Tale of the Week 63 - Democracy is calling

[molls]

2 Vote per person!!

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Submissions

Submission 1

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The Hunt

A smile crept onto my face. I saw the prey, running hard 40 feet ahead of us. Their backs turned to us, their shoulders swaying with the movement of their legs. I laughed inside my mind, they had no hope of escape. We had horses, to run them down and ride them into the dirt. They were unmounted and terrified, completely demoralised and scampering in fear. We were so close now, I could almost taste their blood in my mouth. My gleaming blade held low by my side, hungering for human flesh and bone. One of my men charged his horse forward, eager for the kill. He quickly covered the intervening distance and rode down 3 of the prey. They fell easily and with little effort. The rest of the men yelled a great warcry, madness in their eyes and their muscles pumping hard with adrenaline. All of us charged then, the time had come to claim the kill. We had learnt their habits, their defences, now it was time to strike, like the cobra. One bite, was enough to kill.

We descended upon our foe, with lightning speed and without mercy. Our blades flew through the air, rending flesh and severing raised hands. Our scimitars bit deep into their bodies, protruding from their chests and cutting their throats, It was beautiful! A few of the prey put up a meagre effort to defend, but they fell quickly under our harsh and terrifiying strikes. We had them encircled now, moving through the gaps in their ranks slicing each side, the cries of despair and pain could be heard through the massacre. It was glorious. I could see their commander watching, with a look of hopelessness so profound I heard him order their surrender. The enemy stopped fighting and threw down their weapons. My smile turned into a wicked grin, the fools. We cut them down, no mercy, only blood. Their commander, seeing his mistakes screamed rage and shock, I ended his life with a quick thrust into his throat, his voice cut off immediately. With my sword protruding from the back of his neck, he fell sidewards to the earth, never to rise against us again. We had tasted blood, the hunt was over now. These are our hunting grounds, where prey come to meet their fate; so it has been and so it will be, forever.

Submission 2

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No Honor Among Thieves

Only a fortnight ago, I would have trusted Edmund with my life. Now… now I would just as soon feed him to the dogs. If they would even take him, that is.

The plan had been settled, planned, and planned over again. We would kidnap the Duke’s son and hold him for ransom. We probably could have lived off the profits the rest of our lives; it was well worth the risk. I suppose I should have sensed his reluctance to follow it through; the pig always was one to snivel in a dark corner
We carried out the snatch perfectly; killed the guards, grabbed the little brat, stole the horses and disappeared. We left instructions for the duke in the carriage. It seemed too easy. Probably was.

Even after we’d finished, Edmund seemed scared stiff. I wonder if he’d already decided to turn us in. His devious little mind was always working on a new scheme. We found out soon enough what it was.

The next day, Edmund was gone. He’d headed straight for the Shire Reeve to turn us in. Yes, he sold us to the duke and his men for a paltry reward of 100 crowns. We could have taken ten times as much in ransom. But old Edmund never liked to split a prize, and this way he didn’t have to worry about being caught.

I was the only one away from camp when the Duke’s men came. I’d been looking for Edmund. I came back in time to see my comrades being loaded into carts. The lucky ones of our group were already dead; slain by the Reeve’s men.

But then I saw, free as a bird and riding with the Reeve, the snake, Edmund. I made the connection immediately; Edmund had led them right to our hideout.

Nothing was to be done about my fellows who were captured; they would soon be executed in the Duke’s castle. But there was something we could do. I’d have to act fast; Edmund knew, of course, that I was still at large, and he’d leave nothing to chance.

It didn’t take long to gather a few people who were eager to make a pretty pence or two, and steal a few horses. First we paid a visit to the Reeve. A few severed fingers later, he told us where our quarry had gone. The Reeve had sent him on his way with a purse, as I’d expected. We buried the Reeve in a safe place and then set out on the chase.

Three days later, we came to a village by the name that the Reeve had given us. I sent one of my accomplices into town to confirm; yes, we’d come to the right place. We spurred our horses and galloped in, peasants scattering before us.

Edmund found out soon enough; we spotted him in a group running for the city. The taste of revenge was near. Oh, sweet revenge...

Submission 3

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Of Death and Determination

Of our misery I sing,
Of my sorrow I ring,
I do not know where I go,
I do not know where I arrive,
Toward us, they row,
To battle, they strive.
Burn our possessions,
Shall they?
Slay our barons,
Shall they?
Revenge will come,
Revenge will rise,
To my doom I come,
With their echoing cries.


As the bright sun approaches,
My heart races.
I feel my feet, they are cold,
I feel my heart, it beats bold.
Oh how near is our doom,
Oh how near is our foe,
Now we fight the gloom,
Now we fight for tomorrow,
Now we die, with no sorrow.
We fight with pride,
We fight with honor,
To battle we ride,
To face our Ogre.

Shall we fight?
They ask.
Shall we flight?
They plead.
We shall right,
The wrongs of their deed.
Revenge is my name,
War is my game,
With no reproach and no shame.
Oh now, here they came.
Oh now, here comes the rain.
The fields scream - But with no pain.

For tomorrow I say,
For tomorrow we fight.
For tomorrow we lay,
For their deaths in sight.
We lay in our beds,
We sink in our heads,
We remember those who have fallen,
We remember those, who are dead.

Submission 4

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

Duty

My purse is heavy.

I force myself to imagine the clinking silver, the jostling copper.

My stallion heaves beneath me, tossing his head wildly. His mane flows fluidly in the frigid air, like quicksilver in an alchemist’s vial. I see them ahead; several dusty shapes, swarming uncontrollably. I glance to the right and to the left; my companions glare forward. They are wordless, unshaken. Their faces are stone. Their horses are boisterous. Their gazes are steadfast. Unbroken.

I grip my sword tightly. Squeezing the hilt, I will the blood to flow back into the desiccated veins of my hand. My knuckles are red. Raw. Bitten by winter’s growing chill. My horse breathes heavily, the drum of his heart matching the drum of his hooves. Each hoof-beat casts a swirling plume of dust into the air. My horse’s sinewy muscles are mechanical, like the motions of the miller’s wheel. His eyes are bloodshot. My eyes are watery.

The cold of the air seeps into my nostrils, chapping the fleshy lungs hidden deep beneath my tunic. The scent of Christ’s Mass is on the wind. The trees are skeletons, standing tall like crucified victims. Their flesh is crusted. Dry. Christ’s Mass is on the wind. It smells of decay.

My purse bounces at my hip. I catch my drifting thoughts; I force them back to the metal in my bag. It is heavy, hanging from my belt.

The forms ahead of me begin to take shape. First arms. Then legs. They almost blur in their haste.

Duty defines us. Duty makes us. What are we without our duty?

We are nothing.

My duty is to the sword. Vow-breakers die by it.

The shapes are fully-formed now. Peasants hurtling over one another, their piercing yelps betraying their mortal fear. These runaways had been easy to track down. They were slowed down by the sick. By the women.

My purse is heavy. Silver. Copper.

Some of the peasants whirl around in terror, frozen in fear. They are like the skeletal trees, unmoving, their hands thrown over their faces. They are the trees. We are the woodcutters.

It is my duty.

My companions press harder. I keep pace. I see a sword raised high in the corner of my eye. I hear a squeal, and then a wet sound. The same sound the cook makes when he carves the pork for Christ’s Mass feast.

How heavy it feels on my hip.

I see a woman break free from the convulsing mob. A comrade veers off after her, his horse snarling violently.

Copper.

A man with a leather cap trips, and tumbles into a bedraggled mess. My stallion bears down on him, instinctively.

Silver.

His eyes are white with terror. My sword is made of lead. I wrench it high above the iron cap that rests atop my skull. It too, is made of lead.

I let the sword fall. My hand still clenches it.

My purse is heavy.

Submission 5

Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 

THE REVENGE OF THE FRENCH...

"Finally," The Rider thought. "We will have our revenge."
It had been many years since the ruthless attack that against France had been made by the Milanese. The French had lost nearly every single battle because of the English to the North, the Danes to the Northeast, and the self-proclaimed Holy Roman Empire to the east. All of this, combined with the threat of the Moors to the Southwest, had spread the French out thin. They were also flat out broke, their coffers losing more and more and more Florins every month. Inflation had become a Plague more than a problem. The Only hope for the french was to send a Diplomat to Milan, but every time they had tried, he was either turned down, or killed, whether on a ship or not.

But now, the French Horsemen had THESE Milanese Militia Scouts on the run. The Rider made his horse increase speed, and, with a mighty swing of his blade, brought one of the Monsters down. But just then, the leader of the Riders all of a sudden fell fom his horse, only with a gurgling sound from his mouth and a single word..."Ambush."

Suddenly, from the trees emerged dozens of Milanese Cavalry, Mailed Knights, Mounted Seargants,nearly every type. They surrounded the Three remaining horsemen and, in the confusion, one pulled out a bow, took careful aim, and fired at another horseman. It shot right through the Frenchman's head. That Frenchman was the rider who, just then, as he was dying, thought, "Why us, dear christ, why?"

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Voted.

[Mega Tortas de Bodemloze]

Since we are endeavoring to assemble those that would judge and dissect our stories I thought I would give it a throw... Going against my personal essence I said I would also cast a vote{s}. Alas I cannot bring my self to do so and this is why. Each tale I see before me has it's own life's breath and distinct flavor, and believe me I tried. Each entry casts it's javelin at the mark taking a distinct trajectory.

Salute!....Gentlemen & Lady authors take a bow. You have all rendered masterpieces in your own unique ways....Doing the review shall require closer focus and committed time, but I shall try...

[GrumpyBean]

VOTED

[maerd2003]

voted

[RaZor HeaD]

Voted.
All 5 were surprisingly well done...it was a difficult choice.

[Ariovistus Maximus]

Lots of voters for this one!

[Mega Tortas de Bodemloze]

[Ochiee]

voted

[Fogofwar]

voted!

[Saint Nicholas]

Lots of voters for this one!

21 so far, wow!

[Juvenal]

Great to see the high turnout, and a good set of stories for them to choose from too.

I found that The Hunt had the biggest impact on me, for its sheer relentlessness.

No Honour Among Thieves was potentially a great story, except for a slight lack of focus, perhaps it was just trying to do too much in 500 words.

Of Death and Determination a good poem, but I had trouble connecting it with the picture, or even forming a strong impression of exactly what it was about, perhaps due to its staccato nature (or maybe it's just me). Poems are much harder to write than prose because they condense layers of meaning into a few very carefully chosen words. So a poem long enough to qualify as a TotW entry needs immensely more effort to achieve the same quality as an equivalent length of prose.

Duty was a fascinating exploration the narrator's search to find a justification for the abhorrent act of slaughter he performs. He is even willing to imagine he is doing it for money, any motive no matter how base being preferable to the truth that he merely plays out the cruel demands of his Duty like an automaton.

The Revenge of the French is clearly inspired from playing M2:TW, but I found it difficult to care about the characters since they were not developed. I think this story needs a tighter focus, there needs to be a central idea or conflict which can be resolved or explained by the concluding line.

[Sunbird Alkibijad]

2 and 4.

I agree completely with Juvenal on his comment of the 5th submission.

[Dave Strider]

Actually, #5(Mine) wasn't about playing M2:TW. I just like to explain the conflict and how it started instead of telling about one or more individuals in it. After all, that type of game is a RPG. Total War is an RTS/TBS. I just like to stick to the Theme.

Plus, I came up with them being French from their saddles. All Four have the French Emblem on it.

[Juvenal]

Actually, #5(Mine) wasn't about playing M2:TW. I just like to explain the conflict and how it started instead of telling about one or more individuals in it.

My apologies. I need to distinguish between fact and opinion.

What I should have said is that the story felt to me very much like playing the game, the characters being of interest only so far as they were contributing to success for the faction.

Well spotted with the French emblems.

[magpie]

Voted, A big thanks to all who contributed regards, mags

[molls]

oho! what prominent visitors in here... welcome

[SonOfAlexander]

1 and 4

[Mega Tortas de Bodemloze]

1. Easy to read. emotional.
2. Easy to read. vengeful.
3. Thought provoking, stabs to you.
4. Descriptive, honor bound.
5. Fateful.

[Ochiee]

i'm curious who made all those screenshots?