D&D Snippets

[Dr Bwaa]

Really well done, Gareth. You caught all the action and made it feel very active, rather than static. Sounds like you've got quite the game going there.

[big teej]

in hindsight Gareth, I do have one criticism of the last piece.


the repeated use of "gunning the engine"

sorta gave me the impression that they were letting up on the throttle between each time this was said.... which sorta jarred with me...

"why slow down when mister hellrider here is already keeping pace?"

[big teej]

I finally got to be a player again this past sunday.


it sparked my muse, so I wrote up a little something about my character returning to the hide-out after a mission.

enjoy.
just a heads up, it probably fizzled out at the end, because I wrote the majority of it yesterday and only just now wrote the ending.


also, I may have to take down "it's in the vents" as I'm going to try and get it published in the near future, so if you wanna go back and read it do it now.


anyways.
"a hard day's work"

Spoiler

I let out a deep sigh as the warehouse doors rattle closed behind me. I stomp in place a few times to get as much of the filth off of my coat and boots as possible before making my way to the washing machine, I peel off my overcoat and strip out the coat of steel plates that it hides and throw it in the washing machine, along with my socks. Miraculously, my pants had been completely untouched by the proverbial storm of filth my companion had generated in the sewers.

I stomp across over to the metal walkway that leads to my “loft” as I’ve come to call it. I open the door to what probably used to be a manager’s office and gaze at my current home.

The room is a sty. Dirty clothes and cover the floor, with ammo boxes scattered amongst them like land mines, eager to claim a stubbed toe. the military style cot along wall looks like a midden heap of dirty laundry and various personal effects, and an old book that was dog-eared from use. Along the opposite wall on a folding table was a partially constructed still. Along the 4th wall was the only thing in the room remotely clean, a weapons locker that contained my .50 caliber sniper rifle, as well as containing a resting place for my trusted shotgun. The room smells faintly of unwashed socks.

But it’s home.

Before I deal with anything else I pick my way across the few empty (not clean, just empty) spots on the floor and remove the cleaning kit from the weapons locker and begin cleaning my shotgun. Once it’s cleaner than anything in this room has business being, I place it and the cleaning kit back into the locker and close it.

I walk back across the room and strip off my flak jacket and hang it on the hook next to my door, along with the plate-steel-tile armor I wear under my coat. The hook the coat hangs on snaps off and falls to the ground in a heap. I stare at it for a moment, willing it to fix itself.

It remains on the floor. Stubborn, mocking me.

I sigh, resolving to deal with it later (which I know I really won’t) and walk over to the bed, it creaks in protest as I sit down on it after shoving myself a clear spot amongst the dirty laundry.

I reach over and punch a button on my stereo. “She Rides” by Danzig starts to play. “good choice” I say to nobody in particular, the machine is on random. I dig in the midden heap to my left and pull out an old humidor. I open it and examine the contents. Only 6 cigars left.

There’s no justice in this world.

I select the last unflavored one from the batch and light it, hoping the smoke will cover up the sock-stench. I continue puffing on the cigar as I pull out my very old, and very battered, notepad and start writing some things down.

I need to get in contact with the scrounger.
I need to figure out how to deal with the sewer patrol on my own.
I need to figure out how to get Valerie and the undergrounders supplies without giving away their hideout.
I need to keep the rest of the group unaware of my actions.

Sounds simple enough, but implementing any of them is going to be difficult.

First things first, I need to get in touch with the scrounger, I can worry about everything else while he gets what Valerie and I need.

I’ll tackle the rest of this after my cigar. I sit in silence in my loft, lit only by the light filtering through the grime covered windows, and the pathetic flame at the end of my cigar. And wait.

[Lady Moreta]

Finally catching up on my reading!

Gareth - I liked this one I found the names a bit confusing, but I think that was because the Latin-number-names made me think of the movie Stardust where masculine and feminine endings are gender-exclusive, whereas you had masculine ending names with female character. It threw me off a bit. The only other problem I had was in the last (or second to last) paragraph, the word 'alit' I don't think it was really the right word to use. I understand what you mean, but it doesn't flow well. I'd have rewritten the sentence to compensate - but that's just me. Other than that, I really enjoyed this. Good pacing, good story, loved the ending. Completely not where I was expecting it to end up.

Teej - your second sentence needs to be re-written. In the first case, I'd say it needs to be broken into two sentences... other thing is that when you get to him taking out the steel plates, it kinda sounds like he put the plates in the washing machine, not the coat itself Otherwise, I enjoyed this one too. You did a great job of capturing the world-weary soldier attitude - I really got into his head and I could almost hear the voice in my head (possibly because Peregrine's been playing Metal Gear Solid recently and I'm hearing your guy talking in Snake's voice, with his attitude).

And for your entertainment... I just finished another snippet. I say again, intense pain is really hard to write...

Walking Wounded

Spoiler

“Lyre? Lyre are you here?”

It took me a minute to realise that Dan was talking to me, to remember that Lyre was my name now. It had seemed a good idea at the time, I clearly had a connection with music and they had to call me something. I remember first seeing the lyre, they’d all called it a harp and yet somehow I’d known straight away it was actually a lyre, not a harp at all. It was the first thing I’d gone to, been drawn to like it held some sort of magnetism directed at me and me alone. Lydia had suggested it. She’d thought that if I could see things, touch them, even everyday items, it might trigger a memory. I’d been hopeful at the time, especially with the way I practically ran to the damned lyre like it would save me. That was a full three weeks ago and I still had nothing. I’d run to it, I’d stood there, my hands hovering over the dark wood, Lydia just behind me, barely breathing. I’d plucked a couple of strings, with less-than-musical results and that was it. No flash of memory, no sudden spark of the life I must have led before this – this existence.

“LYRE!”

Dan. Whoops.

“I’m over here Dan,” I called aloud.

Dan. Danen. Lydia’s grandson, we were about the same age. At least, we assumed as much, considering how old I was was as lost to me as everything else. We got on well – he was tall and strong and remarkably easy on the eyes. I had no idea if he would have been my type in the past, but this was one area I had no real problems adapting to. He was the only one who treated ‘Lyre’ as a real name and not just a temporary measure until I got my memory back. Even Lydia, who had been the first to confess that I might never get my memory back was reluctant to accept that this name might be it for me. Her wilful delusion had infected the rest of the village, except for Dan. I found it hard to be around any of them, which is why I was hiding out here. There was only so much well-meaning assistance I could stand.

“Lyre, what are you doing out here? You know you’re not strong enough.” Dan had inherited his grandmother’s skill at healing but none of her kind, gentle bedside manner. No, Dan used his skill and the awe in which he was held as a bludgeon – lightly wielded to be sure, but a bludgeon all the same. Do this. Don’t do that. The only reason I didn’t scream at him was because I knew he genuinely cared. And that was strange. No one else seemed to understand that his gruff manner was deliberate. Lydia coaxed people back to health. Dan intimidated them.

“I’m well enough,” I grumbled as he came around the massive trunk of the tree I was leaning against. “And if I had to stay in Lydia’s house with everyone and his dog offering suggestions and advice, I would’ve grabbed that bastard sword in the corner and done some serious damage with it. Besides,” I added as his dark eyebrows rose, “you said I could go for walks.”

“Short walks. With someone accompanying you.” Dan retorted, moving to stand fully in front of me, blocking the light of the setting sun. “I definitely didn’t mean you could swear up a storm, threaten bodily harm and then storm out of the house. And this,” he waved his hand in a vague gesture intended to encompass the entire area “is not a short walk. This is an hour’s walk at a good pace and I’ll bet it didn’t take you an hour?” his tone was both questioning and a statement of fact. Impressive. How I knew it was impressive I wasn’t sure.

“Get up.”

“I swore up a storm?”

We spoke at the same moment, his voice flat and implacable, mine full of confusion. Dan dropped into a crouch in front of my face, his face both concerned and amused,

“Apparently,” he said with wry amusement. “You don’t remember it?” he added, voice gentling. I shook my head, feeling suddenly lost

“No,” I said. “What did I say?” I asked with sudden concern. What had I said to these people? Dan laughed, I liked listening to him laugh, he didn’t laugh very often, but when he did it was full of sunlight and spread like the ripples on a clear, flat pond.

“I don’t know,” he confessed, “and no one would repeat the words, so it must have been pretty bad.” He chuckled.

I stared up at him, my face stricken even as I felt the blood drain from my face. How could I have said something and not remember it!? Dan was right, it hadn’t taken me an hour to get here, so how could I possibly have forgotten something I said no more than two hours ago? I could understand and even accept to a degree, that I could no longer remember anything before waking up in Lydia’s house, but this, this was – was... wrong.

Dan reached out towards me and in a sudden fury I slapped his hands away.

“No!” I yelled it in his face and grabbed his arms, partly to hold him still and partly to use him as leverage to get to my feet. It was an odd, subtle action that felt strangely familiar. Had I done something like this before? Letting go of him, I spun around and shoved my way past him, further along the track that lead through knee-length grass, down to the river. A scattering of stones and small rocks decorated the track and I aimed a vicious kick at one, intending for it to go spinning off ahead of me. Instead, I got a vicious reminder that I was far from healed. The instant I pulled my leg back the unhealed muscles in my back constricted and screamed white-hot fury. A nerve twisted and pinched in a blaze of agony and I collapsed onto my knees trying not to scream, but unable to smother a choked gasp of pain.

“LYRE!” Dan’s voice ricocheted around my head as I slid sideways in the dust. Pain slithered along my nerves, coiling up my spine only to shoot down my legs, curl my toes as abused muscles retracted, and return to settle as a burn in the small of my back. I caught my sideways motion with a hand thrust out in front of me, my fingers folded into a fist as even that motion jarred my back and fed the fire. Even as I heard Dan’s footsteps approaching so quickly the still-sane part of my mind wondered that he didn’t trip over his own feet, I slid and fell. The hand that had been holding up became an elbow and even as the dull thud told me Dan had arrived and was on his knees beside me, I sprawled in the dust.

“… ‘re! Lyre!” Dan’s voice, urgently pleading somewhere over my head. Why was this room so stuffy?

“’An?” I heard him swear, using words I’d seen him swat the village kids for using. My healer using such language? Surely the lack of oxygen was getting to him as much as it was to me. I lifted myself to look at him, my fingers scrabbling in the – “Aaanh!” – dust?

Hands caught mine and pressed hard enough to force my fingers to lie flat on the ground. Hands gently lifted my head and – oh! even that hurt! – carefully turned it to one side so I could see and breathe again. Dan’s face, blurry through the dirt in my eyes, appeared just above me,

“Lyre? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled the words, remembering now – the track to the river, avoiding Dan, burning pain in my back – I must have blacked out.

“Good. Now hold still, I need to check the bandages.” I tried, I really tried. But dear gods it hurt so badly. “Bloody hell Lyre!” Another bout of swearing, poor Danen, I must be trying his patience so badly. He started muttering under his breath as he attempted to replace the bandages, I caught the odd word like “stupid”, “idiot” and “fool” before his face appeared back in front of me, his expression as grave as I’d ever seen it.

“You’ve torn most of the stitches out,” he told me, “I’ll need to get my gear and-” he paused, lifting his head and looking around. I stared dully at him, the pain had dimmed to a slow, idle bite that I could almost ignore. He sighed heavily and his fingers came down to sift lightly through my hair and gently brush dirt from my cheek. “It’s too late,” he said regretfully. Panic surged in me and he hastily added “to get my things and come back. It’s already getting dark.”

“Take me home?” I asked then, the first chance I’d really had to speak. Everything hurt and I was so tired and struggling to hold back tears and I just wanted to go.

“Oh Lyre,” his breath warmed my check as he almost whispered my name. “I would have to carry you and-”

“Don’t care.” I said stubbornly. “I want to go,” my voice broke and I sobbed out the last word. “Please…”

“It will hurt,” he warned me, “and badly.”

“It already hurts badly,” I retorted and began struggling to get my arms to lift my weight, gasping with every movement, but knowing, deep down, that Dan would help me rather than let me struggle on my own.

“Oh Lyre,” he sounded – so many things. “All right. I could go back and get help, but I don’t move as fast as you, and I don’t want to leave you out here on your own. I don’t think-” he broke off abruptly.

He was silent for so long I began to wonder if he was still there, perhaps he had turned into a bird and flown away, or an insect and crawled away through the long grass. The sound of tearing cloth pulled me from my odd reverie and I titled my head to see Dan tearing the bottom off his tunic and balling it up. The first thought that popped into my head was that he intended to gag me – oddly enough the thought didn’t really bother me – not until he lowered his hand and offered it to me, and I, operating on some instinct I wasn’t aware of, pulled back. Dan immediately drew back his hand and caught the back of my head with the other.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Easy. I need to get you upright so I can carry you. It’s going to hurt,” he offered the cloth again, drawing my head forwards as he did. “Bite down on this, it will help.”

He was right about that. Moving carefully and slowly, Dan eased me into a sitting position. It hurt! I bit down on the cloth, grateful for his foresight, but still couldn’t stop a groan.

“Easy. Easy.” Dan said again, an oddly comforting litany, it gave me something else to focus on. He moved then to be properly behind me and adjusted his grip. “Okay Lyre, I’m going to lift you up now. Don’t try and help me, just stay as still as you can and let me do the work. Ready? One. Two. Three.”

“Nnnnnnaaahhhh!” I screamed aloud, as pain tore along the nerves in my back. I bit down viciously on the cloth as Dan paused, balanced himself and stood up. “Mmmhh! Ah. Ah. Ah.” My breath came out in a series of gasps as I struggled to stay calm.

“Little angel, full of grace.”

It hurt so badly, Dan’s hands were carefully placed to avoid the bruises, but by necessity his arms put pressure on my back. I tried to move, to ease the pressure and the pain.

“Sitting tall, in your place.”

He started walking, each step sent daggers up my spine and the nausea kicked in. I clenched my teeth and tried to concentrate on breathing. In and out. In and out. Don’t think about the pain. Don’t think about anything at all. It came surprisingly easy to me – I just – stopped thinking.

“Come to the table. Take a seat. Hands together, nice and neat.” Dan’s voice cracked on a note and suddenly I was aware again. Pain was still there, but – something else, the sound of a voice reaching for a note just out of range.

“You’re in the wrong key.” I mumbled.

“What?” Dan sounded startled; I felt the muscles in his neck move as he looked down at me.

“You’re- in the wrong key.” I gasped the words out as Dan stumbled over a dip in the path.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “What key should I be in then?” He asked.

“This song’s in C major.” I replied without thinking. “Probably too high for you, but it’s not meant to be sung by a male voice anyway.” Dan stopped walking and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was. How did I know that? He chose not to comment on that, instead, he picked up on something else,

“Well then, why don’t you sing it for me?”

“Little angel-- full of grace.
Sitting tall. Ahhh- in your place.
Mmnnnnh Take- take it s-slow, no need to r-race.”

“Nnngghh oh gods! Stop. Dan stop! Stop! Please stop!” The words exploded out of me. Oh gods it hurt! Forward movement stopped immediately as Dan immediately came to a halt. He awkwardly crouched and adjusted his grip.

“Shhhh… shhhh,” his voice murmured in the air above my head as he freed one hand and I felt him stroking the hair away from my face. “It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”

“It’s not okay,” I sobbed. “It hurts too bad. I can’t do this.” Tears spilled out of my eyes, down my face. My chest jerked as I tried to breath and still there was pain.

“You can.” Dan’s voice was implacable. “You wanted this Lyre. It was your idea. Now, it is far too late for me to leave you and get help, even if I thought you’d survive on your own out here. Now, get your arms around my neck and hold on.” Ahh, there was the Dan I’d come to know and love. There’s no love like tough love. That welcome and distracting thought got me through the lift. A couple of steps later and Dan spoke up again.

“Hey, what happened to the music.” I glared at him, but couldn’t deny that having a distraction helped and started singing again. My voice was weak and thready and yet I could feel myself attempting to take deep breaths from right at the bottom of my ribcage, to project my voice, to make the most of it.

“Come to the table. Take a seat.
Mph. Hands together, nice and neat.”

Was I a singer? The thought kept me occupied on the long and painful walk back. Encouraged by Dan, I tried singing a few other songs. If he named a song, I couldn’t remember the words, but if he asked me for a song about unrequited love, I immediately sang what he informed me was the best known song on the subject. For over an hour we went on this way. Dan sang a few lines here and there and I immediately corrected him on tone and pitch – and sometimes even on the words. By the time we reached the village we were both staring at each other in utter bafflement.

“Well,” Dan said finally, “I suppose we know what you used to do.” I smiled dreamily at him, singing had felt – well, it had hurt like hell, but it felt nice, right somehow. Dan had a good voice too, which helped. I hated singing with someone who couldn’t hold a tune. Feeling oddly – good, I let myself relax into Dan’s arms.

“Lyre? Lyre?” It was getting darker, but that was to be expected, after all Dan’s fussing about it getting late and too dark to see. There was a pleasant numbness spreading out from my back into my legs now… it was… pleasant.

“Lyre? Oh no… No, no no! Lyre! Grandma! I need you! Lyre, stay with me! GRANDM-!”

[Dr Bwaa]

Teej

I really liked this one; it has a very nice sort of mundane feel to it despite the actual content. The only spot the Lady Moreta didn't mention that really jarred me was this moment; you slip into the past tense for the second half of the paragraph:

Originally Posted by big teej

The room is a sty. Dirty clothes and cover the floor, with ammo boxes scattered amongst them like land mines, eager to claim a stubbed toe. the military style cot along wall looks like a midden heap of dirty laundry and various personal effects, and an old book that was dog-eared from use. Along the opposite wall on a folding table was a partially constructed still. Along the 4th wall was the only thing in the room remotely clean, a weapons locker that contained my .50 caliber sniper rifle, as well as containing a resting place for my trusted shotgun. The room smells faintly of unwashed socks.

Lady Moreta

I think you conveyed this really well; there were a couple spots that I particularly enjoyed, like the apostrophe in this little bit "... 're! Lyre!" I thought that did a great job of the fade-into consciousness. Your first non-dialogue sentence bothers me a little bit; the "now" at the end made me assume that she was recently renamed and still expected her old one to be the one used. I was also a little curious about "'An"; is that the swear Lyre mentions or a piece of another word? You're also missing a period at the end of the paragraph beginning "'Apparently.'" Otherwise I thought this read very well, and the whole carrying/singing part was adorable. It was a great set-up for the end, too

[big teej]

... I feel an odd kinship with dan.

especially the line about "intimidating people into getting better"

I imagine anybody who's had to put up with me while their sick would agree.

oh well.


great piece moreta.

[Lady Moreta]

Originally Posted by lordhenry4000

I really liked this one; it has a very nice sort of mundane feel to it despite the actual content. The only spot the Lady Moreta didn't mention that really jarred me was this moment; you slip into the past tense for the second half of the paragraph:

Thank you for quoting that paragraph! It reminded me of my other bother... Type numbers in full! 4th should have been fourth, don't be lazy Teej - the only time you can write numbers as numerals is when they're over ten, anything ten and below should be written as a word, not a numeral.

Originally Posted by lordhenry4000

I think you conveyed this really well; there were a couple spots that I particularly enjoyed, like the apostrophe in this little bit "... 're! Lyre!" I thought that did a great job of the fade-into consciousness. Your first non-dialogue sentence bothers me a little bit; the "now" at the end made me assume that she was recently renamed and still expected her old one to be the one used. I was also a little curious about "'An"; is that the swear Lyre mentions or a piece of another word? You're also missing a period at the end of the paragraph beginning "'Apparently.'" Otherwise I thought this read very well, and the whole carrying/singing part was adorable. It was a great set-up for the end, too

Thank you The 'now' thing was meant to be an acknowledgement of the fact that she knows 'Lyre' isn't her real name, but since no one knows what it is, they're just using Lyre for now. I can see how it doesn't quite fit though. The "'An" is "Dan" without the 'D' - shortenening names like that only really works if the name is longer than three letters And I disclaim all responsibility for punctuation or lack thereof

[Lord_Gareth]

The Host of a Thousand Princes
Part Three

Spoiler

Autumn

The circle can barely be called a circle any more; more sorcerers are on the ground than there are standing, many of them dead, others clinging onto life by the thinnest of threads. The remaining members of the Ashen Court present for the ritual sway dangerously, chanting in pained monotones as blood oozes from their eyes, their ears, their noses, their mouths, pooling at their feet and running in slow rivers towards the center of the circle.

The blood crawls its way up Seraphina's legs like a bright red snake, burrowing into her throat as her back arches in sheer ecstasy.

The rain starts once more, lashing down on the battle and the ritual alike.

Winter

The girl with stained glass hair wrenches the pickaxe out of her ribs, her breath coming in ragged chunks. She's lost so much blood she can't see straight, but her attackers are dead - all eight of them, killed with quick, precise knife blows that would make a surgeon proud.

I am never going to see Natasha again, she thinks to herself dispassionately. Bloody tears well up in the corners of her eyes as she contemplates the idea, sobs wracking her tiny, frail little form.

Very quietly, the blood begins to freeze over. The girl with the stained glass hair doesn't even notice.

Just like she doesn't notice the bleeding stop.

Spring

"Is everything prepared, General?"

General Northman nods, looking twenty years older than he did before Natasha had given him the sight. The Darkling girl had taken all of his jeeps and loaded her soldiers - Spring Knights, she'd called them - into them. Even ignoring the alien appearances, the general had never seen a more rag-tag, motley bunch.

"Anything glowing green is friendly, everything else is a bogey. Look, are you sure about this plan?"

Natasha laughs prettily, "General, if this is going to be my last act on Earth, I'm going to do it in style."

"Alright, alright. On your head be it."

Summer

Queen Jillian Fury strode through the battlefield like the Queen of Death. Every stroke of her twin hatchets ended a life; every hand that was raised against her fell, twitching, to the unforgiving earth. She had long since left the rest of her Court behind in her fury, her slender form crackling with lightning so fierce that lesser hobgoblins that failed to make way before her were simply reduced to ash where they stood, scorched by her malice. She barely paid attention to the army of horrors that crashed and rebounded from her, eyes locked on only one foe.

"STAND AND FACE ME, COWARD!" she screams, her voice rending the air and sending goblins and loyalists flying from the shockwave of its passing. The storm above strikes her with lightning and she drinks it in, her skin rippling with raw power. The Knight of the Shattered Laugh charges her, lie-tipped lance lowered, and she stares it down as he charges, the air around her crackling with contained energy.

There is a flash of light just before the Knight impacts, and he and his steed simply cease existing.

"COME FORTH, WRETCH!" Jillian cries. "ARE YOU AFRAID TO FACE YOUR FORMER SLAVE? Come! Bring your glory and your fury! STAND AND FIGHT!"

The ranks of the Host part, and striding forth from them is a tall, thin man garbed in shimmering light. His blades are made of leashed lightning and his deep hood conceals a face forged from shimmering light. Wordlessly, he holds one of his blades up, and communicates with Jillian with a pulse of shimmering light.

"No!" she snarls. "This. Ends. NOW!"

A ring of thorns surrounds the two combatants, high and sharp and deadly, just before it bursts into green and black flames that crawl dozens of feet into the air. With a snarl of rage and hate beyond human comprehension, Jillian leaps to the attack.

Winter

The girl with the stained glass hair is surprised that she is still alive. She can barely think, barely breathe, but when she hears the footsteps coming up on her she clutches her knife close and pulls herself to her feet. She sways from side to side, but her feet find easy purchase on the mirror-smooth ice that now coats the room.

When the first of the cat-faced goblins shows itself, she slits its throat with a quick, quiet motion, her strength quietly rebuilding itself as the ice creeps into her veins. She pushes the corpse into its fellows while they are still on the stairs and skips and slides after it, never noticing the ice that follows in her wake like a cloak.

Spring

Far behind their queen, the warriors of Summer hold themselves in a ragged circle, fighting desperately to hold the forces of the Host back. A young boy with cat's eyes and small talons claws desperately at the goblins that pour at him in and endless tide, terror starting to overcome his ferocity.

Then the witch-light comes, lining the knights of Wrath in an emerald glow. Confused, the goblins pull back and the battle lulls as neither side knows what is going on.

"Is that...music?" the young boy asks.

From out of the fog and haze of the rain, both sides see a formation of tanks and jeeps drive slowly towards the battle. One of the tanks has a massive sound system strapped to the outside, from which the Ride of the Valkyries plays at ear-splitting volumes. And standing atop the barrel of the combat armor is Natasha, curved saber drawn and in hand. The Darkling grins like a mad thing as her fellow Spring courtiers whoop and holler battle cries. A slight distance away, the whup-whup-whup of combat choppers can be heard over the music.

Natasha seizes a microphone, her voice being projected over the sounds of Wagner as she addresses the mortals she has conscripted and the flagging warriors of Summer.

"HO LA, OHDIN! HAAKA PALLE!"

The tanks fire smoke and death, and a mighty battle cry comes up from the invincible ranks of Summer. Their counter-charge crashes into the Host like the blow of Mjolnir itself.

Summer

The thorns blaze bright, but not as brightly as the clash of magic and steel within them. Whenever blade meets axe, the resulting explosion of lightning strobes sheer power out into the raging battle around them, incinerating unwary hobgoblins and lighting the darkening sky with thunderous cracks. Jillian's opponent is silent, and the Queen of Wrath's own voice is an unending shriek of hate and pain, a fury that carries her without care, without fear, and without pain to hack and slash at the flickering target before her, no matter how many times he dances away.

Time and again the Gentry tries to use his magics against Jillian, only to feel his power over light and lightning blocked and drained away by her counter-magics. He grows desperate as her hungry axes, their heads made from hand-forged iron, get closer and closer to him. He does the only thing he can think to do - he becomes living lightning.

Too late he realizes his mistake. The raging berserker before him is suddenly the picture of calm collection as her Contracts wrestle with his new form. Desperately he pleads with Lightning, begs its intercession, offers it boons, but to no avail: Jillian has made it deaf to his pleas, and now she has utter control of his form. He has just enough time to beg her for mercy in vain before she discorporates his essence, scattering him to the four winds. The ring of thorns vanishes, blowing away as ash on the breeze and letting Jillian see the chaos of battle unleashed all around her. A Sidewinder missile streaks just past her and blows apart a squad of privateers with iron manacles. Green witch-flame lights the Queen of Summer as she stands, panting and exhausted.

Jillian smiles to herself and charges.

[Lady Moreta]

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

The Host of a Thousand Princes
Part Three

I enjoyed the first half of this more than the second... but it's still fantastic.

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

The circle can barely be called a circle any more; more sorcerers are on the ground than there are standing, many of them dead, others clinging onto life by the thinnest of threads. The remaining members of the Ashen Court present for the ritual sway dangerously, chanting in pained monotones as blood oozes from their eyes, their ears, their noses, their mouths, pooling at their feet and running in slow rivers towards the center of the circle.

This is possibly one of the most disturbing things I have ever read. You actually had me staring at the computer screen saying "Oh that's gross! Ewww. Yuck!" I rarely talk to my books. Well done sir. And because I know you like details, it was the litany/list of the various places blood was oozing from that got me.

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

Very quietly, the blood begins to freeze over. The girl with the stained glass hair doesn't even notice.

Just like she doesn't notice the bleeding stop.

Creeeepppyyy... Here I think it's the quiet, understated way you write this. The fighting with the goblins is given more time, more description. This is just a simple statement of fact - so simple that even she doesn't notice it. It's so understated it's just about screaming

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

Natasha laughs prettily, "General, if this is going to be my last act on Earth, I'm going to do it in style."

This just made me laugh

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

"STAND AND FACE ME, COWARD!" she screams, her voice rending the air and sending goblins and loyalists flying from the shockwave of its passing. The storm above strikes her with lightning and she drinks it in, her skin rippling with raw power. The Knight of the Shattered Laugh charges her, lie-tipped lance lowered, and she stares it down as he charges, the air around her crackling with contained energy.

Lie-tipped lance? As in tipped with lies? as in untruths? fascinating concept, but if that's not what you meant then I'm confused. Also got a little confused because I was thinking the knight was who she was talking to... then she killed him. But it's explained later on, so no biggie

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

There is a flash of light just before the Knight impacts, and he and his steed simply cease existing.

I honestly think 'cease to exist' reads better here

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

The ranks of the Host part, and striding forth from them is a tall, thin man garbed in shimmering light. His blades are made of leashed lightning and his deep hood conceals a face forged from shimmering light. Wordlessly, he holds one of his blades up, and communicates with Jillian with a pulse of shimmering light.

My only problem here is your overuse of the word 'shimmering' - unless it has some special world-specific meaning, I would say go change at least one of them (probably the last one) to some other word. It's a bit repetitive as it stands.

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

"No!" she snarls. "This. Ends. NOW!"

Beautifully done

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

When the first of the cat-faced goblins shows itself, she slits its throat with a quick, quiet motion, her strength quietly rebuilding itself as the ice creeps into her veins. She pushes the corpse into its fellows while they are still on the stairs and skips and slides after it, never noticing the ice that follows in her wake like a cloak.

She is still freaking me out. In fact, I think I like Winter's parts here the most - it's so quiet and understated, but you just get the feeling that it's going to end up being the most important thing of all...

Spring

Far behind their queen, the warriors of Summer hold themselves in a ragged circle, fighting desperately to hold the forces of the Host back. A young boy with cat's eyes and small talons claws desperately at the goblins that pour at him in and endless tide, terror starting to overcome his ferocity.

The Darkling grins like a mad thing as her fellow Spring courtiers whoop and holler battle cries. A slight distance away, the whup-whup-whup of combat choppers can be heard over the music.

Natasha seizes a microphone, her voice being projected over the sounds of Wagner as she addresses the mortals she has conscripted and the flagging warriors of Summer.[/quote]

This whole section confuses me... are we talking about Spring or Summer here? I thought Natasha was fighting on the side of Spring, so why is she addressing the warriors of Summer? and why do we care about them if this is Spring's section? It doesn't make any sense.

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

Time and again the Gentry tries to use his magics against Jillian, only to feel his power over light and lightning blocked and drained away by her counter-magics. He grows desperate as her hungry axes, their heads made from hand-forged iron, get closer and closer to him. He does the only thing he can think to do - he becomes living lightning.

I liked this paragraph... I like how you mention that his power is being blocked by her, and then he becomes living lightning. As soon as I read that I went "Oh, that was a bad idea." Very well written.

Overall this was excellent as usual just a few things that didn't quite make sense to me (which once again, may be the result of not being familiar with the world).

And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go plug this into the charger before my battery runs out...

[SanguisAevum]

Great thread!

Inspired me to do a snippet about an NPC of mine...

Spoiler

I am the last of my people.

As I admit the awful truth to myself, the cold desperate realisation of this most terrifying fact freezes the very blood in my veins. I look back through the ages at the line of my kin and I weep for them all. The collected works of a civilisation as old as speech itself have been torn asunder in the name of hatred and fear.

I am the last of my people.

My grief is absolute as I stare blindly down at the corpse of my wife, my soul mate. I look back through the memories we shared. They are all tainted now... no longer do I see those emerald eyes looking fondly back at me, instead all I see is the blood stained ground outside the place that was once our home. Her rich and vibrant voice is gone, replaced by the shrieks of agony that sounded out her painful death to me as I tried in vain to reach her. In stricken silence I reach forth and one by one pluck out the spears that protrude grossly from her perfect form. She was not killed, she was butchered.

I am the last of my people.

What little remains of my world crashes down around me as my gaze falls to the remains of my daughters. Barely old enough to speak, they would not have understood what was happening. Sweet mercy of the gods I thank the powers that be that they did not have time to cry out as my wife did. My tears stream down my cheeks as I imagine them welcoming the invaders to our fields with naive smiles, only to be mercilessly cut down where they stood. They, above all other did not deserve this, but the northerners have no compassion, no morals, they know only violence. This above all else steels my heart, such abject cruelty for the sake of ignorance is intolerable. I howl my pain to the world in raw uncontrolled rage.

I am the last of my people.

And now they come for me. The king of the raiders leads his army this way even now. And rest assured, an army he will need, for the last of my people is also the greatest of my people! Through might and magic have I reigned over my subjects, and for five thousand years my empire has held true. I tell myself that as long as this crown sits atop my brow my people live on. But the words are hollow and without meaning. What use do I have for an empire now? I would trade it all gladly, just to hear my wife's voice, or to hold my daughters one last time. With their tainted memory haunting me as I fly, I go forth to meet my destroyers.

I am the last of my people.

But the last and greatest of the dragons is more than a match for even a hundred thousand barbarians. And though I know I must surely fall in the end, I shall lay about me with fire, tooth, claw and spell, and the ragged hordes of the north shall flee before my vengeance for at least a time.

So sayeth Rathranox the ancient!


(Translated from Old Draconic)

[Lord_Gareth]

For all future reference, Moreta, Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter have always been on the same side; the four Great Courts are expressions of ideology and political alignment amongst the Lost, but all stand strong together against the Gentry (in this case, as expressed by the Host of a Thousand Princes).

[Lady Moreta]

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

For all future reference, Moreta, Spring/Summer/Autumn/Winter have always been on the same side; the four Great Courts are expressions of ideology and political alignment amongst the Lost, but all stand strong together against the Gentry (in this case, as expressed by the Host of a Thousand Princes).

Oh.



Ohhh...

And suddenly, the entire series makes so much more sense!

Why didn't you say that in the first place?

[Lord_Gareth]

The trope page I linked explains it :p

Didja like Natasha's big entrance? ~_^

[Lady Moreta]

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

The trope page I linked explains it :p

Ahhh, that explains it then. I never read it

Originally Posted by Lord_Gareth

Didja like Natasha's big entrance? ~_^

I did. It was very epic

[Winds]

I had been doing most of my snippets from memory, but I don't remember them well enough to do them any justice-and besides, I'm the DM for the group now. So, here's Garrett's 'retirement'.

Spoiler

From Garrett's journal

I can't ignore it any longer.

The two that joined are morons, but they remind me of myself and my friend too much. One a sorcerer, like me. The other a monk, like Touchstone.

It has been some time since we journeyed into the demon-infested city that once once the ancient elven capital. Touchstone had disappeared during the night, and my familiar, Apple, said that she smelled Randall's scent. Both were together, and headed for the city of Myth Drannor. We met Randall on the way there, as he was leaving. He said he had no memory of encountering us. I know now that he was lying...or perhaps controlled.

I trusted Randall. I took his word. We moved into the city.

I won't comment on the things we encountered there. I don't want to think about them, and for the seasoned adventurer I was even then, that speaks volumes.

We were lucky. We found sanctuary...I was allowed to take a lore-gem. Without the knowledge of the ancient language it granted me, we would never have escaped. We almost didn't even with it.

Touchstone died on the way. A succubus grabbed him and took him away. Today, I would have been able to follow. Then, the spells that would have allowed it were beyond my grasp.


We escaped demons, and their cursed progeny. Even a party of evil explorers that were more than a match for us.



We escaped. We moved on.



But now...well. The sorcerer I mentioned ran afoul of the Red Wizard, and found himself compelled to knock on every door. It was only a ghoul's touch enchanted on the door, but how long until something worse happened? And the monk...he nearly incited the hellbred known as Ahari the Condemned to kill him. It reminded me of the dangers of being an adventurer, and he hadn't even reached the wilds. And besides, I have countless generations of knowledge within this lore-gem to safeguard. I can't risk it any longer.

Of all the allies that I journeyed with...there were a dozen, over these months. It feels like so much longer...only 2 remain. I wish them luck. I told them they could come visit anytime the lore-gem's knowledge could help them.

After such a long time using my powers to destroy...it's nice to return to the purpose I set out for originally. Knowledge, understanding, perfection.

I admit, it was the easy way out. But then, no one forced me to take the hard path. It's time I stopping pretending that (the next few lines are crossed out)

That's enough feeling sorry for myself. If you are reading this, I have allowed you to read what I've learned from the lore-gem's memories. I hope you find it instructional.

Ahari's title isn't actually 'Condemned'. I'm sure you can guess what she's actually called (and yes, that's how she introduces herself).

[big teej]

just a heads up to anybody lurking or posting on this particular thread.


I suggest you go back and read "it's in the vents" again while you can. very soon (as soon as I have the time in fact) I will be removing it from this thread.

why?


simple.

it's been revised repeatedly and I am going to submit it for publication, given that this is a public forum, I can't leave an earlier draft of the piece up.


so, as I said, go read it while you can, cause after I take it down you'll have to bug me for a private message

[Lady Moreta]

Originally Posted by SanguisAevum

The collected works of a civilisation as old as speech itself have been torn asunder in the name of hatred and fear.

This is a lovely sentence It's so very evocative and wonderfully descriptive. I love it.

Originally Posted by SanguisAevum

This above all else steals my heart, such abject cruelty for the sake of ignorance is intolerable.

This one... I think you've used the wrong version of 'steal/steel'. You mean it steeled his heart to do what needed to be done, type of thing? That's 'steel' not 'steal' -

Other than that, I really enjoyed this, not too long but it says everything it needs to and I love the fact that it was a dragon, but we don't find out it's a dragon until the very end. It was a great way to remind everyone that the various monsters adventurers fight are people who have families and friends and are just 'normal' in their own way

Originally Posted by Winds

Of all the allies that I journeyed with...there were a dozen, over these months. It feels like so much longer...only 2 remain. I wish them luck. I told them they could come visit anytime the lore-gem's knowledge could help them.

I admit it, this is a pet peeve of mine... but I'll say it again. All numbers ten or below should be written in full as words, any numbers above ten can be written in numerals. Stop being lazy people! Quite apart from the fact that writing convention demands it, I personally find it incredibly distracting when people write numerals instead of words for the smaller numbers. It breaks the flow of the story as I keep expecting it to suddenly jump into an array of numbers or some sort of ledger.

Originally Posted by SanguisAevum

I admit, it was the easy way out. But then, no one forced me to take the hard path. It's time I stopping pretending that (the next few lines are crossed out)

Just a typo, but I think you mean 'stopped pretending' not 'stopping'

I enjoyed this... it's not often we get to see adventurers at the end of their run - nor do we often see them admitting just what sort of crazy crap they got up to when they were adventuring. I think about some of the stuff my characters have gone through and wonder why they haven't gone bat-guano crazy... I like having a look at someone who's looked back at all the crazy and simply gone 'enough's enough'. Very nice

[SanguisAevum]

This is a lovely sentence It's so very evocative and wonderfully descriptive. I love it.

Thankyou :)

This one... I think you've used the wrong version of 'steal/steel'. You mean it steeled his heart to do what needed to be done, type of thing? That's 'steel' not 'steal' -

Drat! yes, will edit to fix.

Other than that, I really enjoyed this, not too long but it says everything it needs to and I love the fact that it was a dragon, but we don't find out it's a dragon until the very end. It was a great way to remind everyone that the various monsters adventurers fight are people who have families and friends and are just 'normal' in their own way

Really pleased you liked it. And yes, the name of that particular campaign was "A question of Relativity" I made it a running theme to engage the players into thinking about various situations from more angles then just there own. One man's good, is another man's evil.

Thankyou for the comments and corrections. They made it worth posting :)

[Lord_Gareth]

The Host of a Thousand Princes
Part Four

Spoiler

Winter

Sorrow's children stare down iron sights and modern scopes, carefully selecting their targets as they emerge from the gate into the Hedge. One volley after another scythes into officers, hobgoblins, privateers, loyalists and Gentry alike. Every sharp report signals the end of dozens of lives. Winter rarely misses.

One of their spotters, a small Wizened covered in dust and grime, signals to the Maiden of Frozen Hopes. Without word, he points to one of their previous positions, where a veritable stream of hobgoblin footsoldiers - strange, cat-faced things wielding long lashes made of thorny vines - is pouring in. Before the Maiden can make a judgement call, the building's entrance explodes with a cloud of bluish-white shrapnel, sending goblins scattering and arcs of black blood flying high into the air.

The girl with the stained glass hair walks out, delicate wings made of frost forming on her back and a thin sheen of ice coating her skin. The ground freezes with her every step, spreading fast and wide as the ice devours the rain-slick ground, and the look on her face bespeaks frozen anger boiling over and breaking free. A troop of goblins charges her, only to be cut down as the droplets of rain falling towards them lengthen into razor-sharp icicles.

"What - what is that?" the spotter whispers.

"I don't know," the Maiden answers curtly. "Raise the Lords Unbidden on the radio. They need to see this."

Spring

Natasha Romanov is having the time of her life.

She'd had to pull the set of turntables out from inside the tank and set them up under fire. She'd spent more than a minute dithering about her music selection while the combined forces of Spring, Summer, and the United States Army fought around her. But now she was spinning the disks and singing for all she was worth, the speakers carrying her voice across the battlefield.

"We've had enough of your agg-ravation! We've had it with your disc-a-pliiine!"

Her voice is entirely wrong for the song and the sounds of explosions, gunfire and screaming battle-cries are wreaking havoc with her concentration, but that doesn't matter to Natasha. Glamour laces every word and sound, bolstering her troops and surrounding her in a warm halo of Springtime light and laughter.

"Saturday night's all-raight for fightin', get a little action in!"

The armies of Arcadia begin to notice the magical song and target Natasha, but her men cut them down even as they raise crossbows. A stray bolt hits Natasha in the chest, sinking deep in, but the Darkling only barely pauses to rip it out, her music wrapping around the wound and staunching it with the healing power of Spring.

Feeling like the head of the world's deadliest rock band, Natasha leads the charge into the Host.

Autumn

Silence reigns over the ritual circle. Most of the participants are dead or dying; the few that are not crawl, exhausted, toward the healers of Spring.

Seraphina is nowhere to be found.

Summer

Jillian Fury fights for her life, bitterly cursing the wrath that brought her this deep into the enemy's ranks. She ducks, weaves, and dodges blows from the circle of hobgoblin nobles and Gentry lords that surrounds her, slashing at arms and stranger, more alien limbs as they foolishly stray into her reach. She just has to hold out until her men get there to support her.

Jillian's prayers are seemingly answered as a half-dozen Apache attack 'copters arrive, spraying fire into the ranks that surround her, but her jubilant cry is cut short by a massive, earth-shaking roar. A gigantic steel dragon hauls itself from the portal, the magical entryway almost too small to admit it. Its eyes smolder with the flames deep in its gut, and it stretches wings so wide they blot out what little, weak sunlight there is on the battlefield. It spits molten steel at one of the helicopters, swatting it from the sky with one idle gesture, and then takes wing.

A helicopter lands, its crew spitting suppressive fire while Jillian sprints aboard. It begins to take off, but Jillian smacks the pilot upside the head and screams into his ear.

"GET ME ON THAT DRAGON!"

Short and sweet, trying to set up for the final snippet.