That's plenty of time, dude. Anyway, you got 5 and a half hours, not 4.
If it makes you feel any better, I'm still stuck at work and haven't started.
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NeoGAF Creative Writing Challenge #90 - The Coming Tide
- Thread starter British Monsoon
- Start date
- Status
That's plenty of time, dude. Anyway, you got 5 and a half hours, not 4.
If it makes you feel any better, I'm still stuck at work and haven't started.
Elfforkusu
Member
Yeah, but my rushed stories suck! Just re-read the last two! (don't.)That's plenty of time, dude. Anyway, you got 5 and a half hours, not 4.
If it makes you feel any better, I'm still stuck at work and haven't started.
If it sucks, I'm not going to submit it this time.
So I guess what I'm saying is, later bros, I'll be locked in my room without an internet connection for the next 5 hours.
Yeah, but my rushed stories suck! Just re-read the last two! (don't.)
If it sucks, I'm not going to submit it this time.
So I guess what I'm saying is, later bros, I'll be locked in my room without an internet connection for the next 5 hours.
Heh. I've submitted dozens of shitty stories, every single one of them rushed. You can totally do it. Hell, the one I did for this one was just rambling nonsense because I literally had 0 ideas.
British Monsoon
Member
The prisoner no longer struggled as the cart passed into the compound. All the fight had gone out of him once he realised his destination, and now he sat slumped and dejected upon the carts wooden floor. The imposing walls of Brigadier McNaughtons keep, lined with grim looking crossbowmen, loomed close as they came to a halt in the empty courtyard. In short order the huge oaken doors of the keep opened and two of the Irregulars strode from the darkness, their grey cloaks shadowing their faces. The prisoner let out a whimper and strained against the chains that held him fast. Ellis sighed and prepared for the unhappy rigmarole of prisoner transfer.
Well if it isnt Brave and Gallant Captain Ellis spat one of the robed figures, who now threw back his hood to reveal a ugly and bulbous face covered by a patchwork of pale scars.
Hello, Tanner. Ellis replied, trying to mask the revulsion he felt whenever he was forced to suffer contact with the odious man who, like all of McNaughtons Irregulars, carried no official rank, nor served the Crown in any official capacity.
So what has our Brave and Gallant spider caught in his web today? asked Tanner to no one in particular, sidling over to the rear of the cart so as to get a better look at the figure that cowered inside.
Murderer replied Ellis curtly, ignoring Tanners remark. He was no ones spider. He was an officer of the Crowns Justice, even if that did mean handing criminals over to men like Tanner.
And nothing more? goaded Tanner, an ugly smile upon his lips, knowing full well how much Ellis detested this aspect of his job. No, thats for us to determine, I suppose.
Are we done here? Ellis asked impatiently as he unhitched his horse from the cart.
Yes, yes. By all means, wouldnt want to keep the spider from his web. Said Tanner with a laugh before directing his companion to remove the sobbing prisoner from the back of the cart and lead him, chains clanking, into the depths of McNaughtons keep.
As Ellis rode once more under the huge stone gateway and out into the city proper, he brooded on his part in this torrid affair. Certainly, Razuuls Scarlet Order posed the greatest threat to the Crowns sovereignty since the failed attempt on the Kings life two years past, but if not for the hatred towards the Irregulars the Scarlet Order would likely have never formed in the first place. McNaughton had expertly played upon the Kings paranoia since that fateful attack and in the process had gained a Knighthood and his sinister Irregulars, while unwittingly unleashing a wave of religious intolerance and persecution that swept through the Kingdom and was met in kind by a militaristic order of holy men that boasted members of every major religion.
And it fell to Ellis and those under his command to keep these fanatics from his city. Yet as tensions increased, more and more was asked of him. Too many times had he found himself in the dead of night, kicking in the door of some house to flush out subversive elements or apprehend dangerous insurgents, only to find a cowering family of terrified devoted in prayer to their gods. Then there were the convicted. The Kings prisons were a notorious hell-hole, but most found it preferable to a trip to McNaughtons keep, where those who had drawn the attention of the Irregulars spilt their guts in more ways that one. With a shudder, Ellis decided he suddenly needed a stiff drink, wheeling his horse away from the road back to headquarters and towards the closest pub.
-------------------------
How did you know hed be here? asked Foster, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the ripe smell that clung to the air in The Slumbering Giant, widely regarded as the most depressing pub in all the city.
Ah, well, the Captain likes this place for a number of reasons; the booze is cheap and the clientele want nothing more than to be left alone Coyle replied in his usual jovial tone. He always comes here to drown his sorrows whenever hes particularly down in the dumps. Mustve been dealing with those Irregular bastards that sparked him off again.
Captain Jack Ellis sat slumped with his chin resting on the bar, his beleaguered eyes staring into the pale, watered-down liquid that passed for ale at The Slumbering Giant. Though clearly conscious, he showed no signs of moving as his Lieutenants took up residence in the seats to either side of him. Foster eagerly wanted to impart their important news and be away as quickly as possible, but Coyle had warned her to let him do the talking. He knew he Captains moods, and when he got like this is was better to leave him be until hed worked out whatever conundrum was rattling about in his head.
Arthur. Sally. Have a drink wont you? Ellis said at length, wordlessly indicating to the barman that his wish be fulfilled.
Captain, we dont have time for this Foster began before Coyle shushed her into silence.
The barman set down the Lieutenants drinks and Ellis fished out a handful of coppers from his jacket pocket, clinking them onto the bar one by one.
Come on then, out with it. Ellis abruptly said, accompanied by a world weary sigh.
Well, its like this Captain Coyle began.
We know where Razuul is. Foster finished.
How. Replied Ellis quickly, bloodshot eyes that were bleary and drink-addled moments before, now sharp and alert.
Funnily enough, the tip came from the Irregulars. Explained Coyle Theyve always suspected that Razuul doesnt even dwell in the city, and seems they were right. But for some reason, tonight hes here and meeting with emissaries from all the major religious groups.
At the Temple of Fallen Gods. Said Foster pointedly.
The meaning wasnt lost on Ellis as he finished his drink and rose unsteadily from his seat. For Razuul to enter the city and meet at that temple of all places, it had to be for something big. It was a temple dedicated to martyrs, a crumbling reminder to the blood that had been shed in the first War of Faith and, more importantly, the very place where the Kings assassination was planned two years previously. Ellis knew that they might never again have as opportune a moment to catch Razuul and the leaders of the Scarlet Order, but as he strode from the fetid gloom of The Slumbering Giant, Lieutenants Coyle & Foster in tow, he couldnt quell the uneasy feeling that was settling in his stomach, nor the feeling that he was walking into a trap.
-------------------------
The ornately carved columns of the Temple of Fallen Gods loomed up high in the blackened midnight gloom, untended vines twining around the crumbling marble that cast long shadows across Captain Ellis and his men. The night air seeped into their bones as they stealthily crept up the great stairs, between the columns and into the temple proper. Ellis drew his sabre and proceeded at the head of the small group, Foster & Coyle taking up the flanks.
This place gives me the chills. Hissed Coyle as they entered the voluminous main chamber. Who knows what spirits lurk within?
Never took you for the superstitious type, Arthur Ellis replied besides, it isnt spirits Im worried about, more like a crossbow quarrel shot from the shadows.
The light from their torches flickered across the ruined, tumbledown walls, illuminating the surviving pieces of the beautiful carvings that once lined every surface in the temples heyday, when thousands packed into its halls to observe ancient rites long since outlawed. The blood of their sacrifices had sunk into every stone of the place, but its influence had spread much further until the Crown had been forced to act, beginning what was now known as the first War of Faith.
As their torchlight shone upon the huge marble idol at the rear of the chamber, several of Ellis men let out an astonished gasp. He forgot that for many of them this was their first time entering the place and that many, like Arthur Coyle, held certain superstitions closer than they would like to admit. Ellis glanced up at the ugly face of the idol, its empty eyes that had once burned with a bright, angry fire, were now desolate pits of ominous blackness. It was a mistake coming here, he felt certain.
I hate to say this, Captain, but this feels like a trap. Said Sally grimly.
The shadows loomed menacingly at her words, yet there was no sign of Razuul the Divine or his Scarlet Order.
Thats when he heard the unmistakable scrape of steel on steel, as weapons were slowly dragged from scabbards. One of his men dropped his torch and the shadows grew as shapes moved like liquid in the inky darkness.
Right! Form-up, on me! Ellis commanded, brandishing his sword futilely towards the gloom.
That, wont be necessary captain. Said a powerful, booming voice that seemed to emanate from the temple walls itself, as at least two dozen armed members of the Scarlet Order poured from the shadows, completely encircling Ellis and his men. Then the speaker stepped into the light, scarlet cowl blood red under torchlight.
Your men may leave, they wont be harmed. But you are coming with us, Captain. Said the hooded figure.
Like hell he is! yelled Coyle, barging his way in front of Ellis protectively.
Its alright Arthur, we arent fighting our way out of this one. Said Ellis, sliding his sabre slowly back into its scabbard. Back to the station house with you all, seems Ive got an appointment to keep.
-------------------------
He was led blindfold down through a maze of dusty passageways with the distant echo of running water ringing in his ears. His captors were silent to his questions, save only to instruct his turns, and soon he found himself instructed through a series of heavy sounding doors. The air was closer here, he could feel the walls pressing near, even if he could not see them, and a few short minutes later the party ascended a set of smooth stone stairs and out in to the daylight.
Glad you could join me, Captain Ellis said an all too familiar voice.
His blindfold was removed and after his eyes adjusted to the daylight he could not believe what they saw. A lush and verdant walled garden spread before him, and there, standing with arms open wide, a beaming smile upon his face and wearing robes of the Scarlet Order was Edward, the Crown Prince and heir to the throne.
Sire. Ellis said, snapping to attention.
Try not to look so surprised Captain. The Prince chided. Have I not always expressed my displeasure at Fathers increasingly erratic decisions? His paranoia and superstition will be all our undoing, it has already allowed McNaughton to gain near unlimited power and influence in the Kingdom, and the people suffer. You understand Ellis, dont you?
I do, sire. But thats politics, and to be fair, mlord, what the Scarlet Order are dealing in isnt politics.
And what would a glorified policeman know of it, hmmm? The Prince replied, mood darkening for but a moment. We are bringing about change, Ellis. A new era for the people, one not ruled by a tired and frightened old man who listens to the venomous whispers of snakes like McNaughton. The Prince regarded Ellis with a cool look before continuing. I mean to take what is rightfully mine, Captain.
But why the Scarlet Order, sire?
It is a means to an end. Simply put, McNaughton despises the devout, Father fears them and you lock them up. Therefore, the devout hate the Irregulars, they hate the King and they dont very much like you either. All they needed was a unifying voice, someone whose influence supersedes their petty religious squabbles. And thats where the Scarlet Order came to fruition. But we are only the voice of change, while you, dear Captain, shall be our agent of change and thus make amends for your part in this affair.
Sire? Ellis replied uncertainly, not liking the sound of where this was going.
You are going to kill Brigadier McNaughton. Said the Prince.
-------------------------
The knife worked its way slowly through the sinew and muscle within the crater that sat where Ellis right nipple used to be. Teeth gritted, he tried to withstand the pain but yelled out with every twist, eliciting a gleeful, scar wrecked smile from his torturer.
How dyou like that, Captain high and fucking mighty, huh? Tanner spat. Got something special planned for you, oh yes. Something nice and slow and painful for the man who tried to murder the Crown Prince. He laughed at that, relishing in seeing how far Ellis had seemingly fallen. But not yet, oh no. Tanner giggled, removing the knife from Ellis chest and walking from the room, the heavy iron door locking shut behind him.
Ellis shuddered and gasped with the pain, trying not to glance at the ruin of flesh where his nipple had once sat. That fucking bastard. He would choke the life from Tanner if he ever got the chance. Yet despite the Princes assurances, he couldnt help but allow fear to grasp him at that moment, alone and bleeding in the deepest depths of McNaughtons keep. That feared and reviled building to which he had brought so many to suffer the same fate. Just, Ellis thought, or ironic, he couldnt decide which.
He drifted, barely consciousness, until, finally, his door opened and in stepped a man wearing the grey robes of the Irregulars. But he was not like the others, he carried no tools of the trade, those sharp and clinical instruments of torture. Instead, he carried a sabre, a second robe and about his neck, a heavy iron key that clicked as it released Ellis from his bonds. The man then handed Ellis the robe, waited while he pulled it on, and then passed him the sabre, before leaving back into the corridor without a single word said.
Ellis had memorised the layout of the maze-like keep, the Prince having obtained highly detailed maps, presumably from the same agents that had just freed him. He walked swiftly past the rows of iron doors, occasionally hearing pitiful moans from within, until he eventually came to a set of stairs that led him up and towards the battlements of the keep. Ensuring his sabre was well hidden beneath his robes, he stepped out and was greeted by a cool breeze and brilliant night sky staring back at him. He swiftly made his way through the darkness and across to the grand tower where candle light glinted through ornate stained windows.
There were no guards posted outside the door, and as Ellis quietly slipped inside and up the spiral stairs he wondered, and not for the first time today, if he was walking right into a trap. Blessedly, the Brigadier was alone, so secure was he in the impregnability of his keep. The old man was lounging in a grand chair by the fireplace, cigar smoking gently between his fingertips. He didnt hear Ellis approach, nor mark the sabre until it thrust through the chairs back and split his guts open. Ellis stepped into the light to look at the mans dying face, briefly contemplating repaying in kind the torture that dozens met at his order, before deciding that where McNaughton and Ellis were concerned, Ellis was the better man.
He waited until the old man slumped over the sabre that had killed him before making his rather subdued escape. Wearing the Irregulars robes, he passed easily through bustling corridors, out into the courtyard and across the bridge, back into the city proper. His city, and if all went to plan, Prince Edwards city. A murder of such an important figure as McNaughton would demand an official enquiry. So tomorrow, once news had broken, Ellis would return to the Irregulars keep, with Coyle & Foster and all the might of the law in tow. And when the people discovered the atrocities orchestrated by McNaughton, confidant to a king who approved of his every measure, the people would rise. The flames sparked by the Scarlet Order would fan across the city, tearing down the old and bringing in the new, a king deposed, a prince crowned, and no one would ever suspect Ellis part in it. Not even his men. This was his secret, his private absolution for all the souls he sent to die upon the merciless knives of the Irregulars.
Well if it isnt Brave and Gallant Captain Ellis spat one of the robed figures, who now threw back his hood to reveal a ugly and bulbous face covered by a patchwork of pale scars.
Hello, Tanner. Ellis replied, trying to mask the revulsion he felt whenever he was forced to suffer contact with the odious man who, like all of McNaughtons Irregulars, carried no official rank, nor served the Crown in any official capacity.
So what has our Brave and Gallant spider caught in his web today? asked Tanner to no one in particular, sidling over to the rear of the cart so as to get a better look at the figure that cowered inside.
Murderer replied Ellis curtly, ignoring Tanners remark. He was no ones spider. He was an officer of the Crowns Justice, even if that did mean handing criminals over to men like Tanner.
And nothing more? goaded Tanner, an ugly smile upon his lips, knowing full well how much Ellis detested this aspect of his job. No, thats for us to determine, I suppose.
Are we done here? Ellis asked impatiently as he unhitched his horse from the cart.
Yes, yes. By all means, wouldnt want to keep the spider from his web. Said Tanner with a laugh before directing his companion to remove the sobbing prisoner from the back of the cart and lead him, chains clanking, into the depths of McNaughtons keep.
As Ellis rode once more under the huge stone gateway and out into the city proper, he brooded on his part in this torrid affair. Certainly, Razuuls Scarlet Order posed the greatest threat to the Crowns sovereignty since the failed attempt on the Kings life two years past, but if not for the hatred towards the Irregulars the Scarlet Order would likely have never formed in the first place. McNaughton had expertly played upon the Kings paranoia since that fateful attack and in the process had gained a Knighthood and his sinister Irregulars, while unwittingly unleashing a wave of religious intolerance and persecution that swept through the Kingdom and was met in kind by a militaristic order of holy men that boasted members of every major religion.
And it fell to Ellis and those under his command to keep these fanatics from his city. Yet as tensions increased, more and more was asked of him. Too many times had he found himself in the dead of night, kicking in the door of some house to flush out subversive elements or apprehend dangerous insurgents, only to find a cowering family of terrified devoted in prayer to their gods. Then there were the convicted. The Kings prisons were a notorious hell-hole, but most found it preferable to a trip to McNaughtons keep, where those who had drawn the attention of the Irregulars spilt their guts in more ways that one. With a shudder, Ellis decided he suddenly needed a stiff drink, wheeling his horse away from the road back to headquarters and towards the closest pub.
-------------------------
How did you know hed be here? asked Foster, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the ripe smell that clung to the air in The Slumbering Giant, widely regarded as the most depressing pub in all the city.
Ah, well, the Captain likes this place for a number of reasons; the booze is cheap and the clientele want nothing more than to be left alone Coyle replied in his usual jovial tone. He always comes here to drown his sorrows whenever hes particularly down in the dumps. Mustve been dealing with those Irregular bastards that sparked him off again.
Captain Jack Ellis sat slumped with his chin resting on the bar, his beleaguered eyes staring into the pale, watered-down liquid that passed for ale at The Slumbering Giant. Though clearly conscious, he showed no signs of moving as his Lieutenants took up residence in the seats to either side of him. Foster eagerly wanted to impart their important news and be away as quickly as possible, but Coyle had warned her to let him do the talking. He knew he Captains moods, and when he got like this is was better to leave him be until hed worked out whatever conundrum was rattling about in his head.
Arthur. Sally. Have a drink wont you? Ellis said at length, wordlessly indicating to the barman that his wish be fulfilled.
Captain, we dont have time for this Foster began before Coyle shushed her into silence.
The barman set down the Lieutenants drinks and Ellis fished out a handful of coppers from his jacket pocket, clinking them onto the bar one by one.
Come on then, out with it. Ellis abruptly said, accompanied by a world weary sigh.
Well, its like this Captain Coyle began.
We know where Razuul is. Foster finished.
How. Replied Ellis quickly, bloodshot eyes that were bleary and drink-addled moments before, now sharp and alert.
Funnily enough, the tip came from the Irregulars. Explained Coyle Theyve always suspected that Razuul doesnt even dwell in the city, and seems they were right. But for some reason, tonight hes here and meeting with emissaries from all the major religious groups.
At the Temple of Fallen Gods. Said Foster pointedly.
The meaning wasnt lost on Ellis as he finished his drink and rose unsteadily from his seat. For Razuul to enter the city and meet at that temple of all places, it had to be for something big. It was a temple dedicated to martyrs, a crumbling reminder to the blood that had been shed in the first War of Faith and, more importantly, the very place where the Kings assassination was planned two years previously. Ellis knew that they might never again have as opportune a moment to catch Razuul and the leaders of the Scarlet Order, but as he strode from the fetid gloom of The Slumbering Giant, Lieutenants Coyle & Foster in tow, he couldnt quell the uneasy feeling that was settling in his stomach, nor the feeling that he was walking into a trap.
-------------------------
The ornately carved columns of the Temple of Fallen Gods loomed up high in the blackened midnight gloom, untended vines twining around the crumbling marble that cast long shadows across Captain Ellis and his men. The night air seeped into their bones as they stealthily crept up the great stairs, between the columns and into the temple proper. Ellis drew his sabre and proceeded at the head of the small group, Foster & Coyle taking up the flanks.
This place gives me the chills. Hissed Coyle as they entered the voluminous main chamber. Who knows what spirits lurk within?
Never took you for the superstitious type, Arthur Ellis replied besides, it isnt spirits Im worried about, more like a crossbow quarrel shot from the shadows.
The light from their torches flickered across the ruined, tumbledown walls, illuminating the surviving pieces of the beautiful carvings that once lined every surface in the temples heyday, when thousands packed into its halls to observe ancient rites long since outlawed. The blood of their sacrifices had sunk into every stone of the place, but its influence had spread much further until the Crown had been forced to act, beginning what was now known as the first War of Faith.
As their torchlight shone upon the huge marble idol at the rear of the chamber, several of Ellis men let out an astonished gasp. He forgot that for many of them this was their first time entering the place and that many, like Arthur Coyle, held certain superstitions closer than they would like to admit. Ellis glanced up at the ugly face of the idol, its empty eyes that had once burned with a bright, angry fire, were now desolate pits of ominous blackness. It was a mistake coming here, he felt certain.
I hate to say this, Captain, but this feels like a trap. Said Sally grimly.
The shadows loomed menacingly at her words, yet there was no sign of Razuul the Divine or his Scarlet Order.
Thats when he heard the unmistakable scrape of steel on steel, as weapons were slowly dragged from scabbards. One of his men dropped his torch and the shadows grew as shapes moved like liquid in the inky darkness.
Right! Form-up, on me! Ellis commanded, brandishing his sword futilely towards the gloom.
That, wont be necessary captain. Said a powerful, booming voice that seemed to emanate from the temple walls itself, as at least two dozen armed members of the Scarlet Order poured from the shadows, completely encircling Ellis and his men. Then the speaker stepped into the light, scarlet cowl blood red under torchlight.
Your men may leave, they wont be harmed. But you are coming with us, Captain. Said the hooded figure.
Like hell he is! yelled Coyle, barging his way in front of Ellis protectively.
Its alright Arthur, we arent fighting our way out of this one. Said Ellis, sliding his sabre slowly back into its scabbard. Back to the station house with you all, seems Ive got an appointment to keep.
-------------------------
He was led blindfold down through a maze of dusty passageways with the distant echo of running water ringing in his ears. His captors were silent to his questions, save only to instruct his turns, and soon he found himself instructed through a series of heavy sounding doors. The air was closer here, he could feel the walls pressing near, even if he could not see them, and a few short minutes later the party ascended a set of smooth stone stairs and out in to the daylight.
Glad you could join me, Captain Ellis said an all too familiar voice.
His blindfold was removed and after his eyes adjusted to the daylight he could not believe what they saw. A lush and verdant walled garden spread before him, and there, standing with arms open wide, a beaming smile upon his face and wearing robes of the Scarlet Order was Edward, the Crown Prince and heir to the throne.
Sire. Ellis said, snapping to attention.
Try not to look so surprised Captain. The Prince chided. Have I not always expressed my displeasure at Fathers increasingly erratic decisions? His paranoia and superstition will be all our undoing, it has already allowed McNaughton to gain near unlimited power and influence in the Kingdom, and the people suffer. You understand Ellis, dont you?
I do, sire. But thats politics, and to be fair, mlord, what the Scarlet Order are dealing in isnt politics.
And what would a glorified policeman know of it, hmmm? The Prince replied, mood darkening for but a moment. We are bringing about change, Ellis. A new era for the people, one not ruled by a tired and frightened old man who listens to the venomous whispers of snakes like McNaughton. The Prince regarded Ellis with a cool look before continuing. I mean to take what is rightfully mine, Captain.
But why the Scarlet Order, sire?
It is a means to an end. Simply put, McNaughton despises the devout, Father fears them and you lock them up. Therefore, the devout hate the Irregulars, they hate the King and they dont very much like you either. All they needed was a unifying voice, someone whose influence supersedes their petty religious squabbles. And thats where the Scarlet Order came to fruition. But we are only the voice of change, while you, dear Captain, shall be our agent of change and thus make amends for your part in this affair.
Sire? Ellis replied uncertainly, not liking the sound of where this was going.
You are going to kill Brigadier McNaughton. Said the Prince.
-------------------------
The knife worked its way slowly through the sinew and muscle within the crater that sat where Ellis right nipple used to be. Teeth gritted, he tried to withstand the pain but yelled out with every twist, eliciting a gleeful, scar wrecked smile from his torturer.
How dyou like that, Captain high and fucking mighty, huh? Tanner spat. Got something special planned for you, oh yes. Something nice and slow and painful for the man who tried to murder the Crown Prince. He laughed at that, relishing in seeing how far Ellis had seemingly fallen. But not yet, oh no. Tanner giggled, removing the knife from Ellis chest and walking from the room, the heavy iron door locking shut behind him.
Ellis shuddered and gasped with the pain, trying not to glance at the ruin of flesh where his nipple had once sat. That fucking bastard. He would choke the life from Tanner if he ever got the chance. Yet despite the Princes assurances, he couldnt help but allow fear to grasp him at that moment, alone and bleeding in the deepest depths of McNaughtons keep. That feared and reviled building to which he had brought so many to suffer the same fate. Just, Ellis thought, or ironic, he couldnt decide which.
He drifted, barely consciousness, until, finally, his door opened and in stepped a man wearing the grey robes of the Irregulars. But he was not like the others, he carried no tools of the trade, those sharp and clinical instruments of torture. Instead, he carried a sabre, a second robe and about his neck, a heavy iron key that clicked as it released Ellis from his bonds. The man then handed Ellis the robe, waited while he pulled it on, and then passed him the sabre, before leaving back into the corridor without a single word said.
Ellis had memorised the layout of the maze-like keep, the Prince having obtained highly detailed maps, presumably from the same agents that had just freed him. He walked swiftly past the rows of iron doors, occasionally hearing pitiful moans from within, until he eventually came to a set of stairs that led him up and towards the battlements of the keep. Ensuring his sabre was well hidden beneath his robes, he stepped out and was greeted by a cool breeze and brilliant night sky staring back at him. He swiftly made his way through the darkness and across to the grand tower where candle light glinted through ornate stained windows.
There were no guards posted outside the door, and as Ellis quietly slipped inside and up the spiral stairs he wondered, and not for the first time today, if he was walking right into a trap. Blessedly, the Brigadier was alone, so secure was he in the impregnability of his keep. The old man was lounging in a grand chair by the fireplace, cigar smoking gently between his fingertips. He didnt hear Ellis approach, nor mark the sabre until it thrust through the chairs back and split his guts open. Ellis stepped into the light to look at the mans dying face, briefly contemplating repaying in kind the torture that dozens met at his order, before deciding that where McNaughton and Ellis were concerned, Ellis was the better man.
He waited until the old man slumped over the sabre that had killed him before making his rather subdued escape. Wearing the Irregulars robes, he passed easily through bustling corridors, out into the courtyard and across the bridge, back into the city proper. His city, and if all went to plan, Prince Edwards city. A murder of such an important figure as McNaughton would demand an official enquiry. So tomorrow, once news had broken, Ellis would return to the Irregulars keep, with Coyle & Foster and all the might of the law in tow. And when the people discovered the atrocities orchestrated by McNaughton, confidant to a king who approved of his every measure, the people would rise. The flames sparked by the Scarlet Order would fan across the city, tearing down the old and bringing in the new, a king deposed, a prince crowned, and no one would ever suspect Ellis part in it. Not even his men. This was his secret, his private absolution for all the souls he sent to die upon the merciless knives of the Irregulars.
Lone_Prodigy
Member
I knew I forgot to do something tonight. =\
Yeah, but my rushed stories suck! Just re-read the last two! (don't.)
If it sucks, I'm not going to submit it this time.
So I guess what I'm saying is, later bros, I'll be locked in my room without an internet connection for the next 5 hours.
Just submit it. I literally submitted stories that weren't FINISHED awhile back. From this guy, no fucks were given. LOL
"Garbage" (1420 words)
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/Garbage.pdf
The devil's in the details?! That would have worked for a previous writing prompt as well!
Whoa, and awesome that so many are people are coming back. And welcome Senoculum!
Yes, it's true, that the title of my story MAY describe the story itself... but MAYBE not. You'll just have to find out.
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/12382966/Garbage.pdf
The devil's in the details?! That would have worked for a previous writing prompt as well!
Whoa, and awesome that so many are people are coming back. And welcome Senoculum!
Elfforkusu
Member
You Won't See Me (2501 words)
***
Over your head glows a metal sky, coated with all the stars man has ever seen. Counting seems of little consequence. Billions or trillions, it is enough that you are one and they are many, and that your presence is a courtesy from these distant giants. But enough philosophy. Eight hours of night is too short underneath this sky. War is coming. It will be upon all of outer space in months, weeks, days. For years, it seemed as though humans had learned from their mistakes. But those were different humans.
You rise to your feet. Fianco City sprawls out before your view from the hill, a vibrant sheet of colors amidst the starry night. You descend down a cobblestone path, your boots sounding a dull thud that announces your presence. A short man in a bowler hat notices you, and waves hello. You wave back, offering a forced smile in return. In a few minutes, he will buy a hundred kilograms of black market cocaine from an equally polite old woman in a lovely pink dress. Business in Fianco often flies by night.
But you aren't after world peace or shady deals for sub-par drugs, at least not tonight.
"Good evening, Aoki," a twenty-something policeman calls out as soon as you reach the next city block. He's been waiting for you.
"The same, officer," you answer curtly. Best to stay on this one's good side. "My presence was requested?"
"Right. You've been formally assigned the Megan Cooper case."
"Is that all? I suppose the previous designation was 'informal', then?"
The man smiles wryly.
"You know how it works around here," he chuckles. You nod in agreement.
"I'll find the girl," you assure him. He seems less reassured that he ought to be.
The gist of the Megan Cooper case is that a bright, lovely researcher disappeared into the wind -- two months ago, now. The trail went rather cold shortly after her disappearance, as no one could claim to have seen nor heard from the young lady since she departed the city's premier biotech lab one monotonously perfect August evening. You'd picked up the chilly pieces shortly thereafter. She had an infrequent boyfriend named Will, a hidden drug habit (not rare in Fianco), and a penchant for creativity that probably came from the drug habit. She also, quite literally, had walked around a street corner and vanished without a trace. She never returned to her apartment, was never counted on a shuttle flight out of the city port, and if she died, her body was never found.
Her sudden disappearance -- or perhaps it's that she was able to disappear at all -- has been a point of contention among the police ever since. Every policeman you talk to seems incredulous that this could happen. They consider it absurd, incomprehensible even that any person could simply go missing. Yet, as they are prone to do, the facts flaunt human reasoning. Indeed, every street corner in the city is surveilled, and there is a camera stationed in every room of every building the Fianco police department chooses. But absurd things happen every day, and humans are imperfect beings. They run the surveillance, and they make mistakes. They miss things they shouldn't. And like the myriad ways a hardened officer fudges the numbers on his quarterly crime report, there's more than one way to disappear.
Your first destination this night is Miss Cooper's laboratory. At the request of the police, it's remained eerily undisturbed for the past two months. You've been there once before, shortly after the incident -- it was a quiet, stereotypically pristine environment then, and is unlikely to have changed much.
The guard at the front gate lets you inside after examining your detective's license, and you step through a pair of gaudy glass doors and into a cylindrical elevator. Five floors up, and Miss Cooper's former lair stands before you.
It's as empty as ever. Quite a waste, you muse to yourself. There's a plethora of cutting edge equipment here. Microscopes and DNA sequencers and temperature-controlled rooms for growing bacteria, along with a number of more esoteric devices and things you can't identify without an external knowledge link. For at this point you realize that this room is cut off from the universal internet. Here you are unseen by the watchful eye of Big Brother Hattori. The door is cracked open.
You step into the adjacent room and approach a plain wooden desk. A picture of Miss Cooper and her beloved(?) Will sits framed on the desk. She is a short, slender, brown-haired girl with sea-green eyes and an eternally thoughtful expression. He is an orange haired giant with broad shoulders and a wide smile. They were an odd couple, if the picture is any indication.
For an hour and a half in silence, you circle her office, raiding every drawer you can find and scanning every data drive in sight. The statue of limitations is up for the woman's privacy -- what little she was ever given in this watchful city, anyway. The books and journal articles are mostly dry, or perhaps wet in the case of "Colony liquid irrigation, or why it rains every other Monday." There are other classics such as "Tolerable toxicity: Building an immunity to iocane powder." At last, you find something interesting. "Phase shift light redirection." Promising.
More promising is a note from her boyfriend, however. It's handwritten in a neigh-unreadable scrawl on a piece of e-paper.
"Meg," it begins, "we need to talk." The words are written hastily, and with an urgent precision that seems to belie desperation. "7 PM, at the old lookout."
There is nothing more. The "old lookout" seems to be code. No mention of it can be found anywhere else. The e-paper timestamps the note at the morning of August 13, the very day our young heroine vanished into the dusk.
"Is Will present?" you ask, knocking lightly on the apartment door of the man who wears the name.
"Coming," a gruff voice mutters. The door swings open, and he peers down at you: a giant, one of a mystical lost race. Interestingly, this one's face is fading white with horror. He seems to recognize you.
"I'm a detective for the Fianco PD," you say. After a silent moment, you add, "...as might have been guessed."
"Is this about Megan?" he finally asks.
"Correct," you answer.
"I don't know anything."
"Excellent. How about this note?" You hand him the paper, and somehow his face grows whiter still. Shortly he may be a ghost.
"The old lookout..." he mumbles something unintelligible to himself.
"Yes, where is this 'old lookout'?"
His shaky eyes look you up and down uncertainly, as if trying to gauge how trustworthy a mysterious blue-clad detective might be.
"We were supposed to meet that night," he blurts out. "She never showed."
"Is that all?" you ask.
He lowers his head sadly.
"She stopped talking to me a month before. Wouldn't answer my calls -- her line was always busy, somehow. When I knocked at her door, she never answered. I finally snuck this under the door in her office one morning. That morning."
"Is that all?" you repeat.
He says nothing else. After a word of thanks, you leave. The giant stands at the door, watching you until you're well out of sight.
With an urgent stride, you trudge down the street. The night is half spent. There's a raccoon salvaging a chicken bone from an upturned dumpster. He can't see or hear you, but he cowers from your presence nonetheless. You take a wrong turn, and reach the finish line of a impassable alley. Dead ends within dead ends, this night. Yet for all their flaws, humans do possess one trait worth considering: stubbornness. There is no real hope of clarity, but a desperate thought springs to your mind and you make your way up. Up and up and up, thirty stories above the ground on the roof of the tallest building in this business district of the city. On the reverse horizon just beneath the retreating ceiling, the sleepless party town awaits, shining like Jesus' city on a hill. To the right of it, a wide, straight channel of water runs the length of the city, looping out of sight up behind the ceiling and back down again from the other side.
A professor you had at university once asserted that the spinning wheel of a space colony, that massive engine of centrifugal force that allows us to simulate gravity and normal life, was a cynical metaphor for the futility of humanity. All this technology, all these years of advancement, he argued, and still we spend all our lives going in circles. He's not incorrect.
Still, there are those who break the mold. As you look to the concrete-walled river, you wonder if perhaps Megan Cooper was one of those.
In the shining party district, no one pays the invisible any heed. If you are not bright, flamboyant, and glowing with the excess of glamor and wealth, you are of no consequence. It's yet another way to disappear, needing only "attention redirection". Miss Cooper would've walked this path, and, as you walk down it invisible in plain sight, you wonder if perhaps she needn't have spent so much time on her research.
Beneath the party atmosphere, there is a veil of tension and fear. There's a nervousness here, when we stand at the brink of a war that stands to sweep all human civilization above the clouds away. Perhaps the expeditions to Saturn and Jupiter will remain unscathed for a while, but they too may encounter the maelstrom. So the people of Fianco party while they can: harder than before, by the looks of it.
When Miss Cooper walked this path two months ago, the situation was not so dire. War was just a twinkle in a pessimist's eye, and apart from the steady stream of ambulances taking overdose-ees to Fianco hospitals, the city was carefree. You're still searching for some thread, some hint of what she might have been thinking back then. Tenuous though it may be, it's the only thread that remains.
Your trek takes you towards the river, where a tall rooftop peers out across to the other side of the city. Nearby, a massive glowing bridge spans it. Elsewhere, tunnels crawl underneath the basin and surface on the opposite side. The river is the city's resevoir. From it all life subsists. You think back to the books in Miss Cooper's lab, and her supposed drug habit -- and you wonder.
"Mister Will," you ask at the giant's door once again, knocking five times. Muffled behind the door, he groans and curses.
"For the love of god, it's 4 AM! Who is it?" he shouts, swinging the door open. Figurative cold water crashes across his face. You don't like having this effect on people, but then it is part of the job.
"Sorry to be a bother, but it is drawing closer and closer to daybreak." He looks simultaneously exasperated and terrified. It's hard to blame him.
You take his silence to mean that he's willing to answer all questions, so you waste no more time.
"This is the urgent question: did you ever see Miss Cooper take drugs, of any kind?"
"Well, yeah, she smoked marijuana."
"But nothing legitimately harmful?" you prod.
"No, never. She called me all sorts of names when she found out I tried heroin--" he trails off, going red.
"Beside the point," you continue, "the Fianco PD linked her to a number of black market purchases before her disappearance. PCP, GHB, Ecstasy, you name it. Why would she have gone out of band, when she could get all of that legally?"
"I don't..." he stutters. "...I don't know."
Thinking that it might be too much to leave this poor man hanging at 4 AM, you give him a breadcrumb.
"Did she ever discuss researching any of these drugs in combination? Investigating how they might be modified or augmented? Either for medical, or for potential military application?"
"Never," he says, wide-eyed.
"Understood. Thank you."
For the second time tonight, you turn to leave. This time, Will interrupts.
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know yet," you answer. This time, he closes the door before you take ten steps.
"Aoki!"
You turn. Your young policeman friend jogs towards you, a bead of sweat or ten running down his very tired face. In addition to tired, he looks flabbergasted.
"Graveyard shift is always delightful, is it not?" you greet him.
"It sucks," he mutters, jittering slightly. "But this is some seriously weird crap now. You're not going to believe this."
"Try me."
"They've just found some weird sh--... stuff in the water supply. Trace elements of all kinds of drugs and whatnot: heroin, PGP, you name it."
He looks to you expectantly.
"And I'm to suppose that Fianco expects me to solve this as well?"
"Only if you happen to already know the answer," your policeman friend asks. His intuition is good. That's why you trust him, and why you need him on your side.
"Perhaps. When was the last test of the water supply done?" you probe.
"Over two months ago," he answers. "Before the last cycle."
"And, has anyone died due to the water in the last two months?" you continue.
"Obviously not -- well, not outright. It'd have been noticed sooner."
"Then I'll say it," you declare softly. "Someone has poisoned the well, so to speak. Very carefully, too."
"But that's impossible!" he protests. "It's constantly monitored at city HQ."
"Impossible, perhaps. Would you call it more or less impossible than someone vanishing into thin air?"
To prove the point, you fade out of sight. Miss Cooper isn't the only person in Fianco City who's mastered invisibilty. And time is short, after all.
Dawn comes. There's no more time. There's a flight leaving in thirty minutes, and I have a ticket.
The river is the lifeline of the city. Every two months, they drain the channel dry at dawn to clean it. By nightfall, they refill it with pure water. Two months ago, someone did something there, perhaps hid something there, during the low tide. They'll drain the river again this week. You need to find out exactly what happened then, and what happened to the person who did it. You need to track down Megan Cooper, dead or alive. It's your mission now.
That might be good enough. It's up to you to be me -- for a while. I think I've been convinced. Or perhaps shamed, by that young woman taking on such an undertaking by herself. It's high time I stopped the war. Though, sometimes you have to start a smaller war to halt a big one.
Truthfully, I may not be back. If that should pass, wear my name with pride -- since it'll be yours.
***
Over your head glows a metal sky, coated with all the stars man has ever seen. Counting seems of little consequence. Billions or trillions, it is enough that you are one and they are many, and that your presence is a courtesy from these distant giants. But enough philosophy. Eight hours of night is too short underneath this sky. War is coming. It will be upon all of outer space in months, weeks, days. For years, it seemed as though humans had learned from their mistakes. But those were different humans.
You rise to your feet. Fianco City sprawls out before your view from the hill, a vibrant sheet of colors amidst the starry night. You descend down a cobblestone path, your boots sounding a dull thud that announces your presence. A short man in a bowler hat notices you, and waves hello. You wave back, offering a forced smile in return. In a few minutes, he will buy a hundred kilograms of black market cocaine from an equally polite old woman in a lovely pink dress. Business in Fianco often flies by night.
But you aren't after world peace or shady deals for sub-par drugs, at least not tonight.
"Good evening, Aoki," a twenty-something policeman calls out as soon as you reach the next city block. He's been waiting for you.
"The same, officer," you answer curtly. Best to stay on this one's good side. "My presence was requested?"
"Right. You've been formally assigned the Megan Cooper case."
"Is that all? I suppose the previous designation was 'informal', then?"
The man smiles wryly.
"You know how it works around here," he chuckles. You nod in agreement.
"I'll find the girl," you assure him. He seems less reassured that he ought to be.
The gist of the Megan Cooper case is that a bright, lovely researcher disappeared into the wind -- two months ago, now. The trail went rather cold shortly after her disappearance, as no one could claim to have seen nor heard from the young lady since she departed the city's premier biotech lab one monotonously perfect August evening. You'd picked up the chilly pieces shortly thereafter. She had an infrequent boyfriend named Will, a hidden drug habit (not rare in Fianco), and a penchant for creativity that probably came from the drug habit. She also, quite literally, had walked around a street corner and vanished without a trace. She never returned to her apartment, was never counted on a shuttle flight out of the city port, and if she died, her body was never found.
Her sudden disappearance -- or perhaps it's that she was able to disappear at all -- has been a point of contention among the police ever since. Every policeman you talk to seems incredulous that this could happen. They consider it absurd, incomprehensible even that any person could simply go missing. Yet, as they are prone to do, the facts flaunt human reasoning. Indeed, every street corner in the city is surveilled, and there is a camera stationed in every room of every building the Fianco police department chooses. But absurd things happen every day, and humans are imperfect beings. They run the surveillance, and they make mistakes. They miss things they shouldn't. And like the myriad ways a hardened officer fudges the numbers on his quarterly crime report, there's more than one way to disappear.
Your first destination this night is Miss Cooper's laboratory. At the request of the police, it's remained eerily undisturbed for the past two months. You've been there once before, shortly after the incident -- it was a quiet, stereotypically pristine environment then, and is unlikely to have changed much.
The guard at the front gate lets you inside after examining your detective's license, and you step through a pair of gaudy glass doors and into a cylindrical elevator. Five floors up, and Miss Cooper's former lair stands before you.
It's as empty as ever. Quite a waste, you muse to yourself. There's a plethora of cutting edge equipment here. Microscopes and DNA sequencers and temperature-controlled rooms for growing bacteria, along with a number of more esoteric devices and things you can't identify without an external knowledge link. For at this point you realize that this room is cut off from the universal internet. Here you are unseen by the watchful eye of Big Brother Hattori. The door is cracked open.
You step into the adjacent room and approach a plain wooden desk. A picture of Miss Cooper and her beloved(?) Will sits framed on the desk. She is a short, slender, brown-haired girl with sea-green eyes and an eternally thoughtful expression. He is an orange haired giant with broad shoulders and a wide smile. They were an odd couple, if the picture is any indication.
For an hour and a half in silence, you circle her office, raiding every drawer you can find and scanning every data drive in sight. The statue of limitations is up for the woman's privacy -- what little she was ever given in this watchful city, anyway. The books and journal articles are mostly dry, or perhaps wet in the case of "Colony liquid irrigation, or why it rains every other Monday." There are other classics such as "Tolerable toxicity: Building an immunity to iocane powder." At last, you find something interesting. "Phase shift light redirection." Promising.
More promising is a note from her boyfriend, however. It's handwritten in a neigh-unreadable scrawl on a piece of e-paper.
"Meg," it begins, "we need to talk." The words are written hastily, and with an urgent precision that seems to belie desperation. "7 PM, at the old lookout."
There is nothing more. The "old lookout" seems to be code. No mention of it can be found anywhere else. The e-paper timestamps the note at the morning of August 13, the very day our young heroine vanished into the dusk.
"Is Will present?" you ask, knocking lightly on the apartment door of the man who wears the name.
"Coming," a gruff voice mutters. The door swings open, and he peers down at you: a giant, one of a mystical lost race. Interestingly, this one's face is fading white with horror. He seems to recognize you.
"I'm a detective for the Fianco PD," you say. After a silent moment, you add, "...as might have been guessed."
"Is this about Megan?" he finally asks.
"Correct," you answer.
"I don't know anything."
"Excellent. How about this note?" You hand him the paper, and somehow his face grows whiter still. Shortly he may be a ghost.
"The old lookout..." he mumbles something unintelligible to himself.
"Yes, where is this 'old lookout'?"
His shaky eyes look you up and down uncertainly, as if trying to gauge how trustworthy a mysterious blue-clad detective might be.
"We were supposed to meet that night," he blurts out. "She never showed."
"Is that all?" you ask.
He lowers his head sadly.
"She stopped talking to me a month before. Wouldn't answer my calls -- her line was always busy, somehow. When I knocked at her door, she never answered. I finally snuck this under the door in her office one morning. That morning."
"Is that all?" you repeat.
He says nothing else. After a word of thanks, you leave. The giant stands at the door, watching you until you're well out of sight.
With an urgent stride, you trudge down the street. The night is half spent. There's a raccoon salvaging a chicken bone from an upturned dumpster. He can't see or hear you, but he cowers from your presence nonetheless. You take a wrong turn, and reach the finish line of a impassable alley. Dead ends within dead ends, this night. Yet for all their flaws, humans do possess one trait worth considering: stubbornness. There is no real hope of clarity, but a desperate thought springs to your mind and you make your way up. Up and up and up, thirty stories above the ground on the roof of the tallest building in this business district of the city. On the reverse horizon just beneath the retreating ceiling, the sleepless party town awaits, shining like Jesus' city on a hill. To the right of it, a wide, straight channel of water runs the length of the city, looping out of sight up behind the ceiling and back down again from the other side.
A professor you had at university once asserted that the spinning wheel of a space colony, that massive engine of centrifugal force that allows us to simulate gravity and normal life, was a cynical metaphor for the futility of humanity. All this technology, all these years of advancement, he argued, and still we spend all our lives going in circles. He's not incorrect.
Still, there are those who break the mold. As you look to the concrete-walled river, you wonder if perhaps Megan Cooper was one of those.
In the shining party district, no one pays the invisible any heed. If you are not bright, flamboyant, and glowing with the excess of glamor and wealth, you are of no consequence. It's yet another way to disappear, needing only "attention redirection". Miss Cooper would've walked this path, and, as you walk down it invisible in plain sight, you wonder if perhaps she needn't have spent so much time on her research.
Beneath the party atmosphere, there is a veil of tension and fear. There's a nervousness here, when we stand at the brink of a war that stands to sweep all human civilization above the clouds away. Perhaps the expeditions to Saturn and Jupiter will remain unscathed for a while, but they too may encounter the maelstrom. So the people of Fianco party while they can: harder than before, by the looks of it.
When Miss Cooper walked this path two months ago, the situation was not so dire. War was just a twinkle in a pessimist's eye, and apart from the steady stream of ambulances taking overdose-ees to Fianco hospitals, the city was carefree. You're still searching for some thread, some hint of what she might have been thinking back then. Tenuous though it may be, it's the only thread that remains.
Your trek takes you towards the river, where a tall rooftop peers out across to the other side of the city. Nearby, a massive glowing bridge spans it. Elsewhere, tunnels crawl underneath the basin and surface on the opposite side. The river is the city's resevoir. From it all life subsists. You think back to the books in Miss Cooper's lab, and her supposed drug habit -- and you wonder.
"Mister Will," you ask at the giant's door once again, knocking five times. Muffled behind the door, he groans and curses.
"For the love of god, it's 4 AM! Who is it?" he shouts, swinging the door open. Figurative cold water crashes across his face. You don't like having this effect on people, but then it is part of the job.
"Sorry to be a bother, but it is drawing closer and closer to daybreak." He looks simultaneously exasperated and terrified. It's hard to blame him.
You take his silence to mean that he's willing to answer all questions, so you waste no more time.
"This is the urgent question: did you ever see Miss Cooper take drugs, of any kind?"
"Well, yeah, she smoked marijuana."
"But nothing legitimately harmful?" you prod.
"No, never. She called me all sorts of names when she found out I tried heroin--" he trails off, going red.
"Beside the point," you continue, "the Fianco PD linked her to a number of black market purchases before her disappearance. PCP, GHB, Ecstasy, you name it. Why would she have gone out of band, when she could get all of that legally?"
"I don't..." he stutters. "...I don't know."
Thinking that it might be too much to leave this poor man hanging at 4 AM, you give him a breadcrumb.
"Did she ever discuss researching any of these drugs in combination? Investigating how they might be modified or augmented? Either for medical, or for potential military application?"
"Never," he says, wide-eyed.
"Understood. Thank you."
For the second time tonight, you turn to leave. This time, Will interrupts.
"Is she dead?"
"I don't know yet," you answer. This time, he closes the door before you take ten steps.
"Aoki!"
You turn. Your young policeman friend jogs towards you, a bead of sweat or ten running down his very tired face. In addition to tired, he looks flabbergasted.
"Graveyard shift is always delightful, is it not?" you greet him.
"It sucks," he mutters, jittering slightly. "But this is some seriously weird crap now. You're not going to believe this."
"Try me."
"They've just found some weird sh--... stuff in the water supply. Trace elements of all kinds of drugs and whatnot: heroin, PGP, you name it."
He looks to you expectantly.
"And I'm to suppose that Fianco expects me to solve this as well?"
"Only if you happen to already know the answer," your policeman friend asks. His intuition is good. That's why you trust him, and why you need him on your side.
"Perhaps. When was the last test of the water supply done?" you probe.
"Over two months ago," he answers. "Before the last cycle."
"And, has anyone died due to the water in the last two months?" you continue.
"Obviously not -- well, not outright. It'd have been noticed sooner."
"Then I'll say it," you declare softly. "Someone has poisoned the well, so to speak. Very carefully, too."
"But that's impossible!" he protests. "It's constantly monitored at city HQ."
"Impossible, perhaps. Would you call it more or less impossible than someone vanishing into thin air?"
To prove the point, you fade out of sight. Miss Cooper isn't the only person in Fianco City who's mastered invisibilty. And time is short, after all.
Dawn comes. There's no more time. There's a flight leaving in thirty minutes, and I have a ticket.
The river is the lifeline of the city. Every two months, they drain the channel dry at dawn to clean it. By nightfall, they refill it with pure water. Two months ago, someone did something there, perhaps hid something there, during the low tide. They'll drain the river again this week. You need to find out exactly what happened then, and what happened to the person who did it. You need to track down Megan Cooper, dead or alive. It's your mission now.
That might be good enough. It's up to you to be me -- for a while. I think I've been convinced. Or perhaps shamed, by that young woman taking on such an undertaking by herself. It's high time I stopped the war. Though, sometimes you have to start a smaller war to halt a big one.
Truthfully, I may not be back. If that should pass, wear my name with pride -- since it'll be yours.
British Monsoon
Member
Ok, here are the entries for this challenge;
- By the Sea Shore by Ashes1396
- One foot in the grave by Alucard
- The Spire and the Sewer by Aaron
- Dark Black by Senoculum
- Slip. Static. Shift. by Alfarif
- Tom by Irish
- From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr by John Dunbar
- Disagreements Lead to Indications of Resolution by Ward
- The Irregulars by Bootaaay
- Garbage by Tangent
- You Won't See Me by Elfforkusu
- The Highway by Puddles
- A Bitter Cup by Cyan
John Dunbar
correct about everything
you missed Alucard's story.
British Monsoon
Member
Whoops, so I did - thanks for the heads up John.
crowphoenix
Banned
Excuse me. I'm looking for a tavern to begin a bog standard fantasy romp?
you've got the wrong place mate. take a left, then take another left, and keep going till you find a left again, after that left, it'll be on the next left, iirc.
crowphoenix
Banned
Hey, I followed your directions, but I don't thin very well since I'm back here. I was supposed to go left, then left, then left, and then another left right?
You can get there even if you are overweight buddy.
We don't discriminate here.
Put this location on your gaf-nav, and you should arrive just fine:
3!$%"£%^£$snfaosnf#';
Welcome back. Things have changed a little. The rest of it is the same.
crowphoenix
Banned
You can get there even if you are overweight buddy.
We don't discriminate here.
Put this location on your gaf-nav, and you should arrive just fine:
3!$%"£%^£$snfaosnf#';
Welcome back. Things have changed a little. The rest of it is the same.
Man, I haven't written a thing since I moved back in October, and honestly, I'd still probably still be just digging into my new job if not for Cyan PMing me and asking what the fuck my problem was. I paraphrase of course. He was more hobbesy about it.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
I just realized that the OP says voting goes on until February 29th. That might have caused some confusion, especially since it's already Sunday with no votes.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
i for one am going to read 75% of a story a day.
Haha.
This means you're writing something next time, right?
Hrm, yeah, I'm gonna go ahead and assume that's an error.
crowphoenix
Banned
Haha.
This means you're writing something next time, right?
Going to try. My schedule is still all over the place, but I do need to start flexing the writing muscles again.
British Monsoon
Member
Whoops, fixed it now.
John Dunbar said:
Hopefully not, I guess if there aren't a whole lot of votes we could extend the deadline day?
Elfforkusu
Member
Everybody's a winner!
Never!
Elfforkusu
Member
Well, since the tie's already been broken, I guess I'll vote. ¯\_(ツ_/¯
1) Cyan - "A Bitter Cup"
2) Aaron - "The Spire and the Sewer"
3) John Dunbar - "From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr"
_/¯1) Cyan - "A Bitter Cup"
2) Aaron - "The Spire and the Sewer"
3) John Dunbar - "From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr"
Wow, you guys all write like professional Pulitzer Prize winning, NY Times bestselling authors. This was amazing, and my votes are probably entirely arbitrary since ALL of you were rock-star awesome. But I have to crank out votes nevertheless! Bravo to all of you!
Votes:
1. Elfforkusu
2. Aaron
3. Cyan
HM: John Dunbar
Votes:
1. Elfforkusu
2. Aaron
3. Cyan
HM: John Dunbar
It's my very presence. I bring it all down, bro.
John Dunbar
correct about everything
1. Boootay
2. Aaron
3. Tangent
HMs, Cyan, Elfforkusu, Puddles.
some of these positions may or may not have been decidied with a coin toss.
2. Aaron
3. Tangent
HMs, Cyan, Elfforkusu, Puddles.
some of these positions may or may not have been decidied with a coin toss.
I've realized something. When people would ask about what I like to do, I would always say writing. I've been lying all this time. I actually don't like writing at all. What I enjoy doing is thinking about writing. Few things are better than thinking about characters, plot twists, lines of dialogue, etc, while I'm sitting in the car or standing in line at the grocery store. But when I'm actually home with my laptop in front of me, writing is definitely not on my to-do list.
Oh you think the writing process only occurs whilst punching in keys. Don't think I agree. Most of it happens up here. *points to the imagination*
Then again I love when it all comes together, or unfolds before your eyes. Sometimes, it'll come in fits and spurts and other times, it's just flows naturally.
1. Aaron - "The Spire and the Sewer"
2. John Dunbar - "From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr"
3. Cyan - "A Bitter Cup"
@Alucard: It was alright, but far too obvious, could be better with an edit though.
@Aaron: A nice twist/take, a little long, no? and the story was a little dull.
@Senoculum: ha ha, got me good. Needs an editing pass though.
@Alfarif: Very complicated stuff, unfortunately, I needed the explanation. :/
@Irish: Don't know what you're moping about, thought it was alright, this.
@John Dunbar: The verse like passage though beautiful was hard to follow, need to read again, but at first reading, I thought it was a little shallow. Maybe I'm just dim. :/
@Ward: You write a bit like Heller. I liked the prose.
@Bootaaay: Tough call; if I had to criticise, I'd say it wasn't as engaging as your usual pieces are for me.
@Tangent: A strong start but took a little bit of the edge off towards and including the second half.
@Elfforkusu: You pulled off the second person, that's worth a compliment.
@puddles: 'blood god awaiting sacrifice'? slightly overwritten in parts
@Cyan: a bit fragmented, but I liked the story. Though it did go on a bit.
Overall
I think I know most of you here. You can all write/create fiction better than this I feel. So I suppose if you guys thought this was a high level, then you can all go super-saiyan or something.
2. John Dunbar - "From the Windy West Came the Mourning Martyr"
3. Cyan - "A Bitter Cup"
@Alucard: It was alright, but far too obvious, could be better with an edit though.
@Aaron: A nice twist/take, a little long, no? and the story was a little dull.
@Senoculum: ha ha, got me good. Needs an editing pass though.
@Alfarif: Very complicated stuff, unfortunately, I needed the explanation. :/
@Irish: Don't know what you're moping about, thought it was alright, this.
@John Dunbar: The verse like passage though beautiful was hard to follow, need to read again, but at first reading, I thought it was a little shallow. Maybe I'm just dim. :/
@Ward: You write a bit like Heller. I liked the prose.
@Bootaaay: Tough call; if I had to criticise, I'd say it wasn't as engaging as your usual pieces are for me.
@Tangent: A strong start but took a little bit of the edge off towards and including the second half.
@Elfforkusu: You pulled off the second person, that's worth a compliment.
@puddles: 'blood god awaiting sacrifice'? slightly overwritten in parts
@Cyan: a bit fragmented, but I liked the story. Though it did go on a bit.
Overall
I think I know most of you here. You can all write/create fiction better than this I feel. So I suppose if you guys thought this was a high level, then you can all go super-saiyan or something.
British Monsoon
Member
1. Alucard
2. Cyan
3. John Dunbar
HM; Tangent
2. Cyan
3. John Dunbar
HM; Tangent
- Status