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[MorleyDev]

Found one of my attempts at a not-1st-person short story. Weighing up whether to polish it off and finish it or not.

Spoiler: "Duty (1932)" (click to show/hide)

Lieutenant Calais had always done his duty. He worked his family stables as a child, because it was his duty to his family and he loved the animals. He joined the military when the Great War begun, because it was his duty to his country and he loved his country. He cared for his mother after his father died of a heart attack, another duty to his family and he loved his family. He married Susan after a chance tryst left her pregnant, he cared for their son when she died in childbirth, and he buried his son after a fever claimed him before his third birthday. Duty and love defined him.

This mission was another duty for his country, though he did not love it. Calais sat in the back of an old Yorkshire church on the edges of a dying village. None of the worshippers in the aisles paid him any mind, just another man in a grey suit and tie. Blond hair, green eyes, and an utterly forgettable face. He was just another good Christian attending his local Sunday Service, head bowed in prayer as the parishioner rambled on. The revolver inside his jacket pressed into his stomach. He should actually say a prayer, he thought, would need to ask someone forgiveness for what he was about to do.

Father Jonathan didn’t look particularly special as far as priests went. Short graying black hair, dull brown eyes and a monotone voice. Slightly overweight but not off-puttingly so, Calais suspected he may have been considered attractive once, but could not bring himself to see anything but the devil within the man. He had seen the depths of the real soul, the tome bound in the skin of flayed children in his attic. He had found the remains of the choirboys, chained and raped in his basement, tears still dry on desiccated cheeks, skin stripped with loving care from their backs. One. Calais counted to one, waiting for his cue as the Father continued the sermon.

“He is the Lord, the Father and the Son, the dreamer of this endless ocean dream born in...”.

That wasn’t the sign. Not yet. Most of the church-goers didn’t appreciate the sermon at more than a surface level. They didn’t know it’s real meaning. Father Jonathan was just the local priest, and whilst he had more of a fondness for more obscure verses and the gnostic side of theological writings than the last preacher, he was all they had. For better or worse, he was their gateway to the Lord. That amused the darker corners of Calais’ mind. They were closer to a truth than any caring deity would allow.

His eyes drifted to the front of the pews, to the bald man in the brown suit jacket who sat against the left wall, his peeling skin bulging over a too-tight collar. From the front, Dr. Aaron Watson was a happy man. Laugh lines traced his face, and the thick grey moustache did nothing to hide them. A face of kindness, a large red nose, and hands still calloused from beating his wife to death two summers ago. Her body was hidden in a gap in the walls of his living room, and Watson could often be found sitting in front of the wall with the morning newspaper and a pipe, remembering their last night together, adding more laugh lines to his face.

Calais had spied on the event many times. The Doctor lost in memory, tobacco smoke filling the room and staining the cheap furniture yellow, playing the scene in his mind. Images of his wife’s hair, her eyes, her smell, her screams as he wrapped one hand around her throat mid-coitious, gouging her eyes out with the other and chanting, thrusting and undulating for those things to grant him -

- Calais caught his breath. Nobody noticed. Two. Why had he read the book? He knew better than that. You never read the book. You send it away. You get one of the brains in the department to read it. Let them burn away their sanity. Let them wake up screaming of sunken cities of mathematics and alchemy that devour men and create birds that swim through the earth, and whales of black smoke and ash that haunt the gaps in the walls of their psyche. Let them take the bedlam and opiate retirement when they can’t stand the dreams any more, when the the voices calling out to them in their waking hours from the corners of shadowed rooms grow too loud to ignore. That was not Calais’ job. So why had he read it?

Because you wanted this, the dark corner of his brain replied. And he knew it was truth.

Would he have enough bullets? He remembered chambering the rounds before he left. Not enough for everyone here. Not nearly enough. But hopefully, enough to make a difference. Six bullets. Every shot would have to count.

“.. and the Omega and Alpha shall rise up from the great sea of man’s wickedness, and bless those who have kept true to His name of Seven with…”

Alpha and Omega. Calais’ eyes found the twins, sat hand-in-hand in front of own seat. Taylor and Madeline Branson, lined up like ducks at the fair. He wasn’t sure they were twins, but he had suspicions. They looked to be approximately the same age and had the same eyes, cold and blue, framed by blonde hair. On some level, Madeline made him think of Susan. Calais pondered that thought, it did not disturb him as much as he wished.

To the villagers, they were a married couple in their mid twenties who moved in three years ago to escape the hustle and bustle of the city. They were quiet, kept to themselves, and openly very affectionate. Long walks through the nearby woods were a staple pastime, discussing nature and local events.

The Bransons had no children. When questioned, they revealed Dr. Watson had declared Madeline infertile, and they were not interested in adoption. The questions from the villagers had ended there. Calais had delved deeper, and found Madeline was regularly pregnant. And then wasn’t. Every three to four months, Madeline and Taylor would cycle through an unnoticed pregnancy and no child would be born and no pregnancy reported or miscarriage logged with the Doctor. The two were well fed, though both had a gauntness to their shadows that hinted at some long suffered ailments.

Calais had traced back through the holes in the public records at least sixty years before he stopped. He did not want to know how old those two truly were, how long they had prolonged their existence consuming their own aborted fetuses. He did not want to know how much history he was erasing. Three. Four.

“...and the great beast will crawl out of the pit. Honour the father and the mother, who bear the spark of the He that gifted the feet to the stones…”

The fifth one was late. He was always late, and the parish had come to expect this. His job kept him busy. That was his excuse. It was the paperwork, you see. So much paperwork for the only regular member of the police to frequent the quiet and sleepy village. The perils of bureaucracy provide an excellent place to hide for those with dark desires. And Eliot Hale’s desires ran deep.

[Fniff]

First thing, damn good prose. Hooked me from the first paragraph and on.
However, I'm noticing a slight inmanlanvein theme. While the title and the first paragraph indicate the theme being duty, the rest of the text focuses on evil hiding beneath a quiet English vaneer. If you're gonna polish it up (and I recommend you do) I'd focus on Calais's sense of duty as that resonated much better. Make it so he didn't read the book because he wanted to: make it that he was dutybound to do it. In fact, since we're clearly heading towards some sort of shooting spree at the local service (great use of location framing by the by), make it so he's doing it not because he particularly wants to enforce justice, but because he feels bound to do so. Calais's sense of being bound to do what he's done not by personal initiative but by the whims of change and love really resonated with me.
The more obviously horrific theme of evil hiding under pleasantry is good, but duty will really tie it all together, methinks.

[Ehndras]

I enjoyed that, thanks for sharing. Speaking of unpolished, I recently found an old Advie RP from BattleMaster I forgot existed. Ah, the fun of a quick late-night token RP turned backstory. With some serious editing perhaps it can be assembled into a respectable short-story.

Spoiler: Johaan Thorbrandr and the Black Scimitar (click to show/hide)

    After months of tracking whispered rumors, false trails, and the activities of more than one foolish necromancer, I finally came upon a sunken crypt - deep within the caverns of Mangai, in the nation of Fissoa. Though Lord Alekhsandr, Prince-At-Arms of Fissoa had supported my adventures thus far, the time came for me to prove myself to the world-at-large. Descending into the putrid catacombs, for two seemingly-infinite hours I wandered its rank corridors in search of something worth my time. Coffin after coffin lay empty and disturbed, the archaic scrawl of ancient names long-since worn by the merciless passage of time. After losing my bearings only Gods' know how many times, I came upon a magnificent archway deep within the bowels of the underworld.

    Its spiraling pillars bore the etchings of a language unspoken by mortal men for heedless eons, writ of some maddening pictographic script I shan't dare describe. Swallowing my fear, I trudged forward - grand tapestries of thick cobweb set aflame by the cinders of my skyward torch as I cut through them with the sharpened edge of my blade. A strange chitter could be heard from afar, spawned by what I assumed to be a legion of pestering rats - so easily skewered in singularity, yet terrifying when gathered into the occasional ravenous horde. Too late did I realize the foolishness of my ignorance! I veritably stumbled into the heart of a massive undead horde, no doubt raised by the combined stupidity of some wayward necromantic cult long-since consumed by the very beasts they sought to raise. Called forth from the blackness of subterra by the essence of another mage's corruption, the horde would soon ascend - feasting upon village after village, leaving nothing but undeath in their wake.

    For a moment I considered turning back... Pretending I'd never seen the grotesque statues of inhuman deities, the wandering tendrils of otherworldly beasts, the fell images of a dark script whose age no living man could ascertain... But in my cowardice I would condemn innocence to die a violent death. I thought of my wife, who claimed her own life in stark-raving madness after a certain beast took from us our beautiful son. In the dead of night, as I earned my coin guarding the hall of some meandering noble house, the object of a necromancer's fetish did rupture the feeble wooden door that held the terror of the outside world at bay. My infant son lay sobbing in his crib, his mother a crumpled mess of unconsciousness after the beast nearly cleaved her very face asunder. In some cruel twist of divine fate, my wife survived the blow - but our son... My dear boy...

    When I returned home the next morning, exhausted from curtailing a group of foolish brigands who thought the noble's exquisite pottery collection was well-worth their lives paid in blood, I found in his crib naught more than a bloodied sheet, a tuft of gently-curling hair, and a single severed finger... My wife blamed herself for the attack, believing the creature was summoned forth by the scent of a meat stew she so lovingly sought to cook me. I blamed myself, knowing I might have stopped the beast if I weren't off gallivanting about in the court of some blue-blooded drunkard. That very night my wife took her own life, my son's necrotic appendage tightly-grasped in the hand opposite a skinning blade I kept in the dresser beside our bed. I lost everything that day. My wife, my son, my love, my dignity, my home, my spirit.

    So I burned that blasted wooden crypt to the ground, my wife and son's remains left within, that no undead thrall might rise in their wake. Never against could I look upon another woman with love or lust in mind. Never again might I spawn my own seed, only to have them torn from my loving gaze. I dedicated the meager remnant of my miserable life to the annihilation of necromancers and the evil they so foolishly create - that no man must feel the pain that I have felt. That no woman must live to see her own child consumed by the maw of living evil. That no home may be cursed by the black stain of undeath, left only to be cleansed in holy flame. And now, I have a choice... An opportunity... To flee and live another day, or sacrifice my life in the memory of all I once held dear. Closing my eyes, I listened to the laughter of my wife and son. I recalled the honeyed scent of her hair, the supple flesh of her bosom, the warmth of her embrace, and the smile I fell in love with so long ago... And I recalled my son. Glimmering curiosity poured forth from hazel eyes, a permanent smirk upon his innocent face. I heard the cry that reminded me what it is to truly have a place in the world. I reveled in his childish laughter, in the stories I told, in the grasping of my monstrous finger by his tiny little hand... In the end I sighed, exhaling into that murderous crypt the immeasurable weight of a decade of guilt. Shame. Regret. And in that moment I knew my purpose was manifest.

    Somehow, they failed to notice me. A series of ornate sconces lined the wall, freshly-oiled by forementioned necromancers prior to the Black Sabbath that claimed their souls and birthed the horde before me, and I did the unthinkable: I shut my visor and noisily charged forth across the edge of the mindless horde, lighting every thrice-damned sconce in my wake! The incredible chamber blazed with luminous flame as I beheaded the first line of mindless thralls, but the first of many to come. Upon their rotting husks did I unload an eternity of hate, eschewing the ocean of disgust in the depth of my shame. Corpse after corpse fell in my wake, until my shield blocked the wide-swipe of an undead champion.

    There! The "voice" and "spirit" of the horde! I fought long and hard, countless wounds pouring forth my lifeblood, which left the remaining creatures in a frenzy. Yet I dared not rest. I could not falter. The safety and vitality of countless families placed their burden upon my back, and I shouldered their cries of innocence with every jab - every slash - every cleave. Finally, when the last thrall had fallen, I managed the unthinkable! Summoning the might of my forefathers, comforted by the memory of my loved ones, strengthened by the faith a true nobleman had placed in me, I sundered the champion's rotting head from its armored shoulders - watching it roll eye-for-eye until it bounced down a flight of stone steps I had failed to notice. For hours I battled, exhausting my body beyond the limits of mortality, until all that remained was the force of my undying spirit. Yet in the end I persevered! My legs heavy with use, sweat mixing with the blood that dripped down my face, my chest, my arms, and thighs, I marched to find the head of the bastard champion, that I may show it to my liege as proof of my conquest. At the end of the spiraling stair I found a veritable bounty of precious artefacts, most of which were useless trinkets I might pawn off to a traveling merchant, but one thing struck me as unique.

    In the petrified grasp of a gored necromancer did I find the Black Scimitar of Crushing, an object whose power I could feel from across the span of its deathly repose. I claimed it as mine, in trust for Lord Alekhsandr - the man who made possible my quest for redemption, and ascended. I sealed the entrance to the crypt, then, and etched into its surface a warning: wrought from the very same runes I spied deep below... That its blighted denizens might never claw their way into another home. That no man might face his doom at the hands of the unknown. That foolish necromancers would know to avoid this place forevermore. I buried my grief upon that day, where no mortal shall ever walk again.

(http://wiki.battlemaster.org/wiki/Black_Scimitar_of_Crushing)

[roseheart]

Story Prompt:


Here, he's here. Watching me... I smell him...feel him under my skin. Inside me.

[Th4DwArfY1]

There is a darkness inside us all.

Thramar drew his sword, blade held upwards. Let the light play its fingers across the cold, cold metal. Then he drove it point-down into the frozen ground before him. In the distance, trees cracked under their loads of snow. A wolf howled. The eyes of owls pricked his skin.

The sword stood still and resolute. Only a small tremble, barely visible, betrayed the emotion of its wielder. Sweat beaded his brow, and condensation trickled down the length of metal. Too long, now. Too long. He had run, but now he would stand. He would stand. Resolute. The blood of his fathers demanded it be so.

Silence.

Dark, brooding silence.

The wolves had perhaps gone elsewhere, the owls flown from their perches and ceased their noise. But the woods themselves? The creaking, the breathing of a mighty mass of wood? Silenced between one heartbeat and the next? It heralded only one thing. Doom had come for Thramar.

First, came the tendrils of darkness. Against the whiteness of the snow they were deep and profound, wrapping between the distant boles of trees, spreading, wind-like, along the frozen plains. Catching hold of the hill on which he crouched, tense. Caressing it like a lost love, then climbing, slower now. Individual tendrils met and fused into one whole, one terrible pool of black, and him on an island of white in the middle.

Then, the smell. Tar. Flame and death and destruction and the folly of youth, all wrapped into one bundle that smelled of war. A profound stench which he knew well; his hand spasmed around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth. A smell he knew too well.

Third, and final, the memories. A woman's face. A sweet face, turned towards him, a glint of intelligence deep within the hazel depths. Not a beautiful face; too hard for that, sculpted by Northern winds and the trials of life. No, not a comely one was she, but she was his, and he loved her dearly. She smiled in his mind's eye, then turned. From the side, he could see the rot. Through her breast, a sword. A sword familiar and heavy in his hand, the wildness of battle, a mistimed stroke... and then the pain. Running. Running. Knowing that his disgrace drew the Fathers' fury, that he was no longer Kith nor Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality. One such as him.

The darkness converged.

He was in the centre.

It was in him.

In his mind's eye, a woman's smile.

A sob broke from his mouth, and he fell to the unforgiving earth. The sword spun away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground. Inside and out both became one. All was darkness, and all was lost.

Helenah.

[Th4DwArfY1]

Really, no one else will write something?

Well alright, then.

I'll just leave my post there.

_{All alone.}

[Arx]

Spoiler (click to show/hide)

Get it out. Get it out. Get it out get it out.
Get it out get it out getitout getitoutgetitout-

Vic wakes with a scream, scrabbling at the bedside table. A grabbing hand finds the lightswitch and comforting light splashes over the room.

Over the writhing black tendrils spidering across that hand's wrist.

Vic screams again. Claws desperately at the tendrils. Fingernails sharp, terror strengthening the blows to the point they break the skin. Black oozes down Vic's arm and-

The stench oh God the stench get it out get it out get it out-

Vic flies from the room, thrashing free of the bedclothes. To the kitchen. To the knives. Frantically slashes and stabs at the bloody morass of squirming maggoty flesh.

Blood and unholy ichor flows. Vic sticks the arm under the tap, cleansing water washing away the monster and the blood and eyes failing as Vic topples backwards-

Vic wakes in a cold sweat, grabs the wrist. Feels smooth. Reaches for the light. Flips the switch.

Oh God get it out getitoutgetitout

Happy?

[Th4DwArfY1]

Ye gods, man. I think you got the horror of the situation much better than me, anyway.

[Sanctume]

Spoiler: original (click to show/hide)

There is a darkness inside us all.

Thramar drew his sword, blade held upwards. Let the light play its fingers across the cold, cold metal. Then he drove it point-down into the frozen ground before him. In the distance, trees cracked under their loads of snow. A wolf howled. The eyes of owls pricked his skin.

The sword stood still and resolute. Only a small tremble, barely visible, betrayed the emotion of its wielder. Sweat beaded his brow, and condensation trickled down the length of metal. Too long, now. Too long. He had run, but now he would stand. He would stand. Resolute. The blood of his fathers demanded it be so.

Silence.

Dark, brooding silence.

The wolves had perhaps gone elsewhere, the owls flown from their perches and ceased their noise. But the woods themselves? The creaking, the breathing of a mighty mass of wood? Silenced between one heartbeat and the next? It heralded only one thing. Doom had come for Thramar.

First, came the tendrils of darkness. Against the whiteness of the snow they were deep and profound, wrapping between the distant boles of trees, spreading, wind-like, along the frozen plains. Catching hold of the hill on which he crouched, tense. Caressing it like a lost love, then climbing, slower now. Individual tendrils met and fused into one whole, one terrible pool of black, and him on an island of white in the middle.

Then, the smell. Tar. Flame and death and destruction and the folly of youth, all wrapped into one bundle that smelled of war. A profound stench which he knew well; his hand spasmed around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth. A smell he knew too well.

Third, and final, the memories. A woman's face. A sweet face, turned towards him, a glint of intelligence deep within the hazel depths. Not a beautiful face; too hard for that, sculpted by Northern winds and the trials of life. No, not a comely one was she, but she was his, and he loved her dearly. She smiled in his mind's eye, then turned. From the side, he could see the rot. Through her breast, a sword. A sword familiar and heavy in his hand, the wildness of battle, a mistimed stroke... and then the pain. Running. Running. Knowing that his disgrace drew the Fathers' fury, that he was no longer Kith nor Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality. One such as him.

The darkness converged.

He was in the centre.

It was in him.

In his mind's eye, a woman's smile.

A sob broke from his mouth, and he fell to the unforgiving earth. The sword spun away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground. Inside and out both became one. All was darkness, and all was lost.

Helenah.

I felt like writing, so I hope you don't mind my re-write exercise.

Spoiler: re-write exercise (click to show/hide)

Darkness stirs within Thramar as the sword is drawn, blade held high letting light's fingers carress the cold metal.  He drove the sword's sharp point into the frozen ground with such ferocity that distant trees begin cracking under heavy snow.  Wolves howls their lament, and his skin prickles from unseen staring owls.

The sword stood still and resolute unlike the wielder's slight trembling from caged emotions.  Sweat beaded upon his brown and trickles down to freeze upon the length of the metal.  Far too long to run and evade confrontation.  But the present requires to stand and fight, to be resolute for the blood of his father demands it.

Silence, dark and brooding, fills the time. The wolves and owls may hae gone on their quiet hunts.  But the stillness of the forest persisted in between heartbeats.  It only means the herald of doom for Thramar. 

First, the tendrils of darkness comes, stark against the whiteness of snow compounds their deep and profound meaning.  It wraps between distant boles of trees, spreads wide along the frozen plains like a formless wind phantom. 
He crouched low among the rocky outcrop of the hill, tense in anticipation.  Then he carresses the earth like a lost love, stands up and finds himself on this hill, an island of white snow surrounded by pooling black tentrils.

The smell follows; of tar which ignites the memory of youthful folly, the smell of war.  Flame, death and destruction is what the profound stench brings.   
His hand spasms around the sword's hilt, gouging the steel deeper into the bare earth.  A smell he knows too well.

Finally, memories of a woman's sweet face assaults him.  It turns its hazel eyes that glints of intellignce.  The face is not of beauty but of hardness that is sculpted by the Northern winds and trials of life. 

She was his, and he loved her dearly.  She smiles in his mind's eye, then turns to the side, revealing rot, and through her breast, a sword.  The familiar sword that is now heavy in his hand.  The wildness of battle, an unfortunate strike, and then the pain preludes his flight and running.  The knowledge of his disgrace draws the Father's fury, the he is no longe Kith or Kin.

The Blood Fathers know well the trials of war, but they could never condone one who became wild in battle, who lost morality.  One such as him.  The darkness converges and he is in the center.  It is in him.  In his mind's eye, a woman smiles.

Sobs broke from his mouth, and he falls to the unforgiving earth. The sword spins away from his clenched fists, and he beat the ground.  Inside and out both became one.  All is darkness, and all is lost.

Helenah.

[Urist McScoopbeard]

Careful about mixing that passive and active voice my good sir!

[Ehndras]

Halp? Trying something new. Paint Criticize me like one of your French women.

Spoiler: Mattan Blood Fields - Microstory (click to show/hide)

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks upon enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside, the howling gale shrieks deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop. 

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

[Th4DwArfY1]

Halp? Trying something new. Paint Criticize me like one of your French women.

Spoiler: Mattan Blood Fields - Microstory (click to show/hide)

"Lukur ina etuti asbu..."

Eighty-eight silhouettes lay silent beneath a dim Winter sun as Masalu's desperate charge breaks broke upon the enemy flank. As the sounds of steel upon flesh and the final cries of dying men subside subsided, the howling gale shrieks shrieked deep in all its horrid glory. Raging bonfires cast remnant shadows across a vast sea of Mattan grain, as the odor of sun-baked gore carries across its glimmering bronze stained crimson-black. With the acrid smoke of charred flesh welling unwelcome tears in the eyes of its survivors, the blood of monsters and D'harani commingle as the scarred plains drink every blasted drop.

Across the jagged Mattan coast lay quaint fishing villages whose strange peasants pray the mourning vigil in the blasphemous name of even stranger Gods... Accursed congregations toiling in those bloodied fields upon which greater men are sacrificed time and again. Trapped in a waking nightmare from which there can be no escape, their lives sustained by the profane ritual of convenient massacre come every blasted winter. The faint scent of mind-numbing Spice lingers upon one's miserable breath, a welcome diversion to ease the stark reality of this hell they call home. Though suffered years may come and go as conquering nations rise and fall, the sacrifice must always be paid - for the Old Gods' thirst is unquenchable. For the respite of those quiet villages and their peculiar denizens, the gift of life bears an unspeakable price: one whose blood-price unwitting nations have paid since time immemorial. As the pyres cast ash unto the maelstrom, and the flames die down to mere cinders, empty prayers are whispered by the foolish spawn of those who dare claim the daemon bounty of Mattan grain.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn... "

From the oft-clawed-upon shores of Sallowtown and Port Raviel, to the deathly undulations of Mattan and the Desert of Silhouettes, unwitting noblemen march without sense or reason. Opulent palaces and towering citadels abandoned to wise stewards whose craven pacifism guarantees another day may die with body and soul intact - for those who delve too far behold horrors Man was not designed to see. A distant dream by whose battered fists our soldiers cannot grasp; shattered hopes left to rot like so many bodies in a burning pyre; the collapse of proud, decadent empires whose blasphemous curiosities malign the yawning gulfs of time. Slumbering fools, dead before a drop has spilled, frayed nerves like the cords of heedless ambition grown slack as the noose by which all inevitably die.

Battered helms slip over unseeing eyes. Rust-worn blades are whet in futile gestures. A mass grave takes form... And in the dying light of bleak afternoon, those greedy plains await their unholy tribute once more.

Hmmm, actually, I started altering before realising I was probably going against the grain. Which tense were you going for?

[The Moonlit Shadow]

Well this thread is super dead, isn't it?

Spoiler: Here's the start of my... piece. You may see some...*cough cough* parallels, but it's not a Touhou fanfic. (click to show/hide)

“Higan! ...Higan, come here. ...on.”
   A voice calls from somewhere. It’s too dark. Where…? I cry out soundlessly into the space.
   “Hey, calm... ok. Over here... Higan.”
   My mind flutters. Slowly, something stirs.
   “Alright… go. Now… Higan…” The voice fades away, that word embedding itself into my mind. The… fog…? It’s too hazy. No, the voice wasn’t fading... away…


   “Ugh.”
   I push myself up onto my knees, away from the grass and dirt in front of my face. Immediately, I use my hands to wipe the dirt off. The afternoon sun bakes my back like a clay oven. Stiflingly still air pushes against my skin. It’s not pleasant.
   “Huh?” says a startled voice.
   In response, I snap my head up. In front of me is a surprised girl. Eyes wide, I take in her black and white dress. But more striking is the long, thin black hilt protruding from over her shoulder and the massive rain blue blade poking out behind the skirt of her dress. In her hand she holds small plain mushroom.
   “How’d you get here?” The girl already regained her composure, as if strangers popping up at her feet is a common occurrence for her. Perhaps it was. The mushroom falls to the ground, bouncing lightly on contact with the spring grass between her booted feet.
   “I - uh - I don’t know, “ I stutter. I can count the number of things I knew on one finger. Which happens to be-
   “What’s your name? I’m Destiny Stormsong,” says the girl as she strikes a pose. “And a magician!” She winks and points a finger gun at me, fingertip sparkling. “Wanna see?”
In a single, smooth, motion, Destiny raises an arm and draws her sword, holding it in front of her pointed to the side. She extends the sword out to her right, letting a single finger from her other hand run along the length of the blade. On contact with her skin, the blade takes on a subtle sheen, exuding a pale blue light.
   She smiles broadly, her arm straight as the horizon, and shouts. “Yeah!”
   The tip of the sword twinkles - and ignites with an explosive burst of wind. A blast pushes me back and forces me on my knees. A golden light bathes the ground before me, lending each blade of grass a glorious energy, the break of dawn after the endless night.
   With a hand on her hip, Destiny twirls the glowing sword, hair flowing and hat fluttering. The ground visibly melts when she plants the blade down, and she runs a hand through her hair. “How’s that?”
   Still recovering from the blast, I manage a soft croak.
   Destiny laughs, a little disappointedly. “Hey, you should meet someone. She’s probably not the one who brought you here, but she’s got the best shot at reaching the person who probably did that.” She grabs the fallen mushroom off the ground and raises it to the sun. Her head tilts to inspect it from different angles.
   I get up off my knee. After a pause, I shuffle my feet. “Um… aren’t you gonna take me there?”
   “Hmm?” She looks up. “Yeah, after I’m done here.”

   Our destination turns out to be a lonely shrine, both small and unimpressive. A long path stretches from the steps to the opposite horizon. Destiny ignores the road completely, taking a direct route over the trimmed grass.
   “She’s probably in there, taking a tea break.” Destiny says.
   “She lives here?” I ask questioningly. Whoever Destiny wants me to meet certainly didn’t take care of the place very well, although the grounds were clean enough.
   Reaching for the door, Destiny turns towards me. “She’s the miko, of course she lives there. Where else would a shrine maiden live? Yo, Te-???” As she pushes the door open, she jumps back with a yelp of surprise. “Hidari???”
   “You don’t usually act so startled to see me,” said a voice from inside as I peek over Destiny’s shoulder. The woman sitting there is far too elegant for the shrine’s outwardly tattered appearance, although the inside is a little better. Before her is a short table with a set of tea, one cup with steam floating from it. “Ooh? Who’s that?” She says in a light and cheery tone.
   “Her name’s, uh,” Destiny says, equally cheerfully, standing in front of the open door. She’s already regained her composure, just as she did when she saw me. “Wait, what was it?”
    “It’s Higan.” I provide helpfully.
   “Like the other side of the Sanzu?” The woman sounds perplexed. “That’s a strange name.”
   “Yeah, some people are strange like that,” Destiny nods sagely, walking towards Hidari. “Like you.”
   “Who, me?” She laughs, reaching out to retrieve a fan from thin air and covering her face. “Ahahah, I’ll need a more precise look for this one.” She waves her fan, beckoning me closer.
Cautiously, I step forwards. She... feels powerful, somehow. Perhaps it’s her casual use of magic to draw a fan, although that might be normal. Maybe it’s just her sheer elegance. Whatever it is, I stop a few feet away from her, my every sense alert. Although I don’t think there would be much I could do if she tried to hurt me.
   As if sensing my wariness, Hidari sighs. “Guess that's close enough. Anyway, she’s not one of mine. Doesn’t look special either. You sure you didn’t just find one of the stray village kids messing around?”
   “C’mon Hidari,” Destiny began.
   Hidari cuts her off with a tinkling laugh. “Just a joke. Seems like she’s just another one of those spirity beings that end up spawning everywhere. Hmm, a note - usually their lifespans are about the same as ours, but with this little power, this one might live a lot longer. You can keep her if you want.”
   She turns and reaches out, motioning at me with the fan. “You’re gonna need a new name, by the way. Higan is just where you all come from, or something. It’s always the first thing your type says.”
   Hidari picks up her tea and takes a sip, closing both eyes. “Now, get outta here!”
   “This isn’t even your shrine!” Destiny protests.
   “You planning to stick around?” Hidari opens an eye halfway, which stares balefully at Destiny, who sighs and leads me out of the room. The door closes gently behind me.

   Outside, Destiny looks at me thoughtfully, leaning beside to the door. “Yeah, you’re mine now.”
   “Wh-what?” I stammer.
   “I’m keeping you. You don’t have anything better to do, right?” She tilts her head.
   “…”
   “Exactly.” Without another look, she walks off purposefully, and I follow after her.

[Th4DwArfY1]

In lands of green-swathed rivers lost
To time that stretches blinding long
We march the way to Isengard
With sorrow for a song.
The birchen leaves are silver hued
Becalmed the many clouds of storm.
Deep come our voices now, and loud –
The pear tree weeps as does the thorn.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

Long past we sheltered from the rains
‘Neath vast and varied branches spread
Above the leafy canopy
Which formed our sylvan head.
I can recall… so long the thoughts are like
Groundwater in a drought ….
Appleblossom and elderberry sweet
As lithe as limbs could ever be
Upon this land across the Sundering Sea.
Sun-ripened Corn, Gooseberry coy
Strawberry sweet as summer wine.
Each one I loved, each one I miss
Across that gulf of time.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

To Isengard which hacks and hews.
To Wizard Tower in the vale.
Through sun and rain and winter gusts.
Through sorc'rous snow and hail.
Da dum. We go. We go. One more
March ‘ere our story ends.
The oak tree weeps its verdant blood -
Why ought we fight but for our friends
Who grew in peace, prosperity
To fall at last despite their years
To fuel the wizard’s fruitless industry!

DA dum. DA dum. Long have we lived,
My fellow leafy friends
Since Elves first sang so that we heard
The tune which grows, the song that mends.
Aye, ages pass and altered generations walk
So that I can no longer quite recall
The words.
How did our mighty race to warring fall!

I know not, though you ask me Aspen young,
Beseech me ancient Oak.
That song is lost. But this remains. For brethren slain.

Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
The forge’s flame is flickering.
Da dum. Da dumpty dum dii dum.
Of death and greed entwined we sing.

[Cryxis, Prince of Doom]

I stumbled across a 13 page story that I never finished in high school and was reading through making little edits here and there to possibly pick it up again. Would this be an appropriate place to post it for some critique and see if it's worth finishing or just dropping and starting a different story?