Quote Originally Posted by big teej View Post
after much procrastination and agonizing and writers block, I give you all, The Death of Valek

Word has spread quickly through town that a band of orcs has ambushed and captured a trade caravan. The battle was doubtless very bloody and very quick. The orcs have demanded almost the whole year’s harvest as ransom, if the townspeople accept this offer, they’re liable to starve. Sounds to me like its time to skip town, but a group of foolish optimists have approached me. They’re an alright bunch, for a bunch o elves, an’ I’ve worked with ‘em before.
I enjoyed this, poor Valek. I enjoyed the accent as well, but would suggest that you be careful how you use it. I noticed (and the above paragraph is a good example of it) that when you're simply describing something, you lose the accent, but when you're writing something that Valek would be thinking you switch to the accent. Essentially the entire snippet is in Valek's voice - we're pretty much inside his head - and most people do tend to 'talk' when they're thinking. I think it would have flowed better had the entire thing been in the 'bunch o elves' language, or the entire thing not in that style. Easiest way I can think of to do it, is to just write it as normal, and then go back and adjust everything to suit the folksy style you were after.

Quote Originally Posted by Machuchang View Post
Fifteen Years Ago
(or 6 Year Olds are Adorable)

Quote Originally Posted by Machuchang View Post
Four Years Ago
(or 17 Year Olds Are Much Less Adorable than 6 Year Olds)

Quote Originally Posted by Machuchang View Post
In Search of Truth
(or Three Years for THIS?!)

Seriously, they just had me melting. The 6 year old one was just utterly adorable, the 17 year old one was such a lovely example of a guy doing the right thing. And I dread to think what's going to happen to poor Varen after this little lot. Poor thing.

And since I'm here, have another snippet. Wrote this as backstory for another pbp character I'm creating.

Rosalind Armstrong

My head. My head aches. There was something – something important, something I needed to do. Something I should remember. Something...

“Mmmmpphghggfhh...” Was that my voice? Perhaps?

“Mmmmarrh?” It appeared it was my voice. What next? The – room? Location. Location was everything. Where am I?

Get up. Get up R- R-- Ros? Rose? Oh dear. Worry later. Get up now. Get up.

A room. Messy. Very messy. Derrrr.... Derr --- ick... would not approve. I don’t have mess. De- someone doesn’t approve.

I can’t see. What? In my eyes? I wipe them with the back of my hand. Liquid. Deep, dark red. The colour of that dress. That one that – they like me in. It’s pretty, glossy and red. It almost sparkles. Smells funny though.

I think I should tidy up. My hands push up. My head spins. The liquid on my hands and face is on the floor in front of me. My hands slip and I fall face first to the floor. My head spins. I should look up.

A person? A man. On his side, away from me. Maybe he knows why my head aches. I reach out and shake him. My hands wobble, but I can catch his shirt. He falls on to his back. His head falls to the side and eyes stare at me. Dark eyes. Blue eyes. Covered in – in... blood.



I remember. I remember all of it. I am Rosalind Armstrong. Rosie to my friends. Rosie to my- my husband. Derrick. Derrick who lies dead before me. The red liquid on my hands and face is blood. My blood.

I remember everything.

Derrick screaming at me to take the artefact and run. Derrick running to bar the door to the parlour. A black form slamming the door before he could reach it, sending Derrick flying into the wall. Myself, terrified, running for the tiny derringer hidden in the desk drawer. The explosive force of wood chips flying into my face. I had turned, and the black figure lowered a gun. Lowered it just long enough for Derrick to slam into them from the side. He yelled again for me to run. I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I scrambled for the derringer among the ruins of the drawer. I couldn’t find it. Derrick grunted. No time to find the gun. I went for the chair instead. Smashed it over the back of the dark figure. They fell and Derrick scrambled to one side. Shoved the artefact into my hands, and pushed me towards the door. The dark figure stood. Derrick pushed me behind him. A gun went off. Derrick fell. I screamed. And then I ran.

I thought I had run. My current situation suggested otherwise. I raised a shaking hand to my face. Found torn and tattered skin. A bullet graze. But I wasn’t dead. I must have made a convincing corpse though, for the dark figure was gone. Gone. Gone...

The artefact!

Staggering to my feet, I searched. I looked everywhere. I did not touch Derrick.

It was gone.

I fell hard against the desk, my head throbbing. My hands found the wall behind me, and I slid down to the floor. My fingers left slimy red stains on the wall. Blood. And – what was that, underneath my hand? I curled fingers around the cool metal and turned my hand over. The derringer. The thrice-damned derringer.

Tears. Tears both hot and cold. I screamed, ignoring the pain stabbing through my mind. My head. My – my stomach? I felt abruptly cold. The sick feeling in my stomach, whenever the supernatural was nearby. I hadn’t noticed till now. Had I condemned my husband to death? Had I killed him by my inattention?

The hand holding the derringer slammed into the floor. Followed by the other hand. Paper rustled. Dully, I picked it up and turned it over. It was that letter. The one from that group in New Orleans. Requesting the presence of my husband. Derrick... oh Derrick...

He had refused the request. For my sake he said. Few knew that his success as an archaeologist, his success in investigating the supernatural came largely from me. From my abilities to sense and manipulate the supernatural. He had decided the risk was not worth it. Not worth it. Not worth my life, he had said. Surely if they knew his success came from a woman, through a woman. Our world was not enlightened enough, he had said. Better for me to remain hidden. He had done it to save me. And I had killed him.

Tears. Tears both hot and cold. They ran down my face and mixed with blood still flowing from my temple. As I stared at the floor, they dropped from my cheeks. I wept blood. As the Lord had in the Garden of Gethsemane. Why, God? Why?

As I sat there, I made my decision. Derrick and I had been happy. I would never be happy without him. I would join this group in New Orleans, and if they had a problem with my being a woman. They would not have it for long.

I would use this group to help me find the artefact and the dark figure. And I would keep the derringer with me always. I would not be unprepared again.

And I would weep blood, even as the Lord Jesus; until I was reunited with my Derrick.