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On The Pulse 1168 words http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=3790&title=On+The+Pulse crabrock fucked around with this message at 06:55 on Jan 1, 2016 |
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Jul 13, 2015 06:19
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http://writocracy.com/thunderdome/?story=3791&title=Heavy+Lies+the+CROWN+OF+BLOOD
curlingiron fucked around with this message at 22:45 on Jan 4, 2016 |
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Jul 13, 2015 06:54
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Family Business 1437 Words Power corrupts. Absolute power corrupts absolutely, but it rocks absolutely too. “Evan, put another log on the fire,” Edward said, “Our guests could be here any minute.” Evan looked up from his book. “You said that a half an hour ago, father. They’re late.” “Then it’s been true for half an hour. And don’t just throw the log in. You’ll get ash everywhere.” Evan slammed his book shut and complied. Not only that, his father noted, but he actually used the poker and stoked the fire as well. Typically, getting Evan to perform any household chore was like invoking the Wishing Well: you would get exactly what you asked for, undermined in every conceivable way. Once he finished his task, he returned to his book. His father couldn’t help but smirk as Evan struggled to find his page again With the fire glowing brighter, Edward focused on the third person in the room. “Are you comfortable, Lady Mahsa?” She smiled. Even with the additional light, her dark skin made interpreting signs difficult. Yes, Uncle. A Pause. But I am bored. “You have been very patient. If this job is everything we have been told, entertainment shouldn’t be a problem for much longer.” I hope so. Cousin Evan is excited too. “You are very astute, my dear.” Evan cleared his throat. His father had never taught him signing, but he had an uncanny knack for knowing when he was being discussed. Edward ignored the protest, keeping his attention on his niece. “Do you think your cousin is ready for the College of Mages?” He is talented. He could dress better. “Oh?” She held up her hand, making no symbol Edward recognized. It took him several moments to realize it wasn’t signing at all. He turned back to Evan, and only now noticed the faint glimmer of metal in the firelight. “Evan, why must you hurt your poor father so?” Evan, once more, slammed his book. “What is it this time?” he asked. “I would hope that a budding scholar would intuit that one wears rings on their ring finger.” Evan opened his mouth to reply when somebody finally knocked on the door. He quickly moved his ring to the proper finger and moved to answer the door. A tall figure dressed in a black cloak glided over the threshold. He did not remove his hood. Edward stood and approached his guest. “Welcome my dear friend!” he said, “Please, seat yourself by the fire. My boy can see to a drink for you. Some tea in this dreadful cold perhaps?” The client shook his head. “I’d rather focus on business.” Edward gave the slightest hint of disappointment. “Very well, I should be happy to discuss your grand designs. We share a common enemy it would seem.” “What do you know of my enemy?” “They stand between me and a future for these children. My boy Evan will be attending the College of Mages come spring, and their tuition isn’t cheap. My niece, Mahsa, deserves a proper dowry. I’ll kill anyone for the right price.” “And if what I hear is true, you’re quite good at it.” The client tossed a small bag. It landed in the center of the room, spilling golden coins across the floor. It was enough to feed a family well for a year, and two if they were stretching. “That’s half. You get the other half when every soldier in the city’s fort lies dead.” “Planning a rebellion then,” Edward said. Then, he looked to the floor. “You really could have handed me or one of the children the bag.” “Are you interested then?” Edward nodded. “The fort will be completely empty the day after tomorrow.” “That soon?” “Your timing happens to be very fortunate.” “So it would seem.” A pause. “I will accompany you. I would…appreciate seeing the fort fall for myself.” “I think we can accommodate that. I won’t take you all the way in, but you should be able to watch from nearby. Close enough to hear the screams, anyway.” “That’s will do.” “Good, there’s an inn on the edge of town near the fort. Meet there tomorrow night.” The client nodded, and without saying anything else, he left. Edward sighed. “Looks like I did my part. Time for you two to make this old man proud.” Evan smiled in spite of himself. Mahsa gave her uncle a big hug. --- The client had found the inn without incident. Edward was there. He greeted the man and took him up to a room he had rented out. Evan and Mahsa were there waiting. Evan was kneeling on the ground, holding a staff out in front of him. Wisps of raw magic encircled the boy. “And look here,” Edward said. “We have a window facing the fort. It is the perfect viewing spot.” Edward produced a bottle of wine. “We can relax and toast your victory in comfort and privacy.” “Aren’t you going in.” “Not I. I am too old for such things.” “Then, you have someone else.” Edward indicated towards Evan and Mahsa. “I have two others.” “Your children?!” “They’re already doing their part. Evan has given his cousin the perfect conditions for an infiltration.” Clouds had rolled in earlier in the day and had hung over the city. The moon was full tonight, but it would offer no light. “Your boy conjured this weather?” “He has. And my niece is not without her own talents.” Edward nodded in Mahsa’s direction. Immediately, she began to clap her hands together and stomp at the grown with her feet. The client couldn’t deny that something unnatural was happening, but he couldn’t quite place it. She clapped harder and stomped more emphatically, and it finally occurred to him. “There’s no noise!” Edward chuckled. “She made a curious request of the Wishing Well. She hasn’t made a sound since.” She was the perfect infiltrator, the client conceded, but he couldn’t help but doubt a single child’s ability to slaughter an entire fort. Edward picked up on his reluctance. “She has other abilities, as I’m sure you’ll see before the night is through. But now, I think it is time for her to get working. The night won’t last forever.” Mahsa nodded. She bowed to the client, and gave her uncle and cousin each a quick kiss before opening the window and leaping out into the night.” “And now,” Edward said, “we wait.” He uncorked the bottle of wine and poured three glasses. He handed one to his client and placed one beside Evan. He took the third for himself and began to drink.” “Your niece looks nothing like you.” “She is prettier. Though I suppose your getting at her lineage. My sister married well, but she found she fancied one of her husband’s Chamian servants. Mahsa was given to me, and my sister’s husband was told his child was stillborn. He would discover the truth though, and killed my sister and her lover.” “Ah.” The client chose to sip his wine as well. “And the Wishing Well. Something to do with losing her parents.” “The poor girl was stricken with grief. She invoked the Well for the power to take revenge on any who hurt her parents. That night, she tracked down her mother’s killer and slaughtered him and his whole estate. She came to me the morning afterward. I think she was trying to tell me what happened. That’s when I taught her the signs. “I see. So the silence is a curse then?” “I don’t think the Well deals in curses and blessings. I think she got her wish, and I think she is happier than most who make a wish.” From outside the window came a scream. “I guess it is time to start then. Give your cousin some light, Evan.” The magic swirling around Evan shifted. Outside, the winds howled with the force of a gale. Within minutes, the moon was shining over the city. “Ha! I’m not even sure why you need the College Evan!” Edward said. “You’re world class, boy.” Evan nodded at the complement, and took the glass of wine his father had poured for him. Edward turned back to their client. “Well then, we wait” “That’s it then?” “Be grateful you don’t have to wait longer. The moon just happened to be right.” A few more screams and shouts sounded out from the fort. Evan made a gesture with his hand, and a gentle breeze blew in towards the window. Now downwind, the screams were easier to make out. “I do think she loves what the Well gave her, but I think she would be happier if she could howl.”
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Jul 13, 2015 07:27
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The Cost of Good Ale - 1439 Words The guild accountants take issue with some of your party's more questionable expenses Otto Crot stood in front of the Chatty Heron, a barnacle-encrusted ship and most recent arrival in the port city of Novon. In his hand was a contract to slay a necromancer that had established a base of operations nearby. His first real mission, his chance to prove himself. The wooden pier creaked under the weight of Otto’s gilded armor and his fine red cape billowed with the ocean’s breeze. Etched in the armor was the sigil of the Adventurer’s Guild – two swords crossed. Otto’s thin frame and small muscles did not fill out the armor and he occasionally had difficulty walking in it. Now was one of those occasions. The armor clanked awkwardly as he approached a man wearing a simple leather jerkin with a small lute strapped on his back. The man was unloading barrels off of the Chatty Heron and placing them beside an already huge pile of barrels. “Sir, I am Officer-in-Training Crot with the Adventurer’s Guild. There are two agents of the Guild aboard your vessel. As a member of the Guild, I command you to enter the vessel and retrieve them for me.” The stranger smiled warmly at Otto, “I’m afraid I can’t do that for you, Officer-in-Training Crot.” The confidence Otto had summoned disappeared. He said, “What, what do you mean? You have to help me.” “It’s the gods’ truth, I simply cannot do as you ask,” the stranger said as he grabbed another barrel and rolled it onto the pier. “You better have a good reason!” A third individual, covered in a dark brown robe, stumbled towards Otto and the stranger. Otto gagged at the smell of liquor which wafted from this new nuisance. “Mel, why’s this boy bothering us?” said the drunk. “Boy? I’ll have you know I’m an Officer-in-Training with the Adventurer’s Guild!” “You got to be kidding me, this is the officer?” asked the robed stranger. “No, I believe it. Amor’s still shiny and everything,” said Mel who continued to unload barrels. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ll go get them myself and you can expect I’ll see your captain punish you for your infractions.” “You’re not going to find them in there,” Mel said with his ever-present smile. Exasperated, Otto turned to look at both of them and at last noticed the frayed and mostly covered insignia of the Guild stitched on both strangers’ garb. “You’re agents Colly and Brook?” Otto asked. “I prefer Mel myself,” said agent Colly, “and he prefers Donny. At your service, officer.” Mel overly bowed. Donny hiccupped. “Look at the condition of your sigils,” said Otto, “which is to say nothing of your disgusting clothes. And what are you doing with those barrels?” “It’s ale,” said Donny. “More specifically, it’s our ale.” Otto’s mouth involuntarily opened. “You bought two dozen barrels of ale?” “Two-dozen and one,” said Mel, “But we only have twenty left now.” Otto’s voice cracked. “Why?” “Idiots at the alehouse,” complained Donny, “I wrote two-dot-five, two-and-a-half barrels. Just wanted to make sure we had enough for the trip out here. It’s a long boat ride.” “I think you might be misremembering, friend, just how much you had to drink before filling out that paperwork.” Mel laughed Donny shook his hand in the air dismissively. “What are you going to do with all of it?” asked Otto. “Drink it.” “As a long-term plan, that’ll work. In the short-term, I suggest we trade a few with an alehouse. We need to store these somewhere and we could probably get a room for a couple of these.” “Well, that couple is coming out of your half of the barrels.” “Wait,” said Otto, “Why are you going to just give some of the ale away. The alehouses have to accommodate us.” “I bet we get a nicer room my way.” Otto was beginning to really hate that smile. - - - - - Inside The Mermaid’s Shell, the tavern closest to the docks, Otto sat with his arms crossed while looking out the window of his spacious, rented room. Donny pulled out a few copper coins from his bag. “Anybody else want a mug of ale?” “You have 18 barrels that you haven’t touched yet and you’re going to buy some ale?” asked a confused Otto. “Maybe theirs tastes better,” said Donny before leaving the room. “I cannot believe you two. You’re disgraces to the Guild! At least that mage has an excuse of being drunk all the time. What’s yours?” “First, I think Donny is an Illusionist, not a mage. Second, if they thought we were so awful, I doubt they’d keep giving us contracts. And as long as they’re paying us, I know I’ll keep working. Gods know we need gold now more than ever.” “What do you mean?” “That ale. Not like we had the money to pay for all that upfront. Had to put it on our Guild account.” “What?! You can’t do that! That’s misuse of Guild funds!” “Well, we did. And I know those bean-counters are going to send a couple of Guild members our way if we don’t pony up the money they’re asking for.” “Why even bother paying for it? You can just take whatever you want.” “I don’t know if we see eye-to-eye on that.” “As your commanding officer, I demand you report yourself to the headquarters immediately and turn yourself in.” “That isn’t happening, officer.” Donny entered the room then with an already half-empty mug. “Theirs is not better,” he said frowning. - - - - - Standing on top of the necromancer’s recently built tower, Otto reflected on the various tomes he studied in preparation for his paladin exams. He knew that the black candles the necromancer lit were critical to his dark resurrections and that, in order to weaken the fiend, the candles must be extinguished all at the same time. Mel remarked that they happened to have an ample supply of liquid available to them. Donny asserted that Mel had a certain supply of liquid that was distinct from Donny’s supply. After much cajoling on Mel’s part (and promises of rare liquors from exotic lands in future excursions), Donny begrudgingly accepted the plan and donated all but one of his barrels to the team. Otto looked down from the tower at the mindless undead villagers wandering below. Their existence made him feel sick. What a perversion, he thought. The next afternoon, the trio exited the necromancer’s tower. Ale covered each of them from head to toe. Mel and Otto displayed triumphant smiles. Donny sucked on his robe, drawing what ale he could from it. The again-dead residents lied around the tower. Otto kneeled before one and began removing items from it. “Kid, leave the bodies alone,” said Mel. Otto looked up and noticed, for the first time, that Mel wasn’t smiling. “How else can we pay off the debt? This stuff is ours by right. Guild policies clearly state-“ “Open your eyes, Otto,” said Mel who was looking towards the city. Otto followed Mel’s line of sight to see the scrutinizing eyes of dozens of villagers slowly approaching. An unseen lump climbed into Otto’s throat. “Ladies and gentleman; please be aware that we have subdued the threat. And as, uh, as is stipulated by the contract your lord made with the Guild, we are claiming property that is within our, within our right to, to.” His words faltered. Otto felt their eyes staring into his heart, reaching into him to see something. Otto cleared his throat and then felt Mel grab his arm from behind. “Let’s go.” As they walked away, Otto turned back to see the villagers gather around their families and friends. He heard hushed prayers. - - - - - In their rented room, Mel and Donny looked over a pile of contracts they could potentially take. Otto sat in the corner, watching them. “I’m betting we could take on a dragon if we had to,” said Mel, “It would be enough gold to settle up our debt.” Donny sipped at his drink. “I don’t like those chances. Better to keep taking on the manageable stuff and hope the accountants don’t catch on to what we did.” Otto, who had been quiet since the night before, said “I know where they keep the account records at headquarters, you know. If we get the right supplies, and with the right illusions, we could probably get in there. Fix some things.” Mel, with his lips widening to a smile, said, “I don’t think the Guild would look too kindly upon someone doing something like that.” “Augh, the Guild can burn in the lava rivers of the fire plains!” “Yeah,” said Otto, "What Donny said."
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Jul 13, 2015 07:29
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Submissions are closed.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:30
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...In 30 minutes.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:30
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New Year, new thread!
Killer-of-Lawyers fucked around with this message at 18:52 on Jan 4, 2016 |
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Jul 13, 2015 07:40
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Skinness (1005 words) Story must contain skeletons. *snip* See Archive Grizzled Patriarch fucked around with this message at 18:00 on Dec 30, 2015 |
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Jul 13, 2015 07:40
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Okay, Who Killed the Healer This Time? 1407 words As a man who spent a fair amount of his time deceased, Alexander had specially commissioned his coffin from one of the finest craftsmen in the land to have both comfort and style. However, as Laure’s party dragged it through the desert, she couldn’t help but wish that he had included wheels on the thing. “I was gone for three days”, she griped. Mikhael and Sara exchanged a glance and shared a heavy sigh, but Laure ignored them. “Three days! I even gave you your shares of the bounty early so that you could enjoy yourselves in town and maybe, just maybe, be less tempted to do something idiotic and get our healer killed! It’s hardly been a week since the last time we had to drag his sorry carcass to the church.” “Excuse me, commander?” Danwyl hesitantly spoke up. “I hardly believe it myself, but twas Alexander’s work that brought us into this mishap. For once.” He shot Sara a pointed look, who responded with a hearty thumbs-up. "I pray you’ll learn your lesson, but the gods seem to be turning a blind eye." Danwyl muttered under his breath as Mikhael gave Sara a surreptitious high-five. "Enough. I am not in the mood for your idiocy right now." With a grunt, Laure heaved up the coffin and balanced it on one of her broad shoulders. "You three will tell me everything that happened while I was away, and if I'm not satisfied with your answers, I'll bash your heads in with Alexander's luxury coffin." "Yes'm!" Sara said, saluting sharply as she hid behind Mikhael. - As half-orcs lack much of a sense of smell, it had been an easy decision to send Laure off to deliver the troll lord’s decapitated head to their client. “Why do they always ask for the head?” Alexander asked, removing the clothespin he had clamped on his nose. “I suppose it makes for a good trophy, but we’re adventurers, not taxidermists. It will be rotten before our fearless leader can even return it.” He was a frail, almost skeletal man who nevertheless had the air of a nobleman about him; clad in the traditional cloth robes of a healer. “Nah, there’s tons of reasons to own a troll skull.” Sara said, idly swinging her legs as she sat on Mikhael’s shoulder. “Like, hiding it in the homes of people who owe you money, or using it as a cool mask!” It had been difficult, finding a supplier who carried pixie-sized equipment in their stock. Sara’s leather armor had many convenient pockets to store poisons, or loot snatched from the pockets of unwary marks. Mikhael nodded cheerfully, very much for the acquisition of cool masks. He was a man of no words and no tongue, but neither stopped the monk from crushing foes with his bare hands, a delighted grin on his face all the while. He kept Alexander’s coffin strapped to his back, thinking that the added weight would help him train his strength. “Many a potent brew makes use of troll bones.” Danwyl offered. No one knew why the elf insisted on wearing an impractically tall wizard’s hat, and everyone with the courage to ask was turned away with an impossibly verbose explanation. “I presume our work has fattened the pockets of an apothecary. Together, the crew pondered the motivations of their client. - Laure spat. “An apothecary? No, the man who hired us was a bard. His “artistic vision” required a troll skull, and the molded imitations weren’t authentic enough. He explained this to me in great detail. I had to subtly kick down the door in order to excuse myself.” “How tragic, that such a powerful beast be laid low, only for its remains to be displayed in a mummer’s farce. Were we right to do such a thing? Were we-” Danwyl began to rant before Sara cut him off by shoving his hat to the ground. As the wizard sputtered in outrage, she irritably flew circles around Laure’s face. “Boss, you wanted us to tell ya the story, so no interruptions, okay? Eep!” Sara barely dodged as Laure lazily swatted at her with Alexander’s coffin. “Continue, then.” - The child approached Alexander first, nervously tugging on his sleeve. “Excuse me, m-mister?” Alexander tore his gaze away from his companion’s vehement debate on which pub to visit first; finding himself eye to soulful eye with the girl. “Yes, child?” “It’s j-just, you and your friends seem so strong and p-powerful, and… my puppy wandered into a cave and it’s super scary in there but he’s all I have and please! You hafta help him!” The commission had drawn the rest of the party. “Sorry, kid, we don’t work for free-” Sara started before Alexander irritably swatted at her. “Of course we shall help you find your dear companion!” He said, chest puffing out with pride. “Why, it is the duty of any who would call themself “hero” to aid those who are in dire need! We shall return your beloved pet, unharmed!” “Thank you! I’ll show you where I lost him!” Their new client said. She skipped as she led the reluctant heroes outside the city gates. “You can’t use mutts to buy booze.” Sara sighed, dejectedly fluttering along. Mikhael gave her a sympathetic pat on the head, but was otherwise thrilled. Any chance to flex his skills was fine by him. - “Another example of man being laid low by foolish, noble pride.” Danwyl observed. Laure had dropped the coffin, much to the delight of the three - and directed them to carry it, much to their despair. Sara sat on Mikhael’s head, offering him encouraging shouts. “You’d think a healer wouldn’t be so stupidly sensitive about his lack of bulk.” Laure said, giving the coffin a kick for good measure. - The cave was, as promised, super scary. Mikhael lead the way, reflexively lashing out at shadows. Sara nervously flew about, scanning the ground for any signs of the wayward pup. Danwyl and Alexander brought up the rear, each carrying a torch. Danwyl’s hat brushed up against the roof of the cave. A small but rapidly flowing stream ran alongside them. “Ah, it feels good to be doing this.” Alexander said, still frustratingly upbeat. “Adventuring in the spirit of pure altruism, helping those in need! Yes, this is the life!” Danwyl shot him a dirty look. “Shaddup for a second, I think I hear something.” Sara said, swooping ahead of the group. She returned a minute later, flying in a panicked circle. “Found the puppy! Also, lots of skeletons. Like, a whole graveyard full. They’re coming this way!” She quickly made herself scarce. There was a lot of skeletons. The party took their combat stances. While Mikhael punched skulls clean off their bones and Danwyl called upon the air to blow them apart, Alexander dove to save the puppy, who gave him a grateful lick. His coffin was knocked clean off Mikhael’s back, landing open on the ground. “Fear not, fellows! I have recovered the erstwhile pup!” Alexander cried, only to draw the attention of several skeletal warriors, turning their eyeless gazes to face him. Before his companions could aid him, the undead fiends ran him through. “I can’t fail… not here...” Alexander gasped, clutching the dog close to his chest. He took a few faltering steps forward before collapsing to the ground, falling face-first straight into his own coffin. The impact caused the lid to slam shut, sealing him in. As Danwyl fended off an attack, he stumbled backwards over the coffin, sending both him and it into the river. “Wretched fool!” He managed to shout before the current carried them away. Mikhael and Sara exchanged a glance, shrugged, and then jumped in after him. - “...So those two held on to the coffin to stay floating, and I just flew, obviously. We followed the river until it spat us out of the cave, at which point we returned the puppy unharmed to its penniless owner.” Sara finished, casually riding on top of the coffin. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, and I’m not sure why I expected anything else.” Laure groaned. “All in favor of bashing Alexander over the head with his own coffin once we revive him?” “Yep!” “Indubitably.” Mikhael nodded vehemently. “The motion passes.”
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Jul 13, 2015 07:44
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Total Party Kill WORD COUNT: 674 FLASH RULE: Your Druid's nudity helps it communicate with nature, but the rest of your party isn't so convinced. “Look, I’m not sure how you think I’m okay with this. We’re in hostile territory, it’s freezing, we have no idea how we got here,” Greg shivered as the wind picked up again, “So why, good friends, do you think I would choose to be naked?” “I’m just saying you haven’t exactly jumped at the opportunity to take the clothes we offered.” Summer’s words were cheerful, they didn’t do anything to make Greg feel warmer. “I told you it doesn’t work for me.” Greg sighed, “In order to keep my link with,” he paused, “I’m struggling to find an appropriate swear for this frozen wasteland. Point is I can’t be clothed, at least not if we want to find someplace to sleep tonight.” “That’s what you say, I think you’re just showing off.” Thor’s voice was painted with a thin coat of bravado, an obvious attempt to hide the jealousy beneath. Greg was too cold to notice or care. “Showing off? What would I be showing off? My ability to complain about the cold, or how about my new-found ability to just ignore frostbite because my lips are chapped and cracking and feel so much worse than any of my extremities are capable of. If not then maybe-” Summer cut him off mid sentence, “I think he was more or less referring to your giant,” she paused and her face twisted in agony as she searched for a polite way to put her next sentence. “You can say it, my-giant-magical-compass-dong.” Greg looked down at his penis, frozen solid and pointed ever to the North, “It’s not a blessing by the way Thor, It’s a curse, a frozen, wind-chapped, shriveled curse. Be glad you’re in furs.” “Someone’s a droopy druid.” “No, I’m just cold, and cranky, and mad...at you.” “What did I do?” Summer was indignant. “This is your fault.” “Please, elaborate how I’m responsible for your poor decisions when character creation.” “Normally when you bring ‘enhancements’ to game night they’re things like pot-brownies, or mood music, or incense and candles.” “So you’re upset I like to add immersion to the campaigns I run?” Because that seems reasonable.” Greg could hear he was getting under his friend’s skin, but after the past three days spent freezing they deserved it. “No, I’m upset that the enhancement you brought this time sucked us into another dimension and is forcing us to play through one of the most difficult Pathfinder campaigns ever put together.” “Well I’m sorry, I didn’t know it was going to do that.” The words came with a stiff upper lip. Summer was at her breaking point, and Greg was too blind to see it. “Guys, please stop arguing.” Thor’s voice was drowned out by the argument of his friends. “How could you not? You BOUGHT IT AT VOIDMART.” “Well I’m sorry okay, I didn’t think that something labeled ‘Voidmart™ Gaming Immersion Pyre’ was capable of soul theft, and I’m sorry I didn’t read the instructions on how to get out of it. Mostly though, I’m sorry that I invited such a whiny power gamer into my campaign.” “Guys…” Again Thor went ignored. The words hurt Greg, he knew they were true. “Scratch that, mostly I’m just sorry that you can’t appreciate how AWESOME this situation is. We’re basically in freaking Skyrim and you’re finding something to complain about.” “Please stop fighting…” No one heard the fear from Thor’s voice. “Okay, you know what, it’s awesome, I’ll admit that. That doesn’t mean I can’t moan about my Dragonborn shriveling up and freezing off. So I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude.” “Thank you, I’m sorry I got us stuck in the Frozen Wastes when you were playing a character that can’t wear clothes.” “I’m glad we got that out of the way.” “Me too. Hug? It might warm you up a bit.” “Sure.” “I don’t think you’ll need a hug to warm up. The fight will probably do that for you.” Thor said, as the dragon landed on the road ahead of them.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:52
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The Missing Lord 1522 words A serving girl approached a pair sitting at a tavern table, “Haven’t seen you two in here before. What’ll you have?” “Well then, allow me to introduce us,” the man said, gesturing theatrically, “I am Daren and this is my wife, Keila. We arrived in Covina but three nights ago and are looking for mercenary work. Keila is an expert tracker and no woman alive is better with a bow. I, on the other hand, am a man of many talents. Would you happen to know of anyone in need of our services?” The serving girl managed a puzzled look in reply. “I suppose not.” Daren continued, “How would you like a job?” “A job?” “Why yes! To start, bring us two tankards of mead.” He leaned in but made little effort to lower his voice, “And you may later continue to bring them to the room I have rented upstairs.” Flushed with embarrassment, the serving girl glanced at Keila before hurrying away. “Pathetic attempt,” Keila said, punching Daren in the arm. “Not my best, but I’ll catch up,” he replied. “Never happen.” While waiting for their drinks, the moment Keila dreaded arrived. Four well-armed palace guards entered the tavern and approached. Rumors about Daren’s past as a second-story man had caught up with them again. Expecting to be driven from Covina, Keila was surprised when the guards presented a letter to Daren. Daren and Keila Spire: Lord Salvar Blackridge invites you to his palace to discuss a private matter. The presence of the guards made the letter a demand, not an invitation. ***** The guards escorted Daren and Keila into Lord Blackridge’s solar. Lord Blackridge sat in a chair, a chamber pot at his side. He waved the guards away. “Lord Blackridge,” Daren said, beginning his theatrics, “this is Keila, and I am—“ “I know who you and your lowborn wife are, wayward son of House Spire.” Lord Blackridge coughed and spit humors into the chamber pot. “Unfortunately I am in need of your kind, but I cannot tell you the details until you accept. Just know that it is dangerous, pays well, and discretion is a requirement.” “We accept,” Daren said. Lord Blackridge struggled to speak. “My son, and sole heir, disappeared. I have reason to believe he was abducted by the Cult of Cancri. My health complicates matters so I have trusted few with the knowledge of my son’s abduction. If word were to spread, Covina’s merchant ‘sealords’ might attempt to overthrow my rule. I would trust outsiders with this task before my army.” Daren took a step forward and bowed, “I fail to see the how we are meant to deal with the cultists. Keila could track them, but they are known warlocks. I am afraid we—“ “Did you think I hired only you?” Lord Blackridge said. ***** Daren and Keila arrived separately at the outskirts of Covina to find a man and woman waiting for them. The man stood a heavily muscled seven feet, wore exquisite plate armor, and had a great sword slung across his back. An open-faced helmet revealed his unappealing face with a scar extending from his mouth down his chin. The woman’s face was well-featured, but her brown hair was a tangled, mess. She wore a plain brown shift that failed to hide her unhealthily thin body. Tucked into her rope belt was a sculpture made of wood and bone. The sea caves where the cult made their home were some distance from Covina. Daren and Keila spent much of the first day getting to know their allies. Daren efforts earned a name from the giant, Johann, and that he was the trusted captain of Lord Blackridge’s guard. “I have never seen armor such as that Johann. How did you come by it?” Daren said. “I have never seen a man carry a hundred feet of rope and three daggers, but I do not ask him why.” Johann said. “The rope is for climbing.” Daren drew two daggers with a flourish. “These two are ordinary daggers, but this,” he said, sheathing a dagger and drawing the third, “is a sword-breaker.” “I did not ask.” Johann said. Keila’s attempts to learn about the woman were even less successful. “What is your name?” she asked. “You may call me witch, many do,” the woman said. The rest of Keila’s questions were met with silence. Night fell and the group made camp. The cold sea air made the night miserable, but Keila used it as an opportunity by sitting next to Johann. His cleverly constructed armor had let him strip to his gambeson without any help. She leaned on his quilted shoulder, “I’m cold.” Daren watched Keila’s theatre with mounting frustration. She risked exposing their relationship to the others, but, more importantly, she reminded him of how poorly he played the game. Daren was about to concede when Johann, with considerable force, tossed Keila off his arm. “Not interested.” Johann said. Daren could not resist the urge to laugh while Keila, slightly embarrassed, picked herself up moved to the other side of camp. She took the first watch in what was an otherwise uneventful night. In the morning, Johann armored himself without help while Daren and the witch packed camp. Keila scouted and came back having found the trail of the cult. While they followed her lead, Daren tried to learn more about the witch. “Even witches must have names. Don’t tell me, I have a knack for these things. Mildred? Agnes? No, Gertrude? I have it, Ursula.” Each name brought more annoyance to the witch’s face. “Selene,” she relented. “Now there is a name that matches your beauty, what was I thinking?” Daren smiled and Selene returned it. “Curses and hexes are the specialty of witches?” “Yes.” “So should any curses result of our partnership, you would be able to lift them?” Selene found Daren’s attention irresistibly charming, but an arrow whistled between their heads interrupting their conversation. Selene drew her charm and brandished it at Keila, “Marae sc—“ Daren clasped his hand over her mouth and knocked the charm from her hand. “I’m terribly sorry Selene, but you have been a victim of a game my wife and I play. We compete to the other jealous and that was Keila’s way of telling me I have earned a point.” The trail led Keila to a cliff face. Keila put finger to her mouth then whispered, “The trail continues around, but they are in a cave above.” “We climb,” Daren whispered. Daren deftly scaled the cliff face freehand. He found an anchor and tossed his rope down for the others. Selene struggled to make the climb, while the armored Johann expended minimal effort. The sea cave expanded into a cavern, where the group found and carefully observed the cultists. There were only five of them, but two hulking crab beasts followed them as they moved. A boy was strapped to an altar. Selene broke her silence. “The two with the crabs are warlocks, I can suppress their magicks, but the crabs will become untethered and wild.” Selene casted a hex, disrupting the warlock’s spells. The crabs stopped moving and the cavern filled with confusion for a moment before mayhem broke out. The warlocks tried in vain to regain control of their thralls. One crab grasped a cultists’ leg in its claw, pulling him off his feet, before severing it. Keila fired a barrage of arrows, killing three cultists. Johann charged into the fray and drove his great sword through the shoulder of a cultist, burying it to the sternum. Daren approached the unoccupied crab but found its lateral movement too quick to get behind. He readied his climbing rope in an attempt to tangle the crab’s legs, when Johann appeared behind the crab and smashed through its carapace with a heavy blow. The remaining crab, content with dismembering the cultist, remained oblivious before suffering a similar fate from Johann’s sword. Johann freed the boy from the altar and called out, “Check him witch.” Selene knelt over Lord Blackridge’s son, inspecting him for harm. “Don’t!” Daren yelled, but his plea went unheeded. Johann, in a single motion of his sword, killed Selene and the young lord. “When did the sealords buy you?” Daren asked. “How?” Johann asked. “I have never known a captain of the guard who could afford mythril armor.” Daren said. Daren drew his dagger and sword-breaker. Keila tried to move into a position where she could get a shot at Johann’s exposed face, but he continually repositioned himself so Daren was always between them. Johann lunged at Daren who nimbly pirouetted, parrying the attack. The sword-breaker caught Johann’s blade, but sword and wielder were too strong, and it wrenched itself from Daren’s grasp. Now with his back to Keila, Johann felt the sting of an arrow hit below his shoulder. He turned to charge Keila, but Daren jumped on his back and drove a dagger under his helmet and into his skull, killing Johann. Daren looked around at the carnage surrounding them, “Do you think Lord Blackridge will still pay?”
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Jul 13, 2015 07:58
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Trouble's Toll 1495 words Your party has been accused of a most heinous crime. In order to clear your names, you must apprehend the true culprit. Six months I’d been an innkeeper. Since Dad died. Six months, but I already knew what trouble looked like. Trouble was three sopping-wet mercenaries washing up on my doorstep in the middle of the night as the Queen’s Storm dumped oceans of rain across the entire realm. I recognized the trio. Thanks to the wanted posters hung on every corner, there wasn’t a soul in the realm who didn’t know of Kayelle, Cintrine, and Jalek. Even in a remote, nameless border town like mine. Word was, the three mercs got ideas above their stations and stole the queen’s scepter, which was said to be the source of the royal family’s magical dominance. And there they were, on my doorstep, trying to hide their faces beneath their cowls, while outside the royal tantrum threatened to flood the whole country. I said, “why, yes ma’ams and sir, I do have two rooms, as it happens. They’re going at the unbeatable price of four gold pieces each.” There’s always been an understanding between mercenary and innkeep: you bring trouble to our inns, you pay top coin. After I got my sordid trio all fed and wined, I brought out my dad’s old fiddle and played a tune I hoped would loosen their lips a little. While it was no business of mine whether they’d robbed the queen, mercs always had the most exciting stories. Tales of assassination and war, lands made of singing sand and folk who danced on the wind like will-o-wisps. Kayelle took a long swig of wine, then slammed her flagon down on the table. “Play us a dirge, innkeep” she rasped. She had the haunted eyes and cynical manner of a healer. “Naw,” said Cintrine. She’d devoured her meal and was sharpening one of her daggers on a whetstone. “My sister is getting ahead of herself. We need a tune to raise our blood, and get us in the mood for death dealing!” The Queen’s Storm battered the outside of the inn. I plucked the fiddle’s strings uncertainly, noticed Jalek chuckling quietly into his flagon, and realized the mercenaries were putting me on. Not to be thrown off-kilter in my own inn, I flashed them my most insolent smile and played a jaunty fling meant for dancing. “We’ve got a cheeky one, we do,” Cintrine said to Kayelle. I laid the fiddle on the chair next to me. “Well now,” I said. “I think I have the right to a bit of cheekiness, seeing as I’m harboring three thieves under pain of hanging.” Of course the thought of turning them over to the royal inquisitors had crossed my mind. But the only reward was the cessation of the Queen’s Storm. And that, in my opinion, was not enough incentive to condemn three people to the gallows. Cintrine spat on the floor. Kayelle’s knuckles were white on her flagon. But it was Jalek who broke the tense silence. “We’re criminals, to be sure, but no mercenary would be foolish enough to steal from the witch-queen. It’s bad business.” His voice was soft and reedy, his fingers long and slender. I was certain he was some sort of mage. I shrugged, stood up, and went about gathering their empty plates. “No business of mine what you did or didn’t do,” I said. “‘Cept if the inquisitors come pounding at my door. You respect me and my inn, I’ll send them on their way, and you rest easy tonight. If not…” I set the stack of dishes aside for the moment, topped off their flagons with more of the pungent red wine. Kayelle slouched back in her chair, let out a great sigh, rubbed her temples. “You play whatever you like, innkeep. No song will help us catch our accuser anyhow.” “Hush, Kaya,” Cintrine said. I eased into a chair at their table, sensing a story. “An accuser, you say?” “Ayup, it’s a regular ol’ conspiracy,” Kayelle said, ignoring her sister’s dagger-sharp glare. “It’s the queen’s own general who’s pilfered the royal scepter. He absconded to the Spitfire Mountains under the pretext of putting down a minor rebellion, but I tell you now, he intends to do a coup on her majesty.” “How did you three get the dubious honor of being m’lord general’s scapegoats?” “We knew too much,” Jalek said simply. He offered nothing more, and I thought it unwise to pry. Stories were one thing, knowledge was another. “I keep telling these two simpletons, ‘forget this realm and its petulant witch-queen, let’s go somewhere with warm sun and sweet whores,’” Cintrine said. “But, ah, no, we’ve got to clear our names and stop the Witch-Queen’s Storm like fartin’ heroes from some child’s tale.” She held her flagon out for more wine and I obliged. “I’d lose access to indispensable resources supplied by our friends at the mage’s school, as would Kayelle,” Jalek said. His tone was weary, like they’d had this argument a thousand times already. “You, Cintrine, may be able to sell your sword in any back alley, but we need at least a shred of legitimacy to our names or we can’t work.” Kayelle put her booted feet up on the table. I winced as clots of dried mud sloughed off her boots. “I’ll tell you what, innkeep. I do want to hear a song,” she said. “Somethin’ easy, not too happy, not too sad. Somethin’ that makes me think of my da’, or how the sunset looks when you’re watching it with a lover. I’m done thinking on grim things for tonight.” I retrieved Dad’s old fiddle, then took a healthy swig of wine to ward off the chill. It was cold in the inn, in spite of the fire and well-sealed walls. I flexed my fingers, then began to play. It was a medley, really. A fusion of songs about spring and winter, love and loss. I reckoned the mercenaries had never heard anything like it before. Soon enough, Kayelle was nodding off in her chair. Jalek was sitting cross-legged, eyes closed in some sort of magely meditation. Even Cintrine’s sharp glare was blunted by the haze of exhaustion. I drew out the final note of the song for as long as I could, until it was just a quivering sliver of a sound. When all was silent except for the wind and the rain outside, the mercenaries got to their feet and went wordlessly to their rooms. Kayelle was last to ascend the stairs, and she flashed me a grateful, ragged half-smile before following the others. I finished clearing dishes and mud from the table, then settled down to mind the fire ‘til it burned itself out. It was so dang cold. You could hardly blame Cintrine for wanting to leave this soggy realm and its moody queen for warmer lands. I closed my eyes, let the meagre heat from the fire take me away from the chill to a land of diamond encrusted snakes and twin suns and sand that was white-hot even in the dead of night. I dreamed of the sound of falling jewelry. I couldn’t understand why falling jewelry would smell so smokey, until I opened my eyes. The windows were all broken inward, and glass sparkled orangely on the floor, reflecting the tongues of flame spreading across the floor and up the walls. The inn was under attack. I gave a wordless shout, jumped out of my chair. I kept a bucket of water beside the fireplace, of course, but a meer bucketfull was nothing against the conflagration. The flames grew higher and brighter, but there was no heat. Only that deathly chill and the prickling sensation of a great, terrible magic at work. “Get down here and help me, you worthless thugs,” I screamed. But then I saw the smoke billowing from the upstairs hallway. It ran along the high ceilings like a black, inverted lake. And, yes. Shouts and heavy footsteps in the rooms above me. A warrior’s roar from Cintrine, panicked incantations from Jalek. I’ll admit this to you now: I hid like a coward. I was an innkeeper, not a warrior. I hurled myself down into the wine cellar, curled up between two casks, and waited to live or die. There were only skeletons come morning. I pushed open the cellar doors, which were half blocked by fallen debris. My livelihood had been burnt to ash, and yet the rain still fell, turning the ash to a thick, grey paste. What was left of the mercenaries was fused into one charred mass of flesh and bone, as though they’d burned together, defending each other to the last. And yet the rain still fell. One of Cintrine’s daggers had been spared. I stood ankle-deep in wet ash, tested the weight of the weapon. You bring trouble to my inn, you pay the price, whether you be mercenary or general or queen. Dagger in hand, I set out to reconcile the ledgers.
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Jul 13, 2015 07:59
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Submissions are close for real. Kurona_bright, Painted Bird, Bompacho, Blue Wher, Megazver, A Classy Ghost, Schneider Heim, Ironic Twist, Flesnolk, SadisTech, and the Shortest Path have all failed to submit and were eaten by grues. SadisTech has until I get back from lunch tomorrow to post their story late and avoid getting toxx-banned. Bad Seafood fucked around with this message at 08:08 on Jul 13, 2015 |
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Jul 13, 2015 08:00
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 INTERPROMPT: CHOOSE A THING THAT MAKES YOU ANGRY AND TELL THUNDERDOME WHY IT MAKES YOU ANGRY.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:03
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TELL US HOW YOU REALLY FEEL.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:04
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
I really hate the way the word "Kind" sounds in any of its uses. It's just a sad, flaccid adjective. EDIT: And I've always considered it kind of 'racist' when used as a noun. "WE DON'T LIKE/SERVE YOUR KIND ROUND HERE!" SkaAndScreenplays fucked around with this message at 08:07 on Jul 13, 2015 |
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Jul 13, 2015 08:05
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Oranges are by far the worst fruit. They smell weird, they taste bad, and everyone loves oranges because everyone is awful, like oranges.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:12
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Submitted because it was a good idea. Plus I toxxed. This was written in the last three hours and phone posted because SA is blocked at my work. I can't edit it down because I now have to catch up on the work I just didn't do to write this, meaning that I won't get out of the office till 9 PM. If anyone doesn't mind critting despite my pathetic effort I will perform the penance of your choice. The Head of the Beast Too many words Well, good morning fine sir! Ale, please. We didn’t have much of a chance to catch up last night when we staggered in, sorry. I assume you’ve been paid for the rooms. I said ale… please. Ehh, it’s got to be getting on towards mid-morning. Works for me. No, not very ladylike, good thing there aren’t any ladies here, eh? Eh? Ha-ha. Ahh. Oh, yes, needed that. I must admit, I steered us here on purpose… thought a fellow halfling would know the right brew to stock. No, I’m not disappointed. Not at all. Another? Melliwell Tuygelbenther, Melli to my friends. You seem like a friendly fellow, hey? No, no, the East Peak Tuygelbenthers, not the West. Yes! Westies, ugh, k’tississith the lot of them. Oh? Lizardish word. Uh, I guess you’d translate it to sucks dry the eggs and turns them over but there’s a secondary meaning of slinking around in the dark. Very emotionally complex, the lizardfolk. Look, the funds are upstairs at the moment, with my large travelling companion. You saw her last night? Face like a thundercloud and chest like a couple of battering rams? Slight mystical glow surrounding her? Yeah… I don’t want to disturb her until she’s had every scrap of sleep she feels like. She’s been in the foulest of moods for weeks now, and after the last few days... Why the mood? Oh, well that’s a long story. It’s a good one, too. Well, you’d enjoy hearing it, but I’d probably need to moisten the pipes a bit to share that one… oh, thank you. So, the basic reason that Haghmaarga there is out of sorts is that she hasn’t been getting any. Men. Human men. She’s pretty traditional that way. See, when we first met she was fresh down from the mountains, still had woad in her eyebrows. Did the carefree barbarian thing for a while, pretty liberal with her affections. Man in every village and a few by the side of the road, style of thing. Good times. We met the Golden Enchantress Gilth-Glorinal while we were raiding an ancient jade temple, hewn from the steaming heart of a dark and twisted jungle, sort of thing. We liked her style, so the three of us have been a pretty tight unit since then. Got into some scrapes and generally got out of them again. Never let a man come between us. Well. Not in the figurative sense, anyway. But yeah, we were happy, and Haggie was seeing some on the regular, and all was right with the world. Oh, Gilth-Glorinal isn’t even into it much. Got some semi-exclusive arrangement with a djinni she carries around in a jar most of the time. Yeah, you don’t want to stumble into that tent at the wrong time of night. I’m speaking from experience. Me? Well… I more or less take things as I find them, you know? One of things I find most attractive in a man is generosity. Including with alcohol… why, thank you. So, anyway. We were talking about celibacy, think we got a bit off track there, hah. We got word of a substantial bounty on the head of someone called Sturhm-Grook-Ralum, Terror of the Ghem’lorg Pass. Had all the merchants running scared – entire trade caravans were disappearing off the trail, somewhere up in the mountain heights. Got so that the Prince of Ghem was sending entire companies of his finest up to search for bandits, and nothing… but the moment a smaller group went up, no matter how illustrious the warriors that went along, there were good odds they’d simply disappear. Now, we heard rumours that there was a growing Orcish presence in the foothills so it seemed to us that Sturhm-Grook-Ralum was probably an Orc bandit chief who was attracting an unhealthily large following. Being idiots with fairly high opinions of our own martial prowess, we decided that we’d travel the Ghemlorg, keep an eye out for Sturhm’s war parties and take him out. Then we’d bring back his no doubt hideous fangy head, collect our chests full of gold and jewels, and invest them wisely. I don’t know, booze and magic swords, probably. I’ve never been much of a one for long term financial planning. Mind you, I think the Golden Enchantress already owns a number of taverns around the place. She’s clever like that. Yes I know, I’m getting to that bit. You need the context for a good story, all right? Pour me another and come and sit next to me over here. Closer. I don’t want to shout. Now, where was I? Oh yes. We went up the pass. All O Woe is us, we are but hapless females, wandered into this dangerous terrain. Nothing. Not a nibble. So, we set up camp, and I went scouting. I have a knack for that sort of thing. After a few days of tracking orcs through the scrub and spying on them, I’d uncovered that they did indeed have a fairly large encampment of several hundred orcish warriors in the mountains, and what was more, it looked like they were keeping a bunch of captives there. Now, the logical thing would have been for us to take this information back to the Prince, and let an army ride in and clear them out. And also, claim all their loot. And let the Prince get out of giving us the bounty for the head of Sturhm-Grook-Ralum. So, instead, the Golden Enchantress prepared a variety of potions, unguents and foul-smelling packages of magically primed materials, Haghmaarga sharpened her axes obsessively and painted her face blue, and I made sure that all fifteen of my various blades were coated with the vilest, most lethal poisons known to intelligent life. No, I don’t have them on now. Come back here. Well, only a couple. But they’re not poisoned. Much. So, we decided on a night assault – catch them off guard, you know. I’d already determined that their security was surprisingly lax for an orcish warband. This may have been because the location that they’d chosen was immensely defensible, only accessible by a winding path along the side of a deep ravine. Their yurts were clustered where the path opened into a wide ledge, before turning into the entrance to a huge cleft split deep into the mountainside. Its top was so high it was lost in cloud. They had a crude corral set up next to the opening, and I’d heard the occasional human wail coming from inside. We figured that the advantage of this position against a larger attacking force was nullified by the fact that there were only three of us. Perfectly sensible. So we set up, and we waited, and then when the majority of the orcish horde were sleeping – we struck! Gilth-Glorinal laid waste to many of the orcs in her opening salvo. Precise blasts of flame erupted wherever she pointed her finger and spoke terrible Words of power! Haghmaarga was a spinning, leaping figure of terror, her armour bristling with spikes of bone and flowing with the blood of her foes! Many orcish heads rolled in the first minutes of combat! Me? Oh, I stabbed a few in the kidneys, but I was mostly concerned with getting the corral door opened. Funny thing was, when I did that, the men inside all gaped at me and refused to move. One whimpered that I didn’t understand, and to run away! Jump into the ravine if I had to! Right then there was a boom! Boom! BOOM sound that I could feel through the ground. All the orcs stopped trying to fight us and fell to their knees. The three of us turned to look at the cleft in the mountain, and there, emerging from the darkness and mist – You know what a Storm Giant is? About fifty times the height of a tall man, grey-blue in colour. Hair and beard like raging silver clouds. And all the orcs were waving their arms above their heads and chanting STURHM-GROOK-RALUM! STURHM-GROOK-RALUM! And this giant stepped towards us, and roared his fury so that the ground throbbed beneath us, and his footfalls opened cracks in the very rock. The Golden Enchantress cried out a potent Word, and a burst of flame shattered upon the naked chest of Sturhm, but he didn’t deign to notice. Naked. Yes. That was the thing. I’m guessing that the fighting had woken him up, and maybe he slept in the nude, or maybe he just had trouble getting enough leather together to make a kilt. Either way, it was out and proud. I mean, very out. Imagine… a leathery blue cathedral spire. So much heft to it that it didn’t bounce when he walked, it swayed. Like… a great tree in a strong wind. Majestic, in a way. And Haghmaarga raises her axes, and plants her feet, and I do not jest when I say that her eyes sparked with lightning – and she points upwards and she screams out: BY EVERY GOD, I WILL NOT DIE WITH THAT THING HANGING OVER ME … The Golden Enchantress explained to me later that there are certain… confluences of circumstance that the Gods find irresistible. Triggers, if you like, for whatever that God represents in the world. And when a God of, say, Virtue, and Dignity, and Chastity… when that God sees a path to enter the world, it explodes through like… like water through a crack in a dam. So Haghmaarga flung her axe with Godly power propelling it, and there was a glorious detonation. The great blue shaft split in twain. Bellowing like thunder, Sturhm-Grook-Ralum clutched at himself, doubled over, and took two great, staggering steps… over the edge of the ravine. The sound when he hit the bottom was like a volcano erupting. And then next thing, we were surrounded by cheering, weeping merchants and soldiers in ragged clothes, and we looked up to see a few dozen Orcish backs in swift retreat down the ravine path. By the time we’d sorted out the former captives with basic arms and clothing, and sorted out the piles of plundered goods, there wasn’t much left. A few handfuls of coin, some rolls of cloth. Nothing worth much. So we wished them well, and sent them off. And we gathered morosely around the single remnant of our vanquished foe, Haggie still glowing faintly. As it turned out Chel-Hyminal, Goddess of Virtue, had taken over a certain amount of her spiritual real estate, and she has a fairly stringent code of behaviour. So we’re waiting to see if that fades away after a while or what. Which is the whole point of the story, really. Haggie can’t get any because she’s accidentally a priest of the Goddess of Virtue, and boy, that’s irony writ in capital letters. Oh, we made out OK in the end. We were standing there, and staring at it, and the Golden Enchantress slowly says… You know, aside from the value of the tissues as spell components, there has to be enough Storm Giant leather in the foreskin alone to put together at least three suits of highly powerful armour… Look, you can see for yourself, Haggie’s coming downstairs now. Go get a drink for her. Haggie! Get your glowing self over here, woman! Oh. Psst. One last thing. She might show off her brand new magic helm if we get her talking. If she tells you it has but a single bejewelled eye because it was made from the remains of a mighty Cyclops, just smile and nod. OK?
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Jul 13, 2015 08:15
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Jul 13, 2015 08:15
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Mapping New Ground ( 1499 words) Alli Razild is shocked. Shocked, furious, ballistic, pissed off, and her mind is slowly coalescing to a single thought: I am going to wring Neil's neck. The half-finished, frankly amateur maps are crushed in her fist. She doesn't really care. All she can think about is the fact that without that bonus she was counting on from the cartography office, she's going to be flat broke. Neil was supposed to be a sure ticket for that bonus - in all the other times she had worked with him and Rian, he always turned out immaculately detailed, elegant maps in a matter of days. She doesn't want to go back onto the streets. Back to cold nights in alleyways, depending on protection from spells running off of rat tails and spit in place of eagle feathers and salamander blood. Where would she keep the plants she grows, the old letters from her mother, and the books that form her livelihood? She closes her eyes, and reaches for the magic. One syllable later, vibrating with rage, and she knows where Neil is. She strides across the top of the forested plateau that they had decided to stop at for the night - ignorant of the breathtaking, moonlight-lit view of the lands below, instead imagining the spells she could use to reduce him to an ashy smear. As she approaches his location, she hears Rian's voice, calm and cool as ever. "Rizald. We're over here." When she bursts out of the trees and into what must've been a forest clearing before magic had forced the ground beneath to rise towards the sky, they don't even turn to face her. "What does she even want?" The flatness of Neil's tone made his words sound more like a statement than a question. "I want you -" At Alli's tone, Rian's hand drops immediately to her sword. "to explain this." "What - " Neil turns, and when he sees what Alli is holding, he goes pale, and then flushes. His fists clench, and his voice is slow but angry. "You were in my tent. Why?" "Well, y'know." The flippancy of Alli's words shocks herself. "A badger decided to tear it open, and I figured I should shoo it away before it damaged anything. You should really remember to stop leaving food around in your tent." Rian looks up from where she's been sitting. "Razild, I know it looks bad, But please - " "Please?" Alli yells. "Please what? Calm down? When we've spent two entire weeks running around here and he hasn't even done his job?" She snaps open one of the rolls she was holding, and shakes it at them. Neil refuses to meet her eyes. "Look at this! According to the coordinates, this is supposed to be the valley we passed through three days ago - but it's barely recognizable!" "I'll fix it when we return." Neil's voice is sullen. He's still not meeting her eyes. "Anyways, who's to say that more magical idiots won't decide to play Ancient Earth Dragon some more and work another spell? No one will notice then." Alli gapes for a moment, then shrieks, "What is wrong with you! What happened to your professional pride, your reputation? Where's your passion? I know you love the work you do!" Neil is looking at her, arrested. "How - " He clears his throat. "How do you know that?" Something eases in Alli's throat. She smiles. "Have you ever seen yourself at work? The utter focus on your face? It's clear as day." Alli takes Neil's stunned silence as an invitation to continue speaking: "That's why I'm so confused with this. Look at this place! She gestures wildly around her. Isn't it gorgeous? Some of these new landmarks, the features that have arose here, they're not naturally possible! Why -" As she continues speaking, the shock on Neil's face gives way to that sullen look from earlier. She bites her lip and pushes onwards. "Why don't you care about this place? It's the opportunity of a lifetime! How many times do you see regular, ordinary forests and hills turned into majestic crags and peaks?" "I guess I just don't." He's not looking at her anymore. Silence stretches out between them, becoming more uncomfortable by the second. Alli decides to try a different angle. Did you know -" She stops for a moment, catches her breath. "Did you know that the office was asking me which survey group I preferred, I chose you two?" Neil glares at her. "Why would you - Oh." The smirk that appears on his face is flat-out nasty, and when he speaks again, his words are dripping with false sincerity. "I'm sorry that you'll get *four* nights at the gambling hells instead of a week. The disappointment must be crushing." Alli's face heats, and for a couple of seconds, she can't speak, despite her mouth working up and down. Neil's smirk grows wider. "Neil." Rian's words are considerably harsher than before. "That's quite enough." "What, like it isn't true? Just check with your contacts." That smirk on Neil's face is still there. If it wasn't for Rian, Alli might've actually teleported him off over the sheer drop off the left at the moment. Alli masks her hurt with a sneer. "If that's the info that her contacts are really feeding her, then perhaps she needs to get new ones." Rian cuts off Neil's retort. "I have checked with them. And what you're saying isn't true." She looks over at Alli. "I'm sorry. I know that you're going through a rough time at the moment, but he is, too. Please understand." Neil shoots to his feet. "Why are you taking her side?" "I'm not. I'm trying to mediate between the two of you. Like it or not, you do owe her an explanation." Neil stands there for a moment, then turns on his heel. "I don't have to listen to this." Rian grabs his arm. She says, "Either you tell her, or I'll do it for you." "Then you tell her!" Alli uncomfortably notes that Neil will probably have bruises tomorrow. Rian hesitates, closes her eyes - but right before she lets go, Alli breaks in. "Wait!" They both turn to look at her. With effort, she meets Neil's eyes. "If you tell me what's wrong, I'll tell you why I need that bonus." Unable to handle any further eye contact, she glances off to the side. "It's not a particularly... proud story." An uncomfortable silence stretches out between them for the second time. When she looks back at Neil, he's bug-eyed. And when he tries to speak, he has to clear his throat. "D-deal." Then he glares at Rian. "I'm not going to run away." When she lets go of him, they all take seats. The atmosphere eases. Another second passes, and he starts to speak. "I'll keep it short. I grew up in this area." He points off to the distance. "Over there, to be precise. When I was young, I had a falling out with my family - well, my mother. I ran away to the city. And now I do this." He pauses, and Rian nudges him. He scowls at her. "I know! I'm getting there." "After the wizards, the office demanded that I be on the survey team here. I didn't think it would be a problem. But I ran into my sister in town, and I found out that my mother had passed away a couple years after I left. She asked that I visit her grave to see if it was still intact, because everybody had been so busy dealing with the fallout to check." He took a deep breath. "It wasn't." Another second passes, then Neil irritably cuts off Ali's response with a wave of his hand. "I don't want to hear it. Tell me about what your problem is." "Um..." She scratches the back of her head. "Basically my father broke his collarbone the other day and paying for a healer used up all my rent money. I..." Alli looks down. "I really don't want to be homeless again." "Why don't you just live with your father?" "There's not enough room in the place he lives in. It's in the Niro district. And even if I could, I can't ask him that." Neil lets out a huff of laughter. "Pride is definitely your deadly sin." Alli's cheeks warm again, but this time, she's grinning. Neil continues. "I'm sorry about earlier. I'll..." He fidgets, and holds a hand out. Alli places the crumpled maps in his hands. "I'll go over these again, okay? But I might need your help with them." Now Alli's eyes were bugging out. "Really?" Neil laughs self-consciously. "After telling you all that, I feel better, but I don't think I can work at my regular speed.' He holds a hand out. "Deal?" Alli smiles, and takes it. "Deal."
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Jul 13, 2015 08:22
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
people who laugh nervously after everything they say whether it's funny or not are pretty infuriating lol 
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Jul 13, 2015 08:29
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I am very sad that I've been eaten by a Interprompt: I really hate messy roommates. They leave their stuff all over the place so you have to step carefully over a heap of clothes that should've been washed centuries ago and their swiss army knives and those cigarettes that they're totally going to throw away once they've finally kicked that smoking habit. And then they use your stuff and leave messes all over the place, like a puddle of vegetable oil with its respective bottle sitting in the middle of it on your counter. And then they leave giant heaps of garbage everywhere so when you move out of your on-campus apartment, you get charged $30 because their fat asses decided to leave five full bags of garbage for the janitors to pick up. It's much better now I'm off-campus.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:31
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kurona_bright posted:I am very sad that I've been eaten by a Unless it's some several thousand word monstrosity.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:36
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I won't edit my story post so I'll just add the word count here. The Head of the Beast 1936 words
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Jul 13, 2015 08:41
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SadisTech posted:1936 words
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Jul 13, 2015 08:42
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Bad Seafood posted:Post it. You'll still get a crit. Probably. It's the second post above the post you quoted I did that so I wouldn't get yelled at for having a dumb preface for my story.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:43
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Whoop, my bad then. You'll still get a crit though.
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Jul 13, 2015 08:50
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Thanks! 
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Jul 13, 2015 09:04
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REDEMPTION GO Digging Deeper 1473 words In the darkness below, Tunneler rides felt at once too long and too short, the hollow earth on all sides streaking past quickly enough timekeeping was a fool’s errand. Lamps hung from repurposed cartilage overhead, stringing down the corridor, but their light was only enough to render the interior a dull orange, barely reflecting off the windows carved into the beast’s sides. Back in whatever Imperial bureau administered the things, they were still figuring out how much they could light the insides without another Explosion of ‘83, and every shuddering turn sent dancing shadows throughout the passengers’ compartments. Mathias would have preferred darkness, really, as those dim lights somehow always managed to glint right off Alexios’ teeth when he smiled. He hadn’t stopped smiling, in the way a shark could be said to smile as it moved in to strike, since two golems had shoved Mathias and his two companions into the booth. On the edge of Mathias’ hearing, the Tunneler let out a rumbling groan as its pilot forced a turn, and Alexios examined his nails with a click of disapproval, letting the silence linger until the lamp over their heads stopped swaying. “I seem to remember sending you three on a very simple task,” he said, looking up from his hand to the four figures crammed together on the bench opposite him. He flicked from one to the other, before he stared Mathias in the face, his deep brown eyes all the darker contrasted with the red of his robes and dyed gold of his skin. “You were to visit a certain thanatologist, one Kaveh, yes? To discuss certain business I had with him?” “That’s, ah, yes, we went to see Mr. Kaveh as you said.” He’d been hired as the talker of the group, the number-runner, the one who could show anyone that everything they did was oh-so-very-legal-thank-you-very-much, but the words had to be pulled from his throat like an anchor jammed on a reef. “We discussed your proposal thoroughly.” “Thoroughly indeed.” Alexios let out a low, chittering laugh. “Perhaps too thoroughly? Did I say to be rough with him? That any harm were to befall this man? Indeed, that there was any need to go armed at all?” “No…” “Then why,” and now he rested his hands onto the onyx table, carefully trimmed nails digging into the stone, “do I hear his mountain home has been laid to waste? How does a discussion about experimental materials result in wanton slaughter? In blowing up a cave?” “Now, it was hardly our fault --” that was the 6’7” orc in the middle of the bench, with the lute. Belgrath by name. Alexios jerked his head away from Mathias and the gold skin of his face split apart in an instant, eight red eyes fixing the orc in their stare. His fangs parted and the screech was as if tiny daggers were being jammed into the men’s ears, leaving Belgrath to recoil in his seat and Mathias to cry out, elbows slamming onto the onyx as his hands covered the sides of his head. A moment felt closer to an hour, then the blackness retreated and the face reformed. Alexios was looking at him again. “Answer soon, please. Oh, and do finish your plate, if you would.” Mathias couldn’t, the bit of lamb he’d been offered tasted entirely too much like a human nose, and the bits of runny egg poking from his omelette looked too like brains after a hammer came down on the skull. That he knew those comparisons now had his stomach doing a backflip. “He wasn’t interested, not at all. We tried to talk sense to him.” “Sense indeed. What then?” “Well,” Mathias looked to the orc, only to get a nod. No lifeline was going to be tossed to him, just tell the spider what he wanted to know. “This thanatologist not only wanted no part of business with you, Mr. Alexios, he, well, insulted Belgrath’s poetry. The poem of friendship you gave us, in fact. Called it the worst he’d ever heard, and that he would - Belgrath?” The orc chuckled, a sound not unlike wind knocking over an oak. No regrets for pulping a man’s head. “Said he’d personally take my lute, bludgeon us with it, then make you eat it, if you ever contacted ‘im again. Matty boy here wanted to calm him down but he called the guards. After that it got a bit… bloody. Kel had to put my arm back on, and there wasn’t any putting Kaveh back together.” Alexios looked at them both as if they had turned into oxen and stampeded all over his home. Then he glanced to the third figure, in the blood-spattered scalemail, his boots on the table as if it were mere bloodwood. The one that hadn’t so much as budged when he’d screamed earlier. His mouth hung open for a long second, before Kel swung his legs back under to sit up properly. Mathias could hear stone scraping under the spider’s suddenly much tighter grip. “And you, quiet one,” Alexios said the words as if he’d rather leap across the table and wring Kel’s neck. “You have nothing to say for your little band?” “They say it how it happened.” Kel scratched at his goatee, still lounging in his seat as if this were a tavern by the road. “Insult my bard, sure, it’s funny the shade of green he goes.” “Oi!” “Sorry Bell, but you know it’s true.” His companion shrugged off, Kel looked back to an Alexios whose face was starting to split again. “You draw steel on me, though, and c’mon Lexie, since when do I stand for that? Business is business, but you don’t pay us to die.” The seam disappeared and Alexios’ hands went to his temples, digging into hair too slick and too dark to be entirely human. Nobody spoke for a time, the grind of a Tunneler’s belly along dirt and stone and steel rail the only sound between them. Alexios stared at them, Kel stared back, while Mathias looked to his own hands and Belgrath eyed the door. Black lips curled back just long enough for the light to catch on teeth yet again, before a long hissing sigh broke the silence. Alexios reached one hand into his robes and withdrew a pouch of coins he all but threw directly at Kel’s head. He looked almost disappointed when it was caught. “It’s half of what we said, but you lot? You are lucky you get anything. Just get out of my booth.” *** “Told you two I knew how to handle him.” “You could have said something a lot sooner, then.” Belgrath had vanished into the throngs around them, bellowing back some promise about meeting them at the Golden Mare. The gauntleted hand on Mathias’ shoulder was as much to guide him as to reassure him, through crowds that spoke every language he’d heard of and many he hadn’t. A vendor hollered something at them about fish and sphoungata in Aetterian only for Kel to shoo him away. “You’re too wound up about this stuff. Lexie knows if he gets a reputation for eating his employees, people aren’t going to show up for work any more.” “If you haven’t noticed,” and there Mathias had to step over a Zinthra’s tail as it haggled over silks, “‘dungeon crawling’ isn’t my usual line of work. I’m used to much less murder.” “Hey now, that was self defence. And you’re not half bad at it in a pinch. Bell thought some bookish half-elf was just gonna be a burden, and you can laugh in his face about it now.” Mathias shuddered, but Kel didn’t seem to notice. They matched each other in height but the former paladin seemed much taller right now, as he stared right through the crowds milling around them. “Besides, think of the stories you can tell now that you’re back. Way better than that schola of yours.” “Unlike someone, I don’t live to impress people with war stories.” That earned him a laugh, a clap on the back, and, he realised with a start, the pouch Alexios had given them, dropped into his hand without a moment’s ceremony. Kel walked ahead of him, the rattle of his armour just about inaudible over the sounds of the city. “You didn’t sign on with us because the money was better, that’s for sure. Come on, Bell’s going to complain if we don’t hurry up; you want to be late to celebrating your first real mission?” Obviously it was one of those questions that wasn’t meant to get an answer, by the way Kel vanished into the crowd, leaving Mathias to run after him. None of this, he was quite sure, had been covered in his contract.
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Jul 13, 2015 09:24
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Personally, I can’t stand bad seafood. Bad seafood is slimy and everything about bad seafood smells fishy. But the worst part is, half the time you don’t even know you’re dealing with bad seafood. And when you finally realize it, it’s too late. You can’t just walk away and pretend you’re not going to be sick all day from having been exposed to bad seafood. You puke your guts out and hope you live to see another day. Bad seafood. More like, worst seafood.
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Jul 13, 2015 09:28
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:
Just Say friend of the family Thug. Punk. Street youth. Urban youth. Urban feral. Gang-banger. Every time one of these words is said, dogs for miles around begin barking and snarling, and the speaker shrugs and continues his business, innocent as a lamb. After all, isn't racism only racism if you use an actual slur? And it's not like you're really racist, right? Most of the ones you know aren't really bad people anyway. Why, they might even be lucky enough to be One of the Good Ones. gently caress you. gently caress you. gently caress YOU gently caress YOU gently caress YOU gently caress YOU YOU loving COCKSUCKING SHITLORD MUNGMEISTER, STOP HIDING BEHIND YOUR PUSSYBITCH DOGWHISTLES AND SAY WHAT YOU REALLY WANT TO SAY! SAY friend of the family, JIGGABOO, JUNGLE MONKEY, PORCH MONKEY, WHATEVER loving ATROCITY OF LANGUAGE YOU DESIRE, BUT SAY IT LOUD AND SAY IT PROUD AND SAY IT CLEAR! I hate having to try to reason with you cunts. I hate being forced to sit and listen to you pretend to be reasonable when deep inside you're just another frothing troglodyte jerking off to Zimmerman gunning down a child for the heinous crimes of wearing a hoodie and carrying Skittles while being black. Wait. poo poo. Sorry. My mistake. He was "no angel." His profile pictures on public media made him look "like a thug." Carry on, carry on, stand your ground and stay the course. "It's heritage, not hate." gently caress you. It's a heritage of hate you fuckstick anus-smear. The South committed mass treason all because it would lose out on free labor provided by the descendants of people kidnapped from their ancestral homes and delivered to a foreign country via disease-ridden hellships filled with corpses, poo poo, and slavers. Stop hiding behind your little white lies you fat white fucks. Stop pretending you're not seething with ignorance and hatred whenever you see someone not like yourself. Tell the truth. Say what you feel. You'll feel better for it, and I'll feel better for it because I'll know what a piece of poo poo you are up-front, and the world will feel better for it because it can turn on you and shun you and show you exactly how it feels to be treated like an animal you garbage-spewing pile of festering afterbirth. Wait. Maybe that's why you lie? Because you know you're wrong? Deep down inside, even past the cum-stained troglodyte, you realize what a disgusting piece of horrible poo poo you are, but you're so set in your evil ways and your worldview is so fossilized that you won't even entertain the possibility of change, because CHANGE BAD, WHITE GOOD, FLING POO AT friend of the family, OOK-OOK. Welcome to the new world. It will be captivatingly colorful, and you won't be a part of it.
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Jul 13, 2015 09:49
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Also I Hate Homphobes Seriously, nothing wrong with gay people. In a world filled with hate, you need to accept love where you can find it.
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Jul 13, 2015 09:56
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Jul 13, 2015 10:01
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I apologize for all the gendered insults, by the way. Oh, another thing... I HATE GENDER DISPARITY
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Jul 13, 2015 10:05
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MIMES CAN GO gently caress THEMSELVES THOUGH TAKE YOUR INVISIBLE BOX AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR MONOTONE rear end YOU BERET-WEARING PANCAKE-FACED SILENT ABORTION Edit: I meant monochrome. Not monotone.
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Jul 13, 2015 10:06
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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
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Jul 13, 2015 10:16
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Choo.
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Jul 13, 2015 10:28
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Screaming Idiot posted:MIMES CAN GO gently caress THEMSELVES THOUGH I read this as memes and was right with you. Mimes are cool though.
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Jul 13, 2015 10:55
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SurreptitiousMuffin posted:AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH 
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Jul 13, 2015 11:23
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Books week crits Entenzahn - Man vs. Corndog I liked this at the start, it established a cool setting and I even think that the conflict, low-stakes as it seemed at first, wasn’t terrible. Things went downhill when the ice was implausibly hard, and then went really downhill when the corndog started talking. I really think that the setting, a nuclear-winter fairground, should have been the star here. Instead we got some drivel about the guys relationship with his dad through a disappointing meat-based, stick-borne treat. It’s true that they’re always disappointing, though. I had this low-mid Thranguy - The King of the Crows Makes an Offer This had a lot of cool stuff, I especially liked the way you were just deadpan enough with the setting to make it believable. I also like the hint of body-horror at the end with the eggs. The story of the husband was okay, but your protagonist was really boring, and didn’t really make any decisions. Here “because I’m me” reasoning, while believable, was just not surprising enough to carry the weight of the rest of the story. Still, there was plenty of creepy stuff here and lots to like. I had this high-mid Lazy Beggar - look against, fade together I liked quite a bit of the prose here, I didn’t even eye roll at the mirror description. You had me with the blurred faces and the italicized, fragmented call-backs to body parts. You lost me, horribly, with the utterly expected ending, which failed to explain, either magically or psychologically, the blurred faces. Really if you had pushed the plot of this one step more weird it could have worked, but as it stands it is disappointing. I had this bang in the middle. Benny Profane - The Hanged Man I wasn’t surprised at all that this was your story. It was professionally written, with perfect pacing and shiny polished prose. The voice started out a little twee, but it redeemed itself by the end to the point where it was fine. The main problem with the story arc was the complete lack of agency from the protag, but I think this isn’t actually a problem as the story was quite gripping without it. I think that you seem to write so effortlessly you should take more risks, push for something a bit more surprising like your TMBG week story, which was very memorable. This, in comparison, lacked a bit of magic, or soul, or something. I had this pegged for HM Fausty - Just a Widow The prose here is fine, and the conflict is set up quickly and convincingly, however the plot just doesn’t seem to hang together at all. I feel like there was some plot you had in mind that wasn’t clearly communicated, which left parts that weren’t tied together thematically. Was Coelho tricking people into killing each other and creating a series of revenge murders or something? Was there some significance to the shooter wearing the same suit as Coelho? What does “something extra of you to remember me by” even mean? That is a frustrating sentence to read the once, let alone to have forced down your throat as some kind of recurring motif. Actually, frustrating describes this story extremely well to me- I don’t mind stories with open meanings, even ones with very open meanings, but this was open in an annoying way. Doctor Idle - Sin This week had a very good standard overall, but this story would have been competing for the loss in basically any week you care to name. The main reason is it makes very little sense, on multiple levels. On a sentence level there is just so much stuff that is error ridden. It’s like you are trying way too hard. One example of this is “Eyes that convey her indifference, eyes that I also reside in.” I can tell what you meant by that, but it’s trying to be kind of moody and intense, but actually comes off as a clumsy error. I can forgive a clumsy error to a certain extent, but not when it’s trying so drat hard to be cool. These errors are constant, like every second sentence and that’s not even an exaggeration. On a thematic level it is also nonsense, all that stuff about sense of self etc etc sounds like someone trying to parody a two-bit philosopher justifying his bad deeds, but in doing so falling into the same trap he is trying to parody. I mean this story actually made me dislike the personality of the writer. Finally, if you can actually labour through the stilted prose, the plot makes no sense. That or it just doesn’t have a plot. There is no clear conflict, no interesting or likeable character, just nothing at all to make this story worth all the effort. This story hurt me to read. Obviously I had you at a loss. Grizzled Patriarch - Catch and Release In all the words I’ve read in thunderdome I think these were the hardest working. In just over half the allowed word-count, paltry enough as it started, you wove a dense portrait of a family falling apart in a way that was both surprising and believable. The details you choose to show us are perfectly curated, and the prose shimmers but always stays anchored to the things that no ideas are but in… The one minor criticism I could have is the the framing story was not as enthralling as the main bit. If you could sort that out I would never even blink to read this in any magazine you care to name. It absorbed me and I was sad when it ended. I had this for the win Sittinghere - Milkweed in June Another excellent story. The story of the queen, in particular, really got to me, the way that she really upended our expectations of what a queen bee should bee. She surprised me, and I enjoyed her character a lot. I think the “fly away to death…” plotline really worked for the queen bee, because though she was fleshed out and we identified with her, it is not outside the realms of possibility that a “broken” queen bee might do something like that, and we’d just step on their body in the grass one day without even noticing. On the other hand I didn’t like the story of June that much, even though it really was beautifully written. “She sits in her window seat and watches the sunset make red-limned silhouettes out of the downtown skyscrapers, thinks about all the people moving and breathing in the air of the city.” That is a lovely line, and there are many more in the story. I think that June needed a bit of something to flesh her out, something to her that we can identify with, like the queen’s relationship to the drones, her weird dance, the sticky royal jelly. June just sort of daydreams around, so the decision she makes to switch with the bee doesn’t feel earned. I feel like her individuality needs to be established for the story to work fully. Please understand this is a nitpick, your story was a story that easily could have been picked to win any given week, and I did not begrudge the other judges their extremely strong opinion, despite mine differing. I had this picked as an HM
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Jul 13, 2015 11:52
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