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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
Joined: 24 May 2006
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 Posted: Fri Aug 28, 2009 3:40 pm Post subject: Sky Island: Finally OVER!!! (Ignore the poll) |
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The knife glistened, sending glimmers of light flashing across the wall. It was an old blade, one that contained countless memories, had spilled blood across the centuries, and contained the souls of all the kills it had made. These souls, however, were completely inaccessible to the current wielder of the weapon. The sould absorbed into the Manokiri were available only to the ruler of the land, and whe wielder of the original Manokiri, from which all others were merely copied.
The Great King, wielder of Mercygiver.
The man holding the knife watched the dancing patterns of light, eyes unfocused, reflective. He himself had just committed his first kill a few days ago. It had been a huge ceremony, during which he had been placed in an arena and forced to fight a drugged prisoner… even this act, one of killing a hated enemy sickened him. The sound of the blade running through flesh, the feel of the red, sticky life-blood, the dying scream of a human being just like him… these memories would stay with him forever. He had washed his hands countless times afterwards, but the blood stains would not remove itself from his mind.
And now…
He had to kill his father.
The prince sighed, and put the knife down.
He didn’t want to.
Waiting was no longer an option. He had already put it off for several years, and he was sure that his father was suspicious. After all, rumor had it of countless attempts at the old man’s life- most by his own sons. It did make the prince wonder- just how old WAS his father? He himself had always seen his father as a force- like the wind or the waves. Everlasting, ancient, powerful. In fact, the prince couldn’t remember his father looking younger then- well, the castle itself. He had always been old, and always would be old. Until someone finally freed him of his curse.
It was his heritage, he knew that. It was his right, his DUTY to kill the king. That was the way of his bloodline- live by strength. The weak must make way for the strong. It was expected of him.
But he was scared.
He walked through the halls of the palace, empty only because of the hour. His heart was beating so loudly, he was sure the very palace would rock in its foundations.
You have to do it, he kept repeating to himself, stepping noiselessly through the dark and empty halls. You have to do it. If you don’t, then who will?
You have to do it.
Finally, he stopped. He was standing in front of his father’s bedchamber. The prince gulped, tightened his grip on the dagger, and pushed the heavy door open slowly. Inside the room lay a huge bed, with a prone figure underneath the blankets.
The prince walked slowly across the room, the hand holding the dagger shaking more and more with every step, until finally he was at the head of the bed. The body of his father was there, right in front of him, unsuspecting and asleep, right in front of him. It was right there.
Right there. Now’s the time to do it got to kill him but I don’t want to have to embarrassment to family kill him just do it don’t want to do it can’t scared DO IT-
The prince looked down- to see the knife protruding out of the now lifeless lump of tangled bedsheets. Carefully, he prodded the mass with a single finger.
It didn’t move.
“I did it.” He whispered out loud, to convince himself that it wasn’t a dream. And then, a bit louder. “I did it!”
With that, the prince was jumping up and down, thrilled that he had been able to commit such an act, practically crying with happiness-
“Well done, m’boy.” A voice sounded from behind.
The prince froze in mid-celebration.
“That pillow won’t hurt anyone ever again.”
Recognizing the voice, the prince whirled around, dread filling his heart. He had one glimpse of the familiar face, one glimpse of the Manokiri knife pointed directly at his eye before the dagger leapt forward, going straight through his head, and through his brain. Through the unimaginable pain, the prince let out a last breath- and with it, felt something leave his body and soar into the knife.
And with that, the prince was gone. Just as silently as he had appeared, the prince fell to the floor, lifeless and soulless.
***
King Kennis Rochelnese was weary. No, weary was not the right word. Neither was tired. Perhaps bored.
He removed his Manokiri, the Manokiri, Mercygiver, from what was no longer his son’s head, wiping it clean on what was no longer a clean and well-made court outfit, shoved the whisperings of what was no longer alive, now just a mass of memories, to the back of his mind, and sheathed the knife in a motion of hand and mind he had done a thousand times, a motion as automatic as taking a breath.
He pulled a cord on the side of the room. A minute later, Montoral, a close confidante and the Voice of the King arrived, his clothing neat and immaculately clean, as always. He gave the corpse hardly a glance, looked up at his king.
“The usual funeral m’lord?”
Rochelnese sat in a gilded chair, but his words were plain, a thug’s tongue set in a gilded mouth. “Whatever. The usual. But nothing with those pink things. I have no idea what you were thinking last time, but I draw the line at pink.”
“Of course sir.” Montoral neglected to mention that the pink roses of Sky Island had been extinct longer than he had been alive. By the King’s order of course.
He waited for another order, but the King simply sat, staring quietly ahead. After a long silence, Montoral bowed. “By your leave, m’lord. Telin shall have a splendid funeral. A tourney and a feast. All of Sky Island shall be invited.”
Only a grunt came from the King. Montoral reached behind him for the door handle, and started to back out.
“Wait.”
Montoral waited.
“Open the tourney to all.”
“All, sir?” Montoral didn’t understand. Only the nobility of Sky Island could afford the horse and the armor, and the ransom that would result with a loss, and all of the nobility would already be invited.ß
“Send messages to all the cities on the coast. Word will spread from there.”
“What? Sir! Sky Island has always been separated from-“
“Three hundred years, Ventnor. Three hundred years I have sat on this throne. Always for you is yesterday for me.”
Ventnor had been the seneschal before Karim, who had been before Montoral. But Montoral let it go; bigger issues were afoot.
“But sir-“
“No buts, Ventnor! The weak obey the strong and the Strongest commands you.”
Montoral bowed his head.
“And arm them with Manokiri.”
Montoral’s eyes nearly bulged from his sockets, and he was silent with shock. Even the watered-down versions were priceless. Then he saw the look on his king’s face, and he choked down his disbelief. But he had to ask.
“Why, sir?”
Kennis Rochelnese met his eyes for the first time since he had killed his son.
“Three hundred years I’ve sat on this throne. Three hundred years of sons and daughters who’ve tried to kill me. My father lasted twelve years. His uncle lasted twenty. And my great-grandfather lasted forty. He was named Valarr the Long-Lived. But my seed…. Do you know what kind of crap was going through Telin’s head before I scrambled his brains? He was RELIEVED. Relieved that an enemy is dead, relieved that he no longer had to watch my every move, I can understand. But no, he was relieved that his hand had been able to do the deed. And Noris! He missed his first opportunity to kill me because, to work up the courage to assassinate me, he had to get so drunk that he couldn’t even hold the knife! He had to give up that night. Oh he tried again later, but it was a half-hearted thing.”
The King spit on his son’s corpse, spit on the corpse of all his sons.
“We’ve grown weak. We need new blood. The strong devour the weak and thus the Strong grow stronger. The Rochelnese have always been the Strong. Our motto, “On the heads of the weak.” But now the Strong are weak, excluding only myself. We need fresh blood on the island. So call the tournament. Screw the feast and screw the funeral, just call the tournament. Let them come from far and wide, from mountain and forest. Let them all come, and we will see if the last of the Rochelnese is Strong enough.”
Thanks to Phan for the first segment. It helps to have an alternate perspective sometimes.
Anyways.
To any who followed or participated in Idea Master's Asylum for Storyless Characters, (and if not, look it up) I found IM's concept for his contest an innovative approach to contests.
So I'm ripping him off. :-P (that is, i waited very patiently for him to return from his absence, but he didn't. And i'm not known for patience.)
To those of you new to the rules, things work like this.
You submit a character (more details on that at a later date) and pay a small fee of 20 or so fables. The author of each character will remain anonymous to the general public. Then, your character roams around the island going where you direct him or her, or perhaps an it (or any other variation on that line of reasoning.). Every week or so, we announce the fights. This is the key concept behind this contest.
You will have what amounts to a one-on-one write-off with the opposition, both of you writing a version of the same fight, presumably you writing a version where you win, and they writing a version where they win. Although that is not technically necessary. Then both versions are posted, and people vote on which version they prefer. When the voting period is over, the winning version is accepted as canon and we go on to the next fight. After each round you have the option of traveling to a different locale, which will be the setting of the fight. Although you will have to stay on the island.
When we are down to one or two, your character will fight the King, the whole reason for this tournament in the first place. If you win, your character is the new King, assuming there are no other living fighters on the island, and you, the writer, shall recieve the sum total of all the submissions fees.
While i will try to be as lenient on lateness as possible, things do need to move along, so if you are too late, your character may suffer a fatal accident.
Some notes: yes, I will be submitting a character. Simply because i want to. No, this will not give me any advantage over any other characters, as all round are user-decided and i will make a solemn vow not to look at other people's travel choices or stories before choosing or writing my own. Because that would be cheating, and i'd like this to be a contest of pure writing skill and imagination. (If my character were to eventually duel the King, unlikely as that is, I'll recruit someone else to write the king's side.)
More on the characters:
Simply send in your character bio to me privately, along with a 20-fable fee to get registered.
Here's a template.
Name:
Appearance:
Powers: (including weakness. Yes, i know, you'd rather your character didn't have any, but please. Someone's going to have to write a way to fight you, and you really don't want them to have to make up some ridiculous weakness for you. Cuz that could get embarassing)
Past: (Included in this is the motivation for joining)
Also, there is an option of writing a story introduction for your character, about how they found out about the tournament and why they wish to join. This is completely optional, but it'll give you more time for character development, and you aren't exactly losing anything. These will be posted.
A couple ground rules. Actually, more like Ground Guidelines, since I'm not actually going to enforce these. Just going to state my preferences.
I'd say nothing too overpowered, but i feel like the general public would shoot down any Mary Sue of their own accord. Still, use your common sense on that point.
Second, I'd like for things to be kept medieval if possible. However, if you're really digging a sci-fi character, go ahead if you must. Just please give a relatively good reason for that character to be in this setting.
Anything else, I'll address as it comes up.
Never mind what i said before, single submission only. Sorry, thought it over and there are some problems with multiple characters per person.
DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS: ALREADY erm... Deadlined? NO MORE SUBMISSIONS (Unless you are willing to pay a little extra and have a reduced prize.
So if you're interested, go on! Sign up! It doesn't cost much!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Thu Oct 21, 2010 6:13 pm; edited 31 times in total
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Phantomfan
Citizen
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Location: Deep within the music of the night
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| Posted: Tue Sep 01, 2009 3:23 pm Post subject: |
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Kickass! Count me in! We'll see if this ends any better than Asylum did. Gimme a bit to come up with a character.
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I've been pulled back from oblivion to lurk about the City once more. Though the music of the night always beckons...
Here's some stuff I started writing a long time ago. Orb. Nexus.
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BlackAmaranth
Tourist
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| Posted: Wed Sep 02, 2009 2:52 pm Post subject: |
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Sounds interesting...I didn't enter Asylum last time, so I think I'll give this a try 
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"Well, here I am...in the towers of an insane asylum...wearing a straitjacket...talking to myself..."
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The White Blacksmith
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| Posted: Thu Sep 03, 2009 1:59 am Post subject: |
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I might have a go. When's the deadline for entries?
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Tea Cures All.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Thu Sep 03, 2009 12:15 pm Post subject: |
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Let's say by the 19th or so. I may change that later, but we'll just say that's the working date right now.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Mon Sep 14, 2009 4:46 pm Post subject: |
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We currently have two characters submitted! Please, the deadline is coming soon, and if you wish to join the tournament, you must act!
Also, we have the introduction piece of one of our characters (well technically two persons, but they count as one character.)
Someone was trying me to tell me to stop drinking. Either that or they just really didn’t like me. I just wish they wouldn’t keep tap-dancing on my skull.
I opened my eyes a squidge, and, just as the sun stabbed me in the face, the tap-dancers gained fifty-pounds and decided they needed to exercise some more. Needless to say, the collaboration of the two did not leave me in a good mood.
Maybe the two events were related. I don’t know. It was too early in the morning for thinking.
I poked my head out the window, checked the sun, just to get it over with early. Noonish. Time to go back to sleep.
I tried. Honestly, I did. Only when my head fell down to meet my pillow, it flew up to meet me. In the face.
Goddamn vermin problem.
I stumbled out of bed, flailing with my usual grace as the pillow slapped me a couple times along the face, then in the back of the head for good measure. I finally managed to grab it and throw it back on the bed, where it lay dormant again. I tried to yell at Fluffers, but a coupla feathers had gotten in somehow and all the came out was a spluttered mumble. Didn’t matter. He knew what I was saying. And what I wasn’t saying as well. Which is the only reason I keep him around.
Fluffers is… well something. A coupla friends down at Morostown University took a look at him and had no idea what he was. Nearly put me in a jail cell, they were so eager to keep him there for study. He’s basically a cross between a puff fish, a cat, and swamp gas. With some added psychic powers, as if he weren’t annoying enough. He floats around, a big hairy ball that bounces around the walls shedding in the strangest places. (And somehow he manages to track dirt into the house without ever touching the ground. I swear he does it just to mess with me.) His real names is something unpronounceable mostly because his species or race or whatever don’t have mouths. At least I think there’s more of him; otherwise, why would he need a name? Anyways, it translates to, or so he tells me, Fluffier than Necessary. So I call him Fluffers. Pretty much the only way I get back at him, and in return he gets me into all kinds of trouble, but if I ever give that up then he’s just walking all over me. Or floating. Or whatever.
But yeah, more importantly, Fluffers is psychic. Telepathic and telekinetic, to some extent. And he hints at all sorts of other things, pyrokinesis and a whole host of other things, although I ain’t ever seen him use it. Hell, he’d claim he had elephantinesis if there were any elephants near this piece of dirt we call home. But yeah, telepathy is the only reason I keep him around. It’s invaluable for my line of work. The little puffball knows that. Which means he can act like a little twat all he wants and I can’t pop him with a knife.
Still, it pays to have a telepath around. Especially in my line of work.
You see, I, Meryn Weir, am a private investigator. Or that’s what I like to call myself. I do what I can. Some muscle work, some debt collection. But what I specialize in is finding things or people, usually the second, that are lost, or, more usually, don’t want to be found. You see why a telepath is pretty helpful. It means in a lot of places where I’d usually need some fancy knife work (or alternatively, a very large club, something I usually use when flashing good steel only gets it stolen) I don’t. So handy. And I’ve kinda gotta admit that I’ve gotten used to him. He’s grown on me.
The traditional response to that Is “like a fungus,” but I have to say I might get broken up if he left. There might even be tears. Still, he should be thankful his telepathic abilities make it so I don’t need to leave a lot of weapons lying around.
Anyways, back to the present, a time in which Fluffers should be ESPECIALLY thankful there were no weapons around. The little fluffball came bouncing in, projecting an air of total innocence that was as unbelievable as it was blatantly false. The only way of it being at all believable is if the pillow decided all on its lonesome that today would be a good day to pop up and hit me in the face. To which I must naturally reply, “Hey check out those pigs flying south for the winter!”
“Goddamnit, what did you do now?”
Why is that the first thing you ask when you see me? I’m truly hurt. Fluffers’ telepathic voice echoed through my head.
“It’s a fact that the more innocent you look the more deep shit you’re shoveling. So what is it?” This was not completely true. When the shit got above his head, he could get serious. But the head of a floating little puffball is surprisingly far off the ground.
Well the mayor may have thought he was a cat in the middle of a meeting. And the mob outside thinks it was my fault.
“A cat? What was- Wait. A mob?” It was the morning, and my keen deductive skills are not very good at that time of the night. Ok fine, it was at least noon. But I had been up late last night with urgent work. Some beers had urgently needed to be hidden, and I figured my stomach was a good place for it. (Ok, my wit needs work in the mornings too. Now shush.) I stuck my head out of the window. But not for long. There were torches. At noon. Somebody was really pissed.
“What else did you do?” There were too many people in that mob for it to just have been a case of mistaken personality. Or whatever you’d call that.
What do you mean? If he had had innocence reeking from his pores before, now it almost oozed out in a thick syrupy...Thing. Whatever. You get the point.
“There are GRANDMOTHERS out there.” Which was not strictly true. The only person out there old enough was the Widow Gehrkestar, and her sons would have to come back from the dead for her to be a grandmother. Anyways. People who hadn’t gotten out of their houses in years and years were coming out now, a lot of them with pitchforks and other unpleasantly sharp objects. Most of them were looking for a furball to pop and didn’t seem too adverse to the idea of popping any private investigators that got in their way.
I may have also planted the idea that the Minister from Margonia was a large dog. He came perilously close to jumping from a second floor balcony.
Oh crap. Manook, the little patch of dirt we call home is proud for a village that doesn’t have much in it besides a bunch of cows and some cowherds. And, of course, every village needs a rival. Margonia is theirs. Ours I guess. Although Manook was pretty much just where I landed after I finished my army tour and I was just too lazy to get my ass anywhere else.
Sometimes I curse my laziness. Fluffers claims that if I wasn’t so slothful I wouldn’t be in half as much trouble as I usually am. He could be right, although I’m willing to bet that if he weren’t around, I wouldn’t have any.
I rushed down the stairs, struggling into my clothes as I did, a task that took rather too much coordination for someone just waking up from a drinking binge. Anyways, I gathered myself at the bottom of the steps, stumbling towards the Closet. The Closet is the place in my house where I keep most of my… items of a dubious and/or (mainly and) sharp nature, shall we say. It’s an arsenal I keep for when the times demand more than just knuckles.
Throwing open the door, I grabbed first my trusty head knocker. Two feet of nice solid oak, as painful as a night of binge drinking without all the fun bits first. Followed that with a couple of knives placed in circumspect areas, and then a peek out the window to see how much more hardware I would need.
…
Crap.
Out the back way then. I threw on a coat that concealed most of my usual bruises, collected on the job, and put on a hat, and called it a day. I never wear hats. It should be enough to fool the crowd, if they happened to glance down the alley behind my house. Of course, I forgot about the little fluffball that insisted in tagging along. As it turns out, they did happen to glance down the little back alley, and one of them managed to pierce my elaborate disguise. My day was then shot to hell in a handbasket. Not even one of those handbaskets that people use to carry picnic lunches. One of those heavy duty things with wire that scratches.
First my usual headache, than a mob, and now exercise. Although exercise was the better of the two options. That mob looked like it wanted to rip me apart and feed the pieces to their children.
Scrambling down the street, with Fluffers floating along at a surprising speed, I came up to the docks. Only one ship was left, lagging slightly before the winter iced in the port. And that one looked like it was in a hurry to get out.
I jumped onboard, poured some silver into the surprised captain’s hands, and watched as the mob grew smaller.
Only then did I think to ask where we were going.
“Sky Island, for the fighter’s tournament. You’re the last contestant on our route, so I guess we’ll just head straight there.”
I moaned, not even caring that the black-bearded captain gave me a funny look.
Yup. Definitely shot to hell in a handbasket.
And here we have our first contestants. Meryn and Fluffers, the floating puffball! Remember, you only have until the 19th!
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Tue Sep 15, 2009 5:51 pm Post subject: |
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We now have a third character submitted! Come one come all!
(Also, in the interests of more characters being submitted, submission fees will now be cut down by 25%! The cost is now a mere 15 fables. FIFTEEN FABLES. (People who've already paid: you will be receiving partial refunds.)
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Tue Sep 15, 2009 7:04 pm Post subject: |
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| gimme some time an' I'll put my submission in
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Wed Sep 16, 2009 4:08 pm Post subject: |
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If enough people express interest this late in the game, i may push the deadline back a bit. Because we only have three submissions thus far, and that isn't exactly a great number.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Klafarius
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| Posted: Wed Sep 16, 2009 7:46 pm Post subject: |
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I would love to join up because this sounds like an awesome way to SG but I'm going to be really busy with the RL here pretty quick. I can't wait to read the game as it progresses though. 
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Sat Sep 19, 2009 12:38 pm Post subject: |
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Instead of pushing the deadline back by date, I think i'll be pushing it back until the indeterminate time when we have at least six contestants. Which i hope should not be too far in the future.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Sat Sep 19, 2009 3:59 pm Post subject: |
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| That's a good idea... I'm still thinking my character through...
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DeadManWalking
Duke of the Mostly Dead
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| Posted: Wed Sep 30, 2009 5:33 pm Post subject: |
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And we now have FOUR contestants! We're very nearly there! Just those last two, and any others who take interest in this little competition.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:25 pm Post subject: |
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SO Joining this.
_________________
don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
Last edited by jhonscrypt on Sun Nov 01, 2009 11:01 pm; edited 1 time in total
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:34 pm Post subject: |
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But i have a question about the setting....
is it a jungle island?
or more like just an island with "contestants" fighting (probably signified by something to differentiate oneself from pedestrians)?
or is it like a caged brawl two at a time last (wo)man standing?
or somewhere else completely?
because if it is just an island without people, where does the king stay?
why would we want to have royalty of it if it is just an island?
depending on setting these stories, my character would act very differently,
like if it is in the wilderness, characters would have to bring rations, and tracking might be a useful skill.
_________________
don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 11, 2009 8:37 pm Post subject: |
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I was going to get to this after contestants were submitted, but I'll explain a bit now, i guess.
It's an island surprisingly diverse in its environments. There's a hugeass mountain right in the middle. Rumors of a volcano are unfounded, as of yet. There's also some forests, a river with some flatlands, and some beaches. Fighting in the towns is discouraged, though you can still be killed there. There's also the Castle, whose doors are closed to you until the final rounds.
But yes, that's a summary of the environments.
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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The White Blacksmith
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| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 8:24 am Post subject: |
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The story this one was inspired by can be found here. Hope that helps you work it all out.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Oct 12, 2009 3:55 pm Post subject: |
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Yeah too bad it never finished...
I really wanted Aeger and Liane to OFFICIALLY win the contest.
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| Posted: Fri Oct 16, 2009 3:43 pm Post subject: |
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YAY A second person wrote an intro. We now have five contestants, with a couple people (YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!) who will of course soon be submitting their characters.
Vestis
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, He read For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore.
Vestis looked up from his book on island traditions at the painting of Lenore.
His only love. But he no longer felt this emotion, love, he had not since her death, nor any emotion really. He stood up, in his lamp-lit room filled to the brim with books, most of which he had read. Not novels, no, not histories, no, he was interested in fact, in reality, in opportunity. He was searching for something. He had read one hundred books on rituals, two hundred on simple magic, and yet he didn’t care to learn them, they weren’t what he wanted. He stepped around the towering columns of tomes on the tile floor of his house. Tiles containing a map of the world, as he had traveled it. It marked everywhere he received his swords. “I need more whiskey.”
He walked downstairs to see the fire he had started in his fireplace but had forgotten to put out. He saw only the edges of innumerous beasts reflected in the dying fire. Claws, horns, skulls, and stingers and hides were just barely illuminated by the flickering. A reanimator could become a king with such things. But Vestis cared not for his past victories over nature. He only looked with the slightest feeling of anger towards the head of a demon mounted over his wall.
As he walked over to his pantry he glanced at a rack of swords, tall and wide with forty shimmering edges. Of all shapes and sizes they glowed in the fading light, as though someone had taken a golden brush to the dark wall and made lines purposely different. Curved, thin, ornate, they made a menagerie of metal, wood, bone, and several other ungodly materials. Each one had its own place on the floor map, as he stepped over an ‘x’ on the town of Helmsdale. That blade had spilled many a blood.
Before entering the pantry he looked across the floor tiles, barely visible on the horizon of the fireplace, he saw his journey as great as in had been, his best triumphs, the people he met, the collections he amassed. But the sun was setting, and it didn’t matter what happened in between, it all lead here, and this was it, the end of his journey. What he had lost he could never get back, and maybe, finally, he could accept that. He discarded the notion. “I need more whiskey.”
He walked into it, the pantry, consisting of darkness. It stank the strange stench of cured meats and whiskey. Although he could not see anything, he walked over to the rows of whiskey bottles and picked one up. This one was empty. He grabbed the next one, it too was empty. He remembered that he was almost out. He was getting his shipment in tomorrow. He only accepted the whiskey brewed in the mountain of Kincraig. He still was discounted for a drake he had slain, but he was running out of money. Between the books, meat, and whiskey, he was losing his fortune. Soon enough, even if he found his answer he wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“How long have I lived like this?” he said drinking down a shot or two of the new whiskey bottle. “Ever since that demon, I haven’t fought. It took it all away from me. My ambition, my emotion, Lenore. I think I should be angry, but I no longer know what it is I’ve lost. Ten years,” he remembered, “that’s how long.” He walked back to the drying flame and looked down at his arm, rugged and leathery, scarred innumerously. He had not always been this way, that he knew. His entire body had once been tough but clean of demonic scars. He had memories, no, distant dreams of feeling with them. He looked up at a portrait of himself; large, proud, and standing over the carcass of the white gorgon spider. He was clean. His face was unscathed, approachable, in the prime of his life. He had changed.
He walked over to the swords and picked up the largest, a blade unornamented, basic, and natural. It was just huge. He turned the face of the blade to reveal his own through the light of the fire. It was a depressing imitation of the portrait. His skin was like petrified wood, a crumbling faded imitation of something long past. It was a face that frightened children. In his once glorious days of walking the land as an angel, righteous swords on his back, they would flock to him in admiration. Now he had become a beast, an abomination which people were afraid of. His name was forgotten, Vestis was no one.
But he didn’t care. That was the root of all the problems, he didn’t care. He had gotten everywhere he once was by caring. He put enough effort into his swords, his body, and he had beaten everyone else, beasts and swordsmen. He had had everything he cared about, but now he didn’t care how far he had fallen. All he wanted was to care again. He thought of Lenore. If he had grieved, if only had had grieved perhaps he would still be atop the world.
And so he had read, books upon books to try to get emotion back but he had filed, for the past ten years he had found no way to get a soul back. It must be possible, to get his occult punishment undone. Of course his soul was gone, far and away wherever souls go, but he could find another. Or so he had thought for ten years now.
The fire went out. He walked up the staircase to the book on island royalties, and remembered that he hadn’t read the newspaper today. He tried to keep up with the world just in case he might reenter it. There was a small passage outlining that the royalty of Sky Island was being offered in a tournament. He had never been to Sky Island, one of the few places somewhat nearby. It would be a week’s journey from here, and it was to be held in a week. Anyone hoping to enter would have to leave tomorrow. But he didn’t need an island, he needed a soul.
So he returned to his book on island tradition, opening it to the chapter on Sky Island. Somewhere deep inside his mind, there was a small laugh. He read all about the roses at the funerals and the theology of weak being under the strong. Then he read a passage on the knife, Manokiri, which steals the souls of those it kills.
If he could be ecstatic, he was. He had waited ten years for this. “One more sword. I need just one more sword.” He thought of his rack, remembering the fleeting feeling of his past, the want to collect swords. He remembered every great swordsman he had had killed for these swords. The duke of Helmsdale, the Buzaymah master pitfighter, the twins Doemix, and the giant Zippen’s faces came to him.
He looked back at the newspaper article “A tournament of the strongest the mainland has to offer.” He would get the sword or die. His petrified face cracked a smile. Just like old times.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
Last edited by DeadManWalking on Tue Nov 10, 2009 5:44 pm; edited 2 times in total
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Oct 17, 2009 12:20 pm Post subject: |
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And a Third!
Lacrymos
"This? You would die for this eh?" The scrap of paper was much torn, filthy with blood. But the writing was legible. An invitation.
The lump of meat crushed benieth one massive hoof was in no shape to speak. His question was met with silence. One cracked talon tracking across the paper, lips slowly puzzling out the sounds.
He could vaugely remember tales of this place...was it not ruled by a mad king of some such? Azure tail flicked against midnight hocks, free talons scratching through his tangled mane. "Hummm...so they want fighters eh? Open to any and all eh? This one might just give it a shot, what do you think eh?"
With a savage kick he sent the two pieces of the corpse hurtling into the brush beyond the road. Reaching down he picked up his halberd, swinging it over one massive shoulder. Whistling off key, he crossed the road and stepped into the stream beyond.
As the cool water cleaned away the blood and dust he turned his craggy head in the direction of the ocean. He followed the water on it's course to the sea and followed the sea on it's course to the island.
At last a chance to be truly free. For who would ever call a king a slave? And when would a slave ever get a chance to be a king again?
"Or at least be given the chance to die with honor eh?" He shook his heavy horned brow and let loose a bugle into the glowing dusk. "This one comes! Do you hear? Lacrymos comes!"
We now have SIX entries. However, as some others have expressed interest in joining, I will be leaving this open for twenty-four hours more ONLY. I may allow others to enter after the contest has started, but doing so will result in a higher entrance fee and possibly a smaller reward.
15 Fables to join, along with a character bio and an optional intro story. You have TWENTY FOUR HOURS!
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 10:43 am Post subject: |
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With only an hour or so more to join, we have another entry and another intro!
Fairuza
Fairuza had never really understood the term “fish out of water”. Until now, that is.
The tiny little port town of Taramink was sick with the smell of rotting fish, mingled with the cool, biting sea air. She couldn’t walk two strides without stepping in some ominous puddle left behind by a fishmonger carting his catches of the day across the cobblestone square.
And the people! Fairuza thought the wretched Kiryona warriors were loud. They were nothing compared to the shoving, crowing, cursing and sweating that were the town’s locals. The slavers couldn’t have taken her people here, of that she was sure. The proud Caryani would rather die than be caught in such a godless place. Hell, she didn’t even like being here, and she was here of her own will. But at the moment, this humanly cesspool was the only lead she had. The noises beating endlessly on her ears, the sickly sweet odors that danced through the air, the blinding sunlight…it all made her feel more than a little ill. Fairuza shook her head roughly, as if to scare her senses into submission, and plodded on through the disgusting tangle of humans.
But wait…something caught her attention. Yes…it seemed she had walked into a thickening of the crowd. She could hear a man’s voice booming in the center of it all. But what was he saying that had gotten them all so interested? She edged further into the throng, earning more than a few dirty looks, and caught sight of a tiny man perched precariously on a pile of splintered crates. He seemed to be the source of the excitement. As far away as she was, her quick ears were able to catch the end of his speech.
“—so who among you is man enough to brave the horrors of Sky Island? Mark my words, the reward will more than make up for a few lost limbs—aha-hah-hah-hah!” The caterwauling laugh was a bit much, but it the message got across as the crowd was sent into bristling whispers.
“I’ll do it!” a voice screeched towards the front of the crowd. Fairuza’s gaze shifted to a skinny bald man, clearly drunk, with several broken teeth sticking awkwardly from his mouth. “That whole damned island won’t know what hit it!”
“You? Ha!” another voice piped up. “That deathtrap is way out there for a reason, you loony jackass!”
“I hear their king is really a demon in disguise,” Said yet another voice, “How else d’you think he’s been king for damn near 300 years?”
“But he can’t do anything to us here, right?” a woman this time.
“I’d like to see him try. Why, if that urzzzh-legh even set foot in this here town, I’d take his—“
“Urz-what? How much have you had to drink?”
Fairuza sighed. Idiots. I bet I could rip his vocal cords out before anyone knew what happened. But this wasn’t the time to cause an uproar. She still needed some answers out of these people. She quickly scanned the crowd for someone who wasn’t passed out, babbling feverishly, or drunk out of their mind. Damn…that man on the crates had disappeared.
“Excuse me,” she said, in broken Commontongue, to the man standing next to her; he seemed clear-headed enough to answer her questions. His head swiveled in her direction.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“I wanted to ask if you’ve seen someone pass through here. Have any soldiers wearing red and purple armor docked here lately?” The man drew uncomfortably closer to Fairuza, his beady eyes trying unsuccessfully to peer into her drawn hood. She felt her knees crouch, involuntarily preparing to spring. Her hands trembled as she tried to keep her claws from instinctively sliding out.
“You…ain’t from around here, are ya?” He finally said.
“No, I—I’m just passing through too.” She looked in the opposite direction, hoping her eyes hadn’t given her away as anything beyond a simple traveler. Or even human. The man stared at her for a bit longer, then he snorted.
“No. I ain’t seen anyone like that. But then, no one’s really been watching who docks here lately. Y'know…’cause so many people have been coming in to hear about that…”
“About this…Sky Island?” Fairuza was getting impatient; if this man hadn’t seen the slavers, then he had nothing useful to offer. “What is that?”
“Ain’t you heard? King Whats-is-face is opening the gates. They’re saying he’s holding a tournament. The last man standing gets his whole damned army…and some sorta weapon. Mana…mona…?” The man shook his head, and rummaged around in his pocket. Fairuza watched in mild bemusement as he fished out a filthy piece of newspaper. “It’s in there. The last ship that can take you there is pushing out today.” He said, extending his arm out to her. She took the paper tentatively and smoothed it out, skimming it for anything interesting. Her eyes couldn’t translate about half of the alien words, but the basic idea of it sunk it.
“Oi! Brom!” A shrill voice pierced the air. An elderly, overfed woman stood in the doorway of a bakery on the nearest end of the square, batting a rolling pin against her free hand. The man flinched, but didn’t look in her direction. “I know you can hear me, you no-good son of mine! Stop flirting with that tart and get your lazy ass to work!”
Brom’s shoulders sagged. “Coming.”
“Coming what?” the woman barked.
“Coming, mother.” Brom gave Fairuza a pained look and vanished into the building, leaving her bristling at being referred to as a “tart”. The anger was quickly drowned out, however, by a wave of dread as another truth sunk in.
“No one’s really been watching who docks here lately.” Then it was likely that no one had seen the slavers at all. But they had to have passed through here…that soldier who’d been left for dead told her they would. Granted, she had killed him anyway for what his men had done, but what reason would he have had for lying to her? She could see the fear behind his eyes as he lay bleeding…he was far too much a coward to defend his fellow slavers, especially not in his dying breath.
But where was she to go from here, if the trail had gone cold? How was she supposed to find out where they had taken her people? Her heart sunk painfully as she wracked her brain for answers. I can’t search the whole world…
Wait. What had that paper said? Fairuza looked at it again, her eyes dropping to the excerpt about the rewards.
The power of a king…surely that would be enough to find her family? And to strike the blight of the Kiryona from this world. After all, they were responsible for our capture. With an army to command, she could have revenge as well…
“It…could work.” She breathed. And she was sure she could handle whatever that island had to throw at her. She was a Caryani, after all.
“Last call for Sky Island!” A voice bellowed from the docks, bursting the bubble of excitement that had risen in Fairuza’s throat. It seemed she had arrived just in time then. She hitched her hood further up around her head and headed briskly for the water.
“You wanna join the tournament?” the ship’s dock-master said as she was walking up the boarding plank. She stopped and turned to him.
“What?” Fairuza asked. He smiled, and he let his eyes travel insolently up and down her body, as if she were a piece of meat. She saw something flash across his eyes, and she forced down a snarl. What was it with these people? Not enough “tarts” to go around?
“It’s just…it’s pretty dangerous out there.” He said finally, his smile flickering, “I wouldn’t think a girl like you would wanna go to a place like that.” Fairuza stared at the sailor for a moment, her rosewood eyebrows raised. Then, without warning, her face split into a wolfish grin, her rows of razor-sharp teeth glinting viciously in the sun.
“Oh, I’m sure I can manage.”
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When the dead walk, the living run.
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Thunderbird
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:20 am Post subject: |
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I REALLY wanted to join this but my time has become wickedly limited. I may have to sit out unless you can give me a week or so to enter.
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 CHAPTER 25: Near-Light Speed (NEW CHAPTER! (12/4/2011))
Zephyrrr! And...  
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 11:42 am Post subject: |
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Well since you asked....
I can let you in a little later, but if it's after the first round starts (which should be in a week or so) I may end up having a depleted pot for you if you win, since you would then have effectively skipped one of the elimination rounds.
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| Posted: Sun Oct 18, 2009 1:24 pm Post subject: |
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There were four of them, not well-armed or armored, except for the fact that all carried Manokiri. They started to spread out halfway across the throne room, carrying their weapons openly. Councilors slipped out of the room as the four thugs passed, and the two guards by the throne seemed not to notice their advent, staring off into space.
King Kennis Rochelnese rose from his throne, drawing Mercygiver with a snarl. He had expected some contestants to go directly for him, but the way the guards pretended not to notice the threat to their king suggested, nay declared that someone high up in the nobility wanted him dead quickly.
Which was not entirely unexpected. Any who entered the tournament could win the kingship, but many would be claiming the kingship not for themselves, but for a lord. Too many generations of the same noble family ingrained in the minds of commonfolk that not brawn ruled, but blood.
That would change, the King thought. If a tournament can choose a king, it can choose nobility as well. A massive reshuffling of the nobility was on its way.
Perhaps not all. Loyal barons and dukes could remain, provided they proved their strength. But the men behind these thugs would have to go, once he found out their names and houses.
Even as his mind worried at the puzzle of who had hired the men, the King’s body was in motion. Mercygiver slid silkily up into the gap of armor at the armpit, finding the first traitorous guard’s heart. As he started to slump over, the other guard started to move, bringing his spear around in a defensive slash.
But Mercygiver was out of the corpse now, and with the same motion the Strongest threw the dagger across his body, Mercygiver speeding eagerly through the air to pierce the second’s eye.
The four thugs began to hurry, their faces grim. The old man was harder prey than they had thought.
The King retrieved his blade, sorting his newest souls in his expanding hive of minds. Then, he called back a different one.
This was a soul ancient and worn with use. So many times had it been summoned by the Rochelnese line that it was like a tattered thing, absent of any memory and now more of an attitude than an actual soul.
As the soul of the great cat settled into its familiar place, his stance shifted, his knees bent and one hand on the ground. As the seconds ticked by, the panther became more and more of who he was.
A single tooth in hand, but the hunt is the same. Four stand before, spreading out, acting like predators.
A sanguine grin splits an aged visage. Predators surround. Prey survive by sticking together. Prey that don’t stick together get cut out of the herd. Feint to the right, then dash left. The bearded thug there is surprised, swings at the face. The tooth bites deep into the bearded one’s stomach, as the swing goes high above the ducking hunter’s head.
Kick the dying man into the nearest thug, then deal with the other two. Leap at the third, tooth meeting throat in a gurgling scream as eyes widen in surprise at the direct attack.
Only two left. Jump backwards to avoid the stabbing knife, watch for the one behind you. Duck down again, hamstring.
As he falls, grab at his knife, stab and twist with the first tooth. Now we have two long-teeth. Turn around, watch as the last flees. Throw it.
He stumbles, a metal tooth in his back, slows. And then the hunter is on him.
King Kennis Rochelnese returned, banishing the panther soul to the back of his mind. He finished the men lying gurgling on the ground. As he delved his new memories for their hirer, he grew angry.
“Montoral,” he growled, a hint of the panther still in his voice.
And the entry period is now closed. We have seven contestants.
Now we go into the travel phase. There are six areas on the island. The first is the villages, scattered around the island, which you are strongly discouraged by the king from staying in for too long. Property damage you cause in fights will have to be paid out of your own pocket. Contestants may go there to buy supplies, but collateral damage is much frowned upon. So try not to go there. The Castle, similarly, is an area closed to you right now. It will be opened after there are few enough contestants left.
The other four areas are the forest (standard woody area, flora and fauna nothing out of the ordinary.), the mountain (a possibly dormant volcano near the center of the island. Barren, rocky, and full of ridges.) the beaches (erm... beaches? Sand, water, maybe a couple of steep cliffs falling downwards towards conveniently sharp rocks) and the river (The forest has been cut away from the river in places to help with shipping routes along it, so there's a semi flat area on either side of the river in most places. The river itself is not that big, but definitely not a stream.)
Basically, you PM me telling me where your character travels to in this round. This travel time lasts one week. After the weeks end, I will note who is in which area and assign fights accordingly within each area. That means not everyone will be fighting every round.
If you have any questions, just PM me or leave it up here.
_________________
When the dead walk, the living run.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Sat Oct 24, 2009 11:27 am Post subject: |
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They sit, some of them glancing nervously at the tent around and some of them staring with the frozen gaze of a man already dead. Only Montoral is resolute.
One of the glancers speaks up, his voice quavering, putting a voice to the fear they all shared. "He's killed them and he knows who we are! It's over, and we've got to get out of here. There are a lot of ships in the harbor; we can hire one to take u-"
"We stay." Montoral's voice is steady.
“He’s right; we might as well.” A middle-aged man, brown eyes and a drooping face. “No matter how far we run, no matter how hard we try, he’ll find us.”
Montoral turned on this second man. “We are not dead. We will not run. We started this and now we finish it.”
Kareen, the first to speak, looked at Montoral with a crazy look on his face. “But we can’t win! He’s the Strongest. The Rochelnese have always been the strongest.”
Montoral met his gaze. “So why did you join us in the first place?”
“Well because…” Kareen started to speak, but trailed off under Montoral’s gaze.
Montoral finished his sentence for him. “Because it doesn’t have to be that way. They may have been the strongest in the past, but we can change that!”
He turned to address the entire tent, nervous-glancers and dead starers alike. “Our current king has ruled for two hundred and eighty-three years. In that time, there has been no change in political structure or in technological advancement. The past is bringing us down gentlemen. This idea that being the strongest entitles a man to be in charge must end. We must usher in a new era of government responsibility. Where the government rules for the good of the people.
“When I approached you men with this plan, you joined because you knew it had to be done. The King must be overthrown. And we knew it wouldn’t be easy. Hiring those men was a long shot, and we knew it probably wouldn’t work. And we may have played our hand, but we still have some cards up our sleeve.”
He paused, looked into the eyes of each of his coconspirators in turn.
“We can still do this. Our chances of success are just as great as they were to start. The King must stay holed up in his castle, lest he be mobbed by competitors that wish to take him out early. Not even he can stand against a hundred men, and at least that many will figure out that taking him out first will make everyone’s chances better.
“And as you remember, our next step is simple. We find contestants that do not want the throne and we make sure they win. And when they leave, we step in. Are you men still with me? No matter what path you choose, I will go ahead with this, but I will need your help. One man can not be trusted to govern the people. Rochelnese has proved that. With you, I can create a government where a group can decide the fate of a nation. We are the men who own this nation. We are its economy, and we are its population. Should we not be its rulers as well?”
There is an affirmative susurrus in the tent. There is a little more life in the eyes of those who had accepted death, and a little more calm in those of the men who were waiting for it.
Montoral smiles, not a smile of happiness, but rather one of determination and strength.
“Now which candidates should we back? And how openly?”
They spent the next hour debating between methods and men, finding those who would give them the throne and how to get them to. It is generally agreed that any overt gestures will simply make those men targets. Perhaps just a general “Don’t mess with them or you will be messed with” put out will work. There are plenty of men who, despite being in this competition, will kill for money, and however much they might lack confidence, the men in the tent to not lack for specie. Finally, they decide on eight candidates to back. Several humans, and a couple not. Several of them simply want glory or prestige, though their wants differed. One wishes for Mercygiver, a concession the men are willing to make, and another wants simply to survive. Yet another wants freedom.
None of them would interfere with the goals of the conspirators. Hopefully.
And we have an explanation as to why these contestants only fight among themselves. And no, these events are not organized, these fighters simply blunder into each other because everyone else is avoiding them.
And now the part you all have been waiting for. This round's Fights in order!
A wealthy young glory-seeker and her bodyguard against a man, and his telepathic pet, looking only to survive! We have Alena and Gwydion vs. Meryn and Fluffers in the Forest!
A mad blacksmith against a master of disguise! Alys vs. Filchus Emry in the Forest!
A Satyr who gains power from the very water itself against a Man who slays monsters for a living! We have Lacrymose vs. Vestis at the beach!
And two contestants will not be fighting this round. Fairuza, who is also in the Forest, and The Ebon Acolyte a.k.a. the Moth and the Flame, who is heading for the hills. Erm. Mountains.
The way we will be handling these fights is thus: First, I will send the details of the opponents to the first two combatants. They will have one week to write a fight. After one week, their fights will be posted and I will send the details of the opponents to the next two fighters. In the time that the next two writers are writing, votes will be happening for the first fight. At the end of that week, we will declare a winner and post the next fight. I know the schedule may seem a little tight, but it ensures that no group has more time to write than any other. Hopefully, we won’t have any hiccups timingwise. If you have any time restrictions, just let me know and I will attempt to work around those.
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| Posted: Sun Oct 25, 2009 8:53 pm Post subject: |
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couldn't you just give everyone three weeks, then release them each two days apart, leaving each poll open for about a week, to give some of the more time constricted writers a chance? this way no one has an advantage, like now, whoever isn't fighting first already might know something about the person they are fighting. (for the first round this doesn't matter as nuch, but for the latter rounds, after we've read each others pieces, those whose fights are anounced but do not have to fight first could get a head start.
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don't you just love things that make you wonder if death is contagious?- Cornelius Huxley;freedom is the freedom to say two plus two equals four;to die hating them that is freedom;"Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen to-morrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tortured by unspeakable pains of every kind." There was a long silence. "I claim them all," said the Savage at last.;
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| Posted: Mon Oct 26, 2009 4:54 pm Post subject: |
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The problem with that idea is that I can only run one poll at a time. Running multiple polls would require multiple threads, which I don't really want to do as of yet. Maybe if i had a forum. And while it is true that some people might have extra time in later rounds, since each person would fight someone who had more time, later fights might have been written over a longer period than previous fights, but they would be going against fights that had been written over an equal length of time.
That could have been phrased better.
What I mean is, if say, Alyss and Lacrymose were to be paired in the next round, and Filchus Emry and Fairuza were also paired, Alyss and Lacrymose might have one week to write their fights and Filchus Emry and Fairuza two, but neither of the two combatants of the fights would have an advantage over the other.
Alternatively i could just announce the fights right before the official writing period for each person starts.
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| Posted: Sun Nov 01, 2009 1:50 pm Post subject: |
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And we have our first two fights! Apologies for the slight delay, but I had some guests over that just WOULD NOT LEAVE. One of them is actually still here, but I'm ignoring him. Anyways. Alena and Gwydion vs. Meryn and Fluffers.
First is Meryn and Fluffers' version of events.
Lightning should have been flashing, thunder should have been booming, and the lack of rain really didn’t do much for the atmosphere either. But instead, the sun hung bright in the sky, without clouds to lessen its harsh gaze.
“I can see you’re hurting, but we’ve both lost someone today. Just end it now before we lose more than our friends!” I backpedaled furiously, trying desperately not to be hit with three pounds of sharpened steel wielded by a man beyond reason. All I had was Headcracker, now chipped and scarred from the last ten minutes, probably beyond repair.
A particularly vicious swing sent me tumbling backwards, off balance, and I saw the flash of the sun’s light on a sword readied for the killing strike. I brought HeadCracker up, hands on both ends like a quarterstaff, as the sword came slashing down.
***
I had a killer headache. The sun was way too bright, and sleeping on a mixture of crushed leaves and tree roots probably hadn’t helped either. I got up, groaning, as the elves in my head went back to their hammering.
How do you even have a hangover? You had nothing at all to drink last night!
Not for lack of trying. Note to self: Acorn tea does not get you drunk. “Look, it’s just a thing with me all right? Ever since I hit puberty I got these killer headaches. How come you haven’t noticed by now? I feel like six years has been long enough.”
You know, I feel like I would’ve noticed too, except that I haven’t actually seen you go to sleep without either a conk on the head or enough beer to drown a walrus. Those tend to disguise headaches pretty well.
Which was true. To an extent anyway. But I figure if I’m going to have the headache anyway, might as well enjoy myself first, right? The little floating fluffball continued, literally talking through my headache.
You know those headaches could be a sign of some latent psychic ability. I could help you train-
“Look, I don’t want to become psychic. I have enough problems with people’s thoughts coming through you.”
But it would really help your chances of survival if-
“I said I didn’t want to. And can I remind you whose fault it is that we’re stuck on this goddamn island in the first place? Don’t think teaching me a few mind tricks will get you out of that!”
Look-
I just blocked out his messages and kept on talking. I’ve found that I can, if I concentrate hard enough. Must be the psychic in me.
“You know, this always happens. Every single time. You do what you want and I have to take the shit. We can’t all float away from our problems! Maybe you should just get away!”
It was a bad headache that morning. It doesn’t excuse what I said, but I was frustrated and angry and feeling helpless.
A voice spoke behind me. “Much as I hate to intrude in your personal situation, I’m wondering if maybe you’d like to, I don’t know, grab a sword or something and fight?”
I whirled, surprised first of all by the fact someone managed to get behind me. The Takan Wars tended to teach people to be alert, and all its failed students shortly found themselves with dagger-shaped holes in their backs. Secondly, though I didn’t really register it ‘til I had already started turning, the voice was higher in pitch and lower in height than it should’ve been.
It was a girl. I guess a woman, technically, but I don’t consider the female species grown up until they fill out a bit more. A slight build explained her silent creeping, though it still took skill, hung as she was with sword, shield, and other warlike implements.
My third surprise came a second later. Leaning against a tree was a couple hundred pounds of disapproving glare sheathed in what looked like scale mail and plate. How the hell…?
I took my hands away from my weapon, despite what the girl said, and raised them in the air. It was a calculated risk but…There we go. The girl lowered her sword, her face suspicious, but not overly so. Which was good. Maybe we could get out of this peacefully.
This is not to say that I am a coward necessarily. I fight when I have to. But first of all, even if I did reach for my weapon, it was pretty much a stick, however solid or handy, against steel, and I’d put my money on steel. And secondly, two of them, one of me.
And thirdly, I guess, she was a girl. I mean, I don’t want to say that females in general are less capable of taking care of themselves; I know plenty of women who do fine for themselves in the world. I watch one of them regularly hand men their asses in the training ring of the exercise school I keep on meaning to sign up for. And for general athleticism, well… let’s just say that it’s been a while since I’ve been in the army, and women these days just seem to keep on going longer than they used to.
But despite all of that, despite the fact that I’ve had my ass handed to me a couple times by girls I refused to fight, I still will not hit a girl if I can possibly help it. Call it the benefits of a classical education, or call it the last remnants of my time as a knight in rusty armor, but it just doesn’t seem right.
‘Bout some things, I’m just a big softy.
“You’re going to have to kill him, Alena.” The girl glanced back at the man leaning against the tree. “He’s going to die sometime, and you need to take down your first.”
So an inexperienced fighter? But her footwork was good, and I recognized her stance from back when. So someone with technical training, but little practical experience. Which explained her curious sense of honor. If I’d been her, I would’ve stabbed me in the back in a second.
Ignore the dubious morality of my previous thought. I may think like a hardened criminal, but it’s incredibly hard to get rid of the incurable romantic compulsions of my younger self. Though I may be a cynic by inclination, I will always be a romantic at heart.
As my distractedly musing mind went off in its fickle swingings between analysis of my opponents and of myself, my concentration on blocking out Fluffers finally eroded enough for him to break through.
What’re you doing? You need to attack now! She’s going to attack you in-
“Look, just butt out of this will you?” As I reaffirmed my mental wall, the girl’s hesitation ended. Perhaps it was the fact that I appeared to be talking to thin air. In the two seconds it took to charge from there to here, I managed to spin away and grab HeadKnocker. I had no time for anything else, though, before her attacks came.
A slash to my midriff sent chips flying from HeadKnocker, banged and chipped enough as it was. Inexperienced in real combat she might be, but this girl was well set on the theoretical side. She followed up immediately with a upward stab to the throat, sending me flailing backwards as I only just managed to knock her sword away, followed by a blow to the chest with her shield that would have sent me sprawling if I hadn’t scrambled furiously to keep my feet. We danced around trees, my constant retreating sending her rushing after me.
I was in a bad place. I couldn’t scramble backwards indefinitely, and only one of us could actually look where we were going. The odds of my tripping on a dead branch and getting gutted were growing every step.
As if to punctuate my thought, a patch of particularly slippery moss wormed its way under my foot, and I fell backwards. My concentration slipped, again, and I heard, screaming in my head, -ack her! You can’t keep up your idiotic ideas of chivalry and romance if you want to survive! Hi-
“Shut the hell up!” I blocked Fluffers off again. I just couldn’t handle his constant prattling and advice; it was his fault I was on this island, and if he thought advising me would settle the score, he was sadly mistaken.
The girl, Alena, held her final blow back for a moment, a little surprised at my repeated talking to invisible ghosts. I took the opportunity to violate pretty much the only principle I had left, however unfounded on actual morality it might have been. I hit a girl.
Or to be more accurate I tripped her. My foot lashed out, hooking behind her ankle and sending her sprawling to the forest floor. I scrambled to my feet before her, HeadKnocker whirling, fast enough to have some impact, but still precise. The blow whacked her sword right above the hilt, at the crossguard, a backhanded swing that sent the sword flying away.
“Look, I don’t want to have to do this. But I WILL if I have to.”
The girl’s hand drifted down to her waist, where her manokiri was sheathed. I tapped her gently on the wrist with HeadKnocker, hoping it’d be enough.
Apparently it was. Alena brought her hands out, empty. Then she looked behind me, shouted, “Gwydion!”
I’d completely forgotten about the guy! Whirling around, I brought HeadKnocker into some semblance of a defensive position, hoping against hope to block…. Nothing.
Too late, I heard that mental screech, like fingernails on a chalkboard, as Fluffers fought to penetrate my mental shield. I kept on whirling, hearing in my mind that horrible sound, which slowly faded into darkness. The sight that greeted my eyes was of a rag, hanging with straggly hair, hanging on the tip of that long black knife, the manokiri.
Cursing, the girl tried to flick away what remained of my only friend on this island, trying again to stab me. This time no floating fluffball would intercept the blow. But this time she had crossed a line.
While HeadKnocker may not do well against swords, but against knives it works well enough. It darted in, snapping the girls wrist, again sending her blade flying, although this time the hand it left would not be able to draw another. My foot caught her in the stomach, sending her reeling back.
My thoughts clouded by rage, I wound up for a true blow. Her eyes darted behind me, and relief appeared. With hardly a thought, I whirled away, restraining the blow, instead using the momentum of the windup to spin to the side.
This time the man with the sword was actually behind me. His momentum drove the sword through chainmail with a sickening squelch. And Alena fell, gasping, sliding off his rigidly held sword like a ragdoll, falling to the ground near what looked only like a fluffy rag.
***
The man’s sword came down on Headcracker, and it splintered, nearly breaking in two. Only nearly though. As the wood broke and splintered, the two pieces ending in shards that sagged towards my throat under the pressure, I leaped away. HeadCracker, no longer a single stave, was now two jagged pieces of wood only barely connected together. I broke the two apart, now holding two wooden stakes.
Even less use against a sword. We returned to our normal game of me running the hell away and him trying to spit me on the end of a sword. And like my chase with the girl, the chance of me falling down was getting higher by the second.
You know, I swear I jinx myself or something. Maybe some malevolent god takes pleasure in irony. I didn’t fall over this time. Instead my back hit a tree. Without anywhere to back up, I had to meet a thrust head on. Perhaps the gods took pity on me. Or maybe they were saving me so they wouldn’t lose their favorite toy. With one of the staves I managed to change it from a fatal thrust to a thin line of fire on the underside of my arm. I felt the solid thunk of the sword sinking into the tree. And with the other stave, I stabbed sharp splinters up into the bottom of his chin.
He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but no words came out, only an unintelligible moan of pain.
He fell backwards, and I drew my own manokiri.
For the first time, I really looked at the weapon I had been given at the start of this tournament. Long and thin, too thin to be very strong. A misericorde. A mercygiver. A weapon used to end pain.
I bent down, and planted it in his eye. The guttural moan ended.
I cleaned the weapon, resheathed it. I went over to the girl, checked her for life. Surprisingly she was. The weapon had gone in low; Gwydion, taller than I am, had stabbed downwards towards my heart, and the further difference in distance meant that the sword had gone into her gut. A killing blow, though slow. And painful, all the way.
I gave her the gift of mercy.
I buried them. Shallow graves, for hands do not work well as shovels. The three of them, in three graves barely big enough to hold their occupants. I kept one of the swords, buried the rest of their equipment with them. I never could handle armor.
The girl’s manokiri I left for last.
I sat down beside it, staring at the weapon that had ended the only other person I really knew. I hadn’t gone back to my hometown after the Takan Wars. It didn’t seem… right.
I stewed in my own thoughts for a while, headache pulsing and throbbing. And then, in a sudden frenzy of emotion, a mixture of anger and frustration, and… loneliness I guess. Perhaps some other things mixed into a cocktail of passion. I grabbed the weapon and hurled it deep into the forest.
Or I was about to. As I grabbed it, I heard a voice in my head that I didn’t think I would ever hear. Goddamnit Meryn, CAN YOU HEAR ME?
I stared at the manokiri.
And we have Gwydion and Alena's version of events:
Alena lopes through the long grass impatiently, searching for a clearing. Her breath is light, and her legs move easily with the grace of rest and food, but she stops, and leans against a tree. Her blue eyes gaze restlessly around, flickering back the way she came every few seconds, but it is not apparent, to the careless observer, what she is looking for until a minute or so later, when a faint whisper in the grass announces the arrival of a man, heavily armoured and carrying a large pack.
“What took you so long?” Alena’s voice is clear and demanding. Her eyebrows fall into a frown as she takes in the beads of sweat on Gwydion’s brow. “I thought you were here to protect me, not to drag me back.”
“I’m here to protect you, and only that – you know it! You should be carrying your own gear, and I shouldn’t have to remind you about not making noise, or covering your tracks!” His voice comes out in an angry whisper, but the look on his face is of exasperation rather than ire.
The young noblewoman’s eyes pause guiltily on the wide path she’s left behind her, but her voice comes out steady. “I want to get my first fight done before I’m tired. I’ll carry the bag after that, but I want to be ready, at least at first. Someone’s bound to follow that path eventually, and when they do...” She loosens her thin sword in its scabbard, and her fingertips brush the hunting crossbow on her left hip. “Anyway, I thought this would be a good place to get ready. I can’t see any clearings near, but this has no leaves on the ground – better footing – and the trees look good for climbing, if it comes to that. OK?” Her tone is authoritative and sure, but she watches carefully for a nod from Gwydion, the old woodsman, before she starts gathering sticks for a fire.
The fire is crackling merrily and it is almost dark before Alena, perched high up in a tree, hears a slight tread, coming from direction of the port and the town. She scrambles down and seizes her sword and buckler, left by the fire so not to hinder her while climbing.
“Who’s out there?” She calls, bouncing on the balls of her feet nervously. “A contestant? I’ll fight you!”
The grass rustles then, and a man strolls out from behind a tree, much closer to her than she expected. He wears a heavy greatcoat, worn in patches, and has his hands stuck in his pockets, but Alena can see the ornamental dagger on its belt, slung carelessly over his shoulder, that marks him out as a contestant. The handle of a weapon, either a stave or club or axe of some description – she can’t tell – stick out from his other shoulder, so he is prepared to fight. Her own dagger is slotted carefully into her belt, and she checks the handle, making sure she can reach it if all else fails.
She tightens the grip on her sword, calling out:
“Are you going to fight me or not? I’ve seen the dagger: you can’t hide it.”
The man runs a hand through his short brown hair before returning it to his pocket.
“Do we have to? I’m not really meant to be in this, you know. I don’t want to fight you.”
Alena does not answer but charges at him, sword aiming at his throat and buckler up to protect her own, but he moves with a quickness that belies his relaxed pose, and when his hands come out of his pockets they each hold a long-bladed fighting knife. She swears under her breath, then lunges again, following it by a sweep at his legs. He dodges, and they enter into an intricate dance of sword and knives. Her reach is too long and his guard too good for either of them to gain an advantage. One slice almost reaches her face though, and when she raises her buckler to block it the thud echoes loudly. A few birds scatter from a nearby tree and she makes the mistake of glancing at them, smiling a little.
At least Gwydion won’t think I’m such a pathetic fighter after this. Maybe he’ll go home!
But this split second distraction takes her attention away from the combat, and in the hasty jump to avoid her opponent’s knives she stumbles on a root, falling and winding herself.
In her gasps she remembers to bring her buckler up, tensing herself in preparation for the inevitable strike, but all she can think of is the shame – shame in being killed or crippled in her first fight, shame in her angry last words to her father, shame in what disappointment her teachers might feel – and she experiences real terror. But the blow she expected never came.
“I told you. I’m not really meant to be here. I’m certainly not going to kill a girl who just made a clumsy mistake.”
Rage overtakes the shame, and she doesn’t even register the stranger’s kindness. Clumsy? She will prove to him that she is not clumsy – that she has every right to be here, fighting here. She stumbles to her feet, gripping her sword tightly, and attacks with a renewed ferocity, though she has not had time to catch her breath. He is taken aback by her attack, and finally she scores blood. A cut along his right forearm, not enough to kill him but chipping the bone and rending that arm useless for a while. He turns white and drops his weapons.
“Shit! Why did you do that? I just spared your life!”
She smiled coldly.
“And I’m saving yours. I’m not going to kill you – you can go. But I want to win this, and I’m not going to leave someone who might stab me in the back later.”
There is a chuckle from the trees. Gwydion steps out from the shadows, holding a few rabbits in one hand.
“Well, milady, I didn’t expect that sort of thing from you. If you can keep on like that I might have very little to do in this whole thing.”
Alena turns, her cool demeanour gone.
“Gwydion! I... didn’t expect you back. You... you saw the whole thing, then?”
“Only the last bit.”
“Well, then, you’ll have seen that there’s no reason for you to stay really. I’m going to pack up the campsite – I want to move it. You take this man’s... Manokiri, it’s called? Take it. I want proof. Direct him back to the port then. No need for him to hang around, right?”
Gwydion Williams bent over the lifeless body of the man in the greatcoat, smiling slightly. No need for him to hang around... right? His mistress had not killed him because she had not killed before, but leaving him to live might be a fatal mistake. She wouldn’t check on him again, so Gwydion had done the job. He knew the true reason the Baron Portsgena had sent him – not to cart bags around but to do everything the Baron’s daughter couldn’t. Killing, deceiving... winning.
A sound made him look up. Cowering against a tree was a... a hairball? It was alive, but it didn’t look like anything he’d ever seen before. It had probably come with the dead contestant. He would kill it. He would kill it, but... it looked harmless. Why would he kill such a harmless creature? He should really get back to the Lady Alena.
He grabbed the ornate Manokiri and left, not giving any thought to the uncharacteristic thoughts that had so suddenly entered his head.
So who is left? Is Meryn the only one to survive, or is he the only one to die? Vote now!
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| Posted: Thu Nov 05, 2009 6:11 pm Post subject: |
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We will be closing the poll in three days! And the Night Raven vs. Alys fight is due by then.
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| Posted: Sat Nov 07, 2009 7:38 pm Post subject: |
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I apologize but the next fight will be a bit late. The writer of Alys is having some busy RL events. However, we hope that the fight will be up soon.
But Anyways, Meryn goes on to the next round! Gwydion and Alena both lie buried. And the bios of Lacrymose and Vestis have been sent to their opponents.
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| Posted: Sun Nov 08, 2009 11:52 am Post subject: |
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And we have the fight! Only a day late.
Alys
Rays of light were scattered across the sky as the sun moved slowly across the sky. The forest below was silent, excepting the occasional bird song.
The tall, black-haired woman stepped silently through the dense forest, a feat that seemed practically impossible, considering how much metal she was wearing. Ropes of metal hung down from her belt, yet so skillfully she walked, not a single one made sound. An unnatural glittering came from the base of her neck, where a deep-red ruby embedded in a silver ankh hung. The ruby bent the sunlight oddly, sending the bloodied sparkles scattering in all directions.
Alys paused and leaned against a tree, lightly brushing her red-tipped bangs out of her eyes, hand reaching down to finger the hammer at her belt. She had been walking for hours, trying to find her first opponent before they found her. She cautiously pulled her bangs out from in front of her left eye and looked around. Through this eye, her vision was rather black and white, with the hint of color every now and then. The lack of bright colors signified the lack of enchantments, and she let her bangs drop back in place with a sigh, sitting down at the base of the tree.
Her opponent was nowhere to be found, and it was getting late. She pulled one of the daggers out of her belt and idly began playing with it, contemplating whether or not to set up camp while watching the blade reflect the light with a single-minded intensity.
A small crack jerked Alys out of her reverie. Her head snapped up and she froze, her one uncovered eye flicking back and forth, trying to discern what was beyond the dense circle of trees. Another small snapping sound had Alys on her feet, dagger ready in her hand. A small movement in the corner of her eye- and Alys threw herself to the ground. A millisecond later, a dart had imbedded itself into the tree truck, right where her head had been.
Facedown in the mat of fallen leaves that covered the forest floor, she felt the ankh hanging from her neck heat up suddenly, sending a burst of extreme through her body. Before she even knew what was happening, Alys was up and had thrown the dagger in her hand towards the area where the dart had come from. A yelp of pain confirmed her accuracy. She drew the blacksmithing hammer out of her belt and stepped towards the sound, senses at an all-time high.
A man was laying on the mossy floor, Alys’ dagger imbedded in his leg. He looked up at her, grimacing, as she approached.
“Nice arm you’ve got there,” he said, reaching down to the handle protruding out from his thigh. She said nothing, instead examining him thoroughly with a quick cursory glance.
Thin and short, the man really didn’t look all that dangerous at first glance. But his toned muscles and shifty eyes told Alys to be wary- this one was a trickster. Best to be on her guard.
“I don’t suppose you could… give me a hand?” the man said, giving Alys a look that was obviously meant to be seductive.
She raised an eyebrow, but remained where she was.
After a few seconds, the man shook his head and chuckled dryly. “Funny, that one usually works with the females.”
A twitch of the corner of her mouth was the only sign the man had to tell him she could understand him.
He sighed, then yanked the dagger out of his leg with a grunt. “Surprised you haven’t killed me yet.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” were Alys’ only words to him.
He looked up surprised, only to watch as the strange woman in front of him pushed her bangs out of her face, revealing an eye of complete silver. Time slowed down for a brief moment as they made eye contact-
And she was in his mind. It was a dark slippery thing, full of shadows and dead ends, but still it vibrated with the life of emotion that nearly overwhelmed Alys at first. She wormed along dark corridors, slipped beneath false coverings of other nonexistent personas, pierced his defenses to find his inner self
only to resume its normal course as she let her bangs fall back down in front of her face, recovering that cursed eye.
Slightly disconcerted, the man tilted his head, looking at her strangely. “True, true.” He said, seemingly to himself, and began to pull himself up off the floor. “If it’s fun you want, then I’ll give you fun!” On his last word, his hand flicked so suddenly that Alys barely had time to dodge her own dagger as it flew back towards her, impaling the tree behind her. Tensed, she stood back up, hammer ready to strike- only to find the spot where the man had stood empty.
Cursing herself for letting her guard down, she gripped her hammer even tighter and strode forwards. Considering the fact that her opponent was now wounded, he shouldn’t be too hard to follow…
As she ran forwards, following the trail of blood spots, she reviewed what she had just learned about this man from her mind probe. His name was Night Raven, and he was a true trickster. His mind was fascinating, full of disguises, thievery and traps. He was going to be rather difficult to beat, she thought as she dodged through trees, ducking large branches and jumping over roots.
Alys’ run was suddenly halted as she smacked into something. Confused, she tried to step back- only to find her legs immovable. She tried to bend down- but her arms weren’t moving either. She was stuck, hanging a few inches from the floor in a sort of spread eagle. A stray ray of light peeked down through the trees, revealing what had caught her. A net, woven so thinly that it was practically invisible, had been stretched tightly across two trees- and she had run straight into it, tangling herself up so badly that she could barely move.
A scream of frustration erupted from her mouth, echoing through the forest and shocking all the birds into silence. She was stuck, trapped by a few mere woven strands, and nothing could get her out of here- neither her metal skills nor her daggers- she couldn't even reach her belt.
A chuckle resounded next to her ear and she whipped her head around, a snarl scrawled across her face.
“I honestly can’t believe you fell for that,” Night Raven said, stepping out from behind a tree and stepping slowly towards her. “Oldest trick in the book, that is.”
Alys glared at him furiously, but stayed silent.
He chuckled again, and with another twitch of his hand pulled his manokori out of what seemed to be thin air. “Honestly though, that’s just pathetic. I expected so much more of you.” He grinned and stopped right in front of her. “But that’s just part of the game, isn’t it?”
A small bit of heat began emanating from her choker, growing stronger and stronger by the moment, sending an insane burst of energy through her veins. Ignorant to the sudden change in Alys’ strength, Night Raven pointed his manokori at her chest.
“And it looks like I’ve just won.” He whispered.
Alys’ arm broke free of the net with an insane burst of strength and swung forward, hammer connecting with Night Raven’s ribcage with a sickening crunch.
Eyes open with shock, he swayed and collapsed, desperately trying to pull air into his crushed ribcage and punctured lung.
Lip curled in disgust, Alys managed to grab a dagger in her belt with her newly freed arm and cut her way out of the tangled threads, until she stood next to the wheezing body of Night Raven. She sheathed the dagger and drew her own manokori, watching the blade glint coldly in the last rays of the afternoon sun. Then suddenly- it stabbed downwards towards the man’s heart.
A shudder, and then stillness.
Alys remained in that position for a while, crouched slightly with her manokori in the man’s heart. At a certain point, she rose and pulled the blade out of the lifeless body of the trickster. It was replaced in its sheath, the hammer slid through the loop in her belt.
She sighed heavily, then glanced upwards. There, through a gap in the trees, the first stars were appearing out of the sunset. Watching them, she gave a small smile, and resumed walking through the trees without a second glance.
Filchus Emry's Version
A cry rang out through the forest, piercing the silence of the night. The full moon, undisturbed, continued beaming its rays of light through the trees, casting long shadows across the forest floor.
Nearby, a predator perked up her ears, the moon casting a blood stained hue to the vermillion streaks in her flowing raven hair. A gleaming silver dagger flipped between her fingers, rolling stealthily across her knuckles from years of practice.
She straightened her blouse and rose from a crouch to peer around the shrub she’d been hiding behind.
But the veil of night played tricks on her eyes; motion seemed all around her. A log appeared to be a warrior in hiding. Men with knives seemed to take cover in the branches of trees overhead until a soft breeze reveled little more than pine needles. Something scurried in the underbrush, but when the diminutive creature met the gaze of her silver eye, she knew it to be a mere squirrel.
But the voice that had cried out had definitely been that of a man. And it was nearby. It certainly had not been the sounds of clashing steel she had heard ringing through the forest earlier that eve, apparently at quite a distance off. So this had to be someone else apart from those combatants-someone new. But why had he cried out? It sounded like… there it was again!
It was a cry of pain! What luck, she considered as she wiped a sweaty palm across her leather breeches. Perhaps she could take down one of these contestants with nary a fight if he were to be found injured. Poor fool likely found his leg in a bear trap, or twisted his ankle in a gopher hole. There, he cried out again. Follow his screams.
Alys held her blacksmith’s hammer against her leg, slung from her belt by a leather strap, to keep it from making a noise as she slunk through the forest, carefully selecting her footing so as to pad from mossy patch to soft loam, her passage noiseless and swift.
From beyond a turn in the bend around a rocky outcropping ahead, the man’s moaning echoed. Placing her back against the stone, she peeked around the corner, careful not to reveal herself too greatly in the process.
There was a dip in the forest floor here, a murky pond had formed in its basin. Just beyond the pond, a man groaned as he weakly shoved at what appeared to have been a tree, fallen across his legs.
Strange, Alys considered, I don’t recall any winds strong enough to blow a tree over, nor any loud sounds indicating such might have occurred. She had been stalking her sector all evening and this had not been far enough away to have avoided sparking her interest earlier. Someone, she reasoned, was trying to play a trick on her.
Though she could not see the majority of the man, his legs poking out from under the fallen tree, bloody and bent, his torso lost in the shadows behind, she could tell he was an armored sort. She’d recently seen such chain and plate leggings on the guards in town.
Perhaps it was just one of those neutral event coordinators, she mused, but then caught the glint of a Manokiri, strewn to the ground just a yard from the hapless man’s feet. A contestant! She grinned like a wolf as she carefully stalked her way around the pond, staying to the shadows and keeping a vigilant eye pinned to the man, searching for any further definition to his torso.
“Help!” the man called out. “I can hear you moving around.” He could?!? “I’m one of Montoral’s men. There… I see you in the moonlight. You’re one of the contestants we sponsored, no?”
Damn but she couldn’t see his face! It was still masked in shadow. She crouched lower, still stunned she’d been detected at all. She made no reply but to ready a dagger in her left hand as well.
“Aarrgh,” the man moaned as he shifted in an attempt to face her, “I am not a contestant myself. Help me, and I shall give you that Manokiri I took off the wizard who fell this tree on me with his dying breath.”
“I cannot trust the likes of you, sir, for I cannot see you,” she hissed. “But I’ll gladly take your Manokiri all the same.” The man gasped as if surprised she’d spotted it beneath him.
As she slunk towards the blade, her mind raced. Something wasn’t right about this… but what? Pausing in the bushes that formed a hedge around the pond, a spark went off in her mind. “How did the blade end up beneath you if the wizard still held it when he fell this tree upon you?” she asked.
“I stabbed him through the heart,” the shadowy figure explained, “forcing him to drop the blade as he tumbled into the pond. He murmured his sorcery and went on to his watery grave. His body lies at the bottom of the murk. Urgh,” he grunted, “Please help this log off me so that I may request of Montoral to offer you greater assistance than merely turning a blind eye to you!”
Fat chance of that, Alys considered. Taking a few cautious steps into the moonlight like a cat pawing at uncertain ground, she crept forward to grab the blade…
Suddenly the log came rolling down the dip at her, pulverizing the legs trapped beneath as it rolled!
With battle trained reflexes, Alys leapt the log, landing gracefully as it sent the blade twirling off into the underbrush, the fallen tree hitting the pond with a splash and a gurgle.
But before she could react, a man was on her, blades flashing! Apparently, the legs had been those of a dispatched guard, nothing more than a ruse, the log having cleverly concealed a fully healthy man in black leather armor.
She brought her daggers up to bear against his, their dance a whirl of glinting blades in the moonlight, sparking off each other as each blow was deftly deflected by the other. Amidst their lethal ballet, Alys found herself determined to know the nature of this man, and angled herself such that his face would be revealed beneath the light of the moon.
His black hair brushed to the side as she feinted to throw off his balance, revealing his face. She gasped as he smiled, knowingly casting his gaze deeply into hers. In the flash of a moment, his soul revealed itself to her through her mind-probing silver eye.
~
I had seen her on the ferry passage that took us to this island. Alys. The bounty hunter. Oh I knew her well enough. Perhaps as well as I had ever known any woman.
Years ago, after I made off with the Bracelet of Lords, she had been sent to bring me in, living or dead. Once I had noticed her trailing me, I began to study her, research her. Some friends in the area told me some of the rumors that surrounded her.
A mad blacksmith? She’d burned her village to the ground just to forge that ruby necklace she wears? According to the tale, she since had wandered the land, finding her way into the bounty hunter profession to fund further efforts to forge whatever her whims directed her to design, such as the exquisitely crafted daggers she carried to battle.
But she was not just a bounty hunter. No, far more than that to mine eyes. For never had I seen such beauty in a woman. She was tall, graceful, slender. Her fair skin evoked such lust that could nary be denied. And her hair, her cascading black hair, streaked with crimson, screamed of erotic counterculture defiance. Not only did I have to deny her the prize she sought to bring in for a mere profit, myself of course, I had to have her.
After many plots, and many schemes, and not a few clashes, the mysterious Alys was mine. For months, it was her heart I had stolen, her bed I had robbed. Our nights of passion seemed as if they would never end. I had found a lonely soul in her breast, and filled it with my own longing for companionship. No woman before, nor none after, would ever be what she had been to me. All the rest were stepping stones, but she had been an island.
Oh yes, I knew Alys, and she knew me.
But my wanderlust could not be quenched. As I felt my life becoming the lives of the normals around us, falling deeper and deeper into the indulgent pit of the bonds of relationship, I knew I could not trust her to remain my companion forever. She would have days at a time when her psychosis would erupt, leading her into a meditative trance from which her only escape would be for us to find a forge and for her to hammer out her demons. I found myself living for more than simply me, and it was simply more than I could bear.
I left her thinking I had died at the hands of the bounty hunter they sent for me in her stead. Of course, the poor decoy hadn’t been me, but I’d always hoped she’d have been convinced. Over-reliant she was on reading the thoughts of those around her but a corpse could not divulge such detail. She was a good tracker though. If she’d thought me alive, she’d have found me.
So when I noticed her on the ferry, myself disguised as a guard, knowing she was here to compete, I knew what had to be done. And I had to be careful not to let her look into my eyes until the time was right.
~
“Alys!” the Night Raven, Filchus Emry, cried, breaking her moment of connection to his gaze. She came back to the present finding her wrists firmly in his grasp, her blades fallen numbly from her grip.
“YOU!” She gasped, “You were… dead!”
“I know, my love, I know,” Filchus bent in to embrace her in a kiss, a kiss that while summoning deep pain from both of their hearts and souls, reopening ancient wounds buried within, was as readily like a glass of fresh water on a parched throat, one that had never expected water to ever be available again.
Their passion rose to a crescendo, neither sparing a moment for thought as their hearts pulled towards each other like magnets to iron fillings. Before either could come to their senses, their clothes and armor had been torn clear and bare skin pressed against bare skin.
As their passion reached its crescendo, screams of pain and battle were not the all that could be heard echoing through the trees under the moonlit night.
In the calm of the thereafter, they lied there in each other’s arms, panting, perspiration rolling down their skin in the cool air.
Suddenly, Alys jumped to her feet, scrambling for a dagger discarded nearby. In a flash, she held the blade to Filchus’s throat. “You BASTARD!” she hissed.
“Look,” he began, only to be cutoff.
“You LEFT ME! All I’ve had for company has been the voices in my HEAD! I HATE YOU Filchus Emry!”
Holding up a hand, the rogue backed away from beneath her knife. “I know. I’m sorry, my love.”
“WHY!?! Why did you leave me?”
Coming to his feet, his back against a tree, his physique glinting in the moonlight, Filchus replied, “I… I couldn’t do it Alys. I couldn’t settle down and fade from the history of the world. And you couldn’t either. I could tell it was getting to you too. Our love was erasing us from the world, leaving us with each other, yes… but nothing more.”
“You snake!” she snarled as she slashed out, scoring a thin red line across his chest. Seeing him stand there taking the strike with little more than pleading eyes, tears rolling down his cheeks, realizing her own face had become moist with more than passion, she dropped the dagger from her quivering fingers.
“I… I can’t do it…” she stammered. “I can’t kill you Filchus. It would be like tearing my own heart out!”
“I know. I could no sooner bring harm to you, my love.”
“Then what do we do now?” Her voice quivered in anguish, knowing one of them would perish before this competition was decided.
A wry, foxy smile crossed the Night Raven’s lips. “I have a plan,” he said simply.
~
“Where should we proceed to now, my love?” A surprisingly masculine voice spoke from the guise of a raven haired beauty. Inks and dies stained the pond at the water’s edge, free fallen, unrecovered strands of hair floated across its surface, its red tips dipping beneath the ripples.
“The hills I’d say. We can use the rocks and boulders there to conceal our moves,” spoke an unusually feminine voice from behind the helm and armor of a town guard.
As the Night Raven, garbed in Alys’s clothes, stood to full height, the female in metallic garb tsked. “Its amazing you can contort yourself to appear so… feminine,” she said.
“Your corset helps,” he explained, “but it does constrict the airflow a bit.”
“I just hope nobody notices your eyes don’t match the original.”
“Never fear, my love,” Filchus assured, “By the end of this tournament, I shall have my blade, you shall have the throne, and we shall forevermore have each other’s hearts.”
“We shall see, Filchus. It is that last promise that I shall hold you to above all else.”
“But of course, my dear.”
Holding hands for a moment, moving in to embrace in a soulful kiss, the two then put on their game faces and strode off into the night.
O.o Erm... ok. So what happens? Does Alys kill the Night Raven? Or do the two go off together?
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jhonscrypt
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| Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2009 8:28 pm Post subject: |
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hmmmmm this one is interesting.... i don't know who to vote for.
alys didn't really get me with no backstory to get an ankh of power and mindreading. good descriptions, but come on, at least throw us a bone as to how the hell that happened.
Night raven.. really? thats just cruel.
Creative! REALLY creative, but cruel. I mean, STEALING another persons character?
i disapprove.
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DeadManWalking
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| Posted: Mon Nov 09, 2009 8:31 pm Post subject: |
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If Night Raven wins, his author is proposing a collaboration with Alys's author. So it would not be stealing, as such.
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Bookwizard
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 7:08 am Post subject: |
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Bravo DMW, I have only found time to read the last few chapters... but all the same very good SG, something I will hopefully be keeping up with in the future!
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 3:58 pm Post subject: |
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Bugger i have missed this whole thing.... oh well i'll have to keep this in the back of my mind as a refrence Good stuff by the way
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| Posted: Tue Nov 10, 2009 7:47 pm Post subject: |
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Both of these were very well written. There were a few problems with both, i thought- as Jhony boy said, Alys' has no backstory, which is a bit of a pain. The second one, as creative as it was, just seemed kinda cruel though...
Both stories had radically different takes on Alys. The first was rather emotionless and kind of... "Ice-queen"-y, whereas the second one was VERY emotional, and almost comical in the emotion. The Alys in the second seemed a bit shallow...
Personally, I'd like to follow the First version of Alys a bit more. That one seems a lot more fascinating, with a lot more character depth.
Plus that one actually had a death in it. (Not that teaming up is bad! Just that I'd rather see a fight scene rather then a sloppy love scene)
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 1:01 pm Post subject: |
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Oh wowwww...seems it's neck and neck.
...please, someone break the tie 
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| Posted: Wed Nov 11, 2009 3:17 pm Post subject: |
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Uh oh we have tie... looks like this fight is going extra rounds
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