the sight of them could not have been more surprising to behold. They took firing stances and began to pick off Reavers wherever they saw them, and for a brief time it looked as if everything would be okay. People began to move towards them, looking for the protection they offered. Lord Richmond himself was weeping with joy upon seeing them. Then a shadow passed overhead and metal spikes, like harpoons, fell among them like deadly rain. Men fell and terror began to grip us all again. For his part, bolstered no doubt by the bloodshed and horror around him, Richmond rallied everyone to him and began to lead the way to the flat field such a short distance away, where his transport awaited us. I could see it begin to move slightly as itâ€™s engines began to power up, and by some miracle it remained as yet unmolested. Like a phalanx of troops from the ancient days of Earth-That-Was, we kept the young and the injured in our centre as those armed and able to protect them kept the enemy at bay. With every metre our foes fell around us, their deaths paid with the loss of more and more of our valiant defenders. The landing field became a killing ground. With no buildings around us the Reavers were able to come at us from all sides. Every step to the ship was paid for in blood. More lives were lost as Lord Richmond harangued his pilot into lowering the ramp, his voice filled with desperation as he endeavoured to save all our lives, not just his own. But it was my life Quigley saved as a Reaver dropped out of the sky like a stooping falcon, knives and teeth ready and eager to rend my flesh. I could clearly see the madness in his eyes, the blood on his face, and the marking I recognised as a tattoo on the skin of his ragged tunic. Quick as a flash, the bodyguard pushed me aside and met the attack with his fists, his pistol long since empty. As the ramp lowered behind me the two of them wrestled on the ground, growling like hounds fighting over scraps. Richmond grabbed my arm and exhorted me to follow him into the ship where we would be safe. I staggered back as townsfolk scrambled past me into the passenger section, watching the two men â€“ if man the Reaver truly was â€“ fought. Almost unbelievably, it was Quigley who prevailed, pulling himself to his feet to stand, victorious, over his fallen foe. As he turned, one of those vicious, barbed harpoons entered him, jutting out of his chest, slick with blood. My last view of him, before I was pulled into the ship, was of the bodyguard staggering, his expression one of confusion, before he crumpled to the ground. I write this now as our ship leaves Lucia far behind us, heading for a rendezvous with an Alliance cruiser. The personnel carrier the few soldiers that survived landed in is long lost, but it was sent out by that ship, the Nuremberg, to investigate reports of raiders operating in the area. Reports, as it turned out, of Reavers at work. The men and women around me, bloodied survivors of the Hell that had been their home, weep and curse. The soldiers keep to themselves, their own brand of talk harsh with words of vengeance. And Richmond thinks not of the factory he has lost, nor of the harm it may cause to his livelihood, but of the horrors he has seen and the lives that were lost because no one believed the stories were real. How will the population of Ariel receive this news? How will they react to the incontrovertible truth that Reavers are real? I can only guess. I hope they wonâ€™t dismiss the reports and newscasts that will soon be hitting the Cortex as hoaxes or the tales of uneducated bumpkins. When Lord Richmond adds his voice and his reputation to the rest I can not believe that the good citizens of the Alliance will disregard it so easily. And when the official military reports become available, and the press conferences start, no one will be able to doubt the truth. Once the truth is out, the Alliance will have to act to defend itâ€™s citizens from this terrible, inhuman threat. No government as moral and as dedicated to justice as ours could stand by and allow another child to be cruelly murdered when it could be stopped. There will be a new war, and it will be fought even more ardently than the War For Unification, for this time we will stand not against our misguided brothers and sisters but against the darkness itself, the darkness that exists within us all, waiting now at the edge of space. The weeping has lessened now as the good folk of Lucia bring each other comfort. I only hope we reach the Nuremberg before the most severely injured amongst us succumb to their wounds. This is Marcus Li, signing off. REPORT SUPPRESSED BY ORDER OF THE ALLIANCE PARLIAMENTARY COMMITTEE FOR PUBLIC SAFETY ___________ Let the critique commence <img src="http://www.musemart.com/my-plugins/bb-smilies/default/icon_gungho.gif" title=":rampage:" class="bb_smilies" /> Audrey on "*mutters about needing ... a title....* (originally by Lady of the Winds)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/mutters-about-needing-a-title-originally-by-lady-of-the-winds#post-91 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:16:32 +0000 Audrey 91@http://www.musemart.com/ Joy in life can be gained by the smallest things; a touch, a smell, a word. Anything can cause a good memeory to surface, and good memories bring joy. I guess that is why my world was shattered when I found out the one good memory I had was a lie. Since then, I have been trying to find my place in this dark world. Nothing here is what it seems. You have to watch your back or else you may end up as one of them. As it was, I was barely dodging Them. Like right now, I have three on my tail. Trying to stay in areas where there were lots of people was becoming harder and harder. I was fast approaching the end of the town. To try and double back, I dodged down an alleyway. Bad move. Two of them must have broken off last block back for two of them were ahead of me. Glancing back I saw the original three. Damn. Letting lose a shrill whistle I launched towards the slouching two figures in front of me and hoped for the best. Kicking low in the area of the knee of the left figure I launched over the one on the right and reached up as high as I could, praying Serric would catch me. As if right on cue, he caught my hand in his and soared high. His wings straining to carry us both. Looking back I saw what I feared would happen. They were taking off too. "Fly faster they are coming!" "I could if you weren't so damn heavy!" "So shoot me my bones aren't bird like yet. I'm working on it. You know I just found my wings not that long ago. I still haven't mastered the art of calling them at will ya know." There goes that happy memory of thinking I was full-human. That was an advantage of being part-human at least. I can hide my wings and pass as a full-human. However, at times such as these when they would be useful in a get-away, I have issues calling them. I am told that as the centuries pass, calling and hiding them will become easier. Concentrating on trying to unfurl my wings was hard. Being jerked up and down as Serric flew was one distraction, the other was knowing how close our demonic pursuers, the Derli, were getting. The Derli, how to describe them? With horns sweeping back out of their heads, from just above their ears, and their arms actually forming bat-like wings with their legs. They need to wear long cloaks to even attempt to pass as a human. With their horns, that did not often produce much luck for them. That, and the reddish tint to their skin when seen in daylight would be a dead give away. The avian people that I had just found myself apart of, the Ariol, however are more elegant and pleasant to look at. Their wings sprout from their backs, just over the shoulder blade. The wings and slightly pointed ears were the only things that makes them different from normal humans. Ok, so maybe my happy memory was not completely destroyed. It just kind of sucked that the man I thought of as my father really was not my father. That and realizing that when the man I thought of as my father dies, I would still have centuries of life left to me. I felt betrayed. Ah well, that is neither here nor there at the moment. More important things on my mind and all. Right. Calling my wings and making Serric's life easier. As I said, focusing was hard. I had to find my calm, inner self. The self that carries my wings. I have to admit that, that self is beautiful. She had my long black hair and emerald eyes, but none of my usual clumsiness. I called her forward to help me. Admittedly, it hurt. The feeling of wings sprouting through my skin. But then it at the same time felt good. Like stretching a muscle that has been in one position for too long. "Gain altitude!" I yelled as I felt the wings start to come forth. I was going to become extremely hard for Serric to hold in about two seconds and I needed the altitude to gain air under my wings before I came crashing to the ground. My yell was unnecessary for Serric had already felt the change in my body shape and started flying higher. Two seconds later he let go of me and I started a free fall to earth. Let me tell you it is an exhilarating feeling. However, I caught sight of the Derli chasing us and quickly opened my wings to stop my descent and glide for a while. That is another difference between the Derli and the Ariol. The Ariol are meant more for distance flying unlike the Derli who can fly for only a short distance. After about twelve miles, the Derli started falling behind. Their wing strokes becoming more and more labored, while Serric and I (well Serric at least) still flew strong. Truth be told, my back was really starting to hurt from the motion of muscles never before used. I just wanted to fall out of the sky. But if I did that, I might fall into the Derli's hands. Bad news for all there. See, anyone who falls into the Derli's hands loose their soul and become the Master's pawn. Being new to the Ariol and all, I was still relativley vulnerable. That scared my Ariol friends, for to them I was their "savior". Huh, well on that respect, they have another thing coming, never have I lead anyone. I spent most of my time trying to go unnoticed. Still, becoming a Derli was still a daunting thought. One I hoped would never come to pass. "Whew, that was close," I said over the howl of the wind we were flying through. "How did they know I was there?" "I do not know. How did your mission go otherwise?" "Pretty well, the town seemed to be fairly well prepared to fight against the Master should he return. Though..." I trailed off, unsure of how to say what needed to be said next. "Though what?" Serric asked slowly, hearing the uncertainty in my voice. "I don't think that the humans will be fully on the Ariol's side." "Well that is not unusual. There are a few humans who join the other side when the Master decides to rear his ugly head." "No, I am actually wondering if they were the ones that alerted the Derli to my presence. However, how would the humans know what I was. There is only one human who know, and I would swear on my life that he would not tell a soul." Actually there were two, my father and my childhood friend Mela. I could not keep the finding of my wings from her. I hoped they wouldn't tell anyone. How awful it would be to find out that my father or my friend, now that I found my wings, did not love me anymore. The thought that either one would turn from me hurt too much. But then... that is neither here or now. She said she would not hold that against me. A sudden spasm through my back brought my mind to the here and now. Looking down and back I could not see the Derli anymore. "Could we land now?" I asked a little plaintively. Audrey on "Lux Eterna: The World (Originally posted by Janus)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/lux-eterna-the-world-originally-posted-by-janus#post-90 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:15:19 +0000 Audrey 90@http://www.musemart.com/ This thread will be for all the descriptions of stuff that I post--which should be a lot :p. This is something that finally came out of my head yesterday (when I sat down to write other stuff... figures...). It's something I've been visualizing for a few months, as this building actually plays a part in an adventure story set in a world I'm creating. Part of the reason for this detail is that some day I want to create a MUD of this world, and this building will be in the MUD--each room will need to be described in detail, so this will help me later on create more exact descriptions. I've never tried to write a 'general' description of a building in this manner before, so I honestly don't really feel that great about how it came out--It's lacking something, in my mind. Critiques are extremely welcome . FYI (you can skip all of this if you want--just general world information): The City of Avindar is a fairly new city (few hundred years old) that's kept by the northern men, many of whom are decended from the first half-elves. The half-elves once ruled each of the twelve great cities (the Crystal City was one of those) but eventually all of those lines fell out of power, most during a period known as the Heretic's rule. The Heretic's rule is extremely important because it created a split. Before the rule, all people believed in Nahor, the 'true god', and the worship of Negeb (an evil spirit who was once Nahor's highest in command till he turned) was outlawed and his priests hunted down by the clerics of Nahor. Since then, the worship of Negeb has grown, and become no secret. Because of this, there are many truly powerful clerics that follow Negeb--few Clerics of Nahor now have the power to hunt them down, and in many areas there is a growing trend towards Atheism, and the people of those areas throw out any clerics/priests who attempt to kill eachother because they don't want the trouble it brings. Clerical magic of any kind is now often regarded as being a form of 'regular' magic, and as such is outlawed within the bounds of any city, and completely outlawed in a few kingdoms. The reason for magic of any kind being outlawed within cities is because of a very powerful mage named Christopher Vir Kori who, in an attempt to reunite all mages, overthrew the head of the Order of Mages--to do this, he had to enter the city of Manthillos by force, and he basically leveled the city using his own power, and also a large group of other powerful mages. Magic, as a general rule, is not all that powerful as a weapon of mass destruction, however Christopher Vir Kori was an incredibly powerful mage--by nature the most powerful ever known in recorded history. He also had several magical items he used to boost his power, and he actually killed quite a number of mages and stole their magical essence, further boosting his own power. Most mages might be able to cast five or six hand-sized fireballs before they were too tired to even walk straight, but Christopher, when he destroyed the city, started his attack by using a fireball twice the size of a house to take down the main gates and destroy a group of wizards waiting behind them to stop him. Because of this, any person seen, or suspected, of performing magic inside of a city or within a mile of the city walls, is usually killed by the guards instantly. Outside of cities, magic is usually considered highly dangerous and perverted, but is also accepted to a degree. The Fay people are also 'outlawed' now, and hunted down by almost everyone because most people believe that they are creations of Negeb--even many of the people who don't believe in Nahor or Negeb think that they are evil, however they do generally tend to be less biased towards the the Fay than most religious people are. Keep in mind that the Fay people have always been considered dangerous, and this belief that they're evil was actually spread by the priests of Negeb to further split the races and create chaos. Most of the Fay races have the ability to shapeshift, and as such hide themselves within human society when they have to--most refuse to, however. ~_~_~_~_~_~~_~_~_~_~_~~_~_~_~_~_~_~~_~_~_~_~_~~_~_ ~_~ Deep within the Ice Vale, far to the North of the boarders of the kingdom of Avindar, are the ruins of a great city. When Faylloth fell during the wars before the Hereticâ€™s Rule, it was a haven for the fay races, and was called the Crystal City. The entire city was dedicated to the White Lady by the High Priests of Nahor at the same time as the White City was. Much of the Crystal City was destroyed by the Heretic himself, and more has been destroyed by time, and the fierce northern winds that have erased all roads leading to the ruins. But some remains. The great cathedral, built in honor of the White Lady, still stands intact, nothing broken or touched save for the great altar. It is split in half now, with diamonds and jewels beyond measure and counted wealth lying scattered about the ruins of the dais. Built of the purest white marble, the cathedralâ€™s walls stand taller than ten giants, and the roof itself forms a shelter too high for all shadows to be dispelled from it by any light of the sun. Higher than the walls, towers and parapets rise towards the sky with gargoyles and kings alike decorating their niches and curves, some half hidden by the snow, others seeming untouched by the power of the Northern winds and storms. Greater than any other tower of the cathedral, and higher than any tower now remembered or created by man, the bell tower rears towards the sky like a great marble spear. Higher than the clouds, itâ€™s top vanishes into the mist and swirling snow during the frequent storms. On a clear day, it can be seen for miles. Perched atop it, the likeness of a great white dragon crouches with wings spread wide and head tilted upwards, as if ready to make the short leap from the tower into the stars. Inside, the great wooden doors, half as high as the walls, and wide enough to let fifteen men enter abreast, keep out all of the winter and are unmoved by the most powerful winds. Alone, a single man may open and shut them so cleverly are they hinged. A powerful wooden bar is commanded by mechanisms of chain and wheels, all set to turn at the weight of two massive stone blocks, and controlled by a single lever. Entering, the darkness is lessened in the day by the great stained glass windows. Each is split into three, with a large window that reaches nearly to the floorâ€”twice as tall as it is wideâ€”and a smaller one set ten handsâ€™ breadths above it. Above that is set a round window. Numbering in the hundreds, each window is crafted so masterfully that it seems almost alive with scenes of celestial battles, the births of races, and landscapes as beautiful as the famed gardens of the White City. At night, a pale light comes to life. Beginning as only a wisp of light hovering above the broken altar, it gains radiance as it climbs towards the roof of the cathedral. Fully formed, it hovers above the head and outstretched arms of a great tapestry depicting the White Lady. Shedding light enough to faintly illuminate the entire building, it wanes and vanishes with the rising of the sun. The building itself is set like a great staircase that leads up to the altar. One step leads from the door to a plateau, and then three steps lead to a second plateau. Lastly there are ten great steps leading up to the altar. Standing at the altar, all noise in the cathedral is softer. But a word spoken before the alter will be heard reechoing to the great doors. Winding around and between two great pillars, a staircase near the entrance doors leads to the choir loft. The loft has room enough--and more--for the greatest choir and set of instruments known in any kingdom to be set up comfortably. Elevated and set close together, four platforms of rich and darkly colored wood stand before the marble rail that runs across the front of the loft, and each is large enough for two humans to stand together, up above the heads of any but a tall man. If a soft word may be heard from the altar to the door, a whisper will reecho like ten voices from the platforms. Empty now, except for tapestries and the broken altar, legend alone remembers the pews, smaller altars, paintings, and richly decorated statues that once filled the cathedral. What happened to the richly carved and gilded works is unknown, save for rumors of theft and desecration. Forgotten it stands and waits, perhaps to regain the glory it once contained, or perhaps to remain till the end of time as only a memory in the mind of scholars. Audrey on "A History Of Lux Eterna: Grand Mage Christopher vir Kori (Originally by Janus)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/a-history-of-lux-eterna-grand-mage-christopher-vir-kori-originally-by-janus#post-89 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:14:30 +0000 Audrey 89@http://www.musemart.com/ Vallaria suggested that I should post this, so I shall. Keep in mind that this right here is a rough draft--I didn't have an intro, so I thought I would slap one together before heading to bed. I doubt that I'll leave it as it is... it could use some editing . Basically, I'm writing a history for a world I'm fleshing out. One of the characters, Christopher, is an important part of my world's history, since he changed the rules that allowed only rich nobels to study magic, and then threw out some of the most powerful Mages in the Order. After being thrown out, those Mages banded together and created a group called the Shaddiri. They began to recruit students--not just any students. They scoured the land for students with great magical potential, and the tests they put them through killed the weak ones. The Shaddiri became extremely feared and still are today. There are a few groups and guilds whose work it is to hunt down the Shaddiri. Some Shaddiri choose to hide who they are, while some simply rely on their training to keep them alive. More recently, it's become the practice of some rogue groups to ask for the assistance of the Shaddiri. A Shaddiri is never bought, or even paid--they choose their own alliances, under the guidance of a small ruling council. They are extremely powerful, and know magic that most Mages either refuse to learn, are not powerful enough to wield, or that is outlawed by their Order. In other words, one Shaddiri is usually worth two or three Mages in a fight. Recently (relatively :p), the Shaddiri have learned magic that allows them to take another person as a Guardian, imbuing that person with some of their strength and other unknown abilities in return for the Guardian's protection. In the year 387 A.F., Grand Mage Christopher vir Kori lead the Great Mage Rebellion against the Arch Mage Uritar Poth, temporarily splitting the Order of Mages into three factions, and destroying the fourth Great City, Manthilos. It is well known and documented that this destruction is what lead to the banning of all magic within the Great Cities, and eventully the head hunt for Shaddiri Wizards. The rebellion was not swift in coming, nor in healing, and though two of the factions rejoined in the end, the third left the Order of Mages forever. That rogue faction became the Shaddiri in time, and the blame for the destruction of Manthilos is generally given to them. Christopher vir Kori is well remembered by the histories as possibly the most powerful Mage that has ever lived. He was the only magic wielder powerful enough to destroy the magical protections around Manthilos, and he was responsible for bringing the two factions back together by usurping Uritar, though he failed in the end to bring back the Shaddiri. It is not known for certain if he truly attempted to rejoin them at all, or if he cast them out of the order for their destructive behavior. There are many legends and rumors about Grand Mage Kori, but the following have been gathered and patched together from what is made public of the Grand Mage's diaries... And on the legend goes, as you may read in any history book. An old, estranged friend of Grand Mage Kori's gave â€˜notable serviceâ€™ on the battle field. Because of this, Grand Mage Kori changed the acceptance requirements for studying to be a Mage. Once only the rich and powerful could learn, but now all may come to study. That law remains unchanged today. But the legend is a poor account... the true story is one of envy, arrogance, betrayal, and in the end, friendship. A story fit for any bard's tongue, and true to the last words. No matter how the Mages attempt to exalt the history of their beloved Savior, his true story is remembered by the descendants of those who felt his hand; in punishing and in healing. So come, and I will tell you the story of Grand Mage Christopher vir Kori, and his one time servant, Mage Padrick vir Arkon... ~*~ Audrey on "The Four Amulets (Working Title) (Originally posted by Tensen01)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/the-four-amulets-working-title-originally-posted-by-tensen01#post-86 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:12:45 +0000 Audrey 86@http://www.musemart.com/ Okay, so, a while back my friend Micah ran a campaign of the game system Burning Wheel... he created his own world and back story... it was an excellent game and all players involved enjoyed in emensly. Well, I found out recently that he kept notes about what was going to happen to us in the game and I decided to take those notes and what I rememberd and write out the campaign as a short story... (the other players also decided to do it and then see how the versions differed) Here's what I have of the prologue written, it's basically going to introduce my friends Dawn and Jeffs characters. I will then get to my character, who ended up being the focal point of the game... This section is the tale of the young warrior Joaquin and how he gets introduced to the events that take place in the game. All these events are purely extrapolation on my part as they never occured in game, I'm taking them from what Jeff said about his background and that of his peoples culture. Joaquin <img src="http://tn3-1.deviantart.com/fs8/300W/i/2005/358/6/f/The_Prologue___WIP_by_Tensen01.jpg" /> so here it is, the in-progress prologue to an as yet unnamed story... it's just the first section... more will be posted as I finish it. I didn't spell check this.... ********************* THE FOUR AMULETS PROLOGUE "FALL BACK!" the young man yelled from his vantage point atop his warhorse, sword raised above his head. It didn't take his small band of troops long to obey, the seemingly endless stream of Orcs coming through the pass being plenty of incentive. The man stood in his sturrips, making sure his men beat a hastey retreat. The Orcs were slow to respond to the temporary advantage, the mouth of the pass being near choked with the bodies of the fallen, man and Orc. A few Orcish arrows did follow the retreat soldiers, some hitting their targets and driving barbed tips deep into the soft flesh of those few unlucky souls. "TO THE HILLS!" the mounted man yelled over the din as one of the grotesque black arrows pierced his upper arm. The man gritted his teeth as he turned his horse and joined his men. More arrows followed the group but fell mercifully short. The soldiers made good time through the hills and woods that butted up against the pass. Only the young man on his horse had any difficulty navigating the dense woods, but he knew his route, had studied and rode the track numerous times. The sound of pursuing Orcs followed the men, the curses of creatures unused to forest travel echoing across the vale. A thunderous wave of gutteral yells and harse battle cries bearing down on the tired men. They kept on for what seemed like ages until the young man spotted the caern that he himself had set just that morning. â€œA & B, flank, C with me,â€ he ordered â€œjust beyond the treeline!â€ As the group broke into the small clearing that had been their camp they obeyed the shouted commands. Maneuvers theyâ€™d practiced for near on a week were executed flawlessly. The man rode to the far end of the clearing and wheeled his horse around, a third of his troops fanning out behind him. He raised his sword, his arm throbbing from the arrow wound, and waited. His head was light from loss of blood and his legs cramped from the flight, but he had to push on through it, had to see this through. Heâ€™d has worse in the course of this war against the evil of the east, besides, once this was done he could a much needed and much deserved rest. Or so he hoped. But all thoughts of rest, all thoughts of pain were pushed from his mind as the first Orcs burst through the woods into the clearing. Soon the whole horde was pouring into the space he had picked. Some of his men hesitated, wanting to rush the Orcs, wanting to meet them head on. But their common sense and trust of the man kept them from charging in to their deaths. â€œHold,â€ he said, just loud enough for the nearest to hear â€œhold.â€ But soon the Orcs passed the narrow and shallow ditch that had been dug, also that morning, and his sword came down in a smooth sweeping motion, â€œALAI!!!!â€ he yelled with all his force as his horse reared up at his command. At the shouted word arrows sprang from the forest on both sides of the clearing, slamming into the Orcs on the outside as the remainder of his troops crashed into the horde from the rear, effectively cutting them off from any possible retreat while the men still lived. But the Orcs near the head paid no heed to their dying fellows, they had their target and pressed on, towards the man an his small contingent. Again the sword rose, and wavered slightly as the pain struck him, but he stayed on his horse and stared into the eye of the nearest Orc. â€œC forward!!â€ he commanded as he spurred his horse towards the foul creatures. As he neared the forward most Orc his sword dropped, cleaving into the beasts skull, bone and blood spraying out from the wound as the creature dropped. His men also met this charge, both the front and the rear, fighting bravely, swords and axes slamming into the green-skinned horrors. The archers had moved out from the woods as well, firing their short bows until they had no more arrows, then drawing their shortswords and joining the fray. It seemed forever, but in only minutes the Orish horde had been reduced to a mass of green and red. But they had gone down fighting, for every Orc that lay in the clearing, two men also laid, dead. It was a hefty toll the men of the Insmarch had paid that day, but also was it a victory, something that was becoming ever more rare in the relentless war that was plaguing their land. And that alone made it a good dayâ€¦ KING ISMAEL stood, bent over the heavy folding table that took up nearly half the space in his black and gray striped campaign tent. Papers covered every square inch of the tablesâ€™ heavily scarred surface. Maps, reconnaissance, expense accounts, casualty reports, all the trappings of a typical war spilled over the edges. Though this war was far from typical. In a typical war you knew who you enemy was, who the leaders were, you knew their skill and strength of arms. You could guess when and where they would attack. In a typical war your enemy would give up, would fall back and regroup, your enemy would attempt to err on the side of caution. This was anything but a typical war. Ever since the darkness had taken root in the East a seemingly endless stream of Orcs. goblins and other horrible creatures had swarmed into the southern Kingdom of Insmarch, killing indiscriminately, attacking farms and villages with no concern for their own casualties. Most of the Kingdom now lay in ruin, once prosperous towns now infested with the evil denizens. The army of Insmarch, such as it now was, and what was left the Kingdoms citizens had been pushed further West and North, nearly to the edge of itâ€™s borders, the people having to abandon the lands that had been their homes for generations uncountable. â€œYour Majesty?â€ came a voice from the tent flap, pulling the King out of his reverie. He raised his head to look at the young page he had sent out yesterday morning, the young boy was soaking wet, his cloak carelessly thrown back, hair plastered to his forehead from the rain that fell. â€œYour Majesty,â€ the page said again â€œI found him.â€ The King straightened, easing his back as he spoke â€œWell bring him in then Elias, I didnâ€™t have you track him down and bring him all the way here so he could be left standing in the rain.â€ â€œYes, your Majesty,â€ the boy said hurriedly as he pulled aside the tent flap and motioned towards the King â€œYou may enter, sir.â€ The young man who had been waiting outside in the rain entered and pulled back his hood as he kneeled. His dark hair was tied back into braid that hung down his back, the braid was a little worse for wear, as were his clothes, travel-stained and in need of much mending, the left arm of his once nice wool coat stained crimson with once dried blood, now again wet from the rain, a bandage bulging out the stained coat sleeve. His riding boots were scuffed from much recent use, mud caking the heels, coating his spurs. â€œYou call, Sire, and thus I come,â€ the young man said, right fist pressed to his chest. â€œLeave us, Elias,â€ the King said, dismissing the young page â€œI must speak with this man alone.â€ The page hesitated, glancing at the kneeling man â€œLeave us, Elias, if I am not safe with this man then nowhere am I safe.â€ The page hesitated again but trusted his king judgement, and with a bow, fist to chest, he passed through the tent flap into the stormy night. The King watched the flap fall, shutting out the cold night. The King walked around the table, â€œStand up son,â€ he said as he gripped the young mans shoulder. â€œItâ€™s good to see youâ€™re okay, son,â€ he walked over to a small side table on which stood a battered silver pitcher, steam rising from it â€œYou look like you could use something to drink,â€ he filled two just as battered goblets â€œMulled wine?â€ he asked as he held it out to the young man. â€œThank you sire, yes,â€ the man said as he accepted the goblet. He held the cup but didnâ€™t not drink, â€œPardon my asking sire, but why am I here? I should be with my menâ€¦â€ â€œThey are no longer your men, son,â€ the king said, cutting him off, setting his goblet down, â€œIâ€™ve assigned a new commander. Amilcar has been dispatched,â€ The king held up his hand, forestalling the young mans objection â€œHe will be bring the troops back here to rejoin with the rest of the army.â€ He turned and shuffled through a sheef of paper on the table â€œAt which point we will be removing ourselves from the area and into the Western wilds,â€ â€œSire,â€ the young man interrupted â€œDo you mean to tell me youâ€™re withdrawing the army and the people from the Kingdom? Running to the hills and hiding?!â€ warm liquid spilled over his hand, the goblet now a crushed mass of silver in his tensed fist. â€œWhat Iâ€™m telling you, son, is that we are falling back and assessing our losses,â€ he took the ruined goblet from the young mans hand â€œWe cannot win this war, not alone, and every day we stay and fight more of my people die, people who I will need when we are ready to take our land back.â€ He set the goblet down and turned back to the young man â€œWhich is where you come in. You have the makings of a great commander, son, but right now I donâ€™t need commanders, I need reinforcements, I need people of like mind who will not only help remove this evil from our land, but take the war to the one in charge, and remove this darkness forever.â€ He sighed â€œBut I do not have those people here. I need you to travel into the other Kingdoms, and tell the people of our plight, warm them that if they do not act they will be next. The darkness has no concern of borders, it will spread until it covers the whole land. That cannot be aloud to happen.â€ â€œSire, Iâ€™m not a diplomat, Iâ€™m not a great speaker. Surely there are others better qualified for such a task.â€ â€œThere were, yes, but they were the first dead when the Orcs came, they tried, at my bidding, to reason with the creatures.â€ He picked up his own goblet and drank â€œBut even if I still had those men I would not send them. They were speakers, true, but they would not have been the ones fighting the creatures. They would know only of numbers, percentage of losses. You know what these monsters are capable of,â€ he motioned to the young manâ€™s arm â€œYou have seen first had their tenacity and their available power. Something a diplomat would not be able to convey.â€ He turned back to the table â€œYou are not the only one Iâ€™m sending, son. So do not think this war rests solely on your shoulders. When Amilcar returns he will be heading to the West, into Carnaciin. Perla will be heading to the South, into the Kingdom of the Serpent Sands. And Severo will be going with you, North, and then parting company and heading East, into Braile and the Elven kingdom.â€ The King stepped forward and placed his hand on the young mans shoulder â€œYou will then turn to the West, over the mountains into Uurland. Myself and the rest fo the forces will be following you." â€œIt will take time, Sire. Not just for the travel but for the mustering as well. The people will not be easy to convince. They will not care about something that does not yet threaten them.â€ The King squeezed his shoulder â€œThen you must make them see that what does not threaten the today will threaten them tomorrow, and the only way to keep themselves safe is to deal with the threat before itâ€™s upon them. Once an enemy is inside your walls the battle is all but over. You will not be doing this alone, I assure you. Myself and the rest of the forces will be following you within the week." The King paused "This is not an exile I go into willingly, but it is what must be done if we are to have any people left to rebuild later" He clapped the young mans shoulder â€œNow go, you have a lot of work to do to get prepared. You have a week to gather your supplies and choose which men youâ€™re taking with you. Choose eight who will accompany you.â€ *********************************** Comments please!! Audrey on "The Champion Returns (Originally posted by True)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/the-champion-returns-originally-posted-by-true#post-85 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:10:42 +0000 Audrey 85@http://www.musemart.com/ Elryia rode up and down the front line, surveying what stood before her. All had come out--elves, dwarves, gnomes and humans--but all seemed to have fear in their eyes, all seemed to lack hope. But it was only those who knew him--truly knew him--caried the most dreaded look of all; that of pain, that of loss. Graham The True was dead, and maybe with him any hope of winning this war. General Gerin stood across the way, a sick smile would be across his face if the vicious creature even had a mouth. His Cavalry lined up, ready to run rampant over the foot soldiers that Elryia had. There army would be no match, maybe if they had horses or had morale but they had neither. This would be a massacre, and Gerin knew it. Gerin knew that Graham was dead. The whole world knew. And maybe, with Graham, died the last glimmer of peace this world would ever have. Gerin actually wept when he heard of the champion's death. He had hoped to face him on the battle field, and now this victory would be far too easy. And Gerin, despite his black heart and tainted soul, was a warrior. He wanted a war, not an execution. Yet, they had come out, weapons in hand and paint on their faces--ready for a war that had been prophicized by every oracle given the gift of sight. This war would bring a thousand years of peace, or a thousand years of dark reign. Now, it seemed the latter was iminent. But no one could say they didn't try. For some, this war was a hope for peace, it was a hope for a better life, but for those that knew Graham personally--Elryia, Rist, Jeralyle, Lorlanyan, Rhimaldez, Gnert, Merial and Drogan--it was about something else. A wish, now a dying one it would seem, asked for by a good man and the greatest warrior they had ever known. Fight. Fight alongside me and you shall be free. Death or No. Elryia turned teary eyes to the sky, and whispered softly. "Freedom, my love. I hope you have found it." And the bright young girl rode up and down one more time, trying to motivate, trying to inspire, but all her inspiration was gone and now she was only going through the motions. Maybe, they had already lost. But they would fight--win, lose or death they would fight. Graham had taught them to do that, and they would honor his memory. Elryia was ready to let loose, let onward to the slaughter when Lorlanyan had raised his hand to pause her. "What... what is it?" Lorlanyan, like all the elves, had heard it first. The sounds of hooves. Hundreds, thousands of them marching behind the army. "Maybe... maybe something very bad." Was all he said, and turned to hear better. And soon they all heard it, and soon enough they would see it. A line of calvary nearly the size of that on the other side and they were marching right towards the army. Elryia stood fast, not moving, not even flinching but in her chest she was pounding and in her mind she was panicing. She flicked her eyes to Gerin, and watched him... still waiting. Was this what he had planned the whole time. Trap them, corner them so they had no where to run? They would never run, option or not, but like this they would truly be slaughtered. They got close, too close and still had yet to charge. And with every step their leader made, Elryia's tension eased. The Rider. Something about him familiar, something about him safe. It was only when they reached the back line and the rider bowed down to be let through, and he finally became visible that Elryia truly knew. His armor. The plates forming that of golden frozen flames about his body, the crimson cape wrapped about his shoulders. The stature, the poise. But one thing was different. The helmet, no longer was it that of a slited simple head, it was now that of a Great Dragon, horns reaching towards the sky and the eyes blarring a brilliant light. The mouth, she thought would breath fire, but all she heard was the calm breathing of a man. But was it the man, or just the armor? She wondered. The rumors were true. A Golden Dragon existed among them. A protector, a proprieter of peace and a symbol for hope. Rumors had spread. Many thought it to be a real dragon, others thought it a secret spread by Elryia and her companions to inspire some sort of morale. But now he rode before them, bringing with him a seemingly seasoned cavalry matching the one across the field. And with him, hope. Hope of winning this war, of ending this fight and ending the struggle. Along the line of now brightened faces he went, trudging slowly to the head of the army and the beautiful woman leading them. His hand raised to click the helmet off and release it from his head. And slowly those piercing green eyes looked up through the long brown hair and El's heart almost stopped in her chest. "Graham..." She almost leaped off her horse and onto his just to hold him, armor and all but she remained. There would be time for that later. But that didn't stop her from riding across, placing her horse next to his and kissing him upon the lips. "I have missed you." He whispered to her, staring into her eyes, the ocean and the forest. "I clawed my way out of that pit, traveled across the land and across an entirely different world. Fought monster and man, endured weather and landscapes just to tell you one thing." He leaned in and kissed her again. "I love you." He looked out upon the army and then back to her. "Let's win this war." The cavalary had slowly made its way up to the front and was working in, when Graham Clicked his helmet back on. "Stay here..." Came the echoing, booming voice from beneath the helmet. Like lightening he whipped across the flied, like a golden bolt they watched him, and right up to the General as though that bolt would strike him down. Everyone saw the fear when Graham took of his helmet and revealed his face, but only the elves, and those with superior hearing heard the one phrase that Graham barked at Gerin. "Massive Defeat!" Then Graham returned, helmet off as he strode across the line. His eyes turned toward a face. A nameless face that Graham picked out of the crowd. And Graham, with the most sincere look in his eye, as though they had been friends for years, asked him a question. "For freedom?" Graham asked, leaning a bit closer. The dwarf smiled a half-toothed grin and nodded. "For Freedom!" And onward, this time to a face that he knew. Lorlanyan, the most loyal elf Graham had ever met, nodded to the Champion. "Lor. For freedom?" The elf nodded, a tiny tear in his almond eyes. "For Freedom!" And onward he went, faces in the crowd, some he knew and some he didn't all asking them the question, until everyone was screaming it and Gerin turned his horse back and forth, more than a little uneasy. The Golden Dragon, then, rode up to the front and held his hand up to quiet them. But it was only for a second. Moments before, their eagerness was naught, but now it was overbearing, like stalking animals, like prisoners with their first taste of sunlight in years, they waited, waited for the command and the word that set them free. Graham himself felt a twinge, and felt the goosebumps. He could practically feel their morale beating upon his back, so he set them loose. He released them all with a word, and a drop of his hand. "Raaaage!" And that was all it took. All they needed to hear and they were set free. The hooves, the feet pounding the dirt and tearing across the field, morale blazing in their eyes, hope echoing from their mouths. The steely resolve of the returning champion spurring them on; The Golden Dragon scorching forward, driving onward to the freedom his people so rightly deserved. Gerin turned, tried to keep his horse steady and wait for the perfect time to attack but that time had past. That time had been long before True had shown up. However now, deep in Gerin's mind as well as those who stood behind him knew. It was over. It was over and it would not end they way they had all hoped. Only one man on Gerin's side would survive the onslaught. Only one. A man who would later write about it. The story would be seen in a different world, in a later time. The story would be twisted and turned, interpreted and mistaken but the root would remain the same. That man would speak of a rider upon a pale horse, and the hell that followed with him. Audrey on "The Birth of True (Originally posted by True)" http://www.musemart.com/topic/the-birth-of-true-originally-posted-by-true#post-83 Wed, 27 Jun 2007 13:09:40 +0000 Audrey 83@http://www.musemart.com/ Lathlogar. A name that instilled fear in anyone who spoke it. The demon that had plagued the kingdom of Highlace for too long. The demon that had used the king as no more than a puppet. The demon that sat upon the throne with no fear of anyone ever destroying him. Things change Long before, in a story worthy of its own telling at a later time, it had happened. An event unfolded that would set things right, set things free. And so now it was, King had turned to beggar, brave warrior turned to fleeing vagabond, running away from the demon with a woman, an unborn child and a faint glimmer of hope. The words of the Goddess Lornya still rung in his ears as he tried to drown out the cold. "Protect this child. If it costs you life or soul, blood or body, do not ever let this child come harm." That was enough for the King. He knew not what this child would bring, nor how important a role it would play, but when something, someone you worship pays a personal visit and designates you a role, you follow--no matter what the cost. They had travelled far from the kingdom, even far from civilization. The cold winters bit at their faces and every garment they wore was soaked and heavy. But they pushed on. The contractions had already started as the searched fervently for some shelter, any kind. And finally it came, like a gift from the gods, the moon blaring on a black hole, arched in rocks. A cave That would do. That would certainly do. And so onward they strode, King Rowen pushing Ashlyn on as fast as she was able to go, the drive and protection echoing in his eyes--almost at a frightening level. The door was blocked; the fire lit and Ashlyn lay there silent and calm. Sweating a bit more than usual, and quite strangly through the cold weather but Rowen comforted her as best he could. The birth was quiet, almost painless as Ashlyn made not a sound as the child was brought into the world. Just gripped the blankets around her, gritted her teeth and gave one final push. A cry was heard at first, the baby drawing it's first breath into it's lungs, but as the blanket was wrapped around it and it was laid into his mother's gentle arms, the baby lay silent and that mother wore a teary smile upon her face. "Do you have a name?" Rowen asked, trying to get a peek at the newborn. Ashlyn still smile "I've always liked the name Graham." "Graham... I like that." Ashlyn leaned down, kissing baby Graham on the head before looking at the man who had done so much to protect her and her child. "Would you like to... you know, hold him?" The King looked shocked at first. Was he deserving of something like this? To be looked at as a protecter rather than a pawn? But it faded the moment he caught glimpse of the child's eyes, and the king nodded, eager to hold a child for the first time in his long life. Rowen craddled Graham gently, seemingly a natural, and even teared up slightly as he saw something in Graham's eyes that he had not seen for a very long time: Hope. Though it was only when the blanket had fallen off of Graham's right arm did Rowen truly encompass the importance of every event that led up to this moment. He thought it, at first, blood but when he rubbed gently, the mark on the baby's arm remained and Rowen went a very deep pale. Ashlyn looked worried "Are you alright?" The king now stared at it. The mark. The mark that had donned the legandary armor for the King's Champion. A mark that spoke of peace, hope and prosperity. A mark that had long since given morale and ambition to troops; a mark that had made a kingdom legendary back when it was worthy of legend. The same mark that was on this child's arm now. Not a stain, nor a birthmark. An untouched, untainted symbol that the child would forever bare. And Rowen, for the first time, understood what this child meant. "I'm fine. Everything's going to be fine now."